#just COVERED in peanut drippings. I had to shower to fully wash it off. my fingernails looked like I'd been digging in georgia clay

[my-t4t-romance]

eating boiled peanuts can be such a meditative act. just popping the shells open, sucking/tooth-scraping the good stuff out, moving the shells to the other pile, and picking out a new peanut to start again. it satisfies the fiddling-with-something instinct while also allowing me to get lost in thought. AND it's a little snack

[rudemaidenswrite]

You Can Hide Here

part 2

beta read by @sylvanasthebansheequeen

written by @pusantheamazonian

Pairing: Loki x Original Character

“Ugh!!”

Solana looked up from the newspaper as Loki made dying animal noises. He was attempting to pull the blanket off himself and sit up. 

“Well I see you're awake now." Solana turned the page in the newspaper and continued reading. Loki made more protesting sounds. She sat the newspaper down and grabbed a glass of water. She sat it on the coffee table before helping Loki sit up.  

Loki swatted her hands away. “I am Loki of Asgard and I do not need your help.”

“Yeah I kinda doubt that right now." She chuckled as she handed him the glass of water and sat beside him. She quietly watched him as he drank the whole glass.  

“What are you staring at mortal?” Loki leans away in disgust.

“Nothing just waiting.” She grabbed the empty cup and placed it back on the table.

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to be fully awake, now hold still for a moment.” She leaned in closer and start to pull the tape and bandage away.

“Stop!” Loki grabbed her wrists. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Um…I'm checking your wound? Stop resisting so I can make sure you didn’t pull the stitches out!” Solana matched his glare. Loki finally caved and let go of her wrists. 

“Be quick about it.” Loki rolled his eyes in annoyance as he let Solana proceed with removing his bandage.

She slowly pulled the tape and bandage back. Solana gasped as she looked at Loki's stomach. The wound was gone and all that remained was the stitches. She tried to cover her shocked expression as Loki smirked. 

"Well at this rate you should be ready to leave tomorrow morning." Solana tossed the bandage in the garbage can. When she returned Loki had a unexplainable look on his face. “What?” Solana faced him.

“You are weird for a Midgardian.”

“That's old news. I’ve been told that before.” She shrugged as she grabbed a wash cloth from the closet and a pair of scissors from the book case.

“What do you mean?”

“Several people have already told me that I’m weird. It doesn't bother me anymore.” She sat back down beside Loki. He eyed her with caution and curiosity.

“Well won’t this be interesting.” Solana looks up at Loki. He shrugs acting like he didn't speak. 

“You need to hold still again because I'm going to take the stitches out.” Solana placed the wash cloth on his lap as she gently cut and pulled the stitches out. She could feel Loki's eyes intensely watching her the whole time. She folded the wash cloth and carefully patted at the skin. She dumped the removed sticthes in the garbage can and washed her hands. She placed the scissors back on the book shelf. Solana glanced at Loki. He hadn't made a comment the entire time

"Would you like something to eat cause I was going to make a sandwich for myself. Or you can take a shower first. Or you can go back to sleep." Solana nervously crossed her arms across her chest as she waited awkwardly for Loki to reply.

“A shower and then some food would be nice.” Loki smirked at her nervousness. He groans slightly as he hoisted himself off the couch. Solana grabbed his arm to help him steady himself before gently leading him to the bathroom. She opened the door and let him go in.

“Here are some towels and a clean wash cloth. I’ll be back once you get started with some clothes.” Solana placed the towels on the toilet lid as she smiled awkwardly before leaving Loki alone in the bathroom. 

“Thank you.” Solana swears that she heard the smirk in his voice as he spoke. "Wait! You never told me your name." Loki threw open the door.

"Oh." Solana blushed. "My name's Solana." She quickly darted away with a rush of embarrassment. 

  What clothes... what clothes…

Solana rummaged through her closet trying to find some clothes that would fit Loki's lanky form. 

Ah ha! This one!

She grabbed one of her favorite t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants that are super long and have a drawstring. 

“Loki…I brought you some clean clothes. I’m putting them by the towels.” Solana knocked before opening the door and quickly placing the pile of clothes by the towels. She avoided looking towards the shower so she wouldn't see anything that she wasn't supposed to.  

About fifteen minutes later the water shut off. A few minutes later Loki emerged from the bathroom with his hair dripping. He stumbled back to the couch. Solana placed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the coffee table along with a glass of water.

“Pathetic earthlings…who is gonna save you now?”  Loki states in confusion as he pulls the t-shirt slightly away from his body.

“That’s Ming the Merciless, Emperor of the Universe. The whole pathetic earthlings is a famous quote of his.” Solana quickly swallowed the food she had in her mouth as she relaxed in the recliner.

“Ming the Merciless doesn’t sound like a name a hero would have.” Loki comments in a disapproving tone.

“Well duh! Ming the Merciless isn't a hero. He's one of my all-time favorite villains.” Solana enthusiastically breathed. 

“You like villains?” Solana glanced over at Loki who has a look of bewildered excitement and fear on his face.  

“Of course I do. Besides who doesn’t like to be evil every now and then.” Solana states as a mischievous grin flashes across her face. Loki opens and closes his mouth silently in shock. He doesn't say another work and finishes his sandwich in silence. 

Besides I have personal standards on whether or not someone is a good villain.

“I would like to see this Ming that you are so infatuated with.” Loki quietly states as she picked up his plate. Solana grins ear to ear when he looks away with the tinniest smile. She quickly places the dishes in the sink before rushing back to Loki and placing Flash Gordon in the DVD player.  

“Okay this is Flash Gordon: 1936 series.” Solana explained as she sat next to Loki, pulling a blanket across their laps. She's so excited about watching Flash Gordon that she doesn't see the smirk that flashes across Loki's face. 

[c0mpostpil3-blog]

A Week in April

I am cooking breakfast when I first notice them. They trail across the papery skin of the pearl onions and wrinkling flesh of old tomatoes, disappear within the divots of the stone bowls on the counter, and scale the blade of my grandmother’s dull knife. The kitchen is alive and pulsating with the amorphous architecture of their lines. I nearly mistake their bodies for paint splatter as they cross the contours of the terracotta and teal tile backsplash. Lines lead to and from the windows of my grandparents’ old house. I pause mid-stir and the cast iron pan sears through the bottom of my scrambled eggs. Even from my position at the stove, I can see that the gaps in between the slats of painted wood that make up the window frames are filled with shiny, pitch-black bodies. I know if I look for long enough at any surface in the kitchen, I will see them. Instead, I scoop my breakfast onto a chipped Frankoma plate, one of many from my grandmothers’ ever-growing collection.

I sit down at the auburn dining table to eat my eggs with mild discontent. They taste better with an extra sprinkle of paprika, but the dryness cannot be seasoned away. While I sit, I trace the bulbous legs of the dining table with my feet, letting the loose threads of my socks catch on the occasional splinter. I imagine what it would be like to climb at a vertical.

Kitty, my grandparents’ spoiled Staffordshire Terrier, looks up at me from underneath the table and shyly licks at the exposed skin of my ankle. She is pitiably cute.

I hold a forkful up to my mouth and stop. Some primitive peripheral awareness warns me. There, again. A flicker of dark motion on the curds of yolk and white. This is no speck of pepper. He struggles on the oily surface of my overcooked egg, minuscule legs thrashing about desperately. I cannot bring myself to crush him, so I put my breakfast into the trash. If he can escape, he will bring news of a great feast back to his colony.

He must survive and tell his queen of the treasures hidden at the bottom of the trashcan because the next day their numbers grow tenfold. They no longer relegate themselves to the crevices and corners of the house. They boldly pile on the produce, taking away what pieces they can, burrowing into the exposed pulp of pumelo, and entering the labyrinthine interior of a poorly sealed peanut butter jar lid.

Alas, I had promised my grandparents I would have no parties while housesitting for them, and here I am with thousands of uninvited guests. Kitty the dog seems unconcerned with our new housemates and instead curls up in a patch of sunlight and begins gently snoring.

In the living room, they begin exploring my grandfathers’ stacks of vinyl and books. One seems particularly interested in the musical biographies. I imagine his anxious darting to-and-fro must be his attempts to fully comprehend the monstrous letters on the cover. While he tackles his summer reading list, I watch his brothers disappear into the carpet. My grandmother, ever so fastidious, always vacuums the Turkish rug until its fibers stand straight up as if electrocuted. I wonder if they have difficulty navigating the stiff, coarse threads of the rug. They trek through the forests of scarlet and gold, finding naught. A stray one tickles my calf and I slap it, only to be met with a foul odor. I hold my hand up to my face and inhale again. The pungent smell of Sharpies and artificial coconut syrup stings my nasal passages.

I run my hands under warm water and rub castile soap into the remnants of his body. His disembodied legs and thorax circle the bowl of the sink, caught in the flow of the water, before a mob of iridescent bubbles obscures him and he is washed way. Yet, the scent remains.

Not wanting to dirty my hands with any more blood, I use my grandmothers’ shallow Frankoma dishes as traps for the unwanted guests. I fill them with elementary science experiments: Borax, dish detergent, oil, water. The ingredients form spontaneous circles on the surface of the water, like a Yayoi Kusama painting or a particularly acute case of chickenpox. My unwanted guests seem wary of the dishes, as they should, but they are drawn toward them regardless. A few rest on the rim of a tan bowl, staring stoically into the expanse of blue soap droplets. Perhaps they are just enjoying the view.

I go about my routine. Kitty requires several walks a day as she is rather neurotic and can only relieve herself in a particular spot by the wisterias. While we are outside, I survey the abundance of my grandmothers’ garden. The wisteria trellis ascends over a small walkway and across the neatly contained cactus garden. Beyond the whimsical stone border of the prickly pears and succulents grow delicate lamb’s-ear, rose of Sharon, pansies in periwinkle and purple, Black-eyed Susans, thistles, a pomegranate tree, and dozens of other plants rooted in dark, rich soil. I hide under the trellis, away from the remnants of last night’s showers as they drip off the leaves of the stunning oak tree that towers above the house. Kitty whines and presses her wet nose against a juvenile marigold, sniffing its tender buds. My eyes travel up the tree to its canopy and I wonder if I could climb its trunk.

When I return inside, I wash the ceramic bowl that had once housed leftover pork dumplings. While the suds are building in the hot water, I notice that my trap has successfully caught a few unwanted guests. They float suspended in the multi-colored globules, propelling themselves with the occasional reflexive twitch. Their death throes. A few others remain on the lip of the dish, watching on.

In the daytime they are a nuisance, but at night they are a plague. They are determined creatures and I made the mistake of eating leftover cassava cake in bed the night before. They smell the sugar, their namesake, and bombard me. I wake up throughout the night. If I can’t see them, I feel them. Their mandibles and feet drag across my skin and my mind floods with primordial anxiety. I swat and crush and vindictively pinch them between the pads of my fingers. Still, they are on the pillowcase, on Kitty’s cashew-shaped claws. There is only momentary comfort in their death before I am met with that same Sharpie and coconut smell. I even thrash about when my own hairs brush against my skin. When the moonlight filters through the hand-sewn curtains, it illuminates moving dots of black across my shoulders, chest, and hands. I cannot sleep.

The next morning, I resolve to rid the house of the intruders without having to touch them and further soil my skin. There are multiple dishes in each room. I put all the produce in the fridge, wrap the mangled box of Club crackers in plastic wrap, and wipe the sticky spots on the stove. Kitty observes from her chair, body unmoving but eyes following me loyally.

The following night, they begin to fly. I am lying in bed with the curtains drawn to let the light of the full moon in. The room is awash with an unwavering, cool blue light. At first I think the popcorn ceiling is falling apart above me, but a translucent wing glimmers before it lands squarely on my nose. I involuntarily sneeze and slap at my face. They are drawn to the light as it reflects off my glasses. Some stupid instinct compels them to dive bomb me and I run out of the bedroom, scratching at every inch of my exposed skin, the odor of their broken bodies following me.

I go downstairs and procure the widest Tupperware container in the bottom-right cabinet of the kitchen island. I then fill it with candy blue dish soap and enough water to create an inch of liquid at the bottom of the plastic ware. The rims of the container are slightly ragged and yellow from years of storing curries and noodles. Once I am back in the bedroom with my attackers, I take a desk lamp from the closet and position it so it is facing directly into the eerily blue pool in the Tupperware. I switch on the lamp, turn off the overhead light, and wait.

It isn’t long before the winged ones approach my grand trap. They crawl along the interior side of the plastic, edging astonishingly close to the liquid before darting away. I grow frustrated and shake the container so that the liquid reaches up and grabs a few hapless ones. We repeat this cycle, this game for about and hour before I feel my eyelids fluttering with the weight of exhaustion. I cannot stay up all night watching, so I go downstairs to the living room and lay on the pea green couch. Kitty curls up in the crook of my knees and snores away. I sleep dreamlessly.

In the morning, I return upstairs to the scene of the crime and survey the damage. There is a collage of little, motionless bodies on the surface of the water and soap. I blow gently into the Tupperware and they ripple softly like unset Jell-O. Regret and satisfaction effervesce in my stomach.

In the light of the day, it is easier to move on with life. The intruders become preoccupied with sea-glass bottles and dried baby’s-breath. With Kitty and I finally alone after a harrowing night, I make mango tea with milk and check my snares throughout the house.

In the solarium hangs my grandfather’s anthropological collection of masks, which some of the flying ones have taken refuge in. Below, on the heated tile, is a jungle of my grandmothers’ fruit trees too young and tropical to withstand the unpredictable Midwestern weather. Guava, mango, avocado, along with other plants in ornate pots too heavy to drag outside. The waxy branches of her calamansi tree, her pride and joy, reach over the one piece of furniture in the room: a small burgundy loveseat where Kitty patiently awaits the return of my grandparents. When she gets up, a dog-shaped patch of short white hairs remains pressed into the upholstery of the couch like a ghost trapped by its own pining.

It is in this room that the intruders seem most at home. They swarm inside the curled rind of an orange on the arm of the couch. Feeling bad about my murders from the nights before, but confident that I will remain unpunished for my crimes, I cohabitate with them in the solarium. I do, however, throw away the orange peel once their bodies have blackened it with sheer numbers. It looks almost crystalline: as if it’s been candied.

I wake up the next morning with only Kitty at my side, coiled up next to me on top of the quilt. I experimentally brush my legs alongside each other underneath the top sheet, feeling the comforting swish swish of the fabric against my skin. There are no suspiciously animated crumbs in the bed, nor are there live speckles of paint on the kitchen tile, or moving dirt on the solarium floor. The only ones left have passed away in my dish traps, preserved in vegetable oil. My guests must have left in the night. The leaves and branches in the solarium are bare save a few droplets of condensation. The sugar bowl is open and untouched. The patterns woven into the carpet remain completely still.

The house feels profoundly empty, save for Kitty’s insistent whining. I spend the day cleaning: dumping the shallow bowls down the kitchen sink and scrubbing away the smell. I put away the desk lamp in the closet and I wash the sheets and pillowcases. When I tuck the curtains out of the way of the window, sunlight pours in and I hold it again my chest.

My grandparents return later that day, much to Kitty’s joy. My grandmother unfurls my hands and places a fifty-dollar bill in cleft of one palm and a plastic Kroger bag filled with still-fresh puto into the other. I show my grandfather the stack of mail they had accumulated in his short absence. Utility bills, adverts for retirement homes, carefully packaged resale records from Discogs, a National Geographic. They thank me as I leave, backpack in tow. Kitty wags her tail and makes that happy, dumb, don’t-go face that only a dog can make.

In the driveway, I kick away from the concrete and balance myself on my secondhand bike, turning into the street and riding slowly away from the house. At the edge of my grandparents’ front lawn is a row of un-blossomed peonies, some leaning into the street. They gently sway in the soft spring-into-summer wind. As I pedal by, I glance at the tight buds and see the sugar ants chewing away at nectar on the waxy enclosures. Ribbons of pink, white, and maroon press against their seams of green while the ants dutifully eat away. I lean close enough to see their little antennae flick back-and-forth excitedly, their legs grip carefully onto the plush surface of the petals, their exoskeletons gleam brilliantly in the daylight.