#tiny for sale Canada | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tinytennisskirt · 4 months ago

Text

A Slippery Slope

Summary: Every girl has their favourite ex. The one they will forever have a soft spot for. Reader is above all of that, doing all she can to avoid Art when he’s back in town for tennis. Unfortunately, he’s unavoidable and has a lot of things to say about the way he left things…

Warnings: mentions of drinking, mentions of sex, rehashing a breakup, kind of hurt/comfort? I’m not sureee

It’s not like you were stalking him or anything… and if you were, it was totally normal for girls to stalk their exes. Part of being a girl is stalking your ex, like a rite of passage. You were just lucky his progress and whereabouts were publicized.

Art Donaldson was going to be in your hometown again after leaving for college three years ago. His tennis brought him here, a tiny little tournament. It was a charity game, so people paid to watch. It was in the news that Art had refused to receive any portion of a winning and that it go directly to a children’s hospital in Canada. As sweet as that was, it was also presumptuous that he would win. You scoffed a little to ignore the fact he was there on the website, smile gleaming, curls all blonde and pretty. He was sweet, you had to ignore that.

The feeling that him coming back here gave you was a mix of anxiety and anticipation. For what? You didn’t know exactly. He would be back and you could go to his game for $20. Like it was nothing, you could see him in the flesh again. But you said no, because your best friend would probably yell at you and kick your ass. So you shut the screen and pretended like it wasn’t real.

When the tournament was in town, the Main Street turned into a giant sale. Every shop had a tent outside of itself enticing people to come by. You avoided it the past week, getting to work by an extra-long route. It was easy not to think about him (though you did from time to time) when he was off somewhere far playing tennis- but now that it was here and there were posters up and the library promoted it and the lamppost flags were changed to commemorate the event, they may as well have plastered Art’s face all over everything.

The tournament was tomorrow now. Soon you had no reason to worry about. It would be easy. It was around seven and the summer sun still warmed the air, but it was getting chillier with every ten minutes that passed by. You headed down from your little above-bakery apartment, bag in hand and flip phone in the other. The walk to the bar was delightful, a good thing after a busy day at work.

You walked in and sat at the bar, your usual spot for Friday nights. You usually never went to the bar alone- it was often you and your best friend but she was on a first date and you still needed your gin. You ordered a small drink, strong though. Tasted a bit gross but it was fine- you deserved it. After all this avoidance, all of this torture, being on complete edge- plus work.

You got another drink and sipped on it while checking your email on your phone. Flipping through unread, work emails, messages from friends about an upcoming birthday and what food to bring. A few more drinks, light, hard, you were tipsy but not drunk. Enough to be satisfied and fuzzy. You were conversing with the bartender who you knew well- she was a friend of a friend and you were a regular. You were struggling to hear her over the noise of a nearby group of guys.

“Another round of shots for the boy!”

“Woah, woah, I can’t get drunk guys, I told you,” another voice piped up. You recognized it. You hated how your head turned. Your heart stopped for a moment. Amongst the crowd, in the very centre, was the very blonde mop of curls that had been haunting your dreams for the past week. It was Art. He was here. Right now. In the bar with you. “Okay, maybe another shot.” He grinned at his friends.

Your heart beat hard in your chest. And you were about to look away to save yourself- but his eyes met yours and it was immediately too late. Blue eyes on yours. And his grin dampened to an open-mouthed look of awe. You looked away and grabbed your bag to pull your wallet out and pay as fast as you could. All of the avoidance, all of the torment, just how shitty it was to know he was back- it all was falling in on you.

All you had to do was avoid it all. And it was too late. You paid quickly and apologized for rushing off and you got up to go and he was right there in front of you.

“Y/N,” Art said. He still looked a little surprised. But this was your hometown. You blinked hard and pushed your hair away from your face. He was really here, he was here standing in front of you. “Hi.”

“Hey,” you replied. You didn’t want to look at him, you were nervous, afraid, intimidated. What if you weren’t improved enough- or prettier than you were before. Something about seeing an ex that made you re-evaluate yourself. “How are you?”

“I’m good, how are you?” He answered, upbeat. “I didn’t expect to see you here. If I had known you were still around I might have messaged.”

Would he really? It felt like a jab at the fact you still lived here. “I’m alright. I’ve been working.” You wished you weren’t tipsy, but he seemed so as well.

“I have a tournament tomorrow- are you going?” Maybe he drank more than you.

“I have work,” you told him. “It’s good to see you though, I have to be on my way, I’m so sorry-“ You lied. As good as it was to see him, you’d been afraid of seeing him again, feeling things again. The risk was very real, no matter what he had done wrong before.

He narrowed his eyes. “I wanted to see you. I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been… um… ever since I got here I’ve been thinking about you. I was going to call tomorrow after the tournament.”

You blinked a few times, “Oh,” you said. As you said, the risk was very real. “I- um. Sorry, I’ve been drinking.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I get it.”

“I’m really sorry, I’m out of it,” you followed up. He was prettier than you remembered. His curls were more defined, longer. He matured, he looked more adult, but still young. He had been thinking about you… meaning to call… “It’s been good to see you, Art. And good luck at your tournament.”

“Do you really have to go, Y/N? I know I’m out of it too but you’re here and I… I know you.” He did. Somehow. He knew you were lying.

You sighed, “I really am sorry, I’m just tired.” You’d thought about how you’d act if you saw him again but your mouth was moving faster than your mind, trying to get you out of the situation because it felt like fight or flight. “Goodnight.” You tried to go again but he kept speaking.

“Can I walk you home?” He asked. You stopped walking and turned back to him. He was out of it, but you were a woman walking downtown at night. Usually you’d be with your girlfriends and you’d never travel alone and it didn’t occur to you that you would be. As much as you hated this current situation, it was safer. You nodded, slowly. And started mentally preparing. Would you seem impressive compared to his feats since you broke up? Did you look okay? Was everything okay?

Art ditched his friends. He didn’t say goodbye, he just stepped out with you. You were silent. “Did you dye your hair?” He asked as you began to walk.

You nodded, “Highlights, so kind of.”

“Ah,” he nodded back. “How have you been the past few years?” You remembered the healing process after him.

“I’ve been okay. Like I said, just working a lot. I have my own apartment now and some good friends. It’s not like college and travelling around to fun cities for tennis.” You said. He looked at his feet, smiling. You’d just given away that you’d kept tabs on him. “It’s not like I don’t have access to your Facebook. Or tennis news.”

He grinned at you. “Well I wish they had more hometown news because as many times as I’ve checked I couldn’t find anything about you anywhere. Look- I was going to call you tomorrow because I wanted to apologize to you properly. I know how I left sucked. I wished immediately and over the past few years that I’d gone about it differently and I want to apologize to you. Properly. And not now. Sober. Completely.” He said. His grin had lowered.

“I don’t need an apology, I dealt with everything when you left,” you told him a little too candidly.

He ran a hand through his hair, his blue eyes meeting yours. “I know. But it’s been eating me alive and I’ve spent every day since feeling guilty. I want to apologize right- I’m here now and as a man, I hate to beg but would you give me a chance to do that? We can get dinner after the tournament, my treat.” He had a hint of a smile.

“You don’t need to apologize,” you repeated. “I’m glad you’ve done some reflecting but you hurt me. I want to say no, Art.”

“I know.” He said, smile falling. “But I’m not who I was then. And I know better. If you hear me out and it’s not sufficient, I’ll be gone in two days and I’ll just be tennis news again.”

You both stopped walking and the silence was filled by the wind in the trees of the park that you passed with a small hint of the noise of cars on a nearby main road. He looked at you in a way that was so familiar, eyes soft- and new demeanour of being on the verge of giving up. But you saw his sincerity, unfortunately, locking eyes with his on this sidewalk. All he did was shrug and you shook your head slowly, eyes not leaving his.

“Okay,” you said, hushed. And a small smile creeped back onto his face. And you both, in unison, continued walking wordlessly. He walked you to the door of your building and stayed until you unlocked the door. “Goodnight, Art.” You said, stepping in.

He raised his hand, not waving, just raised, and smiled a small smile, his face illuminated from the golden light of the hallway, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

And you went to bed that night slightly freaked out, a little excited, and extremely nervous.

The next day rolled around and the same anxiety was NOT slept off. You worked a bit from home- You showered, did your hair the way you usually did, did your makeup and dressed in something that was comfortable, but nice enough for a warm summer day. A skirt, a cute top, comfortable shoes.

You replayed Art’s proposal. Dinner, he had said. You didn’t want dinner with him, that made it real, that felt like… too much of the past. Too close to something dating people would. You’d head over for his last game- you didn’t need to stay all day. It was nearing four o’clock when the next game was scheduled.

Above all, he was sorry. And he said he felt guilty and for a good while you convinced yourself he didn’t care and didn’t miss you or think about you at all- so hearing that he did unravelled a bit of your healing process. It’s not like it was an aching wound, but more like reopening a time capsule.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, putting your earrings in. This was a slippery slope, dinner would be the slipperiest, but you grabbed your bag and headed to the tournament.

You found a seat at the top, the last row.

You’d seen him play before a few years ago, but when he came onto the court today it was different. He had a new attitude and confidence and you could see it as the game started and he hit the ball with everything he had. And it was something you hated because it was hot and it shouldn’t have been. You had to look away a few times just to spare yourself but the sounds he made on the court reminded you of something and you hated it.

There was nothing you could do but tell him dinner was a no. And you were sorry. The game ended and he won, triumphantly, with a great cheer from the crowd that their hometown boy had won. You were somewhat proud of him- you never stopped, even after the breakup. He was doing well for himself. The crowd funnelled out after the game ended, but you stayed seated atop the metal bleachers that lined the court. And you contemplated how to be kind and apologetic in a way that told him you were better off not having dinner, whilst not giving away the fact that you were thinking about him in a way that scared you because it was an old, buried feeling. Without showing him that the apology meant hope. You were a strong, independent woman now and you could speak up and this just wasn’t a good idea. You were-

“Hey,” Art said. He stood down a few rows of the bleachers and waved. “I thought you wouldn’t show.”

“Me too,” you said. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky. “That was a good game. Congrats on the win.” You tried to be flat, but you were too genuine-sounding.

He chuckled, “Thanks. I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” you replied. His smile grew but you saw him fight it. “Look, Art-“

“No I know,” he cut you off. “Dinner feels too intimate. Do you just want to go grab frozen yogurt? It’s honestly all I’ve thought about today- is there still that 24/h place that we used to think was insane hours for frozen yogurt?”

You blinked a few times before the relief set in. And you smiled a full smile, not meaning to, but you did. “That sounds- yes. Yeah, it’s still there.” You grabbed your bag and got up from your seat.

I’ll be ten minutes just to shower and we’ll go- if that’s okay?” He smiled back. The weight of a real dinner was lifted. No spiel involved, though frozen yogurt distracted you from the fact there was still a code of yours to uphold and it was to keep from slipping. You nodded and he went to do so and you waited outside the court. He was out soon enough with his things and he walked over to a car that you assumed was his the way he loaded his things in. His hair was still wet from the shower and as he passed you, he smelled clean and… familiar. You hated that.

The conversation in the car was about the game and that was easy. You pointed out some things you saw from his opponent and things you noticed him do. He answered every question of yours. And then you were there.

“How did they stay open all this time?” He said, entering. You shushed him and he put his hands up in surrender.

“High quality and good tourism,” you replied, getting the flavour you wanted. “Did you miss it here?”

“Here or here as in town?” He asked.

“Home,” you answered. He got his flavour and walked to the toppings.

“I missed some things about it, yeah. Not many things, but a good few.” He stayed vague.

“I think I would like to miss it someday,” you told him. “I’ve been here too long.”

“Travel?”

“Saving up for a house,” you told him. “I’ll travel when I’m old, I think. When retirement money comes in and I don’t have kids to pay for.”

“I thought you didn’t want kids?” You both paused. You paused at the fact he remembered that and he paused at the fact he said an inside thought aloud.

You blinked hard a few times and put on a few toppings. “I’m- um- I’m not sure. I think I was young and inclined to the idea of being a working woman with no distractions and now I feel that… I’m older, so. I feel like maybe it’s not the best thing ever to have no distractions.”

He cleared his throat, “That’s fair.” Silence. The place was empty anyways. You brought your frozen yogurt to the scale and the price came up. Art walked over with his and pulled his debit card out. “My treat, remember?”

You did forget. He paid right then and there and then paid for his own and you thanked him but the silence still hung over you both even in the sound. In the car, you ate your frozen yogurt and the topic turned back to tennis and it was easy. Talking to him about passions was just like no time had passed at all- and it was interesting to hear the ins and the outs and the tells of tennis. But he stopped the car eventually, outside his hotel. You wondered if he was about to banish you home out of nowhere.

“I have to interrupt- I was wondering if you wanted to come up to my room for a bit, I feel like with the impending conversation maybe you’d want to be somewhere quiet and I wasn’t about to invite myself over.” Art said. You nodded. “You will?”

“I will,” you agreed, though you didn’t want to. It felt wrong, like a mistake, like the edge of a cliff and a slippery slope all at once. He smiled and got out of the car with his frozen yogurt. Your mind lingered on how considerate it was, despite the intimacy of being alone with nothing to see but him. “I appreciate that a lot though.”

“I know you like privacy,” he replied. You went up to the 14th floor, two down from the top and followed him down the hall. The room was standard. Large, but one bed, presumably a pull out couch, a chaise lounge, a small kitchen, a big bathroom and a tv. His things were all in one corner. You immediately took a seat on the chaise which was near the bench at the end of the bed that Art immediately sat on. It was a bit real. It was more than a bit, it was real.

He looked at you, blue eyes with their bits of brown and his long eyelashes. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did.” He started. He was jumping in. Your heart sped a little and you suddenly felt a pit in your stomach. “I was stupid. And naive and convinced that I would thrive more when I left for college.”

“You did,” you nodded. A nod to his success.

“But my intention was wrong. You… loved me. And I took advantage of that for the idea of a perfect college experience with Patrick- full of smoking and drinking and girls.” Your stomach flipped hearing his words. “I felt the guilt from the moment I left, I just shut it up with vodka and constant tennis and it was hard but it was manageable but it doesn’t mean I didn’t think of you.”

You kept your eyes locked with him and set your frozen yogurt on a nearby table. He took the time and did the same, but he looked at you for something. “You could have come back. Or called- even if you called-“ you cut yourself off. You were jumping too quickly. But it was Art and Art was easy to talk to. “When you left, I knew that. I knew what you wanted and I didn’t believe that you would truly let it go.”

“I didn’t,” he said.

“But there was no proof. To me, you left me for the ability to drink and kiss and fuck and it broke me because I was young and all I had to give was myself.” Your eyebrows knit closely together. He looked guilty. “And with no proof, I just… I was upset for a long time, but I slowly got over it.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“I know now,” you sighed. “Unfortunately it was hard to get you off my mind.”

“I tend to have that effect,” he smiled a little and so did you.

“Apparently so do I,” you countered. He grinned his perfect crooked smile. “But you hurt me. Badly. And I missed you for years but you didn’t even reach out on my birthdays so what could I think other than you’re out there succeeding and had put me in the past.”

“It’s why I’m here, or- why you’re here. I needed you to know that I thought about you all the time. It ruined my relationship with another girl because she knew I was hung up even when I didn’t. And when I found out the tournament was here, I just… I knew I had to see you. I had to face what I did. I know it was shitty, I know not speaking sucked, I just… I want you to know how sorry I am. And how much I wish I hadn’t left.” He looked genuine, his regret radiating off his skin. Your heart skipped a beat or two and your breathing picked up a little. “I wish I hadn’t left you, I traded you for something so fucking meaningless, it kills me.”

You had to stand your ground, because you knew the moment he said that- that all of your healing was coming undone. It unravelled and floated down to the floor, useless. You recognized the look on his face too well, you missed the look on his face. He wanted you. “I really-“ you started but stopped. The slope was icy, slick and smooth and at your very feet. One wrong move and you’d fall down it. And all of the healing, all of the time, all of it would have been for nothing and what would that mean? You had to have some sort of stance against this, some little bit of resistance. His voice was too soft, his eyes too sweet. “You should have told me that ages ago if it’s truly how you felt.” You said. You hated being dismissive this way. “I accept your apology.” But he didn’t look happy to hear that.

“I wanted to call, but I’d left things so badly I wasn’t sure if it would just reopen wounds or…” he had a desperation in his eyes.

You picked up your bag, your stomach doing flips and your heart beating at a crazy pace. You had to go. The slope was too slippery. “Art, I accept your apology. Thank you for the frozen yogurt and for the privacy and inviting me up here. I really should go, it’s getting late.” It was too easy to want to fall down that same slope, to tumble into him, to crash, to even burn. It was too tempting and you just… couldn’t do it. Couldn’t handle it. You stood up and walked toward the door and you felt him get up behind you.

“Wait, please?” He said. “Y/N, I have more to say.”

“I heard everything I wanted to hear four years ago,” you replied, turning before the hotel room door. “Unfortunately too late and I just feel… the same. You did trade me for the opportunity to have sex with girls shamelessly. Everything we had was just gone at the drop of a hat because you felt like it and you left me here to pick up the pieces and knowing you wanted to tell me all of these things since you left? While I waited by my phone every single night in case you called to change your mind, convincing myself day after day that you were just busy until I convinced myself that I was never worth anything to you- do you know how much that hurt? Having everything I ever wanted in a person who knew me like the back of their hand and being dropped for a college party era… I…”you huffed and he kept his eyes on you, listening, but eyes sad. “I convinced myself that it was all fake because what other explanation did I have? And it’s not like I could call to clarify, you left me. And it took forever to stop having nightmares about you and even when they were dreams they hurt. I missed you more than I missed anything and you showed no signs of regret or remorse or even missing me in the slightest. You broke my heart when you left, Art. And I’ve been better.”

There was silence in the room. It lasted a minute and a half. He seemed to be taking in every word you’d said. He cleared his throat eventually and he looked more upset than he had this whole time, “It kills me that I did that to you but every day was a constant battle. No girl out there was worth it- nothing was. But we were so far apart and- fuck I have only excuses but I know I did you wrong. And I know I hurt you and I can’t undo it but I can be here now and tell you that you look just as and even more beautiful than you did then. And even after not speaking for years I feel like we never stopped. And I have never stopped having feelings for you so seeing you last night in that bar just about took me all I had to not immediately pour my heart out in hopes that maybe you would forgive me enough to let me try again.”

Try again? Your hand rested on the door handle and you looked at him in disbelief. “Art, I can’t.” You said. He was standing in front of you, looking down at you, over you. His eyes were wet, you noticed, and he was breathing just about as hard as you were as your heart pounded in your chest.

“I can live without, I know we’re older and you might have moved on,” he said under his breath. “But I’ve never stopped wanting you and seeing you has made it so apparent. I can’t escape you, so even if you walk out that door right now nothing I’ve said will change.”

“You were everything, Art,” you told him, hushed. “But you hurt me and it would be wrong to go…” He swayed closer, over you, close to you. “-Back.” Your eyes met.

“I don’t care if it kills me. It almost did leaving you the first time but if…” he swayed near again. Your lips parted and your eyes stayed trained on his. “If you let me… I wouldn’t go anywhere. If I can promise you anything it’s that I know now that I need you.”

“You’ve gone years without,” you said, standing your ground. “You’ll manage.”

“I don’t know if I will,” he sighed, his blue eyes a dark shade of grey in the dim lamplight of the hotel room. His voice stayed low. “Not this time.”

“Why?”

“I told you why. It’s been a mistake, I’ve wasted years of my life just thinking and never acting and I need you to know I still want you. You stand here and you’re questioning it but you’re at my door and you haven’t left.”

“Maybe I want to hear you out,” you reasoned, it took all you had not to stutter and stumble over your words. Your hand gripped the door handle harder, knuckles whitening. “Thank you for your apology and for telling me how you felt.”

“Thank you for letting me,” he hushed to a whisper again. In his eyes, through the focus and lock on your own, you saw his hurt. You saw how genuine he was. But the silence was still and he was close to you, too close, but just close enough. Just about as close as you were to slipping. Down the slope… “Y/N…” he trailed off.

“You missed me? You missed me…”

“Every day.” He confirmed, the gap between growing smaller every second. “And I’ll never stop being sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. You don’t have to say anything for sure, but I want to try. If you’ll let me. I would do anything to not have to miss you like this. I promise you.” His nose grazed yours, that’s how close he was. You looked up at him through your eyelashes.

“Art…” you sighed.

“Yeah?” He looked into your soul the way his eyes kept hold on yours. He wanted to smile, you could tell.

“I’m not sure.”

“I know. That’s completely fair-“

You cut him off, “I don’t know.

“I know.” He replied. “I know what I can give can match what you gave me. I want to give you everything I couldn’t, I-“

“I know,” you echoed.

“Please,” He said, the way he looked at you was so soft. His eyebrows were knit in the centre, he was pleading with only one word.

“How do I know?”

“You don’t. But you can take my word.”

“What good is your word? You said you would stay and you didn’t, you said you loved me but you were gone a week later, you swore it was us.”

He looked exasperated, “I was young. And stupid. So stupid.”

“Very,”

“I know.” He echoed again. “And I’ve known. And everything has lead me back here.”

“How do I know you won’t leave for tennis again?”

“Nothing could take me away this time,” he said, voice still hushed. You were fighting a hard fight.

“You can’t promise that,” you retorted.

“Who can?” His voice echoed around your head. Who can promise to stay? Indefinitely? Eventually someone dies nobody can ever stay forever. There will always be an eventual absence. Your heart pounded in your chest, racing, pumping hard enough you could hear it. He looked at you with perfectly parted lips and eyes that just pleaded and an expression you missed for ages. Eyes locked on eyes, trained, centred. And closeness you craved for years. You were fucked, done for.

You grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him into you. Though it wasn’t a kiss. It was the tightest embrace you could muster as he wrapped his arms around your waist, hands grasping at your sides, his other hand flat on your back, holding you close and your hands around his neck, tight. You missed this more than kissing him, you missed this more than most things. Younger you missed everything, but most, she just wanted to be held again. You thought about it for years. And his grip on you didn’t waiver one bit for the time you kept your embrace. He kept you flush against him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And he kept you that way for a long while. He didn’t want to let go, neither did you. But eventually, slowly, you both pulled away. The heat of the moment was gone and the apology was over and your heart still beat a little bit too quick. And he still wasn’t far. The silence was loud, but comfortable now.

“Can we try again?” He whispered. Plain and simple. He wasn’t asking for a promise- nobody could ever promise anything. Even you couldn’t promise. But it was him and even after years had gone by, it was always going to be him anyways. So why not?

You nodded.

#challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #challengers fic #challengers x reader #art x reader #tinytennisskirt #art donaldson fic #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson one shot

241 notes · View notes

trulybetty · 1 year ago

Text

oct x 11 - pumpkin spice

Prompt: pumpkin spice Pairing: marcus pike x f!Reader Word Count: 3,366 Warnings: this is somewhat au? I don't know how to describe it - but honestly, outside the mentions of food, just introductions to our characters 💕 Summary: maplewood, a small town nestled in northern bc where people flock to see the changing blossom trees and celebrate the fall season. after losing your job you find yourself a part of the community which includes the towns baker who left a less than stellar impression on you. AO3: Linked

A/N: this is a departure for me, this is going to be all sickly sweet and sticky sweetness - made a teeny tiny dash of angst? This will be told in three parts through the month, no promise on when the next part will be posted - but keep an eye out. Please let me know what you think, I'd love to hear it!

x. masterlist

Something Sweet, This Way Comes Part I | Pumpkin Spice

Maplewood was a small town nestled deep in the heart of British Columbia Canada, the crisp autumn air brought a sense of enchantment. The maple leaves painted the streets with vibrant shades of red and orange, and the town buzzed with anticipation for Halloween.

At the hub of it all was Maple Delights, a mainstay of the small town that had changed owners only three years ago. Before that Marcus Pike had left the FBI’s art division on the heels of lost love and disillusions for the career he once loved. Everyone always assumed he was a dab hand with creative pursuits when he would tell them he worked in the bureaus art department. And while he had studied art at college, it had been in art history. Truth was he couldn’t paint anything worth posting further than the front of the fridge, but baking on the other hand, was a hidden talent he’d always exceeded in.

So when a late night social media scroll after handing in his notice brought him to an article on the small town of Maplewood being a hidden gem in the Northern Canadian mountains. Over the following days he’d drifted back to the article several times before a Google search brought him to the small town’s website.

Then it wasn’t too much of a stretch to click on the link for the modest page of properties both for sale and rent, curiosity baiting him, only to find the town’s historic bakery up for sale.

Dashing any thoughts out of his head he’d closed his laptop with a shake of his head, it was an absurd idea. He was an early retiree of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he had no business entertaining the idea of purchasing a bakery, let alone one in seemingly the middle of nowhere Canada.

But between the calls from friends and family checking in on him with the news of his departure from the job he once dearly loved and the end of the whirlwind romance that he’d thought was the one, he found himself late each night scrolling mindlessly, glass of wine in one hand, phone in the other, back looking at the town of Maplewood.

He did have a sizable nest egg, he owned his apartment which was now in what was considered a trendy part of town and worth a lot more than when he first purchased it.

He wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him two nights later to email the town's realtor, but within the month he was the proud owner of Maple Delights and all its contents and was packing up the contents of his modest apartment and heading north.

The previous owner had passed, with adult grandchildren who lived far away in various places across the country, and who had no interest in a historic bakery in the middle of nowhere; it had been left with no choice to go up for sale by the estate.

It had taken some modernization, not so easy a feat in the far north of BC where the local hardware store was a mom and pops situation and the nearest Home Depot was three hours away, but Marcus had made it work with help from a local contractor who’d enjoyed the challenge.

The facade had undergone a drastic change too, much to the chagrin of some locals. But when it was revealed to be a homage to its original exterior, when it was first opened, there had been actual tears at the results.

The front of the store was made up of a large window and wooden framing. In cursive the bakeries name was painted across the glass. At the front were planters at the wooden windowsill, filled with roses of various shades of pinks and whites. The climbing ivy had been stripped away to allow the brick underneath to stand out, making the white frames pop all the more.

It truly was a delight to see.

Surprisingly it didn’t take long after that for Marcus to win over the town. With his natural ability for baking and his charm, he won over any naysayers to the outsider in their town quite quickly and was soon a beloved member of the community.

Your journey to Maplewood however, was nearly not as charming.

It was a gloomy Tuesday morning when you received the email that would change the course of your life. As you sipped your coffee and stared at the screen, disbelief washed over you. The subject line was blunt and to the point: ‘Termination of Employment.’

You opened the email and read the cold, corporate language that informed you of the company's decision to downsize. Your position had been eliminated, effective immediately. There was no room for negotiation, no farewell party, just a stark message informing you that your services were no longer required.

You had worked at the job for who knows how long, because it felt like forever.

In the days that followed, you wrestled with the uncertainty of your future. You tried reaching out to your network, searching for new job opportunities in Toronto, but the job market was tough, and the competition was fierce. The bills kept piling up, and you felt the weight of financial insecurity pressing down on you.

It was one of those nights where you were texting with your friend Libby, a long time resident of Maplewood after she gave up the rat race to open a bookstore in the small town years ago. That she extended an offer that was too sweet to refuse. End your rental agreement and come up north and spend some time in the great outdoors and figure out what you want to do next.

With no other choices coming your way, you did just that.

That was three months ago.

As the days passed, you found yourself slowly adjusting to the laid-back lifestyle of Maplewood. Gone were the stresses of city life and the constant pressure to perform at your job. Instead, you spent your mornings sipping coffee in Libby's apartment above the bookstore and spent the rest of your day either helping out in the store or taking a stroll around town to take in all the unique sights that Maplewood had to offer.

Black Cat Books was wall to ceiling bookshelves and every manageable space was filled with books. It was a labyrinth, but Libby could stride through it like she was born into its midst. But ask Libby where any particular title resided? You'd find that she knew exactly how many steps it took to get there.

Libby placed another book on the shelf behind her, “He’s really not all that bad.”

You sneered, “I don’t know why this whole town is obsessed with him.”

“Says the woman who is watching him from across the street and has been for the last hour.” Libby remarked, punctuated by a disbelieving look over the top of her glasses.

“I can’t help if the bakery is straight across the street,” she raised an equally disbelieving eyebrow at you, she didn't believe a word you were saying “and it’s his bakery, of course he’d be there.” you finished, crossing your arms across your chest refusing to make eye contact.

“Sure,” she dragged out her response, “whatever you say.”

You had been in Maplewood for a week when you'd run into Marcus, quite literally run into him. Crossing the main square, you may not have been paying attention, focusing on refreshing your email for leads on work as he had been stepping up onto the sidewalk, his arms full of bakery boxes obscuring his view.

“Watch where you're going much?!” You'd exclaimed, hands on your hips and glaring at him.

He'd looked up from the ground, his hands filled with ruined boxes, eyes narrowed. “Me? How could you miss me?”

“Well if you had been watching where you were going.” You countered.

He was about to launch into another tirade when he glanced at his watch. Stifling a curse he ran a hand through his hair before speaking, his voice low and gruff. “I haven't got time for this.”

With that he quickly gathered the last of the boxes and stomped off in the direction of the bakery. Your first encounter with the town's beloved baker had left nothing but a sour taste in your mouth.

Since then, you'd avoided any and all interactions with the man and fought rolling your eyes when people would speak so highly of the American who had made Maplewood his home. After all, he was the one responsible for bringing more business to Maplewood through word-of-mouth of his creations.

“Look,” Libby pointed at the sandwich board propped outside the shop, “today’s special is pumpkin spice scones, how about you go get us some and a couple of coffees?” she suggested as she pulled some money from her purse she kept under the counter.

You rolled your eyes but still took the money, guy was questionable, but his scones were to die for. Not that you would admit it to anyone.

A quick look both ways you dashed across the street. It was the start of October, a busy month for the town. Tourists would flock in to see the changing colours of the cherry blossom trees that lined both sides of the main street that led up to the town's main square outside city hall.

The weather was getting colder, and even though it was literally steps from Black Cat Books, you'd wished you'd grabbed your toque and scarf. But before you could think more about it you were outside the bakery.

The window took up most of the front of the store, vintage lettering spelling out the bakery's name Maple Delights painted across the pane. The roses that usually filled the planter boxes outside were filled with an abundance of pumpkins of various colours and sizes. Halloween decorations filled the spaces between cake stands and trays of seasonal goods punctuated by decadent cakes decorated with tiny ghosts and ghouls.

The shop bell rang as you opened the door, the bakery was cozy and inviting with its high ceilings and hardwood floors. The smell of freshly baked bread and sugar, mingled with the spiciness of cinnamon and pumpkin spice – classic scents of fall that permeated the air making your mouth water.

A bright eyed Sarah, with a book open in front of her behind the counter called out your name, “Hey there! What can I get for you today?”

You smiled and made your way to the counter eyeing the vintage blackboard that took up most of the wall behind it. The chalk sketch confirmed that today's special was pumpkin scones, “I'll take two pumpkin spice scones and two lattes, extra hot please.”

Sarah nodded as she began preparing the order. She had been working at the bakery after school and the weekends since she turned sixteen at the start of the summer. You knew this because she got paid every Friday and would dart straight across to Black Cat Books to pick a new book bringing with her treats from the bakery.

“You should try the apple cider doughnuts!” she exclaimed as she boxed up two large scones.

“That so?” You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her recommendation.

“Uh huh,” Sarah replied with a grin, “Marcus dipped them in a cinnamon maple glaze this time,” she added with a little groan of appreciation, “they're so good, and there's only just a few left.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously as if she were tempting you.

You couldn't help but smile at her infectious enthusiasm. “Well, with that kind of endorsement, why not. Throw a couple in too.”

As you waited for your order and made small talk with Sarah, you took a moment to look around the store. It was late afternoon, and the warm, soft glow of the autumn sun streamed through the window, casting a gentle light on the displays. The shelves, while not as full as they might be in the morning, still held an array of intricate desserts. More decorations of fake cobwebs, pumpkins, and ghosts adorned the shelves and countertops, adding to the bakery's seasonal charm.

In the background, the back of the bakery was open to the kitchen out back. The stainless steel counters gleamed in the soft light, and the usual cacophony of mixers that lined the back wall was silent for the moment. It was a rare sight, given the bakery's reputation for bustling activity, especially in the weeks leading up to Halloween.

Just then, a door swung open at the back, and Marcus emerged, his presence commanding attention. He was dressed in a deep orange flannel shirt, which seemed to accentuate the rich colors of the fall season. His tousled curled hair always gave the impression that he had just woken up from a nap, yet it added an effortlessly charming quality to his appearance. His patchy facial hair, seemingly ever-present, only added to his rugged charm.

You couldn't help but curse silently under your breath. Despite having no time for the man, there was no denying he was just as attractive as the sweet treats he created. It seemed as though every time you crossed paths, he had a knack for appearing more alluring.

“Hey Sarah,” he greeted the teen, “I can finish this up for you, I don't want you to miss the committee meeting for the trick or treat parade.” he said, referencing the penultimate celebration of the town's October celebrations.

Sarah's face lit up as she started to untie her apron, “Thanks, Marcus. You're a lifesaver.”

As Marcus took over your order, Sarah excused herself, heading towards the exit. Her parting words were aimed at both you and Marcus. “See you later!”

With Sarah's departure, an awkward silence settled between you and Marcus. The air seemed to crackle with the unspoken tension that had been building for weeks.

“Looks like you're stuck with me for a while,” Marcus remarked, breaking the silence with a wry smile. His tone was light, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, an undercurrent of amusement at the situation.

You nodded in reluctant agreement, realizing that there was no escape from this moment. “Seems that way,” you replied.

Marcus busied himself with finishing up your order, his hands deftly manoeuvring around cups and saucers. He poured the lattes into to-go cups before adding the last dollop of whipped cream to a pumpkin spice latte. The warm, spicy scent filled the air, mixing with the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods.

As he reached out to pass you the tray of drinks and the bag filled with baked treats, your hands brushed against each other. Time seemed to slow, the atmosphere tingling with a spark that neither of you had felt before. It was a fleeting touch, but it was enough to send a shiver down your spine, making you suddenly aware of the space between you.

Marcus cleared his throat. “I, uh, put a cranberry muffin in there. For Libby. I know they're her favourite.”

You blinked, a little thrown off by the unexpected kindness. “That's very thoughtful of you.” You reached for your purse, ready to pay for the order, “How much is it?” you asked, but Marcus waved you off.

Marcus shook his head, grinning slightly. “It's on the house. Consider it a thank-you to Libby for watching the store the other week.”

“Thank you,” you finally said, struggling to find the right words. “That's... that's very kind of you.”

Marcus shrugged, his gaze meeting yours for just a second longer than necessary. “It's what neighbours do, right?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I suppose it is.”

The bell above the door jingled, breaking the moment as more customers entered the bakery, kids trailing behind their parents, all excited for Halloween goodies. You picked up the tray and bag, suddenly aware that you had to leave, but not quite ready to break the newfound connection.

“I'll see you around?” Marcus asked, with maybe a note of hopeful uncertainty in his voice, you weren’t sure.

You smiled despite yourself, “Maybe,” you replied as you raised your now full hands in an attempt at a wave.

Marcus was about to answer when the bakery's new patrons diverted his attention and you took the opportunity to leave, your head suddenly full of conflicting feelings for the man.

Exiting out onto the street, you couldn't help but inhale deeply, letting the crisp, early October air fill your lungs in hope it would clear your head. The town's signature cherry blossom trees that lined each side of the street had traded their springtime pinks for shades of orange and yellow, a change of costume in tune with the season.

Libby looked up from the book she was reading when you stepped back into the store, “You were longer than I expected.”

You felt an unexpected heat spread up your chest to your cheeks, “Sarah was working,” you quickly threw out, “she was telling me about the book she got last week.”

Libby accepted the coffees and paper bag so you could shrug off your coat, “Ooo, cranberry muffin! My favourite!”

“Yeah, Marcus threw it in there for you.”

“So you spoke to Marcus?” she asked, an eyebrow raised in curiosity, an unmissable smirk on her face.

You narrowed your eyes in response, “Briefly.”

Libby took a bite of her scone, the noises she made boarded on the line of scandalous, “God, this is good.”

“Should I leave you and your scone alone?”

Libby grinned, crumbs of scone still clinging to the corners of her mouth. “If you leave me now, I'll name my first-born after this scone. It'll have a weird life, but at least it'll be delicious.”

You chuckled at her melodrama as you took your coffee out of its tray.

Libby grinned, “I swear to god, if I was remotely interested in men I'd be climbing him like a tree. Heck, I might just do it for the baked goods.”

You rolled your eyes, “Easy there tiger.”

“I really don't know how he's single, three years in this town and it's not like the women haven't been throwing themselves at him.”

“Well, maybe he is really too good to be true.” You countered, taking up your apparently one woman stance of your dislike of the man again as you took a sip of your coffee - biting your lip at your own groan at how a simple latte could taste so good.

Libby chuckled, “Or maybe you're too stubborn to see what's right in front of you.”

You sighed, unwilling to admit, even to Libby, that your stance on Marcus might be softening just a touch. “Let's agree to disagree, shall we?”

“Fine, fine,” Libby conceded, taking another heavenly bite of her scone. “But one day you'll see. Good things, and good people, might just come in unexpected packages.”

Your phone buzzed with a notification about a new job posting in Toronto. You glanced at it, suddenly feeling less of that earlier urgency to return to the hustle and bustle of city life. The idea of stepping back into the rat race seemed so detached from where you were now—surrounded by the rustic charm of Maplewood and its genuine, warm-hearted inhabitants.

You took another sip of your latte and stole one last look through the bookstore's window, back towards the bakery. Marcus was crouching down to hand a sugar cookie shaped like a pumpkin to one of the small kids in the bakery. The child's face lit up with joy, a mirror of the light that seemed to emanate from Marcus himself.

Maybe Libby had a point. Maybe good things did come in unexpected packages.

You put your phone down, screen facing the table, and looked back at Libby, who was now back engrossed in her book. But your thoughts weren't on job postings or the life you had in Toronto. They were here, on this little corner of Maplewood.

For the first time, in a long time, you weren’t thinking of ways to run back to your old life.

#october x 500 #autumnal offerings #something sweet this way comes #marcus pike #marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader

104 notes · View notes

bread--quest · 6 months ago

Text

just fyi i did just solve a openguessr by first cleverly noting that the road name was in both french and english so we were in canada and then noticing a tiny sign on the side of the road and zooming in enough that i could see it was a for sale sign and could make out the telephone number and note the area code and look it up. and i am single also

#wow look something original!!

25 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 2 years ago

Note

i (no, we) need an addition to the carlos sainz luis miguel universe.

Pretty please!!!! love you!!!!!

kind of love – cs55

genre: flufffff. a spin-off (of sorts? it’s not a sequel per se) to this

auds here… love u guys and listening to luis miguel gets me in a Mood. late req i’m sorry i’m sooo busy lately… xxxxx hope u like it! :)

“You never teach me anything in Spanish,” you lament. “It’s always hola or te amo.”

“Are you saying you have no need for te amo?” Carlos asks, rifling through the Madrid keychain rack to look for your name, which he gives up on after a few moments. He spots your narrowed eyes and accused face and laughs, backing off. “Kidding. I didn’t know you were interested in learning it, mi vida.” He turns to search for more novelty souvenirs.

“Of course I am,” you respond, leaning closer and pressing your chin onto his shoulder. It requires a generous tiptoe allowance, but you brave it and waddle around behind him. “It’s your language, is all—I find it beautiful. And you know all your English already!”

“Not all,” he corrects, lifting up a beer bottle shaped magnet. “Do you think Max will like this?”

“Oh, obviously.” You pause, and then laugh at a memory that enters your mind. “Yeah, remember in Canada when you totally botched your order at that brunch place?”

He groans amusedly. “Don’t tease me.”

“It’s cute,” you remind him firmly, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before disengaging from the hug to peruse the shelves yourself. There are a few cute ones, though most of them are a bit too tacky for your taste.

One bunch of them, lying on a discarded sale pile (seeing as though it’s well past February), is Valentine’s Day themed. They all have a variety of names printed on the metal, with red hearts all around them. You rifle through the Miguels, Annas, and Harrys before you luck out and find it collecting dust on the bottom of the basket.

“I found one!” You cry out, jingling the metal.

“Let’s see it,” Carlos says, but he’s elsewhere in the tiny store. You peer behind a shelf to find him rummaging through a half-off CD bin. Strange behavior, considering zero people ever use CDs for music nowadays, but you approach him anyway.

He turns briefly. “Can I see your purchase?”

“Not yet,” you say proudly. “It’s a surprise. What are you doing going through that?”

“Well, I figured since you want to learn Spanish, I’ll be your teacher. Or he will be.” He digs out a dusty CD and you scrunch your nose as you dust off the cover, revealing a Spanish man posing for the camera behind it. Carlos flicks at the printed image, clicking his tongue. “Top hits, Luis Miguel.”

“Okaaay.” You turn it over, read over the list of songs. “I was leaning more towards Shakira being my teacher.”

“Mi vida, you know I’m her biggest fan,” he begins, taking the CD from you and walking you both to the counter, “but this is the good stuff. Trust me, mi amor.”

You both pay for your tiny purchases and enter Carlos’ Golf, where he wastes no time inserting the disc into the player and clicking the console buttons to get the audio just right. You’re content to watch, smiling softly at his excitement which is no doubt more than enough for the both of you. “I assume we’re taking the long way to your house,” you tease, even if you secretly love long car rides with him.

He starts the car and laughs. “For Luis, yes.” He pauses, clears his throat. “And for you, too, princesa.”

“Nice save, baby.” You link hands, and the music starts to flow softly through the car.

And so does the singing. Where Carlos got his golden voice from, you don��t know—he didn’t sing along much to the songs you both love—but something in these songs brings it out, and it causes your heart to swell with fondness. Sure enough, the song’s in full Spanish, with the romantic guitar to match as well.

“What’s this one called?” You ask aloud, gazing at the scapes of Madrid passing you by.

He pauses his passionate belting to answer you. “Sabor a Mi,” he says. “It means… it’s a very nice love song.”

“On the subject of love and Spaniards,” you say, momentarily unlocking your hands; his moves to rest idly over your thigh. You pick out the keychain from your bag and hang it on his rearview mirror. “Like it?”

His eyes flit to them and back to the road quickly, to keep you out of potential danger. He smiles.

“I love it, amor. I only wish it read your name.” He squeezes your thigh, searches for your hand, and lifts it to his lips. While the back of your hand’s pressed to them, he begins singing again and you giggle at the ticklish sensation of it.

The song fades out promptly, and into the next one—still Spanish, still romantic, still Luis Miguel. Carlos shifts in his seat with visible excitement, mumbling somethings in Spanish out of excitement. “One of my favorites, amor! Seriously!” He hums to the lyrics, half-distracted by the road, but eventually settles into singing.

“Si antes de amar… debe tenerse fe,” he pipes, pressing his and your interlocked hands to his chest out of sheer passion. “You must learn this one. It’s called Mucho Corazon. It reminds me very much of you, you know?”

He turns onto a quiet cobblestone road, and uses it as an opportunity to gauge the love of his life’s reaction to Luis Miguel (an important moment, he supposes, in everyone’s lifetime.) And he sees you reading over the booklet of the CD, mouthing along the lyrics as the song goes. He slows his pace, watches the greenery complement how beautiful you look, just here beside him.

Be it in Spanish or English, with rhyme or without, accompanied by idyllic instruments or not, Carlos often finds himself stumped with the love he has for you. Because, simply because really, he hasn’t felt this way and so strongly for anyone else before. To him, you’re everything—you’re the song in the car, the greenery outside, the spring that tints all of Spain. You’re all the nicknames, all the small kind gestures, all of it.

You could disappear right now and he’d park the car and wait, just for you to come back. He knows it’s impossible but he’d do it, he really would. He wants, needs, loves you, all the time. All the time.

It’s strange and beautiful and he realizes now that the best way he can really put it is by singing you a Luis Miguel song. He takes one hand off the wheel to flick at the keychain, and it shines in the sunlight. He smiles to himself and continues singing. He’s sure he dreamt of this once.

��

Life takes Carlos on a path far away from Madrid. It loops him around the world and averts him away from that shabby tourist souvenir shop. He takes money out of his generous paycheck, though, to make sure it never goes bankrupt. Writes checks under an alias because if the tabloids found out, they’d wonder why, and he’d rather not explain.

Life takes you on a path far away from Carlos. It loops you into cities he hasn’t been and won’t plan to visit and averts you from Spain, from their house in the hills. You write emails to his sister sometimes if she writes first, though, to avoid being a stranger. Lie on the subject heading—Doing great in NYC/HK/Seoul/Bali—because if she knew how you really were doing, she’d ask why, and you’d rather not explain.

Life is funny, though. Because even when the connection is gone, nearly everything forgotten, it’s always sending you little love letters.

For some it’s a keychain on the rear view mirror of a brand new Ferrari. For others it’s a Luis Miguel song, nailed perfectly on the karaoke no matter the city.

#anonymous #f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader

269 notes · View notes

watercolourcritters · 1 year ago

Text

time to light the jack-o-lanterns!!

This little guy is up for sale! It makes the perfect little halloween decor, and doesn't take up a lot of space! It's a 4x4" acrylic painting on canvas board, and comes with the tiny display easel.

I'm asking for $25 CAD + $5 shipping (about $22 USD total). Shipping covers both US or Canada.

I will be putting him up on Etsy within a few days if I don't have an offer - please DM me if you'd like to purchase him!

[ID copied from alt text: A small 4x4" acrylic painting of a jack-o-lantern. It is bright orange with a toothy grin. The background is a textured purple, and painted to look like fright lines or movement lines coming out of the jack-o-lantern. The painting stands on a small black display easel surrounded by plants. End ID.]

Instagram | Etsy

#halloween #jack o lantern #art #acrylic painting #art for sale #watercolour critters art #accessible art

23 notes · View notes

justinspoliticalcorner · 6 months ago

Text

Marina Bolotnikova at Vox:

Every five years, farm state politicians in Congress perform their fealty to Big Ag in a peculiar ritual called the Farm Bill: a massive, must-pass package of legislation that dictates food and farming policy in the US.

At the urging of the pork industry, congressional Republicans want to use this year’s bill to undo what little progress the US has made in improving conditions for animals raised on factory farms. The House Agriculture Committee late last month advanced a GOP-led Farm Bill with a rider designed to nullify California’s Proposition 12 — a landmark ballot measure, passed by an overwhelming majority in that state in 2018, banning extreme farm animal confinement — and prevent other states from enacting similar laws. Prop 12, along with a comparable law in Massachusetts passed by ballot measure in 2016, outlaws the sale of pork produced using gestation crates — devices that represent perhaps the pinnacle of factory farm torture. While many of the tools of factory farming are the product of biotech innovation, gestation crates are deceptively low-tech: They’re simply small cages that immobilize mother pigs, known as sows, who serve as the pork industry’s reproductive machines. Sows spend their lives enduring multiple cycles of artificial insemination and pregnancy while caged in spaces barely larger than their bodies. It is the equivalent to living your entire, short life pregnant and trapped inside a coffin.

Ian Duncan, an emeritus chair in animal welfare at the University of Guelph in Canada, has called gestation crates “one of the cruelest forms of confinement devised by humankind.” And yet they’re standard practice in the pork industry. While Prop 12 has been celebrated as one of the strongest farm animal protection laws in the world, its provisions still fall far short of giving pigs a humane life. It merely requires providing enough space for the sows to be able to turn around and stretch their legs. It still allows the use of farrowing crates, cages similar to gestation crates that confine sows and their nursing piglets for a few weeks after birth. And about 40 percent of pork sold in California is exempt; Prop 12 covers only whole, uncooked cuts, like bacon or ribs, but not ground pork or pre-cooked pork in products like frozen pizzas. The pork lobby refuses to accept even those modest measures and has sought to link Prop 12 to the agenda of “animal rights extremists.” It has also claimed that the law would put small farms out of business and lead to consolidation, even though it is the extreme confinement model favored by mega factory farms that has driven the skyrocketing level of consolidation seen in the pork industry over the last few

For nearly six years, instead of taking steps to comply with Prop 12, pork lobbyists sued to get the law struck down. They lost at every turn. Last year, the US Supreme Court rejected the industry’s argument that it had a constitutional right to sell meat raised “in ways that are intolerable to the average consumer,” as legal scholars Justin Marceau and Doug Kysar put it.

[...]

Overturning Prop 12 would be extreme, and it could have far-reaching consequences

Several other states have gestation crate bans, but the California and Massachusetts laws are unique because they outlaw not just the use of crates within those states’ borders, but also the sale of pork produced using gestation crates anywhere in the world. Both states import almost all of their pork from bigger pork-producing states (the top three are Iowa, Minnesota, and North Carolina), so the industry has argued that Prop 12 and Massachusetts’ Question 3 unfairly burden producers outside their borders. California in particular makes up about 13 percent of US pork consumption, threatening to upend the industry’s preferred way of doing business for a big chunk of the market.

The California and Massachusetts laws also ban the sale of eggs and veal from animals raised in extreme cage confinement. Both industries opposed Prop 12 before it passed but have largely complied with the law; neither has put up the fierce legal fight that the pork industry has, led by Big Meat lobbying groups like the National Pork Producers Council, the North American Meat Institute, and the American Farm Bureau Federation.

House Agriculture Committee chair Glenn Thompson (R-PA), who introduced this year’s House Farm Bill last month, touts “addressing Proposition 12” as a core priority. The legislation includes a narrowed version of the EATS Act (short for Ending Agricultural Trade Suppression), a bill introduced by Republicans in both chambers last year to ban states from setting their own standards for the production of any agricultural products, animal or vegetable, imported from other states.

The Farm Bill language has been tightened to focus solely on livestock, banning states from setting standards for how animal products imported from other states are raised. It is less extreme only in comparison to the sweeping EATS Act, but also more transparent about its aim to shield the meat industry from accountability. At the Farm Bill markup on May 23, when the legislation passed committee, Thompson urged his colleagues to protect the livestock industry from “inside-the-beltway animal welfare activists.” The provisions slipped into the Farm Bill may have consequences that reach far beyond the humane treatment of animals. They “could hamstring the ability of states to regulate not just animal welfare but also the sale of meat and dairy products produced from animals exposed to disease, with the use of certain harmful animal drugs, or through novel biotechnologies like cloning, as well as adjacent production standards involving labor, environmental, or cleanliness conditions,” Kelley McGill, a legislative policy fellow at Harvard’s Animal Law & Policy Program who authored an influential report last year on the potential impacts of the EATS Act, told me in an email.

[...]

Why this Farm Bill faces long odds

Despite the monumental effort from the pork lobby and its allies, the odds of this year’s Farm Bill nullifying Prop 12 appear slim. Democrats, who control the Senate, oppose the House bill’s proposed cuts to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), which makes up about 80 percent of the bill’s $1.5 trillion in spending, and its removal of so-called climate-smart conditions from farm subsidies made available by the Inflation Reduction Act. Members of the House Freedom Caucus, on the other hand, are likely to demand steeper cuts to SNAP, formerly known as food stamps.

The broader EATS Act has been opposed by more than 200 members of Congress, including more than 100 Democratic representatives and several members of the Freedom Caucus; Prop 12 nullification language is not included in the rival Senate Farm Bill framework introduced by Sen. Debbie Stabenow (D-MI). Many lawmakers and other observers consider the House bill dead on arrival, which would mean that a Farm Bill may not get passed until 2025. Prop 12’s pork regulations, meanwhile, took full effect in California at the start of this year after two years of delay due to the industry’s legal challenges. After implementation, prices for pork products covered by the law abruptly increased by about 20 percent on average, a spike that UC Davis agricultural economist Richard Sexton attributes to the pork producers’ reluctance to convert their farms to gestation crate-free before they knew whether Prop 12 would be upheld by the Supreme Court.

House Republicans want to use the Farm Bill to push back against even modest improvements for animals in factory farms.

#Farming #Animal Rights #Farm Bill #California Proposition 12 #Pork Industry #Caged Eggs #Massachusetts Question 3 #Glenn Thompson #EATS Act #Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program #SNAP #Food Assistance

5 notes · View notes

oldschoolvpq · 4 months ago

Text

Tamagotchi Connection Packaging Comparison

They're here, they're here! The Japanese Connection pre-orders finally shipped from Amazon.co.jp!!

As someone who bought both and has already gone to town on an international version, I got to see both packages in person and compare them side-by-side!

(International Connection pictured is for one of my friends, I didn't actually keep the box for mine)

Anyway I'm a bit of a localization freak (and Tamagotchi helped open my eyes to the phenomenon in the first place), so I'm going to nerd out a bit...

First, the front of each package. The Japanese package is extremely colorful with a hand-drawn font. The Bandai logo in the bottom right corner where it's typically found on most of their products. The entire Connection logo is also silver foil and proportioned with the text you actually see on the toy. Japan LOVES busy packaging, and handwritten text is a bit more personal in that warm-squishy-human sort of way. (Not to mention that particular handwritten font has been in Tamagotchi's Japanese brand DNA from the very start.)

The international packaging, on the other hand, is much more uniform in its colors and text. It also has to account for bilingual call-outs for sale in both the US and Canada. Very clean, but the font is playful enough to keep it from looking too sterile. I'm not used to seeing the Bandai logo up in the lefthand corner and so tiny. Huh?? Anyway, the Connection logo has the "Tamagotchi" part nice and big to really sell the brand, while the silver foil on Connection makes the new edition look special. (I mean, I wasn't a designer on this product, but I can read the intentionality in design as well as the next person.)

The top call-out is interesting. The Japanese side reads "Let's connect via Tamagotchi!" (たまごっちでつながろー！) while the international version opts for the word "Friends". I can think of two scenarios for this choice: 1. Lack of confidence of Tamagotchi brand identity overseas 2. Making the user feel like the protagonist (Americans like agency). Fascinating.

Onto the back of the boxes. HOLY WOW that Japanese box is busy! It doesn't help that they're required by law to put all sorts of warnings, safety, and manufacturer information on about half of the box. Again, we have the many many colors and more text than you can shake a stick at.

The international version has a bit more space to breathe, probably because they can get away with this:

...instead of all that safety info. Language is kept simple and text minimal due to the need to fit both English and French, and to consider the possibility that the toy could be imported to countries where English is not the dominant language. Both boxes explain the same functions, but the international version can let it breathe a bit with the larger space and uniform color scheme.

Fun fact, the sides reflect the logo displays on the front. Japanese is all white with balanced proportions, while the international version has yellow text that pays homage to the original yellow and white Tamagotchi Connection logo from oh so many years ago.

Localization was actually taken a step further than I had initially inspected. THE ENGLISH MANUALS ARE ACTUALLY DIFFERENT BETWEEN THE TWO VERSIONS!

International manual on top, Japanese on the bottom. While basically the same instructions is there, the international version has to fit all the safety information they left off the back of the box. There's also a very subtle difference on the JP/EN version of the manual that sets it apart from the EN/FR international version:

↑ The international manual ↑

↑ The Japan-only manual ↑

This is one of the very few typos/grammatical errors this time around, but honestly, I'm glad they call attention to the fact that it's bilingual...

...and that the Japanese side has the same sentence, only for the relevant language setting! That's so neat!!

I really love small differences like this. Both packages serve their purpose in communicating to their local user base in the most efficient way possible while abiding by packaging standards in each territory. And they both house a GREAT toy!

Here's hoping we'll someday see these shell designs in the reverse territory's packaging so fans around the world can have a sip of Melon Soda!!

#tamagotchi #tamagotchi connection #localization #packaging

5 notes · View notes

tinyhousetown · 1 year ago

Text

Lincoln Tiny House (480 sq.ft.) - FOR SALE

Niagara Region, Canada

#tiny house #tiny home #home #house #niagara

20 notes · View notes

battle-of-alberta · 2 years ago

Note

Cities opinions on soup.

(dips spoon into the ask box I feel like I've been ignoring for two months)

i didnt really know how to answer this ask so i went with the first reaction i had (a statement for another statement? lol). Pencil crayons were on sale last week and I replaced a few prismas that I've been wearing down for the past 19 years (aah) so I figured this would be a good time to get back into it.

I don't think any of the cities would say no to a warm bowl of soup, especially on a cold day like today. There are two staple "Alberta" soups that I make for guests, beef and barley stew and "Ukrainian" borscht, which I will provide a (loose) recipe for below.

This borscht isn't an ancient/authentic family recipe or anything, just something that my dad and sort of tried and tested that we like and that pays some dues to ye olde heritage (and that doesn't break the bank or require a lot of special stuff for poor students like I was when I was perfecting it. It can also be made vegetarian.)

Hapo's Not Authentic But Pretty Nice Borscht That Friends and Family Say is Good

Sorry for the vague directions and measurements. Measure with your heart and the size of your pot. In Western Canada, red beet soup is basically the core of what borscht is, although in Europe red borscht and green borscht are entirely different beasts which do not share beets as a commonality.

you will need:

big pot

big knife (sharp)

cutting board

vegetable peeler if you want

frying pan (for cooking meat version)

ingredients

beets (i usually use 3 fist-sized beets, you can use more small ones)

red meat (optional) (i usually use ground beef/pork but if you can get a kubasa you should use that. you can use mushrooms instead too.)

onion

garlic

carrot

turnip and/or apple

tomatoes

2 tbsp tomato paste

water or soup stock of your choice

salt, pepper, sugar to taste

lemon juice, sour cream, dill to serve

optional: celery, potato, cabbage

instructions

If you are using meat, cook with the onions in a frying pan until no longer pink and onions are translucent. Add some garlic in there if you want. Drain and set aside.

If you want to make the beets easier to peel, you can boil them in water before peeling. Keep the water as stock for all those good beety nutrients. I usually skip this step and just peel and chop the beets and make the kitchen look like a murder scene without pre-boiling.

Peel and chop the carrots, turnips, etc. and put them in your big pot on medium heat with your chopped beets, beef, and onions and garlic. If you are using celery or mushrooms or tomatoes, you can put them in at this stage. I also will occasionally add an apple to boost the sweet/sour flavour.

Add in a couple of tablespoons of tomato paste and stir to coat, letting it caramelize a bit. You can deglaze with a bit of red wine or red wine vinegar afterwards or just use some soup stock to get everything off the bottom of the pot. Add some more garlic, treat yoself.

Add in your soup stock and bring the pot to a boil. Simmer for at least half an hour (or all day if you feel like it).

In the last 15 minutes of cooking, you can chop and add a potato if you feel like it and have room in your pot (just because russet potatoes tend to get mushy if left in too long). This is also the stage to add shredded cabbage (which I hate doing so I usually skip). I also recommend if you have them to put in some frozen pierogies (tiny and filled with cottage cheese yum) and boil them right in the soup because it really elevates the experience hehe.

Season with salt and pepper and about a tablespoon of sugar or so. You can also add in something like oregano if you want.

Serve with a dollop of sour cream, a splash of lemon juice, and maybe some fresh dill if you have some.

#projectcanada cities #pc: edmonton #hapo art #traditional art #pencil crayon #edward murphy #boab illustration #boab ask #anonymous #eds cheap like borscht shirt is one of the best silly shirts ive drawn him in lol #let me know some of your fave alberta soups #whether they be quote unquote traditional or newer

20 notes · View notes

cryotters · 2 years ago

Text

our etsy shop is open again, and to celebrate we're having a sale! use code SPRING10 for 10% off your order at checkout :)

#etsyartist #etsysale #shop update

10 notes · View notes

cheddar-baby · 1 year ago

Note

This is so specific but where did you buy that mug in your recent post with the cup of coffee and you giving the thumbs up? I have one exactly like it and I got it in a tiny west texas town

I got it from a local potter at a yearly mug sale from the art university in my city. It has "you are not here" stamped along the bottom of the mug so if yours has that somehow we got mugs from the same potter. I got mine in canada though

#ask

3 notes · View notes

dollarbin · 1 year ago

Text

Dollar Bin #7:

Art Garfunkel's Watermark,

Special Melted Edition!

Good news, people. I traveled to Portland and hit one of their dollar bins last week, emerging victorious with 10 or so new-to-me titles for a grand total of $32, and all of them are candidates for future posts. Everyone's been clambering for my take on Art Garfunkel and Bob "whoops, I just shaved off my eyebrows" Geldof, right? Please?

We'll get to good old Artie Funk in a moment, I promise. I'm sure he has a huge international following who gather in silent support every time his entire limo gets arrested for way too much pot smoke, but all you Garfolks need to just take a chill pill for a minute because there's some bad news to follow my good news, the kind of bad news that will leave you crying in your beer. (Stop reading right now and go get some beer to cry in if it's not already in hand.)

Dear reader, I left those Portland Dollar Bin records in my rental car during my trip, figuring it was all good because, after all, I was in Portland. But when I visited my stack three days later, I found the following Gertrude-chugging-the-poisoned-wine level tragedy had occurred:

Take the rag away from your face friends; now's not the time for your tears. The record above is a $1 copy of a soundtrack by Luna's Dean Wareham for a Noah Baumbach movie I'd never even heard of beforehand called Mistress America starring Barbie's very own Greta Gerwig. Nice title, Noah! What's the sequel called, Senorita Canada?

I like Sideshow by the Seashore as much as the next guy and I still remember the bizarre but edgy decision to lay Street Hassle over the climax of The Squid and the Whale so I figured $1 was a very safe investment for the soundtrack. But reading just now that the Financial Times finds that a "neo-screwball" sequence in the movie "exemplifies the film's themes of love, art, and betrayal" makes me want to melt Baumbach's entire face, so I'm no longer too broken up about the record's destruction.

Having just read that previous paragraph, my famous brother, who's surely interviewed Dean, is no longer crying in his locally sourced organic sour beer; rather he is silently cursing my woeful ignorance while hitting speed dial for Greta at the Barbie Dreamcastle so as to swiftly disassociate himself from The Dollar Bin forever. Sorry bro!

But let's move now to the real tragedy in this saga. Do you know how many vinyl copies of Fairport Convention's Live at the L.A. Troubadour are currently for sale on the internet? (We are not talking about House Full here, people, we are talking about the original release.)

Two copies. Two. Total.

That's right, while there are surely 6.4 million copies of Catch Bull at Four out there to be had, there are just two copies of Live at the L.A. Troubadour available in the whole wide universe. But last weekend I found a third one in Portland, one that no one has played or even looked at in its 50 years of Dollar Bin dwelling. That third copy was good as new and it cost $12. $12! That'll buy you half a Michelada at a Dodgers game; so finding that record and getting it at that price was as lucky as picking Mike Piazza in the 498th round.

And what did I do with this coveted find? You already know.

I melted it.

Bury the rag DEEP in your face, because I basically melted Mike Piazza. What kind of shlub am I? Next time you invite me over for drinks, don't pour me the good stuff because I'll just spill it all over your birth certificates, your Picassos and your tiny children's handwritten thank you letters, complete with heart drawings, for grandma. Rather, serve me a cheap domestic and give me a bib.

This is only my second experience with music melting. How many have you had? 25 years ago I left a CD copy of Mule Variations in my Ford Tempo and returned after a full day of work to find that the whole thing had turned into a flame broiled platter of creeping destruction. What the hell was I building, you ask? Melted Music, I respond. I was bummed back then. But that was nothing in comparison to last weekend's woe.

But I promised you good news, and more good news is coming! Firstly, my famous friend Greg's frig, located outside of Portland, was full of Miller High Life, The Champagne of Beers. So I had some.

Secondly, I soon discovered that the lower down I went in the record stack from the car the less melting had occurred.

And guess what was located far enough down to still be playable without any audible disruption? Live at the Troubadour! Sure, watching it go around on my turntable is like watching my cat try to shake off her fleas but I plan to never sell a single title in my Dollar Bin and I know that when my children inherit my dumpster of a collection they will cherish it forever and probably never even notice that my Troubadour record looks as sloppy as my t-shirt collection. So what the hell do I care?

Okay, at this point the Art Garpeople who joined this blog just to hear my thoughts on Watermark, Godfunkle's 1977 third outing as a solo artist who neither wrote songs nor played an instrument, are demanding my immediate destruction. I guess I'd better talk about the record.

So let's drop the needle already!

Uh-oh. Either Watermark is a big deal, unlistenable concept record (like Pink Floyd's The Wall) about bobbing about on the deep seas of regret, troubled water all about and nary a bridge to be seen, wherein Artie shakes his famous high tenor and the whole band way down to deepest bass every fourth syllable OR my copy of Watermark was higher in the stack of Portland heated mutilation and is now warped to the point where Gargie's version of a What a Wonderful World unintentionally sounds like What a Woooooooonderfil World.

(Yes, I mean what I said just now about The Wall. Bob Geldoff shaving his brows in the film is the best thing to say about the whole thing; Roger Waters, post Animals, makes Stephen Stills sound like a reputable songwriter.)

But relax, all you Artie G fanatics. I will ease your mi-i-ind. I'm not going to judge Watermark based on my very wavy copy. So cool your jets, adjust your giant perms and trust me. I promise to buy a second, unwarped $1 copy of Watermark and write all about it, asap.

Before we go, I must sorrowfully report one final tragic occurrence from this whole sordid episode. While hunting the Dollar Bin in Portland I had my eye out for Stephen Stills records. The fact is that at some point I need to place my entire, rapidly blossoming reputation as a Dollar Bin influencer on the line by actually listening to entire Stephen Stills records. If they are good, I'm finished. So, sadly, I've got to go out and buy some.

But the Portland store I visited, ridiculously, had marked its more than a dozen copies of Stills 2 at $2 each. Memo to the store: no one wants Stills records at $2 a pop. Ever.

The tragedy here is that I did not find any of our favorite villain's records cheap enough to buy, so I did not proceed to place them on the top of the stack in my rental car, thereby melting them out of existence. Thus the world is still saddled with copies of Stills 2.

Next time I melt music I promise to do so more thoughtfully.

(P.S. If you are still reading this, please know that my school year just started and so my pace of posting here will surely slow. My goal is to write once a week and I really do appreciate you letting me ramble. Hunting in The Dollar Bin requires your patience!)

#art garfunkel #fairport convention #stephen stills still sucks #noah baumbach #greta gerwig #pink floyd #bob geldof

5 notes · View notes

sarcatholic · 2 years ago

Text

Keeping Covid-safe at school

I might have started my new academic admin job in August with the second-worst sinus infection of my life from a gd COLD (thanks, immune dysregulation!), BUT all the students are home now, which means I've successfully made it through my first semester ever without getting sick!

At the risk of jinxing myself before the holidays, I'm going to share with you what's worked for me, so you too can enjoy your holidays with minimal risk of infection.

1. This little buddy lives in my office:

He's a Blue 411 HEPA air purifier that I got on sale at Target for $80. Every 13 minutes it cleans the air in the whole (tiny) space. My school has pretty decent air quality to begin with, but this guy gives me an extra boost — especially because I see students in my office. (Bonus: he's unbelievably quiet!)

2. I wear one of these EVERYWHERE:

The only time they come off is outdoors; or in my office and I've been alone for 13+ minutes.

I wear 3M AURA N95 respirators in high-contact settings and during periods of high transmission on campus. They're the gold-standard and have an amazing seal for maximal protection and minimal glasses fogging!

In low-contact settings and when my facial eczema flares, I wear Kimtech duckbill N95 respirators. They're softer and more comfortable than the 3M AURAs, but the seal isn't the best.

3. I require students to wear some level of protection, which I have available in a bag taped to my door. Thankfully, school policy allows faculty and staff to set expectations for the spaces they control.

4. I could probably self-test more, but home tests are increasingly less accurate as the virus gets stealthier. When I do self-test, I swab my throat. They do this in Canada and it's a lot more effective than nasal only!

I've had a LOT of close calls this semester; students have, bizarrely, come in sick, even with my remote options. But, between aggressive air sanitation, high-level self-protection, and sheer luck, I've stayed well and I hope you can too!

Not getting sick 3x year has been life-changing and I don't ever plan to go back. As one friend pointed out, self-care is community care. The state doesn't keep us safe — we keep us safe!

#we keep us safe #universal design #disability justice #covid #covid isn't over

9 notes · View notes

newstfionline · 2 years ago

Text

Saturday, May 6, 2023

Canada mulls expelling China diplomat for targeting lawmaker (AP) Canada’s foreign minister said Thursday the country is considering the expulsion of Chinese diplomats over an intelligence agency report saying one of them plotted to intimidate the Hong Kong relatives of a Canadian lawmaker. Foreign Minister Melanie Joly said her department was summoning China’s ambassador to a meeting to underline that Canada won’t tolerate such interference. She said the intelligence agency report indicated that opposition Conservative lawmaker Michael Chong and his Hong Kong relatives were targeted after Chong criticized Beijing’s human rights record. “We’re assessing different options including the expulsion of diplomats,” Joly said before a Parliament committee. Many governments, the United Nations, and human rights groups accuse China of sweeping a million or more people from its Uyghur community and other predominantly Muslim ethnic minority groups into detention camps, where many have said they were tortured, sexually assaulted, and forced to abandon their language and religion. China denies the accusations, which are based on evidence including interviews with survivors and photos and satellite images from Uyghur’s home province of Xinjiang, a major hub for factories and farms in far western China.

Smaller Banks Are Scrambling as Share Prices Plunge (NYT) A cluster of regional banks scrambled on Thursday to convince the public of their financial soundness, even as their stock prices plunged and investors took bets on which might be the next to fall. The tumult brought questions about the future of the lenders to the fore, suggesting a new phase in the crisis that began two months ago with the collapse of Silicon Valley Bank and Signature Bank, and was punctuated on Monday by the seizure and sale of First Republic Bank. PacWest and Western Alliance were in the eye of the storm, despite the companies’ protestations that their finances were solid. PacWest’s shares lost 50 percent of their value on Thursday and Western Alliance fell 38 percent. Other midsize banks, including Zions and Comerica, also posted double-digit percentage declines. Unlike the banks that failed after depositors rushed to pull their money out, the lenders now under pressure have reported relatively stable deposit bases and don’t sit on mountains of soured loans. The most immediate threat the banks face, analysts said, is a crisis of confidence.

Oil boom starts to transform Guyana (AP) Villagers in this tiny coastal community lined up on the soggy grass, leaned into the microphone and shared what they wanted: a library, streetlights, school buses, homes, a grocery store, reliable electricity, wider roads and better bridges. “Please help us,” said Evadne Pellew-Fomundam—a 70-year-old who lives in Ann’s Grove, one of Guyana’s poorest communities—to the country’s prime minister and other officials who organized the meeting to hear people’s concerns and boost their party’s image ahead of municipal elections. The list of needs is long in this South American country of 791,000 people that is poised to become the world’s fourth-largest offshore oil producer, placing it ahead of Qatar, the United States, Mexico and Norway. The oil boom will generate billions of dollars for this largely impoverished nation. It’s also certain to spark bitter fights over how the wealth should be spent in a place where politics is sharply divided along ethnic lines: 29% of the population is of African descent and 40% of East Indian descent, from indentured servants brought to Guyana after slavery was abolished. Change is already visible. In the capital, Georgetown, buildings made of glass, steel and concrete rise above colonial-era wooden structures, with shuttered sash windows, that are slowly decaying.

Beyond King Charles (Washington Post) Though the British monarchy attracts the most global attention, there are wealthier, more powerful royals among the 28 monarchs around the world. Seventeen of them are kings. Margrethe II of Denmark is the only queen. The microstate of Andorra has co-princes, the president of France and a Spanish bishop. Japan has an emperor. Brunei and Oman have sultans. Liechtenstein and Monaco have princes. Qatar and Kuwait have emirs. Luxembourg has a grand duke. And the United Arab Emirates has a president, though he is a monarch. Although Charles is estimated to have a personal net worth between $750 million and $1.44 billion, others far surpass him. Leaders in Thailand, Saudi Arabia and Brunei are estimated to be worth well over $10 billion.

Italian foreign minister calls off Paris trip after French ‘insults’ (Reuters) Italian Foreign Minister Antonio Tajani called off a trip to Paris on Thursday, saying the French interior minister had offended Italy and its Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni with unacceptable “insults”. Earlier, the French minister, Gerald Darmanin, told RMC radio that Meloni was “unable to solve the migration problems on which she was elected” and accused her of “lying” to voters that she could end a crisis over growing numbers of boat migrants. News of his comments came as Tajani was preparing to fly to Paris to see his French counterpart—a trip that was aimed partly at improving relations between the two European Union countries that have grown increasingly brittle. France swiftly issued a statement in which it sought to reassure Rome of its willingness to work closely with Italy, but it was not enough to persuade Tajani to catch his plane. It was the latest in a series of clashes between Paris and Rome since Meloni took office last October at the head of a nationalist, conservative government which has a very different world vision to that of French President Emmanuel Macron.

Kremlin accuses Washington of directing drone attack on Putin (Washington Post) The Kremlin spokesman on Thursday accused the United States of ordering what Moscow alleges was an assassination attempt on President Vladimir Putin with two drones that were sent to attack the Russian president’s official residence. “We know very well that decisions about such actions, about such terrorist attacks, are made not in Kyiv, but in Washington, and Kyiv does what it is told,” Dmitry Peskov told reporters Thursday. John Kirby, the spokesman for the U.S. National Security Council, said Peskov “is just lying.”

Russian mercenary chief Prigozhin says his forces will leave Bakhmut next week (Reuters) Yevgeny Prigozhin, leader of Russia’s Wagner Group mercenary force, said in a sudden and dramatic announcement on Friday that his forces would leave the Ukrainian city of Bakhmut that they have been trying to capture since last summer. Prigozhin said they would pull back on May 10—ending their involvement in the longest and bloodiest battle of the war—because of heavy losses and inadequate ammunition supplies. He asked defence chiefs to insert regular army troops in their place. “I’m pulling Wagner units out of Bakhmut because in the absence of ammunition they’re doomed to perish senselessly,” Prigozhin said in a statement. Prigozhin has vented increasing anger at what he describes as lack of support from the Russian defence establishment. Earlier on Friday he appeared in a video surrounded by dozens of corpses he said were Wagner fighters, and yelling and swearing at Defence Minister Sergei Shoigu and Chief of General Staff Valery Gerasimov. He said they were to blame for Wagner’s losses because they had starved it of ammunition.

Earthquake-Proof, Not Corruption-Proof: Turkey’s Needless Deaths (NYT) The building began convulsing at 4:17 a.m. Firat Yayla was awake in bed, scrolling through videos on his phone. His mother was asleep down the hall. The region along Turkey’s border with Syria was known for earthquakes, but this apartment complex was new, built to withstand disaster. It was called Guclu Bahce, or Mighty Garden. Mr. Yayla’s own cousin had helped build it. He and his business partner had boasted that the complex could withstand even the most powerful tremor. So, as the earth heaved for more than a minute, Mr. Yayla, 21, and his 62-year-old mother, Sohret Guclu, a retired schoolteacher, remained inside. At that very moment, though, Mr. Yayla’s cousin, the developer, was leaping for safety from a second-story balcony. What Mr. Yayla and his mother had not known was that the system to ensure that buildings were safely constructed to code had been tainted by money and politics. A developer won zoning approval for the project after donating more than $200,000 to a local soccer club, where the mayor is an honorary president. The building inspector said that, even after the project had failed its inspection, the developers used political influence to get the doors open. The Feb. 6 earthquake revealed the shaky foundation on which so much growth was built. More than 50,000 people died as buildings toppled, crumbled or pancaked. Guclu Bahce, the mighty earthquake-proof complex, was among them. An estimated 65 people died there.

8 Are Dead in Shooting in Serbia, a Day After School Massacre (NYT) The Serbian police arrested a suspect early Friday after an hourslong overnight manhunt for a gunman who killed eight people and injured at least 14 others near Belgrade, according to Serbia’s Interior Ministry. The attack late Thursday was the nation’s second mass shooting in two days and rattled a country still reeling from an attack at a school that killed eight students and a security guard. Hundreds of police officers had gone door to door in the search for a 21-year-old male suspect, according to RTS, Serbia’s public broadcaster. They deployed helicopters and surrounded the area where they believed he was hiding, the report said. The gunman, who was in a moving vehicle, used an automatic weapon and fled the scene, according to RTS, which said the attack took place around Mladenovac, a municipality in the southern part of the capital, Belgrade.

Press group: China biggest global jailer of journalists (AP) China was the biggest global jailer of journalists last year with more than 100 behind bars, according to a press freedom group, as President Xi Jinping’s government tightened control over society. Xi’s government also was one of the biggest exporters of propaganda content, according to Reporters without Boarders. China ranked second to last on the group’s annual index of press freedom, behind only neighbor North Korea. The ruling Communist Party has tightened already strict controls on media in China, where all newspapers and broadcasters are state-owned. Websites and social media are required to enforce censorship that bans material that might spread opposition to one-party rule.

Israelis call out perks for ultra-Orthodox in latest protests (Washington Post) Israel’s protest movement, having forced the government to pause its attempt to overhaul the national judiciary system, pivoted to other targets in demonstrations across the country Thursday, including the exemption from military service and other special privileges long granted to the growing ultra-Orthodox community. Thousands marched for a “Day of Disruption to Demand Equality” focused on the unequal burdens of citizenship and status of the ultra-Orthodox, or Haredim as they are known in Israel. Ultra-Orthodox citizens are largely shielded from the country’s mandatory draft and educational standards and their families benefit from heavy public subsidies that allow boys and men to devote years to religious study instead of working and paying taxes in the mainstream economy. Demonstrators blocked roads, lined bridges and picketed the homes of cabinet members. While many still chanted against the judicial overhaul, which some ministers are seeking to revive, most focused on other concerns, including spiking inflation and rising crime. The anger against the special status of the Haredi has long been a dynamic in Israeli politics, but it has grown more intense as the community has ballooned to roughly 13 percent of Israel’s total population, making them the country’s fastest growing demographic.

Fighting rages in Khartoum, civilians complain of being forgotten (Reuters) Heavy gunfire echoed around Khartoum again on Friday as civilians trapped by fighting in the Sudanese capital said the army and rival paramilitary forces were ignoring their plight. “It’s been four days without electricity and our situation is difficult... We are the victims of a war that we aren’t a part of. No one cares about the citizen,” said Othman Hassan, 48, a resident of the southern outskirts of Khartoum. Despite multiple ceasefire declarations, the army and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) appeared to be battling each other for control of territory in the capital ahead of proposed talks. The sudden collapse into warfare has killed hundreds, triggered a humanitarian disaster, sent an exodus of refugees to neighbouring states and risks dragging in outside powers, further destabilising an already restive region.

#headlines #news

3 notes · View notes

thescribblingtourist · 2 years ago

Text

From Chester to Cattlewash

Meet George and Barbara Wilson – unofficial Canadian ambassadors to idyllic Barbados.

Written By Richard Perry

Nova Scotia natives George and Barbara Wilson have made 27 trips to Barbados.

Driving north on the Ermy Bourne Highway it was becoming harder to keep our eyes on the road. To our right, three thousand miles of uninterrupted Atlantic swells were breaking on the beach. To our left, the sloping green hills of eastern Barbados displayed lush vegetation and the swaying leaves of breadfruit and coconut trees.

But as we passed giant Round Rock (an Instagram favourite), we saw the smiling Barbara Wilson, waving from her lawn in front of the big green cottage she had told us to look for “just across from the rock.”

We’d arrived in Cattlewash, named years ago when farmers walked their cattle down to the beach so saltwater could provide some relief to fly bites. These days it is a tiny rural neighbourhood serving two ends of the age spectrum: retirees looking to get away from it all and hipster surfers from around the world who ride giant waves in international competitions.

“Welcome to Cattlewash. Come on in.” said George. “May I offer you a drink…rum punch perhaps?”

The Wilsons have lived in several Maritime communities during their careers, but now make their home in Chester, Nova Scotia.

George is a tall, boyishly handsome 84-year old, a former head of sales for Kraft/General Foods in Atlantic Canada. With his velvety smooth, measured voice he could pass for a diplomat, well-suited to moving in high circles.

Barbara, now 80, was a nurse and wound care specialist who trained at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal. More than once she’s had to treat friends on the island for everything from heat stroke to burns from a leaking gas stove.

Like her husband, Barbara has fallen in love with the Bajan people and their lifestyle.

“On some level, we equate it to the openness and friendliness of Newfoundland, which we both love,” she said. In their sailing days, they cruised the southwest coast, visiting outports and making friends with locals who helped tie up their boat. One couple invited them to their wedding.

We’d been tipped off about the Wilsons by fellow Nova Scotian John Cavill, a retired Air Canada public relations executive and a current representative for Barbados Tourism Marketing, Inc. In a country that relies heavily on tourism dollars and foreign exchange revenue, loyal repeat vacationers like the Wilsons are routinely feted at glitzy events hosted by the Prime Minister. This year marked their 27th trip to ‘Little England.’

“At our reception, two children in their school uniforms opened our car door,” said Barbara. “They were so polite and engaging. Inside, we were met with steel pan drums and children singing Beautiful Barbados.”

Beautiful, beautiful Barbados Gem of the Caribbean Sea Come back to my island Barbados Come back to my island and me.

Please me come back where the night winds are blowing Come back to the surf and the sea You’ll find rest, you’ll find peace in Barbados Come back to my island and me.

“We shook hands with Prime Minister Stuart that night. I told him we’re from Nova Scotia, and that along with Newfoundland we’ve always had a wonderful history of trade with Barbados. I said ‘We always sent salt, fish and lumber. In return, you gave us rum and sugar. We got the better part of that deal!’”

The Prime Minister of Cattlewash

Not five minutes into our hors d’oevres and rum punch, it’s clear why this Canadian couple has no trouble filling the cottage with guests. They are gracious hosts and love to share stories. Their friendships with Bajan neighbours and other vacationers have led to some creative hijinx.

“We have had fun jokingly forming our own government at Cattlewash,” said George. “We had a prime minister who was from Montreal, a Dr. Doug Kinnear who was the doctor for the Montreal Canadiens. He and his wife Katie have been down for about ten or fifteen years, living near us. So we had our ‘government’ meetings'. Barb, as a former nurse, was going to be minister of health. I was minister or tourism or something along those lines.

“Unfortunately, Doug died just last year. So last night at our party we held our glasses up to honour Prime Minister Doug Kinnear of Cattlewash. He was a colourful character. He always had stories about the Habs.”

Dr. Doug Kinnear, the Prime Minister of Cattlewash, treats Habs captain Bob Gainey. Photo credit: Globe and Mail

I found an obituary of their friend. He led the Canadiens’ medical team from 1962 to 1999. During that time, they won an impressive 12 Stanley Cups.

All roads lead to rum

It’s said of Barbados that wherever you see a church, you’ll find at least one rum shack nearby. We checked. It’s true. There are said to be as many as 1,700 rum shacks – on an island only 21 miles long by 14 miles wide!

I was curious if our new friends were fans of the tried and true Bajan rum punch recipe of one part sour, two parts sweet, three parts strong and four parts weak. “Actually, we leave out the weak…the water or juice. Ice cubes are all you really need.”

Seated on their patio, with the ocean in full view and a noisy surf soundtrack, we got into some good stories. Like the time they showed up in the local church, the only whites in the congregation, and the pastor, Father Matthias, invited them to stand up and announce to the flock who they were and where they were from.

“We gave our names and where we’re from in Canada,” said George. “It was pretty quiet. I told them we came because of the warmth of the people, who are very special and then added that we also came for … the Bajan macaroni pie. That’s when they got excited and broke into applause.”

An inauspicious welcome

George still recalls their first day in Barbados back in the late sixties. “In all our excitement, in the darkness I rushed into the water and had no sooner stepped in when I told my friend Bill, a doctor, that I thought a shark had bitten my foot, the pain was that bad. I had stepped on sea urchins. I had 40 barbs in each foot. I spent two weeks with my feet in buckets trying to get them out.”

In Barbados, everything is close. At 432 square kilometres (166 square miles), the entire island covers roughly the same area as St. John’s, Newfoundland. One minute you’re facing the calmer waters on the west coast, where play is the order of the day. Pasty white tourists, mostly from the United Kingdom, Canada and the United States fill the beach chairs and restaurants.

The Wilsons’ front yard view, where the Ermy Bourne Highway skirts the Atlantic Ocean in eastern Barbados.

But head a few miles inland and the landscape changes dramatically. The terrain rises through sugar cane fields, past roadside neighbourhoods (with ubiquitous rum shops) past an occasional long-abandoned windmill. When you climb Cherry Tree Hill facing the wild east coast, the view is stunning – one of those stop and stare moments. It’s hard not to imagine the country’s colonial past and these very fields where slaves worked unbearable days in oppressive heat.

Soon, the twisty, bumpy roads wind down toward sea level and the untamed east coast where the Wilsons have found their Shangri-La, where it is quiet and scenic – just the way they like it.

George and Barbara point to where they like to go for walks. Cattlewash has a beautiful one mile stretch of unbroken beach – said to be among the longest in Barbados.

“We’ve stayed in Sunset Crest in Holetown, and we like to visit,” said Barbara. “and we’ve had a safari tour into places that are like jungles, so dense and gorgeous. But when we come over that hill and in view of the sea and feel the trade winds, ahhh…coming down the hill…everything falls off and it is so lovely seeing the sea.”

-30-

#Barbados #AirCanada #bajan #travel #Bathsheba #MyBarbados

3 notes · View notes