#mesquite entry doors

[simpleesong]

Front Door – Mudroom

Inspiration for a large, classic entryway remodel with travertine flooring, beige walls, and a medium wood front door.

[demasiadasmalasideas]

Modern Entry Phoenix Example of a large minimalist ceramic tile entryway design with beige walls and a dark wood front door

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Hallows' Eve

Masterlist

Original Posting: 02 Oct 2020

MCU/DC Cross-over AU

Pairing: dark!Bucky Barnes, dark!Steve Rogers, dark!Clark Kent x Black Female Reader

Warnings: 18+, smut, creampie, spanking, dirty talk, daddy kink, assault, non-consensual sex. Proceed with caution!

@mcudarklibrary​ entry for Dark MCU Kinktober

A/N: Ahh shoutout to my bff @titty-teetee​ for indulging me with this idea lol. I love ya >:D

October 30th, middle of somewhere, Texas.

Well, there was a house-- rickety as it was, the home stood in a clump of mesquite trees, accented with tufts of Johnsongrass, springing up through the cracks of the stone walkway and leaning against the stairs to the front porch. It had never looked darker than this night had. But even so, the jagged wood roof  rose high to a second story, long windows looked like eyes with the small front door for a mouth. A steady breeze moved through the trees, shaking and whishing the long thin branches, slicing through the air. The whispering of nature speaks to you, like God to man, invoking what has been and what was to come. An unexpected thin place perhaps, the house, having not been filled for quite some time looked like it could have been haunted. Maybe a part of you wished it was. Like the walls and foundation had the ability to make up its own people within, or remembered who once lived there. 

Bucky’s fingers nudged your lower back as you walked alongside him. The duffle bags zipper clinked against the fabric and you were suddenly aware of how quiet it was out here. The crisp autumn air, slowly contorted to that spikey chill of early winter lingered on your skin. So you walked closer to him for some quick warmth. 

“They should be--” said Bucky, lights glowed up from the dirt road. The paleness glowed over both you and Bucky, the house, the dormant land. “There they are.” he said pausing for a moment and then continued once again.

“You had to pick the spookiest spot huh?” you said under your breath. 

He shrugged as he stomped up the stairs. “I was here yesterday, I got it ready. It’s a perfect spot for a quick get away.”

“But did you have to invite company? I was looking forward to it just being you and me.”

Bucky rummaged for the keys in his pocket as a couple of car doors slammed behind you. 

“‘Come on babe, Steve doesn’t have anywhere to go really.”

“I’ll start the fire!” shouted Steve. 

You didn’t turn around, your eyes stayed on the shadows of Bucky’s face where his eyes should have been. 

“Okay, I get that. But what about the other guy? What did you say his name was? How do you know him?”

Bucky jabbed the key with the lock, he chuckled a bit before answering. “Clark Kent, his name is Clark.”

“So you’re picking up strays now?” 

“Get to know him, you’ll like him. He's a great guy, hardly a stray...”

You followed Bucky into the house slowly, he flicked on the switch flooding the living room with light. Okay, you thought, doesn’t look so bad. At least the furnishing appeared to be from within the last ten years, the walls looked newish, with sharp borders, and reasonably decorated. 

“Besides, I picked you up, remember?”

You dropped your bag flat on the ground. “Hey, now. Are you trying not to get lucky while we stay here?”

Bucky continued into the house with the grocery bags. “I’ll get lucky regardless.” he cut his eyes over his shoulder back toward you. It sent another chill, this time up your inner thighs. He wasn’t lying.

“Oh god, not that stupid-”

Bucky ducked in close, the flimsy plastic mask buckled under the pressure of nuzzling your neck. You gazed into the bathroom mirror at Bucky who’s rubber Michael Myers mask was staring lifelessly back.

“I know you wanted to try something different….but….”

His hands kneaded your sides, higher he climbed over your sweater to your breasts.

“You look ridiculous…”

One hand left your nipple and began tugging at the top of your leggings.

“Shh…” he tried to stifle a laugh. “..just go with it..”

And you did, by leaning your head back against the blue denim jacket as his fingers wondered underneath your underwear.

“..let daddy have a feel.” his breathy question muffled through the mask. Slowly he began to circle your clit, mouth hanging open your hand held the top of his black gloved hand and pushed him to press harder.

“Look at yourself...how needy you get.” he whispered.

You try to peer beyond the mask, the slits for eyes but there was nothing. Only darkness met you there. Bucky brought up his hand, held it in front of the mirror and you. He split his fingers, thick wetness strung between them like webs.

“Bend over-- hold on to the sink.” he ordered, with his hands disappearing behind you. The sound of his clothes ruffling you stared back at the mirror.

Bucky stepped forward, knocking your ankles apart with his shiny black boots and yanked your pants, underwear down and gently, he tipped into you. His long length traveled against your folds sinking further inside.

Ghostly scenes are made from the smoke casting up from the flickering fire being fed from lava colored coals. The metal chair underneath you feels cool on your bottom, because even though you are sitting on a blanket the cold night air hangs around you. 

Steve was ending his story. Though hardly a spooky tale, it didn’t have to be, for his tales were based on true events. Speaking of blood and gore the morbid tone grew in his voice and brought a shadow of delight in his eyes. You carefully watched him, observed his hunched over shoulders, his eyes turned to yours sometimes while he spoke but mostly stayed on the fire. 

You chugged from the bottle of hard cider as Bucky ate, that stupid mask was pulled up over his brows. But Clark Kent, this stranger, sat nearly directly opposite. You moved your eyes to him ever so often while Steve told his story. One of the two thought about food on the way here, chicken, you guessed was their craving. Clark leaned back, his black jacket bunched at his waist as he rose a hand to his mouth. The crunch of the crust of fried meat did not break Steve’s momentum. 

When he finished, Bucky nodded to the accuracy of the amount of soldiers, to why the only man left was brave and courageous. Clark’s eyes met yours over the flames, his skin pale, the wavy dark curls framed his face. He smiled at you as he chewed. You noticed it then, unsure why you wouldn’t have before, he held the grey cooked bone between his fingers and stuck the end in his mouth. You blinked, maybe you were seeing things -- this was your sixth cider for the night.

“Are you eating the bones?” you asked.

Clark continued to gnaw on it till it broke off in his mouth. “Waste not want not,” he said through a mouthful.

He continued to stare back at you and at the same time a chill coursed its way down your spine. Shivering in the gentle breeze the urge to go to the bathroom shot through you. 

“I’ll be right back,” and excused yourself from the fire.

Had to be a bit past ten p.m., though this was supposed to be a pleasant fall break, it didn’t truly feel that way. Not with two extra guests. You tried to not feel so desperate to be alone with Bucky. You finished washing your hands and opened the bathroom door. In the dark, lit up by the light of the bathroom a figure stood. You jumped so hard, grasping at your sweater, bent over grabbing your waist, the boogeyman mask simply stared back at you without moving.

“Bucky I swear to -- why would you? -- take that stupid thing off-” and you reached for the mask but his hand grabbed your wrist. Slowly he walked over the threshold, leaned over and flicked off the light. 

“Oh no!” you feigned a plea. “Seriously..--help..help.” you giggled through another.

The door slammed behind him trapping the dark inside. He pulled you close at first, residing to his strength, you let him touch, grab, pluck at your body. Backing you back up against the sink the rubber mask pushed against your neck, smiling in the dark you could hear him attempting to kiss you there. 

His hands ran around the waist of your leggings, one big hand gripped and caressed your ass, slipped toward your split and rubbed your asshole. You jumped again, this time wrapping your arms around his neck. Different, he had never done such a thing before, but you went with it. 

His finger crawled passed it, his other hand pushed down the front of your legging and circled your clit. 

“..help...a big bad man...help..” you chuckled under a moan. 

He jerked you away suddenly, pulled down your leggings and underwear, with a hand on your shoulder he forced you to bend over. The room filled with the sound of a smack to your back side. 

“Bucky!” 

The stinging lingered but white hot pain replaced it with another hit from his gloved hand. 

“Okay!” you rushed out. Maybe he was just being kinky, perhaps your pretending might have put him out of the mood. 

He hit you again making you grip the lip of the sink harder. “I’m sorry daddy..” you hissed.

He was back behind you again, his whole body pressed against you, scratching at the skin of your ass he plunged two thick fingers into your entrance.  Heavy breathing billowed from under the mask, hot air pooled over your shoulder and around the back of your neck. The weight of him bent you forward. He pulled out his fingers from within you and began to prod with something warmer, and far thicker at your slit as his other hand tangled with your fingers on the sink. 

And he pushed in, “..damn!” you moaned.

Jerky, irregular thrusts stretched you more than what you remembered. “Bucky!” you gasped, hoping he would slow the pace. But the other hand grabbed for your throat, squeezed tight and pumped you harder. 

“Daddy, please..” you half begged, half needingly whimpered. 

That changed his stroke, and soon the ache descended into bliss. 

“Fuck...daddy…”

His hand on yours returned to your clit, pushing hard and swiping steadily, your knees nearly buckled. Thicker for sure, veiny too, you thought, god what the loss of one sensory can do on a drunk mind. Your body bucked back against him as you rode out the orgasm. He squeezed harder, hissing and groaning under the mask you could nearly imagine him as someone else. And when he stilled inside of you, even his hiccups of pleasure could be thought of another. You shook the fantasy away as he stepped back. 

Before you could even turn around, the door opened, your eyes shot to his brown boots and then up to his back. And he left you there.

You stuffed pieces of a premade popcorn ball into your mouth. Bucky sat there weaving a tale of spirits walking through walls, of ancient gods embedded into objects best left to rest where they laid. Still buzzing hard you stayed captivated by his tone. It was something about the secretive way his voice projected that kept you staring at him, wondering if it could be true, but knew it mustn’t. 

It was still cool out, the shabby blanket thrown over your sore legs did little to keep the wind out. But it made for a good catcher, which is what you were doing toward the end of his story. Picking up pieces of fallen popcorn, and pizza flavored chip crumbs somehow made it to your mouth despite the only source of light was a waning fire.

“So if you ever hear your name called..don’t ever answer back, unless you can see it’s a actually living person.” Bucky finished and glanced over at you proudly.

“I hate that story.” you slurred your words a bit and shook out the blanket on your lap. “I hope you’re happy, you have to walk me everywhere until we return home.”

You picked up the last bottle off the ground and drank the last bit. The clash of flavors swirled on your tongue leaving a bitter after taste.

“Babe do you have any gum?”

“There’s a pack in the middle console--” Steve spoke up. “Back there in the truck..” he said hooking his thumb over his shoulder.

You rolled your eyes over in Steve’s direction. A smug grin, and a wrinkle on the side of one eye simply gazed back at you. 

“You’re fine,” he said finally. “You’ve got us here...nothings gunna get you.” he reminded smoothly.

And the moment was quiet, poised on the end of the gentle breeze blowing through the heat of the fire. The rustle of sleeping honeysuckle vines, somewhere near the old rotted out shack Steve’s truck sat was the only identifiable sound for a few seconds. 

“Fine.” you huffed and stood up to get that gum.

You walked down the dirt path the short way from the front of the house where Bucky, Steve and Clark sat. The tin roofing of the old shed rocked, and slapped against itself the closer you got. And of course Steve parked on the other side, out of the sight of the house and fire. But you walked quickly, or rather, as fast as two aching legs could in the cool weather. 

The knocking sound only got heavier, louder as you squinted in the dark toward the blackest corner of the area. Steve’s truck was within a few footsteps and you batted away any imaginings of spooky phantoms. You slipped passed the door, your hand flipped up the middle console and snagged up the pack of gum before slamming the door back. And when you turned around, just off from where you had previously walked was a figure. The white, deathly pale mask was the only part you could really see.

“Fuck!” you shouted, dropping the pack of gum. “Bucky!” you hissed and reached back down to retrieve it. 

The yellow fire light was at his back when he moved forward toward you. 

“Okay...no more mask!”

You stuffed the gum under your arms and went to yank at the mask. But he caught your arm and squeezed down like a vice grip. “Hey--easy there..” you said quietly. 

He pulled you toward the shed, but just outside of it, along the rotten wall of it a few old deep freezers were lined up against it collecting weeds, and dust. 

“Oh no, Bucky..those look super dirty..” you tried to jerk your arm away but he only pulled you harder. “...Really? You’re this committed to fucking in that mask?”

This time your hand grabbed enough of the back of the mask to rip it fully up over his head. At that same moment you were jerked forward between the rusty freezer and him. Your eyes now bulging and fighting for light to correct what you were seeing in the dark stared up at him. You blinked several times once more before you realized the angular features did not belong to Bucky. Thick curly hair, messy all over haloed around his face, and of course, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t noticed before, he was taller. It was Clark.

You made to quickly move away from him but he snapped you back, “Get off me!” Your voice shook, and so did your body. 

“Bucky’s right over there...all I have to do is scr--”

The air whipped out of your lungs so fast as Clark slammed his palm over your mouth and rushed your back down on to the freezer. 

“I’ve been waiting all night for this..” he whispered.

No amount of squirming could equal the might Clark welding against your struggling. It was like a man made of iron held you down, even when his other hand disappeared between your legs, the tearing of your legging, your underwear did not loosen his hold. And then the unfolding of his clothes paired with the gentle brushing of the vines against wood near your head sent you into hysterical kicking. Your legs on either side of him squeezed, and jerked to no avail. 

“-don’t act so innocent. You’ve already fucked two different men tonight.”

You stopped kicking, eyes wide above his hand you glowered at him through the dark. “You won’t mind..will you?”

Shaking your head you held your breath. The thick end of his cock began to push past your folds. 

“Slut.” 

He lowered his forehead on to yours, what you imagined was him staring back down at you but could see only the tip of his nose. A shuddering breath pulled through your nose as he sank further to his balls. “You’re wet from it still…”

He started snapping into you, hard and fast, slapping his lust into your unwilling cunt. Clark’s hand slipped to your chin, his lips hovering above yours. 

“Are you going to call me daddy too?” he asked, with his breath steadily huffing into your mouth. “..Say it for me baby..” 

“Let me hear that little desperate voice..” He kissed you, slipping his tongue along the inside of your lower lip and then against your face as you turned your head. “Come on..” And then he started jabbing, a feral thumping into you. Sharp pains up your thighs shot further into your core. You denied him and he lowered his head to your neck. He sucked on your skin, flicked his tongue around and inside your ear. “Say it,” he whispered. 

You whimpered in response as his teeth began to snag on the wet skin of your neck. He sucked hard, drawing out needle points of pain. 

You pray to god Bucky could hear this, you’ve been gone too long certainly either Steve or him could. Clark kept nibbling, and groaning in between thrusts. When you refused once again he shoved his palm back over your mouth, the other brought your wrist up and twisted it into a bone breaking angle. 

He stopped moving inside of you as his deep voice raked over clenched teeth, “What was that?” he asked. The warm palm slid down to your chin. 

“..daddy.” you shivered out.

You could hear the satisfied smile in his voice. “Good..girl.” he whispered. 

“That wasn’t so hard to say was it babe?”

The sound of Bucky’s voice from the darkest, most grown up side of the shed sent your eyes reeling in the dark. Clark put his hand back over your mouth and kept going. 

Bucky stood at the edge of the freezer, in the dark the features of his face were smudged. A gentle hand caressed the top of your forehead. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Let Clark finish.”

At Bucky’s words, Clark released your mouth, he rose up and held your upper arms down as he continued to fuck you roughly. Your eyes stayed on Bucky’s silhouette, high pitch whimpering up at him did not go unheard. 

Bucky cupped your chin and head. “Shush,” he hushed down your sobbing face. 

Another pair of hands tore at the front of your sweater. To his right, another figure stepped to your side. The figures loomed over you while your breasts chilled, and peaked in the cool night air. A deft hot hand kneaded and groped at the nearest one. 

“You told us she was good….” Steve pinched your nipple hard. “She’s fucking outstanding.”

Bucky leaned over you, he grabbed for your thigh but you kicked away. Clark relinquished some leverage to pull your thigh up so Bucky could hold your ankle. “Yeah, get in there good.” Bucky’s voice rose above your strangled cries. Steve got your other leg, held it folded it in high and tight, that allowed Clark to pound you deeper. 

He grinded his hips into yours burning his stiff cock into your core. His grip tightened around your arms pinning you for good below him. “Where am I going to empty my balls?” Clark demanded on a puff of air. 

Tears slid down the corners of your eyes. They rolled from the darken outlines of Bucky above you to Steve at his side and then back to the man between your legs. 

“..in me.” you sniffled out. 

“And who are we--” Bucky asked softly. 

You didn’t bother to look in the direction of his voice, Clark’s head threw back, a deep moan started in his chest as his hips kept pumping. “Say it baby..” Clark whispered.

“..daddy.” you whimpered.

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[catsaar]

hi! im so sorry to bother you but do u have any tips on how to build a shell? i need to build a house for my family of a scientist, alien gf, alien kid and teen, and robot and it's such a struggle. my shells always look like they're missing something, like it doesn't look like a proper house? do u have any tips on how to build the floor plan of a big house? or maybe you and your followers know where to find shells to download? or of a big house in slipshod mesquite? 😭 btw you and simsontherope are my fave builders!

Hey there!

I'm sorry for answering this so late. First of all thank you for the kind words. @simsontherope is one of my fav's too :)

I know your struggle. I've said this before here, but I used to be so bad at building. It's really something you get better at with practice. So don't get discouraged, it doesn't need to be perfect right away.

Personally I check pinterest a lot for inspiration. But the basics I def learned from build tutorials by Lilsimsie and James Turner. I'm not really good at explaining my build proces. I mostly just make 1 large rectangular "box" and then I add smaller bump out boxes. Once I've placed doors and windows the detailing part starts. For the floor plan I remove all indoor walls and figure out the stairs/entry first. You see I'm really no explainer lol. To me just looking at pics of irl houses really helps.

Any build on the gallery can be a shell (just place them unfurnished) or a good base to expand upon. That's something I did way in the beginnig, but it helps you get the hang of it. Good luck!

[cecilspeaks]

148 - The Broadcaster

Leonard Burton: The opposite of war is not peace. It is tedium. Greetings from Night Vale.

[distorted version of the theme song]

Hello, listeners. it’s your regular host Leonard Burton welcoming you to yet another beautiful day in Night Vale. There is the sun, of course. I don’t need to tell you there is a sun, you know this. You’re so confident that he sun is there. Past performance is not a predictor of future results, folks, yet sure as I say it, there is the sun. And near the sun are clouds, but they’re not near, are they? Millions of miles separate those clouds from that sun. And yet our eyes measure mere inches of the space between. What deception, this human sight.

The air is crisp and cool. A slight morning breeze touches us. We feel it like cold fingers playfully caressing our shoulders, our hair, our skin. I see no breeze, but I feel it. That which I feel, that is my only truth, listeners. Wind is a verity.

I hope you will join me in closing your eyes and walking naked through the invisible yet irrefutable air. Hold aloft your arms, widen your jaw and feel the impact of atom upon atom upon atom against your body.

This day is beautiful. This day is crisp. This day is true.

This morning I nearly died. I’m always nearly dying, proximity is subjective. This morning I nearly died in the same way I nearly die every day. After waking, I showered. After showering, I drank coffee. After coffee, I ate a grapefruit and oatmeal. After eating, I walked. After walking, I walked some more. I do not own a car and I live two miles from my work. I purchased a quart of whole milk, and then I climbed a tree. Atop a tree branch, I saw a grackle’s nest and I drank my milk. I counted four eggs, each of them blue. Each of them lifeless, abandoned for countless years. I did not finish my milk, because I cannot digest milk. I poured the remainder into the nest. Then I climbed down from the tree and walked again. I do this every day. It is, as the French say, vie sans signification.

As I approached the radio station, a cargo truck driven by a man who was not tall, barrelled down Mesa Boulevard. I stretched one foot outward from my body like so, and here I demonstrate my leg extending outward. A tentative (-) [0:05:00] as the French dancers phrase it. My head was turned away from the oncoming traffic, because I saw a municipal garbage can on fire. Gathered around the flaming bin were angels touching together their unusually long fingers and moaning. The cargo truck honked loudly, but it was not as loud as the moans from the fire-lit celestial beings, so I did not alter my attention. I stepped into the roadway like this. And then again like this, and then again like this. Then again several more times, til I had crossed the road safely. Immediately following my final step, the cargo truck roared past me. I had not died, but I had a vision of my death. No, not a vision. What do you call a vision without visuals? My vision was every other sense. I had a dreadful snap, I felt my legs (accordion) [0:05:56] beneath my neck, I tasted blood and asphalt, I smelled the pungent rubber tire against my nose. My vision halted me for what seemed like hours but was less than a second.

I should have died, Night Vale. For it was in my vision. Yet I did not. The truck honked again, and the man in the passenger seat who was not short waved his fit and cursed at me. On the back of the truck were several wooden crates emblazoned with a white labyrinth above a black square. The crates glowed from within. I do not glow from within. I am darkness from within. I crossed the street, the angels moaned, and I wet myself.

It is a beautiful day in Night Vale. How was your morning?

And now the news. There is peace in our time, Night Vale. We hold a parade today to celebrate the end of the Blood Space War. The Blood Space War ended many years in the future, and we celebrate armistice today. Time, you see, is not a line but a (-) [0:07:10], which is kind of like a donut. And we are living within the donut. If we were to look out across a hall in the middle of the donut, we would see other times that have happened both before and after us. This presumes we can see time, which we cannot. We can only describe visually the shape of things that have no shape. Here is an incomplete visual description of things that have no shape. One: death is a bottomless pool of clear water. Two: wind is a question mark. Three: morality is a thermos. Four: love is an overfull shopping bag with a broken handle. Five: fear is a cinderblock tower with a single door and no windows. I hope that makes sense to you, dearest listeners. Because it does not to me. I’m neither a scientist nor a poet. I’m a radio host. I merely repeat to you that which I have learned. And what I have learned is that time is shaped like a donut. Beyond that, I have no comprehension.

When you woke up this morning, Night Vale, did you remember a life you never had? Did you experience the faint memory of a conversation, of a smell, of a feeling that never happened? Jamais vu, I believe the French say. The French say so much. And what do they know of peace? Today, I celebrate peace, however I do it alone. I broadcast my feelings to no one. Night Vale is empty, and I am its only citizen. Yet I have a vision of a town full of people. One of those people is a man, a radio intern named Cecil Palmer, but he is not here. No one is here. No one has ever been here. Has he died? I do not know. He simply is no longer here. You do not remember his years of fine reporting on this very radio station, because you never heard those reports. I did.

I remember things that never happened, yet I have no evidence of any of it. Let me describe to you the shape of Cecil Palmer. He’s a line of leafless mesquite trees, he is a glass factory, he is a golf ball sized (hell) [0:09:37], he has a voice like distant highway traffic. He loves coffee and handshakes, he wears tight clothing, and has never once worked with modelling clay. He covers mirrors with cloth and has an irrational fear of glowing lights beneath locked doors and dark hallways. You cannot know any of this, because Cecil is my vision, not yours. He is real all the same. He is to be my replacement when I retire. But he does not exist, so I can never retire. I am your permanent host. I can still see his face. I’ve said it before and I will say it once more. What deception is human sight!

The parade for the end of the Blood Space war has begun! There is no one attending, because no one lives in Night Vale. Perhaps we’ll reach a day when no one has ever lived. An emissary has arrived in town to lead the parade. The emissary’s an astronaut, bloated white arms and a mirror for a face. The emissary walks slowly through our empty city streets. I do not know why I broadcast this to you, dear listener. For you are not even here. No one is here, except for me and the emissary, who walks like a marionette under the wobbly control of a novice puppeteer. And the angels, whose moans are songs and whose fingertips are (-) [0:11:11] rods. Also there’s the two men in the cargo truck who are driving far beyond our town. And somewhere there are the French, who are inventing phrases to describe, I don’t know what.

The parade of absent floats along empty streets (-) by a mirror faced marshmallow of a grand marshall approaches our radio station. I will enjoy getting to see the festivities up close and describing shapes out of the shapeless.

And now the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. Kids, did you know that everyone experiences time differently? Physicist Albert Einstein once said: “There’s no business like show business. Like no business I know.” He said this while starring in “Annie Get Your Gun” in London’s West End. The performed the title role ten years before Irving Berlin even wrote the musical. This is because Albert Einstein experienced time differently, but only when it came to songwriting. He had the complete discography of both Leonard Cohen and Kendrick Lamar before either were born.

And perhaps, like you and I only hear music after it is written, we experience time differently in other was. Like say our births. Think about your birth. You don’t remember it, do you? This could be because you’ve forgotten it, but how do you forget something that so powerfully impacted you? I would argue that your birth was the important moment in your life, and you have forgotten it? I cannot believe you’re so cavalier as to allow the memory of your entry into this world to dissipate like steam from a screaming kettle! No, you do not remember your birth, because it has not happened yet. I am sure this is scientifically true. It can be the only explanation. You experience time differently. One day you will be born, and you will experience awe and pain and confusion. You will begrudge the lack of input you were given in this decision. You did not ask to be born, and yet pow, bam, squish, there you are, or were, or will be.

Earth is an (--) [0:13:32] during a flood. Memory is the chipped bark of the cedar tree. Time is a donut. This has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

The parade has ended. The street moments ago crowded with no one are once again still empty. The celebration of peace has ended, and another beautiful day comes to a close. The sun, like a shopkeeper with no customers, leaves work early. And the radio softly reminds us the shapes of the shapeless.

Oh! Oh dear, you startled me. Listeners, the emissary has appeared in my studio without warning, without even opening a door. And they’re sitting in the chair next to me and slowly rotating. Their visor is open, and I’m being forced to stare at the ineffable darkness within the emissary’s helmet. This seems like a good time For the weather.

[Subspace” by RAQIA https://raqia.bandcamp.com and https://www.instagram.com/raqiaband/]

Have you ever forgotten where you put your keys? You were certain they were on the mantle, but they were not. Have you ever missed an appointment because you were sure it was on Wednesday at noon and not Tuesday at ten? Have you ever remembered a life you did not lead? Has a carefully collated series of words ever made you uncertain, unconfident or un, just un? Un as an adjective onto itself.

The emissary arrived from the future, from space. The emissary told me changes were made, and those changes became mistakes and those mistakes became truths, and all of it would need to be undone. “Night Vale is a vibrant and full city with tens of thousands of people,” the emissary said. “Yet here you are, Leonard, the only person in Night Vale.” I nodded into the dark onyx of the emissary’s face screen. “How old are you, Leonard?” the emissary asked. I did not know. I still do not know. The emissary revealed to me a newspaper clipping. From the Night Vale Daily Journal obituary section dated November 1983. There was a photo of me and a story about my life: my childhood, my radio career, my wife, my children – my death. It was all true and yet I remembered none of it, except for the last part. I looked at my obituary photo. I read how I died. Under cargo truck wheels on Mesa Boulevard. In print, everything looks true. “What deception is human sight,” I said. The emissary lifted their trick gloved hands to their neck, unlatched the snaps and removed their helmet. I saw the face of an old woman, with sunken tearful eyes. “I am the general,” the emissary said, placing her enormous soft paw upon my hand. “I have tried to save myself, my soldiers, my town, my planet, through time travel. Every time we lose a battle, I return to before it even happened and fight it again. I fight each battle over and over, until we have won.” “You’re an excellent general,” I told her. “Of course I am,” she snapped. “In battle. But each time I interfere in the timeline, I create a widening ripple of historical changes. And now Night Vale is empty, on the verge of never having existed at all. This must be undone. Do you understand me, Leonard?” I nodded yes, to hide the fact that I did not understand. The emissary pointed to the moon. An enormous piece of the moon was missing. I did not remember that the moon was broken, but also I rarely look at the moon out of disdain. “Like the moon, time has broken,” she said. “Night Vale should be full of people, and you should have died long ago, Leonard,” she added. “Do you understand?” I shook my head no, to hide the fact that I did understand. “I’m sorry, Leonard,” she said. If Night Vale is repaired, you will return to the grave.” “But you have achieved peace,” I argued. “I have achieved peace,” she said. “And in doing so, I have made it so that no one in this city, or this world, or this universe, ever lived. I have achieved an infinitude of emptiness. Leonard, look.” She touched my shoulder with one hand, and with the other, she indicated once more the moon. When I looked, the moon was again whole. I looked back at the general and she was gone.

I hear now a voice, not my own, like distant highway traffic. I do not think I should be alive, but I do not know what else to be. Am I a ghost? Am I a god? Am I at all? Whatever it is I am, I reject my end. I embrace my existence, even in a world with no one to acknowledge it. I never wish to die, Night Vale, and still I refuse to do so. I am a broadcaster. I do not stop broadcasting simply because I do not live!

Stay through next for grackles hatching from long dormant eggs, and anything else I wish to describe, real or not. For you do not hear me anyway. And until tomorrow, See ya Night Vale, See ya.

Today’s proverb: Ask your doctor about dogs. Have a long conversation about how good dogs are. Show each other pictures of dogs.

[chadwick211]

Best Bottles of Thanksgiving Booze to Gift

Many people celebrate Thanksgiving with a full-day feast. The Sendgifts team pulled together a list of Thanksgiving booze accompaniments you should bring. A liquor gift for Thanksgiving host will never go unnoticed.

You can now buy alcohol online more easily than ever before. Our online liquor store offers the best selection of spirits at your fingertips, delivered right to your door. Enjoy our Thanksgiving booze collection and more at the comfort of your own home.

 Thanksgiving Booze Collection

With the best thanksgiving booze from Sendgifts, you can spend the day with family and friends in the right way.

 Kentucky Owl Confiscated Bourbon Whiskey

Kentucky- Confiscated pays tribute to the barrels the government seized from C.M. Dedman just ahead of Prohibition. Drinkers will enjoy notes of oak, caramel, mesquite banana bread and dark chocolate. The palate is complex with soft woodiness, sweetness of a banana pudding vanilla wafer.

Brand: Kentucky Owl

Country: United States

State: Kentucky

Spirits Type: Bourbon

Spirits Style: Small Batch Bourbon

ABV: 48.2%

Taste: Rich, Oak, Caramel, Tobacco, Long

 Russell's Reserve 10-Year-Old Bourbon Whiskey

Master distillers and premier whiskey makers Jimmy and Eddie Russell have brought nearly 100 years of combined experience to artfully crafting Russell’s Reserve 10-Year-Old Bourbon. Bottled at 90 proof, this hand selected small batch bourbon has a rich, caramel and vanilla taste and a uniquely smooth finish.

Brand: Russell's Reserve

Country: United States

State: California

Spirits Type: Bourbon

Spirits Style: Small Batch Bourbon

ABV: 45%

Tasting Notes

Nose: Aromas of cinnamon raisin bread, sweet vanilla and honey.

Palate: Notes of orange, cloves and oak, complemented by undertones of maple and caramel.

Finish: The finish is slightly warming, with a well-balanced complexity.

 Jameson Black Barrel

Jameson Black Barrel is a special blend of Jameson Irish Whiskey, made with aged double-distilled spirits and matured in deep charred oak barrels. The result is a smoother, richer whiskey with a complex taste. Jameson Black Barrel is perfect for sipping neat or on the rocks.

Brand: Jameson

Country: Ireland

Spirits Type: Irish Whiskey

ABV: 40%

Tasting Notes

Nose: Rich and fruity with notes of tropical fruits, coconut, nectarines in yoghurt, guava and a thick core of sweet cereals.

Palate: Thick and full on the palate, with an intense, unctuous creaminess, alongside dates, walnuts and peels. Good peach and coconut notes, and a little cinnamon.

Finish: Long finish, and very fruity with notes of cinnamon and nutmeg and hints of potpourri.

 Jewel of Russia Black Ultra Vodka

Jewel of Russia Ultra Black Label is made with only natural ingredients, and ancient recipes. The brand's top priority is to preserve the distinctive and authentic character of traditional Russian Vodka, while achieving the highest level of smoothness.

Brand: The Jewel of Russia

Style: Vodka

Size:  1L

Country: Russia

Type/Varietal: Vodka

Alcohol/vol: 40%

Tasting Notes:

The palate entry is elegant yet a touch hot; at midpalate the dry flavor turns silky in texture and minerally and stone-like in taste. Concludes bean- and kernel-like, bittersweet and a touch soy curd-like. A subtle, understated vodka with lots of layers and grip.

 Licor Beirao

Licor Beirao is a Portuguese liqueur with 22% ABV. Its recipe is a trade secret; producer J. Carranca Redondo, Lda. only states it is made from a double distillation of seeds and herbs from all over the world, including Malaysia, Brazil, and Thailand.

Producer: Beirao

Country: Portugal

Style: Liqueur

Size: 750ml

Tasting Notes:

Color: Amber.

Nose: Fragrances of herbs, coriander, anise, eucalyptus leaf, rosemary and cinnamon.

Aroma: Sweet and with a perfect tear.

 Riga Black Balsam

The original version of Riga Black Balsam herbal bitter is created by a combination of 24 ingredients – herbs, roots, berries, fruit juices, honey, burnt sugar and some very specific ingredients like golden withy, gentian, Peruvian balsamic oil.

Producer: Riga

Country: Latvia

Style: Amaro & Aperitif

Size: 750ml

Tasting Notes

Appearance: Deep Black

Nose: The fragrance is deeply complex with layer upon layer of fruits, florals, and herbals over an earthy sweetness.

Taste: Unlike anything else, it has flavor elements from Vermouth and Absinth underpinning notes of rose water, elderflower, blueberry cobbler, and sandalwood.

Finish: The finish is long, herbal, and lightly sweet.

 Metaxa Grande Fine

Metaxa Grande Fine is an extremely mature and well-respected member of the Metaxa family. Its distinctive ceramic bottle was inspired by ancient Greek designs originating from the island of Rhodes. Within the bottle is a spirit whose distillates are up to 15 years old, the youngest being more than 8 years old. The silky-smooth taste carries hints of vanilla within the amber color, balanced by the aroma of wood.

Brand: Metaxa

Country: Greece

Alcohol: 40% ABV

Bottle Size: 750 ml

Category: Liqueurs/Aperitifs

Tasting Notes

Color: Amber.

Aroma: Fully Aromatic, Woody, Well Balanced.

Taste: Silky, Ample, Aged, With A Slight Touch of Vanilla.

Metaxa is marketed as the “smoothest amber spirit ever”, and has a hint of sweetness and citrus notes. It is available in three flavors: five-star, seven-star and three-star. Each star represents the amount of time it has spent in oak casks.

 Gammel Dansk Liqueur Bitters

Gammel Dansk is a Danish bitter, and the name literally means "Old Danish". It was first created in 1961 and it is flavored with 29 different herbs, berries, and aromatic oils and undergoes a three-month marrying period prior to bottling. The recipe remains a secret.

Brand: Gammel Dansk

Size: 750 ml

Region: Copenhagen

Alcohol Content: 38%

Appearance: Clear, rusty brown with golden highlights.

Aroma: Cracked black pepper and sweet cinnamon and nutmeg nose with warm cloves and red berry fruit.

Taste: Aggressive bitter, dry, pine juniper palate with tannin and much need sweet fruity flavors.

Aftertaste: Aromatic, liquor ice finish with fruit compote struggling for attention over the bitterness. We’d score this highly if presented in a bitters bottle with a dropper and aimed at being dripped into Manhattans.

[virmillion]

As Above, So Below - Part 4

Part 1 // Part 3 // Part 5 // Masterpost

It’s ya boi back at it with a second fic in the same day because they’re on vacation and time is an illusion - also sorry this one is twice as long as the last few, I apparently love writing from Logan’s perspective because descriptions are too fun

Ship(s): None yet

Warning(s): None, but let me know if you need something tagged

    Logan strolls calmly through the corridor of the palace, adjusting his blue tie to sit straight and unwrinkled. The sun rises with the dawn outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows casting sunbeams into the hall, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air and warming the space like summer. This is one of Logan’s favorite times of day—the silence at daybreak, a whole palace to himself as all of the other inhabitants doze peacefully for a few more hours. A close contender is late at night, when everyone else has retired to their rooms, or raided the kitchen already. The quietness and his own company are all Logan really needs, and just toss in a good book with some Crofter’s-jellied toast for a good day.

    He reaches the end of the windowed hall, immediately feeling colder in the next room, with its curtains drawn and doors tightly shut. The library. An ideal room, full of towering bookshelves overflowing with every genre imaginable, organized thousands of different ways every week—one of Logan’s favorite hobbies. But that’s a task for later. For now, he continues through the cold room, trailing a hand over the only cypress desk in the room—a dark slab of wood amidst a handful of pale brazilian cherry tops. Fond memories live within this desk, of late hours preparing for royal court visits, or burning eyes from straining to read with the shrinking light of the candle wick, of escaping the havoc of Exolas and its problems for more peaceful, distant worlds.

    In the hall and down the stairs, Logan runs his hand over the red mesquite banister, admiring the smooth finish—the palace staff finally replaced the offending old oak railing. It was like a stain overlooking the grand space before it, painted in a red and white pattern so unnatural it might well have been hundreds of candy canes lining the steps.

    Having thoroughly criticized the old decorations, Logan jumps from the third-to-last step to the floor, allowing himself a small smile at the pleasure of it. An old tradition from when he was younger, a little less of a daredevil now than he was then—sliding down the railing on his stomach, face-first and hands in the air, isn’t exactly the safest way to get down the stairs anymore. It probably wasn’t necessarily safe in the first place, anyway.

    On to the kitchen, just starting to see the beginnings of activity as the cooks prepare breakfast. Logan lifts a hand in greeting to the head chef, Grace, who waves back with a batter-covered spatula.

    “Hi Lo!” she calls out, “why haven’t I seen you lately?”

    “Busy with royal nonsense, you understand,” Logan replies, sidestepping someone carrying a platter larger than his head.

    “Definitely, but when are we gonna see you down here more often? You’re missing training,” Grace whines, looking back at her oven as Logan recalls the near misses of a knife to his head in their ‘training.’ Admittedly, not a displeasurable time.

    “Maybe so, but I would assume you’re missing it, too, if you’ve clawed your way to head of the kitchen staff. How long, precisely, has it taken you to get here?”

    “Couple weeks, but you know I’m gonna fight tooth and nail to keep it.” Grace expertly flips a giant rainbow chocolate chip pancake to prove her point. Undoubtedly a special request from one of the younger denizens of the palace.

    “I’m sure,” Logan grins. “I’ll look into coming back for training, as I do rather miss it.” He plucks an apple from a basket by the door and calls goodbyes as he slips out of the kitchen, wiping the apple on his shirt and heading for the stairs again. With the apple’s tart flavor spreading over his tongue, it’s time to traverse the endless hallways to find and wake Roman.

    As Logan lifts a fist to knock on the tall white door, adorned with red ribbons and rubies, it flies open, Roman’s beaming face behind it.

    “Since when do you wake up this early in a good mood?” Logan asks. “You’re the last creature alive I’d associate with being a morning person.”

    “Because I finally found one that’ll stump you!” Roman declares triumphantly. He holds up a book of logic puzzles, from which he gives Logan one the first time they see each other every day. Needless to say, most of those who live in the castle avoid going to the bathrooms frequented by the pair in the morning, since they likely don’t want to hear another riddle when they’re just trying to pee.

    “Alright, let me have it.” Logan smiles, biting into the apple again. Roman rarely gets this excited unless the puzzle is really hard.

    “Okay, so there’s this guy trying to get into a secret club, right? So he stakes out the club building and watches other people get in. The person guarding the door says a number, and the one trying to get in says a number in response. The guard says twelve, so the first member says six. For the next person, the guard says six, so the second member says three. When the guy trying to sneak in goes up, he’s given the number ten, so he says five, but they don’t let him in! Why not?” Roman summarizes all of this from the longer description in the book, snapping it shut with an air of confidence that Logan won’t be able to solve it.

    “Roman, I had high hopes for you! This one should have been far more difficult, given your excitement in its introduction,” Logan remarks.

    “Big words from someone who hasn’t solved the riddle yet,” Roman pouts. Logan swallows an apple chunk and gives his answer.

    “Not out loud, I haven’t. The guy sneaking in should have said three—three letters in the number ten, three letters in the number six, six letters in the number twelve.”

    “Way to kill my mood.” Roman sticks his tongue out, tosses the book into his messy room, and links an arm with Logan, stealing a bite from his half-eaten apple.

    “First of all, if you would give me a better riddle, I wouldn’t have to ruin your mood. Secondly, I’m about to make it even worse,” Logan reassures him, snatching the apple back.

    “How so?” A note of dread tints the edge of Roman’s words. Logan making a threat is never a good sign.

    “Today is AKI day.” Assessment of Kingdom Issues, otherwise known as sitting on a throne and doing nothing while citizens talk at Roman, letting Logan deliver the harsh blows before allowing Roman to comfort the people. What fun. “Come on, Princey, down to the throne room, where many great joys and adventures await you in the riveting political scheme of Exolas.”

    “I thought I said not to call me that,” Roman grumbles, pretending to be upset. Logan ignores him, carrying on through grand ballrooms, expansive hallways, and peaceful lounges to arrive at the second largest set of doors in the palace. Just ahead of them in size is the entry doors, which proudly guard the building at three stories tall. The doors now in front of the pair are backed with white birchwood, the towering gates looming over the hall. They consume all light and attention with their inlaid rubies and diamonds, spitting it back in glittering patterns across the walls. Even the pashmina carpet, embroidered with gold, dances in the light of the shining stones, all crawling up the door and intertwining with gold piping as it runs across silver lace. Breathtaking, to say the least, but too manufactured for Logan’s tastes.

    He throws the door open without a moment of hesitation to admire the shifting reflections of the jewels, exposing a room to rival the doors themselves. A long, vermillion carpet leads up to an elevated stage of hickory pine, polished to smooth perfection. Upon the stage rests one throne, cushioned with rose red and held up by a frame of gold inset with pearls. Only one throne, as the king never lowers himself to interacting with his subjects for AKIs. Dotting the walls of the room stand great marble columns, covered in reliefs of the king in stuff of legend, defeating every obstacle in his path. There’s but one column remaining incomplete, just to the right of the door; some servants hammer away at it, revealing a scene of Roman dueling a dragon.

    Having already become desensitized to the scene over their many years of entering the room, the two boys walk right past it all, hardly noticing the striking progress on Roman’s column, or the fervent bows of the workers they pass. Roman settles heavily into the throne, situating his sash to be unrumpled before resting his right ankle on his left knee. Logan takes up position to the left of the throne, holding his shoulders square and clasping his hands behind his back. Roman twiddles his thumbs impatiently as Logan looks on, watching the large doors swing shut to allow unhappy people to line up behind them before coming in to yell at a prince who has absolutely no control over their rotten lots in life.

    With a forceful clearing of his throat, Logan kicks the foot of the throne before holding out something very important that Roman somehow managed to forget—his crown. Honestly, it’s a downright miracle that Logan doesn’t just wear it himself at this point. He’s got half a mind to do so, but the other half is preoccupied with sorting out problems for those lucky enough to be able to vent their misdirected anger at Roman.

    As Roman finishes adjusting the crown on his head, the doors swing open like a gaping mouth, allowing a castle guard to escort in the first unhappy citizen. Haggard, with tattered clothes and filthy hair, but the shoes on their feet are just shy of being worn all the way through, indicating that while this person might be down on their luck, they haven’t yet reached the bottom of the barrel, typically shown by wearing paper bags for shoes.

    “That city of convicts is out of control!” they yell, prompting the guard to shift into a defensive stance. “Every day, they’re always out and about—”

    “Doing what?” Logan interrupts, already disinterested and a good deal irritated. “Being human? Trying to move past their soiled backgrounds? Avoiding airheads like you that refuse to accept that some people have it worse than others, and that leads them to make regrettable bad decisions?” The person below Logan and Roman opens and closes their mouth a few times, not unlike a fish gasping in air. With a scowl, Logan jerks his chin at the door, prompting the guard to show the person out. “You aren’t the first person to complain about them,” Logan calls, “and I’m certain you won’t be the last.” Roman gives a half-hearted apology, but the snobbish complainer is already gone. Embarrassment, anger, or something else has made them rush out in a huff, without waiting for the guard, but quite frankly, Logan doesn’t really care.

    The next person ushered in carries a basket of spoiled fruits and vegetables. Evidence, in Logan’s opinion, is always more useful in these situations than empty grievances aired for the express purpose of seeing the inside of the palace. This person has some issue about pesticides from a neighbor killing all of their crops, a real problem with an actual solution, finally.

    Logan leans down to murmur in Roman’s ear, “send them back with a cease and desist notice for the neighbor, and have the guard take them to the kitchens for some produce-friendly pesticides. Say to ask for Grace, and mention that Logan sent them.” Roman repeats as much to the basket-carrier and the guard, pleased when this citizen walks out in much higher spirits than the one before.

    AKIs aren’t so bad, truthfully. Just exhaustingly tedious. With few real problems and all too many complaints about the city of convicts, Logan and Roman are at their wits’ end, and it’s not even lunch yet.

    “It’s about the city of convicts,” the latest person says, barreling straight through Logan’s automatic ‘holier than thou’ speech. “Not the convicts themselves, but there are these two boys that are nowhere near as rough as the other people in that city.” Before Logan can attempt to interrupt the person again, Roman holds a hand up in a stop gesture. This might actually be worth listening to. “Both of them have purple hair, kind of like yours,” they bow to the prince and Logan in turn, “and I’m just not sure that it’s in their best interests to leave them out there. I don’t know the two personally, but I’m concerned for their safety.” The person bows low again before allowing the guard to lead them out. The door shuts behind the pair and remains so. AKIs over.

    “Now that’s an interesting one,” Logan remarks. Roman gives a noncommittal grunt of agreement, rising from his throne in search of food. Making a mental note of the latest complaint and carefully filing it away for later consideration, Logan follows.

Tag List:

@reality-isfor-muggles @artistictaurean @adfandertime @virgils-old-sweater @karaidemon @dudapoconeh @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @fallingamor @ghostdorkphil @tinysidestrashcaptain @punch-you-with-friendship @pattykrabbies @virgils-hoodie @twettypuff @justanotherpurplebutterfly @lizethemotherlycat @skyshade48 @tree4life25 @andromeda-galaxsander @sombraplayslazertag @lemonpepperpizza @erlenmeyertrash @raincloudverge @potatoes-and-depression @milomeepit @coffeestudylive @sakurahayasaki

[robgraceinc]

7 Ridgeline Way Way Rancho Mirage, CA, 92270 $1,195,000 4 Beds5 Baths3,540 SqFt Welcome to Mesquite Ridge. This private gated community consists of only 12 homes and is located in Rancho Mirage. This property is at the end of the cul-de-sac, the most desirable location in the development. This home features 3,400 sq. ft. 4 bedrooms, 4.5 baths, which includes a spacious detached Casita with separate entry. Enter the rotunda foyer through double glass doors to a spacious well maintained home. The wet bar is centrally located and is open to the main rooms, great for entertaining your guest with a refreshing cocktail. The kitchen includes Viking appliances, custom cherry cabinets, and granite countertops. BBQ is located outside on the adjacent patio. The formal dining room is near the living room complete with its own fireplace and views of the pool & yard. Master bedroom includes a fireplace and a spacious bathroom which features, glass shower enclosure, custom vanity, soaking tub and wonderful views of the pool area. Guest bedroom suites are complete with their own bathrooms and are nicely separated from the master. The large lush yard features a pebble finished lap pool including a tanning ledge and spa, surrounding by beautiful mountain views. John Volland Realtor® John Volland 760 285-6460 johnevolland@gmail.com CA DRE# 01704838 (at BHGRE Leaskou Partners) https://www.instagram.com/p/CD427zRjk1Q/?igshid=1hzv997jja4hg

[tyleroakley-obsessed]

Ed. Note: I’m proud to bring you this extensive V-Day guide from Memphis writer and new ILM contributor, Katie Schnack. Be on the lookout for more fresh faces and new voices on the I Love Memphis Blog in the coming weeks. – Holly Valentine’s Day is just about here and Memphis is already starting to feel the love. If you are gearing up to celebrate with a date or a group of friends, we’ve got you covered. Also, if you are feeling like swearing off love forever, hiding under a pile of blankets and binge watching a dark Netflix series, we have some ideas for you too. For more inexpensive, classic Memphis date ideas, click here. If you’re looking for some local sweet treats, click here. Also, it’s time to dust off our made-in-Memphis V-Day Mixtape because – why not? As for my Valentine’s Day, I will be daydreaming of attending all of these events while sipping champagne with my husband at home, listening to the lovely sounds of our baby monitor. Because you know, parenthood and stuff. Maybe next year we will get out on the town! We’ll update this post as we learn more – you can add ideas in the comments or submit to the calendar, too. 1. Go To Dinner For most of these places you will need reservations. Prices do not include tax, gratuity, or drinks. – Amerigo Italian Restaurant will have a special pasta dinner for two, as well as their regular menu and chef specials. – Babalu will serve a featured cocktail and specialty tapas made with “aphrodisiacs”, available Feb. 9 – Feb. 14. They don’t take reservations, so you may want to call ahead and see if there is a wait. – B.B. King’s will be doing a three course meal for $50 which will include an appetizer, choice of two entrees, two desserts and, of course, there will be live music. –  Bleu will have a four-course prix fixe dinner, including a complimentary champagne toast, dessert and a rose for your Valentine. The cost is $70 per person, Feb. 11 – 14. – Capriccio Grill at The Peabody will have a Valentine’s day dinner Feb. 10 – Feb. 14 from 4 – 10 p.m. The three-course meal costs $70 per person. – Celtic Crossing is offering a special three course dinner starting at 5 p.m., including a gift of Irish Butler’s Heart Chocolates. The cost is $35 per person. Their regular menu will also be available, plus live music to keep you entertained if your date is a dud. – Catherine and Mary’s will serve a four course prix fixe meal for $75 per person. Each course will have three options to choose from, and will be made up of specialty items not normally on the menu. Seating starts at 5 p.m. – Char will have a few Valentine’s Day specials running in addition to their regular menu, with live music from 6 – 9 p.m. – Chez Philippe at The Peabody is offering Valentine’s day dinners Feb.10, 11 and 14 from 5 – 10 p.m. The four-course prix fixe meal costs $95 per person, or $130 with wine pairing. – Eighty3 at The Madison has a three-course menu with a glass of champagne for $55 per person. – The Farmer will be having a three-course sweetheart menu from 5:30 – 9 p.m. $45 per person. – Felicia Suzanne’s will have a three-course prix fixe menu with three choices per course, at $65 per person. Wine packages and special Valentine’s Day cocktails will be available, and early and late seating options. – Hammer and Ale will offer a two-for-one deal on Bell’s Two Hearted Ale on Feb. 14 from 5 – 9 p.m. They will also have their regular menu available. (Ed. Note: Their pimento grilled cheese is so underrated. – HW) – Lafayette’s will be open to regular reservations this year, and have a special Valentine’s Day menu. Live music will be on stage as always. – Stone Soup Cafe will have candlelight and a local guitarist as a backdrop to their four-course dinner. Seating is at 5 and 7 p.m., $50 per person. And, you can BYOB for a corkage fee. – Sweet Grass will be running their regular menu with a few drink and food specials. – Sweet Potato Baby Cafe is offering modern European cuisine by award-winning celebrity chef Aryen Moore-Alston on Feb. 14 from 7 – 10 p.m.  $150 a person, at ages 21+ only. –The Kitchen at Shelby Farms will have a four course prix fixe menu for $75 per person. Seating starts at 5:00 p.m.     Here are some more options for dinner. We will update with more details as we have them. Make sure to call ahead for reservations. Acre Andrew Michael Italian Kitchen Alchemy Bari Bounty on Broad Cafe 1912 Erling Jensen Flight Flying Saucer downtown Folks Folly Hog & Hominy Itta Bena Mesquite Chop House Napa Cafe Paulette’s Porcellino’s River Oaks Schweinehaus Texas de Brazil Terrace at the River Inn 2. See a show or concert It Takes Two performed by the Collage Dance Collective, Feb. 11, 7:00 p.m., downtown loft of Elliot & Kimberly Perry, $75. An intimate dance performance put on by the recently viral Collage Dance Collective, including live music, cocktails and cuisine.   Rock of Ages, Playhouse on the Square, Jan. 20 – Feb. 12, $40 If your ideal Valentine’s Day date is full of Aqua Net and heavy metal, then this show is for you. Set in 1980’s Hollywood on the Sunset Strip, the Rock of Ages features music from hit bands like Styx, Poison, Guns N’ Roses, Whitesnake and more. Haint, Germantown Community Theater, Jan. 27 – Feb. 12, $12 – $24 Written by Germantown Community Theater’s own artistic director, this new work passionately explores trying to let go of the past even when those ghosts won’t let you move on. Circuit Playhouse, Hand to God, Jan. 27 – Feb. 19, $25 Described by The New York Times as “disturbing as it is uproarious,” Hand to God follows a foul-mouthed puppet in a Christian ministry that takes on a mind of its own. Because nothing says Valentine’s Day more than a demonic puppet, of course. Blueprints to Freedom: An Ode to Bayard Rustin, Hattiloo Theatre, Jan. 20 – Feb. 12   Set in the political and racial heart of 1963, the play follows Bayard Rustin, an openly gay, Black member of the non-violent civil disobedience movement. The Illusionists – Live from Broadway, Feb. 10 – Feb. 12, $30 and up. Put some magic back into your relationship with The Illusionists – Live from Broadway. Called “the world’s best selling magic show,” it features the live talents of seven of the most incredible illusionists on earth. Love and All That Jazz, Church of the River, Feb. 12, 11:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m., Free, all ages. Enjoy live jazz from saxophonist Jim Speake and friends, as well as inspirational readings about love, all while taking in a beautiful view of the Mississippi River. Atilla – Let’s Get Abducted Tour, Minglewood Hall, Feb. 14, doors open at 6 p.m., $18 – $20, all ages. Rock out for love with this heavy metal band from Atlanta. Also featuring New Year’s Day, Bad Omens and Cane Hill. Kathy Mattea, The Halloren Centre, Feb. 17, 7:30 p.m., $35, all ages Acoustic croonings by grammy award winning singer Kathy Mattea and her longtime collaborator, guitarist Bill Cooley. The Laugh-A-Thon tour, The Cannon Center for the Performing Arts, 6:00 p.m., $40 – 100. A comedy show featuring Earthquake, Don “Dc” Curry, Bill Bellamy, Huggy Lowdown from the Tom Joyner show, and Damon Williams. Sock It To Me Burlesque’s HEARTBREAKERS, RockHouse Live Memphis Feb. 11 , 9 – 11 p.m., $15 – 25. A Valentine’s Day themed show with live music, a lineup of burlesque performers and lots of fun! The Sounds of Love and Laughter, Tunica Resort Casino, Feb, 11, 8 p.m., $35 or VIP seating for $45. A Valentine’s weekend party featuring the PC Band, comedian D. Elli$! Aka Mr. Entertainment, and celebrity guest and powerful vocalist James Wright Chanel, who will be co-hosting with Sheronica Ray. 3. Do Something Different Champagne Sunday, The Metal Museum, Feb. 12, Free, all ages. Browse the exhibits, enjoy some bubbly and treats and let your Valentine browse their gift shop full of one-of-a-kind jewelry, art and home decor. Valentine’s Day Dance Class, Blue Suede Ballroom, Feb. 14, 6 – 6:45 p.m., $35 per couple, RSVP in advance. Couples will learn a seductive rumba or tango in this class, and still have time to make it to dinner afterward. All participants will receive one complimentary group class as a special gift. Pinot’s Palette (Sanderlin) Valentine’s Paintings for Couples, Feb 11 -. 14, various times, $45. They will be hosting a variety of couple’s painting events the weekend before Valentine’s Day through the 14th. Chocolate and roses will be provided! Victorian Valentine at the Woodruff-Fontaine House Museum, Feb. 3, 5 – 8 p.m., $15. Learn the history behind the Valentine day traditions practiced today. Gowns, lace and a romantic atmosphere take you back to a time when courting rituals were strictly followed. No Tinder here! Light refreshments will be served. All Things Chocolate IV, National Civil Rights Museum, Feb. 12, 6 – 11 p.m., $150 per couple, $85 for a single ticket. A romantic evening at the National Civil Rights Museum. There will be a three-course plated meal, live band, open bar and more. 25th Annual Works of Heart, Memphis College of Art, Saturday, Feb. 4, 7 – 10 p.m., $75. Bid on 120 gallery-quality heart-themed pieces. Beer, wine and appetizers will be available. All proceeds benefit the Memphis Child Advocacy Center. Whiskey, Wine and Chocolates, Memphis Botanic Garden, Feb. 10, 7 – 10 p.m., $60. Memphis chocolatier Philip Ashley presents an array of designer chocolates paired with select whiskey, wines and cocktails. Music by Objeckt12. Wine Bottle Glasses class, Five in One Social Club, Feb. 14, 6 – 9 p.m., $20 Grab a drink and a date for this Valentine’s Day edition of one of their most popular classes! Learn how to turn an empty wine bottle into a drinking glass, and consider yourself a Pinterest pro. 3rd Annual Titled Hearts Pinball Tournament, Memphis Made Brewing, Feb. 18, 2 – 6 p.m., $10 entry fee. Another Valentine’s Day weekend tourney hosted by Memphis Pinball. $10 to enter but games are free for competitors. A cash prize will be awarded for the top four players. 4. Embrace your Valentine’s Day angst. Not a fan of hearts, love and fuzzy feelings? We hear ya! Check out these ways to celebrate or, I guess not celebrate: We Need to Talk: A Open Call Exhibition of Breakup Items, Crosstown Arts, Feb. 10. 5 – 8 p.m. This exhibition is an opportunity for anyone who has suffered heartbreak to share their tale of love gone wrong in a very public way. Submit a memento of your breakup and the object’s story, and it will be displayed. Online submissions end Friday, Jan. 27 and art drop off is Feb. 2 and Feb. 3 from 10 a.m. – 6 p.m. Or, just head out to the opening of the exhibit on Feb.10 to gawk at the pain of others. The Break Up Show 6, New Daisy Theatre, Feb. 11, 8 – 11 p.m., $20 up to $300 for a VIP lounge. True stories of heartbreak, rejection and insanity women into a comedic show. Dramatic recreations of text-message breakups, online dating fails and bad date re-enactments are all on the table. and more. The stories are anonymous 100% real and local – they were all submitted by Memphians. Love on the Rocks: A Walking Tour of the Romantically Challenged, Elmwood Cemetery, Feb. 11, 10:30 a.m., $20, adults only. Learn about Memphis history of love gone wrong. The tour is completely outdoors, so dress for the weather. Monster Jam, FedExForum, Feb. 17 – 18, 7 p.m., $15 and up all ages/kid friendly. Revel in your distaste for the holiday of love by watching giant trucks crush things and run into each other, duh. The No Show Ball benefiting The Forrest Spence Fund, Your House! Feb. 11, $100 There may be no better option to hide from Valentine’s Day then by having an entire dinner party delivered to your door, and all for a good cause. If you live in Shelby County, a cooler containing an entree, salad, bread, dessert and a bottle of wine will be delivered before 3:00 p.m. Turn on a weird Netflix series, and you are all set. Let us know in the comments below how you plan on celebrating, or if there is anything else to add to this list. Happy Valentine’s Day, Memphis! About The Author Katie Schnack is a writer, book publicist and founder of the Memphis Women Writers. Her work has been published on HelloGiggles, ScaryMommy, XOJane,  I Love Memphis, and more. Say hello at katieschnack.com and on Twitter @katieschnack. Are you a home owner in Memphis, with a broken garage door? Call ASAP garage door today at 901-461-0385 or checkout http://ift.tt/1B5z3Pc

http://ilovememphisblog.com/2017/01/i-love-memphis-guide-to-valentines-day-2017/

[nightmare-afton-cosplay]

Houses For Sale in Kingsbury, TX

14326 Us Hwy 90, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $939000

The majestic rock-walled entry invites you to the 113+ acre Circle JB ranch with a separate 2 car garage workshop, RV parking, loading pens/shoots, additional storage sheds, stocked ponds, trees, grasslands and great steel post fencing. A true hunter’s paradise with an abundance of deer, hogs, turkeys, and birds. The picturesque winding path leads to a Hill Country ranch house with many custom features and wonderful hillside views. The family room with a high vaulted ceiling and rock fireplace is perfect for family gatherings as it adjoins the dining and kitchen area. A spacious master bedroom and bath has lots of storage. A full Jack & Jill bathroom connects two of the bedrooms. One bedroom is used as an office. You will want to call this home! This country setting is all you hoped to find and then some.

380 Appling Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $658476

a grand country home on 57.09 acres, a very spacious 2,839 sq.ft. home 4 bedrooms,2.5 baths a very open and inviting floor plan. new engineered wood flooring in main part of home, high ceilings, fans, large master bedroom, master bath has double vanity,whirlpool tub, separate large title shower, large back patio covered opens to in-ground pool, vinyl fencing encloses backyard, commercial grade metal roofing, metal studs 6″ on exterior walls, extra insulation in attic,windows are r19 double pain, 3 tankless water heaters, extremely low electrical bills, electric gate entrance, emt wiring throughout the home.

357 Hillje Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $893500

Triple JJJ Ranch Charming country home with vintage gables, & a lg wrap around porch in Kingsbury, TX. Nestled in the center of San Marcos, New Braunfels, Sequin, Luling, & Lockhart & close to 130/Hwy I-10. Exceptional property on 116.04 acres, has a lg barn with electricity & water, workshop, loafing shed, 3 pastures for your horses, 5 springfed ponds, is fully fenced, plus offers a gated driveway. Interior has exposed ceiling beams, wainscoting, hardwood floors, plus an antique clawfoot tub.

11189 Fm 20, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $990000

4,323 sq. ft. Country Home on 25 acres. Extraordinary Views, Two Full Kitchens, Elevator, Granite Counters, Mesquite Wood Floors, Wrap-Around Porches, Negative Edge Pool, Observation Deck, & a 35x 60 Metal Building. Elegance & ergonomic home designs include a central vacuum system, 3 fireplaces, gas stoves, wood & glass-doored book cases, Murphy beds, wood & granite hutches, a granite topped desk, custom shelves/cabinets throughout, & a master shower with 8 different spray heads. Full alarm system with cameras you can view from your smartphone.

11851 E Highway 90, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $420000

Get away for country living on 30.6 acres. Great design features with a large floor to ceiling fireplace in the den.Brand new Aerobic Septic and 2 AC’s. Home has the ability to run on either Co-op water or the well water.Office with private outside entrance which could be converted to 4th bedroom. 60×60 Metal workshop and an additional barn for your choice of livestock. New roof installed with 25 year Owens-Corning comp. shingles. Outdoor fireplace.Close proximity to I-10 for easy commutes to Seguin, New Braunfels, San Antonio, or San Marcos. HOME WARRANTY is being provided by the selle r. Many mature Oak trees to provide shade for BBQ’S and outdoor entertaining. New Jeld Wen french doors le

11201 Fm 20, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $375000

Very quite, unique rolling farm country only 10 minutes to 130 Toll Road access. Lots of big trees, great views–can see buildings on the campus of Texas State. 20 minutes to San Marcos, Seguin, Lockhart and Luling. The main house has a large deck in front and guest house has nice outside sitting area. Lots of wildlife !!!! There is a dry spring on top of the hill that flowed from a rocky outcropping–numerous arrowheads have been found in the area and many more to be discovered.

10.57 Acres Choctaw, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $140000

10.5 Acres wooded corner property with storage building, electricity, water well and stock pond. Easy access to IH-10. Mobiles are not allowed but modular homes are.

626 Post Office, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $68500

Cute 1 Bedroom 1 Bath home in Kingsbury! New Engineered septic system! Tile floors! Fresh paint! Fenced backyard! Large concrete driveway! Call Joe Engbrock (830) 305-4866

1331 Woodrow Center Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $180000

***65K Price Reduction*** Now $180,000. 1331 Woodrow Row, Kingsbury, TX 78638. 10 acres with a 4-2 beautiful custom built home, electric power, water well, septic tank, Gazebo and unfinished detached room with balcony. There is a easement to get into the property. Fence all around the ranch, seasonal pond, horses allowed.

3970 Fm 1339, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $255000

Quiet Country Living in Navarro ISD w/acreage for livestock. Lots of Shade Trees. Home sits next to York Creek. Enjoy the evening breezes from the covered porch. Quick access to Seguin, San Marcos, Austin and San Antonio. Property is centrally located to IH-10, IH-35 and I-30 Toll Road. Above-Ground Pool, Carport and Outdoor Shed included with Sale of Property.

560 Wade Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $144900

nice 3 bedroom 2 bath modular home on a little over 3 acres. front entry deck and deck on rear of house. split master bedroom with full bath. open living and kitchen area. undeveloped land to the west and north. north of kingsbury near hwy 130.

Fm 20, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $2137500

This Farm/Ranch located at Fm 20, Kingsbury, TX is currently for sale and has been listed on theochomesearch for 51 days. This property is listed by Phyllis Browning Company for $2,137,500. The property has a lot size of 450.0 acres. Fm 20 is in the 78638 ZIP code in Kingsbury, TX.

Tbd Fm 20, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $350000

Big, open land with beautiful view to the South of Kingsbury Hills. York Creek is along one boundary. Fenced and Cross-fenced for cattle. Could make a weekend hunting retreat and place to ride dirt bikes and enjoy the outdoors. Majority of land is in flood plain of York Creek. Crystal Clear Water meter in place.

2300 Wade Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $630000

Want to get away from Austin, Houston, and San Antonio? 85 Acres and home within a few minutes of SH 130! Three bedroom two bath home surrounded by nothing but pastures and a historic church. Situated in the quiet portion of Guadalupe Co. known as the York Creek Valley. Horse barn, chicken coop, RV hookup and cattle pens make this ready for whatever you want to do. York Creek is the eastern property line. Cattle graze on cleared portion; native land for hunting. Want to go to town–San Marcos, Seguin, Luling, and Lockhart are all within a 15 minute drive. Home has windows galore–no nee d for lights during the day! Front and back porches allow for wonderful sunrises and sunsets. Old house on property not inhabitable unless you decide differently–it has good bones!

Tbd Gander Slough, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $168000

nice 44 + acre place. ranched fenced. ag exempt. located in country just outside of luling. pond on property. nice trees.

4774 Old Lehman Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $624900

20 acres! In Navarro School District. Primary residence is a custom built home with high ceilings to emulate and old Texas schoolhouse. The structure complimented with a stone silo which is part of the large master bedroom. Art Touches and metalwork throughout. One of a kind home as well as a studio that could double as a guesthouse. The guesthouse is made from shipping containers. The Steel Farmhouse is perhaps the most striking build and is very unique to the area.

286 Indian Springs Dr, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $173096

Investor opportunity! This property is being offered at Public Auction on 04-04-2017. Visit Auction.com now to see the Estimated Opening Bid, additional photos, Property Reports with Title information, Plat maps and Interior Inspection Reports when available. Auction.com markets Foreclosure Sale properties throughout Texas for banks, financial institutions and government agencies who are very motivated to see these properties sell to investors. The majority of these properties are priced below market value. Don’t miss this special opportunity to buy homes at wholesale prices! In additio n to this property, 110 other properties are scheduled for sale at this same Foreclosure Sale. In our online auctions and live Foreclosure Sales, Auction.com currently has 6 properties scheduled for sale in Guadalupe County and 763 throughout Texas. All properties and sale details can be found with a simple search at Auction.com. Create a FREE account today to find more properties like this one, save searches of properties that meet your investment criteria and have the properties you’re looking for emailed directly to you when posted in an upcoming sale event. To view the complete details of this exact property, click the Auction.com link below or paste the Property ID 2371673 into the search bar at Auction.com

195 Cheyenne, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $395000

Welcome home to your little piece of heaven on earth. This 4 br with 3 full baths, 10 acres to roam and play. Sellers updated everything that they can think of. Home features a 4th br that measures 20 X 21 that could also be used as a second living area. Ceramic tile floors, granite countertops, custom cabinets, plus private office upstairs, master has jetted garden tub, his/hers closets, large living room and views of backyard and wildlife, covered back porch, large shop, auto gate. * Required advanced notice to show.

2765 Sherrill Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $524000

Great opportunity to own 4 cabins by San Marcos River. Cabins are used as short term rentals now and owner says they generate over $50k per year in revenue. Unrestricted acreage and room to add more cabins. Across the county Road from the San Marcos River allowing a county easement access to water. The neighboring two lots that border the river are also for sale (2769 Sherrill). Great views and easy access to toll 130, IH 35, and IH 10.

2769 Sherrill Rd, Kingsbury, TX

Price: $349000

Rare opportunity to own 8 unrestricted acres on the San Marcos River. These two lots together give you over 500 feet of easy river access. Great buildable spot at a higher elevation location with three 220 electric meters already installed. Perfect for RV’s, cabins, or your home. Enjoy life here with plenty of shade, large mature trees, drivable right to waters edge, great views, lots of Texas wild life, great fishing, canoeing, kayaking, and swimming. Looking to develop your own tubing business

from http://www.theochomesearch.com/houses-for-sale-in-kingsbury-tx/

[gslocksmith]

Smart Lock Comes With The Best in Class Security For Your Home

Android technology is used to lock and unlock doors instead of the age-old iron lock and key that may have proven its worth but has also proven its discredit several times in the past. The locking and unlocking operations of the smart locks are all connected to the smartphone, which caters to the confidentiality of an individual. Various technological intricacies are implemented to create a smart lock. A smart lock can provide the following services to its owner:

1. Tight security:

The sole aim of a smart lock is to serve for tight security. Hackers and robbers are ready to loot precious belongings. Thus, the primary and basic service of a smart lock is to provide end-to-end security.

2. Access to the lock using password and passcodes via smartphone:

The smartphones or other smart devices, which are compatible with the smart lock, communicate with each other through the entry of a chosen password or passcode on the device. Then only can the lock open. Entry of wrong passwords is recorded for security.

3. Security token or card:

Smart locks come with another option of maintaining it through tokens or cards. They are the substitutes for keys and can be carried in the wallet. The scanning of the token or card against the lock attached to the door allows unlocking it. Other than this, keeping a record of the visitors is another feature of it.

4. App connectivity and information transfer:

The smart locks that are manipulated via smartphones allow app connectivity through wifi to keep the owner updated about the tempering of it when he is not home. Another interesting fact is that the owner can choose a third party to let open the lock. This can be done through the generation of one-time password handed over to the person in question who would for a time open the smart lock.

5. Locking and unlocking time recorder:

Every locking and unlocking activity is recorded in the app connected to the smart lock. This helps detect any possible breaches.

No doubt, not every discovery comes with both the pros and the cons. Even the old kind of lock had it. The smart locks may be even hacked of its credit by a professional hacker. However, it remains the hope for millions of users who prefer to function in smarter ways. The smarter the generation, smarter the inventions and belongings and smartest should be the ways to protect them all. Each one has a different preference and can go for any smart lock that may suit their needs.

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[gsgaragedoors]

Electrical Services - Finding the Right Provider

Electricity is potentially dangerous and it is always recommended that you hire an electrical services expert when you need any electrical work carried out. Whether you need to mend a line, replace a socket, rewire your house or premises you should contract an approved electrical services professional. However, identifying a good provider is easier said than done. The following are a few pointers that will make sure you hire a competent service:

Ask the provider how long they have been in business. Generally, the longer they been in business the better because this proves that they are not just starting out and you are not their guinea pig.

Ask the provider whether they are approved. The most important certification as far as electricians are concerned is the National Inspection Council for Electrical Installation Contracting (NICEIC) certification. NICEIC is the UK's electrical contracting industry's independent regulatory body. They offer certification services as well as support to electrical contractors and numerous other trades within the construction industry. More than 25,000 contractors are registered with NICEIC.

Ask the provider for any other credentials and references from past clients. This is common sense but surprisingly, many people fail to ask this question. Academic and professional credentials as well as references can help you learn a great deal about a provider.

When looking for a provider, ask family, friends and neighbors for contacts of reliable contractors they have worked with in the past.

Range of Services

Most contractors offer a wide range of services. The following are some of the services that any decent contractor should be able to provide:

Access Control Systems including Door Entry & Gated Security

Building & Joinery Services

Completion Audits

Construction & Computer Aided Design as fitted drawings

Control Systems

Distribution Transformer

Electrical design & installation to the latest 17th edition the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers (IEEE) regulations

Emergency Lighting

Fault Finding & Repair Work

Fire Alarm Systems

Floodlighting

Intruder Detection Alarm Systems

NICEIC Testing & Inspections Including periodic & PAT (portable appliance testing)

Outdoor Lighting including Gardens and Car parks

Planned and impromptu maintenance

Standby Generators

Technical Audits

Uninterrupted Power Supply (UPS) Systems

However, it is important to note that some contractors specialize in certain types of work only. This would be ideal if the nature of your job is highly specialized and calls for in-depth knowledge of a specific area of expertise.

Finally, be sure that your contractor is familiar with all local and national regulations. Many projects require permits and inspections. An experienced electrical services provider will be able to advice you on the permits needed and ensure that your project passes any necessary inspections.

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[iqvts]

4918 Regal BLFF, Mesquite, TX 75150 from iQ Visual Tours on Vimeo.

For more information: cbdallas.com/listing/15-1770283/4918-regal-blff-mesquite-tx-75150

Entry through sidewalk between Townhomes where crepe myrtles and larger trees shade. This modest town home feels larger than it is. Front entry lands you in hallway and opens up to living room on right with fireplace on the back wall. A small dining area and galley kitchen off the living connect to utility room in back. Garage entry is in the dining room and you can also exit through sliding door to a private patio surrounded by wood fence, enjoyable on cooler nights. The 2 bedrooms are supported by 1 full bath. All windows have blinds. HOA is responsible for the exterior, roof and landscape and water, trash and discounted cable. They also have a community pool. See private remarks for application instructions.

Contact: Richard Matteson (214) 690-6662 richard@themattesongroup.com

[lodelss]

Aaron Bobrow-Strain | The Death and Life if Aida Hernandez | Farrar, Straus and Giroux | April 2019 | 28 minutes (5,637 words)

  Since the move to Douglas, Arizona, Jennifer had spent less and less time at home. She was distant and irritable. Her anger encompassed her mother, her mother’s abusive boyfriend Saul, American schools, and the whole United States. At the nadir, she started lashing out at her sisters Aida and Cynthia. And then, in 1998 or 1999, she left for good.

The morning Jennifer ran away, Aida was the only other person home. She watched her sister dump schoolbooks from her backpack and replace them with clothes. She knew what was happening without having to ask and figured it was for the best. On the way out, Jennifer said that a friend would drive her across the border. After that, she’d see what happened.

Aida kept quiet over the next day, even as Luz began to worry about Jennifer’s disappearance. She knew that her father would call soon to let them know that Jennifer was safe and would live with him in Mexico. The call came eventually, and then the sisters were two.

This was Aida’s fifth-grade year. Things got so bad during that period that Saul bought Luz a house to keep her from leaving. It was a dirty white bungalow with a sharp stone wall around a dirt yard. It had the usual sewer roaches and broken feel, but Aida and Cynthia found a secret paradise in the yard. There, under a thick, strong sycamore, was a cinder-block casita with one room, a bathroom, and a metal door that locked. The sisters immediately saw its potential and staked their claim.

A previous occupant had piled the outbuilding with junk and boxes and broken exercise equipment. Aida and Cynthia stacked the junk in a corner, shoved the exercise equipment aside, and scrubbed the place clean. They decorated with dolls and pictures cut from magazines. One of the rumpled storage boxes coughed up a radio that worked.

The two sisters retreated to their hideout whenever they could. They cleaned and decorated and tuned in music. Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys still fluttered their hearts, but Aida had begun craving Tupac and Snoop Dogg, too. When a good song came on, Aida and Cynthia would lock the metal door, turn up the radio, and dance.

Before they knew it, night would seep into their sanctuary. In the cooler months, it came with mesquite smoke from woodstoves. In warmer months, moths and beetles flicked around lightbulbs. The evening chorus of dogs barking and helicopters buzzing over the border alerted them that it was almost time to leave. Finally, they’d smell grilled meat and roasting chilies drifting across the yard. At this signal, Aida’s stomach twisted. She returned to the main house wondering if the food she smelled was meant for her.

That year, Aida felt that Luz spent all of her grocery money on elaborate meals to keep Saul happy. The sisters, on the other hand, often got cups of ramen. Aida was growing, and one Styrofoam Maruchan didn’t touch her hunger. “Tragona,” “comelona,” her mother would tease, but it wasn’t funny.

One night, Aida and Cynthia found a sack of Mexican birote rolls abandoned in a cupboard. They were golden and flour dusted and still smelled vaguely of bread. Aida didn’t wait to sit down at the table or even get a plate for the crumbs. She stuffed half a roll into her mouth — and yelped. Her teeth ricocheted. She paused for a moment to glare at the basalt-hard roll. Then she adjusted her grip and began to gnaw. Cautious Cynthia followed her lead, sawing and chiseling bread dust with glee.

At the dining room table, Luz had just set steak and rice in front of Saul, but he forked his plate in annoyance.

“Can’t they chew quieter?” He directed this at Luz.

The girls went rigid, expecting their mother to lash out at them for upsetting the man. Aida held her roll tight and started to shake.

Instead, Luz reeled on her partner.

“I’ve already lost one daughter because of you. I’m not going to lose another.”

Aida and Cynthia scattered to their casita before they could see what happened next. With the door locked and the music on, they didn’t notice when Saul left. Nor did they see Luz take her purse and get in the car shortly after that. Only much later, when they smelled burgers frying across the yard, did they venture out of hiding. Luz had gone to the store and returned with the ingredients to make hamburgers and all the fixings for her kids. Later, she showed them an inflatable swimming pool she’d purchased for the yard.

Luz had absorbed the blows of Saul’s violence for years. When he lashed out at her children, though, she revolted. Something shifted in her. He had gone too far. That year, Luz made a promise to Aida. “As soon as you finish fifth grade, we will leave him.”

* * *

Sarah Marley Elementary remained Aida’s haven away from home. Any excuse to stay after the final bell was welcome. She played basketball, sang in the choir, and joined the D.A.R.E. program. Luz, exhausted from violence and endless hours of work, did not show up for Aida’s games or parent-teacher conferences. But in May 1999, she did show up for graduation.

On the morning of the ceremony, Luz presented her daughter with a new dress. It was long and baby blue with small embroidered butterflies — the exact dress Aida had pleaded with her mother to buy for graduation. Luz brushed out her daughter’s bangs and styled her curls to look like Selena. Aida added hair glitter to the look and felt like a sunburst again.

Fifth-grade graduation marked the end of elementary and the beginning of middle school. It was a big deal, and Aida was called up several times to receive recognition. She was so happy she almost forgot her mother’s promise.

As fast as two toddlers, two preteens, and a woman loaded with all their possessions could move, they moved.

By the time the event finished, glitter had drifted onto Aida’s cheeks and nose, and she clutched a tall stack of awards. She held them up to Luz, one by one, reading the English and explaining what each one meant: “Student of the Month,” “Student of the Week,” “First Place in the Sarah Marley Mile Run,” “Girls’ Basketball Team Participation Award,” “Honor Roll,” and “Certifi ate of Promotion to Sixth Grade.” She wanted her mother to appreciate each one.

“Let’s go,” Luz replied.

Luz, Aida, Cynthia, Jazmin, and Emiliano walked twelve blocks home instead of waiting for a ride from Saul. Aida, still admiring her certificates, had to run to keep up.

At the white bungalow, Luz ordered the girls to gather whatever they wanted to take with them into bags. As fast as two toddlers, two preteens, and a woman loaded with all their possessions could move, they moved. It was a two-mile walk to the port of entry, but it took even longer through back alleys and side streets. Any of Saul’s drivers would have called the boss if they’d seen the family carrying its possessions down the streets.

For the second time in three years, Luz and her children crossed the international line.

* * *

Part of Aida expected her old life to rematerialize — Mom, Dad, Dad’s house, the tienda, and the playground. Instead, she got an unfinished cinder-block room near the railroad tracks in one of Agua Prieta’s most cutthroat neighborhoods. Mexico was not her place anymore, or her choice.

They spent the last days of May 1999 camped at an aunt’s house while Luz acquired a junk car and a place to live. The new house was half built and half in progress, a condition not uncommon in the city’s poorer neighborhoods. It lacked door locks, and until Luz installed dead bolts, the five of them squeezed into the car to sleep safely at night. A year earlier, they had locked themselves in their apartment in Douglas and worried about migrants sleeping in their car. Now they were the ones bedding down in a vehicle.

As if to keep the needle of their lives pointing to red in the absence of Saul, Luz began to direct her anger at Aida. Almost twelve, Aida had a new maturity shooting through her blood, and she argued back. One day, Luz and Aida clashed so hard that Luz buckled. She pulled back and begged on her knees for forgiveness. It was too late. While Luz sobbed, Aida stared a thousand miles past her.

Then, partway through Aida’s sixth grade, Saul found them. The border was no obstacle for him. He plied Luz with all his feather-haired, ripple-muscled charm, and soon he was visiting regularly again.

Aida endured. She’d lived with violence for so long that she almost couldn’t remember another way of life. But she could remember one thing: her father lived nearby. One afternoon toward the end of sixth grade, Aida set off on foot across Agua Prieta to her father’s house. And just as Raúl had welcomed Jennifer back a year or two earlier with quiet joy, he also welcomed Aida.

* * *

“Now that you’re here, there are things you need to know,” Jennifer said the first night she and Aida spent together at Raúl’s house. Aida understood then that, at last, she would get the truth about her parents’ separation. Jennifer didn’t sugarcoat it.

“Mom left Dad because Dad hit her all the time, and at the end Dad hit her because she had been with Saul for years. Emiliano and Jazmin are Saul’s kids, not our dad’s.”

All the signs had been there for Aida to put together. Her dad’s furious outbursts. The long visits to their “family friend” that Luz had dragged Aida to, Saul’s special treatment of Emiliano and Jazmin. But she’d been so little when it happened. Eight-year-olds didn’t put clues like that together. She remembered how ecstatic her father had been when Emiliano was born. Finally, a boy after four girls . . . and it wasn’t his. That is messed up, Aida thought.

None of it excused Raúl’s violence. But it explained a lot about her life. As Aida grappled with betrayals wrapped around betrayals, an empty space ripped inside her. Luz had raised her with contradictory advice. “Your biggest goal should be to find a man who can support you,” she’d say, followed immediately by “Never let what happened to me happen to you.” True or not, to Aida’s early teen mind her mother’s philosophy had wrecked all of their lives. Who is she to tell me what to do? From now on, I live how I want, she resolved.

In this, Jennifer proved an able mentor. For Aida’s thirteenth birthday, she organized a party. Before leaving the house, Jennifer took her aside. Long baby-blue dresses with embroidered butterflies were out. Jennifer dressed Aida in a white tube top and baggy pants that slung below her hips. The older sister pulled Aida’s hair back tight and wrapped it in a bandanna. No glitter was applied. She brushed on white cake foundation and wings of electric-blue eye shadow. Brown lipstick outlined in even darker brown finished the makeover.

“You should shave your eyebrows, and just pencil them in,” Jennifer suggested, but Aida declined. Still, she wore hoop earrings that night and swaggered from the hips. The new look was good.

At the party, Jennifer pressed a warm forty into her hands. Aida drank half of it in one go and liked it.

Aida was only thirteen, but she had seen all that she needed of the world. Enough to know that no one would ever tell her what to do. She remembered herself weak from hunger and punished for not speaking into the dispatch radio. She remembered getting passed over at school and lost in a new country. Not knowing where she’d live next and hustling through the streets with her possessions in plastic bags. And “hide from la migra,” and “cero uno a base.” Aida had seen all those scenes through perfectly clear eyes. So if the world blurred and spun a bit when she drank, she was fine with it.

* * *

Raúl worked as a security guard from seven at night to five in the morning. Jennifer showed Aida how to act like a good girl until he left. Then they stripped off their school uniforms and slipped into party clothes. Sometimes they skated back into Raúl’s house only minutes before he came home to tumble into bed at six or seven. Jennifer taught Aida how to attend school still high on weed and whiskey. And she helped set Aida up with a guy to teach her the most important lesson of all.

Aida loathed him and the way he pawed her. In all other regards, she was an adept student of Jennifer’s life lessons. Soon she surpassed her older sister in the art of smashing into the world. She wanted to be messy and bladelike, and she was.

The playground outside Raúl’s house had changed in the few years since they’d played there as girls. All of Agua Prieta had changed since the city found itself thrust into the business of clandestine border crossing. Aida started hanging out with a pack of older kids who convened at the playground every night. They weren’t a real gang, but they thought it would be cool to be one. When one of the girls learned to hot-wire cars, Aida and her friends spent their nights fishtailing onto Agua Prieta’s paved boulevards and smashing the suspensions of the stolen cars on its rutted dirt roads.

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The extended family observed Aida’s exploits from a distance. Agua Prieta was still a small enough town that gossip traveled fast, and gossip about Aida provoked knowing head shakes. This one hit la mera edad de la punzada hard, they clucked. Aida’s family called girls’ puberty “the age of the stabbing pain,” an apt metaphor. Aida had impaled herself on it fully.

Only when reading books did Aida feel accompanied in life. At some point, she had discovered Sandra Cisneros’s House on Mango Street. She kept the thin book close and read it over and over again. Esperanza, the main character, was a Mexican American girl Aida’s age. Esperanza traversed her Chicago neighborhood in the company of two girls, as close to her as sisters. They found adventures and usually skirted violence, but abusive fathers, sexual assault, and poverty riddled their world. Esperanza survived it all, writing down her story in order to get by. La mera edad de la punzada left gashes in Esperanza, and the struggle to make a place in the United States never ceased. Like Aida, though, she vowed to carry on, no matter what. “I have begun my own quiet war,” Esperanza wrote, and Aida concurred.

* * *

Aida burned through most of seventh grade this way. She read some, skipped school, and ran wild. Her father didn’t know what to do, and relatives, not wanting to bother Luz with bad news, kept her in the dark. Then, one cyanotic dawn, Aida slipped into Raúl’s house as usual and found both her parents waiting. Half stoned, the night still vibrating in her head, Aida realized that she hadn’t seen her parents together in years. Even though she knew that she was about to get hell, the sight of them sitting at the kitchen table made her smile.

It didn’t last long. Luz’s stare — which had also become Aida’s stare — bored holes in her daughter. Raúl laid out the facts.

“I cannot take care of you while I’m at work, and your behavior of late has been less than correct.” He always spoke formally that way. “As much as it brings me sadness, you will need to go live with your mother.”

* * *

Posters went up in the spring of 2001 advertising a day of Cinco de Mayo horse races. It promised to be a historic event. Reeling from years of record migrant flows and divisive border buildup, the mayors of both Douglas and Agua Prieta wanted to restore a bit of borderlands spirit. They won permission to take down a stretch of border fence west of town. Race organizers would replace the barrier with a plastic railing running straight down the international line. For five hundred meters, a U.S. horse and a Mexican horse would rocket along the geopolitical divide, each one on its own side. Organizers expected ten thousand spectators, half in the United States and half in Mexico. The day’s festivities would remind residents what it meant to live in DouglaPrieta, a single community enriched, not endangered, by the border.

Organizers billed the event as Douglas and Agua Prieta’s “second annual” International Border Horse Race. The “first annual” race had run forty-three years earlier in 1958, pitting a champion Arizona thoroughbred named Chiltepin against Relampago, one of the most famous horses in Mexico at the time. Relampago, owned by a nightclub impresario from Agua Prieta, won.

In 1958, race organizers staged the match on both sides of the borderline to get around animal quarantine regulations. In 2001, the race would defy another kind of border regime — this one focused on undocumented migrants.

Reeling from years of record migrant flows and divisive border buildup, the mayors of both Douglas and Agua Prieta wanted to restore a bit of borderlands spirit.

When the day came, Mayor Ray Borane presided over the event with noble words. “They say enemies build walls and friends build fences,” he declared. “Well, today we take down the fence to show that we are more than neighbors — we are friends and family.”

The races attracted fifteen thousand spectators, far more than expected. Horses with names like El Sapo, El Bobito, and El Rayito thundered down the track in twenty-second flat-out sprints. Between races, Mexican bookies waved rolls of bills and dipped across the line to take bets in Arizona.

U.S. spectators hustled across the track to buy Tecate when American vendors ran out of beer. A woman arrayed in a charro suit performed an impromptu horse ballet. And the Border Patrol hung back, unwilling to interfere. For some, the binational event seemed as if it might mark the beginning of a new DouglaPrieta. For others, it seemed like a last hurrah.

* * *

The second annual International Border Horse Race was not the only effort to resist the stiffening border at the turn of the millennium. Around that same time, Rosie Mendoza joined Frontera de Cristo. This was a group of people from Douglas’s faith communities horrified by the human cost of prevention through deterrence. Frontera de Cristo worked to mend connections between people and places. It organized development projects in Agua Prieta and education programs for Americans interested in understanding immigration at a deeper level. The group also helped found and staff the Migrant Resource Center in Agua Prieta. Volunteers in the small building on the Mexican side next to the port of entry welcomed recent deportees. They distributed shoes, blankets, hot coffee, and food — some migrants’ first meal in days. Volunteers helped the castaways telephone relatives in places like Chicago, Iowa City, and Greenville, South Carolina. They bandaged feet that were bloody and blistered after treks through the desert. Sometimes, they just held people shell-shocked by their violent traverse through Mexico, the desert, and then detention.

When they weren’t helping the living, Frontera de Cristo members vowed to remember the dead. Every Tuesday evening, as rush-hour traffic idled through the port of entry, community members carrying white crosses gathered near the wall. Each cross bore the name of a migrant who had died in Cochise County. For as long as it took, the assembled fellowship read each name aloud, followed by a simple cry, “presente” — you are still here with us. Rosie Mendoza participated in the vigil often. She called out each name, exactly as written on the cross, as loud as her soft voice permitted. But in her heart, every name she uttered stood for the dead man she’d seen at the bottom of the ditch in August 1997.

* * *

On the other side of the spectrum, the Old West bluster of angry ranchers drew displays of solidarity from across the country’s right wing. Inspired by images of armed residents like Roger Barnett taking a stand against “invasion,” anti-immigration activists poured into southeastern Arizona. One of them, Glenn Spencer, had been protesting Mexican immigration to California since the early 1990s. When he heard what was happening in Douglas, he declared California “a lawless, lost state” and decided to make a stand in Cochise County. Southeastern Arizona would be his battleground against what he said was a Mexican assault on white America. Spencer founded the American Border Patrol, an organization with militia trappings, in 2002. After reading about Roger Barnett, the Texan Jack Foote created a similar organization, Ranch Rescue, and began to patrol private land in Texas and Arizona.

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Undocumented residents like Aida stayed off the streets when a new contingent of ersatz border defenders rolled into town. Less vulnerable residents openly criticized the vigilante invasion. For some, civilian patrollers were well-meaning imbeciles who got in the way of real law enforcement; for others, they were the shock troops of white supremacy.

If most Douglas residents distanced themselves from militia-style border defenders, the question of what to make of federal forces was more contentious. Was the appearance of heavily armed agents, National Guard troops, stadium lights, fencing, and military-grade hardware a salvation? Or a hostile occupation?

Competing views on border security upended the town. Angry white ranchers drew national attention, but residents’ opinions about intensified border enforcement didn’t always cleave along racial lines. More than a few Mexican American residents supported immigration restrictions and tougher border security. Years of large-scale migration through the town had exhausted everyone.

Residents also acknowledged that vocal support for border security provided a way for Mexican Americans to position themselves as “real” Americans in the hierarchy of racial nativism. And no other law enforcement agency in the country hired more Latinos than the Border Patrol. “It’s kind of like the Irish,” one retiree from Pirtleville observed. “When they first got here, they were discriminated against. They didn’t get influence or make their way [in America] until they moved into law enforcement.”

Prejudice against the new generation of darker-skinned, more indigenous-looking border crossers also inflamed hostility. With their ancestry squarely located in the supposedly whiter reaches of northern Mexico, Douglas’s norteños sometimes looked down on migrants from southern Mexico and Central America.

On the other side of the spectrum, the Old West bluster of angry ranchers drew displays of solidarity from across the country’s right wing.

Rosie Mendoza was not from southern Mexico, but she came from a northern Mexican family of indigenous descent; this was more common than stereotypes of “white” norteños acknowledged. Her grandfather Cipriano had been an indigenous dancer and healer. She herself had first come to the United States without papers. But Rosie’s three children, growing up as citizens in post-1997 Douglas, believed that undocumented immigration was something that involved distant strangers — foreign-looking Mayans from Chiapas or Guatemala. They struggled to imagine their mother as “an illegal.”

“Is it true that you were a wetback, Mom?” Rosie’s youngest son sometimes asked in a teasing tone.

“Mom, guess what?” her teenage daughter might needle. “I’m going to take the Border Patrol exam next week.”

“Ay, mijo, mija, don’t you know that Jesus was an illegal too?” Rosie would spar back, and then hug her kids.

Rosie’s daughter wasn’t going to take the test, but Rosie could have accepted her choice if she did. Rosie even dated a Border Patrol agent for a while. When he brought romantic sushi lunches to the clinic, she made him wait outside so he didn’t scare her clients. They kept work talk to a minimum and agreed to differ about the border.

“But, you know, guapo,” Rosie would tell him to soften their disagreements, “I’m really glad that you have a job.”

This was a major factor complicating Douglasites’ response to the new paradigm of border enforcement: the town had become partly dependent on border security spending. In fact, increasingly, it seemed to Rosie that border security wasn’t much more than a government job creation program. In some respects, she was right: by 2007, one in thirteen employed adults living in Douglas worked for law enforcement. That rate would continue to increase over the next decade. By comparison, only about one in ninety-five New Yorkers worked for law enforcement. In Tucson, the figure was one in a hundred. In Phoenix, only one in two hundred.

For men in Douglas, the rate was even higher: one in seven employed men in Douglas wore a law enforcement badge of some kind. Law enforcement jobs carried wages and benefits that had not been seen in Douglas since the smelter closed. Border Patrol, Customs, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF), police officers, prison guards, and sheriff ’s deputies constituted a kind of economic elite. Their spending helped keep the town afloat. Children aspired to join their ranks, and even immigrant rights activists made bleak jokes about taking the Border Patrol exam when money was tight. At the community college, a federal grant program helped local students prepare for that test. “Pathways out of Poverty” was its revealing name. Even Aida’s family was part of this new economy: Aida, her mother, and her sisters were undocumented, but one of their U.S. citizen relatives worked for the Douglas Police Department. Another one worked security at the port of entry.

‘Ay, mijo, mija, don’t you know that Jesus was an illegal too?’

Douglas had, in many respects, become a new kind of company town — a Homeland Security company town. But the town’s burgeoning new industry did not emulate Phelps Dodge’s benevolent paternalism. Nor did it invest in community life as PD once had. As much as Douglas depended on security money to survive, border security never produced the kind of positive ripple effects the smelter had provided. Most of the billions of dollars lavished on border enforcement by Congress flowed to outside contractors. Wall construction, high-tech infrastructure, and even vehicle maintenance enriched firms based elsewhere. When the Department of Homeland Security built a new border wall, it “didn’t get the materials from B&D Hardware” on H Avenue, the director of a regional economic development institute joked.

On the personnel front, Border Patrol increasingly hired new recruits from non-border communities, and most new agents refused to live in Douglas. They feared the entanglements that would come with living in a community they patrolled. Most preferred to commute from places like the military town of Sierra Vista an hour away. A top city official described this pattern in stark terms: “It’s like the military that goes into a war zone, does its thing, and then goes back. They don’t leave any benefit. It’s not the same as if they were part of the community.”

Two sectors of the economy that even nonresident agents helped keep afloat were Douglas’s restaurants and convenience stores. Even that economic benefit came with risks. Owned by a family of Pentecostals, El Chef was one of the town’s most popular Mexican restaurants during the boom years of border security. Both Homeland Security employees and the town’s immigrant rights activists could agree on its out-of-sight food. The family’s vibrant church crossed political divides in much the same way. Services there united undocumented residents and Border Patrol agents in prayer and fellowship. But despite that ability to cross divides, El Chef almost closed when a new-to-town Border Patrol agent believed that he’d been served a drink with spit in it.

After the incident, the agent sent an email to more than six hundred law enforcement officers calling for a boycott. It wasn’t the first time Border Patrol agents had targeted a restaurant over an imagined offense. But El Chef was particularly dependent on customers in uniform. The restaurant immediately felt the impact. Ninety percent of its Border Patrol customers refused to return. ICE and Customs joined the boycott. In the end, it took intervention from religious leaders, the mayor, and veteran law enforcement officers to undo the damage.

If PD had been a benevolent paternal figure, the border business was like an abusive stepfather, one young Douglasite who’d moved away to attend law school observed: The purveyors of border security moved in without permission. You were stuck with them. In equal measures, you hated them and you depended on them.

* * *

Rose thought this analogy made literal sense. Her work exposed her to tragedies of the sort that didn’t make headlines on CNN or Fox. She saw the ways expanding security made life less secure for many. The glorification of militarized enforcement — and the violent organized crime that followed in its wake—abraded the lives of women in particular. Not all domestic violence and sexual assault could be attributed to militarized masculinity on the border, of course. Many factors complicated the cases that came through Rosie’s clinic. But she insisted that common explanations for violence against women — especially ones purveying stereotypes of poor people or macho “Latin culture” — missed crucial factors. The increased vulnerability Rosie saw in her work, she realized, was, in part, the unexamined collateral damage of a border war.

Rosie witnessed the new border regime make women more vulnerable every day. Start with the border crossing itself. Rape was a ubiquitous part of the price women and girls paid to traverse the militarized border. This wasn’t an intentional result of U.S. policy, but it wasn’t accidental. Since the mid-1990s, the U.S. government’s overarching border security strategy was designed to make unauthorized border crossing more dangerous.

Once women were in the United States, fear of immigration enforcement also bred vulnerability. Abusers threatened to call the Border Patrol on their undocumented victims. Being pushed deeper into hiding made undocumented immigrants more dependent on perpetrators and less likely to report violence. This was particularly true when U.S. legal residents and citizens committed that violence.

Douglas had, in many respects, become a new kind of company town — a Homeland Security company town. But the town’s burgeoning new industry did not emulate Phelps Dodge’s benevolent paternalism.

Rosie’s Border Patrol boyfriend once defended his job, bragging about the rapists and wife abusers he helped deport.

“That’s good,” Rosie agreed. “But a lot of the time, when it comes to protecting women, you don’t even understand that law you’re supposed to enforce. You detain a woman, and you have no idea all the different kinds of visa programs and legal remedies she might qualify for. You just deport her so you don’t have to deal with the hassle of getting her a hearing.”

Crime rates in Douglas, like those in most California, Texas, and Arizona border communities, were not notably higher than in the rest of the country. But policing had begun to exert an outsize cultural influence on the place. What happened when law enforcement permeated the fabric of a place? Even as she started to fall in love with a Border Patrol agent — a good man — Rosie knew that few professions had higher rates of perpetrating domestic violence than law enforcement. Combined with economic displacement, life in a law enforcement company town bred conditions in which gender violence thrived.

* * *

Charlie Austin Worried about the other side of this equation. Law enforcement buildup had a counterintuitive impact on illegal activity. Instead of saying that Douglas had become a security company town, it made sense to say that it had become a security and insecurity company town. As with Prohibition in the 1920s, massive increase in border security made the business of lawbreaking more dangerous but also more lucrative.

During the peak years of the border crisis, it seemed as if nearly everyone made money: grocery stores, hotels, car lots, taxi companies, gas stations all benefited from smuggling. Entrepreneurial locals rented their houses and garages for use as stash houses. And the more vans packed with migrants banged over rutted back roads, the more tire merchants sold.

As prevention through deterrence quintupled the price of unauthorized border crossing in Douglas, ever-more-organized criminal actors sought to enter the market. Drug cartels discovered that they could make more smuggling people than they could trafficking marijuana or meth. They were far more sophisticated and skilled at the work. Watching cartels take over the business of human trafficking was like watching a violent, ruthless Walmart elbow its way into town while the mom-and-pop places went under. Highly profitable human smuggling hardly disappeared in the face of increased enforcement, as policy makers had hoped. It just got more consolidated, concentrated, and sophisticated. And more dangerous for everyone.

For Rosie, this symbiotic relationship sometimes made it hard to distinguish between the harmful effects of law enforcement and lawbreaking. They appeared not as opposing forces but as two different movements of the same machine — a machine that made women more vulnerable to violence. Smugglers preying on migrants and Border Patrol agents enforcing (or abusing) laws both played a role. Each helped strip migrants of money, options, and humanity. When understood as two movements of the same machinery, the fact that organized crime and assault had grown in stride with an expanding border security apparatus was less surprising. Despite abundant lip service paid to protecting migrants from criminal exploitation, in practice U.S. border security policy had outsourced the ugliest work of “deterrence” to violent gangs.

When Charlie retired in 2007, he had accomplished plenty to be proud of in his long career. He had found it thrilling to be at the center of the national drama while free-flowing resources rolled in. And yet he wondered whether it was all worth it. Or worse, if the country’s approach to border security had inflamed the very problems he was trying to prevent. So much spending on border enforcement was like a doctor giving medicine to treat a disease unaware that “the disease was feeding off the medicine.”

Douglas residents argued about these changes over coffee and sweet bread at La Unica Bakery. They argued over smoky barbacoa at family celebrations. When one cousin worked for the Border Patrol and another worked for the cartels, weddings and quinceañeras could be tricky. In churches like the one run by the owners of El Chef restaurant, Sunday services could yield strange commensality: a Border Patrol agent deacon might give immigration advice to an undocumented deacon over doughnuts and coffee, each one wondering how an encounter between them outside church would go. By 2001, these kinds of strange relations constituted Douglas’s new normal — life in one of the most heavily policed small towns in the country.

***

Aaron Bobrow-Strain is a professor of politics at Whitman College, where he teaches courses dealing with food, immigration, and the U.S.-Mexico border. His writing has appeared in The Believer, The Chronicle of Higher Education Review, Salon, and Gastronomica. He is the author of White Bread: A Social History of the Store-Bought Loaf and Intimate Enemies: Landowners, Power, and Violence in Chiapas. In the 1990s, he worked on the U.S.-Mexico border as an activist and educator. He is a founding member of the Walla Walla Immigrant Rights Coalition in Washington State.

Excerpted from The Death and Life of Aida Hernandez: A Border Story, by Aaron Bobrow-Strain. Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux April 16th 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Aaron Bobrow-Strain. All rights reserved.

Longreads Editor: Aaron Gilbreath

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2014 Volkswagen CC Executive - $13,991.00

CARFAX One-Owner. ONE OWNER. 22/31 City/Highway MPG Volkswagen CC 2.0T Executive Reviews: * If you're looking for an upscale midsize sedan hidden in a svelte, coupe-like body, the CC makes a stylish accessory. Moreover, the 2014 VW CC has premium features and luxury styling at a price below entry-level luxury cars like the Audi A4 and BMW 3 Series. Source: KBB.com * Well-built and stylish interior; ample standard features; distinctive styling; all-wheel drive on VR6 model. Source: Edmunds * The 2014 Volkswagen CC is known for its sleek good looks and great performance. The graceful slope of the roof and complimentary line across the side profile define its signature style. The front end and rear taillights are gorgeous to look at with a very upscale feel. Under the hood there is a 200 Horsepower, 2.0-Liter Turbocharged engine for the extra oomph you need to catch the green light or pass someone going uphill. Depending on trim, there are 3 transmission possibilities. The 6-speed manual is standard on the Sport and R-Line trims. The 6-speed DSG automatic with Tiptronic and Sport mode is available on the Sport and R-line and standard on the Executive trim. Also, the 6-speed automatic transmission with Tiptronic and Sport mode is only available on the top-of-the-line V6 Executive 4 MOTION trim. The V6 Executive 4MOTION also includes all-wheel drive, and the excitement of a 3.6-Liter V6 with 280 Horsepower. The interior of the CC is luxurious and must be experienced first-hand. From the attractive trim elements along the doors and dash, to the driver side glove box, to the 12-way power front seats, which are available in leather, everything has been designed for your comfort and convenience. While the Sport and R-Line both have a standard navigation system, upgrade to the Executive or V6 Executive 4 MOTION trims and you can get the version with the 6.5-inch touchscreen, HD Radio and 30GB Hard Drive. For more reasons to treat yourself to either Executive trim, they come with keyless access and push-button start, plus a Hands-free easy-open trunk that allows your feet to unlock and open the trunk simply by swiping your foot under the rear bumper. For safety, all models come with the Adaptive Front-lighting System, which turns the headlights up to 15 degrees around corners, turning darkness into light and windy roads into adventures. Plus, new for 2014, a rear view camera comes standard on all trims to help enhance your awareness of your surroundings. Source: The Manufacturer Summary from Cardaddy.com https://www.cardaddy.com/vehicles/vehicle/2014-volkswagen-cc-executive-mesquite-texas-16414926