#i wish they were as sturdy as milk crates...

[pancakeke]

when I was shopping for a carpet shampooer I saw a good number of negative reviews on models of all kinds saying they started to smell after a while.

my friends you must tear these things asunder, rinse the pieces, and allow all parts to dry before putting everything back together for storage.

I don't even bother reassembly until I need to shampoo something again. All the parts go in a plastic crate after I rinse them off so they have lots of air flow to dry completely.

several manufacturers sell rubber mats that fit their carpet cleaners exactly. I wonder if those might give people the false impression that they can just chuck their carpet cleaners on mats and walk away once done shampooing. like, once I take everything apart there's nothing left on the main part of the machine that can drip so what's the point of the mat? I guess if I reassembled it while the parts were wet it could drip, but then it could also mold. idk.

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Nine

To Our Crumbling City:

How many dusks, overtaking dawn, have the drones

littered the skies just as the bodies litter the streets

devoid of human spirit, or the spirit in the machine

wishing to devour everything, but falling short

for its gingivitis and inflamed throat; lacking bite

it only leaks information, devoid of context, its

liberating enslavement, braying Cranes (weathered by time) –

Our crusades of laughter, our vicious joviality

slaughtering each other with mugs. Our curse of skin

sagging into itself as we drink ourselves away. Yet these halls

where we age like wine, slow and souring, the grapes

of wrath now forgotten, our hostility tempered

to a refined weapon which has grown rusted;

– (as all things become) Arrested by its final days...

So we, men loving, loving men, all lay in our residences

with our hands tied, to our legs, to our necks, to our lips

just as we find another place to take the whiskey

as if it were a thicker liquid, as if our essences were honey.

I reminisce on our togetherness, although never separated

we would feel ourselves becoming less of each other

and more automatons in Hephaestus’ pornography collections.

Weeping tears of liquid titanium, our craniums feel the bolts

losing their grips on each other. One by one, we slow ourselves

down to the moments where we forget the tides shifting

and not in our favor, but theirs.

We cannot pretend “All is well” when the negotiations

flat on the table, we lean ourselves against, came from the ones

with the wrench, loosening the screws so the table would fall on us.

We fought and we fought our own memories bitten into the dust.

They taste like blood, they are film reels playing the same things:

Cinemas of grotesques parading as “Just another day”.

Of course, we chose the life of one such gang.

So as to relive the memories, but omitting one key detail

that used to bind us all together:

No fault of ours, but a fault of the years. We once fought our everyday.

We once marched against the ones with their names on the tables.

It is both a great amusement and a bitter taste, then, that we act.

Such bravado for such cowardice. Surprised by our surmise, counteract

our love for men, for the love of death. For us, the muscles, the hair,

the beards and the bears, the shaved and the scarred, the bitten.

The sophist, the self-destructive, the slurred and the articulate.

The tortured and the torturer, the smokers and the freshest of breaths.

Those with supple breasts, milk which tastes like ale, hair like cotton

and when I drink from him he tells me to call him Captain.

We gather together, strangers, lovers, cousins, brothers.

Clergymen of our own blunders. Kissing the winds, each other.

Mistakes are acquaintances, even for the antiquated.

I see us all as the spit we lick from each other, our sweat

against the ceiling fans. Hardened buttocks betray

Sideways glances. All our contributions we owe to open secrets –

– If you listen real close, I’ll tell you:

Cranes are who we are, the ones who rest on the water.

Our necks twisted, faith distorted by the Orphic.

Between corners of each district, I see lights that operate.

“Whatever you wish to see at any given time shall be yours.”

Or so they say, the bastards, so holographic.

So courteous as to lie, as we in wait, because out of all the boasts

of technologies, all that were made were means to enslave.

Weaponry cannot baptise us any more than a plague.

For all the so-called advances, we have yet to find a way

to help each other live.

Cranes gather in an unassuming shack, by an unassuming docks.

Our base of operations. Above ground, by mere inches.

It’s a testament to my flair that I do not protest. For all the talk

of atrocities, what better way to live, than to tear through our insides?

We can change our parts for anyone. Our arms, our hearts

Our genitalia. All belong to us at any time, for the price of many lives.

It’s a testament to my amusement that I have played along so long.

So this tribute is for you, broken city, with your watchful eyes.

No, not you. Your uninhabited towers and your houses of horrors.

Those I care not for. This is a tribute to tributaries.

For the seas and the rivers, the ponds and the lakes, the oceans

which divide us all. We are united in the ways in which the currents

drag us under like a siren hungry for its next lover.

Oh, how I wonder who or what this is all for. For the rapids rest

just outside of the city itself. If we could conquer them, no.

If we could fornicate with them, then we may see passage.

For these many bridges will one day collapse.

Thank you, you foul creature. Just as you have thanked us.

Just as we have thanked each other by shaking hands.

Time and time again, I wish to suck your lips.

Beside your bridge.

Part I: Aloe Vera:

Vive la Karen:

Our old friend Karen came a callin’.

During our raucous rancor, our celebratory crowned affair.

No lordships, bishops, lieges, or bison, could stamp away

at our achievements in blissful ignorance.

But one could, our old friend Karen.

Every night, our home served as a tavern. Us, our own servers.

The disc is somewhere, corrupted and overwritten.

Blame it on our laughter, the lack of slumber, the swayed movements.

We couldn’t hear her until the lights were darkened.

We looked around, there was Karen.

“Your next and only mission is to disband.”

The machine’s grand announcement. No uncertainty present.

The panel on the wall with the eyeball, its ocular malice;

Glazed with its sterile gaze. Never more than what was needed.

Lack of subtlety and an unnecessary cruel mercy.

Karen couldn’t make the intent any more crystalline.

But, she decided to lay frosting on our cakes:

“There will be no funds. No rewards for your troubles.

But if your mission proves to be a success, you will not be shot

to death within a twenty-four hour window.”

We all exchanged expressions meant for lovers or distant relatives.

Straits were dire, and not to mention the famine of straights.

Only one was; he was a pale widow, sunken within a ship in a bottle.

I creaked, my bones atrophied, my cane gifting with splinters.

“You heard it, men. Time to pack it up. Our time has come to an end.”

My cyclical smile unwound back below my nostrils.

Everyone cheered, for the truth was an open secret.

Men between men, that was how it was kept.

We were not leaving each other.

We were leaving the city which made us.

I knew that thoughts and words could be heard

But few doubt the resolute.

Forward March:

Outside, still night. Still as it was eternal.

Our collective thoughts: holding hands.

Beef and chicken alike, in a hot pot

Made to be slurped down. That was us.

At least a hundred of us. Foot out in front.

Leg out in back. Each one making their

forward motions in unison to display our union.

We sang a little ditty, a barrage of showtunes.

Our weapons on our backs. Some of us as

Our own weapons, we guided ourselves.

I was eager, yet wary. Weary for the true outside.

So out of reach, the stars were unfocused.

Students left to their own devices.

Rats with shock collars and curds stuck in fur.

I was an all-out war and I am more.

Streets as empty as the night, Patron Saints of paint.

Nary a drive-by in sight. Pardon the mourning

of bloodshed; city wasn’t alive without someone to die.

On cue, a device to electrocute took a man

I loved so dearly that I only ever kissed his hand.

Nary a tear was shed, for the beast was fed at last.

Hunger was a strange thing, wishing for nothing

to fill up the stomach, but we could speak

of all the things we would eat when we escaped.

If only the fates would stop slurping our eyeballs.

I needed them to see, however myopic of me.

Part II: Bridge Out Ahead:

Approach:

As the steel greeted us with its sturdiness

we shook our heads in disgust, our tastebuds distorted.

Stealth was not an option; grasping at straws, we took aim

and attached our mucus membrane gelatin onto the beams.

Smiles and jeers, no time for cheers. Karens, no, turrets.

Torrent of them took aim without firing.

So we stood, forever lost in the absence of Father Time.

“City limits. Turn back now or be prepared to be shot on sight.”

Karen could be a ferocious one, always wanting to empty

the contents of the device inside of several men at once.

Oh, but such a fulfilling release would lead only to an end.

We would not be deterred, so long as my bones ached.

“Mikey, can you go on?”

“– Babe. I’m Logan.”

Only in the early 30s, already losing to the ravages of age.

Our weapons drawn, we took fire at the turrets named Karen.

They took struck at us. Some fell, some put up electric glass

As a means to protect. What we couldn’t protect was the bridge.

We knew our passage would not be a solid one. Not a stone skipped

but a record without any scratches.

Turrets could be intelligent, even within their torrents.

Aimed at the matter which held firm to the bridge’s limbs

we watched the load get blown. Several pieces, several

men hit in the name of revolution. Their concussion wouldn’t

Be in vain. But our means of escape, we were afraid.

Bridge dissipated, too damaged to be a salamander.

Many remain, yet we had to turn back. We saw

the rustic passage as a golden opportunity.

We walked across our fellow’s remains and back

to the home which we abandoned.

Whatever crustacean in the sky would bless us

I would bless in return; hermits, no more.

“Betty, would you do the honors?”

“What about you, Barry?”

Betty and Barry were the same man. Or the two men

were joined together. Their algae arms pawed at the crate

which kept hidden until the very day. I came up

With the idea, myself. I wanted to kiss Betty and Barry.

Betty and Barry were both men, men I could sail with.

Under the crate was our lever, our lover. Such a promise

In the form of a warm and hardened stick.

It had to be kept warm at all times, someone crawling

toward it in secrecy. The lever was powered by our

Equilibrium, no, our affectionate friction.

Part III: Ship of Relations:

Theseus:

Every day since our inception, we supplied ourselves.

Our end was always approaching, and Karen knew it.

Each month after shipment, we took boards.

Our hands were full, planks drawn, quartered. Flanked.

So on that night, or day, we finally deployed.

To test if it would float or sink. Fine testing, it was.

Fine men, we are. Fine enough to squeeze. Like mustard.

No, mayonnaise on a desert day.

Ship did float, and so we installed light

on our boots, so we could walk above water.

Perform miracles, if only for a few seconds.

Then, we watched the docks get shot down.

Karen was a diligent one. If only Karen was a man.

If I could hold a machine like men held me.

Like I’m a baby, and mother brought meat.

Baby Harold, waddling. But this baby was a button:

If I had twenty more years to get my youth back

Then I wouldn’t be so elderly. But in the 30s, you know.

Third decade brought booze and misery.

Booze could serve as a playground, or a death sentence.

One of my men had to help me aboard.

Soon, I and them, all on deck. Out with the city, in

With the forewarning breeze. Passionless in its stirring.

The wind would have to guide us.

My compass was too fogged by malicious software.

Incontinent:

Did we have food?

Yes, we had/have food.

It has expired, it has grown molded.

It tastes of our favourite bourbon.

It smells like a familiar flatulence.

It is food.

Did we have a map?

Yes, it told us where to love and how often.

There were sticks and stones.

In due time, we would break each other’s bones.

Then seal the deal and murder with words.

Later into the night, we would bring a kiss.

Did we have cabins? Yes, just as we had means to sleep.

In each room weren’t beds, but we would keep

Each other warm in each other’s arms.

The body heat would be our thermostat.

The mast had a glow to it.

Did the ship move?

Just as it sails, a ship moves.

There is a wheel, it goes unused.

We move it to get the experience.

It reminds us to spin.

The ship itself, sails itself.

Automation is our lifeblood.

We designed our ship to forego hesitation.

Part IV: To Cutlery Sharks:

Cutlery Shark:

Waters blackened by the murky chemical invasion.

So long past, we almost think to drink it.

Instead, fresh men take purifying solutions within

the laboratories of the chemistry quarters.

I took a look and took a drink.

I became drunk off of it.

Some of us made the mistake of drinking

from the waters we sailed on; sickness set in.

Stumbled overboard, devoured by the sharks

with teeth made of cutlery.

It bit into our planks and turned some of us to rust.

We shot at the shark, but the creature split

into a husk of tapeworms with acidic spit.

I prayed for our continued passage and what answered:

Explosion! One man, a burly burlesque dancer

threw a brigade of explosives into the water.

The tides themselves roared and the tapeworms no more.

In our stead, a whirlpool and the seas quivering.

Skies above rained down cutlery. Messengers from the gods.

From the whirlpool, we washed our clothing.

I went first, taking a drink, then pouring the soap.

Our clothes fished, a mildew scent perforated

And left an imprint. Damp and musty, we lost nakedness.

I drank to that, as did all the rest.

Ol’ Phil Howards:

Phillip Howards was a man, or a shrew.

Hated men, or hated himself as an extension.

Hated me, but valued our friendship.

I loved the way he loved the fetal position.

Always did think of it as poetic.

Smooth sailing so far, I descended.

Down the hatch of madness.

Where in his private cabin, he was crouched.

In the far corners was his whispers.

He always said things not pale didn’t bode well.

I laugh because he was paler than the ghost of my mother.

Bless that woman’s heart, she raised a loving man.

Me, I was wrinkled more than my grandmother;

When I last saw her was on her deathbed. But I digress.

He always talked like he had one foot in the grave

while hoping others would go in instead.

I ask why he cower. His teeth chatters. He speaks in whispers:

“I’ve seen colours, more than black, more than deep purple.

There is smoke on the water and it signifies danger.

We shouldn’t undergo such a folly.

For I’ve seen colours, more than neon, but something brighter.”

“They haunt my dreams, the seas, they speak.

Though I do not understand their language, I know malice.

There is a healing intent, that I do see. The seas sing to me.

But they are not Siren’s Songs, but signs of foreboding.

What we sail will not cleanse our bodies.”

I laugh because he didn’t understand. He doesn’t wish to.

“If there can be any freedom for my men, any indication

that we can live within each other, and outside, that is enough.”

Although we both were former clergy, we resigned;

His distaste for others, yet belief that no one deserves healing.

Me, I loved men a little too freely.

He spoke again, eyes sunken, his face a full 180:

“There is a beast in the sea. The church spoke of one.

Which would heal any who dared enter.

But I am not ready to be healed by it.

I would rather stay inside, plead ignorance to the outside.

Know this: we know nothing. We will soon.”

I took a drink. Truer words never spoken.

The sea was a harsh mistress who seldom display her phallus.

Before I may part, he said one last thing:

“Friend, I am concerned about your drinking.

You appear in poor health.”

Part V: To Virginia:

First Sights:

As the cutlery sharks pacified, back into the depths

Whence, I too, descended. Only for one more sip.

Sips turn into a chug, which turn into grey hairs.

Hairs upon dogs I wish I had brought along, if only to keep warm.

Up above, breeze of the sea poured salt into me.

That was how I came to see the sights of the city:

We passed by endless roads of nothingness, always paved.

By the wayside were the routine machines paving their ways.

Little cars which drove themselves, express purpose of open flame.

And beside them, the skyscrapers, all plain and never-ending.

So too I, my whole face agape, will we ever find sanctuary?

Past the gangs, past each base, I wanted to know

what was past it all.

All our gazes, mine especially, shifted to the forests.

Those haunting woods with their shrill howls abound.

Those hounds which surely lurk, stalk, prey for me.

As I should pray for them, if my hands weren’t for drinking.

Those thickets and bushes, rustling of leaves from them trees.

I believe I could see shadows from the plants, the rabbits.

Deer and bears, then, something glistening:

Behooved horned creature.

They say Hemingway drank from its blood.

An open wound to ease the troubles.

As I partake in a drink of my own. Common cure for the bereavement.

It stood to reason, I stand with my legs bent.

Cane not quite working, leg machine broken.

Forests, woods, pines, all stretched for miles and kilometers.

Other units of measurements. I don’t know them.

Centipentagrams? Terasects? Parallax?

One of those words are  not like the others.

All that matters is the endlessness...the vast.

Undergrowth overtaking, but a crease, it does cease:

Trees line up. Stop.

Stop! Stop it!

Groan. I knew it.

I know, I knew it then.

The alcohol will not, would not, can never keep it at bay.

Oceans, tempest, they all expand. But the forest doesn’t.

Ain’t hear a root a shootin’.

City limits, where you think it ends, it doesn’t.

There is a mountain, next.

Hills, a rocky point. The forest itself a circle.

No, a circle cannot be a square.

Even if the circle be a peg, cannot be a leg.

Let me explain: like a barrier, a veil, a shield.

Preventing or protecting, cannot say.

But at the hills, past the rocky trail, lie a cliff-side.

Where I see their home: the final base.

We sure were sailing away.

To Virginia:

Dear friend, how did you let the years fill you up so fast?

Like the drink in my belly, in my liver, in my gut.

I ask for you gracefully, without a poem or a song to be sung.

No pretense about it, I remember your top aide:

Was it Vera? Or Santa Maria? Flo-Rida? Maybe I don’t remember. Let me partake once more.

Aha!

As you are Ginny, she was Victory.

You and her and Virgil. The three of you in matrimony.

No doubt, you lost her in the hospital. As well as yourself.

Every day I stop being me, becoming an adjacent memory.

One day Heart. Hearth. Earth. Arthur. Hurt.

What do any of those ‘words’ mean?

Anyway, if I make it out, I won’t tell the outside:

That you were mad, wicked, numb, or naive.

I’ll read not only my poetry, but your unspoken words.

Just like the way you must wish for it to be.

Just you and her and him.

Those words you wish you could tell him that he already knows.

Those words you still wish you could tell him, anyway.

Before the hospital made you forget.

Or you chose to go.

I wouldn’t blame you, either way.

Oh! Look! Out on the cliff-side face! It’s your base!

Operations were much smoother when you didn’t have to think.

Wouldn’t you agree? Or is it just through my eyes that see?

See far too many things...right now I see…

Just past your base. To my ship’s side. It is!

I look and see To the Lighthouse, its burning beams.

Searchlights take us all someday. So I hope.

What am I doing? Writing this letter to you?

Who am I kidding? It will never get sent.

Just like you will never say the words to him.

The ones he already knows, but you wish you could say.

That’s OK. Just like Oklahoma, the place.

I read about it when I was a kid.

Millennia and a half, maybe more, ago.

It was said to have existed. Like Agartha.

Like Atlantis.

But those places were fairy tales we told each other as children.

I never met you as a kid. I never much believed in the English.

Your house and its hinges, where you reside, your age untapped.

By madness, it still lies still.

No fear for you, only admiration.

I would have let you criticise me any day, if I could continue.

You may live to see more days, but will you ever escape?

Look! I see your garden! Down by the beaches!

Your little Daisies and Petunias, Pansies and Begonias.

How you would walk with your watering can.

Sing, “I must tend to my Sapphics.”

Hark! On cue, one of those devoted.

Adeline with bear claws, passes by pansies.

Hangs on a laundry line a pair of panties.

I wave, so does she. She asks the crew what we’re doing.

“We’re sailing for freedom!” I make my declaration.

“Yeah! Come get y’all freedom!” She echoes the statement.

Even if I cannot send you this letter when my men escape.

I would like to pretend that you have read it.

If there were any proof of an outside world. Or a “world” at all.

I would like to send this your way, as a form of evidence.

I have to go now, Ginny, for gin is calling me

and the end is approaching, my dear friend.

Whom I’ve never interacted with.

Part VI: The End:

Earth is Both Round and Flat:

We did it.

Thoughts and prayers were answered with cheers.

Clangs of mugs! Hoo-rah!

I take my tiptoes to Phil Howards, he mumbles

about his fiendish friend, from the clergy, St. Eliot:

“The sea is a wasteland...the sea is a wasteland…”

I shake my head. The Wasteland was what I counteract.

For water is not soil. Or so it was, I would have soiled my pants.

Rather than the piss that smelled of bourbon.

Taking to him, I say:

“We made it! Soon we shall live!”

His eyes, first things to turn, I see not.

Instead, clam shells or oyster heads.

Spiral homes for hermit crabs.

His mouth was a starfish.

Words were no longer important.

But so I heard, just as I will hear:

“We have not left, only departed. The true end is the end.”

I leave him. There is an above to this.

There cannot be a Hell with a head above water.

One man in the crowd eyes eyes with I, I eye him.

We kiss. First on the lips, then on the fists.

Fists kiss with fists, knuckles bloody.

How men make love aboard a ship of relations.

One other man sees and comes up to me:

“Something new!”

I look. But I disagree.

“Familiar should not be new.”

Image of our former base of operations, in flames.

How we left it. How we left everything.

I shake, so does my face. My head, for good measure.

“Must be a mistake. Sail faster.”

So we went at it. Pushed around, left to right.

Sway with the night; harder, faster, stronger, better.

Currents in our favor. We didn’t yet notice the ship was lower.

Until we reached the end again and found ourselves

back at the beginning.

Water fills the top decks; our ankles get licked by it.

Its liquid, thicker than my blood long since poisoned.

If there is anything I can do, all our years of plans, and

We remain in the same place for I cannot locate action.

“Captain! We keep going around, and each time we do

We sink further below? What is the meaning behind this?”

“Words too obvious! This is a poem!”

“Ah! You’re right! ‘T’is my testicles caressed by Satan!’”

“Much better.”

So I stew in my saltwater sweat. Tastes like men.

So do I, but I don’t let it become my doppelganger.

I will not have my sweat swallow me.

Not when I can swallow it. Sweat is my pride.

Seagulls ahead, murderous cries.

Part VII: Leviathan:

Rumbling in the water:

Riptides in the muddled pond.

It was bad enough to find that the ocean was a moat.

City is a donut hole. No nutrition, only fat.

Our knees were tickled by seaweed. Or mine, leg hair algae.

Riptides grew louder; ripple effect of defective parapets.

My precept for perception failing me.

At this point we started noticing things:

Crocodiles jumping gangrene and tails wagging.

My men grabbed the nearest pointed weapon.

Fire open! Battle cries like the wild ride we chose for ourselves.

But fire proved to be nothing against the Crocodile’s hardened skin.

Us all, cowering, but I, I saw myself as a Doge, crowning.

Wow! It becomes time to step up! Wow!

With the press of a button, my phallus expands.

With it, I can swordfight Crocodiles.

Even past my prime, I am told I hold it well.

We’ll see, when it’s skin against teeth.

Reptiles have bite, but my blade does slice.

For all those teeth, I was the one who made the creatures bleed.

Bleed and retreat, just as the burden of being on the sea.

Sailors and Maritime sea-shanties sing

of a magnificent phallic fascination.

The battle itself, legendary. Decisive victory.

As the last of the creatures fled, my blade sheathed.

My blood was in my body, but I felt as if I was losing it all.

Forfeiting, for I already knew the truth:

the bridge that collapsed was our only way out.

Through it, we could have reached the tunnel.

But no more.

The tunnel is a sheet.

Over a black hole.

Sucking us in to the idea of freedom.

Suckering us, just as it does, and we fell into it.

My head sinks, no drinks left.

Far too sober, head sick. Head split.

“For those who want to live, leave now.”

Were the words I wished to say to my men.

But just as I addressed my evacuating sea men, ripple effect.

Ears ringing. Before, the creatures with teeth

may have made my fellows depart from me.

With my phallus back in my pants, sea men wouldn’t evacuate.

And, as my past erections, in an instant, from the waters

a great creature did rise!

Some unknown poison flower, a mouth dripping.

Plant with scales like a dragon fruit blooming.

Fins and tails, a face thought to be extinct.

Eyes of pure malice, flame emitting.

If there was a time to evacuate, the sea men should have.

Too magnificent, too arousing. Fear heightened.

Taller than the highest man-made structures.

Taller than structures made by AI.

So tall in stature that its body was nary a body at all

But a sizable shadow. Us, breadcrumbs.

If it weren’t for the hatred which summoned it

we may have gone unnoticed.

Too frozen in fear to jump overboard.

Us, a collective, hundreds, morsels to the beast.

Try as I might, there were no apt descriptors.

Despite the prior attempt. It was too great.

My heart understood true hopelessness.

The way the creature leaned until face against our ship:

Eyeing its meal.

“Everyone. Let’s all kiss one another

before our time is up.”

All of our systems, dry.

If not for its distaste for our attempted dissent

we wouldn’t have been its candidate for digestion.

Bestial and anomalous.

One of (Phillip Howards) Craftlover’s anonymity.

I understood his words now; the powerlessness.

Us all must have felt.

Yet powerful, in our final moments, like the Spartans.

No, Athenians. We had to be them: naked and unafraid.

My Grandmother’s Grandmother’s Grandmother:

If you were here with us, would you remember anyone at all?

I looked up to you, thighs greater than the legend of the Grand Canyon.

Child, Baby Boy, I was. You, the Great Grandmother. Mafia Don.

Gang leader with a Sailor’s tongue.

Someone so kindly, baking all the burly men cookies.

I remember, as a child, you told me:

“When I was your age, I sat upon the lap of my Grandmother.

Just as she sat upon the lap of hers. Then, there was your mother.

She had no lap for anyone to sit upon. Aside, the role was for

Us Grandmothers.”

I asked you what to do if a man loves a man and

a men love a men as a whole and everyone had a Sailor’s tongue.

You laughed and said how you were no man, yet

every Sailor needed somebody to bake cookies. It was a maritime rule.

You said how next there will be no grandmothers

because I was the next one chosen.

I objected, your crystalline eye, your sibylline prophecy.

If it would come true, who could I be?

My feelings lie not in war, but the act of action itself.

In turn, you told me:

“When you have feelings, you write poetry.

Poetry lets you hang your naked body in full display

without you being filled with shame.

Poetry is why some men live, laugh, and love.

Others eat, drink, and be merry.

For you, to have a gay old time, just find a rhyme.

Don’t worry about whether it makes sense.

That’s not what metaphors are there for.

Therefore, go off and lay your feelings bare.

Face down, buttocks up.

No need to worry about lazing on your bum.

That’s what men love!”

That was how I would become

the one who crocheted tea stands

with white-knuckled hands and a fluoride thread.

Though I could not bake cookies, I could write poetry.

When you left in the war, I grew to be an old man

before even leaving my twenties.

If you were with us, would you stare the beast into the eye

and serve it cookies?

All we have is our fists. Our spears which pierced with love.

Impaled with the most tender of grafts.

What rendered is a great sense of despair.

Our mission was being fulfilled.

In our failures, we were a success story.

What does it all mean? Would you have said:

“I am your grandmother and I have a lap”?

If I so loved a woman, she would have been you.

I miss your guidance, your arms like monkey bars.

If I know not the right answer, call it nostalgia

that illuminates my soul.

Vore:

“Men! If we shall go, we shall go with in the midst of action!”

That wasn’t what I shouted, but I seconded the motion.

No more. No more. No more. No more. No more.

There weren’t any more words.

For all the times others have swallowed me whole.

This was too much. Too great to bear.

I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

What I wish for is to be a poet. Lover. Man.

Not dead. Not mad. Not dead. Not mad.

I watched them; spears made of lightning; code.

Binary and hexadecimal creating enough energy

to electrocute the seas, but focus on the beast.

Everyone, everyone but me. They fought, ‘til the end.

Bitter was the end. For the violence only made the beast grew.

Larger and larger, a boastful source of nourishment.

All our attacks made it hungrier. Rather, it wasn’t an invincibility:

not that we couldn’t scratch; each scratch gave more life to it.

Whatever I had called such a mass of distortion in the seas

it wasn’t correct. This beast, its shape could not be contained.

Not one shape. Not one shape. Square hole in round pegs.

Would any survive the fight? Would any love me?

See me as the lover I am, or once was, before I couldn’t stop?

Or would they see me as a coward, for refusing to be devoured?

Yes.

I watched all of them.

And I jumped, so I could meet my end elsewhere.

Bottom of this body of water, my body shall lie.

To think, I may only become a footnote in the overall history.

The Pantheon’s memory itself is a beast.

Goodbye, my men.

(Before I lost consciousness, my eyes remained open. Before all systems shut down, I noticed: my mind had been awake for too long a time. Over one hour had elapsed. By then, the beast must have returned from whence it came. I fear it may not be the only one. One if by land, one if by sea. So it must be. What of my body? No. Bad question. What of the end? When would I reach the bottom? Every downward spiral, my star loses its twinkle. Each descent, further fading, and every second it grows darker, I think it has reached the blackest point but IT BLACKENS FURTHER. There is no lowest point, it only grows lower, and I may never see a true end…)

Part VIII: Lost at Sea:

Deserted Virgin Islands:

...Cannot have a maiden voyage with crowded cabins

where everyone, so close, almost congealed

tied to each other, mingling and bleeding

to paint the halls and the boards on the floor.

No captain in the captain’s quarters, the wheel

has steered itself.

Down the stream is a continual loop, further

degrading its health.

Further sinking down, no smooth landing.

Only sandpaper on the ocean floor.

Course correction won’t save the inhabitants

when there is nowhere beyond the boundaries.

Outside, empty. Land, empty. Earth experiencing

a flirtation with entropy, a perfect reciprocity.

Forego the salutations. Wave and be forgotten

for what is best is to stare it into the mouth

and drown, than to let yourself be eaten.

[the-grumpy-panda]

That's Not A Snack Box...

THIS is a snack box! Oof. An extremely outdated and severely tired Crocodile Dundee joke? I'm sorry. So very sorry. But it's time for another snack box adventure. This time from Australia! Land of Brody Dalle! Land of Isla Fisher! Land of the Irukandji jellyfish! All beautiful and deadly in their own unique way. Thanks, Australia. This sugary, salty and unhealthy excursion is courtesy of Snack Crate. A bit pricier (although I did opt for the 'premium' box) than other boxes I've tried, but this box is quite hefty and fully loaded with a wide assortment, and for a few bucks more, they also offer a drink option, which I of course threw in as well. I want the whole experience. So as a (possibly) one time splurge, I feel alright with the price. For anyone not wanting to splurge big, there are a total of three box sizes to choose from. Of course, the lower the price, the less goodies you'll receive. Two day shipping is also already included in the price. Express shipping is also available if you simply can't wait two days. But I'll tell ya, I ordered my trial box on a Friday evening, and the very following Monday afternoon I had it in my hands. That's a hell of a fast turnaround, and I praise Snack Crate for that. The insides were wrapped in a pleasant and fun themed paper, also included was a sleeve of Australian based stickers (Fun! I'm not going to secretly decorate the desk of the girl I secretly like as if I were a ten year old...) and the always appreciated sturdy booklet with some fun Australia facts, information and a run down of all the treats included in the box. All it truly lacked was a hand written welcome and a picture from Rose Byrne to class it up a bit. Come on Australia, she just looks like a princess, put her to use! For ease and comfort, I'm just going to run down the treats in the order they appear in the booklet. So, put on some Colin Hay (an Australian transplant, but I'll allow it) music and settle in, we're off to a land of snacks atop the counter! -Violet Crumble! A crunchy honeycomb toffee center coated in milk chocolate. I was not expecting this to be as crunchy as it is. It bites as if it were frozen. Even with the density of the center, it melts nicely in your mouth. It's a very airy sort of nougat. For being as hard as it is, the airiness is still a perplexing note. This is a candy bar to study! It's also fortunately very tasty. A very smooth honey infused toffee flavor that is delicious and makes me wish more treats used this formula. A great way to start this box!

-Milo Snack! Crunchy cereal pieces mixed with chocolate powder and dipped in milk. Hmm. Cereal pieces is a vague description. Dipping in milk seems odd to me for some reason in a pre-packaged item. Can't specifically explain why. Let's open this oddity and see what we see. Upon opening I discover it looks like one of those ready to go milk and cereal bars available nowadays. This looks like Cocoa Krispies smooshed up and then yes, a layer on the bottom of whatever milk substance companies use to make sure milk congeals and sticks to the bottom of things. Unfortunately, this bar smells exactly like dried dog food, so my first, and very tiny, bite is taken with trepidation. Not a winner here. It tastes merely of very old and very stale Cocoa Puffs. -French Fries Original! Australia's original potato straw snack! Just a simple and classic salty potato chip flavor, but in straw form. These do have a pleasant crunch, though. -Tim Tam Original! Two chocolate cookie biscuits filled with chocolate cream and covered in chocolate. For all the chocoholics! The name Tim Tam seems familiar. Either I've had them before somewhere along the way, or they are so popular in Australia, knowledge of their existence has permeated out. Like Natalie Imbruglia. You know the name, but you can't remember when last you saw her and if you liked her music or not. Time to try it again. Ha. These deliver exactly what they promise. Chocolate on chocolate covered in chocolate. A nice cookie crunch that's not too hard, the middle is tasty and the covering chocolate is smooth, creamy and adds to the whole flavor. A good treat, but one that could also get old quickly. Eat in small doses. -Fantales! Smooth and velvety caramels, coated with milk chocolate. Quite dense. Be prepared to be gnawing on this little sucker for a couple of minutes. It's not great, but it's certainly not awful. Comparable to a Milk Dud I suppose, but with a higher chocolate component and better made. I'd eat one if offered, but not a caramel treat I'd actively seek out for myself. -Arnott's Shapes Pizza! Pizza flavored biscuits. Um, what exactly do pizzas in Australia look like? These crackers resemble coffins to me. Which is fine, I'm into it, but is this a general Australian pizza shape or am I just a rambling moron inadvertently insulting an entire country? I'm not really getting a "pizza" taste here. It's more like an oregano infused cracker. Not bad for what it is, but it's lacking something and doesn't deliver the promised flavor. Or maybe it does. Someone send over Karen Martini to make me an Australian pizza, please. Thanks. -Twisties Cheese! Apparently Australia's most popular snack. Corn and rice snack with cheese flavoring! Let's crack a bag! They look like Chee-Tos, but the taste is definitely different. This cheese coating seems a bit creamier or milkier and they're not as salty as Chee-Tos, which is a big bonus. All said and done, though, I like these but I don't love them.

-All the snacking has made me thirsty. Luckily I opted for the drink! Here comes Solo Original Lemon! A refreshing drink made with 5% crushed lemons! The can says so! And it absolutely shows in the flavor. This is not just another "lemon-lime" sugared up soda. Oh, no. This is like a very genuine and nicely home made lemonade with some carbonation thrown in. I dig it. It is refreshing and tasty. Back to the foods! -Chomp Caramel! A crispy wafer layered with caramel then coated with chocolate. I have nothing else to compare this to other than a Charleston Chew, but it is most assuredly not a Charleston Chew. It bears the same shape, the consistency is close, but the flavor of the Chomp is far superior and the addition of a thin wafer layer gives the Chomp bar a very nice and welcome crunch and added fun element. The caramel here is very smooth, and it eats easily, as opposed to a Charleston Chew trying to yank your fillings out. A solid winner, here.

-Allen's Pineapples! Pineapple shaped gummy candy! A bit more solid than gummy candies I'm used to, and the pineapple flavor is very subtle. Another not great but not bad candy. Pairs well with the Solo Lemon drink, though, for a weird sort of tropical taste trip. -Wagon Wheels! Marshmallow filling between two soft biscuits and dipped in chocolate. Sounds like a Moon Pie to me! Let's see if we'll notice any differences. It's certainly a lot thinner than a Moon Pie. The cookie, while soft, still has a bit of a welcome crunch to it, the chocolate is very chocolatey and what I didn't know at first was this Wagon Wheel also has a thin layer of jam within. It doesn't say what kind of jam, so it could be Vegemite jam. But since my American taste buds aren't heaving, it's safe to assume it's some sort of fruit jam. I like this a lot, and far better than the Moon Pies I'm used to, which admittedly I haven't eaten one in probably twenty years. Just not a fan. The Wagon Wheel also gets to be too much of a good thing. A mini Wagon Wheel would be a perfect serving size. -Milky Way! Yep, a Milky Way! But the Australian version is only filled with a light and sweet nougat. Which means it's a 3 Musketeers bar. Nice try Australia! I'm on to your ruse. You owe me one Abbie Cornish. -Iced Vovo! A biscuit topped with pink fondant, a strip of raspberry filling and sprinkled with coconut. These are a beautiful cookie. Ready made for presentations and for putting on airs. If you were fifteen and had no idea how to impress anyone, that is. And that's not a slam against the cookie... but it is still just a cookie. Taste wise, they are sadly just okay. I like the cookie part, I like the raspberry stripe, but the fondant and the coconut just don't work and those two items should never be paired together to begin with. But I'm going to place the majority of the blame on the fondant. A raspberry coconut cookie could have been lovely. Fondant is... it's just somehow not right. Ever. I know you know what I mean. How cake makers get away with using it so much is a mystery to me. -Chokito! A Milk chocolate bar filled with caramel and crispy rice. Or as the packaging proclaims... "Chewy Caramel Fudge! Crunchy Balls! & Loads Of Chocolate!" This doesn't quite work. It tastes like all the ingredients are quite cheap, and seems like a drunk babysitter just dumped leftover pieces from other treats into bowl and gave it to you to shut you up for a minute. This candy bar made me sad. -Cherry Ripe! A mix of cherry, coconut and dark chocolate! Australia's oldest candy bar! I would have been much better served by this were it bite size pieces instead of a whole bar. It's good, I enjoy it, but it has far too much coconut. The cherry notes are wonderful when they finally fight their way through the coconut. -Peppermint Crisp. Milk chocolate bar filled with thin cylinders of peppermint flavored toffee pieces. Those who know know I'm no fan or friend of mint, but I'll try this bar all the same. Nope. Nope Nope. Nope. It's like a candy cane covered in chocolate and the inside color is that of mouth wash. Nope Nope Nope. Don't want. -Caramello Koala! A chocolate bar filled with caramel. Pretty direct. And exactly what you'd expect. It's made by Cadbury, so it's safe to assume most of us have had a chocolate and caramel product by Cadbury at some point, or at least something strikingly similar. No muss or fuss here, it is what it claims to be and serves its purpose.

-Cheezels! Corn and rice rings with a zesty cheddar cheese sauce! Very similar in taste to Chee-Tos Paws but a bit crunchier. Not bad. Slightly too salty for me, all the same, though. -Cadbury Picnic! Crispy wafer with caramel, peanuts and raisins covered in chocolate. A very hard candy bar. Watch your teeth with these. Taste a lot like a frozen Baby Ruth bar somehow. It's alright, but it's hardness level wouldn't make me a repeat buyer.

-Golden Vines Anzac Biscuits! Just a big ol' honking cookie. Apparently these were sent to Australian soldiers in WW1 as a reminder of home. This might be one leftover from then. It's hard, it's dry, and it's only remotely sweet. Tastes like an oatmeal cookie that only used honey for sweetening. All that being said, I can honestly see the appeal to this cookie. Once I swallowed my initial bite and set it aside, the flavors really took hold and I want another bite. It's very large, though, so I imagine this one cookie will last a few days, if not a week. Which makes their part of soldier history make a lot more sense, as well. This seemingly bland and innocuous little cookie is the surprising little cookie that could. Thumbs up. -Wizz Fizz Sherbet! A sweet powder that fizzes in your mouth! Thanks Wizz Fizz. I am now coated in your powdery wares because opening this little pack was like opening a gag gift. Despite my efforts to prevent such a thing, the moment the package got the tiniest tear, its contents flew everywhere. So now I must appear to be a messy baker covered in powdered sugar, or some sort of coke fiend who knocked over his mirror. Including a tiny spoon in your packaging just the right size for a "sniff" isn't helping. Are you trying to be the "cool" "street cred" candy maker? Plus, your product doesn't fizz whatsoever in my mouth. It sat there, lumping up like a gob of remorse. This product sucks. I hate everything about it. -Last in line for this sojourn is Allen's Chico's! Cocoa flavored gummy candies! Gelatin and cocoa just do not mix. It's like uncooked brownie batter left atop your fridge for two weeks. Dang. Ended on a sad note. Just the way things go sometimes. Might be a good time to revisit the 1996 Australian bio-pic "Shine." Or perhaps 1978's "Patrick." Thanks again, Australia. Until next time, I am momentarily The Grumpy Koala. Koala's sleep up to twenty hours a day! Waking to eat, and "socialize." Now that's a life. Cheers, mates!

[words-writ-in-starlight]

If you are in the mood to write pain (and, really, when aren't you in the mood to write pain): Rachel/Tobias during the early war

*mean cackling* So when I’m in a very particular moodabout the little girl I used to be and how much she was screwed over, I tend totake it out on my characters.  Ergo, I ambanned from touching my Alleirat story until our houseguest leaves, and willinstead be writing Animorphs because how much worse could I make it.  Sorry.  And since this got pretty long and also there’s not exactly loads ofAnimorphs fic, I crossposted it to AO3.  If you like Animorphs, maybe comment on thatshit or something.

here we stand (with our arms folded)

It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours sincethe disastrous attack on the Yeerk pool, the sun still over the trees at theedge of the forest where it butted up against Cassie’s farm.  The horse she’d morphed, whose quick legs hadsaved Cassie and one single woman the night before, was loose in the field, andRachel was cross-legged on a crate in the barn as Cassie murmured to a woundedrabbit.  Rachel felt dazed, withexhaustion and shock, as if every blink and turn of her head demanded a freshcalibration of her brain, a new moment of I’malive and nothing is okay.  She’dspent an hour in the shower after getting home, with the water as hot as shecould stand, but she could still feel the grit of the Yeerk pool floor on herpalms and feet, and kept expecting to catch a glimpse of Hork-Bajir blood onher human teeth in the mirror.  

Cassie didn’t seem much better, her handsstill where she would usually be smoothly going through her tasks and her voicemindless nonsense, as if she was as numb as Rachel.  The silence wasn’t quite tense, but there wasan unmistakable taut feeling that kept even the noisiest patients subdued andquiet.

“Did Jake say why he wanted to talk to us?”Rachel finally asked, and Cassie glanced up, shaking her head.

“No,” she said. 

Rachel nodded and sat quietly for anothermoment, fidgeting her fingers over the seam of her jeans and trying to hold theanxious question tightening her chest behind her teeth.  Letting out a breath that carefully didn’tshake, she asked, as casually as she could manage, “Have you talked to Tobiastoday?”

Cassie paused for a longer moment at that,considering, and her eyes were more focused when she looked up.  “No, I haven’t,” she said, and offered Rachela small smile, an attempt to reassure. Cassie was good at that, Rachel thought distantly, at beingreassuring—Rachel had never mastered the trick of it.  “But I’m sure he’s fine.  We’re trying not to stand out, remember?  We didn’t exactly run in his social circlebefore, there’s no reason he would have come to find us today.”

Chewing at her lip, Rachel tried to feel reassured.  It didn’t take, and she said, “I didn’t evensee him at school, though.  What if he’shurt, or–”

“Rachel,” Cassie said, peeling off her heavywork gloves and closing the rabbit’s cage. “Calm down.  I barely knew Tobias’name until…yeah.  He’s good at blendingin with the crowd, I’m sure you just missed him.”  She walked over and pushed at Rachel’s legsuntil she dropped them to let Cassie perch beside her.  

Cassie’s close-cropped hair crinkled againstthe skin of Rachel’s neck when she pillowed her head against Rachel’sshoulder—the same shoulder Tobias had perched on the night before, before theywent down into the Yeerk pool, Rachel couldn’t help but think.  Rachel tucked an arm around Cassie’sshoulders and rested her cheek against Cassie’s hair, trying to feel more atease.  She and Cassie had sat togetherand watched movies and talked like this for years, Cassie taking cheerfuladvantage of Rachel’s taller frame to curl up against her side, and under anyother circumstances, Rachel would feel calmer just being able to smell her bestfriend’s cocoa butter and hay scent.

Rachel hadn’t felt calm since theconstruction site, and couldn’t begin to imagine what would repair her.

“I would have noticed him,” Rachel muttered,low enough that she wouldn’t have minded if Cassie had pretended not to hearher.

Cassie straightened up, a curious glintshowing through the layers of weary shock in her eyes, and opened hermouth.  She was cut off by a quiet knockon the barn door.

“Come on in,” she said, a note of forcednormality in her voice.  “It’s just meand Rachel in here.”

“It’s us,” Jake said, pushing the door openand preceding Marco through.  He offeredthem both a faint smile, but Marco, uncharacteristically, looked downrightgrim.  “We need to talk.”

“What’s wrong?” Cassie asked, shifting tostand, and a shadow swept over the dirt floor before the red-tailed hawk sweptthrough the door, flared, and landed neatly on an empty cage.  

“Oh, God, Tobias,” Rachel said, jumping toher feet so quickly a caged fox squalled in surprise, eyeing human and hawkalike with suspicion.  “We were worried,we didn’t see you at school.”

Tobias said, soundingstartled.  

Cassie stood, more slowly but just asserious.  “Jake, what’s going on?”

Tobias said atonce, and when they turned to look at him, he flared his wings, ruffling thefeathers uncomfortably.    He trailed off and Jake sighed.

“Tobias was trapped in the Yeerk pool,” Jakesaid after a moment, and Rachel, in all her years of knowing her cousin, hadnever heard his voice so heavy.  Not eventhe revelation that Tom was a Controller had weighed on him so clearly.  “It took him more than two hours to make itout.”

There was another silence, uglier and darkerthan the one that had hovered between Rachel and Cassie, and Tobias was the oneto break it.

he said bluntly, andhesitated.  

“Don’t be sorry,” Rachel said automatically,and although she recognized her voice in the air, she didn’t seem to be the onespeaking.  Her body seemed to be outsideher reach—somehow, until this precise moment, she didn’t think the reality oftheir situation had quite sunk in.  Thedazed exhaustion from before started to clear, and left something hot andbitter and vengeful in its wake.

“It’s not your fault you were stuck downthere,” Cassie said quietly, and thank God for Cassie, who could always say theright words as Rachel stood and tried to wrestle her voice into obedience.  She could feel her body again, imagined gritand all, and it was trembling with the need to hurt someone for doing this tohim.  She knew that feeling, the burn inher gut as if something toxic wanted to eat through her skin, but now there wasthe wicked murmur at the back of her mind that she could, and it shook her. “Even if you’d been human going in, you’d have been stuck.  And you saved me.”

Her words cut through the tight-wound airlike a blade, and Jake let out a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as heleaned back against a sturdy wooden table. Marco shoved his hands in his pockets, and Cassie sat down on the crateagain.  Rachel, hands knotted into fiststo keep them from shaking and not quite sure that she could bear to sit justyet, leaned against the nearest empty cage to where Tobias had perched.

The five of them looked around at each otherfor a moment, trying to decide what needed to be said.  “What are we going to tell people?” Marcoasked.

“Try and give a crap about the situation fora minute, Marco,” Rachel snapped, the heat flashing into something cutting fora moment.  She regretted the words thesecond she’d spoken them, and Marco bristled at her.

“No, Marco’s right,” Jake said, interveningsmoothly.  He was looking at the ground,near Cassie’s feet, with the wrinkle between his brows that said he wasthinking hard.  “We have to find a way toexplain where Tobias went, we can’t tellanyone.”

Tobias offered, and he sounded like he was trying to make the situation easieron everyone.  

“Dude, you’re missing,” Marco pointedout.  “Like, milk-carton-kidmissing.  We have maybe another day, you can’t file a missing person’s report for afull twenty-four hours.”

Tobias said, pragmatic and blithe.

The fire in Rachel’s chest changed, goingbright white-hot, and she felt her lips twist into a snarl as she pushed awayfrom the cage at her back.  It clattered,and voices called, but she ignored both—she needed out, she needed to be somewhere where it didn’t feel like she was aheartbeat from punching someone she cared about, her best friend or her cousinor even Marco.  

The sun had started to drop behind the trees,outside, and the air was cooler, less stifling than in the barn.  It cooled something in her throat, unwound abit of the tension in her shoulders as she skirted around the wall to the backof the barn, where the shadows of the trees stretched across the field.  Not for the first time in the last week,Rachel wished she’d let Jake convince her to do karate rather than gymnastics,when they were both six and he didn’t want to do it alone—punching somethingwould be really gratifying rightnow.  Instead she pressed her backagainst the wood of the barn and blinked against the burn behind her eyes,fingernails cutting into her palms.

Nothing was fair.  Nothing had been fair, not ever, and shecouldn’t do anything about it.  Theirattack on the Yeerk pool was a failure, the Andalites were God knew how faraway, and Tom, her cousin, who hadn’t questioned her sudden habit of turning upunannounced during the divorce and had just handed her whatever book he’d beenassigned lately for school ‘because Jake only reads comics and boring-ass warstories sorry-for-the-language-Rache’, was a Controller.  And now, God, now Tobias was stuck as a hawk,sweet gentle Tobias who she’d always smiled at in the halls and worried aboutwhen he showed up with bruises.  She’dtried, when she saw him getting into trouble with the bigger guys at theirschool, had dropped a murmur in Jake’s ear and been relieved when she saw hertrustworthy, reliable cousin towering over two guys with Tobias behind hisshoulder.  

And now he wasn’t ever going to be that sweetgentle kid with the solemn eyes and sad smile again, and he believed, reallybelieved, that no one was even going to miss him.

Rachel wanted to kill something.  MaybeTobias’ uncle, or his aunt, or his absent parents, but she’d settle for apunching bag if one made itself available. Maybe the gymnasium had one.

Rachel wasn’t sure how long she’d stoodthere, eyes fixed on nothing and hands clenched so tight it hurt, but theflicker of movement in the corner of her eye startled her.  Red and brown—Tobias, fluttering down to landon the fence near her.

“Sorry,” Rachel said, barely a whisper, andhe cocked his head.

hesaid, almost teasing.  But he was seriouswhen he spoke again.  am sorry, Rachel.>

“You don’t need—I’m not angry at you!” she burst out, and found she wasbreathing hard, the hot thing in her chest shaking to pieces without anoutlet.  “I’m just angry.”  She closed her eyesand scrubbed at them with one hand, catching a stray drop of salt water anddashing it away before more could follow it.

Tobias didn’t say anything as Rachel tried toswallow down the acid in her throat, and she was briefly, desperately, gratefulfor his silence.  She needed it, neededthe space to get herself under control again.

“You shouldn’t be the one being nice to meabout this,” she said at last, when she thought her voice was reliable.  

Tobias was quiet for another moment, then hesaid,  Rachellooked up to meet the fierce eyes of the hawk, and he continued, slow andcareful, as if unsure about his words.  He ruffled his feathersagain, a vague approximation of a human shrug, something vaguely sheepish.  

“I’d miss you,” Rachel said withoutthinking.  “If you just up anddisappeared.”

Tobias’ voice was quiet, almost shy, when heanswered.  

“It’s not fair,” she said.  “This whole stupid war and your whole stupidfamily and this whole stupid two-hour limit. None of it’s fair, and I can’t doanything about it, and I’m just—angry.”

Tobias said, thoughtful.  

“It’s not enough.”

Tobias said, and fluttered into theair again, this time landing on her shoulder. His talons were a careful set of pricks against her skin, not quitepainful, more…itchy.  He was lighter thanhe looked, but a comforting weight on her shoulder nonetheless.  Rachel tipped her head slightly to touch hercheek against his wing, as she had before the Yeerk pool.   

[orphans-forest-blog]

Plastic milk crates are square or rectangular interlocking crates that are made of large accountability professional amount plastic. Wanginya you ni!” Aku terus mendekatkan lagi hidungku sehingga ia bersentuhan dengan tengkuk hanna. Aku melihat jam tangan ku. Waktu menunjukkan pukul 12.42 tengah malam. SFrom my hotel window I saw the abolitionists when they stormed the southwest door of the courthouse, made the decision to break out this "Nigra" Burns and set him absolutely free.

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[sherristockman]

Garden Know-How: Extend Your Growing Season Dr. Mercola By Dr. Mercola No matter where you live, if you enjoy gardening and grow your own vegetables, herbs and other plants, you probably wish the season were longer. Who doesn't love picking luscious red tomatoes right off the vine, or finding an abundance of crisp, green cucumbers hiding under their fanlike foliage? Gardeners who live in the chilliest plant zones, though, have a definite disadvantage, as they may be forced to wait until May to sow their first seeds into the soil, and later watch their vibrant garden production come to a chilly halt as early as the first frost. Sad days, indeed. But as the headline notes, there are ways to extend your growing season and increase your yield. It may look a little different from your traditional gardening routine, but in no time at all, you can begin implementing a few simple DIY projects to keep you in peppers, cantaloupe and beets longer than the seed packets say is typically possible. In fact, you may be able to start your gardening season as much as six weeks earlier and extend it nearly as long on the other end. Besides being a cheaper and altogether healthier proposition than buying grow lights for your basement, all you need is a little bit of ingenuity for a lot more food. Mini Greenhouse Effects In early spring, when frost is still clinging to the grass, trees and rooftops, most gardeners are busy perusing seed catalogues for new varieties, but you can be planting them. Some vegetables, like peas, onions, lettuce and other leafy greens, enjoy a little nip in the air, but others, including tomatoes and bell peppers, do much better when the soil they're planted in is warmer. That's where these simple, dome-shaped structures come in handy. Cloches, cold frames, plastic-covered tunnels and other garden "hacks" can help facilitate a much earlier harvest. Depending on your needs, they're lightweight and relatively inexpensive to build, but strong enough to withstand cold nights, wind and freezing rain. As Mother Earth News explains, they give plants a "leg up" via free solar energy: "Simple plastic cloches or plastic-covered cold frames raise nighttime temperatures 4 to 5 degrees, but you can double that number by throwing on an insulating blanket in the evening. Or triple the protection by adding black water bottles, which release stored daytime warmth after the sun goes down."1 Questions about such projects usually deal with what materials are needed, whether they're difficult to build and how expensive they're likely to be. Luckily, you might not even have to hit the store at all, but instead use what you already have on hand. A 'Cloche' Is Like a Hat for Your Plants, Protecting Them From the Elements In the 1920s, women often wore close-fitting hats called a cloche, which in French means "bell." A bell-shaped dome over garden plants, also called a cloche, can trap the warmth of the garden soil and air during the day and keep plants warm during chilly nights. They can protect an individual plant, a row of plants or a whole section, depending on such factors as prior planning, garden size, plant placement and available materials. Something as simple as a translucent milk jug or clear plastic juice bottle with the spout cut off qualifies as a cloche to cover single plants. Save them or ask friends and family members to save them for you, too, rather than just throwing them away. Recycling centers may also have some available. They're easy to stack in your garden shed to use from year to year. Mother Earth News suggests another idea: "Before cutting off the bottom of any jug, I make a V-shaped slit in the top of the handle. Later, I can shove a long, slender stick through the slit and down into the soil to help hold the cloche steady in the wind." Plastic cake covers, cardboard boxes, old margarine containers, old Styrofoam coolers, baskets, upturned flower pots — anything that fits over the top of plants without bending or crunching them can work as a cloche. Tunnel Vision: A Cloche Alternative If you have a whole row of plants you want to protect, contriving a tunnel is quick and easy with just a few inexpensive items. They're convenient in the early part of the season when plants are small and less apt to blow over in a strong wind. For the "ribs" or frame of the tunnel, fencing wire or concrete reinforcing wire work well, but you can even use slender green branches or saplings from wooded areas because they're flexible and won't snap in half. Narrow, flexible pipe also works; one idea is to place symmetrical brackets on the sides of a raised bed garden. Simply place the pipe into the bracket on one side, bend it over the top of your plants and insert it into the other side. For the protective cover, recycling an old shower curtain works fine for smaller areas, but for a tunnel, clear plastic sheeting comes on a roll so it can be cut to size. The tunnels need to be sturdy in case of heavy snowfall, so you'll need to allow for a 2-foot overhang on each side. To hold down the edges of the plastic, use squared-off railroad ties, bricks or concrete blocks. Like a tent, you can open both ends of the tunnel to allow air to flow through. Simply fold or bunch up the plastic over the "ribs" on each end using clamps, clothespins or spring clips. You can also cut V-shaped vents into the sides and/or tunnel ends and use squares of masking tape to open or close them. The vents can be left open or closed depending on the temperature. In case a real cold snap occurs, you can throw a few old blankets over the top of the tunnel for extra insulation. These can be left on for up to four days in case the cold lingers. Mini Greenhouses Are Easier to Make Than You Might Think For rows of tall, full-sized plants such as tomatoes, you need a taller profile and a lot more plastic so the unit will be secure in strong wind — or protect them from critters like deer that may steal into your garden at night and decimate your crops. One way to make a mini greenhouse is to start with welded wire or mesh fencing with 2- to 4-inch-spaced square openings. Five-foot-long strips can be bent to make coverings that stand a foot high for beds measuring 30 to 36 inches wide. Here are easy directions to follow: Directions Bend the wire into the shape you want Lay it top down on a sheet of clear plastic Fold the plastic up and over the long edges of the wire Fasten the folded plastic inside the tunnel with clear packing tape Fashion a half-moon-shaped drape of plastic sheeting and attach it on both ends so you can close the tunnel in cold weather. The beauty of these tunnels is that they can be made to easily lift off the beds so you can water and weed and allow your plants to get daytime sun, then pop the tunnels back over the plants when they need protection again. They can be secured to the ground with "staples" made from wire coat hangers in case it gets windy or to protect from animals. A similar screen using mesh instead of plastic can keep birds from eating the berries off your raspberry bushes. Cold Frames: A Halfway House for Plants A cold frame is a boxed-in growing area with a clear glass, plastic or acrylic glass covering designed to trap solar heat inside. They're a perfect way to "harden off" tender seedlings, the term used to describe the gradual process of introducing young plants to the elements outside to make them stronger and more resilient. Gardening Know How explains: "When plants are grown from seed indoors, they frequently are grown in a controlled environment. The temperature is pretty much maintained, the light is not as strong as full sunlight outside and there will not be much environmental disturbance like wind and rain. Because a plant that has been grown indoors has never been exposed to the harsher outdoor environment, they do not have any defenses built up to help them deal with them. It is much like a person who has spent all winter indoors. This person will burn very easy in summer sunlight if he/she has not built up a resistance to the sun."2 Cold frames are generally stationary, but you can also put them together so they're movable. In fact, some gardeners take their smaller, portable cold frames outside for a few hours and back inside again over several days. Permanent cold frames are best situated on a south-facing slope, but flat ground works fine, too; just make sure they're placed in the sun. Materials can consist of anything that accomplishes the purpose at hand. If they're covered with a material that will allow light and heat inside, just about anything can work. Innovative ideas might be: Building a wooden or PVC plastic pipe frame, or parts of an old ladder Stacked bales of hay or bricks Old windows still in their frames with hinges intact for opening and closing An old shower door with metal hinges Old dresser or plastic file drawers, wooden crates or flat-topped toolboxes A simple wooden latch or screen door-type hook and eye is all that's necessary to keep the lid on your cold frame closed tightly, or get creative and use something like an old bicycle tire with plastic screwed on top. One thing that makes such projects so much fun is being able to think outside "the box." More 'Outside the Box' Garden Warmers Innumerable ideas have been spawned by creative innovation. As Plato aptly quipped, "necessity is the mother of invention." If you're determined not to spend money, rattling around in your garage, basement or shed to see what you have may spark inspiration. With that in mind, the humble 2-liter plastic bottle (or any size, really) has more uses than you can shake a stick at. They can be glued top-to-bottom and side-by-side, to make a "wall" inside a simple wooden frame. Mother Earth News suggests this idea: "Even when anchored by mulch, strong winds may blow away many cloches — except for heavy ones such as the Wall O' Waters, which weigh about 25 pounds when filled. A circle of water-filled plastic drink bottles duct-taped together is heavy enough to stay put and hold down the edges of a sheet of plastic tucked around the cloche for extra frost protection."3 Try painting plastic water bottles flat black to absorb the warmth of daytime sun, and they'll release that warmth at night. Create a protective circle around individual plants, or line them up, sides touching, between rows. You can even duct-tape them together for easier transport. A large, plastic water-cooler-sized barrel — or several — can do the same thing for larger plants. They warm up from the sun during the day and release their heat at night so you don't even have to move them. To lengthen your garden's growing season, beyond creativity, the only other thing to do is keep an eye on the weather.