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softykooky · 4 years

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finite.

☆summary: it is august and taehyung asks you who you would want to be if you could restart this life. you two are finite lovers in an infinite universe. 1.7k words.

☆genre: established relationship, semi-angst, fluff, college!taehyung, college!reader

☆pairing: kim taehyung x reader

☆author’s note: something short and sweet to get me out of my funk, and i thought i would share it with you! let me know what you think, and thank you always for your kindness.

You met Taehyung in the spring. A connoisseur of baskin robbins ice cream flavors, and had such a zest for life you wondered if he was ever apathetic of the sun, for it never shone as bright as him. He had been fighting a dog in the park. In his defense, the stick he had found was absolutely prime for building a bridge across the creek and there was no other one like it. He found it first, and still thanks you from time to time for defending him against that greedy puppy. You had played together until the sunset and your parents called you back, exchanging names and promising to meet back there the next day.

He was so young, then, that it aches your heart to look back at the pictures and see a childlike face staring back at you. Free of the smile lines he’s accumulated through the years, and features softer than they are now. He’s still young now. Just a little more grown. A little more broken and a little less oblivious. But he is your Taehyung, and it’s summer now, yet the stars still shine in his eyes like the spring day you met him.

Tomorrow, there is an airplane that leaves at dawn for London and a train that leaves at dusk for New York. They travel in opposite poles. You wonder if there will be an extra seat beside his on the plane, in case you change your mind at the last minute and decide to abandon your train ticket to follow him wherever he may lead. Taehyung would never let you, though. He says your dreams are far too important to be impeded by someone like him. The university is waiting for you, and his internship is waiting for him.

For tonight, though, you don’t want to think about the distance between the two of you. For tonight, you’re not leaving each other to chase uncertain dreams. Just two bright-eyed lovers sitting on the hood of a car on the outskirts of an airport terminal, watching them catapult to the sky at hundreds of miles an hour and disappear among the stars.

“Who do you want to be if we could restart our lives?”

The night sky overhead is forgiving. The clouds had drifted away to reveal to two lovers, a scape of twinkling stars and the roundest moon you had ever seen. You juggled his question around in your mind, keeping your eyes on the sky and your hands wrapped tightly around his. Who did you want to be? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do?

It’s a little cold. The wind blows through the creases of your arms and legs and cools the sweat. You can feel his even breathing next to you. The rhythmic up and down of his chest. How he avoids looking at you in fear that when you glance into his eyes, you will see the way his heart is breaking.

“I think I might want to be everything.”

He giggles at your response.

“You can’t be everything, Y/N. Pick one.” Taehyung pulls you closer. Skin to skin, and heart to heart.

“Maybe reincarnate as a bird and fly and fly until my wings can’t hold up the weight of the wind?”

Your involuntary smile stretches the skin of your lips as you stand up from the hood, flinging your arms out as if they were wings. The breeze blows under them. Taehyung laughs at your childlike nature and you swear the sound makes the stars shine a tad bit brighter.

“Oh! How about an astronaut on a 900 year mission and I discover a new planet outside of the Milky Way? One small step for man…” You turn around and lock eyes with Taehyung.

He joins your juvenile daydream. “One giant leap for mankind.” Chuckles bubble from both your chests, and he holds both your hands, twirling in circles on the lawn.

“Or I could be a suave Hollywood actress, and break the record for most academy awards. Maybe 500 of them.” You know the two of you are being too loud and raucous. But there’s something about a cool summer night that makes a person want to abandon inhibition and just live. Taehyung erupts in innocent laughter.

“Y/N, you couldn’t even lie to your mom when I asked you to sneak out past curfew with me last week.”

You roll your eyes playfully, punching him in the shoulder which he responds far too dramatically, nursing his fatal wound as if you had just shot him. You realize you haven’t stopped smiling since the conversation started and your cheeks are starting to ache.

“I’ll kiss it better.”

Taehyung melts into you when you put your lips on his, feeling the curve of his pout against your own. His hands are on the small of your back and he pushes you close to him. Closer. It feels as it always does. Like honey in hot tea or the way chocolate melts into syrupy sweetness if you leave it under your tongue. Like Taehyung. There is no sound outside of the chirping of crickets and two hearts that seem to beat in tandem. The kiss is bittersweet, though. You both know once the sun rises tomorrow, you won’t be able feel this love anymore in its physical form.

Taehyung’s smile drops once you pull away, eyes solemnly falling to the ground but hands still gripped onto your’s, as if he’s afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. Like he wants to memorize the feeling of your small hand in his before he leaves. You don’t want to be sad tonight.

“Hm....I think maybe the queen of England. I’d make it a requirement to always have a cupcake at your disposal, at any given moment of the day.”

He throws his head back to face the sky and roars in laughter, the image of you being a monarch and bossing everyone around to entertain him. You reflect his happiness. The conversation circles around like that, as the two of you think of as many lives to live and people to be if this were another dimension, and you could restart. A scientist who figures out how to harvest stars and store the light of the moon. The president of the United States. A jellyfish in the Atlantic Ocean who lazes in a coral reef. A rock at the top of Mount Everest.

Under the moonlight, you wonder what nation you had saved in your past life so that you could meet Kim Taehyung. So that you could grow up beside him and fall in love with him and hold him like it’s the only thing your arms were made to do.

Under the moonlight, Taehyung wonders if your souls had been the same one, separated by space and time and now reunited again. He stares at you as you ramble on about all the imaginary and impossible things you wanted to be in a different life, and there is lovesick in his eyes. You are oblivious, of course. So Taehyung just continues to admire you.

“What about you, Tae?” The nickname sounds so sweet when it slips off your tongue.

Your question catches him off guard and he realizes that even though he had asked you this, he had no idea of his own answer. When thinking about his life on a whim, Taehyung is surprised when his mind is only filled with you. Your toothy grin. The cascading wave of your hair. The curve of your hips that imitate Grecian marble cut statues and the freckles on your skin that stir envy in Andromeda’s constellations. He knows his answer. Yet bites his tongue.

“I’m not sure. I think I’d want to be a merman, and figure out how you would pee with a fish tail.”

“Are you serious? Mermen pee how normal fish pee.”

“How the heck do normal fish pee?!”

The rest of your rambling fades away from Taehyung’s mind and blends into white noise. He just leans back against the hood of the car, arms folded over his chest and utter fondness in his gaze. Your words drone and all he can hear is the sound of his own heart that knocks against the walls of his chest to remind him of something that he already knows to be true. He loves you. Irrevocably and unapologetically.

Taehyung pulls you by the arm and cradles you to his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He sways you both to the melody of summer cicadas and a humming wind. The sky is a cloudless romance of supposed shooting stars that may just have been a trick of the light. Or a stray airplane. But it’s enough for him to make a wish. He won’t tell you what it is, though, in case it doesn’t come true.

To answer your question, in another lifetime, he would want to be him again. And he’d want you to be you again. So that he could meet you again, and love you again. In this alternate dimension, he’d want to take you to an airport terminal on an August evening again, and hear you tell him all the things you want to be. But if you are either a common passerby or the queen of England, it wouldn’t matter to him. His soul would still love you all the same.

Taehyung leaves the next morning. When the sun has barely even risen and your lips are bruised from kissing him goodbye so many times. Your arms are sore from holding him so tightly, body subconsciously screaming at you to not let him go because this is the boy that has your heart and he's taking it with him. He wipes your tears when you cry and tucks his face into the crook of your neck to hide his own tears from the world. Taehyung’s plane takes off at 5:31am from the tarmac and as you stare at the piece of your heart that leaves you, you wonder if there are two lovers parked outside the terminal to watch him disappear into the clouds. If they are as devastatingly in love as you are.

He had told you he wants you to move on. London was too far away from New York and you two were never good with distance. Love stretches too thin across the Atlantic ocean. But even if you died and came back to life in a different form, you doubt that it’s physically possible for you to move on from the likes of Kim Taehyung.

So even if the two of you were only finite hearts in an infinite universe, and only first loves in one lifetime. It’s enough for you. You rethink your answer to his question the night before. Maybe you wouldn’t want to be the queen of England or a jellyfish. You’d want Taehyung to be Taehyung. And you’d want you to be you. So that you could meet him again. And you would love him again.

#bts fanfiction #bts angst #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts writing #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung angst #bts imagine #bts scenarios

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lost-in-time-marie · 3 years

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The Dear Him Series

Dear Him,

“I find myself sitting here, in a chair of wood and wrought iron, so much older and more storied than I am, at a white table on the front porch in the country. The cicadas’ hiss and chirp is a constant accompaniment to my thoughts. It becomes the droning voice in the back of my head. There’s the tiniest blowing of a gentle, warm breeze. Sunshine drips lazily over the tall grasses and multicolored wildflowers. It brings me a certain peace. I can feel my soul quiet. There is not so much noise and chaos and pressure all around me.”

~K.

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max--phillips · 4 years

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Marshmallow Fluff

The title is a play on the fact that this fic is 1k words of fluff and is about making s’mores w Jack. Enjoy

Warnings: none, just tooth-rotting fluff

Words: 1k

Pairing: Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x gender neutral reader

It was a beautiful summer night, with clear skies, a gentle breeze, and the smell of campfire smoke filling the air. The droning of cicadas and the crackling of the fire was accompanied by soft music drifting from the speaker propped on the handrail of the back porch. When you first met him, you wouldn’t have really guessed that Jack was the type to listen to Jimmy Buffett, but now that you know him as well as you do, it makes total sense. You were laying back on the blanket spread out in the grass just far away enough from the fire that it wasn’t too hot and you weren’t getting smoke in your eyes, watching the stars and waiting for Jack to return with some beers.

You heard the back door slide open and shut again, and you sat up to smile back at him and accept your drink. Your face lit up more, though, upon realizing he wasn’t just bringing out beers; he had brought out what you all would need to make s’mores.

Jack seemed to have picked up on your excitement. “Now, you didn’t think I’d go to all the trouble of makin’ a fire and not have s’mores, did ya?” he asked, sitting back down next to you, carefully laying the very long roasting sticks he brought out, setting down the beers, and setting out the s’mores components.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been denied s’mores at a bonfire,” you admitted as you reached over to grab one of the sticks.

Jack made a face of absolute pure offence, and you snorted. “Who on earth did that to you? I gotta have a stern word with them,” he said.

Jack tore open the new bag of marshmallows and handed one over to you. You popped the whole thing into your mouth and held your hand out for another one, and he laughed that genuine, deep laugh that gives you butterflies in your stomach. He gave you another one, then put one on his own stick, and stuck it near the fire, turning it so it would toast evenly. You quickly put together the graham cracker and chocolate bar portion of the s’mores before following suit. You scooted up next to him and leaned against his shoulder as you both roasted your marshmallows in relative quiet, the occasional glug of one of the bottles of beer interrupting the background noise when one of you took a sip. Before long your marshmallow was roasted to perfection, and you pushed it off the stick with the other graham cracker to complete your first s’more. Jack, however, kept his over the coals.

“You’re going to have a little chunk of charcoal if you keep going much longer,” you teased, playfully elbowing him as you smooshed your second graham cracker down on your marshmallow.

“Well maybe,” he started, lowering his marshmallow closer to the flames. The marshmallow caught fire, then he pulled it out and extinguished it with a quick puff of air, “that’s how I like my marshmallows.” He grinned at his newly charred creation.

You rolled your eyes. “That can’t even taste good,” you said.

“I beg to differ, but to each their own,” he responded, putting the marshmallow on his own s’more and topping it off with the other cracker.

You shook your head slightly and took a bite of your s’more, then pulled it away from your mouth, a long string of gooey marshmallow falling down on your lip. Jack glanced over, then motioned to his own face to indicate that you had some marshmallow on yours. You smirked a bit and made a little bit of a show of using your finger to push the rest of it up and into your mouth, sucking your finger clean, wiggling your eyebrows at him in overacted suggestiveness. You laughed, then, and he laughed with you.

“This was a great idea,” you said before you took another bite of your s’more. “Thanks for getting the fire started and everything. It’s a perfect night for it.”

“You are more than welcome,” Jack responded, leaning over and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Any time you wanna make s’mores over the fire, you let me know, sugar.”

You smiled. “Be careful, or we might have a fire going back here every night,” you warned, elbowing him again.

“You underestimate my willingness to make campfires,” he said, putting the last bite of his s’more in his mouth.

“Well don’t complain when I take you up on it,” you said, following suit, and considering making another.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, wrapping his arm around you and pressing a kiss to your temple. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

You leaned into him, humming as you enjoyed his closeness and warmth, his presence, before you decided to make another s’more. You reached for another marshmallow, put it on the roasting stick, and placed it near the fire. It was a perfect marshmallow, golden brown and delicious around the whole thing, not charred like Jack’s.

“Alright, I’ll admit, that is a much prettier marshmallow,” Jack said, pointing to your creation.

“And it tastes better,” you insisted, sliding it off onto a new graham cracker with chocolate.

Jack hummed in consideration, then shook his head a little bit. “I think we may just have to agree to disagree, darlin’,” he finally said, grinning over at you.

You sighed an exaggeratedly irritated sigh. “Fine, fine, I guess I can let this go,” you agreed, taking a bite of your second s’more.

You ate in relative quiet for a while as Jack made his second s’more. You finished yours, then laid back, gazing up at the starry sky. Jack leaned back on one of his elbows and looked down at you. He just sort of watched you with a smile on his face, and you smiled back at him.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’,” he said quietly. “Just thinkin’ about how lucky I am to have you.”

You scoffed. “No, if anyone here’s the lucky one, it’s me,” you said, still smiling. “I mean, I got a badass cowboy with great hair who’s amazing in bed.”

He laughed again. “And I got someone just as badass with equally great hair who’s also amazin’ in bed,” he countered, eating the last bit of his second s’more before leaning down to kiss you gently. “Maybe we both got lucky.”

You smiled a little wider. “Yeah, I think we did.”

Taglist: @ezraslittleblondestreak, @chibi-liz05, @getinthepoolkeanu, @agirllovespasta, @maxlordd, @the-real-xhorse, @borderlinedindjarin, @mrsparknuts, @talesfromtheguild, @oldstuffnewstuff, @paryl, @seasonschange-butpeopledont, @gooddaykate, @this-cat-is-dea, @frietiemeloen, if I forgot you I apologize skdjfg

#tori says things #my fic #agent whiskey x reader #whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #whiskey #pedro pascal

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spoondrifts · 4 years

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They're at a park, of all places.

Jon liked them as a child. They were places he could wander off to and not be rebuked quite as harshly for; parks and playgrounds were acceptable, relatively, by his grandmother's standards. He found them boring, although sometimes there were interesting things to be found lodged in the mulch. Pennies, jewelry, four leaf clovers. He had, admittedly, been a bit of a hoarder.

It's funny, sometimes, how little things have changed.

Parks are still an escape, but they are a different variety now. Jon still hoards, but he hoards knowledge instead of items now. People, too, he thinks privately. Sasha. Tim. Martin. Melanie. Even Basira.

Daisy.

He is still collecting. His things are more valuable than nickels, these days.

The sun is low on the horizon, casting the wooded area in slim golden rays. The trees block out most of the hazy, deep blue twilight that slowly bleeds overhead, but Jon can see little patches of navy where the leaves part. A cool breeze leaves him tucking himself further into his coat.

The park is almost empty. A few kids run around, giggling and shrieking, as their parents slouch on benches and sip caffeine with dead eyes.

Some of them have stories.

Jon bites his tongue. The pain briefly draws his thoughts away from the harried mother across the park, whose traumas scratch and whine and claw at his attention. She reeks faintly of the Vast.

Maybe sensing that he's beginning to drift off, Daisy tugs on the cuff of his trouser. He glances down at her.

She's sitting on the ground at his feet, cross-legged, methodically weaving grass into knots and discarding them. Her hair is tied back in a tail with a bright red band that belongs to Melanie. Basira used to help her with her hair, when it would fall down in disarray after rough hunts and tangle around her shoulders, always begging Basira to gently work a comb through them-

Jon bites his tongue again, and the intrusive knowledge scatters. That's not mine, he snarls at himself.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks.

Daisy frowns. She does that a lot, now. "No." She sighs. "But it's better than the Institute."

He agrees. Beholding does not. It itches for him to return to his temple, where he has left it in the care of an acolyte to a different god. It isn't right. It feels like sandpaper on a chalkboard every day that Jon allows Peter Lukas to haunt the halls of the Eye.

Beholding, if it is sentient, is quite upset at Elias for abandoning his post like this. Jon takes no small amount of satisfaction from Knowing that he is the closest thing to the golden child currently.

"Did you really expect this to be fun?" Daisy asks, squinting at him.

"Well, not particularly. I just thought... I don't know. That I'd feel more nostalgia than I do."

Daisy rips up a fistful of grass and releases it to scatter in the wind.

The woman with the Vast statement now has a small child in her arms. She is comforting him as he sniffles, flooded with guilt over accidentally crushing a cicada on the sidewalk.

They're not here to have fun. Jon had asked her to accompany him under the guise of needing fresh air, but they both know the truth.

Jon watches Daisy attempt to braid a flower crown with trembling fingers, and wonders how those same fingers were possibly ever strong enough to grip a knife and press it against his throat. He wonders when Daisy's sharp stare became comfort instead of danger.

Perhaps comfort is too strong a word for what she provides him. For what they provide each other.

Daisy is not safety. The scars on his skin prove that. But she is steady. She offers some measure of stability as his entire world spirals hopelessly out of control. And maybe that's fucked up, but hell, when has anything been normal or healthy in the past few years?

Right now, she is his leash, and he is hers.

The woman with the Vast statement is- shit. She's walking towards them.

"Daisy," Jon says, tapping her shoulder. "She, uh, she has a-a-"

"Alright," she says calmly, rising to her feet. "Stay put, I'll do the talking."

Jon closes his mouth and clasps his hands in his lap as the woman stops before them. Laurel, Beholding unhelpfully informs him, is her name.

She has her son with her. Jon grits his teeth.

"Can we help you?" Daisy says brusquely.

"Hi," Laurel says. "So sorry to bother you, but my son Xander wanted to tell you something." She nudges the boy forward.

Xander's wide eyes flicker between Jon and Daisy nervously. "I like your scarf, miss," he says, voice high and youthful.

Daisy's scarf is a deep, rich scarlet, knitted by her grandfather for his only granddaughter. She got it for Christmas when she was nine. It went into storage when she was fifteen. Her mother unearthed it and insisted she take it with her to the police academy. After the Coffin, she retrieved it because it smelled like home and gave her a comforting reminder of-

Jon drags a fingernail down his wrist and tries to suppress his wince.

Daisy looks taken aback. "O-Oh. Yeah. Um... thank you."

Xander beams. "Also here!" He reaches into his pocket and scoops out a fistful of wildflowers, dropping them into Jon's hands. "I picked them because you looked sad and I wanted to cheer you up! No one should be sad at a park."

Jon gently accepts the flowers, holding them delicately as to not crush them, though many are already torn. "Thank you," he says, allowing himself the tiniest of smiles. "You've certainly succeeded."

Grinning, Xander then spins on his heel and runs back to the playground. Laurel gives them both an apologetic glance.

"Have a nice evening," she tells them genuinely, turning to leave.

"Wait," Daisy says. Laurel pauses. "I..." Swallowing hard, Daisy unwinds the scarf from around her neck, folding it into a neat square. She holds it out, eyes averted. "Here. For the kid."

Laurel makes a startled noise. "Oh, I couldn't possibly-"

"It's fine," Daisy says. Her hands aren't shaking. "I don't really need it anyways."

Taking the scarf with many expressions of gratitude and warmth, Laurel finally goes to follow her son.

Silence reigns for a long time, the only sound the droning of cicadas. Jon looks down at the wildflowers, which are beginning to wilt, and finds he is having trouble swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Daisy slowly lowers her hands to her sides.

"That was sweet of them," Jon says quietly.

Her voice is rough when she finally speaks. "I'm a bad person."

Jon begins to place the flowers into his coat pocket, one by one. "Yes," he says simply. The scar on his throat burns with phantom pain.

He will never forget how it felt to stab that shovel into the dirt; to bury the one avatar who was actually courteous to him. He will never forget the glee in Daisy's eyes, the glint of her sharpened teeth as she slammed him into that tree and threatened his life.

He will never forget the shape of the bullet wound in Mike's forehead.

"You're trying, though," he says. Daisy doesn't look at him. "A scarf doesn't equal a life taken. But maybe it counts."

"Counts towards what?"

The Beholding doesn't have an answer for him.

"I don't know."

Daisy considers that. She extends a calloused hand to him. "Come on, Sims. I'll order some takeout."

Jon takes her hand and rises to his feet. All the way back to the archives, she doesn't let go.

#tma #the magnus archives #magnuspod #tma fic #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #drabble #takes place sometime in s4 #before it all went to hell lmfao #reblogs >> likes

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jonnysinsectcatalogue · 3 years

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Fork-Tailed Bush Katydid - Scudderia furcata

At long last, a successful find of an adult specie of Scudderia Katydid! No wonder they are so challenging to find. Even if you could hear them (as the males do have a song to make), finding them among thick brush or leaves would be quite tricky. Fortunately this one was more exposed, tucking away on the contents of a flower. Probably best to look for the leaf with eyeballs, haha. It is amazingly uncanny how their forewings resemble a leaf so closely. In any case, after it noticed me, it waited until the last minute to leap and crash into nearby greenery. As seen in Pictures 5, 7 and 9, this Katydid is much more at home and more easily concealed when hunkered down in vegetation and shadows. Its enlarged back legs and long wings allow it more propulsive means to escape from threats and predators after it can sense them. When not evading a predator or soaking in the heat of the day, Katydids like this one can spend their days in peace, feasting on plants and their leaves or (as is the case with this one) the interior parts of flowers.

As mentioned in an earlier post regarding the identity of this specie, confirmation is difficult. Though nearly impossible to identify a Nymph, the adults cannot be confirmed without a close examination of the tip of the Katydid’s abdomen. I wish I would have remembered that when taking these pictures, and gotten much closer. It may not have mattered anyways as this individual is a female, and thusly has the abdominal protrusions obscured by its curved ovipositor. Identification comes much easier with males as a result and I suggest consulting Bugguide for more details. Though it’s possible I’m wrong, I am basing this identification or what I can see with these images and what I can hear in the surrounding area. These last few days, the trees are abuzz with the droning of Dog-Day Cicadas, but when night arrives, the sounds change. Recently, I’ve have hearing a lot of singular “tsip*” noises while Tree Crickets sing in the background. The “tsip” song comes from the Fork-Tailed Bush Katydid, and this individual seems to be a good match. Of course, female Katydids cannot sing, but they can hear all those beautiful trills and chirps using the ears on their forelegs (see Picture 6) There are other songs in the night in my area too, one of them sounds like the Texas Bush Katydid (S. texensis), a relative. Looks like I’ll need to probe around my area to fully confirm this Orthopteran’s identity.

*Note: See these links for further info on the songs of S. furcata and S. texensis. I’ve really enjoyed looking through songsofinsects.com.

Pictures were taken on August 21, 2021 with a Google Pixel 4.

#jonny’s insect catalogue #insect #katydid #fork tailed bush katydid #bush cricket #scudder's bush cricket #orthoptera #toronto #august2021 #2021 #ontario insect #entomology #nature #invertebrates #arthropods

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ajpenvs3000f21 · 3 years

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Music in Nature

Hey guys, GrassLover here. As someone who loves music, I can’t wait to get into this week's question, “Where is music in nature? Where is nature in music?”.

First off, let's start out with “music in nature”. The first thing that pops into my head when asked this question is definitely birds. Like c’mon, that’s their whole THING. There are so many freaking birds out there and each of them has their own unique song, sometimes more than one. Whenever you go out into nature, you may not see birds, but you sure as heck will hear them. I could sit here all day and talk about all my favorite birds and their songs, but I’ll give you a short list of my favourites that I think are really musical: winter wren, eastern whip-poor-will, wood thrush, white throated sparrow, and american woodcock (that one is just kinda goofy). I can definitely see these songs being influential in some styles of music. Outside of the obvious birds, there are many other animals that can produce melodys. Things like frogs or cicadas may not be as melodic as birds, but the loud droning noises they create can definitely constitute as some sort of music, it is all about personal preference. The ambiance of the outdoors also contains many songs, the rhythmic swaying of trees in the wind or of a rushing waterfall are other things that come to mind when thinking of music in nature.

When it comes to nature in music, I believe that there are multiple ways this can be interpreted. Let us start with the more literal way nature can be found in music. Many sounds of the natural world can be “sampled” and included in musical compositions. Sampling is when an artist records a particular sound, and incorporates it or at least a select part of it in their music. Examples of sounds from nature that could be sampled by an artist include more melodic things like bird songs, to more rhythmic sounds like rocks hitting water or the footsteps of deer. Regardless of what specifically is sampled, nature can be brought directly into and become a part of music.

In a less literal fashion, nature can be found in music similarly to the way it can be found in visual arts, via its impact on the artist. A few units ago we talked about how individuals can express the way they interpret nature through their art, and music is no exception. Experiences in nature can inspire an artist to create a piece of music just the same as they can inspire an artist to create a painting. In music it may be more difficult to determine exactly where that inspiration came from (it is far more evident in visual arts, where the subject of the piece is displayed clearly to be viewed), but the inspiration is still there if you listen closely (or just ask the artist haha).

So that’s all I have to say on nature interpretation and music. Interested to see what songs you guys pick that remind you of nature!. Until then this is GrassLover signing off.

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josmoore · 3 years

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☽ ⋆ SPARROW!

the heavy , droning hum of cicadas carries in through the open window toward the front of the trailer ; it marries in a dull sort of cacophony with the deep whirr of the window aircon unit running just behind mama’s closed bedroom door . and maybe it’s the fuzzy , monotonous white noise of it all or the few hours of sleep he’d gotten the night before finally catching up to him , but josiah’s slowly starting to dissociate as he thumbs through documents at the dimly lit kitchenette ; torn envelopes , receipts , bills . christ , there’s so many damn hospital bills it’s a wonder he’s managed to stay on top of ‘em this long . numbers have started blurring together and crossing his vision by the time he finally decides to drop them all in a heap on the table , if only for a moment , to instead rise to his feet and cross the small space to the refrigerator . hand’s curled around the handle when another door opens , the trailer door , and he doesn’t even bother looking over his shoulder before grabbing a second beer from the fridge to accompany his own . ( and fuck it , while he’s there , might as well pull out the fifth of jack he’s had tucked away in the freezer . )

❝ heads up ! ❞ the whisper - shouted exclamation is all the warning they get before jo’s tossing the other bottle toward the door into what he hopes are well - prepared hands . ❝ fuckin’ better catch that shit — i ain’t driving to community med tonight ! ❞ @sparrowmoore

#☽ ⋆ [ narrative ]#☽ ⋆ [ sparrow ]#what is this chaos i d e k #alcohol tw #medical tw #not rly but the bills probs deserve a trigger warning of their own smh #also picture this in his shitty lil trailer #instead of on the beach

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thisisnotagradstudent · 3 years

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soundscape

Thursday 9/2/2021 11:00AM Elizabeth Street Garden

The loud generator for a construction site across the street just shut off it droned out all other noise I hear a bug that sounds like cricket or cicada a constant high frequency from the bushes behind me footsteps on the gravel path

when wind blows through the plants it mutes the sound texture here conversations sound softer “She’s so calm for a Boston Terrier”

wind chimes

“Were they goldens?” “I have never in my life realized they were golden retrievers” a car engine revving echoes through the brick canyons the cricket thing won’t quit

below everything there’s a bed of the city noise that almost sounds like rushing water far away

a bicycle clicking as someone rolls it past on the gravel path “Would you take her on the subway” children have entered the chat “right?” this bug noise again and still “I had two frenchies-“ “Dad look at this”

An electric bike motor quickly passes south to north the bug A electric scooter quickly passes north to south a car’s engine passes slowly the bug shoes on gravel “bye freddie- what was your name?” “Mark” “good job buddy” gravel the breeze

the bug

Dominant Sound: The bug.

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beyondtheciouds · 4 years

Text

Part 29. 3 of 3

Twas the night before Yulemas and all through the house not a creature was stirring except for a small brown mouse.

The children were all snug tight in their beds. Smiles on their faces as dreams of sugared plums danced in their heads.

Outside, the snow fell in droves and filled the streets, impassible for cars and carriages. The windows were frosted; icles hanging like glittering packages.

The brick and mortar chimnies chain smoked; pairs of lungs coughing ashes.

Dust saturated the fresh snowflakes on snowcapped rooftops; heavy as Lucie's lashes.

The moon was nearly full; the fringe of dawn barely a heartbeat. Lucie didn't hesitate getting out of bed when she suspected Henry and Charlotte were fast asleep.

Her secret plans were already in motion; she was in far too deep.

Tonight Lucie and Grace would wake the one lost in an eternal sleep. The anticipation ran through her bones; sidewinding up her veins like an ivy on a chase.

The candles on the Yulemas tree were long snuffed out; the yuletide log smoldering in the fireplace.

The only sound downstairs was the incessant scratching inside the walls. A mouse was hunting about, searching the halls.

The manor was festive; the decor just right. Charlotte had decorated in odd bright colors; glitter and gold balls. A sight to behold, a treasure left scandously untold.

Mugs of cold, sugared tea and burnt biscuits were dutifully set out by Matthew's sisters in hopes of toys being brought.

They were antsy and fought before bedtime. That is, until Lucie sang them a sweet rhyme.

Earlier, Lucie had been filled with warmth as Henry played carols on the pinafore and the girls sang loudly and off key.

She had spent the evening after supper with Cordelia and Charlotte, knitting sweaters for the three.

Now she felt bitter and upset, but the night wasn't over. No, not yet.

The conversations had flowed so easily between the women in the hours before. Lucie had almost forgot the other demands; the baby she tried to ignore.

But the truth was, she was happy to be doing something productive with her hands.

Lucie enjoyed the conversations even if listening to Charlotte was quite the chore.

Tomorrow was Yulemas but Lucie could not have felt less festive.

Yes, the girl Herondale had become rather quite obsessive.

A solid glance over her shoulder gave her courage in the dark. Cordelia was fast asleep on the opposite bed, stiff like chalk.

Lucie stilled, thinking she heard Oscar bark.

Cordelia's back was turned to Lucie; the long braid resting against the comforter like a serpent.

Cordelia was the only one who wouldn't help and the lack of support streamlined Lucie's determination like a torrent.

Lucie felt guilty, like a sneaky child as she opened her door. She crept out into the candle-lit hall ignorant of the consequences her actions might cause.

A familar frown pressed her lips as she closed the door and paused.

For weeks a string tugged at her, knowing that her freedom was slipping through her finger. Each free moment was ready to disappear; the life with a drinker.

Everything seemed doomed; so unfair.

Selfishly, she assumed tonight was only a prelude to the tired life she would soon have living in the walls of Fairchild Manor or worse: Matthew's downtown London flat.

For hours, Lucie had tried to sleep after adjusting the ribbons on an old hat.

She read Cordelia a chapter or two of a mystery book, then finished with a cup of warm milk.

Poor Lucie begged her brain to shut off long after she was wrapped in cotton and silk.

But Charlotte's voice kept droning on in her ears, until her heart was able to tilt.

"I am really happy that Matthew is with you, Lucie. You do know he is trying quite hard to be a better man for you and the baby. You will be quite a good match for my wild child, and quite happy I assure you."

Lucie was uncharacteristically careless in her response. She had only thought about her own wants.

She whole heartedly disagreed before silencing herself much to Cordelia's horror.

Many times Lucie Herondale had tried to imagine being married to Matthew, just for a minute or an hour.

She pictured having a family, a normal Shadowhunter life with him at her side. A family life like her own.

But she just couldn't picture herself being trapped inside. A bird in a cage; her wings barely flown.

She couldn't stay in the net waiting up for him every night. It was just too much to ask.

Worrying. Wondering if tonight would be the night he'd get in a fatal fight or worse; death by her own axe.

How they would feed their family if he died. How would she live, crumbling on the inside. She didn't even have the faintest idea how he felt about women writers or the socially responsible duties they were to provide.

Lucie didn't have a clue how to be a mother or run a household.

This much she'd been told; they'd be wed under the sacred Shadowhunter vows; their bodies marked each with a matching rune.

After they would go on living as two separate people under the light of the moon.

He would conquer binges of weeks where he'd be drunk daily and purges where he would be sick and sober.

She'd stay home; keep house and take care of the children, and he'd lovingly call her his good luck clover.

This would be a cycle that wouldn't end. It would only grow worse with each year; each baby born on the cusp of regret and condenscend.

That didn't mean living with Matthew Fairchild was hopeless as a snowflake in the rain. Perhaps Lucie was wrong. Perhaps Matthew Fairchild was only in pain.

What the cards were showing Lucie now was just a reality she didn't think she could endure.

The truth was, part of Lucie did love Matthew, so much more. When he bled, she bled in her core.

Nightmares and dreams about him had often haunted her into rejecting his previous advances and now she knew why.

She presumed the dreams were omens; warning her not to abandon the sky.

The Fairchild/ Herondale union had been long awaited for by both families, but particularly by the Consul.

Lucie knew what Charlotte expected of her future daughter-in-law was damn near impossible.

Change Matthew. Fix him.

Lucie dreaded every moment spent under the Consul's watchful eye. Every minute she was in Charlotte's company was as unpleasant as a stye.

As Lucie passed Matthew's room, thinking about the last time he'd held a sober smile, she slowed her pace and stopped short. A groaning noise came from within and Lucie wondered if Matthew had overdone it on port.

His door was open just a crack, enough to see into the chaos of his existence; a dream. The stench of stale cigars and regurgitated gin spilled into the hall; hitting her nose like steam.

Lucie gagged and her heart broke at the sight of him laying like a rag doll among dirty linens.

She hadn't expected him to be home and was shocked to see him in such a position.

Lucie had never been able to read Matthew's mind. Now, she wondered if it might have been a good find if she'd had the time.

Her heart had conceded and concluded any type of relationship with him was out of the question.

Being Matthew's bride had never been a suggestion.

She pretended that had been the reason she never reciprocated his feelings. Not until she plainly understood him and his bad dealings.

A well of sadness filled up inside her as she reached out her hand, shining the witchlight into the darkness of the room. The bed was empty except for Oscar, a pillar in the sand.

As usual, the golden retriever was unaware; sleeping loyally ontop of a ragged blanket tucked under his hand.

She shined the light just above Matthew's sleeping body. His arms were spread, legs tucked tight together; a disgusting hottie.

Distracted by the way the light sweat on his chest gleamed pale under the flickering witchlight, Lucie thought about that night. The sweet smirk that swelled on his face was a haunting memory; a sin and a show. One she had hidden in her bones reminding her of a promise she made to him that felt so long ago.

The breeze was cool; the night hot. Cicadas and crickets staged their favorite tunes in an effort to provide a sonata. Not a cloud nor haze flooded the starlit sky; only fireflies lit up the night. Shades of blue from the lake lit her eyes with a warm glow. Lucie watched Matthew with anticipation as her skin grew warmer from every sip of his flask.

Do you love me? Matthew's hot breath on her neck. His lips were fire; hot cinnamon liquor burning her skin with each devious kiss on her flesh.

Yes. Everything would have been yes to him in the heat of that moment. Her hands were beyond confinement and reached eagerly for the buttons on his waistcoat.

Do you promise, Lucie darling? His green eyes were dark, serious under the stars.

I promise. And she meant it. Or she thought she did.

I love you, Lucie Herondale. You're the only one besides James that means anything to me. This is for forever. I swear on my life.

I love you too. Her lips against his were ice on fire; electric and numbing the voice screaming in her head.

Lucie blinked, rolling out of her reverie with the grace of someone used to disappearing into herself.

Matthew was still sprawled out, drool trickled down, out of his mouth.

His hand rested among the fresh vomit and spit on the rug. He was still in his rumpled navy pants and his belt was half undone; broken as the wings of a dead bug.

Stained socks and muddy shoes were discarded in a heap. It was as if he meant to climb in bed and instead just collapsed on the floor, fast asleep.

Lucie wondered if she should wake him; maybe help him into bed or the bath.

Matthew was snoring loudly; the sound sheilding his lips like a mask.

Lucie frowned, watching him and the moment of charity pass.

Matthew stirred and kicked out his leg. He groaned and rolled his head in torment and wrath. "Luce...Lucie. please. PLEASE. Forgive me. Forgive me."

Lucie sighed and flipped the braided pigtails over her shoulders, disgusted and disappointed instead. She shook her head at Matthew, her heart turning to ice.

How could she ever love him like this? The strings of her heart pulled her into a vice.

Lucie knew she wasn't entirely being nice.

At least now she knew Math was safe and breathing. One crisis averted. Now she could stop caring for awhile and continue seething.

Butterflies rolled inside her belly as the baby turned; shifting positions as if it sensed his father's presence and his mother's disgrace.

Lucie tried not to cry as she quickly shut Matthew's door, glad for him to be out of her sight at least for the night.

Lucie Herondale knew she'd be learning a hard lesson in faith.

The manor was cold, bitter like her uncharacteristic temperament. It was just the way Lucie liked things lately; quiet without comment.

The cold made her feel closer to death; closer to Jesse's spirit.

He was quite the opposite of Matthew who had the most obnoxious tendency to be satiric.

She warmed her heart as she thought about the ghost and his quiet, melodic ways. She imagined him in the sunlight; alive during the days.

Lucie became once more determined to save his soul. A debt that was unpaid; a secret not to be told.

Christopher and Grace had snuck downstairs after the lights went out. They were headed to the lab without a doubt.

Christopher thought he might have figured out a chemical compound needed in the spell Grace had shown him during tea and lemon tarts that afternoon.

James promised to guard the door as Thomas occupied the insomniac old housekeeper with a card game and some gin. Every one was in their places; helping Lucie's cause and Lucie shivered, feeling Matthew's hands still on her skin.

A whistle helplessly escaped her lips as she moved down the hall. She felt slightly more optimistic, smiling and all.

Lucie could feel the hairs on her arms rise, theories becoming reality. She felt Grace and her were getting closer to the right order of the specialty.

Goosebumps coated her bare arms as her feet padded quietly towards the music room; the hem of the nightgown billowing around her ankles like a flowers bloom. She tried not to skip like a schoolgirl.

The witchlight she cupped in her hands bounced off the walls; reflecting the contemporary colors in various variations of self portraits and Lucie couldn't help but look down at her hand; Matthew's ring and his pearl.

Suddenly, she was breathless. She stopped; reckless.

Something was wrong.

Someone was watching.

Someone was waiting.

Most of the walls were covered with expensive self paintings. Here and there; scattered were exquisite Idris countryside landscapes which Lucie found intoxicating.

Minature statues and other odd art were strategically placed on pedestals along the walls. Flowers on tables; Oscar Wilde inspired green carnations graced the hall; smelling pecularily of mint and clover during the fall.

This was Matthew's wing and it was freely decorated over. An artist's heart trapped in a body lacking talents. Everything was either beautiful or tragic to him; a man of great gallant.

Nothing was traditional or logical. Should it be to a man of illogical graces?

Lucie noticed the bright green of his eyes in some of the faces. They seemed to move slowly and appeared to be following.

She ignored their name calling as she caught her breath and moved on into the fray. The eerie feeling reminded her of Matthew's favorite legend; Dorian Gray. The fear that story brought back drowned out any other excuse she may have had for being frightened.

Lucie shook slightly as she quickened; her toes were red and numb as her limbs tightened. She scolded herself for venturing this far in the manor for a waste of a shortcut. Down this demented, self loathing hallway she desperately desired a peanut.

She hated that she discarded Matthew's privacy so blatantly. Even moreover her eagerness to meet Jesse hastily.

It had been almost a week since they'd met in private. The time spent apart dramatic.

In all the time she had been in the manor, she had never been in one of the extravagant rooms he uses. He had always forbid it and come to her; insisting she was the favorite among his muses.

Lucie was reminded of the story of Beauty and the Beast, which she found odd and sad at the very least.

Down the stairs, nearly tripping over her feet. Lucie felt a strange tingle on her sheet of skin as she reached the doors to the music room. She took a deep breath and pulled the solid oak doors open and slam against the wall with a boom. "Jesse?"

The moonlight greeted her; pure and silver like a star. Lucie was awestruck by what she saw.

In it's center was a black grand piano; to the left was another Yulemas tree twinking with candles, surrounded with gifts. The branches were strung with gold ribbons and mistletoe adrift.

The shapes of the gifts were shadows on the ceiling; fingers beckoning to the great beyond. Lucie could sense other spirits shamelessly coiling in the dark corners; not ready to move on.

Jesse was tired, trembling and translucent. Lucie felt like she on a boat on the rocking seas. His body was perched on the bench; his hands poised above the ivory keys. His head was lowered; ink stains on the pure, paper skin of his face.

Lucie gasped, parched. She could see he was singing an old Welsh song quietly by the light of a illuminating hearth. She smiled as his fingers instinctively played the tune in the air.

He was beautiful and fair.

Lucie hushed the intrusive and intricate shape of a story taking place in her head. She didn't want to break the moment, but she had to say something to make her heart stop racing and her breath like lead.

"Hello," she whispered to the dead.

#cassandra clare #the last hours #lucie herondale #the shadowhunter chronicles

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sysig · 4 years

Photo

He might not like hugs much but they are a straightforward way to comfort

He ran full-force, nearly falling into the man’s chest and stomach with the weight he put behind his - not a hug, not a hug, not a hug - grasp around the thin yet sturdy waist, and David gasped a bit in surprise on top of having the air knocked out of him just a little bit. Max buried his faced in the almost-soft green fabric of David’s seemingly only shirt, refusing to open his eyes in case the green wasn’t green and David wasn’t David and he was somewhere he never wanted to be again. “Max...?” He heard gently above his head, the warmth of a hand hovering close to his hair, unsure. He refused to acknowledge how he’d been shivering, adrenaline or fear or both finally catching up to him. “I don’t care what,” he started, muffled, “just talk about something. Anything.” He needed to hear his voice, needed anything to believe in more than his sight - the warm, woody smell David carried on his skin, the heat from the hand settling in his hair, the timbre of his voice echoing through the chest Max had pressed himself into, he needed that to be David more than anything right now. He needed to be here more than anywhere else right now. “…Okay,” came the simple, quiet reply, before David began a soft ramble on the various tree species in the Sleepy Peak region. Max was hugged in return, Fine, he thought, and allowed himself to be lifted without leaving the rumble David’s voice made in his chest. Settling back in a nearby chair, David continued, gently petting Max’s hair and rocking, eliciting quiet creaks from the wooden frame beneath them. Max slowly unwound, stopped shaking, opting to curl his fingers into the loose material of David’s shirt and still resting his forehead into David’s chest and shoulder, letting the drone of David’s rich voice wash over him and keep him in the moment. It was hot, and the only other noise was the harmonies of crickets and cicadas, and the chair creaked under being rocked on its back legs. It wasn’t perfect, it was barely pleasant - he shifted his weight in David’s lap to keep his foot from falling asleep, and turned his head to still David’s hand from petting his hair. David took the hint and rested his hand on his knee, continuing to rock. It was only okay, being rocked, listening to bugs and David, being too warm from the weather and his hoodie and David’s side, and just that made him feel safe. Being uncomfortable had never been so comforting.

#Actually made me feel like writing for a change #Doodles #Camp Camp #Dadvid #David #Max #Technically the Coraline AU but it can be read without that too it's not like there's any buttons here lol #More specifically it's about Daniel and David's similarities and differences so I think that's the most important context uwu #I wrote a couple more paragraphs about David's POV too but it didn't end quite as satisfyingly #I haven't written in a while and it's really just a drabble ;u; Just don't judge it too harshly #Always gotta draw David with open body language it's required

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athingthatwantsvirginia · 4 years

Text

Catherine, Heathcliff, and Shangri-la

PART TEN OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of death, smoking, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 4.9K

Summary: Though she plans to spend her birthday alone, Ella ends up passing time on the late August evening with Jess, eating old pie and playing cards.

She looked like a dream in her sundress. Late August light bathed the crowds at the summer festival, and Ella practically glimmered when Jess spotted her from across the square. It made him feel like an idiot thinking the way he was, but she had an effect on him which he’d previously only read about in books. He wasn’t sure exactly when the tipping point had been, when he’d truly fallen in love with her, passed the point of no return. But he had. And he was. He loved a girl who didn’t believe in love, who wasn’t into dating, who didn’t feel the same. It had never been so complicated before, and he’d never been so completely screwed. There were moments, times when his heart nearly burst from the hope. When she laughed at one of his wiseass remarks, or ran her fingertips over the notes he’d left in the margins of her poetry books, or let her eyes linger on him for just a second too long. But each time, she would brush it off, act like nothing had happened. And he’d be forced to wonder if he’d imagined the electricity passing between them.

Slowly, over the course of the summer, he was beginning to come to terms with it. Maybe they could just be friends, coworkers. Maybe all he needed was to make out with Shane until his lips were swollen and his mind was blank and his memory would be wiped clean of all the times Ella had made him feel deeper than he ever had before. Besides, he had never fallen in love before, had never uttered the three fateful words in all his seventeen years. A small part of him believed he could snap out of it easily.

He took his eyes back from her form, concentrating on the girl in front of him. The girl who wanted him and nothing more. Who meant nothing but ease and pleasure. Sliding his hands down in her back pockets, Jess closed his eyes and placed kisses down Shane’s neck, the bark of the tree they leaned on rough against his back.

. . .

“She’s back with a vengeance!” Ella exclaimed, wrapping her arms around Rory in a gleeful embrace.

They stood together near a flower stand, the fragrant display adding sweetness to the air. Despite the barber shop quartet droning on in the background, Ella felt her spirits lift at the sight of Rory Gilmore, her confidant missing in action over the summer at an internship in Washington. In the back of her mind, Ella couldn’t help reminding herself that soon, she would have to deal with the constant separation. Rory would be off at Harvard, Lane would be touring with her band (hopefully), and Ella would be stuck. As she always had been. She’d have to fill Rory in on how the college applications were going later.

Rory laughed happily, pulling away from Ella and holding her at an arm’s length. “Yes, and with all the hot DC gossip.”

“I’m intrigued,” Ella said, raising an eyebrow.

From behind them, Lorelai beamed, her own face painted with joy, her daughter back in town. Ella loved that about summer. It had a special kind of magic no other season could manage, positivity radiating from everyone, dampened only by the occasional rainy day.

“Alright, let’s go find Lane, and we are in for a movie night of epic proportions!” Lorelai announced, strolling around the square with the two teens in tow.

Before they departed completely, however, Rory followed Ella’s distracted gaze to the old oak where Jess stood, eating his girlfriend’s face.

“Oh, God!” Rory exclaimed, scrunching up her face in disgust.

Ella blushed, Rory having noticed her staring. She hadn’t meant to. But seeing the two of them together, considering the many fights with Shane the summer had brought, gave her a feeling of irritated uneasiness. Like a car crash she couldn’t look away from. Morbid interest feeding morbid interest in a vicious, voyeuristic cycle.

Tilting her head to the scene in question, Lorelai scoffed. “Guess he’s got his ‘What I Did This Summer’ essay all planned out.”

“I know,” Ella groaned. “America’s youth really does have such admirable modesty.”

Snorting a laugh, Rory shot a knowing look at her mother. “Have they been at that a lot?”

Ella nodded, speeding up in her stride a little to get out of view of the display. “Yep. It’s now part of the Early Bird Special at the diner. Dinner and a show.”

Lorelai faked a gag. “I told you. The kid gives off major Sid Vicious vibes.”

“Looks like he’s found his Nancy,” Rory added.

“And he’s been so weird at work lately. He barely talks to me, just sits on his little stool. Reading, brooding, scaring off small children. Maybe I pissed him off. I don’t know,” Ella said. She fiddled with the chain of her necklace.

“Um….Ella?” Rory began, bringing a hand to the blonde girl’s shoulder. “Do you not realize you’re the Catherine to his Heathcliff?”

Ella scoffed, laughing breathily. “What?”

“He’s totally into you!” Lorelai exclaimed.

Raising a brow, Ella rolled her eyes and kept walking. She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. “Very funny.”

“Every time he looks at you…” Lorelai said, feigning a swoony look. “It’s sickening.”

“Yeah, right. I bet it’s Rory he’s into,” Ella argued, shrugging them off once more.

“Oh really?” Rory asked skeptically. “Then why does he make those notes in your margins? In the poetry books he said he hated when he first got here?”

“It’s mutually assured destruction,” Ella explained. “If he stops taking a chance on poetry, I’ll stop taking a chance on the beats. The arguments would ensue, the diner would descend into chaos. In an effort to avoid certain death during our shifts together, we compromise.”

“Ah, the key to a strong relationship’s foundation,” Lorelai retorted.

Snorting a laugh, Ella shook her head. Without the flowers and the serenity of solitude, the less desirable aspects of the festival began to wear on Ella’s psyche. The barber shop quartet spun around and around in her head, making her dizzy, and the sun beat down on them. Stray strands of hair, fallen from her bun, began to stick to her damp forehead.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to Ella. “Rory, my dear?”

“Yes?” Rory answered with suspicion.

“You know how you always give me presents on my birthday even though I tell you not to?” Ella asked.

“I’m aware of the annual birthday commiseration,” Rory said, nodding.

“Well, I’d like to request, as a birthday present for your favorite waitress, a moratorium on the Jess talk until I am seventeen years and one day old,” Ella suggested, fluttering her eyelashes jokingly.

Sighing, Rory linked her arm with Ella’s. “Alright, but only because you asked so very nicely.”

“Good to have you back, Thelma,” Ella smiled fondly, pulling her friend a little closer.

“Same to you, Louise.”

Lorelai chuckled and shook her head, watching as the girls ascended the steps to Lane’s door.

. . .

Mercifully, Ella had made it through the day with minimal birthday wishes and no attempts at gift-giving. Lorelai and Rory had teased her about a surprise party, but she knew they wouldn’t truly dare. Instead of going home, where she knew she’d have to brave Fiona’s pathetic attempts at celebration, she wandered around town aimlessly. It made her feel guilty to snap at the woman so much, but she just couldn’t help herself. Watching Fiona, only twelve years her senior, traipsing around in her house, humming the Dixie Chicks songs she knew her mother would’ve hated. Before she could apply any rational thought to the decision, she found her way to the bridge. The greenish-black water sparkled in glowing moonlight. Crickets sung and cicadas buzzed, a low summer tune. She hung her booted feet over the edge, the black cotton of her dress pooling around her knees. Rifling through her shoulder bag to the side, she found a copy of The Grapes of Wrath. A perfect book to sustain her gloomy mood. She laid back against the wooden planks of the pier, holding the novel above her face, blocking out the view of the clear night. The humidity had dissipated, and a cool breeze blew past her.

A few peaceful moments had passed before she heard footfalls thumping heavily, vibrating beneath her back. She sighed as the noise got closer, letting the book fall to her chest and rolling her eyes.

“Stealing my spot, huh?” Jess spoke up as he approached, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you’d bought the property.”

“Touché.”

Though Ella still hadn’t looked over at him, she heard him sit down next to her. She could smell the subtle mixture of hair gel and pine.

“By all means, sit down,” she snapped, sitting up again, placing her scrap of construction paper back in the book to save her place. She stuffed it back in her bag to the left. Fiddling with the end of the loose braid which hung over her shoulder, she sighed again.

Jess scoffed. “Jeez, Daria. Don’t pull your punches.”

“Bite me, Jess,” she replied flatly, staring out across the water. In the light, she knew she would’ve been able to watch schools of tiny grey fish whizzing by. As a child, she’d imagined small mermaids living in a crystalline village beneath the surface of the dull silt and sand.

“Feelin’ pithy tonight?” he drawled, an eyebrow raised.

“You could say that.”

He only nodded, leaning back on his palms. Silence stood between the two of them, heavy in the nighttime air. Ella almost put her nails to her mouth, then thought better of it. When Jess still didn’t speak, she huffed out a big breath and finally tossed him a glance.

“Don’t you have someone to verbally abuse at the diner or a girlfriend’s face to suck or something?” she asked.

Jess shot her a look. Before he could even respond, Ella spoke again.

“As long as you’re here, could you loan me a cigarette?” she asked, a shameful blush coloring her cheeks. As much as the request embarrassed her, she couldn’t stand the way her skin was crawling.

“What?” Jess blurted out, eyes wide. “What happened to the periodic surgeon general’s warnings?”

She sighed, dropping her gaze to her lap and clearing her throat. “I’ve gotta keep you on your toes, don’t I?”

Though slightly flabbergasted, Jess’s eyes shone fondly, remembering the carriage ride they’d taken at the Bracebridge dinner so many months ago. After a moment, he produced a crumpled packet and a lighter from his pocket and handed them to her.

“Thank you,” she muttered, placing a cigarette between her lips. It surprised her that he actually obliged, considering how stand-offish he’d been at work lately. The lighter struck on the first try, the small orange flame flickering warmly in the darkness. And Jess could tell immediately it was far from the first time she’d smoked. She handed the supplies back to him.

He took a cigarette of his own and lit it up.

“Don’t tell Luke,” she said, voice slightly husky as she exhaled the first puff of smoke. Her words came out in dim blue clouds.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied, tapping ash into the lake and watching it burn out. “Your secret is safe, Stevens.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider it a birthday present,” she grumbled, feeling the familiar burn of smoke in her chest. She knew she would regret the decision in the morning.

“It’s your birthday?”

“Yep.”

“Happy birthday,” he said reflexively, eyebrows raised.

Scoffing bitterly, Ella flicked ash off her cigarette with her thumb. “Thanks, Mariano.”

“Is that why you’re gonna bite my head off at the next wrong move?”

She laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, birthdays aren’t my thing.”

“Huh. And I guess that’s why no one said anything at work?”

Ella nodded. “Yeah, after a few crying customers last year, Luke ordered the diner a birthday-free zone.”

“Wise of him.”

“It was.”

Regarding her in the moonlight, Jess sighed. “Any particular reason for the birthday allergy?”

Swallowing harshly, Ella brought her free hand to her necklace and a smirk formed on her face. “It’s just...my mom was a big birthday person. Without her here, it just all feels a little artificial. It’s weird. The anniversary of the day she died never hits me as hard as Mother’s Day, or today.”

He nodded, solemn as she continued.

“I try to spend as little time at home as I can. And Rory and Lorelai always try to get me to do something,” she said, pausing to inhale deeply and blow out a stream of smoke. “But I am nothing if not pertinacious.”

“Nice. Ten-cent word.”

“Thanks. Used it in the crossword this morning. I’d say it’s at least twenty cents,” she said, scoffing in mock offense.

Jess chuckled. “Alright, I’ll cave for the birthday girl.”

“How kind of you.”

Crushing the smoldering butt of her cigarette on the weathered bridge wood, Ella exhaled out her nose and crossed one leg over the other. She smoothed her hands over her dress. Somewhere, a loon cried. Jess sat quietly beside her, the last of his cigarette glowing as he inhaled. When he put it out, he stood up and made to leave. Ella didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at him. After a second of thought, he held a hesitant hand out to her.

“Let’s go back to the diner,” he proposed with finality. “We can eat the leftover pie. There will be no birthday talk whatsoever. I promise.”

Looking at his hand, Ella thought of the book in her bag. The hours she could spend alone with nothing but Steinbeck to entertain her. But then, she felt a sudden rush of courage at the thought of Luke’s. Free of people, with pastries under the glass domes on the counters and stale pies in the back fridge. And Jess. She heaved a sigh, then slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed his hand.

. . .

“No way,” Jess said, shaking his head doubtfully as he took another bite of the pie.

Ella smiled, nodding. “I swear. I was named the worst dancer out of all the little girls ever taught at Miss Patty’s by the Gazette. I was responsible for the domino incident of 1992 which caused two sprained ankles and one broken arm. Suffice it to say, the arm was mine.”

“Jesus,” Jess laughed, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, I’m Patrick Swayze’s worst nightmare.”

Jess rolled his eyes and threw his head back with a dramatic groan. “I’ll never understand your fixation with those cheesy eighties movies.”

“You bite your tongue, heathen,” she said lightly, digging another bite from the cold apple pie in the tin between them.

“Well, at least we can agree on Steinbeck,” he shrugged through a laugh.

She nodded and sighed tiredly, brought a hand to her necklace.

The diner shone brightly against the otherwise dark landscape of Main Street. Ella could hear Luke snoring from all the way upstairs, but it was almost comforting if not amusing. With the leftover pie between them, she and Jess sat alone amongst chairs stacked on tables and cutlery put away. It smelled vaguely of disinfectant, but the pine was still there, making her heart feel just a touch less broken. Maybe being alone wasn’t the best way to pass one of the hardest days of her year.

“I’m surprised she still even lets you step foot in the studio, leaving that much carnage in your wake,” Jess said, smirking at the way the tension slowly released from her shoulders.

Snorting a laugh, Ella took another bite of the pie. She could tell it was made from her recipe, heavy on the cinnamon. “Well, the years have improved my coordination a little bit.”

“But have they?” he teased.

“Shut up,” she retorted, good nature in her voice.

A comfortable pause filled the air. Jess’s eyes caught her thin fingers still rolling the silver chain of her necklace. She blew up a long breath and straightened up, putting her fork back down in the tin, the half-pie almost all the way gone.

Nodding, Jess swallowed dryly and bit at his lip. “Why do you wear that necklace every day?”

Eyes widening, Ella couldn’t help but feel taken aback by the question. She let out a self-conscious scoff and her hand immediately dropped away from her collar. The small silver charm, a key, glinted in the yellow diner light.

“My grandmother gave it to me,” she explained, her tone even though she avoided his eyes. “It’s the key to the jewelry box she had when she was little. The box got lost, but the key stayed. She was a singer. Friends with Miss Patty. Pretty fucking cool.”

Jess smiled a tiny smile. “Sounds like it.”

“Yeah,” she replied, the word a sigh. Then, after a beat, she regained her direct nature and looked him in the eye. “Okay, since we’re asking questions tonight: why the hell are there bongos on the shelf above your desk?”

Jess laughed, but his cheeks reddened a touch. “Those were there when I moved in. Scout’s Honor.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are the last person in the world they would ever let into the Scouts.”

“Wow, that one hurt.”

Ella smiled. “Then what’s Luke doing with those bongos?”

“Preparing for a Matthew McConaughey,” Jess shot back knowingly.

“Ugh, that image is gonna be burned in my mind forever,” she groaned, nose scrunching up in disgust.

“You’re welcome.”

“Fuck you,” she said, grinning.

“Right back at ya.”

Suddenly, a loud snore came from the floor above them.

“Speaking of,” Ella grumbled, only in mock irritation.

“Like you don’t snore.”

“Only when I’m drunk,” she said, then looked up at him, accusatory. “But you. Oh my god, it was all night long. Really, the two of you put together could probably break some sonic records.”

Instead of retorting, Jess retrieved his weathered deck of cards from one of his jean pockets. He raised his eyebrows as a challenge and began shuffling. “Just for that last comment, you’re about to be massacred at Rummy.”

. . .

A knot of anxiety sat in her stomach, but work was helping her keep it at bay. It was the last Saturday of summer, Monday the start of senior year. But the waves of butterflies fluttering around in her chest weren’t ones of nervousness, more only of dread. The constant drudgery of school work, the monotony of the day. She liked summer for more reasons than the mood and the weather. Free time to read, to draw, to paint. And she much preferred painting the full greenery over the desolate landscapes of a Connecticut winter. The fact she hadn’t seen Jess since the night before, when she left the diner satisfied with herself for winning three hands in a row, was doing nothing to calm her either. After cleaning up from the breakfast rush, Ella was mindlessly reorganizing the mugs on the cubby shelf to the left of the counter by color and size.

“Alright, this is ridiculous,” Luke admonished, walking up behind her.

She scoffed. “It’s not my fault these mugs haven’t been reorganized since Reagan was president.”

“Because they were the last ones you hadn’t got your hands on. You’re starting to sound like Taylor.”

Instantly, she turned and narrowed her eyes at him. “The next time you say that to me I’m turning in my apron and never looking back!”

Luke scoffed in disbelief at her dramatics. “Just take your break, Ella.”

“You think I’m bluffing,” she warned, untying her apron and leaving it on the hook near the kitchen window, “but I’m dead serious.”

“I’m quaking in my boots,” Luke replied flatly, gathering some receipts from the side of the cash register.

“I bet,” she shot back, rounding the corner and going to dig through her bag, hanging by the front door. “Is Jess here? I’ve got a book for him.”

“Upstairs,” Luke said shortly.

Retracting her hand from the shoulder bag, with a worn collection of Dorothy Parker, she rolled her eyes. She tucked her hair behind her ears and prepared to disappear behind the checkered curtain on the way to the stairs.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a master conversationalist?” she asked.

“Shaddup,” he groaned, waving an annoyed hand at her in the direction of the apartment.

Ella snickered, then bounded up the stairs, the soles of her old converse a little slippery on the creaking wood. She heard the TV droning on from inside, daytime Saturday shows. Only a couple short knocks sounded on the door before she let herself in, as she had so many times before when fetching random items during her shifts.

“Hey, Jess-” she began, turning to the left, Jess’s room.

Cut off by a sudden flash of noise, she watched Jess stuff a blue mesh vest quickly into the top drawer of his dresser. Eyes wide with surprise, he faced her with a scowl, brows scrunched up.

“Ever hear of knocking, Daria?” he snapped.

Processing the scene before her, Ella blinked a couple times and bit the inside of her cheek. “Sorry. Guess I was too quiet.”

“Apparently.” He crossed his arms over his Punk Planet t-shirt and looked at her expectantly. “You need something?”

Ella cleared her throat, looking down at the book in her hands. “Yeah, I had that Dorothy Parker I was telling you about last night and…” she paused, glancing at his dresser. “I’m sorry, Jess, but I simply can’t ignore this. Was that a Walmart vest?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He straightened up, defensively. “No.”

“Really?”

“You heard me,” he shot back.

Pursing her lips, she nodded, unconvinced. She stepped a little closer to him, one hand on the hip of her skirt. “So, what was it?”

“A shirt.”

“A shirt with a Walmart logo on it?” she asked, her voice gaining a teasing lilt.

Jess scoffed. “I think you need glasses.”

A momentary staring contest ensued, and she watched him squirm under her hazel gaze. “Do you work at Walmart, Jess?”

Sighing through his nose, Jess glared at her. Then, he ran a hand through his hair and side-stepped Ella, making his way to the kitchen. “Fine. Yes. You happy?”

Instantly, a smile spread wide on her face. “Oh, so very happy.”

“Glad to hear it,” he growled, avoiding eye contact as he popped open a can of soda. He sat down at the kitchen table, facing the I Dream of Jeannie rerun.

Biting back her giggles, Ella came over to take the rickety kitchen chair next to him. Clearing her throat, she put the book in her hand on the table between then. She smoothed her slightly wrinkled Patti Smith t-shirt and tried to appear nonchalant, a smirk ever-present on her lips. Jess sipped his soda, eyes dark and moody, embarrassment underneath a thin layer of irritation. Nearly five minutes passed on the oven clock in the small kitchen, both of them watching Barbara Eden’s foibles in silence. Ella bit a little at her nails, but only to mask her amused expression.

“So...all this time...Shangri-la was Walmart?” she asked.

Jess sighed, rolling his eyes. “Eleanor-”

“You work at Walmart,” she repeated, chuckling a little.

“Whatever. You smoke,” he countered.

“Like, twice a year,” she said defensively. “When did you even start that job?”

Bowing his head slightly, Jess finally dropped the act a bit. “June. When you were in New Britain.”

She sighed, nodding, then brought a hand to his arm. “I’m really proud of you. I mean, you can’t waste all your people skills at the diner.”

Jess shook her off and rolled his eyes again. “Shut up. I move stock around on a fork-lift in the back.”

“Okay, tough guy.”

“And don’t tell Luke,” he said, finally looking her in the eye.

She shrugged. “Fine, I won’t. Cross my heart.”

“Thank you,” he snapped.

“You’re very welcome,” she replied, still grinning. “Seriously, though, it’s not that lame. Trust me. I think it’s cool. You have your own thing going, y’know?”

Jess scoffed in doubt but said nothing more.

Clearing her throat, Ella shifted her eyes down to her lap for a second, the tone of her voice changing. “But enough about your double-life, Mr. Bond. I just wanted to bring you that book. And also thank you for last night.”

Jess raised a brow, eyes on the TV screen. “For what?”

“I don’t know. If you hadn’t come along, my plan was to read Steinbeck at the lake, then sneak home and listen to Nirvana through my headphones,” she explained. “But instead I got to eat old pie and kick your ass at cards.”

“Such a sore winner,” he muttered, cracking a little smirk.

She laughed quietly, her fingers finding their way to her necklace. “And sorry if I was...I don’t usually talk about my mom. Not exactly a crowd-pleasing topic. Just on Mother’s Day and my birthday, I...You didn’t have to listen.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t do things I don’t wanna do,” he said, casting her a momentary glance, a small, lopsided smile on his face. It was more genuine than she was prepared for, and she had to look away as her cheeks heated up.

Rising from the table, she made to leave, hoping not to overstay her welcome. “Anyway, thanks. It was the best birthday I’ve had in awhile.”

Running a hand over his mouth, Jess blew out a breath and faced her fully again. “Anytime, Stevens.”

He looked as though he were about to say something more, but she could practically see him swallow it down. Instead, he got up from his seat and switched off the TV. Going over to his side of the apartment, she watched him grab a CD from the top of a small stack on his dresser. She couldn’t quite read the cover, but could see it was filled with shades of black and red.

“How long do you have left on your break?”

Ella looked down at her watch then back up at him. “Still have about twenty minutes.”

He nodded, gesturing to the CD. “I get fifteen percent off at the store, so I picked this up the other day. Just came out. It made me think of you. I thought you might wanna listen?”

“Oh,” she said dumbly, surprised. She nodded. “Yeah, yeah, sure. As long as it’s not jazz.”

“It’s not,” Jess assured her, chuckling.

As he opened his closet and brought out the small stereo, she took a few steps closer, arms crossed. She couldn’t help the fluttering in her chest or the way her cheeks flushed with heat. In all the time she’d known Jess, she couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so anxious around him. Quite so antsy. She almost couldn’t explain the feeling, but it wasn’t one she minded.

“I would’ve shown you last night if I knew it was your birthday,” he mentioned as he pressed play.

As the music started, he suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. Sit on the bed? On his desk chair? Instead, he leaned on the desktop itself, hands stuffed in his pockets. He regretted the decision already, showing her the music. He’d meant to do it at some point, during one of their friendly book exchanges. But then the air between them had become charged again, and she was about to walk away from the moment. He wanted it to last just a little longer, time with the one person in Stars Hollow he actually enjoyed being with. Even if she didn’t feel quite the same as him, even if she never would.

Ella felt the slight vibrations of the music in the soles of her soles as she stepped closer to the stereo, picking up the CD case from his dresser. She turned it over in her hands. Turn on the Bright Lights by Interpol. It surprised her she hadn’t heard of them before; Lane usually kept her in the know about such things. They must have been very young, very new. But she liked it, the echoing guitars and the drums. Judging from the back cover, the song to which they now listened was simply called “Untitled.”

“They’re good,” she said, putting the case back down. “Different. I like it.”

Jess shrugged. “Figured you would. What with all that sad shit you listen to. The other songs are a little more lively. They’re no Fleetwood Mac, but…”

Walking closer still, she stopped when she was only a couple feet in front of him. Her heart beat with the music, and she swallowed dryly. Something was clicking in her head.

“Jess?”

He looked up, and his brown eyes locked with hers. “Yeah?”

Before she could rethink it, before she could talk herself out of it, before she could silence her heart with her head, she brought a hand to the back of his neck and kissed him. His shock was sudden but brief. Almost immediately, he wound his arms around her waist. And he was kissing back, sweetly, gently at first, then deeper. She was flush against him, smiling into it. The music beat quietly around them, and his grip was warm, and his lips felt exactly right. Ella wanted it to never end, for the moment to last forever, alive, and never cross over and turn to mere memory.

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