#hunting island state park

[pamwmsn]

The Hunting Island Light is located in Hunting Island State Park on Hunting Island near Beaufort, South Carolina. Although no longer used as a functioning lighthouse, the tower is a fixture at the state park and is open to visitors. It was named to the National Register of Historic Places in 1970.

[wikipediapictures]

South Carolina Lowcountry

[knightofleo]

Finalists of the 2023 Comedy Wildlife Photography Awards

Dispute by Jacek Stankiewicz from Kraków, Poland: 'I caught this scene while watching birds in the Bialowieza Forest. Young greenfinch was still fed by parents. However, from time to time birds looked like having argument. My friends interpret this scene in two ways: A young naughty kid is arguing with a parent. Or one kid is reporting to the parent that its brother did something wrong: "Look he has broken the glass in the window"'

'Excuse me sir but I think you're a little too young to be smoking' by Dakota Vaccaro from Victor, United States: 'While I was working deep in the Virginian woods, a family of grey foxes took up residence under the deck of the abandoned cottage next to my work housing. One day while practicing their hunting skills on bits of moss and branches, one of the kits lunged at a small chunk of wood and started rolling around with his prize. Tired after his hunt the kit lounged on his belly still holding the wood in his mouth which gave the strong resemblance of a cigar. I was very envious of the kit at this moment cause who wouldn't want to just lay around all day relaxing'

The Rainforest Dandy by Delphine Casimir from Brussels, Belgium: 'This picture was taken in the monkey forest in Ubud, Bali. This place is a crazy place where monkeys are king! Sometimes they give a show, sometimes they climb on you to look for fleas or steal the piece of biscuit you are trying to eat'

Otter Ballerinas by Otter Kwek from Singapore: 'An arabesque smooth coated otter'

Picture me! Picture me!! by Dikla Gabriely from Yokneam, Israel: 'A brown bear in Finland who definitely did everything to make me pay attention to him and focus on him and not the other bears'

Boing! by Lara Mathews from Melbourne, Australia: 'Taken at Westerfolds Park, a beautiful and surprisingly wild pocket of land in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, famous for its kangaroo population. The mob was enjoying some morning sunshine when this joey decided to get silly and try his hand at boxing'

Living the Moment by Kawing Chiu from Staten Island, United States: 'Relax, lay back and enjoy the warm sun... This seal is scratching its face and it is seen lying on the side while his head is supported by his flipper. This image makes the seal like the reclining Buddha statue'

[twistedintern]

Navigating Twst JP & JP-EN Term Listing (Updated)

Dorm & Character JP Name Abbreviation and Emoji Index

Heartslabyul > 🃏 ビュル Riddle Rosehearts > 🌹 リド Ace Trappola > ❤️ エー Deuce Spade > ♠️ デュ Cater Diamond > ♦️ ケイ Trey Clover > ♣️ トレ

Savanaclaw > 🏜️ サバナ Leona Kingscholar > 🦁 レオ Jack Howl > 🐺 ジャク Ruggie Bucchi > 🐆 / 🍩 ラギ

Octavinelle > 🐚 オクタ Azul Ashengrotto > 🐙 アズ Jade Leech > 🐬 ジェイ Floyd Leech > 🦈 フロ Tweels > イド

Scarabia > 🕌 / 🧞‍♂️ スカラ Kalim Al-Asim > 🦂 / ☀️ / 🦦 カリ Jamil Viper > 🐍 ジャミ

Pomefiore > 🍏 / 👸‍ ポメ Vil Schoenheit > 👑 ヴィ(ル) Epel Felmier > 🍎 エペ Rook Hunt > 🏹 ルク

Ignihyde > ⚙️ / 🔥 イグニ Idia Shroud > 💀 イデ Ortho Shroud > 🤖 オル

Diasomnia > 🐉 ディア Malleus Draconia > 🐲 マレ Silver > ⚔️ シル Sebek Zigvolt > ⚡ セベ Lilia Vanrouge > 🦇 リリ

Ramshackle > 👻 / 🕸️ オンボロ Prefect > 🌸 / 🦐 / 🍊 (♀️/🚺 or ♂️/🚹 will sometimes follow) 監 / ユウ Enma Yuuken > 🦞 コミ監 (currently used to refer to Yuuta) Grim > 🐈‍⬛ グリ

NRC Staff > NRC(の)職員 Dire Crowley > 🎭 クロ Divus Crewel > ⚗️ / 🐶 クル Mozus Trein > 📚 / 📖 モゼ Ashton Vargas > 💪‍‍ バル Sam > ☠️ / 🎩 サム Lucius > 🐾 ルチウス

Others Rollo Flamme > 🔔 ロロ Fellow Honest > 🦊 フェロ Gidel > 🐱 / 🔨 ギデル Skully J. Graves > 🎃 スカリー Baul Zigvolt > 🐊 バウル Che’nya > 😺 / 🍭 チェーニャ Cheka Kingscholar > 🧶 チェカ Neige LuBlanche > ❄️ ネイジュ Kifaji > ♟️ キファジ Ambrose the 63rd > 🧙‍ ア ン Najma Viper > 💫 ナジュ(マ) Marja > マルヤ Dila Spade > ディラ / デュママ Maleanor Draconia > (マレ)ノア Dawn Knight > 夜明騎 Eric Venue > エリック / ヴィパパ Farena Kingscholar > ファレ Ace’s older brother > 兄ッポラ

Glossary

The following list is in no way all-inclusive. I will do my utmost to update this section as the EN server progresses in story and translations become known.

(If I’ve overlooked anything, don’t hesitate to message me about it!)

Night Raven College

Mage Training Academy - “Wizarding Boarding School” (lit., no one uses this term, though)

Headmage - Headmaster

Housewarden - Dorm Head, Dorm Leader

Vice Housewarden - Vice Dorm Head, Vice Dorm Leader

History of Magic - Magic History

Flight - Flying

Freshman/Sophomore/Junior(/Senior) - First-/Second-/Third-(/Fourth-)Year

Potionology - Potions

Flora Element - Tree Element

Cosmic Element - Null Element

Objects and Activities

Thaumarks - Madol (Magic Dollars) There is no equivalent for “Sorcents” in the original canon, as Madol more closely converts to Japanese yen, whereas Thaumarks seem to reflect United States dollar values. The “cent” of Japanese currency (sen) has been obsolete for decades.

Blastcycles - Magicwheel

Spelldrive - Magift (Magic Shift)

Locations, Countries, and Regions

Queendom of Roses - Rose Kingdom

Shaftlands - Land of Pyroxene (Pyroxene)

Harveston - Village of Harvest

Sunset Savanna - Afterglow Savannah

Island of Woe - Island of Lamentation

Briar Valley - Valley of Thorns

Fleur City - City of Flowers

Event Names

Culinary Crucible - Master Chef

Beanfest - Happy Beans Day

Joint Exams - Unified Exams

The Phantom Bride - Ghost Marriage

Wish Upon A Star - Dance and Wishes

Camp Vargas - Vargas Camp

(A Twisted Halloween) Terror is Trending - (Scary Monsters) Screaming Halloween Show

(A Twisted Halloween) Spectral Soiree - (Scary Monsters) Endless Halloween Night

A Firelit Sky Over the Sands - Scalding Sands's Al'ab Nariya

Harveston's Sledathon - Harveston's Kelkkarotu

Twisted Tsumderland - Welcome to Tsumsted Wonderland

Fairy Gala Remix - Fairy Gala If

Glorious Masquerade: Let the Bell of Solace Ring - Glorious Masquerade ~Crimson Flowers and the Bell of Salvation~

Sunset Savanna's Cloudcalling - Afterglow Savanna's Tamashina Mina

Stitch's Tropical Turbulence - Lost in the Book with Stitch ~Midsummer Ocean and the Spaceship~

Playful Land's Miraculous Marionettes - Stage in Playful Land ~Dancing Puppets and the Fantastical Theme Park~

Limited Card Names

All club outfits - Club Wear

Apprentice Chef - Chef-in-Training

Suitor Suit - Groom-for-a-Day

Starry Robes - Star-sending Robes

Halloween - Scary Dress

Silk Adorned - Jasmine (Yasmina) Silk

Applepom - Apple Boa

Tsumsitter - Tsumsted

New Year's Attire - New Year's Yukata

Masquerade - Masquerade Dress

Rabbit Costume - Rabbit Wear

Tropical Wear - Suisui Wear

Liongarb - Kingly Beasts' Garb

Playful Attire - Playful Dress

Birthday Boy - Birthday Suit-Up

Birthday Jacket - Union Birthday

Birthday Bloom - Bloom (Broom) Birthday

(Lilia only) General - General of the Right

(Sebek only) Evernight Armor - Armor of Eternal Night

(Rollo only) Council Robes - Council President Uniform

JP Monikers ~ Floyd

(Floyd uses specific suffixes depending on his perceived relationship with individuals–i.e., diminutive/pejorative/etc.)

MC = Shrimp (koebi) Grim = Seal (azarashi) Riddle = Goldfish (kingyo) Ace = Crab (kani) Deuce = Mackerel (saba) Cater = Sea Bass (hanadai) Trey = Sea Turtle (umigame) Leona = Sea Lion (todo) Jack = Sea Urchin (uni) Ruggie = Remora (kobanzame) [changed in EN] Kalim = Otter (rakko) Jamil = Sea Snake (umihebi) Vil = Beta Fish (beta) Epel = Guppy (guppi) Rook = Seagull (umineko) Idia = Firefly Squid (hotaruika) Ortho = Sea Angel (kurione) Malleus = Sea Slug (umiushi) Silver = Jellyfish (kurage) Sebek = Crocodile (wani)* Lilia = Flapjack Octopus (mentako) [changed in EN] Crowley = Manta Ray (manta) Crewel = Striped Beakfish (ishidai) Trein = Red Squid (akaika) Vargas = Lobster (robusutaa) Sam = Seahorse (umiuma) Fellow = Foxfish (kitsunebera) Gidel = Cat Shark (nekozame) *Leona also refers to him as a “crocodile”

JP Monikers ~ Rook

Rook uses a combination of Japanese, French, and English variously; I have attempted to render the names in the simplest manner possible. (Those with names I cannot find in-game at the time of posting are marked accordingly and will hopefully be updated in the future.)

MC = Trickster Grim = Monsieur Hirsute (Mister Shaggy) Riddle = Roi de Roses (King of Roses) Ace = Monsieur Heart (Mister Heart) Deuce = Monsieur Spade (Mister Spade) Cater = Monsieur Magicam (Mister Magicam) Trey = Chevalier de Roses (Rose Knight) Leona = Roi de Leon (King of Lions) Jack = Monsieur Tough Guy (Mister Tough Guy) Ruggie = Monsieur Tanpopo (Mister Dandelion) Azul = Roi d’Effort (King of Effort) Jade = Monsieur Mastermind^ (Mister Mastermind) Floyd = Monsieur Yukaihan (Mister Joyous Offender) Kalim = Roi d’Or (King of Gold) Jamil = Monsieur Multi (Mister Multi) Vil = Roi de Poison (King of Poison) Epel = Monsieur Himeringo (Mister Lady Apple) Idia = Roi de Ta Chambre (King of [Your] Room) Ortho = Monsieur Doll (Mister Doll), “Miracle Boy”^ Malleus = Roi de Dragon (King of Dragons) Silver = Monsieur Sleepyhead^ (Mister Sleepyhead) Sebek = Monsieur Crocodile^ (Mister Crocodile) Lilia = Monsieur Curiosity^ (Mister Curiosity) Sam = Monsieur Mysterious (Mister Mysterious) Rollo = Monsieur du Mouchoir (Mister Handkerchief)

Monikers ~ Other/General

・MC > Malleus ~ Hornton - Tsunotarou ・Malleus > Humans ~ Child of Man (hito no ko) ・Leona > Azul ~ Tako-yarou (Octopus [derogatory]) ・Leona > Malleus ~ Tokage-yarou (Lizard [derogatory]) ・Leona > Idia ~ Kaiware daikon ・Leona > Skully ~ Anaguma-yarou (Badger [derogatory]) ・Leona > Humans ~ “Herbivore” ・Vil > Sebek ~ “Cucumber” ・Vil > a great many students his junior ~ “Potato” ・Sebek > Malleus ~ Young Master (waka-sama) ・Cheka > Leona ~ Unca’ Leona - (Leona-)ojitan ・Neige > Vil ~ Vi-kun ・Crewel > Students ~ “Puppies” (koinu-domo) ・Rollo > Trein ~ “Professor Mozus” (Mozus-sensei) ・Sam > Customers/Students > Little Imp ~ lit. “Little Demon” (ko-oni) >>> Sam sometimes will add a descriptor to distinguish between “demons”–examples being Kalim’s kin no oni and Rook’s okappa oni

Unique Magic (Signature Spells)

Below is a comprehensive list of romanized furigana (that is, the intended/spoken) readings of Unique Magic names as they appear in the original Japanese version of the game.

Riddle Rosehearts - Off With Your Head Deuce Spade - Bet the Limit Cater Diamond - Split Card Trey Clover - Doodle Suit Leona Kingscholar - King’s Roar Jack Howl - Unleash the Beast Ruggie Bucchi - Laugh With Me Azul Ashengrotto - It’s A Deal Jade Leech - Shock The Heart Floyd Leech - Bind The Heart Kalim Al-Asim - Oasis Maker Jamil Viper - Snake Whisper Vil Schoenheit - Fairest One Of All Epel Felmier - Sleep Kiss Rook Hunt - I See You Idia Shroud - Gate To The Underworld Malleus Draconia - Fae of Maleficence Silver - Meet In A Dream Sebek Zigvolt - Living Bolt Lilia Vanrouge - Far Cry Cradle Rollo Flamme - Dark Fire Fellow Honest - Life is Fun Skully J. Graves - Scary Night

Other Notes

+ Che’nya’s full name is rendered differently between the EN and JP versions. + Leona's family's royal chamberlain, Kifaji, had his name changed to "Neji" in the localization. The reason for this is unclear. (Kifaji means "food" in Swahili, which makes sense if you consider Scar and Zazu's relationship.) + Fellow Honest's name was changed to "Ernesto Foulworth" in the localization to better reflect Honest John's real name. + Gidel's name was changed to "Gino".

[dontforgetukraine]

More episodes of Russians committing ecocide in Ukraine

Askania-Nova is a biosphere reserve and national park in Kherson Oblast. It serves as a home for over 500 species of plants and over 3,000 animal species. Some of these species are on the endangered list.

The Russian occupiers have destroyed much of the reserve as well as hunted and removed animals to occupied Crimea and Russia.

The director of the reserve, Viktor Shapoval, explained the severe damage to the reserve, saying, "To date, 20 animals have been taken to Russia and the temporarily occupied territory of Crimea. Some animals have died due to neglect, lack of qualified scientific support, and veterinary care. A significant part of the protected steppe – over 2,000 hectares – has burned due to fires of various nature."

However, this isn't the only nature reserve to suffer severe damage due to the Russian occupation. Petro Andriushchenko, Advisor to the Mayor of Mariupol, stated that Russian forces earlier destroyed the Meotyda nature reserve, which stretches from Mariupol to the village of Babakh-Taram. Russian shelling and deployment of mllitary forces here destroyed unique nesting sites for birds that are red listed.

In another case of ecocide, Russian forces also destroyed the Chaiechyi Ostriv (Gulls’ Island) situated on the Bilosarai Spit. It held an important mating site for many species of birds.

The latest nature reserve to fall victim to Russian occupiers is Kamiani Mohyly (Stone Graves) nature reserve near the village of Nazarivka in the Mariupol district of Donetsk Oblast. Military camps and activity have been seen there. "Given their behaviour and the nature of their activities, including the use of heavy military equipment and the creation of shooting ranges [at the nature reserve], it’s logical to conclude that the Kamiani Mohyly reserve has been ruined," Andriushchenko said.

Sources: Russian forces devastate Ukraine’s Askania-Nova national park, relocate animals

Russian forces turn nature reserve near Mariupol into military training grounds

[cal-flakes]

hii can you write an imagine with rafe and a reader that's just as psycho as him please??

okay so i also got another request about y/n protecting rafe so i’ve put these together, however i’ve put a bit of spin on it.

╰┈➤ protecting dark!rafe

warnings: mentions of lethal weapons, extreme violence, blood, homicide.

summary: y/n comes to rafe’s defence when he’s in trouble. (obx2 spoilers! sort of)

the grunts and groans of a struggle echoed through the dark forest of goat island, overriding her senses as she crept through the wailing trees.

she’d parked her car quite far out in hopes rafe wouldn’t see her, she’d intended to undermine his plans, take the cross for herself, but it seemed two people now stood in her way.

coming out of the camouflage of the thick woods, she tip toed around the side of the truck. her gloved fingertips just grasping the handle of her hunting knife while she went over the new plan in her head.

peaking around the side, she took in the scene before her, the strange man had rafe pinned to the ground, throwing punch after punch.

she’d never seen him before and it made her wonder who else was looking for the cross of santo domingo.

taking the opportunity, she lunged at him, plunging the blade deep into his thigh as he let out a cry of pain.

stumbling backwards, he landed into the mud with a groan as he stared down at the wound in horror.

before he had the chance to work out whether it was blood or dirt he was covered in, a gunshot filled the area, birds squeaking as they flew away.

rafe looked at the man on the floor, glancing between him and the gun in her hand, making the connection. it was obvious who shot him, but he just couldn’t fathom it.

a girl he had fallen for, killing a man in cold blood, right in front of him?

she stepped over his limp body, taunting him with a grin on her face. her pupils were blown and her hands trembled slightly as she looked over the man for any sign of life.

satisfied with his lack of pulse, she turned to rafe who was frozen on the floor, unsure of what just happened.

“give me your hand” she demanded, the numbness of her voice almost giving him chills. nodding in thanks, he reached up expectantly while his chest heaved.

in the blink of an eye, she’d put the safety on and flipped the gun around, slipping the handle into his shaky hands.

his breath hitched as she gently grasped his bare fingertips, squeezing them around the weapon.

“wh-what..” he gasped, breathless and shaken. she chuckled, shaking her head at his stupidity.

his heart could’ve exploded then and there, the feeling of betrayal coursing through him as he stared back at someone he thought he knew.

“im gonna make you a deal rafe, and you’ve got two options. you give me what i want, or..i give old shoupe a call, tell him i’ve got the gun you used on our friend here” she smirked, a menacing look dancing through her wide eyes.

“b-but that didn’t happen, that’ll never work y/n and you know it” he growled, gritting his teeth.

she tilted her head in amusement, leaning down. “oh but wouldn’t it? i was the worried girlfriend, following you to find out where you were going, only to find you blowing this poor man’s brains out” she stated proudly, inciting an angry sigh from the boy below her.

“and i was just, so scared, so i kept the gun, making sure i had something to protect me if you ever tried to come for me too..”

“you used me..” he muttered, staring into her eyes in hopes something familiar would return. “you waited until i’d done all the hard work huh? thought you’d swoop in, take the cross for yourself?” he snapped, attempting to lunge at her.

his reach was limited however, as she placed her dirty boot on his chest, pushing him further into the ground. “oh baby boy, that’s exactly what i’ve done..” she uttered, blowing him a kiss before sending a sharp kick to his jaw.

“you should be thanking me really, i just saved your life..but i suppose you’ve always been an ungrateful dick huh?”

she rounded the truck once more and got in the drivers side, leaving rafe in the mud, writhing in pain and hurt.

[thoughtportal]

esquire.com

The Invisible Man

Patrick Fealey

50–63 minutes

A.D. 2024—The United States

Twenty-seven degrees in a Port-A-Jon, the seat freezing my ass. I’m in the dark with a little flashlight. Chemically treated feces and urine splash up onto my anus. The wind howls, shaking the plastic structure. My hands go numb.

3:00 a.m., parked in a public lot across the street from the town beach in Westerly, Rhode Island. Just woke up, sleep evasive. It’s my first week out here. I pour an iced coffee from my cooler. I’m walking around the front of the Toyota I’m now living in when a car pulls into the lot, comes toward me. I see only headlights illuminating my fatigue and the red plastic party cup in my hand. Must be a cop. Someone gets out and approaches. It is a cop, young. I’m not afraid, exactly, but I’m also not yet used to being homeless.

“How you doing?” he says.

“Good.”

“Just hanging out?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Okay. Just checking. Have a good night.”

In the morning, I awake with back pain. Sleeping in the driver’s seat will be an acquired skill.

Sun-bleached fences wrap the perimeter of the dunes, blown over by the unrelenting winds off the cold Atlantic. I park at the beach most days and have spent all but one night here. Lovely Lady Lily, the sweet and wild angel with fur, is with me. The entire backseat is hers and she is adjusting to the car well, because I’m here and we are close. Her daily routine has improved in some ways. When we lived in the house, she snoozed on the couch, walked in the yard, and got to the beach, her favorite place, a couple times a week. Now she runs on the beach several times a day, hunting the tide line for shellfish. She crunches down crabs and tears the meat out of quahogs. And if there’s a fish? She found a single minnow on a beach two miles long.

The author was a reporter and arts critic for outlets including The Boston Globe and Reuters. Today he fills notebooks with novels, poetry, and stories. His guitar is sometimes a desk. (He props it upside down on his lap.)

My morning routine is taking gabapentin (an anti-seizure medication that also alleviates psychic and neuropathic pain and brightens my perception), lamotrigine (another anti-seizure medicine, but for me it helps my mental energy and cuts through fog, because gabapentin creates fog), fluoxetine (Prozac, an antidepressant), and Adderall (for focus and energy, because after the manic depression struck in 1997, my brain was a flat tire), walking the beach with Lily, getting coffee at the Mobil station up the road, and writing on an HP laptop I got two months ago that has already had one power-input jack fail. It sits on an upside-down acoustic guitar resting on my lap, a 12V/120V converter plugged into the lighter with the car running. I play the guitar first thing every morning, songs I’ve written. The rest of the day, I flip it over and it’s my desk.

When we’re on the beach early, we usually see John. Lily used to jump on his legs, and he didn’t like it. He’s about seventy and has the bearing and haircut of a military person. He walks the beach looking for sea glass.

I’m parked in the public lot across from the beach, sitting in the front passenger seat, working on a novel. An SUV police cruiser pulls in front of me, parks close, at an angle, as if to block me from a would-be escape. This officer is a young blond woman in a bulletproof vest with a pistol strapped to her abdomen. She says, “We received some calls. People are concerned.”

“Yes?”

“They see you out here and are concerned.”

She doesn’t say who these “concerned” people are, but the only ones who can see me are the owners of large beachfront houses. Maybe they’re looking out their $3 million windows and seeing the consequences of their avarice.

“What are your plans for the day?” she says.

The author in his car.

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She’s trying to get me to move along, but the lot is open to the public from dawn to dusk. I have every right to be here.

“Write,” I say.

“What do you write?”

“Literary fiction. I was a reporter.”

“Anywhere I know?”

“The Boston Globe.”

Her eyes open wide and she tosses her head back in recognition. She realizes I’m not dissolute and not a threat. She asks for my license and calls it in. Dispatch lets her know I have no criminal record or outstanding warrants.

“Do you need anything?” she says.

“Do you know if the homeless shelter will let me take a shower?”

She asks dispatch to call the shelter. Dispatch comes back. She says, “Yes.”

“Good,” I say. “Thanks.”

“You can’t stay here at night,” she says. “You can stay at Walmart, in the back parking lot.”

“Okay.”

She gives me her card. She leaves. I stay. I have every right to be here.

I go to Walmart that night and will sleep there every night. But the police will continue to come as if I’m some kind of one-man crime wave. Before I’m chased out of Westerly, I will meet, stand my ground, and lose ground to a dozen different officers, often at night, banging on my window and waking me just to ask, “Are you all right?” The question begins to sound like a pretense.

The officers are civil, but every encounter causes me apprehension and stress. I’m innocent of any wrongdoing, but the interaction between a citizen and law enforcement is unbalanced by nature. They are part of an apparatus that can take away a person’s freedom. I know it, and they certainly know it. When you’re homeless, you are even more vulnerable. You have no place to go, no kitchen table to sit at while you drink your beer, invisible to them. You’re always on their turf. It’s unnerving.

The author in Rhode Island.

I rented a beach house in Westerly for a year and a half. It had a chalet roof, high ceilings. Nice. I was most often alone, my then-girlfriend working in New York. Lily and my girlfriend’s dachshund were entertaining company, chasing each other around the house at top speed or snoozing on the couch while I wrote all day—freelance art criticism, newspaper articles, and novels. I ate takeout, mostly.

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Early on, I write an email to Westerly police chief Paul Gingerella to introduce myself. I inform him I am a writer and recently became homeless. I tell him I feel his officers are trying to unlawfully disperse me. I ask him to treat me as “who I am and not as what people fear I am.”

He writes back, invites me to come to his office or call to discuss the ordinances his officers are enforcing. I had also mentioned drug deals going down in the Walmart parking lot. When he took office, he stated that a priority was fighting fentanyl.

I don’t call or visit.

A sunny afternoon. I’m in the passenger seat, writing. The 2013 Corolla has been reliable since I bought it in 2019. It holds all that I need for daily life and makes for a decent workplace.

A police officer approaches the car on the driver’s side. Very short, he looks overwhelmed by his bulletproof vest and all that’s attached to it. Cops these days don’t look like they’re here for domestic law-enforcement duties. They’re equipped for martial law.

The cop asks me what I’m doing.

“Writing.”

“We got a complaint.”

“The chief knows I’m here.”

“Who’s that?” he says, a quiz.

“Gingerella.”

His face eases somewhat, but his smirk is fixed.

He’s looking at my hand. I’m rubbing my thumb and forefinger together. The involuntary motion is tardive dyskinesia, a side effect of the bipolar medication.

He says, “Do you have Parkinson’s?”

“No.”

“Do you have any health problems?”

By now I’m guessing they have investigated me enough to know I receive Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI). That’s probably where this question is coming from. As far as I know, the Social Security Administration doesn’t make public one’s ailments. I say no, to avoid the potential discrimination that people with mental-health challenges face, but add that “I do have chronic renal insufficiency,” to satisfy his suspicion that something’s not right.

He doesn’t understand.

“Kidney disease.”

“How do you get your money?”

“Assistance.”

“Call us if you need anything.”

Statistics vary by source, but last year there were a record-high 650,100 homeless people in the United States, many of them suffering mental illness and substance-abuse issues. Of course, most citizens suffering mental illness and substance-abuse issues are not homeless.

One of the primary causes of homelessness, obviously, is a lack of affordable housing. Wages have not kept up with escalating real estate values and rents, especially in major cities.

Lily is a rescue dog Fealey adopted in 2020, and they have not been apart since, constant companions. She was found tied to a fence in the summer heat, homeless.

The number of homeless people has grown significantly over the past couple decades. An advocacy group in New York says that the rate there is the highest it’s been since the Great Depression. Across the country, most homeless people are male and almost half of us are white. Rates are much higher among non-white populations, with Pacific Islanders, Indigenous people, and Blacks all experiencing homelessness in disproportionate numbers. Twenty-two out of every ten thousand veterans are homeless.

In 1997, I was a twenty-nine-year-old award-winning art critic and journalist when I was stricken by a violent and disabling onset of manic depression. Bipolar I, rapid-cycling/mixed state, the most severe form of the genetic disorder and often fatal (by suicide). My psychiatrist actually said to me, “You are the worst manic depressive I have ever seen.” Together, we developed a unique cocktail of eight medications that enables me to function and has kept me alive for twenty-seven years.

The condition is a torturous gift, one imparting vision, and manic depressives historically succeed in all fields of human activity, from medicine to art. Theodore Roethke described these blessed sufferers as possessing “nobility of soul.”

The medications that save my life can be blanching. I am often tired. My kidneys are functioning at 30 percent, resulting in malaise and fatigue. It’s difficult to make it through the day without rest. Working in the high-stress, fast-paced world of newspapers was no longer possible. Before the crash, I had a lot of energy, was working on a novel and short stories while reporting for two newspapers and Reuters. (I attended the University of Rhode Island undergrad and Humboldt State University for journalism school.) I acquired the ability to remember every word spoken during an interview. Light hurt my eyes and my hearing became acute. I was jamming with a jazz band and saw the notes as animated apparitions flying before my eyes. Total breakdown struck me overnight. I went to bed feeling good and in the morning was paralyzed in darkness, staring at the white walls. Wallpaper was painful to look at. When I lit a match, it flashed as big as a blowtorch, and I could hear it burning and hissing.

I called my editors at Reuters and The Boston Globe and The Narragansett Times, where I had been the art critic, and told them, at the very least, I needed a break. I haven’t returned.

I tried to work in other settings, but I couldn’t master the computer at a retail job and was fired by a house-painting company for painting too slowly. I worked as a laborer on a vineyard, but I could work only two days a week and the longest I lasted was six hours. On one of those days in the sun, I collapsed to the ground unconscious.

I receive $960 a month from SSDI. I should have $32 a day, but my needs, and a few wants, are debiting my account. Gas is costing $10 to $15 a day, food is $5 to $8 a day, coffee $7, beer $9, ice $45 a month, nicotine patches $86 a month, and jugs of spring water $80 a month. Other incidentals like toilet paper add up. Living as minimally as I know how, I’m not making it. I’m losing weight I don’t have to lose. I quit smoking and went on the patch to save money. Alcohol is the buffer a sensitive soul needs to withstand the crimes of a race—the human race—that has proved itself ungrateful and homicidal.

The toughest parts of homelessness have been surviving the poverty and the marginalization, discrimination, and hostility from the non-homeless population. It’s usually subtle, this hostility. People pull in to visit the lighthouse or the beach or wherever I am, see me, and immediately park somewhere else. All day long.

They are so afraid. I know I look disheveled, but I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with me intellectually or spiritually. I know I could look better, but I just don’t see what the big deal is.

I live on Jif-and-Smucker’s-strawberry-jam sandwiches. At first, I ate bologna-and-cheese sandwiches, but the ice in the cooler melts within a day, and the bologna floated around in the water, turning pale and slippery.

I keep the food in the trunk, with my clothes. I make the sandwiches there, on top of a suitcase. I spread the peanut butter on sliced Italian bread thickly, thicker than frosting on a cake. I use so much jam, some falls out. I make it a meal.

In the Westerly town-beach lot, late afternoon, the air is getting cold. I’m standing at the trunk, bread on the suitcase, a jar of peanut butter in my hand, when a red SUV pulls in beside me. A woman climbs out, in her forties, long black hair. She sees me with the peanut butter. Most people look worried and afraid when they see me eating out of my trunk.

Fealey’s $960 a month in Social Security Disability Insurance goes primarily to food and gas—he can never park in one place for long before the police tell him to drive someplace else, plus he runs the car to power his laptop and for heat. And it goes to beer.

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“Do you want the other half of my meatball sub?” she says. “Nothing beats PB&J, but you might want something different. I just went out with a friend. It’s still hot.”

I’m surprised by her kindness. “Yes,” I say.

She retrieves a carton from the car.

“Thank you,” I say.

She walks for the beach. Does she know I’m homeless? Maybe she’s seen me here before. She will be the only person in six months to offer help.

I sit in the driver’s seat and eat. I chew carefully. Four teeth hurt too much to chew solid food. The sub comes with potato chips. I try to eat them but can’t take the pain. I’ve lost nearly half my teeth since I became disabled twenty-seven years ago. I can’t afford dental care. When a problem has arisen, such as when I needed a root canal, I’ve had the tooth pulled at a clinic that charges patients on a sliding scale. One of my essential medications, gabapentin, has been linked to tooth loss.

Shortly before I became homeless—a period of mounting worry in which my appearance suffered—a tooth on the upper right began to hurt. It was excruciating to touch with a toothbrush. Then an agonizing pain developed in my lower-left jaw. The jaw swelled. Two teeth toward the front began to ache. I couldn’t eat anything. I couldn’t touch the teeth. I developed a fever. I shook, lost control of my body. I made an emergency appointment at the clinic. I resigned myself to the idea I would lose the two teeth. An assistant took X-rays of the two lower-left teeth, the most painful place, where my jaw was swollen. At my request, she X-rayed the tooth on the upper right.

The dentist came in and sat behind me. He said nothing. I couldn’t see him. Was he going to examine me?

He finally wheeled over on his chair. He was holding the familiar sharp, metal hook. He didn’t ask what the problem was. I told him about the two teeth on the lower left. He said nothing. He didn’t make eye contact. He approached with the tool. I opened my mouth. He looked, touched one lower-left tooth very quickly and lightly. He didn’t test for a cavity. He didn’t check any other teeth.

“You have tartar buildup, but I don’t see anything,” he said.

“The pain is severe,” I said.

“I don’t know why.”

He wheeled away and turned, his back to me again, and looked at a computer. He said, “The X-ray doesn’t show anything.”

“No cavities?” I said.

“No cavities. No abscess. Look.”

I turned to see. The X-ray showed one white tooth in an ocean of black. It was an upper tooth. He barely touched it, withdrew the metal hook, and didn’t say anything. I was too deranged by excruciating pain to ask him to do more before he began to conclude the examination.

Finally, I said, “Do you see the swelling on my face?”

“No,” he said.

I raised my voice and said, “You don’t?”

“Maybe a little.”

My left jaw was twice the size of my right.

I realized the problem: He believed I was drug-seeking. He must have seen this all the time. He made his judgment immediately. He wanted the vagabond out of there. I got a cursory examination and denial of suffering. He was not going to offer pain medication.

I said, “I was a newspaper reporter. The reason I’m poor is I was stricken by severe manic depression. My teeth are bad because I can’t afford dental.”

He turned to his computer. He typed and looked for a while. Clicked the mouse. What was he doing? It occurred to me that he may have been Googling me. Was I telling the truth? Was I a reporter? He was on the computer for two minutes, reading in silence.

He wheeled his stool back to my side and looked me in the eye. Now respectful, he said, “I don’t see anything, but I can give you antibiotics.”

Gas is costing Fealey $10 to $15 a day, food is $5 to $8 a day, coffee $7, beer $9, ice $45 a month, nicotine patches $86 a month, and jugs of spring water $80 a month.

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I picked up the antibiotics at CVS. He also prescribed ibuprofen. The pain overwhelmed consciousness. I saw dancing white lights. The maximum daily dose of ibuprofen didn’t alleviate the pain. I alternated it with the maximum daily dose of Tylenol. I could tolerate the pain for the first two hours after each dose. Then it surged. I couldn’t sleep through the night.

By the third day of antibiotics, my chin had ballooned. I pressed it. It was hard. A stream of pus shot out horizontally and hit the rearview mirror. My jaw was infected. Soon after, I saw my internist and shared the story of my dental experience. He said it was an abscess.

My jaw recovered, but the two lower teeth remain too sensitive to chew on. I have not been brushing my teeth out here. I could brush some of them, but it’s difficult to avoid the ones that hurt. I rinse my mouth with antiseptic mouthwash several times a day and before going to sleep.

Three months later, I awake in the car to a sudden pain in the tooth farthest back on the upper left. I look in the mirror. It’s split in half. The pain is severe. The inside half is loose. I can’t chew on the left side. I now have three upper teeth and two lower teeth I can’t chew on.

Eating is torture.

The American flag flies over Walmart. When I was young, I was proud of and found comfort in the flag. I felt fortunate to have been born in the United States of America, where every life mattered. I still believe this.

Many men and women fought and died for what the flag represents, freedom and democracy. My father was rocketed and shot at in Southeast Asia and came home a bomb waiting to explode. His nervous system was shattered. He could go from laughing to rage instantaneously. He wasn’t like this before the war.

As the police instructed, I sleep in the car in the Walmart parking lot. I park where they said to, in back of the building near where people pick up orders and the semis come in to unload. Inside I shop for food, including the occasional tuna fish and deli chicken for Lily, and nicotine patches. I use the restroom.

I begin parking at Walmart in November. The masses flood the lot to shop for the holidays. People drive fast in the lot, as aggressively as they do on the roads, whipping in and out of empty spaces while pedestrians walk in the low fluorescent glow. They make me nervous. People are economically squeezed, the stress of everyday survival and the fear of uncertain futures turning into hostility. Most Americans live paycheck to paycheck, and many have no emergency savings—they are one crisis from homelessness. A job loss or an unexpected illness and they are where I am. They are on edge, driving bigger and faster and louder cars—a society speeding along as it disintegrates.

The store plays bland, agitating covers of classic Christmas songs, which are piped out to the parking lot.

It snows, a light covering, and turns cold, in the low 20s. The ground freezes solid.

I recline the driver’s seat every night and sleep on my back under a fleece blanket. I have a pillow. I begin to awaken cold and shivering, coughing. I start the car and turn on the heat. As the season progresses, I have to run the car every night and even during the day at the beach. Gas consumption surpasses what I budgeted for.

My girlfriend, Lane, gives me everything she can, sharing in the struggle.

She is the front-desk supervisor at a four-star boutique hotel by the beach in Narragansett. A night there can cost hundreds of dollars, even $1,000 with all the add-ons. She lives with her parents. She can’t afford a place of her own. Her monthly earnings are equal to the rent on a one-bedroom apartment. She is forty-nine and has been in the service industry for thirty years. Her hotel is highly ranked by some of the travel magazines and she regularly receives notes of appreciation from guests. She earns five dollars above minimum wage, the same as the dishwashers in the hotel’s failing restaurant.

I became homeless on October 16, 2023.

My devotion to literary work combined with the disabling manic depression sent me to the periphery for much of the past two decades—twenty rooms in eighteen cities coast to coast, banging out novels on a 1939 Smith Corona and fighting off insane rabble, wallowing in a stupidity they were unaware of.

I managed to avoid the street for twenty-six years after my diagnosis. The idea of homelessness was terrifying. When I faced it in 2019, I thought of which warm states I could go to and live in my car, and I had visions of which bridge I would jump off. I saw myself at the railing, looking down at the water, climbing over. Homelessness looked worse than death.

Fealey’s life is laid out in front of him, all the time. A bag of dog food, the PB&Js.

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Then? A miracle. I met a wealthy entrepreneur while working on his vineyard and he liked my writing and he helped me. He said he would help me find a literary agent. I bought the Toyota and I could rent an apartment. I adopted Lily. She is my first dog. We have been together every moment since Lane and I signed the papers three and a half years ago. Lily was found tied to a fence in the August Texas heat, skeletal, with mange, flies buzzing her. Since then, she has gained twenty-eight pounds and become a most engaging, agile, and sensitive creature.

In 2023 the man ended his support “for financial reasons.” He didn’t help me find an agent.

We walk on the beach, Lily trotting ahead, nose down, looking for seafood. She chases seagulls, breaks into a sprint. The birds are wary, see how fast she is, and take flight. Running at speed, she once caught a seagull as it was taking off. She let it go but broke its wing.

Lily and I wrestle daily. She leaps in the air, going after my arm. I let her seize it in her sharp teeth and push her away with enough force to throw her off balance. She charges back, leaps for my arm. I withdraw it and she misses and falls back to the ground. She jumps in the air and grabs it. She restrains herself and doesn’t hurt me too much but has torn the sleeves of two leather jackets and a hoodie, and drawn blood. She’s smiling and I’m laughing as we battle ourselves breathless.

I drive over to the Warm Center, a shelter in Westerly. Inside, it is dark. A few resident men sit in chairs in the small front room watching TV. I ask about the shower and one tells me it’s in back. I walk through the room where they sleep. About a dozen scattered mattresses without headboards fill the small, dark room, close to each other. The beds are unmade. These people have no light and no privacy. An obese man in a wheelchair says hello. I say hi.

In the bathroom, one shower of two is functioning. A man comes into the bathroom. He seems determined about something, yet is sheepish. He doesn’t use the bathroom. He stands, glancing at me as I undress.

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I shower. I stand under water as hot as I can tolerate. Heat hits my body, nirvana. Water has never been so comforting. I emerge calm, but energized.

He types on an HP laptop plugged into a converter in his Toyota’s lighter with the car running.

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I dry off with the towel I brought and change into clean clothes, which I typically either take to a laundromat or Lane washes at her parents’ house. Passing through the sleeping room, a man sitting on a bed says, “Believe me, I will fuck you up.” I walk out barefoot into the cold and put my dirty clothes in a plastic bag in the trunk. I find socks.

“Can you give me a ride?” a man says from across the street.

“No.”

I first called the Warm Center a few days before I became homeless. My goal was financial assistance to help pay for food and gas. The first woman I talked to referred me to another woman. I talked to her briefly and she said she couldn’t help me until I talked to an intake coordinator. I called him and asked about the assistance for food and gas. He didn’t reply to that request but mentioned the seasonal shelter. He said he couldn’t get me in until I talked to the state. I called the state’s central intake—they put homeless people into a database. The man, who said he was pessimistic, suggested a shelter in the city. I declined.

I called back the coordinator at the Warm Center.

“I can probably get you into the seasonal shelter,” he said.

“I have a dog,” I said.

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“How old is she?”

“Three and a half. She’s sweet and loves people.”

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll call you when the seasonal shelter opens.”

“My cheap phone has never allowed me access to my voicemail.”

“Can you receive texts?”

“I won’t see them. You can email me.”

He said skeptically, “You’re living in your vehicle?”

“Yes.”

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He never emailed me and, to my knowledge, didn’t call.

That is okay.

The despair in the shelter is contagious, and it wouldn’t be ideal for Lily. In the car, we have autonomy and privacy. In the car, no one is gawking at my junk or wanting to fuck me up.

We sleep in the Walmart parking lot for two months. During this time, police intervene half a dozen times, always in the middle of the night, when I’m asleep.

They bang on the driver’s-side window, awakening us, and shine bright lights in my face, just to ask, “Are you okay?”

I was okay before you woke me up.

The police are the ones who told me to go the Walmart parking lot. I park where they instructed. They know I’m here and see me in the same spot every day and night. Chief Gingerella knows who I am, that I have no criminal record, am a professional and productively engaged, am not a threat and keep to myself. When I’m asleep, I’m not visible, and my car is parked among other cars. They know which car is mine and come, and come, and come, systematically robbing me of peace and a sense of well-being.

In the early-morning hours on Christmas, I am jarred out of sleep by banging on glass. I sit up and lower the window. A police officer beams a light in my face and into the car. He is a young blond in a watch cap and a ski mask. The air is bitter cold and I see his breath as he says someone called the police. He implies the caller feared I had committed suicide. The alleged caller saw the car running, and it is Christmas, which I know is a popular day to kill yourself. I assure him I want to stay alive.

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“The car is running so I can stay warm,” I say.

He says, “Okay.”

Then he says, “Can I have your phone number? I always ask. I’m not going to use it or anything.”

Half asleep and dazed, I give him my number. In the morning, I think about it. Why did he ask for my phone number? I didn’t have to give it to him. There is only one reason I can think of that he would want my phone number, which is so that the police could install some kind of stalkerware on my phone, to track me.

I look again at the flag above Walmart, a store packed with imported goods that has made its owners among the richest people on earth. People squeezed from both ends come to Walmart, where prices are lower. Their money goes into the pockets of the Waltons. But the more the Waltons take, the less people will have to spend until, eventually, they have nothing at all.

Fealey has always been a reader and a writer.

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Late morning, parked in my spot, I am writing. A man and woman approach the car on the driver’s side. They look in at me, don’t come too close. They wear blue uniforms with badges sewn onto their chests. I roll down the window. They look afraid.

Walmart security.

“You have to move,” the man says. “We’ve let you stay here for a while.”

“The police told me I could be here,” I say.

“The police don’t own this property. I do.”

I give him a look.

“Okay, Walmart does,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “Do you know of any other places?”

“You can try the old Benny’s parking lot. Nobody’s there.”

The police chased me out of the beach parking lot. Now Walmart. I’m running out of places to sleep, and to be.

The definition of homeless is we have no home, no place to go. If “I think, therefore I am” is true, we are people who are. We are, and we stand on this ground. If you deny us ground, you are denying us our “I am.” Isn’t that negation of our existence? We are here and we are you and we are yours.

Many of you could be where we are—on the street—but for some simple and not uncommon twist of fate. This is part of your rejection, this fear that it could be you. You deny that reality because it is too horrific to contemplate, therefore you must deny us. And the moneyed reject us because they know they create us, that we are a consequence of their impulse to accumulate more than they need, rooted in a fear of life and the death that comes with it. Nothing good comes of fear, only destruction, and America has become a society of fear, much of that fear cultivated to divide and control.

A few months into homelessness, my feet begin hurting and the bottoms and sides turn red. It’s a deep pain and I don’t know what it is, but it hurts too much to walk normally. Maybe it’s circulation. The pain awakens me in the morning. I buy Neosporin and coat the affected areas every night. Neosporin cures a lot of things! After a week, the redness and pain subside. I stop the Neosporin. A month later, the pain returns. I’ll have to see my internist, who I already owe for unpaid co-pays. I also owe money to the psychiatrist who saved my life and I receive letters at Lane’s parents’ house, where I get my mail, from his office manager. I’ve known my doctor since 1997. If I lose him, I will be in a bad spot, because he is the only one who understands how my unorthodox medication regimen works.

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I move on.

I drive eighteen miles north on Route 1 to South Kingstown. This part of the state is where I grew up and went to college. My parents moved us here from New York City in 1968. It’s pricey now and I struggled to be here when I was supported, but it’s home

My childhood must have looked normal from the outside. I grew up on an island off Newport, a nice place to grow up. Ocean, beach, fishing, woods. Good for an adventurous kid. My mother was a nurse and my father was an engineer and an inventor. He could be abusive. He was abused by his mother when he was a child. I think he resented how my sister and I changed his life, and while he was mechanically brilliant—one of his inventions was advertised during the Super Bowl—he only had empathy for frogs and lizards.

My parents never gave us money, not even when we were kids. The unspoken rule was “Don’t ask.” I began cutting lawns and working on boats very young. Today my mother, and my sister and her family, live in northern Rhode Island. My sister drives a Lexus SUV and owns a house, but she has her own set of challenges. She and I have just begun to see each other for the occasional lunch after years of distance. I don’t want to ask her for anything.

The first night in South Kingstown, we sleep in the town-beach parking lot. It’s an isolated area of Matunuck, a quiet hamlet on the sea. The gravel lot is enveloped in tall hedges and trees. There are no houses in sight, and in all the years I have come here, I have never seen police in the lot.

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It is very dark.

Nobody else is here and the night passes calmly. In the morning, Lily and I spend time on the beach. The day is uneventful, a relief.

That night, I park in the same lot, but farther in, out of sight of anyone who might pull in.

9:00 p.m. I’m writing when a bright light shines from behind and on the left side of my car. I turn and see the searchlight on a police cruiser. An officer walks toward my car. Closing in, he puts his hand on his gun.

I roll down the window. He looks in.

“You can’t be here,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “I will leave.”

“Can I have your phone number?” he says.

“No.”

“It’s just in case if we need to call you.”

“Why would you need to call me? I know it’s legal for you to install tracker software.”

“Okay.”

A second officer appears, leaning toward the window. He’s big and has a shaved head.

He says, “We can cite you for parking here at night. The ordinance allows parking dawn to dusk. You’ll have to go to court and pay a fine. Or you can give us your phone number. That’s a small price to pay, a fair trade.”

Statistics vary by source, but last year there were a record-high 650,100 homeless people in the United States.

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When I was a kid, police officers were our friends. When I was a reporter, they were men who surfed and played in bands when they were younger. They were not out to ruin your day, or your life. They enforced the law with a sound sense of context.

We have never seen police in this lot. Many people stay after dark, in no hurry to leave. Two weeks ago, I was here until 2:00 a.m. talking to Lane. Common sense and courtesy says that if police found people parking after dark, they would simply ask them to leave.

I look at the cop with the shaved head. He actually believes he’s right. How do people get this far apart? We are arguably of the same class and live in the same town. He has no idea my empathy is with him.

I believe they will cite me. I can’t afford to go to court and pay a fine. I give them my phone number.

How did they know I was here?

Lane sometimes gets us a room for a night or two at a chain hotel on Route 1. The last time we did this, I arrived first with Lily on a leash. The looks on the faces of the women behind the desk reminded me I was rough around the edges. I needed a shave and shower. My hair was disheveled. I had been wearing the same clothes for days, living in a car. Every day, dirt and sweat made my clothes baggier. I was wearing a blue hoodie that needed to be washed.

A few nights later, I sleep at the park-and-ride on the highway. At night, coyotes howl in the nearby woods. Semis roar past. Raccoons emerge from the darkness to rifle through the garbage. Lily growls. In the morning, I go to the Mobil across the highway, get coffee, and use the restroom. Finding bathrooms is a never-ending quest.

The park-and-ride can be a despairing place. It sits next to a stoplight, and cars accelerate at unnecessary rates when the light turns green, blasting aggression out dual exhaust pipes. I witnessed an opiate overdose, a man sprawled on his back unresponsive who was saved by two doses of Narcan. The ground is littered with trash, beer cans and cups, discarded food, and full garbage bags that have been dumped. It pains me to walk a dignified dog here.

The woods adjacent to the park-and-ride are nice. There are paths back there that Lily likes to walk, sniffing out the rabbits and deer, raccoons and coyotes. Sometimes she tracks down a rabbit and it bolts. Once I went back there to relieve myself and was startled by a flock of turkeys that I surprised. They yelled at me and stood their ground, a giant tom staring with his beautiful tail feathers fanned open.

In the morning, the panhandlers arrive in a green dual-cab pickup. It has a Connecticut license plate. They work during the day, standing on a median, showing cardboard signs to drivers stopped at the traffic light on the road that connects to the highway.

“Homeless. Anything helps. Thank you.”

Their clothes are worn and dirty, and so are their faces. They do not smile. Their speech is profane. They walk between stopped cars staring at people with menacing eyes, as if they’re trying to scare them out of their money. They must have some success, because they always come back.

Sometimes they spend the night and sleep sitting upright in their truck, which runs poorly and is loud. The driver is the leader of the operation. He’s an older man with long blondish-white hair who never looks anyone in the eye. He never panhandles. He rarely gets out of the truck. They defer to him. Lane and I joke that they are the panhandler mafia.

One morning, I’m at the park-and-ride and writing. The sun is bright and it’s a warm day for February. I hang my black rain jacket in the window to block the sun from shining on the computer screen. I hear a loud voice outside the window. I turn and see a cop.

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“Roll down the window,” he says authoritatively and impatiently. He’s a muscular guy.

I throw a hat over the beer by my side. I roll down the window.

“What are you doing?” he says.

“Writing a novel.”

He’s thrown.

I say, “My name is Patrick Fealey. I’ve lived here fifty years. I was a reporter for The Narragansett Times. I am homeless.”

“You’re staying here?”

“Yes.”

“It’s my job to know who’s here and what’s going on. Can I have your license?”

I give it to him. I wait, hoping he won’t tell me to leave. This spot has been all right and I don’t know where I’d go.

The cop returns with another cop. He hands me my license.

“Are you on assistance?” says the second cop, a young balding blond with a pleasant face.

“I just applied for Medicaid.”

“Have you tried the Welcome House?”

“I take showers there.”

“Have you tried Tri-County?”

“No. What is it?”

“They can help you with food and other things.”

These officers are trying to help. They don’t tell me to leave.

The 2013 Corolla has been reliable since Fealey bought it in 2019.

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I call Tri-County to ask what assistance is available for the homeless. After navigating its extensive employee roster, I am able to leave a voicemail message. A woman calls back and says she can’t help, but will give my name to a woman who can. She calls soon after, speaks to me in an indifferent, lecturing voice. She rattles off the programs I don’t qualify for because I don’t have a dwelling before finally saying I can get food at its pantry. She mentions canned goods and other foods I can’t prepare. That’s it. I don’t go because driving there would use more gas than it’s worth.

It’s becoming clear how little help there is for the homeless. Here’s how things look from my car: Assistance doesn’t reach low enough. The social-services net is wide and catches many, but not the person living on the street. I asked the Warm Center, which specifically addresses homelessness, for ten dollars a day to help pay for the gasoline that keeps us alive and they responded with a hard silence.

We are all alone out here.

Back at the park-and-ride in South Kingstown. One night, a panhandler climbs out of the back of the truck. He zips up his fly. A woman comes out behind him. A prostitute? In the morning, she hangs around for a while.

She returns three days later.

She’s a faded beauty. Some wrinkles, a distraught expression, a great body in blue jeans. I recognize her. From where? When? I think about her. About noon, it comes to me. She lived across the hall from me in a Newport boarding house in the early 2000s. She was intelligent and soft-spoken, kept to herself, was a good neighbor until she met a woman. The two embarked on a romantic relationship. The woman moved in. Taller and weightier, the woman was an extrovert who tried to assert dominance in conversation.

Fealey can’t imagine moving away from the local beaches.

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They fought. Bad fights. One night, I heard a body slammed into the wall. Screaming, running, the body slammed into the wall again. I opened my door. There was blood on the floor outside their door. The fight went on. One was beating the hell out of the other. I called police. The police arrived and broke it up. They were evicted.

Years later, I was at a soup kitchen when a woman accosted me. It was the bigger woman.

Now my old neighbor is in this park-and-ride with the panhandlers. How did she hook up with them? Where does she live? Does she recognize me? But she is not the same. She sits in the truck all day, nodding. When she comes out, her head is down and she moves slowly. She has a habit.

It’s Monday, February 19. I have $20 to make it to the end of the month. It’s a leap year, too. An oil change, paid for in cash, wiped me out. Lane said she can help on Thursday, when she gets paid.

The minimum I need for a day is $20. I pay for coffee and food with my supplemental nutrition card—food stamps. I receive $160 a month. It was more when I wasn’t homeless and was paying rent. Lily has plenty of Blue chicken-and-rice dog food and we have a gallon of spring water. I have enough peanut butter and jam. But gas and beer are everyday expenses. I’ve needed to run the engine for heat. The $20 will go toward gas. But the gas will not last until Thursday. I will run the car as little as possible. I will go to sleep without heat, under the blanket. We will not be driving anywhere. No beach for the next two days. I will go without beer. I will withdraw, experience agitation and depression, sweat and shake.

Time for a PB&J.

I finally meet with the housing coordinator at the Warm Center. She is an older woman, her long gray hair braided on one side. She speaks softly and slowly but is alert and present. She signs me up with a state program for emergency housing. Receiving this help depends upon the availability of housing vouchers, and at the moment there are none. I heard there were no hotel vouchers for the entire winter when I called the state a couple months earlier. There are more than two thousand homeless people in this small state, a number that has more than doubled since 2020.

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She and I discuss the affordable housing I will be applying for. She asks what areas of the state interest me. I mention towns, all in southern Rhode Island. She asks if I’m willing to live in Providence. She advises I apply to as many places as possible throughout the state to enhance my chances. I don’t tell her I will not do this, will not live in an urban setting, will not walk down some streets. I’ve been attacked on the street, and I am wary. It’s a visceral response, a survival mechanism, not an idea. I never felt it before. Also, Lily and I have a life here in southern Rhode Island and the beach is integral to it.

There are more than two thousand homeless people in Rhode Island, a number that has more than doubled since 2020.

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She gives me a booklet listing the housing by city and town, with phone numbers. My job is to call and request applications. She tells me I will be waiting years, though I might be able to get into one place in Westerly in just over a year. She says the Warm Center “might” be able to help me with the first month’s rent and deposit, which would be $640.

I say, “If there is any financial assistance available for food and gas through Warm Center, I’m in a tough spot and could use the help.”

She doesn’t look up and says nothing.

There is not.

I leave the Warm Center with little more than the booklet listing the housing, something I could have gotten from the state. I’ll be calling the housing places, asking for applications, filling them out, mailing them back, and waiting years to hear back.

And can I truly afford to live in affordable housing? Based on my past experience, rent is about one third of your income. My SSDI is $960. Paying $320 a month in rent, I would be left with $640 to live on. I would have to get a job, maybe at a gas station, a job I might be able to handle. Out of every $100 I made at this job, the housing authority might take $33. If I’m paid minimum wage, $14 an hour, I might only keep about $9. To make up for the original $320 subtracted from my $960, I’d have to work about thirty-six hours. Nine hours a week doesn’t sound like much, but I know that I would struggle to perform the job well enough to retain employment. And then I’d have no more money than I have now, and I’m not making it. I’d have to work more hours for what amounts to $9 an hour. But I can’t work many more hours without jeopardizing my SSDI. How many other people are in this position, too ill and poor to afford affordable housing?

And too poor to be homeless?

It’s May 8 and pouring rain at the park-and-ride. I’m writing and the raincoat I put in the window to block the sun earlier is soaked and dripping into the car, onto my arm and mouse pad.

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I’m hit by a lower-bowel emergency.

I grab the toilet paper and hurry into the woods where the turkeys and coyotes live. I find a spot under an overhanging shrub, as out of the rain as I can get, pull down my corduroys, and go. Squatting, waiting, the primitivism comes over me with the rain. I’m saturated by the absurdity of this twenty-first-century moment.

What comes to mind?

Luciano Pavarotti.

Foxwoods, 1994. At the sublime power of his performance, my eyes welled with tears of joy. God makes his presence known in some men, and I was in wonder at the mystery of him. I saw and heard him sing from twenty feet away. The more I studied him in those moments and the more I read about him, I sensed something troubled him, that he lived in conflict between the public image his handlers chose, the happy family man who enjoyed pasta, and who he truly was. He was caught in a commercial whitewash that didn’t allow for the man. I wrote this. The general manager of the Metropolitan Opera sent the piece I wrote for the Southern Rhode Island Newspapers to Pavarotti himself, who wrote to me to say, “Great job” in Italian.

In the woods I think of the red velvet and gold in the Met in New York when I later attended Puccini’s Turandot and witnessed its moving aria “Nessun Dorma.”

I never sleep. But I am not alone.

Lane has a gallery opening in Newport tomorrow night. The Spring Bull Gallery is well established yet open to the avant-garde and exhibits many styles. This exhibition is abstract art.

Lane will cut my hair at the beach. I will shower and shave at the Welcome House and put on my best clothes, beige corduroys and a white button-down dress shirt. Lane left the hotel job. It was making her sick and she was getting nowhere financially. She has no resources at the moment, but has taken a leap of faith, has the courage to do what she was born to do. I believe in her and her work, an advancement on the abstract expressionists, employing their spontaneous subconscious methods but often fulfilling Pablo Picasso’s insistence that a painting include an image we recognize from life, however deformed or abstracted.

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And here is the weird dichotomy in our lives: A few nights after the triumphant opening, Lane downloads the DoorDash app and we set out to make some money. We work from 6:00 p.m. to 9:30 p.m., through dinnertime. We receive no cash tips. Everyone makes their tip on the app when they place their order. They don’t have to face us. Tips are one dollar to two dollars. Three fourths of the people ask for their food to be left by the front door. We make twenty-seven dollars. DoorDash made billions in the first six months of this year.

Our last drop is at a house near the beach. Some college kids are having a party. Their cars in the driveway are new, nice, and expensive—a Jeep, an Audi, reflecting how college tuitions have risen beyond the means of those like myself at that age. Lane is carrying an order to the door; a kid comes out and dismissively grabs the bag of Mexican food from her. It is a trigger for me. Darkness moves in. Lane and I are more than twice his age, have lived accomplished lives, and to an inexperienced kid whose parents are buying that food, we are invisible.

In the morning, I have a message from my sister. I had asked her if I could borrow money to fix the car. I wasn’t optimistic. She said money was tight, but she would see what she could do and she would ask my mother for help.

Suicidal ideations break through. I see myself on the bridge. I’m afraid. Sometimes suicide looks like the best idea. But this time, it’s not good. It’s no inspiring cure but a pathetic out. My senses are acute. I recoil at the sounds of drivers flooring the gas at the light. The aggression translated through machines kicks me into a tailspin. What the hell is wrong with these people? They’re cornered and desperate. They may not be conscious of it, but they feel it. I take extra Depakote, a mood stabilizer that will hit my brain like a sun-shower, and lie motionless in the dark. Will misdirected anger ever stop? They take it out on themselves, on each other, when the problem is the predators and the politicians who enabled them to suck most of the wealth out of the common economy.

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Later that night, Lane comes to the park-and-ride after work. I rarely go to her house. Her father and I don’t get along.

Lane is exhausted.

I’m in Mobil when I see a page-one story on the homeless in The Providence Journal.

I pick it up and read.

A small group of homeless people have been living in tents on vacant public property. Residents in the nearby neighborhood have been complaining. They must be “concerned.” The article says that the mayor’s policy is to “break up every encampment that forms.” One of the homeless interviewed said she doesn’t know where she will go.

I awake in the dark. Check the clock. 3:18 a.m.

A car drives up on the road adjacent to the park-and-ride lot. A man gets out the passenger side. A hitchhiker? He isn’t a commuter or student. He stands on the grass between the road and the lot, the lights on the highway silhouetting a man with a shaved head holding a small bag dangling by a cord. The bag is cinched at the top and just big enough to hold a pair of pants and a shirt.

I think, Vagabond. A transient on the move.

I find my cigarettes and light one. I look out the window and the man is gone. Maybe he has walked up the road and is concealed by the trees in the middle of the lot.

I have to take a leak. I get out of the car, walk around the front, and head for the woods. I usually piss somewhere in the lot, like a lot of people, but the last time I did, at 2:00 a.m., an unmarked police SUV blasted into the lot and did a hard brake beside me just after I put my gear in my pants.

I am just about to the woods when Lily lets out a loud bark like I’ve never heard: “Woof-YEHHP!!” I am a little annoyed at what I think is her separation anxiety, so I turn and say, “Lily!” And coming straight at me, ten feet away, is the man with the shaved head. He has been behind me, silently walking toward me at a pace faster than I am walking. That chill people talk about, when the hair on the back of your neck stands up—it is real for me in that moment.

He sees me see him.

I cut for the car. He passes close on my right, agile and strong looking, and says, “Hey,” like it was just another sunny day in the city.

I say, “Hi,” like all is well. He is white, about thirty, five-foot-eight, wearing jeans, neat and clean.

I look back to see him turn right toward the watchtower.

I get in the car and lock the doors. “Good girl,” I tell Lily. “Good girl.”

The significance of what has just happened reveals itself. No one walks that close to someone in a large area and in the dark without making a sound. And how did he get so close so fast? He was not present when I got out of my car. If he was behind the trees, he had to hustle to get that close. A chilling realization: He was not holding the bag as he had been, hanging down by the cord. He was holding it at his midriff, the free cord in his hand. He was going to strangle me from behind with the cord. He didn’t want a fight. He wanted to get rid of me in a sneak attack and take my stuff.

A dog left to die in a vacant lot a thousand miles from here, the companion who’s been by my side for four years, has just saved my life.

This content is imported from OpenWeb. You may be able to find the same content in another format, or you may be able to find more information, at their web site.

[general-kalani]

New commission post, this time gifs! Prices can be negotiated but I'm thinking temporarily $5/two gifs.

Icon commission post here, Dinosaur gif commission post here, Writing commission post here, TWD commission post here

Can be in AUD or USD but if you want to negotiate with any of the options below, lmk! Paypal here and Ko-Fi here

This is an ever growing list and if you ask for a specific movie/show/game/etc I'll do my best to get my hands on it.

Options under cut for what can be chosen:

ANCIENT ANIMALS

Dinosaur (2000)

The Land Before Time (1988 movie)

Walking with Monsters

Walking with Dinosaurs

Walking with Beasts

Walking with Cavemen

Walking with Dinosaurs special - Ballad of Big Al

Chased by Dinosaurs (episodes 1 & 2)

Sea Monsters (episodes 1, 2 & 3)

Prehistoric Planet

Planet Dinosaur

Dinosaur Planet

Primeval

Prehistoric Park

MOVIES

The Hunt for Red October

The Mist

Alien Planet

Dog Soldiers

Dragonlance Dragons of Autumn Twilight

The Last Voyage of the Demeter

Wing Commander (1999 movie)

SHOWS

Babylon 5

Battletech Cartoon

Bitten

D&D Cartoon

Stargate SG-1

Transformers: Beast Machines

Transformers: Beast Wars

Transformers G1

Transformers the Movie

Transformers Prime

Voltron Vehicle Force

Vox Machina (season 1 only atm)

ANIME - LEIJIVERSE

Cosmo Warrior Zero

Galaxy Express

Gun Frontier

Harlock Saga - The Ring of the Nibelung

Interstellar 5555

Queen Emeraldas

Queen Millennia (might not be high quality)

Space Pirate Captain Harlock

Space Pirate Captain Herlock: Outside Legend - The Endless Odyssey

SSX Endless Orbit

Arcadia of my Youth

Space Pirate Captain Harlock (2013 movie)

Space Pirate Captain Harlock: Riddle of the Arcadia

ANIME - IRRESPONSIBLE CAPTAIN TYLOR

Irresponsible Captain Tylor TV series

Irresponsible Captain Tylor OVA series

ANIME - LEGEND OF THE GALACTIC HEROES (original series only)

Legend of the Galactic Heroes series

Legend of the Galactic Heroes - Golden Wings

Legend of the Galactic Heroes - My Conquest is the Sea of Stars

Legend of the Galactic Heroes - Overture to a New War

Legend of the Galactic Heroes Gaiden

ANIME - MACROSS

Macross 7

Macross Delta

Macross Frontier

Macross Plus

Macross Zero

Robotech

SDF Macross

ANIME - REVOLUTIONARY GIRL UTENA

Revolutionary Girl Utena tv series

Revolutionary Girl Utena movie

ANIME - SPACE BATTLESHIP YAMATO/STAR BLAZERS (original series and reboot)

Space Battleship Yamato 2199 (Reboot)

Space Battleship Yamato 2199 - Odyssey of the Celestial Ark

Space Battleship Yamato 2202 (Reboot)

Space Battleship Yamato 2205 (Reboot)

Space Battleship Yamato I (OS)

Space Battleship Yamato II (OS)

Space Battleship Yamato III (OS)

Arrivederci Yamato

Be Forever Yamato

Final Yamato

Space Battleship Yamato (2013 movie)

Uchuu Senkan Yamato (1977 recap movie)

Yamato - The New Voyage

Yamato: Resurrection

GAMES - FAR CRY (only games I own, sorry!)

Far Cry 3 (Can be modded for Jason in Vaas' place)

Far Cry 4 (Can be modded for Sabal and Pagan to switch places)

Far Cry 5 (Can be heavily modded)

Far Cry: New Dawn

Far Cry 6

GAMES - STAR WARS

KOTOR (I and II)

SWTOR

Star Wars: The Force Unleased (I and II)

Star Wars: Rebellion

Star Wars: Republic Commando

Star Wars: Starfighter

Star Wars: Battlefront 2 (Classic)

Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order

Star Wars: Jedi Knight series (Dark Forces I and II, Mysteries of the Sith, Jedi Academy, Jedi Outcast)

GAMES - BORDERLANDS

Borderlands (GOTY and GOTY Enhanced)

Borderlands the Pre-Sequel

Borderlands 2

Borderlands 3

Tiny Tina's Wonderlands

GAMES - MISCELLANEOUS

Aliens: Colonial Marines

Command and Conquer: Red Alert 3

Dead Island (Definitive Edition, can be modded to get rid of lens flares and more)

Dead Island Riptide (Definitive Edition)

Generation Zero

Left 4 Dead 2

Iron Harvest

Sins of a Solar Empire: Rebellion (Can be specific matches, races, etc)

State of Decay (I and II)

Strange Brigade

[lowcountry-gothic]

Maritime forest trail in Hunting Island State Park, Hunting Island, South Carolina. Photo by Giedrius Kartanovic.

[multi-fandomdisaster]

✨Intro Post✨

(Post last updated on January 17, 2025)

Hello! You can call me Disaster, Multi, or Joey! I mostly ramble about whatever's on my mind, and I do enjoy getting into a bit of multi-fandom chaos from time to time!

Pronouns: Any! (Feel free to get creative!)

Nationality: United States of America 🇺🇸

Age: Minor (so don't get weird-)

Current Hyperfixation(s): Theme Parks/Hatchetfield/Starship

Tags I'll be using, fandoms I'm in, & rp blogs I run can be found under the cut!

Textposts: #Disaster rambles

Answering asks: #Disaster answers

Reblogs: #Disaster reblogs

Vent posts: #Disaster rants

Kings Island lore posts: #kings island lore

Link to Kings Island lore masterpost -> X

(It should be noted that I also post lore for other parks, namely Alton Towers and Cedar Point, it's just that Kings Island will be the park I post about the most since it's my home park. All of my park lore posts regardless of what park I'm writing about can be found under the tag #theme park lore)

OCs: #Disaster's OCs

OC/Character introductions: #OC intros

Info on the universe in which my theme park OCs reside: #Parkverse

The fandoms which I've currently posted in are listed below (this list will expand over time; believe me when is say that this is NOT a full list of the fandoms I'm in lol):

Theme Parks/Roller Coasters

Kings Island

Alton Towers

Holiday World

Cedar Point

SeaWorld Orlando

Busch Gardens Tampa

Universal Studios Orlando

Walt Disney World

Team Fortress 2

Disney

Disney Parks

Journey Into Imagination

Haunted Mansion

Starkid

Hatchetfield

Starship

Trail to Oregon

Firebringer

A Very Potter Musical

VHS Christmas Carol

Cinderella's Castle

Spider-Man

Gravity Falls

Beetlejuice (movie/animated series/musical)

Sonic the Hedgehog

Tin Can Bros

Solve It Squad

Spies are Forever

Feel free to ask me if I'm in any fandom & I'll let you know (especially considering that this list doesn't even BEGIN to cover it lmao)! In fact, feel free to ask me anything if you want! I'm usually happy to talk!

Even though I have posted stuff boosting fundraisers in the past, I'd like to ask that you please don't send me any asks trying to get me to donate to anything. I'm a minor, I don't trust people online, and frankly it makes me really uncomfortable. 😅

If you wanna be mutuals, let me know! I'm terrible with following people back (or following people in general-), so I'll hardly ever instigate that myself out of forgetfulness, but I do love making friends!

Hatchetfield Ask Blogs:

Ted in the Bastard's Box -> @stuck-in-the-box

Space Bastard AU!Peter Spankoffski -> @spankoffskithroughspace

Into the White AU!Wiggly -> @wigglyinthewhite

TGWKLM AU -> @sing-to-survive

Mason Hunt (Nibbly Devotee OC) -> @m4s0n-n1bbl3s

Paul 69 (Paul Clone OC) -> @matthews-69

I hope you have a great day!!!

[pamwmsn]

📷: pamwmsn.tumblr.com

Hunting Island Lighthouse🇺🇸

[jackalopegirlantlers]

happy world orca day !!

top two photos: t73c, t73c1, and t73c2. the latter is an as of yet unknown calf, and i encountered them 7/4/23 at deishú áak'w (false outer point, alaska) while they hunted a steller sea lion that hid beneath our boat!

third photo: ag8 "new moon," ag18 "cookie cutter," and ag25 "berg." i saw them at asx̱'ée (eagle beach state park, alaska) on 5/22/23 with other members of the alaska resident ag pod

fourth photo: t68a. i saw him, his mom t68, his sister t68c, and his niece t68c1 today (!!) 7/14/23 at weineidi aan (youngs bay, alaska)

bottom photo: t63 "chainsaw." i saw him and his mom t65 "whidbey ii" today (!!) 7/14/23 at kichx̱áak' tuḵyee (south shelter island, alaska)

[glowing-disciple]

Reading List - 2025

Currently Reading:

Adventures in Cryptozoology Vol. 1 by Richard Freeman

Digital Logic and State Machine Design by David J. Comer

Books Read:

Gods and Myths of Ancient Egypt by Robert A. Armour

Leonard McCoy: Frontier Doctor

Future Reading:

All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren

Always Running by Luis J. Rodriguez

Ancient Mysteries, Modern Visions by Philip S. Callahan

Anne of Green Bagels by Susan Schade and Jon Buller

Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery

The Anti-Mary Exposed by Carrie Gress

The Arm of the Starfish by Madeleine L'Engle

The Art Nouveau Style by Stephan Tschudi Madsen

As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

Beezus and Ramona by Beverly Clearly

Black Beauty by Anna Sewell

The Blade Itself by Joe Ambercrombie

The Book of Dragons by Edith Nesbit

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Carmilla by Josphen Sheridan Le Fanu

The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger

Champions of the Rosary by Donald H. Calloway

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

The Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft

Cranfod by Elizabeth Gaskell

Cubism by Guillaume Apollinaire

Dancing with Siva by Sivaya Subramuniyaswami

Dark Journey Deep Grace by Roy Ratcliff

Dear Mr. Henshaw by Beverly Cleary

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver

The Dialogue of St Catherine of Siena by St. Catherine

Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card

Equal Rites by Terry Pratchett

Evolution by Nowell Stebbing

Expressionism by Ashley Bassie

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods by Hal Johnson

Found in a Bookshop by Stephanie Butland

Frankenstein by Mary Shelly

Freaks on the Fells by R. M. Ballantyne

Freckles by Gene Stratton-Porter

Fundamentals of Character Design by Various Authors

A Girl of the Limberlost by Gene Stratton-Porter

Good Hunting by Theodore Roosevelt

Graceling by Kristin Cashore

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha by Miquel de Cervantes Saavedra

Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones

Humorous Ghost Stories by Various Authors

I, Robot by Isaac Asimov

Illuminated Manuscripts by Tamara Woronowa

The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis

The Intellectual Life: Its Spirit, Conditions, Methods by Fr. A. G. Sertillanges

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

The Javelin Program by Derin Edala

Joan Miro by Joan Miro

The Jungle by Upton Sinclair

Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton

The Life of St Catherine of Siena by Blessed Raymond of Capua

Light of the Western Stars by Zane Grey

Living by the Sword by Eric Demski

The Longest Cocktail Party by Richard DiLello

Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell

Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis

Middlemarch by George Eliot

My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

North and South by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

Orlando by Virginia Woolf

Otis Spofford by Beverly Clearly

Pat of Silver Bush by L. M. Montgomery

Peter and Wendy by J. M. Barrie

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster

Return of the Thief by Megan Turner

The Secret of the Rosary by St. Louis de Montfort

The Shining by Stephen King

Show Me God by Fred Heeren

The Silmarillion by J R R Tolkien

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

Strange Love by Ann Aguirre

The Story of a Soul by St. Therese of Liseux

The River by Gary Paulsen

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte

Things My Son Needs to Know About the World by Fredrik Backman

The Third Man Factor by John Geiger

Till We Have Faces by C. S. Lewis

The Time Machine by H. G. Wells

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

Villette by Charlotte Bronte

Walking Practice by Dolki Min

The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells

We Are Where the Nightmares Go and Other Stories by C. Robert Cargill

The Weiser Field Guide to Cryptozoology by Deena West Budd

The White Mountains by John Christopher

Whose Body? by Dorothy L. Sayers

Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell

[polyphonical]

Red Hot Island - Chapter 7

[ View on site for better experience♪ ]

Location: Aquaria Park (Slides)

<Afternoon. The event has started>

Chiaki: ARE YOU READY TO FIND THIS TREASUREEEEEEEE!?

Leo: YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

Chiaki: DO YOU WANT TO GO TO NEW YOOOOOOORK!?

Leo: YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

Chiaki: If you win, you’re in heaven! If you lose, you’ll go to hell! It’s time to raise our strength, intelligence, stamina, and luck!

Eichi: Shut up, both of you. You’re too loud. You don’t have to raise the tension every single time.

Kaoru: And, what’d you mean by New York……?

Chiaki: AHAHAH ☆ I was so excited, I ended up referencing The Trans America U*tra Quiz [1]!

Eichi: Anyways. Back to the subject at hand. Let’s review the rules again for the sake of clarity.

Teams are made up of pairs of two. That means that Chiaki will be with me, and Hakaze will be with Tsukinaga-kun.

The rules say that somewhere hidden in the pool area is the pirate’s treasure. Each team has been given a treasure map, correct?

Participants will have to solve riddles found around the map at random. There, they will end up at the hidden treasure.

The time limit is one hour. Once the hour is over, or if the treasure is found, the Adventurers Guild―― That is, the resort―― will call the teams together.

The rules state you have to take the treasure there and have the Guild assess whether or not it’s the actual treasure that the pirates left behind.

Well, setting aside, the game is basically focused on orienteering [2]. That’s all. So, is everyone prepared?

Chiaki: Yes! I’ve been ready to go at any time ☆

Kaoru: I’m also good. Then, Tsukinaga-kun, shall we go find the treasure?

Leo: Yup! Alright then, bye bye~♪

Eichi: Alright then. I think it’s time for us to start treasure hunting as well, Chiaki.

Chiaki: Okay umm. Opening the map…

The first question says... “Three slender tall people, all with hands full of children. What is this?” Hm, why does it sound more like a riddle than a code?

Eichi: Well, it’s to be expected, isn’t it? This is a family friendly waterslide event.

The main goal was to create something that children can enjoy. If the children are happy, the parents are also happy. That’s what a family-oriented business is all about.

Chiaki: Ahh. That’s something I can understand. Tokusatsu is pretty much the same way. A lot of cast members are chosen with the mothers in mind, and a lot of the toys can even be enjoyed by adults too.

Hmm…… Now I’m wondering if it’s okay for us to do our best at this… Won’t we be pushing aside the children who want to find the treasure too?

We even said we were going to get first place when the event started…

Eichi: Ah, yes, you don’t have to worry about that. It’d be unfair if adults and children had the same riddles.

The difficulty changes during the middle of the game depending on if you’re an adult or a child. There is also a second treasure just for the kids too.

Chiaki: Really? That makes me feel better! Then, we can definitely give it our all!

Hmm… Tall people with hands full of children… I still don’t know what this means.

Eichi: ………

I think it’s those 3 palm trees over there. Look, the way the coconuts are placed by the leaves. Doesn’t it look like the palm trees are holding children?

Chiaki: ! Ohh, I see! I can totally see what you mean! Then, let’s go to those palm trees!

Location: Aquaria Park (Cove)

Chiaki: We came here pretty quickly, but from here I don’t see anything… What about you, Tenshouin?

Eichi: …… Hm? Hey, isn’t this it Chiaki?

Chiaki: Yeah? What is it?

Ah. This tree… Well, there’s definitely hiragana written at the base of it isn’t here…?

Um…… “Oatsua”? What is that? This list just looks like a bunch of scrambled up hiragana…

Eichi: ………

Could I see the map please? … Hmm, the second question says “Atage” and there’s a picture of a strawberry next to it.

If we look at this like a cipher, we can solve it by shifting down a syllable. So, if we shift the letters we have on the palm tree, we’ll get……

Chiaki: ! ―― “Bottom of the ocean!” [3]

That’s definitely that area at the bottom of the waterslide we were at earlier! It was made to look like the bottom of the ocean! Let’s go!

Eichi: Ah, Chiaki!

…Sigh, seriously. He ran way too fast.

Well, I do know that quick to move aspect of Chiaki is one of his virtues.

He’s always made it hard for people to follow his lead ーー Whether it be now or in the past.

────────────────· · · · · ·♡· · · · · · ────────────────

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Chiaki is referencing this gameshow called The Trans America Ultra Quiz. Got no idea what it's about but thanks

If you're like me (has no clue what orienteering is and definitely had to look it up) this is a copy paste definition ! "a competitive sport in which participants find their way to various checkpoints across rough country with the aid of a map and compass, the winner being the one with the lowest elapsed time."

Omg okay this one was really fun to do I hope you guys can follow along. Okay so look at this chart. So basically, Eichi and Chiaki got the hint that strawberry was equal to "Atage." Strawberry in Japanese is "ichigo." So it's telling you that it's a word scramble and you have to move every letter down by one. A becomes I, TA becomes CHI, and GE becomes GO. This means that the cypher they got, Oatsua, has to be solved the same way. O becomes KA, A comes I, TSU becomes TE, and A becomes I. This turns Oatsua into Kaitei, meaning bottom of the ocean !!!

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Smithsonian:

Every summer, millions of Americans flock to the United States’ 63 national parks. Federally protected wilderness areas offer people the chance to explore a wide variety of terrain, from the vibrant canyons of the Southwest to the imposing mountains of the West Coast. Today, these public lands often represent an escape for Americans, 81 percent of whom live in cities. Some may agree with the naturalist John Muir, who believed that “wildness is a necessity” and national parks are “fountains of life.”

When Americans walk through dense forests or descend into gloomy caverns, they might recall explorers of the past who trekked across the country decades before Congress established Yellowstone as the U.S.’s first national park in 1872. Names like Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett and Kit Carson loom large in the popular imagination. But their stories are not the only ones.

For too long, the public and scholars alike have overlooked American adventurers from diverse backgrounds whose discoveries shaped the nation’s history. The time has come to fully recover their stories and acknowledge their important contributions. Doing so will not only correct the historical record but also support contemporary efforts to welcome people of color in national parks. According to National Park Service (NPS) data, 77 percent of park visitors are white, while just 23 percent are racial minorities. (People of color make up around 44 percent of the U.S.’s population.)

From the earliest days of European settlement, when an estimated 5 million to 15 million Indigenous people populated the lands that would one day form the U.S., people of color have been at the forefront of exploration. In 1527, an enslaved African man named Esteban reached North America as part of a Spanish expedition led by the conquistador Pánfilo de Narváez. After stopping on the islands of Hispaniola and Cuba, Narváez and his men landed in present-day Florida to search for gold. They soon became enfeebled by disease, and many perished. Native Americans drove those who survived, including Esteban, to the coast, where they set sail for the Gulf of Mexico.

On May 21, 1804, 45 men led by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark departed from St. Charles, Missouri, on a two-year journey across North America. Hoping to find a water route to the Pacific Ocean, the Corps of Discovery also sought to gather information about the geography, climate, wildlife and Indigenous peoples of the continent. The group’s mission was funded by Congress and supported by President Thomas Jefferson, who had just facilitated the acquisition of Louisiana Territory in 1803.

York, an African American man enslaved by Clark, played an integral role as the only Black member of the corps. An experienced frontiersman, York knew how to forage for edible plants and hunt wild game. Although most enslaved African Americans were forbidden to possess guns at the time, York wielded a firearm throughout his journey. He killed bison and geese, providing sustenance for the entire group.

York also provided medical aid to those suffering from illness. Stricken with what was likely a gastrointestinal infection, Sergeant Charles Floyd became incapacitated just months into the journey. It was York, principally, who tried to revive him, Clark wrote in his journal. When Sacagawea, the Shoshone woman who played a critical role as an interpreter and navigator for the corps, fell ill at Fort Mandan, York gave her stewed fruit and tea at regular intervals.

[thetransitgirl]

The NYC Subway has set an accessibility goal of ensuring that no station is more than two stops away from the nearest accessible station. Seems like a noble goal, but how much of an investment does that actually involve? Let’s take a look at the current gaps in the network.

The 1 train has an eleven-stop gap (Dyckman St to 96 St) and a nine-stop gap (Penn Station to Chambers St). 3 new accessible stations would be needed.

The 3 train has seven non-accessible stations beyond Utica Av; 1 new accessible station would be needed in addition to the planned upgrades at Junius St.

The 4 train has four non-accessible stations beyond Fordham Rd, but this gap will be filled by planned upgrades at Mosholu Pkwy.

The 6 train has an eleven-stop gap (Pelham Bay Park to Hunts Point Av) and a seven-stop gap (Hunts Point Av to 125 St); 2 new accessible stations would be needed.

The 7 train has a six-stop gap (Court Sq to Woodside); 1 new accessible station would be needed. (Upgrading Queensboro Plaza would also fill a gap on the N and W trains.)

The A train has a seven-stop gap (Euclid Av to Lefferts Blvd) that will be filled by planned upgrades at Rockaway Blvd.

The C train has an eight-stop gap (125 St to 59 St) and a seven-stop gap (Utica Av to Euclid Av); 2 new accessible stations would be needed.

The D train has a seven-stop gap (Kingsbridge Rd to Yankee Stadium) and a six-stop gap (Atlantic Av to 62 St); 2 new accessible stations would be needed. (Upgrading 36 St would also fill a gap on the R train.)

The F Train has a twelve-stop gap (Church Av to Coney Island); 1 new accessible station would be needed in addition to the planned upgrades at Kings Hwy.

The G train has an eighteen-stop gap between Jay St MetroTech and Church Av; 3 new accessible stations would be needed. (One of these would also fill a gap on the F train.)

The J train and Z train have a record-holding nineteen-station gap between Flushing Av and Sutphin Blvd. 3 new accessible stations would be needed.

The L train has an eight-station gap (Bedford Av to Myrtle—Wyckoff Avs); 1 new accessible station would be needed.

The M train and R train have two six-station gaps (on either side of Roosevelt Av); 2 new accessible stations would be needed, including the planned upgrades at Woodhaven Blvd.

The N train has a seven-station gap (New Utrecht Av to Coney Island) and an eight-station gap (Astoria Blvd to 57 St); 2 new accessible stations would be needed. (Upgrading Queensboro Plaza would also fill a gap on the 7 train.)

The Q train has a six-station gap (Prospect Park to Avenue H) and a seven-station gap (Kings Hwy to Coney Island) that will be filled respectively by planned upgrades at Church Av and Sheepshead Bay.

The R train has an eight-station gap (Atlantic Av to 59 St); 1 new accessible station would be needed. (Upgrading 36 St would also fill a gap on the D train.)

In total?

The stated goal could be met with 22 new accessible stations beyond what’s already planned. That’d bring the total number of accessible stations on the system from 143 (30% of the system) to 165 (35% of the system).

And that’s not particularly impressive. Ultimately, “no station will be more than two stops away from an accessible station” might sound like a lot but honestly isn’t all that much of an improvement on the status quo. The MTA needs to be held to a higher standard for accessibility.