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hythlodaeus-mynewoldfriend · 1 year

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A Magical Reunion

I commissioned @scholarlostintime to write a little reunion piece for Sib and Thanny and I am so so happy with it and get all giggly about it I have to share with you all! I hope you all find the joy I did in reading this! Thank you so so much again @scholarlostintime you’re a joy to work with!

General warning for Shadbowbringers and beyond word count 1.6k

“Go to sleep, Sib-” Thancred’s voice was muffled by the pillow he had face-planted into a few moments earlier, the exhaustion from the day’s scouting evident in his voice. Siberite didn’t reply, the soft flick of her tail the only acknowledgement of the rogue’s words. It was the first night they’d been in civilization for weeks, and she was not about to give up her free moments — and running water — to fall into bed with her boots on.

Even if she wasn’t a lady any longer — at least not to most that knew her — it still felt good to finish the day scrubbing off all the excess grime. She finished rubbing a sweet-smelling cream into her scales before standing, heading over to where she’d laid out fresh clothing.

“You smell sweeter than all the fields of flowers in Etheirys~” Thancred’s voice finally drew her attention, earning a glance from the au ra in his direction. He’d shifted some from his spot, head now turned to watch her as she moved about the room, a small grin upon his lips. “Come to bed? Please?”

“When I’m ready.” Siberite teased back, shrugging her shoulders as she slipped into her fresh clothing, quietly listing out her evening routine in her head to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Satisfied, she made her way into bed, sliding under the covers — and into Thancred’s arms. “Sweet dreams, Thanny~”

Siberite could have sworn she heard a small giggle in the dark as she drifted off.

—

“We’ve found you!” Another giggle, this one closer to Siberite’s horns. “Tricks tricks tricks! More tricks for us!” Another voice — another giggle. “Dream! Dream! Dream of all the things! This one-” the voice was slightly further away. “-was no fun! We should play a bigger trick on him!”

“Yes! Good! Won’t they hate it!” “Too old, and no fun! All the better to play~”

—

Siberite opened her eyes, finding herself not in the cozy inn room she’d fallen asleep in, but atop a hill brimming with colorful flowers. Faint music could be heard on the breeze — a warm, welcoming and sweetly scented wind that seemed to beckon her forward. Standing, she glanced around, trying to figure out where she was.

“Thancred?” Siberite called out to no reply. She quashed the anxiety brewing in her stomach, balling her fists and marching down the hill instead. Wherever Thancred was — wherever she was, she was about to find out.

Siberite was greeted with a familiar sight at the bottom of the hill — a landscape filled with flowing rivers, giant slides and swings, rainbow-colored mushrooms, and houses made of candy. Lyhe Mheg, the Garden of Dreams. Was she dreaming then? That would explain her being here. But why had she been brought here at all? Trudging along, she made her way toward the nearest gingerbread house in search of answers.

Siberite paused in her steps as she approached the house, finding a familiar white-haired bard curled up atop one of the large macaron cushions, still fast asleep. It seemed they’d both been dragged to Lyhe Mheg. Smiling, she took a few moments to watch as he snored away, looking more peaceful in his rest than she’d seen him in moons. His face was tired, etched with lines from hard nights and even harder days. And yet, she could see him relax a bit more with each breath.

“You’re awake! Do you like our nasty trick?” A small pixie perched onto Siberite’s head with a giggle, waving their feet back and forth with glee. “You were both oh-so-not fun, so we had to make sure and play!”

“Does the King know you’ve dragged us both away?” Siberite replied, smirking up at the pixie still wiggling with glee. “They’ll be very cross if I tell them what you’ve done~”

The pixie gasped, the kicking of their legs stopping abruptly. “Oh no! Please don’t! We’re sorry! We only wanted to have some fun.”

“We’re very sorry!” A second pixie popped into existence in front of Siberite. “Please don’t tell! We brought you a secret!”

“Yes! It wasn’t all tricks, we promise! We brought you a secret for you and-” the first pixie huffed, pointing in Thancred’s direction “-the mean one. Even if he is no fun!”

As if on cue, Thancred stirred from sleep, the soft yawn awakening him quickly turning into an instinctive grab for a gunblade that wasn’t there. In his confusion, he grabbed a candy cane instead, tearing it from its base. “Wha-”

“Lyhe Mheg,” Siberite answered before Thancred could finish his question, an amused look playing across her face at the sight. “The pixies seem to have played a nasty trick on us — one they say they have more of~”

A groan escaped Thancred’s lips at the mention of pixies and their location. Setting aside the candy cane, he stood, dusting himself off and crossing his arms. An attempt to look more stoic than annoyed. But the thin line of his lips and the slight furrow of his brow all but gave it away.

“Come on,” Siberite offered out a hand. “We might as well see why we’re here. It is a dream after all. I’m sure you can have a little fun.”

“Yes please! Fun fun fun! Just like a trick!” The pixie still on her head replied, kicking their legs in glee again as they pointed off into the distance. “Your surprise is just that way!”

“If it’s anything-” Thancred mumbled between gritted teeth, choosing to trudge forward instead of finishing his sentence. With a laugh, Siberite followed after.

—

“Aren’t we a bit old to be in a place like this? I thought it was for children.” An annoyed voice sighed in the distance, a small hill obscuring Thancred and Siberite’s view of its owner.

“Maybe, but I think it’s fun~ A dream where one can relax with no worries — besides the pixies attempting tricks.” A second, cheerier voice replied. “I don’t think you can ever be too old to dream.”

Thancred paused in his tracks at the voices, trying to replace the wave of emotions washing across his face — recognition, confusion, and finally hope — with his usual stoic neutrality before Siberite noticed. Thankfully, a similar wash across her face seemed to distract her from his, her head tilting ever so slightly.

This was a dream world, and pixies were wont to play tricks — it couldn’t be, could it? And the pixies were known to be able to mimic the looks of others. And their voices. It would be silly to hope.

But the voices in the distance continued their conversation. “I think if I sit on that I’ll end up sticky.” The first voice carried its usual hint of disgust, parried by the second’s delight.

“Oh! But look! Lollipops the size of your head. I wonder if they’ve coffee biscuit flavored ones?”

Thancred hesitated again, a warning snarling under his breath. “If this is the trick.” His hands balled up for a moment, before he was off sprinting over the hill, Siberite chasing closely after.

“Ryne!” Thancred shouted her name as he slid to a stop in front of a candy-covered awning, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Gods…”

“...Thancred?” Bright blue eyes glanced up from behind bright orange bangs seated at one of the chairs, her usual darkly-garbed companion beside her. “SIberite!” Ryne shot up from the table, staring at the two in shock.

“Please tell me you’re not a trick of the eyes, a part of the dream-” Thancred started, Ryne shaking her head and racing over to the pair, eyes already filled with tears.

“No! I mean yes, this is the dream world of the pixies, but no! No no, it’s me! How are you two here?” She reached up to wipe at her eyes with her sleeve. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Wordless, Thancred reached out, pulling Ryne and Siberite both close to his chest. Another pixie popped into existence, sneaking themselves into the hug with a giggle.

“Do you like it? Do you like our trick? The King said we could do it, we just didn’t tell you!” They giggled again, squirming beneath the hug.

“Yes,” Siberite answered for them all, finally breaking the hug and pulling free of the others’ grasp. Thancred kept an arm around Ryne, unwilling to let go just yet.

While she’d been able to freely traverse to the First and back to the Source again, Thancred had not. Despite Y’shtola’s continued efforts, his return to the Source had meant his saying goodbye to Ryne. And with the First and Source’s timelines drifting in and out of sync, it was impossible to tell if the next time he’d see Ryne she’d be an old woman — or worse.

And yet, here they all were, able to visit in a dream at the very least. Siberite took a step back, watching as Ryne excitedly shared tales of her continued efforts on the First — its restoration, the festival at the Crystarium, the things she’d accomplished. Thancred was equally animated — dropping the stoic frowns and stiff poses for a look of adoration only a doting father could have.

Ryne beckoned to Siberite, pulling the au ra from her thoughts. “Come on! Sit with us? We still have a lot of catching up to do. And.. perhaps we could try sampling some of the furniture?” She giggled, waving Siberite over again.

It was a good dream, and one Siberite hoped wouldn’t end any time soon. Grinning, she strode over to join the group.

—

Siberite’s eyes fluttered open, the flicker of a lamp on a nearby table bringing her senses back to the inn room once more. She’d have to travel to the First again the moment she could to see if Ryne really had been dreaming with them too.

Rolling onto her side, she turned to face Thancred. He was still fast asleep, arms curled around his pillow — and a soft smile on his lips.

***

#Truly captured my girl! that first paragraph alone just knew it!#but this is so cute everyone should read it!#just been so happy and rereading it #we’re going a bit out of order because I have nothing for the other prompts and I’m excited!#x: lover you are pure light #the parent trapped #commissions and gifts #wolcred #thancred x wol

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thewritingstar · 5 years

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Gruvia day 2019!!!

Ahhhh it’s Gruvia day today and I had no idea! So of course I had to write something for my fav pair.

As the “Gruvia Goddess” (title given by the lovely @fairywithajetblackheart) I wanted to do something cute and fluffy this time. I will relieve y’all of angst...for now.

Also this features the Fullbuster fam plus my oc daughter named Miku who I think I’ve written for before.

Enjoy!

———-

The sun was shining all over the city and it truly was a picture perfect summers day. With the new generation being brought up, days like this where the family could relax and play together quietly without the rustle and bustle of the guild were rare for the Fullbuster family.

“Higher mommy! Higher!” Miku giggled as Juvia smiled and pulled the swing back to push her four year old daughter.

“Up into the clouds little one!” Juvia laughed and even formed a little shower over them and a rainbow appeared.

Mikus dark brown eyes became entranced by her mother’s magic. Her bright blue hair that was gifted primarily from her mother was tied into the cutest pigtails and bobbed up and down as she was pushed higher.

Sitting on the porch was Gray. Relaxing with a drink in his hand, he watched his wife dance and play with their expressive little girl.

“Hey dad?” Silver called as he walked outside with a folder in his hand. “Could you help me with a project?”

“Project? School hasn’t even started yet and Levy already started homework?” Gray shook his head as Silver sat next to him and placed his folder on the glass table.

“It’s extra credit.” Silver shrugged. “Normally I wouldn’t care to do it but Nashi and I are in the same class again and I have to start the year with better grades.”

Gray let out a laugh as he recalled that the Fullbuster and Dragneel feud still lived on through their children, something he wasn’t entirely sure he was proud of.

“Alright. What kind of assignment!”

“Well it’s like a presentation of you life. You can choose a certain aspect to focus on and I decided that you and mom were my best option.”

“Really? Doing a project on your old man?” Gray smiled smugly. Silver rolled his eyes and blew his deep blue fringe out from his face.

“Yeah, yeah. I wanted to know how you met.”

“You know how we met. Your mother and I fought, I saved her life, she joined the guild and bam! You were born.” He winked and Silvers face twisted in disgust.

“Okay, gross. But no. I wanted to know how you knew you loved her, I already asked mom and she gave me a super long list of literally every aspect of you.” He pulled out a paper and true to his word, the entire thing was filled with Juvias responses and also another paragraph about how much she loved him.

Gray could feel his heart speed up as he quickly raked his eyes over them.

“Well for starters Juvia is extremely kind and loving. She is the most devoted and self sacrificing woman I have ever met-“

“No” Silver stopped him. “I want the moment you knew you loved her. What was the defying moment that changed you and you knew that every second moving forward, you love her?” He asked.

Gray was taken back from his request. “Oh.” He started. “I didn’t realize you wanted this to be that deep.” His eyes then refocused on the woman playing with the blue haired girl in the sandbox.

He watched as she formed animals and shapes using her magic and the way her eyes lit up when their daughter giggled brought him back to the memorie.

“It was after an intense battle.” Gray started, his eyes still on Juvia. “I had just lost my father, again. There was so much pain in my heart as I was hunched over his grave in the snow. And then she came along. She told me that she didn’t have a right to love me anymore and that she would leave.” Silvers eyes widened. “And that’s when I knew.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said she is devoted. I’m lucky enough she waited for me to get my act together. When she came and stayed by my side, I knew she was forever.”

“So you knew mom was the one when Grandpa died?” Silver asked hesitantly.

“I knew I never wanted to leave her side from that moment but I think I fell in love with her on a different day.”

“Do tell.”

“It was raining. A terrible storm was pouring outside and I knew she wasn’t going to be too pleased. Water might be her element but before FairyTail, she hated the rain. So at this time we had just started dating, I was very new to the whole thing but your mom did everything in her power to make sure that I was alright. Nothing too fast, nothing too slow.”

“Sounds like mom wears the pants in the relationship.” Silver snorted and his father only shrugged.

“So instead of going inside to watch a movie. We sparred. She was now more confident with the rain as her past didn’t define her anymore. At first it was light and nothing more than kicks and punches.”

“You punched mom!” Silver yelled and Gray shushed him.

“We were sparring, it’s what you do. Now I knew I was going to be struggling since it was raining but I didn’t know how powerful she was going to be. Your mom used her magic to water lock me. She pinned me to the ground, raised my chin and said-“

“Juvias got you right where she wants you.”

The boys turned around to see Juvia holding a sleepy Miku.

“You. You pinned dad to the ground and that’s when he fell in love!” Silver said in disbelief.

“What can I say. She took my breath away.”

“Literally, your father passed out after he told me he loved me.” Juvia smiled sheepishly.

“Wow.” Silver stated and Gray nodded.

“Silver honey, will you take your sister and lay her down in her crib.” Juvia said as she passed her daughter to her son.

He took his sister kindly and went inside. “It’s funny darling.” Juvia giggled as she took a seat on her husbands lap. “Juvia doesn’t believe that was the day, or have you been lying to me?” She pouted playfully.

“You know damn well the moment I fell in love with you is when you sent Natsus ass flying.”

Juvias face deadpanned as she glared at her husband and raised an eyebrow.

“Okay okay!” He smirked and kissed her hand. “It was during the Grand Magic Games, when we went on our date.”

“Juvia remembers.” She whispered softly.

“And we were alone.” His fingers trailed up her arms. “And I remember what you were wearing or specifically what you weren’t wearing.” He winked and he could hear her breathing hitch. “And how beautiful you were as my name left your lips.”

In that moment she captured his lips and kissed him slowly. Even after years of marriage and kids, the spark between them roared like an eternal flame.

“Juvia likes that story so much more.” Her forehead pressed against his and he agreed.

“Well I wasn’t going to tell our son that.” He laughed and pecked her lips again.

Suddenly a dangerous spark gleamed in her blue eyes. “Silver! Pack a bag you’re staying at your staying at Aunt Lucy’s house!” Juvia called without taking her eyes off her husband.

The porch door opened and they turned to see a bruiting Silver. “You guys are gross.”

His parents let out a laugh as their teenage son grumbled as he stormed back into the house.

“Oh he’s so cute when he’s mad.” Juvia cooed over her baby boy.

“Yeah but you’re cuter.” He nuzzled her cheek. “And I love you.”

Juvia batted her eyelashes and titled his chin with her finger. “I love you too.”

——

I hope you enjoyed! Sorry if it seems rushed (cause it is) and I hope you all had a good Gruvia day!!!

Also Miku means “beautiful sky” in Japanese so I thought it was fitting for her :)

#gruvia #gruvia day 2019 #gruvia oneshot #juvia x gray #gray x juvia #fairytail #fairytail oneshots #gruvia drabbles #juvia lockser #juvia fullbuster #gray fullbuster #silver fullbuster #miku fullbuster #oc child #happy gruvia day!!!#thewritingstar

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first-edition-dumpster-fire · 4 years

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Hello, we’re gonna talk about Bucky Barnes. I know, shocker. A totally new concept for which I have never written the likes of before. (Oof, I sound like Elizabeth Bennet. Neat!) As well as the beautiful and inspiring Agent Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter. (Yeah, I put her full name and not Bucky’s cuz y’all already know how much I admire him.)

We all have our opinions on the latest and last Avengers movie Endgame. Whether it be that Tony shouldn’t have died. Natasha shouldn’t have died. Peter Parker and Nebula should’ve been adopted by Tony Stark. All popular opinions and theories and reasonably acceptable alternate endings. (Personally, I agree with all of these and I’m genuinely upset that the actors contracts ended on that note.) Now the opinion that has become the main topic for this post is the ever-so-popular argument on the ending for the former Captain America, Steve Rogers. No, I’m not talking about giving his shield, mantle, and title over to his friend and teammate Sam Wilson. I actually think this was a smart move on the directors part, if a little untimely. Sam would’ve always been Captain America, though he would’ve had to wait until Bucky got his turn. I’m getting off course and y’all have to deal with that, sorry. Anyway, I’m talking about Steve going to replace the stones and staying in the past.

It was cute. It was, truly. Hero gets the girl and all that jazz. And it would’ve even made sense, if not for the obvious. The obvious being that Steve’s ending did not in any way capture the story of his life. Or Peggy’s. He was so incredibly selfish that his actions would’ve ruined his characters if not for other factors. He disrupted the entirety of her life. Peggy founded S.H.I.E.L.D. Peggy Carter got married. Peggy Carter had children. Peggy Carter had a fulfilling career and life. She died of old age surrounded by the people who loved and admired her the most. Hell, she even got to ease the guilt and sadness caused by Steve Rogers’ supposed death. Not many people get to say that. She was a wonderful and amazing woman. Not to mention a feminist icon. All of it, nearly her entire life was undone by one dumbass she kissed once. Just once. Yes, she missed him, wished it could’ve been something more, maybe even fantasized on what could’ve been a few times. But she was content, happy. She didn’t deserve having her path screwed up and her family blown out of existence. Especially not to the man who kissed her niece just days after her funeral. The disrespect. (If you ship Steve and Sharon, that’s on you.) Peggy probably never even knew that Bucky was still alive, if Steve told her along with what happened to Bucky, I’d like to believe that she sure as shit pitched a fit to Steve about his idiocy. Because who the hell abandons their best friend, their brother, in a world where they are either hated or constantly misunderstood. I know, I just know, that if there was a way to send Steve back, she would’ve. For Bucky’s sake, if nothing else. But there wasn’t and Peggy Carter is nothing if not a reasonable and thoughtful woman.

She knows that Bucky can handle it. We all do. But he shouldn’t have to do it alone. He deserves more than that. Yeah, he has Sam. But, in the movies, Sam is shown to barely tolerate Bucky, sometimes aligning with him to save the world whenever the situation calls for it. I love the Stackie friendship. I think it’s great, honestly. But we have to remember that canonically, Sam just doesn’t like Bucky that much. And he has every right not to. Regardless of the brainwashing, Bucky did try to kill Sam on multiple occasions. And Sam wouldn’t be Sam if he just forgave him, even if Bucky did apologize for his actions and tried to make amends. And, yes, in the FATWS trailer they appear to be friends or at the very least friendly. But there is over a year-and-a-half distance between Endgame and FATWS, giving them plenty of time to get better acquainted as more than frenemies and on-and-off allies. But I’m not talking about in the near future, I’m talking about post-Endgame, where they haven’t quite gotten that far. There’s camaraderie there, which is good, but I felt that, realistically, it only exists because they both know that they’re gonna be stuck together for a while and know better, know that they have to make the most of the situation.

Honestly, it makes the entirety of the Captain America storyline, where it is explicitly stressed that Steve and Bucky are close friends who’d do just about anything for each other, a moot point. I’m not trying to offend the Stucky shippers, really. Stucky makes more sense that Steve and Sharon anyway. I’m just referring to the fact that Steve and Bucky aren’t a canon couple in the sense that they were never specifically written as one. (And I stg that if they follow up on the rumors that say that Bucky and Sharon will be a couple, the producers and directors and story writers will be catching my fucking hands.) It just doesn’t make any sense that Steve would spend so much time mourning Bucky, constantly implying how much he needs Bucky in his life, then doing everything and anything to ensure Bucky’s safety only to leave him for the first woman who ever looked at him in interest. Especially since it usually takes less than a year to get over a crush and homie had over seventy years, nearly ten of those where he could have consciously gotten over her. But with Bucky, he might not have had a lot of time with him, but it was always supposed to have meant that he would have waited for his friend to get better. Bucky wasn’t dying, Bucky wasn’t about to leave him behind. If anything, Bucky was just as eager to get better so he could reconnect with the only person who could even marginally understand him and his trauma. (Natasha could have, too, but they killed her, so...) The only people who even like Bucky are Shuri and T’Challa, who re-dubbed him as the White Wolf. (In the comics, the White Wolf was the adoptive brother of the Black Panther, so T’Challa and Shuri and Mother Queen Ramonda straight up adopted Bucky Barnes into the royal family. This is based on the rumors that Bucky will be replacing Hunter as the White Wolf in the MCU.)

Point is that Steve left Bucky behind, their friendship being a main plot point in all of the Captain America movies, and it makes no sense and makes it seem like their friendship meant nothing when Steve went back to Peggy. Hopefully, they can remedy this in FATWS by making old Steve a kind of mentor to the new Captain America and a sort of guidance towards Bucky. Steve’s entire personality was his compassion, consideration, and commitment to the people he cared about and his morals which he is often bull-headed about. I love Steve Rogers. Captain America is one of my favorite superheroes. Chris Evans portrayed this character perfectly and really brought the character to life. But what the fuck was that ending. All I’m saying-she says after like four paragraphs-is that they could’ve done worse.

#bucky barnes #captain america #comics #marvel #james buchanan barnes #steve x peggy #peggy carter #margaret carter #steve rogers #sam wilson #black panther #white wolf #endgame #winter solider

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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The Book of the Body

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: A series of vignettes from the perspectives of Mel and Janice respectively. Non-linear time jumps in a retrospective series that provides the shading for the created universe we already have from Darkbloom’s previous stories. This is some peak Vivian Darkbloom, y’all; absolutely beautiful writing.

Note: If you haven’t read Coup de Grace and Venezia yet, go do that before you head down into this story because you will be so confused if you do not.

“The transmission of knowledge is in itself an erotic art.”

—from The History Boys, Alan Bennett

1. Mykonos, 1953

Another moment passes, slowly sculpted by her breath, each one a stepping stone toward awakening. The cobbled path snakes to the beach and beyond, to the coastline gently disrupted by villas and cottages burning white against pale sand and the translucent cool Aegean. Even now, on this overcast morning, the warmth of stone gently blazes under her feet. Going native, or her idea of such: Suntanned, loose hair, wrinkled clothes, barefoot. She had been surprisingly unsurprised by waking up alone. If not for the imprimatur of sex upon the bed, a scented still life of peaks and eddies of bunched-up sheets, pummeled pillows, and dips in the aging mattress, she might have thought it all a fantastic dream, courtesy of her inverted self. But this was what happened when you loved a wanderer: The morning after was usually a solo affair. Mouth scorched dry by the plentiful wine of the previous night, you quietly took account of every delicious ache and made plans to keep yourself occupied until she returned. What was for lunch? Dinner? Would the family from Heidelberg reappear on the beach armed with their gramophone, wooing the seagulls with Beethoven concertos? Where was she? No doubt scrambling over the ruins of a Byzantine church, the very one that made her eyes light up three days ago when they arrived on the island. Under normal circumstances, work would be a legitimate distraction. But this was a vacation: enforced frivolity. The rule had been no books, and none of their attendant paraphernalia either! No lumpy tomes on pre-Hellenistic culture, or pretentious modernist novels, or even racy paperbacks about naughty boarding school girls. No notebooks accompanied by ostentatious yet leaky fountain pens or humble pencil stubs. She felt grateful for the stingy allowance of one Greek newspaper. Was she more troubled by the absence of her lover or the absence of her languages? That morning she had dreamt she was a paragraph. Every motion typed a sentence. She would stretch and with breathless length—hands on the headboard, toes capturing the mattress edge—be a Virginia Woolf sentence, elegantly sprawling, perfectly composed. Or in sleep’s fetal contraction she would mimic Hemingway’s brevity. The absentminded curl of her fingers could be punctuation, perhaps a clutch of semi-colons, and a toss of her black hair an unrepentantly bleak little Brontë descriptor: Brooding on the beach. Too much wine last night. She had stared at the bed, at the meringue of sheets that remained defiantly unmade, reminding her of a thing that before last night she had never done before—well, more specifically, of a thing that she had only ever been on the receiving end of. Even within the prim corridors of her own mind she found it difficult to employ the proper terminology. It was truly unfair to blame the wine. Blame desire, blame love, blame the taste of that body, more an intoxicant than any liquor, blame those hands tangled in your hair and the tongue tracing the edge of your jaw, blame that blessedly husky voice: Do you want to? Blame curiosity. Blame that yearning to dominate, to hold onto what was easily given and somehow never quite yours—never quite yours, because she loved exploring as much as she loved you. I will do anything you want. She took to the role with confident ease. Her body knew what her mind did not, and if she wondered what it would really be like to be a man inside a woman, she did know what it was like to be a woman inside another woman. She always had. The language of her body was not one she had ever easily understood, and as a result screeds lay within her, waiting for discovery, waiting to be read. The sun pulses under thinning clouds, teasing at breakthrough. In the midst of spending alone a glorious day, her most beautiful pages grow distracted, and shiver.

2. Paris, 1944

“I will give anything for a goddamn book in English.”

The old man was the third merchant to whom Janice had made this melodramatic declaration—indeed, she thought of it as rather French-like, resplendent with a sweeping hand gesture. Whether or not he understood, she could not discern: He shrugged apologetically and she moved on to the next stall.

There she found a small volume of Robert Browning, beautifully bound in green cloth, letters stamped in enticing gilt. She hated Browning, but she was desperate. The ambulance unit was grounded for the day. Liberated Paris was cold, occasionally dangerous, and—not surprisingly, for someone who did not want to be there—boring.

Janice waved the book like a flag of surrender, a hopeless declaration of her monolingualism. “Eh—combien?”

The bookseller, finally taking note of her customer, looked up. “Whatever you can afford,” she replied in the kind of rapid, accented English where the words seemed both slow and fast at once—spoken quickly, yet reaching the ear in their own sweet time, like the echo of a transatlantic call where the listener perfectly predicts every stress and syllable. She was small and slender, wrapped tightly in what once was a fashionable belted jacket that now possessed a threadbare glory, and with the type of ripe mouth that demanded lipstick. Her eyes were dark and no doubt held depths that Janice could not, would not imagine plumbing because there was too much pain, too much loss accumulated in four years alone. She was nothing like Mel and yet precisely for that reason, she could not help but remind Janice so powerfully and completely of Mel and of that connection between them, perhaps destroyed forever by arguments as fierce as their lovemaking had been.

Unexpectedly, the bookseller stiffened and Janice realized that she had stared too long. The idle sport of comparison had mercilessly returned her to square one of that inescapable intersection between the truth of her loneliness and her desire.

And, in the wrong place and time, it was the kind of look that could get one’s face slapped. Or worse. But not this time. The Frenchwoman nodded at the book. “I’d take food for it.” With unmistakable intent, both her head and her voice lowered. “Or whatever you’re willing to offer.”

Janice fumbled, caught between the boldness of acceptance and the urge to drop the book on the wooden cart and plunge through the narrow, book-lined street, which now taunted her as if it were an obstacle course. “I don’t have anything with me.”

The bookseller lunged across the carrel and for a moment Janice thought their hands would meet, but instead she tapped the cover of the Browning book, as if sending a seduction in Morse code. “Come back later.”

It was not the first time she had slept in sheets rough and musty, and with a woman whose name she did not know. Afterward, the food she brought—two tins of meat, a package of crumbling biscuits—sat forlorn upon a kitchen table and the twilight mounted within a window frame matched the toneless color of the walls. Perhaps unwilling to spoil things with conversation, or unsure of asking Janice to leave, the woman feigned sleep. Janice sat up in the bed, lit a Gauloise, and watched an elegant distortion of smoke scrolling up the darkening wall. She thought of Mel’s nearly indecipherable handwriting—a particularly angular loop of smoke looked almost precisely like her capital G. I’m in love with someone, she wanted to tell this woman. It seemed bad form, though, to say it aloud to someone you just fucked, particularly for the sole purpose of erecting a boundary between what she had just done and the confines of her heart. So she repeated it within the quiet of her mind, and wrote it, indelibly and invisibly, upon the walls.

3. Venice, 1973

“Don’t you have to go?”

Go? Francesca thought. And leave the sheets that gently lapped at her skin, the soft cradle of the pillow, the experienced hand gliding along her back? Abandon all this, for seeing Lo straniero senza nome—Clint Eastwood on screen, lasciviously serenaded by an audience of stoned, giddy whores?

So she does not move. “Do you want me to go?”

Mel does not answer. Rarely does she answer any direct question put to her, leaving Francesca to methods of interrogation both rigorous and rude, and steeped in dirty tricks: She demands answers while naked and seemingly immersed in the task at hand—while teasing a breast with her mouth, while pushing a hand between two willing thighs. The coin of knowledge, she has discovered, can rival the lure of real money, at least under certain desperate circumstances.

Tell me where you grew up. Later, Francesca recalled the strange thrill she had in a bookstore, finding a map of the United States and seeing the jagged, prescription-pink state of South Carolina resting under her finger.

Tell me about your mother and father. “I don’t remember my mother very well—anymore. But I do remember she never liked to sit still, and she loved to sing along with the radio. My father was very tall and very charming and very smart. I inherited the tall part from him. I’ve never been quite convinced about the rest.”

The first person you kissed? “A boy named Jason. I was 17, he was 18. He had invited me to his grandmother’s house for dinner. Dessert was strawberry pie—fragole, cara. So when he kissed me later, it tasted like that. Like strawberries. It led me to believe all sorts of mistaken things about men.”

Tell me about the woman you won’t talk about. Melinda’s eyes had closed at that. “You know I can’t.”

Tell me why I feel deeply for you. This one she never asked. Feelings were an exaggeration, a fiction for those who had the luxury of reading, a dangerous imperative that would be the first line in a story of fantastic heartbreak.

The fingers stop their intricate gavotte upon her back. “I have something for you.”

Francesca rolls over and already Mel, dark robe silkily billowing with motion, is halfway across the room and retrieving something from the hazardous stacks of papers and books that threaten a literary landslide from the hotel desk.

It’s small, rectangular, flat, wrapped in brown paper. Definitely not a dildo. But a book? One of those fantastic old bound volumes carrying the heady scent of leather, the seductive undertow of dead languages? What in hell would she do with something like that? Even more importantly, Francesca wonders as she fondles the parcel, why does she want something like that? “Such exquisite wrapping!”

As only a retired professor can, Mel smiles indulgently. “Showing off your English again.”

“You do the same in Italian,” Francesca retorts and, for good measure, throws in a contraction, something which she usually avoids because she fears her tongue will not leap over that peculiar floating apostrophe: “Don’t you?”

“Touché.”

She peels away the brown paper. It is a simple blank cahier, with lined pages and a ribbed, elastic enclosure that promised to hold tightly whatever words that may be entrusted to it. It’s the kind of black notebook she sees in use among many skinny, bespectacled café habitués, the ones who drink and smoke and talk too much. The ones who could not afford a minute of her company. “An empty book.” To reflect my empty mind?

Mel seems amused at her visible and puzzled disappointment. “For you to write in.”

Her face tingles with the burn of self-consciousness. “And why would I want to do that?”

“You’re always scribbling away on those pieces of paper you keep in your pockets. So I thought you might benefit from a proper writing journal.”

“Oh.” You notice me. This prompts elated anguish.

“But—if you don’t like it, or if you have no real use for it—“ Mel makes a teasing reach for it.

“No.” She clutches the journal to her bare chest, as if it were really going to be taken away. “I want it.”

Mel permits a smile to cross her features. Twice in one day, Francesca thinks, even though this one is small, spectral—a ghost of a smile for a ghost of a woman. “Good.”

Imagining herself in a kind of freefall, Francesca keeps the black notebook against her as she tumbles back onto her stomach. The slick cover warms against her skin as she presses her face deep into the pillow, smothering the dangerous feeling that tightens her throat. The inscription upon her body begins anew, and she submits to fingers upon flesh, bone against sinew, to a language that, in its state of partial comprehension and consummate allure, is maddening.

4. Cambridge, 1947

This room, this house, this Indian summer, this woman. More specifically, this beautiful woman who had somehow alchemized the dreary task of organizing their combined libraries (including the sizable one she had inherited from her scholar father) into a kind of sacred erotic act. Whether human or book, spines fit sublimely snug into Mel’s palm—that very morning, the heel of her hand had pressed deep into Janice’s back, I can feel your bones, she had said in a voice that marveled and with a touch unraveling into reverence, and then Janice had realized that no one had ever touched her quite like this, as if wanting to get under her skin.

Now, in the study, Mel sifted through pages tissue-thin or frayed and stiff, and with every touch and caress she recalled the provenance attached to every book—Janice could read it plainly upon her relaxed face—the gifts, the impulsive purchases, the ones she loved when younger, the ones her father loved, the ones mocked and marked in the margins by the ruthless academic tag team of Pappas pere and fille.

“We don’t need three copies of Suetonius, do we?”

Acutely aware of her uselessness in this endeavor, Janice languished sweatily on the sofa. If her damp shirt were not marrying itself to the leather material, it was at the very least in the act of a fevered proposal. “I’m not sure we even need one.”

“Indeed we do. A professor needs a proper library, Dr. Covington.”

“But I plan on being a very improper professor. Given what we did here last week—”

“We can’t ever do that again.”

Her forcefulness both surprised and disappointed Janice. “No?”

“Not on the desk, I mean,” Mel amended.

“Oh.” Relieved, Janice wondered how sturdy the dining room table was.

“Because the whole time I kept thinking my father would be spinning in his grave, knowing what I was doing on his desk.”

“I dunno. I think he’d be happy to see you get good use out of it.”

Mel laughed. “You’re terrible.” She knelt before the open foot locker where Janice’s books had been moldering for several years—and where Janice would have been quite content to keep them—and pulled out a particularly warped, water-damaged clothbound edition of Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo. Her mouth curdled. “Good thing you didn’t fall in love with a librarian. This would be grounds for separation.”

“Oh Christ, toss that,” Janice groaned. As it was placed in the disappointingly small “to go” pile, her eyelids fluttered shut.

“I didn’t know you liked Browning.”

“I don’t.” It slipped out before Janice realized it. She opened her eyes, sat up, and stared at the slender, green-gold book that Mel held.

Her mind had successfully buried the incident surrounding her acquisition of the book, and had even gone so far as to spin out several convincing, believable plot lines involving its perceived loss—left in a café or on a bench near the Tuileries, given it to one of the other drivers, tossed it into the Seine—but here it was again, in all its unforeseeable stupidity, glaringly out of place and time. At odd intervals over the years, she had wondered what happened to the woman, thought of her stiff, trembling body, her awkward caresses, her unconvincing compliments: You’re very handsome. Was she happy, and no longer lonely? Was she even alive?

Mel raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

I thought I would never see you again. “You could—say that.” If only because it made me realize how much I really love you, and how no one could make me feel the way you do.

As excuses, they were worthless. The truth was usually like that.

“Well.” Mel touched the bridge of her glasses. “I like Browning.” She gave the book a thoughtful glance before consigning it to the poetry shelf. As if performing a magic trick, her hand passed elegantly across murky cloth spines as she aligned the Browning against the other books. And then she met Janice’s look with a smile simultaneously kind and serious, as befitting someone intent on acceptance no matter the act or the consequences, and generous in the difficult art of forgiveness.

It took no more than two bold, long steps for Janice to reject the sofa, cross the room, and surrender to an embrace. The v-neck of Mel’s blouse formed a luscious snare hinting at the mysterious intoxicant of her scent, her skin. From this source Janice indulged in a deep draft and instantly felt as if she’d downed a dozen blazing shots of bourbon—and while her legs wavered, it was only because they were tangled with a pair much longer than her own. Mel’s mouth, hot and insistent, found hers and with a delighted shiver she opened her mouth wider, welcoming the sweet exploration that followed. Frenzy subverted intention by creating a panicked taskmaster—Mel was attempting to unbutton her shirt while unbuckling her belt—while they staggered away from the desk and toward the desk’s companion, an broad old leather chair which, Janice hoped, did not share the desk’s verboten status. Regardless, they tumbled into it and she found herself neatly straddling Mel’s lap and anticipating the hand that successfully breached both belt and trouser buttons.

The important things would come later. Only under the complete cover of night did she feel safe enough to say things like I love you, to savor the words in her mouth, to taste their reverberation as they unfurled into darkness—to see and feel nothing beyond that, and to give nothing but the purity of words and their intent to a woman who loved language.

5. South Carolina, 1933

The backyard spilled down the incline at such a precipitous angle that it appeared the land was running away from the civilization implicit in the large, domineering house— until it was finally truncated by a dirt road that had seen a history of horses, carriages, wagons. Runaway slaves had also traveled this same road, limned in moonlight and heading north—or so she had been solemnly told by the family maids, cooks, grooms, and stablemen. Now it served largely as a shortcut to and from the high school.

From the vantage point of the back porch she watched the occasional straggler from the school walking home, and she felt an absurd sense of superiority: for she was already at home, had drunk an entire glass of sweet iced tea, and was studying even though she was officially a week ahead of everyone in history and geometry and math and everything else and light years ahead of them all in Latin. Mel looked up from The Elements of Structural Botany. No one was on the road now, except for one girl.

She had never paid much attention to the girl before. Her name was Carol Ann and she was relatively new in town—her family was from Beaufort. Practically an entire year had passed without them saying much to one another beyond cordial hellos and drawling how-are-yous. And now it was late spring, blossoms bedded on the ground, and that girl Mel had barely spoken to all year long was now loping down the path from the school, alone, with the sun etching gold into every darkened shade of her dirty blonde hair and her bare arms swinging with a loose-limbed grace and slowing, for a barely imperceptible moment, as she turned toward Mel and waved with neighborly vigor.

For whenever I look at you even briefly

I can no longer say a single thing

In her father’s library, there were secret compartments of books discerned to be too dangerous and too adult, still, for her youthful tastes. She found them months ago, including the Loeb Lyra Graeca and, contained between its green cover, the slender treasure of Sappho’s verses.

In the turmoil of reading them, she was not exclusively undone by the poet’s objects of affection, but by the rule of passion that governed every word. She waited for passion. Every day, when she would witness Ruthlee desperately seize the arm of her boyfriend, or the fiery, slavish intensity of girls gathered around Mr. Maines, the English teacher, or Jason’s bright, adoring gaze aimed squarely at her, she waited.

But within the sharpened shadows of a late spring afternoon, on a dirt road where a beautiful girl walked alone, she waited no longer; the knowledge she craved was finally hers. A delicate flame runs beneath my skin, the ancient poet had written, and now she knew exactly how that felt. And yet she could find no other words to describe the feeling, or to say, even to herself, what it made her. It would take years to build the vocabulary of love and desire and to discard much of the shame she would feel as a result, but now, for the first moment in her life, she burned.

#xena #xena warrior princess #mel/janice #mel/janice fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

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crossyourminds · 7 years

Text

You Want 2 Know My Story?

Well, if this is my story being told to you, I would like to write it in a format more fitting for my persona. I just never really liked the whole, “limit your imagination to five paragraphs and two hundred and fifty words,” kind of thing. My name, is Adrey Arroyo. I am not your average 19 year old with daddy’s money or dreams of being a doctor. I, just like any other being on this Earth, have come across many different obstacles that have brought me to where I am today. And today, I’m sitting in front of a computer screen expressing that change.

Going to school as an obese, Mexican, child in the predominantly white world I call Santa Clarita, I was never really considered accepted or cool enough to talk to. Previously living in East Palmdale, the “hood,” was no different. I was constantly bullied verbally and physically. I was “that kid.” The fat kid. Not having many friends or anyone that wanted to play handball with a handball, I resorted to writing. I figured if I couldn’t have any friends, than I could create them with my mind using a piece of paper and pencil. I began to write and draw. I always enjoyed comparing things to reality. Like colors to emotions or pictures to sounds. Just being able to understand one thing more than once truly fascinated me.

Just like life at school, life at home was no different. Constantly looked upon as a self image, my father considered himself a failure when he would see the public point or laugh at me. My father, was my biggest bully. He was the voice inside my head. “Don’t eat this,” or “you can’t do that,” is pretty much what I grew up with. My mother was the more caring soft spoken one, at times. Although caring and being spoken to softly was nice from time to time, my mother had trouble staying happy. See my mom flipped her emotions faster than a coin toss at a football game.

Not having anyone to truly rely on or consider a true friend, I feared school. I was terrified of what occurred behind the walls of Saugus High school. I didn’t wanna go. But I had reached a point in my life of pure exhaustion. I had grown with so much anger and no way to release it, I was bound to explode. I was tired of the name calling. I was tired of the laughing. I was tired of the exclusion. I was tired of the bullshit. So I lost it.

I lost 65 pounds that summer going into my freshman year. I started school as a completely different person. Although that difference was merely physical, I was still an awkward kid and feared talking to someone other than my reflection. I was no longer pointed at for the rolls on my sides. Shit. I wasn’t even acknowledged anymore. I went from creating so much attention among the student body to nothing but a ghost that walked the campus. Invisible. A nobody.

At this point, I had never been more confused in my entire life. I did what they all wanted me to do. I lost weight. I lost the fat they all knew me for and now they didn’t even have the decency to say hi to me. I was more mad now than fat. I gave up again. Except this time, it wasn’t physical. This, is when it hit me. I gave up trying to be accepted. To me, this was my fate. I let go.

I no longer cared. If you wanted to talk to me I would talk back, and if not than I didn’t. I figured I owed it to myself to be happy and if I couldn’t be happy than I could at least create something that would. My words of imagination throughout the years were still piling up. But paper just couldn’t capture it anymore. I was no longer satisfied with letters on a sheet of a dead tree. I needed life. I needed images. I needed to create these words to reality. I wanted us, to understand us. I need the world to understand our one world more than once. So I joined my video production class as a freshman in high school.

They say comfort brings out the best in you, and I think that’s what Mr. Williams’ video class taught me that year. I had never been more comfortable with a crowd. I finally felt accepted with being myself. (Who woulda known that it would have ever been in from of the camera?) I found myself heavily into the film community at school, both in front and behind the camera. I became (somewhat) the face of my school’s news (SNN : Saugus News Network). I became the popular kid. I became the exact, social, opposite of what I was just a few years ago.

Life as a high school, ignorant, popular kid always disgusted me. I hated the bullying and the put downs, so I made sure I connected and socialized with all personalities. I was an awkward person. But the only popular one. I reached out to those going through personal issues like that of myself. I was referred to the safe school ambassadors club and later referred to a students mentor training. After 6 months of after school psychological training, I was certified as one of my high schools student mentors (student psychologist). So in a way I guess I have the mind of a psychologist. The mind and it’s constant flips truly attracted me.

Again, needing a new form of releasing my understandings of the mind, I needed a new form of “preaching” if you will. I was introduced to music after a relentless breakup. The typical high school sweet heart heartbreak. She cheated on me. This being the cutest girl I’ve ever spoken to, let alone the only girlfriend I’ve ever had, I was unprepared for the dark times my mind was about to go through. I reached a stage of pure confusion and depression where I just became hungry with my thoughts and could not keep them in any longer.

The following morning, I skated my ass over to best buy and bought myself a keyboard with the money I was gonna use for her christmas present. This by far was the best investment I have ever made. I locked myself in my room and literally taught myself to play by sound. Hungry for release, I poured my little heart out on these keys. This wack breakup story is literally what brought me into the world of sounds and their power behind what those words can really do to someone.

Although a lot of my songs were soft as fuck, my anger about the situation started making it’s appearance a lot more comfortable around me. I think just being so secluded with nothing but your pissed heart broke ass you tend to go a little crazy. This, is when “dre.” was born. I found comfort releasing my anger almost literal as another persona. Someone much darker that was nothing of my real personality. A form of diary, if you will. I guess that’s when my boy Javier made a remix beat to System of a Down’s Lonely Day, and the hate letter I had wrote to my ex (never intended to send to her) started to just flow over the beat.

This song is what created my music outlook today. To tell the truth and help you understand that there is more than one way of understanding something, and that’s completely okay. You’re not crazy, there’s other people out there experiencing the same shit you are. You are not alone. The ironic beauty, Lonely Day, is what established me as an artist in the LA area. The utter truth. Who woulda known so many would be so inspired by it?

Losing a best friend and 17 years old was also quite a stir in my personality, but after months of retaliation and personal obstacles, I found myself at ease with Nutmeg. Feeling loss and truly experiencing it will fuck you up, but it’s whether or not you get yourself out of it to acknowledge what exactly it was that you lost. Now admiring what I still have, I cherish those moments with those around me who helped me change and grow into the artist I am today.

Graduating without the presence of my father, made it pretty obvious that both he and I never really had a relationship. I moved out days after the ceremony and began my job as a production assistant for a production company in hollywood. I had to grow up. Fast.

Life won’t ever hit you harder than when you first realize you have bills and food to buy. Without meeting those standards, you ain’t getting no where. I think that same stress just being piled on me, along with my fathers, is what really fucked up my body. That december, I was diagnosed with osteoporosis and possible osteosarcoma, leading to several prescription drugs and labs. Mysecond home was now the hospital. Living at my own expense and stubbornness, I kept the whole cancer ordeal to myself. I didn’t let any body know, including my family. I received radiation treatment on my cranium to loosen and release any cells and liquids within my brain. So, let’s just say I got part of the idea of being a patient.

After months of bipolar doctors, giving me one hope and shooting it down with a lab, I gave in. I told my mom and she pleaded that I moved in. Again being a stubborn fuck, I asked my mom that she kept it to herself and that the only way I’m moving back home, is if I don’t live in the house. (I could not live under the same roof as my pops) So we began the studio building process. After a few weeks of construction my backyard studio and lounge was built. The Tabernacle was born. I moved into my studio and spend almost all of my time just vibing in there. I had it built with a recording booth along with a two way mirror into it. The other half of the studio is a blank wall I use for shooting my films n photos.

A year later, I’m finally able to start physical activity and work again. I’ve been without a job for months now because I couldn’t stand for over ten minutes without creating too much pressure on my spine and cranium. Funny story is that I also just lost my newest girl to it. I guess seeing me become a loser due to medical shit just wasn’t attractive to her anymore. It’s a beautiful thing to hear a doctor tell you you’re good. Not just, fine, but YOU GOOD. Losing people in this road to recovery has only opened my eyes to a broader audience. Getting through a bone disease without the support of my father has made my bones brittle but stronger. I got through this shit. I really got through this shit, and I didn’t become a disabled young adult, I really did get through this shit. On myown.

To help mesh why I wrote this big of an entry to my music link, is to help you understand what your listening to. To know not only the story behind the sound, but the building of it also. This is my diary to you. And as any individual who pertains to any higher being, keep that aside. Growing up as a strict catholic active in my church, I’ve had to learn how to put all that aside to help youunderstand more than once. Not only in your perspective, but those of your neighbors, your class mates, your annoyances and obsessions. This sound cloud page is a story being untold to you. You take your perspective on it. All I’m doing is reassuring you in what you might believe is right.

The choice is yours.

I am Adrey.

22 years old.

Alive.

And fucking breathing.

-dre.

(click on the music tab)

soundcloud.com/adreyarroyo

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evergrowingfarm · 6 years

Text

I didn’t believe the adults in my life who told me, when I was still young and free and hadn’t a care in the world, that the older I’d get, the faster time would pass.

And yet, here I sit on the third day of a brand new year, wondering where the time has gone.

It’s true that 2017 went by in a bit of a haze for me.

In the big picture, it was a rough year, full of shattered perceptions, a full awakening as to how truly broken and divided our country is, and continuous awareness around how deeply privileged I am/we are.

The pendulum swung hard and knocked many of us on our asses.

So much internal work was done and there is still so much more to do (internally *and externally), but I firmly believe our wounds must come to the surface so they can truly be seen, addressed, and healed.

And so it shall be.

Of course, farm life has its own ebb and flow.

An abundance of life can be followed by sudden and devastating loss (like a handful of ducklings pecked off one by one by the neighborhood ravens).

And sometimes the puppy you thought you’d watch grow into an old man has another path to follow.

But of course, baby goats help to balance it all out and a bountiful harvest doesn’t hurt either.

Though the pain remains, Nature has a lovely way of tempering it all with fluffy butts and an endless cycle of reflection and hope in the sowing, growing, and harvesting of it all.

2017 also brought a couple of injuries and health challenges that have reignited our insistence on self-care and a determination to find a healthy work/life balance. Not only do Kim and I want to grow old together, we deeply long to continue pursuing this whole farming thing and in order to do both, our physical / mental / emotional / spiritual health must be kept front and center as we move forward.

And so it shall be.

2018 lies in front of us like a perfect chapter just waiting to be written, with words and actions, experiences and dreams just on the other side of the bend…just out of sight and imperfectly perfect…and I couldn’t be happier for the journey.

And so, as we slide into moving our entire homestead two hours south of our current location in what we hope will be our final move before finding our Forever Farm, all free hours of each day will be spent packing and purging and preparing for new beginnings and steep learning curves.

I’m already tired and we have (literal and figurative) miles to go…

But I find strength in the knowledge that we will be rewarded for our efforts with berries galore next summer, so there’s that 😉

In terms of “resolutions”/big picture goals for the year ahead, I (and we) do have a few:

Get Organized / Simplify

This will happen/is happening out of necessity already as we slowly go through our belongings and purge that which no longer serves us. Throughout this process, however, we’ve become acutely aware that we have spent the last few years stretching ourselves in ways that are not healthy or sustainable.

We’ve done too much too fast.

Our Farm Life is so full and incredibly lovely and…so very exhausting.

When coupled with full-time non-profit jobs (read: heart work), an hour commute each way, and a small child running about, something has to give.

We’re working on animal management plans and division of labor and aiming to really and truly work smarter, not harder in the coming months. With 50 animals to care for on a daily basis (plus us three humans), there is no other choice unless we want to lose ourselves in the process.

Which is exactly what we don’t want to do.

Work Less, Play More

We love our jobs, we really do…and we’re blessed to work for organizations whose missions we are passionate about (Kim: empowering girls to be their truest, smartest, and boldest selves, Me: local agriculture and food access), but we have come to the realization that we give way too much time and energy to our jobs. They follow us home via endless conversations, brainstorming sessions, and answering emails on our phones at all hours of the day and night and even sometimes on the weekends.

It’s not good for either of us individually, as a couple, or as a family.

And so we intend to do better and make some shifts in our habits.

We have also been made acutely aware of our lack of actual vacation time. We tend to say, “Oh yeah! We should go to ___ in May!” And then January turns in February, March, and April and we’ve made no plans and life gets busy and so we don’t go anywhere in May.

Then, we make another “plan” and the cycle continues.

2018 will be different.

There will be actual plans, reservations, and follow through.

Experiences will be had, memories will be made, damn it 🙂

Put Pen to Paper (or something like that)

I write poems and paragraphs in my head all the time, the problem is in taking the time to put the words down on actual paper (or on whichever screen is close enough to grab). Whether in my journal, in this space, or on a random piece of scrap paper, I intend to gift myself the space and time to take the words floating in my head and get them out into the world in 2018.

2017 held the least posts in this space since I began writing here in 2011 and the worrier in me fears that so many important moments, not captured, will be lost to me, to us, since they are not captured here. In reality, I know each moment lives on and will float on up to the surface when the time is right, but oh how I miss using this space as a keeper of records.

I have toyed with the idea of goals (you know, write X words every day, etc.) and have decided not to put the intention into a box, but instead let it flow however it needs to…so we’ll see how it goes. Feels a little loosey-goosey, but I’ll take it for now.

That’s it. Three (not so) little goals for the year ahead.

Should be easy enough to accomplish, right? 😉

Of course, this wouldn’t be a proper reflections post without a couple end-of-the-year lists, would it? Nawwww… 😉

My Favorite Posts of 2017 (in no particular order)

Slow Motion Chicken Antics (Video)

On Passion

Our First Hatchling!

Seven Kids in 14 Hours

Cultivation