#me: puts the most devastating shot from deluge

[undergroundbandimagines]

A Singular Lack of Blessings

Joy turns bittersweet in this strange year

pxhere

Mala placed her finally-asleep daughter on the bed. The baby wriggled as soon as she was out of her mother’s arms. Mala sighed, started patting her with a slightly cupped hand. The gentle pressure and soft sound of the pat immediately quietened the baby’s movements. For a few minutes, Mala continued patting, in rhythm to the beat of her heart, until she felt the baby’s breath deepen to sleep. She reduced the tempo and pressure of her pats slowly, until it was almost a feather touch. She left her hand, resting on her daughter for a few moments more. The baby didn’t stir. Mala smiled relief and stretched her arms and legs, relieving the stiffness. A yawn escaped her. A full body yawn as her uncle Vivek used to say.

A deep sadness leapt through her chest, forcing her eyes to water. He hadn’t seen her daughter yet and it had already been two weeks. He had called and spoken to her, of course, explaining how he didn’t wish to endanger the baby and her and would come after the pandemic had quietened down. At that time, she’d said she understood; theoretically, logically, she had, she did; but her traitor heart colluded with her dark self to point out how her “wonderful” uncle hadn’t even bothered to come see her and her daughter; how he hadn’t blessed her. I’m alone again. Tears deluged her cheeks.

The force of her emotion seemed to expand out of her, darken a room already outlined only in the escaped glare of city light. The baby stirred again, as if she could feel her mother’s anguish. Mala’s hand automatically shot to her daughter, the gentle pressure of her hand soothing the baby. Mala shook her head and wiped her tears. She’d done it again. Given in. Let the demons take over. She shuddered. What a horrible mother you’re going to be, they whispered.

She fought them, concentrating on her daughter’s breaths; in, out, in, out; she repeated the words in her mind; the cadence and rhythm of life as soothing as always. The whirlwind inside her calmed as her mind threw her back to the first time she’d learned the technique.

She could barely remember what the actual fight had been about, but she remembered her whole body trembling with anger, with the unfairness of it all. She had wanted to destroy everything in sight, then destroy herself. Uncle Vivek had intervened and taken her out to get ice cream. Faced with a large scoop of her favourite blackcurrant ice cream with a generous sprinkling of nuts, her anger retreated and she fell into that special state of bliss only food can engender.

Once she had caught and consumed all stray droplets of purple goo, Vivek asked, “Has the pounding in your head stopped?”

Mala stared at him disbelieving. How did he know?

He grinned. “It’s kinda nice to know my favourite niece has taken after me.”

“I’m your only niece,” she retorted, just as the full impact of his statement hit her. Uncle Vivek, the most cool-headed, even-tempered person she knew could never, ever, in a million years have felt that nauseating pounding, the rush of sweat and the irritating pulsing at the temple. It just wasn’t possible!

As if reading her mind he said, “Yep. I’ve felt the same. The thing I hated most was how my temple would pulse. I was pretty sure everyone could see it. In my head, it was like a cartoonish angry man, with his veins bulging out, looking menacing.”

Mala giggled as she tried vainly to imagine it. It just didn’t fit with her image of her uncle.

He gave a theatrical sigh, “I knew I was too good at controlling it. No one even believes me anymore when I say I have anger issues.”

“Come on Uncle! I’ve known you forever and you’ve never lost your temper.”

“Forever is only thirteen years long? My, my, you really do learn new things every day.”

Mina turned her head huffily, but couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Vivek said, “Okay. No more joking around. I was serious when I said I had anger issues. And.” He raised a hand to ward off the next words from Mala and continued, “Let me finish what I have to say and then, I promise, you can have another ice cream. Deal?”

Mala narrowed her eyes. She didn’t really like listening to adults talking, but this was Uncle Vivek. And there was the icecream. She was hoping for butterscotch with some chocolate fudge. She nodded acceptance.

Vivek’s voice dropped a few levels as he said, “Good. Let’s get the boring part out first while you’re still awake. Anger, especially the rage you just felt, that is not good for you. I know you didn’t mean to let yourself get that angry. You think this was a one-off thing that could be due to the teen hormones your mom must’ve warned you about. I wish that were true…

“The truth is, some of us — I’m still trying to figure out if we’re lucky or unlucky — some people just…fall into anger. It’s like a deep pool of boiling water — your skin burns, your eyes smart, it’s difficult to breathe and almost impossible to think. All you can feel is the pain causing your anger and like a feral tiger, it wants to be let out. Sometimes, it wants to hunt down the one who hurt you, make them feel the same pain. Sometimes, it can’t find that person and destroys the nearest people. What does it know? It’s a dumb cat.

“I didn’t know that though. I thought my anger was righteous, that I was doing the right thing. But, giving in to my anger didn’t make anything right. It hurt me right back. I got into fights — I’ve had my arm broken, my ribs cracked. I broke a lot of your grandmother’s jars too; they were easy prey. I even fought with my best friend because he told me I was wrong, that I was not thinking. And I…ah no, that story’ll have to wait until you’re eighteen. Anyway, after a certain incident, I came home. Ma saw me and took an involuntary step backwards. She remedied that almost immediately by walking over to me, but I’d already seen that scared yet devastated look on her face. And I knew, I’d become a monster.”

Vivek let his head wander down to his chest. He stayed like that for a second, and then he sat up straight. His old smile was back. Mala was confused. The man who said he’d done all that couldn’t be the same man who sat in front of her.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“That was a long time ago and I was…just a bit different. People have to grow up, right? Just imagine, if at thirteen, instead of eating icecream, you still had to drink milk from a bottle...”

“That makes no sense!”

“Okay. Okay. The main thing is that I used to let that anger guide me and it brought me nothing but grief. I managed to get help and overcome it, maybe because I’m an exceptionally lucky man. You, though…you don’t really look as lucky as me…Hmmm…”

Mala swatted at him. He continued, “I think I’d rather you skip the whole bad part and get to the good bit. And though it didn’t sound like it, there’s a good side — most likely, you got angry because you were passionate about something. And passion can drive you to live your best life. It’s like sugar, controlled amounts mean you get a lifetime of enjoyment; go overboard, and you’ll get diabetes.

“The trick is to find that path between anger and passion. My psychiatrist — pick your jaw off the table, young lady. That’s bad manners. Yes, my psychiatrist. We Indians don’t really talk about mental health, do we? Don’t worry. I’m not crazy and not all people who go to psychiatrists are crazy. They are actually smart enough to het the help they need. And you know I’m smart, right?” He winked as Mala hrmphed.

“So, my psychiatrist suggested this simple tip — touch one thumb with the other; slide down until you get to your wrist; press lightly; you can feel a beat. That’s your pulse. Now, whenever you feel angry, just find your pulse and for a few seconds repeat that sound in your head. It might sound silly, but there’s nothing more soothing than a heartbeat. Did you find it?”

Mala nodded, her face still skeptical.

“Now, close your eyes and just say the sound...lub-dub…lub-dub…in tune with your pulse. Come on, you don’t have to say it out loud. You want your icecream or not?”

Mala emitted a theatrical sigh and closed her eyes. To her amazement, after a few seconds, the irritation that she’d been feeling since the altercation reduced. She opened her eyes in astonishment, stared at her hand, and said, “It works.”

Vivek grinned, “Now, it’s time for icecream.”

By the time she’d demolished her double scoop of butterscotch, her anger and irritability had almost vanished. Uncle Vivek’s warm hand on her head as he said good night removed the final vestiges of the storm that had tormented her a few hours ago. She swore to herself that she’d try his trick every time she felt angry.

Of course, it had taken some time and a few fights with her parents before Mala actually got around to putting her uncle’s trick into practice. She later found it was useful not just for anger, but the waves of inexplicable sadness that seemed to dredge her now and again. Encouraged by Vivek, she attended counselling and meditation classes, learning more about herself. Perversely, the more she learnt about herself, her tendencies, instead of making her worse (like her parents and friends had warned after her first counselling session), she became more confident.

And that little trick of Vivek’s was subsumed into her daily life. She used it before important meetings, before she went to bed, before she made any decision. And the heart she felt in her hand, soothed the raw emotions into pliancy, let her think clearly and decide.

Mala’s slipped out of her reverie, smiling. Her heart still ached to see Vivek, to hug him. She wanted to feel his hand on her head, that traditional Indian blessing, which to her was doubly special because he had met her demons, yet he blessed her.

I wish he could bless you too, she thought at her daughter and tears pooled again.

Damn these hormones! I’m too emotional, she thought as she got up and went into the kitchen.

She found the small carton of blackcurrant icecream she’d hidden and sat at the table. Slowly, savouring every morsel, she finished it, drank water and tiptoed back. Both her daughter and her husband were fast asleep.

She snuggled down under the covers, placed one hand on her daughter, and slipped into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, she video-called Uncle Vivek and showed off her daughter. As was custom, he raised a hand to bless her. Through the impersonally cold glass, Mala felt her uncle’s blessing come through as a warm wave that induced a smile in both mother and daughter.

It wasn’t perfect, but for now, she’d make do.

© Indira Reddy 2020

A Singular Lack of Blessings was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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#RSSMix.com Mix ID 12542575

[the-pontiac-bandit]

hear the choir bells sing

so i’ll thank erica (@startofamoment) one more time for this absolutely amazing list of prompts, and anonymous, who requested that i do this one. (title from marry you, by bruno mars)

25. It’s only half an hour into this stakeout, but to Jake it feels like it’s been an eternity. There’s a ring box burning a hole in his pocket, and a jumbled mess of ideas in his head. He knows Amy wouldn’t want him turning to anyone for approval, but the longer they sit in this car, the more inclined he is to ask Holt for advice.

Something is bothering Detective Jake Peralta. Raymond Holt isn’t sure what quite yet, but Peralta has only spoken three times since they parked the car half an hour ago, and, perhaps even more concerning, Peralta let Holt choose the music. Brahm dances through the still air of the car, but Raymond can’t even bring himself to enjoy it.

That’s a lie. He’s enjoying it a little.

At minute thirty eight of what is possibly the least interesting stakeout in history, Peralta, who has been eerily still, begins to fidget. By minute forty seven, he has maintained 247 consecutive seconds of movement, and Raymond is beginning to wonder if he should say something to the boy, who is now sitting cross-legged and drumming along to the beat of the classical music he claims to hate.

At minute forty eight, Ray Holt has convinced himself that he should break the silence. For all his talk of hating conversation, he secretly enjoys the constant stream of consciousness that flows out of Peralta’s mouth - an excellent source of white noise (at the thought, his lips twitch into what he considers a broad grin as he remembers his first stakeout at the Nine Nine, years earlier, when Santiago told him he should view Peralta’s constant monologue as just that. She was right - she almost always is.)

He decides he should be careful in how he inquires about Detective Peralta’s mental wellbeing - after all, he has no desire to make him uncomfortable or step over the line of appropriate workplace small talk. Currently, his two top ideas for ways to broach the silence are commenting on the weather and inquiring about the store at which Peralta purchased his leather jacket. Before he can settle on the appropriate course of action, however, Peralta has cleared his throat and (finally) settled again in his seat, his twitchy hands stilling and his legs unfolding and moving back to the floor of the car.

“Sir, how did you and Kevin get engaged?”

“I don’t think this is much of a proposal story, Peralta. We heard gay marriage had been legalized and then headed straight for City Hall.”

Jake looks a little disappointed. “That’s it, really? Nothing else? How did you tell Kev you wanted to get married?”

“…Kev?” Raymond knows exactly to whom Peralta is referring, of course, but he does love to, as Jake puts it, “pull his leg”. He sits still, waiting for clarification, enjoying Peralta’s increasing frustration immensely (even more so because it is such a remarkably quick return to normalcy from the silent stress of a few minutes before).

Finally, Jake relents. “Dr. Kevin Middle-Name Cozner. You knew exactly whom I was talking about!” He turns to his captain with a broad, self-satisfied grin. “Aren’t you super-duper proud of my use of whom? Since I was the subject of the clause, you use whom! Amy’s been teaching me grammar, and I am hella killin’ it.”

Raymond represses a chuckle with great difficulty. “Still incorrect, Detective. It would be ‘about whom I was speaking.’ It seems as though Santiago has more work to do, especially since you used the phrase ‘hella killin’ it’ as part of a legitimate sentence.”

“Still an improvement!” Jake retorts cheerfully. Then, a pause, and when he speaks again, Raymond can detect the slightest note of apprehension in his words. “So, could you answer the question?”

Raymond sighs, digging through his memories as the music goes to commercial. “Damn these Spoe-tie-fee ads,” he mutters as he tries to recall a casual conversation from what feels like a century ago when he was a young hot-shot detective with - he believed at the time - the world’s biggest crush on an idealistic classics professor.

“You know it’s Spotify, Captain.”

“I did not.” Raymond retorts. Then, he takes a deep breath and continues. “Do you know the story of Orpheus?”

“Sir, of course I don’t.”

“Right. Well, Orpheus was a musician in Greek mythology, a truly gifted one, and when his wife died, he played his harp through hell to save her. When he found Eurydice, his music softened the god of death’s heart enough that he allowed her to return to the mortal realm, on the condition that Orpheus not once look back to make sure his wife followed him on the way out. As he approached the mortal realm, however, Orpheus made the fatal error of glancing behind himself. When he did, his wife vanished forever.”

“Well, that was horribly depressing!” Jake replies cheerfully. “In what world does this turn into a heartwarming proposal story?”

“I never called it a proposal story. In any case, a new version of the myth resurfaced shortly after Kevin and I moved in together. He was invited to contribute to the translation process - a huge opportunity - and when he told me, we got to discussing the myth itself. Finally, Kevin commented entirely offhand, ‘I wonder if partners have visiting rights in hell, or if it’s only spouses,’ to which I replied that I was fully prepared to say whatever words necessary to improve my chances of recovering him from the underworld. It’s all unrealistic sentimental drivel, of course, but it was effective, and three years later, we found ourselves at City Hall, no questions asked.”

Peralta’s mouth is hanging open a little bit. “Captain! That was shockingly sweet! You’re a secret romantic!”

Holt pinches his lips. “I most certainly am not.” Then, he remembers why he told this story in the first place. “Why did you need to know?”

Peralta is silent for a few seconds. His fingers are tapping frantically against his jeans, outlining a vaguely orange stain that Raymond is certain Detective Santiago has tried to remove on multiple occasions to no avail. The boy’s propensity for permanent stains is truly unique.

Then, Peralta is speaking, his words tripping over each other in their haste to escape his mouth. “So, I love Amy. Like, love love her. Like super-romantic-stylez. And I love living with her and being with her and the thought of not doing those things with her forever is awful so I got to thinking maybe I should tell her I was thinking about forever because I know she’s always planning and she’d want to factor that in and then I got this ring and it cost more than a massage chair which is insane and who spends that much on a ring except I somehow did and it’s been burning a hole in my pocket for two weeks and I want to ask her but I don’t know what to say or how to say it and I’m trying not to panic but it’s scary and what if she says no and marriage isn’t on the life calendar above the bed so I don’t know when it fits in her plan and is it even a good idea and whatdoIdoIfiguredyou’dknow?”

Finished, Jake sits back, panting a little as he regains his breath after a monologue truly worthy of Shakespeare - in length, at least, if not in eloquence.

Holt sits still for nearly a minute, processing the veritable deluge of words that had just hit him. Finally, slowly and carefully (he feels keenly the importance of his next words), he states, “So, you’re thinking of marrying Amy.”

“Yeah, I guess, but I’m a mess and she’s perfect and it sounds insane and she trusts you and I trust you - ew, being serious is the worst - and I figured you’d know what to do because she thinks you do everything perfect and I don’t even know any Greek myths, much less ones about Elephant or Orphiman or whoever and I almost rented a lion cub for this last week and I know that’s wrong and–”

Raymond raises his hand slightly, and Jake falls silent instantly. He pauses for a moment, then decides on his course of action. “Jake, first, I want to congratulate you on this remarkable step. I never would have believed when Sergeant Jeffords first introduced you to me that I would see such maturity from you. Second, my only useful advice for you - aside from the fact that you should avoid any violently carnivorous species, no matter how endearing they are on the website - is to be honest, to be true to yourself and to Amy. You don’t need to know Greek mythology, or even the identities of Will Shortz or Andy Borowitz, because she is choosing to be with you, Jacob Peralta, and that is far more important than your ability to emulate her love of classics or mathematics.”

“How did math end up in this?” Jake looks horrified at the thought.

“It…it didn’t. Just be honest with her like you were with me - although maybe practice with some pauses for breath so you don’t lose consciousness before the end of your proposal.”

“So…you think it sounds like a good idea? To marry Amy? You think she’d like that?” The boy sounds almost painfully hopeful, and it makes Raymond’s heart twinge - he sounds so remarkably similar to a dangerously optimistic college professor who bought a car on impulse for the love of his life.

Raymond thinks about the question for a second, though he already knows his answer. He thinks of the way that Jake has always looked at Amy - an expression Gina described appropriately as “Peralta heart-eyes” during one of their dish sessions. He thinks of their ridiculous bet, and the sight of the pair dancing in used costumes at a ballroom dancing competition. He thinks of how ragged Santiago looked when Jake was undercover, long before they were dating, and how devastated she was when he was in jail. He finds humor in the memory of Jake and Amy killing their captain and the image of Amy failing to burn Jake’s sole towel, and feels the pain of watching Jake eat a soaking wet burrito alone in Florida and seeing the air rush out of Amy’s lungs at the word guilty.

He remembers a conversation with Kevin once, when he was still relatively new to the precinct. It was late and they were in bed, Cheddar curled happily between them. Holt had just finished telling Kevin about Peralta’s decision to punch Jimmy Brogan, and about the admiration that saturated Santiago’s voice as she relayed the events.

“Detectives Santiago and Peralta seem…fond of each other,” Kevin had observed, doing his best to be nonchalant in his veiled inquiry.

“They certainly are.”

“Are they…anything other than partners?”

“Not yet, but I think that one day, they might be. They’re very well-matched.”

And then Jake clears his throat, looking a little terrified, and Holt remembers that there’s a question he’s supposed to answer.

“I think it’s an excellent idea, Jake. I think Amy loves you more than you know, and I truly hope that you will find a lifetime of happiness with each other. So when the time is right, find this honesty again and just ask.”

The tension that has been holding Jake unnaturally upright since they began this stakeout nearly an hour before floods out of his body immediately at Raymond’s words. A smile breaks large and wide and relaxed across the younger man’s face and at the sight Raymond becomes aware that the expression is mirrored on his own face, where it feels like the corners of his mouth must just be touching his ears. He must look ridiculous, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“You totally approve of us,” Peralta whispers, sounding more than a little shocked.

Clearing his throat, suddenly wishing a little bit that they could step back across the line into a comfortable area of workplace proximity associateship (this has been more than enough emotion for the month), his captain replies, “Yes - I suppose I do.”

An hour later, they’ve stopped the drug deal that originally sent them away from the precinct that morning and successfully confiscated more than 20 kilos of heroin.

As they hand off their perps to the beat cops on duty outside the precinct to be put in the holding cell while Jake and Holt log evidence, Raymond catches sight of a small box-shaped lump in Jake’s back pocket.

“Jake,” he says, catching his detective’s attention. He’s not sure what his intentions are himself until he realizes that he has wrapped his arms around Jake in what must be one of the first hugs he’s given to someone other than Kevin in years. Jake stills for a second in shock before enthusiastically returning the hug.

“I’m proud of you, and I wish both you and Amy the best, son,” he says quietly.

Jake’s only response is to squeeze him a bit tighter for a second before releasing him and turning to walk into the precinct.

“You’re a surprisingly great hugger, by the way! Can’t wait to tell Amy!”

And then the door is closing behind him and Raymond allows himself one small smile before he returns to his office.

And a week later, when Amy shakes hands with her left hand instead of her right - nothing short of a shocking breach of protocol, according to Section 10, page 237 of Mentorship Binder 2 - to subtly display the small diamond glinting on her ring finger, his heart feels like it might burst.

#brooklyn 99 #b99 #jake peralta #ray holt #amy santiago #my writing #b99 hiatus writing challenge #okay. so i wrote a thing #it is a Fluffy Thing #not sure how i feel about it?? #BUT ANYWAY HERE YOU GO INTERNET #ENJOY?? #ENJOY! #jake x amy #fun fact this whole thing was written on an iphone soooo

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “One Day at a Time” (Rated PG13)

Grieving the loss of his mother has taken its toll on Kurt. He’s stopped eating, stopped sleeping, has basically given up on life. But Blaine is determined not to give up on his husband. (1459 words)

Story changes the timeline so that Kurt's mother dies when he's an adult. This is another re-write. Warning for anxiety attacks.

Read on AO3.

The drive back to the rental house takes forever as soon as the worst of the storm hits. They didn’t see it coming. The sky had been blue and clear all morning. The clouds crept in on them unexpectedly while they napped, tanning on their towels under the early summer sun. There hadn’t been much more than a strong breeze to warn them before thunder punched the air, the skies opened up, and the rain washed down.

All it takes is a clap of thunder and the touch of rain to paralyze Kurt. He doesn’t move, he just falls apart all at once. Once Kurt starts crying - choking around panicked, open-mouthed screams, tears running down his face in droves - he can’t make himself calm down. He shakes all over, uncontrollably, every muscle in his body trying to tear out from under his skin. Blaine has to carry Kurt, fireman style, at a run to the car. He can’t leave Kurt alone even for a second when he’s like this, so they end up abandoning their towels on the beach and drive at full tilt back to their summer rental.

This was not supposed to happen, and not just this disaster at the beach.

This was not supposed to be their life. This was not the man Blaine married.

The tragic accident that took Kurt’s mother from him didn’t only end her life. In many ways, it ended Kurt’s life as well.

Kurt stopped taking care of himself. He doesn’t feed himself; he barely sleeps. He’s given up on nearly everything he loves – sewing, music, theater. He hasn’t touched his piano or his sewing machine since the funeral. He doesn’t often leave the house, and when he does, he puts no effort into what he wears or how he looks. Little things trigger small crying fits – the smell of his mom’s favorite perfume, cheesecake (the dessert they always made together), her favorite song, the one that she would sing to him when he was little, before she put him to bed.

But the most devastating trigger by far for Kurt has been the rain.

Elizabeth Hummel died in a four car pile-up during a sudden spring deluge three months ago, and Kurt hasn’t been the same since. Blaine knew that Kurt and his mother were close, but he could never have predicted this. Maybe it wasn’t the fact that she died, but the fact that she was taken from her son so early. Whatever the reason, he’s stuck in this time and place, with no impetus to move forward from here.

What is the purpose of starring on Broadway if his mother isn’t there to see him? Why work so hard on starting his own clothing line if she can’t sit by the runway during Fashion Week when he debuted? Why even think about adopting children if she isn’t there to spoil them?

Blaine loved Kurt’s mother, too, but he knows that giving up on life isn’t going to bring her back. He wants to continue on.

Kurt is standing still.

Blaine couldn’t stand the thought that he might lose Kurt, so he planned a second honeymoon and whisked his husband away to the coast – a place they’ve been to many times before, a place where they could always be themselves together, where they could be alone and forget that the world existed for a while.

Blaine wanted to escape to a place where he might be able to put his grieving husband back together.

Blaine had planned their trip so meticulously. That’s the painful part about Kurt’s meltdown. Blaine had pinpointed a block of time when the National Weather Service guaranteed that the chances of a storm would be less than 10%, promising sunny skies for the whole week.

Blaine thought they’d be safe.

Well, here Blaine is, driving his hysterical husband back to their rental in the 9.9% chance of a storm.

When this is all over, he’s going to be writing the director of the National Weather Service a strongly worded email.

Blaine pulls their car into the garage; Kurt races out before it even stops rolling.

“Kurt!” Blaine calls after him, throwing the car into park and following Kurt into the house. Kurt doesn’t stop. He doesn’t seem to hear. He runs into their bedroom, straight into the bathroom (the only room without a window), and shuts the door, locking it behind him.

More thunder booms, resonating like the flat end of a large, ball-peen hammer pounding against the roof, shaking the whole house. When the noise subsides, Blaine hears what remains of Kurt’s tortured cry.

“Kurt,” Blaine yells. He doesn’t want to yell at his husband, but he needs to be heard through the door and over the rain. “What do you need me to do?”

“I … I don’t know,” comes Kurt’s shuddering reply. “I just … I just want to get away from the—-“

More thunder roars, cutting Kurt off. The din outside bleeds away into whimpers from behind the door, and Blaine sinks down onto the floor, feeling helpless.

“Do you … do you want to go somewhere else?” Blaine offers. “Somewhere further inland? Maybe the storm’s not as bad away from the water.”

“I don’t want to go back out in that!” Kurt cries, a frightened edge barreling through his voice full-force, and Blaine feels his husband’s terror like a pickaxe through his skull.

“I know, Kurt! I know! I’m sorry!” he says, on the verge of breaking down himself, knowing he can’t, not in any way. “I’m trying to help, baby. I want to help you.”

He hears a small, trembling sniffle. “I know, I know,” Kurt answers softly, bracing himself for more thunder to come.

“Do you have any ideas?” Blaine remembers the steps their counselor taught him, to take a step back and let Kurt come up with solutions for himself, not force ideas on him. Sometimes, these steps are hard for Blaine to follow. He doesn’t like standing back and doing nothing where it involves his husband.

He doesn’t like seeing Kurt in pain.

“I think …” Kurt starts, and Blaine holds his breath to listen. “I think, maybe … I’m just going to take a shower.”

Blaine could have laughed. He might have let one slip in his relief.

“How is taking a shower different than being out in the rain?” Blaine asks, going for humor, trying to make his husband laugh again.

But Kurt’s not there yet, and his joke misses its mark.

“I don’t know! It just is, alright?” Kurt yells, the tears in his voice still present, ever-present.

They don’t ever seem to go away.

“I’m sorry, Kurt.” Blaine switches back to a low, soothing voice. “That was stupid and uncalled for. But, honestly, I don’t know what to do.”

“I---I don’t know, either. I’m not sure why this is happening. I feel … lost. A-and alone.”

Blaine used to get so offended when Kurt said that. How could he feel alone when the man who loves him more than anyone in the world is standing right in front of him? But it’s the truth. What Kurt is going through is like some bizarre mind-control. It’s a slippery slope for both of them. Nothing about what Kurt is suffering makes sense to Blaine. All he knows is that no matter what, he can’t leave Kurt to fight this alone.

Through sickness and in health.

He’ll keep learning, keep doing, keep adapting, keep trying.

Each roar of thunder hits Kurt at the core of his psyche and sets alarm bells blaring in his brain, ringing throughout his body, klaxons and sirens going off at once, all screaming their own separate warnings. They ring so loudly that they fill Kurt’s head to bursting. He turns on the water and throws his hands over his ears, humming in an effort to drown them out, but he can’t hear himself think.

Which means Kurt also doesn’t hear the door open, the lock picked from the outside. With his hands plastered over his ears, he can’t hear Blaine step inside and remove his shoes. With his eyes squeezed shut, he doesn’t see Blaine pull aside the shower curtain and climb inside the tub, crouching to sit across from him. Kurt startles at the first unexpected press of lips against his forehead and his eyes snap open, but the moment his husband’s arms wrap around him, he melts into them.

“It’s alright,” Blaine says as Kurt cries against his shoulder, planting kiss after kiss across Kurt’s wet forehead and whispering words of encouragement into his skin. “It’s okay. You’re not alone. You can do this. We’ll do it together … one day at a time.”

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #frankie writes

[investmart007]

LUMBERTON, N.C. | Deluged by Hurricane Matthew, rural town waits for Florence

New Post has been published on https://www.stl.news/lumberton-n-c-deluged-by-hurricane-matthew-rural-town-waits-for-florence/170554/

LUMBERTON, N.C. | Deluged by Hurricane Matthew, rural town waits for Florence

LUMBERTON, N.C. — She takes a break from hauling rugs and family heirlooms into the attic to look out the front door and watch it rain and rain and rain some more.

Nichole Worley studies the house across the street, abandoned and boarded up, and the creek just behind it that made it that way. It jumped its banks during Hurricane Matthew two years ago, which drowned her neighborhood, one of the poorest communities in one of the poorest counties in North Carolina.

Half of her neighbors never came back. Now she’s watching the rain pound down again, terrified the other half may flee and also not return.

“I can’t go through this again,” she says, wondering what little Lumberton and its 21,000 souls did to deserve all of this and how much more one town can take.

As Hurricane Florence roars across the Carolina coast, her town 70 miles from the sea is once again among those worrying state authorities most.

Forecasters warn rain will pour on them for days and the Lumber River that cuts through the middle of the city will continue to rise and likely spill out again. The flood could be as bad as the one two years ago that inundated entire neighborhoods and major highways.

People were rescued from rooftops. Worley’s house, and most of those around her, took in water up to the eaves.

“I don’t think we can stand another one,” she says. “I can’t do this again.”

Lumberton, once the backbone of America’s textile manufacturing economy, has long been battered by a drumbeat of bad news.

First it was the withering of the blue-collar economy that plunged many rural communities like this one into poverty. The largest employer here, a Converse shoe plant that employed 3,000, shuttered. Other factories and mills closed, too. Unemployment rates shot up, and now 70 percent of the county’s children live in poverty.

Then came Hurricane Matthew.

“If you would have told me three years ago that there would be a biblical flood in Lumberton, I wouldn’t have believed you,” says Donnie Douglas, the editor of the local newspaper, the Robesonian.

He took doughnuts to a staff meeting a few days ago, telling employees he only brings treats for a once-in-a-lifetime flood. Now he’s brought doughnuts twice in two years. “I guess we need to build an ark.”

His newspaper on Friday reported the Lumber River was expected to rise to 24 feet by Sunday, far above its flood level and on par with what it reached during Matthew.

“People are tired,” Douglas says. “I’m tired. Our community has gotten swatted around.”

He points to hopeful signs that this storm might not be as devastating: The river is lower than when the rains came in 2016, so there’s optimism it could stay in its banks. Emergency shelters filled up fast, an indication that people might be taking this storm more seriously. National Guard and city employees stacked 5,000 sandbags under an interstate overpass Friday afternoon, near where floodwaters swept into the city in 2016; ordinary civilians braved the rain and wind and falling trees to help.

But even if the city avoids another catastrophe, the threat of it and the days of waiting are causing residents to relive the nightmare, Douglas says. Lumberton is in the Bible Belt, where many believe that God will deliver them only as much as they can handle, and Douglas is certain a second calamity might test that faith for many.

“The county collectively is traumatized by what happened,” he says. “And what might be happening again.”

Alexis Haggins initially thought she’d stay put in the apartment she shares with two friends in a low-lying area devastated in 2016. The elementary school around the corner was deemed a total loss, shuttered and now sits abandoned. Many of the houses remain vacant and boarded up.

But then she couldn’t stop reliving that terrible day when Matthew’s floods came. She was driving when all of a sudden the water was up to her windows and the car started drifting. Haggins jumped out and took off on foot. She was beaten by falling limbs and pelting rain.

Power lines fell around her, and she was sure she would be electrocuted. The mud sucked off her shoes, so she walked for miles barefoot until her soles were so bruised she could barely stand for days.

On Friday, she felt panic bubbling up. She imagined herself again up to her waist in water, fearing certain death. “If I would have to walk out of this house and into a flood, I would probably just drop to my knees and start crying,” she says. “I can’t do it again. I can’t. I would just give up.”

So she and her two roommates, Da-Rosh Wimbush and Shewanna Lewis, started frantically packing for a last-minute evacuation to Charlotte. Lewis, a mother of two toddlers, also lost everything in Matthew. They all moved in together to try to rebuild their lives.

In most disasters, the poor suffer disproportionately, and it is no different here. The neighborhoods struggling to rebuild after Matthew are the same neighborhoods most at risk to flood again.

Haggins was barely getting by back then, crashing with friends. After the water receded, she tried to go collect the little she owned from her friends’ houses, but they’d all flooded and everything she had in the world was gone.

“I had to start from the bottom again,” Haggins says. “And I was already on the bottom so I’m lower than the bottom.”

“It was devastating,” Lewis agrees. “I can’t afford to lose anything else.”

The women pack the few possessions that fit in the car, stacking everything else on top of bunkbeds and countertops, and head for Charlotte — praying for the best.

Nearby, Nichole Worley decides at what point she’d be willing to leave: not until the flood reaches the bolts on the wheels of her car in the driveway.

She’s watching the rain, and it reminds her of the day two years ago when she finally fled. Her mother had congestive heart failure and was on dialysis; she was panting and choking. The power had been out for days. They realized they couldn’t wait any longer, so Worley and her husband put her mother in the car and tried to make it through the flood.

She put her arm out the window and could feel the water around them. They somehow made it across a crumbling bridge to get to the hospital, and just in time. The doctors said her mother could have died in minutes.

“God must have been on our side,” she says.

They eventually returned to an unlivable house. Her husband borrowed against his 401(k) to rebuild and replace what they’d lost. Her mother died months later, and now her house is crammed with her mother’s things, which she can’t bear the thought of losing. So her nieces and nephews, waiting out Florence in her house, help her carry each piece one-by-one to the attic, just in case the water reaches the wheels and they have to go.

Worley and her husband have talked for years about leaving Lumberton. They almost didn’t come back after Hurricane Matthew.

So many of her neighbors stayed gone, their homes boarded up, that this neighborhood she’s known all her life felt suddenly foreign and unfamiliar.

She worries if it floods again, it might just disappear.

So she stood at the door, watching for the water to come.

“The less I see,” she says, “the happier I am.”

By Associated Press

#claire galofaro #family heirlooms #hauling rugs #hurricane florence roars #Hurricane Matthew #neighborhood #nichole worley studies #poorest counties #rural town waits #TodayNews

[yahoo-devil-ball-golf-blog]

Erin Hills was different, yes, but also great as US Open host

From the sounds of the bellyaching in pockets of social media, Brooks Koepka’s name should have an asterisk next to it on the U.S. Open trophy.

You see, Koepka, in their view, didn’t win a real Open. Koepka won something less than an Open — maybe a PGA Championship or something like that — because he tied Rory McIlroy’s 72-hole scoring record en-route at Erin Hills en route to his first major title. What’s worse, in their eyes, is that six other guys finished at 10 under par or better, more than triple the total number of players to finish at that mark in the prior 116 U.S. Opens.

This Open was too easy, they say.

I say this Open was great, and, too, was Erin Hills as host.

Of course, if you’re a traditionalist who wants the one-week-only pain and suffering of a U.S. Open, you hated this week. Too many birdies and eagles. Too many players under par. Medinah No. 3 in Illinois laid down in 1990 like Erin Hills did this time around, and it’s only hosted PGA Championships and Ryder Cups since. You’re probably wishing the same on Erin Hills.

Most of golf knew going into this week that this course could yield a lot of red numbers if the wind didn’t blow (it didn’t except for portions of Sunday) and it rained (which it did, in spades). The wide fairways aren’t hard to hit by design, influenced by the Augusta National design so lauded for playing as a second-shot golf course. However, the purists want second-shot, friendly courses reserved for two other majors. They want the U.S. Open to be an every-shot golf course, inducing claustrophobia with tiny fairways, unfair bounces and deep, penal rough to play into rock-hard, lightning-fast greens. The 2-foot-deep fescue was too far offline to play a starring role this week, and the weather left Erin Hills practically defenseless.

However, what happened at Erin Hills isn’t an isolated barrage of scoring. The U.S. Open has lacked bite in six of the last nine years, including four in a row.

Ricky Barnes got to 10 under at Bethpage Black in 2009, which looked as muddy as Woodstock did in ’69.

Rory McIlroy made a mockery of Congressional in 2011 thanks to a one-two punch of heat and rain on weak, renovated greens.

Martin Kaymer smoked Pinehurst No. 2 in the first two rounds in 2014, forcing the USGA to juice up weekend pins as the German coasted to a second major.

A lack of rain devastated first-time (and maybe only-time) host Chambers Bay to the point that some putting surfaces were missing grass — and 5-under total still won on the then-longest US Open course.

Oakmont caught deluges of rain last year and couldn’t show all of its teeth as we’ve come to expect.

So, tell me more about how Erin Hills was too easy. With modern, impeccably made technology and pro golf talent pools deeper than ever, it’s practically impossible to deter scoring with rain and without wind.

The counter from the purists is that the USGA has traditionally thwarted scoring and administered pain by tightening fairways to nearly microscopic widths, surrounding targets with juicy rough and ginning up green speeds. The USGA also does that by artificially setting par, typically at 70, by reducing common par 5s into monstrous par 4s and by adding length that no one would use but for an Open. Case in point? No. 15 at Erin Hills played on Saturday as a 278-yard par 4. Fun! Oakmont’s eighth hole was a nearly 300-yard par 3. Boo? One’s easy; one’s tough.

If there are any hurt feelings from how mean the U.S. Open field was to par this week, then try this mental trick: Imagine it as a par-70 instead of a par-72. Imagine No. 1 as a par 4 and No. 15 as a par 3. All of a sudden, the winning score is 8 under and just eight players beat par. Voila!

Erin Hills didn’t need beat-you-over-the-head features to make players think, though it lacked the features that viewers have traditionally come to anticipate as a Drudge siren for difficulty. Wide fairways meant choices, and choices, as Pete Dye often attests, are what really gets the best players into a bind. The ego is a funny thing. When we have no choice, the task becomes more focused and a little easier. Sure, hitting a 22-yard-wide fairway at your daddy’s Open is harder than hitting a 60-yard-wide fairway at Erin Hills. But a guy like Brooks Koepka, who hit a 379-yard 3-wood downhill and downwind on No. 18 on Sunday, still has an edge either way because he knows, just as short-knocker Jim Furyk does, that if they both miss the fairway off the tee, Koepka has an even bigger edge from the rough.

Even if you didn’t like Erin Hills, we can agree on one thing: Length clearly is not a deterrent. Brian Harman is a perfectly average driver of the ball on the PGA Tour, and he finished T-2. Bill Haas isn’t long, and he finished T-5. There’s actually scoring data from the PGA Tour to suggest that, at a certain length, making par 5s longer improves overall scoring regardless of a player’s average driving distance.

Brandel Chamblee said on Golf Channel he thinks the Open and other major courses need to go to 8,000-yard lengths to stymie players. First, there aren’t many of those. Second, what difference is 165 yards going to do compared to what Erin Hills offered? The problem with length is that it makes it harder to draw up true hazards that aren’t vast seas of sand or water features running the full length of holes. The more north-south space a golf hole has, the more difficult it is to reasonably frame it with obstacles.

If anything, Erin Hills proved that the only things that can be done to bring the field back to par are the classic USGA manipulations. If there’s a clamoring for that, we’ll see how they do in defending par in the coming years, as the U.S. Open moves through a run of classic venues: Shinnecock Hills, Pebble Beach and Winged Foot. By then, the whining about Erin Hills will end, but the onslaught against par will not.

  Ryan Ballengee is a Yahoo Sports contributor. Find him on Facebook and Twitter.

#US Open #_revsp:0839657e-6c78-4e67-9d21-5409b8eb8a2b #Erin Hills #_author:Ryan Ballengee #_category:yct:001000017 #_lmsid:a077000000CFoGyAAL #_uuid:63d6d825-c0dc-3306-84b0-7811e4331cac