#mystery alaska is getting watched because it’s cold outside now

[wildsaltair]

when will my husband (my favorite fictional character) rescue me from this prison (my workplace) and carry me back to our beloved home (my bed where I read fanfiction about him)

[youralternantpersonality]

Eternal Love

Paul x Reader: Eternal Love.

Part 1: Eternal Love

Part 2: Everlasting Love

Part 3: Endless Love

Part 4: Enduring Love

***

Darkness. All I see is darkness…I’m calm yet scared. I don’t understand what’s going on. I am in the forest in La Push, walking aimlessly. Not heading anywhere. I want to go home but I also like it here. I feel…at peace. I look over and I see a never-ending path of trees. What makes it eerie is that there’s no animals, no background noise, even when I get close enough to the dirt, no worms, ants, spiders, anything. I feel like I’ve been stuck here for almost an hour or so. And after some time, I realize something…where’s my dog?

“Snout! Snout! Where are you?” I yell and start looking around. I hear a bark in the distance and run towards it.

“Snout! Baby, come here!” I hear more barking and I run towards that direction. Something seems familiar about this. I just can’t figure out what it was.

Paul’s POV

Five days. That’s how long it’s been since the good doctor Cullen has told me that the love of my life, the only reason I even exist, the one who would calm me yet irritate me out of love, The One; gone. At least, not completely. She’s in a vegetable state—can’t move willingly, can’t hear, smell, taste anything. Hooked up to a machine that is keeping her on this earth. I haven’t moved from this spot by her bed unless I have to shower and eat (demands by Emily).

As I sit here, looking at my beautiful Y/n, bruises along her left side of her body, a cast that covers her arm, hip, and legs, bandages wrapped around her head, I can’t help but cry nonexistent tears. I have cried all of what I had left over the past few days. I can remember everything that happened so clearly. Regret consumed me, so much so, that Dr. Cullen was gracious enough to fix the damages in the bathroom attached to her room when I smashed my fist into the mirror, and he got her, her suite in the hospital.

I fucked up. Everyone tried to make me feel better, but deep down, we all know what I did was what put her in this situation. Which is why I begged, no pleaded, even bargained with the Good Doctor to change her. He wanted to help, but because of the treaty….

“…I cannot Paul. The treaty states…”

“Fuck the treaty! She’s the love of my life! I can’t lose her! I may have fucked up and caused this, but I can’t let her go! Please!” I pleaded outside of his home. His wife, Esme, came next to me and hugged me as I fell to the ground. I didn’t care if she was eerie rock solid or cold as ice, I just needed my Y/n/n back.

As I am looking at her currently, caressing her little finger that is hanging outside her cast, I think back to how we met.

At the Beach: September 2nd, 2018;

There was a birthday party at the beach and, like what anyone would expect from us, the guys and I crashed it. It seemed boring until we, I, showed up. The host was too tipsy to give a crap and was just happy to see more people. I was flirting, per usual, with some lovely girls when the host calls out a name. And what made me respond was the voice and fragrance that came with it.

“What hoe!” a laugh followed afterward. The wind blew a sweet fragrance, pomegranate mango with an orange-like citrus smell to it. I turned my head at the right time to see Y/n. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she walked towards who I found out later to be Angela—one of Bella’s old friends. She went up to hug her and Y/n looked around. That’s where our eyes came in contact. Everything else around me disappeared and I didn’t care for anyone or anything around me. I slowly made my way up to her and she just smiles as I do so.

“Hello, beautiful. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here. I’m Paul, what’s your name?” I smile, not one of my flirty smiles, a genuine smile. It’s weird, I never wanted to imprint EVER in my life, but over time, it didn’t seem too bad. And now, I’m not complaining.

“Hmm, you seem dangerous.” A cheeky smile is placed on her face, she looks me up and down and turns her body towards me.

“I’m Y/n, but people call me Y/n/n.” I smile and shake her hand. Both of our eyes widen at the electricity flow, the magnetic force pulling us to one another, and this cloud 9 effect that is taking over. I look down at her and smile.

“Hmm, you seem like you’re about to ruin my life,” I said jokingly. She smiles and laughs.

“I guess we’re a match huh?”

“I guess we are. So, tell me about yourself.” And from then on, we were together.

But it seems like life wanted to make a full circle.

Current Day: August 30th, 2020

“Paul, the council is still debating. I know this is hard, but please, at least for Emily, go home and get some rest.” Sam said. Normally, I’d take alphas orders, but this time, I can’t. I shake my head and head towards the bathroom. I brush past him and Jake and just stand there behind the door. I look at myself in the mirror and can see emotional and physical damage.

I’ve lost weight, I have deep dark circles around my eyes, my eyes itself is bloodshot red. My skin is sickly pale, not it’s normal “golden glow honey brown sugar” skin that my little raven called it. I laugh at that memory. She was whimsical, mysterious, and protective like a raven. Her secret personality was as big as one too. She called you in naturally by her beauty—inner and outer beauty.

At Paul’s house: November 2018

We were laying on the couch relaxing before I had to go on patrol. She was reading a book with her legs planted in my lap, I was deep engrossed to the video game I was playing when suddenly, I feel a pair of eyes on me.

“Make a video to remember this moment then replay it when you miss me.” I smile and look over at her. All I could see is her big y/e/c eyes staring back at me. One eyebrow raised and her book was covering the bottom half of her face.

“You know,” she says sitting up, putting down the book, “it’s not fair how clear and bright your skin is. You have this…this golden glow…with, like, honey brown sugar swirled in it. You suck.” She says pouting. I pause the game, lean over to her, and place most of my weight on her while kissing her neck. She squeals underneath me and starts laughing. I smile and kiss her softly while poking my nose into her cheek.

“I love every bit of you, my love. You may see flaws, but with my heightened eyesight, I can see little freckles kissed all along your face. Matter of fact, let me show you where.” Then I proceeded to kiss all over her face. She laughs uncontrollably.

“But you don’t have the curse of hyperpigmentation! You see freckles, I see never-ending scars.” I hate it when she gets like this. It hurts me, to see the love of my life feel as if she has to be something different to even be next to me.

“Baby, stop,” I said calmly, I learned quickly that I would have to control my tone around her. She can read me like a book and because her emotions can get the best of her, yelling could end in two ways. One, she’ll fight back—she’s all bark and bites—so no one messes with her for a while when she’s at that point. Or two, she starts tearing up and holds back tears. Not for manipulation reasons that most girls do, but for the fact that she intakes certain emotions and she has no control over hers.

“I know you may feel that way, and you have to remember, I did too. You know, I was human like you before my wolfy sense’s kicked in.” I smile as she smiles back. “Just know my love, I don’t see anything wrong with you. I could never.” I place my forehead on hers. “I love you too much to worry about things like that.” I kiss her. She looks at me and says,

“So, if you didn’t love me, you’d notice it?” I look at her with a blank face, roll my eyes, and just roll off the couch. I can feel her watching me.

“Well…”

“You know, you’re a little shit, right?” I say with my hands covering my face. She lays on top of me and says,

“But you love me, remember.”

“Oh my god…” I just squeeze her to me and laugh along with her.

Current Day: August 30th, 2020

I step back out into the room where Dr. Cullen and Sam are waiting for me. I stop and look at them.

“The council decided…” Sam said, I looked up with hopeful eyes…

“They will agree to it, if…” Carlisle started.

“If what?” I say, taking a step forward.

“If she leaves until she can handle being around humans. And…” Sam began,

“She can’t go back to La Push,” Carlisle said. I replayed what they said…. she can change but can’t come back until she’s able to be around humans, but she can’t come back to La Push. I nod my head.

“How long does it usually take for your kind to get better at being around humans?” I ask quietly. Carlisle looked at Sam with guilt and answered.

“It depends on the person's restraint. Within their first year, their blood still runs in their body, so blood lust, especially from humans, is out of control. After a year, it gets better. Although, with our diet, it’s harder but not impossible.”

“But how long in total?” I asked anxiously. He looked at me with genuine sad eyes.

“Up to three years or so.” He said with sorrow in my eyes. For once in the few days I’ve been here, a new emotion that I haven’t touched came out. Rage.

“Three years! I can’t go that long without her! I’m coming with you.” I said to Carlisle. Sam looked at him for an answer. This is the first time I’ve seen him rely on his answers on another person’s answer.

“You can, but there’s no guarantee of anything. Her body may or may not accept the venom. She may or may not remember you. She may have anger towards you about what happened if she remembers what happens. Anything could happen Paul. Is it worth the risk?” without hesitation, I answered.

“Yes.” Sam nodded his head and gave me the okay. Even if he wouldn’t have, I still would have followed them. He knows just as much as anyone that separating imprints from one another is a death sentence.

“We leave tonight. Edward and I will take her to Alaska with some friends of ours. I will administrate the change there. Because you are in no condition to shift, we plan on flying. Medical services will meet us there with her. We have paperwork stating that they are her closes family since she doesn’t have one.” I nodded my head and took a deep breath.

“Thank you. I know this is a reach, but can I ask for one favor.”

“Of course.”

“Can you freeze her eggs.” They looked at me confused and with shock. So, I explained,

“We’ve always talked about having children. She’s always wanted children of her own and to adopt some. I know she wouldn’t care too much about it, but I also know that would make her happy.” I begged the doctor. He sighed and nodded.

“it shouldn’t be a problem, since she’s already under my friends name as family, Eleazar would be okay with it.” I nod my head and look back at my angel.

“Emily, Kim, and Clair will be up here in a few. Go home and rest for tonight Paul. I promise, she’ll be okay. If she’s going to have the procedure, you need to be ready for when it’s over and to head out.” I didn’t argue this time. I walked over to her and kiss her head.

“Don’t leave me, my love. I’ll be here waiting for you. Always.”

My Love (for the series)

Masterlist

[goldeneyedgirl]

Fic-Mas Day 2: In Another Life

Oh my gosh! Thank you so much for the lovely response :D I’ve got bad allergies tonight and I’m babysitting a puppy post-surgery, so no long message, just onwards with Day 2.

Day 2. In Another Life

(This was/is a part of an anthology fic called ‘The Only Girl in the World’, and was basically just a lot of different ways Jasper and Alice could have met, and how fate helped or hindered them. I also want to make it completely clear that Alice is a human child in this fic, and there are no romantic or sexual undertones, implications, or subtext.)

The new neighbours have finally arrived.

The Brandons live outside of town, and it has been forever since the Hawkins’ left. Not that anyone was surprised - there are enough ghost stories and rumours to keep that house empty forever.

There’s a line of pine trees that seperate the Brandon house from the old Hawkins’ place. Other than the orchard, the rest of the land belongs to the new neighbours now.

“Where are you going, Mary?” her mother is in the kitchen, consulting a cook-book. Caroline Brandon is the consummate housewife - consistent, resourceful, and bored out of her mind raising two daughters outside of a small town. Neither Caroline nor Michael Brandon have told the girls that they’ll be getting a brother very, very soon - even though nine-year-old Mary and seven-year-old Cynthia have already taken note of their mother’s bulging stomach.

“To see the neighbours!” the cry summons little Cynthia, and both girls start their charge towards the Hawkins’ place. They are almost mirror images of each other - sturdy Cynthia, and bird-boned Mary; Cynthia’s blonde curls fall effortlessly to her waist, and Mary’s stick-straight black hair hangs around her shoulders. Cynthia wears a pink-striped dress and matching shoes; Mary wears ancient fairy-wings over a rainbow leotard and a long skirt, her feet bare.

Through their mother’s flower garden, and around the vegetable patch; over the low stone fence and through the orchard to no man’s land. They climb up the old viewing platform - their father says that it used to belong to hunters, and they need to stay off the rotten old thing, but they have no other play structure, and the temptation is just too much.

“Are they there? Are there kids?” Cynthia asks, bouncing.

“They’re there. I think they’re all grown ups,” Mary squints through the plastic binoculars they have stashed up there, in an ancient lunchbox. “Come one!” They are both nimble little girls, and have climbed up and down the platform hundreds of times; each foot hits the bolts they use as steps with certainty and speed, and then they are off, through the long grass, to see the mysterious new neighbours.

Crossing over the border, it is like another world. Everyone knows the story of the Hawkins’ mansion: a man built it for his wife, and their children kept dying. They said the youngest child, Arabella Hawkins, was mad and roamed the house at night. All Mary knew was that Mrs Hawkins had been taken away in an ambulance, and that Mr Hawkins was found asleep in his car one morning, and the police had to be called.

But the house was exquisite, under years of neglect. The fountain and gardens, ready to be loved again. The Victorian mansion of at least three floors. Mary Alice couldn’t imagine how nice it was inside.

She could see the new people unloading the truck, and hurried across the gravel to see them closely.

“Hi,” she blurted out, standing barefoot on the gravel, at the adults suddenly staring at her. “I’m Mary, we live next door. She turned around to see Cynthia lingering shyly behind her. “That’s my sister Cynthia.”

They are staring at her, as if she is quite strange. There is a lady there, wearing a pretty sweater, who smiles so nicely at her.

“Hello Mary, hello Cynthia,” she says. “I’m Esme Hale. This is my family.”

Mrs Hale is sweet, and asks them a lot of questions as the rest of the family unpacks; Cynthia takes a shine to the lady, and jabbers away about the new baby, about Halloween and Thanksgiving, and that they want a puppy for Christmas.

Mrs Hale appears equally as enchanted by Cynthia - that’s not strange, most adults love her little blonde sister. She watches boxes and covered furniture been carried into the house, and the gravel bites harder into her cold, bare feet. It’s just an ordinary moment, ultimately forgettable. Except it isn’t. And she’s still too little to understand the intricacies of everything that has happened, has been seen and said and felt.

They leave soon after, with Mrs Hale promising them cookies next time they come over; Cynthia is delighted, but she has a terrible sweet tooth. With a wave and a smile, both girls dart back towards the tree line. Mary doesn’t know why she looks back, but she does, and see a man and woman staring at her from the garage, and frowns.

That night, she dreams of the blond man coming to their house - its nighttime, and Thanksgiving, because she’s wearing a stupid dress with fall leaves and turkeys on it. She knows the new baby is there, and everyone is in the dining room laughing and talking. He smiles down at her, and whispers something to her.

And she takes his hand. Then she’s in a car; her backpack is at her feet, and her plush rabbit is in her lap. She’s wearing her best winter coat, and she’s not at all afraid. She’s warm and sleepy. When they stop, he buys her waffles and hot chocolate, and he looks at her so sadly. She’s happy though. Well, until he takes her to a public bathroom and cuts her hair off. But it’s only hair, and she doesn’t blame him.

They find his family at another house; this house is wooden, like a ski lodge, and he seems surprised to see them there. They yell a lot, and she hides in a bedroom upstairs.

That’s when Mrs Hale comes to her side, and shows her the news. She sees her mother screaming and crying, she sees a lot of police. Her photograph on the news. Her ugly Thanksgiving dress fished out of a dumpster at the gas station.

The Hales talk about returning her, and how she’ll keep their secret. Mrs Hale puts her to bed, and kisses her cheek and promises her it will all be okay.

She doesn’t even stir when he lifts her from her bed and leaves with her again. She wakes up again, and they are in a truck, driving fast. He just keeps saying he’s sorry.

She doesn’t care. She likes him. He is so peaceful and safe to her eyes. And during their travels, he is kind. He buys her food and makes sure she is warm and clean. Few people give them a second look, but the few that do, she dismisses. “My name isn’t Mary. It’s Alice, and he’s my brother.” He buys her fake purple glasses, a sketchbook, and a new coat for Christmas. They sit on the front of the car, and she eats pizza out of a box and look out at the festive lights on Christmas Eve. He takes her to a church, and she says a prayer, and then they leave again.

He is taking her to Alaska, he tells her. She’ll be safe there. She doesn’t know what he’s protecting her from, but she trusts him. She doesn’t tell him she feels sick, that she’s hot and cold all the time, and it doesn’t matter. She shouldn’t be sick, she knows that. Some part of her knows this is how everything is going to be fixed; that someone has made a terrible mistake (not him), and this is how they try to put it right.

She dies in his arms on the side of the road on New Year’s Eve. Her mouth tastes like blood and everything is floating. It hurts to breathe. His red eyes stare down, desperately at hers, and she wants to reassure her that she understands everything. Not in a way that can be put into words, but she does. That she is nearly ten years old, but she feels much older and would never ever have told anyone. That this life is all wrong, and that’s why she has to go to heaven.

His family won’t be mad for long, they’ll welcome him back. They’ll never, ever ask him about what happened to her - even when they find out he has kept her stuffed rabbit.

She wants to tell him all of this, but she can’t, so she closes her eyes and snuggles closer to him, and fades away from the world.

When she wakes up the next morning, she knows her fate. She knows which clothes to pack into her backpack and to tie a ribbon from her bunny to her bag, so that when he climbs in her window, he won’t forget Bunny. She leaves her back right next to the window.

Binoculars. She needs her binoculars.

Her rubber boots pinch a little, and if her mother finds out that she’s running around in her pyjamas, she’ll catch it. But she treks across the snow to the old hunting structure, and climbs up.

It’s just happenstance, bad luck, and maybe a reprieve for a haunted man. The crack sounds like the branch from a tree going, and suddenly she can’t catch her balance and then there is falling and pain and stillness as the rotting wood finally gives out. The only metal pole that was holding the wood in place pierces her chest and makes her feel hot and cold at the same time. One of her boots has come off or torn or something. She’s all ice and wet from the snow. She can’t breathe or cry or scream or talk.

It will be hours before she is found, nestled in the wreckage, with a starburst of blood around her. There will be yelling and screaming, and emergency services everywhere, and her photograph will end up in the newspaper. There will be some speculation whether she died from her injuries, or froze to death. But it doesn’t matter - accidental death is accidental death, however you frame it. Her mother will never understand the clothing in the backpack, or the ribbon tied to her favourite toy. Her father will throw away her fairy wings and broken binoculars. And Jasper Hale will never kidnap the little girl that made him feel hope, and run away without a plan.

She lies in the snow, and she is frustrated and sad. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to be a little girl when she met him; he wasn’t supposed to be so desperate.

She wasn’t supposed to die alone.

But she does anyway.

[shooter-nobunagun]

[There is a point, a singularity where it all begins and then the path splits into innumerable different roads...]

[What happens in ‘to the beginning’, it all starts here. But as for which path will be the ultimate outcome...you will have to decide for yourself.]

“Jack-san! Hurry, your son’s just been born!” The nurse on duty rushed out of the sliding doors as he strode into the hall, sliding the final locks of his gear in place.

Good. He’d made it just in time.

“Came in at 7.4 pounds, only half an hour of labor and with a full head of hair already! It’s blonde right now, but it’ll probably darken later on,” the head nurse chatted away cheerfully, but he barely heard her comments; they were irrelevant after all, when he could just see the child for himself.

“—Aah, and our new father has arrived! Gud timing, tha’s fer sure. Congratulations, Adam.” A hearty clap from the Scottish man who’d been there to assist, only just returned with the slightest of nods because there was only one—no, two people now were the only things that mattered—

“Oh, look who’s here...” She was as exhausted as he’d ever seen her, but her face couldn’t be more proud. His beautiful wife Sio Ogura, codename “Nobunagun”, lay there with her hair spread in a messy halo, the crying newborn cradled softly against her chest. “Look, it’s tou-san...” Gently she lifted the baby towards him, who started fussing and squirming and wondering who this stranger was carrying him away.

“I...hello there...” He could hardly breathe, unsure of anything or what to even say—but the swell of pride in his chest and the beginnings of that deep, inexplicable bond of parental love—that was something he could understand, and embrace. This was his child—their child; all theirs, something special made just by the two of them. “Aren’t you something else...”

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he? His eyes are just like yours, you know.” A tired but proud voice from her as he softly stroked his son’s fine hair and peered at those emeralds that, one day, would look the same as his. “I can’t believe he’s here…”

“I can hardly believe it myself,” he murmured, blinking rapidly because his eyes were getting moist. “Sio…you did great, love…”

She sighed contentedly as he returned the baby to its mother, who proceeded to squirm and root around for her nipple. “Oh! I guess he’s hungry already...” Smiling, she shed the top half of her robe and the infant latched on, suckling noisily.

“He’s a smart one, tha’s fer sure. Oy Adam, surely ye can stay a wee bit longer? Don’t hear Geronimo paging fer ye over the system yet...”

“I…” He was supposed to shake his head no, and gently but firmly inform everyone, his wife included, that he had to leave soon; Geronimo was already waiting at the drop pod’s entrance, and this mission could not be delayed any further. And yet he just stood there, nodding wordlessly for a second, before leaning down and giving his newborn son the smallest of kisses on his tiny head, before sweeping Sio up into a full, warm kiss. “I love you…both of you…” Warmth, pride and most of all an overwhelming feeling of love; love and affection towards his wife, the protective love of a father towards his child, and the love and gratitude from his friends and family who were there to help support them through all this.

“I love you too, Adam…I know it’s cheesy, but I can’t remember being happier…he’s so perfect…” She lay buried against his chest, both of them watching their baby peacefully as he nursed.

In this moment, it was hard for Adam to comprehend they were still fighting. That in fact, outside of this sheltered little haven, the world was not at peace; indeed, the war that led them to meet in the first place was still raging, more terrible than ever. It had only been the longest of odds that allowed him to be present for the birth of his son, rather than swept onto the battlefield as they’d originally planned. Even as Hunter strode over to open the window for a touch of fresh air, the icy hail greeting them was indicative of the harsh reality of their fortress’s chosen path.

The Alex Logan, their home-away-from-home for many years now, battling through a fierce snowstorm as it crossed over the Arctic circle along its route. Still, despite the harsh weather it was one of the few places left that afforded them some measure of safety, even in the air. The Alaskan wilderness had reported disturbing activity through the frozen ground itself—and as much as Geronimo despised the cold, she and Jack were the only ones who had enough strength and the right weapons to hack through a battlefield of ice.

“Mmmnn…Adam, you really have to go?” Hazy maroons glanced upwards, but he kissed them shut. “I know…Geronimo’s probably blowing a gasket right about now…”

“Heh; let me handle her, love. I’ll be fine.” As he reluctantly got up from the warmth of their embrace, the reality of his mission came flooding back in the form of adrenaline. Despite Geronimo’s seniority, he was the field commander for this mission, with the leader of the First Platoon as his second. Years of competitive rivalry had somewhat mellowed out into a utilitarian, if not friendly, professional relationship. Still, Adam knew he’d never hear the end of it if he was late—and Geronimo was always punctual.

“Say good-bye to tou-san for now, okay? Don’t worry, he’ll be back…won’t he?” Those maroon orbs cast an enigmatic shadow over her face; worried, but trying her best to remain hopeful, to remain calm and let him focus on the battle at hand without worrying about them.

“Of course, Sio. You know I’ll be fine; especially with Geronimo, we can handle whatever’s down there.” It felt at that moment he was invincible, even though Galileo had warned him there was a very real chance whatever was causing the signals was entirely unknown, and more than likely extremely dangerous. But in the warmth of his new family it was hard to see beyond that sphere, of the real world that lay outside this steel fortress.

“Be careful out there, mate. I mean it.” As he secured the final parts of his suit, Hunter came up to him looking as serious as he’d ever appeared. “This ain’t just some gung-ho, kill count free-for-all anymore—ye’ve got more than jus’ one t’ live fer, now.”

Click. The steel in his emeralds sent a shiver down even Hunter’s spine. “Don’t worry, Hunter. I know...believe me, I know it now, more than ever...”

And still he felt no fear; Nightingale chastised him for being overconfident and warned him hubris was just as deadly was cowardice, but he ignored her. There was no way...no way he’d let his child grow up without a father, without parents. Even if this war would consume the rest of their lives, he and Sio had agreed to do everything they could to raise a family, as best they could.

He was supposed to go, but only one step forward before he turned heel and, not even caring the room was full of hospital staff and Hunter, swept Sio into a full, passionate kiss; a little deeper and hungrier than would be proper for public eyes, but nothing could shake him right now. “I promise, I’ll be back just fine,” he whispered, before kissing her eyelids, one at a time, and then one final brush on his son’s forehead. “Wait for me, loves.”

“Adam...be careful...and come back to us. We’ll be waiting...” A single tear slid down but he wiped that up before it even fell. “Please...”

“Of course. I promise.” And then he proceeded to climb out the window, much to everybody’s surprise.

“Uh, Adam? Drop pod’s down the hall, unless there’s some new procedure I’m not aware of...”

“Oh, I know.” Shrugging nonchalantly, he spread those enormous razor-tinged wings, yet white feathers still fell to the ground like snow. “But I figured, this way Geronimo won’t be chewing my ear off about how I’m late.” 

With a final salute, he casually fell out backwards, before spreading his wings and meeting up with the drop pod just as it was about to begin the launch sequence.

“About damn time! I was starting to think I’d have to handle this frozen mess on my own, Jack.” There was an irritated glare as the short-haired woman snapped her pocket watch shut, slipping it back inside her suit. “I know your wife just gave birth, and congrats and all, but did you really have to cut it so close?!”

Adam could only shrug helplessly, that grin still lingering on his face. “Sorry Geronimo, but I did make it before the launch, as I said I would...”

“Pfft yeah, 10 seconds is a real margin.”

“Better than 0.1 second.”

“Whatever. Just strap in, Alaska’s not gonna save itself...that frozen piece of shit...” Still, he knew she wasn’t really mad at him. A birth from one of their own had been the talk of the entire organization ever since Sio became pregnant nine months ago, and now with his son’s arrival at last, he was sure there was bound to be some sort of celebration—which he would miss, but that wasn’t the important part.

“So, do we know anything else about this ‘mysterious’ Object?”

“Jack the Ripper, Geronimo, launch sequence will begin in T minus 10, 9, 8...”

“Nope. Don’t have a damn clue still. But hey, when has that ever stopped you...”

“Isn’t that my line?”

“—4, 3, 2—”

“Look Jack,” and she turned to look at him square in the eye, “just don’t go and do something stupid that’ll require me to haul your ass back, or worse, your corpse. And I’m not just saying this because Nobunagun’ll turn me into Swiss cheese if that happens—you’re a father now. You’re responsible for more than just your own life. So don’t fuck it up, got it?”

He grinned, that smile crossing from excitement into bloodlust as the pod began its acceleration. “Geronimo, mate...I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about...except how many of those creatures you can slay today.”

“Oh, I think that would be your problem, Jack.”

"...So, first to 100? Loser buys the winner a round?”

She licked her lips and both of them stared at each other with rather psychotic grins. “Sure, Jackie-boy. Just remember, this was your idea.”

“Of course, of course...”

Some things never changed; the rivalry between him and Geronimo, that would probably go down until the end of time. But other things, like his new family...

‘Sio, I promise I’ll be back, safe and sound. This is only the beginning, after all...of the next chapter in our lives.’

Nothing would happen to them; he would make sure of that. No matter what came at them, or what foreboding visions Nightingale might have hinted at, he didn’t believe them—couldn’t believe them. For he was Adam Muirhead, the reincarnation of one Jack the Ripper and Florence Nightingale, and she was Sio Ogura, the reborn soul of the infamous warlord Oda Nobunaga. And nothing could stand in their way when they were together, not even fate.

Ah...but you know, even my powers cannot predict the future...so let it be said, that no matter what may come your way, you must be the ones to hold onto that hope...for at each starting point, there will forever be an innumerable number of paths that you might take...

[artificialqueens]

Hi, I'm The Emotionally Repressed Girl Who Ran From Her Latent Homosexual Feelings for Ten Years, Trixie Mattel! (Trixya) - Iris

Hi, Hello, Good day, friends!

I… don’t know what the fUCK I’m doing. But that’s okay because I love Trixya, and I’m willing to do anything for them!

Well, okay, like I said it’s my first try at actually writing and publishing a fic, so I’m bearing my soul(my soul is comprised of Trixya obvi) and hoping y'all enjoy this as much as I do. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated! This is a pretty indulgent fic for me, and it’ll primarily focus on the nine years prior to the first chapter! Lots of soft!Trixya moments tbh. They perform Rocky Horror with all your favorite queens(including the OG Queen herself), and honestly, I’m just excited to write it for you lovely guys, gals, and nonbinary pals! I really hope you enjoy yourselves and don’t hate me for the angst that is to inevitably come!m Say hello to me at @wewouldbeheroes on Tumblr! I’d really appreciate the company!

Chapter 1: Fishnet Stockings, High Boots, & Delicate Conversation in Present December

Snow danced in the mid-December air as Trixie urgently walked down the cultural district of Boston, her hands shoved in the pockets of the long-coat that she borrowed from her mom. She was shivering and trying to remind herself why she thought a damn dress was a good idea for this climate. The air whipped under her skirt, and her teeth clattered for the third time in the last ten minutes. She was already exhausted, and the cold wasn’t helping. Why she thought booking a red-eye from Milwaukee to Boston was a good idea, she’ll never fucking know. Saving money? Fuck money, she’ll take the sleep and decent food, thank you very much.

           One month ago, Trixie Mattel got a call she’d never expect in a million years. RuPaul Charles, her director from a cabaret in Boston she worked at, nearly ten years ago, had somehow found her number, despite having no contact in all this time. God knows how, but Trixie always said RuPaul works in mysterious ways. They reminisced on the phone for hours, about old performances, and old friends. Trixie enjoyed the conversation, despite the fact she hadn’t had much to contribute. While Ru was off being a newlywed with his husband Georges, Trixie was working back in small town Wisconsin, helping her mom with her siblings and taking a receptionist job at the local elementary school. She can’t say she particularly disliked her entire existence, or that Wisconsin was just a reminder of everything she ever hoped she would never be, but it wasn’t all bad, that’s for sure. She contemplated leaving, but she wanted to help her family. And as her step-father so lovingly put it: “It was her duty,”.

So, there she was, in a dead-end town. Most of the kids from school had married by now, she was twenty-eight after all, and her friendships had all but fallen apart after Trixie had left for Boston. Most of them had even popped out a child or two, and Trixie found it hard to relate and/or enjoy one second of their company. So, when RuPaul had asked Trixie to spend a week at the Cabaret for a reunion performance she was hosting, how could Trixie ever say no?

After confirming her attendance, Trixie threw herself in bed, fully panicking. Was everyone going to be there? What if she was the only one to show up? What if she decided not go, and was the only who didn’t? She did enough damage when she left last time. What if they all hated her? What if she saw Katya? Of course, she’ll see Katya, she was as much a part of that cast as anyone else. How would Katya react to seeing her? Things would be weird, of course. Would she be prepared to handle that? Maybe Katya would just ignore her the whole time? Which honestly sounded like a pretty good option.

Her family, naturally, tried to discourage the trip. And they almost succeeded, too, especially with thoughts of Katya running wild in her head (like maybe Katya would throw a drink on her when she first saw her??), but Trixie realized if she didn’t go now, she never, ever would. She would just have to cross the Russian bridge when she got to it. She packed her guitar, her harp, and her suitcase and left for the airport the next morning.

           Trixie’s last time in Boston was potentially one of the best and worst times of her life. That was when things were changing for her. For better or worse, Trixie still wasn’t sure. She was only nineteen at the time, and how much can a nineteen-year-old comprehend about life-long lessons and impact? She found parts of herself she didn’t even know existed. And she loved that. But she also found a Pandora’s Box worth of things she didn’t dare try and open. And it didn’t take much for her to plunge back into Wisconsin, after barely making a home on these busy city streets. She did like it here in Boston. She liked the diversity, the hustle and bustle of city life. There was always something to occupy yourself with here. It wasn’t like Wisconsin, and that, perhaps, was the best part.

           Trixie, desperate to relieve herself of the cold, cut through a few alleys to get to the Cabaret, it’s funny, how well she still knew the Boston streets. She walked into a shabby-looking building, with broken lights, chipped brick, and ripped, wet, paper signs just outside the door. It’s clear the place had seen it’s better years, but Trixie didn’t seem to notice as she retched open the doors to get out of the cold. Warmth flooded her body, and she silently praised Ru for always being a cold blood.

           Expectations were rather high, as Ru always kept his cabaret as elegant as possible. Nice furniture, the smell of incense and a bit of alcohol reminded her more of home than her actual home did. And, she wasn’t disappointed. Barstools were neatly pushed in where they weren’t being used. High dining tables scattered the house, with equally high chairs, padded with nice, velvet cushions. Even the stage had a fresh coat of black paint on it, and the curtains had been replaced in the last ten years, she noticed. This was home to her, she wondered why she left.

          “… Trixie?”

           Oh.

           In an instant, Trixie felt her stomach drop to the floor. Already? She thought. She faced the bar, and the voice that came from behind it.

           “Katya. Hey.” She said shortly. This was not good. Not good at all. She hadn’t mentally prepared herself for an encounter this early. She braced herself. She braced herself for the potential yelling, for a drink to be dumped on her head. Anything.

           But nothing came.

           “I didn’t think you’d come to the reunion. In fact, Ru didn’t even tell me you were invited.” Katya shifted her weight and cocked her hip out as she looked Trixie up and down.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Trixie, deciding it was probably okay to move towards Katya, inched her way over to the bar.

Katya shrugged. “Dunno. I’m just surprised you came.”

There was a pause and Trixie took their momentary lapse in conversation to give Katya the same scrutinizing eye. She was slim as ever, clad in a white and black checked dress. She couldn’t see her legs behind the bar, but Trixie would put money on those muscular thighs being clad in fishnets and high boots. Katya’s hair had grown, in fact, it looked like it hadn’t been cut in the last nine years. Long, blonde waves, darker at the roots that cascaded over her shoulders. It had lots of volume, and Trixie can’t remember a time Katya’s hair looked like it had so much effort put into it.

           “So,” Katya spoke up. “Can I get you a drink?” Trixie was pulled out of her daze, and back into the reality of her current situation. Her stomach flipped again.

           “Oh, uh, water would be nice.” Trixie sat down on one of the barstools and began to notice the place was practically empty. There were a few lowly looking men, scattered at tables, but that was it. Trixie’s brow creased, the place used to be packed. “So,” she began, watching Katya move about behind the counter. “How have you been?”

           “Fine.” Katya set the glass down firmly in front of Trixie and popped a straw in the top before going about cleaning up a little.

           “That’s good to hear.” Trixie nodded, fiddling with the straw and staring at it as if it was the most interesting thing in the room and not Katya.  

           Katya pursed her red-streaked lips. “You?”

           “No complaints.”

           “You still living in Wyoming?” Katya finally looked up from the impeccably clean shot glass she was wiping down.

           “Wisconsin.” Trixie corrected, finally deciding that her water deserved more than to just be played with and ogled at. She took a sip and cringed at the pink ring her lipstick left on the straw.

           “Mm.” Katya nodded slowly and tossed her rag beneath the counter, before folding her arms over her chest and gazing at Trixie coolly.

           Trixie shifted in her seat. “So, who’s all coming to this… thing? Our whole cast?”

           Katya looked down at her feet and back up again. “Uhm, Adore is flying in from Cali, I know. Violet still lives here and so does Kim.” Katya’s eyes roamed the room as she thought. “Plus, you, me, Bianca.” She paused. “We haven’t heard from Aja, yet. Oh, and Ginger is trying to get time off her rehearsals, so we’ll see.”

           “Alaska?”

           “No, I don’t think so. She hasn’t responded to anyone’s phone calls so…” Katya shrugged. “She’ll probably show up unannounced. She always like to make an entrance.”

           Trixie smiled at the thought. “Probably.”

           There was a beat of silence as the two ran out of things to say, yet again. Katya was fiddling with an end of her hair, and Trixie went back stirring her water.

           “How’s Ru? And Georges?” She knew perfectly well how they were.

           “Oh.” Katya smiled briefly, and Trixie got a glimpse at those perfect teeth. “They’re really good, still… really in love and… super gay.” Katya chuckled.

           “What about you? Still a lesbian?” Trixie regretted the words as soon as they passed her lips. Something passed over Katya’s face, an unidentifiable emotion and she crooked her lips and laughed.

           “Yeah, Trixie. I am.” Katya bit her lip. “Seeing anyone in Wyoming?”

           Trixie investigated her cup again. “Nah, no. Not a lot of pickings in Wisconsin.”

           “Not a lot of lesbians?” She mused.

           Trixie sucked in a breath and pretended she didn’t hear the question. “So why is Ru planning this little reunion performance?” She asked, her eyes elsewhere as she hoped Katya wouldn’t press the previous issue.

           Katya was silent for a moment. “A lot of us have moved on, Trix. We had good times, it’s been almost ten years and none of us even… text. Or follow each other on Instagram.” Katya shrugged. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

           “I wanted to.”

           “…Well, I’m glad you did.” Katya pursed her lips again, giving Trixie a hard gaze. Almost a challenge. She didn’t respond, and, instead, rapped her nails against the bar counter. Trixie felt bad. What was she supposed to say to that? She knows Katya’s implications, and she wasn’t a lesbian. So why entertain the idea that they could ever be anything more than friends? Or even that? Katya was the soul reason it was so hard for her to come back here. She could face nearly everything else, she really, really could. She could face the girls scolding her for just disappearing almost ten years ago, she could face Ru, despite never calling like she promised. But facing Katya, was a whole can of worms she was so unwilling to open.

         “Trixie?”

          “Hm?”

“Let me take you on a tour, for old times sake?” Katya offered, coming out from behind the bar.

           “Don’t you have to work?”

           Katya surveyed the restaurant with haughty smirk. “Oh, yeah, customers are fighting for my attention.” Trixie glimpsed at the house again. The same lowly guys were minding themselves at their tables, doing God knows what.

           “Yeah, that’s true.” Trixie responded with a laugh. “Yeah, okay, a quick tour.”

           “Great, cunt, let’s start in the office.” Katya grinned softly in that Katya fashion, and came out from behind the bar, untying her apron as she did. And lo and behold:

           Fishnets and high boots.

[olympianpandback]

May 15

You are reading this entry so late because we were in several “dead” zones the last few days in or near the National Park that Verizon has service in but not ATT and Wi-fi is not very good in most RV parks☹

We took a walk in the misty, cold, damp and foggy morning with new recruits doing their PT across the parade field from us at the National Guard training Facility we stayed at. Brought back good and not so good memories. The walk around the parade ground was about a mile then we headed for mount Saint Helens.  Most if not all of the visitor centers at the national parks in Washington State are closed. A ranger gave us some information as we entered the park. It's hard to describe the destruction in words or pictures. After 41 years there is minimal forest growth or landscape blow the eruption. Below the crater it's more grey dirt or earth than brown dirt. It's amazing how calm it looks now. You can see how at least 1/4 of the mountain is gone. As you know it didn't erupt upward, it erupted outward and blew out the side of the conical shape of the Volcano. It took most of the day to get to mount Saint Helens and back down to a campground. It wasn't the nicest campground we have been in but it wasn't the worst. May 16

We headed to Mount Rainier. I guess that since it was Saturday there was a 30 minute wait to get into the park at the ranger station. We then zoomed up to the part we could see which is about 10 miles into the park. The road ended at the Paradise visitors center and café. We got lucky an and found a decent parking spot to have lunch before we went to look around. People were taking their sleds, skis other things to go up on the snow pack which was pretty hard and probably icy. On the way down, we stopped at a waterfall but didn't go down to the base because the trail is 3' of snow. We saw people who were slipping and sliding down to the waterfall but we just took pictures from above. If you have seen one waterfall you’ve seen them all. It was another long day but not very tiring and we got to a campground in Centralia Washington around 5 o'clock. It was very nice and we decided to spend another night just to catch up. The weather was nice and the cooked out on the grill.

May 17

In the morning, we decided to go to Safeway for shopping to get some provisions and then go to a local park which was a fort back in the day to have lunch and look around. Here's the interesting part. After lunch we decided to go back to Safeway to get some coffee and beer which we had forgotten. Everything went well until I decided to back out of the parking spot. Cars were racing by in the parking lane to get a spot and I was concentrating on them and missed a small car on my right side in my convex mirror. Unfortunately, the RV didn't miss it and my running light on the right side scraped the kid’s rear door. All we lost was the cover for the light and he will get a new door probably from USAA. My head is usually on a swivel and my eyes are everywhere, especially in a parking lot, but I missed this one. I always told the girls that a parking lot is the most dangerous place to drive!

May 18

I got a new running light at AutoZone, and the kid will get his 2006 Chevy fixed. I would buff it out and keep the money baby. I walked him through the process with the USAA representative so he knew I wasn't going to cheat him and he was happy because it was his mother's car. Lesson learned. Keep your eyes, ears and nose working when your back out of tight parking space in a grocery parking lot. It's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. I just don't like to have accidents that are avoidable.  Hopefully we are paying for accident forgiveness. Our insurance won't go up for a year because we just paid a full year premium the 30th of April.

18 May

 We drove to Forks, Washington to a campground just outside town and in shouting distance of the Hoh Rain Forest. We got there fairly early and got a campsite close proximity to the bathrooms and the office. It was warm enough to grill some hot dogs for dinner and eat outside for a change. We knew it will be cold in the morning but we didn't know we it would be 39. We drove down to the Hoh Rain Forest (It’s the largest rain forest on North America) about 40 miles South of us to look around the area and walk on some of the trails.  We took a 30 minute walk along the 15 mile trail that goes all the way up to the glacier and then turned around. We saw a lot of interesting Flora and some elk scat in the trail. We were excited but wished we had been 15 minutes earlier because the elk was walking toward us right on the trail. We had lunch and decided to go on the Mossy trail which was allegedly closed. The night before we went to the Hoh Rain Forest we went across the road to another campground just to look around and talked to the owner. She remembered talking to me after I mentioned my name because we decided not to stay there because the bathrooms were closed. We had a good talk and we found out she was born in Calumet, Oklahoma. She had moved to Montana after high school and met her husband who had left his home in Bremerton, Washington to move to Montana. They got married and had 3 children and ended up moving back to Washington to take care of his ailing parents. Then they found an opportunity to buy some property near Forks and they developed a campground. They usually spend part of the year in Alaska where they have another Homestead. She said that he really goes up there to fish and hunt, but says he’s going to work on the house. She's OK with that and flies up to meet him once in a while. They hope to retire one day, buy a smaller RV like ours and travel around the country. We agreed to bring our RV over to show her the morning we left but when we got to the office, she was not there so we motored on. We called her to tell her what we that we came by but she was out on the property and sorry she missed us. She was interested in the tables I fashioned for RV that are very functional.  After our hour long walk in the forest, we decided to go on the Mossy trail.  We went backwards on the trail because at the beginning of the one-way trail sign some people came down the trail and said they were some elk in the woods 500' North of us. Having been somewhat a contrarian all my life, we decided to go for the Elk sighting opportunity backwards. We saw a few cows but no bulls. We went backwards on the trail and we ran into another couple who were going the wrong way on the trail.  We ended up having nice conversation with them for 20 or so minutes standing on the trail. John and Falaah had a lot of interesting information about what to do in Eastern Washington. They live in the Seattle area. It started raining so we headed back to the visitor center and it started hailing. Small but hail. When we got back to the parking lot we asked John and Falaah to join us for coffee as it was about 3 o'clock. We all got in the RV and warmed up and dried off while we had coffee and a bread with walnut and cranberries. We ended up having a 2 hour conversation about our travels and work experiences cetera. It was almost like we've known them all our lives.  We laughed and laughed and related a lot of great stories from both sides. We gave them both our cards and Falaah emailed us the next day saying how much they enjoyed the meeting and look forward to seeing us again in the future.

  May 20th

 We took an hour and a half drive eastward along the 101 to Port Angeles. We saw a couple of interesting things but really wanted to get to a campground. We picked one at random and found out it is excellent campground with a very friendly camp post named David. He told us we could have all the lettuce we wanted for our dinner from the garden in front of the office.  What a deal. We had planned to have macaroni with sausages so having a fresh salad was right up our alley. We booked a whale watching tour out of Port Townsend and a ferry ride over to the mainland on Sunday and Monday. We did take a short drive to a waterfall and to an area that the visitor center people told us to go see where the Elwha river meets the Straight of San Juan De Fuca and runs in to the ocean. It was interesting to see a river flow in straight to the shore which had waves lapping against it and the river ran into the waves. There were even surfers trying to ride the 3-4 foot waves. While getting ready for dinner, a lady walked by and waved at us so we talked to her. She said are you the LTV Van that waved to us as we were coming North and they were going South and I said yes. We great conversation about Leisure Travel Vans (RVs). They live in Denver not far from Concetta and Matt. They got a great deal on their LTV RV from someone who had bought it new, travelled for several months during the pandemic and just sold it at a greatly reduced price. They have ordered a brand new LTV that suits their needs and will make money on selling the used one they bought at a discount. Sound like something that would happen to me but not this time. Jan asked us to come see them when were in Denver to sit around the fire and tell some stories. We can't wait except for the fire were not good with smoke.

May 21

I went to the campground office to make sure they had charged our credit card for the second night. Chris, the owner of the campground said that David had booked us for the 19th and 20th not the 20th and 21st. There was someone who had reserved our spot a year ago starting today for a week so we had to move. She was so grateful I came in because someone could have booked the site she moved us in and we would have come back to a full campsite after sightseeing. The world works in mysterious ways. She is also interested in seeing our RV because they want to buy one like it when they retire.

[ashfaqqahmad]

Can religion be logical 7

Click here to read the previous part of this article

Theory of development of the embryo

Well now let’s get to the development of the embryo. According to Moore it was not possible for anyone to have this information at that time, but was it really right for Moore to think so? Use your brain here and think of ancient times, two thousand to five thousand years ago.

At that time, civilizations were flourishing in three formats – tribals living in forests, villagers doing agriculture and animal husbandry, and third, living in cities, who used to buy and sell food and other things necessary for sustenance.

In these cities, prostitution was an acceptable and respected occupation available for entertainment. Even the Bible mentions prostitution, according to the Mahabharata, there were thousands of prostitutes in Hastinapur. Cyprus, Sicily, Kingdom of Pontus, Cappadocia were the main centres of prostitution in Greek civilization.

How did humans start their journey on earth

In India, the nagarvadhus were prepared for this, in Nepal, there was a ritual for prostituting girls named deuki, in Jerusalem there used to be a temple for erotic activities, in Greek civilization, it was named as ’holy sex.’

When Pompeii, which was destroyed in Mount Vesuvius explosion 2000 years ago, was dug up in 1748, a brothel was also found with the city, with ten rooms and paintings depicting coitus. It is said that it started with the union of the king of Sumeria and the goddess of love Inanna in the Sumerian civilisation. Then sex was not a taboo in any civilization. Rati was the goddess of sex in India, whereas in Greek civilization Aphrodite was respected for it.

Most of the big cities were inhabited on the seaside, where outsiders used to come for business and these brothels strengthened the economy of the state. Now use your brain that the women who had chosen prostitution would not have gone to that profession for reproduction and the measures of contraception were also not prevalent at that time.

There were no contraceptive measures at that time

And whatever little were there were strange and dangerous. Egyptian documents show that one and a half thousand years ago, they used to fill crocodile faeces, honey, sodium bicarbonate solution to prevent the entry of sperm into the female vagina. In the medieval period, the ovary and a bone of the animal named Vezal were tied on the thigh of the woman. In China, they used to make a solution of lead and mercury in some way and used to drink it, which was life-threatening. In Greece, the woman was given the water in which the blacksmiths used to cool their tools.  

what possibilities are there in the universe outside our planet

Obviously, all these measures were dangerous, unsafe and uncertain so the women would get pregnant. Now if you think that medical practices were negligible at that time, then you are wrong. In the Indian territory and Unani system of medicine in Central Asia and Europe, Ayurveda is very old. In 2600 BC there was Imhotep in Egypt, whom Sir William Osler called the real father of medicine.

So when women used to conceive, measures were also taken to abort it. It is a matter of fact that even today, in rural society, many native methods of abortion are in vogue.  

Now bypassing Mr Moore, use your wisdom that if an embryo from a week to a foetus, three to four or five months is being aborted, would it not be noticed or seen by people (at least by the woman who is pregnant)?

When they stopped menstruating, could they not know about their pregnancy and then different stages of the foetus through abortion that it first takes a leech-like appearance and what forms it takes further?

If God is there then how can it be from the point of view of science

Apart from this, there is miscarriage which has been there as a normal process since the time of existence of women. Do you believe that before the eighth century there was no miscarriage and they were not aware of the different conditions of the foetus in the womb?

Understand these things in such a way that there were no flush toilets then, to flush away the foetus rather most people would go in the open for excretion or to throw such undeveloped (early stage) embryo. so it was nothing like unknown or unique that nobody knew before mentioned in the Quran in the eighth century.

It is worth noting here that the Quran itself asks to understand such things and does not claim these to be real. But ever since people like Zakir Naik have started finding science in religious books, such common things are also being proclaimed as a miracle.

Is it really a miracle that two oceans do not mix

Another miracle most talked about in the Quran is related to Surah Rahman‘s verses 19-20, referring to the meeting of two seas which do not mix with each other. This miracle has two categories – one is its state and the other is how this miracle on the ground was revealed.

First, understand the scientific reason for it not being mingled. This unique union happening at a very familiar place (propagated by Muslims) is the Gulf of Alaska, where cold, freshwater melts from the glaciers and meets the saltwater of the Pacific ocean. Now since the density, temperature, etc. of the water on both sides are different, they do not meet with each other and at its junction, the foam wall is formed.

The truth is that it does not occur in only place. In other places, where freshwater (clean) of the rivers comes into the saltwater of the sea, it maintains its own existence, but it happens on a small scale so it is not discussed. You can see it at the merging of Ganges and Yamuna. In Uttarakhand, you can see such scenes in many places. If you watch the Factomania program on BBC Earth, then you can also do such experiments at home. The other truth is that this combination is not permanent and gradually the water melts.

This occurs due to the different densities of water

This happens because of the density of water and you can take an example of the Dead Sea between Jordan and Israel where the density of water is so high that you can never drown in it. Since it is natural and the believers believe that nature is created by God, then they can say that God did it. Else there is nothing like a miracle in it and if it is a miracle then everything associated with nature is a miracle and every invention is a miracle.

what are the possibilities for new writers

Now come to another aspect that how this incident was recorded in the Quran? How the writer came to know and about it? For this, you have to go back to the past again.

Stories of mystery and adventure have always been the centre of human interest. Today, we can see ‘Pirates of the Caribbean‘, ‘Mysterious Island‘, ‘Gulliver‘ type films made on those sea voyages, but in earlier times all these stories were written and people would read them with great enthusiasm. ’Gulliver’ and ‘Sindbad‘ are perfect examples of this.  

If you are above forty, you must be remembering the stories you heard from your grandmother in your childhood, because then there were limited means of entertainment and storytelling was an ancient and important art, which has been going on since the early days of civilization.

Storytelling was a common art in those days  

It was the practice of this storytelling that created the folk tails, the most important of which were the stories of the ships. You can take Sindbad the sailor as an example. In those times, when there were very limited means of entertainment, people who had long sea voyages by ships were full of hundreds of stories. Some of which were based on their imagination (Arabian Nights type), some on personal experiences and some might be folk tales of other countries or simply, the exchange of cultures.

How to write a book in Microsoft word  

They used to narrate those stories in gatherings, in taverns, in hotels and in private get-togethers and thus the stories from distant countries, seas and islands used to reach people. Nine and a half hundred years before Christ, there were some harbour cities in Israel which were established by King Solomon’s (Sulayman), due to which they had commercial contacts with a large terrain.

So there can be two kinds of possibilities. First, a sailor might have seen this sight and then described it to others, other that it is not even mandatory in the context of the Gulf of Alaska, might have been seen elsewhere.

Along with this, there is a fact that Muhammed saheb had gone with his uncle to Sham (Syria) in his childhood, for business and in Sham also, harbour cities were the main trading centre. Do the rest calculation by yourself.

Click here to read the next part of this article

इस लेख को हिंदी में पढ़ने के लिये यहाँ क्लिक करें

[theartificialdane]

Galactica, part 236

In this we celebrate Thanksgiving from New Orleans to Long Island, and some have a jollier holiday than others!

Thank you @veronicasanders @toriibelledarling and @samrull for all of your amazing help and support <3

“Not too late to back out,” Bianca said, as their car service pulled up to her parents’ house outside New Orleans.

“It sort of feels like it’s too late…” Courtney answered.

“Nahh…” Bianca slipped a hand around her waist, pulling her close. “We can be at the Ritz in 25 minutes...room service...a fireplace…” Bianca kissed her neck as the driver unloaded their luggage.

Courtney rolled her eyes. “Let’s call that Plan B.”

Bianca grinned and let Courtney drag her out of the car. She held her hand, leading her up the walk, pausing for a second to say, “Brace yourself,” as she pushed open the door.

Courtney’s stomach was in knots. She had met a few of their family members before while she and Adore were in college, but this was different. She didn’t know whether it was good or bad that Adore wasn’t here - she’d chosen to spend the holiday with Alaska’s family in Pennsylvania. On the one hand, she’d have been another ally, but on the other hand, it may not help her cause for everyone to have a constant visual reminder that she’d started out as their baby sister’s best friend and was now dating their oldest sibling. She had a moment of panic when, swept up by a flurry of siblings and nieces and nephews and cousins, Bianca dropped her hand.

“Courtney! You look great, how’s it going?”

Courtney turned gratefully towards the familiar voice, giving Eddy a hug. “Hi! Thanks, how are you?”

“Pretty good, no complaints.”

“Congratulations, I hear you and Rose got engaged last week!”

“Yeah, well...you know, I finally accepted that you would never return my love, so…”

Courtney laughed, shaking her head. “Please stop, you’re gonna get us both in trouble.”

“Baby!” Bianca wrapped an arm around her, pulling her away from Eddy. “Jesus Christ, I thought I’d never find you again. Come meet my sisters.”

Vanessa and Liz were polite, if slightly icy, looking Courtney up and down. “It’s lovely to meet you,” Vanessa said.

“That’s a cute dress, reminds me of that designer B’s friends with...what’s her name, Bianca?” Liz asked pointedly.

“Her name is Miss Fame, and that dress is Marc Jacobs. You nothing literally nothing about fashion,” Bianca replied, then turned to one of her cousin’s kids. “Chloe! Hi, pumpkin! How’s school?”

Courtney forced a sunny smile. “I don’t know the designers either. I just liked the print.”

“Right,” Liz said, with a slight eye roll.

“So Courtney, my daughter really likes your album,” Vanessa added. “I told her she had to wait a few years to watch the videos, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t listen.”

Courtney’s cheeks reddened a little. “Sorry.”

“I mean, it’s not your fault. They’re just a little racy for a seven year old. Hey, Maddie!” She beckoned her daughter over to them.

“Yeah…” Courtney cleared her throat as a girl with dimples and dark curled bounced over, hugging Bianca around the waist and looking up at her shyly.

Bianca lifted the seven year old off the ground.

“You’re Courtney, right?” she asked shyly.

“Hi, yeah, you must be Madison.”

The little girl’s eyes widened. “How do you know my name?”

“Well, I mean, I follow your mother on Instagram. So I get to see pictures of you all the time.”

“You /do/?”

“Yeah, I think your dog is really cute.” Courtney smiled, relieved to have someone else on her side, even a seven year old.

“I think YOUR dog is really cute! Oh my gosh, can they be friends?”

“Kylie would love that!”

Madison grinned. “Wanna see my American Girl Doll?”

“Definitely.” Courtney allowed the small child to lead her by the hand into the other room, thrilled to be stepping away from the mayhem.

***

“Sit still little man.” Katya smiled as she took a step back to admire her handywork.

Ivan was all dressed up, his chubby little cheeks red and his blonde hair water combed. Katya had bought his blue dress shirt and pants so he could match his daddy, Katya herself wearing the blue sky dress Trixie had made for her so many years back after she got out of rehab. Katya knew she should properly connect the dress to something sad, her time in upstate New York at the rehab clinic one of the hardest things she had ever had to do, her family abandoning her and the memories of the kind brown eyed man keeping her up at night as she had twisted and turned, but she didn’t. It had been made for her by a man that loved her, and she was going to wear it to every joyous occasion she could, and the first thanksgiving with her son was definitely just that.

Katya reached over and picked Ivan up, the little boy smiling his cute mostly toothless smile filling her with joy as he grabbed her hair. Katya laughed, gently freeing her blonde locks from her son’s grib.

“Let’s go show daddy how cute you are, huh?”

“Dada!”

“That’s right little man.” Katya kissed Ivan’s head and made her way towards the kitchen where Trixie was cooking up a feast with the help of Laila and Pearl.

***

“Apa kebar, are you sure I’m saying it right?”

“You’re saying it perfectly lovely eyes.” Sutan smiled as he walked up the steps to his mother's little yellow house, Violet’s hand in his, his girlfriend holding Frida’s leash and the small box that contained her gift to his mother. Sutan had tried to tell Violet time and time again that she didn’t have to bring anything for his mom, but his girlfriend still insisted every time, just like she stumbled through the greeting ritual of his culture, her words clumsy but her intend so clear you couldn’t do anything but love her.

Violet nodded, and Sutan reached out to ring the doorbell, his mom opening the door, a big smile on her face as she hugged them, Sutan getting kisses and warnings that he was getting too thin, Frida even treated to a gentle pet as his mom accepted Violet’s gift of a simple, but beautiful vintage headscarf in a pale yellow with a kiss to Violet’s cheek as well.

“Com in com in.” Mani stepped aside, letting the couple and their dog step inside. “Dinner almost done, eveyone in livingoom.” Mani opened the door, Raja and Raven already on the couch.

“Fame, what are you doing here?”

Sutan was so surprised to see his friend sitting in the armchair by the fire, that he didn’t see Violet’s face at all, his girlfriend's eyes widening in horror when she realised that it was indeed her boss, none other than Miss Fame herself, that was in the living room, her gigantic Great Dane napping on the carpet, the three woman playing cards while they waited for dinner.

***

‘’Can everyone go home already? My head hurts.” Betty was draped over the couch, her arm over her forehead in a dramatic gesture.

“Kitty, hate to break it to you, but they’re not here yet.” Shane set some more plates on the table, preparing for the Thanksgiving dinner they were hosting for members of Bach Street Boys with their plus ones. Ruby had nearly suffocated Shane in a hug earlier when he told her that of course she can bring Max, no question about it.

The turkey was still in the oven, but mashes potatoes were already ready, along with gravy, cranberry sauce and an array of other delicious dishes they spend the entire morning making (Or, Shane did. Betty helped cut some vegetables until she announced her cold was getting better of her and she settled on the couch, downing her cold medicine with half a bottle of wine). She was currently half-sick, half-drunk and fully in an awful mood.

“What do you mean they’re not here? Are you making that much noise all by yourself? Ugh.”

At that exact moment, the doorbell rang and Shane hurried to the door to let in Raga and his girlfriend Evah, who carried a tray of pumpkin pie.

“Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Are we first? I brought Ruby the cutest skirt from Japan, I swear she is going to /die/ when she tries it on. Is she really bringing that mysterious boyfriend of hers? Hey, Shane. Long time no see.”

“How was Japan, Evah?” Shane asked as the blue-haired girl climbed to her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

“Amazing as always. I brought stuff for you guys too, so no worries. Where’s Betty? Take this to the kitchen, will you, babe?” Evah practically shoved the tray of pie into Raga’s arms and pranced into the living room, leaving the men behind in the hallway.

“Must’ve missed her a lot, huh?” asked Shane, a little sarcastically. Evah was Raga’s high school sweetheart, a rising star of the e-sport community who made money hosting gaming livestreams. She was very into Japanese fashion and pop culture. Somehow Betty has learned the word ”weeaboo” and rarely called Evah anything else since.                                                                          

“House was quiet without her,” shrugged Raga, handing Shane the pie.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Betty craved death. Even though her fever went down slightly from the meds, her throat was in flames, her head ready to burst open and she also felt nauseous and dizzy from the wine. Evah was showing her photos from the convention in Tokyo she went on, but Betty could barely see anything because of her watery eyes.

“You know how many makeup Youtubers want to collab with me all of a sudden? I only do cosplay makeup, it’s a whole different world, you know? Bets, you okay? You don’t seem well.”

“Yeah, no shit. I’m dying.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear about that. Maybe I’ll go help the boys in the kitchen then?” Evah awkwardly patted Betty’s arm, a gesture Betty completely ignored, and bounced away to the kitchen, her frilly skirt dancing in the air the last thing Betty saw before her eyelids closed.

The next time she opened her eyes, a freakishly tall man dressed in all black was standing right above her, pointing at something. ‘’Sorry, but what the hell is this?’’

“Max, come on. It’s Betty. She’s a little sick, obviously not her best day, give her a break,” winked Ruby from the table, raising a glass Betty’s way with a brilliant smile, visibly way too proud of her joke.

“Can everybody please fuck the fuck off?” Betty whined, grabbing the nearest blanket  and wrapping it around her arms.

“Not really, you invited us, remember?”

“Ugh. I guess.” There was a loud noise and a curse coming from the kitchen which Betty ignored, instead opting for getting up and making her way to join everybody by the table. The cold meds made her hungry.

“That doesn’t answer my question. What the hell is that… statue? Is it like a statement? Does it… mean anything?” Max pointed at the Poseidon statue by the window. It was wearing a scarf wrapped around its head like a turban and was as ugly as ever.

Raga raised his head from a half-finished serving of mashed potatoes and snorted. “That’s Shane’s best friend.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I think he loves that ugly thing more than he loves me.”

Shane was in the kitchen making noise, unable to confirm nor deny the statement. With a shrug, Betty reached for a bottle of red wine that stood alone in the middle of the table, but when she felt a coming coughing fit, she wasn’t able to do anything to stop it. She knocked the bottle over, the wine immediately spilling all over the table and onto Ruby, who was closest, staining her cream white skirt. Ruby jumped to her own salvation, knocking over some glasses and screaming, and caused Evah to cry out, “What the fuck, Ruby, you stepped on my foot!” The guys tried to save the situation but they only managed to make it worse, flailing around. Betty slowly but surely moved away from the table and she was the first to notice Shane in the doorway, defeated, black smudges on his face and white t-shirt.

“Guys?” Nobody heard him. “GUYS!” he screamed.

All the heads turned towards Shane.

“What?”

“I burned the turkey.”

***

Courtney walked down the hall, trying to find her way back to the living room through the maze of the Del Rio’s house, when she paused, hearing her name. One of Bianca’s sisters was chatting with someone, probably a cousin. She stopped to listen.

“...well yeah, it’s just, she’s never taken anyone home before so, you know, I always figured Bianca was holding out for someone, like...I don’t know…”

“I get what you’re saying. She’s like, sweet, but it’s a bit anticlimactic. Liz keeps calling her a gold digger, but that’s not really the vibe I get. It’s more...just...I don’t know…”

“Right? I’m not trying to be mean but I sort of expected B to bring home a supermodel who happened to be a nobel prize winner.”

Courtney closed her eyes, having heard enough, and walked quickly back to their room.

COURTNEY: Your family hates me

ADORE: Yeah, well, they hate everyone. Why do you think I never go home? Did they try to put you in a mental institution?

COURTNEY: No

ADORE: OK so what are you complaining about?

COURTNEY: lol

ADORE: Eddy loves you

COURTNEY: Yeah. We’re BFFs. He was totally my type, when I dated guys. Except he appears to have a moral compass, so...maybe not

ADORE: HA! I’m telling him you said that.

COURTNEY: OMG DON’T YOU DARE I’M ON THIN ICE AS IT IS

“Hey! There you are!” Bianca walked into the bedroom, wrapping her arms around Courtney’s waist.

“Hi, sorry.”

“We’re about to sit down for dinner. I have to warn you...they promised they would make vegan-friendly stuff but my mom just said ‘vegans can eat eggs, right?’ So I can’t really promise that this food is safe.”

“Oh, that’s...that’s alright. I’ll just eat vegetables.”

“I mean, right, but you know you’re in the South. So we count mac and cheese as a vegetable.”

“Well, that’s insane.” Courtney hugged Bianca around the waist and laid a head on her shoulder. “I guess it’s a cheat day?”

“I guess so. Sorry, baby.”

***

“Mmh.. You’re such a good kisser.” Katya smiled, her and Trixie were on the bed, Trixie on top of her, his weight comfortable, her hand in his hair, his shirt open, Trixies soft, plump lips between her own. Katya had taken one look at her husband in his pink Thanksgiving shirt, and she had jumped his bones straight away.

“My sweet bo-” In that moment, Katya realised that the sour smell in the air wasn’t Ivan’s diaper, but rather a very different unpleasant smell. “Is something burning?”

“Oh fuck, the pie!” Trixie sprung up like a pig that had been bitten, racing to the kitchen, a surprised scream coming from outside their room.

“Dude! No! Keep your man boobs in your room!”

“Sorry!”

Katya laughed, the holiday peace truly settling over the little home on the Upper East Side.

***

“We’re flying flowers in from Fiji, they look /amazing/, I can’t wait for all of you to see it at the rehearsal dinner.”

Violet smiled to herself, Raven had been talking about her wedding all through dinner, the woman so excited about the party that she was practically vibrating out of her skin, every conversation with her somehow ending up on the subject.

“Vey nice, vey nice.” Mani stood up, the old woman reaching out to take the dishes, but Violet quickly jumped in. “Let me.”

“You good gil Violet, you vey good gil.” Violet blushed slightly, still proud of the fact that Sutan’s mom liked her so much.

“You’re welcome.” Violet picked up the pitcher of water and the wine glasses before she left the room, Mani and Raven staying behind, but as Violet walked out into the hallway she saw that the door to the backyard was open. Violet felt her heart drop, sure that Frida had somehow gotten out but when she got there she saw Sutan, Raja and Fame all standing together, the three of them passing around what looked like a cigarette. Violet could hear Raja and Sutan laughing together and the low voices of the group chatting. Violet turned around, ready to go to the kitchen Frida that had left the living room came bolting down the hall, the little dog smelling the night air.

“Frida! Frida no!” Violet ran after Frida, not knowing if the gate in the yard was open as she bursted out through the door. “Frida!” Violet grabbed the little dog, the pitcher in her hand emptying out on the grass, the water splashing and hitting Fame’s pants.

“Violet!” Violet looked up, her eyes wide as Fame raised her voice. “What do you think you’re doing-”

“I’m sorry Miss.”

“I don’t care about your excuses!” Fame’s tone was sharp, and Violet felt her stomach clench as she stood up, the pitcher on the ground, Frida in one hand, the stack of plates in the other, Raja and Sutan starring at both of them. “Have you hit your head? When did you become incapable of doing the simple task of not spilling like a toddler? Are you a toddler Violet?”

Violet was just about to respond when she was interrupted.

“Hey, Fame, I know you showed a giant stick up your ass when Patrick left you, but don’t be a fucking bitch okay? Nothing happened and Violet didn’t do it on purpose.”

Violet could see Fame’s chok, the woman’s eyes wide at the way Sutan had just spoken to her, but Violet turned her back, escaping before she could hear Fame’s respons. She knew she should be happy that Sutan was standing up for her, but it just felt humiliating. Like he didn’t trust her to stand up to herself. Violet could hear the talk in the garden pick back up again, Raja clearly mending the situation, all three of them soon laughing together like the old friends they were.

“Eveyone! Time for pie and TV! You come watch movie with Mani.”

“Yes mom!”

***

“Bianca,” Liz defended herself with an eyeroll, arm around her older sister. “I’m not saying it to be a bitch.”

“Right, I know, you being a bitch is just a fun side effect.” Bianca sipped her wine, rolling her eyes.

“I’m trying to look out for you! Look, I’m sure everything is just sunshine and rainbows right now, but really think about this...do you think this girl, this 22 year old, would be with you if you didn’t have money?”

“Well, I don’t know, Liz, I mean, if I didn’t have money...what would I be doing? Like actually no money? I don’t really think she’d be with a homeless person, if that’s what you’re asking, so...what’s your fucking point, exactly?”

“My point, B, is that this girl is clearly playing you. How long into your relationship did she get a recording contract? And now she’s on Housewives? Adore said she was only ever with guys before, and then she meets you, and all of a sudden, she’s a lesbian, overnight? Because of someone old enough to be her mother? More like she saw dollar signs--”

Bianca stood up. “Okay, you’re done now. Thanks for the advice, now you can shut your fucking mouth.”

“Bianca!” Aida exclaimed, passing by her daughters, collecting empty plates. “Watch your language, there are children here.”

“Tell Liz to stay out of my goddamn relationship,” Bianca said angrily, “Or I swear, we’re leaving right now! I am not staying and listening to this bullshit about my girlfriend being a gold digger. Fuck you, Liz--”

“Mija, mija, please…” Aida soothed, putting an arm around Bianca’s waist and a hand on Liz’s shoulder. “Elizabeth, why are you antagonizing your sister?”

“I’m NOT! I’m just trying to help her!”

“No, actually, you’re just being a CUNT--”

“Bianca! Stop!” Aida cried. “You know she’s just projecting because of her divorce, honey.”

“Mom!” Liz said, offended.

“Well, sorry, mija, but you’ve been very bitter. Courtney’s a nice girl.”

“Thank you!”

“I mean, she’s too young for you, but that’s not her fault.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Bianca threw up her hands.

***

“Oh god I want to die.” Pearl groaned. She was laying on her side, her stomach growling with all the food she had eaten, the top she was wearing almost painfully tight but she couldn’t phantom getting up to change,

“That’s what happens when you have four helpings of green bean casserole.” Pearl opened an eye to see Laila stand at the edge of the bed, her girlfriend in a band t-shirt and panties, her short legs on full display and if Pearl could have felt hungry in any way she would have fucked Laila into next week.

“You’re not being a very good girlfriend right now…” Pearl knew she was pouting, but it didn’t matter when Laila laughed and got underneath the covers with her, her girlfriend pulling her into a hug

***

Bianca climbed into the bed, wrapping Courtney into an embrace, sucking gently on her neck. “Hi,” she murmured, caressing the skin of her waist.

“Hi yourself…”

Bianca’s hands continued to wander, and her kisses grew heated. She let out a whimpery sigh, tangling their legs together.

Courtney shifted, hands stroking her back, looking up at her with an amused expression. “Seriously?” she whispered. “Are you really trying to have sex right now? There’s like 40 people in this house…”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a very stressful day.”

“No shit. I’m fucking exhausted, B.”

“Please, baby, I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” Bianca wheedled softly, fingertips trailing down her arms.

Courtney closed her eyes. “That’s all I need, for your family to think I’m a nympho in addition to being a gold digger.”

Bianca laughed. “You can bite on a pillow.”

“B…”

“Do you remember Thanksgiving last year?” Bianca breathed into her ear.

Courtney bit her lip, suddenly bombarded with the sense memory of their first kiss, the surprising softness of Bianca’s plush lips, the pressure of her full hips against the kitchen sink, the shivers that raced through her body, the nervous anticipation, the feeling that her whole world was about to shift. If only she knew just how much…

Bianca cupped Courtney’s face in her hand, a thumb tracing her lips in the same gentle way she’d done a year ago, voice an urgent whisper. “I’d never wanted anyone more in my entire life, than the way I wanted you.” Her hips began to roll, pressing Courtney into the mattress.

“Bianca…”

“Did you? Did you want me too?”

A whimper escaped Courtney’s lips as she arched up against Bianca’s body, gripping her ass. “You know I did. So, so much…still do...”

Bianca nibbled a trail down her collarbone, hands sliding under her top. “Let me give you what you need, baby…what we both need...”

“Yes…” Courtney replied, breathless, succumbing to the desire that flooded through her. She closed her eyes, realizing that she’d once again been betrayed by her body, by her weakness for Bianca’s touch.

[biofunmy]

Rich in Surprises and Secrets, There’s a State Park Waiting for You

On a cold and damp Iowa evening last October, I sat in a tent and thought about Abraham Lincoln. More precisely, I thought about Lincoln signing a minor piece of legislation deeding the Yosemite Valley to the state of California. It happened in 1864, while the Civil War raged.

It is important because of just a few words. California was given ownership of Yosemite on the condition that the land “be held for public use, resort, and recreation.” This was the official approval of a remarkable and radical idea: Everyone should have access to nature. It led to our ecosystem of national and state parks, wilderness areas and nature preserves — all generally committed to providing this access.

And it came at a time when President Lincoln presumably had a lot on his mind. Did he realize his signature would transform America’s relationship with nature?

That October night, I was camping in Iowa’s Waubonsie State Park, just one park among the many thousands now scattered across the United States. It was near the tail end of a yearlong mission to visit as many state parks as possible. (Final tally: 53.) This article, the second on state parks, focuses on those I visited in the western part of the country.

Waubonsie is a small state park in the southwestern corner of Iowa, near Nebraska, Kansas and Missouri. I didn’t know anything about it, except for reviews saying it was a good place for a picnic. I figured it’d be a few lonely trees surrounded by corn. What I found truly astounded me, and emphasized what I love most about state parks: You never know what you are going to find.

In this 1,990-acre state park, I found an ancient forest on a plateau, an island of mysterious trees in the middle of a vast agricultural region. A secret in plain sight. Waubonsie, as it turns out, is the result of glaciers melting and rushing down the nearby Missouri River. Silt from these glaciers has piled up in mounds large enough to become their own landforms, here called the Loess Hills. There are only two places in the world where this topography exists: the region where I was camping, and the Yellow River valley in China.

Driving into Waubonsie was like entering a hidden kingdom. Tall oak trees, their leaves gold and green in the fading sun, lined the main road. Trails circled along steep gorges thick with birds flitting in a temperate jungle environment. Mist curled along the tree line, and in the eerie stillness I felt the presence of something ancient. In a mad rush to investigate further, I bolted down a dinner of potato chips and cold coffee, pitched my tent, and spent the next two hours hiking through this fantasy of forested badlands. Every so often I came across hiking shelters built in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps that looked like giant mushrooms.

Back in the tent, I found a shivering mosquito that hitched a ride from my previous night’s stop in Bentsen Rio Grande State Park in South Texas. Rain pattered against the thin blue fabric of the tent, steady and soothing like a heartbeat. I sat there, truly content, grateful for places like Waubonsie, where I could bound through secret forests and pay only $6 for the privilege of a night’s rest within its boundaries.

When I left the next morning, I drove down a state road and within minutes, I was back in the fields. I had to stop the car and look back at the forested gorges above me, just to make sure it wasn’t all a weird dream.

The fan base grows

Not all state parks came out of nowhere like Waubonsie, but they are all rich with surprises, secrets and authenticity. Generally, they were off the beaten track, which made them all the more interesting. This was certainly the case in the first half of 2018, when I visited Eastern state parks.

Another part of their intrigue is that state parks come in all shapes and sizes. They don’t have that much in common, which makes a visit unpredictable. However, according to Linda Lanterman, president of the National Association of State Park Directors and director of Kansas State Parks, one common feature is their presence near our homes. “Not everyone is fortunate to go to a national park,” she said. “Not everyone can take a week off. That’s what makes the state park system so unique. It’s close to home and close to nature.” Ms. Lanterman said state parks generally are popular, and the number of visitors is rising. In 2002, total attendance at state parks was 758 million people. By 2017, that number had risen to 807 million.

In the second half of the year, as I headed west, I was curious about the state parks near our best-known national parks. If you’re fortunate enough to live next to a national park, do you still go to a state park? Two of my test cases, Bannack State Park in Montana and Harriman State Park in Idaho, are within 100 miles as the crow flies from Yellowstone National Park. As it turns out, both are well loved and popular, but in their own way.

Due west of Yellowstone, Bannack is one part idyllic campground alongside a river, two parts ghost town. It thrived in the 19th century as the site of a gold rush as well as Montana’s first territorial capital, but when the 20th century came around, it fell into a long, slow decline. Today, “Bannack is the best preserved of all Montana ghost towns,” according to the Montana State Parks website.

When my friend Chris and I arrived this past September, Bannack was a very busy ghost town. State park rangers conferred with arriving pickup trucks and pointed out places to set up. They were preparing for a four-day living history event, during which historical re-enactors would occupy the abandoned, one-street town and pretend it was 1862. Schoolchildren from the area were bused in and the town was filled with tourists watching re-enactors performing at the blacksmith camp, saloon, boardinghouse, butcher shop, school and church.

Bannack’s buildings are maintained in a state of “arrested decay,” meaning they are prevented from deteriorating further, but are not improved in any way. It provided an unusual, still-life view of the town. Grass covered a low-slung rectangular jail. Insulation was cardboard packing boxes, a testament to the area’s cold isolation. The entire short history of Bannack lay in front of us, from the raw log cabins on the outskirts of town to the cracked linoleum floors of the last occupied houses. Bannack’s last inhabitant left in the 1970s.

Just outside town lies the campground, where we spent the night. It occupies a small area alongside a creek, nothing more than a few curlicues of fire rings and grass protected by towering cottonwood trees. We gathered next to the fire as evening drew to a close, listening to the wind through the trees, the gurgle of the creek, and our campground neighbors reading books to each other.

The Bannack campground was like so many I had been to during my year of visiting state parks. There was the crackle of wood in the fire, distant voices in the background, the sounds of nature and a palpable absence of stress. Chris and I huddled next to the flames and talked about everything and anything, what will never be, what just was. The creek rushed past, the stars shone, and I felt whole.

A night in a yurt

The next day we drove to Harriman State Park in Idaho. Before it was given to the state, it was a working cattle ranch and retreat owned by the Harriman and Guggenheim families. The centerpiece is a series of ranch buildings alongside Henrys Fork, a tributary of the Snake River. When we visited, it echoed with the cheers and yells of a high school cross-country meet. During the winter, trails are groomed for skate and classic cross-country skiing, snowshoeing and fat bikes.

I hiked through a sprawling meadow that spanned both sides of the river. Birds darted through the tall grass and the sounds of the cross-country meet slowly fell away until all I heard was the wind and the water. I was excited to spot sandhill cranes, but later Chris’s telephoto lens revealed they were actually pelicans. Oh, well. We still had a comfortable night’s rest in one of Harriman’s yurts. According to parents at the cross-country meet, the yurts are a favorite spot for local residents to spend the weekend.

Over the year, many people happily described to me their relationships with local state parks, whether it was a winter weekend in a Harriman yurt or Chicago friends reminiscing about their first time camping in Midwest state parks. These places are often beloved by nearby communities. This was the case even in a city surrounded by internationally renowned wilderness: Alaska’s capital, Juneau.

With Glacier Bay National Park and the Tongass National Forest as neighbors, Juneau is a favored destination for cruise ships and adventure tourists alike. But it is also a city of 32,000 people, and nearby state parks cater to them. Among the most prominent is Point Bridget State Park, an expanse of 2,850 acres about 40 miles from Juneau, near the terminus of the city’s road system. According to the Alaska State Parks website, Point Bridget was founded in 1988, the result of a push by the citizens of Juneau “to have a state park for the state capitol.”

The park is a mix of temperate rain forest and meadow along a stretch of Lynn Canal coastline, the deepest fjord in North America. After parking near the entrance early one morning, Chris and I hiked through muskeg and then into a field of fireweed rising to an immense vista: miles of coastline, a fierce wind, and mountains ringing the horizon.

We passed by affable hikers who spoke of “brownie” sightings; a weirdly cute way of referring to grizzly bears. Soon we were at our destination, a basic cabin called Blue Mussel within a stone’s throw of the seashore. It was well loved, judging by the painted signs, rocks and seashells in the vicinity. Even in mid-September, well into autumn this far north, reservations had been difficult to get.

The cabin was small and simple: sleeping loft, a table and benches, big windows and a bunch of leftover spices. Down at the shoreline, I clambered over mussel-encrusted rocks, dodged the lapping of tidewater and followed the arc of bald eagles overhead. It was so peaceful and wonderful that even my inner thoughts quieted down. When I turned to face Blue Mussel, darkness was falling and the cabin’s bright lantern in the window shone ever brighter, like a benevolent gaze.

The next day we visited another Juneau-area state park, a string of islands in Lynn Canal called the Channel Islands State Marine Park. These 14 mostly uninhabited islands are about 25 miles northwest of Juneau and can be reached by floatplane or boat. They get a lot of Juneau area picnickers in the summertime, especially since they can be reached with small watercraft. We motored over to Aaron Island, a small thumbtack of wilderness surrounded by water. There was a nice sand beach, a campfire ring, thick forest and a rope dangling from a Sitka spruce. Immediately I became 8 years old and ran over. I challenge you to find anything more wonderful than an unexpected rope swing.

In Hawaii, a relaxed vibe

Even farther west, in Hawaii, I didn’t find any rope swings. Still, it’s no slouch when it comes to recreation. Hawaii state parks drew a mix of people, but judging from the many conversations about being off from work, visitors were mainly local. The beach at Kekaha Kai was perfect and the banyan tree at Wailuku River could have been the setting of a Guillermo del Toro movie, but Mahukona State Park was my favorite.

It was rough around the edges; posted signs warned against abandoning animals and there was a fair amount of broken concrete. But the relaxed, Friday evening vibe was amazing. People sat on old lawn chairs along the break wall and shared food from their grills. The backdrop was untamed vegetation, a rusted dock and railroad tracks. A faucet jutting out of a wall served as the communal shower.

Plus, the snorkeling was the best of my time in Hawaii. I swam into a small but deep bay, dove underwater and glided through hundreds of yellow triggerfish. They scattered like windblown leaves in the peak of fall color. In the distance I saw shadows of larger fish, but didn’t dare seek them out. Afterward, I spoke with the regulars who sat in their lawn chairs and gripped beer in foam cozies. They talked about watching whales just offshore in the winter.

In December, the winter of my state park year, I cheated and visited Yosemite National Park. I had been thinking about it for a long time, and my rationale was simple: it’s originally a state park. In fact, after Lincoln deeded Yosemite to California, it was America’s first state park, until California messed everything up and it was transferred back to federal control, becoming a national park in 1890.

Of course, Yosemite was amazing. I pitched my tent in Camp 4, the traditional hub of climbing in the park and one of only a few campgrounds listed on the National Register of Historic Places. I hiked for miles through the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias. Like the hordes of tourists before me, I took pictures of the massive trees and wondered why I couldn’t ever capture their grandeur.

I was thrilled to visit Yosemite, but it’s not like it was a surprise. After all, it’s the default picture on my laptop. But I am grateful for its ability to move people to do great things. The tag team of Yosemite and Abraham Lincoln led to pockets of wilderness springing up everywhere across the United States; places where we jump into hidden coves, discover primeval forests in the middle of cornfields, and come upon a rope swing on a deserted island. I will never visit all 8,565 state parks, but that’s O.K. Each one I visit will be a gift.

Peter Kujawinski is a Chicago-based writer. He wrote the first article in this series, “Wherever You Are, There’s a State Park Nearby.” His latest book is the middle grade novel “Edgeland.”

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When Twenty-Six Thousand Stinkbugs Invade Your Home

By Kathryn Schulz, The New Yorker, March 12, 2018 Issue

One October night a few years back, Pam Stone was downstairs watching television with her partner, Paul Zimmerman, when it struck her that their house was unusually cold. Stone and Zimmerman live just outside Landrum, South Carolina, in an A-frame cabin; upstairs in their bedroom, French doors lead out to a raised deck. That week, autumn had finally descended on the Carolinas, killing off the mosquitoes and sending nighttime temperatures plummeting, and the previous evening the couple had opened those doors a crack to take advantage of the cool air. Now, sitting in front of the TV, Stone suddenly realized that she’d left them open and went up to close them.

Zimmerman was still downstairs when he heard her scream. He sprinted up to join her, and the two of them stood in the doorway, aghast. Their bedroom walls were crawling with insects--not dozens of them but hundreds upon hundreds. Stone knew what they were, because she’d seen a few around the house earlier that year and eventually posted a picture of one on Facebook and asked what it was. That’s a stinkbug, a chorus of people had told her--specifically, a brown marmorated stinkbug. Huh, Stone had thought at the time. Never heard of them. Now they were covering every visible surface of her bedroom.

“It was like a horror movie,” Stone recalled. She and Zimmerman fetched two brooms and started sweeping down the walls. Pre-stinkbug crisis, the couple had been unwinding after work (she is an actress, comedian, and horse trainer; he is a horticulturist), and were notably underdressed, in tank tops and boxers, for undertaking a full-scale extermination. The stinkbugs, attracted to warmth, kept thwacking into their bodies as they worked. Stone and Zimmerman didn’t dare kill them--the stink for which stinkbugs are named is released when you crush them--so they periodically threw the accumulated heaps back outside, only to realize that, every time they opened the doors to do so, more stinkbugs flew in. It took them forty-five minutes to clean the place, at which point, exhausted, they dropped into bed and switched off the lights.

Moments later, something went barrelling across the room, sounding, as stinkbugs do, like an angry and overweight wasp. The couple jumped up and turned the lights back on. Looking for the stray bug, Stone pulled a painting off the wall and turned it around; dozens of stinkbugs covered the back. She opened a drawer of the dresser: dozens more. That’s when she and Zimmerman realized that they were going to have to treat their bedroom “like a hazmat situation.” “We stripped everything,” Stone said. They took the sheets and pillowcases off the bed and emptied the upstairs bathroom. They inspected the drapes by the doors and found hundreds more stinkbugs clinging to the folds. They thwacked off as many as they could, then took the drapes down to wash them. After that, they tried several more times to go to sleep, to no avail. “Literally, the instant it was dark,” Stone said, “we’d hear four or five more come out and we would turn the lights back on because they were hitting the wall above our heads and dropping onto us, which was even more horrifying.”

In the end, it took the couple almost all night to make their bedroom habitable, but since then they have never lived entirely free of stinkbugs. The day after the infestation, one flew out of Stone’s hair dryer. A few days later, she pulled a hoodie over her head, then frantically yanked it off again upon discovering multiple stinkbugs burrowed inside. Some time after that, she tacked up a horse she’d been training, jumped on, and immediately sprang back off: stinkbugs were pouring out of every crevice of the saddle. She has flicked them off the pages of books she was reading and pulled their corpses out of her jewelry box; they have crawled across the table during dinner and, drawn to the heat of the water, edged steadily closer to her in the bathtub. As she was telling me her story, one made its way across her cutting board, while another survived a swipe from her kitten.

Pam Stone’s experience is not unique. Indeed, in the annals of brown marmorated stinkbug invasions, it isn’t even all that extreme. The species is not native to this country, but in the years since it arrived it has spread to forty-three of the forty-eight continental United States, and--in patchwork, unpredictable, time-staggered ways--has overrun homes, gardens, and farms in one location after another. Four years before Stone’s encounter, a wildlife biologist in Maryland decided to count all the brown marmorated stinkbugs he killed in his own home; he stopped the experiment after six months and twenty-six thousand two hundred and five stinkbugs. Around the same time, entomologists documented thirty thousand stinkbugs living in a shed in Virginia no bigger than an outhouse, and four thousand in a container the size of a breadbox. In West Virginia, bank employees arrived at work one day to find an exterior wall of the building covered in an estimated million stinkbugs.

What makes the brown marmorated stinkbug unique, though, is not just its tendency to congregate in extremely large numbers but the fact that it boasts a peculiar and unwelcome kind of versatility. Very few household pests destroy crops; fleas and bedbugs are nightmarish, but not if you’re a field of corn. Conversely, very few agricultural pests pose a problem indoors; you’ll seldom hear of people confronting a swarm of boll weevils in their bedroom. But the brown marmorated stinkbug has made a name for itself by simultaneously threatening millions of acres of American farmland and grossing out the occupants of millions of American homes. The saga of how it got here, what it’s doing here, and what we’re doing about it is part dystopic and part tragicomic, part qualified success story and part cautionary tale. If you have never met its main character, I assure you: you will soon.

Of the five-thousand-odd species of stinkbug in the world, the brown marmorated kind is the most destructive, the most annoying, and possibly the ugliest. It is roughly the size of a dime, although thicker, but its head is unusually small, even for an insect, which gives it an appropriately thuggish look. Its six legs prop its shield-shaped body up in the air, as if they were pallbearers at the funeral of a Knight Templar. Its antennae are striped with bands of dark and light, while its eyes, should you get close enough to gaze into them, are the vivid red of an alarm clock at night. The “marmorated” in its name means “marbled,” but “mottled” is closer to the truth. It looks as dull brown as its own frass, the technical term for insect excrement.

The defining ugliness of a stinkbug, however, is its stink. Olfactory defense mechanisms are not uncommon in nature: wolverines, anteaters, and polecats all have scent glands that produce an odor rivalling that of a skunk; bombardier beetles, when threatened, emit a foul-smelling chemical hot enough to burn human skin; vultures keep predators at bay by vomiting up the most recent bit of carrion they ate; honey badgers achieve the same effect by turning their anal pouch inside out. All these creatures produce a smell worse than the stinkbug’s, but none of them do so in your home.

Along with cheap yoga pants, mass layoffs, and the recent surge in nationalism, the brown marmorated stinkbug is a product of globalization. It is native to East Asia--mainly China, Taiwan, Japan, and North and South Korea--where, kept in check by various natural predators, it has coexisted with the rest of nature in relative tranquillity. But then, on September 21, 1998, a gentleman from Allentown, Pennsylvania, deposited several specimens of a mystery insect in the office of Karen Bernhard, an entomologist who works at Pennsylvania State University’s Extension Service.

At first, when Bernhard sent her specimens off for identification, she was told that they were a native stinkbug, Euschistus servus, but something seemed off. Although those bugs do sometimes make their way indoors, they are not normally household pests, yet all the people calling Bernhard were asking about insects they had found in their homes. In the fall of 2001, armed with a new batch of identical specimens, she contacted Richard Hoebeke, an entomologist specializing in invasive species, who was then at Cornell and is now at the University of Georgia. Within weeks, Hoebeke had determined that the specimens were brown marmorated stinkbugs, the first ever identified in the Western Hemisphere.

Not long afterward, Hoebeke travelled to Pennsylvania to see the new species in situ. “It’s kind of burned into my memory,” he said. Hoebeke had seen plenty of stinkbugs in his time, but never in such quantities. “They were flying everywhere--in the air, around people’s window screens, everywhere. I had my windows open, and so many were getting in my car that I had to be really careful that I wasn’t going to transport them back with me. I was utterly amazed at the numbers.” He eventually determined that the first verifiable specimen appeared in Allentown in 1996, most likely via a shipping pallet from China.

That was the beginning of the grand American journey of the brown marmorated stinkbug. The first sighting outside Pennsylvania came in 1999, in New Jersey. By 2003, stinkbugs had arrived in Maryland. By 2004, they were in West Virginia and Delaware. By 2007, they were in Ohio and New York. These days, it’s considerably easier to name the states where, for now, stinkbugs haven’t been found: Louisiana, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, and Alaska. (That’s before we even get to their global reach. In the past few decades, the brown marmorated stinkbug has also migrated to Canada, Chile, Bulgaria, Russia, Georgia, Abkhazia, Serbia, Romania, Hungary, Greece, Switzerland, Spain, Italy, and France, where it is known as the Devil’s thumbtack.)

Needless to say, stinkbugs didn’t arrive in these places under their own steam. They are impressively resourceful hitchhikers--or, really, stowaways, crossing state lines concealed in automobiles (inside, outside, crammed into the rubber sealing in between), tractor-trailers, freight containers, overhead compartments, and anything else that moves. Biologists have arrived at stinkbug conferences in distant states only to open their suitcases and watch in horror as one crawled out.

Although concentrated urban areas like Manhattan have, heaven knows, problems of their own--bedbugs, subway rats, cockroaches so big they could register for kindergarten--they are seldom the target of large-scale stinkbug invasions. But smaller cities, towns, suburbs, exurbs, and rural areas all strike stinkbugs as prime real estate, because they enable the bugs to do what they do best. In the fall, winter, and spring, brown marmorated stinkbugs take up residence in private homes, sometimes by the tens of thousands. Then, in the summer, they quietly let themselves back outside, into nearby gardens, orchards, woods, and farms, and steadily set about destroying them.

The brown marmorated stinkbug will eat a stunning range of things. For instance, it, will eat ash trees. But it will also eat birch trees, juniper trees, cherry trees, tulip trees, maple trees (fifteen different kinds, including sugar maples, big-leaf maples, and vine maples), buckeyes, dogwoods, horse chestnuts, black walnuts, myrtles, magnolias, willows, sycamores, hemlocks, elms, and oaks. That is just a sampling, of just the trees. In other domains, it will eat a lot of things you probably eat, too: broccoli, asparagus, tomatoes, eggplants, okra, chard, cabbage, collards, bell peppers, cucumbers. It will eat pecans and hazelnuts. It will eat hops and grapes. It will eat apples and pears, raspberries and blackberries, apricots and peaches and nectarines. It will eat, like a medieval princeling, figs and quinces. It will eat, without apparent discomfort, horseradish and cayenne pepper, habaneros and jalapeños.

All of that amounts to just the hors d’oeuvres. So far, scientists have discovered more than two hundred and fifty plants that the brown marmorated stinkbug will consume. Together, those plants represent every major agricultural and horticultural sector of the American economy: vegetables, fruit trees, berries, nuts, ornamental plants, and row crops, including sweet corn, cotton, soybeans, and virtually every other legume.

The brown marmorated stinkbug presents a serious problem for American crops. In 2010, Tracy Leskey, an entomologist with the U.S. Department of Agriculture, formed a task force dedicated to figuring out just how serious--that is, to studying the biology, ecology, and impact of the brown marmorated stinkbug, and to developing environmentally and economically sustainable strategies for managing it. At the time, the stinkbug had just reached outbreak levels in the Mid-Atlantic, and the results, Leskey said, were “far beyond anything I had experienced working in ag for twenty years. I wish I had a metric I could give you to tell you how many bugs were in people’s crops.” In orchards, they were crawling by the hundreds on every tree; so many had invaded corn and soybean fields that farmers had to turn on the windshield wipers in their combines while harvesting. Afterward, it wasn’t uncommon to find stinkbug damage on every single ear of corn.

In the years since then, stinkbug populations have simultaneously abated somewhat in their earliest haunts and expanded into countless new places across the country. Those fluctuations, combined with the sheer range of plants that stinkbugs eat, make it difficult to assess their economic impact. In 2010, federal scientists asked apple growers in the Mid-Atlantic to tally their losses; the resulting sum topped thirty-seven million dollars, in an industry whose annual profit in the region is less than two hundred million. That year, Pennsylvania peach growers lost almost half their crop to stinkbugs, a fifteen-million-dollar blow, while some in Maryland lost up to a hundred per cent. In New Jersey, which is the fourth-largest peach producer in the nation, losses ranged from sixty to ninety per cent of the harvest.

No one has quantified the total loss to sweet corn, soybeans, tomatoes, bell peppers, and green beans, but no one disputes that it is significant. And the toll will almost certainly rise as the stinkbug takes up residence in other places. In California, South Carolina, and Georgia, where the majority of American peaches are grown, stinkbugs are a relatively new arrival, and how much damage they will do when and if they reach a critical mass in those places remains to be seen.

In general, it’s often difficult to notice the damage done by stinkbugs, at least at first. Unlike, say, locusts, which simply raze entire fields, stinkbugs wreak their havoc insidiously. The injury they do to corn, for instance, is invisible until the ear is husked, at which point certain kernels--the ones into which a stinkbug stuck its pointy mouth--will reveal themselves to be sunken and brown, like the teeth of a witch. Similarly, stinkbugs suck the juice out of apples through nearly invisible punctures, leaving the exteriors Edenically enticing; only later, when the empty cells start to collapse, does the fruit begin to darken and dimple. The resulting scars, known as cat-facing, also appear on peaches, tomatoes, and other fruits. To add insult to injury, the sugary substance weeping from those wounds attracts other noxious insects, including yellow jackets.

And as it turns out, the brown marmorated stinkbug is exceptionally hard to kill with pesticides. Peter Jentsch, an entomologist with Cornell University’s Hudson Valley research laboratory, calls it the Hummer of insects: a highly armored creature built to maximize its defensive capabilities. Its relatively long legs keep it perched above the surface of its food, which limits its exposure to pesticide applications. Similarly, it eats from the interior of plants, where, for obvious reasons, pesticides are not meant to penetrate. Theoretically, it could inhale a fatal chemical through small breathing pores along its abdomen, but so far the only ones that reliably knock it out are broad-spectrum compounds, which farmers prefer not to use, since they also kill beneficial species. A class of pesticides known as pyrethroids, which are used to control native stinkbugs, initially appeared to work just as well on the brown marmorated kind--until a day or two later, when more than a third of the ostensibly dead bugs rose up, Lazarus-like, and calmly resumed the business of demolition.

But what is not fatal to a brown marmorated stinkbug is terrible for American farms, farmers, ecosystems, and consumers. According to Raupp, the arrival of the stinkbug in this country “basically reversed three decades of environmental and economic progress in terms of managing pests.” After a long and steady decline, pesticide use in some places shot up fourfold, as growers who had previously relied on infrequent treatments in conjunction with other pest-management strategies suddenly found themselves spraying weekly. Those high doses cut back on stinkbug damage, but they were far too time-intensive, chemical-intensive, and expensive to be sustainable. Since then, somewhat better strategies for coping with the problem have emerged, but, to date, the only force that reliably gets a brown marmorated stinkbug off a food source is one that poses a whole different kind of problem: the urge, at the end of summer, to go inside.

It is not that the brown marmorated stinkbug can’t survive the winter outdoors. But, given sufficient proximity to artificial structures, it will readily spend the cooler months inside instead.

Often enough, they simply come in through doorways, around which they tend to congregate in autumn, but they have dozens of other ways of entering: down chimneys, around utility pipes, underneath the flashing on roofs, beneath cracks in the siding, through the vents in air-conditioning units, via imperfectly sealed windows, in the gaps below door sweeps. Studies have shown that, despite their relative heft, stinkbugs can crawl through any crevice larger than seven millimetres, which means that, no matter how much caulk and weather-stripping and patience you possess, it is virtually impossible to stinkbug-proof a home.

After a stinkbug breaches a building and finds a spot it likes, others join it, apparently attracted by the same aggregation pheromone that the bug uses to summon its friends and relations to dinner. (Dismayingly, for homeowners, that pheromone remains detectable to other stinkbugs for up to a year.) Once additional stinkbugs start arriving, they will stick around until late spring, and can assemble not only in incredible numbers but with incredible density. The instinct to do so is known as thigmotaxis: the tendency to move toward physical contact--in this case, not only with other stinkbugs but with almost any surface. Thigmotaxis is why stinkbugs are so often found between layers (beware the quilt left folded in a window seat) and underneath seemingly flat things (brace yourself before picking up that stack of newspapers beside the recycling bin). It is why Pam Stone found so many behind her paintings, and why Doug Inkley, the biologist who counted upward of twenty-six thousand stinkbugs in his home, could pull them out of his attic by the handful, like popcorn.

Mostly, though, the problem with stinkbugs indoors is not so much expense as disgust. Overwintering stinkbugs navigate like nine-year-olds in bumper cars, making as much noise as possible and banging into everything in sight: walls, doors, windows, humans. Unlike household pests such as ants and fruit flies, they are not particularly drawn to food and drink; then again, as equal-opportunity invaders they aren’t particularly not drawn to them, either. This has predictable but unfortunate consequences. One poor soul spooned up a stinkbug that had blended into her granola, putting her off fruit-and-nut cereals for life. Another discovered too late that a stinkbug had percolated in her coffeemaker, along with her morning brew. A third removed a turkey from the oven on Thanksgiving Day and discovered a cooked stinkbug at the bottom of the roasting pan. Other people have reported accidentally ingesting stinkbugs in, among other things, salads, berries, raisin bran, applesauce, and chili. By all accounts, the bugs release their stink upon being crunched, and taste pretty much the way they smell. (They are also occasionally eaten by household pets, though seldom twice. One of my cats recently ate two at once, and promptly vomited them up.)

A further perversity of stinkbugs in the home is that they are simultaneously extremely easy and extremely difficult to kill. On the one hand, in the face of mortal danger they do not have the sense, or the speed, to flee. On the other hand, dispatching them by any of the traditional methods--smashing, squashing, stepping on--means that, like good Christians, they will triumph even in death, in this case by leaving behind a malevolent olfactory ghost. Worse, they will die with the sublime stoicism of a soldier who knows that ten thousand of his compatriots are lined up behind him, ready to take his place.

If you want to avoid the stench while also eliminating the stinkbug, your options are limited. “I’m probably not the only one who’s thought of burning their house down just to kill the stinkbugs,” one Internet commenter observed. Another suggested trying miniature silver bullets, or tiny stakes driven through the heart. What you should definitely not bother trying is insecticides approved for interior use; in the home, as in the field, stinkbugs are relatively immune to chemical assault. You can flush them down the toilet, but that’s a huge waste of water. You can vacuum them up, but the smell will be noxious; also, if not disposed of immediately, stinkbugs have been known to crawl back out again. The experts recommend building a contraption out of an empty soda bottle, filling it with soapy water, and drowning the stinkbugs inside, but I am dubious. For one thing, I have personally pulled a load of clean clothes out of the washing machine and discovered a stinkbug at the bottom, alive. For another, those same experts suggest collecting stinkbugs in Ziploc baggies, then placing them in the freezer for several weeks until they expire--somewhere, I suppose, between the pint of ice cream and the frozen peas.

Thanks to intensive research, scientists now know a tremendous amount about the stinkbug’s most fearsome enemy back home: the samurai wasp, which deposits its eggs inside those of the stinkbug, leaving its larvae to emerge and consume their host. In East Asia, the samurai wasp parasitizes between sixty and ninety per cent of brown marmorated stinkbug eggs, thereby almost single-handedly keeping its population under control.

Like the stinkbug, the samurai wasp arrived in the United States by accident, and a small number have lived here since at least 2014. Now, though, entomologists hope to breed and release it in sufficient quantities to curtail the stinkbug population. Their logic is compelling: the stinkbug poses a serious threat to billions of dollars of American agriculture, while the wasp, which is tiny and does not sting humans, destroys those bugs in huge quantities and, according to studies spanning more than a decade, appears to harm only one native beneficial species.

Nonetheless, it’s impossible to contemplate this plan without worrying about the law of unintended consequences, which has governed the realm of introduced species before. The cane toad, brought to Australia to control the native greyback cane beetle, proved to be largely ineffective at that job but horribly effective at killing other native species (sometimes by eating them but mostly, because it is extremely poisonous, by being eaten). Today, the two hundred million cane toads in Australia constitute a pest far worse than the one they were meant to control. Similarly, the Asian multicolored ladybird beetle was introduced into the United States to control aphids; it did that, but it also displaced most native ladybird beetles and proved to be, like the stinkbug, a home invader.

Still, as Peter Jentsch points out, you have to pick your poison. Or more aptly, in the case of the stinkbug, you have to decide whether to pick the poison.

If there is comfort to be had in any of this, it is that old, familiar refrain: things could be worse. As damaging as the brown marmorated stinkbug is to agriculture, it has nothing on the boll weevil, which cost American cotton farmers billions of dollars in its heyday, or on the Rocky Mountain locust, which, prior to becoming extinct, could sweep through in swarms the size of California and destroy millions of acres of crops within a matter of days. Likewise, as annoying as the stinkbug is in the home, it does not bite, sting, transmit disease, or gnaw through foundations.

In a way, then, we got off easy this time. The difficulty is that there will be a next time, and a time after that, and a time after that. Prior to the era of planetwide transportation networks, species routinely took millennia to establish themselves in new places. Today, thousands move around the world every day--by ship and plane and freight and pallet and packing crate, by business meetings in Switzerland and military deployments in Pakistan and tourism in Hawaii. At present, this vast influx of new species costs the United States about a hundred and twenty billion dollars a year.

[casualdestinynut-blog]

Envy and avoidance

When you find other people living the dream you dreamed of living when you were a kid but you somehow forgot was your dream because you were scolded and told so often that you couldn’t have it that you buried it and forgot it under a pile of the legally required schoolwork you did instead, it’s helpful to admit that you’re envious of them so that you can identify the emotion you’re feeling (because if you’re like me, then you don’t always know what you’re feeling) so you can move on and try to grapple with the abject nature of American society and how you found your place in it -- that is, once you remember what your very original dream was to begin with, because it took me a while to remember mine once I encountered people who were living my very original dream.  It’s most helpful on the society’s part that its members leave you alone and don’t try to engage you because you were never a part of that society or else you would’ve been able to develop the dream you had as a kid.  Societies have a responsibilities too, like the individual, which in my case is admitting that I’m envious.  That’s what I’ve been doing lately, admitting to my envy.  That’s an aspect of my responsibility. 

Today there was a rejection letter from the New England Review in my inbox today.  It’s not the kind of fiction they publish, it said, but they wished me luck in placing it elsewhere.  I haven’t sent any short stories out to magazines nor have I sent any letters to literary agents seeking representation for my novel since early December.  The rejections I’d been getting had actually been very enlivening; I’d been suffering from a slowly creeping writer’s block for a few months, and when I got a rejection letter I found the resolve to open the document and write some more in my novel-in-progress.  But after a few weeks of not sending anything out to the literary establishment trying to get their attention I started writing again as though I’d never been blocked, I restarted my writing routine that’s .  Hell, I’ve even started reading again, and I hadn’t read a book in months.  I watched Inside Llewen Davis the other night, and in a review of it I read the critic said that Davis was hard-working because he actively approaches his agent and seeks new, better agents and gigs whenever he can, even if he’s only really successful at finding other people’s couches to sleep on.  Does it make me lazy that I hate the social aspect of anything, that I’m so much happier just writing and living for my own sake?

Today’s rejection letter was like a real rejection.  It wasn’t enlivening, but another cold shoulder from the dream-destroying hopelessness that characterizes the nature of most American societies (strangely, right this minute, another rejection for a different short story I sent out arrived in my inbox, this time from Witness magazine).  It wasn’t my very original dream to become a writer.  Sure, I’ve wanted to be a writer since around third or fourth grade, but it wasn’t my very original dream.  Writing was a constructed dream, maybe a necessary one because I was never really free until I wrote freely, though it wasn’t my original dream.  It’s strange how creative writing is constructed, since it was its prohibition in English classes for most of my schooling that gave it its allure, the unquestioned assumption that English classes ought to be vocational training in literary criticism instead of supportive local arts culture environments the very mechanism whereby consumer society and cultural imperialism are perpetuated and corporations gain the diminishing rights of the American people, since the primary purpose of the use of language is presumed to be to comment on consumer purchases and not to plan your life in a productive instead of a consumption-oriented way or to tell a story.  But my very original dream was to work with other guys to build something together that brought us money, specifically to find one guy to be my lifelong partner and friend and to take over the world with him.  Maybe we’d even have sex with each other sometimes, that’s how close we’d be.  Eventually we’d find wives and get married and our kids would play with each other.  That dream wasn’t allowed in school.  That dream wasn’t allowed in my family, where my Evangelical Christian convert parents would condescend to me when I told them I wanted to play with the other boys, “The *girls* -- look at the *girls*,” like I was stupid for wanting to play with other boys (kids who grow up with liberal/permissive parents can’t know what it’s like to have parents who, after Ellen Degeneres came out, insisted that every television set in the house be turned off when her show was on so she wouldn’t pollute the house with her gayness, or what it’s like to have a mom who would, livid and without fail, every day for many weeks, run and get the nail polish remover after school to remove the nail polish the girls used to put on my fingers during the school day in order to police 50s sitcom-derived gender norms, because nail polish is for girls, not boys -- I didn’t even watch an R-rated movie until after I left their house).  The family part of the dream wasn’t allowed by the doctor my parents took me to to treat my deformity; he’d scold me about the need for genetic counseling if I ever decided to have children so that I didn’t pass on my deformity.  When I went to college I thought, maybe, maybe I’ll find a guy to be partners with, to take over the world with, but when other guys wouldn’t talk to me I left and buried the dream, forgot about it.  I even forgot that was what I was thinking when I went to college, that there had to be other guys there who wanted to do our own thing with each other.  But there wasn’t, at least there weren’t any who wanted to build something with me.

So far three magazines have given me hope and invited me to send other work to them even though they chose not to publish the specific piece I sent them, the Alaska Quarterly Review, Crazyhorse and Glimmer Train.  That’s the positive side.

In high school when English teachers and my parents wouldn’t let me put words onto a piece of paper that didn’t conform to their dictates and pretensions, I wrote freely in the foreign language classes I took.  There were dreams I wrote out there without censorship from adult authorities, but they’re forgotten, and they were different from my very original dream.

I sleep during the day.  I wake up at sunset.  I go to bed at sunrise.  Maybe I deserve to be a vampire.  I’ve been getting up at sunset partly to avoid the neighbor I’ve been envious of so I don’t see him while I’m out walking my dog, even though I want to see him and want to know him even though I know we’re not like each other at all and it would never work.  I wasn’t envious of him until he started to engage me, until he started to shout things at me when we were walking our dogs outside.  He forced me to consider him beyond him being in the periphery of my life, and he destroyed my life in the process.  He forced me to discover his life beyond the fact that he owns a house on the block.  I tried not to engage him, but he kept insisting until I was obsessed with him.  He tricked me into hurting myself (long story).  When I talk about society’s responsibilities to not engage those who don’t want to be engaged, he’s the guy I have in mind.  One time he stopped and said hi to me when I was sitting in the front yard garden and I was so upset at him that I just waved because he put me through that Modern social narrative bullshit, because he could’ve talked to me any time instead of waiting for a narrative climax in our interactions.  He walked away and then got very angry at me for many months thereafter.  He’s a Mainline Christian.  Mainlines are liberal even if they’re Republicans and according to Wikipedia are wealthier than Evangelicals, and even though most American Christians used to be Mainline now most aren’t.  Growing up with Evangelical parents Mainlines always seemed more permissive of their children and less hateful.  I was never part of their society.  At college they were condescending to me for not growing up like them, even though part of me wanted to be part of them -- they seemed like the tolerant Christians, but now I know there is no such thing, because a Mainline Christian taught me that they don’t tolerate as much as I thought they did.  I avoid him because I’m envious of him and I still kind of want to know him, but there’s no way I can know him.  We’re just not like each other.  He destroyed my inner life first by shouting things at me in passing, by forcing me to consider him.  Then he tricked me into hurting myself physically.  I’m trying to get my inner life back.  I think I can do it.

I’ve been dating a guy for a while now.  I’m sick of dating guys -- I’m sick of leaving the house for social engagements, honestly.  They’ve never gotten me anywhere and they depress me when they necessarily end.  I don’t really like the guy either.  Maybe it would be different if he had the same sex drive as me.  I would love a girlfriend, but it’s been a while since a woman expressed interest in me.  Last night in Libra by Don Delillo I read the assertion by a woman character that men are more mysterious to women than women are to men.  That may be true.  I’ve got to get to the grocery store before it closes, so I’m going to go now.

[artificialqueens]

saint in the city ch.6 (katlaska) - comeapart

a/n: angst! if scrubs was still filming, i’d be right up there begging for an option to write all of the angsty subplots. anyway, enjoy. ch.1 here & ch.2 here & ch.3 here & ch.4 here & ch.5 here

Sharon was getting better, but Courtney wasn’t. Courtney, out of everyone, was the one who should be getting better. She was a vegan most of the time, and she was healthy, and she always did the right thing. Sharon took absolutely no care of herself, and spent the entire time that Alaska visited talking about her new boyfriend who supposedly didn’t do drugs. Alaska was happy for her, really, but it hurt knowing that she was replaced so easily.

Willam called out sick and spent nearly all of her time besides Courtney, and if she wasn’t spending time by her side, she was in the staff-room crying. Alaska figured this was one of the perks of being a doctor, being able to see your sick girlfriend despite the quarantine placed on her. It had passed the few days of incubation, so at least Willam wouldn’t be getting sick too, but she was still constantly on edge. Everything felt sort of blurry, like she wasn’t wearing contacts and she’d forgotten her glasses, and she found herself more often than not lightheaded. Trixie and Bianca were starting to be warmer, helping her and picking up the slack that Courtney used to when she wasn’t ill. She had even noticed that Katya was around more, hovering by Courtney’s room and asking how she was every time someone walked past her.

As much as Alaska knew that normally, Katya’s presence would’ve been an instant mood booster, she couldn’t bring herself to notice anything outside of her work at all. She was clumsier than ever, which hadn’t changed, but her ability to make conversation had completely deteriorated. Katya said a lot of things that either went past Alaska, or seemed like they were out of pity, and Alaska didn’t have enough time for either.

She ate at least once a day, because the mystery admirer was leaving food on her desk and it was rude to ignore it. She didn’t have much of an appetite, but she forced herself to as a trade-off for avoiding sleep. The notes were getting longer, and Trixie had even found out about it. She seemed like she wasn’t happy with it, but Trixie was too nice, so Alaska was happy to pretend that she was just jealous. The gifts she was left with were part of the reason she hadn’t entirely given up, and the flowers came home with her every time she had a moment to drive back.

*

By the next week, Courtney was finally starting to show signs of improvement, but she was still ill. Trixie invited Alaska out, and although she was pretty sure it was because she felt guilty that everything in Alaska’s life was going wrong, Alaska wasn’t going to stop her. She took her to see the Harry Potter movie that Katya had shot her down on, and then took her out for dinner, and invited a girl named Kim that was almost as clumsy as Alaska was.

They talked about a lot of things, like how Alaska was a great nurse and how Trixie was busy with her family trying to get her a boyfriend, and how Kim was a makeup artist and could get Alaska a discount if she wanted one. Alaska couldn’t concentrate much, and Trixie ordered for her to save the hassle. By the time it arrived, Kim and Trixie were talking again, and Alaska was able to zone out and stare at everything except them, slowly chipping away at the plate she had been given.

“Alaska,” Trixie said, and when Alaska looked up, Trixie was staring. She looked almost offended at the fact Alaska hadn’t been paying attention, and she could hear the impatience in her voice.

“I’m sorry. What?”

Trixie’s face fell, and Kim looked uncomfortable. “I asked if you were going to be alright, Lask.”

“Probably. I’m not the one sick.”

“I’m sorry, Alaska. You know it’s not your fault, right? Courtney’s getting better, too. And I know that Katya is trying her hardest too. Between you both, we have the best doctors in the entire hospital working to make sure she gets healthy again,” Trixie said, sighing and sitting up straight. “And they’re flying in new doctors to help. Specialists. She’s going to be okay.”

“We don’t know anything about them. They could be just as clueless as we are.”

“Everyone is saying they’re really good. I knew one of them in med school, she’s from Seattle. I know she used to be really nice, and she’s a brilliant doctor,” Trixie offered.

“We have brilliant doctors here, too,” Alaska mumbled, looking back down at her plate again. “But our team can’t solve it. My best friend might die, because the death rate is rising every single day and she isn’t getting much better, and my ex who I haven’t seen in years nearly died because of this virus.”

“Alaska,” Trixie repeated, snapping her out of her trance. Alaska looked up again, jutting her bottom lip out before trying to smile at her.

“Sorry. I’m not particularly fun to be around right now. I think I might just go home,” Alaska said quietly, handing Trixie a few bills from her wallet and excusing herself. Nobody followed her on her way out, and Alaska didn’t blame them. She was a terrible guest. She thought she heard Trixie say something along the lines of Katya predicting the night, but she didn’t care anymore, because Trixie was probably lying.

The drive home was silent, and Alaska fell asleep on the couch when she got home. By Wednesday, Courtney had managed to catch pneumonia, and Willam was running out of holiday to use up on staying by her side. Alaska was vaguely expecting the worst, but she wasn’t going to give up hope that Courtney would recover. Courtney was a fighter, and if she wasn’t, then Willam would fight for her.

*

It was freezing outside, but Alaska couldn’t find it within herself to go back inside again, and she didn’t need her coat anyway. She barely noticed once she was past the carpark and the main grounds, even with her knuckles starting to ache from the breeze. There was a park just outside the hospital, and it was mostly deserted due to the weather. Alaska briefly thought about why people normally went there, but she didn’t dwell on it for too long. She wasn’t there to process grief or fear.

She wandered down the empty pathway, eventually deciding to take her seat on one of the less icy benches in the empty park and pulling out her phone. She didn’t bring lunch, because without Courtney the cafe was dull and with everything going on in her life, she didn’t get hungry anymore. Her appetite was almost gone, with the exception of ready salted chips whilst watching rom-coms. Courtney probably would’ve yelled at her for the choice, considering how unhealthy they were.

She almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching her, only looking up when they were directly in front of her. When she did look, she stared without making the connection between Katya Zamolodchikova standing there looking at her and, well, Katya Zamolodchikova.

“You forgot your coat,” Katya said carefully, holding out the coat that Alaska had left in her office, draped over her chair.

Alaska blinked up at her, and Katya looked guilty. Or embarrassed, with her cheeks starting to flush pink. Alaska just stared, waiting for any sort of explanation. The coat hadn’t been the most obvious thing in her office to find, and they weren’t exactly close to the main grounds.

“My office is there,” Katya explained, pointing up towards a window that Alaska was pretty sure was too far away to see people from. “It looks out here, it’s… It’s really cold, Alaska. You should wear your coat.”

Alaska wanted to tell her she loved her. There was so much she wanted to say, but there was no energy left. Everything she did was going badly, and it wasn’t worth the effort of breaking her heart again. She took the coat, pulling it on and smoothing down one of the tufts of fake fur, pocketing her phone in the process. It didn’t help at all, but her fingers did stop aching.

“Thanks,” Alaska mumbled, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Can I sit down?” Katya asked, looking at her like she was a patient being prepared for the worst. Alaska wouldn’t have blamed her if that was the case, with how her luck was going. She nodded carefully, watching her sit.

If either of them moved, they would be pressed up against each other. Alaska didn’t try anything, because life wasn’t like a movie. No matter how many fantasies she had, she couldn’t just wish and have a better situation, one where her friends were alive and her most recent fuck liked her back.

“I’m sorry about Courtney,” Katya said.

“It’s not your fault,” Alaska answered without thinking much.

“It isn’t yours either,” Katya sounded certain. Alaska knew that she was just trying to be nice, but it still didn’t feel good to think about. She didn’t say anything back, and after a moment, Katya sighed. “It’s not even -”

“Why are you talking to me?” Alaska asked, her voice quiet. She knew how emotional she sounded, tired and defeated and exhausted. The filter she had was gone, and in the back of her mind, she knew that wasn’t what Katya needed. She had already managed to embarrass herself around Katya enough for the rest of her life, and maybe the afterlife too.

Katya turned to look at her, swallowing. “I… I want to? I know you’ve got a lot going on right now, and I -”

“You don’t have to worry about me calling in a debt, Katya. I’m not a charity case. I’m not going to kill myself if someone I care about dies, I do have some self control,” Alaska said.

“I didn’t,” Katya said, stumbling over her words. “I mean, you -”

“Katya, it’s okay. You can stop hanging around and looking guilty. I’ve had people do worse things than fuck and run, alright?” Alaska said, looking down at Katya for a response. She was silent, as if Alaska had said exactly the right thing to destroy any chance they had left. “Thanks for bringing my coat,” She added, standing up and walking back to the hospital, not looking back at the mess she’d managed to create.

When she got back, there was another box of chocolates on her desk, with a pink ribbon tied around the box and another pink rose. There was a note attached, reading ‘merry christmas, детка,’ which was the only reason Alaska remembered what day it was.

*

Alaska was woken up at five AM on Boxing Day by Bianca Del Rio breaking into her office and clearing her throat. She was pretty sure that she wasn’t about to be yelled at, but the sight definitely did make her jump. Something tightened in her stomach as she sat up properly in the chair, looking up at her hopefully. If anything had happened to Courtney, Trixie would’ve been the one to give her the news.

“You aren’t allowed to sleep in here, Alaska,” Bianca said pointedly, looking at the box of chocolates on her desk before back to her. “The specialist team want to see you. There’s a meeting at 8am, when they get in. Don’t be late.”

Alaska didn’t argue, just nodded and watched her leave before relaxing back into the chair and closing her eyes. She woke up again at six, putting her face on in the tiny mirror of her powder compact and making herself presentable. It was probably a good idea to be pretty for the team of the specialist doctors, anyway. They were likely going to tell her the worst, and if she had to be sad, she would at least sort of feel better about herself crying in front of strangers.

She thought about eating some of the chocolates, or looking for something healthy in the cafe, but she didn’t feel hungry when she thought about the meeting, and the news she could possibly receive. She barely had an appetite as it was, and the idea of being told her friend might die definitely didn’t help.

She walked into Trixie on her way to Bianca’s office. Trixie gave her a look.

“You’re not in until twelve,” Trixie said, looking her over carefully. “You’re going to die if you keep going at this rate.”

“I have a meeting with the specialists. They want to see me. You’re starting your shift now, right?” Alaska shrugged.

“Yeah, I just got in,” Trixie said, and then stared up at her for a moment before adding, “Why do they need to talk to you?”

“No clue,” Alaska said, blinking down at her. “Do you want to come?”

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” Trixie nodded, and joined Alaska on the short walk to Bianca’s office. Bianca let them both in, quietly closing the door behind them both. Willam was in the room too, bundled into the corner and looking ridiculously calm in comparison to the past two weeks.

The doctors were actually kind of cute, and they looked too happy for the situation at hand. One had a streak of white in her long black hair, and the other had red hair, and both of the doctors were shorter than Alaska. They both turned to grin at Alaska, and then stare over her.

“I didn’t know Rapunzel worked here, Bianca. You should’ve said, I would’ve worn heels,” The one with the streak in her hair said, and Alaska just blinked at her.

The girl next to her laughed quietly, looking to Trixie and then to Willam and then to Alaska. “So, we have Barbie, Rapunzel and party girl. I like the variation. It’s very diverse here, except for the fact you don’t have any black people here. What’s up with that?”

“Um,” Alaska breathed, glancing to Bianca who just smiled before looking back at them. “I’m Dr Thunder. You wanted to see me?”

“Hi,” The redhead smiled. “I’m Ivy. This is Manila. Jinkx is somewhere here, but she’s already briefing your current team. I’ve been told Courtney Act is your patient?”

“Yes, she is,” Alaska nodded, swallowing and looking down at her. Courtney wasn’t just her patient, but she was her best friend.

“Okay, well, you’ll have to give her acetaminophen to help with the recovery of pneumonia, but the new course of antivirals will definitely definitely help. She’ll have to stay in observation for at least another three days, though, after the virus is gone from her system. There’s a new immunisation shot for all staff, which we’ll be doing at some point today or tomorrow.”

“Wait, what? New antivirals? When… When did this happen?” Alaska raised a brow, pursing her lips into a tight line.

“They didn’t tell you?” Manila piped up, looking relatively surprised. “We found the root of the virus. It’s definitely going to be a problem for the weeks to come, but it’s curable. It’s actually quite interesting, it’s caused by influenza viruses that infect the respiratory tract of pigs, which is similar to something we studied a few years back,” She nodded, looking back to Ivy. “I don’t think party girl fits with Barbie and Rapunzel.”

“Sure it does. Do you have a better name for the look?”

“The virus is gone? You’re - The virus is gone? Everyone is going to get better?” Alaska couldn’t think straight.

“Yes,” Ivy nodded, smiling at her. Alaska could kiss her if she wasn’t too busy thinking about how much sleep she was going to be able to get. “Most people should be able to leave in a few days. You’ll be able to go back to your specific department, and your regular patients.”

“I just don’t think party girl fits. It’s not on the same level. Maybe Cinderella?” Manila nodded.

“Her hair is too tangled to be Cinderella,” Ivy argued, shaking her head before turning her attention back to Alaska. “It was nice to meet you, Dr Thunder. We’re going to be here most of the week, if you need any help or have any questions about the new treatment. Good luck with your patients and everything.”

They opened the door and left, leaving Alaska with the other few doctors and a smile on her face. She could cry with relief, and she was going to by the time she was home, but for now she just smiled, grinning at Trixie.

“You look happy,” Trixie smiled, laughing softly before wrapping herself around Alaska, pulling her in. Alaska hugged her back tight before pulling away, looking down at her.

“Let’s go get breakfast. I’m starving,” She said, gesturing over to Willam as she pulled away.