#half a million reasons

[halfmillionreasons]

Half a Million Reasons Episode 1: Regarding the Thing in the River Apple Podcasts

Bernard Capshaw’s morning takes a sharp left turn into something that won’t sit right in his gut for a long, long time.

Transcript:

The river ran cold. It always did this time of year. Bernard Capshaw knew it, but knowing never stopped a man from doing something he loved. 

He stood on the back porch, the faded wooded planks creaking under his weight. The first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, giving the sky a pink and orange glow. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, filling his lungs with the refreshing chill of a new morning. This was his sanctuary, a sacred moment before the chaos of everyday life descended. 

He had just crossed the threshold of fifty-six but carried himself like a man who’d put in more years than that. Retirement had come early. Not by choice, but because his back had finally called it quits after decades of hard labor. He moved slower these days, careful, like he was always trying to outmaneuver a sharp pain waiting to take him down.

His hair was thinning, a stubborn mix of brown and gray, combed back out of habit even though the front was retreating faster than he liked to admit. His face was weathered, lined from years spent outdoors, the kind of skin that had seen too many summers and not enough sunscreen. His eyes, a steely blue, still held that sharpness, though. He was always sizing things up, trying to figure out what was worth his attention and what wasn’t.

A flannel-and-jeans kind of man, no matter the season. The shirts were always worn in just right, soft from years of washing, the sleeves rolled up out of routine rather than necessity. His jeans. Faded, frayed at the edges, had seen their fair share of repairs, but he wasn’t one for throwing out a good pair just because they had a hole or two. His boots were scuffed, well-worn, the kind that had walked through mud, sawdust, and riverbanks more times than he could count.

In front of him, the river was a deep, murky black that seemed to absorb all light, making the trees on the other side of the bank appear swallowed by darkness. A thick layer of mist clung to the surface, swirling in the faint dawn light. It wasn’t frozen. No, not quite. But it had that brittle look about it, like a thin crust of ice was just waiting for the right moment to form.

“You’ll catch yourself a cold,” Edith warned, like she did every morning, whenever Bernard grabbed his Thermos filled with coffee. No cream, no sugar. Black. Just the way he liked it. 

Bernard had long suspected Edith wasn’t truly concerned about his well-being so much as she was committed to maintaining her personal record for Most Consecutive Days Delivering The Exact Same Warning. Thirty-seven years and counting. He let out a sigh and shrugged off her words, knowing he would hear them again tomorrow. 

“I won’t catch a cold,” Bernard grumbled, pulling his knit cap down over his ears. “I’m made of sterner stuff.”

“Made of foolishness and bad knees,” Edith corrected. “And you better be home before lunch.”

Bernard grunted, waving her off as he stepped off the front porch, boots pressing into the frostbitten earth.

He glanced back at Edith, still parked on the porch, arms folded, bathrobe cinched like a judge about to deliver sentencing. They were the same age, and time hadn’t exactly been generous to her either. She’d softened over the years, a little fluffier, a little grumpier, but there were still glimpses of the sharp, spirited woman she used to be…. especially when she had something to say and no patience for nonsense. The years had added lines to her face and a permanent edge to her tone, but every now and then, in the right light, you could still see the fire in her eyes, the same one that had drawn Bernard to her all those years ago. 

And in that moment, as he took in her expression, she gave him the look—the one that said, Fine, go ahead, indulge your ridiculous whims. But when you’re done gazing into the abyss or whatever existential nonsense you’re up to, maybe think about cleaning out the gutters.

But. He didn’t care about the gutters. He had a routine to maintain. And he didn’t like to mess with routine.

Get on the water just before sunrise. Paddle toward the bend on his old wood-hulled boat. Sip his coffee. Let the warmth battle the chill seeping into his bones, and sink into the kind of silence only the river could offer.

He drifted a few feet from shore, right to that sweet spot where the world felt just still enough. Paddle resting across his lap, he let the river take over, rocking him in its lazy, indifferent rhythm. The morning murmured around him. The low chitter of waking birds, the whisper of water slipping past the boat, the kind of silence that wasn’t really silence at all.

But today, the river had other ideas.

The tap was faint at first. A soft, repetitive thunk against the side of his dinghy. Bernard ignored it. Probably a branch or some stray debris caught in the current. He took a long sip from his Thermos, wincing as it burned the roof of his mouth.

Thunk.

Louder this time.

Bernard sighed and leaned over, pushing the brim of his cap up. He squinted at the water.

A suitcase.

A damn suitcase.

Floating. Half-submerged, bobbing lightly against his boat like it belonged there.

Bernard frowned. It wasn’t the usual kind of trash that wound up in the river. Beer cans, old tires, the occasional shoe. Maybe some careless fool lost it.

He reached down, the cold biting at his fingertips as he grabbed hold of the handle. The thing was heavier than it should’ve been, waterlogged and reluctant. With a grunt, he heaved it onto his boat. The wet leather slapping against the deck.

It was old. Beat to hell. The kind of suitcase his father might’ve carried back in the day, when men still traveled in pressed suits and tipped their hats at strangers. Brass latches, the edges scuffed, a faded tag on the side with no name on it. 

Curiosity gnawed at him.

Bernard glanced around. Not a soul in sight.

His fingers hovered over the latches.

He told himself not to. That whatever was inside, it wasn’t his business. That some things, especially things found floating in cold rivers, were best left alone.

Then he popped the latches anyway.

The lid creaked open, stiff with years of neglect.

Money.

Stacks of it. Bundled tight. Crisp despite the damp. More money than Bernard had ever seen in his life. Not just a little… a lot. Enough to buy himself a new boat. A new truck. Hell, a new life.

His stomach twisted.

People didn’t just lose suitcases full of money.

People left them.

Bernard sat there, the morning air thick with the scent of pine and something else. Something heavy, something he couldn’t name. The river lapped at the boat like it was waiting.

He licked his lips, looked around again.

The river was silent. Still. Watching.

The money stared back.

He paddled back to shore, his mind racing faster than his arms could move. The suitcase sat heavy in front of him, like a guilty conscience wrapped in leather. The river, once a comfort, now felt like it was taunting and teasing. 

The moment his boots hit the dock, he nearly bolted for the house, ready to fling open the door, announce it to Edith with none of that half-awake coffee pot mumbling and show her the fortune he’d just plucked from the water.  

But something stopped him.  

Edith.  

Edith, with her unwavering sense of right and wrong. Edith, who still returned extra change at the grocery store, even when the cashier insisted it was fine. Edith, who wouldn’t just tell him to report this to the authorities. She’d make him.  

Sheriff Hollis. Rusty Hollis.  

A man with the metabolism of a bear coming out of hibernation and the disposition of a dog that had been kicked one too many times. The kind of man who never missed a town council meeting but regularly forgot his own wedding anniversary. Rusty wasn’t a bad sheriff, just the kind who’d rather spend an afternoon fishing for catfish than fishing for suspects.  

Bernard could already picture it. Rusty standing on his porch, one hand on his belt, the other scratching his stomach, squinting at the suitcase like it had personally offended him.  

“Well, Bernie,” Rusty would say, rubbing his chin like that alone would summon an answer. “This sure is… a situation.”  

An interrogation, perhaps? His face splashed across the front page of the local newspaper? It was all too overwhelming for someone like Bernard, a simple country boy used to a quiet life.

And then there was another possibility.  

What if this wasn’t just lost money? What if this was bad money?  

The kind that came with strings. The kind that, if you weren’t careful, had a habit of making people disappear.  

Bernard looked down at the suitcase, its brass latches still glinting. He nudged it with his boot, half-expecting it to spring open and shout Surprise! like some kind of cursed jack-in-the-box.  

A decision had to be made. And fast.  

Take it straight to Edith. Accept the inevitable. Be lectured before breakfast. Lose a fortune but keep his soul intact.  

Or… Hide it. Just for now. Just long enough to think. To figure out what kind of trouble he was dealing with.  

He chewed his lip. He wasn’t a greedy man.  

But even a man with a well-worn conscience had to wonder—  

If a suitcase full of money taps against your boat in the middle of the river, and no one’s around to claim it…  Did it ever really exist?  

Bernard sighed, hoisted the suitcase under one arm, and made a choice.  

The shed.  

It wasn’t a good choice, necessarily, but it was the fastest. And the fastest choices were usually the best ones when you were standing on a dock with a suitcase full of questionable cash and a wife who prided herself on civic duty.  

He trudged across the yard, boots sinking into the earth, glancing over his shoulder like a man carrying something much worse than money. Like sin, or a live grenade. The morning mist curled around his ankles, thick and lingering, as if even the weather wanted to be part of the secret.  

The shed sat at the far edge of the yard, leaning slightly to the left. Its tin roof rusted from years of neglect. Bernard had always meant to fix it up, but procrastination and a healthy disinterest in manual labor had won out. The door groaned when he pulled it open, the kind of sound that made a man think about all the horror movies he’d watch over the years.  

At first, he hesitated. 

Then he stepped inside.  

The shed smelled like old wood, damp earth, and a vague sense of neglect. Cobwebs stretched from beam to beam, a small army of spiders doing what Bernard never got around to. A broken fishing rod leaned against the wall. A rusted tackle box sat on the workbench. A lawnmower that hadn’t worked since Nixon was in office took up most of the space.  

Perfect.  

Bernard shoved the suitcase into the darkest corner, behind a stack of paint cans and a bag of fertilizer he wasn’t entirely sure was still legal to use. He stood back, hands on his hips, examining his handiwork.  

Couldn’t even see it.  

Good.  

He wiped his hands on his jeans, turned to leave… And stopped.  

A single thought. Quiet but insistent, wormed its way into his head.  

What if someone came looking for it?  

Bernard swallowed hard. He shut the shed door, bolted it, and stood there for a long moment, listening to the wind shift through the trees.

Then, with a deep breath and the kind of optimism only a fool or a desperate man could muster, he pushed the thought aside and walked back to the house,practicing his best I didn’t just find a fortune in the river and hide it in my shed face.  

Bernard crept back to the house like a man returning from a crime scene. Which, technically, he wasn’t, but it sure felt like one. His heart was thumping harder than it should’ve been for a man who just took a quick morning boat ride and definitely didn’t haul a mysterious suitcase full of money out of the river and stash it in his shed like a lunatic.  

He stepped onto the porch, wiped his boots twice, then once more for good measure, and slipped inside.  

The scent of bacon and coffee hit him first. Then, the sight of Edith, hovering over the stove, spatula in hand, mid-pancake flip, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. She was still in her robe. Once pink and smooth, now faded to a weary shade of rose. Its frilled edges curling like old paper. Her hair, a tangle of forgotten effort, lay tucked beneath a headpiece that had seen better days. A quiet crown for a woman who had long since stopped caring who saw her wear it.

“You’re back early,” she said, suspicion laced in every syllable.  

Bernard forced a chuckle. “Well, good morning to you, too.”  

She jabbed the spatula in his direction. “I told you it was too chilly this morning. You never listen.”  

He set his Thermos on the counter and shrugged, aiming for casual, landing somewhere between shifty and recently paroled. “You’re always right,” he said.  

Edith squinted at him, like she could see straight through his skin and into the very bad decision currently rusting in their shed. Bernard did his best to look like a man who had not just committed what might technically be a felony. 

She turned back to the stove, but not before muttering, “Damn straight, I am.”  

Bernard exhaled.  

Crisis averted.  

Or at least… postponed.  

He pulled out a chair, plopped down at the kitchen table, and tried to act normal. Normal meant reading the paper, sipping coffee, and not immediately running back outside to check on the suitcase.  

“So,” Edith said, cracking an egg against the pan. “What’d you see out there?”  

His stomach clenched.  

She meant the river. The birds. The trees. The usual.  

But all Bernard could think about was the suitcase. The stacks of cash. The way it had tapped against his boat like some cursed offering from the deep.  

He cleared his throat. “Oh, you know. The usual. Mist on the water. Ducks.”  

Edith side-eyed him. “You’re acting funny.”  

Bernard laughed, maybe a little too loud, a little too Oh God she knows.  

“Funny? Me? I’m just… just enjoying my morning with my beautiful wife,” he said, flashing a grin that he hoped read loving husband and not man hiding a terrible secret.

Edith snorted. “Uh-huh.”  

She flipped another pancake.  

Bernard took a sip of coffee, told himself to calm down, and tried not to think about what he’d just dragged into their lives.  

But outside, beyond the yard, beyond the shed, the river was still moving.  

And the morning wasn’t over yet.

[notwithoutafight]

max & daniel + eye contact

[into-the-feniverse]

Trigun Character Cheat Sheet Masterpost 🤞

[Last updated: 2/22/25]

corrected kid Livio & Wolfwood's height difference

All cheat sheets can also be found here: bit.ly/trigunresources

Additional resources under the cut!

------

Guide to TriMax Vash’s various outfits by nimpnawakproduction

TriStamp Vash’s arm guide by stepherscorner

TriStamp Vash's wing (compiled by revenantghost)

Tri98 Vash Studio Reference sheets (Reddit)

Tri98 Model Sheets (compiled by amethystsoda)

"The Totally Bitching 'Cross Punisher' Diagram" (angelfire.com)

Trigun Gun model sheets (mrbagel.tripod.com)

Prop Making for Trigun Stampede: Punisher (youtube)

Wolfwood's Motorcycle (comp)

If there’s other characters or items you’d like to see a cheat sheet for you’re welcome to drop a line in my inbox! I can’t guarantee when or if I’ll get to it but I’ll take it into consideration!

(Most likely I’ll get to it when I’m procrastinating on something else, which is often so ✌️ not guaranteed but v likely to happen lol. (Shameless plug but I’ll be more inclined to get to it if you buy me a coffee nudge nudge wink wink))

[cyanide-sippy-cup]

Is it weird to admit I actually miss the shitty filter era? Idk the Conception Saga™ was just charming. Just a cool lil indie project growing in real time. Watching everyone post their auditions, the old cast reveal/bonding videos, original versions of all the songs (I for one will forever be mourning the mildly different original Warriors of the Mind lyrics). I know it's "cringe" but the TikTok eye filters/thematic lighting combination was kind of a vibe. It's like a little nostalgic memory to look back on from the absolute hype era we're in now.

[v-i-r-i-d-i-a-n]

Im feeling a bit controversial rn so

What if I said every character in ST is written to have understanding from the audience. What if I said Brenner has a reason for the things he does and that might not make it right, or even make him objectively good, but it’s still a reason.

What if I said every character has a reason and a belief that what they’re doing is correct. Brenner, Henry, Edward, Eleven, Will, Hopper. All of them are included in that.

What if I said that I can see why Vecward would want to kill the entirety of Hawkins because he’s a character that’s written to be realistic, and if we were viewing the story from his point of view we’d all agree.

What if I said Henry was put in a unwinnable, impossible situation and he did what he thought was the best possible choice for his situation. And maybe it was an awful bad choice, but isn’t that more a testament to the situation he was in than him as a person??

What if I said I can understand Will wanting to kill Henry even if he figures out that the situations he’s been through, and the situation he’s in, wasn’t really Henry’s fault

What if I said I can understand why Mike was acting the way he was in S3 and that he didn’t think he was being that dicky, that his actions were justified or reasonable in his point of view

What if I said most “antagonists” are simply a product of their situation

What if I said I can understand their motives and have empathy for all of them

This isn’t to say that I like Brenner, or whoever else you guys would wanna throw at me because I don’t (Brenner can go die in a hole). But, I understand their actions. Having empathy doesn’t mean I like the people I understand. I probably wouldn’t do the same thing in their situation, but I understand it

[wewontbesleeping]

do people not understand the reason taylor swift is worth a billion dollars is bc of the valuation of her catalog? because taylor swift owns her own catalog, instead of it being owned by a record label. like yeah, sure, abolish capitalism or whatever, but ummm until that happens, SOMEONE will own art. and personally i think it's better if it's the artist, not label execs and shareholders who have absolutely nothing to do with the creation of said art. but whatever.

[halfmillionreasons]

Half a Million Reasons Episode 3: Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose Apple Podcasts

While taking his dog for an early morning walk in the woods, Herb Walker stumbles upon something unexpected.

Author's Note: Episode three drifts further into the frostbitten unknown. The same winter morning. Another discovery along the restless waters of the Foxfire River. Three different groups of people. Three fragments of a puzzle that may, or may not, belong to the same whole. A severed thread? The river keeps its secrets, but for how long?

Transcript:

Herb Walker trailed along the edge of Foxfire River. His Rottweiler, Daisy, padded a few paces ahead, her ears flicking at the occasional rustle in the brush. She was a good dog, a loyal dog, and that was more than Herb could say for most people.  

The sun was just starting to climb, bleeding soft gold through the mist that curled off the river like a waking breath. It was his favorite time of day. The world still quiet, untouched, not yet ruined by the noise of people who talked too loud and never listened.  

He treasured moments like this. Especially now.  

Especially since April.  

It had been nearly a year, but grief had a way of keeping time in its own strange rhythm. Some days, it felt like she had only just gone, like he’d turn the corner and see her there on the porch, coffee cup in hand, rolling her eyes at him for waking up too damn early again.  

Other days, it felt like she had been missing from this world for a century.  

But out here, in the unforgiving wilderness, Herb Walker could, if only for a moment, forget what he’d lost. The river’s edge, the ever-burning, never-answered glow of Foxfire River, had a way of offering something that felt like peace. Not the kind you’d find in church or the bottom of a bottle, but the kind that pressed down on you, made your bones heavy, your breath slow. 

He crouched at the bank, watching the water catch the first sliver of sunlight, shimmering like something alive. Some folks said the river glowed because of trapped spirits, their anger caught in the current. Others blamed old Henry Cawthorne’s stolen gold, hidden beneath the water, cursed forever. Herb didn’t care much for ghost stories. He carried his own. 

He couldn’t explain it, but the river made him feel connected to April. Not in a way he understood, not in a way he could explain, but in that cruel, cosmic joke of a way where the dead aren’t really gone, they just rearrange themselves in the things you can’t quite look at. A ripple in the water. The rustle of leaves at your back when there’s no wind. The scent of honeysuckle carried by something unseen.

He exhaled, slow.  

“Damn it, April,” he muttered. “Why’d you have to go?”

The river didn’t answer. It never did. It just kept moving, kept glowing, kept doing what rivers do.

Daisy slowed, sniffing at something in the reeds, tail stiff. Herb kept walking, hands in his pockets, letting the river murmur its old, familiar tune.  

And that’s when Daisy let out a sharp bark.  

Herb stopped.  

She was just ahead, standing rigid at the river’s edge, hackles raised. The sound she made wasn’t her usual warning growl. It was something smaller, tighter. Uncertain.

Herb frowned, stepping closer.  

“Daisy?”  

The dog didn’t move.  

Herb followed Daisy’s gaze, squinting through the early morning haze. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place.  

Except—  

There, just past a patch of overgrown reeds, caught at the edge of the trail.  

A car.  

A black sedan.

It didn’t belong. Not here. Not in Hickory Bend, where most folks still drove pickups as old as their grandparents. This was a city car. Sleek. Polished. Too new. Too shiny. The windows were tinted.  

And. The engine was still running. Exhaust curled from the muffler, fading into the cold air like a sigh.  

Herb’s stomach tightened. His fingers twitched at his side, itching for something. 

He made a low whistling noise, the one he always used to settle Daisy when a deer strayed too close or when she got antsy around strangers. She hesitated, ears still perked, but slowly padded back to his side. He clipped on her leash with a practiced hand, steady despite the unease crawling up his spine.  

“Easy, girl. Easy.” His voice came out in a hush, barely more than breath.  

He waited.  

Nothing.  

No door swinging open. No shadowed figure stepping out to explain why the hell a blacked-out city car was sitting here, in the woods, just before dawn.  

The soft hum of the engine.  

And the feeling. That feeling. That something was watching.  

Herb took a slow step forward, his boots crunching against the ground with each tread he trodded.  

Daisy let out a low, uncertain whine.  

The car just sat there.  

Herb’s gut told him to turn back. To double back down the trail, head home, and pretend he never saw a damn thing. But curiosity. That old, dangerous thing, kept his boots planted where they were.  

So instead, he stayed.  

He moved slow, careful, positioning himself behind the thick trunk of a sweetgum tree, its bark rough against his palm. From here, he could watch without being seen, his breath shallow, controlled.  

The car just sat there. Silent. Humming.  

Endless possibilities ran through his head, each worse than the last.  

It had the look. That clean, unnatural sleekness, black paint polished to a mirror shine, windows dark as secrets. Could’ve been government-issued. FBI, maybe? But what the hell would they be doing out here, in the sticks, parked like a ghost on the riverbank?  

Or worse… The mob.

Maybe it wasn’t a parked car at all. Maybe it was a tomb.  

A body in the trunk. A snitch with a bag over his head, fresh out of breath. A cleanup crew making a quick stop before sending someone to sleep with the fish in Foxfire’s deepest bend.  

Herb’s jaw tightened.  

Do I stay? Or do I run?

Running was smart. Running meant getting home, brewing coffee, and forgetting all about this. Running meant telling himself later that it was nothing. A lost traveler, a drunk who pulled off the road, some teenager playing pretend in Daddy’s stolen ride.  

But staying?  

Staying meant answers.  

And Herb Walker wasn’t the kind of man who left questions hanging in the cold.  

Daisy shifted beside him, ears still perked, eyes locked on the car. She felt it too, the strangeness in the air.  

Herb swallowed.  

And stayed.

A moment later, the sound of crunching leaves broke the silence.  

Not a deer. Not the wind shaking loose another handful of brittle, dying leaves. Footsteps. Measured. Intentional.  

Daisy heard it too. She let out a low, warning growl, her body tensing.  

Herb snapped his fingers, sharp and quick. Hush.

She obeyed, but her ears stayed perked, eyes locked on the movement just beyond the car.  

Two men. Just out of view at first, then stepping into the thin morning light. Black suits, sharp and crisp. Brimmed hats low over their faces, their movements precise.  

They looked like they walked straight out of a gritty film noir, black and white silhouettes against the graying dawn. Not locals.

The men didn’t talk, didn’t hesitate. They were combing the banks of Foxfire, moving slow, scanning the ground, the water, the reeds.  

Looking.  

For what, Herb didn’t know.  

But something told him, they weren’t planning on leaving until they found it.

One of the men broke character.  

Up until now, they had been precise. Too precise. Moving in sync, sweeping their eyes over the riverbank with the kind of eerie patience that suggested they already knew what they were looking for.  

But then… a slip.  

A muttered phrase, low but sharp. Herb couldn’t catch all of it, not from this distance, but the open air carried just enough syllables to send a chill through him.  

“It’s got to be close.”

Not maybe. Not let’s keep looking.  

It’s got to be close.

Herb’s grip tightened on Daisy’s leash. His mouth went dry.  

Whatever it was, they weren’t guessing.  

They knew.

One of the men broke away, striding back toward the sleek, black sedan. The kind of walk that didn’t waste time.  

Herb watched as he yanked open the driver’s side door, reached inside, and pulled out something bulky. A car phone, the kind still attached to a cord, the kind rich folks and government types used when they wanted to feel important.  

The man punched in a string of numbers, held the receiver to his ear.  

Herb strained to listen. The wind carried only fragments, syllables slipping through the trees like ghosts.  

He thought he heard, “We lost it.”  

Maybe.  

But then, clearer this time, firm, clipped.  

“We’ll keep looking.”

Herb swallowed.  

Daisy shifted beside him again, ears pinned back, sensing his unease like a radio picking up a bad frequency.  

Then, she barked.  

Not a soft warning this time. A full-bodied growl. Cutting through the morning stillness like a blade.

Herb’s stomach dropped.  

The two men froze. 

Then, in unison, their heads turned. Straight toward him.  

Herb coiled to the ground, pressing himself against the rough bark of the sweetgum tree, heart hammering. The cold earth seeped through his jeans, the scent of damp leaves filling his nose. Maybe, just maybe, the shadows and the early morning haze would be enough to keep him concealed.  

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t—

Then his fingers slipped.  

The leash… gone.

Daisy bolted. Straight toward the men.  

“Shit,” Herb hissed under his breath, already scrambling to his knees, already reaching… Too late.

She was on them now, barreling forward, her deep, protective bark splitting the air.  

The men reacted fast.  

Too fast.  

And that’s when Herb realized… these weren’t just any men.

The taller of the two men moved first. Smooth, practiced, too damn fast. 

From the folds of his coat, he produced a pistol. Not a shaky, first-time gun owner kind of draw, but a cold, professional movement. A man who had pulled a trigger before and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

He raised it. Leveled it at Daisy.

Herb’s heart jumped, his stomach turning inside out. No time to think. Instinct took over, and before his brain could catch up, he was already lunging from behind the tree.

“DAISY, EASE!” His voice cracked, too loud, too desperate.  

The man with the gun hesitated. Just a flicker. Just enough.  

His eyes gravitated toward Herb. They were registering a new variable. A moment later, he lowered the pistol, slipping it back into his coat with the ease of a magician performing a parlor trick. Like it had never been there at all.  

Herb sucked in a breath and did the only thing that made sense. He pretended not to notice.

Didn’t see the gun. Didn’t see how casual the guy had been about nearly shooting his damn dog. Didn’t see how his partner hadn’t even flinched.

Nope.  

He was just some poor idiot out walking his dog. That was the story. That was the role. And if he played it right, maybe he wouldn’t have a matching hole in his chest by sunrise.  

Daisy, still on edge, had stopped just short of leaping distance. She stood rigid, ears pinned back, growl low and steady.  

Herb forced himself forward, his legs like cement, his breath hitching in his throat.  

By the time he reached Daisy, he was out of breath. Whether from the sprint or sheer terror was up for debate.  

He bent down, gripping the leash tight.

“Sorry, guys,” he wheezed, dragging in oxygen like a drowning man. “Guess she slipped away from me.”

He looked up.  

The men were watching.  

Not annoyed. Not amused.  

Just… watching.

Unblinking.  

Expressionless.  

Herb forced a chuckle, the kind that felt like loose gravel in his throat. Keep it light. Keep it casual. Pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t just happen.  

“We don’t see too many folks out this early on our morning walks,” he said, giving Daisy’s leash a reassuring tug, like that might settle his own nerves as much as hers.  

The man who had nearly shot his dog finally spoke. His voice was smooth but edged, like a blade that had seen too much use.  

“Scared the fuck out of me.” 

Herb let out a dry laugh, trying to ignore the way the man’s hand lingered just a little too long at the pocket where the gun had disappeared.  

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Mornings are rough.”  

The other man. The quiet one, the observer, the one who hadn’t so much as twitched when a weapon got drawn was still watching him. Not just looking. Studying.

“You guys lost?” Herb asked, shifting his weight, trying to keep his voice somewhere between neighborly and neutral.  

The quiet one finally spoke.  

“Something like that.”  

The way he said it, flat, unreadable, sent a slow, crawling chill through Herb’s spine.  

The man’s eyes dragged over him, head to toe, like he was assessing something. A calculation, an equation, a potential problem to solve.  

Herb held his breath.  

Then, slowly, the man smiled.

It wasn’t the friendly kind. It wasn’t the reassuring kind.  

It was the kind that said, We’re not done here.

“This path will take you back to the main road,” Herb spoke. “Maybe a mile or so up.”

The one with the pistol finally relaxed. Or at least pretended to.  

His fingers eased away from his coat pocket, like a man who wanted you to know just how easily he could have gone the other way.  

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling like this was all just some dumb mix-up. No big deal. “Think we took a wrong turn back there. Was heading into town for some breakfast. Had to stop to take a piss.”  

Herb’s lips pressed into a thin line.  

A piss. Right.  

Because that made perfect sense. Two men in black suits, driving a sleek city car, hunting the banks of Foxfire River at the crack of dawn like a pair of detectives straight out of a dime-store novel, all because one of them couldn’t hold it in until the gas station on Main.  

Sure.  

Herb let the lie hang in the cold air, nodding slowly, as if he had any interest in pretending to believe it.  

“Well,” he said, scratching Daisy behind the ear, “you’re about ten miles off course if you were looking for breakfast. Closest spot’s Mary Lou’s Diner. Hell of a detour just to take a leak.”  

The quiet one tilted his head, the way a man does when he wants you to know he’s listening, but not to the words you’re saying.  

A long pause.  

Then, a smile.

Not a real one.  

The kind you put on when you’ve decided to let something slide.

“Appreciate the tip,” the gunman said, dusting imaginary lint off his sleeve.  

The quiet one said nothing.  

Just kept watching.

“Well,” Herb said, keeping his voice easy, almost lazy, “I’ll let you two go now. Be safe out here. Lots of black bears. Some of them aren’t friendly.”  

The gunman smirked, a small, knowing thing. “Noted.”  

That was it. No laugh, no thanks for the heads-up, just a single word that sat heavy in the air.  

Herb nodded, tugging Daisy’s leash a little too hard. She let out a small whine but obeyed, ears still pinned back as they turned away.  

He kept his stride even, measured. Running wasn’t an option. Running meant fear, meant suspicion. Running was for prey.  

Still, he checked back. Once. Then again.  

Each time, he forced a polite smile, the kind people give in passing, the kind meant to keep things normal. But he wasn’t smiling. He was watching. Watching for a sudden movement, a shift in weight, a hand dipping back into a coat pocket. Waiting to see if the gunman was going to clip him right here in the woods and leave him for the river.  

But the men didn’t move.  

They just stood there, watching him go.  

[putitintospeeddrive]

If max is going to keep spending his stupid amounts of money on new super yachts and huge ass private planes do you think he could maybe spare me a measly. Idk. 250k?

[milkweedman]

Fig and apple pie with pecan-cardamom crust. The figs and the apples were both foraged, which is always fun. Smells super good !

It was supposed to be in a pie tin, but I had 3/4 of a pound of figs rather than the half pound the recipe called for. And then needing to scale the recipe complicated the already confusing situation of reading while dyslexic. So I largely gave up on reading, and this is more inspired by the recipe than anything else, but here it is nonetheless: Fig, Apple, and Walnut Tarts. Anyway, it ended up too big to fit in a pie tin, hence the cobbler dish.

[landinrris]

how can a you ship lando with martin and carlos at the same time 🙄🙄 . One second you are like " carlando and another second hoping for norrix. Be loyal to one fandon only . I am norrix shipper but hate carlando . How can i stay on your page .

Because I'm a girl of many talents, and it's my blog 💁‍♀️. Also, in case you forgot:

Feel free to get lost and go find someone who only ships one.

[insectfem]

my bf wants me so badly to like his brothers gf but she does a blaccent whenever she's over so idk man

[ghostbustermelanieking]

i've always said i'd never wanna rewrite any of my fic as original stories because they're too closely tied to the source material, and mostly that's true. but goddamn sometimes i think about all the lore i made up for willoughby, virginia and calvert pass, north carolina and i'm like damn. that would be fun to use, actually

[brutal-out-here]

Finally watched the s8 premiere and I don’t think I’ve hidden behind my hands so much before watching something lol

[liketolaugh-writes]

So there’s a video on YouTube that’s a list of mistakes fanfiction writers might make when making the jump to original work. That list is stupid. Those are generically amateur errors, not fanfiction errors.

Here is an (incomplete) list of actual errors that I’m now ironing out of my work:

- You need to describe things. Tell the readers how old your character is. Tell them what they look like, what they’re wearing, what their room is like. Keep the juicy bits for later, but you need all the basics up front.

- You need that setting. You need clothes. You need a house and a precise time period and a societal system. In fic, all of those are provided for you, and your readers know them. But you’re in charge of those nuts-and-bolts details now.

- Your first draft is garbage. Seriously. With fanfiction, you can pull together a reasonably good first draft, because you have a vivid and colorful framework to work with. In original fiction, you need to build that framework before you can write those glowing, emotional scenes that you’re used to.

- You need to work to get readers invested in your characters. In the beginning, you can’t start with the vulnerability and the insecurity. You can allude to it, but not focus on it. They need to see that your character can be strong or clever or kind before their heart can break for that character. (This is also a mistake that many writers make with OCs in fanfiction!)

- If the scene doesn’t achieve something, cut it out. We here in fanfiction love marinating in the feelings of a work, we love our 300k slow-burn stories, we depict everything in loving detail - but original work isn’t like that. You have your plot, your character arcs, and your relationships, and every scene needs to move at least one of those forward in a tangible way. The first Harry Potter book is just under 80k. Keep that figure in mind.

[halfmillionreasons]

Half a Million Reasons Episode 4: I Can Feel It In My Bones, I'm Gonna Spend My Whole Life Alone Apple Podcasts

Susan Phelps starts her morning the way all great tragedies do, half-asleep, hungover on regret, and already behind schedule. But when her daughter’s sudden friendship with the wrong kind of legacy name stirs up ghosts from the past, Susan realizes some bad apples don’t just fall close to the tree... they roll right back into your damn driveway.

Author's Note: The first three episodes plunged headfirst into the murky undercurrents of Foxfire River, but in this fourth installment, we come up for air. Enter Susan Phelps, a woman who’s not past her prime so much as trapped in its decaying afterlife, raising a teenage daughter with the kind of weary resignation usually reserved for horror movie survivors. Seven years ago, her husband walked out with no explanation, and now all she wants is to escape Hickory Bend before it swallows her whole. But some places don’t let go. And some ghosts never really leave.

Transcript:

Susan Phelps peeled herself out of bed like discarded snakeskin. Eyes sticky with sleep, mouth dry as an old sponge, hair resembling a crime scene. Trickles of sunlight slithered through the blinds, casting jagged stripes across her unmade bed. The morning had that hazy, indifferent glow. The kind that suggested it was just before seven… or possibly the end of time.  

She stumbled toward the master bathroom, each step heavy, reluctant, like she was dragging around the ghost of bad decisions. The floor tiles felt like ice, jolting her semi-conscious brain into partial awareness. She lowered herself onto the toilet seat, a cold slap of reality against bare skin.  

Susan blinked at the half-empty bottle of mouthwash on the counter, the toothpaste cap left open like a gaping wound. Was Jessie awake? She strained her ears for movement beyond the door, for the telltale sounds of life. A coffee pot gurgling, a shower running, a human voice. Instead, the house sat in eerie silence, holding its breath, waiting for something.  

She sat there, frozen in limbo, staring at the faint imprint of a spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling. A gentle creak whispered from somewhere down the hall. Maybe Jessie was up. Maybe not. Maybe it was something else.  

Her stomach growled, a low, feral noise. She sighed. The day was just beginning, and already, she felt like it had gotten the jump on her.

Susan wiped herself clean, flushed, and washed her hands with the kind of efficiency only years of tired routine could perfect. She debated brushing her teeth but decided against it. Priorities. First, she needed to make sure Jessie was actually conscious and not in some elaborate teenage coma. The girl had been late to school five times in the new year already, and it wasn’t even February. That was five too many phone calls from Mrs. Feaster, whose voice had the sharp, scolding edge of someone who took attendance very, very seriously. Susan could hear her now…. “Ms. Phelps, we need to have a conversation about accountability.” As if Susan weren’t already drowning in it.  

She flicked the bathroom light off and stepped into the hallway. The house was quiet, but not the kind of peaceful quiet. More like the kind that makes you check the locks twice. The long, narrow hallway stretched out ahead of her, lined with family photos that hadn’t been updated in years. Jessie at five, missing a tooth. Jessie at ten, scowling in a soccer uniform. A picture of Susan and Jessie’s father, back when he was still in the picture.   

Jessie’s door was ajar, a sliver of darkness pressing against the dim light of the hallway. But there was a sound. Low, tinny music leaking from her room, like a distant radio station barely clinging to a signal.  

Susan rapped her knuckles against the doorframe. Tap, tap. “Jessie, you awake?”  

The door swung open with the force of an accusation.  

Jessie stood there, fully dressed. Ponytail pulled back so tight it looked like a facelift. Face painted with an aggressive amount of eyeliner and blush, like she was about to join an underground cabaret.

“Jesus, Mom,” Jessie muttered, arms crossed. “I’ve been up for an hour. Can’t say the same about you.”  

Susan squinted at her, still processing the early-morning snark. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”  

Jessie rolled her eyes. “You checking to make sure I’m alive? Very original.”  

Susan ignored the jab, though she briefly considered lecturing her on the dangers of sarcasm before 8 AM. Instead, she tilted her head and gave her daughter’s appearance a once-over. “So, what’s the occasion? Job interview? Burlesque performance?”  

Jessie sighed, exasperated. “It’s just makeup, Mom.”  

“It’s war paint, Jess. Who are you going to battle?”  

Jessie clicked her tongue, clearly deciding her mother wasn’t worth engaging with at this ungodly hour. “I have to go,” she said, grabbing her backpack.  

Susan stepped back, allowing her daughter to pass. “If Mrs. Feaster calls me again, I’m changing my number.”  

“Tell her I died.”  

Susan smirked. “Oh, honey. That would only make her call more.”

Outside the Phelps home, the wheeze of a battered engine clawed its way up the street, followed by a horn honk. Short, sharp, impatient. Susan glanced out the window just in time to see Jessie stride toward the front door, disappearing outside before Susan could remind her that people who live under her roof usually say goodbye.  

A rust-eaten Toyota sat in the driveway, coughing out an unhealthy plume of exhaust, like it was hacking up its last breath. A vehicle held together by sheer spite and duct tape. Behind the wheel sat Melanie Tanger. A thorn in Susan’s side, a pimple on the face of decency. One of those so-called popular girls at school, all lip gloss and mean streaks. Jessie had taken a sudden, suspicious interest in her this year, which meant Susan had spent the last few months bracing for the inevitable disaster.  

Susan squinted, watching as Jessie hopped into the Toyota. Melanie didn’t even acknowledge her passenger, just flicked her cigarette out the window and peeled off like she was the getaway driver in a bank heist. 

Susan exhaled sharply. Of course.

Tanger. That name still left a sour taste in her mouth. She knew Melanie’s mother, Elizabeth. Lizzie, she muttered in her head. Lizzie Tanger, but back in the day, she was Lizzie Webber.

A rotten bitch to the core.  

Some girls in high school were simply mean. Lizzie Webber was the kind of mean that made kids change schools, the kind that left scars. Real ones, emotional ones, ones you don’t even realize you have until you see their daughter pull into your driveway, and suddenly, the past crashes over you like cold water.  

Susan had seen it before. The apple never falls far from the tree, especially in towns like this.  

She sighed, rubbing her temples.  

Melanie Tanger.  

She had a bad feeling about this.

Susan turned back toward the bathroom, mentally mapping out the rest of her morning. A quick shower. Lukewarm, because the water heater was moody. Followed by a slice of toast with peanut butter, then off to work before Becky Hassler arrived. She loved Becky, truly, but that woman could talk a hole into the fabric of reality itself. If she wasn’t careful, Susan would get sucked into an unsolicited twenty-minute saga about Becky’s neighbor’s mysterious packages or the latest antics of Becky’s cat, Mr. Whiskerton, who allegedly had opinions about the mailman.   

She was just about to step into the bathroom when something caught her eye. The pictures in the hallway. They hung there like ghosts, frozen in time, moments that felt like they belonged to someone else’s life. Her gaze landed on one in particular. Jessie at eight years old, a wide, toothy grin, arms wrapped around Susan’s waist like she never wanted to let go.   

She used to be like that. Fun. Loving. Always in her orbit, always wanting to be around her.  

And now? Now she was barely a presence at all.  

Absent. Just like her father.  

Hank.  

Fucking Hank.

The name alone made her jaw tighten, her stomach twist. Seven years ago, he left like a man walking out of a cheap novel. No long goodbye, no dramatic fight, just a half-empty closet and a deafening silence where a person used to be.  

No forwarding address. No new phone number. No explanation.  

Just gone.  

Susan let out a slow breath.

Maybe Jessie had inherited more from him than just his sharp cheekbones. Maybe absence was the one true Phelps family trait.

Susan stepped into the bathroom. She turned the shower handle, listening as the pipes groaned awake, spitting out a stream of lukewarm water. The best this old house could offer. She stripped off her clothes, peeling them away like layers of a life that didn’t quite fit right anymore.  

Before stepping inside, she caught her reflection in the mirror. A long, hard look.  

Fifty-five.  

Not bad. Not great, either, but she’d seen worse.  

Her eyes sagged a little at the corners, soft half-moons of dark circles lingering beneath them like shadows that never quite faded. Time had left its signature on her skin, in the fine lines around her mouth, the slight looseness at her jaw. But she was still in good shape. She worked out, ate clean, hardly drank anymore. At least not like she used to. Gave up smoking long ago, when Jessie was still small enough to tug at her sleeve and say, Mommy, those are yucky.  

And yet, none of it had been good enough.  

Not for Hank.  

Not for anyone else in this goddamn town.  

Finding a man in Hickory Bend was like trying to find Jimmy Hoffa’s body. Impossible, and even if you did, it probably wouldn’t be in good condition.  

She missed it. The touch of firm, strong hands running along her bare skin. The weight of a body pressed against hers, rough callouses, the musky scent of sweat and work and desire.  

Hank was all of that. And then some. ��

He knew what buttons to push, what levers to pull. The way he kissed her, the way he touched her, the way he looked at her. That had been enough once. More than enough.  

She was hopeless back then, already toeing the line of spinsterhood, watching thirty fade in the rearview mirror with nothing to show for it but a mortgage and a pile of maybe next times.

And then came Hank.  

Her white knight.  

No horse, just a rusted-out Chevy with a busted tail light. But still, he had presence. Had money, too, or at least enough to buy her a drink and a plate of ribs at The Rusted Stag without checking his wallet twice. Had a steady job down at the old agricultural center on the outskirts of town.  

That is, until it closed down.  

Maybe that’s what drove him out. No job? Maybe it wasn’t her at all.  

Or maybe it was.  

She swallowed hard, exhaling through her nose before stepping into the lukewarm mist of the shower.  

She let the water run over her, washing away the morning, the memories, the ache that settled deep in her bones.  

Seven years gone, and he still lingered.

Susan stepped out of the shower, steam curling around her like a ghost that refused to leave. She grabbed a towel, running it over her damp skin, squeezing the water from her hair, patting herself dry with the care of someone who had long mastered the art of routine.   

Finally, she reached for her toothbrush. A dollop of minty paste, quick, methodical strokes. She bared her teeth at the mirror, grinning like she was selling toothpaste in a commercial. Not bad. They were still pearly white. One of the few things she had full control over in this life.  

She let the bathroom light catch her smile. Maybe this would be the year.  

New year, new possibilities, right? That’s what people said.  

Jessie was graduating in the spring. Her baby was almost grown, already talking about college, about leaving Hickory Bend behind. And wasn’t that something? The thought of an empty nest didn’t scare her the way she thought it would. If anything, it stirred something inside her… hope.  

Maybe she could do it too. Pack up. Leave this godforsaken town once and for all.  

Sell off the insurance agency she’d spent years building, kiss the never-ending paperwork goodbye, and live off the fat of the land for a while. What would that even feel like? No Becky Hassler yammering in her ear, no small-town gossip dragging her name through the mud, no reminders of Hank lurking in every creaky floorboard of this house.  

Maybe she’d move closer to the city? Columbia, maybe.  

Somewhere with restaurants that didn’t deep-fry every damn thing. Somewhere with people who didn’t know her entire life story before she even said hello. Somewhere fresh. Somewhere new.  

Maybe she’d finally meet a man.  

A real man, not a washed-up, good-for-nothing who disappeared when life got tough. Someone who knew how to touch her, how to make her laugh, how to remind her she was still alive.  

Maybe.  

She spat into the sink, rinsing her mouth, pressing her hands against the cool porcelain.  

A new year.  

A fresh start.  

The sharp trill of the telephone yanked Susan out of her thoughts. She snapped her head toward the sound, eyes widening. 

Without thinking, she bolted across the house. Completely naked. Bare feet slapping against the hardwood. The hallway was a death trap, slick from lingering steam. She nearly lost her footing, flailing wildly like a cartoon character before catching herself against the doorframe.  

By the time she reached the kitchen, she was breathless, hair dripping down her back, water leaving a trail behind her like some kind of feral mermaid. She grabbed the phone off the wall, yanking the spiral cord as far as it would go.  

“Hello,” she muttered, trying to sound composed and failing.  

“Hey, girl!” chirped the all-too-familiar voice on the other end.  

Susan’s stomach sank. Becky Hassler.  

It was too early for Becky. Too early for her stories, her mile-a-minute chatter, her tendency to treat small talk like an Olympic sport.  

“Hey, Becky,” she managed, suppressing a sigh.  

“I just wanted to let you know I’ll be a little late coming in this morning,” Becky announced. “The mom in Eden’s carpool group is feeling ill, so I gotta drop her off at school myself.”  

Susan exhaled through her nose. Relief. Sweet, blessed reprieve. A little extra Becky-free time. Maybe she could actually get a jumpstart on this year’s taxes without being subjected to an in-depth analysis of Becky’s latest grocery store feud.  

“No worries, take your time,” Susan said smoothly. “I can open up the office. I don’t think we have any appointments until the afternoon.”  

She could hear Becky smiling through the phone. “Aw, thanks, hon! You’re the best.”  

Susan waved a dismissive hand at the empty kitchen. “Mm-hmm.”  

“Want me to bring you anything? Coffee? A muffin?” Becky offered.  

Susan glanced down at herself, still buck-ass naked, standing in a puddle of her own making.  

“No need,” she said, pressing the receiver to her damp cheek. “I’ll probably just brew a pot at the office.”  

“Alright, sugar! See you soon!”  

Susan hung up with a soft click and let out a long breath, the weight of Becky’s early-morning energy still lingering like a perfume she never wanted to wear. She shook her head and turned back toward the bathroom, eager to finish drying off before she caught a chill.   

As she made her way down the hall, she passed Jessie’s room. The door was still half-open, the air inside strong with the scent of whatever body spray teenage girls were drenching themselves in these days. Something aggressively fruity with an underlying hint of rebellion.  

That’s when she saw it.  

A scrap of red fabric crumpled on the floor, half-hidden in the shadows.  

Silky.  

Small.  

Practically dental floss.  

Susan stopped in her tracks, her stomach lurching in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.  

Jesus Christ.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. My daughter is probably getting laid, while I’m rotting like old fruit.  

Her first instinct was to march in there, scoop the offending garment off the floor with a pair of tongs, and start preparing a very uncomfortable conversation. But what would she even say? Hey, Jessie, just wondering… do you moonlight as a Victoria’s Secret model, or should I be worried about grand-babies before you even graduate?

Nope. Not doing it.

Instead, she exhaled, shook her head, and kept walking, determined to put that particular discovery in the deal with later pile. But as she moved past the hallway, something else caught her eye. The glint of Hank’s stupid, smug smirk frozen in time.  

The photograph.  

It still hung there, just like it had for the last seven years.  

Hank, standing in front of the old agricultural center, arms crossed like he was king of the goddamn county. The picture had been taken not long after they got married. Back when she still thought forever meant forever and not until shit gets hard and one of us vanishes.  

Her fingers moved before she even thought about it, yanking the frame clean off the wall.  

She held it up, staring at his face. Why the hell had she kept this hanging around for so long? 

It wasn’t sentimentality. It wasn’t love. At this point, it was just dead weight.  

With a sharp turn, she marched back into the kitchen, flipping open the cabinet beneath the sink. The garbage bin sat there, waiting.  

She hesitated for half a second, looking at the photo one last time.  

Hank’s smirk stared back at her, frozen in amber, like he still had the last word.  

Not anymore.  

She let it slip from her fingers, the glass frame landing with a dull thud against coffee grounds and yesterday’s eggshells.  

The cabinet door swung shut with a satisfying clunk.  

Seven years overdue.