picturesofmcr

[larrysblooming]

for those of you that live in small, rural areas like me, especially in the south, i just want to say please have hope and know that your surroundings are not indicative of the opinions and viewpoints of the majority of people ❤️

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Neat and different 1957 mid-century modern split level in Louisville, Kentucky has 3bds, 2.5ba, $244,900. You gotta see the kitchen.

A checkered floor in the open entrance protects the living room's wood floor from outside dirt.

Because it's a split level, the layout is different from the usual ranch style MDM. It has a sunny living room with a fireplace wall.

Enter the dining room thru the living room. It's not huge, but it's cute.

The kitchen is big enough to fit either a table or an island, but this kitchen is 100% original.

They painted the original cabinets to match the floor. But, look at that vintage pink oven.

This is incredible. How does it still work?

For its time, this was the height of modernism- a push-button electric cooktop. That panel is real chrome, you can see how it's pitted.

I guess you have the option of using the top or bottom buttons, but this was absolutely space age and high end.

Even the exhaust hood is original.

The blue fridge is vintage. I bet that little freezer has to be defrosted.

The bedrooms are upstairs. This must be the primary bd. b/c it's pretty big.

This bathroom was updated.

Bedroom #2 is a very good size, too.

This large room is being used as a home office, but it's a nice big 3rd bedroom, too.

This bath is original except for the new tub.

How this lasted, I don't know, but it's the original toothbrush/cup holder and when you push it, it turns and hides in the wall.

In the basement is a very large rec room or, as it used to be called, the rumpus room. (Let the wild rumpus begin!)

Since it's so big, it's really a flexible multi-purpose space.

The powder room is down here and it's been remodeled, but they kept the knotty pine paneling.

There's a modern porch in front of the house.

And, in the back, a screened patio with a deck.

The wooded lot is .29 acre.

https://my.flexmls.com/noahjemley/search/email_links/20240228192328918949000000/listings/20240228162144873629000000?fbclid=IwAR0nGUc_gL_AekQdpjJlnSvHB1VmVJzSmqUmtyUJHBKp4XPZIfGcZFyzveQ

[the-californicationist]

The Orchard

A gift for my sweet, darling @vampirekilmer...

Price has had enough of your bratty behavior, so he chases you through the woods to teach you a lesson.

Link to AO3

MDNI/18+

TW: Primal play, breeding kink, dubious consent

You scrolled back through all of your text messages with a nasty sort of pride. You’d gone above and beyond with just how sexually explicit and arousing your poses were, splurging on outfits and toys, really putting on a show. John had been on a job for the past two months, deep undercover, and he could receive your messages but he was not able to reply. So, you started off slow; a nip-slip here, a bare butt in a mirror there…but, you’d become almost feral as his leave drew nearer, and your slutty selfies reflected that. You knew you were in trouble, and honestly, you couldn’t wait. 

You got his first message in the middle of your bath, and when you checked your phone, your blood ran cold. 

I am going to ruin you. 

Then, the picture loaded. Price was still in his uniform, driving, holding up a fist full of paracord. He wore a wide, bone-chilling smile, and you knew deep down that he was ready to use his tools against you. 

You scrambled out of your bath and threw on your clothes. You opted for leggings and a tee shirt, grabbing your running shoes and a thick pair of socks. If he was on his way, you needed to get a head start. 

This wasn’t the first time you’d made him hunt for you. He had bought the giant 100 acre ranch for a reason. Price loved space, and he loved chasing you through it even more. 

You sprinted through the house, out of the back door, and into the wide clearing, heading straight for the treeline. The grass crunched beneath your feet. You found some sort of pace other than frantic, and you chose some of the trails less-traveled, hoping to give him a challenge. He found you every time, but you were getting better and better at finding little hiding places. 

This time, though, you were heading for the orange grove. Months ago, you and John had discovered a naturally occurring orchard on the property that you hadn’t seen on the map. The smell from the fallen, rotting fruit was heady and citrusy in the best way, and the ripe globes were full of sticky juice. It was an Eden. 

Now, though, it was the end of spring, and the blossoms on the trees were heavy and wilting. Thousands of petals had fallen to the ground, but thousands more still remained in the branches, white and pink, looking like perpetual snow. The petals made your footfalls soft and inaudible. You found a large tree to hide behind and waited. 

You didn’t have to wait long. 

You heard his boots on the path. He was running, full out, coming for you without hesitation. When the grove came into view, he stopped. You could hear his panting breaths. Even though you couldn’t see him from your hidden spot, you could tell he was still in his fatigues. The swish of the canvas gave him away. 

He didn’t care. John wanted you to hear him. He called to you from the edge of the orchard,

“I know you’re in here, sweet girl. I hope you’re ready.”

There had been times when he didn’t let you hear him coming. Once, you’d hidden in a small cave in the north quadrant of the ranch, thinking you’d finally outsmarted him, and just as you ventured out to check your surroundings, he had snatched you from above the cave like some sort of cryptid, silent and threatening. He dragged you up the rocky hill and ripped your clothes off at the seams. Your screams echoed through the woods, falling on deaf ears. He’d fucked you til you passed out, and he made you walk back with him, naked, his come dripping down your legs shamelessly. He didn’t let you sleep that night. 

This time, though, he was toying with you on purpose. You heard him whistling skillfully. It was one of his favorite folk songs to whistle, sometimes while he was cleaning his guns, or just puttering around the kitchen in the mornings. But now, in the dusky woods, it felt deeply ominous and threatening. His tone was so pure and low, and he held each note out, sending it toward you like a lance, hoping to land his strikes. 

“Come out, come out…” he called again, “Don’t make me wait, darling.”

There was a long, eerily silent pause, and then, not twenty feet behind you, you heard him growl through gritted teeth,

“I’m not a patient man.”

You turned your head to see him standing there in the trees, menacingly smiling at you. His grin was full of genuine joy. The lips were pulled wide, showing sharp white teeth, stretching his full beard, grown out from his time away, and the creases of his lids folded together, pulling tight around his bright blue eyes. His body was enormous. He always seemed bigger when he came home from his tours, as if the muscles had been overused, overworked, swollen from their stimulus. 

You could see how his huge shoulders made the fabric of his shirt ripple and tug across that wide, furry chest hidden beneath the soft cloth. His waist was thick and strong, built like the trunk of some great tree, and his legs looked like they were taken from some Greek statue, referenced in all of the prototypes of strength and speed. 

His gloves were gone, as was his hat; he was dressed for speed. You noticed, in these milliseconds you took to witness him, that he was clutching his paracord in his left hand. 

At that sight, you bolted. Much like a rabbit running from its wolf, you sprinted through the grove, weaving through the thin trunks. You heard him right behind you, his boots ruining the soil, ripping up roots and gaining on you. 

Finally, you felt him lunge for you, and you were caught around your waist, slamming to the ground, chest down. You reached for the roots of one of the trees, putting up a fight with your legs. You knew he liked to feel your fury, and you gave it to him. But, you were already tired, and he was so strong. His stamina allowed him to breathe normally after only a few seconds of having you pinned. You heard the sharp whine of the paracord being let out, length by length, just for you. 

He reached for your hand, panting into your ear,

“C’mere, girl.”

John grabbed your wrist so hard it hurt, and he wrapped the paracord around it cruelly. When he grabbed your other wrist, you fought him, bucking him off of your back, trying to find your footing.

“You bloody little brat. Why are you pouring fucking kerosene on my fire, hmm? Don’t you know how much trouble you’re in?”

He put his hand over your mouth and pulled your head to his chest, forcing you to arch your back. He whispered to you now, dark and threatening,

“Sending me those fucking pictures, tempting me. Making me mad, had me wanting to fuck my hand until I was raw. I’m starving , and you’re the only thing I want to eat.”

With both hands bound behind your back, he let you collapse to the floor of the orchard, your chest and face thudding into the ground, knocking the breath out of you. He raked your shirt and bra up over your breasts roughly, letting your skin feel the cold grass and soil. 

“John, please,” you started to beg, “I promise I’ll be good. I didn’t -“

“Good? You’re gonna be so good for me. Fuck, you’re gonna feel so goddamn good,” he was almost talking more to himself than to you. He was reckless and frantic, pulling your pants down to your boots, letting them bind your ankles on their own. 

He’d left your panties in place, and he began to tug on them, gently at first and then not, letting the back of the thong dig into your flesh. Then, he pulled from the front, lifting your ass up towards him to do so, making the fabric tighten between your wet folds, framing your clit. John let go, but he didn’t bother to return the cloth to its normal position. He left it askew, knowing it would rub against you awkwardly. 

He grabbed the back of your head and pulled you over to him on the grass. The petals and dirt sticking to your skin. John was kneeling, and he let you fall back prone while he undid his belt. You listened to his metal buckles and zippers as he freed his fat, flaccid cock from his pants. 

Your furious lover grabbed your head again and held it up to his hairy base, his rod thicker than the tree roots around his feet. He smiled,

“Suck me hard, love. Won’t take much. Be a good girl, yeah?”

You nodded, but he wasn’t interested in your response. He was already lifting you up, one hand tangled in your sweaty hair and one beneath your chin, angling you to put his cock in your mouth. 

Without hands, you could only use your lips and tongue. You rubbed your cheek against him, trying to find the fleshy tip, trying to show him you could be so good. Eventually, you managed to line him up, and as you did, he pushed forward, filling your mouth with his wide girth. 

He left it there, letting you swallow around it. You couldn’t move your head; you had no leverage. So, once he knew you were good and settled, he moved it for you. He grabbed you by the hair at the base of your skull and pulled you on and off of his soft cock until it began to swell with his warm blood. When it was hard, you started to gag. It was filling up your throat, cutting off your air, puffing out your cheeks with its largeness. 

John began to fuck your throat in earnest. He pressed himself in and out of your mouth, growing harder and thicker with each thrust. He grunted as he fucked himself into you, vulgar and animalistic. Finally, he removed you from his shaft and looked at your fuck-drunk face. He laughed, pushing you back down again,

“You like that cock in your mouth, huh, sweet girl?”

You moaned around him, unable to speak. He continued to praise you,

“Such a perfect fucking throat. Swallow it down, love. Just like that, fuck…” 

He moved his hand from your chin to hold your neck in his warm palm, feeling his cock expanding your skin. With his thumb, he massaged long, soothing circles into your throat, almost like he was jacking himself off through your body. You felt tears run in hot rivulets down your cheeks, fighting your gag reflex to the point of pain, and your chin was coated with your drool. You were fully at his mercy. 

Just to reinforce your helplessness, he shoved your nose into the root of his cock, burying your face in his dense fur, and the soft hairs tickled your nose and lip. You started to panic, realizing you couldn’t inhale nor exhale. Your body turned and writhed, and you could hear the snapping of the leaves as you fought against his unbreakable grasp. He pet your cheek with the back of his hand, coaching you through it,

“Shh, sweet thing. You know better than that. Count to ten for me. I know you can do it. I won’t let anything happen to you. Relax - ungh! - yes, that’s it. Fuckin’ perfect, such a good girl…”

His praise made you melt, and he was right. You weren’t going to suffocate. You were just panicking and needy. You took a moment to calm down, and you began to count.

One… two… three…

His cock slipped further down your throat now that you had managed to relax your muscles, filling you up in a sinfully delicious way.

Four… five… six…

He began to let out a low-toned whine, reeling from the pleasure of feeling you swallow him over and over and over, clenching your throat in a predictable rhythm, slithering your tongue along his aching shaft.

Seven… eight… nine…

The captain was breathing through his teeth now, struggling to hang on. You decided to push his limits and nuzzled into the thick hair, trying to lick it, matting it down, wet and sticky. He moaned and shuddered when you did, much to your acute satisfaction.

“Goddamn, you got me close,” he moaned, but then he pulled himself from you, letting you breathe again, “But, I have other plans. Been thinking about tonight for a long, long time.”

John left you there on the wet ground, and you caught your breath amongst the fallen petals. When you coughed, you could smell and taste the rotten orange blossoms, sickly sweet in your nose and mouth, tinged with just the slightest hint of botanical decay. 

He was behind you now, spreading your legs as far as they’d go with your ankles still bound, and you felt the cool night air rush across your wet center. His fingers traced the outline of your pussy, touching all of its swollen parts except the middle where you needed him most. His big, strong fingers lingered there for too long, petting you softly like a child pets a bunny, the backs of his two fingers feeling your softness and playing around your edges. 

Then, he stopped, and you felt yourself clench around nothing, aching for release. 

“John?”

A loud slap rang out through the trees and you cried out from the pain, crawling away from him, your bare ass cheek burning like it was on fire. He hit you again, and left his hand there to dull the pain. Tears burned in your eyes as you wrenched them shut, feeling almost nauseous from the ache he had caused. 

“That’s for teasing me, you little brat, and this,” he slapped your other ass cheek just as hard, “is for making me chase you through the bloody woods.”

You sobbed out an apology, hoping it would be enough,

“Please, John, I won’t do it again…please…”

You bit your lip to keep from crying, feeling his fingertips graze over the stinging flesh, making it spark and glitter like electricity. 

“Naughty,” he rubbed his dripping cock over his handiwork, “You knew what you were doing. Beggin’ won’t help you now, hm?”

He positioned himself at your entrance and pressed his head to your hole, letting your body know he had arrived. Your pussy grabbed for him, clenching as he popped his flesh inside of yours, sinking into you with a long sigh of satisfaction. It had been so long since you had felt full, and with every agonizing inch of progress, he chased away the emptiness within you, making you whole again. 

It felt good. Too good…

Suddenly, you realized he was fucking you unprotected. You usually used condoms, and he was always so careful. You craned your head to look back at him. 

“John, do you have a condom?” You asked, your voice sounding meek and small, strained from your overwhelming pleasure. He knew you had a safeword, but you weren’t ready to use it. 

“No, love,” he chuckled darkly, “I’m gonna breed you, right here in these bloody fucking woods, tied up like the naughty little brat that you are. Gonna fill you full of my come… all… fuckin’... night. Right here,” he shoved himself up against your womb, reaching it easily and pressing on it until it ached like a bruise, “Right here, deep, fuck…”

His hands were gripping your ass cheeks fiercely, pulling them apart so he could watch himself disappear into you. You felt your body working up an orgasm for him - not for you - he was coaxing it from you like a snake charmer, forcing it to build and build until it grew within you, hot and ready to burst. 

You whimpered under his heavy form, feeling the cold grass licking at your sensitive nipples, tickling your belly and mons, feeling how your walls were gaping open to accommodate John’s huge girth.

“That’s it. Be a good girl and come for me. Want you nice and ready,” he grunted, feeling your contractions as your pleasure mounted to a head, tightening in your core and making your legs shake against his thighs, “Mm, fuck, that’s it! Fuck!” 

“John, don’t come in me,” you whined, your voice slurred from your uncontrollable bliss, “I’ve been off the pill. You’ll get me pregnant if you…ungh…oh, my God…if you - shit!”

Another one, an aftershock, rocked your core. You heard it, wet and sticky, dripping down around his shaft. It made lurid, slick noises that made your cheeks flush with shame. The idea that he would willingly breed you out here in your forest made you unbelievably horny. It was so primal, so brutally feral, and with as much restraint as John usually used with you, his ruthless pounding was making you high on his affection. 

“Yeah, sweet thing. I fuckin’ know,” he bent himself over you to suck on your neck, “I’m gonna bloody well make sure you are,” his voice became a little sinister as he whispered in your ear, “I took a pill before I chased you out here. Won’t be soft for a good while. I’ll just come and come and come until it’s fuckin’ pourin’ out of you. Want you to be drownin’ in it, yeah? Gonna… make… damn… sure.”

Each thrust was an ordeal with how sensitive you were. You could feel his heat pooling inside of you from the incredible friction. You couldn’t help but bear down on him, and he cried out, unable to hold himself back for much longer. 

“John, please…” You weren’t sure what you were even begging for anymore. 

“Say it, love. Use the safeword. Say it, before it’s too late. C’mon…”

You turned your head and met his eyes. The blue of them pierced you like a knife, and the turmoil they displayed made you even hornier for his spilled seed. You managed a tired smile and shut your mouth, turning away from him, knowing you’d won. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he lamented, unable to keep himself contained.

You felt his hot, heavy ropes coat your insides for the first time, and it was everything you thought it would be. The gooey, warm sensation made your whole body tremble, and your pussy fluttered around him as if trying to stroke it all out of his shaft, hungry for more and more of his sweet, spun sugar. 

He buried himself to the hilt and took a few deep breaths. Then, John turned your body over and kept rutting into you, hoisting your ankles over one of his shoulders and grabbing your thighs for support. He was completely fuck-drunk, his pupils blown wide like he was high, and he laughed softly as he looked down at you,

“Look at you, dirty girl. The flowers… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your hands were tied behind you, digging into your back, forcing you to arch up into him, and the position pushed your breasts up into the air, your nipples filthy with mud and soil, covered in white and pink petals from the orchard’s fallen blooms. He freed one of his hands to smear the vegetation all over your skin, pawing at your breasts and gathering up more petals from the ground to paint your body.

He rested his hand over your lower belly, right where he could feel himself spearing into you, his palm right over your womb. John pressed down with a closed fist right at the end of your hole, where your flesh stopped him, and he pushed his knuckles down, tightening your walls from above. It was a singular sensation, and your body decided it was a good one, sending all sorts of confusing, panicked signals to your brain. You screamed from it, and he chuckled, 

“Mm, yes… squirm for me, sweet thing. I love it when you try to get away. Can’t, can you?” 

“Fuck! John! Please! God!” You were trying anything and everything to keep from coming again. You wanted to fight, and you weren’t ready for him to have the satisfaction. 

But, you were helpless to him. He pounded into you hard and slow, vibrating your whole body every time he hit your wet, sticky end, and you fell into another wave of orgasms. They were difficult to pick apart. You weren’t sure where one ended and the next began. John did not seem concerned about over stimulating you, pinching and holding your clit between his finger and his thumb once he removed his fist from your womb. 

“Good girl… Gonna look so beautiful when you’re all swollen, hmm?” He pet your womb again, unable to stay away from pressing on it rhythmically, “Those breasts full and heavy. Needin’ me. Needin’ me like I fuckin’ need you.”

He thrust harder, pushing your legs down over your arched belly, slamming his length into your stickiness, chasing another orgasm. He found it in you, and you could feel his cockhead nuzzling your womb as it throbbed as if begging for entrance, painting your walls again. 

Then, swiftly, he pulled out of you, lifting your ass into the air, making you take your weight on your shoulders. He put his face between your legs and started to shove his tongue into your pussy, lapping at his own come as it mixed with yours. It was feral and grotesque, and you loved every soft lap of his tongue. He was shoving it inside of you, spitting himself into your swollen slit, using his clean hand to push his come deeper inside, curling his knuckles to rub you to another painful orgasm, watching you come undone. Then, he went back to licking you, gathering any lost spend from your folds and fucking it back inside you with his pink mouth. 

Satisfied with his efforts, he kept you vertical and began to eat your asshole, licking and licking and licking like a hound. He managed to squeeze his tongue inside it, writhing around, sticky and warm. His fingers joined in, pistoning in and out of you together in tandem, convincing your body to clench around him, desperate for more relief. 

He held you tight, digging around in his pocket for a moment before showing you his gift. It was a t-bar plug. You thought he’d slip it into your ass, but he managed to wedge it into your pussy, keeping his come inside of you, safe and sound. 

“Tha’s it. Sweet girl. Doin’ so good, hm? C’mon. Let’s get you inside. Got a long night ahead of us.”

He picked you up around your legs and hoisted you over his back like a sack of flour, marching you out of the orchard and towards home.

[middlingmay]

Horse Trainer Gale x Veteran Buck AU Part 2

Read Part I here.

John's not at the hospital long. He doesn't need surgery or even so much as a stitch.

The psychiatrists who'd been on him ever since his ma spilled the beans about his struggles after coming home from the Air Force finally ease up when he tells them about Cleven Ranch, and that another vet is going to take him there once he's out and up and around. He isn't 100% sure he's going to take Curt up on his offer, but if it gets them off his back.

But then he sees his ma's relief and that convinces him to at least think about it a little more before writing it off entirely.

He and Curt meet up as soon as walking around doesn't feel like dragging a sack full of bruises around.

He tells himself he'll ask Curt about the Ranch but can't quite bring himself to. And it turns out they have plenty to talk about anyway. They swap stories, some lighter, some morbid and they laugh at them anyway. Curt tells him about how his brief encounter with the Air Force during an evac had him bailing out over Scotland, and John tells him about the time Benny smuggled a dog home from Iceland and made him everybody's problem.

It becomes a regular thing. They meet up at bars and restaurants and cafes. They go to a few local sports games. Curt eventually meets John's ma. He'd been frightened to meet her after practically running her son over, but she sweeps him into a hug because she's seen more of her son in the last few weeks than she has since he's been back. What are a few bruises compared to that?

A couple of months go by before John bites the bullet as says to Curt, "So this ranch. Is it a bunch of hippy dippy docs gettin' ya to weave straw baskets and daisy chains, and wanting you to talk about your feelings?"

Curt snorts at him. "Sure. If by that you mean shovelling wheelbarrows full of shit - literal wheelbarrows - and labouring in the middle of the afternoon in the heat, with the most uncommunicative man you're ever going to meet."

And John smells a scam. Some rancher using vets struggling with civilian life for free labour under the guise of therapy. Or, he would have, if Curt hadn't looked so damn sincere. And Curt doesn't strike him as someone easy to fool. Or someone who'd tolerate it.

She he gives in and agrees to visit and see what it's like. Curt picks him up and John's ma sends them off with a thermos full of coffee, a full crumb cake, and sandwiches laden heavy with fillings.

God John loves her.

It takes over an hour to get there. John's silent on the ride and Curt lets him be.

Eventually, they pull up a dirt track through land choc full of fields and paddocks and woody patches. It's a decent stretch of land - a few acres at least.

The main building is a generous stone cottage, and there's an eve bigger two-storey barn right next door. Curt tells him the barn is mostly accommodation for clients and storage, and the cottage is for meals, socialising and is where Gale sleeps - as well as any staff who needs bed for the night. The stables with the horses are further into the property, and John feels relief at that and tries not to let it show.

Curt stops a woman and asks where Gale is. She's beautiful and holds herself like a General or two John has known in his time. When she clocks John she turns to Curt and says, "This him?"

So it's also the day he finds out Curt is a total gossip.

Marge sends them into the barn. It's not too busy. Mostly full of people working: carrying, fixing and cleaning things. Others simply talk it up, or sit squashed into corners scribbling in journals.

Right at the back is a man surrounded by equestrian equipment. He looks up when they approach and John tries not to swallow his own tongue.

Because this alone is worth the trip. This might be the most beautiful man John's ever seen.

He has golden hair and tanned skin dotted with dark spots that make John want to play connect the dots. His lips are pursed around a toothpick. His jaw is sharp, his neck slender and long, and he has good wide shoulders and long legs encased in denim that had no business wrapping around a man's ass like that.

There there are his eyes. John has seen the bluest skies and flown over the bluest oceans, and not one of them were as bright and crystal clear as Gale's eyes.

"Right, Bucky." Curt elbows him and John comes back to earth. Gale's assessing him, up and down, and John is faced with the rare urge to shy away.

Curt rolls his eyes and introduces them properly. John is so distracted by the length of Gale's fingers and the grace of his hands and the low timbre of his voice as he tells John it's nice to meet him, that it takes a minute to sink in.

"Cleven? As in Cleven Ranch?"

Gale nods. "That's right. S'my ranch."

And John could cry because of course he's found the most beautiful creature on this earth, only to find out he's essentially long to be his therapist if he sticks with this.

And he needs to stick with this. He can't keep doing this to his ma.

Gale takes one look at John's shoulders and he's smothering a smile and beckoning John to follow him. John's feet obey without his input.

Gale leads them outside to a pile of strong wooden beams, and tells them they're building a medical station for the horses to treat any minor issues that come up.

Curt and John are put to work loading the beams onto a truck and then dragging them off again and onto the build site.

And because John is a social sort, he talks to everyone and learns that most of his assumptions about this place are wrong.

Gale isn't a therapist. he's genuinely just a rancher and business owner. No one here is forced to talk, and if they want to it's normally to each other.

The idea behind the place is the hard physical work it takes to keep it running tires out the body and quietens the mind, Then, over time, this helps people reach the emotional stability required to work with the horses. They dook donations, not fees, and people were only required to pay if they stayed the night - for food and utilities.

John also learns that Gale rarely speaks and rarely socialises with the clients. But he's everyone's favourite and leads by a steady, confident example that folks here wanted to follow.

Throughout the afternoon John catches Gale watching, or working nearby. Curt sees it too and looks at him funny. But when he calls out for Gale to join them, Gale ducks his head and shuffles off.

At the end of the day when Curt's saying his goodbyes and John's waiting for him by his car, his sun is blocked out and he looks up to see Gale with his hands in his pockets (seriously, how do they fit in jeans that tight?), rocking on the heels of his boots.

John, unusually tongue-ties only manages a garbled "Hey." But it makes Gale smile at his boots and look up at him through gold flecked lashes.

After a few moments of silence, as John's brain screams at him to say something, Gale asks, "What do you think of the ranch?"

"It's not what I thought it'd be, I'll admit." And when John tells Gale about what he had expected - all the emotional poking and prodding he wasn't comfortable with - Gale rolls his eyes but can't fight down a little laugh.

"I can't imagine anything worse," he says. "People prying into a man's business like that."

John thinks it's a good thing, too. if it's Gale doing the asking, he might just tell him anything.

"You, uh," Gale kicks some gravel around. "You think you'll come back? Looked like you were getting on with everyone."

John tries not to look smug that Gale has been paying attention to him so much today. So instead he smiles crooked, his dimples running deep on one side, and says, "Count on it, Buck. I'll be here."

[beardedmrbean]

"You know that the numbers should be equivocal to what an acre was back then. We were given 40, OK? We were given 40 acres. You know what that number is. You keep trying to talk about now, yet you research back to slavery and you say nothing about slavery, nothing," said Pierce. "So, the equivocal number from the 1860s for 40 acres to today is $200 million for each and every African-American."

Link

_____________________________________________

Not even close my guy, not unless you're buying land in Manhattan.

Skywalker Ranch is valued at around $100 million dollars and is close to 500 acres, and this is not cheap real estate either.

All you're going to get at this point is laughed at now.

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Kiss in the Kitchen, Like it's a Dance Floor

Pairing: Steve Harrington x gn!reader

WC: 1.7k (exactly, which is wild)

TW: Teasing, kissing, pg-13 make out, sexual innuendos, mentions of sex and orgasms, this is literally just the foreplay before kitchen sex without the actual must part, mentions of previous trauma, mention of blood, kitchen weaponry,

A/N: I just wanted to write some fluff, also Eddie survived because he is a plot device, no matter how small, and I need him to be alive for this. I really tried to keep it as ambiguous descriptions of the reader as possible, if something needs to be edited, lemme know and I'll 100% change it since I really want this to be actually gender neutral!

You loved to cook. It was one of your favorite things on the planet. You were one of those people that just tossed things into a bowl, and managed to make a perfect four course meal, including dessert. Which is why you adored your kitchen so much. Steve had let you take the head on designing the kitchen, since you were going to be in there more than him. Steve could cook, in fact, when Steve cooked, it was quite the welcome surprise for you. He had to learn since no one was home to make him dinner, or even teach him. To Steve, cooking was not enjoyable, it was survival only. But for you? It was an art form, it was a way of showing your love.

You and Steve had gotten lucky–as lucky as two people who survived the apocalypse, lost the tail end of their childhoods, fought monsters beyond their wildest nightmares, and have the scars and trauma to prove it all, can be. After the earth split, swallowing most of Hawkins whole, a lot of people fled the area, desperately trying to sell their homes. Once Vecna had been defeated, You and Steve took complete advantage of it, and bought a small ranch-like house about fifteen minutes outside of Hawkins. It was only one story, but it came with over three acres of land. You were able to get it even cheaper, saying that you would be doing all of  the renovations yourself, saving the previous owners a lot of money in the process. 

Truly, it was the definition of a fixer upper, barely inhabitable. 

There was a lot of work that needed to be done, so when Steve was away at work, you would fix the hinges on doors, figure out the electrical wiring for the plugs in the kitchen, reupholster furniture. And while you were away at classes, or at work, Steve would build your bed, or paint the walls, or have Eddie or Jonathan help him install new windows. But you both loved unpacking your things together, because it meant that the space was becoming your own. Slowly but surely, the house was coming together.

The kitchen was the second thing you two had finished, the bedroom being the first (obviously). The final touch were the cabinets. They were the absolutely perfect color, with a glass front to see the minimal dishes you and Steve actually owned, but they brought the room together perfectly. There were pictures of you both attached to the front of the fridge with magnets. There were a couple of small pots on the windowsill over the kitchen sink, holding a couple of herbs like basil and cilantro and mint. It was just perfect.

It was early in the morning, way earlier than you usually woke up, but you wanted to get a head start on breakfast, letting Steve wake up to some food before you both started painting the living room area today. 

After the night you had last night, you felt like Steve deserved to be spoiled. Especially since he completely spoiled you last night. Repeatedly. Repeatedly.

As you slowly  slipped out of bed, Steve groaned. His arms reached out to your side of the bed, confused as to why you weren’t there, but you quickly nudged your pillow into his arms. It seemed to do the trick as you slowly crept out of the room, your door closing with a soft click. As you walked towards the kitchen, you opened every single curtain, and every single window in the living room/dining room area, letting the cool, late summer, morning breeze sweep through the house, as you slowly padded into the kitchen. 

The first thing you and Steve had purchased was a cassette player. It sat proudly on the kitchen bar, music playing all the time, whenever you were home. So naturally, at 6 am, you had it playing softly, while you quietly shuffled around, looking for the one skillet you did have. 

Two weeks ago, you and Steve had a date night at the movies. Just like everyone else, you had gone to see Dirty Dancing, and you had found yourself obsessed with the soundtrack. After an intense bribing session involving a cake, a bottle of vodka, and three advanced promises of skipping a night class to go and watch Corroded Coffin at their shows, Eddie was willing/managed to set aside one of the copies for you. You had kissed him on the cheek making him turn bright red and Steve turn bright green. It was a miracle the tape wasn’t worn through since you haven’t stopped listening to it. 

Love is Strange by Mickey and Slvia was softly playing in the background, and instead of singing it, aware of your sleeping boyfriend, you were only humming it. 

You let out a little “aha!” when you found the skillet, crouching down and grabbing it from the cabinet. You both were still figuring out which things were going where, so it was a bit of a guessing game when it came to finding things in the kitchen. When you stood up, you twirled it in your hand, singing a little bit, adding in a dance. You gave it a little swing, hitting a home run across the room. As you twirled around, pan in air, your eyes went from playful to absolute terror. Steve was behind you. Luckily his reflexes were still working, despite the sleep coming off of him, because he ducked quickly while you let out a gasp. 

The last thing Steve Harrington needed was another concussion. 

“Oh my god Steve I’m so—“

“Didn’t know I was dating Babe Ruth.” He mumbled, joking, standing completely up again, yawning in the middle of his stance. His arms went over head as the sweats he was wearing sank a little bit lower on his hips. You should’ve eyed him up and down right then and there. You should’ve made a cheeky comment about the hickies you had left on his hips last night. But instead, you panicked.

“Are you okay?” You dropped the skillet on the counter, immediately placing your hands on his cheeks, tilting his head around, attempting to locate any sort of imperfection you just added to your boyfriend's skin. It was getting more and more difficult to breathe. All you could think about was how many people had hurt him, and now suddenly your name was lumped in with theirs. 

“Babe.” 

Your eyes were frantic, repeatedly scanning his face, his head, his hair. 

“Baby—hey.” He took your hands from his face and brought them to his lips. “I would be knocked out on the floor if you managed to get me. I forgot how good of a swing you have….” His usual humor to calm you down going right over your head.  He knew you heard him, but something wasn’t getting through. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, trying not to let past memories fill your mind. Steve knocked out on the floor, bruised. His face bloodied. Blood from his stomach across Lover’s Lake. Neck red and irritated. Bandages turned a deep red. Vines tightening around his skin. 

“Hey.” Steve kissed your hands again. “Where’d you go?” 

Your eyes opened and scanned over his face, quickly dashing from his eyes towards his neck, and then at his stomach, but back to his eyes. 

“Ah.” He whispered, placing your hands around his neck as he pulled you into a hug. He always managed to ground you, it felt like a sick joke sometimes. Steve being your person was one of the best things to happen to you, but watching him get beaten up over and over again was difficult. It took a toll on you too. Everytime, he would chance fate a little more than before, and some day the luck was going to run out, and you didn’t want to even entertain the idea of a next time.

Steve ran his hand along your back, smiling slightly at your choice of music, completely unsurprised. He had woken up as soon as the door clicked shut, not really understanding why you had been replaced by a pillow. Watching as you danced around the kitchen was a vision for him, and him only. So when you almost gave him another concussion, he felt kind of bad for sneaking up on you. 

“Why are you awake?” You asked after a minute or two of silence, enjoying the comfort of one another, basking in the morning glow of the sun shining through the windows. 

“You abandoned me.” 

“I know, I’m sorry.” You mumbled into his chest. Feeling slightly better, you teased him a bit. “Could you ever forgive me?” 

Steve pondered for a moment, twisting his face into faux consideration before smiling. “I think a good morning kiss would be an acceptable apology.” 

“Okay Lover Boy,” You laughed softly, pressing your lips to his, enjoying the feeling. It was a tender kiss, filled with love. Steve deepened the kiss slightly, but you had other things in mind, like making breakfast for the both of you. 

You bit his lip and tugged on it slightly before breaking off the kiss, not afraid to tease back. “I wanted to make you breakfast.” Providing the final piece of your explanation, moving to turn and grab the potential murder weapon off of the counter again.

But Steve wasn’t ready to let you move out of his arms quite yet. He groaned and pulled your back against his bare chest. Because Steve slept in a pair of sweatpants, and that was about it, he always made your morning views quite stunning–his freckles and moles were constellations across his skin, his summer tan bringing out more of them. 

He swayed back and forth with you, kissing your neck. “What did I do to deserve you?” He whispered into your neck. “Only wearing my shirt and shit, making me breakfast.” 

His hands slid downwards, thumbing with the edge of his crewneck, fingers brushing your bare skin. 

“Steve….” You hummed. 

“What baby.” He moved slowly, kissing your shoulders next, stretching out the neck of the crewneck you were wearing. 

Your breath hitched as he slid one of his hands downward, toying with the edge of your underwear. His other hand slid up, warm fingers gliding over your chest, your brain getting more and more fuzzy by the second. 

“I-I was—fuck Steve.” You mumbled, rolling your hips into his, craving more contact than he was giving. “I wanted to-to-to.” You let out a soft moan while Steve continues to tease you, love on you. “To cook and s-surprise y–” 

“Oh sweetheart.” He kissed the tender spot on your neck, causing you to moan again, this time louder, breathier—needier. “You can cook for me later, I already know what I’m having for breakfast.” 

[elisadaughtry]

Thought I should an ‘about me’ post, TW long post hahaha.

I am unfortunately only nineteen years old

I have an odd, weird shade of ginger hair, natural not dyed. Disgustingly blue eyes. My hair is curly/wavy but NOT the artsy café downtown girl way, the I can never brush my hair without crying way.

My favourite type of heels are Betsy Johnson though I don’t own a pair.

Too broke to have a claimed clothing style.

I have long crooked fingers, not interesting but I’d thought to add it anyways.

Extremely pale… ghastly even… I wear spf 100, yes, it exists. It’s in my wildest dreams to wear colourful and spontaneous clothes, but my paleness says no to said dreams.

Horrible grammar and do not care, never have never will. Let me place commas wherever I want.

I love writing poems. it’s my favourite stress reliever. If I could I would stay by the lake all day just writing.

No debate. Winter > Summer. I shrivel and dye in the heat.

Like most, I prefer old fashioned style and decor.

My favourite books are Dracula, the Mortal Instruments series, Mrs Dalloway, Despair and Interview with a Vampire, Normal People, Out of the Easy, All That Remains, Ethan Frome, The Breathing series and Death’s Acres. Don’t debate with me on these books. Don’t care xoxo.

Favorite films (I’m a cinephile): The Phantom of the Opera (2004), War Horse, Beautiful Creatures, Mao’s Last Dancer, Silver Skates, Contempt, Sabrina (1995), Henry and June, Camille Claudel, Star Wars franchise, Death Becomes Her, The Dreamers, and for some unprecedented reason Big Fish and Warm Bodies.

Favourite shows: Criminal Minds (obvi), The Walking Dead, Quantico, Sons of Anarchy, New girl and Derry Girls. OH AND SUPERNATURAL

Favourite candy: anything sour and dark chocolate even though I don’t count chocolate as candy.

Favourite color: don’t have one

Favorite Foods: Gnocchi, chicken tenders, and pork fried rice.

Hobbies: contemplating where it all went wrong and spending too much time in the shower.

Can I sleep? No I have insomnia and when I do sleep I get nightmares.

Trauma? Plenty

Sexuality? Don’t know, nobody stays long enough for me to find out.

Humor? Unparalleled, Unmatched, Unwavering. I’m the funniest person half alive. yes, half alive don’t ask. Half of this post is sarcasm.

I like using big words in the wrong context. It’s funny.

Murder? Only roaches

Fears? People who like Hidden Valley ranch, heights, large crowds and loud noises.

I love any and all animals but mainly dogs and cats like anyone else.

That’s all I think.

I’m so niche and cool it’s not niche and cool anymore.

[vintagelasvegas]

Hidden Well Ranch, Las Vegas, 1947

Photos (1-3) by Jon Brenneis, and postcards (4-5) by Burton Frasher Sr.

Hundreds of artesian wells were dug in the Las Vegas valley in the early years, becoming the foundation of ranches and farmland. Henry C. Nickerson, architect from Pasadena CA, purchased 100 acres of what had been called the Houseman ranch, relocated his family, and built Hidden Well Ranch. Part of Las Vegas’ nascent tourism industry would be rural guest ranches, or divorce ranches, for weeks-long stays. “This dude ranch,” said the local paper in a story about Hidden Well, “will be the first one to be opened in this section of the country and is expected to be the forerunner of other similar projects.”

Hidden Well ranch was located at the bottom of what is now the Pilot Rd loop south of the airport. Access to the ranch from Las Vegas was via Paradise Rd. It was a meeting place for the local Frontier Riders, and a secluded getaway for travelers. Liz Taylor stayed at Hidden Wells in ’59 prior to her marriage to Eddie Fisher who was performing at the Tropicana. Judy Garland stayed at the ranch during her divorce from Sidney Luft, all the while performing at the Sahara.

Alamo airport, basis of the future McCarran Airfield and Harry Reid International Airport, was founded nearby in the 40s. Alamo founder George Crockett married Nickerson’s daughter Peg who is seen on horseback in the first photo. The Nickerson’s sold the ranch in the early 50s. It changed hands over the years and appears to have closed in the early 60s. Clark County claimed former ranch property by eminent domain in ’90 and the construction of Pilot Rd and airport facilities soon began.

“First Dude Ranch in Las Vegas Area is Being Started.” Review-Journal, 5/19/39; Heidi Knapp Rinella. “From Sunset to Prosperity.” Review-Journal, 4/4/2000; F. Andrew Taylor. “Hidden Well Road a legacy of early 20th-century ranch.” Review-Journal, 1/14/2014

[warningsine]

Kenyan preacher Paul Nthenge Mackenzie has appeared in court following the discovery of scores of bodies in a remote forest. He is accused of encouraging followers to starve themselves to death - hundreds of relatives are now wondering what happened to their loved ones.

When the leader of the Good News International Church, Pastor Mackenzie, said the world would end in June 2023, Stephen Mwiti's wife believed him.

Now, he is certain that she starved to death along with their six children.

The 45-year-old, who makes his living selling mandazi, or fried bread, holds up a crumpled photograph of his wife and four of his children asking if anyone has seen them.

He has been doing this over and over again in the town of Malindi, south-east Kenya, since she disappeared from there last August.

Mr Mwiti has also been to look for them in the Shakahola forest, where members of Pastor Mackenzie's church had isolated themselves.

His wife, Bahati Joan, was pregnant when she left last year with their children: Hellen Karimi, nine years old, Samuel Kirimil, seven, Jacob Kimathi, three, Lillian Gatumbi, 18 months, and Angelina Gatumbi, seven months.

Mr Mwiti later found out that his wife had given birth to a son, who also died.

She had been an ardent follower of Pastor Mackenzie since 2015 and had first gone to Shakahola in 2021, and then kept coming and going.

After alerting the police numerous times and failed personal attempts to rescue them, he learned recently from other children who had escaped and were being held by Kenyan police, that his own children had died.

"They could identify them from the pictures. They knew their names and where Jacob and Lillian had been buried," he recounts, fighting back tears.

"I was told not to try to look for my children again. They were all dead. I was too late."

He believes they were buried in the forest but their bodies have not yet been identified.

Shakahola is a Swahili word that loosely translates as "a place where worries are lifted".

It is nestled in the expansive 50,000-acre (20,000-hectare) Chakama Ranch in the coastal county of Kilifi.

Pastor Mackenzie is reported to have owned 800 acres of the forest area.

The entrance to the forest, down a rough track off the main road, is a two-hour drive from Malindi, the nearest main town.

Thorn bushes and thickets dot the landscape and make the journey into Shakahola difficult. The heat swelters almost all year round and elephants occasionally roam the area.

The deeper inside, the more cut off it becomes. There is no mobile network, no internet connection.

But it was here that a new Holy Land was established.

The area had been partitioned into villages, each given biblical place names.

Some of Pastor Mackenzie's followers lived a life of deprivation in Judea. Others holed themselves up in Bethlehem. There was also Nazareth.

"I learned that my wife and children lived and died in Jerusalem," Mr Mwiti says. But he has not been there since officials began to exhume bodies from marked gravesites.

In the forest, detectives had initially mapped out 65 sites where people were buried. Each had several shallow graves with bodies huddled close to each other.

'Children were first to die'

Those who exhumed the corpses say the sight of people buried without dignity haunts them. So far 110 people have been confirmed dead, but there are fears the death toll could rise as more of the forest is searched.

Post-mortems still have to be carried out but police and state prosecutors say as well as dying from starvation, some members may have been strangled, suffocated or beaten to death with blunt objects.

Former members of the Good News International Church have said they were forced to starve as part of their adherence to its teachings.

Titus Katana, who managed to escape, says those who tried to leave the cult were branded as traitors and faced violent attacks.

He also suggested there was an order in which people were supposed to die ahead of the end of the world.

"The children were the first to die. Then after the children, they went for the unmarried. Then after, the mothers and the elderly were next in line."

The church leaders were supposed to be the last to die.

Explaining what drew him to the church, Mr Katana said he thought that Pastor Mackenzie was "charismatic and preached God's word well".

An additional attraction was that "Mackenzie was also selling land to his followers. That appealed to me. I bought 15 acres. But when I saw his preaching was odd, I chose to leave."

Mr Mwiti says he had heard accounts of how his infant son was breast-fed only once. Then he was suffocated to death.

"I heard that when my son was killed, instead of the cult members grieving, they clapped and rejoiced that he had ascended and met Jesus," he says.

A BBC analysis of Pastor Mackenzie's sermons on video do not show him directly ordering people to fast, but there are many references to followers sacrificing what they hold dear, including their lives.

At the end of last week, the Kenya Red Cross reported that 410 people, including 227 children, who were thought to have some connection to Pastor Mackenzie's church, were missing.

Their relatives are now milling around Malindi's hospital and police station, waiting for news of their loved ones.

Couldn't persuade mum to leave

Among them is Patrick Ngumbau.

His mother went missing two years ago and he went looking for her in Shakahola, but despite finding her he could not persuade her to leave.

"I asked her if she would accept to come home. She told me she was there for one mission, to find Jesus," Mr Ngumbau says as he lines up among hundreds waiting for information about their kin.

"I left Shakahola in 2021 very sad because I felt we had already lost our mum."

He had come from Makueni county - 270km (170 miles) away - to find out more. Relatives of the missing have gathered in Malindi from across the country and even further afield - neighbouring Tanzania and Uganda, as well as Nigeria on the other side of the continent.

Christine Nyanchama came to Malindi from Nyamira, almost 800km away, to look for her sister, her brother-in-law and six other relatives. Her sister's children - a nephew and niece have already been found dead, but Ms Nyanchama thinks others could still be alive.

"Wherever my sister is, she needs to be helped as fast as possible, before she dies. I understand that she has already fasted for 22 days," she says referring to the last text message she has received.

Pastor Mackenzie's teachings online and on TV appeared to touch a chord with some. Among other things, he preached against formal education and modern medicine.

He had said that he had closed down the Good News International Church four years ago after nearly two decades of operation, but his sermons, some still available online, appear to have been recorded after that date.

Some of his ardent followers tore up their education certificates, quit their jobs and refused to vaccinate their children.

Dr Susan Gitau, a counselling psychologist believes that most people who followed Pastor Mackenzie - including university graduates and an elite police officer - were seeking solace, hope, strength and support.

Pastor Mackenzie was arrested in March when two children were found dead in Shakahola. He and their parents were accused of starving and suffocating them before burying them in the forest.

However, he was released for lack of evidence.

He is now back in custody but has not commented on the charges of murder, radicalisation and threatening public safety that he faces.

President William Ruto has promised to set up a commission of inquiry into what happened but the authorities themselves face tough questions. Not least about what took them so long to figure out something was going on.

"There is no excuse for the authorities not to have noticed this," says Hussein Khalid, the executive director of Haki Africa, the group which raised the alarm about the deaths.

"We are determined and we want to make sure each and every victim gets justice."

Mr Mwiti blames the government, the police and the local authorities in Malindi for failing to act.

"I am already 45 years old. The minute I heard that they had died, I felt that I had died too."

He has now given the authorities a sample of his DNA in the hope that his children can be identified. Only then will he be able to mourn.

[remadi]

Misty of Chincoteague's Beebe Ranch

From the GoFundMe page:

Chincoteague Island is fortunate to have visitors come from around the world to enjoy the untampered seashore, amazing wildlife, and quaint historical downtown. Many of those visitors also come because of "Misty of Chincoteague" a book published in 1947 by Marguerite Henry that inspired millions. "Misty of Chincoteague" tells the against-the-odds story of two siblings Paul and Maureen Beebe. These two children lived on the ranch with their grandparents, Clarence and Ida Beebe (affectionately called Grandma and Grandpa Beebe in the story). The charming story centers on the children's desire to buy the wild pony of their dreams and the challenges they faced to make that dream a reality. It is a heartwarming tale that made the Beebe family, Misty and the Beebe Ranch a beloved part of the literary world.

After 100 years, the Beebe family need to sell the ranch. The demands of maintaining the ranch plus the desire to use the funds to help their aging family is certainly a good enough reason to sell. We appreciate all they have done to preserve the remaining 10.3 acres of the ranch. This property is where Misty spent most of her life, and the original home still stands. The Beebe family has reached out to the Museum of Chincoteague in the hopes that the museum could acquire the property and maintain it as the ranch. Allowing it to be incorporated into the museum, would help protect it for many years to come. Because of the circumstances, the museum has been given one month to see if they can generate the funds to purchase the property.

The mission of the Museum of Chincoteague Island is to preserve, collect and protect the history of Chincoteague and Assateague Island. It is with this mission in mind that we would like to ask the public to join us to save the Beebe Ranch. If we can raise the funds in what can only be called a colossal, grassroots effort, we can preserve the ranch for future generations, keep a treasured part of Chincoteague intact and support the mission of the museum to protect our history, making the Beebe Ranch an officially an extension of the museum. Since we have been given one month to generate the funds, please understand that this can not be done without you!

We are asking you to consider making a tax-deductible donation to the Museum of Chincoteague Island.

Our goal is $625,000. The family has already been given an offer by a developer for that amount. If we are not successful in raising our goal, the donor will be able to decide if they would like their donation returned.

As of 4/13/23 they've raised $316,000 of $625,000. Save the Beebe Ranch donations can be made through the Museum of Chincoteague Island website, GoFundMe or by mailing a check payable to the Museum of Chincoteague Island (noting the donation is for the Beebe Ranch) to PO Box 352 Chincoteague Island, VA, 23336. For further information, please feel free to call the museum directly at 757-336-6117.

[potsiefaerie]

From the Museum of Chincoteague Island:

Press Release

For Immediate Release

Chincoteague Island is fortunate to have visitors come from around the world to enjoy the untampered seashore, amazing wildlife, and quaint historical downtown. Many of those visitors also come because of "Misty of Chincoteague" a book published in 1947 by Marguerite Henry that inspired millions. "Misty of Chincoteague" tells the against-the-odds story of two siblings Paul and Maureen Beebe. These two children lived on the ranch with their grandparents, Clarence and Ida Beebe (affectionately called Grandma and Grandpa Beebe in the story). The charming story centers on the children's desire to buy the wild pony of their dreams and the challenges they faced to make that dream a reality. It is a heartwarming tale that made the Beebe family, Misty and the Beebe Ranch a beloved part of the literary world.

After 100 years, the Beebe family need to sell the ranch. The demands of maintaining the ranch plus the desire to use the funds to help their aging family is certainly a good enough reason to sell. We appreciate all they have done to preserve the remaining 10.3 acres of the ranch. This property is where Misty spent most of her life, and the original home still stands. The Beebe family has reached out to the Museum of Chincoteague in the hopes that the museum could acquire the property and maintain it as the ranch. Allowing it to be incorporated into the museum, would help protect it for many years to come. Because of the circumstances, the museum has been given one month to see if they can generate the funds to purchase the property.

The mission of the Museum of Chincoteague Island is to preserve, collect and protect the history of Chincoteague and Assateague Island. It is with this mission in mind that we would like to ask the public to join us to save the Beebe Ranch. If we can raise the funds in what can only be called a colossal, grassroots effort, we can preserve the ranch for future generations, keep a treasured part of Chincoteague intact and support the mission of the museum to protect our history, making the Beebe Ranch an officially an extension of the museum. Since we have been given one month to generate the funds, please understand that this can’t be done without you!

We are asking you to consider making a tax-deductible donation to the Museum of Chincoteague Island.

Our goal is $625,000. The family has already been given an offer by a developer for that amount. If we are not successful in raising our goal, the donor will be able to decide if they would like their donation returned.

The Museum of Chincoteague Island's mailing address is PO Box 352 Chincoteague, Va 23336 if you are interested in sending a check. Donations can also be made through our website http://chincoteaguemuseum.com or Go-fund-Me: https://gofund.me/bd12d625

******Please note that our info might say "Oyster Museum dba Museum of Chincoteague Island" but that is still accurate*****

Together we can make this happen!!!!

[female-malice]

Population anon from earlier: Thank you for your response, though I still think non-coercive forms of population control would be appropriate especially in high-consumption countries. I also think that there's a lot of ways that high population leads to poor quality of life (e.g., child neglect, noise, trash/sewage) and harms women (e.g., harassment/violence on transit, being forced to live with men). I really appreciate your well-informed response.

Most high-consumption countries already have very low birth rates. I think that's a major reason the US government allowed states to ban abortions. It's becoming more and more difficult diplomatically for the US to exploit other nations. And so the US needs to rely on exploiting domestic poverty more and more. That's why they need to grow the wealth gap and shrink the middle class. And one fast way to do that is to take away women's reproductive health care options.

Reproductive health care is very important because it closes wealth gaps.

I don't agree that density leads to child neglect. Car-oriented suburban and rural sprawl leads to fractured communities and long commutes. That takes several hours out of family life every day.

The city I live in has 9,000 people per square mile and no trash or sewage problems. I lived in Tokyo for a month where it's 16,000 people per square mile. No trash or sewage problems there either.

I have experienced no difference in my personal safety whether I'm in rural or urban areas. I personally feel safest in a city because I'm never alone. Density doesn't mean it's just all unstable people living together. The majority of people in a dense area are regular stable people like you and me. If I need help, I can trust a stranger walking their dog at a park. But I can't trust a stranger driving by on a rural road. But that's just a feeling I have because I was born in a city.

You can point to this or that city and say it's dangerous or has poor waste management. But that doesn't mean density leads to danger and poor waste management. I can point to rural areas that have high crime and poor waste management, too. So it's a moot point.

Cities don't force you to live with men. Cities are just a place where people can live efficiently.

Female separatist settlements in the woods are still American settler culture. They still rely on the "American dream" of individual enterprise and self-reliance. Well, the truth is, human self-reliance is a myth. We can either live densely and help each other, or we can live alone and rely on machines. Machines like cars and extra refrigerators and spare generators and guns. Rural living requires quite a few machines just in case there's an emergency. You're alone and a long way from help and services. So you need to be machine-reliant. And that takes a lot of energy.

In order for rural life to be efficient, it needs to be dense. Condo buildings with goods and services on the ground floor. A hub of human life. No need to drive long distances several times a day. No need for 100 people to disrupt natural ecosystems in 100 different ways. 100 people can live together very efficiently in a human habitat.

The area where I'm from, native people traditionally lived densely in longhouses. It's efficient and comfortable, so why not? Why risk living far apart?

The real odd thing is that every settler needed his own ranch. Why did they each need to claim acres of land as their private property? I don't know. Maybe they never got along with each other. Out here in the west, settlers' inability to share space shaped the fabric of western American society. And car culture just reinforced that fabric. But there's no reason we need to keep living like that.

[let-love-run-red]

Prologue

AO3 Link | Masterlist

The drive to Howling Buck ranch was a long and lonely one. A drive that left her alone with her thoughts for far too long.

But the ranch had fallen in her lap when an estranged uncle she barely remembered passed and left everything he owned to her. What he owned wasn't much for a ranch, as it turned out. A ranch, a couple horses, a few old dairy cows, and 100 acres of farmland. After all the taxes and fees she was left with was just enough money to give her a sliver of a chance to turn a profit.

She drove down the gravel driveway and stopped in front of the ranch house. The ranch house with a missing step and a hole in the porch.

She started a list of things to fix.

Laura took a breath and turned to the barn. If the ranch house was in rough shape the barn was worse. The sliding door was hanging off the track and the paint was faded and peeling. She dropped her head forward and let it rest on the steering wheel of her black sedan. She would have to use the little money she had just to fix the place up.

"Really screwed me over here." She muttered as she turned the car off and stepped out. The cold Montana wind nipped at her face and she tugged her coat tighter around her. She slammed the door of the car shut and walked around to fetch her bag.

Walking into the ranch house triggered a wave of nostalgia. She barely remembered this place, but the way the light shone through the curtains and bounced off the hardwood floors reminded her of childhood.

She set her duffel bag in the living room and unbuttoned her coat, only to button it again when the chill hit her. She turned to the thermostat and turned the dial only to hear nothing. She would have to get that fixed too. She shook her head and walked into the kitchen.

There was a fine layer of dust on everything. Everything was set up as if nothing happened to her uncle. The coffee pot was out, a mug with a scene of the mountains, a plate still set at the table. It was like the ghost of her uncle was still there. From what she knew he had a bad fall, and was taken to a nursing home, where he passed a few weeks later in his sleep.

She set her purse on the counter and walked around the peninsula to the kitchen sink. Turning the tap revealed that the water was turned off and she added that to her ever growing mental list of things to fix. She leaned back against the counter and spotted the piece of paper atop the stove. It was a note, written in scrawling shaky handwriting.

Laura,

I know it's been awhile, but I was getting my affairs in order and I remembered how much you loved this old place. I figured I'd leave it if you wanted it.

I left a few things for you to get started. I made arrangements for my neighbor, Dutch, to take care of the horses and cows for as long as you need him to. If you need em they're at Van Der Linde Ranch just down the road to the West.

I hope you'll love this place and take good care of it. It's a good place to start over, if that's what you're after. 

P.S. I left you a little present to help you get started. When you're ready just head over to Dutch's place and ask for Javier

@rdrbigbang

[haveyourhouse]

-| NEW LISTING |- 437 #RockHouse Rd., #JohnsonCity, TN • 3 bdrm, 1 bath #OneAwesomeOneLevel >> Detailed property website here >> 🦁 https://www.thelionlisting.com/properties/437-rockhouse-rd/ Simply the #best! This #remodeled brick and vinyl ranch offers one-level living in a convenient location. Situated between Johnson City and Elizabethton in the established #Idlewylde neighborhood, the home is located just minutes from I-26, making it easy to run everyday errands, and 5 minutes to #Milligan University. Enjoy the many nearby attractions, like Tipton-Haynes Historic Site, #Sycamore Shoals State Park, Tannery Knobs Mountain Bike Park, Buffalo Mountain Park, and the Tweetsie Trail. In addition to the excellent location, this home is fresh, clean, and move-in ready! Recent #updates include attractive new #hardwood-look flooring in all the common areas, new #carpet in each of the three bedrooms, and new flooring and vanities in the full bathroom. The #bright, cheery kitchen features new #appliances, new #laminate countertops, and new fixtures; and the large living room provides plenty of space for relaxation. With a classic #floorplan and attached #garage on a quarter-acre lot, this is a great starter home or vacation getaway that's ready for your personal touch. Set up a private showing today! #tennessee #homesweethome #EastTennessee #TriCities >> List with #TheLion! 🦁 Call #Cory today for your showing 423.273.5133. Each office is independently owned and operated. ---------------------------------------- Cory Parsons, #TheLion 🦁 eXp Realty, LLC / ICON AGENT 423.273.5133 cory@haveyour.house 888 . 519 . 5113 x450 3401 Mallory Lane #100 Franklin, TN 37067 (at Johnson City, Tennessee) https://www.instagram.com/p/CmjfugHLEvA/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[spaciousreasoning]

One More Bridge

The overnight low was a few degrees away from freezing, depending on which site you consult. There was frost on cars, lawns and roofs in the area. We kept the heat on in the study, which seems to keep the cats warm enough that they don’t wake up too early and come bug us for their first meal of the day.

My morning blood sugar was down to 104, a significant drop, most likely due to the relatively healthy dinner last night and the lack of sugar afterwards.

Following our morning coffee and brain games, we had oatmeal for breakfast. On a cold morning like today, it’s a nice warm meal, and it feels good to hold the bowl in your hand while eating it.

Because of the cool and overcast morning, it felt like it would be a very dull day. I almost wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep more. Then Nancy suggested we drive down to the Creswell Bakery for more sourdough bread. I said, sure, and chipotle brioche sandwiches, too. She agreed, and then I suggested that after we ate we could head down to Cottage Grove and see the only covered bridge in Lane County we had not visited yet.

Located on the south side of Dorena Reservoir and spanning the Row River, the Dorena Covered Bridge was originally constructed in 1949. The 105-foot bridge was bypassed with a concrete span in 1974 and renovated in 1996. It is also known as the Row River Bridge or Star Bridge, because it provided access to the nearby Star Ranch, once a large private estate that is now only about 100 acres.

On the way back to Springfield, Nancy took over driving because I was getting tired. When we got home, we both took a nap for about an hour, then I went out for a walk of 3.34 miles. It took just under one hour, and even with the day’s high temperature of just 59 degrees I still worked up a bit of a sweat.

For dinner, we heated up some leftover tomato soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches. Then I went to the Thursday evening recovery meeting, where the reading and much of the sharing was about responsibility.

After I returned home, we tuned into Colbert and then watched the most recent episode of “High Potential,” the new American version of the French series we discovered a couple of months earlier.

[watchworldlive]

Devastating Blaze: Unleashing the Alexander Mountain Fire

Wildfires are part and parcel of the natural cycle, though every few years, one comes roaring in to take a community by storm—literally. The Alexander Mountain Fire is one such disaster. A fierce blaze that tore through serene landscapes and transformed the lush green hills into charred memories, leaving both the people and wildlife running for cover. 

The Day It All Began: A Disaster in the Making

The Alexander Mountain Fire erupted on one of those hot, dry afternoons. The kind of day when the air itself seems like it could ignite. Locals claim it was started from some careless campfire, but others say an electrical malfunction was the spark. Whatever, once those flames got going, there was no containing them. Within hours, the fire consumed acres racing with powerful winds. The fire burned so hot that normal firefighting strategies could not quell it. Helicopters circled overhead, pouring gallons of water from the skies, while firefighters on the ground seemed to never stop, cutting fire breaks and trying to save homes and buildings. But the relentless speed of the fire was a hard opponent.

The Perfect Storm of Conditions

What made the Alexander Mountain Fire so destructive was a stack of factors feeding into it. It was no such random fire—it was a perfect storm: Drought Conditions: There had been no rain for a really long time, and all vegetation became very dry and highly prone to flames.

Strong Winds: Gusts reached up to 40 mph, helping spread the flames over the vast areas, making the further continuation of containment a nightmare.

High Temperatures: Extremely high, over 100°F, heat strengthened the flame that fire produced and made the flames much more aggressive.

When all of them united together it was like a powder keg ready to explode.

Battling the Blaze: Heroes on the Frontline

Credit where credit is due: the blaze was equally swift and organized by firefighters, coupled with local authorities' response, would have made the Alexander Mountain Fire even worse. Nevertheless, fighting a wildfire is not a laughing matter. Firefighters battled sleepless nights, sulfurous smoke, and unpredictable flames as they fought for lives, homes, and natural habitats.

Strategies Used to Control Fire

The firefighters employed several strategies to outmaneuver the fire, like:

Firebreaks: Vegetation was cropped down to leave openings that the fire could not cross.

Aerial Support: Planes and helicopters were used in dropping water and fire retardant on the areas most strongly affected.

Controlled Burns: Some small fires were lit in parts of the sections to consume the fuel and deny it the chance to spread out much.

Evacuations: People were evacuated from dangerous areas for safety.

Despite all the good efforts made, it kept raging on and on for days, consuming everything that crossed its path.

The Impact on the Community: A Trail of Ruins

That is not a sugarcoated affair at all by any stretch of imagination—Alex Mountain Fire has left in its wake a trail of destruction and annihilation. Most houses were left with nothing but ashes to sit on, while entire forests were wiped out altogether. And then there are the hundreds of animals who lost their habitat. But material destruction was only a part of the destruction. On the emotional front, it was no less massive either.

Human Casualty

Evacuations: Hundreds of families were displaced at the drop of a hat, never knowing if they would ever again lay eyes on their homes.

Property Destruction: Dozens of houses, barns, and business undertakings were reduced to ashes, as if wished away from the face of the earth.

Animals Killed: Crops were killed, pastures were torched, and animals died in the fierce barrage of fires that stormed the farms and ranches, leaving severe damage and uprooted livelihoods for farmers and ranchers.

Environmental Consequences

In no way should the environmental destruction that this Alexander Mountain Fire caused be overlooked. Instead, lush ecosystems that once existed on the mountain were reduced to naught. Centuries-old trees were destroyed while lifeless landscapes took their places. The presence of wildlife was also dominated as habitats, where most of these animals survive, get destroyed and in some cases forced to flee or perish through the flames.

Recovery in the area will take years-decades if nothing will be done.

Could It Have Been Prevented?

So here's the million-dollar question: Can the Alexander Mountain Fire be prevented? Of course, it's a natural phenomenon, but man most of the time does start or make it worse. True enough, we can't control the weather; however, we sure can all be mindful about what we do in minimizing future risks.

Steps to Minimize Future Risks

Fire Safety Education: Educating people on what's dangerous about campfires, cigarettes, and other ignition sources is surely important.

Vegetation Management: Regular removal of dead trees, leaves, and brush can remove fuel sources for fires.

Fire-Resistant Building Materials: Homes in fire-prone areas are made of less likely ignition products. 

Community Watch Programs: Eyes of neighbors can catch risky behavior or other fire hazards early on. Keeping all these precautionary measures will enable communities to reduce the chance of a fire like Alexander Mountain Fire razing again.

How to Stay Safe in Wildfires

No one expects being caught in a wildfire scenario, but the Alexander Mountain Fire showed that preparation is key. Here are some tips that will keep you safe, as well as your family members if you live in a fire-prone area:

Prepare An Emergency Kit: Stock it with essentials like water, non-perishable food, first aid supplies, and important documents.

Plan for Escape: Be aware of your exits and the location where family members are supposed to assemble outside your dwelling.

Listen to local news and weather reports during the fire season.

Clear Defensible Space: Keep dry leaves and firewood away from your house.

You can't control Mother Nature but you can surely control your reaction to her.

Conclusion

The Alexander Mountain Fire, the scars left by which will linger - both on the landscape and on the people who call the mountain home. The recovery may be long and arduous, but again the resilience of the people has stood up well to this disaster, and there is hope that as they rebuild and replant the lessons learned from this fire could prevent another similar one in the future. Wildfires may be a force of nature, but through education, preparedness, and proactive measures, we can reduce their impact and protect our communities. For those who live in the shadow of Alexander Mountain Fire, it may have been a devastating chapter, but it's far from being the end to its story.