#roadside angel

[small-sinclair]

Roadside Angel: The Way You Smile

This is part 3 of the series! This is not the last part.

Lester Sinclair x reader

Tw: burned hand, mention of dead people, not proofread

Tag list: @sketchy-rosewitch, @sweetgoateelight, @justmeandmyghosties, @idorkish, @mommymilkerfanclub, @early20sfailingplenty, @shadow-h-cipher

Part 1| Part 2

It’s been two weeks since you’ve been here, so you have a month left to tell Lester ‘I love you’, but you weren’t sure if you were going to make it long enough to say it. But you were starting to find reasons to love him.

For starters, he asked Vincent, the one in the waxed mask, to let you say goodbye to your brother and William before he turned them into wax. He let you have a moment to mourn over them as he stood outside of his brother’s workshop. Vincent did a nice job on sowing Jace’s wounds and cleaning Williams body; they looked like they were sleeping.

When you were ready to leave, Lester walked out out of the maze of pipes and wires towards upstairs to the House of Wax. Before you left the room, you looked back at your brother and waved goodbye one last time.

“What’s Vincent going to do to them?” You asked softly as you went up the steps, passing waxed faces on the wall.

“He’ll put your brother in t’movies and t’other in the dining room,” Lester says as he opens the door for you. He held out his hand for you to take at the last step, but you didn’t take it. He awkwardly put his hand down. “Vince’ll make sure they’re respectful.”

You were sure if that was comforting or horrifying to say. “I hope so.”

Your footsteps echoed throughout the museum as you took a look around. It doesn’t look like anyone alive has been here for years; the mountain of dust showed along with the cobwebs. Though the place looked paused in the late 90s, the art style looked pretty new. You stopped at a chair and poked it— it’s wax.

“Is this whole place made of wax?”

Lester stopped a few feet ahead of you and turned to look at you. In the halo of dust floating around your hair, you looked just like an angel. “Yeah. The whole place ‘is.”

You gave him a doubtful look. “Bullshit.”

“Point ‘at somethin’,” he encouraged, a grin forming. “Anythin’.”

You took that invention, pointing at the floor. “Wood?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Beeswax and soybean wax.”

“Door and bookcase— that can’t be wax!”

“Sorry, sugar,” he chimed. “Wax, too. Soy wax, actually.”

You gasped surprisingly. “The whole house!? That can’t be—“

“Wax. Beeswax, soybean wax, coconut oil wax, an’ whale oil wax as t’hardern.” Lester gives you the brightest smile. “Mama built ‘is place.”

“Your… your mother built this?”

He nodded as he paced the floors then stopping by an oil painting. “Yep, Mama built ‘is before I was born.” Then he looked back at you. “She taught Vincent everythin’ she knew!” He chuckles and shakes his head, saying to himself, “They’re smarter than me.”

You tilted your head then looked at the painting. At the corner, you saw Vincent’s name written in gold. “He does the art?”

“That’s right.”

“Bo fixes car,” you took a careful step towards him. “And what do you do?”

His smile leaves as he looks down at his dirty boots. The air became thick around you. He pushes himself away from his brother’s work and came to your side. He takes your hand. “Come on,” he mumbles. “Gotta get you home. Still need rest.”

That was two weeks ago.

Now, you barely talk to him.

He wakes up before you, cooks you breakfast and coffee, and kisses you goodbye on the hand, saying, “Be home soon, sweet pea.” Everyday, he does this. When he comes home, he kisses your hand or cheek and washes up. He talks about his day and tells you something new the loves about you.

“I love your handwriting,” he told you a couple days ago. “It’s so easy to follow and flows.”

Yesterday, he said, “I love the bread ya made last night.” He flashes a smile and said, “Promise I’ll bring home more cookin’ things ‘is weekend. Y’all can come with.”

He invited you to come with him to town last time, but you didn’t go.

Even though you don’t talk to him, he still tried his best to talk to you. He takes about his day, about the people he met, the animals and kills— but he likes it when he hears you talk. Still, you haven’t given him the satisfaction for talking or smiling. Lester would bend-over backwards just to see you smile. He’ll do anything to see you smile.

When he came home today with a wild daisy, he hung up his hat, boots off at the door, and he kissed your hand like normal. He balled up his light grey jacket and threw it in the washer. “I brought home a deer,” he says as he places the Bowie on the counter next to his pack of Reds and green lighter.“Killed jus’ twenty minutes ago, I reckon.”

You hummed to show your approval. Before you came here, you never thought of eating deer, now? You love it!

“I love the way ya sing, y/n,” he said. You lifted a brow at this one. You were finishing making dinner, something that he expects you to do, as he went on, saying, “Mama used to sing me to sleep.” He went to the kitchen sick and started washing his arms with orange soap and Goo-b-Gone. “She hated singin’ to me. Bu, you?” He glanced at you and gave a half-hearted smile. “You sound like an angel.” You couldn’t help but give a grin in return, but it fell as you continued cooking your hamburger helper.

He bit his lower lip nervously then started washing his hands again then under the finger nails. “I saw a lil’ fox today. It had the cutest tail an’ face—“

You weren’t paying attention when you grabbed the hot part of the pan. You let out a painful yelp and threw the spoon to the floor. You held your hand close to your chest as you fought back tears. Lester hurried to your side and took your hand—

“No!” You shouted, pushing him back. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

He looked at you hurt and lowered his hand. He bent down, picked up the spoon, washed it off, and stands by the stove. “Run it under water at least, y/n,” he instructed. “Helps the pain.”

You did as you were told and ran it under cold water and took deep breaths through your teeth. In the silence, he said, “I know we’re supposed t’do one a day, but I love the way ya take charge of yer life.” He sounded genuine as he said, “I never… well, I wanna take charge.” He glances at you then back at dinner. “I love ‘at your strong.”

That broke the dam.

You’re supposed to hate him. He didn’t save your brother and friend. He has you here in his home, keeping a close eye on you and everything— but he’s been nothing but kind. He gives you space and never forces your to do anything. He helps clean and cooks, but you’ve taken that role to keep you busy.

But he smiles at you. It’s never forced or fake. It’s a real smile filled with tenderness and friendliness.

So how could he come from a family like that? How come he never ended up like Bo or Vincent? He doesn’t like killing or participates in the killings, so how? How didn’t he come out almost normal. Bo enjoys seeing your fear in your eyes every time he comes around. He scares you, threatens you, has once threatened to stab you if you showed weakness. Is that it? Does Lester feed off your fear?

You let a cracked cry escape and started crying against the sink. “Aw, sweet pea,” Lester sighs. He turns the stove off and moved the pan away from the burner and came to your side. “Is it that bad? Lemme see your hand—“

“Smile,” you chocked out. You met his eyes. “I-I love your smile.”

His eyes went wide in disbelief, but it softened. Hesitantly, he guided your hand back under the cold water and holds it there. Gears turned and burned with thoughts of hope and fear of you, but he’ll worry about it later. You just… you love his smile?

“Thank you, sweet pea,” he whispers. “I love your smile, too—“

“Lester,” you cut him off as far tears fell down your eyes. “Lester, I’m scared. I’m scare-scared you’ll hurt me or your brothers and Bo—“

He searched outside then looked back at you. “Rest your head on my shoulder, sugar.”

“Les—“

“Just do it. Le’me talk.”

You lean on his shoulder and allowed him to look over your burned hand. His fingers brushed over the burned mark for a moment then placed it under water once more. His eyes never left your hand, and he looked at it as if it was a fragile piece of art. He turned off the water and brought up your hand, kissing the wound as gently as he could.

“I ain’t never gonna hurt ya,” he promises. “I swore to your brother, an’ I plan on keepin’ it.” He rested his head on top of yours as he looks at the burn. “I know Bo’s been scaring you, an’ I know your scared t’death,” he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, “You ain’t got nothin’ to be afraid of when ‘m around.” He kisses your hand once more before turning to face you. He lifts your chin as he thumbed away your tears. Oddly, his rough hands were soft today. “I’ll fight them monsters, sweet pea,” he kisses your knuckles, “I swear.”

*************

After dinner and tv, he made his bed on the couch again. He fluffed his pillows and took his night medication, but he stopped when he saw you standing in the hallway between the living room and the bedroom.

He straightens himself, eyes scanning over you. “Is your hand fine?”

You nodded as you held the wrapped hand close to your chest. “Could,” you swallowed the lump on your throat, “could you sleep with me tonight?”

His eyes lit up. “You sure? I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

You nodded. Standing aside, you opened up to the bedroom. “Just for the night, okay?”

He nods and takes his pillows, following you down the hall. In bed, he lays down after you made yourself comfortable and laid on his back.

Before he closed his eyes, you asked, “Promise you’ll never hurt me?”

“I promise, sugar,” he drawled, turning his head towards you. “I’ll protect you from everything wrong if ya let me.”

You laid on your side and offered a smile, and it made his heart ache for another. “Thank you, Lester.”

You started to learn to love him the next day.

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[irradiatedpiratebooty]

Realizing now that I just really don't give a fuck about historical landmarks who's entire purpose is to practically worship old colonists

Y'know what I DO care about? Weird roadside attractions, like the creationist museum and the trigger finger of Pancho Villa

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Book Haul: May Edition! My indie bookstore purchases started to show up this month, and it was my birthday, and I asked for books!! My ~Driscoll Vibes~ TBR has been replenished for sure (and just in time, too).

[rabbitcruiser]

The first gasoline pump was invented and sold by Sylvanus Bowser in Fort Wayne, Indiana on September 5, 1885.

[krushgroovin]

do you think adam horovitz never talks about roadside prophets because that’s where he watched my own private idaho (as he was told this movie was supposed to be a ripoff) for the first time and discovered the intricacies of gay sex and became so haunted with the facts that he cannot bear to utter the mere name anymore

[independencetowingcharlote]

Tow Truck Charlotte

In Charlotte and looking for a trustworthy tow truck Charlotte? A fleet of contemporary tow trucks is available from Independence Towing Charlotte to help you at any time and from any location in the city. Your automobile will be relocated securely and effectively thanks to our tow trucks' ability to handle a variety of vehicle kinds. Our tow truck Charlotte services are intended to help you get back on track after accidents or breakdowns. Give Independence Towing Charlotte a call right now to reserve a trustworthy tow truck, and we'll take care of the rest!

[reasonsforhope]

As relentless rains pounded LA, the city’s “sponge” infrastructure helped gather 8.6 billion gallons of water—enough to sustain over 100,000 households for a year.

Earlier this month, the future fell on Los Angeles. A long band of moisture in the sky, known as an atmospheric river, dumped 9 inches of rain on the city over three days—over half of what the city typically gets in a year. It’s the kind of extreme rainfall that’ll get ever more extreme as the planet warms.

The city’s water managers, though, were ready and waiting. Like other urban areas around the world, in recent years LA has been transforming into a “sponge city,” replacing impermeable surfaces, like concrete, with permeable ones, like dirt and plants. It has also built out “spreading grounds,” where water accumulates and soaks into the earth.

With traditional dams and all that newfangled spongy infrastructure, between February 4 and 7 the metropolis captured 8.6 billion gallons of stormwater, enough to provide water to 106,000 households for a year. For the rainy season in total, LA has accumulated 14.7 billion gallons.

Long reliant on snowmelt and river water piped in from afar, LA is on a quest to produce as much water as it can locally. “There's going to be a lot more rain and a lot less snow, which is going to alter the way we capture snowmelt and the aqueduct water,” says Art Castro, manager of watershed management at the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. “Dams and spreading grounds are the workhorses of local stormwater capture for either flood protection or water supply.”

Centuries of urban-planning dogma dictates using gutters, sewers, and other infrastructure to funnel rainwater out of a metropolis as quickly as possible to prevent flooding. Given the increasingly catastrophic urban flooding seen around the world, though, that clearly isn’t working anymore, so now planners are finding clever ways to capture stormwater, treating it as an asset instead of a liability. “The problem of urban hydrology is caused by a thousand small cuts,” says Michael Kiparsky, director of the Wheeler Water Institute at UC Berkeley. “No one driveway or roof in and of itself causes massive alteration of the hydrologic cycle. But combine millions of them in one area and it does. Maybe we can solve that problem with a thousand Band-Aids.”

Or in this case, sponges. The trick to making a city more absorbent is to add more gardens and other green spaces that allow water to percolate into underlying aquifers—porous subterranean materials that can hold water—which a city can then draw from in times of need. Engineers are also greening up medians and roadside areas to soak up the water that’d normally rush off streets, into sewers, and eventually out to sea...

To exploit all that free water falling from the sky, the LADWP has carved out big patches of brown in the concrete jungle. Stormwater is piped into these spreading grounds and accumulates in dirt basins. That allows it to slowly soak into the underlying aquifer, which acts as a sort of natural underground tank that can hold 28 billion gallons of water.

During a storm, the city is also gathering water in dams, some of which it diverts into the spreading grounds. “After the storm comes by, and it's a bright sunny day, you’ll still see water being released into a channel and diverted into the spreading grounds,” says Castro. That way, water moves from a reservoir where it’s exposed to sunlight and evaporation, into an aquifer where it’s banked safely underground.

On a smaller scale, LADWP has been experimenting with turning parks into mini spreading grounds, diverting stormwater there to soak into subterranean cisterns or chambers. It’s also deploying green spaces along roadways, which have the additional benefit of mitigating flooding in a neighborhood: The less concrete and the more dirt and plants, the more the built environment can soak up stormwater like the actual environment naturally does.

As an added benefit, deploying more of these green spaces, along with urban gardens, improves the mental health of residents. Plants here also “sweat,” cooling the area and beating back the urban heat island effect—the tendency for concrete to absorb solar energy and slowly release it at night. By reducing summer temperatures, you improve the physical health of residents. “The more trees, the more shade, the less heat island effect,” says Castro. “Sometimes when it’s 90 degrees in the middle of summer, it could get up to 110 underneath a bus stop.”

LA’s far from alone in going spongy. Pittsburgh is also deploying more rain gardens, and where they absolutely must have a hard surface—sidewalks, parking lots, etc.—they’re using special concrete bricks that allow water to seep through. And a growing number of municipalities are scrutinizing properties and charging owners fees if they have excessive impermeable surfaces like pavement, thus incentivizing the switch to permeable surfaces like plots of native plants or urban gardens for producing more food locally.

So the old way of stormwater management isn’t just increasingly dangerous and ineffective as the planet warms and storms get more intense—it stands in the way of a more beautiful, less sweltering, more sustainable urban landscape. LA, of all places, is showing the world there’s a better way.

-via Wired, February 19, 2024

[small-sinclair]

Roadside Angel

Lester x y/n

Tw: reader survives a car wreck, watched someone die, glass, injured reader, blood, character deaths, being referred as property for a moment

Part two | Part 3

When you woke up this morning, you didnlt think you would be in a car wreck on the country road in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Jace's car flipped three times, and you heard Britney's neck snap, killing her in seconds. You remembered holding on to your seat belt so hard until the car stopped, and your friend's glazed eyes met yours. Jace was going nearly 100 down the road even though you told him to slow down, but he had to impress his now dead girlfriend. You were just along for the trip to the lake, and he graced you with the permission to have you come along. He was going to ask her to marry him, but you guess that love dies within a snap... ha, terrible joke, y/n.

When you came back, your brother and William, who was in the backseat, dragged you out of the car. Black smoke raised above the car as the fire in the front of the car was sandwiched between a pine tree and a large rock. Your brother's face had small glass peeking out of the skin, and William's face was pale from shock and panic. You looked back at the car, seeing Brittney's eyes in the flames, and you saw Martin's head smashed and broken in the backseat. You forgot he was there because he was sleeping. Going out in your sleep was a good gift; that's what your grandfather told you two days before he died in his sleep. Irony is like a skillet cooking an eggs.

"You okay, y/n?" Your brother asked, looked at you up and down. "Oh, shit. You're bleeding!"

"Jace, I see a car!"

"Flag them down, Will!" Your brother took off his green flannel and held in over your arm, careful not to touch the big chunk of glass sticking out of shoulder and upper arm. "You're going to be okay, y/n."

"Jace, what about you?" You asked in a whisper. You didn't realize that you were shaking, your eyes dead and numb. Every time you blink, all you see is Britney's eyes. "You good?"

"Forget me, okay?" He asked as the truck came into view, slowing down. "Keep pressure on your arm. I'll talk to the driver."

You knew you were in shock, that's why you weren't screaming in pain yet, but you knew that it'll come soon. You knew that once it hits you, you won't stop screaming and crying. You remembered that the closest hospital was 30 miles from here, and that's not enough time for you. On the other hand, you were just happy your brother lived. If anything, you were nervous how William was feeling about it all along with how he was going to pin this on you.

The driver got out of his truck in a hurry when he saw you sitting in the grass with blood running down your arm. He was short and looked like he needed two sandwiches. His face was covered in grim and dirt, and he still had the morning's shadow on his cheeks and chin. His faded red work shirt was unbutton and tucked in his pants to show his dirtied and torn white shirt. Around his neck, you thought he was wearing dog tags, but they were small bones once he got closer. His bright brown hair was greasy and curled up to the southern heat under his green hat. He looked worried as he stopped in front of your brother, but you couldn't hear a thing. Your ears started ringing as your eyes clouded and laced over the evening sky. This was the most prettiest sunset you've seen in a long time.

Soon, the stranger was in front of you, snapping his fingers to wake you from your fog. His voice was muffled as your body swayed side to side slightly. You could feel the earth lift up then back down like a roller coaster you once rode at the State Fair when you were a kid.

"...can ya 'ere me?" His voice was so sweet in your ears once you felt yourself grounded again. "Sweetpea? Hey," he snaps his fingers again, "com' back t' me. Don't go too far, 'kay? Com' back." Once he felt your eyes on him, he gave you a smile as sweet as honey, showing his rotten and blacken teeth. His lips were cracked and showed a healing cut. " 'At's it. Good. Hey there, beautiful," he cooed, his eyes looked over your upper body to make sure you weren't bleeding anywhere else. "C'n ya tell me yer name, sugar?"

"You have pretty eyes," you answered instead. His brown eyes were so soft and gentle. He shot you a confused looked, his cheeks a soft pink. "Real pretty eyes."

"Darlin'," he whispered as he looked at your arm. "I need ya to tel'me yer name."

"Y/n," you answered, your head getting dizzy again.

"It's real good t'meetcha," he said with a grin, worried pressed over his eyes. "C'n ya stan', sugar?"

You winced when you shrugged. "Catch... me?"

You felt the weight of the world crushing on you as you leaned to the side, closing your eyes. You expected your head to hit the dirt, but he caught you. His hands were rough but gentle to the touch. The smell of death came from his body, but you cared less. His hands were strong and warm as he lifted you up, cradling you. For someone so small looking, he was strong. When your eyes parted, you were being placed in the truck with your brother's help. William was getting into the back of the truck once the door slammed.

"C'n get ya to Ambrose in ten," the driver promised as he slammed his door. "It'll be bumpy, so hang on t'em." Then his eyes fell on you. He looked so scared as he started the truck and gunned it down the road. "Keep yer eyes open, y/n, yeah?" He asked, turning on a dirt road sharply. "Tel'me yer favorite color. Flower. Anythin'."

Your eyes looked up at your brother, seeing a stream of tears falling down fast. You looked up at the ceiling, seeing different antlers hanging. You wanted to touch one, hold it close, and ask its spirit for its name. Imagine asking that? You are really losing it, aren't you?

"F/c," you answered, your hands now tracing the gator skin on the radio. "It matches my eyes."

"Ya know? 'i a good color," the driver agreed, driving over the dirt road and river rocks. Luckily, it hasn't rained in a couple of days, so the road wasn't washed out. "I lik' green an' yeller."

The way he talked made you giggle. The sunset poked through his hair and trees, making the shadows cast over him, giving him a pair of angel wings. He was your roadside angel at this point. "Bet it looks good... good on you?" You found it harder to stay awake. The pain started kicking in. "What's your name?"

He looked at you then back at your brother. Guess you didn't hear him the first time, huh, y/n? "Lester," he answered. "Lester Sinclair."

"Pretty name," you breathed. The pain in your shoulder finally got to you, but you didn't have the strength to scream or cry. You didn't feel like doing anything besides sleeping. "I'm tired, Jace."

"Stay awake," your brother ordered. "See? We're here!" The truck stopped as soon as he said it. "Stay awake, y/n."

The car door opened on your brother's side as Lester hopped out of the seat, sliding over the hood of the car. William's hand slipped under you roughly, and his hand squeezed hard enough to leave a bruise. Soon, you felt yourself being lifted up in Lester's arms and hurried steps towards a house on a hill.

You heard the house door open as a taller man in a blue worker's jumper stepped out. "The hell's this, Les?" The older man barked. "What the fuck--?"

"They're hurt," Lester said, going up two steps. "Really hurt, Bo!"

"Like I care--"

"You betta care," Lester snapped. He never gets angry with his brothers, but seeing you like this was enough to make his chest ache. What were you doing to him, y/n? What is this? "Y/n needs help." He was careful with your hurt shoulder and arm as he held you closer. "Please, Bo? Get Vincent for help?"

Bo hates it when Lester flashes his puppy eyes. How could he say "no" to that look? Bo looked past Lester towards Jace and William before sighing in defeat. "Fine," he stepped aside. "Pa's office. I'll get Vinny."

Are all southern men this hot? They weren't kidding when they say men grew in southern soil.

Everything was a blur from there.

You were placed on a cold and hard bed? Table? What the hell is this? But you were there as Lester left the room to come back with a big bowl and a first-aid. you felt yourself weave in and out as his voice became muffled again...

When your eyes opened, you were met by a lifeless and blank face looking down at you, raven hair tucked behind his ear, and hands working over your shoulder. You felt numb on your left side. He noticed you were a wake, but he didn't say anything or gave you the motion that he wanted to talk to you. You didn't feel pain as you drifted back to sleep, hearing your brother screaming your name before his dying screamed left. Oddly, you felt safe here...

************

"Don't kill 'em," Lester begged on his knees in front of Bo and Vincent. "Please, don't kill 'em."

In the kitchen, the twins sit in their chairs as they looked down at their brother, scared and shaking. Bo's boots were covered in y/n's brother's blood while Vincent's waxed face was covered in small spatters of William's. Their blue eyes looked at each other then down at Lester.

Bo shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Ya know t'rules."

Lester shook his head huriedly. "But they lived fer a reason!"

"Yeah," Bo nodded towards Vincent, "so he could dump them in wax." He almost laughed but... "It's sad how they gotta go."

"Then why didn't ya use t'whole thin' on 'em, Vince?" He looked up at his brother. "Why not t'whole numbin' thin'?"

Truth to be told, he didn't know why. Maybe it's because he heard you whispering a "thank you" to him after he was done working on you? Was it your sleepy grin?

"Can't keep 'em--"

"But ya keep pretty girls all th' time!" Lester argued back at Bo. "Bet if ya had yer hands on 'em, ya would lock 'em up down stairs!"

Bo's eye twitched. "Watch it."

"Am I wrong?" Lester asked, standing up, opening his arms. "When ya find someone, ya keep 'em and expect us t'be okay wit' it! But when I find someone, it's wrong?"

"Lester, I said..." Bo stopped himself and sighed. His little brother does have a fair point. "Damnit."

"An' ya promised I could hav' th' next one!" Lester added, his voice cracking. "Ya goin' back on it?"

Bo bit his lower lip, settling down his anger. The last thing he wants is that little thing in Pa's office to wake up to this. But why was he worried about that, too? Why was he worried that y/n would wake to this? Was he afrid of killing them? No, Bo Sinclair never gets scared! But... They looked so tired when Lester brought them in. He almost felt sorry for you... almost.

Giving in, Bo rubbed his face. "Fine," he breathed out. "But ya hav' two months wit'em 'fore I kil' 'em."

Vincent cut off Bo, signing, 'Unless you can get them to say 'I love you'.'

Bo shot a look at Vincent and was about to protest, but he looked back at his brother. Big Mistake. His brother's bright brown eyes were filled with hope and happiness. Who was he to kill his brother's joy? It's not fair, he knows this, but Bo didn't want his brothers to get too attached to y/n. If Lester can't get them to love them, then Bo will kill them.

That's a fair trade.

Bo stood up and held up two fingers when he said, "Two months. If y/n doesn't say they love ya," he picked up the hunting knife. "I'll kil' em with 'is, an' ya hav'ta watch." He lifted a brow. "Deal?"

Something inside Lester exploded with happiness and joy. "Deal."

And what a deal it was.

[ycoil]

devil: (on your shoulder) youre just gonna keep waiting until the right moment to strike, itll be brilliant, stay stiff and rigid with your determination, lie in wait, you will dazzle everyone with your precision and execution right when all is right for the picking. promise: perfect place, perfect time. everyone will clap.

angel: (miles away, car totaled, roadside barrier impaled through window, head caved in like a deflated balloon, lifeless, the entire interior splattered in an ever deep and dripping red, and across the road, wrapped around the branches of a tree: one blood sodden wing, still swinging subtly in a purposeless perpetuality of to and fro)

[floralmemorials]

Roadside Memorials

This article is not a long read, or listen (both in the download above). No matter your opinion on roadside memorials, I had never taken a side, the words are meaningfully from a different point of view. Community Viewpoint: Honor the roadside memorials As I write this, with about one week left in February, some trees, bushes and daffodils have already begun to bloom around Danville. — Read on…

[salingers]

here’s an organized list of my personal recommendations and my immediate tbr. i’m hoping that this’ll enable and/or encourage others to prioritize diversifying their engaging and reading. remember to actively practice inclusivity. <3

p.s. if i missed you, please ask/dm/comment me your work, as i’ll be regularly updating this list, anyway!

@clubsoft, aka dulsè.

↓ rec.

javier peña. love notes.

reed richards. over the moon.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. 2d.

@cosmicaura7, aka tubbie.

↓ tbr.

frankie morales. whole package, babe, i like the way you fit.

@cxrsed-angel, aka angel.

↓ tbr.

javier peña. never have i ever.

joel miller. overtime.

@damneddamsy, aka dams.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. falling.

@fakeplasticlovers, aka mia.

↓ rec.

joel miller. hotel california.

@flordeamatista, aka ali.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. a sweeter place.

@gothcsz, aka kat.

↓ rec.

frankie morales. first sight.

javier peña. dark room. el cumpleañero. visitation.

marcus acacius. flex. iii. one of the girls.

↓ tbr.

javier peña. wandering hands.

joel miller. dusk.

@inklore, aka lauren.

↓ rec.

joel miller. roadside delight.

↓ tbr.

din djarin. safe haven.

javier peña. party favor.

joel miller. fool me twice. impetuous.

@joelsdagger, aka noelle.

↓ rec.

joel miller. a love so fine. that’s the way road dogs do it.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. all the things i would do. ‘tis the season. walk the line.

@joeloverture, aka vetty.

↓ rec.

joel miller. beneath the window. deadfall. flesh currency. hook ‘em. snowbound.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. comeuppance. fair’s fair.

@juletheghoul, aka jules.

↓ rec.

frankie morales. chores.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. grown. tease.

@kedsandtubesocks, aka erika.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. game changer.

lucien de leon. this high of you and me.

@liltangerineart, aka raquel.

↓ tbr.

din djarin. keep up with me.

javier peña. old habits die hard.

joel miller. consequences.

@ovaryacted, aka nic.

↓ rec.

joel miller. jagged edge.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. headrush. time crunch.

marcus acacius. reprieve.

@pedroscurls, aka jamie.

↓ rec.

joel miller. stranded.

↓ tbr.

javier peña. all we are. innocent eyes.

joel miller. let me show you.

@pedrospatch, aka vee.

↓ tbr.

joel miller. captive. jealous.

@penvisions, aka dev.

↓ rec.

frankie morales. once more, with feeling.

↓ tbr.

frankie morales. coffee and candor. step by step.

joel miller. black hole sun.

@stargirlfics, aka amalia.

↓ rec.

joel miller. misbehavior. standing in the eye of the storm.

@superhoeva, aka simone.

↓ tbr.

frankie morales. the study.

@thundermartini, aka dana.

↓ tbr.

dave york. keep driving.

javier peña. touch tank.

@yxtkiwiyxt, aka kiwi.

↓ tbr.

javier peña. blurred lines. lap dance.

[b1uedcollar]

gunna run with this for frycook!cody.

so .. angel wings? could y’eat them like chicken wings? would that be a hit in some supernatural diner/grill joint?

[rabbitcruiser]

The first “drive-in” filling station, Gulf Refining Company, opened to the motoring public in Pittsburgh on December 1, 1913, at Baum Blvd & St Clair’s Street.

[inkskinned]

the car broke down by the denny's where you used to work and therefore could never return to. i am trying to pick out the satisfying parts of my life, one-by-one, like i am 12 and in a frog dissection. everything in my life all viscera and formaldehyde. if i can sort the good things from the bad things, i will have a nice clean pile.

i call you and make it sound like i am happy and hangin' in there! when really i am kicking a rock and i am outside without a jacket and i am so in love with you it makes the little bones in my ear shake. someone called my tinnitus an angel choir. i like that it means i carry the echo of every concert.

this isn't the right setting for love. this is a roadside, and a denny's, and i am nauseous and ashamed i never escaped the town where i grew up. the clouds here are this strange yellow, like spilled sour milk. "someone once told me that the orange coating on the teeth of a beaver is due to the particularly high rate of iron in their enamel," i tell you. "the beaver is the largest rodent native to north america."

your voice is crackly on the other end. i'm going into a garage soon, i might lose you.

what i should be doing is calling the tow truck and explaining that my brother's car (that i'm borrowing) (that i broke now, i guess) needs to be lifted by another, bigger, stronger car (which is love too, i guess).

i shouldn't say so much. i should wait, and let you ask about my mom, and ask if i ever got over that cold, or how it's going at work. i should let you lead the conversation, for once, so the love doesn't leak out of me into the gravel. i open my mouth anyway. "if you had to choose between being a beaver with very few trees or being a tree around a bunch of beavers, which would it be?"

i don't know. your voice always has this warm cast to it when you talk to me, but maybe i am just imagining that - i am a poet, though, so i imagine things sort of chronically. through the static, you sound like you're laughing. are you the beaver?

i know, like, logically, not to fall in love with a girl-that-is-your-best-friend. like, who would i even call if we broke up? you're my best friend, you're the person i'd want to speak to. so what if these last few months we keep sleeping over at each other's houses, calling each other for hours, sending each other poems. so what if you keep wrapping your fingers into mine. no best friends. that is the first rule. what you are supposed to do in that situation is leave the situation.

but my car broke down, so. where exactly am i going to go? the car is a very-old chevvy and also where i almost-but-not-quite kissed you after you'd raised one shoulder and looked up at me and said i don't know, i think i'm straight, but for the right person - i'd try anything. the music had been good and it had been raining and your thick eyelashes had made me feel god crawling up my throat like a spider. and i didn't kiss you, because i am a coward.

anyway on the chevy the whole exhaust pipe fell out, and is now scraping on the ground like one silver finger stroking the back of the highway. recently we were watching netflix in my bed and you pushed my hair back from my face like you were making the slowest, most desperate prayer, and then your boyfriend called. i remember us both jumping. i couldn't look at you in the eyes for like a week after. i kept feeling the heat of your fingerprint; computer science, you'd unlocked something dark in me.

google says the closest tow (joe's pick up) is 50 minutes away and also closed permanently. so that's not great. you live in another state and i should be calling my insurance company. i should be calling anybody else. this is not helping. i need an uber. i need to get moving. instead i say: "i need three words for a poem."

yesterday i said love you, goodnight after our 2 hour call like always and then you just, like. paused. all i could hear was your breathing. and then you'd said what a pretty three-word poem. i love you too, sweet thing. the words made my tinnitus act up again, and i must have some kind of synesthesia, because the sound travelled into my mind until it became the shape wedding rings.

orange, you say. the static is now chewing through most of your words and i only catch - borrowing the chevy -

the call dies. i have 12% battery. i never get the 3rd word, but i know you're still going to get a poem from me. actually this rest stop is kind of pretty, and so is the exhaust pipe, and so is joe's pick up, and so are the clouds. the light here is the color of a glue trap. before you worked at the denny's, we used to get milkshakes every wednesday and called it a friend date. you said you'd wanted to work there because it reminded you of me.

the sign's gone dim. the letters now spell out deny. and isn't that something.

[ms-demeanor]

I am really enjoying the driving polls because my dream vacation is to get into my tiny yaris by myself in los angeles and drive to Maine over the course of like three days then stay at a campsite for a week and drive back.

It is a very bad thing that living in the US basically requires a car to function, but also I just genuinely love driving and find it relaxing and am good at it.

There's scenery! There's stuff to explore! You find weird bugs at rest stops! You turn off the highway for a second to take photos! You see lots of fun people! Truck stops have neat stuff!

That's a huge part of why I do the whole "get myself lost on purpose and find my way home" thing. Huh! Fun restaurant! I never would have found that if I hadn't gotten lost in Long Beach. Huh! nifty roadside art! Glad I took a wrong turn and ended up in ridgecrest! Wow! This is a really pretty drive! I have no idea what road we're on but we're going south so we'll get home eventually, and until then check out the dirt devils chasing the power pylons! Look! Horses!