#rye’s greatest hits

[ryebreadlord]

[ryebreadlord]

windows 10 ribbon screensaver style

the idea way to listen to young and menace is laying on the floor staring up at the ceiling and watching your mind come up with pretty colors windows media player style

[emo-batboy]

Battinson and Food

He’s vegetarian and I will hear none of your crap

Depression meals, so many depression meals

I already made a post of his greatest hits here but here's three more:

A whole tub of apple sauce

Instant grits mixed with a hot chocolate packet

And a bowl of croutons

Some meals have actually graduated from the “Depression Meal” category to “Whenever I Can Sneak It Out of the Kitchen” status (because Alfred is appalled every time)

Dick, with the invincible, titanium-lined stomach of a 9yo, doesn’t know why Bruce makes them, but he loves taking bites of Bruce’s weird concoctions.

His favorites so far are:

Cream cheese and jelly sandwich

Spoonfuls of peanut butter (with chocolate chips, that was his idea)

And frozen garlic bread

Diner Food is King. (This is New Jersey. What did you expect?) His go-to order is two eggs over easy, well-done rye toast, grits with syrup and butter, and a fruit cup with no melons from the 24-hour place two blocks east. Hasn’t changed since he was five. Never will.

Bruce can cook food that is edible. Edible.

Like if he tries to make Italian, he can successfully cook the pasta. He can make a basic sauce. He can even plate it.

The tomato sauce is crunchy in some places, yes, but it’s fine :) and it is edible

but Bruce has NEVER succeeded in a baking endeavor, and it positively devastates him every single time

“Baking is science! I love science! I’m great at science. So why didn’t the cake rise when I did everything on the recipe?!” “You need to make it with love-“ “That wasn’t on the ingredients list, Alfred!”

He can handle spice surprisingly well. It’s not like he could avoid it while training all over the world, so he ended up building a tolerance, but his eyes still go unbelievably red every time.

He really fucks with bagels (I mean, what self-respecting Gothamite doesn’t) and he has a very specific bagel order for every possible mood from the great place downtown

The workers at Bagel Kingdom know which moods correspond with which order, and they have a designated spreadsheet taped to the back of the counter so they can work accordingly.

They know he’s barely hanging in there when he gets a toasted blueberry bagel with no butter.

He’s having a good day when he gets a plain bagel sandwich with tomato, provolone, two fried eggs, and hot sauce. In that order. That’s the shit

When he’s stressed, he gets a pumpernickel bagel with strawberry cream cheese to cheer himself up.

The workers of Bagel Kingdom will NOT let you disrespect his bagel.

Bruce almost burnt the tower down when he tried to cook a toaster waffle in the microwave while running on 40 hours without sleep, and he just kept cooking it because it wasn’t crisping for some reason

Alfred needs to force him to eat all the time

(It is definitely because Bruce suffers from disordered eating.)

There was one period of time in which Bruce went days without food, and Alfred (lovingly) threatened to send him to in-patient if he didn’t eat

Bruce said that those gross, mushy, lukewarm blueberries were the only thing he’d tolerate when he was struggling, so blueberries became their indicator: if Bruce can’t stomach blueberries, he goes to in-patient.

He’s gone twice, and Bruce was very mad each time, but he still uses healing methods that he was taught in there so it couldn’t have been that bad.

(He’s also friends with some of the nurses now. He, Denise, and Kayleigh have a group chat.)

Dick once convinced him to test taste different kinds of olive oil to learn the difference between regular and extra virgin. It was absolutely disgusting, and he ended up puking an hour later. Alfred now puts child locks on the kitchen cabinets.

The first time Bruce ever makes a meal that doesn’t look horrid is when he spends two weeks practicing Romani dishes for Dick the month after he adopts him.

He has since perfected three different recipes:

Stuffed peppers

Goulash

Cabbage rolls

(Keep in mind Dick is not vegetarian like Bruce.)

He tried making almond cake like 80 times (which is more like a biscuit but still a baked good) but could never do it right so Alfred makes them instead.

At dinner time, Dick always eats off Bruce’s plate more than his own. Alfred has chastised him several times, but Bruce only encourages him more. He thinks it’s cute. And so does the general public when they attend dinner parties.

One of Bruce's favorite memories of his parents is when he had a bad dream in the middle of the night so Thomas and Martha drove him out to the nearest diner to have a chocolate milkshake at 3 am.

Now, after patrol, if Bruce saw something traumatic or something that reminded him of his parents’ death, he’ll go to that same 24-hour diner and sit for a bit with a chocolate milkshake.

He continues this tradition after Dick becomes Robin. (Even if it took months for Bruce to even consider the idea of letting Dick near harm’s way.)

No matter how hard he tries to keep Dick away from the gruesome stuff, he can’t stop everything. They get milkshakes a lot more than Bruce would like.

But eventually, it turns into a treat whenever Dick does well in school or needs a pick-me-up.

And when they add Jason to the mix, they introduce him to the tradition as well.

They know everything will be okay when they have chocolate milkshakes together.

[thestalwartheart]

the unknown craftsman

This is a another location prompt table fill that fills two prompts. One from @sweetbabyangels and one from @eleanor-is-fine, who sent me 'The British Museum' and 'a beloved place' respectively. I'm sorry this isn't set at the British Museum itself, but it was inspired by Grayson Perry's exhibition there called The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman. Our beloved place is the MI6 Memorial Wall. Warning for grieving/mourning and (the aftermath of) a Major Character Death.

[Read on AO3]

Under a gnarled tree in a private garden—the kind of garden people rarely saw in the urban sprawl of London these days— sat a mound of earth lay recently disturbed and repacked. It sat at the edge of a neat and well-tended-to memorial wall, and for days it had been drawing a crowd of mourners. 

The mourners were not tourists or flighty visitors. They were sentinels, defenders, worker bees and secret keepers, and they did not lay flowers as most people would. Not fresh ones, at least. 

Instead, they built a frame of objects around the soil. To any outsider, it would look mad; cult-like and strange, but then the man they were remembering was strange too. He would have been—or would be, depending on one’s beliefs—delighted to see the bullets dotted on the ground around him. He would have smiled at the model planes and the innocuous-looking watches and the ripped-apart computer accessories. To his right, a jade vase shaped like a hairless cat sparkled in the sun. He’d never seen it in life. It was a gift planned for a day too late, and it was one of the giver’s deepest regrets that he never got to give it to the man now in the ground. 

One woman, who could not keep her tears in whenever she looked upon the grave, placed a bouquet of steel-wrought roses on top of the fresh dirt. They remained there through rain and shine until a new white headstone arrived, gleaming brightly. 

“He was one of the greatest inventors of our age,” explained a man called Tanner to a crowd of colleagues as the headstone hit the ground. “And no one even knows his name. But you have him to thank for the peace of this country and the lives of our agents, half of whom would be dead without the things he built them.”

Tanner looked to a man at the back of the crowd, whose blue eyes were shining. 

All the mourners raised a toast to that. They were drinking a fine single malt from a small distillery in Wales. It reminded Tanner of the sweeping green hills of Bannau Brycheiniog and of marmalade on rye. 

“To our Quartermaster,” he said. “To Q.” 

“To Q.” 

The whisky went down smooth and warm, and people began to desert the grave in hushed groups. They returned to work with memories of Q flowing from their tongues, stories of technical prowess and nerve and shared pots of tea early on weekday mornings. 

At the end, two men remained: Tanner and the blue-eyed man. 

“No chance your talent for resurrection extends to others?” asked Tanner. Alone with a friend, he slumped with fatigue and grief. 

“If it did, I wouldn’t be looking at a headstone.” 

The man poured Tanner another drink, and they stood for an age in silence. The tombstone in front of them spoke well enough of everything they wanted to say. It read, simply:

Q, the unknown craftsman 1982 - 2038.  A stalwart defender of the nation and a dear friend.

[scotianostra]

On June 13th 1831 James Clerk Maxwell was born in Edinburgh.

James Clerk Maxwell was no ordinary child, considering what he achieved! He attended school in the city and was nicknamed ‘daftie’ by his classmates, due to his home-made clothing and rustic accent. Despite the teasing, he excelled at the school, producing a scientific paper at the age of just 14, he later studied at the Universities of Edinburgh and Cambridge.

He graduated with a degree in mathematics from Trinity College, Cambridge and soon after started his career as a Professor of Physics in Marischal College, Aberdeen. He then switched to King’s College, London and then at Cambridge as the first ever Professor of Experimental Physics.

Ask physicists to rank their heroes, and Maxwell is in the top three, standing a shade below Newton and Einstein. But when it comes to being celebrated by the public, somehow Maxwell got left behind. Einstein’s image is well known and Newton’s pilgrims regularly flock to his tomb at Westminster. But few of us would recognise Maxwell’s face.

His theories on the composition of the rings of Saturn was so far ahead of it’s time that they were only confirmed to be correct in the 1980s when the Voyager space expeditions allowed closer examination of Saturn. He also predicted the existence of radio waves. Maxwell gave us the first colour photograph in a collaboration with Thomas Sutton, and of course being a Scot he knew the best thing to capture different colours would be a piece of tartan!

It has been said that Maxwell was one of the most likeable men in the annals of science. How can you not like a man who sends a heartfelt letter of condolence on the death of a friend’s dog? A man who patiently nursed his dying father, and later his wife, and who regularly gave up his time to volunteer at the new “Working Men’s Colleges” for tradesmen? It seems that everyone who knew him thought of him as kind and generous, albeit a little eccentric. He was “one of the best men who ever lived”, according to his childhood friend and biographer, Lewis Campbell.

It seems a sin that a man held in such high esteem in the scientific world hardly gets a mention in our history books, even in death he is very understated, his grave is a simple affair in Parton Kirk, Galloway, granted, there is now a statue of Maxwell Clerk in George Street but it is relatively new affair, and I wonder how many actually know about him as they pass him on the way in and out of St Andrews Square.  Maxwell was ranked 91st on the BBC poll of the 100 Greatest Britons, a figure way too low for a man who inspired people like Albert Einstein, another poll put him in a more favourable light, when a survey of the 100 most prominent physicists saw Maxwell voted the third greatest physicist of all time, behind only Newton and Einstein.   Einstein himself described Maxwell’s work as the “most profound and the most fruitful that physics has experienced since the time of Newton.” Einstein kept a photograph of Maxwell on his study wall, alongside pictures of Michael Faraday and Newton.

Most men of science are portrayed as dour serious folk, that is certainly not the case with James Clerk Maxwell, he has been described as funny, flippant and charming.

As a great lover of Scottish poetry, Maxwell memorised poems and wrote his own. The best known is Rigid Body Sings, closely based on Comin’ Thro the Rye by Robert Burns, which he apparently used to sing while accompanying himself on a guitar. It has the opening lines:

Gin a body meet a body Flyin’ through the air. Gin a body hit a body, Will it fly? And where?  

A collection of his poems was published by his friend Lewis Campbell in 1882.  I’ll leave you to go find the full verse for that and give you my fave by the great man.

Song  Of  The  Edinburgh  Academician

If ony here has got an ear, He’d better tak’ a haud o’ me, Or I’ll begin, wi’ roarin’ din, To cheer our old Academy.

Dear old Academy, Queer old Academy, A merry lot we were, I wot, When at the old Academy.

There’s some may think me crouse wi’ drink, And some may think it mad o’ me, But ither some will gladly come And cheer our old Academy.

Some set their hopes on Kings and Popes, But, o’ the sons of Adam, he Was first, without the smallest doubt, That built the first Academy.

Let Pedants seek for scraps of Greek, Their lingo to Macadamize; Gie me the sense, without pretence, That comes o’ Scots Academies.

Let scholars all, both grit and small, Of Learning mourn the sad demise; That’s as they think, but we will drink Good luck to Scots Academies.

[ryebreadlord]

vs

one thing about fall out boy is that they never learned to pose. they look like this 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️ all the time except when they're doing something gay.

[env0writes]

Freshwater Fires; Stillwater Reflections 11.27.22 “Suburban Street Sermons”

Loaves and fishes Lacquer glued to hatchbacks Catholic mass packed minivans Biding their time at the gas pump Lined up for the Blood of Chrysler Bag of rye chip for the body Aunties playing euchre with the Eucharist Always looking at their wrist Waiting on hand-me-down time Peckish at meat on Lent Packed for their rent paying children Children be damned if the river lets flow If their parents let go of the rosary Wringed around pocketed posies Moseying down the nuptial aisle Of their in-law guile and grandchild dream

Father and Holy-Ghost, known in the chalice Hand in hand with malice and mallet Took to heart the lessons of the cross Too easily crossed, pompous, pious, punitive Lost passions too diminutive, replaying greatest hits Red-lipped whine-mom night-eyed silent Gossip in the pews of the son’s political views Between choir and prayer answered on cue Pretty little liars accept forgiveness Hard to impress those on their knees to accept White-biked, summer hiked baptized Son Pass this ichthus mass, paint your skies not eyes blue

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist!   Photo by @mynamemeanscloud

[abefarnsworth]

RRRR, SSSS

Gerry Rafferty _ Shoots and Ladders

Ramones - ST

Rare Earth - One World

Raven - ST

Otis Redding - It's not Just Sentimental

Otis Redding / Jimmy Hendrix - Live at Monterey

Red Monkey - Difficult is Easy

Jimmy Reed - Roots of the Blues

Leon Redbone - From Branch to Branch

Leon Redbone The best of Leon

Reo Speedwagon - You can tune a piano but you can't tuna fish

The Replacements - The Replacements stink

The Replacements - Let it Be

The Replacements - Pleased to meet me

The Replacements - Tim

Reversal of Man- This is Medicine

Charlie Rich - Behind Closed Doors

Lionel Richie _Can't Slow Down

Kenny Rogers - Greatest Hits

Linda Ronstadt - Prisoners in Disguise

The Rolling Stones - December's Children

Diana Ross - Live at Caesar's Palace

Roxy Music - St

Roxy Music - Manifesto

Run Dmc - ST

Rye Coalition - He Saw Dhuh Kaet

Buffy Saint Marie - It's my Way

Santana - Santana and Buddy Miles Live

Saturday night Fever - Soundtrack

Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band - Live Bullet

Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band - Night Moves

Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band - Against the Wind

Kermit Schafer - For Those Who Have Everything

Scorpions - Love at First Sting

The Sea - Sebastian Strings

Seals and Croft - Summer Breeze

Seals and Croft - Greatest Hits

Seals and Croft - Diamond Girl

Ravi Shanker - Live at Monterey

Shotmaker - Mouse Ear (Forget Me Not)

Carly Simon - Hotcakes

Carly Simon - The Best of

Carly Simon - Come Upstairs

Paul Simon - The Best Of

Paul Simon - Graceland

(Music of Paul Simon) Arthur Fielder and the Boston Pops

Nina Simone - Live at the Village Gate

Bucky Sinister - Sensitive Badass

The Sisters of Mercy - First and Last and Always

Skinny Puppy - The Perpetual Intercourse

Slayer - South of Heaven

Slayer - Seasons in the Abyss

Slayer - Hell Awaits (Picture Disc)

Slick Rick - The Great Adventures of Slick Rick

Patti Smith Group - Waves

Spirit Assembly - Welcome to Lancaster County

Spitboy - True Self Revealed

Dusty Springfield - Stay Awhile

Rick Springfield - Working Class Dog

Bruce Springsteen - The River

Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run

Billy Squier - Don't Say No

Steel Breeze - ST

Steppenwolf - Live

Steppenwolf - Born to Be Wild

Cat Stevens - Tea For Tillerman

Cat Stevens - Teaser and The Firecat

Cat Stevens - Greatest Hits

Cat Stevens - Mona Bone Jakon

The Stranglers - Rattus Norvegicus

Stravinsky - The Rite of Spring

Stray Cats - Built For Speed

Styx - Paradise Theater

Styx - Kilroy Was Here

Suicidal Tendencies - ST

Donna Summers - Bad Girls

Supertramp - Breakfast in America

Supertramp - Famous Last Words

The Sweet - Desolation Boulevard

Swell Maps - Jane From Occupied Europe

The Swimming Pool Q’s - The Deep End

Swans - Filth

[sweaterkittensahoy]

One of the greatest English teachers I ever had was a slow reader. And I think part of the reason I get so annoyed at people missing the point of character arcs and plot choices is because he taught us all how to look for and understand those things.

He taught 10th grade Honors English (AP without an overall exam at the end). There were 13 of us. We had a running joke that Mr. C. was trying to kill us all because his reading list was super fucking depressing. If I recall correctly:

The Bridge of San Luis Rey (five people die when a bridge collapses)

On the Beach (nuclear fallout)

Hiroshima (about the actual atom bomb hitting the city)

Catcher in the Rye (more on this one in a moment)

Hawthorne poetry (honestly, it's wiped from my memory, but I recall dreariness)

1984 (more on this one as well)

And, after all of those, he handed us Dandelion Wine, a Ray Bradbury book about recognizing you are mortal but also recognizing life is beautiful and wonderful. We teased him unceasingly for waiting so long to give us a book with any positive feelings.

That being said, any time anyone mentions having to read "Catcher in the Rye" and being mad it's just "some sad little fucker who needs to get over himself," I remember Mr. C.

Mr. C., asking us what Holden Caulfield is so upset for at the beginning of the book. And someone said, "He flunked out," and someone said, "His parents ignore him," and someone said, "He realized his favorite teacher is a creep."

And Mr. C. went, "No. No. No. Come on. You know. I KNOW you know. What other things are talked about? What major things happen?"

And one of the quiet kids said something half under her breath, and Mr. C. froze like he'd taken a shock, and he turned towards her and said, "What'd you say?" And she shied away, and he got gentler (a rare thing) and said, "Please, say what you said a little louder."

And she said loudly enough for all of us to hear, "The death of his brother."

And Mr. C.--not a demonstrative man--slapped a hand on his desk and said, "YES! YES!"

And I remember sitting there and thinking, "Okay, I remember there's some mention of that happening, but I don't really recall any details."

And then Mr. C. explained how the whole story is about Holden making terrible decisions because he's lost his beloved brother. At that point in my life, I'd lost a few people who meant a lot to me. I knew the shape and decisions of ignoring my feelings because I didn't want to feel them. But I wasn't yet mature enough to see that in fiction.

Mr. C., the slow reader, taught me how to spend time with a book and see beyond the top layer. He gave me a gift in the messy ways Holden Caulfield deals with his grief because he, like me, was just a kid trying to figure shit out while not really trusting adults.

And I think were it not for Mr. C.'s slow reading, I never would have learned that.

if you make fun of people for reading slowly im going to start handing you a comprehension worksheet every time you finish a book

[elephantsdaily]

I Have Nothing to Say About Death of a Salesman

Death of a Salesman is a play, set in America, about America. Death of a Salesman is a play about a lot of things. I could write about those lots of things, but that's been done already. Whole forests have been mulched in service of cataloguing every mote of truth within Death of a Salesman, truths you understand even if you've never seen it. I have nothing to add. I have nothing to say about Death of a Salesman.

Death of a Salesman is old, but it used to be new. A play premiered one evening in 1949. People came into a theater to see a new thing and came out having seen Death of a Salesman. Critics, having seen a new play, reviewed this new play. Most of them liked it. Most gave it and Arthur Miller glowing reviews. How does one "review" Death of a Salesman? John Gassner thought it was killer. Bert Cardullo thinks it's mid. I have nothing to say about Death of a Salesman.

Death of a Salesman is a big target, like all works of sufficient notoriety. (Here include some negative reviews and opinions). But for all this tilting, there are no giants. There aren't even windmills. Arthur Miller is dead. We buy our bread at the store. Death of a Salesman exists beyond any one of us, and no critique will be sufficiently brutal to alter it. Death of a Salesman is immortal. Death of a Salesman is safe. Death of a Salesman does not hit back. Death of a Salesman neither has nor needs defenders. I have nothing to say about Death of a Salesman.

Death of a Salesman is not the greatest play ever written. It's not perfect. Do I lay claim to a piece of something by loving it? If it's good, am I good for loving? If it's bad, am I better for knowing so? I've never heard anyone say "Catcher in the Rye" is their favorite book. I'm told that loving "Catcher in the Rye" is a giant red flag. I've never heard anyone identify with Holden Caulfield. A lot of people... despise him. I have nothing to say about Death of a Salesman.

Death of a Salesman was written in a time and in a place. That time and that place are gone. Death of a Salesman is not. The language of the time and place that was of Death of a Salesman sounds a lot like the language of our time and place that is also of death of a salesman but it will not be "of" forever. Works continue whose of-ness are times and places far more alien than that of Willy Loman to us and they can with great pains be made interrogable but only just. Shakespeare is boring. Why do they talk like that? I have nothing to say about death of a salesman.

Death of a Salesman no longer exists. It can be contained in a room for a moment, but only just, and its hazy mass slipping away all the while. Death of a Salesman is not a play. Much like the great myriad whatevers before it it has become... truth. Upon seeing it for the first time, the men in the audience of Death of a Salesman became inconsolable, stricken lockjaw-like with sobbing fits that defied all medical intervention. Upon seeing death of a salesman for the first time, this did not happen. This is not factual. But it is true. I have nothing to say about Death of a Salesman

[ryebreadlord]

fall out boy releasing a shortened version of love from the other side as if the 32 second medieval intro doesn’t fuck severely

[celtfather]

The Great Selkie #622

There’s a great selkie on our beautiful Celtic Earth on the Irish & Celtic Music Podcast #622. This is the last day to support our Kickstarter. Please make a pledge!

Leaping Lulu, TJ Hull and Amanda Caretta - Hull, Seán Heely, Juha Rossi, Niamh Parsons, Beltaine, Chris Gray, Fire In The Glen, Slugger's Rule, Drumspyder, Screaming Orphans, Avalon Rising, Iain MacHarg

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VOTE IN THE CELTIC TOP 20 FOR 2023

This is our way of finding the best songs and artists each year. You can vote for as many songs and tunes that inspire you in each episode. Your vote helps me create next year's Best Celtic music of 2023 episode.  Vote Now!

Two weeks after the episode is launched, I compile your votes to update a playlist on Spotify and YouTube. These are the results of your voting. You can help these artists out by following the playlists and adding tracks you love to your playlists. Follow us on Facebook to find out who is added each week.

Listen on Spotify and YouTube.

THIS WEEK IN CELTIC MUSIC

0:02 - Intro: Edward Johnson

0:26 - Leaping Lulu "Craig's Pipes/The Mountain Road/The Gravel Walk" from Celtic Night Live

4:06 - WELCOME

5:58 - TJ Hull and Amanda Caretta - Hull "Cooley's" from Tippy Taps

10:42 - Seán Heely "'S i Mòrag puirt à beul" from Dramagical

14:14 - Juha Rossi "The Rights of Man" from Irish Tunes on Mandolin

17:43 - Niamh Parsons "Bold Doherty" from In My Prime

21:59 - FEEDBACK

24:03 - Beltaine "Whisky Rye" from Mercy

27:03 - Chris Gray "An Buachaillin Ban" from Fuist!

35:02 - Fire In The Glen "Drunken Sailor" from Cutting Bracken

38:22 - Slugger's Rule "Whiskey You're the Devil" from Greatest Hits: Volume II

41:19 - THANKS

42:26 - Drumspyder "Tralee Gaol" from Sunne and Mona

46:17 - Screaming Orphans "This Is the Life" from Paper Daisies

48:51 - Avalon Rising "The Great Selkie" from Avalon Rising

53:53 - Marc Gunn "Kilty Pleasure 2023 (feat. The Muckers)" from Selcouth

57:53 - CLOSING

59:43 - Iain MacHarg "Glen Nevis Ridge Set" from Ceòl Na Beinne    Music of the Mountain

1:02:45 - CREDITS

The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast was produced by Marc Gunn, The Celtfather and our Patrons on Patreon. The show was edited by Mitchell Petersen with Graphics by Miranda Nelson Designs. Visit our website to subscribe to the show. You’ll find links to all of the artists played in this episode.

Todd Wiley is the editor of the Celtic Music Magazine. Subscribe to get 34 Celtic MP3s for Free. Plus, you’ll get 7 weekly news items about what’s happening with Celtic music and culture online. Best of all, you will connect with your Celtic heritage.

Finally, please tell one friend about this podcast. Word of mouth is the absolute best way to support any creative endeavor.

Promote Celtic culture through music at http://celticmusicpodcast.com/.

WELCOME CELTOPHILE TO CELTIC MUSIC

* Helping you celebrate Celtic culture through music. I am Marc Gunn. I’m a musician and podcaster out of Atlanta, Georgia. This Podcast is here to build our diverse Celtic community and help the incredible artists who so generously share their music with you. If you hear music you love, please email artists to let them know you heard them on the Irish and Celtic Music Podcast.

You can find a link to all of the artists in the shownotes, along with show times, when you visit our website at celticmusicpodcast.com.

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TRAVEL WITH CELTIC INVASION VACATIONS

Every year, I take a small group of Celtic music fans on the relaxing adventure of a lifetime. We don't see everything. Instead, we stay in one area. We get to know the region through its culture, history, and legends. You can join us with an auditory and visual adventure through podcasts and videos.

In 2023, we’re going on a Celtic Invasion of County Mayo in Ireland. We’re gonna explore the area and get to know Grace O’Malley, the Pirate Queen. Learn more about the invasion at http://celticinvasion.com/

#celticmusic #irishmusic #celticmusicpodcast

I WANT YOUR FEEDBACK

What are you doing today while listening to the podcast? You can send a written comment along with a picture of what you're doing while listening. Or how about a picture you took of a band that you saw.

Email me at celticpodcast@gmail, message me on Facebook, or contact me through Mastodon @celtfather@c.im.

Raven Lunatic replied to my Celtic Music Magazine request: "I have been going back and listening to episodes of your podcast I missed! Walked in Baltimore St Padraig’s Parade on Sunday. Will be starting the feast day with a Mass then full Irish breakfast!!"

Adam Young replied: "Hi Marc -  -

I'm usually working while listening, doing graphic design work or something similar...or just sitting and concentrating on the music itself.

I've got two gigs on St. Patrick's Day, so I'll be out in the pubs (2 - 5 pm and 8 - 10 pm) in Sydney, NS, and joining a fellow artist (who you've featured recently), Mary Beth Carty, at her session in the morning.

That's also how I'm celebrating the culture through music this St. Patrick's Day!  Our focus is more Scottish music, but we'll be throwing as much Irish into the mix as we possibly can...and staying away from green beer and pots of gold and leprechauns...

Best of luck on the show(s)! Thanks"

Roger replied: "Greetings Marc from Kendal UK  its snowing. been making a Shepherds Pie for tea while listening to the last episode with the odd stop to practise my bodhran against a song... i need lots of practice...

keep up your good work. your podcast is essential listening especially if you have a ceiling to wall paper. best regards"

  Check out this episode!

[scotianostra]

On June 13th 1831 James Clerk Maxwell was born in Edinburgh.

James Clerk Maxwell was no ordinary child, considering what he achieved! He attended school in the city and was nicknamed ‘daftie’ by his classmates, due to his home-made clothing and rustic accent. Despite the teasing, he excelled at the school, producing a scientific paper at the age of just 14, he later studied at the Universities of Edinburgh and Cambridge.

He graduated with a degree in mathematics from Trinity College, Cambridge and soon after started his career as a Professor of Physics in Marischal College, Aberdeen. He then switched to King’s College, London and then at Cambridge as the first ever Professor of Experimental Physics.

Ask physicists to rank their heroes, and Maxwell is in the top three, standing a shade below Newton and Einstein. But when it comes to being celebrated by the public, somehow Maxwell got left behind. Einstein’s image is well known and Newton’s pilgrims regularly flock to his tomb at Westminster. But few of us would recognise Maxwell’s face.

His theories on the composition of the rings of Saturn was so far ahead of it’s time that they were only confirmed to be correct in the 1980s when the Voyager space expeditions allowed closer examination of Saturn. He also predicted the existence of radio waves. Maxwell gave us the first colour photograph in a collaboration with Thomas Sutton, and of course being a Scot he knew the best thing to capture different colours would be a piece of tartan!

It has been said that Maxwell was one of the most likeable men in the annals of science. How can you not like a man who sends a heartfelt letter of condolence on the death of a friend’s dog? A man who patiently nursed his dying father, and later his wife, and who regularly gave up his time to volunteer at the new “Working Men’s Colleges” for tradesmen? It seems that everyone who knew him thought of him as kind and generous, albeit a little eccentric. He was “one of the best men who ever lived”, according to his childhood friend and biographer, Lewis Campbell.

It seems a sin that a man held in such high esteem in the scientific world hardly gets a mention in our history books, even in death he is very understated, his grave is a simple affair in Parton Kirk, Galloway, granted, there is now a statue of Maxwell Clerk in George Street but it is relatively new affair, and I wonder how many actually know about him as they pass him on the way in and out of St Andrews Square.  Maxwell was ranked 91st on the BBC poll of the 100 Greatest Britons, a figure way too low for a man who inspired people like Albert Einstein, another poll put him in a more favourable light, when a survey of the 100 most prominent physicists saw Maxwell voted the third greatest physicist of all time, behind only Newton and Einstein.   Einstein himself described Maxwell’s work as the “most profound and the most fruitful that physics has experienced since the time of Newton.” Einstein kept a photograph of Maxwell on his study wall, alongside pictures of Michael Faraday and Newton.  

Most men of science are portrayed as dour serious folk, that is certainly not the case with James Clerk Maxwell, he has been described as funny, flippant and charming.

As a great lover of Scottish poetry, Maxwell memorised poems and wrote his own. The best known is Rigid Body Sings, closely based on Comin’ Thro the Rye by Robert Burns, which he apparently used to sing while accompanying himself on a guitar. It has the opening lines:

Gin a body meet a body Flyin’ through the air. Gin a body hit a body, Will it fly? And where?  

A collection of his poems was published by his friend Lewis Campbell in 1882.  I’ll leave you to go find the full verse for that and give you my fave by the great man.

Song  Of  The  Edinburgh  Academician

If ony here has got an ear, He’d better tak’ a haud o’ me, Or I’ll begin, wi’ roarin’ din, To cheer our old Academy.

Dear old Academy, Queer old Academy, A merry lot we were, I wot, When at the old Academy.

There’s some may think me crouse wi’ drink, And some may think it mad o’ me, But ither some will gladly come And cheer our old Academy.

Some set their hopes on Kings and Popes, But, o’ the sons of Adam, he Was first, without the smallest doubt, That built the first Academy.

Let Pedants seek for scraps of Greek, Their lingo to Macadamize; Gie me the sense, without pretence, That comes o’ Scots Academies.

Let scholars all, both grit and small, Of Learning mourn the sad demise; That’s as they think, but we will drink Good luck to Scots Academies.  

[katnissmellarkkk]

Same question, Dancing On My Own?

Sorry, this is such a late reply! 🤭

What’s your favorite line of narration

I’m gonna do what you did, because I mix my narration a lot with the dialogue so I’ll just post a snippet that I like from Dancing On My Own.

/

TW : mentions of grief / death of loved ones.

/

“Sometimes the... the images,” he explains, his voice almost breaking as something flashes behind his eyes and he clenches his teeth as he continues. “The images that Snow planted there won’t leave me, they’re just sitting there, every time I close my eyes. And I can’t make them go away and I can’t make myself believe they’re not real and... and it all really messes with my head, I guess...” He takes a deep breath now, his chest constricting the entire way through the act. Unconsciously I squeeze his palm with one hand and use my opposite to rub his forearm gently. “It makes it hard to remember who my real family was. Including Rye and Brann. And it makes it impossible to really grieve them. The things Snow implanted in me, I just...” This time when he trails off, he gulps the rest of his sentence down like swallowing a thick bite of meat and I know he’s done speaking.

But there’s such a thick unease between us now—and for once it has nothing to do with me—and I just can’t let that be the last sentiment uttered.

“You know, in a way you’re kind of lucky,” I murmur, only half meaning the words coming from my lips. “Grief isn’t... it isn’t something I’d wish on anyone.”

Part of me expects him to say he knows that, that I’m stupid for even suggesting he doesn’t grasp the concept of a deceased loved one, that what he went through beats what happened to me and I shouldn’t be trying to compare.

It’s not necessarily that those words sound anything like Peeta—they’re even too harsh for Haymitch most days—but they’d still ring true. They’d probably still be accurate. They’re definitely what I’d be thinking.

But instead Peeta peers down at me, with a glint of curiosity and vulnerability in his watery blues now. “What’s it like?” He implores suddenly. “To grieve a sibling who you loved, who you knew inside and out and you knew all along loved you and that you... that you don’t have to question every single memory with?”

His words give me all the insight I need into his mind—at least on this particular subject. At least I know that when it came to his brothers, his grief is more complicated, more confusing than the full-fledged white hot pain that surges over me anytime I see a little girl with a blonde braid.

And knowing he’s hurting gives me the power, the absolute strength, to finally put the sensation behind the greatest loss of my life into words.

“It’s like... it’s like I’m sitting in a tree and I’m about to fall. And I feel myself slipping from the branch and tumbling through the air and I know that I’m going to hit the ground. And I know I’m powerless to stop it... And then I hit the ground and the air is knocked out of my lungs and I... I can’t breathe. And I just lay there, struggling, in pain and... waiting for the moment that I can finally breathe in again... But the moment never comes. It’s like the moment you’re waiting for never arrives. Instead you’re back up in the tree and you just start to fall again. Over and over and over again, you just fall. There’s no way to stop it, you just come to accept it... You start to accept the fact that it’s going to knock the air from your lungs until there’s nothing left inside. Until you just suffocate.”

I feel Peeta’s hand squeeze mine now. I feel his gaze trail across my face, I feel the concern and the sympathy in his eyes. But I’m not even here anymore. I’m not even beside Peeta on the street, holding his hand, in the early hours of the morning.

Mentally, I’m back in the Capitol Square, trying once again to think my way out. Trying to figure out a scenario in which Prim lived. Even if it cost me my own life, I try to imagine a way she could have been saved.

After all, isn’t that what I was always aiming for? From the moment I took her place in the games, wasn’t that the very thing I was pleading to do? Take her place in death? Let her live? Trade my life for hers?

Peeta’s words though, yank me right back into reality. “You’re not going to suffocate, Katniss,” he whispers, his tone surprisingly firm.

This time, I chuckle humorlessly, looking up into his big, determined eyes. “Oh, I’m not?”

He shakes his eyes, his expression completely genuine. “I won’t let you.”

“Let me go.”

“I can’t.”

[finediningdiary]

Acquerello (San Francisco, CA)

One of my favorite perks of being a management consultant is that (COVID-permitting) I often get to travel to new cities and experience the local cuisine. In larger cities such as San Francisco, this can sometimes mean getting to try 2-star Michelin restaurants like Acquerello that have been at the top of my list for several years.

Our party was fortunate enough to book Acuqerello’s Gold Room for our year-end holiday dinner, which allowed for a quiet and highly personalized private dining experience within Acquerello’s renovated Milanese cathedral building. This review focuses on the Seasonal Tasting Menu for December 2021, which I would rank among my Top 10 Greatest Hits of all time.

The first of our sit-down courses was the Hamachi crudo with melon and citrus. Although a carpaccio appetizer initially sounded like a standard offering for an Italian restaurant, I was pleasantly surprised by the unique texture created by the tapioca pearls in the dish. The melon and citrus flavors were a good balance to the butteriness of the hamachi, and definitely started the meal out on a high note.

Next on the menu was the Monterey abalone. With so many other ingredients listed on the menu for this course (”roasted chicken zabaglione, Matsutake mushroom”), I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but all concerns were assuaged when I saw the dish’s beautiful presentation in a real abalone shell. The umami of the chicken and truffle amplified the flavors of the abalone to create one of the most unique and memorable flavor profiles I have ever tasted, setting us up well for the more classic flavors in the next course of Maine lobster with citrus butter and rye. This course, too, was perfectly prepared, with the toasted rye bread crumbs providing a welcome contrast to the tenderness of the lobster tail and silkiness of the citrus butter sauce.

As someone who is admittedly not always the hugest fan of Italian food, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the two pasta courses were the standouts of this meal for me. The Piramidi stuffed with guinea hen were a unique take on dumplings and ravioli that were hearty without feeling heavy. Afterwards, the ridged pasta with faux “foie gras” provided an explosion of flavor that I can still taste almost a month later. The Marsala wine was slow-cooked to the point of caramelization, resulting in a rich caramel flavor that perfectly complemented the faux foie gras. The ridged pasta provided a wonderfully textured and aptly-sized canvas for this masterpiece of a sauce.

The main course of honey-glazed quail was well-done, if not somewhat unmemorable compared to the earlier dishes. The two desserts that followed - pear and green cardamom sorbet, and a date and vanilla mousse - seemed geared towards cleansing the diner’s palate in preparation for their sendoff, providing a thoughtful coda to a well-harmonized meal.

While my reviews for Fine Dining Diary focus on food, I will also note that the service at Acquerello was impeccable. The private dining staff accommodated numerous dietary restrictions and changes to our party size on short notice, and guests who ordered the wine pairing were given a thorough explanation for each course by the restaurant’s sommelier. All in all, I would rate Acquerello as one of my top dining experiences of all time, certainly worthy of its 2 Michelin stars - and given the opportunity, I would seriously consider having them host another private dining experience.

[quillsareswords]

Smoke: VII | Stay Awhile

SUMMARY: After vanishing for four years, you return to the place you once called home, to the people you once called family. We all carry our baggage in different ways, using different techniques to hide it. You just happen to hide it in cigarette smoke.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: While the antique book shop on Fifth Avenue may have burned down long  before your return, the owner you never forgot is still making an  impact on your life, and she doesn’t even know it.

SERIES WARNINGS: cigarette smoking; underage drinking; gang activity; violence; swearing; blood; self-hate

MASTER LISTS in BIO

    The air is warmer now, than it was a few hours ago. Your windows are open, floors freshly swept, dishes freshly washed, bed freshly made. Outside is crisp and clean, and you've decided the inside should be too.

    Only a lamp illuminates the room, the setting sun does the rest, leaving the corners of the room bathed in comforting shadows.

   You’re in the middle of sorting out the good food in your refrigerator from the bad when he arrives.

   Three knocks exactly, no particular rhythm. You leave the decidedly shamefully rotted takeout in the trash and close the heavy white door before you answer the door. “Hey,” you greet fluidly, welcoming him inside without a second thought.

   “Hello,” he replies, stepping past you to escape the chill in your building’s halls, only to be sorely disappointed in your home. “Is your heating out?” he asks pointedly. You note his coat is buttoned, behind the stack of five books he holds in his arms.

   You stare blankly for a moment, before you shut and lock the door behind him. “No,” you answer slowly. “I thought it was pretty warm out, so I opened the windows. Are you cold?”

   He doesn’t answer verbally, just rolls his eyes. He makes his way to your ratty leather couch. “Anyway, I brought your books.” He sets the the stack of literature in the coffee table as he sits down.

   You nod. “Thanks. For driving all the way over, I mean.” You pick up an empty white mug from the end table by your recliner. “Can I get you anything? I can put the kettle on, if you want tea.”

   He declines, and watches you pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee. Then, you take your seat in the recliner.

   You pull the stack of books across the table, curiously skimming the titles on the spines. Griffin’s Castle, The Dragon Queen, Catcher in the Rye, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. An odd group of books, you think. At the top, you open the cover of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

   “Where were you today?” Damian barked from the bottom the tree. You peered down at him from your claimed branch, marking your page with a finger. He looked angry, messenger bag still slung across his torso, glaring up at you with his hands on his hips.

   You rolled your eyes and stubbed out a cigarette, flick it away so he doesn’t catch it. “Jesus, you sound like Nick,” you gruffed. “I’ve been here, mostly. What’s it to you?”

   He threw you an incredulous look. “You were supposed to cover for me in Lit, remember?”

   You heaved a heavy breath. “No, actually, I forgot.” The edge of annoyance to your voice is gone. “Sorry.”

   You heard him grumble something about you never listening, as he started climbing up to his branch, next to yours. He situated himself there, and hung his bag on the chopped stub above him. “So, what? You spent your whole day up in this tree?”

   “Yeah, pretty much.”

   “What are you reading?” He reached over and pushes your book one way, to read the cover. “The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland?”

   You nodded, rough bark of the tree scraping against your scalp and probably knotting your hair. “Yeah, Granny Crockett loaned it to me. She said it’s a crime that I haven’t read it already.”

    “Sorry about the dust. They’ve been sitting in a box in my closet for some time.”

   You gaze shoots up to meet his. “The dust-? Oh, yeah. It’s fine.” You brush off the thin gray film from the title.

   “Alfred sent this, as well,” he adds, pulling a piece of paper from the inner pocket in his jacket. “He thought you’d want it, for whatever reason. Found it when he was dusting, apparently.”

   You accept the thin paper and turn it over. It isn’t a piece of paper at all, actually. It’s a photograph, of you, and Damian, and Nick, all dressed up and ready for the Freshman Dance.

   You smile down at it, shaking your head at the bright purple, sequin speckled dress your past self wears. “I can’t believe you let me go out in that thing.”

   “I did no such thing,” he argues. “I told you the sequins were too much, but you wouldn’t listen. You never did, anyway.”

   You laughed. “I’m the one who doesn’t listen? Which one of us took Rebecca Tacks?”

  He shook his head. “You encouraged the whole ordeal. I would have much preferred to stay home and beat you at checkers until you flipped the board,” he countered, leaning back against the cracked leather.

   “I told you to get a date, not ask out the rudest person you could find!” you defended. “I told you the night would end in tears, now didn’t I?”

   “Maybe you were in tears, but I sure wasn’t,” he chuckled.

   “Only because you didn’t think the junior class president dumping green punch all over the pageant girl was as funny as I did!”

   You left it at that. A long moment stretched on, both of you lost in quiet laughter and memories of screaming teenage girls and a howling student body.

   You stare fondly at the photo still pinched between your fingers. You wonder what prom was like. You wonder who he took.

   “On second thought,” Damian says suddenly, retaking your attention, “I’d appreciate a cup of tea.”

   You blink. You don’t just hear the request, but the ask lying between the lines.

   Can I stay awhile?

   “Really?”

   He nods. “If it isn’t a problem.”

   You smile. “Of course it isn’t.”

   The corners of his lips tilt. “Do you have any-?”

   “Earl Gray,” you say confidently, practically jumping out of your chair, “two scoops of sugar and fresh lemon.”

   When you look back at him from across your kitchen island, he’s staring at you like he’s seen a ghost.

   You grin teasingly. “Do you know how many times I had to make it for you when we were younger? It’s practically ingrained into my memory.” You turn away to get a mug down from the cabinet. You don’t dare mention the number of times you made an extra cup because the smell reminded you of home that first year you were gone.

   While you stand in the kitchen, your back to him, as you wait for the kettle to reheat, he steals the moment to look around your apartment. He hadn’t really gotten the chance last time.

   It isn’t a place he ever imagined you to live.

    It’s nothing like the place you dreamed about growing up. You always spoke of a big balcony, high ceilings. Big windows, but some that could be left open in the spring and the fall to flood the place with fresh air. You wanted large rooms, an open floor plan, and pictures of friends and family on every wall. You wanted a place that felt like home, with soft furniture and plenty of places for visitors to sit. Somewhere big, but not so big that it felt lonely when no one was there with you. Somewhere to go after a long day where you could relax. Somewhere warm, where your family would come to visit for the holidays, wasn’t so close to home that they’d visit too often.

   This is not that place. This place is dark, the wallpaper is peeling in patches, the ceiling is cracked in sport. It smells vaguely of must, beneath the air freshener. Your furniture, while sentimental, is old and warn and falling apart. There’s no room for entertainment, the ceilings are low, the windows are small, the kitchen is dingy. Worst of all, it doesn’t feel like a home.

   With a quick glance, yes, the place has a specific feel that he can only attribute to you, but upon further inspection, it tells an entirely different story. It reminds him more of a safehouse than a home. Somewhere Jason would store space weaponry in a neighboring city. He can count the number of personally decorations on one hand. The more he looks around, the deeper dread burrows beneath his skin. Anything sentimental could be cleared out and packed up in less than an hour.

   Your words from the cafe echo in his mind. When you said you were thinking about leaving, he didn’t think you meant at the drop of a hat.

   Thick glass hitting wood jerks him from his thoughts. Your warm smile is familiar in a way he can’t ignore.

   “It’s hot, so give it a minute,“ you warn. “I know my interior design skills aren’t the greatest, but I didn’t think it looked that bad, all things considered,” you try sparking a conversation, but you look a little nervous. You must have caught him staring.

   He shakes his head. “It looks fine.” He feels as though he’s about to choke on words he isn’t ready for you to hear, so he looks around in a tempered frenzy for something to divert your attention. A framed picture on the wall between your windows is just what he needs. “Who is that?”

   You don’t have to look at the picture to know which one it is. You’d debated on hanging that one. You smile sadly, eyeing it anyway. You swallow thickly, and to stall for a little time, you get up to get it.

   You take the flimsy wooden frame down, gently, as if your afraid it will break under your gaze. You hold out the 7x10 photograph to him.

   He takes it, gingerly staring it down while you find your seat again. It’s an image of you and a man, standing together in front of a grand fountain. His arm is hooked around your shoulders, both of you grinning happily. Something stirs in his chest- he doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen you smile like that. The man his tall, dark skin, black hair, kind eyes. A tattoo is peeking out beneath the sleeve of a denim jacket.

   “His name was Kennedy,” you finally relay. “Kennedy Walter. I always called him Kenny.” You sniffle, and decide to stall a little longer. “I was living in Detroit when we met. I was working as a bouncer at a club. Had a nice little apartment with massive windows on one wall and a loft bedroom on the other. There was this nice little theater down the street from me. They had a theme for every night of the week, and sometimes they’d run these marathons of classics where you could buy one ticket and sit for the whole day.”

   You’re rambling, and he knows it. It’s something you used to do when you were upset: talk about the good things before the bad. He glaces at you. Your voice sounds strained. You’re staring at the coffee table, but he knows you aren’t really looking at the wood. “Were you and he . . ?”

   “Engaged,” you smile. “We were engaged. But, um, a little over a year ago, I was, uh- I got a call while I was at work.” Your voice breaks, eyes dropping to your lap. You pick up your tea and take a few gulps to relieve he tension of grief. “There had been a car accident.”

   He nods morosely, staring down at the man in the image. He must have been something, to have caught your eye. You barely dated through high school. “I’m sure he was a good man.”

   You nod. “He was. I had to leave all my furniture when I moved, because of him,” you laugh, and it doesn’t sound forced, but it’s dying. “I had this ugly orange couch, you see. God, it was such an ugly color. It was only thirty dollars at Goodwill, which is why I got it. It didn’t match anything else in the house, literally. But it grew on me, so I never replaced it. It was like that, um- what was it? That stupid stuffed cat I got from Amusement Mile, remember? On Spring Break?”

   He nods. You’d enlisted him to help you get it. It was quite possibly the ugliest toy he’d ever seen in his life, but it had a place on your bed for the following two years.

   “Yeah, it was like that. He always teased me about it, but after awhile it grew on him too. We named it Fungus, because it grew on people.” You laugh again, a little looser this time. “God that couch was hideous.”

   He smiles. It falters though, because he understands now that you weren’t just gone. You weren’t away from Gotham. All this time, you’d been building a new life. You’d been living, not running. But none of it had anything to do with him.

   “If you don’t mind,” he starts, quietly, “why did you leave Detroit? You talk about living there as if it were a fairy tale.”

   You take another gulp of tea. “Because that’s what it was,” you answer hoarsely. “It was too perfect. And then Kenny was gone. And my apartment was too big for me.” You stare down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. “And I missed home.”

   His chest feels tight. He doesn’t really know why. Or maybe it’s more than he isn’t willing to admit how much it hurts to see you so pained over this. He swallows it. “Home?”

   You nod hesitantly. “Gotham. I grew up here, ya know? You and I owned these streets back in the day,” you chuckle. You steal a look at his face, but he isn’t smiling. “I missed you. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

   When you look again, he looks somewhere between stricken and conflicted.  His face is pinched as he stared through your picture. “No. You didn’t.”

   “Well, I did. I missed you a lot. And your family. And mine. I didn’t want to leave you, Damian. You have to know that.”

   His body tenses, and you feel his energy shift. “No, I don’t. You left me in a burning building-”

   “I know,” you interrupt quietly. “And I shouldn’t have. I should have kept a better hold of your hand, I should have drove you home, I should have told you everything that night. I should have done a lot of things. But I didn’t, and I’m trying to apologize for them before I lose the chance.”

   That stops him. He relaxes into your couch again. “Before what?”

   You blink slowly, turning your gaze toward the window across from you, which connects to the fire escape. “There’s a reason I had to leave, Damian. Shit happens.”

   His eyes soften. His mind races, realizations dawning. He opens his mouth to reply, but the sharp beeping of his phone cuts him off.

   He answers it without moving from the couch. “Hello?”

   Your apartment is so quiet that you hear Bruce on the other end. “We have an emergency. We need you home. Now.”

   His eyes meet yours. He seems remorseful. “I’m on my way.”

   You divert your attention, excusing yourself to the kitchen with your half empty mug. You hear him pocket his phone and the remaining leather of your couch groan as he stands.

   “I’m sorry,” he says. “If I could-”

   “I know,” you assure. “Probably best anyway,” you brush off, “I'd probably be a blubbering mess of runny mascara and tears if we kept talking about this any longer.” You’re only partly joking.

   He looks at you for a few moments. Standing in your ratty apartment, between your living room and your front door, staring. His eyebrows are slouched together as he works his jaw.

   You turn around at the sound of approaching footsteps, but you’re just a hair too late. You collide with a broad chest, long, warm arms wrapping around you tightly. You’re overhwelmed by he wonderful smell of leathery cologne and bourbon shampoo. Your brain short circuits and crashes like a 2007 laptop trying to run The Sims.

   “I’m glad you’re home,” he says slowly, genuinely, surely.

   He’s gone before you can react. By the time you’re ready to hug him back, your front door is already clapping shut.

   With your apartment once again left in silence and you to your own devices, you brace yourself against the counter, mind whirling thoughts a million miles a minute and heart hammering so hard that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

TAGS: @howcanibreathewithnozaire @avis-writeshq @mello-10 @ukuleleatnight @chikorita-stuff @idkmanicantenglish