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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

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Northern Exposure | Bucky // End

❄ PART 4 OF THE MINI-SERIES ❄

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Warnings: non consent sex and rape (series); violence, creepiness on part of our boys, predatory behaviour, Bucky’s an asshole, they’re all too lonely and too desperate, mistaken identity, spanking, binding, death, mentions of brainwashing.

This is dark! fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, A Bad Time x Reader

Series Synopsis: You’re a nature photographer stationed up north but the arctic isolation comes to an unexpected and unpleasant end.

Note: I'm gonna be away dealing with lots of personal issues but will see yall when I get back and look forward to it.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You were dazed as Steve pulled the tee shirt back over your head. He sat you in the same chair he made you fuck him on and you stared at your palms as he moved around. Your body didn’t feel like yours. You bent and unbent your fingers as you tried to feel anything but the buzzing rawness in your core. A plate clinked loudly on the table and you raised your head.

Steve pulled up a chair around the side of the table, his knee almost against yours as he sat, “you have to eat.”

You blinked at the dry looking chicken breast on yellow rice with overcooked corn and peas. He took the fork and you reached for it and he quickly batted down your hand.

Confused, you parted your lips and he cut into the chicken. He scooped up a forkful and held it out to you carefully, his hand cupped under it to catch any spills.

“It’s hot, blow on it,” he said.

You felt hollow and your brain could only think of the food as the scent made your stomach clench hungrily. You blew carefully on the fork and let him slide it into your mouth. He repeated it, again and again. Each bite was easier and despite the odd texture of the food, you didn’t mind the taste.

When the plate was cleared, he set down the fork and unfolded the paper napkin. He wiped your mouth, his finger tickled your bottom lip and he hummed. He handed you the bottle of water and leaned back as he watched you drink.

“You gotta keep your energy up,” he said, “it’s our fault. We’ve neglected you.”

You put the bottle down and shrunk in on yourself. It was all fucked. The more you sat there across from this man, the more your chest felt as if it would collapse. You lowered your head again and traced the line of your palm with your thumb.

“You need to sleep, I know Sam didn’t let you do much of that,” he said, “admittedly, I was selfishly impatient,” he stood and you watched him cross the room. He took the throw from over the back of the couch and looked over his shoulder at you, “come on. You should at least try.”

You didn’t move. You hung your head and swayed slightly. Everything around you was blurry, the air felt fuzzy, and your skin pricked with terror.

“Sweetheart--”

“Don’t call me that,” you hissed, “I’m not… not that. What you’re doing--”

“Over here right now,” his tone was stern and unyielding, “don’t make me repeat myself.”

You clenched your jaw and glanced over at him. His hand was on his hip as his eyes bore into you and the vein in his forehead made you flinch. There was a tenuous wire wound tight between his good side and his bad side.

You rose and ambled over to him clumsily. Your thighs rubbed together painfully and the effort made your pelvis ache. He grabbed your shoulder and guided you down onto the couch. He threw the blanket over you and tucked in the sides, his hands crawled over it and he felt your curves through the warm layer.

“Oh…” he retracted his hand and stood straight as he poked his tongue out and watched you, “I…”

You turned onto your side and tried to ignore him. Sleep might be your only escape from that hell.

“Are you…” he hesitated, “I came in you. Are you on… something?”

You sniffed and rolled so that your back was to him. You whimpered as your thigh hit each other and pulled the blanket to your chin. You wanted to vomit up all the food he’d just fed you.

“I need to know,” he touched your shoulder, “if you’re not--”

“I have an implant…” you mumbled.

“Implant?” he repeated.

You stared at the back of the couch. Was he really that stupid?

“They put it in your arm. It’s good for a couple years,” you shrugged, “don’t worry, you’ll only be hurting me.”

You heard him swallow. He was quiet and his footsteps trailed softly away from you.

“I’m taking care of you,” he said, “you’re lucky I am because Sam doesn’t give a shit and Bucky would sooner throw you out in the snow.”

You didn’t answer. You covered your head with the blanket and closed your eyes. You were so exhausted, so sore, so worn out that you could only think of sleep. You wanted to forget about the man behind you and the two others wandering out on the tundra. You wanted to pretend for the little time you could that everything was normal.

❄

The door woke you and sent you back into a spin. You huddled under the blanket and nestled further into the cushions as the boots clomped and a heavy dragging scratched the floor. You focused on keeping even breaths as the lock buzzed back into place.

“This was at her door,” a knock on wood followed Bucky’s voice and you could guess that your weakly crate of groceries had arrived, “it’s gonna be a while before anyone knows she’s gone.”

“Shh,” Sam hushed.

“She’s awake,” Bucky spat back, “I can hear her heart going.”

You cringed and slowly sat up. You looked over at the men as Steve helped Bucky pull the lid off the crate. Sam smiled at you and unzipped his jacket, “how are you doing, baby?”

“Fine,” you murmured and pushed yourself into the corner of the couch and folded yourself up beneath the blanket.

“Real milk,” Bucky declared as he pulled out the carton, “and bread.”

“Who brings all this?” Steve asked as Sam unlaced his boots, watching you as he impatiently undressed.

“The depot,” you answered.

“The depot? And they know you’re up here?”

“They get my money and they bring up what I order,” you grumbled, “I doubt they care as long as they’re paid.”

Steve nodded and shared a look with Bucky. Sam rounded the couch and sat beside you, he played with the edge of the blanket as you kept as far from him as you could. The other two kept sorting through the haul.

“Go back tomorrow, get the radio,” Steve said, “and we’ll have her place another order.”

Bucky looked at him quizzically then continued reading the side of a can of chili, “and why should I do that?”

“We’ll have her check in with her boss, tell them she’s safe,” Steve said, “she is, really.”

“No,” you said, “I won’t, I’ll--”

The can barely missed you and bounced off the wall. You looked behind you and eyed the dent as you pushed yourself up on the arm and the blanket fell away from you. You shook as you faced Bucky.

“You can’t trust her,” he said as he turned back to Steve, “you both know that and now you want to give her a radio--”

“Baby,” Sam grabbed your ankle and drew you back down onto the cushion. His arm snaked around you and he caressed your cheek as he held you to him, “it’s okay.” He tensed and peered over his shoulder, “do it again, jackass, and it’ll be thrown right back at you.”

A low growl followed and then the rustle of the groceries. A silence pervaded the bunker and made you shiver. Sam lifted the blanket over you again and held you tighter. He rocked you as he placed your head on his chest.

“You just gonna let her sit around on the couch all day? Lay on her back all night as we’re out there--”

“She’ll cook,” Steve asserted, “won’t you, sweetheart?”

You didn’t respond as you listened to Sam’s heartbeat and inhaled his scent. His touch made your skin crawl but his strength made you stay.

“I can take care of myself,” Bucky insisted.

“What the fuck is your problem, man?” Sam snarled.

“You know what the problem is,” Bucky retorted, “you fuckin’ know.”

“Buck,” Steve warned.

“He gave me bad intel,” Bucky’s boots hammered towards you, “just so he could have his little plaything.”

Sam slid you away from him and stood to stand chest to chest with his fellow agent. You gaped up at them as Steve came close and put his hands on their shoulders.

“Enough,” Steve warned.

“No, I could have killed her because this asshole lied, I could--”

“And you offered to kill her anyway,” Sam pushed Bucky, “so what the fuck’s the problem?”

“This is a mission, not a vacation,” Bucky sneered, “Hydra is still out there, Ursa is probably laughing at us right now--”

“It’s about the mission?” Sam challenged, “really? You didn’t care three days ago when you tried to run back Stateside.”

“Shut up,” Bucky snapped.

“You shut up, man,” they shoved each other at the same time and Steve got between them.

“Hey, both of you,” he pointed at them and looked from one to the other, “stop. Right now.”

Bucky roiled and Sam glared back at them as the other man barely kept them apart. One wrong move and it would be a full blown fight.

“You know what will happen, Steve,” Bucky’s voice cracked, “you know I can’t control it.”

“Only if you keep holding back,” Steve lowered his voice and waved off Sam, “she’s good, she’s obedient.”

“She’s scared,” Bucky said, “and that means she’s unpredictable.”

“Then help us, help us train her,” Steve said.

“No, I can’t,” Bucky shook his head, “not-- last time--”

“We’re here now, we won’t let it happen again,” Steve coaxed as Sam retreated, “but you keep doing this and it will.”

You stood slowly as Sam went to the crate and reached in. He took out a chocolate bar and smiled. You crept along the wall and a floor board gave away your movement. All three men looked over at you.

“I… need the bathroom,” you breathed.

Steve nodded and waved you on. He turned back to Bucky and grabbed his arm. He lowered his voice as the latter’s blue eyes peeked over at you. You couldn’t hear what he was saying but the way Bucky stared made you tremble. You scurried away and hid inside the bathroom.

You inhaled as your nerves bounced off each other. You listened through the door and your blood chilled.

“It’s different,” Bucky said, “if it was Ursa, she’d deserve it.”

“You won’t hurt her, that’s not you,” Steve argued, “she’s a good girl.”

“He doesn’t care,” Bucky gritted, “he doesn’t listen.”

“Bucky…” Steve sighed, “there’s no him, only you.”

“I can’t,” Bucky said, “not yet.”

❄

Two more days, you thought it was only two. They passed slowly but in a blur. Your time was marked by the little chores given to you by Steve; you cooked the meals, blending your farmer’s haul and their military dry freeze rations and you tidied up to keep yourself busy and try to evade them. It didn’t matter, your work could wait until they had their pleasure.

A routine was put in place. You ate with the men and when they left in the morning, you slept until the afternoon, then you got up and cleaned and cooked. When they returned, you ate again and after supper, Sam or Steve took you into the bedroom. By the time the others retired, you were settled under the arm of your respective tormenter.

The fourth morning was particularly chilly. Sam and Steve woke up early and whispered in the dark. That night, you’d been trapped against Steve’s hot body but despite that, Sam bent to kiss your cheek. Steve placed a folded shirt in the empty spot beside you.

“You can wear that today,” he kept his voice low as the other super soldier continued snoring, “me and Sam have to go out on the ice. We’ll be back late.”

You nodded and looked past him to Bucky’s sleeping form, a lump in the dark.

“He has his own work but it’s early still,” Steve assured you, “he doesn’t like the water but we need two men.” Steve bent and rubbed your cheek, “just keep your head down and he’ll be gone before you know it.”

You were quiet as they left. You heard them readying in the other room and the heavy front door of the bunker signalled their departure.

You laid in the dark and thought of the third man. You could still recall that ominous conversation and the fire in his eyes every time he looked at you. You quivered as you thought of how he avoided you, stalking along your peripheral like a predator. Salivating but hesitant.

You couldn’t figure out what it all meant. You only knew that it couldn’t be good. Whatever scared Bucky about himself terrified you even more. Sam and Steve even seemed reluctant to push him too far, as if afraid they would trigger something uncontrollable and that fed your fear further.

You didn’t want to be there when he woke up. You sat up and pulled on the long sleeved tee. You crossed your arms and stood, keeping your head down as you stepped between the bed. A sudden movement in the dark made you flinch and you realised the snoring had stopped. Bucky caught your wrist before you could get to the end of the bed.

You spun back to him as he sat up and clung to your arm. You stared at him through the black as his metal grip squeezed tighter. You shook and tried to pull away.

“They’re going to keep you,” he said quietly, “nothing I can do about that.”

“Please, let me--”

“I don’t want to kill you,” he continued, “I only said it because I hoped it would keep it from happening. That they might leave you there so I wouldn’t.”

“What--”

“I can’t help it,” he pulled you until your knee hit the mattress, “I try not to go that far but--” He yanked until you fell forward across his legs, “he wants you.”

“Bucky--”

“Not me,” he held your hip as his other hand rubbed your ass, “the soldat.”

He lifted his hand and struck your ass. You cried out and fought as you tried to push yourself up. He grabbed the back of your neck and wrenched you up, getting to his knees as he turned and forced you flat across the bed.

“They never let them live,” he whispered as he straddled you, “they made me kill them but if I didn’t fuck them, they couldn’t control me… him.”

“I don’t know what--”

“Maybe… maybe I can try…” his lips brushed your own as he bent over you, “I hear you with them and I want to try.”

“Bucky,” you touched his metal hand as it stretched along your throat, “please, you can let me go-- you can--”

He squeezed until your voice turned to a wisp and you rasped loudly as you tried to breathe.

“They’ll find you even if I do,” he said, “or make me find you.”

“Pl--” you coughed and grasped his fingers as your eyes watered.

He pushed off of you suddenly and you gasped for air. He grabbed your ankles and you yelped as he dragged you off the bed. Your back hit the floor and knocked the wind out of you. You sputtered as he pulled you through the door. The light of the front room shone in halos in your vision and he stopped in front of the low table before the couch.

He let you go and jabbed you with his toe, “don’t move.”

He retreated and you rolled onto your side. You sat up and glanced at the door. He opened a drawer and you stood shakily. He was going to kill you, he said so himself. You didn’t think about it long as you raced to the door and tried to twist the handle. The pin pad beeped and you tried to force it. You grunted as you heard him behind you.

The beeping grew louder and kept on. The alarm made your ears ring as he hauled you back. He forced you onto the coffee table, flat on your stomach as he tore your wrists down to the legs of the table. He wound a zip tie around each and moved back. You kicked out and he caught your ankles, bending your legs around the side of the table to bind them too.

You straddled the table, your chest heavy against the wood as he moved to disarm the alarm. His tee shirt fluttered to the floor as he tossed it in front of you. He chuckled darkly and paced around you as he toyed with the elastic of his sweats.

“This is what Hydra did, they tied the women down, had a special device for it,” he reached and tickled your spine, “but this will do.”

“Please, why--”

“They did what they could… the doctors in Wakanda. They tried to get it all out but… there’s things you can’t shake,” he slapped your ass and the whole table jolted, “those things are often what you need most.”

He spanked you again and your skin burned from his vibranium palm. You whined and let your head hang over the edge of the table.

“Please, it’s not too late, Bucky,” you begged, “you don’t want this--”

“I can’t be like them,” he interrupted, “I can’t be nice.”

“Please--”

“I’m going to break your jaw if you don’t shut up,” he smacked your ass and rounded the table again, “you can’t blame me, they wanted you.”

You gulped up air and shook your head. You heard the rustle of fabric and he kicked away his sweats. He went to the foot of the table and bent to grip it one either side of you. He sat on the wood between your legs and kneaded your thighs.

“They think you can fix me,” he rubbed your ass and slapped it with both hands, “but they don’t know.”

He gripped your hips and lifted himself. He held himself up with one hand on the table and felt along your ass as he bent his legs over yours. The table felt brittle beneath his weight. He pushed down your folds with his fingers and shoved two inside of you. He pulled in and out until your body slickened for him.

He tutted and dragged out of you and up to your ass. He spread your wetness around your tight ring and hummed.

“They haven’t touched this, have they?” he taunted and poked his finger against your hole.

You clenched your teeth as he pushed inside and you whimpered as he reached his knuckle. Even as little as that hurt and your body quaked from the intrusion. He pulled out as pressed two fingers to your ring. He forced them both inside and fingered your ass slowly as you groaned in agony.

“This will be just for me,” he rasped, “they can have your cunt.”

You pulled on your wrists until the plastic cut into your skin. His hand sped up and you tensed around his fingers. He groped your ass with his other and hummed.

“You’ll only make it worse,” he said, “not that it really matters to me.”

“You said-- you didn’t-- want-- to-- do this--” you puffed through the pain.

“I never said I didn’t want to fuck you,” he snickered.

“It hurts… Bucky--”

“I told you,” he pushed deep until his knuckles met your ass, “shut up.”

You swallowed your voice and he moved free hand up under your arm and leaned over your. He slid his fingers out of your ass and guided his tip along your tight ring. He held his breath as he pushed inside of you just a little and you exclaimed. He stretched you painfully as his metal fingers framed his dick as he eased further in.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “oh fuck,” inch by inch, the pain intensified and when he was his limit, you were sobbing.

His hand grazed your shoulder and he gripped your throat as he pressed his body flush to yours, his legs bent beside your ass. He rocked atop you as his other hand came up to meet his other. He encircled your neck and squeezed as he kept his hips moving.

He purred and his hot breath tickled your scalp. Through all the pain, you felt a plucking, deeper than anything before. You coughed as his fingers twined and he choked you harder. He sat up and pulled your head up as he kept his hands around your throat. He arched your back painfully as your arms strained against the ties.

He jerked his hips roughly. All patience was gone as he tilted into you rampantly and panted hungrily. Your eyes rolled back and your tongue lolled out as you wheezed, barely breathing as his fingers got firmer and firmer.

“This is it, doll,” he snarled, “this is how it ends… every time.”

He pounded into you and tremors of agony rolled through your body. Your eyes closed as your mouth grew arid and bitter. Your head throbbed as he sped up, flesh clapping so loudly it was all you could hear. Your body spasmed as you felt the strength leaving you, as the air drained entirely from your lungs, and sand filled your limbs.

Your head sagged over his hands and you bit your tongue without feeling it. Your body spasmed as he didn’t let up. You surrendered to the darkness as it closed it and promised to dull the torture, to end it all. Your body went limp over the table and the heat of his flesh and the roughness of the wood faded away.

You sank into the endless abyss and welcomed its embrace. It was over, all over. You were free.

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #sam wilson #dark steve rogers #dark!bucky barnes #dark sam wilson #dark bucky barnes #dark!steve rogers #dark!sam wilsom #dark!fic #fic #marvel #mcu #dark fic #series #captain america #winter soldier #falcon #northern exposure

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passivenovember · 3 years

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If Snow Loves the Trees and Fields.

Billy's job at Willowbrook Elementary is the only reason he puts up with this weather at all.

His hatred for winter, a season which hardly existed when he taught in the Valley, morphs and becomes something violent on the first Monday after Christmas break.

He wakes up feeling like his toes have gone missing, frozen black and blue with the cold, and after his phone tells him it's below zero outside, with wind-chill, his heart stops beating.

Hawkins is -10 degrees, to be precise.

And it leaves him feeling like that's gotta be illegal, or. He could for sure call all the scientists on Earth and have a law passed that clarifies: those born and raised in a Southern climate get a free pass on days when Hell is actively freezing over.

But it's not snowing today. And all the ice on the street has been scraped into terrible, disgusting drifts that block his driveway, and Hopper would immediately call bullshit. All, gonna have to suck it up if you wanna live here, buttercup.

So Billy decides to be an adult, or whatever. He spends another five minutes on his phone definitely not stalking his ex Instagram before rolling out of bed to get dressed.

And, like.

Even his underwear drawer is stiff from the cold so Billy decides to bundle the fuck up--a trick he learned from Max last fall, during the coldest year Indiana had ever seen. He manages to stack five layers in total; one pretty pink thermal set just brushing his his skin and a button down shirt to stave off the goosebumps. A sweater and jeans for professionalism. One Grateful Dead hoodie, because it makes him feel like he's not a total sell out, and a thick winter coat, sent special from the snow capped mountains of California this Christmas.

It still smells like his mom's pikake lei perfume.

Billy tries not to think about that, of home, on a day when he'd give his left nut for a ray of sunshine.

Instead, he spends ten minutes filling his thermos with coffee. Boiling the rice milk more than once so it'll stay warm on the ride across town. He sticks his pinky under the lip after his third go, and fuck that shit is so hot it will burn his mouth tomorrow, before checking the weather app again for closures.

Hoping against hope that something has changed in the last five minutes.

Of course, nothing has.

The superintendent believes that everyone in Hawkins is somehow used to temperatures that makes their eyelids freeze shut in the thirty second walk to the car in the morning. Billy jams a knit cap on his head and seriously considers calling in.

A last ditch effort to quell the rising fury in his veins, that like.

He's gonna have to scrape his windows, and freeze his dick off, and deal with the neighbor.

The one who looks like he doesn't mind the cold so much because he carries the sun with him, fucking asshole.

People shouldn't be wandering the streets when their eyelids could freeze shut, right?

Billy checks his phone one more time, frowning at a text from Joyce to pick up some coffee on your way in, and tosses his bag over his shoulder before he can change his mind.

It's so much worse than expected.

Billy's lungs seize up on his second intake of fresh air because no one should be huffing sulfur or gaseous ice or whatever the fuck this shit is first thing in the morning. On a Monday. The first one after Christmas break, and.

"God damn, holy shit, holy shit," Billy bounces the whole way to the Camaro, breath coming in short, comical bursts of steam that make his nose run. He swipes dramatically at his face, struggling to get his keys into the lock while balancing his thermos on one arm and his messenger bag on the other.

Billy's in the middle of forcing the door open, its hinges are frozen solid with ice goddammit, when Steve fucking Harrington appears like a cloud on the wind.

"Howdy neighbor," Steve says. Like they're cowboys in a shitty film from the 1970s. The wind kicks a lock of brown hair into Harrington's face and he shivers. "Wow, it's really blowing out here, huh?"

Midwesterner's love doing that.

Pointing out the obvious.

Billy grumbles a response, flinging his car door open and jamming the keys into the ignition.

Steve's saying something.

Talking like always, about his cat or maybe the beer they keep saying they'll have together, and generally Billy puts up with it but not today. He isn't going to freeze to death for a pair of legs.

The Camaro roars to life, clearly pissed at having to work on such a disgusting day, and. Alright. Letting your car "warm up," is something so Midwestern Billy can't even talk about it.

It takes him all of two minutes to scrape his windows, electing to carve holes in each wall of ice rather than clear the whole thing. The metal handle of the scraper Max got him feels like the ninth circle of hell against the peachy skin of his fingers.

He should've bought some mittens.

Joyce is always saying he needs mittens, he should've asked for some--

Billy tosses the scraper into his back seat and climbs in, slamming the door shut behind him and cranking the heat up to high. Steve's watching from next to the fence in a fucking pea coat, and a scarf with care bears on it and.

Nothing else.

Fucking asshole.

Steve waves at him, like; hey I'm talking to you. Frantically, like the mouse Mr. Bane caught last week is important.

But Billy's too busy trying to back out of the driveway with five layers of shit restricting his movement. He cranks the music up and cautiously pulls onto the street. Nice and smooth like he's seen Steve do effortlessly, even with three inches of ice on the ground. Fucking asshole.

Billy makes it halfway before he hits something.

The wind kicks hair into his face as he assesses the damage.

"You should've scraped your driveway last night." Steve says helpfully.

He's got a cigarette hanging from his lips, stark in contrast to the weird home made scarf he's got folded around his neck. Billy tries not to think about Steve's lips as he makes his way to the back of the Camaro to see that, yup.

Of course.

His baby is stuck in the snow. Billy kicks the tire. Like that'll fix anything.

"That's not gonna fix anything." Steve says, leaning against the fence.

"Jesus, fuck. I know, Steve." Billy scrubs a hand across his face, gesturing to the Care Bear scarf. "Why the hell are you wearing that thing, you look like a fruit."

"I am a fruit."

"Well you look like the whole goddamn bowl, pretty boy." Billy digs around for a cigarette. "My kindergarteners don't even fuck with the Care Bears enough to own scarves." Billy squints, assessing Steve from head to toe, delighting in the awkward squirm of his limbs. He clicks his tongue, disappointed. "Couldn't look any fruiter if you tried."

Steve shrugs his shoulders, like. Don't yell at me, this isn't my fault.

And okay.

He's cute.

Billy gets struck by that every time he sees the guy, all over again, like. His profile is perfect. Sharp nose, pretty eyes. Thick lips.

Steve holds out a cigarette.

Billy takes it.

"One of my residents made it for me. He's learning how to flat pattern." Harrington says shyly. "Well, he made it for his grand daughter, but. It turned out worse than he expected so I offered to take it."

Billy squints. "The fuck does that mean?"

"Just means I was trying to be nice--"

"No, the." Billy grins in spite of himself. "The flat patterning, what's that?"

Steve shrugs again. "I'm not sure, I think it's like. A sewing term. Or something." A pretty blush the color of Steve's scarf spreads across the bridge of his nose. It looks like strawberry ice cream and Billy.

Has to look away.

"My mom sews," Billy says gruffy. "I've never heard her say that."

"Well, maybe she drapes?"

Billy squints again. "What?"

"Draping. That's another thing people do--"

Billy stamps the cigarette out and kicks his tire again. Steve jolts, like. Billy tried to kick him or something, which just makes the situation worse.

"God, they should've cancelled classes." Billy states. Well, screams, to no one in particular. "Who wants to go to work in the snow, who fucking. Likes this white bullshit?"

Steve leans against the fence and looks thoughtful. "I love the snow."

"You're not helping."

"You asked."

"No, I didn't." Billy shoots back. He digs his cellphone out and shakes his head. "Why are you still here, Harrington? Don't you have old people to take care of?"

Steve chuckles again. Light, like Christmas bells. "Don't you have screaming brats to teach?"

"My car's kinda stuck in the snow, you fucking dick." Billy's so focused on trying to order a lyft that he doesn't waste time on pleasantries. He expects that to be the end of it, when the wind picks up and he swears again, but. Steve just moves closer.

"Let me drive you." Steve says.

And.

The moment sort of hangs there.

In the two years that Billy's lived next to the guy, they've never hung out. Never house sat for each other, never spoken outside the occasional could you make sure your idiot friends don't block my driveway, and empty promises to grab a beer sometime.

So the offer catches him off guard.

Billy glances up from his phone, confused, to find Steve looking everywhere but at him. Harrington's shifting his weight, like. He's fucking nervous, or something.

Or maybe hoping Billy will say no because he's just being polite.

Billy glares.

Of course he's just being neighborly. Charitable. That's what Midwestern assholes do.

Billy waves his phone in the air, like, "I'm ordering a lyft." And it comes out sharper. More aggressive than he means it too, but Steve doesn't seem to notice.

"Just ride with me, it's on the way."

Billy points at the screen. "Jason will be here in ten minutes."

"What's Jason got that I don't have?" Harington quips, and.

Billy just wants shit to go back to normal. He shakes his head again, "Nah, 's okay, pretty boy. Thanks anyway." Before turning back to his phone like he's got important shit to worry about.

Steve stands.

Stares.

Waits, for longer than is necessary, before clearing his throat. "Okay, well. Happy first day back." He says.

And if Billy didn’t know any better he'd say Steve sounds almost.

Disappointed.

When Billy gets off of work that night the snow is gone from his driveway.

Billy still has bad days.

They always start before dawn. With the claws of his nightmare leaving scratches down the lining of his throat. It's like Billy's carrying an anchor around his neck, or his veins are filled with playdough the color of the sun on those afternoons. He feels lazy and sluggish and like if someone looks at him for too long he'll break. Snap and crackle, like an open flame against fresh skin.

Billy still has bad days but they don't come unless he's been slipping for a while. Like forgetting to take his medication, or not writing his letter every night before bed.

The one to Neil, that his therapist says will help him work through the last of the road blocks that stand in the way of, "ultimate healing."

Billy used to think it was horseshit.

But Neil. Everything that happened, everything that still happens--when Billy goes home for Christmas, or when Susan calls and he can hear the slur of hate on the other end of the line--is standing in the way of something.

There are so many letters.

So much he wants to say.

Written on anything Billy can find, like. Napkins and the backs of take out menus--old drawings that the kids send home with him after Art class on Fridays.

The pages are kept in a binder.

His therapist says it's important to decorate the binder with, like. Stuff that makes him feel good. Words and phrases, stickers, pictures of the people he loves and drawings of all his favorite things. The folder is supposed to act as a visual reminder of the blanket of love that surrounds him, or something.

Melvalds only had brown folders when he went to pick his up, so.

The folder is brown. Disgusting.

And so far the only decorations he's been able to stomach are one of those fancy stickers from Redbubble that depicts his favorite episode of Daria, and a picture of him and Maxine with underwear on their heads.

Billy thinks it could be sad to some people.

That a poor, little abused boy only has two things in life that protect him from the shadow which falls with the setting sun, but it's the truth. Life is hard and fucked up. Billy has trouble letting people close, letting people in, so he sticks with the basics. The tried and true.

Maxine and his gravity bong.

Billy Hargrove is a simple man.

So it's two weeks after Steve shovels his driveway and Billy tells his therapist, like. "This fucking guy just. Did something nice for me."

And she clearly wonders what's wrong with him. "Did you say thank you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," Billy tries not to get defensive about shit these days, because. It's only a hop-skip-and a jump from defensiveness to downright aggression and Megan, his well meaning shrink, doesn't deserve that even on her most annoying days.

His leg bounces under the table, thwacking against its mahogany edge loud enough that Megan can hear it over the fucking phone, so she says, "Billy. Stop."

Because they have a deal about nervous ticks.

Billy is supposed to say his safe word when he starts to feel anxious, but.

He fucking hates that shit. Hates being babied. Hates feeling like he's a goddamn basket case that needs to be rooted in reality when his trauma rears its ugly head. Billy smiles, the whole thing falling flat against his face. "I'm stopping."

Megan sighs. "Why haven't you thanked Steve for his act of kindness?"

"Because, like." Billy's shaking his leg again. Softer this time; it's a secret. "How do I know he isn't trying to, fucking. Get information out of me. Or out me to the community, or. Make fun of the way I'm a grown man who can't shovel his own driveway after a snowstorm--"

"I think you're internalizing your fears, Billy."

"Yeah, no shit." He snaps. Billy feels bad for half a second but then she's giggling, like she always does, which makes him feel less like the big bad wolf and more like one of the three little pigs. The guy with the straw, maybe?

Billy sighs, scrubbing at his face. "What does that even mean?"

Megan makes a noise on the other end of the line, like. In the six months that Billy's been in therapy he should've learned this by now.

Dude's got a short attention span, sue him.

And, sure enough. "Twice a week we meet over the phone and you don't know that internalizing your fears means you're trying to write the ending to a story you haven't even read yet?"

"Like, uh," Billy says intelligently. "What's that shit you're always saying? About seeing a book on the shelf and--"

"Guessing the ending. Yup, that's right." Megan sounds pleased. Billy ignores the bloom of happiness in his chest, because like. He doesn't really deserve it. She doesn't give him time to dwell, though. "Steve did something nice for you. Maybe he has suspicious intent--"

Billy sucks in a breath, like.

Dramatic. Loud enough that Megan snorts and says, "Hold on, you're jumping to conclusions again."

Billy really fucking.

Hates how perceptive she can be.

Megan keeps talking and Billy listens, because he pays her after all. "If you're really worried that his intentions are cloudy, do something nice for him in return."

"Something nice," Billy repeats. Like he's never heard of such a concept. "Something nice, like. Buy him flowers?"

Megan snorts. "Do you want to buy him flowers?"

"No, why would you think that?"

"Because you--" His therapist sighs. Billy embraces the feeling it gives him, yanking her chain a little bit. "Listen. I don't know this Steve person, and I've never heard you talk about him beyond this beer you're supposed to have together, like. Never. But has he ever given you a reason to think he's out to hurt you?"

Billy thinks back over two years and a million one-dimensional interactions.

Steve never loses his temper.

Not when Billy calls to have the cars that block his driveway towed, not when Billy bitches about the daisy bushes shedding into his yard in the fall, and Steve always picks up Mr. Bane's cat shit from Billy's front porch when the Gremlin actually goes outside.

Always with a smile and a sweet little, I think Mr. B likes you.

And, like.

It was pretty nice of Steve to offer Billy a ride that morning.

And shovel his driveway after work, just because he knew Billy probably wouldn't do it.

The whole thing, it. Fills Billy with something he can't quite express, a warmth he only ever feels when Max calls a dozen times to remind him to eat dinner when he sends a few intense messages.

Megan takes his silence, as always, like a breakthrough.

"So," She says, clearly satisfied. "Same time next week?"

Billy spends three days waiting for Steve to make it easy for him.

Because Harrington's a home owner, and there's always something, right? A problem he needs help with, like. A leaky pipe that needs fixed, a cup of sugar for a recipe that he didn't account for, ghosts in the attic. Typical HOA bullshit.

Billy stares out his window at the lovely split level next door and decides he'll take anything, do anything, to get this fucking anchor of guilt off his back for the whole driveway situation. The opportunity never presents itself.

The ducks never fall in a row.

Steve just leaves the house every morning, same time as Billy, same as always, with a gentle Howdy neighbor. And a smile tugging at his pretty pink lips, hair perfect and windswept because he's a fucking asshole and it only takes two days.

Forty-eight hours before Billy's hatching a plan to pay Harrington back and inventing problems to solve, like some sort of demonic Bob the Builder.

He calls Max on Thursday and comes up with a list. Something tangible, like breaking Steve's garage window with a ski ball. Or trapping Mr. Bane in a sweater and pretending like he's gone missing so Steve will have to round up a search party, but.

Billy knows Megan would call that instigating, antagonizing, and causing trouble, which Billy's trying not to do anymore.

So he brings up flowers again, because.

Fuck it--maybe he's wanted to see Steve behind a bouquet of Lilies of the Valley for months now.

And Max goes all soft.

And quiet, too, before whispering, "I'm really proud of you, you know? For getting better."

Then suddenly Billy can't breathe because there's a lump in his throat.

Because he is trying to get better. To live honestly, to lead with love--whatever hippie-dippie bullshit Megan is always spoon feeding him, so.

With Max's blessing, Billy's about to, like. Knock on Steve's door with a plate of pot brownies and a shitty thanks for being a decent human card when Mr. Bane leaves a dead bird on Billy's porch, the third one in a month, and Billy hatches an idea.

Steve's front door is yellow.

Like. Sunshine yellow. Valley girl yellow.

Which Billy used to think was charming but now thinks is kind of annoying, when coupled with Steve's perpetually sunny disposition. And okay. Maybe it sort of pokes and prods at that piece of him that's always missing home.

Maybe it makes him a little bit sad, like. He'll never really feel at peace anywhere else.

But before Billy can dwell on it, or raise his fist to knock on the door, Steve's opening it and preparing to step through. He's using his foot to stop Mr. Bane from running out into the yard so he doesn't see Billy right away, which.

Also means he's going somewhere.

Which inherently means Billy's caught him at a bad time. Billy holds the paper bag closer to his chest and feels the words bubbling up before he can practice his breathing, or. Stop them. Because this is his third biggest fear after arguments and spiders.

"I've caught you at a bad time, I'm sorry, I'll just come back la--"

Steve breaks out into a grin so big. So bright, that it rivals anything Billy's ever seen before.

"Howdy, neighbor!" Steve says.

And Billy shifts nervously from one foot to the other, like. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, it's not a--"

"Because I can come back later." Billy nods, already turning on his heel to escape, and like. Fly into the sun. "Or not at all. I can just mail it to you, that's. Yeah, I'll just stick it in the post or something."

Steve grabs his elbow.

Billy looks at the hand on his elbow, and down at Steve’s feet. There aren’t any shoes or anything, so.

Billy's overreacting.

Fuck. He swallows, raising his eyes with caution to see Steve smiling again. Even wider than before, if that's possible.

Harrington licks his lips. "Whatcha got there?" He says, nodding to the bag, and Steve.

He's wearing glasses today.

Billy feels like someone hit him on the back of the head with a ski ball. Steve looks so soft, in white stripped overalls and a green sweater, that Billy doesn't know whether to fluff him like a pillow or fucking.

Punch him in the face.

Billy holds out the paper bag. "It's for you."

Steve looks at him strangely but he's still smiling, which.

Is good.

Billy thinks it's good but then he knows its good when Steve giggles. "I gathered that. What is it?"

"It's a, uh. You know." Billy tries. "You know one of those things? Where it's, like, a thing but you aren't supposed to know what it is?"

Steve blinks at him, cheeks turning pink like they always do. "A surprise?"

"That's the one." Billy snaps his fingers, like. Ah-ha. Except it isn't a surprise, it's just. "It's a way to say thanks. For the whole," Billy concludes, gesturing vaguely to their front lawns, to. "The driveway."

Steve blushes even harder. "You didn't have to get me a present--"

"It's not a present."

"That was just me trying to be nice." Steve leans against the door jam, eyes searching. "It doesn't call for a--"

"It's not a present." Billy says again. Steve doesn't look like he believes him, so Billy, like. Shoves the paper bag to his chest. "Look, open it now or don't. Fucking, throw it away for all I care, it's fine."

Billy turns on his heel because fuck this.

Fuck trying to pay back nice with nice and fuck Steve for starting this whole debacle to begin with. Billy makes it down one step and then Steve is laughing so hard he can't stand up straight.

Which just makes Billy feel worse, because.

"You're laughing." Billy gapes. "I bring you a present to say thanks for not being an asshole, and you're laughing."

Steve doesn't answer, he just.

Keeps on laughing, and okay.

This is Billy's third greatest fear. After abandonment and fighting. Fists covered in blood--his or someone else's, it doesn't matter. He frowns, turning to leave again when Steve straightens and coughs once into the palm of his hand.

"Thought it wasn't a present," Steve quips, and he's looking at Billy with, like. Sparkly eyes. He shrugs. "I'm not sure what it means."

Billy doesn't get it. "It doesn't have to mean anything--"

"No, like." Steve peers into the bag again, clearly holding back tears. "Why did you get me a bag of dead mice?"

"You can get them at the pet store." Billy says, because. You can, alright? He fiddles with the sleeves of his winter coat. "They're for Mr. Bane."

Steve just stares at him, eyes twinkling like two polished diamonds in his head.

And he's not saying anything, or. Laughing anymore, he's just. Watching Billy fall to pieces on his walkway as he tries to defend himself.

Billy focuses on the clouds that inch across the sky. "Mr. Bane, he's. He's always catching shit, like. Dead shit and leaving it on my porch. I just thought if he wants to eat dead things I can just. Buy him a pack or whatever. Like a normal person."

Steve grins. "You know they do that because they think you can't feed yourself."

Billy wrinkles his nose. "Well I fucking appreciate it, but I don't want to eat dead mice and birds and shit."

Steve chuckles once before staring again.

Like he's memorizing Billy's face, or like. They're having a competition that Billy doesn't know about.

Billy gestures to the bag again. "Would you just accept it, Steve? Please?"

Harrington looks down at the mice in his hands and nods slowly, like the decision is really requiring some thought.

Billy feels stupid.

This was so fucking stupid--

"Sure, Billy." Harrington says. Soft, and. Sweet. "No one's ever given me such a thoughtful gift before, so. Thank you."

And Billy feels like the tin man getting oil on his joints after a year of rusting in the forest, when Steve accepts his weird ass gesture. He nods, mouth lapsing into a thin, unamused line. "Okay, then. See ya 'round," Billy says.

And then he's turning, and.

Leaving.

Before Steve can say anything else.

The clouds inch like caterpillars across the bright winter sky and Steve's walkway seems so much longer on the journey home.

#harringrove #i'm sorry aaaaah #I wanted to post the first chapter here too #because I'm fucking proud of this one alright #and I feel like I need a little fluff #and maybe you need a lil fluff too #cmon man #let me fluff you like a pillow bro

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shadoedseptmbr · 2 years

Text

a new year’s snippet

Got my luck for the year in the pot, simmering away. So in honor of one of my favorite original characters, here’s a little lucky snippet for you all, too. From Red Skies at Morning:

The sun was sliding quickly down behind the buildings, now. The light had gone gray. There were a few people up the sidewalk, huddled into their coats as the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. Ace huddled into the shallow alcove of the entrance, tugging her hood up, eyes on a swivel. The old woman popped up as she scanned left for the second time and she almost swallowed her tongue trying not to jump out of her skin.

“Fucking Christ, Des,” she hissed.

“Happened a couple nights ago. Cops didn’t even take statements.”

Mama Deseree was about a head taller than Ace, with swirls and puffs of silver hair hidden under a green scarf and a rounded pigeon breasted figure under her padded maroon coat. Rumor was she’d been a prostitute a hundred years ago or maybe a teacher but as long as Ace had been in the Reds, Des had run a meat and three on this end of 10th, just across the street and three shops down on the far corner from this pit.

All Come In was neutral territory and Des didn’t serve cops or anyone else with a gun showing. The food was reasonably cheap and delicious. She always smelled of garlic and warmth and was always good for a cuff on the ear, if you talked back.

No one took protection money from Mama Des.

Ace had never asked why.

“Wasn’t us.” Ace tried to gather her startled dignity back up and put herself back in patrol mode, blanking her face back to cold, eyes flicking up the street to the one working light on the corner.

Des scoffed. “No, too quiet for Reds.”

“Anybody new pokin’ around?” Jader would want to know. Even if the Reds were outgrowing their roots, they weren’t about to abandon them.

“Not that I’ve seen. You eat?”

“No, ma’am, I’m workin’.” She watched Clare lock up his shop. Ari was already bundled down the street.

“Yeah, I see that. Why you down here, again?”

“Fucked up a carjack.”

“Uh hunh.” Des didn’t believe her at all.

Didn’t make it a lie.

“Look here.”

“Des…” She impatiently turned back to the old woman and was startled to have a spoonful of something savory popped into her open mouth. “What the fu…” she mumbled around rice and something green and bitter and blackeyed peas and her eyes streamed from whatever hell grown chili Des had cursed the concoction with.

“Don’t swear, you’ll break the luck.” She offered another bite as Ace swallowed and tried to blink fast and clear her eyes enough to at least keep watch over Des’ shoulder. A knot of walkers had stopped. Maybe making a sale. Maybe not.

“I know Jader’s taken to calling his creepers after birds, Des, but I ain’t one of them.”

“Fine.” She ate the bite herself and shoved a round container into Ace’s hoodie pocket with her left hand. It was the warmest thing Ace had touched in a week. “You eat all of that by midnight.”

“Jesus, why?” As if she’d ever turned down food before. She might need a jug of milk, too. She could feel the chili eating through her pipes. A square of something wrapped in plasfilm tucked in, too, next to the container.

“‘Cause bad things are about to happen, child. You need all the luck you can get.”

#mama des #aedan shepard #red skies at morning #luck in the pot #for the new year

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macamonium · 3 years

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god help

I'm writing this thing and it's gonna make me cry lol

this is (hopefully) gonna be part of a larger fic, but as I was jotting down the outline this just dripped out. its abt self-love thru good food and Bakugou learning to forgive himself the right way

maybe tw for eating disorder stuff, though that's not what the fic will be about

Bakugou emptied a full-sodium packet of beef bouillon into the pan. The smell drafted through the dorm’s empty kitchen, and his mind wandered with it.

He knew, regrettably, that he reflexively went for the full-sodium bouillon because of his mom. Mitsuki had the same impatience for low-fat and low-calorie “diet” foods that she did for backtalk and attitude. She scoffed at the TV whenever it lit up with commercials of dancing, ever-thinning crackers, or the new zero-calorie alternative for something that was never meant to be low-calorie. Sour cream, for chrissakes! It’s fucking dairy, it’s meant to be that way!

She lectured Bakugou about it when he was really little, on some Saturday in the middle of summer. He was inside for the afternoon nursing an injury from what he reported was a particularly slippery log in the forest. Really, it was payback from a sore-loser gang of fifth graders. So his ankle wasn’t really twisted, but his chin sure was bruised - that log had a mean right hook. No way in hell was he letting the neighborhood kids see his face like that, so he was there, in the kitchen, pretending to take extra care of his left foot while Mitsuki made them lunch.

Stirring the curry in his own pan, which was now simmering, Bakugou could picture it more clearly than he had in a long, long while. He had been sitting on the farthest barstool - yeah, it was that one because one of the legs was loose and he was rocking back and forth, back and forth, and when his head swung along with it his mom’s hands, stirring the pan, popped in and out of view from behind the milk carton. He smiled softly to himself now, taking stock of how he was standing. How similar it was. Was she making curry that day?

If Bakugou couldn’t remember exactly what she said, he could make a pretty good guess on how she’d phrase it. He just knew her that well. He could hear her now - it'd have gone something like this:

“You see, when they first started puttin’ the nutrition facts on the packages of food products, back in, like, the 1920s, the chemists had a field day. I mean, really, they ran that industry.”

Katsuki didn’t know what industry was, but he liked hearing his mama talk.

“And at that time, chemistry wasn’t what it is now. It wasn’t molecules and atomic structure and that kinda thing, it was grams of this and milliliters of that. Still, that was more than regular people knew, so it was left to the specialists.”

She held the spatula out for him to lick. He took it in two chubby hands.

“More spice, mama.”

“Whatever you say, baby. And wipe your chin.” He used the bottom of his shirt, but she didn’t say anything. His dad wasn’t around for that kind of thing.

“Don’t get me wrong, knowing what’s in your food is great.” She gestured carelessly with the lick-marked spatula before plunging it back into the curry. “Certainly better than whatever was going on before. They used to put cocaine in Coca-Cola, you know.”

“What’s cocaine, mama?”

“A drug, baby. Makes you go crazy for a while. Don’t go trying it, and don’t go repeating it - though I suppose that’s hard in earnest, it’s what the ‘Coca’ in Coca-Cola is named after.”

“It’s named after D-RUGS??” Katsuki sat forward in his seat, but the squeaky leg cursed a whine at him and he sat back.

“That’s right: Drugs,” Mitsuki said to her eight-year old, her eyes wide. “Though people don’t make that connection anymore so they didn’t ever rebrand. They used to drink Coca-Cola when people got sick. It cleared out your sinuses, sure, but it also made you shout really loud and go streaking through the park. Ha! Anyway, where was I?”

“The. Uh… oh, the nutriss- nuturish-”

“Ah, nutritional facts. Say it with me, baby: Nutrition. Noo-trish-un.”

“Nutrition,” they said together. Katsuki smiled. Bet dumb Deku doesn’t know that one.

“So, the legacy of old-fashioned chemistry is that the nutritional value of foods isn’t really evaluated beyond the physical makeup of the food.” These were big words but Katsuki got the gist, and Mitsuki knew that. “It doesn’t tell you what those things do for you and your body, beyond ‘fat is bad, protein is good,’ and even that’s just considered on a physical level in regards to your body. There is so much more to food mentally, and emotionally, that goddamn counts as nutrition.”

“God-damn.”

“Yeah, don’t say that,” she said half-heartedly. “And I don’t just mean ‘veg out whenever you need it solely because it makes you feel good.’ Don’t totally disregard physical nutrition. I mean that food making you feel good shouldn't be totally disregarded either. Spices, for instance.” Katsuki cheered from his seat. “Yeah, you like spice.

“Food should taste good. It drives me up the goddamn wall when I see those health bitches on the TV drain out the grease from their meat. Right down the sink. That’s what makes it taste good! If you don’t want grease, eat turkey! And the ‘nutritional’ benefits of draining the grease hardly outweigh the emotional satisfaction of a good-tasting meal. At that point, it’s just a practice in self-sabotage, in pointless, self-inflicted suffering. And for what, so you get kudos from Nestle, who happens to be rolling out their new line of trans-fat free crackers? Please.”

She ladled the curry onto a plated bed of rice with a sigh. The smell made Katsuki’s tummy gurgle. He licked his lips really slowly, the same way he saw Spongebob do on the TV that morning.

“Anyway, my point is - when something tastes good, that’s good nutrition. Being healthy is being happy, and if the food you’re eating makes you happy, that is healthy. I’ll eat my pickles whole from the jar, even if Dr. Oz gives me a lip about ‘it’s too much sodium,’ and do you know why? Because I love the crunch of a fresh pickle, and I know that as sure as I know that there’s two grams of carbs in it because the sticker on the side tells me so. I know I love it so I do it, and that’s a beautiful thing. That’s something I deserve.”

She slid the steaming plate, loaded with peas, potatoes, and carrots in curry, across the table to her son. He reached for the fork, but she snapped it away at the last second. Katsuki looked into his mom’s eyes. “Say it back to me, baby: ‘Food should taste good.’”

“Food should taste good, mama.”

“I deserve this good food.”

“I… I deserve this good food.”

“That’s my baby, now eat up.”

A tear squeezed through Bakugou’s eyes at the memory, and fell down his cheek into the pan. He didn’t even remember the last part until it all ran through his head.

God, he couldn’t help it, and there was no one around to prove anything to - he made the effort to muffle himself with shallow breaths, but he let the tears flow free and hot down their tracks. This time they reached his chin. He asked the ceiling, berating himself on how foolish he was to think it would answer: did he still even deserve it?

#bakugou watched spongebob its cannon #idk how to write without long stretches of dialogue in the form of how I talk to people once im immediately comfortable w them #mitsuki as a good mom #let the kid say fuck #bakugou katsuki #bnha #mha #bnha fic #mintbiscuitswrites

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365-money-diary · 3 years

Text

DAYS 43-49

DAY FORTY-THREE

7:30 AM - Up a little early so I can close on my house. The process is pretty easy and I feel safe about it and such. We do it on the front porch with 6 foot folding table.

8:30 AM - I need to re-caulk the side door trim before I can start painting so I do that while I make my chemex. This is fun (not) because I don’t own a caulk gun.

10:30 AM - Eat a plant yogurt

12:00 PM - Snack on chips and salsa – damn the salsa I made is so good this time. Also make salad for lunch. I’m set up in the kitchen today which is clearly a bad scene because I keep going to the pantry for more snacks. Relocate to the bedroom.

2:00 PM - I really should get my barre class out of the way today. I have a 4PM happy hour and I know I won’t want to work out after that, so I do a 10 minute low impact ride and then start class.

4:00 PM - I get done with most of the class and hop on zoom. Make refried beans in the instant pot for dinner while we chat.

5:00 PM - Finish the zoom and knock out the last 10 minutes of barre. I don’t like to split the classes up like that but oh well.

6:00 PM - Finish making the beans as well as rice and jackfruit for burritos. K isn’t hungry so I watch an episode of The Challenge before making the burritos.

7:30 PM - Ok these are really good. Dang! I don’t want to drink tonight so I open a La Croix and try to hydrate.

DAY FORTY-THREE TOTAL: $0

DAY FORTY-FOUR

8:00 AM - I’m awake and I feel really good. K is still pretty conked out and I get the idea to go to Cartel. I haven’t been in a few months because cases were super high but now seems like a good opportunity. This is the one thing I do behind K’s back. It’s contactless and it’s super safe so I don’t really consider it to be a risk but I know he isn’t ready to drink things directly out of containers they’re served in on the same day you buy them so let’s just leave this between us. Buy a hot oat milk latte and tip $10. $17.57

10:00 AM - Make a chemex so K doesn’t suspect anything. Hang with him on the couch for a bit and then start moving around the furniture in the kitchen to start taping.

11:30 AM - Take a break to cook breakfast - tofu/egg tacos with field roast sausage.

12:15 PM - Back to taping. It takes forev, but I think I did a good job.

3:45 PM - First coat done. Watch an episode of The challenge before I apply the second.

5:30 PM - Done with the second. Watch more of the challenge.

7:00 PM - Dinner tonight is pozole. I take my time making it and drink a glass of wine while I cook.

8:00 PM - Dang this is so delicious.

DAY FORTY-FOUR TOTAL: $17.57

DAY FORTY-FIVE

9:00 AM - Woah I am SO SORE. What the hell? My quads. Make a chemex and work on putting the kitchen back together, but I run out of time and have to meet with S and her BF on zoom. K joins me and it’s a really good time.

11:15 PM - Ok back to tape removal.

12:15 PM - Done! / Looks good! Make more tofu tacos for breakfast.

2:00 PM - My boss is applying for citizenship in the US and she asked me to help build her a website. I have totally spaced it over the past two weeks and get cracking on it today. Make some good progress and send her what I have.

4:00 PM - Watch some episodes of The Challenge. For whatever reason this feels like the first time I’ve actually relaxed this weekend and I am here for it.

6:00 PM - We drive to a bar I DJ at on the reg during non-pandemic times to do a pick up of their Valentine’s Day special. Neither K or I are big V Day fans and we feel like this is good enough to “celebrate.” We get two veggie dogs, fries and a bottle of wine to take home. J (my friend who owns the bar) runs my card for $31ish and I tip $20. K insists he pays and he venmos me $50. $1.89

7:00 PM - I haven’t had fries in like… a year. And these ones are really delicious! The wine is good too. Spend the rest of the evening catching up on my blog. I haven’t felt very motivated to work on it this month.

8:00 PM - Get a charge from Amazon… S is buying movies again. Make a venmo request for $16 and she fulfills it. $0.19

DAY FORTY-FIVE TOTAL: $2.08

DAY FORTY-SIX

8:30 AM - WOW I am still sore WTF. Make a chemex and notice my tea kettle has a rust spot. Damnit. At this point, I would rather just buy an electric kettle with a gooseneck spout to get rid of both of my kettles, but I’m trying to stick to my budget this month. I’ve been covering K’s groceries throughout the pandemic and he owes me around $2k at this point. Because of this, I’ve kind of cut back on clothing and other frivolous purchases until he starts to pay me back so I can still save money every month. But rust is rust and I don’t want to get sick. Buy a Stagg EKG kettle with a nice wood handle. $160.62

10:00 AM - plant yogurt, a clementine and Pure Barre weekly charge. $15

12:00 PM - It’s salad time but I’m kind of out of tempeh and am a little burnt out on the miso Asian vibe anyways. Toss together some greens, bell pepper, onion, carrots, snap peas, cucumber, and a frozen Quorn spicy chicken patty and top it with cashew ranch. It’s honestly really good.

4:00 PM - Call M to wish him a happy bday. Tell him either next Sunday or the Sunday after that we will do a lunch thing together in his backyard to celebrate. Drink a nuun while we chat.

5:15 PM - I do a pure barre workout but make the mistake of doing it on my work computer at the post-workday slacks are coming in hot this AM. My body’s HR doesn’t really pick up but I still feel proud of myself for pushing thru the soreness.

7:00 PM - K and I eat big burritos for dinner with jackfruit, beans, rice, lettuce, tofutti sour cream, cheeze, and jalapenos with chips and salsa. They’re so good and I am sad that we’re out of tortilla chips and salsa now.

8:00 PM - Since dinner was kinda big and I had fries yesterday, I spend the evening hydrating instead of drinking wine. K and I watch a 4 part docuseries on Elisa Lam & the Cecil Hotel. At some point he goes off to work on some stuff and I wrap up this website I’m building for my boss who is working on getting her green card.

DAY FORTY-SIX TOTAL: $175.62

DAY FORTY-SEVEN

9:00 AM - Make a chemex. Finish the site and send it to my boss who approves. Hopefully I don’t have to actually post it for her. I hate dealing with hosting and such.

10:00 AM - I don’t really want yogurt today and find a small portion of tofu scramble leftover from Sunday. Heat that up and top with truffle hot sauce.

12:00 PM - Kill the rest of the salad ingredients today by making the same dish as yesterday but with peas instead of red bell peppers. Review the site I made for my boss. She sends me a $100 amazon gift card! How sweet.

5:00 PM - Get sucked in a meeting and am not able to leave until 5:30. I’m not interested in exercising this late so I zone out on the couch for a bit and snack on some gf pretzels. Start a new season of The Challenge. Drink a glass of wine.

7:00 PM - Heat up leftover pozole for dinner. Eat with K while we “watch” a hockey game.

8:30 PM - Pour another glass of wine and chat on the phone with Q. I end up feeling super antsy halfway through our conversation and decide to take a walk. I do a nice loop down to the lake and back to my house. Next time we decide that we will walk together.

10:30 PM - I check my phone after our conversation to see 100 slack messages from various team members. Looks like there is something going on which will affect the report I have to give tomorrow. Read thru, ask some questions and feel good about what I have to change.

DAY FORTY-SEVEN TOTAL: $0

DAY FORTY-EIGHT

8:15 AM - Up a little early today so I can adjust my report. Make a chemex while I pull numbers.

9:30 AM - Present the info. It’s good stuff! My boss is out of town so I think today should be pretty chill. Get a note from my bank that the wire of leftover funds from the mortgage stuff has been transferred to my checking totaling $1250.39.

12:00 PM - Make broccoli fried rice for lunch. Things turn chaotic for the rest of the day and by the time I know it, it’s 4:00 PM

4:15 PM - Decide to cut out early today and take a live barre class. 20 minutes in (10 minutes before 5), I get a message from my teammate asking to hop on zoom. She has computer issues so I’m actually able to finish the class before she’s ready.

7:00 PM - Finally done working. Rinse off and make pasta for dinner. Drink 3 glasses of wine.

9:30 PM - K and I play Mario Kart for a while before turning in.

DAY FORTY-EIGHT TOTAL: $0

DAY FORTY-NINE

8:30 AM - Today has to be more chill than yesterday… It just has to be. Make a chemex. See that my hair dresser is selling shirts for her shop. Venmo her. $25

12:00 PM - Prep chicken seitan shreds. Broccoli fried rice for lunch with seltzer.

1:30 PM - Finish making the seitan, eat an apple, gf pretzels and carrots. I realize I forgot to eat breakfast this AM. Ugh.

5:00 PM - My butt is super sore from yesterday but I do my barre workout anyways. It’s so nice to not be interrupted. My cal burn is low but I don’t even care. It’s just nice to move.

6:00 PM - Rinse off and prep dinner. We make buffalo chicken sandwiches with roasted potatoes. They turn out pretty good and I’m excited to eat them over the next few days.

8:00 PM - Drink a glass of wine. I google if I can have more since I’m getting the COVID vaccine tomorrow and it seems like one is ok but maybe not more so I decide against it.

DAY FORTY-NINE TOTAL: $25

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bthenoise · 4 years

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Quaran-Dine & Chill: Here are 12 Homemade Food Recipes From Some Of Your Favorite Bands

Look, we get it: You’re bored. You’re stuck at home with nothing to do and to top it all off you’re absolutely starving with no idea what to make except for a peanut butter & jelly sandwich.

Thankfully, we knew this would happen so we reached out to some amazing artists to see if they had any recipes to help us all get through this never-ending period of social distancing.

Submitting for a feature we like to call “Quaran-Dine & Chill,” bands like Mayday Parade, The Used, August Burns Red, Atreyu, Periphery, New Found Glory and more have all pitched in some of their most favorite recipes to make from home.

To check out how to create Groovy Toast, cook some of Herbie’s Homemade Chicken Taquitos or even put together some Veggie Pasta with Vegan Ass White Sauce, be sure to look below. Afterward, remember, before making anything to eat, WASH YOUR DAMN HANDS!

Oh, and there’s also a special 35-song Quaran-Dine & Chill playlist at the end of all this. Listen to it as loud as you possibly can -- we hear it helps the food taste better.

Enjoy!

JAKE BUNDRICK - MAYDAY PARADE

JAKE’S OVERNIGHT OATS

Ingredients 1/2 cup oatmeal (any type will work but I personally like Old Fashioned or Rolled Oats) 1 cup water 1 scoop protein powder (It's not necessary by any means but I prefer French Vanilla from TrueNutrition) 3/4 cup of either frozen berries or fresh berries (strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, black berries... you can either add this now to soak overnight or wait until you're ready to eat and then add berries. It's up to you) 1 banana sliced 1 tablespoon of natural peanut butter

Instructions Mix oatmeal, water, protein and frozen berries together in a bowl or jar (frozen berries are optional). You could forego this and choose to add fresh berries later.

Cover and let sit in the fridge overnight or for a few hours -- your choice.

After soaking, add fresh berries if you haven't already. Then add bananas and peanut butter.

Enjoy.

MATT HALPERN - PERIPHERY

REALLY HEALTHY “CEREAL”

I love cereal but I don't want all the bad stuff associated with most cereals. So I came up with a healthy alternative. It's pretty simple.

Grab a bowl

Add Trader Joe's Go Raw Trek Mix

Slice up some strawberries and add them too

Throw on a couple blueberries

Add 1% milk

And there ya have it! Really hearty, really healthy, easy to make “cereal” that actually fills you up!

MATT GREINER - AUGUST BURNS RED

DEER CAMP BREAKFAST CASSEROLE

Ingredients 18 eggs 2 cups of milk 1 cup cheddar cheese 1 lb bacon 1 lb loose sausage 1 ts salt 1 tb pepper 1 pack hash browns

Instructions Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees

Brown sausage and bacon separately-drain

Pan fry hash browns until golden brown

Grease a 13” x 9” baking pan and line the bottom with hash browns

Add a layer of bacon

Add a layer of sausage

Whip the eggs in a large bowl, then add the mix, salt and pepper, mix well

Add the cheese to the eggs and mix again

Pour the egg mixture over the meat and hash browns

Cover with aluminum foil and bake for 25-30 minutes

Remove foil and bake until the top of the casserole begins to brown. Then remove from the oven.

BRENT WALSH - I THE MIGHTY

B-LEE'S BREAKFAST FEAST

Ingredients Hash browns 2 eggs Onions Garlic Mushrooms Peppers Cheddar cheese Black pepper Salt Ketchup Valentina (black label, extra hot) hot sauce Olive oil

Instructions First, get the hash browns going in a frying pan with lots of oil. They take the longest.

In a second pan, get all the veggies going adding garlic when everything else is almost done so that you don't burn the garlic.

When the hash browns are done, plate them and immediately add the cheese to taste.

The veggies should be about done by this time so add those on top.

Fry the eggs (I like mine over medium) in the original pan you cooked the hash browns in and add salt and pepper while they cook.

I like to top it all off with some black label Valentina hot sauce and a little ketchup.

Add a coffee and mimosa on the side and boom, you got yourself a good ol' quarantine breakfast feast.

MARK HOLCOMB - PERIPHERY

SRIRACHA TUNA SALAD

Take two cans of tuna, break it up in a mixing bowl, toss with two tablespoons of celery, half an onion and some chopped fresh parsley.

Add 1/3 cup of mayonnaise (or veganaise if you’re a tree-hugging hippy like me), 1 tablespoon mustard, and several tablespoons of Sriracha depending on how spicy you want it.

Top off with some ground pepper and lemon juice, to taste.

Also feel free to add half a diced apple if you like some sweetness and crunchy texture in there.

Delicious, healthy and super simple.

JEPHA - THE USED

GROOVY TOAST

Soak a cup of any kind of nut (almond, cashew etc..) overnight in water.

Next day, strain most of the water except for a little bit to help blend it.

Put soaked nuts in blender with a dash of lemon, a pinch of salt, pepper, two tablespoons of olive oil.

Blend until smooth.

Optional fun: slice something spicy like a jalapeño.

Add “Groovy cheese” to either toast or crackers.

Drizzle olive oil and lemon on top of “Groovy Toast” with a spicy, spicy jalapeño and let your mouth party like your stuck at home for the next month or so 🤙

CYRUS BOLOOKI - NEW FOUND GLORY

SHEPHERD’S PIE

Ingredients: Ground Beef (or turkey, or chicken, or any kind of meat for that matter) Onion, diced (optional) Frozen veggies (1 bag of pretty much anything you have, normally a carrot/corn/peas mix, but seriously, anything will do) Worcestershire Sauce (optional, but check the back of your cupboard because you probably have a bottle that’s been sitting there for years and is still good!) Potatoes (again, any kind of potatoes will do) Cheese (cheddar is the standard, but use what you have!)

Instructions: Cook your meat in a skillet, seasoning with salt and pepper and adding diced onion if you have while cooking.

Cook/microwave your bag of frozen veggies and add directly into the meat and stir.

Now’s the time to find that Worcestershire sauce if you have it -- if not, don’t worry, this is awesome without it too!

Add a cup of cheese in there and also 1/2 cup of liquid (could be water, could be chicken/beef broth if you have). Stir to combine all ingredients and turn to low heat to keep warm.

Meanwhile, make mashed potatoes however you can (whether by hand or with a box) and when done layer these two things in an ovenproof dish — meat/veggie mix on bottom, mashed potatoes on top.

Toss cheese all over the top of that and throw it in the oven on medium heat for 20 minutes to melt the cheese.

Now, sit back, relax and enjoy your dish whether with family or all alone. It’s a full meal all in one, tastes even better the next day and you can even freeze it!

BRANDON SALLER - ATREYU

WINNER WINNER ISOLATION DINNER (Crispy Baked Chicken Thighs)

Ingredients Bone-in chicken thighs w/ skin Salt (coarse salt works best but any will work fine) Pepper Garlic powder Mixed herbs or Italian seasoning Desired veggie - Whatever you have (ie broccoli, green beans, asparagus, zucchini) Italian dressing (your favorite)

Instructions Preheat oven to 400º

Pat dry chicken on both sides with a paper towel

Season both sides of chicken liberally. Especially the top. The key to this chicken is the well seasoned crispy skin.

Place on sheet pan and roast in oven for about 40 minutes. You are looking for the chicken to be cooked through and skin to be browned and crispy.

When chicken has about 20 minutes left, put marinated veggies on a sheet pan and roast until chicken is done.

When finished, let chicken rest for about 5 minutes as it just came out of a 40-minute fiery hell and will 100% burn your mouth.

ENJOY!

IRA GEORGE - MOVEMENTS

TACO SALAD

This is a very easy and fluid dish that you can make on your own with ease. Whether you are a vegetarian or vegan, you can make this fit your lifestyle.

Ingredients 1 bag of chopped romaine 1 can of black beans 1 frozen bag of white or brown rice 1 cup of frozen corn (thawed) Soyrizo (or any type of ground meat) 1/2 bell pepper 2 Roma tomatoes 1/3 yellow onion 1 avocado Cilantro 1 lime Taco sauce of your choice Cilantro dressing (or something comparable) Diced jalapeños Shredded Mexican cheese Handful of tortilla chips

Instructions Dice the bell pepper, yellow onion and Roma tomatoes

Chop a handful of cilantro

Thaw corn in microwave

In a small pot heat up the can of beans

Cook the soyrizo or other meat in a pan at the same time (if you are using meat you will need to season to your liking)

Heat rice in microwave (if using uncooked rice have it ready before everything)

Grab a big bowl and put rice down. Add the cilantro and lime and toss together

Now add everything else however you want. Remember this is a completely fluid meal, add or takeout any ingredient you feel. Get creative with it! DON’T FORGET TO ADD THE AVOCADO AND SAUCES!!

NICK VENTIMIGLIA - GRAYSCALE

HERBIE’S HOMEMADE CHICKEN TAQUITOS

Servings: 12 Calories: 241 Prep time: 20 min Cook time: 20 min Total time: 40 min

Ingredients 3oz cream cheese 1/4 cup salsa of your choice 1 tablespoon lime juice 1 1/2 teaspoon of taco seasoning 2 fresh cloves of garlic, minced 3 tablespoons cilantro or parsley 2 scallions diced 2 cups shredded cooked chicken or whatever protein you desire 1 cup Mexican blend cheese or whatever you want 12 6in flour tortillas Cooking spray Kosher salt

Instructions Preheat your oven to 425 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, mix together the cream cheese, salsa, lime juice, taco seasoning, garlic, cilantro, and scallions until well combined and creamy. Add in the cooked chicken and cheese; stir to thoroughly combine.

Working with a few tortillas at a time, heat them in the microwave between two paper towels until they are soft enough to roll (about 10 seconds).

Spoon 3 tablespoons of the chicken mixture onto the lower third of a tortilla. Roll the tortilla tightly.

Place the rolled tortilla seam side down on the baking sheet. Repeat with remaining tortillas until the mixture is gone, making sure the taquitos are not touching each other.

Spray the tops lightly with cooking spray and sprinkle with a little kosher salt (don’t skip the salt!)

Bake for 15-20 minutes or until crisp and golden.

Serve with salsa, sour cream, or guacamole.

BALSAC THE JAWS 'O DEATH - GWAR

I offered up my recipes for Feline Fricassee and Poodle Wellington but my publicist informed me that things hadn't yet gotten to the point where most people are ready to eat their pets. Instead, here is a recipe that you should be able to throw together without having to take that dreaded trip to the supermarket.

Now more than ever, everyone should be able to hunt and kill their own food. So the first thing you will need to do is grab your favorite battleaxe, knife or shotgun and go in your backyard. Look for the happy yellow flowers that are probably taking over your poorly manicured lawn. Pick as many of these as you can find, making sure to pull them out from the roots keeping the long dark green leaves intact. You may be asking, “What do I need this shotgun for?” The weapon is in case your neighbor sees you and tries to shake hands!

DOOMSDAY DANDELIONS

Ingredients Dandelion greens 1/2 cup olive oil 3 tablespoons vinegar (red wine vinegar or balsamic work best but whatever kind you can find in your cupboard. It is the apocalypse after all) 1 tablespoon mustard (Dijon if you've got it but who am I kidding, you only have that horrible yellow crap!) 2 cloves garlic minced Salt and pepper 2 teaspoons dry herb (use whatever you can find. What are you saving that stuff for?)

Instructions Pick the flowers off the dandelion greens (these are edible too, I suggest beer battering them and frying them, but that's another recipe and I'm not getting paid for this).

Trim the hairy roots from the greens and discard.

Wash all the dirt from the greens, cut them in half at the base keeping the leaves attached and soak in clean cold water.

Wisk all other ingredients together until they are a cohesive solution.

Drain and pat dry the greens and dress them with the vinaigrette.

Enjoy by yourself!!

SCHUYLAR CROOM - HE IS LEGEND

VEGGIE PASTA WITH VEGAN ASS WHITE SAUCE

Ingredients 1 medium onion chopped 3 cloves of garlic Red bell pepper julienned Broccoli florets Mushrooms sliced thin Zucchini halved and sliced Yellow squash quartered and sliced 1 or 4 splashes of white wine

Finisher Sauce 1/4 cup of unsweetened oat milk 1 or 2 tbs coconut oil 1/4 cup vegan mayo A few handfuls of vegan cheese (I used a vegan pepper jack by Daiya and a bit of Follow Your Heart Parmesan) 1/3 cup of Nutritional yeast Fresh basil

Herbs and Spices Kosher Salt Fresh ground pepper Herbes de Provence Some other optional shit

Pasta Fettuccine noodles ( I like that Ancient Grain in the blue box.)

Instructions Boil salted water for your noodles and in a separate pot boil a few cups of water to blanche your broccoli. You’ll be mad if your water is not boiling before you start sautéing your veg... that shit goes quick, watched pots never boil.

In a large saucepan over med/high heat: Sauté onion for about 5 minutes until it is soft and almost translucent. Add chopped garlic until that smell wakes up your girlfriend. Boom you’re cooking. Salt and pepper that junk.

Add the peppers, mushrooms, zucchini and squash, hit it with some more salt and pepper. I like to throw in some Herbes de Provence and a TINY SPRINKLE of cayenne (a little goes a long way) plus some truffle salt because I’m fancy.

By now the lil pot should be boiling. Throw those broccoli guys in there and when they turn dark ass green drain them and throw them in the pot with the other veggies.

Shit’s all steamy now. It smells crazy good. Your girlfriend and your dog are in the kitchen salivating.

Hit those veggies with some white wine. I say a few dashes, but you’ll know. You’re gonna want to let that cook off for 3-5 minutes.

Maybe you’ve already put your noodles in. If so, they’re ready to drain. If not, get to it 9 minutes after the water starts boiling again (read the box)

Now your noodles are in the strainer. Make your partner divide that into bowls.

After the wine has cooked off, add the veganaise, coconut oil, vegan cheeses and the nutritional yeast and stir all of that up until melty and gooey and combined with the veggies. I like the throw in about half a cup of chopped sliced basil and leave a little for a garnish after you’ve topped your pasta with this creamy ass veggie goodness.

OH! Pro tip: Garlic bread. (Do this 40 minutes ago before starting anything else.)

Take 2 heads of garlic and peel most of the skin off but leave bulb intact.

Chop the very top of the head off the garlic to expose the clove (like 1/16 of the top).

Place it in tinfoil and close it up around the sides. Douse with a generous amount of olive oil and salt and pepper all over that opening on the bulb and close the foil up tight around the top. Create a little oven inside your oven.

Bake at 375 for 40 minutes. You’ll smell it.

Let it cool well.

Toast a loaf of French bread.

Those little garlic cloves will pop out like little teardrops of pure heaven. Smear that junk on your toasted bread and thank me later. The oil is now roasted garlic oil. You could drizzle that on the bread too or over the damn pasta that’s in the bowl.

(Be careful. You will want to skip the steps of letting the bulbs cool. They are unforgivingly hot and will burn your flesh.)

#He Is Legend #Grayscale #Atreyu #New Found Glory #Periphery #August Burns Red #Mayday Parade #Gwar #I The Mighty #The Used #Movements #interview

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superjennysunshine · 4 years

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Day 5: Give me the cheese

I’ve been thinking on what to talk about for day 5. I could talk about how the tiny amount of trauma I suffered as a child has led to me having fundamentally broken relationships with my family, and how insane that is considering how little i actually suffered compared to other people.

I could talk about my obsession with Melodrama, Theatrics, and Daydreaming, an obsession that runs so deep it prevents me from keeping touch with reality and solving my own problems. However i’m gonna talk about food. Couldn’t find the Audio for this song on tumblr so here’s a youtube link for ya:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JzBO3BgFf0

GOD DAMN I love food. There’s no food in my house right now but I think tomorrow is the store run day so i’m gonna get excited by talking about food I love. Takis are incredible. When I tell you that Chili Lime Takis are the best chips I have EVER EATEN i am saying that with intense confidence. They’re super spicy in such a delicious way. They have the heat of hot cheetos but without any of that straight up chemical burn flavor. The ones you get where there’s like too much lime and you do the little :{ face WOOOO BOY IT’S AWESOME. BEST CHIPS I’VE EVER EATEN. Ok I gotta talk about Spaghetti now. My Spaghetti is awful, it’s all store bought ass garbage but I love it with my whole soul. The spicy sausage is amazing the four cheese sauce is Umami as hell and you GOTTA COAT THAT BITCH IN THE PARMESAN CHEESE DUST CAUSE IF YOU DON’T ROLL LIKE THAT THAN YOUR TIRES ARE SQUARE MOTHERFUCKER. OH MY GOD I COULD EAT LIKE A HUNDRED BOWLS OF IT IT’S EVEN GOOD COLD OH MY GOD.

Ok lets see here... Chinese food! So Lieus, my local chinese place, makes this amazing chicken fried rice and you get a TON of it in one order. Like 3 meals worth but i eat it in one cause i love it. The rice has such a cool ass earthy rich flavor and the chicken is boiled and it’s like a nuetral flavor over the whole thing and then there’s peas and carrots in there and like i hate peas and carrots but i eat the shit out of those peas and carrots cause they’re amazing, and you get that eggroll with the sweet and sour sauce with every meal and let me tell you that eggroll is amazing. CABBAGE IS THE BEST LEAFY GREEN DUDE IT‘S IMMACULATE IT’S SO CRUMCHY AND I LOVE IT. If orgasm was a taste i swear to god it would be that Lieus eggroll dipped in sweet and sour sauce. BROOOOOOO.

Lets round it off with.... a drink! CHOCOLATE MILK MY MAAAAAN. Lemme tell you. Some dude way back when had a glass of milk and he was like “Damn this is great but like it didn’t explode my balls and my mind at the same time. Oh i got some chocolate over here lemme just swirl that in yknow cause im kinky like that.” and the golden king of all beverages was born. Chocolate Milk is perfection, it is godhood, Abmrosia. It is Euphoria as a taste. Elation as a mouth SENSATION. ACROSS THE NATION. AND EVERYTIME I DRINK IT, IT’S A SPECIAL OCCASION. Oh my god it’s just so perfect, it’s like your best memory condensed into a liquid. It’s like god handed you as glass of it and said “Drink My Child, and experience my love for all creation, especially you, and then you sip it and he hugs you and he says, “From the fiery heart of exploded stars I bore you my child, into this maw of chaos. I did it because I wished the it to be beautiful, and nothing is more beautiful than a smile.” Than god smiles at you and cherbus sing and you realize how much he cares about you and tears aare just falling down your face as you realize the scale of the universe and the scale of your love are the same, and that all that has happened has led you to this feeling and it’s indescribably perfect. HOYL SHIT I LOVE CHOCOLATE MILKS SO MCUH OH MY GOOOD.

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shayanyaan · 4 years

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Two Eleven Super

“London is very human-scale,” I am quick to pitch for one of my favorite cities in the world.

Her eyes widen and her face lights up. She nods her head vigorously and points her finger at me, in complete agreement. This is the moment in a conversation when one person articulates perfectly what the other person was thinking but couldn’t quite put into words. B and I have been explaining to each other how both of us are more comfortable living in cities where we can walk or take public transport.

“Oh gosh London, yes! Seeing a London trip on my schedule always fills me with immense warmth. Imagine being able to walk around a city slowly absorbing all that it has to offer, the sights, the sounds, the traditions.”

They say never meet your celebrity heroes because you’ll inevitably find something disappointing. I think the same applies to some of the great cities of the world. But both of us conclude hands down that London does not fall in this category.

“Actually London is not even a celebrity. London is a reliable old friend. A friend that has not lost their sense of culture and tradition. The monuments, the churches ...”

“.....and the bridges across the Thames - each one steeped in history.” We are finishing each other's sentences now. “The railway stations. The tube - a subterranean metropolis beneath a metropolis. The Mind the Gap jokes.”

“And what about the black cabs and then … and then the red double decker buses. Oh the red buses - what an icon! They say tourists take the tube but real Londoners take the bus.”

“Aha! You’re probably right. Flocks of pigeons on Trafalgar square, the shops on Oxford Street.”

“And you can’t forget the ever present murky skies, steady rain, rippled puddles, umbrella bearing pedestrians.”

“Of course you just had to mention the Great British weather!” A disapproving look is thrown. The entire body of humor surrounding the British weather is a road we agree not to go down.

---

I continue to quiz B on some of the other cities that she thought would fit the human-scale bill. New York inevitably comes up as a place she has not only travelled to but lived in. I am glad she brought up New York. Now New York is not an old friend. New York is a person you know you shouldn’t fall for, but you do anyway. There is something about the pace and the madness that sets New York apart from the rest of the US. Something about the people, coming from all corners of the world. To make a living, or even half a living. American dream and all that.

In New York you are acutely aware of the class divide that exists in society. New York is dirty. The subway is full of creaking old trains. New York has JFK and LaGuardia both of which are dismal at best and soul destroying at worst. Oh and Penn Station. Never has there been a more classic case of the mighty having fallen. A complete and utter hell hole out of some post apocalyptic world.

But somehow it all works. Barely. And that is where New York absolutely has you. As you walk around the city, you peel back the layers and beneath all the flaws and scars, you will find a genuinely captivating person. A person that knows how to push your buttons and make you forget the pandemonium, if only for a split second. Through the dollar pizzas on the street corners. Through the sheer magic of Central Park and the museums. Through the Manhattan skyline; hands down the best skyline in the world. Standing next to the Hudson, under the Brooklyn Bridge, with Lady Liberty keeping a quiet watch from a distance, you will be powerless as New York sucks you in. One glittering high rise at a time. Dreamy eyed, you cannot help but stare in wonderment. Hundreds of floors, thousands of windows. What goes on inside? And the lights! Yes so many lights. What could be a better tribute to Tesla, Faraday and the like?

“In general, the east coast of the United States is on a much more human-scale. Relatively small states with trains taking you across borders within a couple of hours at the most.”

“Going west of maybe Illinois, they started drawing great big rectangles for states.”

“And then there’s Texas. Vast open skies in an almost revolting shade of blue. Just as vast are the expanses of highway, further than the eye could see, or care to see. Wide, long and monotonous. Not a single human-scale building in sight”

“And who the hell builds highways passing through the center of a city!? Makes going to get some milk feel like a great expedition to the other side of the world.”

More chuckles.

Then a brief silence, during which I am suddenly reminded of where I am - in a lounge on the upper deck of an A380. A massive ship hurtling through the ether, pushing the speed of sound. A big TV screen near where I am standing silently glares back at me indicating that -50 degrees is but a mere 10 meters from where I am standing. Yet here we are, B and I, chatting like two friends catching up over coffee.

But of course, we are not friends. Not even acquaintances. She is on the Emirates cabin crew. And I am just a passenger.

---

Back at my seat, halfway through an episode of Chernobyl, I pause to stare out of the window. Beyond the wing, which seems to stretch out to eternity, a smudge of orange is forcing its way through the royal blue of the sky. I can hear the muffled yet reassuring boom from the four Rolls Royce engines. It is then that I realize that there is nothing about the A380 that is human-scale. There is nothing about the skies which she inhabits that is human-scale. I've travelled on the beloved Super dozens of times. Yet I continue to be amazed at the size and scale with which she operates. Devouring continents and swallowing oceans. Bringing the other side of the world just a little closer to home.

A friend of mine often describes journeys on the A380 as the closest we can get to the long sea voyages on gigantic ocean liners in the 1930s. And he is right. Two decks with so much space to stretch out. Bars, lounges, showers - no expense spared in ensuring luxury. Imagine peering out of the window from your first class cabin on the Queen Mary and seeing nothing but vast open sea. Right now I am doing exactly the same. Only from 36000 feet above the Earth, and all I can see is the vast open sky. Far below, Moscow and St Petersburg slip behind us. Scandinavia and the Atlantic Ocean lie ahead. As we burn more fuel, over North America, we will eventually settle in the exclusive airspace of flight level 410.

The Boeing 747 is a work of art. Sheer poetry. The Airbus A380 however, is a lesson in outsmarting the laws of Physics. It is an absolute whale of a plane that looks like it should never leave the surface of the Earth in the first place. But somehow it does, through the most languid and sluggish of take offs. Once up at cruising altitude though, it is steady ship all the way to your destination. The ability to punch through the sky without even the faintest of trembles is simply unmatched. I continue to stare wistfully out of the window, thinking about how much I’ll miss the A380 when she’s gone. She’s right up there with the Concorde in that nothing like this will ever be built in my lifetime.

---

Resting my head on one of the fluffiest pillows ever to have taken flight, I gaze at the roof of the cabin - tiny twinkling stars gently coaxing me to drift off into a deep sleep. And frankly, it is not hard to. The bed is completely flat and the mattress is more comfortable than the one I have at home. The blanket is ever so soft. The fake gold and wood around the windows is not something I’d furnish my home with, yet up here in the sky, it somehow adds to the coziness. From my own little cocoon, I can see neither the aisle nor other TV screens. Not a single window shade in the cabin is raised. I don’t remember the last time I fell asleep on a plane without an eye mask. All I can hear are the engines whirling away, and the hushed sound of the air beating against the fuselage - no more than a relaxing white noise.

In the moments between lying down and falling asleep, I am thinking about the countless journeys I’ve made with Emirates over the last two decades. Leaving home as often as I’ve had to, I’ve come to really treasure the sense of familiarity that an Emirates flight brings to me. I’ve never stopped to think about it before but there is a certain warmth and tenderness you feel when you have an old faithful travel companion to share your journeys with. And Emirates has been that companion for me, helping me wipe away the homesickness. Slowly at first, then all at once. The boarding music that says “Hello Tomorrow”. The inflight announcements that say “Tayaran Al Emarat”. The reassuring voice of Sir Tim Clark answering questions on the default podcast channel. The wavy curves on the cabin wallpaper. The cabin crew with their brown blazers and their red hats. When choosing an airline to fly, it is hard to look past this comfort of familiarity resulting from a bond first formed unwittingly, many years ago. And strengthened over numerous journeys from one side of the planet to the other, including this one. Before I can process any more thoughts, I slip into a happy and peaceful sleep. We are probably somewhere over the North Atlantic. But in this moment, it hardly matters.

---

Six hours have passed. B is on hand to wake me for dinner. It seems the crew has saved the best meal till the very end. Three courses this evening, starting with a chick-pea salad that doesn’t make you hate your life with its dreariness. I politely refuse the alcohol but ask for a piece of garlic bread on the side. Which is brought to me, warm, from a basket lined with cloth. The main course is served with the Jeera rice cooked in just the right amount of butter. The ratio of jeera to rice - perfect. The Rajma has the power to rival any dhaba in North India and along with it is a second curry made with melt-in-your-mouth soft paneer. Actual phulkas to go on the side, instead of pita.

And if you're going to go full North Indian with your meal, you need some achaar. Which obviously is on my tray as well. Emirates just knows how to serve Indian food. If I had any doubts about this, they are well and truly shattered when B brings the dessert. Four of the finest pieces of Rasgulla. Sometimes you have a meal so sublime that you are moved to shedding a tear or two. This AVML has been one such.

I call B over one last time to thank her for everything. She passes me a brownie, one very similar to those I’d been wolfing down earlier while talking to her in the lounge. This of course, brings the widest of smiles to my face. Not because I like brownies. But most certainly because of the fact that she had noticed. And remembered. The crew has been absolutely stellar on this flight.

---

Business class. A crew that knows how to pronounce your ridiculously long last name. A crew that has time to engage in conversations with you. Meals served on crisp white table cloths. Meals that come in courses. Flat beds to stretch your legs. Flat beds to rest your weary soul. On a grueling ultra long haul flight across 10 time zones, almost anything that seeks to make you feel more earthly is highly appreciated.

This has been Emirates Two Eleven Super - Dubai to Houston in just under seventeen hours, albeit the best seventeen hours of my life.

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arcticdementor · 5 years

Link

I’m going to describe your least favorite politician: Everything they say goes viral. The establishment despises them, donors can’t influence them, and the media can’t tame them. They’ve ignored the traditional rules of politics and now, politics will never be the same. Their success is a threat to America.

…

Okay, one more thought experiment. I’m going to describe an industry. Then, you’re going to guess which one I’m talking about. You have three choices: commerce, education, or politics.

Since World War II, the industry has been relatively stable. The big players haven’t changed. They’ve built relationships with financiers and journalists. Until recently, the industry structure looked like it would exist forever.

But now, things are changing. Within the industry, the pace of change is quick. When people talk about the industry, they talk about madness and uncertainty. Weird things are happening. The future is uncertain. The establishment doesn’t control the industry like it once did. The establishment’s decline is giving rise to a new breed of internet-natives, who are following a new playbook that the establishment cannot compete against.

Commerce, education or politics: Which industry am I talking about?

The answer: All the above. Yep, you read that right. The exact same thing is happening in all three industries.

…

I’ll show how the shift from information scarcity to information abundance is transforming commerce, education, and politics. The structure of each industry was shaped by the information-scarce, Mass Media environment. First, we’ll focus on commerce. Education will be second. Then, we’ll zoom out for a short history of America since World War II. We’ll see how information scarcity creates authority and observe the effects of the internet on knowledge. Finally, we’ll return to politics and tie these threads together.

…

America’s biggest Consumer Packaged Goods (CPG) companies are losing market share. Across consumer goods industries, brand loyalty is dying. The percentage of affluent consumers in the top 5% of household income who can identify their favorite brand is in sharp decline (see Figure 1).

The reason is simple: brands are about trust and signaling. They’re a substitute for incomplete information. When information is scarce and asymmetric, consumers flock to trusted brands. But in many parts of the economy, when consumers have reviews at their fingertips, they no longer defer to brands when they make a purchasing decision.

…

By creating unlimited shelf space and reducing information asymmetries, power in the internet age is shifting from suppliers to customers. The world is increasingly demand driven. Customers have more choices than ever before. They can buy anything, at any time. Through the internet, brands can serve a long-tail of unmet consumer needs, which weren’t served by big box retailers. Small direct-to-consumer brands are popping up left and right. Their products go beyond their utilitarian purposes and reflect the identities of people who buy them. From dairy-free yogurt, to anti-razor bump grooming products, to the assortment of milks (oat, almond, skim, soy, coconut, rice, hemp, plant, cashew, macadamia, hazelnut, pea, flax, peanut, walnut) so large that you need a rolodex to keep track of them all, the products themselves differentiate these upstart brands from incumbents.

…

Like a fish in water, we’re unaware of the integration between our education system, the corporate structure, and our media environment.

Education flows down from the needs of employers. Companies outsource their recruiting efforts to universities, who gauge the quality of applicants on their behalf. Employers benefit, but students pay the price in time and debt. Accreditation is a signal of competence, so HR directors save time and money by restricting their applicant pool to graduates from top-tier universities. Ivy League graduates, for example, passed a quality bar which made them attractive to employers.

…

The system wasn’t always so crazy. Historically, there was a strong correlation between the reputation of the university and the quality of its education. Limited by the reach of their words, before the internet, top-tier professors could only teach hundreds of students at a time. Since professors couldn’t record or distribute their lectures, students had to witness them first-hand.

…

Paradoxically, as college degrees become commoditized, the cost of acquiring them continues to rise. Since 1991, tuition has increased by more than 300%, according to the US Department of Labor’s “tuition and school fees” component of the Consumer Price Index.

Tuition isn’t rising because professor pay has increased. Instruction costs accounted for only 28% of cost increases from 2000 to 2010. Faculty salaries have not risen proportionally to these tuition increases.

Colleges can stagnate and it doesn’t matter. The value of education can only be measured on a long, multi-decade time cycle. Even then, the success of alumni is a result of a multitude of factors, which are difficult to isolate and account for. Since there’s no way to measure the quality of an education, universities are gauged by superficial optics such as sticker price, acceptance rates, and questionable rankings systems.

As their monopoly on information disappeared, colleges justify their existence with increased amenities. Money that isn't spent is re-allocated to other departments, so there’s no incentive to save. Expensive new initiatives present a problem: as long as money is available, it will be spent; as long as it is spent, total costs will increase. These incentives trickle down through the organization, causing costs to skyrocket.

We’re bankrupting our students. The percentage of student borrowers with $20,000 or more in student debt has doubled over the last decade. Half of those borrowers don’t begin paying off principal until they’re 35. Student debt is a full-blown national crisis.

…

Due to the information explosion, society’s faith in institutions is corroding.

The grand hierarchies of the Industrial Age are in decline. Large institutions used to be like a Swiss army knife, equipped with tools for any scenario. They tackled problems forcefully and shouldered the responsibility of society’s greatest challenges. High-achieving college graduates dreamed of working for big companies such as AT&T, Ford, and Dow Chemical. Instead of leading a small business, people felt that serving as a cog in a large, industrial machine offered a higher point of leverage.

…

The tide has shifted and people don’t trust authority like they used to. The same institutions that once commanded so much American praise have lost their edge and versatility. They look less like a Swiss army knife and more like your grandma’s dull, rusty, 19th-century butter knife. They’re slow and stodgy, bloated and inefficient.

Political risk is growing in parallel. The rumble of instability is louder and louder each day. Threats of revolution are visible around the world, at a faster and faster rate.

…

No individual illustrates the media’s all-encompassing influence better than Walter Cronkite. “The Most Trusted Man in America” served as an anchorman for the CBS Evening News for 19 years. Cronkite’s nickname was rooted in fact. According to The Quayle Poll, a survey which measured trust in public figures, Cronkite sat at the top of the list and was the only newsman to appear on it. Everybody else on the list of trusted people was a politician. Yes, you read that right. Times have changed.

…

What does "The Cronkite Moment" say about politics in the age of broadcasting?

When information sources were limited, we traded truth for coherence.

Trigger warning: the media was never truthful. There, I said it. To be fair, the media didn’t actively deceive the public either. Rather, a small number of editors and journalists had outsized influence over public opinion, and naturally they had blind spots. Their errors of omission included Kennedy’s affairs, Johnson’s corruption, and Reagan’s dementia. News editors were like high priests, standing in front of an obedient society, perched upon a pulpit, made strong by a direct line to millions of Americans.

As the three letter outlets waved their batons, the masses responded like sheep. In pursuit of social cohesion, the range of opinions were kept artificially narrow. Even when media outlets disagreed with each other, they operated within an implicit set of assumptions and a narrow range of acceptable opinions. Media moguls had more than money; they had power. Absolute power. Even when inaccuracies were reported, consumers couldn’t respond at scale.

…

During the 20th century, as the world became more complex, information flows simplified.

Like a coxswain yelling to his team of obedient rowers, leaders controlled the dissemination of information and determined the movement of the entire group. Even as global population skyrocketed from 1.6 billion in 1900 to 6 billion in 2000, media driven cohesion kept the group together. Millions of people moved in near-magical synchronicity. Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!

…

Narrative control is no longer monopolized. The arbiters of truth have fragmented. Millions of people, historically constrained by the reach and spread of their ideas, can theoretically reach anybody in the world with an internet connection. The truth has always existed, but until recently, we haven’t had the means to uncover and distribute it.

…

The shifts we’ve outlined so far can be seen in the changing of the guard from Encyclopedia Britannica to Wikipedia.

Even as Wikipedia gained traction, only a small percentage of people thought Wikipedia stood a chance against Encyclopedia Britannica. These skeptics were informed by precedent. Since the Egyptian Library of Alexandria , knowledge had been monopolized by institutions and certified by authoritative people who separated fact from fiction.

…

Britannica was costly to use. It was heavy and hard to search through. There were many volumes, and owning them all was prohibitively expensive. Carrying a Britannica dictionary felt like lifting weights at the gym. If you could carry all of them, you deserved a gold medal at the Olympics. The information inside the covers was expensive to transport, so the encyclopedias cost a pretty penny. Due to its ubiquitous brand recognition, Britannica had the final word. Everybody trusted it.

Wikipedia is the opposite.

It’s free, not expensive; digital, not analog; crowd-sourced, not editor-driven; continually updated, not fixed forever. Britannica is organized by subjects, Wikipedia by hyperlinks. Britannica is organized in alphabetical order. Wikipedia is a web of references with no beginning or end. Wikipedia is made by the people, for the people. It’s a collective memory machine where knowledge is accessible to everybody with a smartphone. All of Wikipedia — yes, every single article — can be saved for offline access, right on your smartphone.

…

Rather than controlling speech itself, people can control speech by determining the limits of acceptable conversation. As Noam Chomsky, the father of modern linguistics said: “The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum....”

Before cable, the limits of acceptable speech were enforced by political parties, who, due to their incentives for mass appeal, encouraged political centrism. With the stroke of a pen, small groups set narratives for the masses. Every town has one or two newspapers and three TV stations — all centrist, pro-business, and respectful of authority. Newspapers and television stations monopolized the distribution of information within their local territory. Through their power, they built social cohesion by eliminating diverse opinion and creating a shared intellectual ground for citizens.

…

Political parties are bigger than the people who work for them. They are a set of relationships and a well of tactical knowledge. They consist of partisan media members, advertisers, donors, associations, interest groups, consultants, and of course, politicians. Political parties built intimate relationships with donors to fund their advertising efforts. Local organizations, such as churches and labor unions lead get-out-the-vote efforts.

…

Voter interests were a means, not an end. In exchange for voter support, political parties ensured the election of their politicians by building relationships with editors, journalists, and media executives.

Now, that’s changing.

The media’s monopoly saw its first cracks with the rise of cable, and now, due to the internet, the Mass Media environment is going to crumble. The internet — where everyone can find, select, edit, and distribute content — has already left its mark. The Overton Window has been shattered. The media is no longer a barrier against diverse thought and opinion. Extreme opinions, which were once squashed by the Mass Media environment, can survive on the internet, where a viral message can spread to every corner of the globe.

…

As power shifts from a small mass of powerful constituents to a large mass of individual voters, politicians serve the voters directly instead of the needs of their political parties, where voters were just a means to an end. As the balance of power shifts away from political party affiliates to communication maestros, donors can no longer dictate political outcomes.

Every new medium of communication produces a chain of revolutionary consequences at every level of politics. Like a mountain range long in the distance, despite the hazy details of a future difficult to interpret, we can see the general outlines. The influencers of today are the politicians of tomorrow. Candidates with reach have organic built-in distribution, access to owned data and organic customer insights, and lower get-out-the-vote costs. Media savviness will be an essential skill for political success.

How people look and speak will be crucial to their success, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the politicians of tomorrow look more like celebrities than traditional politicians.

…

The 2016 Presidential Election was our waking up moment.

Trump has exposed the media’s weaknesses. As an observer, I was struck by the disconnect between what the media reported and the feelings of Americans on the ground. The media played one game. Trump played another. Trump’s campaign was loud, colorful and aggressive. Like a circus, eyes were glued to the show. Donald Trump invested little in traditional advertising, de-legitimized major media outlets, and connected with voters directly. Even as he invested less in advertising than Clinton or his Republican opponents, he dominated the media coverage and received unprecedented levels of attention. His apparent shortcomings helped, not hurt, his candidacy. Attacks benefited his campaign.

The media was caught in a Catch-22: cover Trump and he’ll win the election; ignore him and you’ll lose viewers and revenue. Media businesses thrived during the election. The rate of growth for New York Times newspaper subscriptions increased ten-fold over the previous year. Cable news viewership exploded during the election, which boosted ad revenue.

…

In short, as the amount of information exploded, the media — with business models built for an environment of information scarcity — engaged in a Faustian Bargain. Naval Ravikant said it best: "The Internet commoditized the distribution of facts. The ‘news’ media responded by pivoting wholesale into opinions and entertainment."

To be sure, I don’t want to ascribe too much weight to Trump’s election. I’m conscious of the human tendency to ignore probabilities in hindsight and wrap a narrative around every event, with a bias towards recent ones. With that said, I am confident of this: President Trump would not have won under the old Mass Media laws of media and politics. Trump's win was made possible by the shift from information scarcity to information abundance. People are overwhelmed by the volume of information and contradictions between media outlets.

…

People who scapegoat Jack Dorsey and Mark Zuckerberg miss a fundamental truth. Twitter didn’t happen to politics. Facebook didn’t happen to politics. The internet happened to politics. The shifts are structural and until we understand that, we can’t have an intelligent conversation about the state of the world. The common narratives, which are exaggerated by the media’s incentive to sensationalize the news, blind us to the real problems that plague society.

…

Big institutions, whose dominance once seemed eternal, are on the brink of collapse.

The explosion of information has undermined and obsoleted the 20th-century organizational model. Big brands are losing market share. Big universities are going bankrupt. Big political parties are splintering and losing their control over the political narrative. In their wake, small businesses who connect with audiences and serve the unique needs of consumers are thriving; digitally-native universities who can educate, entertain, accredit, and find work for students will blossom; likewise, politicians who can bypass the media and connect with voters directly are commanding attention, influencing policy and stepping into office.

#david perell #read the whole thing

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manicwordsfleeing · 6 years

Text

Another Random Scene!

Warning! Sexual references

Read my bad writing at your own risk.

“Hehe, it’s just a one time thing! It won’t happen again, promise.” Tunani said, greededly starring at the fridge and cabinets behind Fang, she was lying through her teeth and she knew it.

Fang narrowed his eyes, watching Tunani closely. She was lying. Fang really didn’t need to look very hard, the signs were everywhere. Her eyes didn’t meet his, her hands fidgeted, and her breathing had slightly increased.

“Ok... whatever you say.” Fang replied slowly.

Tunani tried not meeting his eyes, but when their eyes met she knew he knew.

“I swear it won’t happen again!” She pleaded, “It wasn’t even that good!” But her mouth was already watering just thinking of the sugary, icy treats she now loved.

Fang sighed, he already knew that Tunani was going to do it again. The question was when? When was she going to steal and eat more of those children’s drinks? The babysitter was already at his wits end, the continual disappearances of snack foods and drinks really soured his milk. It was a nuisance that Fang had been “voluntold” to look for the culprit. It was obviously Tunani, she was the only person immature enough to do so. She was to blame for the nagging babysitter beside him, who managed to pop up at all the wrong places and yet somehow say all the right things to piss Fang off.

“Of course it was Tunani! She’s the only one immature enough to do this!” The babysitter snapped, for once I agreed with him.

“Punish her or something, that’s what you’re here for right? You should make her kneel on peas! Oh that will be perfect! Oh, wait! Make her kneel on uncooked rice, so she can remember all the snacks she stole from the pantry! It’s all because of her that the toddlers are cranky. They didn’t get any gummy animals, cause she stole and ate them all! And you should also-“

Fang stopped listening after that, he was pretty sure that the gummy animals weren’t the cause, but he sure wasn’t about to say that. Still keeping an eye on Tunani, he notice that she was smirking. Probably getting ready to crush the babysitters dreams with minimal words.

“Oh no you don’t.” Interrupting the babysitters still on going speech, Fang moved to stand in front of the babysitter, crossing his arms and giving Tunani a cold stare. “Don’t you dare Tunani! You’ve given me enough headaches to last a lifetime! And, as a matter of fact, you don’t need any candy right now. You’ve had enough sugar to last the whole month.”

“When...” she stopped abruptly. “No candy?”

Her bottom lip begins to tremble, her eyes glistening with tears. Fang shook his head.

“Nope, those tears won’t work on me. I’m called cold hearted for a reason.”

“B-b-but, you just got more dicks.”

“And they were delicious, weird, but delicious.”

Tunani took small steps until she was directly in front of Fang, staring up at him with her adorable puppy eyes. Her small hand stretched out to grasp his pinky. She let out a small hiccup. “Don’t you have at least one more?” A single tear slipped from Tunani’s eye, “Please?”

Fang sighed, “Fine, this was my last dick too.” Reaching into thin air, Fang’s hand disappeared, only to reappear with a large bag. He handed it to Tunani with a faint forlorn look in his eyes, but his face remained cold and unreadable.

Tunani instantly stopped fake crying, her eyes widened with excitement. She ripped the bag open and grabbed the dick, licking the tip a few times before shoving the majority of the shaft in her mouth. Using her tongue to suck the delicious coating. Fang shook his head.

“That was my favorite flavor too, with cream filling.” He mournfully said.

When she heard Fang say that it was filled with cream, she began to suck harder.

“Don’t go too deep.” Fang warned.

Tunani ignored him.

She let out a small gagging sound, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying the succulent shaft that is halfway down her throat. She really wanted that sweet cream.

“Hey... HEY! Tunani! Don’t suck that hard, you’ll make it bur-“ But the warning came too late.

She was in the middle of sucking, the dick deep in her throat, and still ignoring the warnings Fang gave, when she felt it burst in her throat. A creamy orange flavored liquid ran down her throat. She let out a loud moan as her eyes rolled towards the back of her head. She pulled the halfway finished dick out with a pop, a string of saliva and cream connected her lips to the once full dick. Her mouth was wide open, the insides covered with a thick layer of orange and white cream.

“Fang, your dick tastes so good.” Tunani breathed.

“I probably would have said the same thing except I can’t eat my dick now, can i? Cause someone ate all the dicks I gave her in one week.” Sarcasm dripped from Fangs voice like honey.

“It’s not my fault,” She commented, shrugging, “These things are fucking addictive. It’s almost like the real thing, but it tastes better.”

“That’s true.” Fang admitted, it took a few seconds for her words to fully register. “Wait... Tunani...”

“Yes?” She mumbled, in a trancelike voice. Still high from dick sucking.

“How do you know what dick tastes like?” Fang’s eyes widened, disbelief blossoming across his face.

Silence was the answer he got.

“Tunani? You still haven’t answered me...” Fang grew suspicious.

Tunani straightened, like a rubber band that was being stretched. “I... ah... I need to... um... need to go do...”

She scanned the room, frantically searching for a reason to leave. “I have to go to the funeral home, you see my mom’s grandma’s aunts best friends goldfish died and they asked me to arrange the funeral. So I’ll be back in a little while!”

Tunani shot towards the door, trying to escape before Fang could question her anymore. Only to find Fang blocking her means of escape.

“I think you better sit down, Tunani.” Fang growled.

She backed up a few steps. “Fang, I think I hear the director calling me, I better g-“

As she turned to run to her room, where she planned to lock the door, get under her covers, and stay there for a week, she ran into a very tall, muscular figure. “CONNER!” Tunani exclaimed in utter delight, “Help me, Fang is trying to interrogate me!”

She jumped into his arms, which caught her with ease, and began to cry into his shoulder. Or as close to it as she could get, it was more like his right bicep.

Fang knew Tunani’s method of getting Conner to back her. Before Conner could say anything, Fang quickly yelled. “TUNANI’S HAVING SEX!”

Fang, realizing that he’d yelled too loud, quickly glanced around, but the babysitter wasn’t in hearing range. As he had taken offense to being ignored and went back to the day care while Tunani was begging for a dick.

Conner’s once confused face quickly morphed into shock. I knew right then and there, that I had turned Conner to my side.

Tunani felt herself fall, a scream ripped from her throat as she hit the tile floor.”NO! Conner, he’s lying!” She scrambled to her knees and grabbed Conner’s leg, pleading with him. “I would never- I have never- I’M INNOCENT!” She screamed, begging Conner to believe her.

He never takes Fang’s side, Tunani is his favorite. Conner always chosen her.

“Tunani.” Conner breathed, “How could you. You’re not even 18 yet.”

Fang chimed in, “I totally agree with Conner, you’re not even 18 years old yet Tunani!”

“You could get an STD, Tunani! It’s not safe to have sex before 18 years old!” Conner added.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” She said, stuck on her knees between the two attractive men, “And we used protection!”

Tunani looked from Conner to Fang then back to Conner. She realized that she was in a very interesting position and she was not quite sure how she felt about it.

“What kind of protection?” Fang asked.

“Did you take birth control pills?” Conner injected.

“Who exactly did you have sex with?”

“It wasn’t that red head jerk from year 3, was it?”

Fang and Conner towered over Tunani, shooting question after question.

Tunani’s Head was spinning with how many questions she had to answer. She decided to answer the most important question first. “God, no! It wasn’t that red head!” She shouted, offended that they thought she would fall for just any pretty face.

“And I don’t think y’all know him. Yes, I’m on birth control and we used condoms too. Now I have to go-“

She was trying to stand up and escape her awkward position, when both men placed a hand on her shoulders and shoved her back down. Tunani, after looking into both Fangs and Conners eyes, decided that she did not like this situation. Fang and Conner had morphed into two angry dads, who had no idea who had deflowered their precious baby.

Tunani had never seen Conner angry and she certainly had never seen Fang angry. Hell, she had almost never seen him show any emotions. That fact terrified the living daylights out of her. She knelt there, helpless, as she tried to conjure a way out of the situation without being beaten to a pulp by the two daddy figures beside her.

“WHO IS THE BOY!?” The dads yelled, in unison. Their fury reaching its boiling point.

Tunani didn’t know what to do. Her and the guy said it would be a one time thing. It didn’t mean much of anything to her or to him. “He... ah I... we di...” She, for once, was at a loss for words.

Conner and Fang presses closer together, trapping Tunani between their legs. There was no chance of her escaping until she had answered all their questions.

“You what?” The angry dads asked, “What exactly happened for you two to have se-“

“YOU TWO BETTER STOP IT RIGHT NOW!” A sharp voice commanded. Both men quickly jumped back, their anger evaporating like water in the desert.

“But Miss-“ They began.

“Don’t you Miss. Marquie me, you overbearing oafs!” Beatrice Marquie snapped, “ Can’t you see that you’re making her nervous? Would you be reacting like that if she was a boy and he had accidentally let slip that he’d had sex?”

Conner and Fang both wilted, shamed. Now that their anger had been stilled, they saw the error of their ways. “No ma’am.” They mumbled, they turned and looked at Tunani.

“We’re sorry for acting the way we did.” Conner started.

“Yea.” Fang put in, “We’re really sorry Tunani. We acted out of order and we shouldn’t have, we are thoroughly ashamed of ourselves.”

Beatrice, satisfied at their apologies, also turned to Tunani. “Now, Tunani, it is up to you.”

Tunani was shookith. Now only had Miss. Marquie saved her, but Fang and Conner were also apologizing to her. They, especially Fang, never did that. She slowly stood up, her attention solely on the two men. “Um.” She didn’t know what to say. “Apology accepted?” Tunani didn’t know how to receive apologies, normally she gave them out. Turning to Miss. Marquie, she thanked her and proceeded to go back to her room. Only to stop mid step, Miss. Marquie’s last words swam in her head.

“What do you mean ‘It’s all up to me now?”

“You’ll know when you need to know, dear.” And with that, Miss Marquie disappeared, literally.

If she was being completely honest, and she was, Tunani was kinda scared to find out what Miss. Marquie meant.

“Maybe she meant that it was up to you to tell us about the boy?” Fang said, hopeful.

She sure as hell didn’t want it to mean that.

“I-I think s-she meant I would find o-out later.” Tunani stuttered, “Like next month later. So I’ll just-“ She turned around, trying to finally escape this horrid situation, when she was stopped, yet again, by Conner.

“Wait, Tunani!” Conner said, blocking her path once more. “You can’t just leave us hanging! Give us a hint or something!”

If he wasn’t so proud, he probably would have been on his knees.

“Shut up.” Fang hissed, narrowing his eyes at Conner. “She just said she didn’t want to tell us, so do yourself a favor and stay here.”

Pointing his finger at Tunani, Fang motioned for her to follow him. “Come.”

Normally, Tunani would run away instead, but Fang’s tone of voice said that she shouldn’t. Fang led her through the door, down a couple hallways, up a flight of stairs, turned a few more times, and then stopped. Taking a deep breath, Fang slowly turned to face Tunani.

“Tunani... first morning want to implore that I am deeply sorry for what I did. ”Fang visibly struggled to continue speaking. “I... Tunani, I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. I was also your age once, I did a lot of stupid things. One of those, was giving my heart away to those I thought loved me. I was so young and naïve, I believed that I was loved when it was just an illusion I had conjured.” He chuckled. “I was asinine. All the signs were there, but I ignored them. The illusion of love was so alluring to me that I threw all caution out the window. While I don’t approve of the speed of which you and Jungguk’s, yes I already knew all about him, relationship is moving. I won’t do anything to stop you. That’s entirely up to you. However, I am warning you. I don’t want your heart to be broken so early, the heartbreaks in the early years are the ones that stick with you for a lifetime. I’m begging you Tunani, take a step back and look at everything from a distance. As master used to say, “Focusing on a single leaf, blocks the beauty of the whole tree.” Be wise, don’t give yourself out to just anyone that warms your heart. Make sure they’re worth it. Please.... for me?

Fang found himself unable to meet Tunani’s gaze. Rarely did he ever show such emotion, nor talk as much. He was amazed that he’d actually been able to say all that without choking up.

He knows! That very thought consumed her mind. He knew she was seeing Jungguk in secret the entire time. How did he find out?That question felt like cement bricks resting on her chest. When Fang finished, Tunani couldn’t speak. It took everything in her to even breathe. Not only did he know, but he wasn’t angry or upset that she didn’t tell him. He was concerned and worried about her.

This was a whole new Fang, one she had never seen. She loved this Fang. She’d never realized how much Fang really cared for her until now. From this moment on she will forever love him, Fang was like a father to her, in his own slightly messes up way. But she still loves him for how much he truly cares.

Tunani spread her arms ready to hug Fang. And this time when she moved towards him and wrapped her arms around his waist, he didn’t stop her. He even went so far as too stroke her hair. But what came next surprised them both.

Tunani, without letting go in the slightest, whispered, “Fang, I love you.”

His heart stopped at those beautiful words.

“Fang, I love you”

Those words echoed in his ears. He couldn’t believe it, this sweet toothed maniac said that she loved him...

Fang knew he was hard to love, impossible even. He’d been told those same words over the years, but they were always empty promises. However, when Tunani said them, his heart warmed and peace flooded his soul. Yes, this smol sugar monster truly loved him. Fang knew without a doubt, he loved her too. He ceased stroking and instead wrapped his arms around her shoulders, not tight, but not loose either. He breathed in deep, buried his face in Tunani’s hair, and whispered back,

“I love you too, Nani”

It was about time he gave her a nickname.

4 notes · View notes

elisabettacormac · 3 years

Text

Alecia McKenzie: Natasha

Alecia McKenzie

Natasha

She had forgotten why she signed up to be a tutor. Mostly it had been impulse. The notice in the lobby of her dormitory talked about 'disadvantaged' children, children who were poor but bright and needed someone to look up to. Tutors in English and math were needed. Two hours a week were all you had to give.

Andrea had never done any volunteer work before but the notice appealed to her: she imagined a little-sister or -brother kind of child, shy and lovable, who would ask her strange questions to which she would give funny, grown-up answers. She signed the volunteer form and they assigned her Natasha, eight years old.

Natasha was big for her age, looking at least ten. She was a beautiful child, the same light brown colour as Andrea, with big, black untrusting eyes. The arrangement was that her mother would bring her to the university each Saturday at eleven, and Andrea would help her with any school problems she had. If she had homework for the weekend, they would to it together.

The first time she came, Andrea brought some biscuits, made some lemonade and they sat at her desk in the dorm room and talked. Natasha was very intelligent, almost unchildlike, and Andrea felt at a loss. She didn't know how to talk to children who didn't particularly act like children, didn't know what tone to adopt, what subject might be good.

Andrea asked: 'Do you like dolls?' and Natasha said:

'When I grow up I'm going to be an astronaut.'

Andrea hadn't heard that one before. Doctor, teacher, nurse and policeman she was used to, but not astronaut. Especially not from a child who'd probably never been further than Kingston. She felt herself pitying the child for being so ambitious, knowing her ambitions would never be fulfilled.

She said: 'That's a good profession. Why do you want to do that?'

'So I can float around. My teacher says that there's no gravity in space, so you have to float. They showed a movie at school about it. And I know that's what I want to do.'

Andrea burst out laughing. How many people were there who wanted to float? Natasha was staring at her and she tried to stop laughing, swallowed hard.

Natasha asked: 'What are you going to be? A doctor?'

'No.' Andrea replied. 'I'm studying languages. You know, French and Spanish. I'l probably teach when I graduate.'

'Oh!'

Natasha was unimpressed, and Andrea felt belittled. 'I have another year to go. It's very difficult.'

Natasha looked at her without replying and the image of a nice, timid child who spoke with downcast eyes passed across Andrea's mind. Perhaps next time she could choose.

Natasha spoke good English, which was strange because he rmother knew only dialect. When Mrs Jackson brought Natasha, she had tried to speak 'properly', but Andrea knew it was beyond her. She herself spoke Creole to the woman, to put her at ease, but Mrs Jackson had been insulted. She left quickly, telling Natasha she'd be back for her at one o'clock.

Andrea asked to see Natasha's math book, and they talked about what she found hardest. Natasha had problems with multiplication so they worked on a few sums. When Andrea showed her an easy way to do several problems, she child smiled for the first time, her two front teeth slightly overlapping. She got most of the sums right after that. When her mother came to get her, Andrea walked with them to the university gates. It hadn't been such a bad two hours after all.

The next Saturday she slept late after a dorm party the night before. Errol was with her. She didn't remember about Natasha until the intercom shrilled in her room: 'Andrea, you have a visitor in the lobby. Would you please come down?'

She jumped up, washed her face, dressed, got Errol out, and was down in just under ten minutes.

'Sorry to keep you waiting. I overslept.'

Natasha looked at her, eyes condemning. Andrea looked away. When they reached the room, Natasha glanced around quickly, not hiding her disappointment at the lack of lemonade and biscuits this time.

'Why don't we do a few sums, then you ca come down with me and have lunch in the cafeteria.' Andrea said. 'I'll tell everyone that you're my sister.'

The child showed no pleasure at the suggestion, and Andrea was annoyed. A little gratitude wouldn't have been amiss.

But she forgot her irritation when they walked int othe cafeteria and her friends said: 'What a cute little girl. How come you didn't tell us you had a little sister?'

Natasha talked all through lunch, about wanting to be an astronaut and wanting to float. 'I'll float above Earth and wave down to all of you.'

She charmed Andrea's friends, but Andrea felt burdened by tyhe child's talk, but her obsession. She felt even ore pressed upon when Mrs Jackson invited her later that day to come to dinner the next Saturday.

They lived in a tenement yard in August Town. An L-shaped row of rooms housed several families, each family occupying one room, and all sharing a long, red-tiled verandah that ran along the building. There was one toilet in the yard.

Mrs Jackson and Natasha's room was at the end of the long part of the L. It was very clean. Along one wall was a double bed over which hung a picture - torn from a calendar - of Jesus, blond-haired and unnaturally blue-eyed, on the cross. A round dining-table with four chairs sat in one corner and nearest the door was a rocking-chair, its straw seat in need of repair.

Mrs Jackson had cooked rice and peas and fried chicken, a real Sunday meal made a day too early. Carrot juice sweetened with condensed milk was already in a plastic jug on the table.

'Sit down, sit down, please.' Mrs Jackson said. 'Sorry the place not bigger.'

'It's nice, it's nice.' Andrea assured her. 'And what a lovely bedspread.'

'Yes, is real linen, you know. My sister in England send it for me.'

'It's lovely.'

They ate. The food was spicy and delicious. Andrea chewed slowly; she didn't want to offend by not eating enough but she also wanted them to have some food left for tomorrow.

'Heat up, heat up.' Mrs Jackson encouraged her. 'I don't have no fridge, so if we don't heat everything, it gwine spoil.'

'The word is "eat", mama, not "heat".' Natasha corrected her mother sternly. Mrs Jackson looked at her with pride.

'You know, Natasha always come first or second in her class. The only thing her teacher say is that she talk too much.'

The child tightened, her face scornful and angry as she looked at her mother. Mrs Jackson smiled gently and several emotions went across Natasha's face. Andrea watcher her, knowing she loved her mother but was ashamed of her. She, too, had felt that way, until her mother died when she was sixteen, three years ago. But her reasons had been different. Mrs Jackson didn't seem the type who could drink white rum like a man and go to bars where she was the only woman. Andrea closed her eyes briefly.

'You've decorated your home so nicely, Mrs Jackson.' Andrea said. 'Have you lived here long?'

'Thank you, love. I been living here since Natasha born. Her father abroad, you know. Her working so he can send for the two of us.' Natasha had heard this since she was old enough to ask where her father was.

'Yes? He's in England.'

'No,' Mrs Jackson said. 'He in America, New York.'

'Oh. My father is in the States too, but Miami. You know it takes a long time to file for someone over there. They're cracking down on everybody. But you're probably better off here. America is no paradise...' She stopped. Mrs Jackson wouldn't appreciate student left-wing rhetoric, even if it were the truth.

But the woman smiled. 'At least in America if you have money, you can buy anything you want. They don't marry saltfish with flour in America.'

She had a point. When things were scarce on the island, the shopkeepers started "marrying" goods. So if you wanted something that was hard to get, as saltfish was at one point, you have to buy something else to deserve it. Two pounds of lour, for instance. And they married other things as well. You could get rice only if you bought the badly made coconut oil, which smoked and stank when you heated it.

'But things are plentiful now.' Andrea said. 'Since Mr. Swagga got into power, the shelves are filled with cornflakes, foreign cheeses and American apples.'

Mr Swagga had only got into power by promising to bring back these things after the unpleasant years of Socialist belt-tightening. "Cornflakes-and-corned-beef politics", Errol called it. They had both joined the SCP, the Student Communist Party after their first year on campus. But Andrea had to be careful what she said. People like Mrs Jackson didn't want to hear about Communism. Only America offered deliverance.

When she left, Mrs Jackson and Natasha accompanied her part fo the way. All along the street, young men leaned against walls, or sat in groups on the sidewalk. There had been more women and children in the street when Andrea had walked by earlier, but now it was getting dark and the lessening light sent in the women even as it drew out these bored and trouble-seeking boys who had broken the bulbs of the street lights so they could feel more at home.

One called out: 'Hey, Mrs Jackson. you not introducing we to your visitor?'

And another said: 'I like your sexy jeans, baby.'

The third boy shouted a warning. 'Hey, brown-skin girl, next time you come here, don't wear no green blouse because green in Labourite colour, you hear me? This is strictly PNP territory.' He pronounced it "Pay-N-Pee."

Andrea wanted to say "Go to hell", but she found it easy to restrain herself when the boy raised a gun and fired two shots into the air to emphasize his worlds. At the shots Mrs Jackson, who had been ignoring the boys, looked over and said mildly: 'Yappy, stop the foolishness.'

Yappy put the gun away and grinned at her. 'Just practicing, Mrs Jackson. You know elections soon come. How you do, Natasha? You growin' big, eh?'

'Keep your eyes to yourself, you hear me, Yappy?' Mrs Jackson said sharply.

Yappy said: 'me eyes is me market, ma'am...' and he laughed. His shots had been less threatening, and less frightening.

Natasha looked at her mother. 'Mama, when are we going to move? I hate Yappy.'

And Mrs Jackson said: 'We don't have money now to move, but as soon as we get some...'

They would've accompanied Andrea all the way back to the university but she said she could go on alone, it was better if they went back.

Errol was waiting for her at the dorm. 'What's going on? I thought we were going to take in a movie tonight.'

'Oh, sorry, I forgot. Damn!' She told him where she'd been and about the boy with the gun.

Errol shrugged: 'That's the ghetto, baby.'

Errol was sincere most of the time, but frequently she hated him. From his tone of voice nobody would guess that his parents, still together after twenty-six years of marriage, were hot-shot lawyers with one of the biggest houses on Jack's Hill. No, you'd think he was born and raised in Renk Town, waking and going to bed with the sound of gunshots. The closest he probably got to nay ghetto was listening to his father's radio show every Wednesday morning at ten o'clock. It was one of those call-in shows. A listener would call in and say "Hello Mr Bates, you know that all politicians are turning poor people onto fools?" And Lawyer Bates would say: "Good morning, Sah. What do you mean by that, Sah?" The question, always the same and always unexpected, would prompt the man into saying something stupid. Instant entertainment for the masses. And the callers never learned. They called about everything, but mostly about politics and religion: "You know, Mr Bates, if the people on this island don't turn to God and stop the thieving and killing, God goin' really send something to lick some sense into them." "Thank you for your comment, ma'am, what you mean by that, Ma'am?"

Still, it wasn't Errol's fault. They were sitting on the bed and she reached over and pulled off his tam. His dreadlocks were just starting to grow and she knew he would wear his tam until the locks were long and thick, at which time he could go hatless with pride. The dreadlocks were another thing about him that she disliked. They looked ridiculous on him because he was so light-skinned, much fairer than her. They made her feel that he was trying to prove something, made her think that he wasn't man enough about his convictions, that he needed the dreadlocks to show everybody where he stood. Sometimes she thought he was the kind of man to marry the blackest woman he could find, just to dispel all doubts to himself. She wondered when he would leave her.

She leaned over and kissed him. He smiled and lay back on the bed taking her with him. He pulled the blouse from her jeans and stroked her back.

'I have an idea.' Errol said.

'Yes?' Andrea smiled at him, eyes slightly narrowed.

'Let's take your "tutee" to the beach next Saturday. It's okay for you? You don't mind?'

'No, I don't mind. It's only the first year that I couldn't stand going. But I don't know if Natasha can swim. Anyway, I'll ask her mother. It's a really nice idea.'

She kissed his chest. She kissed his neck, remembering why she liked him. He laughed, his chest shaking under her. He stayed the night.

The next Saturday they borrowed his father's car and the three of them drove to Hellshire Beach. Anybody looking at them would think they were a family, Andrea thought. Natasha talked non-stop the whole way but it didn't bother Andrea today. The child didn't own a swimsuit and she looked vulnerable in her pink shorts and polka-dots sleeveless blouse. It was the first time Natasha had ever been to the sea and she was afraid of the water, until Errol and Andrea taught her how to float on the waves. When they would have left the water, she said, 'Please, can we float some more?' So the three of them spent hours on the water, screaming whenever a big wave came in and washed down the beach, picking up shells and crazily shaped stones. Andrea had never seen her so happy.

On the way home she said: 'Andrea, can we come back again and you teach me some more how to float?'

And because Andrea couldn't answer, Errol said: 'Yes, we'll come again. Any time you like.'

Before he took her home, Errol stopped by a sidewalk vendor a brought a bag of fruits. When they saw Mrs Jackson, he gave her the bag and she took it, smiled brightly and said thanks. Andrea knew she wouldn't have got the same response.

The lessons continued until just before the Christmas holidays. Natasha seemed to be getting brighter all the time and she never missed a Saturday. She was usually upset when her mother came to get her because she wanted to stay longer. And Andrea, took, looked forward to the lessons, but she couldn't decide whether she truly liked Natasha or not. The child's eyes were too unsettling, demanding everything and expecting nothing. And she still talked about floating, always floating. But Andrea knew she wouldn't float, she wouldn't escape. In eight or nine years she knew she would run into Natasha somewhere and the child would have two children hanging on to her and a third in her belly, or something like that, firmly anchored to her circumstances like everyone else. She couldn't believe in Natasha's dreams and Natasha knew it. The child seemed to like her but kept her feelings in check. They tended to be very polite with each other, both afraid of disappointment.

Only once did Natasha say that she wished she lived at the university with Andrea because people were always fighting around their neighbourhood. And somebody on their street had killed a policeman.

'They're always firing shots...' she said. 'I wish Mama would move.'

And Andrea tried to tell her that her mother was doing her best, would move, change her life, do anything, just for her, if she could. But the words didn't mean anything to Natasha and Andrea knew that, in a way, she was talking to herself.

Natasha's end-of-term report said she had come first in her class. She showed the card to Andrea. Her teacher had written: "Natasha has improved in all her subjects. Now if she could only learn to talk less and stop disrupting the class."

Andrea didn't know if they would continue with the lessons when school resumed. Tutoring Natasha was painful because they had too much in common. But on the last Saturday before the university closed, Natasha said: 'See you in January.' And she found she couldn't say "No, you won't." Andrea smiled, kissed the child and gave her her Christmas present. It was a bathing suit she and Errol had picked out together.

Andrea went to Miami for the holidays, to spend Christmastime with her father and half-Chinese stepmother. She'd been doing it since her mother died. Davy had wanted her to come and live in Miami, but she had said she preferred to stay in the island boarding with friends, then living on campus.

Every year that she came to Miami, she wished she had spent Christmas on the beaches at home with her friends. It started at immigration. She always hoped that the Americas would be rude so she could tell them what the thought of their country and be refused entry. But they were ever polite. When they asked her reason for coming to the States and she said "Tourism", they accepted her reply without question. But she knew it wasn't always like that. She remembered reading in the papers at home that they had turned back one woman, saying that they didn't want any whores in their country. The article had caused several gunshots to be fired at the American embassy, and they had stopped giving out visas for a while.

Davy and Ann-Marie met her at the airport. Her father always looked the same, Harry Belafonte-handsome and well fed. He had his own supermarket in Miami and Ann-Marie worked in a bank. Andrea was Davy's only child, or the only one he would acknowledge, and that was just because she looked like him, he said bluntly. The others didn't resemble him in the least and could’ve been fathered by anyone. He wasn't going to waste his money taking care of them.

They took her everywhere when she came. And after a few days, she forgot to hate them and America, getting caught up in the shopping spree and the crass happiness of the people around her. Everyone was busy making money in Miami and loving every minute of it. Only the Haitians, driving taxis, opening doors and being washed up on beaches on too-small boats, seemed slightly sad. But they didn't see many Haitians because her father lived in a Cuban neighbourhood. He'd even picked up some Spanish. He was always shouting to people, "Hey man, ¿qué pasa?" And he was very proud that Andrea's Spanish was fluent. He told his neighbours, 'My daughter is studying Spanish at university. She talks it real good.' In the nine years he'd been in Miami, his accent had got more and more American, but Andrea respected Ann-Marie for clinging to her Caribbean accent, even if she was half-Chinese.

Her father gave her money and she spent it frenziedly and without compunction. That was what America was for, buying things. She bought a watch and good quality wool for Errol, who knitted his own tams. She bought a school-bag for Natasha, a scarf and sweet-smelling American bars of soap for Mrs Jackson, a gold necklace and jeans for herself and t-shirts for all her friends at the university. When she didn't shop, she watched TV, while Davy and Ann-Marie worked. Every five minutes there was a Christmas message from advertisers. MacDonald’s wishing everybody Happy Holidays. Burger King giving away Christmas hamburgers. Piggly Wiggly screaming what items they had on sale. Buy, buy, buy, it's Christmas.

She went back to the island in January loaded down and tired. Errol came to pick her up to the airport in his father's car, and she held on to him for a long time. After two weeks in America the island always seemed unreal in its beauty, everything too bright, too colourful, too natural to be appreciated fully. She wished that, instead of the sea and the mountains on the way from the airport, there would be a few high-rise blocks of concrete to help cushion the shock of contrast.

Her classes started the next day, but she couldn't concentrate. She felt everything around her was moving too slowly. She was really looking forward to the weekend. Perhaps when Natasha came, they could skip the lessons and go to the beach. The child wouldn't say no to floating.

Saturday morning, she wrapped the gifts she had bought and waited for Natasha and Mrs Jackson. When they hadn't come by two o'clock, she and Errol went to Hellshire Beach with Marlene and Tony, two of their friends in the SCP. Things were tense in the party these days because general elections were very near now, only a month away. The violence on the island was heating up, and already one of the students of the SCP had been shot at. It was ironic, because the communist Party wasn't even contesting the elections. Leave it to the Labourites and the Pay-N-Pees. Driving to the beach in Tony's car, they laughed at some graffiti they passed. "AIDS= Any Idiot Deserves Swagga".

'These people getting wittier and wittier!' Tony laughed.

'And poorer and poorer.' Errol said.

At Hellshire they ordered Festivals and fried fish, cooked on the beach by people who made their living that way. Most of the food-sellers on the beach were women. The men went out in small boats to catch the fish, and the women made the Festivals, kneading the flour mixed with cornmeal, sugar, butter and water, and forming them into small balls which they fried until brown. When the men came in, they dumped their catch into water-filled iron drums beside the women, and beach-goers went over to choose their meal among the trapped, weakly-swimming fish. Errol always pointed to the biggest fish and the woman laughed, plucked it out of the water and put it in a basin until it flapped to stillness. in a few minutes she would scale it and fry it on the spot. Andrea wondered what the women did during the week when the beach was deserted. But perhaps they made enough on the weekend to see them through.

Before eating, they fooled around in the water, tossing a ball to one another. Later Andrea floated away alone, lying on her back with her arms out and her eyes closed against the sun. The waves rocked her, she lost sense of time and other people in the water disappeared. Floating like this, she could understand Natasha's dreams. Although she hadn't traveled very far from the shore, she felt she had drifted miles out to sea and was alone. The rocking of the water was peaceful; perhaps that was how her mother had felt. Then she remembered the fish-eaten face and quickly swan back to join the others.

'Don't go off alone again.' Errol said. 'The food is ready.'

Afterwards, stretched out on the beach, Andrea thought of her mother. She was perhaps four years older than Natasha when her mother started drinking, when she started being ashamed to take school friends because of what her mother might do or say. Usually, though, her mother wasn't even at home and Andrea had to fix dinner for herself, straighten the place... and wait. If her mother didn't come home by ten o'clock or so, she went looking for her, walking from bar to bar, a target from the drunks who noticed only that she was beginning to grow breasts. They got to know her and made jokes about the plums in her blouse pocket getting riper and riper. And when she finally found her mother, sitting with some man, his hand on her leg or her hip, there was so much contempt in her eyes, her mother couldn't look at her. And she'd walk home ahead of the unsteady woman, not offering support.

Sunday was the only day her mother didn't drink, and together they'd go to the beach and she'd see the gentle, relaxed person her mother had once been. Her mother hadn't known how to swim and wasn't interested in learning. But she knew how to float and would lie on her back in the water, being rocked to and fro. Sometimes, after such a Sunday, her mother would have a dry spell for a week, and would go back to her dressmaking business, making clothes for the people in the neighbourhood. Then, instead of buying rum, she would buy Andrea a present, saying: "Here now, your father's money didn't buy this." (Davy continued sending three hundred American dollars every month even after she'd written her mother saying he'd found someone over there and didn't think he'd be coming back to the island. Her mother had read the letter, laughing and saying, "After all these years, imagine that, eh?" They had laughed together, loudly.)

Andrea didn't know why her parents hadn't married when she was born, but now she couldn't ask. She only knew that when the first bad wave of political violence started her father had gone to Miami, saying that he would send for them and that the and her mother would get married then. But things changed quickly. And her mother started drinking.

When Andrea turned sixteen, she stopped going to the bars to look for her mother. But she always left the lights on in the front room and stayed awake until her mother came in, usually in the early morning. it was on such a morning that they had their last fright, a Thursday morning. Her mother had lately started reeking of alcohol and the smell hung around the house. It couldn't be gotten rid of. Andrea had been watching her grow thinner, watching her face get more ravaged, like the face of a woman whose husband constantly battered her. She had long stopped begging her not to drink. Now she only hated her. And especially this morning. Although she had school the next day, she was still awake when ehr mother came in and she went into the front room to meet her.

'Still up?' her mother asked, swaying and reaching out to steady herself. Andrea stepped back and they looked for a moment into each other's eyes. Her mother seemed to grow sober, briefly.

She said: 'You hate me.'

And Andrea said: 'Yes, you're just a drunken rass. I wish you weren't my mother!' and went back to her bedroom slamming the door.

The next day, when she was at school, her mother floated away. Days before they found her body, a fisherman said he had seen a woman in a green dress bobbing far out at sea. He had wanted t ogo after her, he said, but he was very low on fuel and she just drifted further and further away. And when the polie went out to search for her, she eluded them, for five days. After she had identified it, she threw up and couldn't stop imagining all those fish surrounding her mothe rnad pecking away greedily. It didn't help to know she'd drowned before the fish-feast started.

NATASHA didn't come the following Saturday, and Andrea asked Errol to go with her to August Town. Mrs Jackson's neighborhood was the kind of place that upset affluent people on the island when they saw pictures of it in foreign newspapers. When the BBC or The New York Times did stories about political violence on the island, this was the sort of place they liked to show. It looked like a war zone. Slogans were scrawled on every wall and, if anybody paid attention to laws in this country, all the houses would've long been condemned.

The streets were full of life, as if people couldn't bear to be in their homes. Women combed their children's hair on the sidewalk and shouted laughing abuse at the young men hanging about. Most of the women were pregnant. One, her belly hanging between her tights, sat wide-legged on a stool, making roast corn on a coal stove to sell to others on the street. They all stared at Andrea and Errol, but Errol's dreadlocked status prevented any comments.

Mrs Jackson's room was locked. They peered in through the window and the room looked empty, no furniture.

'Looks like she moved...' Errol said.

An old man, sitting and pickign his toe-nails further doewn the verandah, looked at the, looked away and shouted back to them: 'She gawn abroad. De man send fe har after the pickney dead.'

'Which pickney? What you mean?' Andrea asked him.

She grabbed Errol's arm to steady herself. She was trembling.

'You no read Gleaner? You no listen to radio? Dem shoot de pickney. Right after Christmas. Dem bwoy on de road was fooling round wid gun,shoot after one anodder, and two bullet ketch de pickney, kill har pon de spot. But 'ow come yo uno 'ear 'bout dat? It cause such a rage dat even de politician dem come roun fe try quiet de people. Is riot we almost 'ave ya.'

He continued picking at his toes.

Andrea looked at Errol.

'You didn't hear about it, Errol?' She was still squeezing his arm hard, her nails cutting into him.

But he was just as shocked as he was.

'Yeah, I heard something about it. A lot of people called in to Daddy's programme. But I didn't know it was... Natasha?'

'Did they arrest anybody?' Andrea asked the old man.

'Arrest? Who dey goin' arrest? Everybody wid gun dese days 'ave protection from politician. Is where you live, Miss? You no know dat?'

'How about the boy names Yappy? Was he involved?'

'Yappy? Is Yappy dat try shield her when he see she get shop. Is him try calm down Miz Jackson when she start run up and down de street like a madwoman. Ah never hear anybody scream like dat in al mi born days!'

Andrea didn't want to her any more. She dropped the bag of presents she'd brought in front of Mrs Jackson's door and walked quickly out of the yard. She and Errol hadn't reached the gate when the old man went to look in the bag.

He sucked his teeth and flung a dirty look after them. He would sulk all day because there wasn't anything there in the bag that he needed.

0 notes

thisislizheather · 3 years

Text

April Activities 2021

The major news of the month? I can’t believe I get to be fully vaccinated. It’s hard to describe how incredible it feels but I’m so ready to really start this next phase and I can’t wait for everyone I love to feel this feeling soon. Here’s what went down last month.

Here are my favourite tweets from last month. Also, I’ve decided to compile the best tweets list every two weeks rather than only once a month mostly because I love re-reading them and want that sort of joy in my life twice a month, not just once.

I did Nathan’s podcast and we talked about Rogers, sex robots & god only knows what else.

Two new nail polishes that I bought and love: English Lavender by butter and Cold Brew Crew by essie. Beautiful colours.

I’ve made this lamb ragu from Alison Roman twice so far, it’s so luxurious but somehow easy to make. I’ve put it on tagliatelle as well as zucchini noodles and both have been wonderful. Small tip: it does get better after it sits in the fridge for a bit, for some reason. (Also, the recipe doesn’t call for it, but I added basil at the end. I tend to add basil anytime something calls for parsley because it’s just so much more flavourful and fun.)

Above Photo: Alison Roman’s lamb ragu

I want to buy new underwear and I’m looking for any suggestions that aren’t Victoria’s Secret, Aerie or The Gap. I might just bite the bullet and try the ones from Blush (love love love the models they use).

I tried the strawberry short cake soft serve from Milk Bar and it was heavenly. The soft serve is even better than the strawberry cake (although the cookie crumbles within the cake always make my knees weak). In fact, I’ve yet to try a Milk Bar soft serve that I didn’t love (their vegan apple pie soft serve was out of this world), should I have been buying their pints this whole time? Yes.

I gave a chance to Ouai’s Air Dry Foam and it didn’t impress me or anyone else for that matter, so I guess I’ll just stick with the Wave Spray instead.

The rain boots that I bought a few years ago from Winners have disintegrated and I’m in search of new ones, but please don’t recommend Hunter ones. I hate Hunter. Open to any other suggestions!

Influenced by a TikTok video, I bought Falscara and holy shit. I know I promise this a lot, but I’m going to do a video on it so you can see how good a product it is. So many videos are coming, I vow.

There milk chocolate coconut almonds from CVS are UNHOLY.

I tried a sample of Glamglow’s Glowstarter moisturizer and was pleasantly surprised at how it really does give you a pleasant glow. What’s that about.

It’s uncivil how expensive body suit/swimwear hangers are. Who is this benefiting? I just want to hang my delicate bodysuits and carry on with my day.

Trader Joe’s has started selling their own vodka and I’m hoping they’ll start to sell it in New York soon. Seems weird that they don’t already.

I tried a small sample of Charlotte Tilbury’s Magic Elixir and discovered that the true magic behind the elixir is how she got anyone to believe that it does anything at all. Makeup products truly enrage me at times.

Nathan and I went to a movie theatre and it was everything I wanted it to be and more. We saw Godzilla vs. Kong and I found myself beaming through every inane scene. Perfect movie to see after a year of no theatres. Would I ever watch it again? Good lord no.

I bought a lotion bar from Gift Box on Broadway in Astoria and I love it. I think I’d use it more if it were slightly smaller and more manageable, but I love it nonetheless.

I tried Rao’s spaghetti and it was incredible, so now I’m forced to seek out their other types of pasta. Such a quality pasta.

I ate at The Pineapple Club and the basil fried rice and frozen pina coladas were both outrageously good.

I bought this bag from Zara and I’m honestly nervous to even wear it out for some weird reason. Like, am I the person who would have a bag like this? Do I want to be that person? Am I feeling this way because of having nowhere to go for so long? Have I always been this fearful? Some of these questions I shouldn’t answer, I realize.

Just bought these shoes in tan and I think I have my life all figured out now. Now if I can just leave the house wearing said shoes and holding said bag.

Speaking of shoes, I truly can’t decide if I love or loathe these slippers.

Last shoe thing: head over HEELS (not sorry) in love with these feet hugging sandals. Should’ve bought four more pairs.

I made these chocolate banana muffins and they were great but the real standout is the recipe at the bottom for the salted honey butter. Christ, you should make that butter.

I perused Molly Baz’s new cookbook and it’s a big one. Some standout recipes: The Big Italian salad, a dilly horseradish cream sauce for shrimp, and of course her caesar salad recipe.

I never thought I’d be the type of person to buy fake plants, but this one is so lifelike and pretty that I had to get it. Plus it’s perfect for the top of a bookshelf.

Above Photo: Fake plant from Target

It’s ramp season and I couldn’t be happier about it, you’ll hear more about my ramp creations next month.

I watched This is a Robbery on Netflix and don’t waste your time. Yes, it’s an interesting story, but save yourself a few hours and go read this instead.

I’m watching The Nanny and loving it. I’ve only ever watched a few episodes growing up, and I thought I would hate it because of how much everyone makes fun of Fran’s voice but her voice is fine! It’s wild that anyone ever said it was annoying. Also, the theme song is catchy as hell.

I rewatched Speed and it’s, of course, still great. What can’t Keanu do.

I watched the 90s movie The Crush and it’s really weird that movies like that would never have a chance being made today.

I’m all caught up on Riverdale now and… it’s hard to remember when it was really good. Maybe it was all Skeet Ulrich? Was that the main draw in my mind? I can see that making sense. In any case, it’s taken a turn.

There’s something so inviting about having good washroom rugs, I just got these soft-as-hell Threshold ones and I’ll never buy another brand again.

I visited the midtown Ideal Cheese Shop (been meaning to forever) and it’s such a great spot for NYC delicacies as well as, obviously, cheese. They had pre-packed bacon from Peter Luger and salmon from Daniel Boulud.

Things are already changing fast with new restrictions loosing in NYC, but did you know you can rent out a bar for an hour?

I tried the breakfast Beyond Meat sausage patties and surprise, surprise, they’re great. There’s nothing this company can do wrong. I’m becoming suspicious.

I got drinks and some small bites at Bar Dalia in Astoria and what a sweet little place! Would go again.

I finally got my hands on the kitchen-scented mini candles from Trader Joe’s (the scents are lemongrass, tomato leaf, fresh mint). They fill me with joy, unfortunately. I also got their grapefruit scented body butter, which goes on very smoothly but I’ve noticed it has a scent that’s slightly off-putting over time. I will not dwell on that fact further.

Had no idea that Banza made a pizza crust but I tried it and it’s wonderful.

I love seeing what promotional giveaways are planned for the upcoming baseball season but since we’re technically still in a pandemic, the Mets are only releasing what the promotions are each month (makes sense). So I’ve bookmarked the page to go look at on the first of each month.

I don’t eat a ton of fast food, but I’m sorry, some of these are genius ideas.

I’ll regret it if I don’t buy a box of these, right?

I know that it’s common to read an article about something and feel “that’s me!” but this one really resonates with me: “There’s a Name for the Blah You’re Feeling: It’s Called Languishing.”

The best brand at Target: A New Day.

Love and fully agree with all of this woman’s questions about things that don’t make sense.

I was walking past a Home Depot in Queens and the smell of the sandwiches at Rocco’s was heavenly. I had just eaten, otherwise I would have leaped into line. Must remember to get a Philly cheese steak here next time. The Yelp reviews are calling me.

I bought this earring organizer from The Container Store and it’s perfect. Fully recommend. I also finally got a purse organizer and some shoe boxes that make me feel like I might be a successful woman in her prime.

Above Photo: Earring Stand from The Container Store

Above Photo: Left: purse storage holder, Right: shoe storage boxes, Not Shown: me, opening & closing my closet door ten times to bask in my new found organizational skills

I had no idea Zara had a home section. I wish I didn’t have this knowledge, but now that I do, you must too. Literally ALL of these glasses are gorgeous. Tempted to go smash each glass in my kitchen cupboard right this instant.

This Artist Faked Being a Billionaire to Photograph New York City's Best Views - such a great idea, such great photos. How was it not me who came up with this?

Some more spring recipes I’m dying to make:

Ramp & Ricotta Tart

Grilled Asparagus Caesar Salad

Lemon Poppy Seed Cake

Scallop Risotto with Lemon & Sweet Peas

Grilled Caprese Skewers with Halloumi and Sourdough

Some things that I’m looking forward to this month: the new/final season of Shrill comes out this week (!), I might be going to a Mets game (!!), dying to eat at Under The Volcano, really want to visit the new Dippin' Dots store, I’ve been craving a good club sandwich for months so I might try to get brunch at Mark’s Off Madison, I know it might be early but I can’t wait to go tan on Governors Island soon, and at some point I’d really love to take one of these pasta cooking classes.

Above Photo: The club sandwich at Mark’s Off Madison, photo courtesy of Front of House

If you’ve got any interest in reading last month’s roundup, you can see what went down in March over here.

#monthly roundup #this is liz heather #Liz Heather #April 2021 #things to do 2021 #NYC #best of NYC 2021

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shadoedseptmbr · 3 years

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fic post

First day of January, first peek at a thing I’m working on for Genuary. A pre-ME1 story for Aedan Shepard. Tentatively titled Red Days.

o-o-o-o-o-o

“I’m just sayin’ you musta fucked up somethin’ fierce to be back on protection duty.”

The gunhand guarding him didn’t say a word, just held the door open to the next shop, out of the chill of the winter, sweeping the area. It jangled with fake asari doodads, hundreds of cheap chain necklaces on racks that spun drunkenly if anyone walked past and fat, plastic kittens with waving paws. There were a few plastic snowflakes clinging to the barred glass window, remnants of the recent holiday.

The cashier’s eyes widened at their entrance but she just coughed out, “Mr. Clare?!”

A balding man of about fifty ducked his head out, “On my way.”

“Ain’t got all day, Mister Clare.” Jay sneered the honorific into a slur.

Clare hustled out, a datapad and a couple of credit chits stacked in his hands, his own rheumy eyes going wide behind his electronically assisted glasses as he took in the two figures. His eyes fixed on the gun hand, lean and slouching slightly against the counter, watching the door. “I’m not late. Everything’s here. Why…”

Ace grunted, her eyes fixed out on the street. “You’re fine. I’m just keeping an eye on Jay-bird, here.”

“Oh...okay.” He slipped the stack into a plastic sleeve and handed the package over for Jay to slide it into his satchel.

“Always a pleasure,” Jay’s sneer had tucked itself back away with receipt, suddenly friendly. “Ace got herself in black with Jader. So she’s back on…”

He stopped with Ace’s gaze locked on him. “That really ain’t their business.”

“Guess not. See you tomorrow, Ari.” Jay flashed a crooked grin at the cashier, and it was almost charming in his thin, unshaven face. The girl blushed and Clare and Ace shared a skeptical glance.

They skipped the empty storefront on the corner. And the repair shop someone had daubed with a splotch of red paint in the corner of the doorframe, a sign the owner had done the Reds a favor with cops or equipment, recently.

There were four more stops on their route, the last of which was shuttered and dark. Jay coughed and Ace rolled her eyes, but a few taps on the hidden doorlock and the metal shutters were easily drawn aside. “Someone bashes you in the skull, you squeal.”

She stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust from the watery light of the late sun slanting in between the buildings to the gloom of the interior.

This had been a pizza and noodle shop last time Ace had run this route. Now it smelled of mildew and was crammed with cheaply made clothing and shoes, handbags. A secondhand rack in the corner with slightly nicer things. But it was empty and several of the racks were overturned. She leaned against the shelves crammed with tshirts along the and carefully nudged open the thin door with her foot. An office, the fuzzy sound of old lighting still buzzing overhead, but the old plastic rolling chair tumped on it’s side and a data pad cracked and blank. There was a smear of blood, old enough to be brown, on the floor by the datapad.

“C’mon in. No one’s here.” She raised her voice over her shoulder to Jay who scuttled in, nervously, leaving the shutter gaping behind him.

He looked around and realized, “Hey, someone robbed this place.”

“No shit.”

“We gotta call it in.”

“Go for it.” She looked for a secondary entrance, but the loading door in the back of the office was padlocked. I’m gonna keep an eye on the street.

“Fucking Christ, Des,” she hissed.

“Happened last night. Cops didn’t even take statements.”

Mama Deseree was about a head taller than Ace, with swirls and puffs of silver hair hidden under a green scarf and a rounded pigeon breasted figure under her padded maroon coat. Rumor was she’d been a prostitute a hundred years ago but as long as Ace had been in the Reds, Des had run a meat and three across the street and three shops down on the far corner. It was neutral territory and she didn’t serve cops or anyone else with a gun showing. She always smelled of garlic and warmth.

No one took protection money from Mama Des.

Ace had never asked why.

“Wasn’t us.”

Des scoffed. “No, too quiet for Reds.”

“Anybody new pokin’ around?” Jader would want to know.

“Not that I’ve seen. You eat, baby?”

“No, ma’am, I’m workin’.” She watched Clare lock up his shop. Ari was already bundled down the street.

“Yeah, I see that. Why you down here, again?”

“Fucked up a carjack.”

“Uh hunh.” Des didn’t believe her at all.

Didn’t make it a lie.

“Look here.”

“Des…” She turned to the old woman and was startled to have a spoonful of something savory popped into her open mouth. “What the fu…” she mumbled around rice and something green and bitter and blackeyed peas and her eyes streamed from whatever hell grown chili Des had cursed the concoction with.

“Don’t swear, you’ll break the luck.” She offered another bite and Ace swallowed and tried to clear her eyes enough to at least keep watch over Des’ shoulder.

“I know Jader’s taken to calling his creepers after birds, Des, but I ain’t one of them.”

“Fine.” She shoved a round container into Ace’s hoodie pocket. It was the warmest thing she’d touched in a week. “You eat all of that by midnight.”

“‘Cause bad things are about to happen, child. You need all the luck you can get.”

#sept writes #aedan shepard #10th street reds #pre-me1

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blogweightlossfat-blog · 3 years

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The expert counsel with respect to weight reduction/upkeep of the previous 30 years has made a HUGE and GROWING level of first-worlders fat and wiped out. That reality should adequately be to persuade you to disregard much BUT NOT ALL of what has been said in the appropriate responses up until this point… And I read all of them cautiously.

I rehash: ONLY the counsel that suggests not devouring starches was truly right on the money… But an exceptionally huge part of low-carb counting calories was forgotten about… It torments me to be the one to disclose to you all that those "sound" complex carbs are similarly as insidious as sugar and white flour… YES this signifies: "entire grains" cereal, potatoes, corn, carrots, yams, white AND earthy colored rice, peas, beans, onions… IF you are somebody who puts on weight effectively your body is particularly acceptable at changing over those "solid" complex carbs into BLOOD SUGAR. Your body doesn't have the foggiest idea about the distinction between a bowl of "solid" cereal or potato or rice and a bit of white bread or a cupcake.

What's more, grant me to advise you that such brilliant leafy foods natural product squeeze and skim milk are as loaded with sugar as a sweet pop. No, you needn't bother with any of it despite the fact that organic product, squeeze and skim milk have loads of extraordinary nutrients and minerals. Take any nutrients and minerals you need in a pill in the event that you don't believe you're eating enough supplement thick nourishments like meat and serving of mixed greens and LOW-carb veg.

Also, it gives me incredible fulfillment to illuminate the weight-inclined that the guidance suggesting separating your calories into numerous little feedings daily was similarly as dead-off-base as the counsel about low-fat/complex sugar eats less carbs. THE OPPOSITE is valid. In the event that you need to get thinner or keep a weight reduction you eat on more than one occasion per day; NO tidbits. The "shrewdness" was that on the off chance that you had a ton of little suppers as opposed to a couple of bigger dinners, you would not get eager and you would keep your digestion running at a more elevated level. Nonetheless, in the event that you eat anything by any stretch of the imagination, you body spurts out insulin. What's more, IT IS NOT METABOLICALLY POSSIBLE TO BURN STORED FAT IN THE PRESENCE OF INSULIN. … So, hell, every one of those little feedings spread out throughout the day entirely permitted insulin levels to drop to where put away fat (those wiggling protuberances on your butt/gut) to be scorched… .Learning this irritated me. Truly. I had the "regular little feedings" strategy dominated.

The macronutrient (fat, sugar and protein are "macronutrients") that is most drastically averse to incite an insulin flood is FAT. That is the reason "fat fasting" consumes weight off so quick no one who attempts it can even trust it.

Fat methods: margarine, fat, olive oil, coconut oil, nut oils, bacon fat, greasy meat, sharp cream, full-fat cheddar, cream cheddar, whipping cream (not creamer). Since counterfeit fats like margarine and Crisco and some seed oils like corn oil are accepted to be unfortunate, avoid them.

SO on the off chance that you need to get more fit at a fair rate here is your main event:

1. You sort out what your own caloric need is day by day. (This is interesting on the grounds that an incredible enormous tall YOUNG and ACTIVE man who is overweight may truly require 3000 calories to keep up his weight and can get in shape proficiently on 2,500 calories for each day. Then again individuals like me who are more established, female, short, not especially dynamic can GAIN weight (gradually) on as meager as 1,000 cal./day particularly if those calories are too high in carbs and separated into numerous little feedings for the duration of the day. ) You take away 500 calories and that is the quantity of calories you eat every day except NOT the creation of those calories.

2. The structure of those calories you eat each day should be, on the off chance that you are fat-inclined, 70% FAT. NOT heaps of protein and without a doubt no type of sugar. Your serving of mixed greens and low-carb vegetables will presumably give approx. 5–7 grams of starch. It is practically difficult to eat NO sugars except if your eating regimen is made out of 100% fat.

3. You eat once and at most double a day. No 'small scale dinners" no "solid" snacks. None. Zero. Being in a "fasting" state limits insulin and grants the consuming of put away fat.

But then THERE'S MORE: Losing weight gradually is not any more prone to be fruitful in either the short or long haul than getting thinner all the more rapidly. IMO losing quick aides keep me propelled. Nothing is more discouraging and dampening than the feared weight reduction "level" and in the event that you follow the three directors I gave you, you most likely won't hit that level.

Significantly all the more shocking, neither high-impact practice nor strength preparing or stretch preparing is a lot of help for very weight-inclined individuals to get in shape… HOWEVER, practice keeps you sound and DOES assist with keeping up weight reduction and makes you look all hot.

I need to communicate my absolute stun and not-immaterial rage at how each and every one of the chiefs of weight reduction/the executives that I accepted for as long as 30 years were completely off-base as well as the OPPOSITE of what is correct. I remain to some degree dazed however my own advancement and achievement is declaration.

Google these themes: Intermittent fasting. One Meal A Day. Fat fasting. Ketogenic counting calories. … it's for the most part present.

No exercise No dieting only 1month 7 to8 kg weight reduce "say yess" I will send you course

NOTE: Do not endeavor a "fat quick" without investigating the idea completely. You should be perfectly reliable about supplanting electrolytes or you could pass on. No poop.

The Cappuccino MCT Coffee supplement is based on 8 ingredients, which naturally contribute to the loss of excess weight. The supplement accelerates the speed of burning calories, inhibits the process of fat storage, increases the feeling of being full and stimulates you to act. BEST WEIGHT LOSS COFFEE HERE

#weightloss weightlossjourney fitness motivation healthy health workout diet fitnessmotivation healthyfood fit gym fitfam exercise nutrition

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