#grad school has had me busy yes

[seaside-cave]

might go crazy and post some art tonight

[simgerale]

me after attempting to get back into sims and realizing i had a lot more to do than play the game

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

hands and knees begging myself to be responsible tonight bc i have so much to do but i can feel in my heart irresponsible brain is going to win and im gonna end up drawing and making myself more behind and stressed but like i spent 8 hours researching and writing art history texts at my internship do i fucking want to research for my history class tonight even tho i should so i can let the professor know if my topic is viable? no i want to draw. and like even research aside i need to do dishes and laundry and pack

[shekeepswriting]

A Little More Heart (3)

[Syverson x Reader]

Word Count: 5310 (Someone got carried away. Me. It was me.)

Summary: Sy answers your grandmother's summons for dinner.

Warnings: None

A/N: I'm back from the dead hellooooo! Grad school has truly been kicking my ass. I hope this is a fun surprise for everyone

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Sy was standing three inches from an industrial box fan, sweating his ass off and  questioning every last one of his life decisions when he heard his brother shouting for him from across the garage. 

Easily as tall as Sy but two years younger and with a little less mass, Aaron was the second of three Syverson boys. Unlike Sy, he preferred his hair long and took great pride in caring for it, an abundant mass of dark curls that usually reached his shoulders. But at work, and during most of the summer, he kept it tied in a messy knot on the top of his head. 

“Sy! Phone!”

Aaron moved fast across the floor, hand clamped around the bottom of a cordless landline to block the sound, two cheap blue popsicles still in their conjoined plastic tubes clenched between his teeth. 

“By name?” Sy asked with a sigh as he approached.

Aaron shifted his grip on the phone to take the popsicles out of his mouth.

“Yep. It’s Ms. Bea. We expecting her in for something soon?”

“No, but I drove her granddaughter home last night, so - ”

Aaron’s eyes widened, and he frantically mashed at the button to put Ms. Bea on hold.

“You did what?” he asked, an obnoxious grin taking over his face. 

“Settle down,” Sy mumbled, turning back towards the fan. 

“My permanently single, grumpy-ass older brother drove a girl home last night. I’m not settling down.”

“Not a girl. She’s a woman.” 

Aaron let out a wordless shout, jostling Sy’s shoulder and plopping down on the table beside the fan, grinning even wider than before.

“Oh, there’s no way in hell I’m letting this shit go now. A woman, you say.”

Sy rolled his eyes.

“You gonna give me one of those?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the slowly melting popsicles. 

“Only as a bribe,” Aaron answered, ripping the perforated wrappers apart and holding one out tauntingly. 

“For what?”

“Information, dumbass.”

Sy snatched the popsicle  out of his hand, holding it behind his back when Aaron swatted at it. 

“Saw her walking home in the dark. Stopped to drive her home. Simple as that.” 

“Uh huh. And what earned her the distinction of ‘woman,’ I wonder.”

“She’s a grown-ass woman, that’s what,” Sy said bluntly, stepping out of Aaron’s reach to rip open the top of the popsicle wrapper. 

“Noticed her ass, did ya?”

Sy shot him an unimpressed look, breaking the top inch of frozen blue sugar into his mouth with a harsh bite and holding his hand out.

“Just give me the fuckin phone.”

“Five questions first,” Aaron argued.

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Go.” 

Aaron clapped in delight, taking a moment to think before launching into his limited interrogation.

“Did you smile?”

“Yep.”

“Did she make you laugh?”

“Yep.” 

Aaron smiled again, but this time there was no mischief tied up in it. He looked uncharacteristically sincere.

“Did you get her number?”

“Yes. Last one.”

He squinted thoughtfully.

“Butterflies?”

“Fuck off, Aaron.” 

“Oh, shit, that’s a yes!” But still he wasn’t teasing. His eyes were wide with surprise, his smile still genuine, not mocking.

“Phone.” 

“You could barely grow facial hair the last time you had butterflies! The good butterflies, anyway. Shit, I have so many more questions now.”

“I gave you four, and you asked four. Now, gimme the phone.”

Aaron slapped the phone into Sy’s open palm but kept a hold of the bottom.

“We’re talking about this later.”

“Fine. Don’t tell mom.”

“Fine.” And there was that familiar smile again, the one that rarely ended well for anyone. The little shit. 

Sy retreated to his office in the back of the garage, phone and popsicle in hand, before taking Ms. Bea off of hold. There was little to no chance she’d be able to hear him out on the floor.

“Hello.”

“Hi! Busy day today? Staying cool out there, I hope.”

“Doing my best, Ms. Bea. How are ya? That car of yours still treatin you right?”

“Oh, I’m alright. I haven’t driven in a few days, but as far as I know, it’s just fine.”

“If that changes, you let me know, okay?”

“I will!” There was a brief pause. “So listen! I hear you’re the one to thank for seeing my grandbaby home safe last night.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I didn’t get this far in life leaving my debts unpaid. So you just come on down to the house when you’re through with work, and we’ll treat you to a nice dinner. How does that sound?”

“That’s a very generous offer, but you don’t owe me a thing, Ms. Bea. I didn’t know who she was when I stopped. I would’ve done the same for anyone walking that road at night.”

“Oh, I trust you would have, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve some gratitude, now does it?”

Sy shook his head. If he didn’t make an appearance tonight, Ms. Bea would only show up tomorrow with the promised dinner wrapped up in foil and glass containers. He knew better than to expect this to go away on its own. And honestly, if it afforded him the possibility of seeing you again, he may not want it to. 

“Well - ”

“Pardon me, dear. My phone is being stolen.”

Sy raised an eyebrow. There was a shuffling sound, a sigh, the closing of a door. Your voice came through, flustered and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to talk her out of it, but the woman will not be denied.”

He smiled a little, imagining the look on your face.  

“That’s alright. I had a feelin’ something like this would happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just what happens around here. You do someone a favor, they find a way to thank you for it.”

“Oh… I did say thank you though, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he said through another smile. “That’s not what I meant though.”

“So you’re saying it really should be me offering you dinner?” you asked. “Did I accidentally cause a blood feud by not knowing that?”

“Just a short one. Couple decades, tops.” 

Your laugh sounded muffled, like you’d moved the phone down to your chest in an attempt to hide it. 

“So do I have your permission to come see you and Ms. Bea this evening?”

“Depends. Will there be a torch and pitchfork involved?”

“Nah. Lost ‘em both in a poker game.”

“What a shame.”

“That mean I’m in the clear?”

“Yeah, I guess you’d better come around. Especially considering I was sent on a separate grocery run specifically for this dinner.”

“I’d ask you not to go to too much trouble, but I have a feeling it’s not really up to you.”

“Rude but accurate. There’s a whole raw chicken out there. I’m mildly terrified.”

Just as he was opening his mouth to answer, the office door creaked open, letting in a flood of sound and one very stressed woman. 

“Sy!”

“Hold on one sec,” he said to you quickly before lowering the phone to his chest and raising his eyebrows in question.

“Someone up front wants to talk to you.”

Sy grimaced.

“Me specifically or a manager?”

“Manager.”

He gestured her out of the office then followed, eyes sweeping over the collection of cars and people. 

“Aaron!”

“Yeah?” he yelled from under a car Sy had been working on earlier. 

Sy crossed the garage impatiently, reaching down to drag him out from under the car by the ankle. 

“Pretty face up front.”

Aaron groaned.

“I was the pretty face last time!” he complained. “Why can’t you do it?”

“Never been pretty a day in my life.”

“Fuck you. You know there’s no good comeback for that.” 

“And I’m on the phone still. Get.”

“God damn it.” But he was already reaching up for Sy’s hand to haul him up to his feet. 

“Have fun,” Sy called after him before lifting the phone back to his ear. “Sorry about that.”

“No, that’s okay! I should probably let you go. You seem busy.”

“You got me out of talking to a customer. Far as I’m concerned, we can stay on the phone all damn day.” 

You laughed again, but this time you let him hear it.

“Does that mean you owe me a dinner now too?”

“We can talk about it,” Sy said with a smile, turning his back when one of his mechanics looked up curiously at his tone. 

“Either way, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I bring anything?”

“Better not. We’ll be stuck in the thank you cycle forever.” 

That really didn’t sound like the worst thing, but he didn’t want to push you farther than he already was with this dinner tonight.

“Alright. I’ll uh… I’ll text you when I’m on my way then.”

“You mean to tell me you have my number?” you gasped. “How did that happen?”

“Some troublemaker gave it to me at the bar last night.”

“Interesting.” 

“I thought so. Haven’t had time to use it yet, but I was planning on it.”

“Very interesting… Well, I’ll let you go now. See you at dinner.”

“Lookin forward to it.” 

Sy tried to keep himself occupied all day, tried not to leave his mind free to dwell on you or try to predict how this dinner would go. Tried not to let himself be cornered by Aaron. Again. 

He took off a little early, running home for a shower and a change into something nicer than a stained t-shirt before heading your way. Though his warning text had prompted you to share your grandmother’s address, Sy didn’t need it. The town was small enough, and he’d been down to the house before, a couple of times, to drive Ms. Bea to church when her car had been out of commission. But he’d never been inside before, or even past the gate. 

By the time Sy’s shoes hit the driveway pavement, you were rounding the corner of the house in a pale green sundress and a clunky pair of slippers several sizes too big for your feet. Confident, as you had every right to be despite the footwear, but maybe a little flustered too. 

“Well, hello,” he said with a small smile. He let himself look you over, let you see him look you over, but only for a second. Before he could pay you an appropriately polite compliment, you blurted out,

“I didn’t wear this for you. Just so you know.”

Sy’s eyebrows rose along with his hands. It had honestly never occurred to him that you might have worn it for him. But three times was enough to pick up the pattern. Walls up at first greeting. He had to earn your ease again.

“I know you didn’t,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on yours. “Known Ms. Bea long enough that I’d call her an ambulance if I ever saw her in a pair of jeans.” 

The corner of your mouth twitched up for a second, and you took a breath, rolled your shoulders. 

“Yeah… Sorry, I just…”

“You’re not used to this,” Sy offered with an easy shrug, lowering his hands again.

“I’m not,” you agreed. “I don’t introduce people to my grandmother. Ever. And definitely not…” You glanced over your shoulder towards the windows, lowering your voice slightly. “Definitely not a man I was flirting with the night before.”

“Did you flirt with me? Can’t recall. Where was I when all that was going on?

You rolled your eyes, more tension leaving your shoulders.

“You know I did.”

“Now, let’s see…” Sy said, running a hand over his beard in a way that earned him a real smile this time. “I remember you making fun of my handwriting. Making fun of my pickup lines. Threatening me with a knife.”

“I didn’t threaten you with a knife,” you laughed. 

Sy smiled at the sound. Now he was getting somewhere.

“No? So that was you flirtin’ then?”

“Must have been. Couldn’t be when I asked for your number.”

“Nah, I asked first.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“In my own way.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the smile was still there. Like you knew what he was doing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed by it. 

“Well, anyway,” Sy continued. “You’re not introducing me because I already know your grandma. And I’m well aware that I’m here on her invitation, not yours. So when I tell you that you look nice, it’s just an observation. No motive behind it beyond the fact that I think you ought to hear it.”

A couple of rapid blinks in surprise, a deep breath, a slow nod.

“Well… Thank you.”

Sy nodded back, and then you were turning in a pretty flutter of skirts, heading back towards the gate with a call for him to follow. 

“Rules of the house. No cursing. No wandering unsupervised. And dinner guests don’t enter the kitchen for any reason ever,” you listed, closing the gate behind him.

“Got it.”

“One more thing. Nana takes hosting extremely seriously and therefore takes my hosting extremely seriously. A lot of pageantry went into this evening. But despite all of that, rest assured you are not being husband hunted.”

“Should’ve left the ring at home then, huh?” 

“Don’t even let her hear that,” you warned with a grimace.

“Wouldn’t let me leave?”

“On the contrary. She’d light the house on fire just to get you out of it.” 

“Well now you’re just hurtin my feelings.” 

You rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile.

“Don’t go feeling special. She’d do that to anyone she thought was proposing to me.” 

You spun around again, as graceful as you could manage to be in oversized slippers on pebbledash, and Sy smiled at the extra, intentional swish in your skirt as you led him to the back door.

“Ready?” you asked, hand pausing on the handle.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the dogs,” you said breezily as you opened the screen door. 

You were ambushed the second you walked through the door. There was a small black terrier, hopping around on two feet, desperate for your attention, and following behind at a slower pace was the largest boxer that Sy had ever seen.

“Hi, Bertie. Go make a friend,” you said softly, ruffling the small dog’s ears and shooing her gently away from you as you stepped to the side to intercept the dog that was staring down Sy with laser focus. 

Bertie came hopping up to Sy, bright pink tongue lolling out from her underbite as she braced her front feet on his shin. 

“Pleased to meet ya, little miss,” he said with a smile, crouching slowly to give her the attention she was seeking. She was a sweet one, falling all over herself to love on him.

A sharp whistle drew both Sy and Bertie’s attention, but you remained focused on the boxer, who had been leaning around you to take a peek at him.

“Brass,” you said firmly when the dog’s attention was back on you. “He’s okay.” 

Brass let out an unconvinced grumble, going back to monitor Sy until you snapped your fingers. 

“Hey. Look at me,” you said firmly. “He’s okay. Be nice. And I promise you can help me run him off if he misbehaves.” 

You held out your hand, and Brass sat just long enough to offer you her large paw. You shook it gently, laughing at the baleful eyes she was still giving you.

“Can she perform a routine inspection?” you asked over your shoulder. 

“Of course,” Sy said, sitting all the way down on the kitchen floor. 

“Be nice,” you reminded Brass as you stepped aside to let her pass. 

Sy kept still, leaving his hands open and palm up as Brass made a slow circuit around him, sniffing diligently. Up close, she was even more impressive, one of the most solid and imposing dogs he’d ever seen, not yet softening with the age that had a few greys growing around her mouth and eyes. Brass completed her loop quickly, stopping in front of him to stare at him just a little longer.

“Ma’am,” he greeted quietly, and he saw you smiling as you called her back over to you. 

“Got yourself a real guard dog, don’t you?” Sy asked, watching as Brass bumped your hand with her nose before retreating to lay in the archway between the kitchen and living room. 

“Oh yes. The General takes her job very seriously. And she’s not a fan of men. Try not to take it personally.” 

“Ms. Bea named her General Brass?” he asked with a smile. “Or do you just want a dog to outrank me to prove a point?”

“How dare you,” you gasped. “I’ll have you know we named her General Brass Knuckles together.” 

“Well, now I know you’re lyin,” he laughed.

“I would never - Nana!” you called as your grandmother finally entered the kitchen. “Tell Sy what Brass’s full name is.” 

“General Brass Knuckles. Why?” she said, holding a hand out to Sy as she approached with a welcoming smile. 

“Your granddaughter likes to tease me,” he said, squeezing her hand gently in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Ms. Bea.” 

“She’ll do that. But I happen to think it’s a wonderful name. Suits her. She’s tough like me and like my granddaughter.” Ms. Bea squeezed his hand back. “Did you come hungry?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“Good! Go on and sit. Table’s already set.” 

Set very nicely too. Cloth napkins and the fancy salt and pepper shakers. Matching serving dishes. Ms. Bea didn’t do anything by half measures. 

Sy took the seat you gestured to, hesitating just long enough for you and your grandmother to sit before he did. 

The way you’d spoken on the phone made it sound like this was an unfamiliar process to you, but it didn’t show. You began serving and passing food smoothly, your expression pleasant but neutral as Ms. Bea took the lead on conversation.

“How’s your family? We’re getting lots of sun this summer. Your mama’s garden must be a vision.”

“She sends me pictures every day,” Sy said with a polite smile. “And she’s been doing her research, trying to figure out what to put in the greenhouse now it’s finished.”

“I think that woman could plant just about anything and make it grow. She has a real gift.”

“That was the plan. As long as she gets some use out of it, I’ll be happy.”

“Wait, did you build a greenhouse?” you cut in curiously, pausing with a forkful of roasted potatoes halfway to your mouth. 

“Not as hard as it sounds,” Sy said, chancing a wink when you squinted skeptically at him. 

“I doubt that very much,” Ms. Bea said mildly, making you laugh. “And your grandmother? She still living out there in the country on her own?”

“Nana, this is out there in the country.” 

“Alright, city girl,” she said, patting your cheek as your mouth dropped open in surprise.

“You were literally born in Brooklyn.”

“Were you really?” Sy asked, surprised. She sure didn’t sound like it, never had to his memory. Her accent was soft, but it was there, syrupy and southern like every other elderly woman in town. 

“A lifetime ago,” Ms. Bea said with a secretive little smile. “Wouldn’t recognize it now.” 

“With how many pictures I sent you last month?” you challenged with a fond smile. “You know, you could come with me next time I go.” 

“You don’t need an old lady slowing you down.” The look she gave you put an end to that conversation, and you raised your hands slightly in surrender. “Now, you still owe me news of my old friend.”

Sy nodded as her attention turned back on him.

“She’s doing alright. Gonna head up that way tomorrow to fix her air conditioner.”

“Okay, seriously? You can build a greenhouse and fix an air conditioner?” 

You almost sounded irritated, and Sy tried not to smile.

“Oh this man can fix just about everything,” Ms. Bea said.

“Wow,” you said mildly, smiling around a sip of water. “Take that compliment and run. I’ve never heard her speak so highly of a man in my life.”

“Oh, hush. Yes, you have,” your grandmother said in a no-nonsense tone.

Hush, Sy mouthed at you with mock sternness when you glanced his way. Your eyes narrowed playfully, and you kicked at his shin under the table. 

“How are those brothers of yours?”

“Oooo brothers. Now that’s interesting.” And that grin you were wearing was specifically designed to get a rise out of him. Sy eyed you, watching that smile widen just a touch before he turned his attention back to Ms. Bea. 

“They’re doing good. Jimmy’s teaching summer school. Aaron’s just the same as always. But he has been eating instant potatoes for lunch every day if you want to have a word with him about it.”

Ms. Bea gave him a knowing look, her pursed lips relaxed into a smile that verged on mischievous.

“I certainly will. That boy get a haircut yet?”

“No, ma’am. Past his shoulders now when it’s not tied up.”

You hummed with interest.

“Did he steal all of yours?”

Ms. Bea let out half a surprised laugh before she pressed a napkin to her lips demurely, regaining her composure. You were staring at him, eyes bright with amusement and challenge as he shook his head slowly at you, huffing a laugh through his nose. 

“Now don’t go giving him too hard a time,” Ms. Bea said before Sy could respond. “He did you a good turn last night.”

“He did,” you agreed.

“You should have seen it before he started cutting it all off. Just as soft and curly as anything.”

“Like a poodle,” you supplied, looking him over with a poorly-suppressed grin, as if trying to imagine it.

“You wicked thing,” Ms. Bea said with a little grin, nudging you with her elbow. “He looked just exactly like a porcelain doll when he was younger.”

Sy took a breath, wishing Ms. Bea would kindly stop digging his grave as your smile grew.

“Oh, really? Do you have any pictures?”

“I’m sure I do. Somewhere.” She squinted thoughtfully towards the living room. “In the old Christmas cards if nowhere else.”

“You’re really not giving up on that, are you?” he sighed.

“Absolutely not,” you answered. “I might have before, but a porcelain doll? Come on, now. I’m not walking away from that.”

Ms. Bea shot you a curious look but didn’t comment, guiding the three of you to a different subject with the confident ease of someone who had been navigating the passive aggressive waters of southern social life for decades. 

Things carried on that way for quite a while: Ms. Bea asking polite questions and you finding ways to subtly or not-so-subtly tease him. 

The plates had long been clear when Brass interrupted the conversation with a single, sharp warning bark, rising from her position in the doorway to bully her way behind the blinds on the nearest kitchen window. Sy heard it a few seconds later: a car making the turn onto the long driveway.

“Were you expecting anyone else?” you asked, glancing to your grandmother with a frown.

When Ms. Bea shook her head, Sy leaned back in his chair, moving his head to the side until he caught a glimpse through the window over the sink.

“Little blue Toyota, looks like.” 

Ms. Bea rose quickly, her lips pursed to the point of disappearing.

“Darling, would you take our guest out to the pool house so he can pick a drink for the road? I’d like a private word with your cousin.” 

Your eyebrows raised, but you nodded wordlessly, grabbing at Sy’s arm as you stood from the table. He followed your lead, letting you tug him along out the back door.

“Poor Kat,” you said once the door closed behind you. 

“Well, she did leave you stranded,” Sy said quietly. 

“Turned out okay,” you said with a shrug, dropping your hand back to your side when you caught his eyes. 

Sy held your gaze with an easy nod, not pulling back or looking away until you took a flustered breath and tilted your head to the side.

“Let’s get out of here before the fireworks start, huh?”

You hopped off the porch steps, following the end of the driveway to a small carport that backed into an even smaller outbuilding. A later addition, it looked like. Several decades newer than the house. 

“You gonna tell me why we’re calling this a pool house? Not seeing a pool anywhere.”

“Patience,” you huffed, skirting around the two cars that were squeezed together beneath the carport. 

You paused at the door, bouncing lightly on your feet as if to gather some nerve.

“Alright, full disclosure, sometimes a lizard or a snake gets in here. And if I open this door and see a snake, I will either fully abandon you to deal with that shit by yourself or climb you like a tree.”

And there were all sorts of things he could say to that, but he chose to keep his damn mouth shut and nod instead. 

You led the way into the tiny building, wading through air that somehow felt even hotter than it had outside. After a second of endearingly impatient flailing, you caught hold of the thin chain hanging from the light on the ceiling, turning it on with a swift tug. 

It didn’t do much for the space, which remained dim and dusty. There was very little room to walk, a thin avenue of clear concrete circled a large tarped object in the center of the room. Boxes, folding chairs and tables, and a long abandoned workbench lined the back wall. To the left, nearly overlapping the door, was a refrigerator and large separate freezer.  

“Pool table,” you said, lifting up a corner of the tarp to reveal a glossy wood corner. 

Sy smiled a little. 

“Pool house. Cute.” 

“We’re unbearably adorable. We can’t help it,” you said breezily, turning away from him to open the refrigerator door. “Adorable and overstocked with beverages.” 

Every Coke product known to man filled the fridge, accented by bottles of peach tea and cans of lemonade. And…

“Are those Capri-Suns?”

Your eyes widened when you followed his gaze to the three shiny pouches tucked away on the bottom shelf. 

“Huh…” you said softly, turning one over in your hand to check the expiration date. “Why does she even have these?”

“Gotta have all the bases covered, I guess.” 

You hummed, turning your head to look up at him. For half a second, you seemed a little startled at his proximity, blinking rapidly and taking a sharp breath. Sy was doing his best not to crowd you, but there honestly wasn’t enough room for personal space. When he tried to back off a little, all he really managed to do was hip check the pool table and throw off his balance, shrinking the distance even more when you grabbed a handful of his shirt in a quick attempt to steady him. 

There was a pause, neither of you daring to take a breath. The hot, still air of the tiny outbuilding seemed to draw in a little closer, barely cut by the draft from the open refrigerator. 

“Um…” You blinked hard, pulling your hand away like he’d burned you, shuffling to the side to earn a few precious inches of space. 

“Sorry,” he said softly, belatedly. 

“S’okay…” You shook your head a little. “Uh, do you want…?” 

You lifted the little juice pouch still in your hand.

“Sure.” 

It took further rearranging to get the refrigerator door closed again, and Sy tried not to feel too bad at the speed with which you rushed from the building. 

The open air seemed to soothe you a little, the sight of you rolling your shoulders with a deep breath greeting Sy when his eyes readjusted to the bright sunlight. 

That playful confidence crept back over you, a little more tentative but still a sight to see. 

“Are you qualified to open one of these?” you asked, tossing Sy his juice. “Don’t know how much experience you’ve got.”

“Plenty,” Sy said, arching a brow at the smirk that set across your face. “Said what I said.” 

You laughed, reaching to pull the plastic-wrapped straw from the back of the pouch. 

“You sure? You can’t brute force it, ya know. You’ll just stab through both sides and end up with a mess. It takes finesse.”

“I can do finesse.”

He took the straw back from you, making smooth and efficient work of pushing it through the clear plastic circle at the top of the pouch. He took a smug sip, earning a grin from you as you raised your hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine. You have the dexterity of an eight year old. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“No winning with you, is there?”

“No, sir!” you said proudly, glancing quickly towards the back door at the sound of raised voices, your smile fading slightly. “Guess I should escort you to safety.”

You plucked lightly at his sleeve as you headed back towards the gate where his truck was parked. He followed, falling into step beside you.

“Sure you don’t need backup?” 

Through a gap in the curtain, Sy caught sight of Kat, her face pinched, arms crossed. 

“Oh, I’m not going back in there,” you scoffed. “I’ll walk a lap of the neighborhood or something. Go sit by the pond for a bit, maybe.”

Sy hesitated, his steps slowing.

“I could - We could go somewhere, if you want. Give them time to cool off a little.”

You glanced at him curiously.

“Go where?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Wherever. Get a drink or something.”

“Two nights in a row? The town would implode.”

He smiled a little, leaned against the door of his truck. 

“That’s not a no.”

You shot him a look, mouth twisted up in something that looked very promisingly like indecision.

“Should be a no. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“What’s the wrong idea?”

You let out a slow breath.

“You know I’m only going to be around a couple weeks.”

He hummed, standing up straight again.

“Doesn’t have to be a drink. Could just go for a drive. No getting any wrong ideas about a drive.”

“No wrong ideas about sunset on a backroad?”

Sy cleared his throat.

“No ma’am. We’re in for a platonic sunset tonight. It told me so.”

You laughed, but there was something a little sad in it. 

“Drink your juice and get outta here before I do something stupid, please.”

Sy knew better than to push, but damn if he didn’t like the sound of that. 

“Yeah, alright.” 

You made no attempt to mask the once-over you gave him as he got into the driver’s seat. He risked holding out his hand one last time, rolling down the window before closing the door. 

“Mind if I use that number you gave me? Sometime.”

“I think you’d better.”

He smiled at that, let it be a full one, earned himself a smile back. 

“I’ll do that then. Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sy lingered a moment longer, taking in the sight of you barefoot on the driveway, a late summer breeze making the hem of your dress dance lazily around your legs. 

You shook your head at him, shooing him away with a smile.

As he pulled out of the driveway, he could see you still standing at the gate, watching him until the truck tail lights were out of sight.

*****

A/N: Thank you for reading! I've really missed this story. Would love, love, LOVE to hear what you think.

Tags: @firstcashheroathlete @melissareadsstuff @juliaorpll78 @mrsevans90 @kajjaka @kebabgirl67 @foxyjwls007 @luckydiorxoxo @just-chirpin @deandoesthingstome @mindingmyownbusiness @summersong69 @endofalldays01 @happydistraction @identity2212 @henryownsme @mysweetlittledesire @islacharlotte @cynic-spirit @mollymal @emily-roberts @mrs-degenerate @sweetandgentlecreature @paintlavillered @geralts-yenn @enchantedbytomandhenry @sillyrabbit81

[literallyjustanerd]

Should've Switched Majors (Clone Shenanigans)

Summary: A very unfortunate grad student at the University of Coruscant is just trying to finish her thesis for her Investigative Journalism degree. Unbeknownst to her, she's picked the galaxy's worst interview subjects.

Words: 1,492

Characters: Commander Cody, Captain Rex, Domino twins, Waxer, Commander Fox, Commander Bly

University of Coruscant School of Arts Student Number: 218249662 Student Name: Lila Un’qara Course: Masters of Media and Communication – Majoring in Investigative Journalism Final Thesis: Unsung Heroes: Silenced Voices From The Republic’s Front Lines

[Recording Start]

Lila: Okay. The time is now… 0935 standard hours. We’re here in Briefing Room B of the GAR headquarters on Coruscant level 5127, where I’ve been graciously allowed time to speak with some of the Republic’s most decorated soldiers. To start, I’m sitting down with CC-2224 of the 212th Battalion. Though if I’ve been informed correctly, I believe you go by Cody?

CC-2224: Commander is fine, thank you.

L: Oh. Uh, right. My apologies, Commander.

CC-2224: Don’t mention it.

L: So… Your records indicate you’ve been in active service since the beginning of the war.

CC-2224: That’s right. I was decanted from Kamino with the first batch of Clone Commanders.

L: I’m looking at a transcript of your prior operations. There are some major battles here – Christophsis, Ryloth, Saleucami… You’re a true veteran.

CC-2224: As much a veteran as any of us can be, I suppose.

L: And as a Marshal Commander with such a prolific record, you must be highly regarded among your peers and superiors?

CC-2224: My brothers trust me as their Commander.

L: And your GAR command? Generals and Admirals? The Jedi?

CC-2224: …What about them?

L: Do they afford you the same level of trust?

CC-2224: That’s… [pause] Yes, I am trusted. My decisions and conduct are respected as any Commander’s wound be.

[Audio file is silent for 6 seconds]

CC-2224: There are those for whom it takes more for us clones to prove our competence. I don’t allow that to impact my performance. My record speaks for itself.

L: Must get frustrating, though. The pressure to demonstrate your worth. Probably leaves you without much time to let your guard down.

CC-2224: It’s our job. We do it with pride.

L: Surely you can’t keep that up all the time, though? It’s only human to want to have a little fun.

CC-2224: [clearing throat] I maintain a respectable bearing at all times, as do my men. We were trained from birth to uphold the highest standards of professional conduct and I take pride in the reputation of the 212th Battalion as highly proficient, honourable, and—”

[Sound on audio file is briefing room door opening]

CT-2534 (“Waxer”): Hey, Cody…? Remember that thing you said not to do? Uhm, Boil’s in medbay and Fox says you gotta go bail Wooley out before—oh. Uh, hello.

CC-2224: [heavy sigh]

CT-2534 (“Waxer”): Is… this being recorded?

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L: Thank you for moving our appointment up, Troopers. The Commander had to leave on some… unexpected business.

ARC-5555: Ha! Guess Waxer wasn’t bluffing after all.

ARC-1409: You owe me five credits.

L: May I refer to you as ARC Troopers, or do you prefer—

ARC-5555: Fives, please.

ARC-1409: Echo.

L: Great. So, the two of you serve under General Skywalker?

ARC-5555: Didn’t start off that way, but now we do, yeah.

ARC-1409: Captain Rex picked us personally to join the 501st as ARC troopers. We joined for him. But serving under General Skywalker is an honour, too.

L: Do you feel he respects your input as clones?

ARC-5555: You kidding? He’d be dead ten times over without us, and he knows it!

ARC-1409: Some of General Skywalker’s strategies are… hit or miss. But we owe him our lives as much as he owes us his.

ARC-5555: Nah. It’s 23-19 in our favour. I’ve counted.

ARC-1409: 23? You’re counting the Naboo thing?

ARC-5555: Far as I’m concerned, that’s the closest the General’s come to karking it.

L: Can you elaborate? What happened on Naboo?

[ARC-5555 begins to speak but is silenced by ARC-1409. Sound on audio file is ARC-1409 hitting ARC-5555 on the back of the head]

ARC-1409: Sorry. Sworn to secrecy. ARC Trooper’s honour.

L: Seems like you’re pretty close with your General. Can you tell me—

ARC-5555: So you’re a student, right? Coruscant University? What’s it like?

L: What’s… Uhm, it’s an excellent school. Good facilities, knowledgeable professors, the courses are highly-regarded. Now, if we could get back to—

ARC-1409: So –sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, I just– you can study anything you want? You just get to pick?

L: …Yes, that’s how it works.

ARC-1409: What if you don’t like what you pick?

L: You can change your course. Back on topic, we were discussing—

ARC-5555: You can change your course? You’re allowed to do that? Whenever you want?

L: Yup.

ARC-1409: Did you ever do that?

L: I’m starting to wish I had.

ARC-5555: Wish we could’ve done that. I’d have been a Naval Officer. Way better uniform.

ARC-1409: [chuckling] The navs would hate you! They’d have you decomm’ed on the first day for unruly behaviour.

ARC-5555: The navs wish they had the honour of my unruly behaviour.

L: Can we get back on topic. Please?

ARC-1409: What was the topic, again?

L: [heavy sigh]

ARC-5555: Hey… the 501st is on shore leave for the next two days. What are you doing tonight?

L: …Uh.

ARC-1409: We could…. continue the interview over a couple drinks at 79’s?

L: I… hm.

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L: As a member of the Coruscant Guard, you’ve seen more than most other clones of the galaxy’s capital and its senate. Commander Fox, has this given you any opinions you feel are different to other clones about the war?

CC-1010: No.

L: Nothing? You don’t think being able to witness the senate debates has given you any sort of insight into the politics at play here?

CC-1010: Nope.

[Sound on audio file is CC-1010 sipping from a mug of caf for approximately 9 seconds]

L: Uhm. Well. There aren’t many people, clone or otherwise, who get such a close audience with Chancellor Palpatine. Are you and the other Coruscant Guard troopers close with him?

CC-1010: Hm. No.

L: …Thank you for your time.

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L:  Captain Rex. I appreciate your willingness to, uh, actually speak to me. Have you given much thought to what might happen once the war is over?

CT-7567: Of course. All of us have. But you tend to stop thinking about that pretty early on in your service.

L: Oh? Why is that, do you think?

CT-7567: There’s just not much of a point to it, really. We’ve got too much on our mind every day trying to keep our heads up and keep ourselves and our brothers alive. The end of the war, it’s just not really a factor for us.

L: Right. You’ve been fighting for years now. That must take a toll.

CT-7567: I suppose, but in a sense, it’s just our way of life. We’ve never known anything besides war. How can we imagine a life after it? To a clone, the galaxy has always been, and will always be, at war. I don’t think I would know any other way to navigate the world.

L: That’s… actually very insightful.

CT-7567: You sound surprised?

L: Never mind. Does—does it frighten you, then? Not knowing what might come after?

CT-7567: Not at all. The future might be an unknown, but whatever happens, I know—

[Sound on audio file is the briefing room door opening]

CC-2224: Your boys are at it again.

CT-7567: [groan] Which ones?

CC-2224: All of them. They’re in the quad, Wooley said something about a stolen speeder.

CT-7567: So it’s your boys, then. Your boys who just got bailed out of Corrie holding this morning?

[Sound on audio file is CT-7567 standing]

L: Wait, no, we were just getting somewhere, don’t—

CC-2224: My men stepped in to control the situation.

CT-7567: Face it, your troops kriff around and blame mine when the osik hits the filtration system.

[Sound on audio file is CT-7567 and CC-2224 bumping the microphone as they move toward the door]

L: Captain? Commander? Please, if we could at least finish what we—

CC-2224: All I’m saying is, this wouldn’t be the first time the 212th have had to step in to clean up the 501st’s mess.

CT-7567: Mhmm. Is that what happened on Naboo, too?

CC-2224: That’s different and you know it.

[Sound on audio file is briefing room door closing. Following sound is approximately fifteen seconds of Lila groaning increasingly loudly]

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L: [long sigh, followed by approximately 7 seconds of silence] It is currently… 1743 hours. I’m still in Briefing Room B, I’ve deleted more useless material than I’ve kept, and I am questioning… every choice I’ve made in my academic career. So. Commander Bly. Can you tell me a little about your relationship with your Jedi General?

CC-5052: No comment.

L: Oh, kark this.

[sound on audio file is Lila removing her lapel mic]

L: …Do you know how to get to 79’s from here?

[Recording stop]

[bluedalahorse]

Scattered thoughts about the YR faves as we approach season 3

It’s been a busy week, and then the week before that was busy too, so I’ve been reading but not fully weighing in on many of the season 3 questions that have been starting to bubble up on my dash. So I’m posting the thoughts swirling around in my mind about my two favorite characters (Sara and August) just so that my thoughts can exist somewhere other than my own head.

People are starting to discuss the question of Sara and Simon reconciling again, and I think I might have to address that in another post of its own. I spent an entire semester of grad school looking at how characters reconcile in fiction, and obviously I think a lot of it is going down to Simon’s needs and priorities and decisions, so obviously I have Thoughts. (I also have minimal patience for fans who want Sara to crawl over a football field’s worth of broken glass for Simon if that is what Simon doesn’t want himself.)

I feel like one of the questions surrounding August’s character arc are whether there is hope for him to own his actions and change one day, or whether he’s only going to get worse, and never be able to break his cycles of awfulness. Some folks argue that season 2 put that question to rest and that he’s unchangeable. I argue that the question is still in play. The more complex reasons are in my restorative justice post, but I also argue that it would be incredibly strange writing to take one of your show’s most dynamic characters and have his character arc stagnate and go nowhere new in season 3. Now, he could choose to turn over a new leaf in season 3, or he could triple down on his harmful decisions. The point is I think it would have to be another choice, and if he makes the decision to embrace harming others and himself, it would have to be a tragic choice, and not something we can be smug about because we Already Knew He Was Evil. I dunno, there’s this like… sometimes there’s this tendency in other fandoms to gloat and be like “I, Unlike The Other Girls, was not distracted by this broody brunette man’s hotness, and I realized he was bad all along. One hundred points to me for not clamoring for a redemption arc.” And like, yes, it’s fun to laugh at Dude Watchin’ With the Brontës once in a while (I laugh at it!) but I think we also have to acknowledge that fiction is about people growing and changing and we as media enjoyers sometimes become invested in character arcs. It just feels weird to me that fans would gloat about like… the supposed moral superiority of not being invested in a character arc that the show clearly wants us to be invested in.

If August is always going to cause harm and he is unable to change his ways, then he may continue to target Simon with the drugs and the blackmail. But he may also choose to target Sara, especially if he finds out she called the police on him. He has pictures and information he can use against her now, and I feel like that is probably, very likely what the show would do to show us that he is Too Far Gone. Frankly I find that terrifying. What I find even more terrifying is that I know there will be fans (probably those who use anonymous messages on the more public facing blogs) who will say that Sara “deserves it” because she “knew he was bad when she had sex with him.” Like. Can we agree not to do that as a fandom, and call it out when we see it? Because I’m pretty sure that Lisa would not write a storyline like that while cackling and going “haha that bitch Sara got what’s coming to her.” I’m pretty sure if Lisa writes something like that she’ll want us to feel sympathy for Sara too. And I mean, you don’t have to feel sympathy, but using the cloak of anonymity to express open misogynistic malice would be… yikes.

I also think that if the show is making the decision to say that August is always going to cause harm, that he’s never going to escape a cycle of harming himself and others and fall in to patterns of abuse, then we should want to see Sara reconnect with others in season three and find some sort of healing or connection. I guess that doesn’t have to be her finding connections with Simon. It could be! It could also be Felice, or Linda, or Maddie, or anyone. (I’m really hoping Sara will get to connect with Wilhelm.) But there’s good in wanting her to find connections, and for wanting her to know that there is a path forward in life that isn’t total isolation or like, packing herself off to the convent to atone forever. Especially if the message about August is that he’s somehow unable to change and is just that awful. If your view of August is that he’s so monstrous or unforgivable, so caught in dangerous patterns that it was wrong for Sara to get close to him at all, then we need to view Sara’s relationship with him as something that put her in danger, even when she chose a relationship with him at first. And one of the ways you stay out of danger is by having strong connections to other loved ones. Abuse works because the abuser uses isolation as a weapon. Also, presuming the show reaches the verdict that August is an abuser who can’t change—even if August and Sara never talk to one another again, Sara being friendless in other ways just sweeps the path clear for the next abuser to swoop down on her. I hope people would recognize that as a tragedy too.

If, however, the show goes in the direction of like… August takes his first steps toward making better decisions, and gets some therapy or rehab or whatever else, then ultimately his past relationship with Sara might play an indirect role in that, and in helping August see alternatives to his current way of being. I’m not saying the simple act of falling in love redeems someone for wrongs done. It doesn’t! (Young Royals actually does a lot to subvert that as a narrative, which is something I address when I talk about Wilhelm, again in my restorative justice post.) I’m saying Sara was the only damn person on the show in season 2 who told August it would be good for his soul to confess and attempted to support him in that, however imperfectly. Every other teenager who knew what August did (Wilhelm, Felice, Alexander) took it for granted that he wouldn’t confess—and, you know, fair on Wille and Felice’s part, but also Alexander couldn’t have gone to an adult, huh? Every single adult that August talked to about the video (Kristina, Rickard) insisted he keep quiet about it, scared him into it even. It takes more than one person in a community to hold someone accountable for wrongs done, and Hillerska as a community has repeatedly failed that test. I don’t know, I keep looking at that promo picture of August alone in his room and wonder if he’s practicing the breathing exercises Sara taught him. They don’t have to be together again for that to be the case. Maybe the memory of her will be helpful to him in some way.

Ultimately I don’t—at the moment—really care about whether August goes to jail or not. People will interpret this as me saying “I don’t think August should go to jail” and that’s not actually what I’m saying. It’s just that I find the question of whether he’s capable of change or not infinitely more interesting, and the role the system/Hillerska plays in encouraging that change (or not) infinitely more interesting than the question of what the specifics of August’s “punishment” or “consequences” might be. “Consequences” can be him living with the crushing knowledge of how deeply he hurt Wilhelm and Simon and Sara and Felice for the rest of his life, and trying to move forward in a different way from now on knowing he can never undo the past. “Punishment” can be August becoming king but being completely unable to change his ways and connect with other humans and feel any sense of agency in his life. There are multiple ways to address his arc—whether he’s awful or whether he’s willing to atone—that don’t rely on the legal system providing narrative catharsis all by itself, and frankly I’d prefer that it didn’t. (There’s a longer reason why but I feel like I keep linking my restorative justice post.)

To sum up… if these characters’ arcs go in a really tragic direction, I hope people don’t gloat and go “I knew they were terrible all along, unlike those other fans.” And if they go in a more positive directions, I hope we don’t hear the chorus of “they didn’t deserve it!” even if that arc is beautifully, complexly, and compellingly written. (Here are my thoughts on the way fandoms use the word deserve, by the way. It seems I have written about this before and am just becoming a parody of myself at this point.)

[loneberry]

Baby's First Meditation Retreat

…attention is prayer. —Simone Weil

It would be simpler—the monastic life would be so much simpler. Wake, pray, meditate, do battle with the ego, eat, sleep—live such that everything inessential is stripped away. Why did you come here, I said, I’m tired of living a distracted life, of going through my days in a fog of unawareness.

In Cambridge, MA I attended a meditation retreat. I signed up on a whim, out of a vague feeling that I have lost control of my mind. I have been meditating very casually for the last nine years, mostly using the Calm app, listening to Tara Brach recordings, and attending guided meditations while a grad student. I had come to the practice out of desperation, in the midst of a debilitating depression that made me feel perpetually tormented by my thoughts. During that time, I would voraciously read every study I could find on depression treatments and tried basically every treatment modality out there: neurofeedback, ketamine, therapeutic yoga, medication, CBT, DBT, fish oil, an anti-inflammatory diet, psychedelics, and the “treatment” that ultimately saved me: intensive psychoanalysis four days a week. Meditation seemed a particularly promising and low-risk way to manage depression and anxiety—and yes, it did bring me some relief, working as a kind of supplement to the psychoanalysis. Even though I haven’t been as consistent about it as I would have liked, I continued to practice it regularly, usually for about 10-20 minutes a day. Not once have I regretted meditating, though when life gets busy it’s easy to tell yourself that you just don’t have the time to sit and do nothing, even though we seem to somehow always have the time to mindlessly surf the internet. 

What is there to say. I’m just so tired of living on autopilot, of not having to face the moment, to face myself. There are a million ways to blot out one’s internal monologue, filling up our days with the background chatter of podcasts or social media. 

The recrudescence of my Simone Weil mania has forced me to reflect on attention—that rare quality of mind which is increasingly in short supply. And yet everything is a matter of attention—not because attention can be instrumentalized to achieve one’s goals. No. Attention is the end in itself. Weil: “We have to try to cure our faults by attention and not by will.” It’s in that second-to-second awareness that reverence for the moment blossoms. The fog is lifting. Here is the trembling world, a cloud passing, the dancing light on the pavement as the sun passes through the rustling leaves of the tree. Weil: “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love.” 

*

I landed in Boston late Friday night and early the next morning was off to the Zen center for the silent two-day retreat. I really did not know what to expect when I signed up. I knew a little about the different schools of Buddhism from studying it in a course as an undergrad. I remember being slightly afraid of “Zen” (or Chan) in particular because it seemed so severe to me. I imagined interminable zazen sessions, without guidance or visualizations; imagined slouching pupils getting whacked with sticks for bad posture or falling asleep. Yet surely if I were to test the Buddhist waters, I should do Zen/Chan since it is a specifically Chinese tradition? My father’s uncle was a Buddhist monk who wandered the mountains of China. I don’t know anything about him, other than his sister (my grandma) was devastated when he died after getting hit by a train. Whether it was suicide or just a manic pixie monk moment, I do not know.

*

Some meditation retreats are completely secular—they are just like a series of long, guided mindfulness sessions, with the context, rituals, and “religious” dimensions stripped away. This was not really that kind of retreat. There were robes, chants in Korean, elaborate meal rituals, and yes, getting whacked with a stick! Of course it is always possible to opt out of getting hit with the keisaku stick—I thought I would, but in the end I took the whacking almost every time it was offered, partly because it jolted me awake and relieved the tension building up in my body from hours and hours of sitting cross-legged on a cushion. The first couple of times the keisaku whacking was administered, I had to restrain myself from laughing. Oh my God, we’re getting whacked by a Buddhist master! In the orientation the instructor said it was for “tension release” but I did feel that it was something like a ritual of submission to the authority of the teacher, even if it didn’t really hurt. Watching how eagerly D. bowed to receive the stick in the orientation, I wondered if the Zen pupils were secretly sadomasochists. 

Constitutionally, I am not a “joiner” and have an aversion to organized religion and anything that emits even a whiff of cult vibes. I’ve always been critical of authority and incapable of following rules, possibly because I didn’t have any growing up. But there was something soothing about how regimented everything was. We performed our actions in sync, chanted about emptiness at 4:30am. The whole experience felt almost militaristic, but a part of me enjoyed the austere, disciplinary atmosphere and the obsessive attention to detail. Not disciplinary in a punitive sense, but disciplinary in the way I imagine Russian classical music training to be: the methodical pursuit of self-mastery (it’s hardly surprising that the Zen master I received instruction from was a classically trained pianist). During the retreat I concluded that more discipline would be good for me.

Most of the retreat consisted of meditating in silence. There was no small talk, no psychobabble, no “now we will get started…”—he just hits the wooden clapper three times, and the sitting session starts. No guidance, no body-scan, no loving-kindness prompts. Just you, seated cross-legged on the cushion in silence, facing the tumult of your chaotic mind, your hands in the Dhyana Mudra position, your eyes half-closed. 

It is a profound and difficult experience, having to face your own mind…both utterly banal and deeply disturbing, thoughts flitting from “maybe I should try to find a used bicycle on the OfferUp app” to thoughts of my parents’ mortality. I was warned by the Zen teacher that difficult emotions might bubble up. Thrice I broke out into tears and strained to regain my composure. It began during one of the short breaks, when I was lying on a bench outside looking up at the sky, imagining that a passing cloud was a life appearing briefly before dissipating. It was an unmediated confrontation with the eternal flux of the universe—pure panta rhei. 

Weil: “Whatever frightful thing may happen, can we desire that time should stop, that the stars should be stayed in their courses? Time’s violence rends the soul: by the rent eternity enters.” Time’s violence has utterly and completely ripped apart my soul. I wanted to hold onto everyone and everything I love, for the stars to be stayed in their courses, for time to stop, for my parents to live forever. I thought about Mari Ruti’s rapid decline and death, about my recent visit to my older brother in prison, and my trip to my relatives’ assisted living home, where my mother’s cousin has been completely waylaid by the rapid onset of Parkinson’s disease. I thought about my father sitting down in the chair looking out the window at the assisted living home, talking about getting old, how his knees ache now. Time’s violence rends the soul.Will I be strong enough to face the eternal flux, the impermanence of everything I love, with a fierceness that borders on madness, grieving even the eventual death of the Sun? Sitting on the cushion meditating, crying: let go. Will I ever be able to let go with grace? Don’t know. Sink into don’t-know mind. Count the breath. Something passes through me.

What did I see, what did I hear—I heard every exhibit of the Museum of Jurassic Technology: the voice imploring us to follow the chain of flowers into the mysteries of life, the burbling waters of the miniature model of Iguazú Falls, a recording of David Wilson talking about exploding dice, the distant echoes of barks in the bestiary room, the mournful sound of the duduk in Djivan Gasparyan’s “Lovely Spring” playing the Sandaldjian room, Monteverdi’s “Lamento della Ninfa” as I ascend the stairs to the sublime courtyard, Bach’s “Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ” in the ‘Ecstatic Journey of Konstantin Tsiolkovsky’ exhibit (impossible not to see the levitation scene from Tarkovsky’s Solaris when hearing BWV 639), Mihály Víg’s “Valuska” in The Borzoi Kabinet Theater at the end of the day, and the sound of David’s nyckelharpa reverberating in the garden. 

Now the birds of the mind are taking flight.

In, out. In, out. Return to the breath. 

The mind opening like a door to the sky

            a deep purple flower unfolding in the emptiness.

List everything you see, her feet standing on the lotus. 

Clear mind

Clear mind

Clear mind

Don’t know.

(In) 1-2-3-4 (out) 5-6-7-8

Κύριε Ἰησοῦ Χριστέ ἐλέησόν με 

The heart

The heart

The spherical heart of the manatee

Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts and thoughts

like waves, saturating the swash zone of the mind…

It’s the weekend of the Perseid meteor shower. Eight years ago, Ed and I watched them from the dock of a Maine pond. We had rented an Airbnb from a man with the same name as a dear poet friend of mine, Dana Ward. (I was dreaming of Dana when I woke up this morning.) A week after the Maine trip, I was at the mental hospital. I had forgotten I had a poetry reading. The woman organizing it called, wondering where I was. 

Eight years have passed me in the blink of an eye. 

Thoughts.

In

out

In

out

In 10-30 second intervals: nothing. Just the space between thoughts.

There were two states of non-self:

one of calm neutrality—just the is-ness of the world.

The other, something more ecstatic:

a mystical amnesia, when you become the contraction and expansion of the breath.

What is there to say about it? In my stead there was a heaving purple cloud floating in a black room.

Then, the “I” coheres again. Head so full of language, thinking about everything I want to write. “I shouldn’t be so attached to my thoughts.” The teacher says in the interview: it’s not about suppression.

Writers are fundamentally hoarders of thoughts. I try to collect each one, as the squirrel does the acorns. In my head I am writing an essay about the antidepressant withdrawals, my astonishment that I did not relapse as David Foster Wallace did when he committed suicide after tapering off his antidepressant. I remember when my thoughts were stuck on the “I want to die” loop, how Ed installed the ad blocker on my internet browser because he was disturbed by the suicide hotline targeted ads. I do not think such thoughts anymore. Maybe it is true—we are not our thoughts. They pass through my mind like water through the sieve. Did Woolf train herself to observe the stream? Too much thinking. I must be doing it wrong. Wrong again—I’m supposed to suspend judgment. 

I hear my friend Tim saying, “the mathematics section is the most mystical part of the library.”

Then Weil says, “As soon as we have a point of eternity in the soul, we have nothing more to do but to take care of it, for it will grow of itself like a seed. It is necessary to surround it with an armed guard, waiting in stillness, and to nourish it with the contemplation of numbers…” 

Now I’m thinking about the relationship between math and mysticism, about the Indian number theorist Srinivasa Ramanujan, who received, in his dreams, thousands of formulas from the Hindu Goddess Namagiri. Ramanujan: “An equation for me has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of God.”

I remember my poem “Umbra,” in which I reference the French mathematician Alexander Grothendieck’s strange book, La Clef des Songes (‘The Key of Dreams’). As one commenter puts it: “It’s a book about God. Grothendieck’s thesis is simple. We meet God in dreams. But we aren’t ourselves dreaming God, rather God Himself is dreaming us. Or better: according to Grothendieck ‘a Dreamer’ exists, an external force who ‘dreams our dreams’ and at the same time dreams us. And this force can only be God. … he declares, in a little footnote that it’s almost hidden, that mathematics wasn’t ‘created by God’ nor by man, but by an aspect of God’s nature that, unique among his attributes, is accessible to human reason.”

A week ago, I was telling Alex about Oppenheimer’s mysticism, his proficiency in Sanskrit and intensive study of the Bhagavad Gita, his “feeling for the mystery of the universe that surrounded him almost like a fog.” I watched Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer biopic with Alex—a mathematician/mathematical physicist—and my father—an almost-physicist who immigrated to the U.S. from Taiwan to do a physics PhD in Wyoming but dropped out after his first year to move to NYC to wait tables at a Chinese restaurant. After the film, we watched a documentary about Sir Isaac Newton’s heretical theology and alchemical studies, how he read the Bible as a cryptogram and determined the world will end in 2060.

Could there be a connection between mathematics and the capacity for the divine, between the abstraction of mathematical thinking and the ability to sense the invisible, to see the hidden points that connect disparate realms? Wasn’t Einstein a Spinozist?

Scraps of language jostle around in my mind like a shaking bowl of coins. Stupid thoughts like, “Lacan is to psychoanalysis as Zen is to Buddhism.”

I see myself thinking about the news, about geopolitics and the madness of nation states. China is preparing their population for war, as are we. A kind of nausea overcomes me, as I see the whole nuclear age unfurl before me. 

We dwell on whatever we expose ourselves to, the articles we read, the people we see, the people we lurk online, the reflex to compare, to repeat the name of the Other like a mantra. 

Everything you think you need, you don’t actually need.

A butterfly has somehow flown into the Dharma room. It flits on the floor in the middle of the room. The teacher scoops it up and brings it outside. She corrects my dreadfully sloppy attempt to perform the meal ritual. I panic because I’ve taken too much food and must eat every last crumb. The pear is not ripe, and it is a torture to eat the whole thing. The pear is not ripe—a Zen lesson! Mastication of the unripe pear, a kind of koan. 

There was a short break. I decided to walk around Central Square, without a wallet or phone or headphones. 

How can I describe the sense of aliveness I felt in that moment, that alert receptivity, when I looked at the sky and saw the birds of Central Square taking flight above the Greek Orthodox Church? I walked up the stairs—some ceremony is taking place inside. Down the streets, there’s a brunch spot I never knew about in the seven years I lived in this town. There’s the sound of a busker, so sweet, and a flower shop I wandered into. There’s the bus stop I would wait at on my way to psychoanalysis. I cross the street. Emanating from a building on Mass Ave is the rhythmic thud of Latin American music—it must be the music-dance sessions my ethnomusicologist friend told me about years ago.  

Before dawn on the second day, we perform 108 prostrations. It turns my legs to Jell-O. When I walk up the stairs to use the bathroom, I have to grasp the banister to drag myself up. A few days later I can still barely walk from the soreness caused by the rapid-fire prostrations. Was there something off about my form? I noticed that the others relied more on their arms to hoist themselves up, while I relied almost exclusively on my legs.

And yet I quite enjoy prostrating myself. Outside of any religious or ritual context, I sometimes find myself spontaneously performing prostrations—to what or whom, I do not know. To the earth? I like to kiss the ground, to give thanks to this marvelous rock on which we all dwell. 

*

The interview with the Zen teacher takes a bizarre turn: she asks me questions about DeSantis, in a ‘liberals-trying-to-commiserate’ kind of way. My hatred of DeSantis is bottomless—I had just flown in from Florida the night before the retreat. Please, anything but a DeSantis koan! She asks me if it annoys me that she has been correcting my attempt to execute the meal ritual. I say, No, I don’t mind being an amateur, and crack a joke about being an adult music learner. When the short interview is over, I return to the silence of the Dharma room.

Sitting in silence for long periods is much harder than it looks. Yet the second day feels easier than the first day, despite being on day three of almost no sleep. Toward the end of the retreat, I stare at a spot on the floor, convinced it is a moving bug. It jiggles and jerks, walks in a circle, but always seems to return to the same spot. I can’t stop observing the bug. At the end of the sit, I lean in to get a closer look only to realize it’s not a bug at all, but a dark spot in the wood flooring. 

When the retreat is over, there’s the shock of hearing everyone’s voices, of realizing you had projected otherworldliness on people who are just people in the way you are just a person. We sit in a circle and take turns sharing our experiences. I say, “I came on a whim…because I watched YouTube videos about Buddhism with my dad.” We eat vegan pie at the table. The girlfriend of the man sitting next to me has come to meet him, with roses.

I grab my backpack, put on my Blundstones, and leave the center, in the soft afterglow of the mind’s clearing. What did it feel like: I had no desire to look at my phone. Turning on my phone was almost painful, and yet I needed to call the friend I was staying with. I met up with the religious studies poets, felt more present with others, more natural. We tried to go to the Harvard Film Archive to watch Ozu but were turned away for arriving late. We sat on a rooftop terrace to watch the sunset, with a view of the two spires of Harvard Yard, Memorial Church and Memorial Hall. Sun through the leaves, perceived crisply, as though a layer of mediation had been removed.

[sidekickjoey]

Rewatching Boy Meets World from S5-S7 is a wild time, because for all the emphasis this show places on the characters getting into college, we only end up finding out what one of them actually majors in once they're there. So, here's my ideas/thoughts that no one's asked for on everyone's eventual majors, from what I'm surest of to pure speculation:

Jack - Journalism & Engineering: First off, it's WILD to me that this is the only confirmed major we have from anyone on the show. Second, I have mixed feelings about it. Engineering makes total sense given his future career deals in the business of building pipelines/structures that could impact the environment but also make one very rich. However, why not make his second major be business then??? Even if the writers didn't know his future career then, they showed Jack has a propensity for entrepreneurship and is money motivated. It would've made way more sense for him to double in business or finance rather than a major we never saw him care for, as great as the journalism rep is. Or, if not business, do architecture! He mentioned wanting to be an architect and Eric said he'd be great at it! He had a highly technical and grand scheme kind of mind! Let him construct big things!

Topanga - Pre Law: Political-Science(?): We eventually find out in GMW that Topanga earns her Master's Degree in Political Science and ends up going to NYU law, but there's zero clue during BMW about her concentration while she's pre-law. Like...at all. I suppose she did political science given her later degree, but...maybe also not!

Shawn - English/Literature or Journalism: Shawn takes a lot of literature and writing courses in college (ignore that everyone else does as well), and he ends up working as a professional writer/photographer. I'd say he's an English major or something of the sort. Either that, or journalism adjacent. Very sure of this despite it not being mentioned directly.

Eric - Psychology: This is my strongest not-super-confirmed hunch. Not only do we see Eric take a ton of psych courses (ignore that everyone else does as well), but we're shown/told multiple times that the one thing he gets, even post-grad, is people. $20 what happened is he chose psych because, ah yes, I know people! I can study their minds!, only to reach graduation and realize he had no idea what to actually do with it. Panicked, he threw himself into community service/volunteering for a while as a way to still contribute to society/be helpful while buying himself time to figure things out. That built a solid rep for him with people -> people elected him mayor because he's great with people/the community -> people/the community elected him as senator because they trusted he cared about them/would work to advocate for their needs and what's right. Still think he should've been Feeny 2.0 or just studied meteorology like he wanted to from the start (screams), but I see the vision.

Cory - Education? History? Both?: Cory's college experience confuses me. He ends up a teacher, but we never received even a hint that that's what he was studying. I mean, you're telling me Mr. George Feeny, greatest teacher of all time, saw one of his favorite students majoring in education and didn't absolutely snag that boy aside to coach him in his image 24/7??? There's only two explanations I can think of here. 1) Cory majored in history (we see him take a few history classes) and went back to school to study as a teacher (since he later is a history teacher). 2) Cory switched majors to education after the show ended. I'm still mad he didn't just go into video journalism.

Angela - African American Studies/Literature(?): Angela mentions a few times doing papers regarding social justice/African American studies, but it's never really specified what it's all going toward. She also has a known love for poetry and literature (she owns lots of books/is seen writing and reading a lot), so she very well could've been doing something with that, too. I kind of like the idea of her becoming a prolific author writing on her feelings/experiences/thoughts on society/etc. It would be cool too if she ended up writing anything about her dad, especially in his honor once he passes.

Rachel - Social Work? Environmental Science? I think she mentions law at some point(?), but Rachel is kind of all over the place future-wise. We see her super unsure of what she wants to do in life, even right before graduation (ngl I giggled at the writers having her want to be so many things that require specific undergrad tracks & post-grad programs to even be considered for, be so fr you bunch). Given the fact she goes off to the Peace Corps, I'd like to think she was in the general realm of social work/sustainability/etc. and just went on to execute what she learned about that through the Peace Corps.

[wolfiemcwolferson]

hello, unusual request of mine, but for the prompt thing .. could you maybe do 9???????

thank u love u

hi baby, Piarles son of my CEO with a twist. I was going to make everyone suffer DEEPLY about this pre-race drabble but I decided against it after making myself very sad.

Pierre has no business being here.

It's too late, it's too hot, and he's got to be in a meeting to meet the new nepo hire tomorrow morning at 10 AM.

But, that's why he's here.

His guy - the one he hired and trained and turned into the perfect employee - was passed over for the son of the CFO.

He's barely out of grad school - probably can't write a report without consulting his textbooks.

And he's meant to be Pierre's equal. He's meant to be the person that Pierre is going to work with on major acquisitions - trust to read his mind and stay late. Do all the work that Pierre does.

So, he swore off doing this - off dragging pretty boys in bars home when he should be home sleeping and resting his brain for his job, but he's here and there's a boy sucking on the side of his neck while they ride the elevator to his floor.

"You live in a nice place." The Pretty Boy says when the elevator stops and Pierre hums, squeezing his waist, pulling him down the hallway.

They haven't spoken much. There had been some dancing and some light kissing and then he had been the one to ask Pierre if he wanted to leave with him.

He's electric though. He's electric underneath his touch and he's beautiful even in the harsh light of the hall and Pierre knows he's the kind of guy he would ask on a proper date if they met in a coffee shop or maybe at the gym.

"I do," Pierre smiles at him as he pushes the door open and then there's no more talking for awhile.

There's no more talking for exactly three hours and then there's too much talking for Pierre's liking, but he can't seem to stop.

Charles is funny as hell and he's kind of stupid and he's the best fuck Pierre has had in ages, and he's eating Pierre's lunch currently, standing up at the counter while Pierre sits across from him, accepting cold chunks of sweet potatoes off the fork.

"I just think," Charles laughs through a mouthful of potato and a smile, "that no one actually hates action movies. They say that because they want to seem cultured and interesting and above it!"

Pierre has to swallow a piece of potato that's a bit too big so he doesn't choke on it.

"There is not another genre of anything that lets you look at a dirty, hunk of man, doing things that no human being should be able to do, and -"

"Okay, yes!" Pierre agrees with him, but he waves his hand to try and get him to stop talking. "But that doesn't really do it for me so maybe that's -"

Charles spears another sweet potato and hangs his head. "There's not a single part of you that enjoys the thought of some big strong man throwing you over their shoulder and -"

He squeals because the stool Pierre was in falls to the floor and Pierre is chasing him around the counter and it's way too much for a hook-up but Pierre can't care.

Charles is gone when he wakes up, but his name and his number are on the fridge whiteboard calendar in the Saturday slot and Pierre understands that he's meant to call him on Saturday, but he's running a bit late, so he just dumps his ruined lunch into the trash and grabs one of those canned coffees that he keeps in the fridge and hopes that his shirt goes high enough to cover the bruise on his neck that Charles left with his teeth.

He's going to call him. He's already decided.

Pierre is halfway through his morning routine. He's checked his email on the train and now he's responding to everything urgent and he's about to go and debrief with Alex about their upcoming meeting, but Otmar knocks on his door, sticking his head through it immediately.

"He's here," he says simply and Pierre abandons his emails and he knows that he won't be talking with Alex. He walks into the hallway after Otmar, expecting to be met with the face of a literal child except -

Charles stands there, new badge around his neck, hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, smiling at Esteban with his eyes crinkled up and Pierre thinks he might just die.

That's the fresh faced grad that he's going to have to suffer through.

"It's nice to meet you," and then Charles makes a show of looking at his badge, "Pierre. I hear we are going to be working together on acquisitions."

Pierre has regrets, but he nods at Charles, making a show of looking at his badge too. "Charles, we will be spending most of our evenings together."

And then when Charles reaches out to shake his hand, Pierre squeezes on it too hard, watching Charles' nostrils flare.

He's swearing off pretty boys in clubs. He decides. For good this time.

[herohimbowhore]

Smile by Maisie Peters can be used to explain Daniel Ricciardo from 2018 to the end of 2020, as well as Red Bull's search for someone to replace Daniel and fill the hole he left within the team.

By now, we've all grown aware of how unexpected Daniel leaving Red Bull was and the rapid driver change-ups that followed in his wake.

I think it's evident that Red Bull was not prepared to replace Daniel. From everything that we've learned about contract negotiations, Red Bull was expecting to re-sign Daniel.

Got bridges to burn and places to run

Yeah, this smile is a loaded gun

There was an hour-long private meeting with Dietrich Mateschitz, after which both Dietrich and Daniel came back smiling and it was thought that the contract was all but signed. During the meeting, Dietrich offered Daniel a matching salary to Max and reaffirmed it after learning what they were paying Max.

It's my party, my body, my business

It's my town and my crown and my hitlist

It's my world and you're just living in it

Daniel left Red Bull when no one expected him to, and in hindsight, yeah it was a bad decision. However, given the information available at the time, it didn't seem like the worst decision ever. Like, yes, Renault had its issues, but they were offering to build a team around him and were giving him a very nice contract.

Leaving Renault after 2020 seemed like a questionable decision after all that they had promised him. However, in hindsight, it was a decent decision because Alpine is a disaster and a half on a good day and to be honest there's not been many good days recently. Their 100 race plan is more like a 100 ways to not have a team.

No more Mrs. Sweet and Miss Nice

No more Mrs. Fuckin' Polite

Time for Mrs. Takin' What's Mine

You don't need him

Daniel since he has returned to the Red Bull ecosystem and started to love the sport again has made it very clear that he wants Checo's seat. There are several articles, interviews, and podcast appearances in which Daniel continues to confirm that he is indeed trying for that Red Bull seat. And despite what people may think, he has put in the results that would begin the conversations about moving to the main team, especially after the awful year that Checo has had. The pace that Daniel has shown in the AlphaTauri is not insignificant, while it didn't translate to points finishes as much as he may have liked, it shows what Daniel Ricciardo can do when you give him the car.

If he tries to control me, he's finished

Won't be crying, there's plenty of fishes

And I, and I, and I'm fishin'

You should know that you won't find another

I think Will Buxton has said it best: "And I think Red Bull has probably come to the realization that the only driver who can replace Daniel, is Daniel." Will Buxton goes on to say that if they can bring the Daniel of old back, then Red Bull will stick him back in the car to drive alongside Max because the Daniel/Max driver lineup was one of the best that Red Bull has had. Red Bull, since 2019, has been trying to fill the space Daniel left and for a time they've done so with Checo. However, after the disastrous 2023 season, there are so many questions about whether Checo is the person for that seat. Especially if the other teams do close the gap and don't drop the ball like they did this year.

______

Just a short analysis from my drafts that I thought I would post in celebration of submitting my Master's Thesis. Just two more final papers and I'll be done with grad school.

[swearphil]

hi renee, do you still read schitts creek fanfic? do you have any recs? :)

anon, I love the timing of getting this ask on monday and then ao3 was down and I thought it would be awhile until I could effectively answer this ask but ao3 is back! yay!!! and then it took me three days to answer this because I couldn't make decisions!

yes, I still read schitt's creek fanfic! when I started compiling a list for this ask, I was going to do 10 fics but I've decided to rec 20: 10 multi-chapter fics and 10 one shots/single chapter fics. this way I get to include more fics and hopefully you find something you'd like to read! I also recommend checking out my sc fic recs tag and I also have this my recs tag where I made recs for the @farm-witches-fic-recs this or that challenge! I also recommend the witches' posts for more recs!

here are 20 fics from 20 authors but please know there are so many incredible authors in this fandom and I love them all and I hate that I can't include all of them!!!

Multi-Chapter Fics

On the Outside Looking Through by @smblmn

A pride & prejudice AU

Red White and Blue Jays by @grapehyasynth

Red White and Royal Blue AU. David Rose, First Son of the United States, hates Patrick Brewer, First Son of Canada. That gets him into some trouble - and then a lot of trouble. (I mean we're about to get the movie sooooooooo)

my heart was broke, my head was sore by @blueink3

The morning after Grad Night goes somewhat differently when Patrick gets a call from home.

Crossing Out the Good Years by @nontoxic-writes

One thing, David didn’t do one thing, and moved them to New York and let their marriage fall apart. But that wasn't supposed to happen. So Fate intervenes. aka the divorce-ish fic

The Rosebud Diamond by @vivianblakesunrisebay

Patrick is a detective. David is his mysterious client. There’s a priceless diamond, a masquerade ball, murder, thievery, blackmail, secrets, betrayal, gangsters, smoking, whiskey, and angst galore. (And a happy ending.) It’s a film noir AU.

you never shined so brightly by @rosedavid

A La La Land AU in which Patrick is the aspiring actor and David is the struggling musician.

Home at Last by @januarium

When Stevie Budd took on the role of Sally Bowles she could never have known how much she would gain from it. From the prompt: An alternate universe where Ted does not choose Alexis at the end of Season Four and Stevie and Alexis get close during Cabaret rehearsals

You Happened by @lilythesilly

David Rose is many things: talented, creative, fashion-forward, well read—the list can go on, but at the very top of that list is Extremely Rich. So he doesn’t understand why his father is making him work at Rose Video—or why Patrick Brewer, a boy he's had virtually no interaction with since they were twelve, is suddenly always around. An enemies-to-coworkers-to-friends-to-lovers high school au.

Pull The Shot. Steam The Milk. Repeat. by @treluna4

Right at the beginning of David’s junior year of college, his dad’s business partner literally took the money and ran, and the Roses were left with nothing...He moved in with his friend Stevie and got a job at the Schitt Family Coffee Roasters south campus location. David was less than thrilled by this job prospect, but no one else was hiring and rent was a thing now, so he gathered what little self-respect he had left and prepared to meet his new manager, Patrick. But as it turned out, David had met him once before. Under very, very different circumstances. Or; the hookup-to-friends-to-lovers college coffee shop AU that no one asked for.

How Easy It Could Be by @maxbegone

A story about sweet caffeine, starting new, and falling in love slowly.

Single Chapter Fics

life ain't passing you by by @dinnfameron

Stevie has breakfast at the cottage before a business trip. David and Patrick have some thoughts regarding her feelings for her new coworker.

like glass from sandy ground by @middyblue

Five times Alexis ran from grief, and one time she didn't.

Pretty Follies by @treepyful

Alexis and Twyla team up to play matchmaker for Stevie and Ruth. Unfortunately, the course of true love never did run smooth.

I INDEX/MATCH You by @sarahlevys

Ruth maintains a lot of spreadsheets. Some of them feature Stevie.

are there still beautiful things? by @mymariahcarey

“Look what I got Stevie!” Twyla calls as she runs through the waist-high grass towards the line of trees where Stevie’s waiting for her. By the time Twyla reaches her, her cheeks pink and her breath labored, her french braids are coming undone and there’s a twig stuck in one of them. Or, Stevie and Twyla were childhood best friends.

falling into place like dominos by @petalwritesx

David and Patrick hold a second housewarming party, this time at their newly-renovated cottage. For old times' sake, they decide to play spin the bottle. Meanwhile, Stevie has been wrestling with her feelings for Alexis since she left for New York... and it never occurred to her that those feelings could flow both ways.

you light me up like starlight by @stereopticons

Patrick and his indie band head back to their hometown to perform for the annual holiday charity concert, and David tags along, even though they are still keeping their relationship a secret.

Live By Love Though The Stars Walk Backwards by @chelle-68

Stevie returns from a work trip to discover an exhausted Patrick who has trouble sleeping without David, who has been in LA visiting his family. Stevie's offer to spend the night to keep Patrick company, hoping it will help him sleep, turns into a night of heartfelt conversation about love, friendship, fate, and taking chances.

One Single Thread of Gold by @swiftlythebest

Patrick has a baseball viewing party, and David has a lot of feelings.

as we dream by the fire by @blackandwhiteandrose

The fire is just the right amount of warm -- enough to keep David toasty but not sweaty -- so he can enjoy lying against his husband’s chest, happy and content in his embrace. Patrick brings a hand up, slipping his fingers through David’s hair. “This is a great way to spend an evening,” he says, his voice soft. “We should do this more often.”

[zeldamacgregor]

Hey, I hope it’s ok if I also send you asks, I usually see them go up and jump in everyone’s inbox 😅

🍲 when did you start writing and why?

🍥what’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

🥮do you have any writing milestones your working towards?

🍚what genre do you have the toughest time writing?

Hi, and thanks for the ask! I love receiving them!

🍲 when did you start writing and why? I started writing as a kid because I liked making up stories and it seemed like a good way to get details right and not forget them, lol. I did a lot of original work and then also started fan fiction (although I wouldn't know that's what it was called for years) when I was about 12 probably, mostly X-Files and Star Trek: DS9 until Stargate: SG-1 came around. I also wrote extensively about Captain Hook starting around age 10 probably, which brings us to...

🍥what’s your favourite fic you’ve written? Star Mile is both my favorite story and also closest to my heart for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it is about one of my favorite characters, Captain Hook (think more book and especially 2003 Jason Isaacs than Disney or OUAT). I started writing Star Mile in 2007 when I was in grad school and fairly busy, so after about a year of updating fairly regularly, I drifted off a bit and that bummed me out but I just didn't have time. Over this past summer, I randomly stumbled upon some fan art inspired by my story (!!!) that had been posted to DeviantArt in 2013, which blew my mind. After sharing this with @sarcasticsciencefictionwriter, I ended up taking the story back up and working to finally finish it. It's been an enlightening process that brings me enormous joy, but also has been revealing to see what I didn't realize was going on with me almost 20 years ago when I started writing it. Wild ride!

🥮do you have any writing milestones your working towards? lmao yes, finishing Star Mile.

🍚what genre do you have the toughest time writing? Angst for sure lol I'm so bad at it. I would say I'm pretty good at awkward tension or discomfort but not specifically angst. I am also no good at erotica.

Thanks again so much for the ask!!!

[duskmachine]

there's a pathetic anger in me bubbling. i think of the millions of students who are in grad. i think about the ivy leagues.

i had a professor who told me, basically, "why not get a phd? it sounds like you really enjoy this."

and at the time i was truly convinced. yes! why not? i love this subject. i love what i do. i would love to do research and write until i dropped dead in my office.

then, to my misfortune, i found out what it really took to get a phd. the money, the agony, the social politics. loving something isn't enough. never was enough. dying for it-- wanting to die for it-- it never mattered. everything is against me. no one wanted to tell me how it all worked.

"if you really want to do it, then i think you should."

i hear that and i feel my hairs bristle a bit. who will pay me to go? who will find me a home? who will fly me to these universities? will i ever even get in? and even if i defy everything-- even if i graduate with a phd-- will i ever get a job? i have no connections. no one i know has ever achieved this. i don't come from an amazing school, i'm not a prodigy, i don't have wealth. i'm just someone who really likes english.

so i have to wait? hope i get lucky? isn't this miserable? aren't i miserable? and i listen to my classmates who have the means to go to these schools and worry that the degree will not matter in the next decade or so. they think about giving up their love for english to do something in comp sci or business. and i'm so pathetically angry about it.

i'm just a child throwing a tantrum about not being able to get what they want. i just keep thinking, keep repeating, "why is it so unfair?"

i know why. because universities are institutions. education is a business, and i have no right to be in a place so filled with prestigious business. i'm just someone who loves english. and i'm so miserable that this is all i am.

[undertheelectricstarspodcast]

I’m late to the season 2 final but I finally listened to it and it was sooo good!! I can’t wait for more 🫶

As much as I don’t want to like Dr. Haven, I think she might be my favorite character ahdjfk what can I say? I support woman’s rights AND wrongs XD no but seriously, as a character I think she’s very interesting, I’m excited to hear/learn more about her in the future!

I’m a sucker for complex/villain characters, and just think Elizabeth Heaven is neat. I know it would probably be a lot of extra work, but I think little character sheets with everyone’s name, pronouns, and some general background/character information would be really helpful! This podcast has such a diverse cast of characters, and by now I know them pretty well, but especially early on I was constantly getting confused/mixing up and forgetting characters names and pronouns 😅 anyway I’m saying this cuz yes I think it would be generally helpful for listeners, but also I just want more info on Haven LOL

Keep up the good work! I look forward to more UTES in the future :33

Hi there! Thank you so much for the review--it means a lot when people tell us how they're liking the show! (And no worries about being late, I have been moving so I took quite a bit of time to come around to your ask!)

Dr. Haven is in fact, one of my favorite characters to write. She is super interesting to me and her motives are simple on the surface, but represent a lot of really fascinating societal stuff about worth and belonging.

To your other point, I've actually slowly been working on an Under the Electric Stars wiki. I started the project last year, but again, due to grad school, I got too busy to work on it--but I am planning on reviving it and also changing the website from the Squarespace one that we've had!

Thanks for your enjoyment and listening to the show!

[rollercoasterwords]

Hello!

are you having a good day?

just curious, are you writing something at the moment? i know ur writing this rotten work (which is amazing btw) but i feel like i remember u mentioning ur writing something else as well, but i'm not completely sure.

also, this has probably been asked already so here's a picture of my cats to make up for possibly repeating an already asked question

omg the cats!!!! so precious they are napping together <3 <3 <3 curled up so nicely into little balls.....tails tucked in and everything....i love them please kiss their little foreheads for me <3 <3 <3

and to answer ur question--yes!! 'this rotten work' is, obviously, a current wip since i was too impatient to wait to post the chapters lol, but to be completely honest i.....have not written a single word of it in like. 3 months at this point lol. like i haven't even started chapter 3 which is partially bc i got distracted by the cowboy fic that i finished back in january + partially bc i got burnt out and needed a little break + partially bc i was also just busy in jan-feb with grad school apps + travel BUT. also partially bc all the writing i have been doing since jan has basically just been on my other main wip, which i have been posting abt on this blog under the #wfrau tag but have not yet started posting on ao3.

basically i had the idea for a fic where remus competes in an underground werewolf fighting ring and that's how he + sirius meet; it spiralled and has now become a voldemort-won au where voldemort's been in power since 1965 so the marauders never met + instead all grew up separately. sirius's friend takes him to an illegal werewolf fighting ring one night; sirius meets remus; sirius inserts himself into remus's life + things spiral from there <3 plot-wise it's sort of divided into 3 parts in my head rn; eventually the Order will get involved and the plan is for it to turn into a horcrux-hunting fic! fun <3

anyway i initially was like "oh i'll just write the first ch to get it out of my head and then i'll focus on the zombie fic and write this on the side, then once i finish the zombie fic i'll start posting this one." but then i wrote the first ch and i was like ok....just one more ch. and then i wrote the second ch and i was like hmmm one more ch....and then i wrote the third ch and i was like um one more and then i wrote the fourth ch and i was like um one more and now. it is sitting pretty at 34k words and i'm just admitting defeat and apologizing to the zombie fic + putting her on the shelf for the forseeable future as this other wip consumes my brain. i'll probably start slowly posting it on ao3 once i finish ch 6 (which is sort of like. Part I of the fic) and sort of write ahead as i post, or at least that's the tentative plan rn!

[piedoesnotequalpi]

I’m apparently even bad at coming up with fake titles so based entirely on what I’m currently listening to: “anyway the wind blows” for the fake fic thingy!

Hello sorry it took me a little while to answer this; I was trying to come up with an idea and also wanted to make sure my answer to yours didn't suck. I even did an actual one-shot for this instead of a plot outline.

Anyway I have grad school on the brain since I just, y'know, finished with that. This would've been done earlier, but my parents roped me into watching a weird Australian sitcom. Enjoy!

The problem with meeting your girlfriend in grad school, Katherine had decided, was that when it came time to finish grad school and move on to postdocs there was no guarantee you'd end up in the same place as said girlfriend.

She and Sarah had applied to as many geographically convenient positions as they could find - they'd even applied to a couple of the same universities. But at the end of the day, Sarah's only offer had been at Wellesley, and now that Katherine had heard back from all her interviews, she only had one offer too...in Virginia.

Katherine knew being at UVA would be a great opportunity, and the contract only lasted three years, but it still meant three years away from the person that she knew at this point was the love of her life. Sighing, she opened a new tab to look at transportation options between Boston and Charlottesville.

We should've gotten married, Katherine thought bitterly. Postdoc positions weren't exactly known for offering spousal appointments, but she couldn't help thinking it would've somehow changed things. But between the amount of time she and Sarah had been spending on their dissertations and the enjoyment she got out of telling her parents she still wasn't married, they'd never found the time. She wasn't opposed to it, but she was definitely too busy.

She was comparing the academic calendars for her and Sarah's respective universities when she heard the door open.

"Hey," Sarah said. She kicked her shoes off by the door before she came into the living room and dropped her bag onto the floor. She threw herself onto the couch next to Katherine and kissed the top of her head. "You're home early."

"No office hours today," Katherine reminded her. "Thought I'd leave early and get started on dinner, but then..."

"You got distracted?" Sarah offered.

"Something like that," Katherine murmured.

"Distracted by - " Sarah peered over her shoulder - "Charlottesville, Virginia? You hate the south."

"At least Charlottesville still goes below freezing sometimes." Katherine knew she was avoiding the topic, but in all her browsing calendars and plane schedules, she'd forgotten about the most important part - actually telling Sarah they'd be spending the next three years in a long-distance relationship.

"Hang on a minute." Sarah elbowed her. "You got the UVA position."

Katherine looked down at her keyboard. "Yes."

"Katherine!" Sarah exclaimed. "You got a job! Congratulations!" She threw her arms around her.

"Well, yes, but - "

Sarah pulled away from her. "Yeah?"

"It's a nine hour drive," Katherine reminded her. "Or a plane ride. And it's - "

"And it's worth it," Sarah finished. "You're worth it. Unless you don't - "

"I want to stay with you," Katherine confirmed. "It's just...distance is hard. The last time I tried, it crashed and burned, and what if it - "

"It'll be different this time," Sarah said. "We know how to communicate, we already live together, and us being long distance has a set end date."

"Only if some university is willing to hire both of us," Katherine muttered. "Or two universities in the same city."

"Well..." Sarah smiled as she reached for her bag. "I'd been debating when I should do this, but I - " She pulled out a box.

"You - you - " Katherine couldn't get the words out.

Sarah dropped to the floor. "Yeah." She opened the box to reveal a small emerald ring. "I probably should've thought of something to say first, but - Katherine. I am so, so lucky to call you my girlfriend, and I don't care where I end up after Wellesley, as long as it's with you. Will you - will you marry me?"

Katherine placed her laptop on the cushion next to her before she stood up, pulling Sarah up with her. "Yes!" She stood on her tiptoes to kiss Sarah, only distantly aware of Sarah putting the ring on her ring finer. "Yes, I'll marry you."

"I was a little worried you'd say no," Sarah said sheepishly. "With your parents and all."

"I care about you more than I care about going against my parents' expectations." Katherine laughed. "Besides, our wedding doesn't have to be traditional."

"You know," Sarah said thoughtfully, "If we get married before we graduate, we could both become Dr. Plumber-Jacobs."

"The doctors Plumber-Jacobs." Katherine grinned. "I like it. Think we can plan a wedding in a month?"

Sarah pulled her phone out of her pocket. "Who said anything about us planning it?"

Katherine looked down at the screen to see that Sarah was composing a text to her brother and his boyfriend. "I like the way you think."