#oxygen absorbers for sweets Box

[oxygen-absorbers]

Tips to Increase the Shelf Life of Indian Sweets

Increasing the shelf life of Indian sweets involves a combination of proper preparation, storage, and handling techniques. Here are some tips to help extend the shelf life of Indian sweets: 1. Quality Ingredients: Start with fresh and high-quality ingredients. This will not only enhance the flavor of your sweets but also contribute to their longevity. 2. Hygiene and Cleanliness: Maintain…

[magemelondew]

Wubbox Headcanons!!! by me... hee hee

Wubbox electricity normally does not hurt, and rather, touching it creates the feeling of needles on your skin, or like pop rocks! If you were to try to push into the electricity, you may feel something alike the feeling of magnets repelling one another, not quite tangible, but it cannot be passed through.

As well as this, wubboxes can have a resistance to water. Those that I believe share this trait are Water, Plant, and Cold.

When a wubbox with a water resistance makes contact with water, the electricity mellows out to a wavy curve, creating a small barrier to protect the energy from being released.

This is somewhat similar to holding your breath, as the electric veins may be the equivalent. For wubboxes without a water resistance, water does cause great pain and it is recommended they do not touch water.

Plant wubbox is partially living.

Yes, I do believe that plant wubboxes are partially a living organism, and they can do a lot of similar things that plants do. They have digestive system. When a plant wubbox consumes food, it is essentially boxed into the core and broken down.

The electricity that flows through the electric veins delivers the minerals, vitamins, and hydration to the living parts. The front side of its chest where his ribcage is located is not alive, and neither is anything below there. But the arms, the branches on it's back, and the horns/antlers are living. The living parts can send messages to the wubbox's head that tell him what it is missing, if it is hungry, and if they ate something bad. All that info comes in the electricity.

This also means they can barf and can overeat, undereat, dehydrate, and other ailments. They may even become sick or have parasites like bugs or fungi.

Some plant wubboxes can undergo dormancy, exhibiting traits of deciduous trees, and loses leaves in winter, only for them to regrow in spring.

This is more of a personal headcanon for me, but because the plant wubbox is partially a living tree, what it consumes is for the growth and healing of the bark and leaves. Sap replaces the blood in it's body, and it is extremely sweet due to increased metabolism and is its source of energy beside the energy from the core.

Water wubbox was built for the sea!

I think that water wubboxes can change their buoyancy underwater by absorbing the oxygen in the water itself. They can release air so it can sink in the form of, you guessed it, bubbles. It's really quite interesting to think that even when a water wubbox is down deep below the sea with an empty chest, it can still come back up with ease despite it's weight.

They have the ability to give other monsters air bubbles so it can take them to their favorite spots underwater, and because this wubbox can collect the oxygen from the water around it, they don't suffocate.

It can give other wubboxes who can't touch water some of it's energy, which is water-resistant. It only lasts for about an hour or so, though. But a quick exchange within the hour refreshes it. This means that wubboxes who usually have a painful response to water have those effected negated.

That's all I have for now.. i shall come back around if i have more.. thank u for reading

[oxygenabsorber-blog]

Oxygen Absorbers for Sweets Box Packaging

Storage can have its advantages and disadvantages. If stored with proper packaging, your food will have an extended shelf-life and if stored with improper packaging leads to several problems and spoilage and unhealthy food. There are different storage methods, and sweets can be stored with preservatives or oxygen absorbers for sweets long-term food storage, extended shelf-life and better preservation.

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

In the Middle

One of your boyfriends tries to rile up the other.

You get caught in the middle in more ways than one.

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Erasermic x Reader

Rating: Explicit, minors BE GONE

Trigger Warnings: None really

AO3: Here |  Want to support me? I have a Kofi

There were pros and cons to having two boyfriends.

You fought a never ending battle pulling hair from the shower drain. You had double the texts to reply to; double the calls to return. No matter how comfortable you were when you fell asleep, you always woke up with a crick in your neck and someone’s elbow in your face.

Hizashi craved attention more than oxygen and sulked if he felt even slightly neglected. He spent just as much time chasing kisses as he did styling his hair. He sang in the shower, the bathtub, the rain and was only too eager to drag one or both of you in for a duet. You learned the hard way not to stand next to him in front of the bathroom mirror, for he would bump his hips against yours until you sang along to the radio with him and you’d ended up with eyeliner halfway across your face more than once.

He would spend the day pouting if no one gave him a good morning kiss and drew smiley faces in ketchup if left to plate up at dinner. He was a handful and a terrible influence; the polar opposite of your other boyfriend in every possible way.

Shouta was neither loud nor demanding. He could go days without talking, much less singing, and was happiest dozing off on the couch with his head in someone’s lap. His affections were subtle and easy to miss, while the emotions behind them were anything but. He met you halfway when you reached out to touch him and smiled in his sleep if you kissed him on the forehead. He would complain if you wriggled into his arms while he was working, but rearrange his position to accommodate you nonetheless.

Hizashi needed attention, while Shouta rarely sought it and nine times out of ten you and Hizashi were the ones who did all of the seducing.

Today was no exception to that particular rule.

Summer had hit Musutafu seemingly overnight. It was too hot to sleep or even snuggle on the couch. All you seemed to do lately was curl up on the floor in front of the electric fan in as many clothes as you could bear, while Hizashi stood on the balcony in a tank and shorts, stretching like a cat and mopping the sweat from his brow. It was too hot for leather and too humid for hairspray- sacrifices he had had to make, but was far from happy about.

Shouta remained relatively unchanged. He still went out at night to patrol the streets and continued to plan classes on his laptop on the couch, changing into thinner clothes, but remaining otherwise unaffected.

He was on his laptop, in fact, on this day in particular, drafting out a plan for 1-A’s future training exercises. In the meantime, Hizashi had opened up the box of popsicles you’d been keeping in the freezer and the pair of you took turns in front of the electric fan.

It was only a matter of time before the quiet, heat and lack of attention got to Hizashi and he had rested his head on your lap, golden hair splayed across your thighs. At first it was enough to snake one of his hands under your shirt and cup your breast, but before long that too lost its appeal. He shot side glances at Shouta every so often, sighing and running his tongue over the popsicle.

And so it was you found yourself caught in a battle of wills.

Hizashi waited for Shouta to look over before touching his tongue to the ice. If his gaze lasted longer than a couple of seconds, Hizashi would curl his tongue. Shouta made a point to catch his eye and not react.

Both sides were too stubborn to cave and, as usual, it fell to you to break the tension.

You took the popsicle from Hizashi and leaned back, running your own tongue over the ice. It was on the verge of melting and syrup dripped onto your shirt, causing you to gasp most theatrically and pull the shirt away from your body as if it wasn’t in the least bit planned. At first Hizashi had pouted when you stole his popsicle, but now he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“It’s rude to take things without asking, (Name),” he said, sitting up. “The least you can do is share.”

You held out the popsicle and he sucked at the end, leaning back to allow you to do the same. You made sure to moan far louder than was necessary, as if it was something far less innocent than a popsicle.

“Ahhh, it’s getting all over my mouth,” you said, wiping the syrup from your lips and chin. “What am I going to do?”

“I can help with that,” said Hizashi, seconds before grazing his lips over yours, checking to see if Shouta was watching before deepening the kiss.

His lips were cold and he tasted of mangoes, the same flavour as the popsicle you’d been sharing. It was sweet, but the realisation that Shouta had stopped typing was far sweeter.

Shouta didn’t seek attention out, that much was true, but he sure as shit hated being left out of the action.

~~~~~

It was only a matter of time before you ended up on your hands and knees in the bedroom. You dug your nails into the bedcovers as Hizashi gripped your hips and took you from behind, all while Shouta bunched your hair in his hands, kneeling in front of you and thrusting into your mouth.

You barreled forward every time Hizashi slammed his hips into yours, moaning from the sensation of his dick hitting the one spot that made your toes curl.

The sounds Shouta was making were obscene. The vibrations of your moans against his dick combined with the way each thrust sent it deeper down your throat left him trembling. He could do little more than hold onto your hair and even then his hands were shaking.

Hizashi was absurdly quiet, all things considered, though you couldn’t turn your head to see why. You got your answer when he made a wet sound behind you and let out a moan, something icy landing on the small of your back.

“Hizashi...are you...are you still eating the popsicle?”

“No.”

More syrup landed on your back.

“Maybe.”

You heard the smack of his lips as he put it back in his mouth only moments before he took up such an ungodly pace that you took Shouta’s cock into your hand and jerked him off, grabbing onto the bed covers so tightly that your knuckles went white. The tension inside of you was too much to bear. You felt like you were going to explode.

You squeezed your eyes shut and squealed as you came undone, mind falling blank and legs shaking. It was like an electric shock burning through your core, leaving you unable to do anything but absorb each pulse.

Hizashi slowed down to enjoy the feel of you cumming on his dick, but the reprieve lasted only a few short moments. He guided you down onto the bed and over onto your back, shifting positions with Shouta, who lifted your knees over his shoulders.

He didn't have remotely the same stamina as Hizashi. You doubted any human did. He was, however, girthier and only too happy to torment you with it. He took you slow and deep, dragging sighs from your lips at the overstimulation. You were still having aftershocks from cumming the first time and saw stars each time his hips hit yours.

You turned your head to lick the tip of Hizashi’s dick, matching the pressure and speed of Shouta’s thrusts. Hizashi sucked in a deep breath, leaning over to grab Shouta by the hair and moan into his mouth.

The first time you had ever had sex with Hizashi, he shattered every window in your apartment building. You had laughed it off as an earthquake, though got the feeling no one believed you.

You had learned the hard way that he was loud when he came and the easiest way to prevent it was to stifle the sound before it could leave his lips, be it with a gag, by sitting on his face, preoccupying him with a blowjob or, as was the case now, with kissing.

You lay on your back and watched them nip at each other’s lips, waves of pleasure rushing through you. You were glad Shouta was holding onto your legs, for it felt as if the bones had left your body.

Hizashi was the next to come, whimpering into Shouta’s kisses as his dick twitched. He sat up and gave himself a final couple of tugs before spilling over your chest. Shouta followed suit, sitting up onto his knees and coming across your stomach.

Double the boyfriends, you considered fleetingly, double the mess.

~~~~

You stayed in bed for at least an hour after that, catching your breath and basking in the afterglow. It was still unbearably hot and no one was particularly enthusiastic about putting on clothes, even though the heat from one other’s bodies swiftly overpowered any relief from the electric fan.

“Why is it that whenever you two have shenanigans I end up in the middle?”

You could hear the fatigue in your own voice; the perfect compliment to how heavy your eyelids felt.

“I thought you liked being in the middle,” said Hizashi, only to squeak as you poked him in the ribs.

“I suppose I should take a bath,” you groaned, peeling Shouta’s arms from your waist and untangling your legs from Hizashi’s.

Your legs were more than a little floppy, but you disguised it by dropping to your knees to pick up your discarded clothes.

“(Name),” said Shouta, “wait.”

You turned to him, heart fluttering. Ordinarily he tolerated hugs at best, but on the rare occasions you managed to keep him awake after sex he was the biggest cuddler you’d ever met.

Maybe he wanted you to go back to bed.

Maybe he wanted to join you in the bath.

“Yes?”

“You’re blocking the fan.”

You turned to the fan behind you, heart sinking.

“And they say romance is dead,” you muttered, stepping out of the room.

Hizashi and Shouta closed their eyes, enjoying the feel of the cool air against their exposed skin. The peaceful moment was soon over, though, for seconds later you slipped your arm back through the doorway and flicked the off switch.

“Hey!!”

“(Name)!”

“Switch it back on, switch it back on!”

“Make me,” you said, sticking out your tongue and closing the door behind you.

“Oooooh,” Hizashi huffed, climbing out of bed. “When I catch you…”

He ran out of the bedroom and chased you through the apartment, paying little heed to the fact that you were both as naked as the day you were born.

Shouta turned over onto his side and fluffed his pillow.

He could sleep through just about anything; a fire alarm...hot weather...

...and, apparently, the sound of his two idiot lovers spraying one another with water.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The music monopolists

Writing in Wired, Institute for Local Self Reliance researcher and anti-monopolist Ron Knox gives a thorough, important account of how music industry monoplization resulted declining revenue for artists, even as the industry itself has reaped greater profits.

https://www.wired.com/story/opinion-big-music-needs-to-be-broken-up-to-save-the-industry/

Importantly, Knox describes how concentration has come to every link in music’s supply chain, from radio to recording, streaming to live performance. The monopolists who dominate these sectors fight fiercely between each other, but no matter who wins, artists lose.

Let’s go segment by segment. Two thirds of all North American music comes from three labels. The labels grew through anticompetitive mergers: giant companies, awash in investor cash, bought out mid-sized, successful labels, turning them into subdivisions of the Big Three.

The more concentrated the labels got, the worse they were for everyone. They spent the nineties and naughties price-gouging record companies, pocketing hundreds of millions from an illegal price-fixing conspiracy. The fines they paid were smaller than the profits they reaped.

But at least they distributed music. Today, the struggling physical record store industry — a network of passionate music sellers who serve the most intense music fans — find themselves getting “record shipments” that turn out to be boxes of random stuff like cough syrup (!).

That happened when the Big Three all piled their distribution into a single company, the monopolist Direct Shot Distributing. As Direct Shot started to fail, its operations descended into chaos, and record stores started to receive boxes of random consumer packaged goods.

It was bad news for the non-monopolized, music-first record stores, but it barely registered for the Big Three labels — today, they buy an average of two new acts every day.

The labels don’t make money from selling records, of course. They get their money from streaming.

Streaming is also massively concentrated, gathered into the hands of just a few companies: Spotify, Apple, Youtube, Amazon — with the notable exception of Spotify, the industry is dominated by companies that also monopolize other sectors.

Monopolies are good to these companies. Spotify’s market-cap doubled during the pandemic — the market values its 150m subs (twice as many as subscribe with Apple) at $50b. The major labels get $1m/hour from streaming. 99% of their artists see $25/year in streaming royalties.

Spotify may be the biggest streaming service, but it’s not the lowest-paying. Youtube — a Google division, whose unsuccessful attempt to launch an in-house video service convinced it that it had to buy someone else’s success — drives the worst bargain.

Spotify uses its industry dominance to extract heavy fees from the labels — creaming 30% of the total revenue generated by a typical track. Big Three monopolists with fat margins can absorb this. Indies? Not so much.

Spotify’s market cap growth is in part due to the new ways it’s come up with to shake down the labels — a variety of tactics that all boil down to one thing: payola. Spotify will sell labels pop-up ads, placement in “radio” algorithms, and access to “Discovery mode.”

Like all forms of payola, Spotify’s rate-card is a way for monopolists to edge out indies, buying their way into your ear-holes. I’m sure that the Big Three would rather keep the bribes they pay to Spotiify, but the consolation prize is pretty sweet.

If the Big Three are the only ones who can afford to buy access to Spotify’s audience, then creators are driven to sign with them, and have less bargaining leverage when they negotiate their deals.

Spotify, meanwhile, can consolidate its gains by driving up those fees, pitting labels against each other in a bidding war for access to listeners. This effectively drives down the royalty rate Spotify pays, because every new track will have to buy in to get any reach.

Spotify talks a good game about how it uses big data and machine learning to pick the songs you hear, but increasingly, the algorithm is getting far less compute-intensive, a simple sort-by-highest-bidder system you could operate from a laptop running Windows 3.1 and Excel.

In theory, streaming losses can be made up with touring. Acts who attain digital popularity can charge access at the door to clubs and other venues. The only problem is that live performance is also a monopoly business.

The 800lb gorilla there is Livenation, a division of the ticket monopolist and notorious arm-breakers Ticketmaster — spun out of Clear Channel, the monopolist that we now know as Iheartradio.

Livenation parlayed its access to the capital markets to buy out $1b worth of venues and promoters, before being acquired by Clear Channel for $4.4b in 2005. Today, it’s a division of Liberty Media, consolidated with Ticketmaster, Pandora, and Siriusxm.

What goes around, comes around: Liberty’s private equity owners are in the process of buying up Iheartradio, re-merging all of Clear Channel’s spinouts into one giga-monopolist.

The conglomerate already coerces artists to book exclusively in its clubs and using its ticketing, starving independent venues. Add 850 terrestrial radio stations to the mix and it will choke off all the oxygen that independent venues, promoters and ticketers rely on.

Liberty didn’t buy all these companies because it’s passionate about music and wanted to ensure artists got a fair shake. By rolling up the entire live music/radio supply-chain, it bought the power to extract vast sums from musicians, and to keep rivals out of the market.

Well, not all competitors. Lollapalooza co-founder Marc Geiger raised tens of millions for “Savelive,” a new would-be monopolist that offered to “rescue” live music venues in exchange for a 51% stake in them.

Savelive illustrates an important point about the nature of monopolies: they beget more monopolies. Consolidation in the labels meant that only the largest streaming companies could negotiate a sustainable rate.

But consolidation in radio drives consolidation in labels — and many of the indie radio stations that survived the first wave of consolidation were picked up cheap by Iheartradio once monopolistic streamers ate their lunch.

This is a pattern across the whole entertainment industry: bookstore mergers and big box retailers drove consolidation in publishing; that was accelerated by consolidation in online ebook and physical book retail.

It’s not limited to the entertainment sector either. As David Dayen describes in his essential book MONOPOLIZED, hospitals didn’t start consolidating until the pharma industry underwent a wave of brutal mergers and started gouging for drugs.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/29/fractal-bullshit/#dayenu

Hospital consolidation led to gouging insurers, leading to a wave of insurance consolidation. Today, nearly every part of the health industry is monopolized, from pharmacy benefit managers to medical labs.

The only parts of the supply chain that doesn’t monopolize — that can’t monopolize — are the ends of the chain: the people who work in the system, and the people who use it.

Monopoly punishes doctors and nurses and other health workers — and it punishes patients.

It punishes writers and publishing workers, and it punishes readers.

It punishes musicians and independent venue owners, and it punishes listeners.

When every part of the supply chain gets so monopolized that it can’t easily be squeezed by any other part of the supply chain, these giants turn on us — the workers and users of the system. We, the atomized and fragmented, cannot resist the squeeze.

But as Knox writes, the tide is turning. After 40 years of waving through anticompetitive mergers in the name of “efficiency,” the DoJ and FTC are under new management, with two-fisted trustbusters like Lina M Khan at the helm.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby

This new cohort of monopoly fighters reject the “consumer welfare” theory of antitrust (the idea that monopolies drive prices down and are therefore good for society), going to war against the hegemonic orthodoxy that began with Ronald Reagan.

https://doctorow.medium.com/epic-v-apple-d3e59893b4f3

The new antitrust is surging, with bills in the House and Senate, executive orders from the White House, regulatory proceedings at the DoJ and FTC, and an interagency-cabinet coordination committee that ties it all together.

This new antitrust promises workers and users of monopolized industries a better alternative than rooting for one giant to beat another in hopes that they will drop a few crumbs for the rest of us to enjoy.

Creative workers don’t have to choose between Big Tech and Big Content based on their assessment of which monopolist will abuse them the least. Instead, we can root for antimonopoly, for giant-slaying, and the right to self-determination.

The most important immediate step towards that future is blocking new anticompetitive mergers, like Sony’s bid for AWAL, or Liberty Media’s use of a $500m SPAC to go on a vertical monopoly shopping spree.

The agencies have the power to stop these. They should. When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.

But ending anticompetitive mergers won’t get us out of that hole: most industries (from beer to cheerleader uniforms to wresting to eyeglasses) are already monopolized.

The new trustbusters — and the ILSR — want to use antitrust law to break up these conglomerates. I think that’s right: vertical monopolies will always engage in self-dealing to the detriment of independents, workers and customers. Break. Them. Up.

But breaking up is hard to do. When the DoJ tried to break up IBM, the company’s lawyers outspent the entire DoJ antitrust division, every single year, for twelve consecutive years, and in the end, it escaped breakup.

That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. IBM escaped justice because Reagan was elected and neutered antitrust. And even though it remained intact, it was never the same — for one thing, it decided that it was too risky to make its own PC OS.

IBM knew that antitrust enforcers were very suspicious of tying software to hardware — so it tapped a couple of hacker kids, Bill Gates and Paul Allen, to sell it DOS, from their new company “Micro-Soft.”

Unfortunately for all of us, antitrust enforcement only declined after that, so IBM was able to return to its monopolistic ways, and Microsoft escaped from antitrust scrutiny after a mere seven years in regulatory hell.

Antitrust enforcement can sap monopolists of the will to power, as they become increasingly concerned that their actions will attract aggressive legal reprisals.

Think of how Apple “lost” the Epic lawsuit but still “voluntarily” rescinded its heretofore hard rule against apps providing links to web-pages where you can use third-party payment processors to make purchases.

As monopolists lose their nerve, space opens up for all kinds of pro-worker, pro-user interventions, far beyond those afforded by traditional antitrust.

Next year, Beacon Press will publish THE SHAKEDOWN, a book I co-wrote with Rebecca Giblin about the monopolistic corruption of creative labor markets and how creative workers, regulators and fans can resist it.

The Shakedown catalogs the ways that monopolization of investment, distribution and sale of creative works allows entertainment companies, Big Tech, and major retailers to shift an ever-larger share of the creative industry’s revenues from workers to themselves.

More importantly, we identify tools beyond breakups that we can use to de-monopolize the industry — things we can do right now, without having to wait for the conclusion of an antitrust suit that might run for decades.

Take reversion rights: many copyright systems allow creators to take back their rights after a set period (35 years in the US). This lets artists who signed bad deals — before they were proven successes — to resell their catalog or extract reparations by threatening to.

But reversion is really hard to do, and 35 years is way too long. Only an handful of creators — even those with valuable catalogs that could be renewed through reversion — ever manage it.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/06/backsies/#take-backs

Congress (and other legislatures around the world, including Canada, where this is likely to come up in the new Parliament) could fix reversion: make it easier to do, and make it available after a shorter period — say, 14 years.

And what about those bad contracts? The “freedom to contract” has always been subject to limits, where some clauses are deemed unenforceable “as against public policy” or because they are “unconscionable.”

With the entertainment sector consolidated into just a couple of states, state legislatures could act to void the most abusive clauses — for example, clauses that allow labels to claw back royalties indefinitely to recoup (often inflated or fictitious) “expenses.”

Our book explores dozens of these kinds of ideas, from co-operatives to trade unions; better accounting practices and direct arts subsidies; radical interoperability and collective licensing; minimum wages for creative labor and collective bargaining.

None of these are replacement for reducing the size and power of conglomerates throughout the supply chain, but all of them are interventions we can make as the power and nerve of conglomerates declines, changes that will hasten that decline and open more space for breakups.

And all of them are applicable, to a greater or lesser extent, to helping workers and users of all the other consolidated industries, from health care to cheerleading.

For example, expanding California’s ban on noncompete clauses would help fast-food workers nationwide — because today, fast food employers are the most aggressive abusers of noncompetes.

That means that a fried chicken cashier earning the tipped minimum wage can’t quit to work at a burger joint across the street for a $0.25/hour raise. Creative workers aren’t the only ones suffering from monopolization — we’re not even the worst off.

But by definition, creative workers have a platform. We reach people. We have the potential to help form the kind of unstoppable coalition that we’ll need to reverse the generations of oligarchic, post-Reagan consolidation.

You may have heard about how Danish McDonald’s workers earn $22/hour and get six weeks’ paid vacation and sick leave. That didn’t come about because McDonald’s was required by law to pay it.

It was worker solidarity that did it. As Matt Bruenig writes, McDonald’s initially refused to sign the voluntary “hotel and restaurant” collective agreement. So its workers went on strike.

https://mattbruenig.com/2021/09/20/when-mcdonalds-came-to-denmark/

Now, if McD’s workers had struck alone, they’d probably have lost. But Danish law allows for sympathy strikes — that is, it allows workers in other parts of the supply chain to take industrial action to support their sisters and brothers who are striking.

When the McD’s workers walked out in 1989, sixteen other sectoral unions joined them. They didn’t just help picket at leaflet in front of McD’s restaurants!

Dockworkers wouldn’t unload McD’s shipments. Printers wouldn’t print their cups and placemats.

Builders downed tools on McDonald’s construction projects. Typesetters wouldn’t set the McD’s ads in the daily papers. Truckers wouldn’t deliver to McD’s restaurants. Food industry workers wouldn’t produce the drink syrups, fries and other inputs to the McDonald’s kitchens.

McD’s caved.

Now, as Bruenig points out, these kinds of sympathy strikes are illegal in the US, but it’s a mistake to think that workers don’t have power because sympathy strikes are illegal — rather, sympathy strikes are illegal because workers don’t have power.

Workers across all sectors face the same kinds of monopolistic exploitation. Workers across all sectors have a common enemy (literally, thanks to “common ownership” where companies like Vanguard and Berkshire Hathaway hold significant stakes in almost every major company).

With a shared cause, shared tactics, solidarity and a renewed sense that we can do more than root for the giant we think will mistreat us the least, creative workers and their sisters and brothers in every sector can reverse generations of losses.

That’s why the new antitrust matters — because it is an assault on the consolidation that gives all industries the power to shift money and other forms of value from workers and users to a small elite of investors.

[chiisai-fukurou]

Continuing my journey from Kurama to Kibune :)

It is hard to describe the feeling forests in Japan give off. It feels a bit like getting swallowed up by nature and nature absorbing your thoughts as you walk down the paths. As if you're a red blood cell carrying oxygen through the veins of a giant’s body :)

Kurama is famous for the exposed root systems of some of the trees that are growing on the mountain. It has a very otherworldly feel to it and even more so to Japanese as the afterworld that is described in the 古事記 (Kojiki :) and 日本書紀 (Nihonshoki or Nihongi :) is called the 根の国 or lair of the roots/Rootcountry. It is a place that is dirty to Japanese in a spiritual sense as it has a strong association with death (this is meant to be about the 根の国 not about Kurama and Kibune ;) In the 古事記 and 日本書紀  the mention of the 根の国 is most notable in the story of 伊弉冉尊 (Izanami :) who gave birth to 火之迦具土 (Hinokagatsuchi :) who burned her during birth, causing her to die of her injuries. Her husband (and brother (It’s complicated)) 伊邪那岐命 (Izanagi :) wanted to see her again and went down to the 根の国 to see his beloved wife again but she refused to show herself due to her being burnt and hence disfigured but despite her pleading he managed to catch a glimpse being shocked to see her like this he ran away while she was chasing him which ended in him blocking the entrance to the 根の国 with a large stone and her cursing him telling him that she would kill 100 humans each day and him vowing to build 1000 birthing houses (meaning having 1000 newborns) each day.

So as you walk down the mountain and towards Kibune you feel a bit like returning to the living :) Especially once you walk by the famous restaurants whose most notable feature are their decks that span the stream of a small river which are very enjoyable during summer and refresh you with delicious food and the wonderful surroundings (^-^)

Upon saying goodbye to Kibune i was charmed by the small cute stone figure someone made on top of a switch box at the station :) I like these small details about Japan :)

I dearly miss being in Japan...

This is actually the second time I wrote this article (^-^;) I lost my connection the first time before posting and lost everything I wrote there...

Anyway I’ve started restoring an old drill press for my workshop and feel like fate hates this machine (^-^;) The German postal service broke it during delivery. I managed to fix most of the damage but the motor is sadly too far gone because the shaft got bent too badly :,( So I ordered a new motor, a drill vice, a drill chuck and a replacement belt. I got the wrong motor (7.5 kW instead of 0,55 kW), the wrong drill vice (100 mm instead of 63 mm), the wrong drill chuck (B16 instead of B10) and the wrong replacement belt (6 mm instead of 8 mm)... This is quite bothersome but I plan on pushing through it and this weekend I was able to rebuild the spindle :)

This month there is a lockdown in Germany meaning that I can't go swimming and that I’m spending most of my time at home and working from home. It gets kind of lonely and I've been wishing to have a cat again but it would be difficult to care for it once I start going to the office again (-_-) I have kind of given up on trying to find a girlfriend now. I’m athletic, intelligent and kind (according to others) yet I seem to be only good enough as a shoulder to cry on and to sort out their troubles but not for more and to be honest I’m tired of it. I’m always helpful and do my best. So hearing someone complain about there not being any good men out there feels insulting and dishonest. Most of the time I get told that I’m too short at 1,74 m (5ft 7″). So to keep my sanity I’ll stay away from dating and concentrate on my friends and family :)

I hope the lockdown will work out and end by the end of November as I miss swimming at the pool a lot... Usually I would go there 3 to 5 times a week and swim for at least an hour so i’m feeling a bit unbalanced due to a lack of exhaustion... (as weird as that may sound).

I wish everyone as great a time as possible during these trying times and sweet dreams (^-^)/

[peacefulheartfarm]

Prepare for Disaster

Prepare for disaster is a motto I grew up with living in rural Michigan. Back in the day, when the power went off due to a winter storm, it could be off for several weeks. Today we have much better electrical systems and our current provider has kept us in good shape. We have never been without power for more than a few days. But even that can be disastrous if we are not prepared. Today I want to talk about how we prepare for disasters that may or may not happen.

First, let me take a moment to say welcome to all the new listeners and welcome back to the veteran homestead-loving regulars who stop by the FarmCast for every episode. Thank you so much for your time and attention. I appreciate you all so much and I couldn’t do it without you. It’s midwinter and life goes on here at the homestead.

Our Virginia Homestead Life Updates

The cold weather has been consistent for weeks. Not too cold, getting just below freezing at night and 40s and sometimes 50s during the day. This is a typical Southwestern Virginia winter. I look for a few days of freezing weather sometime in the near future. A typical winter will have at least four or five days when the temperatures drop all the way to the teens and occasionally single digits overnight. That four or five day stretch usually happens at least once and sometimes twice, usually in January. It hasn’t happened yet. Still waiting for that shoe to drop. We did have some unseasonably cold weather in December, but January is proceeding right long the normal line.

Cows

The cows are handling the cold weather as they always do. It amazes me that these animals can go through the winter without seeming to notice it too much. I go out there and the cows are moseying around, eating grass and/or hay looking like they don’t have a care in the world. If they are eating, they are laying down, relaxing and chewing their cud, again, like they haven’t got a care in the world. Personally, I don’t handle cold very well, but I’m so glad they do.

Donkeys

The donkeys handle the cold very well also. Their coats are full and thick. Just about everyday they come up to the milking shed looking for a treat. Scott or I will give them a small handful of sweet feed and a petting. When they are finished, they head on down to the creek and out to pasture with everybody else. Our donkeys are the friendliest animals on the homestead.

Sheep and Goats

The sheep and goats always prepare for disaster in winter. They have really thick coats. Our goats are cashmere goats. They have a really thick undercoat of cashmere that they shed in the spring. Our sheep are hair sheep which means they also grow a thick coat of wool and shed it in the spring. No shearing for these sheep. I was watching the ewes graze in the front pasture. Just like the cows, not a care in the world.

Quail

The quail are even more amazing to me. They have feathers and I can’t see that they have any extra feathers for winter. Whatever they have is what they have and that’s it. My ladies and gents have it better than they would out in the wild. There is a box shelter where they can get completely out of the wind. They can huddle together for added warmth. Sometimes I go out there and they are kind of fluffed up, but other than that, not a shiver. Nature is amazing.

Garden

This time of year is the time to plan for the spring garden. What plants will we grow? How many? What will be rotated to another location? And so on. I’m a bit behind on getting started with that but I just can’t seem to drum up the energy. It’s too cold and I don’t want to think about going out in the garden when it is cold. Anyway, I’ll get to it in the next couple of weeks.

Creamery

The creamery roof is nearly complete. Scott is putting the finishing touches on the peaks. He spent much of the day yesterday rigging up a way to safely move around up there. Today he is full steam ahead getting those ridge caps completed.

Still to come is all of the ends of the building above the ground floor. I think they are called dormer walls or something like that. It’s basically the area from the top of the block building to the peak of the roof. All of that will be covered in the same metal as with the roof.

It’s cold out there every day. And every day Scott is out there working in it. He doesn’t mind the cold and he prepares for it with layers of clothes.

Preparing for Disaster

Speaking of being prepared, let me get into how we prepare for disaster. Some of it anyway. I could probably talk all day long about how we created and executed our plan. Some of it is still in progress.

No matter where you are in the world, there is always something you can do to prepare for disaster. You simply never know when power is going to be out or something disrupts the flow of goods. For instance, I got caught short this summer because there was a shortage of canning jars and lids. In the end, I did have enough for what I needed to save our harvests, but it was touch and go sometimes. Recently I came across canning jars while in town and I purchased just about everything they had on the shelf. Still no lids but I got a better stock of jars than I have had in the past. We learn from our mistakes.

Let’s start at the beginning. The first thing to stock up on is water.

Water

You should always have water on hand or access to clean water. Making this happen doesn’t have to cost a lot of money. Today, we have a hand pump connected to our well so we can always get water when needed whether we have power to the well pump or not. Still, we keep water on hand in the house. While it’s easy to go out there and hand pump some water, it is still easier to reach back in a closet or go into the spare bathroom and get some water for cooking, cleaning and flushing.

The recommended amount of water you will want to store is 7.5 gallons of water per person per month. A family of four would have 15 gallons of water stored if preparing for a short-term disaster lasting a few days or weeks. That’s where you always start. How much do I need for 2 to 4 weeks? Then get it done. You have the blue 5-gallon containers at Lowe’s, Home Depot, the grocery, and so on. Invest in a few of those and you are good to go. Strapped for cash? Buy one a week or even one a month. Your stored water will need to be refreshed regularly. Either use it or pour it out, but replaced what you have stored in the containers every 6 months or so. You don’t have to get there all at once. But you do want to get your water situated first.

Food

The second item is food. This one is a little trickier and takes quite a bit more time. So, start now. There are many methods for building up your food stores. Set several goals with this one.

How Many Days to Prepare for Disaster?

First, how many days of food do you need to store? That depends. Start with a week, then go to a month, then three months and so on. Ideally, you get to a place where you have a full year’s worth of food stored for your entire family. That may seem like a lot and it actually is a lot. But for my peace of mind, I wanted a full year of food. You may make your cutoff date sooner – and some even plan for longer.

What Food Should Be Stored?

Second, don’t store anything your family won’t eat. What are you eating right now? That’s what you want to stock up on. Forget the MRE’s and whatever else might sound great or someone might try to sell to prepare for disaster. What you want is food that your family regularly eats. Most foods have a shelf life of at least a year. If you rotate what you have saved, using the oldest stuff first and adding back what you have used in the back of the shelf, you can come up with a system that keeps you stocked up at all times. This is the first in, first out method. Instead of having one box of cereal, you have 12, or whatever you determine is the right number. Buy an extra box or two whenever you shop, or whatever you can afford. Build up slowly. You’ll be there before you know it.

Bulk Foods

One of the best ideas for food is to store some products in bulk containers. I’m talking about beans, rice, sugar and wheat or flour. You can live a long time on beans and rice. And if you are into making your own bread, having wheat or flour on hand at all times is a great idea. This is another place to build slowly.

The pieces you need to do this part effectively are: 5-to-6-gallon food-grade plastic buckets, mylar bags, oxygen absorbers and a standard household iron. The mylar bag goes in the bucket. The beans, rice, wheat, or flour go in the bag. Toss in a couple of oxygen absorbers and seal the bag with your iron. The oxygen absorber will suck out all the oxygen in the bag, And the sealed bag without oxygen will keep the food fresh for up to 30 years. I said 5 or 6-gallon buckets, but you can use smaller buckets. I like the larger buckets because I can buy 40 or 50 pounds of beans or rice and it fits in the larger bucket.

Canned Goods

Let’s talk about canned goods. These can also last for a very long time – not so much as the beans and rice, but still a long while. Those “use-by” dates on the can are not expiration dates. They are CYA dates for the manufacturers. As long as the can is not damaged and the seal is in place, canned food in jars and metal cans will last for years. Food in jars needs to be kept out of the light. And all canned foods need to be kept at room temperature or lower. Keep that in mind when you are planning where to store your stuff. Strapped for space? Under the bed works pretty well. Use that cabinet space up high that is empty because you can’t reach it easily. Find used shelving at yard sales and put it up in your garage. Lots of ways to make the space you need.

And don’t forget the can opener. Not one of those electric ones. No! a hand-operated can opener is needed.

Self-Protection

I’m not going to talk about this one because I’m not educated enough to know what to say. We do have weapons and ammo and such but Scott handles all of that. I’ll just mention it here and say find someone who knows what they are talking about with this and follow their podcasts or YouTube videos. It’s definitely important. And don’t forget to get the proper training. It’s no good to have weapons you don’t know how to use safely and care for properly.

Energy Needs

This is the last piece I’m going to touch on today. There is so much to cover on this topic I couldn’t possibly do it justice. So, I’m just going to give you a bit of information to get you started. Every person’s situation is different and your energy needs are going to be different.

Gasoline

Keep extra gasoline on hand. That’s an easy one. We try to keep 12 containers at all times. I must say, we are not as efficient at this as could be desired. If you have 12 containers of gasoline labeled one each month, rotate through that stock at a particular date in the month. In other words, in January, you empty the container labeled “January” into one of your car gas tanks. Pick a day of the month that you do this. The first, 15th or last day of the month are good choices. Take the empty container and refill it. That newly filled container won’t be emptied for a year and it will require a fuel stabilizer to keep it fresh and usable.

Generator

Having a generator that has enough power to run your refrigerator and freezer is a great tool. Again, add these things as you can afford them. Get your food stores up to a couple of weeks at least before moving on to a generator. Your generator will need to be started once a month to keep it in tip-top shape and so you know it is in good working order. You don’t want to be without power and find out that your generator is no longer working.

Living off the Grid

You may decide to go completely off the grid – or at least be prepared to go completely off the grid. That takes a great deal of planning and the choices are endless so I’m not going to go into that topic. But I will say keep in mind that, while solar sounds really good, if you don’t live in a really, really sunny place it may not be the option for you. There are other options.

Having a wood burning stove is always good. At the very least you can use your gas grill to cook meals – if you have planned ahead and have an extra propane tank or two. We took out our electric stove and put in a gas stove. The oven won’t work but the surface burners can be lit with a match. Keep some of those on hand. I like using what I’m used to using for cooking, so this works for me. We have the wood burning stove as well – complete with an oven. I really should learn how to cook on that thing in the event we run out of propane.

Communication

This is the toughest one to get prepared for in my opinion. How do we communicate? As long as the cell towers are up and running and your phone battery is charged, we can communicate. Well, we would have to climb way up to the top of our property and then maybe, just maybe, we would get a cell signal.

Right now, we have all sorts of social media where we can find out what is going on with family, friends and co-workers. But what if you didn’t have that? How would you get in touch with people? Could you get in touch with people? This topic requires some deep thought, lots of planning, and practice sessions to make sure your plans work. You don’t want to be isolated.

There is a significant amount of banning of communication going on in the large tech communities. They have a great deal of power. Indeed, more power than the US government. They can turn off anyone with the push of a button. They can make you disappear. You might want to consider broadening your reach to smaller platforms if you can find one that works for you and your family.

I have created a page on a site called Locals. You can find me on locals by searching for peaceful heart farm. Once you’ve joined my community, you can post whatever you’d like on my page. We can have a conversation and share insights.

I think I’m going to end there.

Final Thoughts

The animals go on and on and don’t give a thought to whether there is power to heat the house. And as long as the grass and hay keep coming, they are good to go. For us, it’s more complicated. As I said, I don’t like being cold. I’m grateful for our wood burning stove. It saves on electricity in the winter and is quite useful in a pinch for cooking.

I’ve spent years gathering food, both for ourselves and now saving up in case our neighbors are not prepared or not financially able to make it happen. And our water supply will also help out – and indeed has – helped out our neighbors. There is so much more to prepare for disaster but these two pieces are key. Water and food. Start today. You just have no idea when the power lines are going to go down with a winter storm, a hurricane, tornado and so on. It may be only a couple of days but it very well could be weeks. Remember hurricane Sandy and what a disaster that was and not so long ago.

If you enjoyed this podcast, please hop over to Apple Podcasts or whatever podcasting service you use, SUBSCRIBE and give me a 5-star rating and review. If you like this content and want to help out the show, the absolute best way you can do that is to share it with any friends or family who might be interested in this type of content. Let them know about the Peaceful Heart Farmcast. And please give locals.com a try.

Thank you so much for stopping by the homestead and until next time, may God fill your life with grace and peace.

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Check out this episode!

[saturnsnacks]

Freeze Dried Caramel Corn Salt Water Taffy, Candy 1 oz.

Welcome to Saturn Snacks Candy Store

Freeze-dried Caramel Corn Saltwater Taffy is Fabulous. Light, airy, and full f sweet caramel popcorn flavor.

Freeze-dried Caramel Corn saltwater taffy is custom made and freeze-dried. This freeze-dried food is placed in a quality resealable Mylar bag with an oxygen absorber for guaranteed freshness and long-lasting shelf life. These are 1 oz. candy bags.

Great add to long term freeze-dried food storage or pantry. Makes a great addition to a candy gift box. Great unique holiday gifts. Fun summer snack. Make a party goody bag for your next party.

I follow all food safety guidelines to ensure my customer gets the best quality.

Add some freeze-dried Caramel Corn taffy to your candy jars today and check out our other cool creations like our freeze-dried Skittles you won't want to miss those.

Free shipping on orders $35 or more. Shipping is USPS First Class and ships the next business day. All packages will be insured to protect the buyer and myself. Arrival may be delayed due to USPS.

Details

1 oz.

8x5x2

[rayraywrites]

Title: Just keep breathin’

Characters: Miyuki Kazuya, Sawamura Eijun

Relationship: Miyuki Kazuya & Sawamura Eijun | Miyuki Kazuya x Sawamura Eijun

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences 

Total Word Count: 2539

AO3

Summary: Feel my blood runnin', swear the sky's fallin' I keep on breathin'

breathin' by Ariana Grande

His chest shuddered, a painful tug on his lungs as he struggled to bring in air. Hands scrambled against the wall, with his nails digging into the tiles in order to give him a point of anchor as he pressed back further. A stray sob made its way up his throat, catching at the base of his neck and leaving a painful lump. He tried to clear his throat, shifting the noise away and letting the life-giving oxygen in, but no matter what he tried, he failed. 

“Did you hear about Miyuki?” The voices whispered to each other loudly. 

The gasps came out louder and more scratchy as his vision blurred; stars danced in front of his eyes. His head felt heavy, but if it had been clear he would have surely chuckled. Having lived in Tokyo for his whole life, this was the most star-lit sky he’d ever seen. And his eyes were closed.

“Heard he won’t be playing any matches any time soon! Wonder what that does to a team?” It had been after class, two girls whispering to each other in the hallways. Uncaring as to who could hear them. 

His legs came up against his chest, one hand and then the other shakily reaching around his knees and twining together tightly. He pushed his head into his legs, trying to use the smaller space to force air into his nose and mouth. For a few minutes the stall was silent aside from the forceful gasping. It worked, albeit slowly and not as effectively as he would have liked. But he could feel himself beginning to breathe cleanly. There were still shallow gasps escaping his mouth, nevertheless he began to relish the inhalations that were followed by shuddering exhales. When he finally reduced his breathing to a functioning but still laboured status, he pulled his head out of the proverbial box it had been shoved in. 

Broken. Damaged. TIme away from the team. Healing. Replace the captain, catcher, and clean-up. Screw-up. 

Eyes watered from the influx of light, but that was quickly blocked again as he slammed them close. For a moment he considered the thought of standing up, leaving the bathroom and heading to the privacy and confines of his room. He even tried to force himself up, pushing against the wall until he was half crouched on shaky legs. But his knees buckled under his unstable stance, fatigue draining him of all energy.

His mind might have felt like he was wading through gravy, a slow trudge to make any thought formulate, but even then he could tell that he was about to slam down onto the ground, knees first. But no pain came, no jarring slam to his legs which would leave the rest of his body to rattle like a shock absorber. Instead hands suddenly appeared under his arms and hoisted him up. They were familiar, a combination of rough, well-worn skin and a heat that seeped into his aching muscles. His eyes flashed up, locking with angry golden ones. 

For a moment there was a stalemate between them. One was essentially crippled by his love of baseball until it left him injured beyond compare. The other feeling a righteous anger at being forgotten, but also a blend of guilt and concern surging through him that kept him mum on his grievances. 

They continued to stare at each other until he couldn’t help the grunt of pain that leaked from his throat. The support to his body, while welcome, was pulling on his sides. And the ribs that he’d ignored for the sweet bliss of air entering his body now began to cry out their sorrow and hurt. He gasped again, involuntarily ripping himself away from the other’s grasp to crash back against the wall. The sudden movement was apparently unexpected as he moved quickly away and the cold feel of tile chilled his heated body. A soft moan escaped his lips at the juxtaposed temperatures. His head lolled forward as he took another shaky breath. Sawamura’s grunt of surprise reminded him that he wasn’t alone in the bathroom. 

He whipped his head up, ignoring the vicious crunch that came as his head slammed into the wall from his speed. As he made eye contact with Sawamura again, he felt himself flinch at the emotions flashing across the other’s face. Anger. Sadness. Desperation. More that he couldn’t give a name to, but it still left him with a heart-wrenching pain in his chest. Moreso than any lack of air, the punch to his gut he felt as he watched Sawamura try and wrestle his negative emotions back under a semblance of control was enough for Kazuya to break. Harsh sobs ratcheted through his chest as he grappled for a way to get out of the room. His hands, usually on his side in all other situations of his life, failed him as he tried to push himself up off the floor once more. 

He could feel his heart trying to beat itself out of his chest, so he raised one hand to his chest to try and assuage some of the pain. But as he approached his side, he felt an unexpected urge to grasp at his injury. This time his fingers cooperated, as they easily danced their way towards his bandaged ribs. With no patience or gentleness considering the severity of the injury, he rubbed the wound. The blossoming of pain made him grit his teeth hard, but the saccharine voice inside him felt satisfied.

Maybe if you can handle this pain, they’ll let you back onto the field. Maybe you’re not as broken as you think?

But what he hadn’t accounted for, so lost in the haze of his own pain and panic, was Sawamura. Sawamura who had yet to leave, who had toppled back when he’d ripped himself away, but had not left. Sawamura who had remained frozen as he’d began his self-inflicted punishment of failure. Sawamura who had learnt how to deal with his anxieties over years of support from friends and family. Sawamura who knew getting through to Miyuki would be difficult but would try anyways. 

Sawamura who was fighting back tears as he watched someone he cared for, admired, respected, and more, break down like this.

Kazuya, barely staying conscious in his cloud of pain-induced endorphin release, blinked wearily as his ears picked up a constant stream of words coming towards him. They were soft, but firm in their conviction. 

“Miyuki I want you to pay attention to my voice, to follow my breathing. Don’t worry, we’ll do this together, and I won't leave your side for a moment. I just need you to focus on my voice, because it is so important we get through this together now.”

As he struggled to open his eyes again, he found himself flinching at the sudden onslaught of stimuli. From the brightness of the lights, to the scratchiness of the skin around his injury. But the voice was soothing, enough to pull his attention to the one point. With a shaky breath, he felt the heaviness of his chest lighten just a bit as he followed Sawamura’s breathing pattern. Watching as that pulled a small smile to the other’s lips was even more validating. The stream of consciousness that seemingly never ended continued to spill from Sawamura’s lips. 

“Good Miyuki. That’s really good. Just keep breathing with me. In. hold. Out. Again.” 

Sawamura’s hand appeared in his vision. For a moment he tensed up again, chest freezing in it’s slow return to normalcy. But all it did was come to rest on his shoulder. Seemingly ignoring the fingers that continued their assault upon his side. Instead the hand only placed a steadying pressure onto his shoulder. Unbidden, tears built up in the corner of his eyes. The hand only squeezed his shoulder tighter, while another came up to brush the tears gently away.

“You’re doing fine senpai. Just keep breathing. Focus on my voice.” Sawamura’s voice remained steady, the volume only a fraction of its usual vibrancy. 

The hand on his face came up to his hair, the fingers running through the sweat-soaked strands as another soothing balm. Slowly but surely, his breathing was starting to come back to normal once more. The fog in his head began to clear, but he still felt exhausted. The weary sigh that escaped his lips was coupled with a collapse of his shoulders as he succumbed to the tiredness inside. As his head lolled forward, Sawamura came closer, becoming a physical support. As his head pressed up against Sawamura’s chest, his fingers lost their vigour and he felt them slip away. The pain spiked from the momentary loss, wires twisted in his head as his brain struggled to deal with the loss of pain receptor activation. But as all humans are wont to do, his brain compensated quickly. The pain began to fade away slowly, until it was only a pulsating thought in the back of his mind. Sawamura was quick to act, arms rushing to wrap around his chest until he was propped up against the pitcher’s chest comfortably. 

“Senpai, I’m going to let you go for just one moment.”

He flinched.  

“I’m not going anywhere. I just want to grab you a shirt. You might not feel it right now, but your skin is ice cold Miyuki.” Sawamura’s voice became jumpy as he spoke, as if his conviction was beginning to fade in the face of Kazuya’s fear. 

With some careful maneuvering, he managed to push himself off Sawamura, leaning back against the tiled wall. Sawamura stood up, his motions more exaggerated than normal. Somewhere in his hazy mind he realized that it was for his own benefit. The pitcher was efficient, and returned within moments with a familiar shirt. A white tee with red sleeves. It had a worn look to it, unsurprising as Kazuya had owned it for a few years by that point. But interestingly, and he only registered this subconsciously, the shirt had been missing for a few weeks, while Sawamura had seemingly gained a red tinge to his face whenever it had been brought up.

With a struggle he attempted to raise his arms enough to slip the shirt on himself. But finding that he had no energy in his arms he let them collapse again. He felt the bone-tired exhaustion seeping through his entire body even as he struggled to work, to function. It felt as if every nerve ending was on fire with all synapses active, response signals sent out, but no effectors responded. His arms just shook lightly on the ground. Staring at his unmoving fingers, and then towards Sawamura’s concerned looks, it took all that he had not to lash out. Not that he had the energy to even speak. 

However, there was no pity in Sawamura’s eyes or his actions. Instead, it was filled with efficiency. He managed to pull the shirt over Kazuya’s head with little to no hesitation, slowing down only when he raised the right arm. In a way it felt better that there was a brusqueness to Sawamura’s actions rather than any sympathy. 

Once the shirt was on, he could feel how chilled his skin was. With the shirt on he felt a bit of normalcy bleeding back into him. His side was still burning, but the pain had mostly returned to the throbbing it had been since the injury. His breathing was nearly stable, though his chest continued to heave from the previous exertion. 

“Senpai, do you think that maybe we can stand up and go towards your room?” Sawamura’s voice had returned to the gentle tone it had started with, the firmness gone and replaced with a slow cadence designed to soothe and calm.

Kazuya’s nerves were shot, and he barely had any energy to respond, but he managed a weak nod before Sawamura simply came closer and pulled him up. Again there was a care not to pull on his right side as he was picked up. Some stumbling and Sawamura bearing much of his weight, but they managed to make their way to his room without too many hiccups. He hadn’t really let himself acknowledge how much help Sawamura had been.

At the pause outside his room he leaned his head on Sawamura shoulder for a moment, ignoring the twinge of pain at pulling on his side. A whispered word of "thanks Sawamura" put a smile back onto Sawamura's face, even as his behaviour remained the calm surety it had been the entire evening. The pair danced their way towards the bed, so intertwined were their bodies, before Sawamura helped him lay down. A hand settled into Kazuya's hair once more, gently rearranging the messy strands back to normalcy. The extra weight on his head was a comforting pressure, and he couldn't help the sigh of pleasure that escaped as Sawamura continued his ministrations. Another hand came to remove his glasses, and for a moment he felt lost again, but they returned quickly back to his face, the tears and sweat wiped away. 

As Sawamura made to stand up, seemingly to leave and let him decompress from the attack, he found himself feeling lonely. Kazuya, the boy who had not relied on anyone for so long, found himself wishing that maybe Sawamura wouldn't leave. His hand caught onto the fabric of the pitcher's sweats. It was enough to get his attention, to stop his departure.

"Stay." Kazuya's voice was barely above the whisper it had been before, but the note of desperation that lined the monosyllabic word relayed more than the volume of his speech could have. He could no longer see Sawamura's face, instead looking at his back. He watched as the muscles of his shoulders tensed, before forcibly relaxing, and then finally slumping as the other came to a decision. He wanted to jump out of his bed and offer to catch for Sawamura. He wanted to have the energy to simply sit up and wrap his arms around Sawamura. He wanted to tell Sawamura how disastrous his day had been, how hearing those girls had sent him spiralling the entire day but he'd held it together until then, how he feared that even after he healed that the coach would be hesitant to let him go all out. He wanted to shout about how scared he was when he had gotten injured, how the thought that maybe that was the last time he'd play baseball crossed his mind. 

He wanted to tell Sawamura Eijun that when he had gotten hit, the only thought that mattered was that he couldn't let his pitcher down, he couldn't let anything hurt his pitcher.

But instead all he could do was wait, and watch as Sawamura turned around, as he came back towards Kazuya and crouched near the bed again. One hand rested beside his pillow, the other beside him. Summoning more energy from somewhere deep inside he reached over and tangled their fingers together. The sad smile on Sawamura's face began to flicker as tears built up inside the pitcher's eyes, but all Kazuya could do was say it again.

"Stay."

[nathedelstein]

a valentine’s day special → featuring @wcrnout

— Their truths are always easy to find because they are written in the stars, little guiding lights for when their hearts and souls are lost, far from the earth.  

Water. All water, only water, in her nose, in her eyes, limbs in every direction; and her mouth, a jagged ring of despair, howls — but if a tree falls in the woods with no one there to hear it, does it make a noise? — And she is alone, terribly alone, and light fades as darkness overpowers, like it always does.

Wake up —

And she desperately wants to, desires the sweet saturation of oxygen in her lungs, but every time she takes a breath, it is torturous, the iron-clad grip of a hand around her neck —

— Wake up.

Him. He is the knight in shining armor, come to save her from the aftershocks of her night terror and breathless and wide-eyed, she grabs him, feels the weight of him, flesh and bone, a tangible reminder that she is more than her dreams.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

And like that, she is whisked back into his arms, pancake breakfast half-made and she laughs, pulling away as she reaches into a bag and pulls out a boxed mix, just the same. Before they know it, they’re elbowing each other away from the stove, dancing to their laughter, shaping pancakes into hearts, burnt bits be damned.

Sixteen pancakes. Only four of them remotely look like hearts, and all but one are burnt.

“Out of the two of us, I thought one of us would be good at cooking,” he jokes. She admires their handiwork, despite the black bits and the misshapen contours of the cakes, and grinning, wide and unyielding.

“They’re just like us,” she replies (as if, somehow that made them better), and she loves them, burns and jagged edges and sorrows and all, and grabbing the syrup from the center, she drenches them in the sugar, just like them, just like their love, syrupy-sweet down to the very last lick.

*** thank you thank you thank you for being my rock and my anchor, the syrup to my pancakes, the sun to my earth

xoxo, lizzie

*** When they’re finished, running sticky fingers over the other’s limbs, he asks, breathing into her skin, the dreaded question:

“What were you dreaming about?”

And for a millisecond, she is back underneath, dragged into the undertow, and she shuts her eyes, anchors to him — stop stop stop you’re okay you’re okay breathe breathe breathe breathe — and she bobs up, eyes open and stung with tears, he knows.

Isaac. 

She nods. It is all that she can do. She half-expects him to get up, eyes dancing a delicate waltz over her like she was some sort of glass figurine on the verge of breaking, but instead he pulls her off the couch, hard, and straightens her out, pushing a fallen lock of hair behind her ear.

“Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

Even for February, the island feels unusually warm, and hand-in-hand, he decides to head for the beach and immediately, she absorbs the sun’s rays and light and goodness, and her spirits are lifted. “You’re right; a walk is making me feel —”

Before she could finish her sentence, out of nowhere a single red rose is thrust into her hand, the tail of an untucked shirt flying behind with sneakers slapping on the concrete, a gentle syncopation with the child’s laugh as he runs in the other direction. Her eyes flit back and forth between the flower, the boy, and Ben — “what was that about?” — but fifteen-and-a-half minutes later, she has a dozen more, all gifts from strangers, and a sly glint reflects off her baby blues, glimmering out from underneath her lashes.

“You,” she says, bottom lip jammed under her teeth, in awe, an impossibility unfolding in front of her; a lover, a carer, a man who’d sooner put her happiness before his, and the sheer immensity of what that meant for Lizzie’s heart spins her into a daze, and she drops the flowers (it was never about the flowers, never), and puts her lips on his.

It’s the small things, she thinks. 

*** it’s your fingertips on my back, the way your eyes shine when i catch you looking at me, the prickles in between my thighs

— you know who.

*** It is her turn now, a chance for her to shine, and it is only natural that her gesture is as grand as her love for him: a candlelit dinner, beachside at sunset, a tent pitched over their heads with a spattering of fairy lights raining down, a halo around their table. She’d snuck out earlier to set it up, and despite his smirks and side-glances when she’d flew out to do so earlier in the day, he is polite enough to be surprised, or at least act like it when she removes her hands from his eyes. 

“All by myself,” and it’s the biggest, most blatant lie she tells, but it hardly matters because everything else that leaves her mouth (I hope this night never ends, I’d never leave you, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me) is the truth.

And in the night, she speaks into his skin (I love you) and it is probably the three-hundredth time she says it, but she thinks she could say it forever and ever and ever and it would never get old. Their truths are always easy to find because they are written in the stars, little guiding lights for when their hearts and souls are lost, far from the earth.  

*** guess what? — i love you i love you i love you, from the earth to the moon to the furthest stars in the universe

love, your baby, your love, your whole heart, your lizzie. 

[illshowyourhurricanes]

A Familiar Face (Part Four)

This has been a long time coming-- sorry, y’all! After a not-so-pleasant surprise, our knight in tattered blue jeans becomes even more lovable as he offers our reader a shoulder to lean on. Hope y’all enjoy!

Rating: G. Some sweet angel baby Ryan coming your way!

Word count: 1737

Taglist:  @dylanobrusso @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor@ms-delos @madamrogers @lexxierave @benbarnestongue @yannii04

 If you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just ask!

Your always tidy apartment was in shambles. Hand-in-hand with Ryan, you moved almost robotically throughout your home, dodging pieces of furniture turned sideways, stepping over articles of clothing strewn over the floor. It was almost difficult to breathe, the air thick, almost as if the stranger who had stolen your sense of security had taken some of your oxygen too. You could almost hear hurried footsteps, sense a criminal’s fingerprints on doorknobs and furniture.  He’s left behind an almost suffocating unease, branding a sense of fear just beyond your carelessly open door. 

Ryan’s method of searching was thorough: he checked behind your shower curtain, in the linen closet, beneath your bed. Nothing was found, no clues left behind that pointed to who exactly could have done this, and you shook your head as he asked for any motive you could think of. As time passed, you felt a disconnect, the way you thought it may feel to experience an escape room. The pit in your stomach was present from anticipation. The sound of your own blood rushing through your ears was due to a flood of adrenaline. 

“I’ll need a new chair.” The words left your mouth in a short moment of silence. Your kitchen chairs didn’t come as a set, but were used pieces of furniture in an array of colors, each one picked up at a flea market or yard sale. The one you usually sat in, a shade of blood orange, had been tossed aside carelessly. One of the legs had been broken in two. 

It was only in that moment, when disjointed thoughts jolted through your mind, that you realized Ryan’s hand was curled protectively over yours. His skin was rough, callused from guitar strings and hopping trains. Somehow even after spending hours outside in the unrelenting cold, his hand was warm. 

“Dinner!” Your voice took on an almost alarmed tone and you looked up at Ryan, giving an emphatic nod. “You came for dinner.” There was a mess of torn envelopes scattered over your small kitchen table, ones that had originally been in a neat stack. You reached out to clear your mail off the table. Reluctantly, you gently pulled your hand from his much larger one that had been enveloping yours. He remained quiet, and you craned your neck back, catching his eye. 

There was an apprehensive look apparent in his dark eyes, yet it was accompanied by a certain softness. He didn’t give off a look of pity, but complete understanding… and maybe, just behind that, a shadow of genuine concern. It was easy to get lost there, in the darkness and depth of those eyes, framed by delicate, long lashes. 

“Y/N.” Ryan’s eyes followed you as you stepped just past him to open the refrigerator. A large dish was already layered with lasagna, a generous portion of shredded Italian cheeses visible though cling wrap. You didn’t have much of an appetite, but always kept true to your promises. Ryan had to be famished. 

You turned, holding the dish in two hands, and jutted your hip to the side to bump the refrigerator door shut. “I had garlic bread…” You looked to the counter and then to the floor, two buttered chunks of bread face-down on the tile. “Sit, sit! Relax. It won’t take long to bake, and I’ll finish cleaning off the—“ 

Ryan said your name again, softly this time. His eyes were somber, widened just by a hair, and you found yourself thinking that those eyes had the potential to make him appear innocent, full of wonder, almost childlike at a glance. More than a few seconds’ time spent looking at them, however, and an infinite depth overtook any mistakes made in the name of innocence.

“I ain’t worried about supper.”

He took in the sight of your face. You appeared to be calm, under control, but he knew you were rattled. He noticed the way your hand shook as you turned a doorknob or two; he noticed the way the color drained from your face when you stopped short outside your open door; he noticed the way your eyes filled with tears when you said you needed a new chair. 

“I’m worried ‘bout you, though.”

Your surprise at his sentiment was evident in the way your lips parted and eyebrows lifted. The tense way you were holding your shoulders relaxed, and you set your lasagna to the side. A coaster that had been balancing precariously on the edge of your counter fell to the floor. It occupied your gaze for a few moments before you bent to pick it up. You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had expressed concern for you. 

“I’m fine,” you responded finally, a shadow of a smile offered as an additional affirmation. “I have a few things to pick up here and there, but when everyone else is spring cleaning, I’ll be couch surfing.” 

Ryan thought back to the first time he’d had something stolen. It was as clear in his mind as if it had been yesterday, though it had been almost a decade ago. “I was travelin’ out West and waitin’ for the train that would take me to Albuquerque... I was plannin’ to meet an old friend to talk music and had an hour to kill.” Ryan rubbed a hand over the thick scruff of his cheek and leaned back against the counter top. You sank down onto one of your non-damaged chairs, already completely absorbed in the story of his that he was recounting for you. 

“It was rainin’... one of those summer storms where it comes outta nowhere and the water just don’t quit. Thought I was the by my lonesome at this old rest stop I came across not far from the train station. Middle of the night in a rain storm. I took off my pack long enough to put on some clothes that wouldn’t have me soaked to my bones Couldn’t a been gone more’n five minutes, I had my dry clothes... and a just about empty pack. All was left was a box of rollin’ papers. Even my tobacco was gone. Thief had himself a sense of humor, I reckon.” He punctuated his tale with an easy shrug of his shoulders. “‘S not the same as all this, but the meat ‘n potatoes are close. Makes ya feel rummaged through right alongside your stuff.” 

Your head was spinning, and not due to what was around you. You’d never heard Ryan speak so much or so freely. His accent was stronger than you realized, his voice a deep, yet soft-spoken tenor. Even the tone he spoken in, the rose and lull of his voice were reminiscent of a melody. What struck you the deepest, however, was the knowledge that he’d wanted to share his experience with you. You hadn’t asked any questions. You hadn’t prompted him in any way, yet he opened up to you, even if it was in the form of revisiting a short time of misfortune in his life. He’d abandoned his reserve, and it felt momentous. 

“Did you end up meeting up with your friend?”

Ryan glanced downward at his boots and let out a breath of laughter. He looked back to you with a nod. “Yep. Accumulated some stuff to weigh the pack down along the way. Name’s Georgie. A damn good fiddler… lives close by.” 

If there was anything Ryan Brenner was not, it was the presumptuous type. He never assumed anything from anybody. The life he lived was an unconventional one, and most people frowned upon it. His palms were blistered more often than not from hopping trains to get where he was going. His fingertips were hard with callouses yet weren’t immune to bleeding from long hours of playing. Any money he had was earned by hustling for it, and honestly so. Whether his day was spent huddled under any overhang he could find in order to stay dry, in direct sunlight and drenched with sweat, or with most of his body numb from the harsh, unrelenting cold, he was determined. He was honest. He was a temporary fixture and, most would say, he was a fool. Perhaps it was true. He was a private man but he was a man of compassion and emotion and kindness. You had shown him immense kindness and a sweet company; Ryan felt a strong desire to offer you the same. 

“It’s none ‘a my business, but it may be none too wise to stay here tonight.” The sky was an inky black, any sliver of moonlight obscured by heavy clouds. You hadn’t realized so much time had passed. “You’re more’n welcome to stay at Georgie’s. He’s been puttin’ me up since I came ‘round. We got plenty room.” With a boyish smile, he nodded in the direction on your abandoned lasagna. “You can bring supper in exchange for room and board.”

You hesitated at Ryan’s offer. You’d like to think that the rest of your night would be spent picking up, sweeping, mopping, piecing your home back in order as much as possible, but if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t feel safe. The lock on your door was obviously broken and there was no place in town open at the late hour  to fix it. You looked up at the man standing in front of you, a sort-of stranger that was talented, alarmingly good-looking, gentle and kind. He had made it his responsibility to make sure there was no threat to your safety upon arriving to find a disaster of an apartment. And here he was, still offering his protection and company without any indication that he thought that you might need him, but simply that he was willing to offer you his presence and time. 

“That sounds… wonderful.” You stood from your kitchen chair and raked your hands through your hair. You felt, for the first time since you’d arrived home, like you could breathe.”Thank you, Ryan.”

He shook his head in gentle dismissal. “Happy to help, Y/N. ‘S a pleasure.” 

You felt yourself smiling as you padded down the short hallway and into your bedroom to gather some things. Wherever Ryan Brenner came from, you were eternally grateful that he’d gravitated your way on his latest adventure.

You were also thankful that you’d finally found out he’d had a warm place to stay.

[arcwin1]

To Be Still

Dust falls softly in the sunlight streaming across the room, like tiny snowflakes on a still winter night. There isn’t a breeze to swirl them into a well-coordinated ballet, so they fall, one after the other, heavy and slow. A blanket of silence fills the room. It’s disconcerting, the silence. No hum of electronics, no sounds of the traffic outside, no ticking of clocks. Pure, unadulterated silence flowing into every corner, seeping into the cracks in the floor and expanding up to the ceiling. It doesn’t even breathe, just holding itself stagnant until it burns like the lungs of a drowning man.

Crowley is the drowning man, and he hates it. He is an active beehive, every cell buzzing and barely contained within the confines of his being. The throne beneath him, though hard and strong, fades from his consciousness as he fights to keep himself together. His quaking chest threatens to pull him to pieces, the only evidence of his struggle.

To an outsider, he would appear to be still. Could even be mistaken for calm.

To Aziraphale, the skin pulled tight over his knuckles and the set of his jaw would make it obvious. Crowley may as well be screaming his anxiety, howling his fear until the walls of his flat trembled as they absorbed his nervous energy, his rage with himself overflowing for succumbing to such... feelings . It’s obscene. He hates it, hates this earthquake that makes his stomach flip inside out and threatens to send him straight to the floor.

He stares at a fixed point on his desk, doing everything he can to disconnect from the turmoil in his body. A dissociative trance overtakes him, pulling him further and further away from the reality of the small ring box in his jacket pocket. Crowley has known it for centuries, though he refused to believe it could ever work. And then they stopped the world from ending, and he invited Aziraphale to stay with him, and while he was preparing his Yeah, sure, I understand, that’s fine speech, his world stopped.

Aziraphale said Why, yes, Crowley. That sounds...lovely.

He smiled, a beatific and heart-aching smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes and threatened to stop Crowley’s heart then and there. He wouldn't have cared in the slightest, knowing that at this moment his life was nearly complete.

Nearly.

One last thing to do.

That evening, while his oldest and dearest love got cleaned up and ready for bed, Crowley slunk silently over to the safe and withdrew the ring. It was a simple, golden band etched with a winding snake with a tiny diamond for the eye. He took a long look at it, made up his mind, and shoved it into his pocket while he waited.

Right as he’s about to yell, the vibrating inside threatening to overcome and shatter him to pieces, the bathroom door opens. Billows of steam roll out into the hallway as his angel, his sweetheart, his best friend emerges with pinked cheeks and damp hair. Beads of sweat cling to Aziraphale’s forehead. He blinks rapidly, clearing his vision, and takes a few steps towards the living room. Crowley watches him with wide eyes, pupils narrowed to tiny slits, unblinking.

The angel halts mid step before crossing the threshold into the living room, the contented smile fading from his face. He cocks his head to the side, watching Crowley curiously. “My dear,” he starts, and Crowley flinches. Raising a hand towards him, but staying rooted to his spot in the hallway, he frowns. “You’re terrified.” It isn’t a judgment, nor a question. Glancing around him for threats and finding none, he looks back at the demon.

This might be it , Crowley thinks. This might be when I die, killed by my own stupidity.

When he doesn’t answer, fearful that the moment he opens his mouth he’ll release the beast behind his pounding heart, Aziraphale softens and takes a tentative step into the room.

No, you fool , don’t do it, Crowley wants to scream. Don’t fall for this. Don't fall for me .

The silence fills the room once more, but Crowley doesn’t even hear it. His own blood is thumping too loudly in his ears as Aziraphale pads with bare feet slowly, so slowly over to his chair.

You don’t want this, angel!

Leave now before I break you into pieces.

I’m not safe, I’ve never been safe. I’m not kind, I’m not nice, I’m not anything that’s good.

I’m not--

“You are everything to me,” Aziraphale says as he lays a gentle hand on Crowley’s cheek. The moment his palm makes contact with the demon’s skin, a wave of calm flows through his body. The vibrations, the buzzing that threatened to shatter him stops immediately. He breathes for the first time in an hour, filling his lungs with fresh oxygen as he melts into his angel’s touch.

He knows what it’s like to be still.

He’s never known before now. It settles comfortably in his core like a thick down comforter on a chilly winter afternoon, wrapping around him as if it’s always been there. Perhaps it always has, but he’s been too blind to notice.

The silence in the room shifts, filled with something else entirely as Crowley stares up at Aziraphale.

He clears his throat. His own voice sounds foreign to him. “Aziraphale,” he starts, nearly dying on the spot as the angel’s eyes soften even more and his thumb strokes Crowley’s cheekbone. “Aziraphale,” he repeats, no longer afraid of the words but not sure what order to put them in.

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley turns his face into Aziraphale’s palm, kissing it softly. “Marry me,” he says quietly. At his side, his hand fumbles to find the opening of his pocket, fingers questing for the ring box. He’s finally able to produce it, flicking the top open with his thumb before he presents it.

Aziraphale gasps, his hand coming up to cover his mouth while his eyes immediately fill with tears. “Oh, my, Crowley, it’s--well, yes, of course, I do!” he says ecstatically, throwing his arms around the demon’s neck.

Smashed into Aziraphale’s chest, Crowley sighs, inhaling the sweet and musky scents of his soap and shampoo mixing with the angel’s natural smells. Inside him, the nervous, reckless energy that’s always taken up the space between his ribs ebbs away, replaced.

He is still.

[lunulatales-blog]

Bonsai 🌱

Have you ever seen the sunlight filter through the leaves? As a young boy his mother would tell him how the light which danced between the gaps were really fairies who had come to show off their dazzling beauty. He thought of those fairies often nowadays and Will knew it, she could sense that longing flow outward from her father. Perhaps it was pity or sympathy which had allowed for the idea to take root in her mind, the idea of such a trip which so few had the time or energy to make though everyone spoke about it. They spoke about the trees as though they were dinosaurs now. Spoke about oaks which had once stroked the sky with their green fingertips, oaks which had once been so large it would take over a dozen people holding hands to encircle it. Such trees had become part of myth and legend. Schoolchildren could be found at the museums gazing up at old fashioned photographs of their great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers standing beneath entire canopies of trees! Teachers would explain how the trees had once been the skyscrapers of the world, they had stood just as proudly with twisting arms and dark skin. Teachers would speak of the numerous species of trees, all of which were unique standing this way or that. They would speak of the proud pine and its sharp needles, how it represented a time of Christmas and how people would decorate the pine with tinsel and silver. They speak about the willow and its relaxed mood, swinging side to side in rhythm to the reggae beat that seemed to drift through the air whenever one was in the presence of the willow tree. The blue gum who would shed its skin and when damp appeared as though it were a Van Gogh painting with such a diversity of color. 

The history lessons of fast growing populations and an unquenchable thirst for natural resources. Her father had told her most of those. He had told her how the world swallowed itself whole. The bonsai tree is often prayed to, preached to and its symbol restores faith throughout the world. Thousands of bonsai trees can be seen to line the windows of every building they pass by, each gnarled and stunted in height they standing slightly crouched over yet with an attention to detail that is captivating. Its petite leaves dangle from slender branches, moss keeps its feet warm in the winter and in spring miniature blossoms can be seen blooming. There are one hundred bonsai’s for each singular person. The bonsai’s are their breath, absorbing the smallest particles of carbon dioxide and releasing minute oxygen in return. Her father could often be found glaring or frowning at the bonsai’s, speaking of how they were poor imitations of the real thing. A child that never had the chance to grow up, he would mutter. Each person was taught from young how to curate and nurture the tiny trees, to ensure their survival was to ensure humanity’s survival. Will had loved her bonsai’s and to this day felt the thrill of watching one grow its first leaves, her favorite being the maple whose leaves portrayed spectacular flecks of gold in the autumn. Will feared this trip would change her view of the bonsai’s. 

The car smelled stale, litter could be found beside feet and under chairs. Cups and takeaway Styrofoam boxes with remnants of food probably three days old. What had possessed her to take such a drive? Will could no longer answer that question and the need for a bed had become unbearably loud. Her father slept in a fetal position in the passenger seat and his body was so frail at this point he could be mistaken for a child. At over a hundred years of age his childhood was long behind him and there was only one thing left in this world for him to do. Death was an old friend who visited in his dreams and made sweet promises. Before he accepted her hand, there was one last thing on this great earth he wanted to see. Will had lamented. As they drove the final distance a silhouette appeared on the horizon. At first she believed them to be buildings of a strange architecture. As the drive drew on, the last forest came into view. From a distance they looked like a line of bonsai’s growing somehow naturally but as the car drew nearer the trees grew larger. Their presence in the world spoke of times long forgotten and their leaves were maps of a world that once was. Charlie seemed to get out of the car before the wheels had stopped moving, he was six years old again playing with his brothers outside.The trees had been grand mansions once, entire worlds for them to climb. His legs did not ache as they moved toward the lush forest which seemed just out of reach. Stretching out his fingertips the distance between him and the trees finally closed. Charlie felt the gross beauty and imperfection of its rough bark. An energy ran through the tree making his fingertips hum with its vibration. 

“I am home.” 

By J.C. Delport 

©   This work is subject to copyright (14.02.2019)

All rights are that arise from this work are reserved for, and are the property of the author JC Delport

[beechems]

How does Ethylene and Oxygen Absorbers Help In Food Preservation And Reducing Food Waste?

Food Preservation involves processing the food in such a way that it prevents the growth of microorganisms and slows down the oxidation of fats which may cause rancidity. By preventing the oxidation of food, you can increase the shelf life of a food product. The technology of active packaging in food preservation has been improving day by day. Storing food items in packages that are impermeable to oxygen is one of the most reliable methods. Also, ethylene absorber sachets have been used to increase the shelf life of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. So, in this article, we will help you to find out the usage of ethylene absorber and oxygen absorber in food preservation.

The Need for Preserving Food

Research on food preservation has been going on for a long time. Over time, there have been discoveries and inventions of new methods of food preservation that are better and reliable. Similarly, the usage of ethylene and oxygen absorbers in food preservation has been a better method to increase the shelf life of food products.

Most fresh vegetables, fruits, and flowers release ethylene and water vapour after harvesting. These substances act as a catalyst and speed up the ripening of vegetables, fruits, and flowers. The ethylene absorber sachets are used to slow down the process of ripening.

Active packaging has been one of the best measures for the preservation of food and enhancing the shelf life of a product. As the usage of food preservatives is low in this method, the customers are quite happy and satisfied as this doesn’t cause any harm to the users.

How Does Ethylene Absorber Help In Food Preservation?

Vegetables, fruits, and flowers produce ethylene and water vapour after harvesting. Ethylene acts as a catalyst in the process of ripening. It causes deterioration, shattering, and ripening and the excess moisture present speeds up the process of decaying and formation of fungus and moulds.

The ethylene absorber sachets like the Freppe are made of zeolites and minerals that absorb the ethylene in a package and thus increase the shelf life of a food product. Bee Chems, which produces Freppe, is one of the largest manufacturers and suppliers of ethylene absorber sachets.

What Are The Applications Of Ethylene Absorber Sachets?

Cold Storage

Home Refrigerators

Domestic and Transit Storage

CA Rooms

Super Markets

Walk-in coolers

Community Refrigerators

Transport and Delivery Trucks

Wherever the fresh vegetables, fruits or flowers are stored

You can put these sachets inside a package or box that consists of vegetables, fruits, or flowers.

How Does Oxygen Absorbers Help In Food Preservation?

The oxygen absorber sachets help in maintaining the oxygen at deficient levels. By reducing the level of oxygen inside a package, it can reduce the harmful effects of oxygen on food products and the shelf life can be increased.

The presence of oxygen in food products can lead to the formation of mould, fungus, growth of aerobic bacteria, foul odour, rancidity, staleness, change in taste of food, etc. oxygen absorber in food  packages helps in reducing the concentration of oxygen and thus prevents all the issues and extends the shelf life.

The oxygen absorbers can prevent the formation of aerobic pathogens, spoilage organisms, or moulds that can spoil the food. They can also help in retaining the fresh-roasted aroma of coffee and nuts, preventing rancidity can maintaining the quality of high fatty-foods, and many more.

Bee Chems are one of the premium manufacturers of Oxygen Absorbers. The BOXY sachets of all types and grades are available too.

What Are The Applications Of Oxygen Absorber Sachets?

Cocoa Powder

Processed Snacks

Bakery

Dry Fruits and Nuts

Grains and pulses

Medicines

Vitamins and Supplements

Spices

Dried Meat

Chocolates or candies

Pet Food

Birdseed

Dairy Products

Sweet and processed sugar products

Medical diagnostic kits and devices

Fish and seafood products

Any products which can be harmed by the presence of oxygen and require protection from it.

You can place the oxygen absorber sachets inside the package or box of food products or items that need protection from oxygen.

Conclusion

With time, there have been discoveries of methods that help in preserving food. Ethylene and oxygen absorbers are some of the best practices that help us prevent spoilage of food products and thus reducing the wastage of food that might happen because of rancidity, decaying, fungus, etc. Bee Chems is one of the premium manufacturers in India that produce and supply ethylene and oxygen absorbers for food preservation.

Ethylene causes decaying, ripening, and spoilage of food, and ethylene absorbers maintain the level of ethylene and help prevent spoilage. Oxygen is responsible for oxidizing food products which might lead to several harmful effects and spoilage. Oxygen absorbers reduce the level of oxygen in a package to expand the shelf life of the product.

[malesherbes]

The Glass Palace

This night was but one of the many nights during which I dared to walk through the gate of dreams, and see, swirling with preternatural visions of hopes never conceived and dismays never felt, one of these boundless countries that are only found in night-time deliriums and the dusty canvasses haunting my uncle’s attic. This man whose grave bear the name of Randolf Carter was the one to introduce me to the timeless secrets of dreams, and the numerous legends and keys that urged men to plunge themselves in these long ecstasies, to pursue their voyage on the purple seas that swell under the measureless cliffs of one of these kingdoms of unknown names. I remember the fear in which, as a child, I beheld the strange movements of the air in the cobwebs that hung from the inaccessible vaults of my uncle’s house, as well as the large fireplace before which he used to meditate for countless hours, as I thought, at the time, when I had not yet become his disciple, with his dilated irises staring into nothingness, his claw-like hand clasped around a long pipe of a reddish wood, adorned with exotic cravings that were not reminiscent of any arts from the civilisations I liked to enquire about in his old picture books. After a few years, when I had followed him through the corridors in which opened the small iron gates, that led, according to his sayings, to dream countries, when I had for the first time absorbed this strange black herb with an indescribable scent, the blue smoke of which he used to inhale before is long sessions of motionless trance, when I had, as an accomplished disciple, seized the wand of a dream wanderer, and were able to mount the barbed backs of these strange winged creatures that dwell in the cracks of the high peaks of Xanadu, he began, as he could let me roam freely through these unearthly realms I had grown accustomed to, to stay in these countries for days and weeks, letting his old body, forsaken in his deserted house in the Yorkshire, slowly die away, his skin turned grey and his body and his face, that had turned inhumanely gaunt, let him, instead of rotting and exhaling the abominable pestilence of the dead, reach a mummified state, as if the herbs and various drugs he was constantly absorbing to maintain himself in this paradoxical state of consciousness that enables the wildest dreams had preserved his organs from the decomposition. In his hands were the rest of some unknown plant I have never seen him take before, that exhaled a perfume I would never forget.

Since then, as the lone traveller I was, with the experience of the numerous worlds I had seen, the beings of these spheres and other travellers like myself, I had learned many languages that were, on earth let unspoken, as well as many forbidden secrets, and reasons behind the wonders that painters, poets and musicians have summoned from the depths of their psyches. I saw the grotesque land of infinite tortures and hideous monstrosities, all twisted and colourful that the great Jeronimus Bosch had beheld before the creation of his famous paintings of hell. I saw, looming in translucent skies the strange vessels that fly though the wildest fantasies of Poe. I heard the delightful tunes of the golden fortress, in the ethereal harmonies of which Dvorak had found the chords of his ninth symphony. And of course I saw the white streams of Alph, the sacred river, and the violet arabesques of the woods in the boughs of which the Jubjub birds dwell, and I saw these dreamers themselves, from other times and other places, some of them had nothing of the man and could create ( for most of them were musicians whose language was of tune and chords, thus the songs they played in their polyphonic flutes were also poems), the most wonderful concertos. I thought, seeing these artists weaving these distant visions in their craft, that I could emulate them, and learned how to play the viola and the harpsichord in order to transcript in my world the constant miracles of my sleep. However, the harmonies of the mirthful lute players of my dreams were nothing like the earth’s poor tonal music, and our understanding of sound was far too remote from their too even hope to recreate such supernatural beauties. It was the same for the colours and for the words, as I never could, with my head clear find the many subtleties of my dreams hues, or the powerful springs of meaning bursting from its intermingled languages. Time passed, and, as I remembered the fate of my uncle, while observing the alarming effects that the blue leaves from the Yunan had on my body, my travels in the distant realms became less frequent, as I understood that the only thing It could leave me in this world I still acknowledged as mine was a dreary feeling of regret.

 This other night was one of the many nights during which my craving for otherworldly wonders was again taking over my mind, as its silken tentacles of invisible glass slowly rasped at my chamber’s door. At that time I had learned to fight these urges with a jolly company, a few laughs and many books, with the pleasures that every sentient creature has been blessed with and with the love I felt emanating even from the lowest forms of hymenoptera. My wife, some wild girl of the east whose breath dreamt of cold starry nights and unforeseen battles, was sleeping peacefully beside me and let faint whisper-like sounds escape her half-opened lips. This was when I noticed the thing. The thing from which my uncle had escaped in his strange country of armless poisons and purple scents was lurking in the corner of my eye like a rampant mountain lion and had left in its trail some shining dust made of blue thoughts of skies and seas. The thing loomed beyond walls and bellowed low like a vast mountain horn, it drew closer and yet unseen, rolling like a wave over me and ripping open my soul and memories and plunging away in a fizzling spark. The thing had left with my wife (the translucent girl, the blue girl of my dreams whose eyes where lavender fetched on my mother’s grave), it had left with my life and what I had been before, It had left with the hallucinated memories of my poor uncle and the haunting sounds of my sleep. What was left was the drab four square meters room, all plain and dull and stingy with nothing but grey furniture, grey bed and grey clothes on the bony form that faced me from the other side of a dusty glass. The walls were left, the walls of the house I had grown up in, the walls that bore the marks of unknown ancestors, the walls again. (I could not remember what my previous dreams were or the colours that were not black, white or dun). I looked through the window. Far away on the moor, the swirling feline thing that robbed me of my hopes lurched away mounting a comet, leaving nothing but me and the dirty fog of the dawn. I sighed as I felt the last traces of taste in my mouth, of the sensual touches the ghost were giving me in my forgetful ecstasy, and recalled that my life, if it were not for dreams, the greatest ones that my uncle used to bring me in his dark wooden boxes, the wisest ones that my wandering mind brought me in, in the form of some quaint and delightful meetings with familiar figures that did not bear any names and women all dressed up in rosy blouses and long skirts from the previous century. We walked up-hills towards high mills that heaved their pleasant brows in a low, reassuring sky, talked of love, tea and poetry, sailed along silent rivers not far from home and ate the simple delicacies of summer, all around a table, playing cards, and the air always, and thus I knew this was but a simpler and less glorious estate of the vast lands of the dream, always the air bore this cerulean hue that I could no longer make out, since the thing, the wide beast made of musk and dusky foam, had left with my sweet sleep between its fierce jaws. To open my eyes were so slow, and the light, white, so harsh invaded my sockets like frozen spears. Nothing around me but the low chug of some strange mechanisms hidden from my sight, and the regular chime of not so distant flute, repeating the very same note, regular and cold like an iron heart. A voice repeats: “blood tastes like iron” and I know, as the sickening flavour of flesh, of steel and self run down my throat that this voice is my own, as well a morbid reminder of my loneliness in this cell of grey and harsh lines and alien sounds. I know it all too well, the place I grew in, the place I suffered in, the place out of time, out of space out of heart out of everything real, six walls floating and stars and nothingness with a window showing nothing but smoke and rain. In this perfect cocoon, I slowly grew. It was what I thought at first. I got large, fat, huge like a white larva eating the insides of a hazelnut until its death amid rotten rubbish. Yet, after a few days ( or months, or years, as the cycle I abided by was not one of nights and days but a successions of the most delightful dreams and short yet painful sailings back to the grey room of misery) I understood: I did not grow: my body was as gaunt and scrawny as I had always been, lost in the dull white of the room. The walls. The small room’s walls were drawing closer and closer, making it almost impossible to breathe. The walls clasped me in their harsh embrace, closer and closer, smaller and smaller: first, it was like being in a car or one of these tiny huts every child has built at least once. Then, it was small as a coffins: nothing outside, not the faintest muffled sound, and the walls but a few inches away from my face, my hands my feet. I tried to inhale, I gasped for air, but the ceiling, too close, did not let my chest expand to receive the slightest breath of oxygen. My screams could not resound and were left unheard, the remote and regular pulse of the flute became faster, as the walls again, were drawing closer. Closer again, closer, so close the walls slowly took the shape of my body, smothering me in this horrible shroud of cement and heat, with no place to see, no place to feel, no place to smell or breathe, and the only thing I could hear was the throbbing of my blood on my temples, the panic of my heart and my lung, the fizzling of my nerves that shrieked like burning trees. Yet, the walls drew closer again. The walls became my skin, my bones, they let me blind and incapable of any movement. My flesh squelched  amid the walls, my lungs shrunk back to the state of rachitic bushes, and the walls pressed, closer and closer, crushing my muscles and my guts into a horrible and blind vision of intermingled matter, it pressed until the atoms drew closer, until they touched, until I was nothing but the indistinct mass of carbon, until I was nothing but the entrapped epitome of flesh: Thus I became matter. And thus came the time to call the thing,  thus came the time to call the beast back, the wild beast of my dreams, the beast with eyes of burning green, streaked with morphine-induced hues. The feline creature crossed the walls with a golden key in its claws, and helped me on its woollen back with its two striped tails. The walls were like cinders for this soft jaguar coming from the blue jungles of India. It took me slowly through a rain of orbs of opal and cliffs of clay, through the first shapes of thoughts and legends, and it sailed like a ships on the rays of green suns and chariots made of stars, amid the isles and the planets that turned around Saint Elmo’s fires like elliptic archipelagos. It jumped from castle to castle, and led me to the glass palace, the palace that was my dwelling in this kingdom of gardens and lakes. Each wall of the palace was made of pure crystal and led to other spheres and dimension, each was an ever-changing canvas of shapes, colours and scents, a sublime portal leading anywhere, anywhen, clear walls of freedom and poetry, from some of which the ominous tunes of the mossy forests of Selene were to be heard. Thus I sat in the glass palace with my singing friends from other times and places, around the wooden table of some summer evening, in the soft heat that the earth exhales after sunset, surrounded with perfumes of spice and roses, drinking wondrous ales with tastes of spring and moss, laughing past laughs all tinged with the sweetest melancholia, as the sheen of our lamps slowly were fading into the dark and motherly darkness of sounds, smells and unearthly pleasures. The beast was now a cat curled up on my knees, that, somehow, bore the smell of the strange herbs of my uncle, the last herbs he had ever consumed, the ones that led him to his eternal respite by these incorporeal realms. Slowly, I stroke the velvet back of the creature and whispered: “Thank you, sister. You let me go.”

[saturnsnacks]

Freeze Dried Smores Saltwater Taffy Candy, 1 oz. Candy Bags

Welcome to Saturn Snacks Candy Store

Freeze Dried Smores Saltwater Taffy, Freeze Dried Taffy, Candy, Birthday Party Treats, Sweets, Unique Candy Gifts, Party Favors, Custom

Freeze Dried Smores saltwater taffy are a fun food treat for all ages to enjoy. These candies are fun summer campfire crunchy candy snacks treat for all ages.

Smores Taffy candy is freeze-dried and placed in a resealable quality Mylar bag with an oxygen absorber for guaranteed freshness and long-lasting shelf life. These are 1 oz. candy bags.

Perfect for long-term freeze-dried food storage or the pantry.

This freeze-dried taffy is fantastic to share with friends.

A fun candy to add to Birthday treats.

These sweets make unique candy gifts for all ages.

Give to guests as party favors.

These custom treats can't be beat.

I follow all food safety guidelines to ensure my customer gets the best quality.

Add some freeze-dried Smores taffy to your candy jars today.

Ship USPS and ships the next business day.

This item will be shipped in a 6x9 box with bubble wrap for extra protection.

Details:

1 oz.

8x5x2 Mylar Bag with an oxygen absorber

Contains Evaporated Milk and Egg Whites