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newstfionline · 2 months ago

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Monday, September 30, 2024

Western North Carolina Reels From Helene (NYT) Abandoned vehicles caked with mud. Mountainous rural roads and slices of highways washed away into rivers. Parking lots filled with people desperately searching for cellphone service, trying to tell relatives and friends they are OK—or wanting to find out who is not. The remnants of Hurricane Helene that thrashed western North Carolina on Friday with powerful winds and cascades of rainfall have brought destruction and a sense of being under siege to the region known for its bountiful forests and blue horizon of jagged mountains. Snapshots of the storm’s calamitous effect roughly 400 miles from where it made landfall in Florida were clear on Saturday afternoon: People chain-sawed their way to loved ones and drove for hours on dwindling gas tanks in search of food and power. Also unnerving was the silence in the aftermath of the storm because of a lack of cellphone service, especially in Asheville, N.C., a rapidly growing city that draws legions of outdoors enthusiasts who cherish its hilly and tree-covered landscape, and relaxed, artsy vibe. Many people congregated in the few pockets of the city where a bar of service could be detected.

US retailers brace for potential pain from a longshoremen’s strike (AP) With a dockworkers’ strike threatening to close ports on the East and Gulf coasts beginning this week, Chris Butler is growing worried. Like many businesses, his is counting on shipments that are en route from Asia but won’t reach their ports before an expected strike by longshoremen starting at 12:01 a.m. Eastern time Tuesday. Other businesses face the same predicament, with goods that could be stranded at sea if 45,000 members of the International Longshoremen’s Association make good on their threat to strike. They could shut down 36 ports from Maine to Texas that handle about half the goods shipped into and out of the United States. (West Coast dockworkers belong to a different union and aren’t involved in the strike.) A prolonged strike would force companies to pay shippers for the delays, and goods could arrive too late for the high point of holiday shopping season.

The American Drug Mules Smuggling Fentanyl Into the U.S. (NYT) The teenager practiced driving from his apartment in San Diego down to Tijuana and back, on the orders of the criminals he was working for in Mexico. He rehearsed how he would respond to questions from U.S. border officers. He tracked when the drug-sniffing dogs took a break. The men who were paying him had cut a secret compartment into his car big enough to fit several bricks of fentanyl. When they loaded it up for the first time and sent him toward the border, Gustavo, who was only 19 at the time, began to tremble. At the checkpoint, he steadied himself like he had practiced, and calmly told the border officers that he was just heading home. They looked at his American passport—and waved him through. Since 2019, when Mexico overtook China to become the dominant supplier of fentanyl in the United States, cartels have been flooding the country with the synthetic opioid. The amount of fentanyl crossing the border has increased tenfold in the past five years. Mexico has been the source of almost all of the fentanyl seized by U.S. law enforcement in recent years.

Laborer’s Death Brings to Light Italy’s Conflicted Relationship With Migrants (NYT) When Satnam Singh, a migrant fruit picker from India, chopped his arm off in an accident in June as he worked in fields near Rome, his boss, instead of taking Mr. Singh to a hospital, dropped him off in front of his house with part of his arm in a fruit basket. Shortly afterward, Mr. Singh died. He had arrived in Italy in 2021 from the Punjab region on a temporary worker’s permit, then remained working illegally for more than two years, hoping in vain that an employer would legalize him, the police said. Instead, he found himself, like so many other migrants, ground up in a nearly feudal system that offers scant protections to some of Italy’s most necessary workers. Mr. Singh’s death, at 31, stirred an uproar in Italy this summer, setting off a new round of soul-searching about the country’s conflicted relationship with immigrants. Italy, with its aging and dwindling population, desperately needs foreign workers, but the public discourse has been dominated for years by talk of how to keep migrants away. Now, even those who had warned of “ethnic replacement” of Italians by foreigners, including Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni, have acknowledged the need for immigrant labor.

Russia invokes its nuclear capacity in a UN speech that’s full of bile toward the West (AP) Russia’s top diplomat warned Saturday against “trying to fight to victory with a nuclear power,” delivering a U.N. General Assembly speech packed with condemnations of what Russia sees as Western attempts at global domination and machinations in Ukraine—and even inside the United Nations itself. Three days after Russian President Vladimir Putin aired a shift in his country’s nuclear doctrine, Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov accused the West of using Ukraine—which Russia invaded in February 2022—as a tool to try “to defeat” Moscow strategically, and “preparing Europe for it to also throw itself into this suicidal escapade.” “I’m not going to talk here about the senselessness and the danger of the very idea of trying to fight to victory with a nuclear power, which is what Russia is,” he said. Putin’s recent announcement—which appeared to lower significantly the threshold for the possible use of Russia’s nuclear arsenal—was seen as a message to the U.S. and other Western countries as Ukraine seeks their go-ahead to strike Russia with longer-range weapons.

Russia downs over 100 Ukrainian drones in one of the largest barrages of the war (AP) More than 100 Ukrainian drones were shot down over Russia Sunday, officials said, sparking a wildfire and setting an apartment block alight in one of the largest barrages seen over Russian skies since Moscow invaded Ukraine in February 2022. Russia’s Ministry of Defense reported that it had shot down 125 drones overnight across seven regions. The southwestern region of Volgograd came under particularly heavy fire, with 67 Ukrainian drones reportedly downed by Russian air defenses.

Death toll in Nepal flooding and landslides reaches at least 100, with dozens still missing (AP) The death toll from flooding and landslides in Nepal has reached at least 100, with dozens of people still missing. Police on Sunday morning warned the death toll was expected to rise further as reports come in from villages across the mountainous country. Kathmandu remained cut off Sunday as the main highways out of the city were blocked by landslides.

Japan’s soon-to-be prime minister faces big challenges (AP) The person chosen Friday to lead Japan’s governing party, and become prime minister next week, is a veteran politician with deep policy experience, a taste for curry and anime—and big challenges ahead of him as he tries to unite a fractious party and hold off an opposition eager to capitalize on recent corruption scandals. Considered a defense policy expert, Ishiba has proposed an Asian version of the NATO military alliance and a more equal and mutual Japan-U.S. security alliance, including having Japanese Self Defense Force bases in the United States. Ishiba is a supporter of Taiwan’ s democracy. He calls for the establishment of a disaster management agency in one of the world’s most disaster-prone countries. Ishiba has vowed to push for more diversity and gender equality. At a recent speech in Tokyo, Ishiba said Japanese women are among the shortest sleepers in the world because of their heavy responsibilities both at work and home. He said most husbands, including himself, hardly help with childrearing and homemaking.

Nasrallah’s killing reveals depth of Israel’s penetration of Hezbollah (Reuters/WSJ) In the wake of Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah’s killing, Hezbollah faces the enormous challenge of plugging the infiltration in its ranks that allowed its arch enemy Israel to destroy weapons sites, booby-trap its communications and assassinate the veteran leader, whose whereabouts had been a closely guarded secret for years. Friday's operation was based on intelligence that Nasrallah would be gathering with other senior leaders in a bunker more than 60 feet beneath the surface of a bustling working-class Beirut neighborhood. Israel’s air force struck the bunker with about 80 tons of bombs. Nasrallah’s killing came barely a week after Israel’s deadly detonation of hundreds of booby-trapped pagers and radios. It was the culmination of a rapid succession of strikes that have eliminated half of Hezbollah’s leadership council and decimated its top military command. One source familiar with Israeli thinking told Reuters that Israel has spent 20 years focusing intelligence efforts on Hezbollah and could hit Nasrallah when it wanted, including in the headquarters. Nasrallah had avoided public appearances since a previous 2006 war. He had long been vigilant, his movements were restricted and the circle of people he saw was very small, according to a source familiar with Nasrallah’s security arrangements. The assassination suggested his group had been infiltrated by informants for Israel, the source said.

Stark Reality After Israel’s Latest Assault: Even Beirut Isn’t Safe (NYT) The streets of Beirut, Lebanon, were eerily empty on Saturday morning. Most stores were shuttered, and few cars passed along the usually bustling streets. Drones buzzed overhead. After a barrage of Israeli airstrikes overnight, the city was coming to terms with a startling new reality: The simmering conflict between Israel and Hezbollah, once mostly contained to southern Lebanon, had firmly reached the capital. Now, many people said, even Beirut was not safe. Amid that ghostliness, thousands of residents from the Dahiya, the crowded area south of Beirut where Hezbollah holds sway, were scattered across the city after fleeing their homes as the Israeli strikes rained down. They found refuge on sidewalks, on the beachfront and in small parks downtown—areas that they hoped were far enough from the Dahiya to be safe. Some had suitcases and backpacks, hastily packed the night before. Others had rushed out with nothing but their cellphones and the clothes they were wearing. “Nobody has any idea what to do,” said Zakiya Khattab, 67, who had spent the night with her son and grandchildren in Martyrs’ Square in downtown Beirut. “We would love to go back, but we can’t—it’s not safe.”

Money Gambians send home from Europe is a lifeline for their families but the sacrifices take a toll (AP) Binta Bah met her husband last year on a dating app and instantly fell in love. They spent hours every day glued to their mobile phones and soon got married on a video call. But they’ve met in person only once, when Suleyman Bah came home to Gambia for a visit, months after the wedding. He is one of tens of thousands of West Africans who have undertaken the perilous journey to Europe, and is now working in a factory in Germany. Every month he sends money home. He is not alone—Gambians abroad send hundreds of millions of dollars a year in remittances, according to the World Bank. The remittances account for a fourth of the tiny country’s economy—the highest such proportion on the African continent. Almost 10% of Gambia’s population of 2.7 million has left the country, most of them young men from rural areas. The money they send is an economic lifeline for their families but their absence weighs heavily on their communities.

#headlines #news

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highlinetreecare · 4 months ago

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Enhancing Green Spaces: The Importance of Tree Removal in Werribee and Responsible Tree Pruning

Werribee is a suburb situated in Melbourne, Australia. There are a large number of trees which lush the landscape of the city. The trees that are responsible for the health and aesthetics of the city in which they are implanted require careful practices such as removal and pruning. In this blog, we will learn about how tree removal in Werribee is done to maintain the health of the trees and people living there. We will also know about the key factors to remember while emphasising the benefits of professional arboriculture services which helps in preserving urban and natural environments.

The Importance of Tree Removal in Werribee.

Trees which are located in urban areas such as Werribee play a very important role in enhancing the air quality and the environment for the people in the city and the forest as well; they also provide shade and contribute to the overall environment. Tree removal is important because:

1. Tree Health Assessment:

The structural integrity and tree’s health, and all potential risks must be assessed before considering tree removal. Severely damaged, diseased or dead trees may cause safety hazards and they also require professional removal to prevent accidents. The growth of trees can cause accidents while there in public and it may also damage other trees as well.

2. Environmental Impact:

Considering the ecological part of the trees and the removal of trees is an important point, the biodiversity, soil stability, and value must remain the same.

3. Professional Expertise:

Hiring certified arborists and tree care specialists in Werribee who satisfy the requirements of industry standards and best practices and safety measures while removing the trees will lead to perfect tree removal work.

4. Permit Requirements:

Obtaining the necessary permits for tree removal will help you reduce the chance of any legal matter, particularly for protected areas or heritage trees. Compliance with legal requirements ensures responsible environmental stewardship.

Benefits of Professional Arboriculture Services

1. Health and Growth:

Tree health is improved by pruning the dead growth of the tree leaves or branches; this improves the circulation of air, which leads to stimulating new growth of trees. This also helps the trees to withstand the environmental stressors and prolong their lifespan. Whenever tree removal or pruning is done new leaves and roots start growing in the same place.

2. Aesthetic Appeal:

Proper pruning of the trees gives them an aesthetic appeal; it also enhances the visual representation of the trees which comes from shaping them to complement their surroundings.

3. Fruit Production:

The pruning techniques that are used benefit the trees by providing fruit with good sunlight exposure and airflow, which leads to good fruit quality and yield.

4. Safety:

There is a high chance of branches which may fall on the ground after some time as they grow old, these branches if not cut can pose safety hazards to pedestrians, vehicles and nearby structures as well. So regular tree removal and pruning will reduce the high chance of branches falling from them.

Arboriculture Services:

Expertise and Training:

A certified arborist has special knowledge in tree caring, pruning techniques and safe tree removal practices.

Equipment and Safety:

Professionals use state-of-the-art equipment and adhere to stringent safety protocols to make sure that tree maintenance is efficient and secure.

Environmental Conservation:

Environmental conservation must be contributed by promoting tree health through pruning techniques and making informed decisions about tree removal.

Community Engagement and Education

Encourage community engagement and education in Hamilton regarding the importance of tree care practices:

Workshops and Seminars:

Organising educational workshops on tree pruning techniques, tips for maintaining trees and the ecological benefits of urban forestry will lead to a perfect work environment.

Public Awareness Campaigns:

Public awareness campaigns must be launched to raise awareness about the importance of tree pruning and removal to educate the public about the role of trees in enhancing the quality of life, mitigating climate change effects, and fostering community pride in Hamilton and Gisborne.

Sustaining Green Environments through Arboriculture

Tree pruning in Hamilton are integral component of maintaining vibrant and sustainable green spaces. By prioritising tree health, safety, and environmental stewardship, communities in both regions can enjoy the aesthetic, ecological, and social benefits of well-maintained trees.

Whether enhancing urban landscapes in Hamilton with meticulous tree pruning or preserving Werribee’s natural beauty through thoughtful tree management practices, the role of professional arboriculture services for Tree Pruning in Hamilton cannot be overstated.

#tree pruning or preserving Werribee’s #tree removal in Werribee

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iso-updates · 11 months ago

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Innovations in FSC Certification: Technology and Traceability

The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) is the best quality level for sustainable forestry. Its thorough certification guarantees that forests are overseen responsibly, considering the necessities of the climate, society, and economy. However, FSC isn't being still. The organization is continually developing to further develop its certification process and make it more compelling and transparent.

As of late, the Forest Stewardship Council Certification has advanced past customary techniques, embracing mechanical developments to upgrade transparency and recognizability in the supply network. With the developing worldwide spotlight on sustainable practices, the incorporation of advances like blockchain and satellite following into FSC certificate processes is upsetting the forestry industry.

This article dives into the wonderful progressions that are reshaping the scene of FSC certification, preparing for more responsible and eco-accommodating supply chains.

Blockchain in FSC Certification:

One of the weighty advancements causing disruptions in FSC accreditation is blockchain. Blockchain is a decentralized and secure digitalized record that records exchanges across an organization of PCs. In regard to the FSC certificate, blockchain is utilized to make a changeless and transparent record of the journey of timber and wood-based items from the backwoods to the consumers.

Blockchain guarantees the honesty of the supply network by giving a carefully designed and unchangeable record of each and every move toward the production cycle. Each certified item is doled out a remarkable identifier, and its process is reported progressively on the blockchain. This improves recognizability as well as forestalls the consideration of wrongfully reaped wood in the supply chain.

Tech-driven Tools for a Sustainable Future

One of the most thrilling areas of advancement is the utilization of technology. FSC Certification in UAE is investigating various state-of-the-art instruments, including:

Blockchain: This conveyed record technology can make a protected and transparent record of the development of FSC-certified materials all through the production network. This makes it a lot clearer to follow wood from the forest to the end result, and to guarantee that it is responsibly FSC-certified.

Earth observation: FSC is utilizing satellite information to screen forest safety and distinguish unlawful logging. This assists with guaranteeing that FSC-certified forestry is genuinely being overseen economically.

Wood ID: New advancements are being created to recognize the types of wood utilized in items. This can assist with forestalling the utilization of unlawfully obtained wood and guarantee that FSC-certified wood isn't blended in with uncertified wood.

Satellite Tracking for Responsible Forestry:

Satellite following is another state-of-the-art innovation taking huge steps in the FSC certification process. High-level satellite systems empower the marking of woods progressively, permitting accredited bodies to follow logging practices, distinguish unlawful deforestation, and guarantee compliance with sustainable forestry practices.

Satellite symbolism gives an exhaustive perspective on the whole supply network, empowering partners to confirm that the wood used in certified items comes from responsibly managed forests. This innovation goes about as an integral asset for implementing FSC Certification Services and advancing sustainable land use.

Integration of Technologies for Seamless Traceability:

The integration between blockchain and satellite following ends up being a distinct advantage for the FSC certificate. By joining these technologies, the entire lifecycle of a product can be followed with unprecedented accuracy. From the second a tree is felled to the place to check out, partners can get to a clear-cut and certified record of the wood's transportation.

This collaboration not only aids buyers who look for certification about the sustainability of their buys, but additionally engages organizations to assemble entrust with their clients. Brands that embrace these advances show a pledge to responsibly obtaining and common stewardship, separating themselves in a market progressively determined by eco-cognizant consumers.

Challenges and Future Outlook:

While these technological developments hold enormous commitment, challenges, for example, execution costs and the requirement for worldwide standardization remain. As the forest service industry adjusts to these changes, coordinated efforts among partners, including state-run govt, organizations, and certificate bodies, are critical to beating these obstacles.

Looking forward, the fate of Forest Stewardship Council Certification is unquestionably entwined with innovative progressions. Innovative work in regions like man-made reasoning, AI, and the Internet of Things (IoT) is supposed to upgrade the productivity and adequacy of FSC certificate processes.

Note:

The eventual fate of FSC accreditation is brilliant. With the usability of technology, FSC is strategically situated to keep on being the main power in sustainable forestry. As consumers become progressively mindful of the common and social effects of their decisions, FSC-certified items are probably going to turn out to be considerably more well-known.

Notwithstanding the technologies referenced above, FSC Certification Consulting is additionally investigating alternate ways of utilizing innovation to further develop its certification process. For instance, the organization is dealing with fostering another information standard that will make it more clear and transparent to gather and share data about FSC-certified forests.

Conclusion:

Developments in Forest Stewardship Council Certification, driven by innovations like blockchain and satellite following, are introducing another scenario of transparency and recognizability in the forest service industry.

As purchasers progressively request responsibly obtained items, the combination of these advances guarantees compliance with FSC guidelines as well as supports the responsibility of organizations to environmental sustainability. Embracing these developments isn't simply a technical jump; it is a jump toward a more responsible and responsible future for our forests and the earth land.

#Forest Stewardship Council Certification #FSC Certification in UAE #FSC Certification Consulting #FSC Certification Services

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canadatreecare · 1 year ago

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Tree Removal Service Preserving Urban Greenery

Los Angeles boasts a unique blend of urban development and natural beauty. Amidst the bustling streets and towering structures, greenery plays a vital role in providing a sense of tranquility and balance. As a tree service company in Los Angeles, Cañada Tree Care is dedicated to preserving and sustaining this urban oasis. In this article, we’ll explore how our tree removal service contributes to the preservation and enhancement of urban greenery.

A Delicate Balance: Urban Greenery’s Importance Urban greenery is not just about aesthetics; it is a critical component of a healthy and sustainable city. Trees and green spaces improve air quality, reduce the urban heat island effect, absorb carbon dioxide, and provide shelter for wildlife. They also contribute to mental well-being, offering residents and visitors a respite from the concrete jungle.

When Removal Becomes Necessary While trees are invaluable assets to urban environments, there are instances when their removal becomes a necessity. Tree removal is about much more than just cutting down trees. It involves careful evaluation, decision-making, and responsible execution to ensure that the removal process aligns with the broader goal of sustaining urban greenery.

Mitigating Hazards with Tree Removal Service One of the primary reasons for tree removal in urban areas is safety. Overgrown or structurally compromised trees can pose significant hazards to people and property. Our removal service prioritizes safety, identifying trees that are at risk of falling or causing damage. By removing these hazards, we help protect both residents and the urban environment.

Preservation Through Selective Removal: A Sustainable Approach Not all tree removals are about eliminating trees entirely. Our removal service employs selective removal techniques when necessary. This approach allows us to remove specific limbs or portions of a tree while preserving the tree’s overall health and structural integrity. It’s a fine balance that contributes to urban greenery’s long-term sustainability.

Replacing and Rejuvenating: Urban Reforestation Tree removal service is not solely about cutting down trees but also about replacing and rejuvenating the urban forest. After removal, we often recommend planting new trees in strategic locations. This urban reforestation effort helps maintain the city’s green canopy and ensures a vibrant urban environment for generations to come.

Working Within Regulations: Compliance and Permits for Tree Removal Service In Los Angeles, tree removal often requires permits and compliance with local regulations. Cañada Tree Care is well-versed in the city’s tree preservation ordinances and works diligently to obtain the necessary permits. Our tree services operate in full compliance with these regulations, ensuring that our work aligns with the city’s vision for urban greenery.

Community Engagement: Involving Residents in Tree Removal Service Preserving and enhancing urban greenery is a shared responsibility. Our tree services actively engage with the community, educating residents about the importance of responsible tree care and removal. We collaborate with local organizations and residents to foster a sense of ownership and stewardship toward urban greenery.

Emergency Response: Rapid Action in Times of Crisis Natural disasters, severe storms, and unforeseen events can cause immediate threats to urban greenery. Our tree removal service offers 24/7 emergency response to address urgent tree-related issues. Rapid action during crises helps mitigate damage and ensures that the city’s green assets are protected.

Nurturing Urban Greenery Together As the custodians of Los Angeles’s urban greenery, Cañada Tree Care’s tree removal service understands the delicate balance between progress and preservation. Our commitment to responsible tree care and removal ensures that the city’s green heart continues to thrive. Urban greenery is not just a part of the landscape; it is an essential element of our shared identity, well-being, and sustainable future. Let’s continue nurturing and sustaining this urban oasis together.

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casspurrjoybell-25 · 1 year ago

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ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS - Chapter 22

*Warning: Adult Content*

As the Christmas holiday approached, Dylan began to miss Jayce even more.

He didn't know what it was like to have a proper Christmas with other people, so he didn't know what he was missing when it came to the holiday but he had always wished he wasn't alone for it.

Having Jayce with him for Thanksgiving had meant a lot to him.

He tried not to let himself think about what it would be like to have Jayce with him on Christmas morning.

It wouldn't do any good to wish for something he knew wasn't going to happen.

Jayce was going to spend Christmas with his parents and his brother's family, and he was going to be alone.

The one thing he did have to look forward to was a gift from Jayce.

A couple days ago, Jayce had texted asking him if he would be home in the days leading up to Christmas because he was sending a Christmas gift and wanted to make sure Dylan would get it.

He didn't know why Jayce had bothered to ask if he'd be home.

If he couldn't go to his cabin in the mountains, there was nowhere else he would be.

He wanted to get Jayce a gift in return but even if he did manage to find something Jayce would like, it was too late to get it sent to him.

Jayce would be flying out to his family anyway, so Dylan decided his gift to Jayce would be driving out to Seattle after Christmas.

The idea unnerved him but he wanted to show Jayce that he was willing to put effort into their friendship.

His phone chimed and he reached for it eagerly.

Texts and calls from Jayce had become the best parts of his day.

"Hey Dylan. Your Christmas present just got delivered, so check outside your front door. I don't want it to get snowed on."

He stepped out of the kitchen and walked over to open his door, expecting to see a small package sitting on the doorstep.

He wasn't prepared for the sight that met his eyes.

Jayce was standing there, a big smile on his face and a large red bow pinned to his coat.

To say Dylan was stunned was an understatement.

"What are you doing here?" he managed to ask, wanting to smile but afraid this was too good to be true.

"I'm here to spend Christmas with you, if that's okay."

He stepped forward and pulled Jayce into a hug, still unable to believe this was happening.

"But weren't you going to your brother's house?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled by Jayce's hair.

"I'd rather spend the holiday with you. I can see my family another year."

He released Jayce from the tight hug but kept one hand on Jayce's hip.

He couldn't find the words to tell Jayce how much this meant to him.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed Jayce.

Jayce made a small, happy noise and moved closer, resting both of his hands on Dylan's chest as he kissed back.

"I missed you," Jayce murmured against his lips.

"I missed you too," he replied, before stepping back. "Come inside so you don't get cold standing out here."

It was then that he noticed several pieces of luggage behind Jayce.

"What's all that?"

"Some of it's my clothes and a few things I need but I also brought Christmas presents for you."

It seemed like a lot of stuff but he didn't ask any more questions.

He brought the luggage in and found Jayce staring at his living room, a confused expression on his face.

"Dylan, where is your Christmas tree?" Jayce asked, his eyebrows raised.

Dylan shrugged.

"I've never had one. I didn't see the point and there are trees outside."

"You need one so I can put your presents under it. Is there somewhere in town that's still selling trees?"

"No need. Most people get a permit from the Forest Service to cut down their own tree. We have plenty," he said, gesturing outside.

"Okay, that's what we'll do today," Jayce said cheerfully.

He opened the largest suitcase and started pulling out wrapped gifts.

"I'll put these on the other side of the fireplace for now."

Dylan watched as Jayce began to pile gifts of all sizes in the corner of his living room.

He had been expecting one gift but there were at least ten of them.

"This is too much," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief and looking at the gifts around him.

Jayce caught his expression and smiled at him.

"It's not too much. I know your parents didn't celebrate Christmas, so I'm trying to make up for that. Kind of. I know it's not the same but I want you to have a good Christmas."

He felt tears well in his eyes and quickly blinked them away.

He didn't want to get emotional in the first few minutes Jayce was here.

"I don't have anything for you."

"That's okay. I wasn't expecting anything. Besides, you're my gift." Jayce pulled Dylan in and kissed him, soft and slow.

Dylan immediately felt heat course through him and his body began reacting as he wrapped his arms around Jayce.

He wanted Jayce.

Jayce looked so good standing in front of him, his blue eyes bright against the snow outside and the brown walls of the cabin surrounding them.

He didn't even realize he was moving his hips against Jayce until Jayce laughed and began walking them back towards the couch.

It was perfect with the fire crackling in the fireplace, warming their skin as they shed their clothes.

He lay on his back and let Jayce take the lead.

As Jayce kissed him, his hands wandered over Jayce's body, making their way up Jayce's abs, over his ribs and onto his pecs before brushing a nipple.

He loved hearing all the noises Jayce made in response.

Soon their hips were rolling, creating friction between them that made Dylan hold Jayce even closer to him, his fingertips digging into Jayce's lower back.

He wasn't going to last long.

Jayce settled his weight on Dylan, pressing their chests together and nipping at the skin on Dylan's neck and collarbone.

Dylan still wasn't used to making much noise but a moan left his lips as he bucked up against Jayce, chasing the pleasure that was about to overwhelm him.

"Yeah, Dylan, just like that," Jayce panted. "You're so hot."

Hearing Jayce talk that way sent him right over the edge.

He clung to Jayce and didn't relax his grip until Jayce finished and Jayce's moans turned into soft sighs.

Dylan picked his shirt up off the ground to clean them up before grabbing the corner of the blanket from the back of the couch and tugging it down to cover them.

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything.

They simply basked in the warmth of the fire and the heat between their bodies.

Jayce settled on top of him with his head resting on Dylan's chest, and Dylan gently stroked Jayce's hair.

This must be what love felt like.

He could live the rest of his life this way, under a blanket with Jayce's body pressed against his, a fire dancing in the fireplace and casting a golden glow on both of them.

"I'm glad you came back," he admitted to Jayce, being the one to break the silence for once.

"Me too."

"Is your family really okay with you not visiting them?"

Jayce snuggled his cheek against the hair on Dylan's chest.

"My parents aren't thrilled about it but they haven't been happy with me in years so that's nothing new. My brother is disappointed he won't see me but he understands. He's been calling me a lot more since I got lost and he's making an effort to keep in touch. He knows about you and he's supportive of me spending Christmas with you instead."

"You told him about me?"

"Yeah. I told him the whole story about getting lost and you saving me and how I feel about you. He and his wife would like to meet you someday."

Dylan was silent as he processed this.

It meant a lot to him that Jayce told his family about him and that they wanted to meet him.

It was such a normal thing for most other people but to him it seemed like a miracle.

He never thought he'd have someone in his life who cared about him or wanted to introduce him to their friends or family.

"How do you feel about me?" he asked.

"I like you a lot," Jayce replied without any hesitation. "You're kind, smart, independent and it doesn't hurt that you have an amazing body. But you also let me be myself and I don't feel pressure to be perfect like I did with previous boyfriends."

Dylan was careful with how he asked his next question, not sure if he was misinterpreting what Jayce had said or reading too much into it.

"Do you consider me a boyfriend? Or are we still friends?"

Jayce lifted his head, looking right into Dylan's eyes.

"I'd like you to be my boyfriend, if that's something you want."

"Yeah, I do, I want that," he said, stumbling over the words in his haste to say them.

The chance to mean something to someone was a dream he thought was out of reach.

Jayce's smile was infectious,and Dylan found himself smiling back as he continued looking into Jayce's eyes.

Jayce leaned forward to kiss him.

"Okay, boyfriend. How about we go get a Christmas tree?"

He was happy as he rode in Dylan's truck on their way into town.

So far, everything had gone even better than he expected.

Dylan had been thrilled with him showing up to spend Christmas together and the best part was that Dylan still liked him and wanted to be in a relationship with him.

More than anything, he wanted to make Dylan's first relationship a great experience.

He kept his hand on Dylan's leg as Dylan drove, and when they pulled into the parking lot for the hardware store, he reached over and took Dylan's hand.

"I know you're not comfortable going into town, especially now that people believe the ridiculous rumor that you kidnapped me, so you can wait in the truck. I'll go into the store to get the tree stand and lights for the tree."

Dylan seemed like he wanted to say something, but after a moment he squeezed Jayce's hand.

"Thank you," he simply said.

Jayce was quick to find everything in the hardware store.

He didn't want to leave Dylan sitting in the truck for too long.

Back in the parking lot, he deposited everything in the bed of the truck and climbed back into the passenger seat.

"They had some ornaments too," he told Dylan. "They aren't anything special but at least we have everything we need for the tree. We'll have to get more ornaments for next time. There's a year round Christmas store in Leavenworth that we can visit whenever we want to make a trip out there."

Dylan had a strange, somewhat puzzled expression on his face but all he said was.

"Thank you for going in to get all of that."

"Of course. Where can we go to get a tree? Do we need to get the permit to cut it down first?"

"I'll take care of that the next time I go into one of the offices for work."

"What do you do during winter? Are you still working?" he asked.

"I'm on call. If the Forest Service needs me for a project, they'll let me know. It's usually only for the day. Snow management on roads and at snow-parks." Dylan glanced over at him. "Have you had any luck with your job search?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing yet. I might not hear back from anyone until January."

After that, they rode in a comfortable silence.

Jayce stared out the window at the snowy scenery passing by, a faint smile on his face.

This felt like a real Christmas with the winter wonderland stretching out all around them.

Seattle rarely got snow, so Christmas there looked the same as any other time.

They got closer to the mountains before turning down an un-plowed road with no sign.

There was nothing at the end of it but the abrupt end to the road. Some of the trees had bright plastic ribbons tied around them.

"This is an area the Forest Service is going to clear for a new snow-park," Dylan said. "I'm not excited about cutting down a tree just so it can die in my living room but these trees are going to be coming down anyway. Might as well give one of them a chance to shine before the end of its life."

Jayce smiled.

"That's a great idea."

He got out of the truck and followed Dylan to the edge of the clearing.

He chuckled quietly to himself when he realized this situation would have terrified him a couple months ago.

He was following a huge man carrying an axe into the trees off a dead end road.

It was amusing to him that he'd ever been afraid of Dylan.

Now, he'd trust Dylan with his life.

"Pick whichever one you like," Dylan said, gesturing to the trees.

Jayce walked through them, looking at a few before spotting one that was about six feet tall and almost the perfect Christmas tree shape.

"How about this one?"

Dylan shook the tree to knock some of the snow off.

"Hold onto the trunk while I cut it loose."

He kept a firm grip on the tree as Dylan leaned down and began chopping at the base of the tree's trunk.

It didn't take Dylan long at all to cut all the way through and then Dylan handed him the axe and hoisted the tree up onto one of his shoulders.

When Jayce said earlier that Dylan was his Christmas gift, he meant it.

He couldn't believe he had a huge, mountain man boyfriend for Christmas who could pick up and carry trees like they weighed nothing.

Dylan had no idea how hot he was.

He took a picture of Dylan carrying the tree over to the truck.

He was going to try to document as much as he could so Dylan would always have the memories of his first time celebrating Christmas.

As they drove back, he took a few pictures of the snowy scenery, followed by a picture of Dylan's cabin covered with snow, and even more pictures of him and Dylan decorating the tree.

His final picture that evening was of the Christmas tree all lit up and adorned with ornaments and Dylan's presents piled under the tree.

He still didn't know how things would turn out between him and Dylan, but he hoped it would be the first of many Christmas' together.

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quaranmine · 1 year ago

Text

AO3 link. Unabridged notes and full list of sources & discussion under the cut!

I’ve been dying to do this for months, y’all have NO idea. I think I came up with all this in?? December?? January?? PAIN to not talk about it. Scar is my beloved little guy in this AU. I have many feelings about him and his story.

Ivi helped me get the text from a paywalled archived LA Times article from July 1989 talking about the fire season that year. This is where I got the information about the Bridger-Teton fire (that national forest is adjacent to Shoshone; some of the locations named in the original Firewatch game are actually in Bridger-Teton instead) as well as my information about the record-breaking temperatures and acreage burned. I actually don’t know if there was a burn ban placed or not, nor do I know if lookouts are expected to work on 4th of July (which is otherwise a federal paid holiday for all government workers.) This is one of the few times in the fic where I just made a decision without explicit research confirmation. However, I do know that this job often requires them to work overtime, holidays, and weekends, so it’s not a stretch. Fires are also not banned all the time in Shoshone, so it is possible to legally have a campfire in the area. The main fire season for the area is August-September though, so it’s reasonable to me that at the beginning of the summer they still allowed fires but as the heat and dryness ramped up in July, banned it.

History of National Park Service Fire Policy. This is an interesting article published (and updated) in 1989 giving a bit of a look into the policies of the time. It’s specifically a National Park Service article though, and the NPS will have slightly different policies than the Forest Service because not only are they different agencies but are in different departments of the government. Still, it is a look into the discussions happening at this time. Interesting parts of this: "As of July 14, 1989, all lightning–caused fires are being suppressed.” There was also a special directive that talks about which things need to be changed before prescribed burns can be done again, and a review of 26 different fire plans. This would be in direct response to the 1988 wildfires of Yellowstone.

That article also gives me historical context that 1968 was the first year that lightning-caused fires were allowed to burn. It also tells me the Fire Management Review Team after the 1988 fires was inter-agency, so I assume the Forest Service must be one of the agencies involved since I have other historical context for them conducting a policy review. It also states: “In its December 14, 1988, report, the team indicated that the objectives and the philosophy behind the current prescribed natural fire policies in national parks and wilderness areas are fundamentally sound. But these policies, which permit lightning–caused fire (prescribed natural fire) to burn under predetermined conditions, need to be refined, strengthened, and reaffirmed.”

There's a lot of research I did on the second section about fire. That's part of why this chapter took so long. I'll just link many sources. (1) Blackwater Fire (2) Blackwater History (3) USFS Fire Management Today, 2002 (4) Ten Standard Firefighting Orders (5) Fire Ecology (6) LAist How to Survive a Wildfire (7) Atlas and Boots, how to escape a wildfire (8) Forest Resources of the Shoshone National Forest (9) Whitebark Pine Tree Profile (10) NPS Lodgepole Pine (11) Wildfire Creating Its Own Weather. And finally, as always, I also used my Fire Season by Philip Connors physical copy book as a reference. I also recently bought his other book, A Song for the River, which talks about the worst wildfirehe's ever witnessed. I haven't read that one yet though.

More broadly interesting resources I have on hand to reference: (1) lhttps://www.fs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_DOCUMENTS/stelprdb5365252.pdf -- Shoshone National Forest Fire Management Plan (2012) (2) 1988 Yellowstone Fires Ecological Assessment (3) A historic real life lookout from the same area this story is set :D (4) Rex’s Forest Fire Lookout Page I love this website. There’s so much information about fire lookouts. The design hasn’t been updated in over a decade at minimum. It’s just run by a random middle aged guy who likes fire lookouts (perhaps was/is one?) 10/10 source.

Also, during my research about wildfire in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem (GYE), I came across some interesting ecological pages. One thing I did not mention in this chapter was the effect climate change has on wildfire, and how it complicates the science of it. Everything I said in this chapter is still true for 2023, but I didn’t wing off into a climate change tangent partly to preserve the information as being 1989-appropriate. But it is an issue. Wildfire may be natural to ecosystems, but as ecosystems are threatened by anthropogenic change, it is changing how fires behave. As the world gets hotter and drier, fires become worse. Rainfall patterns shift—maybe now, forests that would have grown back after a fire can no longer grow back because there isn’t enough water to support it. As humans move into areas, it increases something called the Wildland-Urban Interface (WUI), which is the term for the edges of human settlement with undeveloped land. The more fringes we have, with new suburbs being built to encroach on previously “free” land, the more opportunities there are for wildfires to jump from the mountains and forests into neighborhoods.

Interestingly, the 1988 fires in Yellowstone are one such example of the ecosystem not bouncing back. For the Clover Mist Fire—the same fire I mentioned in chapter two that burned into Shoshone—the forests failed to regenerate naturally they way scientists assumed. https://www.national forests.org/blog/fire-recovery-on-wyoming's-shoshone-national-forest

The tumblr post stopped letting me embed links so now I'm just pasting them....

Other relevant article about wildfire in modern times:

(1) https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7612770/ -- This is a study about wildland fire management practices in the 21st century if climate change is a driver.

(2) https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC9285930/ -- Adapting western North American forests to climate change and wildfires (journal article.) Admittedly I have only skimmed this one so far, but it seems very comprehensive.

(3) https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6561258/ -- Short-interval severe fire erodes the resilience of subalpine lodgepole pine forests, study. Though lodgepole pines need fire to open their cones, if fires increase in number and frequency it begins to impact the resilience of the forests in how they bounce back.

The part about Scar’s father’s ashes being spread in the park is very much taken from my real life. On my mom’s side of the family, my family has been taking yearly trips to a national park for over 50 years. It’s a very special location for us. When my maternal grandmother died (before I was born), her ashes were spread in the park. When my grandpa died in 2020, we spread his ashes there with her the following year. It is legal to do this in national parks with a permit. It is not legal to do this in a national forest, though, whoops. Legally the U.S. Forest Service considered the spreading of ashes as “permanent/perpetual occupancy” which is illegal. So Scar probably broke the law on this one, but I doubt this is a well-known law. It might not even have been banned in 1980.

I hope you enjoyed <333 I have already started on chapter 9. It's probably going to be very long. It's also gonna get a lot more real from here on out.

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Eight)

July, fireworks, and some insight into someone we don’t actually know much about.

Chapter Eight: 5,436

<< Chapter Seven | Masterpost | Chapter Nine >>

HEY Y'ALL! Those of you who follow me on tumblr have been kept pretty well apprised of this chapter's progress, but it's good to be back. I've struggled with this chapter a lot, not out of any fault of its own, just because real life decided to beat me over the head in July and August.

Anyway, this chapter has a few content warnings. CW for past injury, car accident, death, and as always…grief. Nothing graphic but it beat me over the head while I was writing it oof.

Finally, as a disclaimer—there is information in this chapter about wildfire survival. I’m not an expert, and some of these topics are quite literally life or death in real life. I’m an entry level environmental scientist whose only professional experience is in topics entirely unrelated to this. While I have done my research on this fic and done my best to always present accurate information, I am not a reliable source. This is a Hermitcraft AU fanfiction. Please do not take or substitute anything I say in place of information from actual professionals, lol.

“I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.”

Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

»»———-　　———-««

July 1989

It’s July, and there’s a complete burn ban put in place for Shoshone and the other national parks and national forests that surround it. If you ask Scar, it should have been put into place two weeks ago. The scattered storms and rain in May and early June has done nothing for the landscape now, which is dry and still full of theoretical tinder from years of fire-suppression activities.

It’s July, and it’s sweltering outside. The main radio chatter during the daily weather conditions report says the temperatures have been record-breaking in the region. This is unsurprising to Grian—his cabin feels like less of a lookout and more of a greenhouse these days, with the inescapable sun taking great advantage of all the windows. He’s not really cut out for the heat of the summer. It makes the days feel listless and blend together, but at least it cools off in the evenings.

The fire season starts to ramp up in other ways too. There’s a fire reported in the Bridger-Teton National Forest, located immediately to their southwest, and officials seem concerned it will grow quickly with the hot, dry temperatures and wind. Elsewhere around the country the picture seems just as bleak: fires in the 1989 season have already burned hundreds of thousands more acres than the same time period in 1988.

Apparently, the Two Forks lookout had gone unstaffed for several years prior, before the Yellowstone fires last year caused the agency to consider hiring more staff. The fires last year also, coincidentally, increased the budget for this year’s activities.This seems to have been a prudent decision, because the season is shaping up to have a spark indeed. They’re keen to use Grian as much as possible.

Grian can’t see the smoke column from the Bridger-Teton fire on the horizon; it’s too far away. Instead he starts to notice that his visibility on the horizon is worse now, as the haze in the sky slowly grows. Distant mountains that were once brown and green are now wispy tones of flat yellow and gray. The Trout Fire still burns steadily in the distance. It’s a stubborn nuisance to the Forest personnel, but not a big enough fire yet to garner any worry. There’s more than enough worry to be passed elsewhere.

All of this would be enough on its own, but another contender has just stepped into the ring: Independence Day.

The 4th of July is on a Tuesday this year, which means Grian and Scar get the wonderful privilege of working overtime all weekend watching the mountains, and holiday pay for the day itself. In all likelihood, people will be just as likely to celebrate on Saturday or Sunday or Monday as on Tuesday. Mary, a lookout in a more northern section of the Forest, has already called in to report a few incidents in her sector. The extra pay is welcomed; the responsibility for idiots is not.

Fireworks are strictly banned, of course. The acknowledgement of that, however, requires campers to actually care in the first place. They do not.

And so the month begins.

»»———-　　———-««

Fire is, both philosophically and literally, one of the most important things humanity has ever been able to harness. It can be the difference between life and death, and yet it is both life and death. Fire fosters warmth and light and power and life. Fire caresses life and leaves behind destruction.

Shoshone National Forest exists as part of the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem, one of the largest mostly-intact temperate-zone ecosystems in the world. It’s part of a great chain of protected lands and wilderness spaces in the northern Rocky mountains. Shoshone is the second piece of that puzzle—just as Yellowstone National Park was the first national park to be established, the neighboring Shoshone National Forest was the first ever national forest to be designated in the United States.

It is also, like the other lands in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem, fire-dependent. Plants and animals living in such ecosystems are often adapted to their local fire regime, which is the expected pattern, frequency, and intensity of the fires in their area.

Lodgepole pines dominate the middle elevations of the Shoshone National Forest, and are the poster child of a fire-dependent species. These trees produce cones that are sealed with a tight resin that relies on fire to melt it. Fire is, therefore, essential to the reproduction of the species. But fire is also essential to their life cycle in another way: just as fire is necessary for the baby trees to sprout, lodgepole pines are very easily killed by fire.

And if the fires kill the weaker Engelmann spruce found in Shoshone’s higher elevations, that’s okay too—it just leaves room for the much more tolerant whitebark pine trees to grow without being outcompeted. Fire similarly benefits wildlife in Shoshone by diversifying the forest understory, encouraging growth of new plants, and providing dead tree snags for shelter.

It kills, but it also supports life.

The history of Shoshone National Forest and fire has its bleak moments. In 1937, a lightning strike started the Blackwater Fire in the Absaroka Range, a range of mountains located predominantly in the national forest. Dry weather and high winds turned the fire into one of the deadliest wildland firefighting stories in American history, with 15 firefighters killed and 38 injured.

Labor laws are written in blood. Safety rules and best management practices are, too. Although no fault was assigned for the tragedy—a rigorous investigation deemed the situation was out of anybody’s control—the Blackwater Fire would ultimately change the landscape of wildland firefighting. It is remembered in the Ten Standard Firefighting Orders, a set of systematic guidelines developed by the US Forest Service afterward to reduce danger for firefighters.

These orders are still in use today.

So what is a lookout’s role in a wildfire, other than keeping watch for it? Historically fire lookouts were used as firefighters themselves—expected to hop on a horse and head straight to a fire after seeing it, tools in hard—but in modern times lookouts are primarily used for providing updates. A lookout’s job is not complete once a fire is spotted and reported. They are expected to provide constant updates on its size and location, as well as assist firefighters and smokejumpers from their position. This work is very important—so important that sometimes fire lookouts don’t evacuate the scene until a helicopter is required for their rescue.

And what if you’re a hiker? What if you’re on the ground? The prospects aren't good: hikers should just avoid being caught around a wildfire at all costs. Survival odds are, unfortunately, low.

But what if you can't avoid it?

Try to determine which way the wind is blowing and remain upwind of the fire. Fires also burn fastest uphill, so seek lower ground. Fires will burn cooler and slower downhill. Try to find a safe spot from the fire, something that would burn less easily such as a rock slide, a large meadow, or a lake. Crown fires burn tall and hot in the tops of trees, so even a meadow will be safer than a forest. Cover your nose and mouth with clothing to protect your airways. Huddle close to any large object that can buffer the ambient heat. Lay face down. Don’t attempt to outrun the fire.

Sometimes, setting your own fire is an option. Burning out an area large enough for you to lie in can allow the wildfire to move around the already burned spot—but this attempt is best saved for a grassland. Forests take too long to burn. And if the fire is close, and if you can see a safe, already burned spot through it, and if the flames are less than five feet tall, the best option might be to just run through the fire.

Jumping in water is an option, but that might not save you. Superheated air, smoke inhalation, and lack of oxygen in the area is a primary concern. Fires move faster than most people can imagine. Fires can create their own wind, their own weather.

Fire, above all, should always be respected.

»»———-　　———-««

“Draw something for me,” Scar says suddenly into the still blue air of the dusk. “And, dude, turn your light on already.”

“Huh?” Grian says. He frankly doesn’t mind sitting in the dark while there’s still a little light left in the sky to adjust to, but his hand reaches automatically for the lantern’s switch before he even really processes Scar’s words. With a soft click the cabin is bathed in warm tones. Really, the reflections on the windows only obscure their visibility now that it’s mostly dark, but it’s undeniably more cozy now.

“Ah, it’s good to see your little light in the way over yonder,” Scar says. “You’re like my little firefly in the mountains!”

Grian rolls his eyes at that. “What did you mean by ‘draw for me’?” he asks, blocking any spontaneous attempts at poetry Scar can make.

“I mean, I’m bored. And I know you’re bored. It’s been a long day.” He hums a little to himself. “Figured you might wanna do something to pass the time.”

Scar’s right, it has been a long day. It’s the 4th of July, and they’re in it for the long haul. Grian thinks they should have just been allowed to sleep and clock in later in the day—who sets off fireworks at 8 AM?—but the fire season doesn’t rest and neither do they. Now, it’s evening, and this is where the real monitoring begins: after dark.

Unfortunately, it’s also when the morale to keep sitting at the desk is starting to dip precipitously. Firewatching after dark is difficult and typically something they aren’t required to do. As a lookout, he primarily looks for smoke, not fire. Fires themselves are often too small or too tucked away for their light to be seen, and at night the smoke blends into the dark sky. But fireworks, fortunately, tend to announce themselves gaudily.

Mostly, it’s the sheer personal resolve to pay attention that takes the greatest hit. Scar’s idea isn’t a bad one, there’s just one significant snag:

“I don’t draw,” Grian reminds him gently.

“But you used to,” Scar persists.

“I drew houses,” Grian corrects, even though he knows that his drafting is far from the only thing he’s practiced over the years. “For work. It’s not the same.”

“Well, then draw your lookout,” Scar says and then seems to almost cut off his own thought with a—”Ooh, maybe draw mine instead!”

“I can’t do that.” It’s a black and white statement of fact, but Scar doesn’t agree.

“C’mon,” he says. “You definitely brought your materials with you, I know it.”

“You don’t have any way of knowing that.”

“You have to have a pencil and a notebook, right? How do you take your notes for the morning reports?” Scar says this in the sort of way where he knows he’s right. He says it playfully, like it’s a silly mistake right under Grian’s nose.

“Okay, fine,” Grian says, trying to imbue an eye-roll into his words. “I get it.”

He’s not really sure why he picks up the yellow legal pad from the corner of the table, or the pencil in the cup. He tears the top sheet off where he had, in fact, scribbled some notes earlier about temperature and wind speed.

The thing is, Scar can’t even see him. He could lie to Scar and say sure, of course, I’ll do it, and Scar would be none the wiser, miles away on the horizon.

He picks up the pencil. The notebook stares back, blank except for the faint lines.

He does try to draw his lookout first, from memory. He thinks of it the way he always does in memory—a snapshot, perfectly clear image his mind took one day. In his mind's eye, the lookout starts to rise over the horizon in the late afternoon sun while he hikes up the hill towards it. He doesn’t have a ruler in the tower, so he carefully uses the spine of one of the old paperbacks as a straight edge to run his pencil against.

It just…doesn’t look right. First of all, angles are off. He’s messed up the two point perspective somehow and he doesn’t have his usual drafting materials with him anymore. But it’s more than that. The lookout, despite being bathed in golden light in his visual memory, just doesn’t feel inviting. It’s just intimidating. A place where, despite its natural beauty, Grian just sees his worst days play out over and over again.

He crumbles the paper again and tosses it to the side. He grabs the radio again.

“Scar, you paint don’t you?” Grian says. “You’re an artist.”

“Well, I guess if you say so,” says Scar slyly, “one could refer to me as a bit of an artist.”

“Why?”

The bluntness throws Scar. “Huh?”

“Why do you do it?”

“Why am I an artist?”

“Yeah. What made you start?”

Scar is quiet for a long time. Not too long to be worrying, but enough to seem…contemplative. He finally replies, “You know, I always liked it. In school I’d always get recruited to help with posters and stuff ‘cause I was one of the better ones at art, which maybe said more about them than me because I wasn’t an artist then. I didn’t practice. I didn’t know anything.”

There’s another pause, but not as long. Grian doesn’t interrupt.

“It wasn’t really until after my accident that I started pursuing it more. It was somethin’ to do! And one of the nurses told me it might be meditative. Help me out a little.”

“Did it?” Grian asks softly.

“I think so,” Scar says, and then with a little bit of a chuckle he adds: “But I don’t think I have to tell you though that sometimes a drawing frustrates you so much you want to throw it across the room! It isn’t all meditation. But I think that’s the point.”

Grian flushes a little. Scar’s comment is truer than he knows; the crumpled evidence of his most recent drawing attempt still sits on the floor by his chair. He reaches for the pencil again, and looks at the page once more. Maybe he will try to draw Scar’s lookout. He won’t tell that to Scar, of course, because he’ll be insufferable about it, but maybe he’ll try.

Grian doesn’t really know exactly what Scar’s lookout looks like. It’s far away, and he’s looked at it in the binoculars a few times, but the details are always fuzzy and hard to make out; each shake of his hand jolts the image at that level of magnification. And it’s far too dark for him to look again, so—so he improvises. Scar’s cabin is not on a tower like Grian’s is. It's situated on a large piece of rock at the top of a mountain. It doesn’t need to be on a tower, because there’s nothing around it tall enough to block the view, unlike the trees next to his tower. He fills in the details as he remembers, and creates new ones in the place of things he forgot.

The soft scratch-scratch of the pencil is lost to the noise of the radio again. “I broke my arm pretty badly at the time—needed surgery on that—but it wasn’t my dominant hand so I still painted. I like doing landscapes, mostly,” Scar says. “Pretty things. I grew up in nature. My dad and I went camping a lot. I missed it. I…wanted to do that again. Didn’t know if I would do that again.”

“I would love to see one of your paintings,” Grian says.

“I don’t really think they’re worth getting excited for,” Scar says, doing a bit of regrettably predictable artist’s humility. “But I’ll mail you one, if you want. Oh! Maybe you’ll even get a little surprise. Jellie likes to help me sign a few pieces, whether I want her to or not…”

The idea of a painting signed with a paw print is so utterly charming to Grian that he almost suggests that Scar should do it with all his paintings as some sort of signature flair. Then it occurs to him that it might be hard to wash a cat’s paws, and starts to ask Scar about what he does—in his cabin in the middle of nowhere with no running water—when a sparkle catches the corner of his eye.

Grian whips his head around just in time to see the sparks die. “Ugh,” he radios. “I just saw a firework. Super far away though.”

“Well, I was surprised neither of us had seen anything yet. Go ahead and mark the general direction of it even if it’s out of your district. Hopefully if there’s a fire someone else closer will catch it, but you could always check on it in the morning.”

Grian wanders over to the firefinder in the center of the room. Conveniently reminding him of which direction it was, several more fireworks go off in quick succession—golden, blue, red. It’s too dark to take a real reading, so he just points the sight in the general vicinity of the celebrations and takes its azimuth. He’ll spend extra time tomorrow examining this direction.

As he takes the measurements, a thought drifts into his mind. It’s something about the convergence of this specific job, a job nobody’s ever heard about in a Forest overlooked because of its more popular neighbors, and the wistful quality of Scar’s voice when he spoke about the subjects of his paintings. He found this job advertised in a newspaper. How did Scar find it? Who trained him to do this?

He sits back at the desk, and starts to sketch in the mountains around Scar’s lookout. This, he remembers well. He knows the familiar fold of the hills and peaks like the back of his hand, even after a little more than two months on the job.

The question circles his mind.

“Scar,” he says finally. “You know why I came here. To this job. To this National Forest. I’ve…made that really clear, whether I wanted to or not. But I don’t think you’ve ever said why you came.”

“Oh,” Scar says. His voice is quiet. “I guess I haven’t.”

Grian lays the radio down on the table, giving Scar space to speak. There’s something about the way Scar acknowledged him that sounds like he’s been exposed. One thing Grian has come to learn about him is that he’s a smoothtalker, and an excellent actor. Scar has dramatic flair in spades, and if he really wanted to, he’d spin a captivating tale for Grian about the totally-true events leading up to his place in this forest. It’d be as truthful as his name.

He doesn’t, though.

“People come out here for a lot of reasons, but not every person can stick with it. It’s lonely, for sure. And, of course,” he chuckles, “the bugs are pretty bad. I’ll tell you right now, I’ve seen more than a few volunteers and new lookouts suddenly get afraid of the dark when it’s just them and no one else for miles,” Scar says. “But the people who stay tend to fall into two categories.”

“What are they?”

“People who are running from something and people who are looking for something.”

There’s no need to question which category Grian is in. Not when he’s already laid his whole soul open for Scar to pick through and deeply intertwined himself in this mystery.

There’s only this: “Which one are you?”

“It’s hard to say,” Scar replies. “But I think I was running away.”

And Grian wants to say from what? but he doesn’t. And he wants to be sitting in Scar’s lookout right now, or anywhere but here, but he isn’t.

He sets the pencil down, temporarily abandoning the drawing he’s been scratching this whole time. He looks straight ahead through the window, but the glare from the lamp on the glass just reflects his own face right back at him. In the shadow where his head is, he can pick out the faint outlines of the hills beyond.

“You can’t run from yourself though,” Scar says. “‘Cause it just follows you. And being alone with yourself just makes you face it faster. I think my mom was right. She was worried about me. That’s why she made me take Jellie to keep me company.”

“I think I need to meet this Jellie,” Grian says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Scar doesn’t typically sound so serious, and it’s a little jarring. “She sounds pretty fantastic.”

“She is, she’s—hey, what about meeting me?”

“Nah, I think I prefer the cat,” he says. Cheeky.

“Well, I can’t say I don’t agree,” Scar says. He sighs. “I guess I should just talk about it, right? You can ask me whatever you want. ‘Cause the more I ramble, the less I talk about it, and the less I actually answer your question. Which is the fun of rambling! If you say enough words people forget about what you’re distracting them from. Oh, but I don’t know why I’m telling you that. A true salesman never gives up any secrets. I’m only a salesman in the winter, though. What am I selling now? I guess I’m selling myself. Wait—no, not like that, don’t you dare be laughing over there, G-man!”

Grian says nothing, and he isn’t laughing. He just lets Scar’s words fill the space. He doesn’t ask anything else. It feels hypocritical to do so. He’s dying to know everything, of course, but he also knows what it’s like—that looming weight on your neck from the pressure of well-meaning friends who just want to talk when all you want to do is be alone. If Scar has come all the way out here, then he must really have wanted to be alone.

Scar seems to rattle himself out of it on his own. “I’m stalling again,” he says, voice like lead. “I’ll just start. It’s okay. It’s been 10 years. I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Grian says. “I was just curious. You know all this about me but I didn’t know anything about you. But if it’s a…thing then you don’t have to.”

“No, no,” he says. “It’s fine. I already told you a lot of the story. I just left out some pieces.”

“It’s a slow night,” Grian says. “Only a few fireworks. Plenty of time to talk, if you want…or plenty of time to just watch.”

“I appreciate that,” Scar replies. He takes a deep breath. It’s a funny thing, that. Grian can’t see Scar’s face—he has no idea about anything, even what color hair he has—but he knows the sound of Scar’s breathing.

“I told you about my accident,” Scar begins. “I told you about how it nearly killed me, about the hospital, about taking up painting. And I told you about the way I’m still in pain, even years later. I don’t think it’s ever going to fully go away. But that wasn’t really the whole truth, or the worst part. The worst part was that I wasn’t the only one in the accident.

“I should have been, though. I was the one driving. I was just running an errand, but I was living with my parents at the time so I asked my dad to come with me to help me pick something out. I don’t even remember what it was. And I don’t remember the accident, either. I only know what they told me. I read the accident report. But there’s a wall of glass between me and what happened. Apparently, we hit some black ice in the road and it spun the car into the other lane. We got hit by a truck. It happened so fast. He didn’t know what was coming either.”

Scar pauses there. Grian tries to take in the story. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That sounds terrifying.”

Scar’s voice breaks on the next line. “The doctor told me my dad was dead when the paramedics arrived. They think he probably died instantly. I don’t remember that, though. I don’t remember anything. I just—I just woke up a week later in the ICU. That’s what I remember. Everything was just so fuzzy and hurt so bad. I could tell something was up but I was too tired. I slept. They waited three days and made my mom break the news.”

“Oh, Scar,” Grian says. “I’m so sorry.” But everyone is sorry. They’re always sorry. It doesn’t do anything. So instead he adds, “You must have been so scared. It must have been confusing.”

“It was ten years ago. I’m fine,” Scar repeats, and Grian doesn’t comment on the way it sounds like a lie. Maybe it isn’t a lie on most days of the week, but it certainly is tonight. Scar continues to talk. “I don’t know why that’s what messes me up the most. That I caused it and I don’t remember it. That it’s my fault but I didn’t know for so long.”

“It’s not your fault,” Grian says gently. “It was an accident. That’s what accidents are, they’re not on purpose. So it can’t be your fault.”

“And you’re right, G-man,” Scar says. His voice wavers. “I already know that. It isn’t my fault. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I didn’t know about the ice. I know it’s not my fault but…it’s really hard to believe that, isn’t it?”

Grian swallows against a lump in his throat, and flicks his eyes down to the table. It’s the hardest thing in the world, just below staying alive.

“I just think about everything I could have done differently. Why didn’t I just go alone? Why didn’t I wait until the next day? What if I was driving slower? Would the difference of one mile per hour, or five, or ten have been the difference between life and death? What if I had reacted faster, or better? What if I saved the car from spinning? If I had left just one minute earlier, or five seconds earlier, there might not have been traffic in the oncoming lane. If I had left three hours earlier, maybe the temperature would have still been high enough to keep the ice from refreezing.”

He stops to take a breath. “It doesn’t ever stop. And it doesn’t bring anyone back. The worst is thinking about the things you did and the things you didn’t. Like maybe I would have told him I loved him that morning if I’d known that was the last day I’d see him. Or maybe I wouldn’t have stolen $20 from him and then lied about it when I was 8 years old. Or maybe I would have asked him again to tell me about his funniest story from when he was a teenager. But that’s just how it is, I think. It all comes back to you.”

“How do you deal with it?” Grian whispers.

“Badly,” Scar says, and for once he doesn’t sound like he’s on the brink of tears. “You go forward. And then backward. And then forward again. You live through it.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You’re already doing it.”

“I’m not doing it very good.”

“That’s the only way you can do it.”

There hasn’t been any more fireworks since they started talking. The night outside is dark, with only the slightest sliver of a new moon. Millions of tiny stars glitter in the sky in nearly uninterrupted view. It’s a beautiful night out there, hot and still, but Grian stays in the four walls of his cabin. Enclosed.

Scar speaks. “One of my steps was coming back here. I think, in the end, it was a step forward. This place gives me comfort. I always liked this part of the state. My dad used to take me camping out here all the time, like once a summer. Sometimes we went to Yellowstone National Park. Sometimes we went to Grand Teton National Park. Sometimes we went to Bridger-Teton National Forest. And sometimes we went here. It’s the quietest here.”

“It sounds like you were close with your dad,” Grian says. “It sounds like fun.”

“It was,” Scar says. “My dad was cremated. It was a while before I was out of the hospital, and it was a while before traveling somewhere wasn’t an ordeal. We saved some of his ashes for closer to home, but we made a special trip out here and scattered a little in each spot.”

“That sounds nice…” Grian trails off. “Like he’s still here, somewhere. In a place he loved. In a place with you.”

“I think I fell a little in love with this place then, in a way I didn’t when I was just a child. Or maybe I was just antsy. I wasn’t doing very good, I guess I can tell you that. There was too much guilt and familiarity at home. I wanted out. I wanted to be anywhere else but there. It took me two years after the accident to make it but I came here.”

“So,” Grian says. “Running from something. I see it.”

“Yeah,” Scar says with a huff of air. “Not that great at running these days though! I mean, I’m barely a hiker anymore without being wiped out for a few days! My mom thought this job was a terrible idea. She thought the last thing I needed was to be alone. I guess you know what that’s like.”

“I didn’t even tell my friends or my mum I was taking this job,” Grian admits. “They’d freak out. The reaction from people I knew back in Colorado was bad enough. So I just sent ‘em a letter the first week I was here. A ranger told me I had mail at the main office but I don’t want to check it.”

“They’ll give it to you at the end of the season if you don’t come pick it up,” Scar says. “You can read it then, after you’ve already done it.”

“Was it what you needed?” Grian asks abruptly. “Being alone.”

“I needed it. I think—sometimes everything in your head makes you want to avoid people. You feel like you need the silence of an empty room to just let it all fall out and fix itself. It helps. But only for a little while, because it never really fixes itself. After a while it just eats you up.”

And Grian wants to say, I think it’s eating me. And he wants to say, I think I am not alone enough, I still need more space, I still need more time. And he wants to say, Everything will be fine, I just need to find him. And he wants to say, I don’t think I would have lasted this summer without you.

“I didn’t have anyone to talk to my first summer as a lookout,” Scar admits. “But you have me. And I think—Grian, I know you think you’re alone, but you aren’t. And I know you think nobody understands, but I do. I’m trying to.”

“Oh,” he says. Oh.

There’s tears suddenly welling up in his eyes, and Grian rapidly tries to blink them away. He sees it in the incessant chatter that had annoyed him on the first week. He sees it in their radio channel, the one just for them to talk on, the secondary channel that ensures the main frequency is always open for real emergencies. Scar’s been cultivating the perfect landing spot for Grian to fall into, before he even knew Grian needed it.

“It’s not actually two different things, is it?” Grian finally responds. “Running away from something, and looking for something.”

And Scar says, “I don’t think it is, in the end.”

<< Chapter Seven | Masterpost | Chapter Nine >>

#hc_firewatch_au #environmental science with quara #it stopped letting me add links....girl and here i was like oh go to tumblr for the unabridged notes!

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vasiktomis · 2 years ago

Text

Enclosed Spaces (18+)

Pairing: Travis Hackett/Gender-neutral Reader. Solo. Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~4000. Warnings: Sexualisation of a cop (yuck). Passing mentions of gore and violence. Depictions of paranoia. Read it on Ao3!

Tags: No use of Y/N. Light angst. Self-hatred. Masturbation. Pining. Premature ejaculation.

There’s a particular sense of dreariness in diners nowadays, Sheriff Hackett has decided.

It wasn’t always like this. Back before smartphones and the internet — hell, even cable TV — before technology and fast tourism had made damn clear how cut-off from society old communities like North Kill were, Travis had spent his adolescence looking forward to breakfast outings wedged in vinyl booths with his family on this particular stretch of forest road. Even in his youth, it was decades past its zeitgeist, but as a rare treat offered by parents who prided themselves on self-sustainability, he and his brothers had once loved coming here.

The Hacketts were an introverted people by nature, but they held the respect of the county-folk for their dedication to keeping North Kill from being wiped off the map. As time passed and the population dwindled, only the most well-established locals seemed to persevere. Businesses rotated through owners almost yearly. One brother was born. Then the next. Travis's family, while ever-changing, were among the only constants he knew. Them, and this meagre little diner, nestled in the trees.

It was always the same.

Bobby, forever the baby, would be shoved between Ma and Pa’s elbows while they traded conversation with whatever locals stopped by to chat. Chris, while closer to Bobby's age, suffered enough middle child syndrome to boost him half a decade to keep up with Travis. On their side of the booth, the two of them would brag to each other in the hopes of catching the attention of pretty wait staff. 'A copperhead bit me once while I was hunting with Pa, but I was too strong and the poison gave me powers. I have the tooth, still.' Chris would almost yell to him over the table, both of them fixated on the 20-something that leaned across them to top up Ma's coffee.

“He’s so cute.” The waitress would coo at Bobby, not even sparing his competing older brothers a glance while the kid carved yet another crayon into the tabletop, fingers and chin caked with grease and maple imitation.

Those moments were the only instance Travis could recall hating one of his own.

The years came and went. Times changed, but out as far as they were, the routine didn’t. Pocket money and independence turned the spot into a hangout in a pinch. Tourists came through in increasingly modernised cars and wardrobes while their little town — if you could even call it that — drew further and further out of time. Architecture dulled. Classics became white noise.

Family breakfasts dwindled in adulthood, but Travis still frequented for the 24-hour service that shift-work had forced him to appreciate. It was familiar. Quiet. That same side of the same booth, in the same dingy little diner. It had become an especially common habit for him in recent years to hang around the place after clocking off. Ever since Silas had been on the run, it was a handy spot to eavesdrop on late-night chatter when one had otherwise silence awaiting them back home. If there wasn't some muttered tip to follow up on, there was at least the clatter of plates. Some casual wave. A ��hey, Sheriff’ — hell, even a drunk to ferry home — or lock-up, behaviour permitting.

In the present, there's no better reason to be here than you.

There's you, bearing a welcoming smile, returning to his booth like clockwork while the hours pass in the night to top up his coffee. You, who combats the loneliness and dreariness of this out-of-time place with ill-fitted enthusiasm and daily anecdotes ranging from boring to bizarre. Something about you teems with stubborn, relentless, fascinating life, and when there's nothing else to observe in the room, Travis takes great pleasure in simply existing in your proximity.

He doesn’t speak to you. Not in a familiar sense. Small-talk is a hard habit to break out of when you’d been working here so many years and all he’d grown accustomed to trading for your words were unamused hums and taciturn, one-word responses. He likes to think that despite the lack of chatter, however, your short interactions had stacked enough familiarity over all this time to transcend conversation. Even if he wouldn't dare to ever address you by your first name, Travis likes to think you enjoy having him around.

At least, that’s what he tells himself every time you linger at his table, slowing the stream of coffee from the pot to enquire about his day and he chokes out a curt reply that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. It’s what he tells himself when he barely returns your smiles, far too concerned with family business, work, and nerves to regard you until it’s too late. When you’re already tending to another patron or shuffling menus or cleaning tables. Gaze captured by your retreating form only when the pressure of your attention is no longer on him.

Existing in your proximity is doable. Comfortable. Talking to you, on the other hand; he can't think of anything more terrifying.

Tonight — however — is a little different.

It’s almost sundown when Travis is finishing up. Bobby and his parents are waiting on him to prep for tonight’s hunt. Chris and the kids are most likely sedated and chained up by now.

You’re tugging the ties of your apron as you approach, signalling the end of your shift, and his heart sinks in relief at the prospect that you’ll be home instead of here for the full moon. Unfortunately for the both of you, that weight shifting off his shoulders looks a whole lot more like annoyance on him.

Despite his refusal to match your energy, you seem to hold out. “You need a top-up before I head out for the night, Sheriff?” You ask, beaming bright enough that he can barely stand to meet your eye until you’re finally faltering.

Travis’s jaw rolls. Words jam on his tongue. Silence. At least until he averts his gaze to the setting sun out the window and stands from his seat.

“Making sure you’re the one getting the tip, huh?” He grunts. A breath leaves you. Polite laughter. He’s almost dizzy at the sound. “I’m headed out, too. I’ll, uh— I’ll walk you out.”

He overtakes you on the way to the door, maybe a little too briskly while you stop to grab your things from behind the counter. It feels almost like it could've been an evasion if he willed it, but you're catching up as he slows to escort you out. His intention is to be gentlemanly; commit to the absolute bare minimum of courtesy — maybe even catch a whiff of whatever shampoo you use while you're close enough.

Fuck his life that a group of 5 just so happens to walk through the door as soon as he opens it, ignoring the two of you completely on their way past. Travis's molars grind. Whatever. Maybe that albino shit might scare some manners into them if they stay out too late.

His failed attempt has him distracted enough that he forgets his intention completely and walks outside first, only just remembering to hold the fucking thing for you once you’re already outside.

The summer air offers no reprieve from the heat crawling up the back of his neck while you follow him down the steps, gaze flickering at him in his periphery. It's a battle not to turn his back to you when he slows to a stop in the parking lot — to just pretend you don't exist for a few seconds and claw back a little dignity.

Jesus fucking Christ, he hates himself.

He rifles through his wallet for whatever note seems appropriately sizeable enough to communicate a job well done without seeming like he’s playing favourites among the staff, and half-expects you to disappear the moment the cash is in your hand.

You do not.

“Thanks." You mutter, shrugging a shoulder. The act of giving you money while you're not in uniform almost feels dirty. He's on the verge of asking for it back before the two of you continue on your way. "You, uh, you walking me to my car?"

The curious tilt of your head has Travis frowning. Then, he realises he’s been meeting your stride in the opposite direction of his patrol car.

“Is there a problem?"

"No, you're welcome to." There's amusement in your tone. "Safest 30 steps I'll ever take."

"Sure."

Christ, why couldn’t he have been born with a little of Chris’s charisma? Why does walking you across a parking lot have to be so painful?

“You headed back to the station tonight?"

“Nope.” Fuck. Elaborate, dumbass. “I’m — Out. Off. For the night.”

In the corner of his eye, your gaze wanders elsewhere. The prickling in the back of his neck eases.

“Got any plans?”

“Family business.”

“Which one?”

That almost makes him chuckle. “The hunting one.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie.

“Anything after?” You ask.

“All-nighter. Bastard we’ve been after’s migrated back up North from the sounds of it."

“Sounds pretty elusive."

“You don’t know the half of it.” The corners of Travis’s mouth tug.

For just a moment, while you’re rounding the driver's side of your car and the two of you slow to a stop, he’s finally able to trade a friendly expression with you.

Silence stretches between you for a moment, a little more comfortable now that you seem to be the one searching for your words. With the tables turned, watching your gaze flicker to meet his — then away — then back again — he decides it’s…cute, when you do it.

That smile blooms across your face once more, now trained firmly on him.

“Maybe I’d like to.”

A pit forms in Travis’s stomach. Blood drains from his face. He sobers in an instant. Your words echo through his thoughts, sharpening with mounting anxiety. What exactly were you trying to say? You were interested in hunting?

The smile still lingers on you, and what felt like amusement moments ago has suddenly warped into something harsh and mocking. Did you know what they were hunting? Were you probing him for information?

“What makes my time any of your business?” He snaps, ignoring a pang of guilt at such a confrontation. Perhaps he was being too paranoid. Perhaps you were none the wiser. Just curious. Less sense than caution. He made an effort to ease up at the sight of your brow furrowing. “I think it’s wiser that you get in your car and go drive home.”

You’re pulling the door open. Not quite able to slip into the drivers seat when Travis’s palm presses into the chassis, using whatever presence he could just to make sure you were listening. “Maybe another night, then.”

Another night?

Anxiety turns to panic.

“Don’t let me catch you out here after dark." He insists, voice hardening. "You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”

“I meant…—“

“I don’t care what you meant. I’m telling you to drop whatever it is you’re hoping to get out of this. No ‘another night’.” Travis grinds out. “Go home. Do I make myself clear?”

The ensuing pause is dreadful.

“Yeah.” Eventually cuts from between your teeth. Your eyes flash disdain at his order. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Travis notices far too late how close you’ve become until you slip out of his shadow. Maple scent disappears with your presence as you get into your car, avoiding his gaze now. His hand still rests against the chassis, preventing you from leaving. He leans down.

He needs to be certain you’re hearing him. He needs to know you’ll be alive in the morning.

It’d be overstepping to offer his number. Let you know you can call on him for help outside work hours. He'd be there in a heartbeat if you asked, if not for the implications.

“I’m flagging your licence plate.” Is all he can offer in lieu of a assurance. “I see your car anywhere between here and my family’s home? May god help you.”

The mortification is clear enough to have him content. You’re not pleased to say the least, but his point is well and truly across. It's fine; it's better this way. There's safety in distance, and he can always compensate with a more generous tip tomorrow.

Travis pushes the door closed the rest of the way, molars grinding at the empty smile that broadens on you.

He’s upset you. He knows it, but he can’t be faulted for steering you clear of the hunt. For keeping his family safe.

Maybe another night, then. That phrase sticks out to him while you start the car and back out of your space. He’d have to keep a closer watch on you if you planned on challenging his warning more than once. Another night, then. You'd never shown an interest in hunting. Why would you do such a thing, if not out of nosiness? Malicious curiosity? Spite, even. It made less sense the more he replayed it. What was that if not an invitation to–

...

An invitation.

Oh. Oh, no.

Travis goes rigid, watching your car pull out of the lot. Hands frozen on his hips. Gawking.

Had he not been on display to the entirety of the diner, he might’ve thrown something. Started kicking the tyres of his patrol car.

You were making a fucking pass at him.

Shit. Shit!

You’d shown an interest in him. In him. In being with him. Off-duty, outside work hours. At night. Recreationally. And he’d just torn you a new one for it.

Fucking piece of shit. Fucking loser. Over and over while he trudges back to his own vehicle, the conversation flickers through his thoughts. How many more ins had you given him prior to today? How many fucking chances?

The sun's half way past the horizon. He doesn't have time to reflect. He has to table this for now. As much as the realisation claws at his insides, he has to focus on the hunt.

Maybe if he kills that kid tonight, he can look forward to making amends.

That's the final reflection he allows himself before shoving the though to the back of his psyche, where it can't bother him.

_____________________________

It does bother him, as it turns out.

It haunts him through the night while he searches for Silas in the undergrowth. The White Wolf hasn't made an appearance tonight and the trail is cold, and while his failure is spelled out by undisturbed frogs and crickets chirping late into the night, the Sheriff is almost relieved. The incident outside the diner and the replaying memory of it deafens him to the ambience. If he's being stalked by the werewolf, he's far too distracted to know it.

Finally, the sun rises, and Travis is once again out of time. Another month to add to the record of the family curse. Another month of Ma's ire and Pa's hard-won, past-his-prime lectures. Chris and the kids didn't deserve this. Especially the kids.

He has to get back to the station in a few hours. Pretend he hasn’t been wandering the woods all fucking night. He has to clean off. Decompress. Take just a little time to reflect on what he’d said to you — on how the fuck he could hope to set the record straight when the mere knowledge that he’d held your interest was trying his stomach in knots.

If he couldn’t work up the spine to speak to you before, he's got no hope in hell of approaching you now.

The moment he’s back in his flat, Travis bee-lines for the bathroom, ignoring hunger and exhaustion and the temptation to retrieve the 6-pack from the fridge along the way. The blood he’s worn to cover his scent on the hunt isn’t so obvious against the black of his uniform, but it acts almost like a sponge, soaking fresh stains over his skin, incriminating him in the light.

He doesn’t bother to let the water run hot before he steps into the shower fully clothed, barring his shoes. The half-minute of icy spray does well to remove whatever rusted pigment his clothes might gain once dry. Momentarily, the chill of the water is enough of a shock to his system that he stops mulling over what happened in the parking lot.

It doesn’t last. The self-loathing seeps back in right while the water pooling around the drain runs copper and crimson. Another night of fuck ups. Another month of cursed loved ones and the overtime it took to keep them safe. Some small part of him protests; maybe they’re asking too much of him — maybe it isn’t fair that it all falls on his shoulders. With Bobby’s disabilities and his parents’ ages, though, who else can keep everyone safe?

He’s ashamed of himself for such a sentiment. And yet —

He feels just as cursed.

To be free of the favours and the corruption and the secrecy — the fucking paranoia that settles over every conversation that someone might know, or find out. He fucking wishes he could spend a moment in that diner with a clear enough head, just enough to be capable of holding a conversation with you.

Maybe he's shifting the blame too much. This has been going on so long that he can't be sure if he was terrified of you before Silas came to the county. It's possible that even if the Harum Scarum hadn't rolled into town, and there'd been no fire, and no witches, and no werewolves — he'd still be sitting in that little booth.

The water begins to warm, and Travis reluctantly disrobes in the cubicle, unbuttoning and peeling off his drenched uniform. Shame hits from a new angle once his trousers are discarded. He’s half hard in his periphery. A frequent state he’s left in while you’re on his mind. While he’s at his booth, thanking his lucky stars to be covered by the table while you wipe down tables, bent at the hip, reaching for too high glasses, body stretching, waist cinched by an apron perpetually dusted with coffee grounds and sugar. While he’s seated at his desk in a silent police department, combing social media for your image despite your unanswered friend request and the access that just fucking accepting would give him and fuck—

He blew you off.

One fucking window of opportunity left wide open to reciprocate a now obvious flirtation, and he’d spent it trying to intimidate you instead.

God, he's repulsed by himself. Even in the wake of the hurt and the gore, he's still suffering an erection. Even when his hands have scrubbed the mask of blood off his face and the smell of rotting flesh is all but washed away, he's still left in disgust.

What if he’d thrown caution to the wind and allowed you to come along tonight? It was quiet. You'd have survived. He'd have had you trudging through the brush, armed to the teeth. Would you still have been interested after that? Would you have pitied him, or laughed at him for his monthly routine of dousing himself in werewolf’s blood, and failing to track a freak show attraction who couldn’t even speak?

On the other hand, what if he’d taken this one night off? Had the common sense to tell you 'tomorrow night, I’m available' ?

Why were you drawn to him in the first place? Did you feel sorry for him in that empty station, in his empty patrol car, in his empty flat? Was it the uniform you liked? Or had his hope that your mutual little routine of small talk affect you as well?

Maybe, somehow, you took him at face value and liked what you saw.

Travis stiffens at the thought. A twitch from below beckons his attention once more. He presses a forearm against the cubicle wall, shifting his weight, contemplating.

Then, he gives in. Takes himself gingerly in-hand and basks in the relief of touch, thoughts clearing, envisioning the potential your interest might have had before he ruined it.

Do you find him attractive? Do you steal your own furtive glances when he isn't taking his own, ignoring the thinning hairline and the way his ears stuck out — or do you like that, too?

Heat licks up through his spine with an experimental pump. Body reacting emphatically to what he's testing.

Travis slackens with a sigh as the tension in his shoulders lessens. Nerve's spark elsewhere now, begging to keep his attention. His forehead comes to rest against the tile beside his wrist, and swallowing back a hesitation, he builds into a rhythm.

Did you want him to fuck you? Did you think about that at all before today? He ventures to hope you’re kind enough not to mind the only experience he has to show for himself is a handful of one night stands dotted few and far between. You’d be patient, and he’d make it up to you. He’s nothing if not dedicated. He’s all too happy to learn.

A scene he's imagined before takes shape on the backs of his eyelids. If you’d let him, he’d take you in your workplace. Late hours of a weeknight. Unlikely that anyone should enter, but always a risk that you could be caught. He’d have you against the counter, apron bunched around your waist. Right now, though, he can’t decide which image he prefers. Bending you over the counter-top or having you spread on your back atop one of the tables. Would you let him, anymore, after how he treated you?

Maybe some fucked-up, fictional version of you might find retribution in sex. Shit, he likes the idea of that. Foregoing verbal apology in favour of physical satisfaction. Something electric buzzes through his nerves, core tightening with a particular throb that simultaneously warns and sings. He's already close, and slowing strokes do little to lessen his momentum.. He has to make the best of the time he has.

Travis changes the scene. His patrol car. Behind the wheel. Sitting back, helpless beneath you while you rock in his lap. Taking what you need from him. Paying no mind if he’s already finished— overstimulated, trembling, slacks a stained mess from how much of him has spilled out of you. It’s only fair, after how he behaved. He transplants the image into as many scenarios as imagination will allow: his office, his couch, his bed. Arms draped around your rib cage, cheek pressed to your sternum. Feeling you make yourself come around him, over and over, flushed from exertion, not letting up until the score is settled and forgiveness is earned.

When you’re finally done taking what you’re owed, you give way to sweetness again. Fingers scratching gently through gelled back hair. Lips ghosting over his forehead. Murmuring praises. Telling him how well he did.

It's the thought of being held by you that brings him undone.

The surge comes too soon, catching him off guard, choking the air in his lungs. He’s emptying into his fist already, bliss and humiliation dragging him through an orgasm that lasts nearly as long as his performance. Whatever hasn’t been spent on the tile wall coats his knuckles in residual little twitches.

The image of you evaporates, and a nearly inaudible curse slips through Travis's teeth.

He doesn't want to leave the cubicle. What he wants is to savour the waning warmth. Enjoy what he can of the afterglow before clarity and guilt creep back into his mind.

Even if you did want him, the truth would change that.

He’d blown you off, but at least you weren’t privy to what he’d done. What he was doing. So long as he kept you at bay, the height of your disappointment would only stem from his refusal.

Fuck. He couldn’t convince himself of that.

At some point, he’d have to decide whether or not he’d be content to remain in the stasis of that booth, in bitter silence, or clear the air. Admit wrongdoing and hope that you’d find his incompetence charming, so long as he hadn’t completely dashed his chances.

The prospect alone terrifies him.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s so fucking tired.

At least there’s a 10 hour stretch of shift work between himself and that confrontation.

At least there’s still a few minutes of hot water left.

...

He can work with that.

He's got another round left in him.

#i know. i know.#please do not perceive me objectifying another middle aged cop #travis hackett #the quarry

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leorizanzel · 3 years ago

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For the short fic prompt list: dinluke with 38-cop/person getting a speeding ticket au, please! Love to see who you choose for the roles, the circumstances for the speeding, and what happens so they maybe get out of it.

Thank you for the prompt! I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to change the premise of the prompt a little because I don't want to imagine either of the characters as actual police lmao - especially not Din "ACAB" Djarin. Perhaps I should've thought of that before reblogging the meme but y'know.

DinLuke, "Park Improvement Fees", (G)

"Sir, were you aware that you can't set up a campfire this far out into the woods?"

Din nearly crawls straight out of his skin in horror at the sound of a man's voice coming through the trees. He immediately snatches his son off the log they're using as a makeshift bench and holds him tightly in his arms, eyes darting around in the darkness to find the source of the voice.

A beam of light appears from a Maglite flashlight up near the trail, and a young, wide-eyed man wearing a park ranger uniform finally steps into the clearing. Din runs his eyes up and down the man's figure, trying to parse out how someone so... sunny-looking and pretty could pull off any sort of uniform and authority. He briefly wonders if the forest's chipmunk population make fun of him behind his back.

"Did you hear me, sir?" the park ranger asks as he flicks the switch off on the flashlight. "Do you have your camping permit with you, by chance?"

Din sighs as he gently sets his son back down on the log and reaches into his front shirt pocket. "Here - I filled out the paperwork with the KOA and everything. I saw the marks of an old campfire here and I figured everything was fine."

The park ranger hums as he looks over Din's paperwork in the firelight. "I suppose I can't blame you for that, but I'll have to ask you to move your campsite to an approved location."

Din can't help but feel his face contort into a frown, which deepens as he hears his son begin to cry. "Look, Ranger...?"

"Ranger Skywalker, sir."

"Right, Ranger Skywalker - we just settled in for the night, and I promised my son here that we'd start making hot dogs and s'mores in just a few minutes," Din sighs as he reaches out a hand to soothe over his son's hair. "He's tired and cranky, and he's been looking forward to this all day. Can you cut us a break tonight?"

Ranger Skywalker's soft features somehow soften even more as he takes in the sight. "I can't do that, Mister... Djarin," he says, looking back down at his permit, "it's not that I don't want to let you two rest, it's that letting you stay here any longer presents a fire danger. These trees could go up any second, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you what a horrible mess that would be for everyone."

"I understand," he says as he bends down to pick his son back up and try to soothe his cries. "We'll be out of your hair soon, then."

"I can take you and your boy to the nearest campsite, if you like," Ranger Skywalker says as he moves to hand Din his paperwork. "I have my truck parked out on the nearest trail, and I'd be happy to help you pack up and set up somewhere else. It's much too risky to let you do that on your own this time of night, especially with such a cute little guy that you're looking after."

"You'd do that? I don't want to take advantage," Din asks as he shifts his son around in his arms, struggling to keep him still as he tries to reach for the ranger's whistle on his uniform shirt. "I'm sorry; he likes shiny things."

"It's fine - happens all the time! I'm not going to give him the whistle, though, if it's all the same to you. I like my eardrums intact," the ranger says with much solemnity. "What's your name, little guy?"

"Grogu," the child says as he continues to grab for the whistle.

"Oh, that's an interesting name! I'm Luke," the ranger - Luke - says as he reaches a finger out to shake Grogu's hand. He smiles wide and the sight of such a pretty man interacting with his son in such an almost saccharine sweet way makes Din's heart clench in his chest. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."

"I'm Din, by the way - though I guess you already knew that," the older man says, a sudden blush creeping up on his cheeks. "Thank you for your help, really."

"It's no problem! But you know, the Park Ranger Service charges a fee for sudden campsite relocation assistance," Luke says with a sudden stern look.

Din raises an eyebrow. "And what's the fee?"

"A s'more generally settles the debt, but I'm also willing to accept fees in the form of smiles from cute little guys," Luke says as he runs a hand through Grogu's dark curls. "I'm going to run out to the truck and grab my fire extinguisher, alright? I'll be back in just a few minutes."

Once he's sure Luke's well down the path, Din lifts Grogu up to his chest and whispers, "Do you think he also accepts phone numbers, kid?"

#dinluke #this is pure cotton candy tooth-rotting fluff

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arofili · 4 years ago

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elves of arda ✹ gondolindrim ✹ headcanon disclaimer ✹ @gondolinweek

Turukáno Núrondil was the second son of Ñolofinwë Arakáno, and the King of Ondolindë. On the treacherous journey across the Helcaraxë, Turukáno lost his wife Elenwë to the icy depths, a traumatic experience that altered his fate forever. He was always a serious and fastidious nér, and in Beleriand his character grew even grimmer. He kept his daughter Itarillë close by, quarrelled with his elder brother Findekáno over whether to forgive the Sons of Fëanáro, and soon realized that what he wanted was to never have left the gleaming city of Tirion-upon-Túna. But there was no turning back time, and Turukáno had no recourse to return to Valinórë either. Instead he set his mind to the creation of a new city, safe and hidden, where he would have total control over his life and his loved ones would never be in any danger. First Turukáno settled in the land of Nevrast on the western coast, where he built the city of Vinyamar and spent much time looking out over the Sea, missing the life he used to have. Yet he was not idle: with him in Vinyamar were his cousin Laurefindil, a charismatic lord with a faithful retinue of warriors, and the harpist Nandáro who led a small group of farmers and musicians. In Nevrast, the Noldor mingled with those who dwelt there already, and Turukáno allied with Galdor, a lord of the native Sindar. At the Mereth Aderthad, Turukáno broke bread with many lords of the Noldor and the Sindar, forming alliances and making many great speeches. He kept his plans for his hidden city vague, but promised safety and sustenance to those who would ally themselves with him. Not long after the Feast of Reuniting, Turukáno recruited the archivist and architect Penlod, a friend of his sister, to aid him in preliminary designs of a city resembling Tirion of old. His daughter Itarillë grew ever more restless under his stern watch, eventually culminating in her secret departure to visit her uncle Fingon in Dor-lómin without her father’s leave. Turukáno dramatically lost his temper when he discovered what had happened, and his close friend and cousin Finrod decided he needed some time away from home to come to terms with his losses and fears. Thus Finrod invited Turukáno to adventure with him across Beleriand. They spent a year together, wandering alone through hills and valleys, and Turukáno finally let his repressed emotions spill out. Finrod comforted and supported him, hiding his secret affections for his cousin all the while—at least until his own resolve broke as they spent a night together on the banks of the river Sirion. The passions Turukáno and Findaráto exchanged beneath the summer stars were not to blossom into anything lasting, for that very night both were visited by Ulmo in their dreams. The Lord of Waters imparted visions of hidden kingdoms to them both, urging them to pursue their goals, but each thought they were the only one to receive the calling. Their minds were muddled when they woke, the night before hazy and indistinct, and clinging to their secrets neither Finrod nor Turukáno spoke to one another of either their dreams or their half-remembered confessions of passion. Turukáno spent much time alone searching for the place Ulmo had shown him in his dreams, at last discovering the hidden valley of Tumladen. There, he knew, his people could be safe, and he immediately began to call upon the friends and allies he had made through fifty years of politicking to aid him in constructing a new kingdom. In the one hundred and seventeenth year of the Sun, the city of Ondolindë was at last completed. Around him Turukáno gathered the greatest lords in his service, establishing ten noble Houses, with himself and his household as the eleventh. Thousands of Eldar, Noldor and Sindar both, quietly made their way to the gates of Ondolindë, but only one hundred were counted as part of the House of the King. Among the folk of the King were the Unbegotten brothers Bruithwir and Finrun, serving as Turukáno’s personal bodyguard. They were grim folk, alike to their King in mood; they knew well the dangers of Middle-earth, for both had perished on the perils of the Great Journey and had been reborn in Aman. They served as guides to the exiled Noldor who had never before seen the far shores, and attached themselves to Turukáno, the prince they believed best knew how to endure the horrors of Morgoth. A hundred years after Ondolindë was completed and its gates shut to the outside world, Turukáno completed his greatest creative project: artistic recreations of the Two Trees of Valinor, wrought in silver and in gold. He called them Lingancal and Valisil, known to his Sindarin-speaking subjects as Glingal and Belthil, and looked upon them with great pride. Yet the day of their unveiling in the King’s Square, Turukáno’s counselor the prophet Amnon was gripped with a dreadful foresight. She prophesied that though they dwelt in a mighty and beautiful city, “great is the Fall of Gondolin, for when the lily of the valley withers then shall Turgon fade.” Already, Ondolindë had gained a number of praising names, including Lothengriol or Endillos, the Flower of the Vale, and the golden blossoms of Lingancal resembled the bloom of a lily. Though Amnon’s words unsettled him, Turukáno dismissed her warning and took heart in the artificial nature of his creation—for how could a lily of gold wilt? Another hundred years passed in peace before trouble stirred in the valley of Tumladen. King Turukáno’s sister Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, Lady of the Tower of Snow, had come with him to Ondolindë for the sake of her friends and kin, but now she grew restless within the confines of the Echoriath and its surroundings. Though Turukáno was reluctant to let her leave, she refused to be kept caged any longer; Turukáno, knowing she would depart whether or not he permitted it, sent with her an escort of his three most valiant Lords and begged her to head straightaway the home of Fingon their brother. But Aredhel went not to Dor-lómin as she had been instructed, instead turning toward Himlad where her friends Celegorm and Curufin dwelt. Along the way she was lost in the treacherous forest of Nan Dungortheb, and try though they might, her escort could not find her. They returned to Gondolin in sorrow, and Turukáno retreated into grief once more. Eventually he granted permanent leadership of his sister’s House to her friend Penlod, who had taken stewardship of her folk upon her departure, and all of Gondolin mourned her as dead. Thus great was their surprise and joy when Aredhel returned unlooked-for—and with a son! For a day there was feasting and merriment, welcoming the indomitable Lady of the Tower of Snow back home, but soon the celebrations were cut short upon the arrival of Aredhel’s wicked husband Eöl, who when faced with the King’s decree that he may not leave Gondolin, slew his wife and was slain in turn. Upon this great tragedy, Aredhel’s son Maeglin was left orphaned, and Turukáno took him under his wing. Maeglin was odd and reclusive, and Turukáno had never been the most emotionally intelligent nér, so while they performed an awkward familial act they were never as close as Turukáno wished. Upon Maeglin’s coming of age, Turukáno named him the Lord of the new House of the Mole in an attempt to show his love for his nephew. When the Siege of Angband was finally broken, Turukáno did not send forth any aid to his kin outside Ondolindë’s walls. He did, however, send a select few mariners out to sea so they might beg the aid of the Valar, but none ever returned. Then came the fall of High King Fingolfin in single combat with Morgoth himself; his body was recovered by the mighty Eagle Thorondor and delivered to Ondolindë, where Turukáno grieved and built him a cairn. At this time Turukáno added to the emblem of his House a scarlet heart, representing the loss of his beloved father, before the symbols of the Sun and Moon. Two years later, Thorondor delivered Turukáno another gift, this one more pleasant: he rescued the Mannish children Húrin and Huor and brought them to Gondolin, where never before had Men been seen. Turukáno grew fond of the boys, and at Húrin’s insistence he finally sent word to his brother that Aredhel had died, breaking his utter isolation for the first time. He was sorrowful to see the lads go when they returned to their homelands in Dor-lómin, his brother’s domain, and remembered them when word came to Gondolin a decade later of the formation of the Union of Maedhros. Unlooked for, Turukáno led an army ten thousand strong to reinforce High King Fingon at the Fifth Battle. Gondolin’s sudden appearance turned the tide of the dreadful battle for a time, but in the end the Union was overrun and Fingon slain only days after he and Turukáno had reunited for the first time in over 300 years. The House of Hador, led by the now full-grown Húrin and Huor, defended the retreat of the Gondolindrim; in their final meeting, Huor urged Turukáno to escape and prophesied that from him and the King “a new star shall arise.” Turukáno returned to Ondolindë amid great sorrow, having lost many soldiers including his faithful bodyguard Bruithwir, and assumed the title of High King of the Noldor in the wake of his brother’s death. The free-peoples of Beleriand were defeated in all but the three hidden strongholds of the elves—Doriath, Nargothrond, and Gondolin itself—and he saw himself as the last great leader of his people. Despite this, other Noldor yet lived outside his jurisdiction, and Turukáno’s new title did not extend his duties any further than the walls of his city, now more isolated than ever. More mariners were sent begging aid from the Valar—and though none made it to the Blessed Land, this time one, Voronwë, survived, returning to Gondolin with a Man sent to the King with a prophecy from Ulmo. Turukáno was counseled to open the gates of his city and prepare for battle or else face the destruction of his people and city, yet Turukáno could not see any path to victory in open war and trusted rather in his own counsel and that of his nephew Maeglin. Ulmo’s messenger was none other than Tuor son of Huor, and in memory of his friend Turukáno gave him leave to stay in Ondolindë. His daughter Idril was charmed by the Man, and in the course of a few years they asked for permission to wed. Turukáno hesitated at first, but recalled the last words of Huor and was moved to agree. Tuor and Idril were wed amid great joy, and he joined his wife as the leader of her House of the Wing; in only a year’s time, their son Eärendil was born. But Ulmo’s warning soon proved true, for when Eärendil was only seven years old the golden lilies of Glingal were found tarnished and dented. Amnon urged her King to take heed of the obvious sign from the Valar and the fulfillment of her prophecy, but once more Turukáno refused to listen. This would prove disastrous, as on the morn of Tarnin Austa the armies of Morgoth attacked Gondolin and its great Fall began. Most of Turukáno’s Lords urged him to abandon the city, but Maeglin, who had for a year been acting fell and strange, convinced him to remain in an attempt to hold the city. For much of the awful battle, Turukáno kept his House in reserve, but when Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs was slain he came down from his tower in all his splendour to cleanse the Square of the King. They drove back the enemy monsters for a time, but many of his folk were slain. The remaining folk gathered beneath Glingal and Bansil, slowly melting from the heat of dragonfire, and Turukáno at last saw that he had brought ruin upon his city. Now at last he recognized the truth in Amnon’s words, lamenting in an echo of her prophecy, “Great is the fall of Gondolin!” But Amnon did not live to see her King’s remorse, for she had perished in the battle. Too late, Turukáno ordered the remainder of his people to flee through Idril’s secret way, though many had already begun the march. He threw down his crown and proclaimed that though all were free to leave, he would stay and fall with it. Galdor of the Tree attempted to return to him his crown, and Tuor and Idril thrice begged him to escape with them, but Turukáno refused and instead ascended to the height of the Tower of the King and cried out a challenge to the Enemy. He was assailed by dragons and Balrogs, fighting them off with his mighty blade Glamdring, until all his guard perished, Finrun defending him to the last, and the tower was felled by the might of many dragons, its weight and their flame killing Turukáno at last. In time all those who were slain in Gondolin’s fall would be reborn in Aman, even twice-slain Bruithwir and Finrun and war-wearied Amnon. Turukáno’s return would come in time for him to visit Númenórë, the kingdom of his Elros his great-grandson, and he would be reunited with Elenwë his wife and Itarillë his daughter and even Tuor the Blessed, granted clemency by the Valar—and also his dear friend Findaráto, with whom he could now at last find new love amid the restoration of the old.

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rjzimmerman · 4 years ago

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I’ve respected what President Biden has done so far. He’s been an effective leader and generally has kept his word and delivered what he said would deliver. But.......he will do things that to me stink, just as did President Obama. (We won’t even think about wasting my time of #44.) This could be one of his first moves to do something that stinks. About a week ago, I posted a link to an essay by Bill McKibben about the Yaak Valley, and how the Black Ram Project described in this story from Truthout would really wreck the local ecosystem.

Excerpt from this story from Truthout:

The Biden administration is a single regulatory leap away from green-lighting the logging of hundreds of acres of old-growth forest in Montana. If approved, the U.S. Forest Service’s “Black Ram Project” would authorize commercial harvesting on 3,904 acres in the Kootenai National Forest, including the clear-cutting of at least 579 acres of trees that are hundreds of years old. On top of potentially violating the National Environmental Policy Act, carrying out the Trump-era project would undermine at least three major Biden administration commitments: tackling the climate crisis, preserving 30 percent of federal land and waters by 2030 and preventing future outbreaks of disease transmitted from animals (or zoonoses) like COVID-19.

The Kootenai National Forest is in the northwestern corner of the state. Swaths of its land are still covered in 600- to 800-year-old subalpine fir, western larch and spruce trees, which ascend from the headwaters of the Yaak River. The ecosystem serves as a vital corridor for species such as wolves, lynx, wolverine, mountain goats and grizzly bears.

According to the Forest Service’s environmental assessment, the Black Ram Project was first publicly proposed in 2017, and is intended to “maintain or improve [the forest’s] resilience to disturbances such as drought, insect and disease outbreaks, and wildfires.” But the project doesn’t reduce the potential for high-intensity fires, Aaron Peterson, executive director of the conservation group Yaak Valley Forest Council, told Truthout.

Logging-as-fire-prevention grew popular during the Trump administration. In August 2019, for example, Sen. Dianne Feinstein (D-California) and Sen. Steve Daines (R-Montana) introduced bipartisan logging legislation proposed to speed up the permitting process for cutting down trees in national forests “to protect communities from wildfires.” In contrast with the Indigenous practice of controlled burns, logging can actually make things worse. According to a 2016 study in Ecosphere, in forests where trees have been removed by logging, fires burn hotter and faster since the presence of fewer trees can promote the spread of invasive and highly combustible grasses, thus creating hotter, drier and windier conditions.

#President Biden #Montana #timber industry #Yaak Valley #Kootenai National Forest

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memorylang · 4 years ago

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Easter: Redwoods, Light | #52 | April 2021

I write from Vegas, having returned after spending most of this spring in Reno. Life has been well. I feel adjusted to being back in the States a year. Every so often, objects and settings still remind me of last year’s evacuation from Mongolia. I still have the interest I’d had in trying to improve the lives of those around me. I still plan to return to Mongolia as soon as pandemic conditions permit.

This month’s blog story reminds me of cycles. Attending a virtual Open Mic Night at the conclusion to this month's “Culture of Creativity Workshops” featuring overseas alumni, I felt called to tell our folks there about this very blog story that I hadn't yet finished. A fellow participant suggested my theme of cycles. I'd spoken of how events that happen throughout time, how our feelings come and go. So here it is—My Easter 2O2I tales of cycles, light and renewal!

Back to Vegas

I returned to Vegas tasked by my father to continue to sort my belongings, tend to the yard and help my older brother and his girlfriend clean the kitchen since their recent move back to the house. Early in March, I’d visited the house with my siblings, and I’d intended originally to spend Holy Week here, too. But my college parish had many functions, including a friend’s baptism, Knights’ service events and opportunities for me to continue to help with the recordings of Sunday Proclamations of the Word. Palm Sunday’s and Good Friday’s were special highlights. Anyway, I'd opted to stay in Reno for Lent’s remainder into Easter’s first weeks.

Easter in Reno

Being in Reno for most of this April instead of in Vegas like last year, I enjoyed seeing trees blossom. A highlight of this Easter season has been its many serendipitous moments. This is also noteworthy because I'd listened to the "Tao of Pooh,” which noted spontaneity as among the good spiritual life’s fruits. A spiritual director had told me something similar not long before I'd graduated college.

Days before Easter Sunday itself (U.S. Year 2, Week 5; April 2–8, 2O2I), I enjoyed getting the opportunity to lector at that Mass. It was a small Mass, but I felt glad to be in person for the greatest celebration of the Christian year since all had shut down last year. Later this Easter Octave, I’d gotten to both lector and serve at a family's confirmation Mass. That too felt lovely.

Serendipity hadn’t stopped there! I’d caught up with an ol’ friend at Rancho San Rafael Park not far from the Uni and later biked with another friend at North Valleys Regional. My bike itself I’d bought from a rummage sale the day before on an unexpected adventure in a U-Haul truck to help our student coordinators collect furniture in the morning after they’d asked whoever could help. Thus, that Wednesday night they’d requested help, Thursday morning I’d joined them to Gardnerville and the rectory, and Friday night I was biking with a friend. The last time I recall riding in a U-Haul was over a dozen years ago when I was 11, my family moved from Indiana to Vegas.

My youngest sister has also been encouraging me to practice my licensed driving by borrowing her vehicle to and from our parish. I’d visited so often that staff offered me a key to simplify visits to my "home away from home away from home." I’d felt touched because I could go on walks around our pretty campus without worrying about getting locked out when I was alone. The flexibility gave me peace recently on my U.S. Year 2, Week 8 (April 23–29, 2O2I), when midday I’d needed to drop by my Honors College alma mater’s office to help print a letter I’d written to graduating seniors for our Honors Alumni Task Force.

Also at church, I’d gotten to participate in a few of our Alpha sessions hosted by a diaconate candidate whom I’d interviewed back in 2OI8 on my diocesan public relations internship. I'd heard about Alpha first back in Mongolia from a kind Evangelical Mongol. Anyway, the diaconate candidate, student coordinators and Alpha participants have been great conversation partners.

Beyond these, our pastor had driven me to my first Pfizer vaccine dose, lent me films and advised my reading! On one occasion, he even let me bring Holy Communion to a friend of mine. Such activities have kept me from feeling too distressed amid research writing and revisions. Parish support has made my “happy contentment” quest kinder.

Redwoods National and State Parks

This year’s Easter Octave concluded for me with another trip with my national parks friends (U.S. Year 2, Week 6; April 9–I5, 2O2I). This trip, I’d anticipated especially. As a young lad in Indiana, I’d felt mesmerized by the photos of massively tall California trees noted in our science textbooks. Thus, from an early age, Redwoods imprinted themselves in me.

At these national and state parks, epic scenery of old-growth forests, mountainous hills and valleys beside the coast astounded me. I hadn’t seen the Pacific Ocean since January 2O2O when I’d flown back to Mongolia from Vegas via San Francisco. I felt surprised by how many months had passed since my last overseas adventure.

At the loop completing the Tall Trees Grove trail, I found a special place. My peers had gone ahead while I stayed behind to take photos, record videos and capture audio. I hadn’t expected to find at the trail’s end a creek filled with still other trees—vast ones, like those that I’d seen in subtropical Asia but different.

I basked in these trees. While taking photos, I also discovered my phone has a virtual reality setting. I tried it out, remembering undergrad extra credit VR photography projects. I’d wanted to journal at least something.

“Daniel!” my peers called from some distance down the path. I couldn’t see them, but their voices echoed well enough. I called back something to the effect of, “I’m here!” I still wanted to get a good fill of this park. Here’s what I journaled:

[11:45 a.m.] Redwood, National Park, end of Tall Tree Grove along the creek zone is this phenomenal section of mossy trees with winding branches. Here I discovered my VR. [A woman paused, passing me, “You must be Daniel.”] 19IO–I96O, so many of these trees that used to be across Humboldt, Eureka, Arcata were cut down. The smells… the scents, the mosses, the ferns, the light. Beyond.

Mid-journaling, I paused because a mid-aged woman who was passing by smiled and acknowledged that I must be the "Daniel" she'd overheard about. I smiled yes and reveled in the gorgeousness that surrounded us. She affirmed and mused how this park’s name should be changed like, “Redwoods and Other Trees and Lose-Your-Brother-in-the-Forest National Park.” She added how in the early half of last century, these very types of trees once blanketed far more Northern California, across the very counties through which my friends and I traveled to get here.

I later journaled again after sprinting much of the uphill trail back to my friends. We then saw the “Lady Bird” Johnson trail, then a confluence of the Klamath River and Pacific Ocean (where there were seals!) and finally Trillium Falls. I’d written this about the final hike:

So hypnotic. [...] Dodona’s Grove* vibes from the Trillium hike after the Falls. Whispers from God. Endlessness.

*The Grove of Dodona is a prophetic forest from “The Hidden Oracle,” a book to which I’d listened amid the pandemic by an author I used to read in junior high and high school, Rick Riordan. While I wasn’t a huge fan of where he’d taken “The Heroes of Olympus” series’ finale, I'd often admired his picturesque locales.

My peers and I left the park by 6:45 p.m. The view from the road on which we departed reminded me of the bamboo forest in 安吉 Ānjí near 杭州 Hángzhōu. I’d seen it in 2OI7 during my first summer overseas and have rarely found comparable places.

Of Redwoods, I journaled too of how gleeful I’d felt to have hugged so many trees. A friend had complimented my writing when he mentioned that I don’t need to take so many photos. I added how photos help me remember what to write. I'll probably share my Redwoods photoset in May.

A carpet of moist, fallen leaves along the paved trails had reminded me of a Sunday morning path that my dad would take my siblings and me through for years at Spring Mill State Park in Mitchell, Ind.

Spring Retreat: Recognizing God’s Light

Beyond Redwoods, I'd stayed behind in Reno chiefly to participate in my college parish's Spring Retreat. This spring the student coordinators held it in Gardnerville, the same location where I'd enjoyed it my senior spring. However, I'd had to leave early from it that year. It was my first and only of the eight semesterly retreats from which I'd left early.

That year, I'd left in order to co-emcee the Diocesan Youth Rally 2OI9. To my surprise, the youngest member on this year’s student coordinator team was likely at that same event when she was a high school student. Similarities like these gladdened me.

I felt renewed. This year’s theme, "Light in the Darkness" (Spring 2O2I), reminded me of "Ignite the Light," (Spring 2OI8), the year after my mother died. This time, however, I’d had more years to reflect and feel greater peace. Similarly, I've felt more peace being back in the States even though I'd prefer to be abroad. God’s light shines every day, in every moment of every person. I can see it.

Writing of seeing things, I’d also seen "WandaVision" and "The Falcon and the Winter Soldier" while up in Reno. I’d reconnected too with a Disney-loving college friend to get more Disney+ watchlist ideas. I’d seriously enjoyed the “Into the Unknown: Making Frozen II” docuseries. Both she and my college pastor led me to witness iconic performances by Julie Andrews in both "The Sound of Music" and "Mary Poppins."

Justice

April felt refreshing for a more challenging reason as well. Much of the month had featured on many channels coverage from the trial over the killing of George Floyd. I imagined that this would be a trial that my generation remembers for years.

I’d watched live various testimonies and even the closing arguments. Then, on that Tuesday, April 2O, 2O2I, afternoon, our nation heard the verdict—My pastor called it among the fastest traveling news.

I've been on the Social Justice Task Force of the American Psychological Association’s Society for the Psychology of Religion and Spirituality since last summer. Our Task Force had come together in response to the killing of George Floyd and subsequent renewed pushes across our nation for social justice.

Our task force has been meeting every other Tuesday night, after weekly fed Zoom fatigue. Our meeting that Tuesday fell on the night of the guilty verdict. But, this justice felt cathartic only somewhat. More shootings filled the media. Our task was far from over.

Still, I’d another reason to celebrate. That Tuesday marked my last advocacy meeting on behalf of the National Peace Corps Association to offices of Nevada’s lawmakers this March–April. All told, I’d coordinated and met virtually with offices of the U.S. Congresspeople Horsford, Titus and Lee as well as Senator Rosen. And Representative Titus herself attended our meeting! She was very kind. So, I felt relieved to have finished those duties for now.

Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month

Next month (May) begins Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month. I've decided to tell a #StopAsianHate story. Given America's centuries of racism toward Asians, I don't enjoy the subject. But, I’d had an experience on my Week 5I (Feb. 19–25, 2O2I). It reminded me the importance of continuing to tell stories so that we can promote diversity and inclusion.

I was on one of my Reno walks that cold winter. As usual, I'd pass by the local elementary school. I'd paused to check my phone. The time was while children were at recess. They played opposite a chain-link fence a few yards down a hill from where I stood.

At first, I didn't think that the kids were talking to me. So, I paid them little attention. Then their voices sounded closer, in greater numbers.

I hadn't decided whether to acknowledge the children but decided to finish my walk. My walk brought me along the fence. From my right periphery, I saw a clump of children gathering, following. They certainly addressed me.

I heard what sounded like slurs against Asians that I won't repeat here but also questions that I will repeat here.

The kids asked if I was homeless, whether I'm an orphan, whether I speak English. I reflected on these. I was wearing a big scarf from Mongolia, a hefty hand-me-down winter coat and wide, secondhand jeans, frayed at my ankles. But I hadn't spoken a word to the kids.

Their questions themselves weren't offensive. Yet, the children’s tones reminded me of the mocking ones I'd heard in middle school when boys made fun of me for caring more about good grades than getting girlfriends. (Little did the boys know, girls I liked tended toward good grades.)

Anyway, these kids seemed to have negative implications behind positive responses to their questions. This upset me. After all, homelessness, being an orphan and not knowing English are not inherently bad things. For, often, people do not choose to go without a home, parents or American English. So why might these children ask these degradingly?

I felt perturbed by the realization that these children would find pleasure in mocking people who they suspect are without homes, parents or English skills. Yet, from this, I felt a glimmer of solidarity. I'd heard directed toward me what seemed unkind speech. This may help me relate to Asians who hear slurs, to those without homes, to those without parents and to those perhaps struggling with English.

My parents tend to insist too that I buy new clothes, though. Given our world's rampant consumerism, I find second-hand ones quite fine. "Form follows function." I wish that more folks would appreciate hand-me-downs and thrifting.

Nuance

Curiously, as I continued past this chain-link fence, a somewhat pudgy boy of color asked with a wide grin for money for Taco Bell. Truthfully, I didn't have money on me. I calmly answered the questions, not pausing from my walk. I guessed the kids dismissed the homeless guess/joke. I noticed thankfully that they wore face masks. We’re still in a pandemic, after all.

The boy's questions made me wonder about his family life. True, he could have been joking. But I remembered, many of the boys who'd picked on me in middle school had been living in a neighborhood that many people called not a “good” part of town.

In light of the visibility that Black Lives Matter has had in the past year, I've tried to grow more aware of how cruel predominantly White societies can be toward Black, indigenous and other peoples of color. I recalled learning when I was little that, often those who bully had been bullied themselves. Sociology interests me.

Thus, when these playground children said potentially questionable things to me, I wasn't sure whether to intervene about the slurs or micro-aggressions or what I'd say.

As I neared the fence’s edge to complete my pass by the school, I overheard a girl's or maybe a woman's voice call the kids to stop wasting their free time. I'm glad that someone spoke up. Compassion is the answer, especially in light of hurtful things.

I’m still unsure whether my general silence was helpful or problematic. But the experience caused me to think. For, children learn fast. Innocence is invaluable. My generation's problems and those of that above ours replicate in youths the longer we fail to act.

I’m glad that folks are speaking up these days in hopes to #StopAsianHate. Social justice mustn't sleep.

Language Six

On April 2O2I’s last day, I hit my 365-day streak on Duolingo!

Over the past year, I’d focused on Latin, Spanish and Chinese. Having finished every lesson and level Duolingo had for Latin, I started dabbling in German. While I’ve no intention to extensively pursue German (yet, at least), I’ve enjoyed how its lessons help me see from where many non-Latin roots reach English.

I’ve been dipping into my Germanic heritage on Dad’s side again lately. This began about when I’d seen “The Sound of Music” then reconnected with my distant relative who’s researched more of our shared Austrian and Volga German forefathers and mothers. Turns out that my relative had personally written to and received a postcard from the real Maria von Trapp!

I've grown to like more German language. "The Sound of Music" and how Spotify has Disney soundtracks in German help. Besides listening to vocalists like Namika, I’ve also gotten into LEA, Manuel Straube, Julia Scheeser and even Willemijn Verkaik! This is probably just a phase, but it’s certainly fun.

Every language I’ve sought to learn has at least one Spotify playlist. For recent films I’ve seen, like "Mary Poppins" and "Mary Poppins Returns," I’ve cherry-picked tracks in German, Spanish and English. Though I don’t catch most words, I like to consider translators’ decision-making.

Summer Fun

I get my second Pfizer dose on Cinco de Mayo. By then, I hope to have channeled my Julie Andrews-inspired service of making things better than how I've found them. Later that vaccine week, on Mother’s Day, I’ll return to Reno with Tita and Papa.

May 14 will celebrate the Baccalaureate Mass of lovely student coordinators and friends from undergrad. Then comes the 2Ist birthday of my youngest sister and will also mark when I’m fully inoculated, May 19! Pentecost comes May 23. Then will be May 3O, the wedding of two of my undergrad coworkers, including a fraternity brother. We'll have a mini staff and fraternal reunion!

After that, I look forward most to a Seattle trip at my 24th birthday. National parks friends and I are flying up to see Olympic National Park. It’ll be my first time to see further into the Pacific Northwest than Ashland, Ore. My younger (not youngest) sister got a job in Seattle, so I’ll be surfing her couch for part of my visit. Super stoked to reconnect with friends from high school, college and Peace Corps in the city! Even my married friends with whom I'd spent New Year's Eve the past couple years plan to visit me there.

This April my siblings and I reviewed our first scholarship applications for a Foundation that we’d founded to honor our late mother, who was Chinese. So, with next month and the fourth anniversary of her passing, I’ll share Foundation experiences, I think. Along with those, graduations and celebrations await!

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

#Peace Corps #Mongolia #redwoods #WithMe #Easter #memoir #story #Catholic #God #memoryLang #USA #Coronavirus #COVID-19 #Nevada #California #travel #spring #church #UNR #StopAsianHate

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haec-est-fides · 4 years ago

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What Other Than This? (II)

[Words: 659. Warnings: none. Summary: Octavian may be in a very bad place, but he is not alone.]

The forest is silent, but not still. A cool breeze stirs the gauzy fabric of a young woman’s dress, though woman is hardly the right word for her. She takes a breath -- her first -- and is filled with the gentle scent of trees, of soil, of dusk. Opening her eyes, she finds herself in the middle of a small clearing, the sun setting in the peach sky above. As she sits up, her dress cascades around her.

It’s not an overly long dress, by any means, but she is small, spindly. The cream cloth is faintly trimmed with gold and purple. It matches the laurels upon her head. Both are more than enough to mark her as something Roman. Something. Thoughts begin to swirl through her newly awakened mind like passing clouds, ‘Something. No-’ She furrows her brows, champagne locks falling into her eyes -- eyes that eerily match the metallic gold of her hair. ‘I’m-’ She’s...what? ‘A mania? A nymph?’

She can’t think of anything like her. It feels wrong, and that’s the first feeling she has -- being wrong, out of place, alone. She hesitantly rises to her feet, turning her face to the sky. Somewhere inside her she knows what she is, but there isn’t exactly a word for it. She doesn’t know if one has ever been alive before. She takes a deep breath, running what she knows through her head, making the mental clouds dance and scatter, condense into a stream: ‘Born from a plea, from desperation. Meant to serve, until my service is no longer required. Given. A gift.’ Ah, that’s it. A donum, a gift. An exceptionally rare one, at that.

Children of Rome are permitted one in their most desperate moments. Most never receive one. (Romans are not known for their desperation.) Even then, most gifts came in the form of a blessing, an object... She can’t help but wonder who called for her, and why he did. He.

Her mind sparks again, this new information revealed to her only because it is a foundational part of what she is. She knows him. She can see his blue eyes, his blonde hair, his fair skin -- all so very washed out. Like her, she realizes, if you took away her metallic shine. He’s a legacy of Apollo, augur, a good Roman. She’s still confused. What happened to him?

The final piece of the puzzle makes her lips twitch upward in a smile: his name. It feels soft passing over her lips, but powerful. “Octavian Caesar.” A whisper, the first words to ring out in her sunset voice.

Thunder rumbles. Though cloudless, unlike her mind, the heavens suddenly feel oppressive. She flinches when a flash of lightning cracks through the sky, darkening as she watches. ‘Strange,’ she can’t help but think, ‘Jupiter is enraged at him, at this Octavian.’ But why, then, even create her? Jupiter is her father, she supposes, as god of supplicants and the gifts they are owed. Her stream of thought threatens to become a raging torrent, drowning out everything around her -- but as quickly as the electric charge to the air came, it passes. A mere warning?

The forest is thrown into sharp relief as darkness falls fully, the silence becoming crickets and rustles. While it doesn’t feel dangerous, a sense of urgency washes over her. She spins around, searching the dark. Where is she? Where is he? After a moment, the faint sound of shallow breathing reaches her ears. She follows.

There. Curled in the brush, trembling, bleeding. A pang hits her, and that’s the second thing she truly feels: concern. Her bare feet step lightly as she approaches the young man. She kneels beside him, hesitantly reaching out a hand to brush the hair from his face. He’s a mess -- dirt, soot, cuts and bruises, torn clothes. He looks like he might have been someone once, purple robes singed, bits stuck in his armor. He’s so young...

#heroes of olympus #hoo #oc #octavian #hoo octavian #filodox!#I couldn't leave it where I left it in part 1

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billehrman · 3 years ago

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Focus on the Bigger Picture

Market participants, including the pundits on cable news most of all, are transfixed by the meme stocks and are missing the more significant, far more critical investment picture as it unfolds.

Our favorable investment outlook has been reinforced over the last several weeks as we are getting our arms around the coronavirus; the monetary policy remains overly accommodative at least through the end of the year; the fiscal policy will remain stimulative with the prospects of a trillion-dollar infrastructure on the horizon without a punitive increase in the corporate tax rate, and recent economic data points indicate that the global recovery is taking off sooner than we envisioned a few months ago. Despite all this favorable news, all we hear and read about is a handful of meme stocks, as well as cryptocurrency, whose trading volumes are out of sight. We do not like to see this action as it is devoid of fundamental analysis and valuation. It is genuine gambling and speculation, as Warren Buffett has said, and we agree.

Each week, we set out to offer our view of the investment landscape using time-tested analytical methods that have served us well over our 45+ year career successfully managing money. We step back from the daily noise and volatility to develop an investment view incorporating all the critical financial, monetary, and political variables at our hands globally.

We continue to begin our view of the investment landscape with an update on how well we handle the coronavirus, which halted global economic activity in 2020 as the world shuts down. Fortunately, therapeutics and vaccines were developed in record time such that we will put the virus in the rearview mirror as we exit 2021 permitting a sustained global economic recovery supported by trillions of monetary and fiscal stimulus put in the global financial system to help us get to the other side with minimal damage and hardship. More than 2.01 billion doses have been administered worldwide. The latest run rate is roughly 36.4 million doses per day. In the U.S., 298 million doses have been given and we are vaccinating approximately 1 million per day. We are opening rapidly now as evident by the change in mask policy. News in Europe is far better too, and the opening is accelerating there, including travel between countries. We are even contemplating a trip to Europe over the summer. News in India, which has been a notable trouble spot, has also begun to get better, as evidenced by its improving economic data recently. Finally, we are confident that we will have billions of doses available next year if needed. We are more optimistic than ever that the coronavirus will be in the rearview mirror by year-end, permitting a sustained synchronous global economic expansion in 2022 and beyond.

The Beige Book came out last week, which indicated that the economy’s pace quickened in April and May as vaccinations increased and social distancing measures were relaxed. Still, supply line disruptions were evident as well. The report specifically mentioned that auto and truck sales were constrained by shortages of chips causing tight inventories and that homebuilders said that demand outstripped capacity to build. The book also commented on improved lending volume, moderate wage growth, and the lack of job candidates preventing businesses from increasing output. Overall prices increased moderately while input prices rose more briskly. Higher inflation is expected to be transitory for all the reasons discussed previously. We continue to believe that the Fed will begin discussing tapering in the fall, start tapering next year, end its bond-buying by the fall of 2022, and begin to lift the funds' rate by mid-2023 which is two years down the road.

Negotiations between President Biden and the Republicans appear to be heating up significantly. It seems that reconciliation would not give the Democrats anywhere near what they want in an infrastructure plan. We still believe that we will end up with roughly a $1.4 trillion plan, including $1 trillion of new spending, over eight years and possibly a minimum tax of 15% rather than hiking the corporate rate at all. The plan would also be financed with user fees, project financing, and increased collections. Biden’s social “infrastructure” spending would be put off for another day which is excellent news. It is interesting to note that Treasury Secretary Yellen is pitching infrastructure spending globally to combat climate change. We are confident that we are entering a period of accelerated global capital spending to alleviate shortages, shorten supply lines, and going green.

Economic data domestically continue to improve sequentially as expected: the May Manufacturing PMI hit 61.2; new orders registered 67; the production index was 58.5, penalized by shortages; the backlog of orders rose to 70.6; the supplier index increased to 78.8; the price index hit a new high of 88; inventories feel due to shortages; new construction was up 0.2%, up 9.8% from a year ago; the services index hit a record high of 64; unemployment claims fell to a new post-pandemic low of 385,000, and job cuts remain low at 24,586. We were somewhat disappointed that first-quarter productivity increased only 5.4% in the first quarter and unit labor costs rose 1.7%. We still expect that we have entered a sustained period of higher productivity. Corporations have learned to do more with less and have increased their technology spending substantially to increase efficiency while reducing costs. The all-important May employment report came in light with only 559,000 new jobs added versus forecasts closer to 700,000. There is certainly no problem with job availability as there are record job openings. Still, people are being paid a $300 supplemental unemployment benefit not to work, but this will end in a few months. The employment number is pivotal as Fed Chairman Powell has said that he won’t alter policy until we return to pre-pandemic employment levels. We are still around 8 million jobs short of that goal. This number supports our timetable that the Fed will not begin to taper its bond purchases until 2022.

Economic data points have been improving overseas, too, as the number of coronavirus cases/deaths decline: eurozone manufacturing activity expanded at a record pace in May, increasing to 63.1; output came in at 62.2, and prices rose 2% year over year. Economic data country by country in the Eurozone improved dramatically in May over April. China’s Purchasers Managers’ Index fell to 55.1 in May, remaining in expansionary territory. We are confident that overseas data will improve sequentially as the coronavirus is under more control as vaccinations increase, permitting an acceleration in openings—all good news.

Investment Conclusion

Investors can miss the forest through the trees if they focus on the meme stocks and cryptocurrencies, which we hear about all the time on the business news networks and from the pundits every day. A successful investor must step back and think longer-term, reviewing all the data points to see if they are consistent with one’s longer-term investment view.

After careful consideration of progress on the coronavirus, monetary and fiscal policies worldwide, and all the most recent data points, we have not changed our view that we are on the cusp of a global synchronous economic recovery for several years that will have favor the production side of the economy, especially if we have a significant boost infrastructure and capital spending over the next several years.

Areas of emphasis include the global capital goods, industrial and machinery companies; financials as we expect the yield curve to steepen over time; technology at a fair price; transportation, and industrial/agricultural commodities. We would continue to avoid the highfliers, meme stocks, cryptocurrency, and bonds.

Our investment webinar will be held on Monday, June 7th, at 8:30, am EST. You can join the webinar by entering https://zoom.us/j/9179217852 in your browser or dialing +646-558-8656 and entering the password 9179217852.

Remember to review all the facts; pause, reflect, and consider mindset shifts; look at your asset mix with risk controls; turn off your cable news; do independent research and …

Invest Accordingly!

Bill Ehrman

Paix et Prosperite LLC

[email protected]

917-951-4139

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nothinghereanymoremaybelater · 5 years ago

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Into the Depths Pt.1

Here’s the first part of our adventure! It introduces the characters you can choose from, and a bit about our setting. I hope you all enjoy! Let me know who you’d rather see our reader ‘enjoy’ the attention of!

WC: 3k

The outdoors are not your thing. You loiter around the back of your friend’s pickup, breathing in the strange mixture of engine exhaust and fresh, clean air, with your arms folded and a war raging inside your head. You’re trying to express your apathy about the camping trip without words, but your companions are paying you no mind as they stand talking in front of a map. The whole drive over, you were second guessing your decision to join them; wondering if you could somehow gracefully bow out even now, standing in front of the ranger station that marks the entrance to the forest. The largest forest in the world, as signs that dotted the roads in this area like pimples, intrusive and unwanted.

And you don’t see a way out of going camping in them. It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with your friends; you absolutely do. The four of them are the most important things in the world to you, and you’d do anything for them all. Usually you wouldn’t have been so reluctant to go on an outdoors-y adventure like this, even with your general distaste for all things involving nature; you’d been on hikes and camping trips with them before, laughing over roasted marshmallows and climbing to scenic cliffs just to watch the way the clouds moved overhead. They liked to tease you about the modern conveniences you brought on these trips- the most comfortable tent and sleeping bag you could get, enough bug repellant to clear the whole area of insects- but you knew they appreciated you indulging their interests.

Usually you would have been fine with loading into Michelle’s van and careening down the road towards another week of exploring the world around you.

But you had… problems, with this forest.

Nothing concrete. No earth-shattering experiences that had traumatized you and shaped you into the person you were today, no story you could tell your friends as explanation for why you really, really wanted them to choose any other camping ground for the trip. Nothing you could grasp in your memory and hold onto as proof that you weren’t crazy, weren’t just imagining the way this place made you feel every time you set foot on its trails. You’d been here before, on trips when you all were younger or on outings with your family- the mountain that rises in the middle of the blanket of trees has watched over the town you live in for your entire life.

‘We live near the largest forest in the world,’ everyone always says. ‘Why not take advantage of it?’

You don’t have a solid reason not to. No solid reason except for the creeping feeling of eyes on your back whenever you draw near the thick, dark lines of trees that stretch for miles and miles. No explanation for the paranoia that sinks into your bones and makes you shake and shiver at a cloud passing overhead or the snapping of a twig under your own foot. There’s nothing you can tell your friends about your misgivings that wouldn’t make you sound delusional and so the only thing you can do is stew in the exhaust from the idling car and wish you’d followed through on faking a sudden illness to get out of having to join them. But this was your last chance to do an outing like this all together- Eli and Michelle were going to grad school, Sarah was moving for a job offer next month. Andre was the only one staying, but it just wouldn’t be the same without all of you together; and so here you are, in a place that terrified you.

“The station should be just down that trail,” Eli announces with an air of triumph, apparently having finally solved the confusing array of colors and squiggles masquerading as a map of the trails and ranger stations in the forest. Michelle throws her hands up in the air but seems to accept his pronouncement, walking back to the van to turn the idling engine off. You’re treated to clean air once more, with only the lingering smell of gasoline to keep you company as your friends re-lace their boots and ensure the doors are locked.

Andre throws a glance your way, furrowing his brow at the way you’ve isolated yourself from the rest of them. You offer him the best smile you can manage, but even here, at the very edge of the forest, you can almost feel creeping hands that crawl up your spine and seem to chill your very being with their touch. You’d volunteer to stay with the van as they trek to the ranger station to get registered, but that would leave you all alone until they got back- perhaps a fate even worse than walking further into the depths of this place. Making your decision, you join the little group as they set off down one of the marked trails, trusting that Eli had read the map correctly.

To distract yourself as you walk, you contemplate the little group of people around you- faces and voices that feel like home, a welcome distraction from the alien feeling of the woods. Sarah’s the closest, hanging back to walk in step with you without saying much. You appreciate the gesture- you’d have to be playing catch up with the other three if she wasn’t with you. The comfortable silence is all you think you can take at the moment, unsure that you wouldn’t just start screaming if you opened your mouth. Eli’s leading the way with his sister and Andre close on his heels, glancing around at the trail as they contemplate plans for where exactly you all are going to set up camp for the week. You’re not paying close attention- you just watch the way that Michelle links her arm with Andre’s, the tread of their boots leaving prints in the mud like carving a pattern into the trail.

It’s not that far into your group’s trek, only five minutes at most, when a building suddenly appears out of the tree line. It’s ramshackle and shoddy at best, seemingly cobbled together from fallen logs and discarded wood from around the forest rather than any real building grade materials. ‘RANGER STATION’ is painted on the side of the building in brilliant yellow, and a number of ATVs and a van are parked in the small, dirt lot outside it. Andre whistles at the sight, frowning.

“I guess the budget really got cut for the parks service,” He says, though you aren’t sure there’s any amount of budget cuts that would force such a dilapidated building into service. It seems to you that it must have always been like this, though you can’t remember such a strange structure in any visit you’ve had to this forest before. The five of you climb the stairs and they creak under your weight so badly that Eli and Sarah hang back, going up one at a time after the rest of you are already on the porch. Michelle opens the door and waves you all inside.

The first thing you notice is that the interior perfectly matches the exterior. Everything appears to be held together by some loose nails and a prayer- the counter in front of you lists to one side and the surface of it is rough and uneven, certainly almost useless for writing on. Behind it, the walls are absolutely covered in plants- climbing ivy and hanging terrariums that house blooms you’ve never seen in this part of the world, huge ferns that have almost completely obscured the rows of shelves and stacks of papers arranged against the back wall. There are a few doorways, with wooden doors shut tight in their frames and no labels or nameplates hanging on them to hint at their contents. You look at the clouded glass windows and see shapes outside in the lot that don’t look anything like the vehicles you’d noticed on your way inside.

Before you can move closer to the windows to get a better look, one of the doors swings open and a man comes shuffling out. It’s hard for you to believe he’d actually fit in the cramped office you see beyond him- he’s enormous, at least six and a half feet tall, with wide, muscular shoulders and dark, curly brown hair. His ranger’s uniform seems to be having trouble containing his figure, the sleeves stretched over rippling muscles that strain the fabric as he places his hands on the counter. You all watch in awe as he clears his throat, not looking any of you in the eye but rather staring down at the wood below his fingers- if you were paying closer attention, you’d have said he was uncomfortable with all of your eyes so clearly focused on him.

“Can I help you?” He asks, in a voice as deep and rumbling as thunder. You can almost feel it reverberate through your chest. After a moment of silence, Andre manages to clear his throat, stretching his shoulders out as if he could physically shake off whatever strange spell you’ve all fallen under.

“Yeah, we need to get a camping permit and then some directions to the campsite,” He says, swallowing nervously. The hulking man nods to himself and ducks underneath the counter for a moment, though he’s so large that you can still see the curve of his wide back as he searches for something underneath it. Michelle audibly gulps at the sight, and you have to agree with her- you’ve never seen someone so physically imposing before. Surely he’s new to the ranger team here; you were sure you would have remembered someone like him from your previous visits, even if you were preoccupied with that creeping paranoia this place inspired in you.

The ranger sets a piece of paper on the counter, and places a portable credit card reader down next to it. It looks comically small in his hands.

“Every adult who will be camping needs to sign this. Are there any children with you?” The giant asks, sounding like he’s reading from a prompt.

“No,” Andre shakes his head, and steps up to the counter to grab the dented ballpoint pen lying there. He signs his name with difficult on the uneven surface and then passes the pen to Michelle, standing next to him.

You don’t want to sign it. It feels like you’ll be signing your life away if you do, like signing a contract with some unknown, terrible creature. The one whose eyes you can feel on your back even now in the station- maybe closer than before.

But with the same awful inevitability that led you to agree to coming on this trip in the first place, you step up to the counter when it’s your turn. The ranger is pointedly not looking in your direction as you do so- he hasn’t looked at any of you, not really, since the moment he stepped out of his office. You reach for the pen where it’s lying on the counter and accidentally brush against his hand.

The man stiffens. His gaze flashes to you and his mouth falls open. You’re not sure why but you find yourself trapped in this moment- watching the way his eyes cross your face, watching the way he closes his mouth and opens it like he has something to say but can’t manage to get the words out. Time seems to stretch on forever in this moment, until he snatches his hand away and the spell is broken.

Blushing furiously, you stammer out an apology and go to sign and print your name on the designated lines. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move other than to hold the hand you’d touched aloft as though he’d been burned somehow.

“Did you tell them the mountain sites were closed?” Someone calls from behind another closed door. You look towards the voice and back away from the counter, but the ranger doesn’t seem to even acknowledge that someone spoke. His gaze is locked on you.

“Hector!” The voice comes again when there is no reply. Your friends all look at each other- you know they’ve noticed the strange atmosphere in here, the ranger still seemingly entranced by you. Eli comes up next to you and folds his arms, watching the hulking man with suspicion. You wonder if something is about to happen; if the group you’re with has finally noticed what you’ve been feeling all along, if they’ll pull you outside and run back to the van. You feel that invisible presence right behind you, practically pressed up against your back.

Another man emerges from his office, letting the door bang against the wall to express his frustration. He’s tall, though not as tall as the other ranger and more lithe in build. His dark skin contrasts with the fire engine red of his hair, a garish color that must have been dyed only yesterday to still be as vibrant and radiant as it was. It was tied in a long braid that swung over his shoulder as he moved, disregarding the assembled group on the other side of the counter in favor of his dumbstruck colleague. Finally the larger ranger- Hector- tears his eyes away from you and turns towards him, shaking his head.

”Gotta do everything myself,” the new man says, though you’d say he was actually enjoying the spectacle of showing off his annoyance in front of you all. The new ranger turns to you guys and smiles, showing off rows of white teeth that appear to have been filed into points. You can’t imagine that’s up to uniform regulations where he works, but you’re too preoccupied with the look on his face to make much notice of it.

Just as Hector did, he stops completely at the sight of you. There’s a look of shock on his face, like he’s run into someone he’d never expected to see again- like he’s seen a ghost. A moment passes, just a moment- he’s better at recovering his composure than his coworker and the man with the red hair straightens out his smile once again, gaze still watching every movement you make. Sarah leans her arm on your shoulder, staring them both down. You’ve never been gladder for your friends.

“I’ll have them stay in the Forest’s Glen site,” Hector says defensively, seemingly responding to the other ranger’s earlier comment. The newcomer frowns at the words, holding up one finger. His braid swinging as he moves, he makes for one of the stacks of papers hiding underneath the crawling ivy on the walls. Sweeping it away, he picks up the top sheet and scans it, counting out something on his fingers.

“Actually, I think I was a little too hasty…” He says, waving the paper around. “We’ve got one open spot at Mountain’s Peak. We can send them there.”

“Nico…” Hector says, but doesn’t follow up with any sort of protest other than that.

“What? I’m sure they came for the views, right?” Nico enthuses, waving his hands around in the air.

“Uh…” Michelle murmurs, interrupting them. “Can we pick which site we want to go to, if there’s a couple spots open?”

Both rangers blink in surprise, as if they haven’t thought of that. They look at each other for a moment before Nico shrugs, Hector looking a little unhappy about the direction this situation has taken.

You’re still reeling from the strangeness of this all, wondering why exactly they had stared at you like that.

“Sure,” The red-haired ranger says. “If you want to stay at the mountain site, I’ll show you the way there.” He flashes his teeth, all sharpened points, in something that might was probably supposed to be a smile but which missed the mark quite a bit.

“Forest’s my area,” Hector chimes in with his arms folded across his chest, voice rumbling through your chest with every syllable as his fellow ranger comes to stand next to him.

They watch as your little group withdraws towards the door to talk about the decision, casting furtive glances towards the strange duo as you all do so.

“This is strange. Did you see those looks on their faces?” Eli asks, gesturing at you as he talks. “They looked like they were going to jump across the counter.

” “Yeah,” Sara echoes. “I dunno what their deal is, but it’s weird.”

You wonder what to make of all of this- the creepy atmosphere, the strange rangers, the feeling that something terrible and awful is looming over you. If you had your way, you’d go home right now and forget all of this ever happened.

But you know your friends have been looking forward to this for months. And you know this may well be your last chance to camp altogether as a group- you’re all moving on to different places, different phases of life, and you don’t want to let it go out like this. You can put up with a bit of paranoia for a week, you tell yourself; you can put up with the feeling of being watched and odd rangers who look at you like a starving man looks at a meal.

“Don’t let them put you off guys,” You say to your friends, voicing the exact opposite of your real opinion. “This is supposed to be fun- we won’t even see them after this.” Your friends nod one by one at what you’re saying, shifting on their feet without looking back at the rangers.

They cast their votes one by one for which site you guys should camp at- Michelle and Sarah for the mountain, Eli and Andre for the forest.

They look at you for the deciding vote and you can’t help but glance up at the rangers, apparently still standing in the exact same spot as they had been before.

Somehow you feel that this choice will affect more than just this week. Nico and Hector and all your friends wait.

Vote here

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