#murmur of the cottonwood

[wintersongstress]

crying screaming throwing up gently kissing the other awake for arthur pls isabell im so thirsty my crops are dying

It's been so long...let's see if I still got it.

Tenderly, the morning light fell and came to a sunny rest upon your eyelids. In a bedroom, in a quiet stretch of forest, loveliness reigned and stillness too. The window framed an opal-colored sky and a pair of fond arms enfolded you. The cobwebs of a dream were swept away by the warm clarity of the present. You blinked in the angle of sunlight, nuzzling your nose into a familiar, steadfast shoulder and sensed the heart beating in the body beside you. You remained still. The scent of evergreens and a whiff of starched pillowcases filled your nose. The chest beneath your splayed palm rose and fell and you glanced along the planes of him, lying with your shins entangled, clothes wrinkled, and hair tousled.

Arthur’s lashes looked like fine bristles of gold in the sunshine. A contentment suffused his features while he rested, the sight of which never failed to strike you—how the lines beside his eyes smoothed, his brows relaxed, his jaw slack. On an elbow you rose cautiously, your toes traveling past his ankles.

A breeze through the trees softly tossed the boughs of the cottonwoods, the buds on the point of bursting and snowing in the air. Robins whistled, and you paused in this sun-warmed angle to look upon your lover’s face without him knowing for the simple pursuit of transfixing this moment in memory. You placed a thumb on the soft cushion of his mouth and let it trail into the valley of his chin’s scar, delighting in the sharp prickle of his beard, and cradled his jaw in that hand. The freckle on his cheek beckoned you next, and you leaned to press a kiss against it, grazing stubble, eyes closing as the muslin of your nightdress slipped down your shoulder.

Your heart skipped as the lips beneath your touch softened and brushed over the pad of your thumb. A sound came from low in Arthur’s throat, like a groan of laughter, and there was a murmur of cotton as his coarse, large hand wrinkled your chemise. He nudged your nose with his and rose from the hazy lake of sleep with a smile, one veiled by memory and tinged by dreams, and your mouths melded together like two raindrops meeting on a window, seamless and certain. When the kiss dissipated, Arthur’s hand lifted to your denuded shoulder and his fingertips as they touched your skin were softer than a breeze flitting over flowers. How slowly they dragged as he traced the line of your collarbone, how openly his eyes spoke of adoration as he met your shy glance of affection.

“You’re smiling,” he observed, bringing his knuckles to your cheekbone, and kissed each corner of it.

[triggerlil]

find the word

thank youuuuu for the tag @johnslittlespoon and @hauntingcontradiction for the tag!!! this is very exciting n fun although I only have like 3 mota fics and 1 wip so we'll see how much I can actually find... I'm so bad at knowing who to tag buuuuut @thebuckys @alienoresimagines @valstarsandgalaxies @anachilles

rules: Share snippets of your work containing each of the words the previous poster selected for you (optional addition: if you can't find the word in your WIPs, or you simply don't have any WIPs, you can just write a sentence around the word).

my words: heart, choke, teeth, sun / need, ghost, warmth, tears

your words: follows, truth, stroke, palm

in my tree-house of memories

He remembers Marge’s tree-house so well he can run his hands over it in his mind and get a splinter, feel the grooves of the heart he’d carved around their initials.

choke (didn't find it so just wrote a lil sentence)

The confession comes out strangled, Bucky choking on every word he's desperate to say.

my wip

For the first time since they’ve seen each other again, they smile and in an instant John’s teeth are on Gale’s throat, hands in each other’s hair. Gale bites John’s lip and tastes blood, it’s amazing and cathartic and ugly and wonderful.

i bet God heard you coming

When he'd returned home from the war and the horses at the Spencers' stables still nuzzled into his palm, when Marge died and the sun still set pink over the cottonwoods across the fields. 

take me, for luck

You couldn’t send letters back home when home was sat across from you in the mess hall, lay one bunk over from yours breathing deeply with sleep while you tried to make out his profile in the dark (needing to remind yourself he was still here, still alive, that you still had more time). 

i bet God heard you coming

The dark sweep of curls across John's forehead, the crooked part of his nose from an unclean break, the small scars and marks that pepper his skin (which only ever made him more handsome), long still eyelashes the ghosts of which seemed to flutter now against Gale’s cheek. 

my wip

“Thank you,” he murmured against the warmth of her skin. Tried not to think about the other shoulder he often leaned on.

i bet God heard you coming

He absentmindedly brushes the sensation away, the raw skin under his eyes stinging, and his hand comes away wet with tears.

[landwriter]

i love spring. the softening of the earth. smell of dirt. warmer air. green shoots and cottonwood buds. snowshoe hares turning brown. casting off my own winter coat of torpor. turning my face up to the sun and softly murmuring JESUS FUCKING CHRIST THERE’S SO MUCH I’VE GOT TO DO

[shivunin]

Music meme! Yass!

4 for everyone, 8 for Emma 16 for Arianwen (I have the feeling this would be fun)

Yayyy thank you so much, Arja <3 I cracked up at that last one c:

(Music Meme)

A song lyric that describes my muse (links embedded for length reasons):

Arianwen: "I am not a builder/ I'm much better at blowing things down/ I will join the wolf at my door/ Breathing out storms when she comes around" ("The Wolf" by The Crane Wives)

Maria: "You were a king and his castle, I was every dirty rascal/ If you asked me for my lighter, mate, I gave you my fire/ I'd call as you climbed/ and I'd catch you every time you fell/ Cus I will suffer silence for the strings you tune/ And I'll withstand what's written for the writer in you/ Write me well, my love, write me weird/ write me willing, write me well." ("Secret Worlds" by The Amazing Devil)

Elowen: "When I lose my gravity in this sleepy room/ Drifting as I dream, but I'll wake up soon/ To realize the hand of life is reaching out/ To rid me of my pride, I call allegiance to myself.../so pick me from the dark and pull me from the grave cus/ I still feel alive" ("still feel." by half alive)

Emmaera: "And then it's just too much, I cannot get you close enough/ A hundred arms, a hundred years/ You can always find me here/ and Lord don't let it break this/ Let me hold it lightly/ Give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly." ("100 Years" by Florence and the Machine)

Salshira: "There's an art to life's distractions/ To somehow escape the burning weight, the art of scraping through/ Some like to imagine the dark caress of someone else, I guess any thrill will do/ Would things be easier if there was a right way?/ Honey there is no right way/ And so I fall in love, just a little oh a little bit/ Every day with someone new" ("Someone New" by Hozier)

Adahlena: "Oh give me land, lots of land, under starry skies above/ Don't fence me in/ Let me ride through the wide open country that I love/ Don't fence me in/ Let me be by myself in the evening breeze/ And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees/ Send me off forever, but I ask you please/ Don't fence me in" ("Don't Fence Me In" by Bing Crosby)

As for "A song that makes my muse feel nostalgic" for Emma and "a song that my muse can't stand" for Arianwen, I give you "Bridge over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel 🙃

(Emma's backup here is "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac)

[tahomawhisperingwind]

Meditation in Natural Environments: Apache Practices

Image generated by the author

What if the key to unlocking your inner peace lay not in the walls of a sterile room, but under the vast, open sky? Imagine sitting beside a gently flowing river, the sun filtering through the leaves, whispering the secrets of the universe. For the Apache people, this isn’t just a tranquil fantasy; it’s a way of life. In a world that often feels chaotic and disconnected, the Apache’s deep-rooted connection to nature and their meditation practices offer profound insights into spirituality, well-being, and the art of living in harmony with the earth.

Introduction to Apache Meditation

Nestled within the breathtaking landscapes of the American Southwest, the Apache lands are a tapestry of rugged mountains, sprawling deserts, and lush forests. Here, the air is rich with the scents of sage and juniper, and the gentle sounds of nature create a symphony that calms the mind and soothes the soul. It is in this serene environment that Apache meditation flourishes, serving not merely as a technique but as a vital thread woven into the fabric of their spirituality and culture.

For the Apache, meditation is a spiritual introspection, a sacred dialogue with Mother Earth. It is an opportunity to reflect, recharge, and draw wisdom from the towering trees and the whispering winds. As the sun rises and sets over the horizon, the Apache people find solace in the natural world, harmonizing their thoughts and emotions with the rhythms of nature.

Cultural Context of Meditation

Apache meditation thrives in open spaces, where the cacophony of urban life is replaced by the rustle of leaves and the gentle murmur of flowing streams. Here, individuals practice mindfulness, allowing their minds to clear and their spirits to rejuvenate. This practice is not new; for centuries, Apache tribes have turned to nature for guidance during times of struggle, trusting in the earth’s profound wisdom.

Imagine a young Apache woman, sitting cross-legged on a sun-warmed rock, the cool breeze playing with her hair. With each breath, she inhales the earthy scent of the soil and feels the warmth of the sun on her skin. As she closes her eyes, she tunes in to the natural sounds around her, allowing the world to fade away. This is the essence of Apache meditation—a beautiful fusion of awareness and mindfulness, where the individual becomes one with their surroundings.

Cultural Significance

Meditation holds significant cultural value for the Apache people. It represents a holistic approach to wellness, emphasizing that nature is not merely a backdrop but a living entity that nurtures spiritual growth and healing. Traditional practices often involve immersive experiences, such as sitting quietly in a sun-dappled glade or walking barefoot on soft earth, which promotes reflection and tranquility.

The Apache wisdom teaches that every interaction with nature is sacred, fostering respect and reverence for the earth. The land is not just a resource; it is a partner in the journey of life. To meditate in natural settings is to enter into a conversation with the universe, to seek guidance from the mountains, rivers, and skies that have borne witness to centuries of human experience.

An Apache Story

Consider the story of a young warrior named Antennae. Faced with the potential danger of raiders threatening his village, Antennae felt the weight of fear press upon his chest like a heavy stone. In this moment of uncertainty, he turned to the teachings of his ancestors and sought solace in meditation.

Antennae found a quiet spot beneath a sprawling cottonwood tree, its branches dancing in the wind as if beckoning him closer. As he sat in stillness, he visualized the strength of the earth rising through him, grounding him in a sense of purpose and clarity. He remembered the lessons of his people—the power of understanding and respect for nature, rather than the allure of violence.

In the tranquility of that moment, Antennae discovered true strength: the ability to face challenges with courage and wisdom. This story encapsulates the essence of Apache meditation, where nature serves not only as a refuge but also as a mirror reflecting inner truths.

Examples and Expert Insights

Apache meditation in nature takes on many forms. From sitting by a bubbling brook to practicing mindfulness during ceremonial gatherings, these rituals are deeply embedded in their way of life. Cultural anthropologists and wellness researchers have explored the benefits of outdoor meditation, highlighting its ability to reduce stress, enhance emotional resilience, and improve overall well-being.

Studies have shown that engaging with nature during meditation can lead to profound psychological benefits. The sights and sounds of the natural world stimulate our senses, grounding us in the present moment and offering a reprieve from the noise of everyday life. A walk through a sunlit forest can evoke feelings of connection, and the gentle rustle of leaves can lull a racing mind into stillness.

Practical Applications

For those seeking to cultivate personal growth and healing through meditation, the Apache practices offer invaluable guidance. Here are some practical applications to integrate nature into your meditation routine:

1. Find Your Serene Spot

Choose a peaceful outdoor location—a park, a beach, or a quiet garden. Allow yourself the freedom to explore different environments, noticing how each setting influences your state of mind.

2. Establish Rituals

Create a ritual around your meditation practice. This could involve lighting a candle, offering a small token to nature, or simply taking a moment to express gratitude for the space you occupy.

3. Observe and Engage

Engage with the natural world during your practice. Observe the intricacies of a flower, listen to the sounds of wildlife, and breathe in the scents that surround you. Let your senses guide you into a deeper state of awareness.

4. Incorporate Natural Elements

Bring elements of nature into your practice. Use stones, leaves, or water as focal points for meditation, allowing them to anchor your thoughts and connect you to the earth.

5. Practice Gratitude

End your meditation by expressing gratitude for the experience. Acknowledge the gifts of nature and the wisdom it imparts, fostering a sense of interconnectedness with the world around you.

Modern Relevance

In today’s fast-paced, urbanized world, the relevance of Apache meditation practices has never been more pronounced. Many individuals find themselves yearning for solace, seeking refuge in the embrace of nature. The teachings of the Apache remind us of our interconnectedness with the earth and the importance of nurturing this relationship.

As we grapple with the stresses of modern life, engaging in mindfulness and presence can lead to improved mental health and resilience. The simple act of stepping outside and immersing ourselves in nature can provide a much-needed respite, allowing us to reconnect with our inner selves and the world around us.

Conclusion

As we reflect on the profound benefits of Apache meditation practices in natural environments, we recognize that nature is not merely a backdrop for our lives; it is a healer, a teacher, and a companion on our journey. By immersing ourselves in the beauty of the natural world, we can enrich our meditative experiences and cultivate inner peace.

Just as Antennae discovered strength through his connection with nature, we too can find clarity and solace in the great outdoors. As we navigate the complexities of life, let us remember that the wisdom of the Apache invites us to honor our relationship with the earth. In doing so, we open ourselves to a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world we inhabit—a world that is, at its core, a reflection of our shared humanity.

Glossary and Resources

To further explore Apache wisdom and its modern applications, a glossary of Apache terminology and cultural symbols is available. Delve into the rich tapestry of indigenous cultures and discover how their practices can enhance our understanding of mindfulness and our connection to the natural world.

In a world that often feels disconnected and hurried, let us take a moment to breathe, reflect, and reconnect—with ourselves, each other, and the earth that cradles us all.

AI Disclosure: AI was used for content ideation, spelling and grammar checks, and some modification of this article.

About Black Hawk Visions: We preserve and share timeless Apache wisdom through digital media. Explore nature connection, survival skills, and inner growth at Black Hawk Visions.

[nnschneider]

Don't Fence Me In

I went shopping this evening, after a day of working. It wasn't the easy shopping where I know exactly what I need to buy and exactly where to find it. It was the shopping that involves wandering around a bunch of stores looking for one thing (which cannot be found) but keeping an eye out for unknown other things, and interacting with random people all over the place. And then coming home just in time to get back in the car to be a parent. Meanwhile my husb is trying to be supportive but he's doing it from too near a distance and I just want space.

Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above

Don't fence me in

Let me ride through the wide open country that I love

Don't fence me in

Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze

And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees

Send me off forever but I ask you please

Don't fence me in

Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle

Underneath the western skies

On my Cayuse, let me wander over yonder

Till I see the mountains rise

I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences

And gaze at the moon till I lose my senses

And I can't look at hovels and I can't stand fences

Don't fence me in

[perfectsolutionsgarage2]

Reveal The Beauty Of Miner's Ravine Trail, CA: A Hidden Gem For Nature Enthusiasts

Nestled amidst the enduring majesty of ancient oak trees and accompanied by the harmonious murmur of a meandering creek, Miner's Ravine Trail in Roseville, California stands as a sanctuary for those seeking solace in the embrace of nature.

This trail symbolizes the inherent beauty concealed within nature—a pristine gem concealed amidst urban sprawl, awaiting discovery.

Inviting explorers to traverse its scenic contours, the trail provides an immersive experience of tranquility and serenity.

With rich biodiversity and seasonal displays of blooming flora, this environmental sanctuary fosters an intimate connection to nature while inspiring appreciation for ecological conservation.

To comprehend Miner's Ravine Trail, one must go beyond appreciating its aesthetic beauty; it involves delving into its history, understanding its role in local ecology, deciphering its geological intricacies, and interpreting the symphony performed by diverse species inhabiting this territory.

perfectsolutionsgaragedoor.com

Having its origins in gold mining operations during 1849—hence the name Miner's Ravine—this trail offers not only natural splendor but also historical significance.

It presents a unique opportunity to traverse time as one walks along the paths once trodden by miners—a chronological journey from the past to the present embedded in each step taken on this historic terrain.

Exploring this trail allows individuals not only to satisfy their innate yearning for belonging but also to satiate their intellectual curiosity about local history and environmental science.

Exploring the Scenic Wonders of Roseville's Undiscovered Paradise

Roseville's undiscovered paradise, Miner's Ravine Trail, unfolds a series of scenic wonders that captivate the eyes of nature enthusiasts with its lush landscapes and diverse wildlife.

The trail showcases a diverse palette of flora that is both enchanting and educational for those interested in botanical explorations. Oaks, Willows, and Cottonwood trees create a dense canopy over the trail, their branches extending like green umbrellas against the sky. Beneath them, shrubs such as Toyon and Coffeeberry contribute to the understated beauty of the landscape. Identifying flora becomes an intriguing exercise in this verdant setting, where one can spot Poison Oak or admire California Wild Roses.

Equally captivating are the wildlife encounters along Miner's Ravine Trail. Observers may have the chance to watch cottontail rabbits hopping about in their natural habitat or hear the rustle of squirrels scurrying up tree trunks. Bird watchers will be delighted by sightings of majestic Great Blue Herons standing still at water edges or Mallards gliding smoothly on ponds. More elusive creatures like coyotes might even be spotted during twilight hours when they venture out from their dens.

Thus, Miner's Ravine Trail serves not just as a recreational escape but also as an educational journey into nature's world, offering those who traverse it a sense of belonging to this ecological wonderland.

[vastiitas]

@roleplayingspinosaurus (Wester)​

The heat is in the grips of a roiling summer, oppressive and brow-beating. Sweat drenches his prisoners’ wear slick and gross against his back as he collapses down onto his ass in the shelter and shade of a cottonwood.  The chains bound to his feet crash into each other, rattling an awful alarm, and he snaps his hand onto the snake of metal to stifle the noise. His heart hammers a war-drum against his chest as he tries to listen past the buzzing scream of cicadas for the sound of yowling hunting dogs and the pursuit of angry lawmen. There isn’t any, yet, as far as he can tell, but this was only a temporary reprieve.

He sucks in the air weighed heavy by the warmth that bakes it. The thunder knocking against his chest nearly refuses to dim, but he manages to wrangle it into an uneasy placation with an handful of heaving breaths. He shoves his wrist against the generous wash of sweat beading at his brow as he eyes where he’s managed to land in his blind escape.

Just outside the shade of the cottonwood runs a chain-linked fence. A gap in the poles shows where fence becomes gate, and, as he shuffles over to it, he finds a chain-and-lock keeping it shut from the other side. There’s enough of a gap to slide his hand through - but not much else. His eyes flit forward to what looks to be an old-fashioned gas station. It’s a wooden-shack with flecking, sun-washed paint advertising its goods and steal-of-a-deal gas prices. There’s laughter and murmuring rattling free from within, and there’s still a few more people lounging and walking about in open conversation on the property. The yard’s so littered with piles of rusting junk that Cole’s surprised to catch sight of a pair of wire cutters catching sunlight amongst them.

Dragging his eyes down to his orange attire and chain-bound feet, his brows knit together and he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. One look - one, single look - and anyone would know he was dead to rights.

He’s considering his options when his eyes catch movement amongst the dusty equipment. It’s too massive to be a dog, but with it standing so close and relaxed to human life, he’s left guessing it’s got to be too docile to be wild. Wolf-Dog, maybe. 

It’s a stupid shot in the dark, he thinks. Fucking stupid, Cole Cassidy.

Despite these thoughts, however, he crouches down. Cole clicks his tongue against his teeth in a percussive series. “Ch-Ch-Ch,” He curls his fingers against the chain-link fence, grips it to keep himself from sagging unevenly as he whistles gently for the Dog’s attention, “Heeey, boy. C’mere, boy.”

Dumbass, he thinks, you’re a goddamn idiot, lost his fuckin’ mind--

“Y’think you can get me those wire-cutters over there, boy?”

[matthew-benham]

Robots...well, androids really.

[murmurofthecottonwood]

What’s happening? Even I don’t know anymore?

[aaronshattuck]

@matthew-benham‘s Fafner, a fruit bat making a dramatic career change.

[gollygeedash]

A Maggerly for @matthew-benham! From his webcomic, Murmur of the Cottonwood! Go check it out! 

[racomicart]

Maggs and a tiny Faf for @matthew-benham

go read @murmurofthecottonwood

[kopikokun]

Not My Taste༄ l.dh

↳ Your youth was, to make a long story short, bedazzling. But that sparkle faded long ago, and all that it left is hundreds, thousands, of people asking: What’s next? Thing is, you don’t know either. Washed-up, overshadowed, and still unacclimated to your newfound repetitive life of solitude, your odyssey lacks direction. That is, until a friend of yours materialises bearing a solution: reality TV. Paired with a sunny co-star and a multi-talented cast, maybe this’ll be when the pivotal revelation arc you've been craving starts to take shape.

pairing: lee donghyuck x celebrity!reader (fem)

featuring: ten, jaehyun, johnny, winwin, mark, yangyang, taeyong, wendy (rv)

genre: fluff, angst, fake dating!au, celebrity!au, reality show!au, baking competition!au, enemies to lovers, co-workers to lovers, suggestive

warning(s): intense argument, negative media attention, public pressure, feelings of inadequacy, living in someone else's shadow, self-deprecation (yn's just going through it lmao), expletives

word count: 4480 words

author's note: this is far from perfect but i had loads of fun with it and it was a great change of pace. despite its imperfections/shortcomings, i hope you get something out of it! feedback/constructive criticism (either positive or "negative", so long as it's constructive) is always appreciated ♡ let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for future installations!

☆༓･*˚⁺‧͙ 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: 1692 (cottonwood firing squad) ✧ cigarette daydreams (cage the elephant) ✧ freakin' out on the interstate (briston maroney) ✧ fluorescent adolescent (arctic monkeys) ✧ hazey (glass animals) ✧ holiest (glass animals, tei shi)

EPISODE LIST # 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10

← BACK TO NAVI.

# EPISODE 1: Five Star Shit Show

Growing up, when your father returned late from table reads, your mother would cocoon you in your feather duvet, kiss both temples, and whisper the same tale to you, word-for-word each time. Souls draw lots to determine their life's odyssey, she'd murmur. They huddle around an iridescent goblet—its mouth a gaping black hole—and draw strips woven from rainbow; seven colours on every tape, yet none the same shade. Her eyelids drooped as she spoke, lashes brushing her cheekbones, tinted golden from your bedside lamp. She always mumbled gratitude for her lot—for her husband's success, for her healthy daughter, for the roles you already had flooding in—as she fell asleep before you, soothed by her own stories.

Though you listened, you never believed, because while the notion is fantastical, it's depressing too. If everything was predestined before you could even seize your first breath, effort would be futile. Your achievements wouldn't be earned, they'd be assigned. So, perhaps out of spite, you believe everything—every single damn thing—that's happened in your life is a consequence of your actions, not because fate strummed her strings or some ridiculous goblet spewed prophetic rainbows.

But now, standing in this lurid kitchen setting with a camera crew and nineteen strangers, your mother’s philosophy sounds tempting, because there's no way in hell your choices landed you here. A reality show.

“Hey,” someone whispers, elbow jabbing your side. It’s Ten, the assistant floor manager, your friend, and the reason you're here to begin with. “How is he? You two get along well?"

The ‘he’ is Lee Donghyuck, another ingredient in the reasons for your presence. He's in hair and makeup, eyes lidded as the stylist pats his face with powder. "He's fine. Nice smile, contagious laugh." You pause. "And he's cute."

"'Course you'd say that." Ten rolls his eyes.

"Can't help that I have eyes. And I'm sure everyone here's thinking the same thing."

"So, are you glad you agreed to join this season's cast?" Ten's lips quiver with a smile.

"I only came because you threatened me."

Reality TV is for spectating, not participating. It’s something consumed when there’s nothing else to watch and you just want the day to end. When you watch Masterchef—or Masterchef Junior when you’re disinclined to Chef Ramsay’s degradation—you never think Wow, I wanna be in this. But here you are—not in Masterchef but in World’s Worst Bakers, where the worst of the worst unite for the most disastrous bake-off imaginable.

"I did not threaten you," he pouts.

"You said you'd vomit in my shoes the next time you get drunk, and you do that like every other day. Pretty sure you were drunk when you threatened me too."

"I was stress drinking! You're just jealous I didn't invite you." Bingo. He's absolutely right. "But, seriously, thanks for being down for this. I thought I was totally doomed when Donghyuck's partner said he couldn't make it."

Your cheeks warm. "It's whatever, Ten. It's not like I've got anything going on for me right now." And you're not exaggerating. Since moving out, the vapidity of your day-to-day constitutes daily deja vu. If not for your phone, you doubt you’d even know today’s date. You look back to Donghyuck. According to Ten, he's just one of the contestants who manually applied. “He really isn't one of the celebrities the casting director snagged for the show?” Ratings had tanked last year, a far cry from the first season's monumental success. The crew hoped the inclusion of a few illustrious names would restore the show's declining popularity.

"Nope, just some kid," he says, though Donghyuck's only a few years younger than him. "But he's a natural, isn't he?"

You nod. Just moments after Donghyuck capered in,  people swarmed him like ants to sugar. His presence overshadows even the actual celebrities on set.

There’s a single beep—sharp and blaring—before Ten turns to scurry away. “Showtime,” he grins, tossing you a cheeky wink.

Shit, you’re really about to do this. Everyone at home's going to see what an atrocious baker you are. There's three ways this could unfold:

People will coo at your ineptitude, deem you quirky and hilarious. You'll be loved, not in the way your father is—a respectable figure in the field—but as the cooky, skittish friend whose failures are inexplicably funny.

People will boo at your ineptitude; deem you incompetent and spoiled. She can't bake because she was coddled growing up, they'll say. All she knows how to do is drink and sleep around.

Nothing happens. The show's a flop, and so are you. The media writes a few lazy articles about you at parties from weeks ago, or an ex starts shit. They’ll call you a wild card again. You'll be nothing but washed-up, a has-been, only recognisable as a vignette of your father's glory.

The final option is the best. Zero media coverage means people'll forget you. They'll stop badgering you about your next upcoming project when there is none and their expectant stares will shift elsewhere. You'll be a nobody, just like everyone else.

You don't want your parents uncovering what you've been up to since moving out either; that a reality TV baking competition is the most productive you've been since then. Your mother had only relented to your request of moving out after insistent persuasion. Your father hadn't been very keen either, but eventually he'd laughed and said, She'll be fine. The next time we see her, she'll be an A-list actress, in all the latest movies, plastered on all the billboards we drive past. We'd probably get sick of seeing her face everywhere. You'd laughed too, but guilt thrashed violently within you, tearing at your conscience. How would your parents react if you told them you wanted nothing to do with the limelight anymore? That you didn't even know what you wanted to do anymore?

You shudder the fret away. Worrying before a competition never did anyone any good.  Ten weeks will zip past, and once again, life will adopt its monotonous course, as it should.

“Hey!” Donghyuck’s voice punctures your internal monologue. It’s ecstatic, like he’s known you forever, when you've only spoken once or twice before. “Ready, partner?”

No. “Not really.”

“That’s fine,” Donghyuck grins. “More fun when you’re unprepared.”

What does that even mean? “Uh... sure.”

“It’ll be fun! Don’t sweat it.” One of the crew members waves wildly, gesturing you to your station. Don’t sweat it? Just wait till I lift my arms.

Donghyuck’s affable, his elation virulent. Sure, you aren't friends, but maybe you could be. He looks like he'd be a great drinking buddy too.

Your life is your own, and you—not some shiny goblet—have decided that you're going to have fun.

Spoiler for episode one of World’s Worst Bakers: it was not fun.

It commenced flawlessly, at first. The sprightly young host, Liu Yangyang, had revealed the judges, each with their own introductory quip. As they sauntered in, you had tried to ascertain their respective cooking-show-judge archetype: the nice one, the funny-in-a-dad-kind-of-way one, and finally, the you-fucking-donut one. You’d hoped that since the competition’s meant to display the worst baking monstrosities comprehensible, the latter was exempted from the panel range.

Your efforts proved fruitless however, the saying ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover’ prevailing in the end. The panel consists of retired bakery owner Johann Wiles, prodigy baker Lee Taeyong, and home-baker extraordinaire Son ‘Wendy’ Seungwan. None of them fit into any one cliche, actually, they all possessed each quality, just in different measurements. Wow, who would've guessed people are multifaceted with many layers to their personality?, you chide yourself.  Have you learnt nothing from Shrek? Now, in the final fifteen minutes, you wished you had mentally prepared yourself instead of judging people by physical appearance. Maybe then, you wouldn’t be encrusted in wet flour, sweating your ass off because your buttercream frosting won't retain its shape.

You and Donghyuck stand shoulder-to-shoulder before not a whimsical goblet, but an array of cupcakes; his arms akimbo and yours crossed.

“Why do they look like that? Why are they all melty?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs, mussing his hair, wedging clumps of flour between the strands. “They look like...”

“Wet shit,” you mumble. He nods.

You tilt your head back, shoulders creaking with an ache. The other contestants seem to be doing fine. Why wouldn’t they? This first round is supposedly the easiest, meant to wean you in to the next nine weeks of baking. The judges had even distributed a recipe to minimise catastrophe. So, what on Earth had gone wrong?

“You two doing okay?”

Chef Lee’s voice is mellifluous, like spun sugar. He exudes an air of genuine concern, eyebrows bunched. One of the cameras pivots to you and it takes all of your remaining energy to not flinch.

You shake your head, while Donghyuck says, “Our frosting’s liquified, Chef.”

“Just Taeyong. Chef makes me sound pretentious,” he says, waving dismissively. Man, so you don’t even get to bark ‘Yes, Chef!’? What’s the point?

Taeyong bends forward, laser-focused on your pathetic cupcake. It was palpable from the get-go, but up close, you really marvel in how attractive he is—and how young too. How old did Yangyang say again? 25? 26? In fact, there’s an appalling concentration of attractive people here, from the unfairly gorgeous judge panel to the celebrity contestants, even Ten, a crew member, is pretty good-looking. You glance at Donghyuck, eyes roving his figure. And him. He's just... some guy. Why is he so stupidly attractive? Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try to be a little more than drinking partners.

“How long has the cream cheese been out of the fridge?” Taeyong’s flinty gaze latches onto you. God, you look abysmal right now, and you're being recorded in the same frame as two beautiful men, one of which is staring at you in a room full of equally attractive people. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, hoping to efface any smears.

“Not long. Maybe ten minutes?”

Taeyong raises a brow. “You’re sure?"

“Uh... yes?” In your peripheral, Donghyuck frowns. Did you say something wrong?

Taeyong cocks his head to one side, lips pursed, before reaching down to cup the bottom of one cupcake. “Ah,” he smiles, “did you let the cupcakes cool before frosting?”

Your heart plummets, fizzes in your stomach acid. Cooling was mentioned in the recipe, but you’d skipped it in favour of time-efficiency. You’d even told Donghyuck you’d let it cool when prompted, thinking it’d been a beneficial decision. Evidently not. “...No?”

“You need to let them cool completely on the rack before frosting, or else, well, this happens. Scrape off the buttercream. It should take about ten minutes to cool.” He sets the cupcake down, beginning to walk away. “Good luck.”

You bury your face in your hands. Ten minutes? That only leaves three, at most four, left for piping and plating. You’ll need more than luck. Then, just give up. There's nothing to lose, right? That's a dumb question, of course there is. What will people think if you can't even make it past the first round?

The cameraman lingers, and you’ve half the mind to swat it away to save face when you inevitably yank your hair out. You know you're still being filmed for the drama, reality TV thrives off of it after all. The editors will add in a tense instrumental, rich with dissonance and key changes, cut to a confessional they'll have you record tomorrow, and really milk the suspense. Maybe you should yank your hair out; higher ratings, possibly higher coin. You shake with a silent laugh. It probably looks like you're crying. That would definitely get a few clicks. What a drama queen, would be the consensus.

“Hey, hey, hey,” whispers Donghyuck, lips centimetres from your ear. He's muffling the lapel mic with one hand, the other on your shoulder. He must be frazzled, but like the excellent partner he is, he remains poised. It assures you. Maybe he’s leaning in to murmur encouragement. “Don’t you dare panic. I’m not going to lose this competition because you fucked up."

The fuck? You swivel to gawk at him, faintly aware that his lips are now centimetres from yours. “Excuse me?" you whisper, smothering your own body mic. “You’re being a dick.”

“I will be when there’s money on the line,” he hisses. Where’d that sweet guy go? The one everyone was fawning over forty-five minutes ago? The kind stranger with the lucent smile and boyish laugh? “Now, get scraping," he spits.

Then, as quickly as it erupted, his anger dissipates, eyes creasing and smile shy. He removes his palm from your shoulder and cradles your chin, thumb—which is more calloused than expected—swiping the corner of your lip, so delicate your skin prickles. You stare as he dips the digit into his mouth.

“You had some frosting on your face,” he says, uncovering his lapel mic so his pretext doesn’t go unheard. He turns to start scraping.

Your index and middle finger hover over where Donghyuck’s thumb had been. Unfortunately, there’s no time to dwell, so you stiffly resume your duties.

But you’re distracted. Your eyes keep wandering to Donghyuck, and though you pry them away, they always crawl back, more tenacious than before.

When the timer buzzes and you’re standing before the judges, your eyes are on him. When you’re presenting your cupcakes and answering questions about them, your eyes are on him. When you’re thrust to the bottom two and narrowly evade elimination, your eyes are on him. When you’ve wrapped up for the day and are reminded about recording confessionals tomorrow, your eyes are on him.

It’s only when the losing pair are sent home—a father son duo—that Donghyuck hauls you away and finally, his eyes are on you.

“What the hell is your deal?” he whispers. “You’ve been staring at me for the past half-an-hour.”

You blanch. He’s done it again; that abrupt personality flip. Just moments before he’d laughed and joked and flushed pink at praise, but now he’s snarling in your face like you’ve cussed him out. And honestly, you’re considering it.

You clench your jaw, relishing in the screech of teeth abrading teeth. Heat pulses in every crevice of your body, gripping the gummy flesh of your innards, seeping into your blood, fuelling your every thought.

Ten had been wrong. Donghyuck must have some sort of background in acting, because wow, can the bitch put on a performance. Unbeknownst to everyone here, his entire persona’s been a facade. He isn’t a kind, endearing stranger, no, he’s a conniving, sly, little prick. No, you’re not mad. You’re pleased, pleased that he’s shown his full colours, pleased that you’ve dodged a bullet. You’d been intending to exchange numbers. Imagine that! It would’ve been devastating if he’d only shed his charming glaze after you’d grown attached. You would’ve gone out for drinks, confided in him after a few, and he would’ve laid every dirty secret bare for the public to scarf down, telling the media: I never really liked her anyway.

Cuss him out. No, what would he think of you? But then again, you’re strangers. It’s not like he’s afforded you an ounce of chivalry, why should you? He doesn’t deserve even a morsel of pity or remorse from you.

“My deal? What the fuck is yours? Fine, I screwed up back there, but you didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. What happened to having fun?”

Donghyuck looks at you like you’re a moron. “Of course you think having fun means fucking about. I didn’t mean for you to disregard the steps to the recipe. It explicitly said ‘let rest until completely cooled’. You said you’d let it cool. You lied! You could’ve ruined our chances! I was being nice when I said that, but look where that got me.”

“You? Being nice? You’re the furthest thing from it.” You groan. “You’re just making a fuss out of nothing. We didn’t get eliminated and we’ll be moving on to the next round. What’s the big deal?”

“The ‘big deal’ is, that isn’t the only thing you fucked up. How about the butter that you forgot to put in?”

“I did not forget that. You did. The butter was not my fault. I told you to add it in during mixing after I left it out to thaw. Don’t try to pin your faults on me.”

Donghyuck flushes, and you swell with righteous pride. “Alright, fine, but that’s only because I was too busy picking up after your messes.”

“Picking up after my messes?” you scoff. “I’m not a child, Donghyuck. I was making no messes.”

“Holy shit,” he laughs, bitter and indignant. “You didn’t even realise that I saved your—our asses, did you? ‘No messes’? What about the frosting?”

God, does he ever quit? “What about the frosting? You upset I didn’t milk a cow and make the butter myself?”

“You forgot to put it in the fridge.“

You weave your arms across your chest. Yes, you’d prematurely made the buttercream, but it was an accident. And besides a minute or two squandered, it hadn’t reaped any severe  repercussions. “No, I didn’t. I took it out from the fridge. It wouldn’t have been there if I had forgotten, now would it? I definitely remember putting it in.”

“Of course, that’s how you remember it.” He rolls his eyes. “I put it in the fridge, not you. If I hadn’t been aware of my surroundings or neglected common sense, our buttercream would’ve been unsalvageable. Your mistake would’ve single handedly gotten us eliminated. So, yeah, no big deal.”

“Okay, fine, I get it, Donghyuck. I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? You’re being so dramatic. It’s not like getting upset’s gonna change what’s already happened. Why’re you still so pissed?”

“I’m pissed, because when I win, I’m going to have to split the money with someone who did nothing but drag me down the whole way. A freeloader, riding on the coattails of my effort. I’d tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, but it seems like everyone was right about you.”

You bristle. Freeloader. How many times have you heard that before? And what had he heard about you? Everyone? Who else in this room, on this set, in the cast, has something against you? A bottomless chasm of pent-up resentment behind smiling masks? Do they whisper about you behind your back? Does Taeyong? Wendy? Ten?

“The fuck does that mean? Don’t act like you know me when we only met two hours ago! Nothing? I did nothing? Are you so far up your own ass that you didn’t see how I was helping you out the entire time? So what I made a mistake? Surprise, surprise, I’m a shitty baker, Donghyuck! You are too! That’s why we’re on the show!” Your fists are curled, nails piercing the flesh of your palms. “You’re so full of yourself for thinking you pulled all the weight. You prance around smiling and laughing, bluffing about who you really are, pretending like you’ve not got a bad bone in your body, when really, you’re full of shit.”

Hurt shadows his face, but the flames of his ire are quick to extinguish it. He’s not tall, but in this isolated moment, he towers over you. “If being full of shit is what wins me this competition, then so be it. You might have come here because you’ve got nothing else to do, and hey, if you win, there’s a bit of easy cash and publicity, but there is no ‘if’ for me.” His cadence is feral, convulsing, voice cracking as if he’s trying to emphasise every word. His breaths are manic. Each syllable strangles him, pressing tighter and tighter and tighter. He’s frantic, pupils dilated, almost... terrified. “I didn’t come here—didn’t take money out to audition, didn’t spend weeks in anxiety waiting for a response, didn’t take days off my job—just to lose. So, start taking this seriously, or don’t. Get. In. My. Way.”

He’s so close; it’s suffocating. The air between you is congested with all the words  uttered, so many that there’s no room left for oxygen. They taint your trachea black, shrivelling your lungs. Your exhales are stifling. The room seems to shrink. The ceiling begs to cave in. It’s claustrophobic. You want to claw at your throat, but instead, you tip forward, glaring, your voice low and vicious, “I hate you.”

Donghyuck smiles, crooked, sadistic. He stoops lower, so close you can taste his rage; tangy and sickly saccharine. “Then hate me,” he whispers. Your gaze flickers to his lips, the way he enunciates each word with escalating menace. His eyes skim your face, before he rights himself, tongue prodding his cheek. You shudder with an exhale. Asswipe. He beams, and it’s only now you notice that it’s stretched too far to be sincere. “See you tomorrow.”

Nothing happened during confessionals the next day. You had expected overt hostility, but Donghyuck was insouciant. He smiled, conversed effervescently, and met your gaze despite your blatant aversion, as debonair as before. You would’ve been piqued by his nonchalance, but yesterday’s outburst had wisened you. Lurking beneath that sunny pretence was, unmistakably, irritation; you only had to learn where to look, and yesterday’s ordeal had been a spectacular lesson in the matter.

Though he approached you with a skip in his step, and a lilt in his laugh, it tormented him more and more every time. The cracks in his charade were laughably transparent when he’d talk to you. From the too broad smile, the too high giggle, the twitch of the jaw, the dart of tongue over upper teeth, he hates being around you—despises it. Well, that makes two of us. Partner.

Now, four days since you last saw him, you smile just reminiscing about his distaste. Obviously, he’s not as unbothered by you as he tries to exhibit. Good. He can pretend as much as he’d like, but you know from experience that bottled-up aggravation is going to simmer to a boil, and just one teensy turn of the gas knob is going to make him go boom. And luckily for him—

No, this isn’t a matter of luck, this is the result of your doing, because you—not anyone or anything else—have decided you’re going to turn up the heat.

Your phone rings, buzzing on the dresser. It must be your mother, harassing you to contemplate moving back in again. Or maybe your parents found out about the show. It had just aired yesterday. Shit. You roll over in your bed, face mashed into the mattress as you blindly reach for your phone.

You clear your throat, and answer with your chirpiest voice, “Yes?”

“Why do you sound like that? Are you sick?”

“Oh, it’s you.”

“At least try to sound enthusiastic,” Ten mutters.

“Yay.”

He grumbles. “I called to ask if you’d seen the episode yet.”

“No.”

“Typical,” he groans. “Do you really not give a shit about it?”

“Should I? Why? Do I look bad?”

“When do you not?” he asks. Silence. He cackles at his own ingenuity. You can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “Anyway, check your texts. I sent you a link. Really, I had no idea you were into guys like that.”

Guys like what? But Ten’s already hung up. Curiosity nips at you, so for once, you immediately enter the Messages app after Ten’s told you to. Hopefully, whatever the hell he’s done now won’t afflict you.

He’s attached a single link; an article. An article with your face on it. Your heart lurches, palms beading perspiration at the sight of yourself. The choice of colour and font of the article is garish, something only a tacky gossip column could get away with. What are you doing in a gossip column? You’ve abstained from anything remotely scandalous for weeks since moving out, refusing to supply any ammunition your mother could use to justify you staying home. So what had soured?

‘BITTERSWEET ROMANCE?

'Just last Friday, the world of reality TV was shaken to its core when the first episode of season three of World’s Worst Bakers aired. The show pits the worst of the worst against one another in an ultimate bake-off to find out who will succeed as the best among them (is that really something to be proud of?). The show itself boasts an impressive cast from rising actor Jung Jaehyun, gorgeous part-time model Johnny Suh, award-winning traditional dancer Dong Sicheng, singer/heartthrob Mark, prodigy baker Lee Taeyong—’

Yeah, yeah, whatever. But why is your face on an article titled ‘Bittersweet Romance’? You scour the page, eyes bulging when you discover what’s been written about you.

‘...the former child star and daughter of esteemed actor seems busy on the show; busy with love that is. Introducing Lee Donghyuck, indiscriminate and humble, perhaps lacking in notoriety, but certainly not in looks. The two seem to have struck a passionate romance, seen in the clip below sharing a tender moment together as Donghyuck soothes his lover’s anxieties about the competition, even slipping in a swoon-worthy gesture. Allegedly, the two were so enamoured by each other, they were nearly eliminated! Ah, young love. Sources say they witnessed the young couple’s hurried departure for privacy the moment filming ended, and we don’t think we need to spell out what probably happened next. Though reports state the couple seem end-game, is that really a possibility considering our darling lover girl’s history? It’s public knowledge that she’s quite a wild card; who knows how she’ll break this poor boy’s heart, if it ever comes to that. Her ex-partners—’

You refuse to read further. Nausea clings to your stomach. A mixture of mortification and abhorrence batters your skull. Passionate romance? Tender moment? Enamoured? Love? And what are they implying with ‘departure for privacy’? That you and Donghyuck had a quickie while the entire crew was milling about? If only they’d heard the berating the two of you had dished out, then the article would probably be singing a drastically different tune. Temper Tantrum: Former child star lambasts her baking partner! They’d regale and call you bitch instead of censoring themselves with ‘wild card’. Wild card. Even in an article claiming you’d found potential true love, they’d wormed it in. Would they be calling you wild card even in seniority? You snort. Imagine that: an eighty-year-old you plastered across gossip columns. Maybe they’d find another washed-up star instead. They probably would. They always did.

Your phone chimes again, screen alight with a new text from Ten.

Looks like we’ve got ourselves a pair of stars.

You scoff, tossing your phone back on the dresser. Yeah, a pair of five star shit shows.

[roostertuftart]

Let me ride through the wide open country that I love

Don't fence me in

Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze

And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees

Send me off forever but I ask you please

Don't fence me in

Somewhat old art or @99griffon’s cowboy AU which is in production. Kyle and Stan beloved 💕

[wiproaringreading]

Suggested Reading (That's just my word for my TBR, in fact it's just a way to be by myself in the evening breeze and listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees.) for March... plus a bunch of digital buddy reads including the Tor Valentines giveaway All Systems Red. This months theme is sequels, sticking with Dan Brown and Tasha Suri, and reading Spider-Man 2 off the bat (well... I saw the movie on Christmas just last year.) Austere Lent, fellows, and happy March to all.