#snap crackle pop with milk in your cereal

[everyillumi]

[eddiemunsxn]

Hi I saw that you request are open and I really really really love everything you wrote, I was wondering if you could an Eddiexreader where she’s Max’s cousin and she’s got a massive crush on him and both Dustin and Max are trying to make her confess and the one day she kinda snap and tell them “what do you want me to tell him hi I have a massive crush on you it’s so massive I started to write Mrs Munson everywhere on my notebooks” and they both goes quiet and she’s like “he’s being me” as she turn red and the Eddie chuckle and put one of his rings on her finger and says “Mrs Munson, I quite like the sound of that” , sorry if it’s long 😖 and thank you

— crush pop.

masterlist. / nav.

❰ warnings. fem!reader

❰ word count. 797

❰ note. writing eddie is my only accepted form of therapy now

Students bled through the cafeteria doors, branching off like veins to their tables, and filling the room with enthusiastic commotion. They organized themselves; basketball and cheer teams, a puddle of green and orange jackets, various clubs popping in their own colors—but of them all you always looked for one table.

You and Max strayed from the river of people to your usual spot, seated across from one another. Being early most days, you looked over your shoulder to watch the Hellfire Club gather like snowflakes at their table.

You only ever noticed one member above the others. And he wasn’t hard to miss. He made himself as known and visible as a burning, red flare shot above everyone. Even if he was too bright and shocking for the eyes, he was always unashamedly himself—loud in his soapbox speeches, and mocking anyone who challenged him. The written rules didn’t serve him, and you admired his gutsy, nonconformist displays.

Other than being entranced by his performances, you found yourself staring at the details of him. The details you came to adore; the way his jeans pooled over his Reeboks, the shoes’ padded tongues pulled stiff, the expression of music on his denim vest—which looked handmade, the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and how brown eyes suddenly became your favorite because of him.

“You’re looking for him again, aren’t you?”

You faced Max, and your chest cooled with embarrassment. Refusing to meet her eyes, you opened your can of Crush soda. It hissed, and you touched the rim to your lips. The soft drink crackled like cereal in milk, and its angry, sugary foam tickled your lips. “No,” you said. “For who?”

Max rolled her eyes. “It’s so obvious. Just admit that you like Eddie.”

“Wh—”

“You like Eddie?” Dustin’s astonished voice made you bite down on the rim of your can.

“I came over here to get you guys to join Hellfire again, but this—” Dustin pointed a stern finger at you, eyebrows lifted, and settled down beside you. “This I need to hear.”

“No.” Your eyes widened. “No.”

“Is that why you won’t join Hellfire?” Dustin squinted.

“No.”

“She’s too shy.” Max smiled, resting her folded arms on the table.

Dustin laughed. “Oh, come on!” He twisted his body to fully face you. “Just say it! I wanna hear you say it. If I were Eddie right now, what would you say?”

You closed your eyes, using your free hand to shield your face from Dustin and Max. Your teeth were sure to leave indents in the rim of your soda can.

“Say it, say it, say it, say it,” Dustin chanted, bumping his hand on the table. “If you just confess I’ll stop—say it, say it, say it—”

Heart set to a woodpecker’s pace, your jaw ached and you finally set the can down. “What do you want me to tell him? Hi, I have a massive crush on you, so I started to write Mrs. Munson everywhere in my notebooks?!”

Max and Dustin went mute, wide-eyed and staring behind you.

Heat bloomed in your chest, reaching to touch your cheeks like a pair of warm hands. Stiff, you realized why they were quiet and staring. “He’s behind me.”

Eddie chuckled, and the sound of him shook up your spine like a guitar-string plucked through the chorus.

He plopped down next to you, his side kissing yours—shocking your stiff body cold. Cigarettes and leather invaded your nasal cavity, and you never thought you’d like the smell of either so much.

Eddie removed one of his rings. “Mrs. Munson,” he said thoughtfully, voice lowered an octave. He looked more proud than a dog stealing a Christmas goose. He took your hand, and the carved skull—warmed by him and a size too big—easily slipped onto your ring finger. “I quite like the sound of that.”

An impish smile teased his mouth as he squeezed your hand. He touched the joints of your fingers to his soft, heated lips.

You were too stunned to speak, but not enough to avoid those brown eyes of his you adored so much.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” you managed weakly.

He lowered his chin, playfully gazing at you beneath his lashes as he rubbed a thumb along the backs of your fingers. He pressed his lips to them. “Wanna hang out sometime?”

Your heart hiccuped, and your shoulders scrunched up in glee. You couldn’t hide your grin. “Yeah.”

Eddie’s eyes lit up, holding the warmest sunlight for you, and promising the brightest days ahead.

A grinning Dustin wondered aloud to you, “So does this mean you’ll join Hellfire now?”

“Will you, my little sheep?” Eddie tilted his head.

You mimicked him. “Will you teach me?”

“Anything and everything for you, little sheep.”

tags. @lilywoood

[funnyfooddatabase]

Duff Goldman’s Kellogg’s NYC Residency Menu

Food AND Drink

Type of Funny Food: Event

Introduced: September 2018

Location: Kellogg’s NYC

Kellogg’s NYC is a now-closed “cereal cafe” that took up residence in Times Square- and then Union Square- from 2016 to 2019. In that short time, the cereal giant-owned cafe hosted a number of events, including one for National Cereal Day, and another for Pop-Tarts.

Another of these events was a two-day residency helmed by famed pastry chef and ‘Ace of Cakes’ Duff Goldman. Goldman created his own cereal-themed menu for the occasion, which included food- main course and dessert alike, and one drink!

The menu options were:

Corn Flakes Crunchy Mac ‘n’ Cheese, a baked bacon mac and cheese topped with Corn Flakes,

Special K Red Berry Yummy Frisée Salad, a curled endive salad with Special K Red Berry croutons, whole grain mustard vinaigrette, and cranberries, served with Corn Flakes-baked potatoes au gratin,

Snap Crackle Poppin’ Matzo Balls with Chicken Soup, Rice Krispies-based matzo balls in vegetable-filled chicken soup,

Kellogg’s Krispie Fish Sticks, Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes-battered cod sticks served in an actual fish bowl with your choice of assorted sauces,

Sunny-sensational Lahmajoun, a Turkish flatbread made with with bran dough drizzled with labneh and mint and covered in date puree, raisins, shredded haloumi, tumeric parsley pesto, lamb and sesame Raisin Bran sausage, and diced white onion,

Big Apple Jacks Bowl, a caramel-drizzled “deconstructed” caramel apple with a “snickerdoodle surprise” and peanut candy clusters, served in an event-exclusive bowl designed by Goldman,

Frosted Flakes Pumpkin Spiced-Up Rompope, a drink filled with Pumpkin Spice Frosted Flakes custard and topped with Frosted Flakes streusel and cinnamon whipped cream,

G-r-r-reatest Banana Kream Pie Ever, a maple-cinammon banana cream pie with Frosted Flakes crust with milk chocolate and Krave inside, 

and the Not So Mini Mini-Wheats Upside Down Cake, a pineapple and Frosted Mini-Wheats cake a la mode with pan-toasted Rice Krispies.

Interestingly, one offering was present in advertising for the event, but didn’t seem to make it to the official menu. This was some flavor (ha) of Froot-Loops-themed macaron and cookie with a color-changing rainbow custard that came out of a toothpaste tube.

Donations made during the short residency were given to the charity No Kid Hungry. Customers could also buy themed merchandise, such as the aformentioned Duff-designed cereal bowl.

[mintchocolatechipnut]

bakugou cooking for his crush

Okay I just had the cutest idea: Bakugou falling for a classmate that's a really good eater. One day she stumbles across his food in the common fridge without knowing he cooked it. She steals a bite and is smitten with his food. And Bakugou, having seen the whole thing, becomes smitten with her.

Note: How this idea came about I have no clue... I just remember writing the entire thing on my phone at my grandparents’ house and really having fun writing it. To be honest, I don’t have the best grasp on Bakugou’s character, but I tried... For all my fellow food lovers out there!

Tags: more tooth-rotting fluff (the domestic kind), attempts at showing character development through cooking, Bakugou’s tough love (but of course, you’re here for that)

Word count: 3.5k

So I'm imagining that Bakugou likes to keep his cooking skills on the down low, because who knows if idiots like Kirishima and Kaminari show up and start whining at him to cook them food, and he doesn't want to be teased as being 'domestic'

He doesn't think there's anything wrong with cooking since he's able to take care of himself and his health, but if his squad saw him in the kitchen in his apron he wouldn't ever be able to live it down

That said, he brings his freshly cooked meals into his room and opens his windows so the smell doesn't linger, and he stores his leftovers in the deep recesses of the fridge where no one would ever think to look, not even food thieves

Luckily or unluckily for him, you were no ordinary food thief.

Bakugou is on his way downstairs because he's feeling peckish and wants to heat up some of the leftovers of his favourite dish, so imagine his shock and anger when he sees you and Sero poring over the blue Tupperware housing his food

Before he can take a single seething step, though, you've already spooned a bite into your mouth

His eyes widen, and now he's really mad that an extra like you had the audacity to eat his food

But then you let out a near inhuman noise, and it sounds… intensely satisfied?

'Oh my god, who cooked this?' Unable to contain your excitement you're shaking Sero by the shoulders, lips drawing up in a contented smile. 'This is the best thing I've ever tasted!'

For some reason, Bakugou's not so mad anymore. Obviously because for an extra like you, at least you had taste

But something about the pure joy in your expression made Bakugou feel… guilty that he was going to stop you

It's absurd because if anyone should be feeling guilty, it's you

As he's thinking this, the snap of the closed Tupperware brings him back to his senses, and all of a sudden he's fleeing the scene so he's not discovered

He's even more bewildered because there's no reason for him to be running away, and he hates running away

But somehow he felt a bit awkward and… embarrassed after hearing what you had to say about his food

With that he decided that he'd let it go once, and maybe seal his container a bit tighter

But he's sorely mistaken the next morning at the breakfast counter when you begin gushing about his food once more

Remember when he thought that you should've felt guilty for eating his food? There's not an ounce of shame in your words, though.

You tell the story of your tastebuds' meeting with heaven when you and Sero found a container full of something inside the fridge, and out of curiosity, you decided to take a peek

'I didn't mean to eat it, I swear I didn't! But it just looked so good, and I could imagine how it tasted… but boy did it taste so much better than that!'

Bakugou's left reeling at this praise, and there's an uncomfortable feeling upsetting his stomach as he tries to wolf down his cereal, trying not to think about how your words made his ears burn

Then the punchline: 'If we have a guy in our class who cooks like this, I'd marry him in a heartbeat!'

Bakugou nearly spits his milk

Luckily no one notices, and are instead calling you out for your food thievery or watching your animated hand gestures

On his walk to class, Bakugou has no idea how he feels about this; he just wants to banish it to the corners of his mind so he wouldn't have to waste time thinking about something that shouldn't have mattered so much before

Right before he steps into class he's met with a flashback of your smile when you ate his cooking, and suddenly a plan pops into his brain

…

You show up in the kitchen the next few days, wanting to see if the 'blue Tupperware man' struck again with his fantastic dishes

More often than not, you're met with disappointment, but your eyes light up when you see the familiar blue sticking out in your vision when you open the fridge one day

You're shocked to find a note attached: 'To Y/N: I know you've been eating my food. You can only have a bite of this, but not one more. Don't think I can't tell if you do, I WILL know.'

You're all around mortified, though you realise you really shouldn't be: practically everyone heard your declarations of food thievery that day

But the last line drove home the fact that the person who cooked this was here, and was indeed a student

The first thing you do is scan the area behind you for any immediate signs of life, in case the chef had been watching you

But when nothing turns up, you shrug, and rub your hands together in excitement

You swear you could hear stifled laughter, but the lure of the food in front of you was too much to overcome in favour of an investigation

As you eat and, once again, fail to be disappointed, Bakugou's eyes are trailing your face

There it is: the same expression, if not even better than he remembered, that you put on when you ate good food

And suddenly, Bakugou wants to see that expression more

The next few times a similar note addressed to you accompanies every meal, but when you tried to reply you wouldn't get an answer back

Then one day, the notes just stopped. You felt sad for a while, but then perked up when you saw the contents of the Tupperware, containing some of your favourite ingredients

From then on it was a given that you could eat from the blue Tupperware, and not more than three bites

You still cringe at the stinginess, leading to Bakugou muffling his chuckles every time

He doesn't come and watch you eat every time, because it's creepy, for one thing

But sometimes he'd be in his room, just knowing that you'd be tiptoeing down the stairs in anticipation of what's in the fridge, and a small grin would tug at the corners of his mouth

He'd also made it clear that no one else would attempt to try his food. Once Kaminari tried to sneak a bite, but when he opened the container the stench of rotting beans knocked him out

Bakugou cackled as he dragged Kaminari back to his room, but not before switching out the containers with the one meant for you

He's also quick to throw anyone who's out to discover him off the scent (ha)

Besides doing so in the literal sense, as with Kaminari, Bakugou makes sure to stay out of everyone's radar in the kitchen, and even goes as far to put your portion in a separate pink Tupperware, with your name on it

Yeah, no way would such a sappy move be from blasty boy Bakugou, right?

You'd been playing this game for a few weeks now when you just can't take it anymore

Bakugou awakes one morning to discover a text message from you in the group chat:

'To the person who always leaves me food (aka blue Tupperware!!), please PLEASE show yourself! I really want to get to know the person who makes such wonderful food!'

He felt his heart swell, and he's painfully reminded of your first words of how you'd marry him for his cooking

He's grateful he's blushing alone in his room

At this declaration in the group chat, however, more and more 'investigations' are popping up

Deku is a particularly difficult person to distract and Bakugou hates it

But so far he's been keeping it together, all he has to do is stick it out a bit longer

That's when Mineta of all people tries to impersonate him

Bakugou's infuriated when he's checking on you one night and you fish a note out of your container

'What's this?' you muse aloud, and begin reading it out aloud, much to Bakugou's benefit, 'Meet me behind the dorms tomorrow after school. I'll show you who I am.'

Bakugou knows it's definitely not him who wrote it, but he can't stop the rage arising in his chest when he sees your eyes light up in excitement

Who is this impostor and when and where would they like their ass being whooped?

Bakugou decides once again to investigate in his usual ninja fashion that he's perfected from watching you

He follows you to the back of the school discreetly, where you bounce on the balls of your feet in impatience

Suddenly a familiar purple head emerges from the bushes, and Bakugou has to physically restrain his palms from crackling

'Mineta?' He's happy that your eyebrows furrowed at the sight of him, but he's suddenly left reeling when he has an introspective moment about why he's been playing this game all along

He felt too afraid to face you. Too afraid to show his domestic side, and too afraid to come clean and say he cares. He knows he doesn't have the best personality in class, but he really wants your impression of him as ‘blue Tupperware’ to stay untainted and pristine

What would you think, then, if you discovered that your mystery chef was the abrasive, antagonistic Katsuki Bakugou, who didn't seem to have an ounce of empathy for anyone? Even worse, would you believe him even if he told you?

More than what it would do to his reputation, he realised that he didn't want you to see him in a bad light at all.

However, he's also mentally kicking himself because now bastards like Mineta can come and impersonate him

However, the words that leave your mouth makes him still

'You're the Blue Tupperware guy? Prove it.' There's a challenging smile atop your lips as you stare down Mineta, who falters from his previously smug swagger

'What do you mean? I cook you food, you love it. That's all there is to it, right?' A derisive laugh leaves you.

'Then tell me the names of the dishes you've made for me.' Mineta stands stock still, trying to comprehend what you've just asked of him. The beads of sweat now trailing down his neck don't escape your notice.

After some painful stammering and guesswork, then a beat of silence, you sigh. 'I kind of thought this would happen.'

'However, if it really honestly had been you, I wouldn't be mad. Because if I knew you were the one cooking with so much care and love, I'd still thank you for the meals.'

Bakugou's head goes blank. His hands begin sweating uncontrollably, and he's brought back to his senses when he hears his palms pop.

As he controls his quirk he's desperately trying to make sense of what you just said, but only one word rings out clear and true in his brain.

'Love'.

And suddenly he's trying not to grin at your epic shutdown of Mineta, trying not to feel his heart flutter when he pictures your multitude of expressions in all their glory, and trying not to remember the feeling of when he'd lie in his bed at night, the last thought he has before he drifts off to sleep being 'what should I cook next?'

He's in love with—

The sounds of footsteps coming in his direction shake him out of his reverie and he all but dives behind a pillar as you march off, leaving Mineta in the dust

Before the purple-haired pervert can leave, however, he's suddenly held up by the collar of his shirt, eyes wide before a murderous red gaze

'Try one more thing with her and I'll make sure you don't wake up the next day.'

…

From then on, Bakugou's mood lifts considerably.

Not only is he confident Mineta wouldn't rat him out (all he has to do is shoot him a glare), but he's eternally proud of how you stood up for him

Speaking of which, can he take your words you spoke to Mineta that day to mean that you wouldn't at all feel uneasy with whoever Blue Tupperware was, as long as you knew it was really him?

Now he's stuck with thinking of ways to shoot his shot

Little does he know that chance might come sooner than he thought…

One day he's running late because his work studies ran overtime

He'd planned to make something a little more complicated and out of his repertoire, though it may take him longer than usual

Though when he'd discovered what you liked to eat through your conversations with friends and what you ate in the cafeteria, he didn't mind, couldn't mind the extra hassle at all

It's not a difficult recipe, but he knows that it'll be dinnertime soon and that'd be dangerous

He looks at the clock, noting the twenty minutes he has before the first students come trickling into the common room. You won't be here until thirty minutes after. So he locks himself in the kitchen and gets to work

(yes I now know it doesn’t make sense for him to not be discovered in the kitchen during dinnertime, so let’s just say no one usually wanders in because all the meals are usually laid out in the common room when dinner rolls around)

He's smiling as he spoons the freshly cooked food into the Tupperwares, letting it cool for a bit as he washes up

But when he turns around holding them in his hands to put into the fridge, he freezes

There you stand in the doorway, eyes wide

'... Bakugou?' Damn, he would've relished the sound of his name on your tongue if you hadn't been looking at him like… like that. 'Are you Blue Tupperware?'

As much as he wants to laugh at the stupid nickname, he knows how straightforward and sharpshooting you can be with your words and intentions. And so the only thing that comes out of his mouth is:

'So what if I am?'

A beat of silence, then two. And suddenly your face morphs from bewilderment to pure joy, maybe even purer than when you eat his food. God bless his eyes that could bear witness to that moment.

'It's you!' you exclaim and a laugh as hearty as your appetite leaves your lips, and he's just awed, amazed. 'Thank you for the food!'

…

The immediate aftermath was everyone gaping at the both of you as if you each grew two heads as you ate from your respective containers

Sitting across him, you ask, 'Well… why did you do it?'

He’d imagined that you’d ask something like that, and he’s prepared an answer for it, but the eagerness in your smile, along with every other eye on him, prompted him to instead blurt:

'To… to stroke my ego and shit.'

Everyone goes painfully silent except for you, who leans back and laughs, 'As expected of you, Bakugou! But either way I get to eat really well, so thank you!'

You've been saying thank you for a while now, but what he can't get out of his head is that you expected him to be all narcissistic about cooking you food for his own selfish reasons? Man does that hurt.

But somehow, the others buy it too (which just really goes to show how much of a jerk the class paints him out to be), and the case of Blue Tupperware is solved

Now all that's changed is you pop in occasionally when Bakugou's cooking, and there are nights where you eat together

Oh, and the fact that he now knows you can’t cook for shit

You’ve tried to help Bakugou cook before, but at the time he'd felt as if he was in for a very rude awakening

However you are a god at cooking instant noodles of any shape or kind, so much so that when he misses you (or craves you lol) he eats instant noodles

Then again they'd never taste quite the same as when you cook them asifkajdks

When he actually confesses it's when you, out of the goodness of your heart, ask if you can help him out once more

He always finds himself giving in btw

But then you burn another pot and it's tough not to get frustrated

He's under stress, the weight of his sweat on his brow coupled with his ever growing feelings for you leads him to have even less of a filter on his mouth

'You obviously suck at this.' he says, noting your sad puppy eyes and willing himself not to surrender. 'Just let me do it.'

'But I feel bad that you're always cooking for me, and all I do is enjoy it.' You're biting your lip now, and it's all Bakugou can do before he starts thinking about what it'd be like to push you against the sink and kiss you senseless.

'Nonsense. It's enough that you enjoy my cooking, so let me do it. Let me take care of you.'

That last part did slip out, as denoted by the look on your face

'Wow,' again your straightforwardness comes into play, 'that sounded like a confession right there if I've ever heard one!'

Before he can stop himself—'do you wish it was?'

'Huh?'

'A confession—do you wish it was one?'

He watches your cheeks go tomato red and you purse your lips

'Do you wish that I wish it was?'

Aw, now you just playin

'I'm not hearing a no.'

'Neither am I.'

And then you nerds proceed to stare each other down in a palpable silence, the only sounds being the bubble of the soup in the pot before you

Who confesses first?

'Dumbass. I like you.'

You instantly beam, and you jump into his arms, even though you're dangerously close to the fire. Bakugou blanches, then draws you away from the stove

'Oi, watch it! You could get hurt, idiot,' but you're too focused on the way his arms had naturally wrapped around you to keep you safe and shielded

'You'll protect me, won't you?' you say, smushing your cheek against his chest. Bakugou sighs and places a hand on your head soothingly

'You bet I will.'

Bonus scene! “And that's how your father and I got together,” you say with a smile, as your four year old son bounces excitedly in your lap, while your six year old rolls her eyes at the amount of times you've told this story. “Yeah, we get it Mom.”

Your son has a different take on it though. “Start again! Again, again!” You let out a sigh mixed in with a chuckle at his insistence, but just then the wafting aroma of shrimp hits your nose. You close your eyes as you feel footsteps coming closer, and the warmth of your husband leaning in close to you as he sets the table leaves you giddy.

“Okay, that's enough storytelling for today,” Katsuki grumbles, placing the shrimp pesto on the table. Your daughter instantly perks up at the sight; she might not be as good an eater as you are, but she has a particular fondness for pasta. “Yay! It's pasta time!”

You set down your son in his chair as his eyes gleam at the feast in front of him, then walk up to your husband. 'Thank you so much, babe,' you relish the sight of Katsuki's ears, previously stained red from listening to your 'story', turning even redder.

“If you really want to thank me, there's something you need to do,” Katsuki mutters in a low voice, his gaze surreptitiously looking down at himself. You follow his eyes, and immediately burst out laughing.

“You're wearing it for us!” You'd really like to capture a photo of him in the 'Kiss the Chef' apron you'd gotten him for his birthday last year as a gag gift. Could Katsuki turn any redder?

“Shut up! Who burned my other apron the other day, hmm?”

This time you blush. “Maybe it was an expert ploy to get you to wear this,” you laugh, and before a snappy retort can leave his lips, you're smothering them with your own mouth. “Love you.”

You embrace him, arms lazily reaching for the apron strings in order to tug them undone, but your husband is pulling you in too, hands on your waist as he tucks your head in the corner of his neck so you can't see him or hear his next words too well. But you hear them nonetheless.

“I love you too.'”

[silkwingfood]

hey so if y’all don’t know that much about playing the violin/viola, let me tell you one thing:

IT FUCKING HURTS

you have to sit or stand or whatever, and the chin rest and shoulder rest are not too comfortable

you take away the instrument and move your neck even the slightest bit, bones you didn’t even know you had start cracking and popping like pouring the milk into a bowl of rice krispies cereal it’s just snap, crackle, pop, and it’s so uncomfortable the bones in your neck might as well be summoning satan and there’s a good chance they probably are

[gardencracks]

@blxndingin replied to your post

Your body is cereal. Snap-crackle-pop. 

does this mean i’ll get soggy in milk??

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, sarratorrens

April 13-Sam & Bucky after CW AU: "What did you say?" Platonic soulmates for @sarratorrens

Written by @iamartemisday

When it was all over, from the fighting to the politics to the alien invasions, they finally sat down and talked about it.

“You’re an asshole.” Sam had no interest in dancing around the issue. Good. Neither did Bucky.

“I’m not the one who wouldn’t move his seat.” Bucky eyed Sam’s shoulder, where those fateful words from that fateful car trip had been inked by the universe in silver writing.

Sam adjusted his shirt, even though the words were already covered. “I’m not the one who rips steering wheels out of cars.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“I loved that car.”

“You can buy another one.”

“Would you say that to a mother who lost a child?”

Bucky massaged his forehead. This was worse than trying to stop Steve from jumping out of planes without a parachute. “You know what? Fine. Have it your way.”

He stalked out of the room, not caring in the slightest if Sam watched him go. He definitely didn’t look back.

He didn’t want some dumb platonic soulmate anyway.

**

Two days later, his brand new box of Rice Krispies went missing.

It was Sam. He had no evidence, no witnesses, and no clear motive, but it was absolutely Sam.

When Steve didn’t believe him because Sam was such a stand-up guy who’d never steal, Bucky took matters into his own hands. He picked the lock to Sam’s apartment and walked in to find him at the kitchen table, the offending box of cereal right there in plain view as he enjoyed a crackling bowl.

“That’s mine,” Bucky said, making use of his ‘soldat’ voice as Natasha liked to call it.

Unlike a trainee or Peter Parker, Sam was entirely unmoved. “We’re soulmates. Soulmates share.”

“We’re also human beings. Human beings ask before they take things. Otherwise, their spines get broken.”

“Nobody’s stopping you from having somel.” Sam gestured with his head at the empty seat pulled out as if in wait of him. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

Bucky snatched up his cereal box and knocked the milk carton to the floor for good measure. White liquid spilled everywhere. It would take Sam all morning to clean it up.

For the moment, Bucky was satisfied.

**

He woke up from a nap with a photo stuck to his metal arm. Attached with a kitchen magnet. It was one of those New York skyline magnets they sold at souvenir shops in Times Square. Bucky hated those things.

The photo was of Sam’s hand flipping him off. How childish.

Bucky dropped his pants and Sam’s phone was soon graced with the image of his perfect ass. That’ll show him.

**

Sam’s redwings malfunctioned in a battle against a terrorist cell holding an investment bank hostage. Instead of attacking the bad guys, they staged a mutiny. While Sam batted them away, Bucky dispatched all seven terrorists with ruthless efficiency. Every single one of them was an amateur. They couldn’t even aim right. Why the Avengers had been called when a rookie with a donut in his hand could’ve handled it was beyond him.

The headlines the next day were awesome.

WHITE WOLF DEFEATS TERRORISTS. RESCUES TEAMMATE.

“You still haven’t thanked me for saving your ass,” Bucky grinned at Sam as he dropped another copy of the paper onto his lap (there were seven hundred more stashed away in his closet to wallpaper Sam’s bedroom with later).

Sam had the eyes of a hungry leopard. “What did you do to my babies?”

Bucky gasped. “Are you accusing me of sabotaging your equipment to embarrass you on a mission? I can’t believe you think so little of me.”

“I can’t believe suck my dick,” Sam snapped, crumpling up the paper and throwing it at Bucky’s head. To his credit, he made the shot.

“No can do. After that horrible offense, I don’t even want to be in the same room as you. Goodbye, dear platonic soulmate of mine.”

Bucky departed to a cacophony of bad language.

**

“Hey there! Any superheroes around? I need some new photos for my album.”

It was a curly haired young woman with glasses and a hat. Bucky had never seen her before, so he figured she was one of those new ‘consultants’ Steve was telling him about. They were getting two: a physicist and an administrative assistant. This girl didn’t look like either of those things, but as this was a private lounge no visitors should have access to, he wouldn’t call security just yet.

“Hi,” he said, waving her over. “I’m Bucky, I-”

“I know you!” She skipped over and shook his hand. That was the idea anyway. If she hadn’t grabbed the metal one he’d worry about his shoulder dislocating. “Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier, White Wolf. So many names, dude. You need to consolidate. I’m Darcy Lewis, intern and assistant extraordinaire. You may have heard of me.”

“Vaguely,” Bucky took his arm back as quickly and politely as he could. “I knew you were coming, but-”

“Yeah, this is way more exciting than when I went to New Mexico to be Jane’s assistant.” She flopped down on the couch like this was her own apartment. “Not that New Mexico can’t be fun if you’re in a place like Albuquerque, but we were in a real dust bowl. Actually, a dust bowl would’ve been good. This was like a dust bowl within a dust bowl. I remember this one time I had to charge my phone, and-”

Thirty minutes later

“I say to the guy, ‘I don’t care about your grandmother’s bowel movements, just pay me five bucks so I can go. And then he gave me the money and I bought a new charger, and I could finally charge my phone.” Darcy took the first breath Bucky had seen her take. “And then there was the time I had to get Jane a new battery for her laptop.”

“You know what? I just remembered I have to be somewhere right now.” Bucky shot off the couch like it was on fire. “Somewhere important… but you know, that was a really great story you were telling. I have this buddy, Sam Wilson, and I bet he’d love to hear it.”

“You mean the Falcon?” Darcy’s eyes lit up. “He’s my favorite! No offense.”

“None taken.” He entered Sam’s number into her phone, along with his apartment number and other relevant information.

“I’ll just pop on over and say hi.” She raced out the door, only to poke her head back in seconds later. “Almost forgot. Say cheese!”

Bucky did not say cheese and he didn’t smile. Darcy took the picture anyway.

“Nice,” she said, tapping a few buttons. “Friend me on Facebook. I’ll tag you.”

When she was gone and beautiful silence was restored, Bucky fell on the couch in a dead faint.

‘Have a good time, Sammy,’ he thought evilly.

Bucky went back to his apartment and ate dinner while waiting for the obligatory threatening text message he was sure to receive at any moment. By noon the next day, it still hadn’t come.

A full twenty-four hours after Bucky unleashed the Chatty Cathy horror that was Darcy upon an unsuspecting Sam, his phone finally went off. Sam had sent him a photo. It was of him with Darcy in his lap, kissing his cheek. There was writing on her neck he hadn’t seen before. It looked like the singular ‘no’ on his bicep.

‘Thanks for finding her for me.’

Bucky crushed the phone.

**

‘Just great,’ he thought later on after failing to fix his ruined phone. ‘Now I need to buy a new one and Sam is one up on me. I can’t believe that guy. Here I was trying to make peace with him, and all he wants to do is be a two-year-old kicking sand in my face. Un-fucking-real. Of all the people I have to be destined for. I don’t even want to think about what my romantic soulmate will be like.’

He stepped outside and ran straight into a petite figure, stopping his train of thought. The woman, soft where he was solid, bounced off him like a ping pong ball. She was no bigger than Steve before the serum, and some long-buried protective instincts rose to the surface as he bent over her.

“Jesus, I am so sorry. Let me help you.”

“I’m fine,” she said, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “Should’ve looked where I was going. I always do that.”

She got up using his arm as leverage. Bucky would’ve helped properly, but her words were burning in his brain and on his back. He stared at her like an idiot, like he hadn’t been lectured by his father every day on what to do when this day came. Something about being a gentleman and inviting her to dinner which he had to pay for. Maybe that last part was different with the modern day’s more egalitarian attitude towards dating, but at the very least, he shouldn’t be staring so much. Or at all.

“Sorry,” she said nervously, hands stuffed in her pockets. “I’m Jane Foster, I think you know my friend, Darcy.”

Bucky nodded. “Uh huh…”

Jane bit her lip. “She told me I should come and talk to you. I’m not sure why... actually, did I just say your-”

“Soulmate words,” he said with her. “Yeah, I… I think you did.”

He took Jane’s hand and squeezed it. Not too tight, just enough to feel her warmth. She squeezed right back and suddenly, the day was a little brighter.

**

It became easy to avoid Sam. He just had to spend all his free time with Jane. Getting to know her, learning about her research, taking her on long walks through the park, kissing her in the moonlight, making her cry out his name in ecstasy under the sheets.

He barely thought of Sam for a whole month. If they worked together, they didn’t speak unless it was mission critical. Nobody knew about their secret bond as of yet. Steve chalked the animosity up to stress and never tried playing mediator. For Christmas, Tony gifted them a ‘get-along’ shirt, which was promptly stolen by Jane and used as a sweat rag while she performed maintenance on her weather machines.

It was, shockingly enough, she who breached the topic two days after he and Sam took down a suicide bomber and only got the bomb dismantled with four seconds to go.

“Look, it’s not that simple,” Bucky said, pressing an ice pack to his head. He wasn’t in pain anymore, but with the cold came numbness. He needed some of that right now. “I’ve been trained in a lot of things, but diffusing bombs is not one of them. We got it in the end.”

“Yeah, barely,” Jane said, turning a wrench way harder than she needed to. “If you’d been one second late, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Because you’d be dead. You understand that, right?”

Bucky did realize it, and it really sucked. He never wanted to be one of those guys who complained about ‘nagging girlfriends’, especially when Jane had every reason to be mad at him. He just… really didn’t want to have this conversation.

“What do you want me to do?”

Jane dropped the wrench and took a seat on the table. She was so light, it barely squeaked under her weight.

“Darcy told me you and Sam were arguing the whole time,” she puts a hand on his face, making him meet her gaze. “That’s why you were having problems.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s your partner. And your soulmate.”

“You’re my soulmate.”

“Look, I know romantic and platonic soulmates aren’t the same thing, but they’re not so different either.” Jane wrapped her arms around him, moving from the table to his lap. “Most people don’t even have one soulmate, let alone two. People like us… we’re basically born with an emotional support system already laid out for us, and that’s not something to run away from.”

Bucky furrowed his brow. “Us? You have a platonic mark, too?”

The non-sequitur bugged her. He could tell without her saying anything. She pulled back her hair to show him the words behind her ear. It was such a small space, no wonder he’d never noticed before.

“Man this place is hot as balls. How do you even stand it?” he read, a grin forming. “Darcy, huh?”

Jane giggled. “The first few weeks were the worst. We couldn’t agree on anything. She drove me so nuts I had to sleep on the roof by the firepit.”

That didn’t sound right. Bucky had seen them together a bunch of times (without Sam of course) and those girls couldn’t be closer if they were sisters.

She seemed to read his mind. “We needed time to get where we are now, and I think you can have the same thing with Sam if you try.”

“He won’t try,” Bucky said. “He’s hated me from the start. Not that I blame him. We didn’t meet under the best circumstances.”

“None of that was your fault, Bucky. Sam knows that.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.” Jane touched her forehead to his. “I know I can’t force you to talk to him, but at least think about it. Because deep down, I think you guys do care about each other, or this wouldn’t be hurting you so much.”

“It’s not,” he said, even though lying to her felt worse than a punch to the chest.

“Just promise me you’ll be civil with him. You know, so you don’t get blown up.”

“I promise,” Bucky mumbled. Then he buried his face in the crook of her neck where he could forget all his troubles.

**

Sam was in the lounge, which sucked because it should’ve been empty this time of day.

Bucky was only there because he had no bad guys to fight and Jane wouldn’t be back from her meeting for another half hour. With nothing else to do, he’d hoped to get a nap in and maybe watch some TV. Instead, he found the bane of his existence resting in a recliner (the one Bucky usually sat in of course) reading a book and pretending to be dead to the world.

Which he wasn’t. Bucky knew that because his hands tensed and his breathing sped up as Bucky made a spot for himself on the couch.

The TV was in the corner and the remote within reach. He should’ve turned it on, but he didn’t. He grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. Nobody knew why Tony kept them when nobody ever read them. When asked, he’d only say it was for aesthetic purposes. Whatever that meant.

“So…” he licked his lips. “Nice weather we’re having.”

“Yeah,” said Sam.

“Pretty warm for March. Must be that climate change thing I keep hearing about.”

“Right.”

Bucky rolled his shoulders. Sam scratched his nose. They continued their reading as Bucky found himself on the same sentence six times. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to Sam, searching for the slightest shift in expression. He soon gave up on the illusion of reading and set the magazine down.

He was ready to just leave, but if he didn’t say his peace, Jane would never let him hear the end of it. Best to get it over with and then go back to their mutual denial of each other’s existence.

Bucky took a breath-

“I’m sorry, okay?”

-and released it. Hard. His chest hurt now. “What did you say?”

Sam groaned like repeating himself was worse than the labors of Hercules. “You heard me. I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like a jerk and being unfair, so I’m sorry. I promise not to do it again.”

Bucky appraised him, his pursed lips and tight posture, like he was reciting lines for a play. “Did Darcy put you up to this?”

“You bet she did.” Sam returned to his book. He appeared to be on the wrong page. “Jane put you up to it?”

“She wants us to make up and get along because that’s what soulmates do. Did you know she and Darcy are platonic?”

“Yeah, I saw the mark.”

Bucky sighed and rubbed his face. “They’re not going to let it go until we make up for real.”

“Eh, they’ll get bored.”

“No we won’t!” Darcy and Jane stuck their heads out from behind the kitchen counter. Jane’s cursed as she realized they were caught and forced Darcy down. “Uh… I mean, pay no attention to the women next to the fridge. Carry on as you were”

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back a grin. Neither could Bucky.

“I guess we could try,” he said. “Make a fresh start or some shit.”

“We could also do nothing,” said Sam.

“You could also sleep on that couch for a month,” Darcy snapped. “You, too, Bucky.”

“That’s not up to you, Lewis.”

“Bucky,” Jane said in her rarely used but deadly ‘I’m pissed’ voice. “Couch.”

Sam and Bucky looked at each other. They both knew how this was going to end, no point in delaying it. Bucky curled his fingers, then relaxed them. He held his hand out to Sam. “Hi, I’m Bucky. I’m your platonic soulmate. Nice to meet you.”

Sam looked at his hand like it was covered in mud, then took it anyway. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, too.”

They shook and, somewhere in the back of Bucky’s mind where he never ventured, he was actually kind of glad for the semi-truce. Maybe one day, they really could have a nice friendship the way fate intended. Darcy and Jane certainly thought so. They came out of hiding, Darcy already with her phone out.

“This is gonna be my new Facebook header.” She motioned at Sam. “Come on, Sammy, let’s do this.”

He stood reluctantly and let Bucky put an arm around him.

“Sammy, huh?”

“Shut the hell up.”

They smiled for the camera. The photo proudly adorned Darcy’s page for the next few months. And of course, they’d given each other bunny ears.

[squideo]

Advert Alchemy: The Representative

In this series, Squideo is breaking down the eight key ingredients to turn your advertising content into gold! In the last edition of Advert Alchemy, we explored some famous jingles which proved the effectiveness of an earworm. This week, we’re looking at the importance of the representative. 

Adverts often star characters, actors or the company’s owner and this representative can make all the difference in public perception of a brand. 

Character Cameos

Love them or hate them, the right reoccurring character can make an advert and become synonymous with a brand. Read on for Squideo’s top five picks for iconic fictional characters who starred in adverts. How many do you recognise?

01. Bird’s Eye

Captain Birdseye, also called Captain Iglo in mainland Europe, has been a feature onscreen since 1967. Barring a brief death of the Bird’s Eye character in 1971, which was marked with an obituary in The Times, Captain Birdseye has been their mascot for over fifty years. Initially played by actor John Hewer, the Captain has also become illustrated with a prominent place on the packaging of Bird’s Eye goods. In 2018 a new actor, Riccardo Acerbi, took over the role proving Captain Birdseye is here to stay. 

02. Duracell

The longstanding mascot for this company, the Duracell Bunny, was introduced in 1974. Besides a brief period when it was replaced by The Puttermans, a fictional family who received mixed reviews from audiences, Duracell Bunny has remained this brand’s mascot ever since. So successful was the introduction of the Duracell Bunny that Duracell’s competitor – Energizer –introduced the Energizer Bunny as a rival causing a legal dispute between both companies. 

03. Go Compare

This character might fall under the “hate them” category, but it’s impossible to deny the effectiveness of Go Compare’s Gio Compario. The adverts have been running since 2009, with Welsh singer and actor Wynne Evans playing the character. The pervasiveness of this character became so divisive that an advert series was run by Go Compare in 2012 which featured various celebrities trying to assassinate Gio. Introducing this character certainly made the brand memorable, making Gio as effective as he is annoying. 

04. Michelin

Bibendum, known as the Michelin Tyre Man in the English-speaking world, might be older than you think. First created for this French company in 1894, this character has become an icon the world over and remains one of the oldest trademarks still in use. The character has changed over the years to reflect the times, but every version remains identifiable as the Michelin Tyre Man. Its popularity has been referenced in books, film, television and songs. The character even starred in a 2009 animated short film, Logorama. 

05. Rice Krispies

While not as old as Bibendum, Rice Krispies’ Snap, Crackle and Pop are no spring chickens. First appearing in 1933, these characters evolved from cartoonish gnomes to friendly elves over the years. Their names were derived from a radio advert – a real indication of their age – which describes the sound made from adding milk to this cereal. The names later became a jingle which, like the characters, is still used in the Rice Krispies adverts. 

Who Are You Wearing?

These characters have carved out a legacy in advert history, but not all advertisers use fictional characters. Others prefer the classic celebrity endorsement – plastering the face of the world’s most famous people all over their product. This approach has its advantages and disadvantages, which come with the popularity of said celebrity. 

Read on for Squideo’s top five picks for notable celebrity endorsements. 

01. Dior

Natalie Portman was made a brand ambassador for Dior in 2010. As an ambassador, that means Portman not only appears in television adverts, but also wears Dior products at public events and attends Dior shows. Portman’s advertisements for the Dior fragrance Miss Dior have been particularly popular, combining well-known music, engaging storytelling and creative cinematography. 

02. EE

From 2012, the UK’s EE mobile network has been fronted by American actor Kevin Bacon. Capitalising on the popular game Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon and the actor’s prolific career, as well as a recent financial disaster which left the actor strapped for cash, Bacon has been the face of this brand almost as long as its existence – EE was founded in 2010. It’s certainly come a long way over the past decade, now ranked as the best rated 5G network in Britain, and these adverts certainly contributed to the growth of this brand over such a short period of time. 

03. Nespresso

George Clooney hardly needed more exposure when he started appearing in Nespresso’s adverts in 2006, but his addition gave a huge boon to the brand. After becoming closely associated with Nespresso, Clooney started taking a deeper interest in their practices – including independently travelling to its coffee farms to test its claims of sustainability. The adverts utilise public perception of Clooney, portraying him as suave and a bit smug, always maintaining his tongue-in-cheek humour. 

04. Nike

In 1984, Michael Jordan signed up with Nike for sponsorship – but unlike other sportsmen of the time he wasn’t going to be constrained to modelling their products, he wanted to create his own. Every year a new Air Jordans design is released, with vintage sneakers selling for thousands of dollars on the second-hand market. By limiting stock the demand is always higher for new and vintage Air Jordans than production numbers, which keeps this product at the forefront even after Jordan’s retirement. 

05. Renault

It’s a testament, not only to the star power of Thierry Henry, but to the marketing team at Renault that this advert was able to change the English language. In 2004, the Oxford English Dictionary weighed in on the definition of Henry’s iconic line in the advert – “va-va-voom” – defining it as “the quality of being exciting, vigorous or sexually attractive." The definition was included in the dictionary they published that same year. If the Oxford English Dictionary needed to contribute, it proves that Renault’s advert certainly got people talking: about Henry, va-va-voom, and the Renault Clio. 

Face to the Name

The last type of representative to address is the boss. The big boss. 

Adverts featuring the founder or owner of a business have steadily become more common as the popularity of the celebrity brands grows. Anyone who is anyone seems to have their own business nowadays, and they capitalise on their existing fame to sell their products. 

Read on for Squideo’s top five picks for notable owner appearances in adverts. 

01. Aviation American Gin

Hollywood actor Ryan Reynolds has done his fair share of advertising work, but when he bought a stake in Aviation American Gin in 2018 the bar was raised. While Reynolds doesn’t always star in these adverts (their 2019 parody of a critically panned Peloton advert, for example, went viral), he has successfully become the face of the brand despite having no hand in its initial creation. Reynold’s marketable style of comedy lends itself well to creating these entertaining adverts, and sales of the spirit have risen steadily since he came aboard. 

02. KFC

Although it’s been a long time since Harlan Sanders owned Kentucky Fried Chicken – better known as KFC – his face is still synonymous with the brand. Colonel Sanders (an honorary title, not military) created the famous KFC recipe in the 1940s and stayed at the helm of the company until he sold it in 1964. His involvement didn’t end there however, and until his death in 1980 he remained a spokesman for the company – eventually becoming its iconic mascot in modern advertising. 

03. Newman’s Own

Actor Paul Newman created the brand Newman’s Own in 1982. This non-profit food company started with a salad dressing, eventually evolving into a range of food and drink products sold in stores internationally. Newman helmed the brand and its accompanying charity Newman’s Own Foundation until his death in 2008. Despite his passing, Newman’s image is still used on all the packaging and marketing which contributes to the actor’s lasting legacy as a passionate philanthropist. 

04. Virgin

Since its creation in the 1970s, Sir Richard Branson has frequently cameoed in advertisements for Virgin and its subsidiaries – making the British billionaire a recognisable figure in households around the country. While rarely starring in the adverts, he’s adopted a Stan Lee-style of briefly appearing in videos promoting his companies. In the video below, Branson makes a fleeting appearance firing the starting shot that propels Usain Bolt to victory. By making these cameos, Branson assures the memorability of his link to the brands without sacrificing too much of his time. 

05. Warburtons

This family business has been around since 1876, and a Warburton is still at the helm. Warburtons has launched a series of successful adverts in the last 10 years, featuring prominent celebrities from The Muppets to Robert de Niro. Alongside them stars Jonathan Warburton, the current chairman of the company. Often filming with professional actors, the adverts routinely poke fun at his lack of acting expertise – staying seated behind a desk while the action plays out around him. 

Content Worth Gold

Get in touch with the Squideo team today to find out how we can improve your advertising strategy with video production, motion graphics, social media management and much more! 

[unsettlingshortstories]

There Will Come Soft Rains

Ray Bradbury (1950)

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o 'clock! as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!

In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunny side up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.

"Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, "in the city of Allendale, California." It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. "Today is Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita's marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills."

Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly: "Rain, rain, go away; umbrellas, raincoats for today..." And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.

Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.

At eight-thirty the eggs were shrivelled and the toast was like stone. An aluminium wedge scraped them into the sink, where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.

Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean.

Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were a crawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their moustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was clean.

Ten o'clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.

Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted window panes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned, evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of a thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hands raised to catch a ball which never came down.

The five spots of paint - the man, the woman, the children, the ball - remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.

The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.

Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired, "Who goes there? What's the password?" and, getting no answer from lonely foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.

It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!

Twelve noon.

A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch.

The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once huge and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud, angry at inconvenience.

For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped into the sighing vent of an incinerator which sat like evil Baal in a dark corner.

The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence was here.

It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich baked odour and the scent of maple syrup.

The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.

Two o'clock, sang a voice.

Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind.

Two-fifteen.

The dog was gone.

In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.

Two thirty-five.

Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg-salad sandwiches. Music played.

But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.

At four o'clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls .

Four-thirty.

The nursery walls glowed.

Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked through well-oiled sprockets, and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp, cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs, falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched grass, mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes. It was the children's hour.

Five o'clock. The bath filled with clear hot water.

Six, seven, eight o'clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks, and in the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine o'clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits, for nights were cool here.

Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling: "Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?" The house was silent.

The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random." Quiet music rose to back the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favourite...

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn

Would scarcely know that we were gone."

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.

At ten o'clock the house began to die.

The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window. Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant!

"Fire!" screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: "Fire, fire, fire!"

The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.

The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistolled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.

But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which had filled baths and washed dishes for many quiet days was gone.

The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings. Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes!

And then, reinforcements. From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gushing green chemical.

The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake.

Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth.

But the fire was clever. It had sent flame outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronze shrapnel on the beams.

The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes hung there.

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run, run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed. Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.

In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles, changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river.... Ten more voices died.

In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out and in, the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.

In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and timber, the stove could be seen making breakfasts at a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which, eaten by fire, started the stove working again, hysterically hissing!

The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlour. The parlour into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze, armchair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons thrown in a cluttered mound deep under.

Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke.

Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaped rubble and steam:

"Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is..."

[melanie-fiederlein]

Module #3

Rubber Cement: This design uses complementary colors, red and green, to contrast the brand from the product. The red highlights the instructions and what the rubber cement is supposed to be used for, to avoid safety issues.

Dawn Orange Scent Dish Soap: The analogous colors of orange are being used to portray the orange dish soap scent. I think this makes the aspect of the design somewhat prominent to differentiate the product from other scents.

Rice Krispies Cereal Box: I think the cool color, blue, is trying to appeal to your hunger and create a sensation of cereal in cold milk that snaps, crackles, and pops.

Honey Bunches of Oats Cereal Box: I think the colors are trying to get the consumer to associate their cereal with fresh honey. The warm colors help their bee mascot stand out more as well.

Mint Jade Teavana Packaging: This packaging has contrast in value of blue green. Since this is a tea brand, the color is meant to create a calm, relaxing response.

Sugared Snickerdoodle Candle: This candle design includes the Gestalt principles of proximity and continuity. The doodles of baking materials and cookies are close in proximity to create a doodle-drawn look. They are also continuous in style as there are 8 or 9 different styles repeated across the candle.

Telestrations Game: The telestrations game is an example of an active figure-ground relationship. The contrast between the notepad design, as the figure, and the blue background.

I Dissent. Game: This piece of graphic design tries to look historical with the use of a typewriter typography and supreme court collar.

[ohparkers]

a good day

pairing: peter parker x reader

word count: 3.9k (holy crap)

summary: a day spent at the boardwalk paired with feelings coming to the surface is certainly an interesting combination 

gif credit: @parkerpete

(you thought i was never going to post a fic again? well, you’re wrong. NEVER judge a book by its cover!!!!)

You sit at your kitchen table, the spoonful of cereal only making it halfway to your mouth before your phone buzzes from beside you. The utensil clatters as you hastily drop it back into the glass bowl, causing milk to splash up around you. Grimacing, you press the home button, and the screen lights up. Peter’s contact picture displays on the screen, a stupid selfie he’d taken (one of the many) when you’d left your phone with him one night. It’s a facetime call, and you chuckle briefly at the fact that he took the time to call you like this instead of just texting, but you answer it anyway.

Peter’s face appears on your screen, grainy and pixelated but still clearly giddy with excitement. His cheeks are rosy, the light red hue making his faint freckles pop, and he’s sporting a wide grin. You raise one eyebrow at the camera, moving it so your bowl of cereal is now in view, and open your mouth to speak, but are cut off. “Come down, (Nickname), we’re here!” He pans the camera over to May in the driver’s seat, her waving at the camera, before turning it back to him. “Let’s go, we have no time to waste.” Peter’s voice is higher in pitch than normal, probably from how obviously excited he is, and you don’t even get the chance to respond before he hangs up on you. The phone beeps three times, his picture disappearing from the screen, and you roll your eyes before moving to put your breakfast in the sink. Your parental figure(s) have already left for work for the day, leaving you to lock up after leaving the apartment.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, you grab your backpack full of boardwalk-day essentials before heading out the door. It shuts behind you with a loud bang, and after locking both the top and bottom locks, you head down the narrow hallway to the elevator.

On any other day, it would have been a struggle just simply getting out of bed at a reasonable hour on a Saturday morning, but not today. The energy you’d had when you first sprung out of bed with your first alarm somehow managed to stay with you all morning until now. It was probably a combination of exhilaration for the day out you and the two Parkers had planned ahead of you and just simply the fact that you would be with Peter. Somehow, someway, after all the years of knowing him, that boy never failed to make every moment when you were together nothing short of worthwhile.

Adjusting the straps of the worn-down bag you sported on your right shoulder, by the time you’d gotten off of the elevator in the lobby of your apartment building your excitement had almost multiplied. The butterflies inhabiting your stomach fluttered at a speed so fast it spread the feeling through your whole body, and as you walked out of the building into the early summer sun, you practically had to refrain yourself from jumping up and down with delight.

May’s beamer wasn’t hard to spot, the light blue color reflecting the sun’s rays and causing you to place one hand over your eyes and squint. Though she was parked some way down the street, you could see clear as day as Peter got out of the passenger seat and moved into the back. This was normal for you two. Ever since you both met the state requirements for sitting up front, you’d made an agreement that when you were together, you’d always opt to share the back instead. Even as you both grew older and entered high school the agreement remained, and neither of you had ever thought much of it, but May sure had. Unbeknownst to you, some days after she would drop you off at your building, she’d give her nephew side glances as you walked away. He always insists that you were just best friends. She knows better.

Making your way over to the car, you hoist your backpack further up on your shoulder. When your feet carry you the whole way to the door, you reach down to pull the handle open but jump back in surprise when it flies open from the inside. “Seriously, Pete?” You chuckle, bending down to sit down next to the boy who’s now grinning madly at you. “You’re a dork.” Shaking your head and clicking your seatbelt, May laughs from the driver’s seat as she starts to drive. Peter just looks over at you, excitement bubbling over him, making his cheeks rosy and eyes bright. He loves it when you call him that. If it was anyone else he probably would have been annoyed, but not with you. Never with you.

“Come on Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners is playing through the car speakers, they crackle every couple of seconds but the song sounds as magical as always. May drums along to the beat on the steering wheel, her brunette ponytail flying around as she dances in her seat. From next to you, Peter is swinging his head from side to side, doing as much dancing as possible within the confines of his seatbelt. His hair isn't gelled today, resulting in the brown curls coming down and bouncing over his forehead rhythmically. He stops every couple of seconds to push them out of his eyes, hands that were previously patting his kneecaps to the beat coming up to push the hair away.

It’s not a coincidence that every time he does this, Peter angles his head over towards you slightly, peeking at your dancing figure through his hands. You're so lost in the music, your whole torso gives away to the familiar harmonizer of the classic song that you've danced around your kitchen to a countless number of times. Peter watches through eyes glossed over with sheer joy as you bounce around. These are the moments, whether it's subconsciously or not, that he finds himself falling in love with every little thing you do, every moment, every laugh, every grin. Peter has seen you in this state on numerous occasions, and each time the sight of you simply being yourself sends his head swimming. He's in deep and enjoying every minuscule second of it.

The bridge of the song approaches, and you finally open your eyes, momentarily snapped out of your daze by the absence of the tune. Cheeks flushed, you turn to look over at the boy in the seat adjacent to yours. He's already looking. Your cheeks flush even harder now, partly embarrassed that he probably just watched that whole ordeal even after so many years spent together, but that emotion diminishes when Peter reaches across the seat and grabs your hand in his. It’s confident, the way his palm so perfectly fits in yours, and he meets your gaze once more before turning back to face the window. As the melody starts back up, you swear you hear him faintly singing along under his breath.

The silence of the car is a comfortable one, and from the front seat, May pretends like she doesn't notice the fact that you two are now holding hands. She tries her very best to hide her smile, though, as she remembers all of the countless nights where she has sat with her nephew and had to repeatedly tell him that it was okay for his feelings towards you to change as he began to grow older. Peter used to be embarrassed by the fact that you started to make his words come out a jumbled mess and every time you came over to his house all he seemed to want to do was be as close to you as humanly possible. By now, he's too far down that path to even question it anymore. He's too far fallen, too far down, too much in love with the girl he's known since they were mere third graders on the school playground.

When the car pulls into the crowded parking lot of the famed amusement park, you and Peter still have your hands intertwined. The music playing from the radio has the volume decreased since now May has to pay for a parking pass and talk to the people working at the booth. It doesn't take long for the car to maneuver its way into a white lined space, and when it comes to a stop, May turns around in her seat and gives you two a glance. “Well, we’re here.” She says, allowing her eyes to briefly fall upon you and Peter’s hands.

You both jump apart, nervous chuckles eliciting from both of your mouths. May just rolls her eyes as she grabs her bag from the passenger seat, and you and Peter exchange looks before clambering out of the car.

The walk up to the boardwalk is sort of a hike, but the boy who has fallen into step beside you makes it bearable. With nervous hands brushing against each others’ more often than normal and hearts thumping loudly in both of your chests, the two of you make your way up to the ticket booth, trailing behind May, who’s chosen to pretend like she doesn’t notice what’s going on ways behind her.

As May talks to the person working at the booth, you rock back and forth on your heels, sandals squeaking against the worn boardwalk beneath your feet. Reaching up to adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, you take the opportunity to look over at Peter from next to you. He’s pulled out his phone and is mindlessly scrolling on it, his face downturned and other free hand tucked into the pocket of his shorts. The light gray t-shirt he’s wearing bunches around his arms when they move and your mind subconsciously starts to grow hazy, clouding over at how he makes this look so effortless.  

Your eyes travel upwards, focusing on the curve of his nose (it had always been a little off center - it only made him more endearing) and the clusters of freckles that dot over it. Peter was never one to appreciate his freckles, if anything most days they annoyed the crap out of him, but you never understood why. They look like constellations on his face - they are constellations. He is a constellation.

Peter reaches his hand up to brush the stray strand of hair out of his eyes, and you’re snapped out of your momentary daze. His caramel curls are smoothed down by his calloused palm before his hand returns back to his pocket and you let yourself begin to stare again. You’re in the middle of trying not to stare deep into his tawny brown eyes, nearly failing at your goal, when May’s voice rings out from in front of you.

“Let’s get the show on the road, kids,” She smiles, pushing up her glasses onto the bridge of her nose before motioning with her hand for you and Peter to walk after her, “I know what you’re thinking. I won’t hang around you guys the whole day, don’t get too worried. I’m going to go do my own thing, alright? Just, Peter, text me if you guys get totally exhausted or something. Okay?”

Peter gulps, running his hands down his shorts in an attempt to stop them from becoming so clammy. “Okay, got it. Love you, May.”

“Yeah, thanks so much May! Love you too!” You chorus, earning another beaming smile from the brunette woman before she turned on her heel and headed towards the beach entrance, her overly floppy sunhat bouncing with every step.

Somehow, even though it’s barely been much time since you all arrived at the boardwalk, the sun has grown significantly warmer already. You reach a hand up to tighten your ponytail before stopping to think for a moment. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, before your mind can tell you to do otherwise, you’re grabbing onto Peter’s wrist and beginning to walk over to the various games lining the outer pathway. He’s a little surprised but more so grateful, and after not that many steps he gathers up enough confidence to slip his hand snugly into yours.

It was going to be a good day.

Four games of air hockey (all consisting of you totally kicking Parker’s spidey ass), one wild chase down the length of the boardwalk (he’d stolen all of your arcade tickets and had tried to make it so you wouldn’t notice… you totally did), and a too high amount of soft serve ice cream cones later, you and Peter decide to head over to the main carnival rides.

The sun is setting, and as you walk breathlessly over to the entrance to the attractions, the sky above you is painted orange and yellow. It almost looks like a painting, and it just makes the whole day’s experience that much better.

It sure doesn’t feel like the whole day has passed by, but it has. Time truly does fly when you’re having fun, as cheesy as it sounds, it’s one hundred percent true. The worker at the gate checks your wristbands before letting you both enter. By now, your arm has found its way to be linked around Peter’s. As much as you both wanted to hold hands, the culmination of an entire day spent running around in the sun typically doesn’t make for ideal conditions for you to be holding hands. So this was an alternative - you were still close. You had been close the whole day, but your heart never seemed to stop stuttering in your ribcage despite the fact.

Suppressing a giggle as your eyes scan the large span of rides and land on one, in particular, you tighten your arm around Peter’s and drag him over to one of the lines. He looks confused, but he follows in your footsteps like a lost puppy regardless. In fact, he’s so distracted by the way your face is flushed with sunlight and happiness and the way your arm feels like it’s igniting a fire around his that Peter doesn’t even realize where you’ve taken him until it’s too late.

Brown eyes widening from beside you, he reluctantly pulls away from your grasp. “Y/N, I am not going on the freaking teacups ride.”

You can’t help but burst out into laughter at the look of sheer horror on his face. “Um, hell yeah you are, dude. C’mon, don’t be lame, Parker.” You wiggle your eyebrows, not even giving the person working the ride as much as a glance (if you had, you would’ve seen them looking at you guys like you were totally bizarre - not that you would’ve cared) before pulling Peter behind you.

Still laughing, you bend down to fit inside the compartment, patting the spot next to you for him to sit down. The curly haired boy just rolls his eyes, although you can tell he’s holding in the laughter of his own and plops down next to you. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” He shakes his head, finally letting chuckles fall past his lips, and you just grin.

“We both know you’re loving every minute of this.”

“Yeah, you know, maybe you’re right.”

After multiple rides on the Tilt-A-Whirl and what was probably one too many turns on the Zipper, the sun has nearly set all of the way. You’re both tired, but before you call May to come get you guys, there’s one more ride you’ve been wanting to save for last.

The line for the Ferris wheel is relatively short, considering the time of year, but you figure it’s probably because most people have already gone home. You’ve barely been waiting for five minutes before the two of you are sitting down in a red painted cart, squeezing into the small space, resulting in the body contact being slightly more than usual.

When the cart you two are pressed together in with your legs touching reaches the top of the wheel, putting basically the whole park into your view, you spend a moment taking in the view with rosy, winded cheeks and hair flying all over the place. You let your eyes train over all of the rides below you, then soon rest on the ocean in the distance. It’s a picture that you hope your mind never forgets just because of how sheer beautiful it is.

Turning back to the boy sitting next to you, the wind sends your already messy hair tumbling all over your face even more. The sight makes Peter break into a fit of giggles, the corners of his warm eyes crinkling as well as his nose. He’s laughing your favorite laugh of his. There’s a sense of vulnerability to it, in the way he lets himself loose and momentarily doesn’t even care that his face has most likely turned a shade of red. You've been seeing Peter in this more and more lately, especially ever since he told you about his secret.

He stops laughing after a couple of seconds, opening his eyes and looking back over at you. You’re frowning, but you’re not being serious. Peter can tell because of the way your teeth are digging into your bottom lip as you try to suppress giggles of your own.

You two have been so utterly lost in the moment that you don’t even realize the cart has stopped entirely. The only reason you take notice of it now is that not only does the cart stop, so does time.

Before the wave of confidence leaves him, Peter leans all the bit closer to you, lifting a hand to gently fix your messy hair. His hand shakes as he’s tucking the loose strands back behind your ear. You’re looking at him with brows raised slightly, eyes open and glossy from the altitude, and you internally hope that Peter couldn’t feel how much your whole face was burning from his small action.

Time is frozen, so completely frozen your breath nearly catches in your throat.

His hand, still shaking with a million different emotions pulsating through it at the same time, stays on your face. You’ve patched him up after rough Spidey fights plenty of times before this, so the sort-of intimate action wasn’t unfamiliar to you two, but now it’s different. It’s just different, and you both know it, even though no words are spoken.

You know it now, and you still know it as you both lean in, and you still know it when Peter just can’t take it anymore and he pushes his lips on top of yours. His other hand comes up to rest on the opposite side of your face, gentle as ever, so gently as if you’re made of glass and could shatter with just his touch. He tastes like the chocolate ice cream from just earlier, and once the shock goes away, you allow your hands to travel up and hold onto Peter’s wrists. The kiss is short and sweet, but it still manages to take your breath away, partly because of the euphoria and partly because the metal cart you’re sitting in lurches into motion as soon as you two separate.

Peter opens his eyes, face subsequently flushed and eyes shining in the lights from the boardwalk rides. You’ve never seen him smile so wide, and he’s looking at you like you’re the whole universe, like you’re his whole universe, and you practically feel your heart soar.

Even from such a tall height, and even over the creaking of the rusty Ferris wheel carts, the sound of music playing from one of the prize games is audible. You both realize it at the same time.

The song playing is none other than “Come on Eileen”.

You and Peter make eye contact again, infectious grins painting their way onto both of your faces at the familiar melody, before Peter wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him, so close that your kneecaps are smushed together. There’s a newfound comfortability between you now, one that allows you both to keep smiling those dorky smiles at each other even as you lean in again, up until the very last second before your lips reconnect for the second time that night.

It’s late now, so late that the once illuminated carnival rides lining the boardwalk have now been shut down for the night and replaced by a comfortable darkness. Under any other circumstance, you would be at least slightly afraid of the dark, but not now. Not now, because as you walk alongside Peter, May a few steps ahead of you two, your arms brush against each other rhythmically every couple of feet, and you’re with him. You’re with him, and despite being totally drained from a day of running around and goofing off, you still feel as awake, as alive, as ever. There’s sand in your shoes that crunches as you walk, something that would normally annoy you severely, but you pay no mind because Peter is next to you and he’s doubling over in laughter at something stupid you’d just said and you’re with him and everything is perfect.

The three of you reach May’s car, her climbing into the driver’s seat and not being surprised when neither you nor her nephew calls shotgun. It doesn’t take long for the combination of the exhaustion from such a long day and the serenity of the quiet car to send you to sleep. You’ve ridden in May’s old beamer too many times to count by now, so you already know how to lay to be the most comfortable. Twisting the seatbelt around so it doesn’t totally suffocate you, you casually move so you’re more spread out across the seat. Peter sits to your left, eyes trained to outside the window, arm propped up against the doorframe and holding his chin up.

You admire him for a moment, a contented smile painted onto your lips, before letting out a breath and settling into the corner of the seat. Your eyes have almost drifted completely closed when, as if he could sense it, Peter turns his head to look at you. The moon illuminates his soft features as he smiles, really smiles, and his eyes crinkle like they did when you were on top of the Ferris wheel. A sleepy, happy, lovesick grin inhabits your face in response.

Reaching your hand across the seat, with Peter quickly noticing and doing the same, once again that night your palm is encompassed by his. It’s everything and nothing and so many words unspoken in such a small action, and you squeeze tightly before closing your eyes.

It had been a good day.

TAGS: @nedslaptop @buckysmaingirl @friendly-neighborhood-spideyman @curly-haired-crisp @whosdude @harrysbbby @kaliforniacoastalteens @killaren @mrsmusicaddict @mindfullyeah @newtsscamxnders @trickyholland @harrysfetuscurls @i-cannot-believe- @lilyannez @aevngurs @stephie-senpai @underoosqueen @jvghead-jones-iii @andreagracing @twentychemicalpanics @maria-francis @wannabenice @scottmccallmeup @aussie-mantle @scm435 @makaylahoran 

[joyxunleashed]

Random Refreshing Questions

Created by @ice-ice-minami

200 random questions you may never get asked

Feel free to ask or reblog

Questions under the cut

1. What was your favorite book when you were a little kid? 2. Do you wear/have you ever worn glasses/contacts? 3. What is your favorite name? 4. What is your favorite constellation? 5. What is the last movie you watched? 6. What is the first thing you wash in the shower? 7. Do you like the rain? 8. What is your hair like? 9. Do you sleep with the TV on or off? 10. What is the last album you listened to? 11. What is something you always forget when packing for a trip? 12. What is your favorite place to shop? 13. What was the last text you sent? 14. What is your favorite movie snack/candy? 15. What was the last essay you wrote about? 16. What is your phone background? 17. What was the last concert you went to? 18. What color are your favorite shoes? 19. What is (are) your pet(s)'s name? 20. What is your favorite science? 21. When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up? 22. What is your favorite scent? 23. What was the last book you read? 24. Do you play any musical instruments? 25. Where in the world would you like to visit and why? 26. What makes you feel nostalgic? 27. Have you ever broken a bone? 28. Do you like your handwriting? 29. Do you like spicy food? 30. What is your favorite kind of chip? 31. What is your favorite condiment/dipping sauce? 32. Are you religious? 33. What is your favorite flower? 34. What is your dream job? 35. What is your favorite place you've been to? 36. What is your favorite day of the week? 37. What is your favorite fruit? 38. Do you prefer snow, rain, or sun? 39. What is your biggest accomplishment so far? 40. Have you ever been in a play? 41. Have you ever done cosplay? 42. What is your favorite dessert? 43. Pool or ocean? 44. What show(s) are you currently watching? 45. What is your favorite Pokémon? 46. What is your favorite mobile game? 47. Are you allergic to anything? 48. Have you ever had surgery? 49. Do you/did you play any sports? 50. What was your favorite preschool show? 51. What was your favorite kids show? 52. What kind of shampoo do you use? 53. Do you wear makeup? 54. What is your favorite Disney movie? 55. What is your favorite holiday? 56. Have you ever ridden a horse? 57. Have you ever ridden a motorcycle? 58. What is your weekly schedule like? 59. What is/was your first job? 60. What brand of chapstick do you use? 61. Do you like to cook? 62. What is your best dish? 63. Do you like to dress up or stay more casual? 64. How many blankets do you sleep with? 65. How many pillows do you sleep with? 66. How tall are you and how tall would you like to be? 67. Moths or butterflies? 68. Early bird or night owl? 69. What do you hear right now? 70. What temperature do you keep your house at? 71. Spotify, Rdio, SoundCloud, Pandora, Google Play Music, or Apple Music? 72. Netflix, Hulu, or Amazon? 73. Ties or bow ties? 74. Ice skating or roller skating? 75. What was the last snapchat you sent of? 76. What are you/will you/did you study(ing) in college? 77. What is your favorite word? 78. What language(s) do you speak? 79. What is your favorite fast food place? 80. What type of phone do you have? 81. If you were to get a/another pet right now, what would it be and what would you call it? 82. What colors do you usually wear? 83. Do you like to do volunteer work? 84. What is your favorite board game? 85. What is/was your longest snap streak? 86. What is your favorite soda? 87. Do you wear sunglasses? 88. What is your favorite soda? 89. What makes you bored? 90. What do you do in your spare time? 91. What is the last song you listened to on repeat? 92. Do you have any piercings? 93. What kinds of things do you hang on your walls? 94. Do you keep your room clean? 95. What is your pet peeve? 96. If you could have any superpower, what would it be? 97. What is your favorite lyric right now? 98. What is your favorite kind of tree? 99. What is the last thing you created? 100. What is your weapon of choice? 101. What do you find yourself daydreaming about? 102. What kind of laundry detergent do you use? 103. What is your favorite kind of cheese? 104. What is something you never leave the house without? 105. What is your favorite comfort food? 106. What kind of gum do you chew? 107. Do you have a special diet? (vegan, dairy-free, etc) 108. Do you usually drink tea/coffee hot or iced? 109. What is your next big goal? 110. What is your favorite non-musical sound? 111. What is the last show you binge-watched? 112. Why is your favorite kind of cookie? 113. Do you like loud music or quiet music? 114. What kind of headphones do you use? 115. Would you rather talk or listen? 116. How do you sneeze? 117. Who was the first celebrity you really liked? 118. What is your favorite font? 119. What is your favorite type of cloud? 120. What kind of milk do you drink? 121. What tattoo would you like to get and where? 122. Do you sleep with your door open or closed? 123. What is your favorite number? 124. What time do you usually go to bed? 125. Do you listen to any podcasts? 126. What are some YouTube channels you are subscribed to? 127. What kind of hats do you wear? 128. What is your favorite pants cut/fit/style? 129. What brand/flavor of toothpaste do you use? 130. What's the longest you've ever gone without sleep? 131. What's the longest you've ever slept? 132. What term of endearment would you call your s/o or want them to call you? 133. What is something you say all the time? 134. Do you have any siblings? 135. Opinion on freckles? 136. Do you wear gold or silver? 137. What is the last thing you do before you go to bed? 138. If you were to move somewhere else in the world, where would it be? 139. What is the strangest name you've ever heard? 140. What happens when you get nervous/anxious? 141. What is your favorite dinosaur? 142. What is your favorite book that you had to read for school? 143. If you were to paint your room, what color would it be? 144. Did you ever learn/do you use cursive? 145. What is your favorite and least favorite thing about your hometown? 146. What food are you craving right now? 147. What is something you would like to learn how to do? 148. What is something you'll never understand? 149. What color/pattern is your bedspread/quilt/comforter/duvet? 150. What scent is your deodorant? 151. What kind of perfume/cologne do you use? 152. Are you good at hide and seek? 153. How do you usually respond when people ask "How are you?"? 154. What is the item closest to you on your right? 155. Snap, crackle, or pop? 156. What is your favorite cereal? 157. Where is the last place you spent money? 158. What color pen do you use? 159. Do you prefer pen or pencil? 160. Can you type correctly? (Home row and all that) 161. What song is stuck in your head right now? 162. What is something you're dreading? 163. What is something a lot of people like but you don't, or vice versa? 164. Do you light candles with matches or lighters? 165. How would you describe your eyes? 166. Do you get hot or cold easily? 167. What is your favorite letter of the alphabet? 168. What is your favorite game system? 169. What is a game you used to play all the time as a kid? 170. What was the first movie you ever got/watched? 171. Do you prefer shorts or pants? 172. What is the first thing you notice about someone else? 173. Where do you spend a lot of time? 174. Do you sleep on your stomach, side, or back? 175. Are you a light or heavy sleeper? 176. What is something you collect? 177. What is something trivial you regret doing? 178. What decade were you born in? 179. Bag or backpack? 180. How long does it take you to fall asleep? 181. What is your favorite flavor of candy/gummy? 182. Have you ever had braces? 183. Do you snore or talk in your sleep? 184. What do your bed sheets look like? 185. What is the last thing you laughed at? 186. What is something you're looking forward to? 187. What kinds of things do you like to draw? 188. How scared of the dark are you? 189. What kind of dinosaur would you like and what would you name it? 190. What do you wear to sleep? 191. What is something that makes you smile? 192. What is your drink of choice? 193. Do you prefer language arts/history or math/science? 194. Are you a spender or a saver? 195. Pens or pencils? 196. What is your favorite color to see in leaves? 197. Laptop or desktop computer? 198. Google, Yahoo, or Bing? 199. What's your favorite Tootsie Pop flavor? 200. Trackpad or mouse?

[lttrbx]

A cereal bowl that amplifies the "snap, crackle, and pop" of your Rice Krispies

Be still my heart. There's a cereal bowl that lets you listen to the snap, crackle, and pop of your Rice Krispies! I'm just hearing about it but apparently the "Snap Crack and Pop Amplifier Cereal Bowl" was designed by Dominic Wilcox back in 2015:

Kellogg’s challenged artist and designer Dominic Wilcox to make breakfast more interesting and fun for families and children going back to school in September. Over the course of 10 weeks he designed 7 inventions and prototypes from a robot spoon to a head worn cereal serving device. The sound of Rice Krispies popping is a well known sound for many breakfast eaters, particularly from their childhood. Instead of hearing a quiet snap crackle and pop why not increase the sound ? This technological cereal bowl amplifies the sound of Rice Krispies using a microphone and volume control. Simply fill the bowl with Rice Krispies,  pour in the milk, with on the bowl and increase the volume of the pops by turning the dial. Check out Dominic's other neat-o inventions at his website : http://dominicwilcox.com/portfolio/

[whitesubsforblacksandothers]

7 Steps For Creating A Business Or Advertising Slogan.

7 Actions For Making A Company Or Promoting Slogan. A slogan is a catchy a single or two line phrase associated with a item, campaign or organization. These are typically produced by huge-name marketing companies as component of an advertising or branding campaign. But massive-identify agencies come with large value tags -- past the attain of many tiny businesses. If you are in this predicament, do not despair. With some creativity and persistence, you can develop your very own slogan. (1) Choose what you want your slogan to communicate. If you have a positioning statement and/or exclusive promoting proposition, publish them down and hold them shut at hand. Your slogan need to reinforce them. Request your self these queries. - Who are your buyers? - What positive aspects do you give your customers? - What feelings do you want to evoke in your customers? - What action are you trying to generate from your customers? - How are you various from your competitors? Consider to get 1 or far more of these across in your slogan. (two) Start brainstorming planning. Collect slogans from other organizations and manufacturers. Appear in other categories besides your own and try out to uncover brand and company slogans from each massive and modest firms. As you discover slogans, publish them on index cards or personal slips of paper. You will be mixing, matching, and pairing them with unrelated things as you brainstorm your very own slogan. Shell out focus to the words used, how they are put collectively, and which of the above queries they tackle. By carrying out this, you are far more most likely to come up with your personal special angle. NOTE: You are looking at others' slogans only to spark ideas, not copy them. You have to come up with your own, original slogan. To locate slogans, look about. Anyplace you find advertisements, packaging, or logos you will uncover slogans. Search in cupboards, all around desks, in magazines, on Television/radio commercials, in print advertisements, and on World wide web web sites. For illustration: Presidential Campaign Slogans The 2008 presidential election campaigns are beginning to kick in. Some early slogans connected with presidential campaigns include: - MoveOn: "Democracy in Action" - ICanBePresident.com: "Girls for Hillary" (Clinton) - Rudy Giuliani: "Rudy" - Barak Obama: "Obama '08" Not a whole lot of creativity as of April 2007, but each and every conveys a preferred action or objective. Restaurant Slogans Restaurant slogans have a tendency to be a bit far more innovative and subtle. Frequently accompanied by a lively tune in commercials, these slogans are meant to get the targeted client up, out the door, and into the restaurant or drive-thru (occasionally in terms only the target market would find significantly less than bizarre): - Burger King: "Wake up with the King." - Taco Bell : "Good to Go," "Feel Outdoors the Bun," "Run for the Border," (Example of a slogan that flopped: In the late '80's, when I was a Taco Bell keep manager, Taco Bell had a quick-lived, one particular-word slogan: "Hello". We had to response the restaurant telephone with "Hello, Taco Bell." Uhhhmmmm. Whatever.) - McDonald's: "You deserve a break nowadays." Famous Ad Slogans Many traditional slogans also convey a essential benefit or special characteristic: - Alka Selzer: "Plop plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is. - Rice Krispies cereal: "Snap, Crackle, Pop!" - Johnson's Little one Shampoo: "No more tears." - M&M's: "Melts in your mouth, not in your hands." - Milk: "Milk. It does a entire body excellent." - McDonald's Massive Mac: "Two all beef patties, specific sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun." (three) Uncover your competitors' slogans. Seem at them and strive to be better and diverse. (4) Gather together books to support you come up with diverse methods to phrase equivalent tips. Some of my favorites: "Word Menu," "Flop Dictionary," "The Describer's Dictionary" and "Twenty-Initial Century Synonym and Antonym Finder". (5) Conduct a brainstorming session. This functions best if you can get a small group with each other, but can also be accomplished solo. Set up a area with a good deal of creating area - use dry erase boards, easels with large paper pads, note cards, and so on. Go by means of your props. Seem up words or concepts in the books. Rearrange your a variety of props so you can appear at them in various ways. Create down *every little thing* that comes to mind and all the new tips every phrase sparks. They do not have to make sense. At this point, you want a massive variety of concepts. (6) Consolidate your checklist. After brainstorming, go by means of all of your tips. Pull out those number of you believe have the best prospective. Consider to minimize longer slogans to fewer phrases. (seven) Select the one particular best slogan. You must be left with a quick checklist of possibilities. To select the single greatest slogan, get others' opinions. If you have some money budgeted for slogan growth, work with a market research firm to test the slogans with your buyers. You can also carry out informal study. Set up a free or professional survey and motivate people to get the survey via your Web site. If you have direct make contact with with clients, ask them what they believe. Give them an incentive to support you, such as a low cost or modest freebie. When you are done, you will have a slogan that will help your company thrive.

[gencottraux]

I’m in a memoir mood today, so let’s spin the flashback wheel to the year 1972!

It’s late July, maybe early August. Richard Nixon is president and Watergate is just emerging as a scandal.

Gasoline averages 55 cents a gallon. The Munich Olympic terrorist attack has yet to happen (that will be in September). The average yearly income is $11,800 and the average cost of a new house is $27,550.

Fashion is interesting and colorful.

  Food is weird.

David Bowie introduces his alter-ego, Ziggy Stardust.

ABBA is formed.

Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is published.

The top movie was The Godfather. M*A*S*H is a hit television show, although I am a Mary Tyler Moore Show girl.

  Roberta Flack’s First Time Ever I Saw Your Face is the top song of the year, American Pie by Don McLean is number 3, and it is the song that I like better. We all like singing along to Harry Nilsson’s Coconut Song.

  A portion of my family is on an extended one-way cross-country trip from Georgia to California.

I am the youngest. My mother, a widow with 4 children, has just married her second husband, Van, a twice-divorced alcoholic who doesn’t like children. Actually, he pretty much hates everything as far as I, at age almost 11, can tell. Cathy, our oldest sister, is not on the trip; she is in Georgia with her husband and new baby. I miss them dreadfully. Our family dog, Tripp, will be flown out later to join us in California. I also miss her dreadfully. Van took the 3 cats (Whiskers, Luke, and Christy) and the other dog, goofy  Sunshine, to the pound. Somehow he spared Tripp, who is a year older than I am and has been around my entire life. She has periodic seizures; maybe even a seemingly heartless guy like Van knows you don’t take a senior dog with seizures away from her family.

This excerpt from the Little Shit memoir (Little Shit is the nickname I obtained that summer) is early in the trip, when are headed from Laurel, Mississippi to New Orleans, Louisiana.

To do this, we cross the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, an almost 24 mile long bridge that is the world’s longest span over water. That is very long, especially when you are 10, and crammed in a car with two cranky siblings and two smoking adults, no air conditioning, and no end in sight to this miserable summer. Fun times!

Apologies to my sister Ellen for my somewhat exaggerated depiction of her moodiness and carsickness. But she did miss her boyfriend and she really hated that bridge!

[Text copyright Genevieve Cottraux 2017]

            We have a quiet breakfast at the Howard Johnson’s in Laurel, Mississippi. Ellen spent the previous night in our room in tears after saying goodbye to her boyfriend in Birmingham. It’s not like she’s never going to see him again. She’ll be back in Atlanta to finish high school soon enough, and he will be there for his second year at Emory. But she is inconsolable, refusing to eat dinner. I love the orange and turquoise theme but Ellen says it’s tacky. She consents to breakfast, but glares at Van between deep sighs. She fiddles with a cup of coffee, the weight of the world on her 16-year old shoulders. I go for the little boxes of cereal that you split open and pour the milk right in, bypassing the bowl. The snap, crackle and pop is the only noise at the table beside the sighs and the clinking of coffee cups on saucers.

            “I can’t wait to see New Orleans,” Mom finally offers as conversation.

          Steve mutters, “I can,” and Ellen just rolls her eyes.

            We load the bags back onto the luggage rack. Steve crawls to the wayback, flashing me his “beat you” grin. I settle in beside Ellen in the back seat. At least I have my book if I can’t have my favorite spot.

            “How can you read in the car?” Ellen looks at me like I’m from another planet. It’s as good a place to read as any.

            Van has decreed that Mom is not going to drive on this trip, which is fine with her, and gets behind the wheel. She empties out the overflowing ashtray and settles in.

            “We’ll be going over the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. It’s the world’s longest bridge over water,” Van announces, like he’s reading from a travel brochure.

            Uh oh. He doesn’t know yet that Ellen can get really carsick on bridges and curvy roads. I love Ellen, but I don’t want to be sitting next to her over that bridge.

            “Can we have the radio for a while?” Ellen asks.

            So far Van has been solidly anti-radio.

            “If I hear that damned “lime in the coconut” song one more time, I’m going to spit, ” he says.

            Ellen loves Carly Simon and Carole King but they don’t impress Van either. None of us want to listen to what Steve likes, bands with weird names like Jethro Tull, and of course the Allman Brothers, Georgia boys who Ellen’s boyfriend used to listen to before they were famous when they would play for free in Piedmont Park. So we settle for country music. Mom tries to get us to sing along like we used to, but Cathy was always the leader then and Ellen isn’t up to taking her place at the moment.

            The bridge appears to be endless and hovers uncomfortably close to the water. I’m not afraid of bridges or heights, but the idea of Van swerving the overloaded station wagon off the bridge when he gets cigarette ashes on his pants or spills his drink makes me nervous. Van also probably doesn’t know that I can’t swim.

            “My goodness, look at that!” exclaims Mom. It really is quite a sight, with no end on the horizon. Ellen clutches at my arm. I let her, even though I am not sure how it comforts her at all.

            “You lie down; I’ll scoot over closer to the door,” I offer. The window is open for fresh air. If we go over, is it better for it to be up or down?

             In my mind I see the swerve of the overloaded station wagon and it, with the 5 of us, dropping like a giant cannonball into the water. Do station wagons float? We have the windows cracked open all the time because of the cigarette smoke and the lack of air conditioning. Now I wonder, would it be better to have the windows tightly shut in the event of a water landing? I grab the crank and start turning it, the cool smooth metal feeling like my last chance to avoid a watery grave. I practice rolling the window up and down to see how fast I can do it if called on in an emergency.

            “What the hell are you doing,” Van demands, his mouth pursed around his cigarette and looking at me in the rear view mirror.

            I know better than to answer the question. I stop cranking the handle and slide down in the seat so I can’t see all of the beautiful blue, deadly water out there. But it’s much too hot to burrow, and Ellen is taking up more than her share of the space as she lies on her side and closes her eyes, trying to stem the carsickness. Steve is looking out the wayback at the cars behind us, and gazing at the water as it speeds away from him rather than toward him.

            “Scoot over,” I whisper as I crawl over the seat back into the wayback with him. “Ellen’s going to puke on me!”

            He swats at me, “Go away.”

            “Mom!” I yell toward the front.

            “Mom! Steve won’t let me in the back. Tell him to move over.” I am halfway over the back seat, head and shoulders in the wayback and the rest of me trying to catch up. Ellen, sweaty and clammy with carsickness, is swatting me away with a surprisingly strong hand from one side and Steve from the other. I hiss at Steve, “Let me in, she’s going to puke on me.”

            “Dammit, Nancy,” snarls Van. “I am not pulling over on this bridge. Control your children.” Mom is obliviously singing with Donna Fargo that she’s the happiest girl in the whole USA. 

  Was my mother really oblivious? I honestly don’t know, but it seemed so at the time. And no, in 1972 not a lot of people bothered with seat belts. I climbed around in the car. Dear younger readers, cars did not have electric windows in the old days. You had to crank them. I can’t say for sure there was a Howard Johnson’s in Laurel, Mississippi, but I know we stayed at one somewhere along the way.

  We did love the Coconut Song. You know the one, “put the lime in the coconut, you know you’ll feel better…

  Here I am, 45 years later, on a hot day in California in August, drinking my favorite new icy drink, coconut water with lime. It does make me feel better!

Cheers!

A Bridge Over Troubled Water (A Very Long Bridge) I'm in a memoir mood today, so let's spin the flashback wheel to the year 1972!

[mojomcm]

“There will come soft rains” by  Ray Bradbury

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o'clock! as if it were afraid nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine! In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk. "Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling., "in the city of Allendale, California." It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. "Today is Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita's marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills." Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the fron door sang quietly: "Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today..." And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.

Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again. At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry. Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean. Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were acrawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their mustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eye faded. The house was clean. Ten o'clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave of a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles. Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted windowpanes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titantic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hand raised to catch a ball which never came down. The five spots of paint- the man, the woman, the children, the ball - remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer. The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.

Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired, 'Who goes there? What's the password?" and, getting no answer from the only foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia. It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house! The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants, big, small, servicing, attending, in choirs. But the gods had gone away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly.

Twelve noon. A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch. The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once large and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud, angry at inconvenience. For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped like evil Baal in a dark corner.

The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence was here. It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich odor and the scent of maple syrup. The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour Two 'clock, sang a voice. Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind. Two-fifteen. The dog was gone. In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney. Two thirty-five. Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg salad sandwiches. Music played. But the tables were silent and the cards untouched. At four o'clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.

Four-thirty.   The nursery walls glowed. Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked though the well-oiled sprockets, and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched weed, mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes.It was the children's hour.

Five o'clock. The bath filled with clear hot water. Six, seven, eight o'clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks, and in the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine o'clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits, for nights were cool here. Nine-five.  A voice spoke from the study ceiling: "Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?" The house was silent. The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random." Quiet music rose to back the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite... "There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone."

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.

At ten o'clock the house began to die. The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window. Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant! "Fire!" screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: "Fire, fire, fire!" The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and sucked upon the fire. The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistoled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.

But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which filled the baths and washed the dishes for many quiet days was gone. The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings. Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes! And then, reinforcements. From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gushing green chemical. The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake. Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth. But the fire was clever. It had sent flames outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronzeshrapnel on the beams. The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes that hung there.

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run, run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.

In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles, changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river... Ten more voices died. In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, playing music, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out and in the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud all in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke. In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and timber, the stove could be seen making breakfasts at a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which , eaten by fire, started the stove working again,hysterically hissing! The crash. The attic smashing into the kitchen and parlor. The parlor into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze, armchair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons thrown in a cluttered mound deep under. Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke. Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaper rubble and steam: "Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is..."