#mid-meteor trip

[saltedsolenoid]

vriska serket sketch page dedicated to thatonekat

[evilminji]

:O !!! Wait a second... GHOST DINOSAURS!!!

They died. There are ghost animals. You CAN NOT tell me getting fuckin nuked from space by a GIANT rock that blasted you and everything you've ever known into near instantaneous oblivion, wouldn't leave some Unfinished Business and a shit ton of Ectoplasm.

BILLIONS of things died all at once.

Did most move on? Probably. We're any of them sentient? We have no idea! Maybe! Unlikely, but maybe! Still a MASSIVE, countries wide, molten earth lined, crater of instant death. World shaking and history making. Death in the blink of an eye.

If you're lucky.

But! I hear the arguments now. That was one event. The X or Y dinosaur lived before that! What I'm interested in came AFTER! Good points! But not RELAVENT!!! Because you know what ELSE that giant fuck-off meteor is good for? Aside for Death(tm)?

Television.

Makes for some damn good documentaries. Exciting graphics and neato visual effects. Ooooh~ look at our dramatic recreation! The cute baby animals, unsuspecting of their Doomed Fate~! Tense music! And now, a world from our advertisers!

You know who LIKES Space Documentaries? Danny. He's all ABOUT that Science Channel. Granted, they've been pulling more and more of these mid-tear "aliens built the pyramids" and "look at these swords!" Shows... but! Still! He grew up on this channel! He doesn't WANT to give up on it!

And, yeah, this is... kinda hammy... but it's still watchable!

He's enjoying the live tweeting from paleontologists who are ROASTING the thing to a lovely golden brown. Has choked on his noodles like three times already. It's great! But now? They are arguing over what the dinosaurs actually looked like again... and??

And, look, maybe it's the good mood and boredom. Maybe it's having the house to himself. Maybe it's his parents finally encouraging him to use his "ghostiness" for SCIENCE(tm)(!) the other day. Could even be his bad idea impulse acting up again, buuuuut.....

Teeeeechnically?

Nothing? Is STOPPING him? From finding out? He DOES have Zone compatible cameras. And can probably back trace where they should-ish be? He can find out. The colors might be off, but it's a starting point? Right? And heck, he's pretty sure inverse coloration in standard unless someone's shape-shifting, so he'd just have to inverse it AGAIN to get an approximately correct coloration for them!

....eh, as long as he leaves a "not exact, this was the best I could get" note, it should be fine.

Road Trip time! Better call Dani and see if she wants to ride a few giant mammals and some lizards!

(Needless to say? Some researchers get VERY exciting emails. And only accept they are POSSIBLE, because this is a DC crossover. So there is aliens and magic regularly popping up in their field of expertise, so WHY NOT? Just the other day, a whole ass TOWN that has been wiped out... got UN-wiped out! 23 years later! It's made headlines. Weird shit happens.

So gib. Release to them the Dinosaurs, mystery email man. Fork them over before they begin biting. You think this corduroy jacket means they won't hunt you down? HA! You know NOTHING of academics! WHERE ARE THE EXTINCT ANIMALS? Where are you hiding them!?!?)

@the-witchhunter @hypewinter @nerdpoe @ailithnight @hdgnj @mutable-manifestation

[doctorbeans]

always wish square had given us a boss fight a la twilight princess puppet zelda against cloud mid-disc 2 at the north crater right before he leaves the party.

like, he gives you the same speech where he apologizes to tifa and begs hojo to give him an experiment number, but when hes rejected and tifa admits shes been lying to him, theres too much conflicting information in his head with jenova/seph provoking him into believing hes a clone.

instead of just handing over the black materia to seph in the crystal and collapsing into the lifestream, he lashes out at everyone at the crater with its power. regardless of avalanche, shinra or sephiroth.

and since hes the required party leader all the way through the crater with lots of strong monsters along the path, hes equipped with all your strong materia and armor. which he keeps going into his fight. the devastation of all the levels and limits youve built up and worked for over two discs of gameplay are now aimed against you, just to really beat home the plot twist betrayal that YOU were the untrustworthy one all along.

and once you beat him, sephiroth uses him to summon meteor anyway, and the party is forced to escape with rufus and co

it would make for a really interesting trip with tifa in the lifestream too, where you need to build back his trust in you by showing him tifa wasnt lying about everything, but neither were shinra or seph. its forces tifa to face her fears of admitting things arent ok. that cloud isnt the same kid she knew, and that she cant mold him into the person she wanted him to be.

and imagine the reunion with the rest of the party afterwards!! where barret is cautious of cloud and reminds him of the harm he caused, but is gentler with him than he was when they first met, because cloud has been laid bare as a scared kid in a soldiers body. where yuffie is protective of him because shes betrayed the party before, and cloud stood up for her and had her back when she was in trouble with corneo. where vincent always keeps an eye on cloud, because he knows what its like to lose control and hurt the people you love against your will.

[not-that-dillinger]

Nevada Road Trip

(* closed starter for @systemadministratorclu *)

How Ed managed to not spoil the surprise, he didn't know. two months of planning a trip for the two of them, for his son's first time on the other side, and Clu was still... well, clueless.

(Son... they've known each other for two months now, and Ed still can't help the dopey grin every time he thinks about it.)

Well, perhaps not quite clueless. Clu had to know something was up when Ed suggested a very specific time and date, ("I found something I think you'll like, but it has to be exactly on this day"), Or certainly by now, when they were both about to leave the Grid, and Ed was practically vibrating with excitement.

The planning, of course, started when Quorra mentioned Clu wanted to see the stars. Which. Was a dilema, because the light pollution in Los Angeles made the night sky quite disappointing. The next best thing that Ed could think of was a visit to the planetarium. He tossed that idea out after a few seconds of contemplation. Ed personally didn't like crowds, and he didn't want to subject Clu to so many humans on his first time off the Grid. Too many random variables to mess things up. And Clu deserved better.

Ed was going to show Clu the stars.

And so Ed researched the best places to go star gazing.... Which lead to him stumbling into a Los Angeles amateur astronomer club forum.... which lead to three things.

First, it lead to the awareness of the Perseid meteor shower, which was going to peak in mid august.

It also led to Ed buying a (admittedly entry-level, but still really nice with several lenses) telescope. If it was partially because he had wanted one as a kid, that part was secondary. He couldn't wait to show it to Clu.

And most importantly, it led to him discovering dark sky sanctuaries.

And particularly the nearest one, which was about a twelve hour drive north of where they lived.

...In the nearly ten years Ed had worked for Encom, he had never used his time off, and so he had ten years' worth of it. He had never had a reason for a vacation, nobody to spend it with, until now. And so Ed all but gleefully informed Mackey that he was going to be taking a week off in August.

During the day, Ed planned the trip, and gathered supplies. A tent, sleeping bags and mats, a camping stove and small cooking set were added to his supplies. He planned stops along the way, and calculated the time they would need to get there just before sunset, leaving enough time for bathroom breaks and lunch.

During the evening, he did his best to prepare Clu to for what things would be like on the other side, showing him memories from his disc, answering questions, and or bringing him books to read and food to try (if Clu is going to spend over a day outside the Grid, Ed was going to make sure he had something to eat that he would actually like).

And he promised he'd stay the night the night before their grand adventure, so Clu wouldn't have to go through the portal alone for the first time.

And so the evening before the trip, Ed packed the telescope under an excessive amount of blankets and pillows, the camping gear, and several days worth of snacks that didn't require refrigeration into the car, then went to go visit Clu.

The morning of, Ed stood with Clu, doing his very best not to act like a little kid bouncing with his excitement, and activated the portal. "How are you feeling?" He asked softly as the column of light ignited a not far from where they stood. "Think you're ready?" As excited as he was to share his world with Clu, he knew Clu was at the very least, nervous, despite his best to reassure him everything would be alright.

Ed offered Clu a hand, a silent reassurance and promise that Ed would be right be right next to his son to help him, no matter what happened.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Gambling on Your Love - An Elvis Presley Fanfiction

Summary: Mid-'60s Elvis is stuck in a dead end film career that he hates. Until he meets one Francesca Ferrara, a triple threat from Brooklyn, NY on a meteoric rise whose talent rivals his own. The Colonel is determined to put a stop to their hot and heavy romance at any cost, fearing it may hurt his client's career. But Elvis has other plans.

Word count: ~12,000 Warnings: alcohol, cigarette, and pill usage; sexual content and innuendos; mental health and turmoil. Elvis is not a happy camper as we start this story.

The limousine was oppressive with heat. Boozy breath clung in the air like miasma. City lights smeared like paints along the fogging glass. Glittering nails and hairsprayed blonde curls skewed his already hazy vision and he just barely put out his cigarette in the ashtray without scalding Daisy’s—or was it Cindy’s?—sequin dress.

“Hey! Watch it,” she drunkenly giggled in his face, poking him in the chest with one bony index. She looked older, harsher now in the neon lights. Tap tap tap. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

He didn’t know what he said in response, but it didn’t matter. She was still happy just to be in a limousine, leaving a party with Elvis Presley. Something she keenly shared with him that she couldn’t wait to tell her friends all about. 

Stumbling into his hotel room, ceiling-to-floor mirrors reflecting him back, he didn’t remember the elevator trip up. He heard once that if nothing new happens on a routine route, your brain doesn’t bother to write it down. Just doesn’t think you need to use that extra space for something rudimentary. 

Sitting down on a different couch, with a different girl, in a different one of his suites, didn’t constitute much change. The pills he’d imbibed suppressed his lust and he felt himself just going through the motions with her. With himself.

The silence was sharp. Always ringing in his ear. It’s why he liked keeping the party going—he didn’t have to listen to it. She was asleep in the bed, and he wasn’t sure if he was, too, when he stumbled out and into the too empty, echoing living room. The uncomfortable leather couch squeaked when he sat down, cold and sticky. The television was on a late-night variety show. It was an encore for an hours-prior live performance. He held the remote poised at the set, blinking tiredly at the political jab Johnny Carson made, the crowd laughing even when he didn’t say anything funny. He introduced their next guest and Elvis clicked away. 

But before he switched to Nightlife, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and a sparkling high cut dress. Elvis clicked back. Trapezing onto stage, jovial and collected, was a songstress he didn’t recognize, though lately he hadn’t been busy with keeping up with anyone else but himself. He didn’t know anyone on set, hadn’t even heard of the director before—it was just another film in a long line of commercially successful mediocrity. Sitting, he watched her as she glowed with something he felt fading away, spilling out of his seams. He leaned closer towards the television, and Johnny introduced her to an anticipating audience. 

Her name was Francesca Ferrara. What was that, Italian? Either way, it rolled pleasantly off his tongue. He repeated it out loud, watching as she performed. Her voice was like velvet and when she danced, the notes didn’t even quiver. She retained perfect pitch while going heel-toe, shimmying and sliding, dipping her hips in her glittering gown. He was enthralled, gazing from so far away yet feeling like she was right before him, and he was an awestruck member of the audience. 

Grabbing a pill he left close at hand for pangs of severe loneliness, he drank it down with a swig of water, wiping his mouth and saying goodbye with the crowd as everyone waved at lovely Frannie, leaving the stage and leaving him longing for someone he’d probably never meet. Probably wouldn’t even remember. 

Waking up on the couch hours later, he had to go through the awkward peel-away of scooting his latest girl out with a fistful of cab fare. “Thanks for the great night,” he clipped, holding the door like a baseball bat, ready to swing. “Of course! I had suuuch a good time with you, I put my number on your fridge for when you’re lonely, big guy.” She wasn’t bothered by his briskness and ambled away without argument, leaving him by himself. A routine start to his days.

Three months later, he saw Frannie again. But this time he was clear-headed, clearer than he’d been in years. And he did remember.

“Can’t y’all be quiet for five minutes? Goddamn pack of cacklin’ hens!” Elvis scolded the rowdy group of partygoers behind him. Their raucous cheers and shouts drowned out any hope of silence. He couldn’t entirely blame them for having fun without him, though, as his attention was elsewhere.

"Is anyone else seeing her?!" he muttered to himself as he absentmindedly jiggled his fingers. The crowd hushed ever so slightly, allowing him to catch fragments of the sit-down interview taking place on the television screen. There she was again, that Ferrara girl. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her voice reached out to him like a siren's call, its rhythm hypnotic. Penetrating his very being. 

On set, she sunk back into the big red couch, legs crossed demurely in a miniskirt, listening intently as Mike Douglas poked and prodded with his innuendos. Petite, just like Elvis liked ‘em. Fishnet stockings on supple thighs evoked just the right amount of daring playfulness. Then, with suggestive abandon, she threw her head back into the most beautiful laugh Elvis had ever heard. Seeing the soft flesh of her graceful neck made him tingle in a deep, forgotten place inside. She was sensual without even trying. Even better, she seemed completely unaware of her effect on the men around her. The cameraman, for one, must have been completely smitten for the way he lingered on her face. "So, this is the female version of me everyone's been talking about," Elvis mused, a mix of astonishment and delight coloring his voice. "Well, I'll be damned."

Her natural charisma was palpable. Her lips, just like his, bent into an impishly crooked smile that could bring members of the opposite sex to their knees. As she joked with Douglas, it became increasingly apparent why people drew comparisons between them. They both radiated an effortless sensuality that seemed to leap from the screen. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but disagree with the comparison as she palmed the microphone for an impromptu song—he thought she was even better, a force that surpassed his own artistry. 

Her voice. It was soulful, raspy, and powerful, yet also warm and velvety. Effortless, even. From the lower notes that were rich, heavy, and dark to the higher ones that rang clear as a bell, she had an impressive range. Elvis surmised that she easily spanned three octaves and a major sixth, far surpassing his own two and a third. The way she easily hit an E6, a note that seemed out of reach for many singers, left him both jealous and utterly fascinated. Her talent and beauty made him question his own abilities, yet his ego pushed him to pursue her. To consume her. Elvis’ breath hitched in his throat and his hands dropped idly to his sides. Accustomed to being the center of attention, he found the tables turning, himself transfixed and  unable to tear his gaze away. He silently vowed to meet this Frannie at any cost.

He had never experienced love at first sight before, but this was as close as it gets.

As she continued to sing, her voice dripped raw with passion. Elvis didn’t know how long he’d been watching, but by the time Frannie entered the chorus for the second time, it seemed as if every man in the room had somehow crowded around the television set. Suddenly, the once boisterous party fell into deafening silence.

"Damn, EP, who is that?" Red West, one of the men in the room, practically gaped at the screen, his jaw hanging open. Whoever it was on the stage, he thought she was phenomenal. 

"That," Elvis responded with a confident grin, "is going to be my next co-star."

The next day, Colonel Parker jumped down his throat about late nights and partying, always quick to remind Elvis just who tirelessly scouted for him, trying to get him better and better roles. He went from quipping about Elvis’s pale skin and sunken eyes some mornings to blatantly questioning Elvis’s apparent lack of control. 

But Elvis could stop whenever he wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

*

The movie premiere went without a hitch. Everyone at the showing had rave reviews about “Kissin’ Cousins,” but almost everyone in attendance had been family or friends. It’d been a gauzy shield, a curtain keeping reality just out of sight for when the movie would release in theaters just two weeks later.

Even the “good” reviews were hard for him to grit through.

“Good, harmless fun. Pandering, unpretentious, dim-witted fun.”

The bad reviews just cut.

“The songs weren’t memorable, and the dialogue was sitcom levels of easily digestible canned slop for the masses. You’re better off glancing at the poster and thinking up your own plot to stimulate your brain more than this “film” will.”

“Bad. Bad. Bad. Do I need to say anything with depth for a film lacking any? Save your money.”

The critics were tearing him a new one, but he was more successful than ever, making more money than he’d thought possible in a lifetime. Yet there was something lacking. In the women and the cars, the pick-up games, and the palling around with his stunted entourage. His sleepless nights were plagued with visions of a haunting beauty. It kept him ambitious, fanning the dying flame until he was spurred to reach for the phone.

Over the past few weeks, Elvis had sent around on set that he needed to get in touch with Francesca Ferrara’s manager. Someone had to know someone that knew someone. It just took asking the right person, and schmoozing on set with the makeup girls was a pleasant cost to pay as any. 

Eventually it did get back to the right person. Her agent was a man named Dominick Archer, and he was notoriously scrupulous with his clients, only taking on the best actors, singers, and scripts. Elvis learned Francesca didn’t just sing here and there, she was lighting up the charts, skyrocketing to the top. Just the other day, he heard her on the radio. It felt like more than a coincidence.

He had to call Dominick. Again. He’d left a message on the receiver, laying it all out in a quick barrage, “Hey, uh, yeah. It’s Elvis Presley. Look, I saw her— Frannie—I saw her piece on Johnny Carson. She was a fireball, Mr. Archer. I need to work with someone like that. I need to work with her. Call me.”

It’d been three whole days since he left that message and every afternoon he scrambled to the phone, checking to see if his call had been returned. Nothing. But he wasn’t perturbed. He dialed the number again. It rang four, eight times—“What? Speak quick.” There was a rustling sound, like the phone was being held between a face and shoulder.

“It’s Elvis. Presley, sir.”

“Oh yeah. Think I heard of you,” Dominick laughed in that sort of nonplussed way that New Yorkers who have seen it all do. “What do you want?”

Elvis blinked. What did he want? “I left you a message. I think a movie with me and Francesca Ferrara would make box office history.”

Silence. Elvis heard Dominick sniff. Discomforted, he continued, “Do you want to work together?”

“Listen, my going rate for outside agency actors is 60/40. I land us a solid script, a good director, all that jazz. And Francesca is listed as the headliner.”

Bigger cut and her name was supposed to be listed before his? Colonel Parker wouldn’t hear of it. But he could be convinced, maybe. If the profit was tempting enough. Elvis would worry about that later. Right now, securing a spot with Frannie was all that compelled him. He had to get this gig.

So, he answered briskly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dominick asked back with a smile in his voice. “Well, then we can start talking business. Get your agent to call me.” And that was it. The call dropped and Elvis heard only a dial tone droning in his ear. It echoed hope.

Now to tell the Colonel. 

*

Elvis was not a man who dreaded much, but he braced himself for this conversation. He was not a pacifist but if in the right circles, could be mistaken for one. Normally, he disliked confrontation and always preferred to take the path with least resistance. And he’d been in the same boat with Colonel Parker for years; abandoning ship now seemed unfeasible if not outright impossible. 

He didn’t want to waste time with a phone call; he knew Parker would just hang up on him the moment he received any pushback. So, he made his way downtown to his manager’s temporary office, where Parker’s sandal-clad feet were kicked up on his mahogany desk and a cigar hung precariously from his thin lips, the whole office reeking of tobacco and coffee while he shot the shit with one of his terrified assistants. Smoke raced out the door when Elvis swung it open, catching Parker off guard.

“My boy! No knock, no call? What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be on set right now?” He put the phone back on the receiver, only slightly annoyed.

Elvis leveled him with a stare. “Because I had some errands to do. Besides, it’s reshoots with Barbara today, they don’t need me. Look, I…” He rubbed his palms, remaining standing as he placed them flat on Parker’s desk and leaned across. “There’s a girl. A girl, Admiral. You’ve got to see her, she's got the voice of an angel. Francesca Ferrara.” God, he liked saying that name. Maybe it should get first billing. 

“Don’t tell me she’s carrying your baby, Presley.”

“No, no. I didn’t get anyone pregnant. I haven’t even met her yet. I saw her on the television. Heard her on the radio! She’s got somethin’, I promise you.”

The Colonel’s chair creaked as he readjusted, stamping out his expensive cigar. His fingers steepled and he asked in a gravely, wet voice, “And I assume you’re going somewhere with this?”

“I want—no. I need to work with that woman.”

Shrugging, Parker retorted, “Get her agent on the phone. Who is he? Not that needle-dick bastard Jenkins, is he?”

“I already talked to him.”

“You talked to him already? When? Why? I—” He shook his head, holding up his meaty, red palms. “Whaddya think you’re paying me for, kid? You let me do all the talking. So. What’d he say?”

Elvis swished the statement, diluting it. “He wants her to get top billing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And… a 60/40 split.”

“Sixty isn’t enough, you deserve seventy. I haven’t even heard of this broad. Forty percent, my ass.”

“Sir, she would get the sixty.”

Parker rubbed his mouth and jabbed a finger at him. “What are you playing at? You think this is funny? No way in hell.” He started laughing humorlessly, shaking his head. “Sixty percent. You must have fallen and bumped your head, Presley. Now get out of my office.” He flicked his hand but Elvis didn’t budge.

The older man simmered, quietly, wondering with a glare why Elvis hadn’t made himself scarce yet.

“It ain’t right, never letting me pick and choose what I wanna do. You know I’m the star here, right?” He regretted the words before they left his mouth. The delivery, not their meaning. That part he meant through and through. 

“So why do you think I’d let you throw away your cut? You really want to make 40 percent and split that 50/50 with me? What kind of bank do you expect to make from that? Think, Presley! Now quit wasting my time and let me get back to looking out for you. I’ve got some calls to make, so scram.”

He refused. If there was ever a time to take a stand, it was now. He was so tired of letting Parker take damn near full control of his life. The finances, the social guidelines, the shitty movies. All of it. 

“I said scram! If you don’t get lost, so help me. You know I don’t like gettin’ pissed off, kid. Don’t push me.”

Elvis didn’t move. Instead, he firmly reiterated, “I think it could be a great opportunity.”

The Colonel flew up from his chair. He was prone to being a jackass, but Elvis had rarely seen him so angry. But then again, he rarely defied his manager, having always seen him as someone who, despite his flaws, nearly always got the job done. Bread in the bank, so to speak. Colonel Parker made damn sure it was always in excess, even if it meant taking a generous cut of his star’s earnings. That part, Elvis didn’t mind. It was just money, after all, and he could always make more. What Elvis had begun to resent was the vice grip control Colonel had on him. With an iron fist, he wielded him like a weapon, cleaving his way through Hollywood one mediocre movie at a time. It was him who spearheaded his silver screen career, scheduled his engagements, managed his merchandising contracts. But at the cost of rigid ruling.

Elvis was not allowed to announce he was dating anyone for the “time being,” that being however long his manager saw fit. He couldn’t deposit checks directly into his bank; Parker handled all the finances down to the penny. Nobody important could get to Elvis without going through Parker first–not other producers, managers, or even would-be friends. Everyone had to be vetted by the Colonel, who wasn’t above isolating Elvis when he felt someone with influence was getting too close. The contracts Elvis would find himself pledged to were oftentimes suffocating with how long he would be tied to one studio, making critically-panned but commercially successful slop for the masses. He couldn’t escape the exhausting treadmill of quickie films, and he knew that they were there solely to make money. Funds that the studios would use to finance the more important, artistic projects with serious actors. Ones that weren’t Elvis. 

There was a marked disdain for any growth in artistic expression or flexibility. He was proud of his filmography regardless, but there were times he’d felt outclassed at parties. Where it was clear nepotism was the unspoken theme and, ill trained and easily tongue-tied, Elvis would get sweetly nudged aside with smiles by those who deemed themselves more sophisticated than him. Those moments were rare but gutting. It hollowed him out and he didn’t like what he saw. A few years into his movie career, he’d developed painful ulcers that still kept him up at night, and he suffered from debilitating migraines during the day. 

“You need to listen to me and listen good, boy.” Boy. Elvis hated when Parker called him that. “You keep bucking up to me like you run the show and I might have to make a stir about your favorite hobbies. I’m sure the papers would love to know what you get up to in your free time, how you spend all that money you earn. In detail.” The insinuation left little to the imagination and Elvis felt threatened to cave, but knew that if he backed down now, things would never improve.

“If I can convince them to bill me first. Would you consider it?”

Parker was already shaking his head, loudly saying, “No, no. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

“We can negotiate for a fairer split. I’ll make this a one-time deal if it all goes to hell. But if this works, you’ve got to admit that to me and let me pursue it. I barely ask you for anything, Colonel. When’s the last time I asked you a favor that you can remember?” At his lengthy silence, Elvis said, “Once you see her, you’ll change your tune, I know you will.”

The Colonel was still boiling, his round ruddy face tight around the relit cigar, taking a drink of iceless, room temperature water, clear as crystal in a highball glass. “One. You get one chance at picking your own script. We’ll see how it goes. Good parents let their children learn from their mistakes, right?”

Elvis winced. He already had a father, and he didn’t need more scolding. If he was determined before, he was now dead set on seeing this through given that Parker threatened an exposé. But if he could just win something–just this once–it’d put him over the moon. When he left his manager’s office that day, he called Dominick back himself and told him that things were tentatively going well and that they’d stay in touch, but things might have to be worked out a bit more, something the other man wasn’t too thrilled to hear, telling him briefly, “I’ll let you know when something comes up.”

For weeks nothing at all came up. Then the weeks bled into two long months and the seed of doubt bloomed wild. He began to wonder if he’d ever get to be in a movie with Francesca. But he wouldn’t let the dread creep further. He waited patiently, working diligently at his current contractual obligations, not because he was crazy about the film, but because he knew he needed to practice so that he could give the next project his all. He just had a good feeling about this. Something in his gut told him that it would all work out.

Colonel Parker had him slotted for another slop fest of a movie. He didn’t agree to it, but that didn’t matter. Pushing it on him was just par for the course and he deflected, saying he wanted to take a break and relax. But that was seen through almost immediately.

“You’ll get a vacation when I do.”

And the Colonel didn’t plan on one anytime soon with as many movies he had lined up for Elvis. They had started to lose their shine in his eyes and while they were more commercially successful than ever, he’d never felt more out of touch. Just going through the motions. 

He saw her face on a billboard one morning in Chicago while stepping out of the bus, the sun illuminating her like some angel. Performing live, but the dates had already passed. He’d missed her by 6 hours. They might have even been in the city at the same time. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How would he introduce himself? What would she say when meeting Elvis Presley and learning he was smitten with her? Surely it wouldn’t be a hot pursuit, he just needed to be near enough to her. He could perhaps convince her to feel what he felt too. Or maybe it was all a silly fantasy, keeping him shaking on stage for the thousands in attendance at the premiere. 

Tonight, he’d almost been assaulted by an over-excited herd of young fans grouping too close to the flimsy perimeter fence, sending it toppling and knocking into his knees. He wasn’t injured but seeing people literally willing to hurt themselves to get a chance to grab at his coat sleeve or tug at his pants leg was enough to disturb him for the rest of the night. He didn’t talk for a while, just sitting and staring in the silence of his suite, the bus stationary for the next 4 hours. He couldn’t sleep when it was moving, it just tossed his stomach to bits.

He clicked on the radio, swapping between stations to maybe catch a glimpse of her, but there was nothing. Just brassy tunes to lull him to sleep.

When he and his entourage checked into a hotel halfway to Memphis, he didn’t bother glancing at the machine, not ready for another dollop of displeasure after his latest film was panned by critics again. He thought it wouldn’t dagger as hard this time, but it never got less twisting. It was impossible to not take it personally.

“Do you want to see someone simultaneously over-act and under-perform in the same film? Then Fun in Acapulco is the watch for you.”

What was he doing so wrong that he couldn’t see? He wanted what he idolized in other stars, the natural ability to convincingly portray a role. Perfect, practiced, performances with organic delivery. It was only when he went back and rewatched these movies himself did he see his flaws. The framing, the diction, the lostness in his expressions. He just wasn’t grounded enough. And of course, the material itself was complete shit. 

“You can’t relate to any of Presley’s latest characters because there simply is no relatability. This isn’t Mike, it’s so clearly Elvis Presley through the weakly played facade. This isn’t acting. It’s lying.”

He needed to stop reading into the criticism. More money meant more money. There was value to it all, merit in his every success, even if they lacked any spiritual nourishment. Even though he felt hollow at the end of nearly every day. 

Sitting in front of the television, too tired to call a girl over, too jaded to invite his friends around, he flicked on the set and slouched with a glass of water and a rattling bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, red flashed intermittently. On the phone stand, the machine blinked, gently prying for his attention. He was walking without thought, hands outstretched, mouth dry.

Elvis hit play, listening to a half second of rustling. A wet lip smack and a cigarette-accented inhale. Then, Dominic Archer’s tinny voice clicked through the receiver, “Might have a bit for you, kid. Jake Turner, a talented headliner at a famous casino is tired of the routine, starts a hot romantic encounter with the mysterious new card dealer on the run from her past. You and Frannie. Previous deal stands, Presley. Give me a call. Your manager is a fucking asshole.”

He played it again. Listening intently to every word. This was textbook glitz and glam that Colonel Parker frothed over, but just enough meat for Elvis to really sink his teeth into the role. There was no way this wasn’t going to be a hit. Two stars burning bright on screen. It was too easy to pitch. He just had to have patience and persistence. He’d beat Parker down with enough persuading. He wasn’t so spiteful to say no to possibly the biggest check of his life, was he?

*

Fuming. The Colonel was quiet; always at his angriest. He looked over his tightly intertwined hands at Elvis. The young star laid it all out once more, repeating in firm earnest that this was the right move for his career.

“How’s this any different from the other movies you have me in, Colonel?”

“What’s different is that she’s asking for a bigger cut and to be the headliner. How do you think that’s going to make you look?”

“No one cares. I couldn’t tell you who the headliners for the last twenty movies I’ve seen were! You know this is a golden opportunity. You gotta see the bigger picture here!”

The lack of a response left Elvis unnerved. Parker was either thinking or stewing, about to blow his top.

But he surprised Elvis when he said slowly, bluntly, “60/50. That’s my takeaway cut from whatever you receive, as your manager. For going out on a limb for you.” 

“Done.” No hesitation. Something that made a nerve in Parker’s jaw twitch.  But Elvis didn’t give a shit if Parker wanted a king’s share of the money. He could have it. As long as he got a chance to finally shine in a decent role, with a decent director, with a co-star that actually had some chops! 

“Let this be a lesson when this fails. And I promise you, it will fail.” The words were harsh and calculated, delivered with carelessness as Colonel Parker shrugged, waving him out. Elvis looked at him, stunned at the lack of motivation. No encouragement. Nothing. He shouldn’t expect it, but there was something overwhelmingly frustrating about silently sharing his hard-won earnings with someone like him. He wanted a change but didn’t know where else to start.

Taking himself more seriously was the first step. And he raced to return Dominick’s offer with a resounding “Yes, sir! Let me start by apologizing to you on my manager’s behalf—”

“No need. We start filming in May.”

May. The month couldn’t come fast enough. He was still a few weeks away, flirting with cold blue spring mornings and balmy evenings. He needed to move back to Las Vegas for filming. He liked the house enough, but it was out in the eerie quiet desert, and he could always see eyes bobbing like ghosts out on the pitch-black horizon. It was spooky being there, so he often never went. Parker came too, insisting that phoning it in wasn’t an option, even if he was clearly sour grapes about the entire trip there, about booking an apartment long term, about coming to the early filming every day (and every other weekend).

“A female director. A female lead. You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Parker scoffed.

Cassandra Morgan was an innovative filmmaker with a unique approach, renowned for passionately exploring complex characters. Elvis watched one of her movies after he settled in while housekeeping cleared the cobwebs. There were some huge spiders always waiting for eviction when he left his Vegas home for long stretches. But the pool was glittering and the pantry was restocked. There was life in the house again and he found himself walking around, wondering how Frannie would like everything. Most men didn’t care to decorate their spaces with fine art and designer furniture. He could see her dazzled by the globe glass chandelier painting the sunken marble living room with dappled prisms. Or her lounging by the infinity pool and gazing out onto the native garden. 

Elvis barely slept that night. So nervous was he that he actually downed some whiskey, suddenly aware of the smell of alcohol leaking from his pores, or the mauve pitting of his eyes when slumber escaped him. He wanted to be at his brightest for this. He felt like an unpaid intern at some big wig exec’s office, knees turned in and gut doing flips.

The studio was a sun scorched walk across bleached white concrete, but he made it as far as two steps past the gate when a cart rolled up to collect him, puttering him across the long stretch. He didn’t see his manager amongst the crew. His make-up artists were sweet gals, older than he expected, enthusiastic to be here. Delia and Margo. On set, there was a dip in professionalism as everyone swarmed him, happily introducing themselves.

His neck craned and his eyes flitted about the room, constantly searching for her. What would she be wearing? What would her face look like when she finally met him? What perfume would she smell like? “Get a hold of yourself, Presley,” he muttered to himself. 

Back stage, he got powdered up for rehearsals, having breezed through the script on the long plane ride to Vegas. It was his seventeenth read-through from start to finish, mesmerized by the similarity between himself and the character he was supposed to play. Jake was also bored of his routine performances and craved something meaningful, something new and fresh in his monotonous life. That something was Frannie’s character. And he knew that the chemistry that was sure to fire between them would translate flawlessly to the screen. This was a once in a lifetime film. He could feel the makings of a classic in his hands. He just had to act his heart out. There was a duet, even though the scene was supposed to be a playful conflict, with the two of them fighting over the right to the microphone during a shared bit. Making music together sounded too good to be true. He couldn’t wait.

On stage for rehearsals of the first scene, he recalled in the script that Frannie’s character wouldn’t be revealed until the first ten minutes in. It opened with a shot of Elvis playing the piano, a slower number than Elvis was used to, but Jake’s style of rock and roll was heavy on the roll. The guitarist was an actor he wasn’t familiar with, but the film barely had any focus on him other than a side plot knocking up a cocktail waitress.

The director was a lovely, warm woman in her late 50s. Elvis shook her hand and was surprised with its firmness. There was a boyish twinkle in her weathered eyes and she seemed born to direct with her motherly cadence. She patted Elvis on the upper back with her big meaty hand, walloping him good and cheering, “I couldn’t believe it ‘til I saw it. You know you were my first choice. Something tells me you understand this character very well. I’m glad you chomped at the bit. I know we’re going to make great things together. I’m gonna make you act yer heart out, Presley!”

Cassandra’s canvas chair creaked loudly as she hunkered down and took her lavalier and shouted, “Action!”

Though he was heartened by the director’s enthusiasm, he couldn’t help but feel a welling sense of disappointment as well. He thought he’d be seeing Francesca by now, but she was nowhere to be spotted, at least until he practiced his lines and the narration that he was supposed to record over the scene. He was struck, mid-sentence, when the metal exit door creaked open and a figure slipped into the darkness of the crowd, whispers lighting up in greeting to welcome the shadow in. The dim lights warmed, and Elvis could see her clearly.

She walked on set that day, a star. He knew just looking at her that she was born for this.

His rehearsal was short and clean, and Cassandra was overjoyed to have seen him in action, clapping for him and thanking dress for whoever picked a white suit for the opening scene. It was stark against the black Wurlitzer. They chose to film in Vegas for real slot machines to rent, adding authenticity to the vibe. The irony of the jackpots going off in the background wasn’t lost on him.

Francesca Ferrara was a silent marvel, blending in, strikingly indistinguishable when she wanted to be. She leaned against Cassandra, and whatever muttering they shared made them both laugh sweetly behind their hands.

“Oh stop. Get up there, sweetheart. You can worry about makeup later.”

She was fussed over for a moment, her hair brushed and a clean sheen of red applied to her cupid’s bow lips. He was struck right through, clutching his chest as she rose up the set steps.

The spotlight was cast, its honeyed glow illuminating her as she walked in from the left of stage. It made a halo in her hair. She was intense from the moment she took center and began her performance bold and clean and with grace in her casual attire. A black dress top and red silk skirt. She already looked the part of an ardent card slinger with a secret past (and a secret set of hidden pipes). It was a whisper to begin, lulling the crowd in. She hadn’t practiced any vocals, but what left her was honed and mighty.

Elvis was rapt, standing amongst the crew, attentive on her. She spun and her skirt draped like a second skin against her shapely legs. Her timbre was soulful, all-American in its honesty. She didn’t close her throat around her vowels, she didn’t whisper, she trusted herself to carry every note with masterful precision. Her hair twirled about her face and he could see her alight.

“I can’t believe you’re really here. This is my first time working on a big Hollywood budget kind of thing.” A crew member tried chatting him up, murmuring low so that she didn’t interrupt Frannie’s practice, but it was distracting him. He nodded politely but tight.

“Uh huh. It’s the big leagues alright.”

“I’m Sherri. I’m the one who put you in white. It’s totally your color, hun.” She was way too young to be calling him hun.

He didn’t mean to be rude, but Frannie was consuming his attention, singing, wondering to the audience with song when her life would finally take a turn for the better. When would she finally find the man of her dreams? Did he truly exist? It was over and she went out as gracefully as candlelight in the wind, curtsying with her ankles crossed and skirt held aloft.

The spotlight on her shuddered then flicked off when the air conditioning unit for the studio hummed to life. Frannie exited stage without preamble. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t looking for him.

He watched her meander through the backstage with grace, never a step out of line. Her movements were taken with such… precision. It was like a dance she never stopped, on her toes with a devastating smile. A smile Francesca rarely titled his way, substituting instead for raw surmisal. It was almost like she was waiting. For him to make a fool of himself. He followed her around set, but she was just out of reach somehow, and whenever she got close enough for him to start a conversation, someone would intercept his path and vie for his attention.

“When I told my Dad I was going to be working on a film with Elvis Presley, he couldn’t believe it! Do you mind if I get an autograph? I promise I won’t always be pestering you like this. I just have to shoot my shot. I loved you in Jailhouse Rock and King Creole! Haha, ain’t that what life is? A couple of good moments.”

Elvis grinned, finding the kid endearing. “And all the rest is trying to chase them. What’s your name, young man?”

“Edward! But all my friends call me Eddie. So, you can call me Eddie for sure, Mr. Presley! And I’m—and I’m just a gaffer. But if you ever need anything you just send for me. Say the word, and I’ll have it done. We’re all here for you!” He was filled with enthusiasm, bright eyes wide with wonder as he pulled out a notebook with only two other signatures on the first page. A young buck in the cinematography world. Elvis smiled back. 

Thanks for always looking out for me, Eddie. From your pal, Elvis Presley.

“You ain’t tearing up, are you?” Elvis laughed when Eddie’s face pinkened as the young man clutched his notebook tight. 

“No sir, dust in my eyes. It’s just so… dusty up there in the scaffolding.” He sniffled, smiling at him before politely, letting Elvis get back to finding Frannie.

“Hey, do you know where Miss Ferrara went?”

“I think she stepped outside for a smoke?” Eddie pointed towards the glowing exit sign and Elvis booked it, keeping his gaze fixed straight so that no one would be tempted. He made it to the door and pushed, stepping out into the shaded alleyway.

Elvis spotted her instantly. She was smiling to a kindly makeup extra who was puffing away, giving her a little wave before she finally turned her attention towards him. She didn’t have a cigarette, she’d just stepped out for air.

Her gaze nearly tipped him over and he couldn’t remember the last time a girl really made his heart skip, but here he was, thinking up one liners, sweet nothings, compliments about her glossy hair—something. Anything. But when he opened his mouth to finally break the handful of seconds’ silence, she offered out her elegant hand for him to take. It was warm, her fingers hugged lovingly by glittering jewels. Did she feel the sweat in his palm?

“And you must be Elvis Presley,” she grinned, taking back her hand and leveling him with a look. There was that flicker of resolve in her fierce eyes, just like on stage at Johnny Carson’s show. When the stage light was a halo behind her head and he heard her voice warble, not with falter, but with emotion, constricting her elegant throat. He had to have her. That kind of conviction was rare in a woman.

“Francesca.” He cursed himself for not kissing the cool back of her palm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“I’m sure,” she teased, but with a bit of venom in her purr. “So, what’s a big star like you doing on a movie set like this? Isn’t the role a little... non-traditional for you?” Heavy with insinuation, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach her question, to approach her. She was of a different cut. He knew he’d never met a woman like her.

“When I saw you on Carson, I knew we had to mix some of our star power together. For the good of the movie going people,” he joked. “Give them something like they’ve never seen before.”

Francesca smiled, but it lacked warmth. She was analyzing him. “Then let’s make magic together, Presley.” She said unconvincingly and he realized at once that she had no faith in him. That sinking feeling that he got at those uppity parties, of immaturity and shallowness, washed over him in waves now. She hadn’t even seen his rehearsal and she already doubted him. Was this a mistake after all? 

“You can trust me, Frannie, I’d never—”

“Only my friends call me Frannie. Just call me Miss Ferrara, please.” Her voice was pretty, lightly accented with a New York lilt. He could smell her perfume. She was even more stunning in person. Suddenly, he was dizzy. “I’m getting back inside and out of this heat,” she offered. Fall couldn’t set in quickly enough.

Elvis watched her sway away without an argument, wondering how he’d already screwed this up. He’d never really had to introduce himself to anyone, to make a good impression. He just showed up and was the life of the party. Ladies flocked to him and guys wanted to hang out with him. Approaching a guarded woman was a new beast entirely but he was undaunted. Tailing after her, he slid his hands coolly in his pockets.

“So, what are you doing after this? We can talk over dinner.”

“I’m too tired to talk. I still have another two hours of rehearsal, Elvis Presley.”

“Well, maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend.”

“I’m busy next weekend.”

“Okay. Well,” he stumbled to open the door for her and she didn’t regard him as she trotted on through without breaking her stride. “What about the weekend after that?”

“Busy then, too.”

Elvis’s face flattened. “I get the message, Frannie—cesca. Francesca Ferrara. Uh, Miss Ferrara.” He was approached by some crew members with notepads and proper autograph books, pictures of him. They mirrored how Elvis felt, tailing after Francesca, who left him to his groupies.

“I was there at your premiere in Memphis last year! I spent my whole Christmas bonus on those tickets!”

“Mr. Presley! Are you busy after this? A bunch of the crew were going to Marco’s for lunch. Cassandra’s treat!”

“What are you asking him for? Of course he’s going! Elvis, come on. Pile in with the rest of us!”

Elvis laughed, eyes glancing for an out. He’d rather just have a day to wind down since his scene rehearsal was finished for the evening, but he relented, placating them with a smile and joining in. Somehow, Elvis’ Memphis crew found him and jumped in their own cars to follow. Frannie was nowhere in the sight and certainly hadn’t booked a separate ride to the restaurant.

It was dim and the portions were tiny and the conversations were ones he’d had thousands of times already.

“Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Did you ever freeze up on stage?”

“Do you have a favorite song to perform?”

“What do you think you have that makes you Elvis Presley?”

He was tired. He wanted to be someone again, not a thing, an object, an idol, an undigested voice. No one wanted to know a deeper, more meaningful him. It was always about the act, the playing, the singing, and the glamor. Didn’t anyone want to know what his worst fear was? What kept him getting out of bed everyday when there was almost nothing worldly left for him to achieve? How for a time, he felt he couldn’t go on living after his mama died? He had everything, fame, money, charisma. He could reach for top shelf trim whenever he desired and yet his heart was always empty. Tired of the vices, he longed for a connection. And he promised himself that tomorrow would be in line with his goals, that he’d make Francesca see that he had more to him than critically panned cheese and charm. 

*

Francesca just didn’t like him. He was a ham. A sock hop with fourteen moves under his belt exactly. She counted them. He fubbed his lines and under spoke, his voice almost an indiscernible mumble at times. Other times he was just bleakly shouting without a hint of emotional inflection. She felt there was wasted potential there. But for the moment, he couldn’t act to save his life and yet he was the center of attention. No matter what he did, people loved him. It was like Francesca had a meter for detecting bullshit and Elvis was riddled with it. What he did have going for him was his flair. His artistry. His charisma. And God help her, that voice. His voice was like a whiskey hammer, strong and soothing. It rolled over her like black silk, a lover’s caress.

He took the thunder in almost every rehearsal scene he was in. If they had to act like they were in a bitter argument, Elvis was always more emotional, more explosive. If they had to practice their duet, she could feel him trying to suffocate her voice with his. And to make it all worse, he did all this obnoxiously and obliviously. She knew what he was trying to do, emphasis on try. He clearly wanted to impress. Not just the director, but her. He wanted Frannie to take him seriously. But if one-upping her was all he had, then he’d better be prepared for filming, because she was holding back right now, letting him burn all the glory he wanted. Sprinting hard and fast, not realizing the length of this endurance race. She stayed with him, jogging aloofly alongside, performing her part for rehearsals. Never missing a day, even if she wasn’t required on set.

Not only was Presley grating on her nerves, his meddling weasel of a manager with the shark eyes and angry red cheeks, always glared at her whenever he graced them with his presence. He never stopped trying to talk her agent down, to make a change in the headliner decision. It was Francesca’s one request. She didn’t care about the money nearly as much as Dominick, which is why she gave him such a generous 20% cut (that he objected to time and time again, saying she needed to build her estate up and enjoy her youth while she still had it). She just wanted to be a star. For everyone to know her name. Ask anyone for anywhere who Elvis Presley was, and they could tell you. Ask anyone outside of young people who Francesca Ferrara was? Deadpan stares.

To say it was irritating would be an understatement. It wasn’t fair to her to watch him prance in the limelight like a show pony. But at least he wasn’t the highest billed, and she held that close to her heart with pride. Dominick could work magic; he was the only man involved with this she had any faith in.

Elvis, however, worryingly acted like he was about to star in his next big flop and bring Frannie down before she truly had the chance to shine on her own merit. If she was going to lose, she didn’t want to keep herself tied to him. She’d be “that one girl in that one Elvis movie. What was it called again?” She shuddered to think about her future if this big break didn’t pan out. Was hitching herself to the Presley wagon a mistake?

So, she dedicated herself ten-fold to her theatrics and practiced hard, applied herself harder. She was in the dance studio in her free time, honing her skills, tightening her spirals, widening her devastating smile. Slowly, but surely, she would sway them all. Make them all her adoring fans.

Tonight, it rained hard on the tin studio roof. The lights were low, and the stage echoed with the whispers of her feet pittering across the lacquered floor. She didn’t have on shoes to give her blisters some relief, and the added grip made her even more agile. Music played in her head. For this scene, she was supposed to be in a round. The camera would cut to each character lamenting their current situation in harmony, longing for their dreams to one day come true. In the next scene, she would be alone in her dingy motel room, sitting on the bed and counting her cash, hiding it in the mattress. The dance would intersperse, haunting and flighty, like a specter, because that was her character’s life. Bouncing from one place to the next, always on the run and never somewhere long enough to make a human connection with anyone. She was losing herself, a shell of who she wanted to be.

It seemed like no matter what she did, she would be in his shadow. And for that alone, she disdained him with an unbridled intensity. She snubbed his advances, tossing him out to like feed for hungry extras on set who were vying for their next meal.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Presley?” Emphasis on the anything.

“You know I’m also a licensed masseuse. I can see so much tension you’re carrying in those doorway-busting shoulders.”

“You seein’ anybody, Mr. Elvis?”

It was eye rolling at first but after a time, rolling them so much gave her a migraine. She downed two ibuprofen, drinking from the canteen and crushing the little paper cup in her hand. She could feel the pills still stuck in her throat and she swallowed dryly, eyes watering to the sound of the director praising Elvis yet again for such a good performance. She hated admitting it, but was Cassandra actually getting a good performance out of him?

Throwing the cup into the garbage, she shook the thought out of her head. No, the only thing the lackey could do was sing and even then, he had to be in a serious mood. He was intent on his perceived conquest of her. She felt like hunted game when she turned a corner to find him conveniently there for her to bump into, hit with the heady wash of his piney cologne. He helped her to her waiting golf cart, hopping into his garish pink Cadillac. He offered her a ride every time and every time she declined him.

“Coffee?”

“It upsets my stomach.”

“There’s a new Italian place down the street from—”

“I don’t like Italian.” Total bluff, she grew up on the stuff. Frannie made sure not to ever eat lasagna leftovers in front of him.

“I have a cabin up in Gatlinburg, you should come out sometime. Perfect view of the stars.”

“I can see them just fine from my balcony.” Another lie. The city lights suffocated any natural starlight. When she looked up, she could see the moon and little else but Orion’s lonely belt. Her disdain was threatening to turn into loathing with his insistent pestering, his constant lackadaisy attitude. He showed up on time the first few weeks, but he’d taken to coming in late occasionally or playing pick-up games on set with his pack of hangers on from Memphis. His routine was without practice.

Cassandra’s enthusiasm waned, but only a tad bit. She wasn’t afraid of scaring him off with critique, telling him to tighten up his act and try it again from the top. Her patience was endless, and she was determined to pull a show-stopping performance from him. Cassandra knew he had it in him. But Elvis struggled with some of the more complex footwork, stumbling once and catching himself, his palms slapping loudly against the stage. He wrung his hands, his wrists swollen and red the next day.

He had to go to the hospital for them to tell him he’d suffered a fracture in each wrist, but that he should heal without any issues after some rest and keeping them in a cast. He was encouraged to wear them on set, but he refused when performing.

“They just slow me down, anyways.”

Elvis missed a few days of filming, stalling production considerably. He was apologetic and embarrassed. Francesca practiced her rehearsals without him, going over her part of the duet again and again. She perfected her choreography, working after hours with a dance coach to help her flexibility. Show stopping high kicks and quick splits. There was nothing that could stand in her way. 

She caught him looming once when she was going over another routine, practicing her lines and her placement. There was a cartwheel that kept dropping her voice and she wanted to train the warble out. Everything else was flawless, except for that one note.

“Take me awAy!”

Agh, she did it again! And then she saw him in the back row of chairs that some of the crew sat in. He was watching her. She pretended not to notice.

*

In make-up today, disaster struck. When Margo was going on about her boyfriend’s new job at the furniture store, her cigarette breath punctuating her words, she uncapped the same red lipstick that was used for Josephine every day. But as she painted the cream across Frannie’s lips, the actress cried out, swatting the tube out of her hand. It hit the ground and rolled, breaking the lipstick bullet off its base.

Margo reached down, taking it in her hands while Frannie cupped her stinging mouth. On the takeaway, there was a line of blood.

“What the hell?” Margo exclaimed, showing Frannie that a sewing needle had been inserted inside the wax. It was sticking out just enough to nick.

The room seemed to tilt. The lights on her cheval glass blurred. Someone had tried to hurt her.

Unceremoniously, the lipstick plunked into the trash and Margo reached into her kit to draw out a fresh backup among the dozen others. She peeled the plastic casing and popped it open, inspecting it, running the tip across her wrist and just swiping clean color.

“This one is just fine, sweetheart. Don’t you worry. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this. I’ll have security tell me who was here last night. They usually keep a headcount. They’re good about that.” But the words were muffled in Francesca’s ears as her heart began to pound.

Who would have done this to her?

She was frazzled for the rest of her rehearsal, stumbling over her own two feet after having danced her heart out during practice late last night. And who else had been there? She knew Elvis and a few extras. Sure, he was annoying but he’d never once seemed threatening. This was just downright malicious.

It took her focus completely off track and she went through the motions without soul, guarded, eyes shifting across the crew, like she might see a sign. Elvis was watching her intently, but then again, he often did.

During her lackluster performance, a loud clang sounded above her. Frannie flinched as a light came crashing down, shattering on impact just a few feet from her. It was small, but if that’d hit her, she’d be knocked out cold.

She breathed a sigh of relief, finding that her nerves weren’t baseline at any point, fluttering high. She laughed the incident off though on the inside, she was rattled. Her lips were sore when she smiled. “That was almost lights out for me!”

“Oh my god! Eddie!” Someone screamed, pointing to the back of the stage, where just below the curtains, a pair of feet could be seen dangling, kicking.

Francesca realized she was looking at the gaffer, Edward, a rope lassoed tightly around his neck and left hand. His teeth were bared as he struggled to push against the tension of the rope, his legs jutting out straight, his free arm wiggling wildly. He couldn’t manage a cry for help beyond a high-pitched rasp.

People were scrambling, trying to find a ladder, but the young man’s face was beginning to purple. 

She couldn’t believe what she was witnessing, her legs were moving of their own accord. He wasn’t so high that he couldn’t be reached, or at least his feet anyways. She knew she couldn’t get him down on her own but before she could even try, a man pushed past her, gently moving her aside. It was Presley, looking taller somehow as he lifted his gentle hands up, giving the dangling stagehand a place to stand if only for a brief second. His legs wobbled, knees bowing back, but the crew were all suffused whispers for a brief second, listening for the young boy to breathe.

“Oh my god, Edward, just breathe, honey. The boys are about to cut you down now, just breathe sweetie,” Francesca’s heart was pounding. Presley’s arms were straight up, his sleeves rolling down, his shirt constricting around his powerful chest. She knew his wrists must be on fire, as she could see they were still yellow and purple with healing bruising.

Someone managed to find a ladder and scurried up, hacking the rope after a few of the men gathered together, lacing their arms to catch him. The rope gave and Eddie fell back with a gasp, his face beet red, his eyes bulging, veins completely blown out and bleeding into his sclera. But he was already happily choking, tears freefalling as he profusely rasped, “You saved my life. Elvis, you saved my life.”

“Just relax, Eddie. We’re getting you to a hospital.”

Eddie wheezed, unable to lift his head or move his broken wrist.

“What happened?” Someone asked from the tight circle of concerned faces. 

Cassandra shook her head. “It’s that damn scaffolding. It’s going to come down and kill someone.”

Francesca felt superstition warning her that the film might be cursed. Had her bitterness transformed into malevolence and wreaked havoc on set? She glanced up at Elvis through her curtain of dark hair with new eyes. Seeing him jump into action like that had shifted her view of him just slightly for the better. She must have been smiling, because when he caught her looking his way, he grinned back, looping his arm under Eddie’s shoulder and helping him to a stand.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you in the car. Wanna tell your old man you got to ride in my Cadillac?”

“No way…” Eddie croaked, “You think I could drive it back?”

“We’ll uh, we’ll have to take a rain check on that. But one day, kid, one day!”

Frannie couldn’t help but find this side of him endearing. So, she joined him. Much to his surprise.

“What if he passes out or something? Looks like you need a hand with him,” she suggested, hopping into the back. When Elvis grabbed the steering wheel, he grunted, frozen. Eddie didn’t seem to notice as he winced and bellyached, trying to find some way he could hold his sprained neck without causing severe pain.

With grace, Frannie grabbed the headrest and leaned forward, her voice wet at Elvis’s ear when she asked, “Do you want me to drive?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, looking straight ahead, the shells of his ears flushing pink. “You know what? Give her a whirl. Just be careful, she’s sensitive.”

Surprised with his casualness, she slotted into the driver’s seat in his place, the plush leather still warm from his body. His long legs needed the space, but Frannie had to scoot up to the steering wheel before settling comfortably in.

The ride was smooth and she took every turn with care, with Elvis pointing over her shoulder. “Now turn right here, traffic’s going to have Main Street backed up.” He’d obviously spent a lot of time in Las Vegas before. He checked over Eddie, telling him, “Now when you tell the story, you can say it was my Caddy, but that you were driven by the Francesca Ferrara.”

She smirked, choosing to take that as a complement, even if he loaded that with patronization. They didn’t have to wait long at all in the ER—apparently any injury above the shoulders was considered high risk and the patient was swept immediately away.

Eddie called his parents, but they were out of town. Elvis volunteered to be his ride and Eddie begged him to just go home—he obviously had more important things to do, being Elvis Presley, after all—but Presley just assured him. “No, no, I really don’t.”

While Eddie was being looked over by physicians, Elvis got them something out of the vending machines, telling Francesca, “See, I told you I’d take you out for dinner one day.”

Frannie couldn’t stifle her laugh. He got her with that. Now she pondered when he was going to ask her again, but she didn’t have to wonder long when after inhaling a pack of cheese crackers, he brought up the topic.

“You know dating on set means asking for trouble. Right?” She asked, looking out at the darkening, orange sky. 

“You seem like the kinda girl who doesn’t mind a little trouble.”

He thought he was slick. And maybe he was. “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Presley.”

“Call me Elvis, please,” he insisted. “Come on. Just one date. Dinner. A movie. Horseback riding on the beach. Anything you want.”

“Don’t try to charm me.”

“So, you’re saying I’m charming?” He smirked playfully. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mama always told me ladies like a man with consistency. I like you, Frannie. I like you a lot.”

She couldn’t detect any dishonesty. It almost seemed like he was earnest in taking her out on a real date. But she still didn’t want to budge on the principle of dating her co-stars. That was a hot pot of drama waiting to blow. Perhaps she could meet him halfway, just this once. Holding up one finger, she told him, “Take me as a friend to the carnival. There’s one next week in Indian Springs.”

He was like a dog with a bone, wagging his tail. He finally got a bite and practically shot up in victory. Elvis pumped his fist boyishly.

“Then I’ll be the best friend you could ask for,” he assured, leaving her with a week to ruminate on if this was the first of many bad decisions with this dangerously likable man.

*

Elvis watched her dark hair cascade down her shoulders. Her hips swayed sensuously when she walked, inviting his gaze to linger. Francesca drew almost everyone’s eyes, turning heads when she made her way to the ticket booth in her fire red dress, gems glinting on her throat and in her stormy tresses. She splurged on the limitless pass, presenting the back of her hand proudly to be stamped with a bright yellow star, one to match his as he made the same purchase, kicking himself for not covering hers—not that she even gave him a chance. She was adamant on making this as casual as she could.

He wanted her arm in his. He wanted her to lean her pretty head against his shoulder while they walked in step to the Ferris wheel. While she had a big panda bear or something he won her. It seemed so… trivial of her, to pick something like this. Low brow, even. He loved it. There were single moms with lines of unruly children in tow, trash skittering across whatever parking lot the fair rented out, and Frannie was beaming, smiling from ear to ear, eyes reflecting the string lights like fireworks.

“What’s first? I’m real good at ring toss.” He absolutely wasn’t, but anything to get her one step closer to taking him—them?—seriously, was a step in the right direction. 

She shook her head, pointing to the carousel, adjacent to a funnel cake stand and a house of mirrors. Trapezing ahead without him, he was starting to suspect he was getting recognized even with his hat on as eyes followed the pair and hands cupped over secret sharing mouths as people whispered.

“I don’t want to carry around some big stuffed animal the whole time,” she remarked about the game of ring toss he mentioned earlier. “And besides, I don’t want to school you in ring toss, it’d just be embarrassing for you.” She grinned, sending a flare of heat up his spine. Dynamite. He tailed after her long strides, wondering how she was walking in those lacquered things that sure made her hips look good.

“Alright, alright. You’re the boss. Let’s do what you’d like first, then.”

She pointed to the Fireball. A sketchy looking hoop of metal with a snake of carts that went in a 360, first fast, then slow, then counterclockwise. It made his stomach churn just looking at it, but she was giddy, eating up the distance between them and the ride.

“If you don’t want to ride, you can just watch,” she suggested, grinning at him over her shoulder. She was egging him on.

“As much as I’d love to watch you get scared all by your li’l self, I’ll join you. My treat.” He sidled in next to her, lifting his arms as the bright yellow cage restraints shuddered down over their shoulders. He evened his breathing, and involuntarily gasped when the ride shot forward sooner than he expected. Frannie was already screaming excitedly, her hair billowing around her thrilled face. They made the first revolutions and Elvis realized that these janky machines, hissing and clanking, gained more heart, more charm and whimsy when you had someone to share the memory with.

Even though they were both a peck dizzy, they stumbled to the game booths anyway. And although Frannie absolutely did not school him at ring toss like she boasted, she did blow him away at darts. Nailing every high value balloon point blank, dead center. She won him a teddy bear in a smoking jacket, with a hot pair of shades to match. He was tickled, taking the little bear under his arm like a treasure, toting him everywhere and even putting him on the carousel and on the whirly swings next to them.

He won her a giant panda bear after spending way more than its worth on his chances at skeeball. His wrists were still sore from his fall on set, but he was determined to win her something memorable and to see the mirth when she embraced it tightly near the end of the night, just how she wanted. It was all worth it.

Frannie introduced him to the delights of obscenely large funnel cake and vinegar fries, and he convinced her to try her first chili dog. She apparently only ever ate them with sauerkraut, from hot dog stands in New York. 

“You know, where I come from, a kid would get bullied for eating a dog with no chili.” He made her laugh for the dozenth time of the night and lavished in the wind chime sound. The way she threw her head back. The way her eyes sparkled.

In the house of horrors, she startled him with a funny little, “Boo!” after dashing ahead when he stopped for a moment to fix his loafer. He exaggerated his surprise for her a little and she reveled in it, reminding him happily through different points of the night, “I got you good back there, didn’t I?”

You certainly did, Francesca.

On the way back, he drove with his arm across her shoulders. It was rare that he ever did anything without his crew, but boy was he glad he did tonight. Wind blew in their hair and star spray reflected on the chrome trimming. He could see her dark curves outlined by slivers of moonlight. He felt like he was in a dream as he drove the empty stretch of backroads to the city and finally towards her luxurious apartment. Heart in his throat, his palms were damp when he opened the passenger door and helped her across the sidewalk.

The doorman, Bennington, tipped his hat to her and then looked at Elvis once, twice, three times before his eyes bugged and his diligent demeanor cracked.

“No way. You’re.... you’re—him! Francesca Ferrara, now you have some explaining to do. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing the—”

“Nuh uh,” Frannie laughed heartily, holding up her palm. “We’re just friends, Bennington. You know I’d tell you if I had a man in my life!”

He smacked his lips at her, back to focusing on Presley. “I’m kicking myself. I thought you had his haircut when you picked up Miss Francesca, but I told myself there was no way! Now, I always said if I saw you in person, I’d have something for you to sign but my boss would kill me if I got ink on my uniform.” He patted his chest but came up empty handed.

“I’ll do you one better,” Elvis proposed, unfastening his diamond and pearl cufflinks. “How about these? They even have my name stamped on ‘em. See?”

Bennington’s mouth was agape, his hands cradled in prayer to hold the cufflinks. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Presley. Thank you! Thank you so much!” He pocketed them for safe keeping. “Boy, this is the best night of my life.”

“Mine too,” Elvis said, cupping young Bennington’s shoulders and bidding him a good night.

Frannie was bowled over by his generosity. She stopped at the elevator, hitting the call button and waiting for it to come cruising down the transparent glass tube. 

“Tonight was fun. I don’t really get to have a lot of fun. My life is just exhausting sometimes. I-it’s nice to get to do something like this every once in a while,” he cooed. Her glossy hair had come undone from its jeweled bindings. She squeezed the stuffed panda he’d won her and smiled that heart stopping smile.

He was devastated, knowing that when the elevator doors opened, he’d be alone shortly thereafter. 

“Thank you, Elvis.”

She leaned in to kiss him and his lips were slightly pursed, his pulse rocketing. But she pressed her lips gingerly against his cheek, her perfume suffusing him, all cinnamon and powdered sugar. 

“Anytime, Frannie.”

She let him get away with it as she turned her back towards him and entered the elevator, the doors shutting and whisking her up. He could see she was looking at him all the way up. Was she thinking about letting him in? She’d communicated very clearly that this wasn’t a date. So why was he so torn up about being left in the lobby, and walking past cheery Bennington who said with surprise, “Oh, goodnight Mr. Presley! Get home safe. And good luck on set!”

Elvis acknowledged him and returned the gesture, legging it to his car and shutting the door, revving it on the start. And although he was forlorn about going back to his cavernous home in the desert, he glanced in the rearview and saw that hot red lip imprint on his cheek. 

Francesca liked him. She just had to give him a chance to make her fall in love. Like he was already falling for her. 

[distilled-prose]

6/3/24

Funny how God watches out for us.

I was greatly looking forward to driving cross country to the sunstone mine this summer, planning to leave SC in late June/early July, arriving at the mine mid July. I would have flown home the first week of August then fly back out for September. But several family issues have come up, causing me to have to reschedule this trip, much to my initial disappointment But today I checked for what was happening with the Perseid Meteor showers. Here's what I found:

Early to mid-August meteors … the Perseids

Predicted peak: The peak is predicted** for August 12, 2024, at 14:00 UTC. So the mornings of August 11, 12 and 13 are probably your best bet. When to watch: The moon will be a 1st quarter and 50% illuminated during 2024’s peak of the Perseid meteor shower. So the best time to watch for Perseids will be starting around midnight until dawn. This shower rises to a peak gradually, then falls off rapidly. And Perseid meteors tend to strengthen in number as late night deepens into the wee hours before dawn. The shower is often best just before dawn. Radiant: The radiant rises in the middle of the night and is highest at dawn. See chart below. Nearest moon phase: First quarter moon falls at 15:19 UTC on August 12. And a 1st quarter moon sets around midnight, so you’ll have dark skies after then until dawn. Duration of shower: July 14 to September 1. Expected meteors at peak, under ideal conditions: Under a dark sky with no moon, skywatchers frequently report 90 meteors per hour, or more. Note: The August Perseid meteor shower is rich and steady, from early August through the peak. The meteors are colorful. And they frequently leave persistent trains. All of these factors make the Perseid shower perhaps the most beloved meteor shower for the Northern Hemisphere. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The night sky at the mine is unbelievable. It is located in the south Oregon High Desert. My mining partner likes to point out that we are as far from a Walmart as you can get in the lower 48 states. There is no light pollution. Being the high desert, humidity does not hinder the view of the night sky. And being at 4200 feet above sea level makes it even better. On a moonless night, you can see the milky way almost from horizon to horizon. There are more stars than you could ever imagine. It is magical beyond anything a picture could show, beyond what I might try to tell you. And this year, if I can make the timing work out to be at the mine in early mid August, I will be able to watch as the stars appear to play tag, change positions, and shower us with wishes. Isn't life grand?! @pocketfullofpoesies @goneahead @thelovelymazza6 @ends-2-beginnings @gorgeous-and-glamorous @resistancekitty @cherokeeghostwriter @becoming--nobody @littletornado @soulinkpoetry @snomis @etal

[cydanite]

How astronomical the odds are

(A pre-crossover ESMP Ranchers fic)

Ao3 link:

He lands a short distance away from the smoke for safety, but it’s only on the ground where Jimmy can really make out what’s happening.

The sand on which he’s stood ends a few meters before him. Jagged burnt spines of glass rise out of the ground, jutting up and away from the massive crater. They crest like waves, frozen mid-movement. Other large chunks lay scattered about, splashes of glass dyed brown and amber amidst the clear. There are also more crystals, larger this time, electric blue ice ranging from shards and pebbles to over a meter in length. They stick out of the glass, almost like it’d formed around them. A few smaller shards have even melted some amount, smaller now than the hole that formed around them is. In the center of it all is… something. The melting ice had formed a thick fog around the crater. Judging from his view up top, it must be around a hundred meters from one end to the other. He could only see around ten before it fades into the mist.

“What the heck is this?” He kicks a chunk of glass, the twisting shape gliding across the sand. He watches it skid to a halt and pulls a torch from his inventory. During his groggy panic right after the impact the townsfolk’s reports of a meteor striking the desert painted a certain image in his mind that has now shattered. For one thing, it’s a lot colder.

“This ain’t natural.”

Carefully, he places a foot onto the uneven glass. It shatters near instantly, the brittle powder giving way to warm sand below. Like stepping on the frozen top-layer of snow after a frigid night. Slowly he takes one step after the other, careful not to lose his balance. The further in he gets, the thicker the glass below him is, until it can firmly support his weight. The ice shards get larger too, fogging up the air even more. He can barely make them out if they're more than a few meters away, only discernible as faint blue smudges before him. They almost glow in the nighttime. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so eerie. He’s nearly tripped on glass bumps and ice too many times to count.

He stops. Before him, nearly illuminating the area, is the largest ice crystal yet. It’s nearly eight feet tall, and that’s just what’s above the sand. Its surface is covered in a rough layer of frost. Yet still that brilliant blue shines through in places… as well as something else.

A faint red glow catches his eyes. He blinks, and it’s gone. He almost thinks he’d imagined it before it’s back, a pulsing red light blinks on and off from inside the ice. Small but bright, reflecting off of the corners and fissures in the crystal. Jimmy circles it curiously. The ice is oblong in shape, like an egg. It’s hard to see through it very far, but when the light blinks he can make out just a little more. Shapes in the ice, some kind of stone in its center? Something…

Oh gods.

There’s a hand in the ice.

Jimmy nearly jumps out of his boots. It’s hard to see, but a hand reaches out from the center of the crystal, fingers outstretched toward something unseen. It’s a big hand too. A mitt, even. Whoever it belongs to is probably bigger than him… or whatever it belongs to.

It’s probably an alien.

It takes a few moments for that to sink in. It’s an alien. It’s gotta be, right? There’s a hand in a chunk of ice that seems to have fallen out of the sky. Usually when something falls out of the sky they’re not human. They’re a ‘god’ or whatever. Maybe someone got on Joel’s bad side and he flung them into the stratosphere? No.. he’d probably have just smited them or something. Could this be a prank? The earthquake feels like a lot for a prank. It’s almost more unbelievable that an actual frozen alien crash landed in his desert.

He looks at the hand again. Its fingers hang open, reaching for something it knows it can’t hold. Or not. He doesn’t know the story behind this hand. For all he knows they were reaching for something very within reach, or not reaching at all. But there’s something about the whole thing that just looks sad. It’s probably dead in there. It probably died scared.

He doesn’t even know if there’s a body attached.

Jimmy paces around the crystal again, looking for anything he might’ve missed. The blinking light is coming from nearly the center of the crystal, if a little closer to the top, and is most clearly visible from the side where the hand is. If it’s person-shaped in there it’s probably at around chest level. There are a few more darker patches in the ice, but none close enough to the surface to confidently discern their shape. One at the base might be the start of a foot?

He places a hand up against the ice, a few solid inches away from the alien hand.

If nothing else, it deserves to not be frozen in a crater. Jimmy tightens the harness of his elytra and, with one look back, flies back to town.

—

It’s a short flight to and from Tumble Town. He’s got a small group preparing to take a couple of horses and a cart out to the crater. He's grabbed a stack of wood, a flint-and-steel, as well as some miscellaneous crafting ingredients just in case, all tossed in a shulker box before he’s taken off again and glided back to the crystal. The trip is shorter this time, he’s able to glide straight into the center so long as he takes it slow and cautiously through the fog. It’s still there when he gets back, still reaching out. Jimmy grabs a few logs, lays down a crafting table and whips together a couple of crafted campfires. Of course he could start a fire without using crafting magic, but it’s quicker this way. Soon he has four steady fires burning around the ice, staving off the cold.

He rubs his hand together by one of them, thankful for the respite, before turning back to the task at hand. “You don’t contain any weird alien diseases trapped in the ice, right? Or explosive gas pockets?” The alien doesn’t give him the courtesy of responding. “Oh, whatever.” He grabs his pickaxe by the head and begins gently scraping the ice away where it’s softened.

It takes time. It takes a lot of ache too. Jimmy’s arms quickly grow sore from craning over the ice, reaching for the best, least awkward angles he can get. But the fire melts away at the ice surprisingly quickly. It heats from the bottom, turning the neon-blue ice into a pale layer of slush. Slowly more and more of the figure is revealed. The maybe-foot is most certainly a foot. It’s the same color as the hand as it eventually emerges from the ice, a deep gray fabric made of a thick material. He can almost see what might be a head?

Twhing! A lump forms in Jimmy’s chest. That is not a sound he thinks he wants to hear. He tries to carefully pull his pick from the ice, but it doesn’t budge. Frowning, he adds a little more effort. Still nothing. He braces his hand against the ice and tugs.

The pick pulls free with the sound of depressurizing air, taking a few chunks of ice with it. Jimmy falls hard onto his back, and looks up to see the ice teeter towards him. He yelps and scrambles back as the now-melted lower half of the ice crystal breaks off and topples over, careening into the glassy floor before shattering. Jimmy blinks at the fully excavated alien on the ground before him, frozen in place.

It’s completely covered in some kind of bulky, stark white suit. It’s mostly featureless save for the chest and back, to which all kinds of technological whats-its are affixed. Valves and canisters and buttons, including the glowing one. And now that the alien is out of the ice he can hear it too. A beeping sound, which rises and falls in volume with the light’s gentle pulse.

On its back is a massive pack, engulfed in a mess of plating and tubes. Carved into the side of some hollow metal cylinder is a pickaxe-shaped gash. Jimmy grimaces and chooses to ignore it for now. Hopefully that wasn’t important. Covering their head is a strange domed helmet, glossy and black. Jimmy brushes a finger over an emblem on its side, containing two letter T’s facing opposite directions. The alien is stuck in its same pose, like it’s floating in water. One hand still reaching out.

Yep. He has no idea what any of this is. He goes back to the light. It’s the only moving part here. He reaches out and touches it. A few short beeps sound as the light stays continuously on. He waits… nothing else happens.

“Well that was a little disappointing.” He crosses his arms before the sound of shouting catches his ear. The team must be here with the cart.

“Coming!” He calls back, throwing his tools back into his shulker and stuffing it into his inventory. He looks at the figure. It’s surprisingly humanoid, though still fairly big. He rubs his hands together. “Well, Mr. Alien. Let’s get you home.” He hooks his arms under the alien’s and begins pulling them from the crater.

One of its fingers twitches in response.

Jimmy stops.

Oh gods it really is alive. He stares at the alien almost accusingly, daring it to prove he’d just imagined it. Nothing, nothing… then another subtle twitch, causing panic to rise in his chest. What is he gonna do? A live alien? What if it’s dangerous, what if it wants to kill him? Nearly all aliens in the books he’s read are killer aliens. Is it safe to even bring it back to the town?

The thought settles in his stomach like a stone for a moment, before he grimaces and continues dragging it back to the cart. He’ll figure something out when he gets there.

—

It takes a minute for Tango to even acknowledge he’s woken up. Everything runs in slow motion, from his body to his breaths to his mind, to the world around him. Imperceptibly slow, it may not even exist. The only thing that cuts through his grog is a faint beeping sound coming from nearby. An alarm…did he sleep through his alarm clock? He groans and raises a hand to rub his still-closed eyes. Something blocks him part way there, and he stops. Mind buffering as it skips over why there’s something covering his head. Did he… did he fall asleep in his spacesuit?

The source of the beeping is more direct now, one of the buttons on his chest. He lifts a leaden hand to press it, half on autopilot still.

“Holsten, status report.”

A drawn-out beep like that before a voicemail runs through tinny speakers before a familiar synthetic voice responds. Tango goes through the laborious process of sitting up and yawning as it plays out.

“Hello Tango. What you are hearing is not, in fact, your genius AI Holsten. At least not in the present. This is an automated message I recorded to play in the event of you running into a  dangerous or life-threatening situation while I was offline. This was something I took the liberty of preparing despite you never requesting it. Luckily, you would have had to have failed spectacularly in order to even be hearing this recording.”

Tango sobers up near instantly. Oh…

Oh god. He did fail, didn’t he?

“The trigger of this message is ‘Manual Termination of Emergency Cryosleep’. ‘Cryosleep lasted for ’6-8-1-point-4-6’ hours’...” 

His finger lifts from the button, cutting off Holsten’s recording. Tango takes stock of his surroundings. He’s in a room, which already doesn’t make any sense. Underneath him is a bed, the mattress springs creaking and surrounded by a paltry amount of padding. He throws the thin blanket aside and steps onto a spruce floor. The entire room is lined with planks, roughly nailed in place, turning the small space into a somewhat depressing sea of brown. He looks around for any other color, eyes finding a dark sheen between their cracks. Peering close to one he can make out the glassy stone hidden under the spruce. Obsidian. Another word rings in his mind just as loudly. Prison.

There’s bars on the window. He sprints over and grabs them, rattling them to no avail.

“What the heck?”

Outside it’s dark, but he can make out the silhouettes of sparse houses. Dry foliage rustles in the nighttime breeze. The ground is bare dust and sand. None of it is familiar. Tango reaches for his inventory, but it’s sparse of anything useful. Most of what he had got blown up and away from him during the explosion. He takes out a stick of flash-frozen TNT and watches it crumble in his hand. He whips around, searching for an exit. There’s an iron door on the wall to his right. A pair of eyes are staring right through the frame at him.

A very dignified sound leaves Tango’s mouth.

—

Jimmy is screaming. He is screaming and the alien is screaming and they’re both screaming. Of course, he only started screaming because the noise frightened him. It’s how human it sounds, however, that catches him off-guard enough to stop. Soon they both return to silence and remain just staring at each other through the bars. At least, Jimmy hopes there’s eyes underneath that helmet. There’s probably a mouth at least, because they start talking again.

“Hi!” Their voice is energetic, shaky, and just a bit muffled. “It seems I’ve somehow accidentally ended up in your jail cell, so sorry about that! If you could just maybe-” They point toward the cell door.

“Oh. No.” Jimmy pushes his fear to the back of his chest and puts oh his best tough front, crossing his arm with a scowl. “I put you in here for a reason. You crashed into my Empire, in your giant ball of freaky ice! So you’re gonna tell me who you are, what you are, what planet you came from, and what your whole deal is, alright?” Nailed it. The alien recoils, seemingly confused.

“Woah woah woah! I don’t even know what you’re talking about! Planet? Giant ice ball thingy-majiggy?” They pause, reaching behind themself and grabbing one of the many tubes attached to their suit. Their finger pokes through a small charred hole in its surface.

“Oh! Ohhh, the explosion must’ve-! And that let moisture out. I’m lucky it even worked inside the suit honestly… Ohhhh, I should be mega-dead.” The alien grabs their helmet in their arms and sits back down on the bed. “Wait.” They press a button. “Holsten, status report.”

The same strange voice goes through the same strange speech it made moments ago, the biting comments making the alien shrink in on itself even more than it already has.

“The trigger of this message is ‘Manual Termination of Emergency Cryosleep’. ‘Cryosleep lasted for ’6-8-1-point-4-6’ ho-”

They release the button, standing ram-rod still.

“Oh I should be dead.”

Jimmy’s not used to being on this side of this coin. Usually it’s him being wistfully pathetic, and the other emperors either helping him out of pity or laughing at his misfortune. It’s strange the other way around. And as much as he craves the power trip of vindication, looking at this stranger he can only feel sad. He taps his foot for a solid few seconds, then begrudgingly opens the door, stepping inside and letting it close behind him.

“Look, I-” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for actin’ all tough a moment ago. You still need to tell me those things I asked. But uh,” He sits down on the cell floor. He didn’t realize until getting this close just how much smaller the alien is compared to his original guess. The suit they wear seems bulky and padded, betraying what’s probably a relatively normal figure. “Maybe I don’t need to terrorize you so much while you do.”

A long, wheezy sigh exits out of the helmet. “I’ve just… got a lot to process, I think. I really didn’t prepare for any of this.” They tap their fingers absently on the glass, before pressing a few buttons on their suit. “I’m guessing that if my suit is this damaged and this place didn’t have a breathable atmosphere, I would know by now.” A few beeps and boops sound in response. “Yep! At least I’m lucky there, huh? Not where it actually counts?” There’s bitterness in their voice as they grab the sides of their helmet and twist, releasing a puff of steam. The head that emerges is surprisingly… human. Unnervingly so, even. His face has sharp features, fair skin glistening with tiny droplets of melted ice. His damp blond hair is a mess, clinging to his face. It’s almost a relief when he opens his eyes, bright red and featureless, and begins to talk with teeth slightly too sharp.

“I don’t even know where to start. I was in space, on the moon. And then everything blew up. And I got launched into space? I think I fell unconscious after that. Oh- and the moon was big. Or- no. it was crashing. And bunnies and-”

“Hold on.” Jimmy raises his hands. “Pause. Maybe let’s just go in order. Who are you?”

“...Tango. My name is Tango, of the Tek variety.”

“Okay, Tango.” Why was that name familiar somehow? “I’m Jimmy, but you can call me The Sheriff. And you’re, you said a ‘Tek’?”

“No, that’s my… job? Kind of? I do technical stuff, y’know? I go by Tango Tek. People come to me for tech stuff.”

“Do you know redstone?”

“Ehhhh, I dabble sometimes.” He chuckles like it’s a joke. “I’m a… I guess you can call me a Hermit.”

“Oh. You’re doing tech all by yourself?”

“No, that was the ‘what’. Where I’m from, that’s what we call ourselves. We’re Hermits, instead of...”

“Humans. Well- I’m a human being. But there’s others who aren’t.” Tango’s brow crinkles at this information, but if there’s a problem he doesn’t press it further. Jimmy continues. “And now, why are you here?”

“Not on purpose. It’s, eughhh. It’s a whole story.” Jimmy nods him along.

“So us, there’s twenty six of us Hermits. We all live close-by, working on all our own projects. Well, a few months back some of us noticed that the moon in the sky looked bigger than usual. We didn’t care much at first, until it got even bigger. And bigger. And then the gravity got all messed up, and we realized it wasn’t getting bigger. It was coming closer.”

“At the rate it was going, we only had a few weeks to figure out something. So, in normal Hermit fashion, we all panicked like headless chickens and came up with our own ideas on what to do. There was a lot of questionable science, a lot of questionable non-science. At least one cult. In the end most did their best to skedaddle as far away as they could.”

“So that’s why you came here?”

“No, I-” Tango rubs his eyes with his palms. “I wanted to fix things still. I did the calculations, I ran the numbers. If I detonated a large enough explosion on the moon’s surface, I could’ve counteracted the gravitational pull and set it back into its regular orbit. But-” He pulls out another stick of dynamite, holding it in both hands, and cracks it like one would a glowstick. It breaks in half like a dry twig, solid chunks of gunpowder crumbling to the floor. “I didn’t get it all out in time. Who knew there were moon rabbits on the moon? One triggered the detonator prematurely and the blast launched me into open space. I didn’t even see the moon budge before I blacked out. Then I guess the cryosleep function turned on and turned me into a giant ice cube hurtling through space until I miraculously landed here!” He turns back to Jimmy. “And here we ar- dude are you crying?”

The Sheriff stiffens his quivering lip, though his watery eyes betray him. “Well it’s sad! That was really sad, I’m sorry-” He sniffles loudly. “That’s terrible. Do you have any way of getting back or finding your friends or-”

“Stop.” Tango interjects. He’s undoing the straps on his gloves, pulling them off to reveal another, much thinner pair of gloves, before working to dismount from the heavy machinery on his back.

“Huh?”

“I’ve decided I’ve heard enough bad news today, and if I have to acknowledge any more I think I will explode.” The metal backpack hits the ground with a clank, receiving a grimace when Tango discovers the gouged oxygen tank. “I’m tired, I’m overheating, I’m depressed. I’ve had enough.”

Jimmy frowns. “You’re overheating?” He leans over and places the back of two fingers against Tango’s forehead. “Dude you’re freezing! I think the sudden change of temperature is giving you a hot flash or something, I can-” He stops, meeting Tango’s surprised eyes at the sudden contact. “Oh! I mean- oh gosh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-.” Tango jumps to his feet, his now unzipped suit falling off his shoulders, and stomps the ground with a roar.

“I don’t want pity, man! I wanted my plan to work!” He huffs and finishes taking off the heavy outer layer. “I don’t care, I don’t want to think about it.” A moment passes, then-

“Show me around.”

“What?” Jimmy shakes off the rest of his shock from what just happened.

“Around the town! It’s totally cowboy land out there, huh?” He goes and presses his face against the bars again. The light of dawn is just beginning to creep over the valley ridge. “Look, there’s even tumbleweeds!” He turns back around. “If I’m gonna be here for the next while I’d like to at least know the area. What’s this place called again?”

Jimmy smiles, a sense of pride filling his chest. “This town I run here is called Tumble Town. My pride and joy.”

Tango giggles, a wry smile taking the place of his anger from mere moments ago. “Oh that’s perfect. Tumble Town?” He enthusiastically turns back to the window like it’s an amusement park ride. “And you’ve got the little wooden houses and horses. People are even dressed like cowboy times!” Jimmy peers over his shoulder to spot a concerned townsman passing by, staring baffled back at Tango through the cell window.

Jimmy crosses his arms. “Look, I don’t know what you mean by ‘cowboy times’, but this place ain’t, like, a spectacle to amuse people or anything. We’ve built this town from the ground up. It’s a serious place where we live our lives. I know you’re not from around here, but…”

Tango turns back around, seeming to get the insinuation that this meant a bit more to the Sheriff than it would the average person. “Right, of course. It’s just… quaint in comparison. I usually spend all my time surrounded by redstone and machinery, you know?”

A gear turns in Jimmy’s mind. “Do, uh, you think you could do some redstone here?”

Tango scoffs. “Honestly at some point you’re gonna have a hard time keeping me from not doing some.”

“No, this is good!” Jimmy exclaims. “I have an idea! You, Tango, can stay in Tumble Town as long as you need, and I’ll see if I can’t help you get back home even. And in return, you can help build some cool contraptions to help out the town! Whaddya say?” He reaches out his hand.

“I dunno… I’m not bunking in the crappy jail cell, right?”

Jimmy laughs. “No no, I’ll get you a proper place to stay.”

Tango thinks for another moment, tilting his head back and forth. After a moment he closes his eyes. “Alright, but on one condition.”

“Okay, what is it?”

He smiles and motions his hands around his head. “I’m gonna need one of those gallon hats pretty soon if you want me to live here.”

Another louder laugh barks out of Jimmy’s mouth. Oh, he thinks he likes this guy. “Yeah, I can get you a hat man.”

“At least twenty gallons!”

“It can’t be bigger than mine. That’s the one thing.”

“Okay, one gallon less than yours then.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works but- 

“What are we waiting for? You’ve got the whole town to show me, come on!” He grabs Jimmy’s hand and pulls him out the jail cell door, much to his surprised excitement, and smiles as they both step out into the sandy streets. It feels right, somehow. Despite the astronomical odds of Tango crash landing here he feels something click between them. Like they were meant to meet, somehow.

It’ll at least, for certain, be interesting.

[voidsentprinces]

Alphinaud: ...Remind me why our friend is jailed again? Alisaie: Forum Member Albright got philsophical about some Sharlayans broad description of what a "man" might be. A bipedal creature attuned for magical aetheric manipulation. Alphinaud: What happened then? Alisaie: Our friend made a trip out to Bozja, three days later mid-meeting, they kicked open the door, threw a red plumed chocobo into the center of the room and yelled, "Behold, a man!" Two thirds of the Forum are in recovery after multiple meteor magics were cast down upon them. The remaining organized themselves and captured our friend. Alphinaud: They must of been hard pressed to do so, I'd imagine. Alisaie: No, they found them playing Triple Triad against a Cactuar and losing... Alphinaud: ...

[8one6]

Ever since I was in high school (in the before times, in the long, long ago) I had dreamed of taking road trip. Just me, my car (in high school it was a Cadillac Hearse that got absolutely awful gas mileage and high school me used to bitch about gas when it went over a $1 a gallon), and the open road, but I never managed to do it. Sometimes it was money, sometimes it was lack of opportunity, sometimes it was just the fear of doing something new.

In my mid-30s I finally did it and let me tell you it was one of the best experiences of my life.

A few years ago (2022 to be exact) my boss made me take a vacation in the spring (mostly because I had two years of pto from not using it during the lockdown years, but also because he was legitimately concerned with my stress levels, but anyway) and that year I decided to take two weeks to see all three Meow Wolf locations in one big trip. (Convergence Station is the coolest one btw, with Omega-Mart a close second.)

I70 through Kansas is a zen experience if you make the drive at night. Endless fields of stars and farmland, accompanied by whatever podcast you queued up for the drive.

Visited family in Denver, spent a day at Convergence Station, and the drive to Santa Fe was like driving through a postcard!

The House of Eternal Return was neat (IMO it relies a little too much on backstory you can only really get from sitting down and reading a lot of the SCP-style documents lying around the house, but unless you rented the entire place for the day you're competing with dozens of other people who are also trying to read the same thing.), I stayed at this cool, fully restored Route 66 vintage motel called the El Rey Court (A++, would stay again), and then I was off to Las Vegas.

There's a trick i40 plays on you. You'll be driving through some incredibly beautiful but still harsh desert wasteland (I passed more than one husk of an abandoned building on that stretch of highway) and then all of a sudden you're in a lush green forest. It was seriously as close to passing from one Minecraft biome to another as you can get in real life. (I also stopped at Meteor Crater National Landmark. It was cool.)

Just outside of Vegas I got two incredibly singular experiences. The first was seeing a tumbleweed in real life for the first time. I swear, I was alone in my car and I said out loud "Holy shit they're real!!!" The second was driving through an actual sand storm. In hindsight I should have pulled over and let it pass, but no one else on the road was doing it, so I just crawled through it at 30mph.

I spent a few nights in Las Vegas. Visited Omega-Mart (super cool, I recommend it), watched Blue Man Group (also very cool, also highly recommend), got to see a Penn & Teller show live (a fucking dream of mine since I was a little kid!!!), and had the best meal of my life.

Honestly, before that trip if you told me there was a difference between a $20 steak from Longhorn and a $100 steak from an actual steak restaurant I'd have called bullshit. I was in Las Vegas, I figured "This is likely the last time I'll take a trip like this, fuck it, why not splurge."

Oh my sweet raptor christ! The $100 steak was worth every cent!

What followed was a day of driving through beautiful parts of Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, including the most nerve-wracking stretch of highway through the mountains (literally through them in one spot. The Eisenhower tunnel is a little more than a mile and a half of tunnel bored straight through the spine of the Americas). A brief stop to sleep, and then 14 hours straight on home.

It was a fantastic trip. Two weeks away from home, from work, from any responsibility, the first time off since 2019. Two weeks of moving to my own schedule and crossing things off of the bucket list.

[chromatic-crow]

6. “things you said under the stars and in the grass” with brodesfabes🫶

“I'm gonna miss you…”

Jonas turns his head to look at Brock, seeing a sad look on the younger man's face as he looks at the sky.

It’s mid-June, Brock had planned a camping trip further north, wanting to spend the last few days before Jonas heads home to Sweden, showing him a place only someone from the area would know to go to.

It's a comfortable night in the clearing, the two of them laying in the grass not far from their tent, watching a meteor shower as the stars slowly move over top of them. Brock had made all the arrangements, only telling him to pack some comfortable clothes before picking him up in his top down jeep before driving them a few hours north.

“It's just for a month or two Fabes, I'll be back.”

Brock doesn't look at him, instead Jonas watches as he closes his eyes, reaching a hand out to find Jonas’ and lacing their fingers together.

“I know…”

[kandikidnep]

Hi im thinking too hard about homestuck again :3

When i was in highschool i had a friend (who im still in contact with!! Im 23 now lol) who was an avid Bro Strider defender. They were under the impression that he was supposed to be in his mid twenties during the time of the comic (still unsure of how they came to that conclusion, but hey we were kids) and that his actions are justifiable due to him not knowing how to raise a child bc he was a teenager when dave came in to his life. All of the arguments about that aside, im thinking about that now.

This is all in the format if i were writing an au, and takes place long before any of the events of the comic. Guardians placed near eachother bc fuck you they moved to their separate places after this

A just barely 16 year old bro finding a baby that looks a little too much like him for comfort on a meteor. Ignoring the meteor, what the hell is a baby doing on the sidewalk outside school? No parents to be seen, or really anyone else for that matter (did seriously no one notice a fucking meteor crashing down in front of a high school? Really?) this baby needs a guardian. But, fuck, hes 16. He cant raise a kid.So who does he turn to, his parents? Not with their current child raising track record. Maybe Mr Egbert, or Ms. Lalonde, two young teachers at his high school. But then what if they turn the little guy in to the cops? Bro only knew the harsh treatment he’d recieved from cops whenever he got in trouble. No… couldn’t put a baby with them. Besides, ms Lalonde has been smelling like alcohol recently. Theres the old whackjob down the road, but. He has a lot of guns, and goes on “hunting” trips a lot. No place for a baby. So, not really knowing of any other adults, bro is back to his parents. He thought of all the answers to all of the questions he could possibly think they would ask. “Where did it come from? Are you the father? Did you steal a fucking baby?” He responded to these potential questions While he was walking home, baby carried under his arm like a football. But when he got inside, his parents took one look at the child who, again, looked way too similar to Bro, and kicked the two of them out. They didnt let him get a single word in, almost like they were relieved for the excuse to be rid of him.

So yeah, he kinda hates this baby now. He was just trying to help the tiny dude, but all he got in return was homelessness. So, now what? Run away? Build a life together? Teach this child how to become an anime sword master, just like his dad? Wait, dad? Ew. No. He’ll probably tell the kid they’re brothers instead. But hey, if he ran away with this child he’d never have to deal with school again. That shit sucked. He wasn’t old enough to work in his area, but no one needed to know his age if he ran a website. He knew how to work around computers, and had taken a lot of video editing classes as extracurriculars. Hell, he even knew a bit about puppetry from one of them. Maybe he’d try to make videos… about puppets? I mean hey, sesame street is popular. He knew he wanted to do something less…. Childish though. He’d have to think about it.

Anyways, back to the baby literally in his hands. Kid needs a name. Something easy. Something cool. Bro said the first name to come to his mind, ‘Dave’. The baby gave him a solemn nod when he said the name, and bro knew it was destiny. Wait, was it a solemn nod or was it just a little baby movement that babies do for really no reason at all? Whatever. Destiny is cooler.

[uselessidiotsquad]

Should you fight my characters? Asura Flavor!

Mhonde

Battle music: My Algo - I am Robot and Proud

Should you fight Mhonde? Let me get this perfectly clear, you want to fight MHONDE? The two foot tall, mostly blind engineer who names all his golems like they were dogs and is a walking, unceasing hype machine for his giant girlfriend? Okay just checking. So you should you fight him - absolutely not what is wrong with you. He's a good person, kind-hearted, friendly, and will try to diffuse all situations.

Who initiates the fight? By initiate, I mean you would honestly have to just attack him, he will try reasoning and compromise for anything. Maybe if you talked poorly about Raj, he would rewire your house out of spite and make it turn the power off just to the alarms, clocks, electronics so you are late for everything. But no fights would happen.

Who would win? ...he can't see hardly anything, he's maybe the size of a toddler, and he's distracted by tinkering with golems. You could crumple him like an aluminum can with one good hit. But also don't.

Fhiaskko

Battle music: Flight of the Bumblebee - (feat. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov) (Gravel Dubstep Remix)

Should you fight Fhia? For an entirely different reason than Mhonde, no you should not fight Fhia. She is actively cursed and you are liable to die to weird things even before you try to actually fight her. Meteor, heart attack, combustion, getting hit by a car, you name it, it could happen. So no, avoid her at all costs.

Who initiates the fight? I mean she's former Priory, so would rather talk you to death than fight you. You would initiate it but regret it given the nature of her curse.

Who would win? Fhia but not because she tries, just because something fell on you and killed you before you get a swing in on her. Huh! Another statistical improbability for the books!

Bhruizz

Battle music: Roygbiv - Boards of Canada

Should you fight Bhruizz? For yet another entirely different reason, no. Xe is very laid back and chill, not one for getting stirred up easily, and not one for starting drama. However, xe fights unpredictably being a berzerker so it's easy to get caught off guard. Morally, xe isn't a bad person just kinda keeps to xemself so there's not really a reason to.

Who initiates the fight? Yet again it would have to be you, xe doesn't have energy or inclination to fight.

Who would win? It's a 50/50. If you fight xem and they don't enrage, you win. Xe would honestly forfeit like 5 seconds into the fight - letting you win. Don't have energy for that. If xe does enrage, xe is absolutely winning. Bhruizz goes all in when xe does choose to fight and is good at both ranged, melee, and mid - so you're up shits creek there.

Mhunizz

Battle music:

(When you first encounter him) Not a Word, O My Friend - Peter Cavallo

(When he realizes you aren't buying his act and he's trying to escape)

Perchin'- Louie Zong

Should you fight Mhunizz? Yes. He's a slimy little asshole who tries (and usually succeeds in) UWUing his way through life and guilt tripping people to get what he wants. Or stealing it if it doesn't work. Mhunizz is extremely selfish and arrogant. While at his core he isn't a bad person, he also just thinks of himself, and an ass kicking might mellow him out for a while.

Who would initiate the fight? You would because he tries to sob story his way through any form of conflict. Once you get past the puppy dog eyes, he will realize that he can't cry and lip quiver his way out of this one.

Who would win? Oh if it was an actual fight you would for sure win, he's a Guardian but most of his magic is defensive and healing based to make people rely on him and trust him. However, it's far more likely that he's gonna run away as soon as he finds out the 🥺didn't work.

Khenazzi

Battle music: Authority - Vondkreistan

Should you fight Khenazzi? From a moral standpoint, yes. She's made her way high in the Inquest ranks through cruel ingenuity. However, from an actual combat standpoint, I might argue against it. She uses custom poisons she's engineered herself and honestly even if you win against her now - you will be having issues for the rest of your life because of the slow acting side effects. It's her last laugh, she plays the slow game.

Who would initiate the fight? She would. Khenazzi is of the belief that Asura are the natural rulers of Tyria given their intellectual superiority and thus everyone else needs to comply or die. Given that she's higher rank, it would be hard to find her though, you would have had to be looking. Which, is an invitation for death, in her book.

Who would win? She's not physically the strongest but she's great at evading. And while if you can catch her it will be game over, she poisons the dickens out of everything. She would even let you catch her just so she can make sure to be able to stab you at least once with her daggers so you get a taste of the poisons. So yeah, you can kill her, but you will be suffering for the rest of your life. Poisons leading to blindness, organ failure, cognitive deterioration and chronic pain.

Dhizzi

Battle Music: Held - Holy Other

Should you fight Dhizzi? There's nothing to fight about her? She's already stuck in the Mists, you can't kill her. Chances are she wouldn't kill you either, so not real point. Morally, she may be strong willed, but she does what she can to cheat the inevitable for others. Giving everyone more than a fighting chance. She helps, in her own way. So no, it would amount to nothing.

Who would initiate the fight? You would and she would promptly laugh. You're gonna fight her? Really? Don't you have something better to do? She's already broken all the rules regarding death by sneaking people out of various planes of the Mists. Fisticuffs with the forbidden ferryman doesn't seem like a bright idea.

Who would win? No one is. She's unkillable in her current state, more of a force than a person at times, and doesn't have time for skirmishes with people. She's got countless dead to keep track of and make sure they get back into the fight. Maybe if you wanted to see what dying felt like but didn't want to commit to it - she'd oblige you.

[rachelannc]

A Day Trip to Joshua Tree and the Perseid Meteor Shower

It’s mid-August and the heat of summer. My love has spent the first half of the year in hardcore study mode and just passed the first half of his exams. A quick weekend getaway trip and celebration was in order. Joshua Tree, you were hot. 🌵 We left before noon to drive out to Desert Palms on Saturday for our 2pm check-in. After a two-or-so hour drive, we stopped by Gabino’s Creperie for their…

[timbervalleyfarmbarnrental]

Glamping Cabins Perseid Meteor Shower Maryland

Get Ready for a Stellar Experience: Glamping for the Perseids The Perseids are a spectacular annual celestial event in North America, known for their bright and fast meteors. Here's what you need to know to make the most of this experience:

When: Mid-August, with peak activity on August 11-12, 2024 Peak Time: Around 4 a.m. Eastern Time

Where: Visible from anywhere in North America, but best seen in areas with dark skies and low light pollution Elevate Your Experience with Glamping To maximize your chances of witnessing this breathtaking display, consider planning a glamping trip to a location with minimal light pollution.

Some popular options include: Timber Valley Retreat Dark-sky preserves Remote areas with minimal artificial lighting

Tips for an Unforgettable Experience Find a spot with an unobstructed view of the sky Bring binoculars or a telescope to get a closer look Dress warmly, as it can get chilly in the early morning hours Bring snacks and drinks to keep you fueled throughout the night Don't forget your camera to capture the moment!

Book your stay now at airbnb.com/h/timbervalleyretreat

#timbervalleyretreat #timbervalleyfarmbarnrental

[travel-to-jordan]

Perseid Meteor Shower – discover the sky at it’s peak in Wadi Rum

What is the first thing that strikes your mind when you hear the word “Jordan”? Probably, you will be confused choosing what to visit because of it’s magnificent sites.  

Discover Jordan in brief 

Located at the heart of the Middle East, Jordan is one of the most preferred destinations for visitors worldwide. This amazing country is home to various archaeological sites, ancient wonders and breathtaking landscapes. From the historical capital of Amman to the enchanting site of Petra, Mount Nebo and the Dead Sea, connecting with the best travel agency in Jordan will allow you to have an unforgettable journey and delve into the immersive culture of this country.

Let’s know more about the Perseid meteor shower and why it is worth witnessing this spectacular phenomenon in Wadi Rum.

Wadi Rum is one of those places on our planet that showcases the grandeur and magnificence of nature. It is humbling to realize how small and insignificant humans are in the natural world and its elements. As the sun sets, the night sky unveils an awe-inspiring and breathtaking sight with countless twinkling stars and solar systems. It showcases the infinity of the natural world that exists beyond our planet. This sight makes it even more evident how small and insignificant we are.

If you gaze at the night sky frequently, you will notice that it is never the same due to various factors such as the size of the moon and the time of the year. However, nature has more to offer, such as the spectacle display of a meteor shower.

General information about meteor showers:

A meteor shower is a celestial event in which a number of meteors are observed to radiate, or originate, from one point in the night sky. These meteors are caused by streams of cosmic debris called meteoroids entering Earth’s atmosphere at extremely high speeds on parallel trajectories. Most meteors are smaller than a grain of sand, so almost all of them disintegrate and never hit the Earth’s surface. 

In most years, the most visible meteor shower is the Perseids, which peak on 12 August of each year at over one meteor per minute. NASA has a tool to calculate how many meteors per hour are visible from one’s observing location.

The Perseids are a prolific meteor shower associated with the comet Swift–Tuttle that are usually visible from mid-July to late-August. The meteors are called the Perseids because they appear from the general direction of the constellation Perseus and in more modern times have a radiant bordering on Cassiopeia and Camelopardalis.

The Perseid meteor shower is an annual event that takes place between July and August, with its highest activity between the 11th and 13th of August. In 2023, the shower began on July 17th and end on August 24th. The peak of the meteor shower will occur on the night of the 12th and before dawn on 13 August, during which you may witness up to 100 meteors per hour! It’s worth noting that the moon rises around 3 AM, so the best time to see shooting stars is during the evening and very early morning.

Planning for the trip!!

Do you want to experience the luxury tours of Jordan like never before? Then look no further than YOLO Jordan Tours and Travel. We offer the best Jordan travel packages that will allow you to discover the enchanting hidden gems of this incredible country. From the historical sites of Amman to the breathtaking desert landscape of Wadi Rum, our expert guides will offer customised journey planning to let you experience an adventure you will never forget!

Click here to book your trip today!

[fandangotales]

Excuse me, what the actual fuck are you doing in my house?

Part two of: Come on, let’s go blow things up!

The archons ended up finding your domain, and chaos ensues.

Reader is gender neutral, crack

It was just another day of work for you, assembling parts, drafting designs and whatnot. Until you were greeted with multiple pairs of apprehensive footsteps, slowly making their way through your domain. Their footsteps echoed through the twisting halls and corridors.

You purposely designed your domain to be a maze, so that whoever ventured in would eventually give up and venture out. However, since you heard the intruders, they were probably getting close to the end of the maze: your lab. You could only guess how long they’ve been wandering around the winding halls.

“Your Grace?“ Somebody called.

You groaned. Being found was inevitable, but it was still troublesome. Might as well have some fun though, hm? You set down your screwdriver, and walked over to your security desk, which had multiple monitors, and a microphone. It was a little arrangement you installed yourself, a full system of hidden cameras littered about the maze.

You had half the mind to decorate your domain like a pizza place, but opted not to last minute.

“Good grief it’s the archons.” You muttered, clicking on camera 12. It displayed the three of them poking aimlessly walking the dark hallway in what you guessed was an attempt to find you.

Ei was leading the party, as Zhongli and Venti followed behind her. It was amusing to see taller man stumble every few seconds, as Venti attempted to trip him.

“Cease your insolence immediately, bard.” He growled, as the green clad figure gasped.

“You wouldn’t toss a meteor on me in Their Graces domain, now would you?” He grinned, sticking his tongue out.

You chuckled to yourself, before grabbing the microphone.

“Greetings, unwelcome guests.” you said, maintaining a level and not amused tone.

You almost cackled when you saw their reactions on the monitors. They stood completely still, mouths gaping as they tried to comprehend where your voice was coming from.

“See??? I told you we were in the right place!” Venti squealed, already energetically looking around the hallway. His energy soon died. “Your Grace, where are you?”

“This appears to be a sort of mechanism…” Ei trailed off. Somehow, she managed to find one of the cameras.

“Hmm, how odd.” Zhongli muttered, watching as Ei stuck her face right up to the camera like a young child.

“Oooo what’s that? Let me see!“ Venti screeched, attempting to reach the device held high over the electro archons head.

“No.” The other two said, in unison.

“Yo, powerpuff girls.” You said. “Kindly leave; I’m busy.”

“Powerpuff girls?” They said.

Then all of them started talking at once, apparently trying to make an excuse as of to why they were bothering you. They glared at each other, before selecting one person to speak.

To be honest, you were getting a bit bored, and decided to get back to work on your latest creation, a bazooka. The launcher itself was already done, you just needed to finish the ammunition.

“Your Grace, we… would really appreciate if you came outside of this domain once and a while, and spent time in Teyvat.” Zhongli said.

“Yeah! We could make you a waaay better place than this! It could even be in the best nation, Mondstadt~” Venti said, not so subtly smirking.

“Their Grace would not choose to live in Mondstadt, they would obviously choose Inazuma, the nation of eternity!” Ei said, agitated.

“Since Their Grace’s domain is currently in Liyue, perhaps they favor my nation above the rest?” Zhongli smiled to himself, as the argument between the other two only escalated.

“Well maybe if you didn’t have an alcohol addiction!-“ Ei yelled at the bard.

“Well maybe if Makoto was still around and your stupid vision hunt decree didn’t happen-“ Venti stopped mid sentence, as he saw the look on the woman’s face. Her eye twitched, before she reached deep within her chest.

“INAZUMA SHINES ETERNAL!” She screamed, as time seemed to stop for a moment.

“Alright alright I get it.” You interrupted, as you fused some wired together. “Ei, please do not destroy my hallway. Do you need a snickers?”

Ei shot Venti a look, clearly intending to continue the conflict later.

Zhongli was still thinking about your favoritism to his nation. Since you decided to have your lab here, it was obviously a sign that you liked Liyue better than Mondstadt and Inazuma, right?

“Yes, apologies Your Grace.” She said, ashamed of her actions, and confused about whatever a “snickers” was.

“And Venti.” you called, as he perked up. “That was uncalled for, please apologize to her.”

He visibly deflated, before turning to Ei. “Sorry for bringing that up.”

“Swag swag very cool. Anyways, unless you want to be my next test subject, please leave.”

A chorus of protests erupted from the group, before Venti shushed them.

“Your Grace, I would be absolutely honored to be your personal test subject.” He said, shamelessly squirming and blushing.

“Why did you have to make it weird.” You deadpanned.

The other two archons glared at him, annoyed that they didn’t offer themselves first.

“Annnnd done!” You said, closing the shell of the missile. “Oh shit why’s it glowing-“

The three suddenly heard a loud boom, coming from the speakers above.

…

“Was that Their Grace?” Zhongli asked.

“Your Grace? yoUr GRaCe???” Venti yelled, already running through the hallways. The other two followed him to a dead end.

“Look… there’s smoke coming from that wall.” Ei said, already imagining the worst case scenario. She’d seen the effects of your bombs before, and they didn’t exactly leave things behind.

They all started frantically searching the wall for a hidden button or something, before Zhongli summoned a geo pillar which effectively broke the fake wall. They coughed at the sheer amount of white smoke pouring out of the room.

They tentatively began searching for you, being unusually careful not to touch anything.

…

You had awoken a little bit ago, and were still a bit disoriented. Perhaps you would get lucky and they wouldn’t find you if you hid under your desk?

You watched their bodies move about from under the desk, sighing about your situation. They’d found you, and there was nothing you could do about it. However, when a pair of feet made their way over to your hideout, you grinned evilly to your self. You laid in wait until the person was just about to turn away, before roughly grabbing their ankle.

“AHHHHH!” Venti screamed, continuing to trip and fall.

He was now on the floor, and saw your eyes staring creepily at him.

“Hehe.” You giggled, before promptly passing out