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sunlightmurdock · 6 months

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Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

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You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

@fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot

#jake smut #Jake Seresin #Jake Seresin x reader #Jake Seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #Jake Seresin fic #jake seresin #Glen powell #Jake hangman Seresin #top gun: maverick

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nolonelyroads · 1 year

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This panel and so many others just like it are in danger due to a proposed Hydrocarbon Highway through Nine Mile Canyon in Utah. From the Nine MIle Canyon Coalition:

The Bureau of Land Management (BLM) is considering a proposal by Duchesne County to construct a Hydrocarbon Highway through Gate Canyon, connecting the Uinta Basin to Nine Mile Canyon. The intent of the project is to facilitate trucking of Uinta waxy crude oil and expand oil production in the Basin. The project would obliterate Gate Canyon, removing its meanders and filling the canyon with over 180 feet of dirt. Once completed, it is anticipated there will be one oil tanker every three minutes through Nine Nile Canyon. Full article here: https://etvnews.com/hydrocarbon-highway-threatens-historic-nine-mile-canyon/

The BLM is taking public comments on the proposal through Feb. 8. Project description can be found and comments made here: https://eplanning.blm.gov/eplanning-ui/project/2022551/510.

#utah #rockart #petroglyphs #ninemilecanyon

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20th-century-railroading · 17 days

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From the high desert to the forest

Just past the west switch of Mott siding, this Southern Pacific lumber drag is just about to start the descent into the Sacramento River Canyon. Only three miles as the crow flies from the depot in Dunsmuir, the westman is nine rail miles and nearly a half hour of travel time away from the crew change. June 13, 1985

#sp #southern pacific #1985 #trains #freight train #history #mott #california

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noaura · 12 days

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nine mile canyon today

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ebongawk · 10 months

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What a fucking day.

It'd been fucking months of buildup. When Roy, the old owner, had announced his intention to sell the shop and retire, Eddie should've taken the hint and walked out with him. Roy was the only guy in the shop Eddie could possibly stand, because he wasn't a fucking three-inch prick like Ken or a used tampon of a man like Jesse.

But nah. Like a goddamn idiot, he'd stuck around, letting Jerry – the asshole who bought Roy's Auto – work him to the fucking bone over the last half year. Because he 'needed the money' or some stupid shit like that. And Jerry knew Eddie was the only son of a bitch that could hold his own between the three mechanics that came with the shop.

Then he'd hired his friend, fucking Randy, who was as incompetent as he was stupid. And Jerry had given Randy Eddie's fucking morning shifts, which meant that, if Eddie wanted to keep his job, he'd have to work the noon to nine shift. It also meant that customers who had complaints about Randy's fixes yelled at fucking Eddie because the late hours gave them more confidence to be pissed off.

He spent his evenings getting screamed at for shit that wasn't his fault and missing at home time with his fucking girlfriend all because some idiot with no experience knew the fucking owner.

So, yeah. Eddie had been staying late to double-check all of Randy's stupid ass jobs, and today, Jerry had fucking reamed him for all the overtime he'd put in, saying he wasn't gonna pay it. They'd gotten into it, and Eddie had forced Jerry (through a lot of intimidation he hadn't relied on since high school) to write a final check (of the full fucking amount, thank you very much) before he'd walked out with his middle fingers raised.

So, yeah, not only was he pissed. He was now jobless.

He'd hit the bar for a couple of beers to cool down before heading home. It was well past midnight and Chrissy was fast asleep by the time he got in. She worked mornings at the diner – it used to be incredible, actually, because he and Chrissy worked the same shift and got off at the same time and got home together and could spend actual, real time as a couple. But, the past few months, he'd seen her like five times total – not including weekends, but fucking still – and he missed her.

Scrubbing himself down in the shower, Eddie tried to keep himself from spiraling. What the fuck were they gonna do? He couldn't be unemployed; they couldn't afford that shit. Like, yeah, okay, Corroded Coffin was getting the odd paying gig these days, but not often enough to fill the new void in his wallet. And Chrissy had dropped down to part-time because she was getting ready to start classes.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

He was a half-insane mess by the time he stumbled into their bedroom, taking care to be extremely quiet as he tip-toed across the room and slipped beneath the covers. Chrissy was fast asleep, her face half illuminated by the streetlamp that sat just outside their bedroom window.

She was so goddamn beautiful.

Eddie laid on his side, eyes tracking the soft rise and fall of her chest, the fluttering of her long lashes as she dreamed. Mere inches and yet so far away from him. God. Christ. This was fucking exactly what her bitch of a mother had said would happen when Chrissy chose him. When she reached out across the miles and canyons between their social standings, taking his hand without a care for how anyone else perceived them. Laura Cunningham had screamed that Eddie would be a disappointment, that he'd ruin Chrissy by being a fucking idiot who would end up in prison, just like his father.

All he'd ever fucking wanted was to prove that old bat wrong.

But here he was. Being a fuck up. Ruining Chrissy's chances at going to school just because he couldn't hold down a simple fucking job fixing cars. They'd moved into an apartment they could barely afford in a city neither of them had ever been to and Eddie had been convinced it would be okay because they were together. Because he was gonna be somebody, and he was going to prove that he was deserving of Chrissy Elizabeth Cunningham.

Because they loved each other.

The dreams of some stupid kid from the trailer park were coming back to bite him in the ass. He felt so ridiculously unworthy.

Turning away from her, Eddie tucked his lips between his teeth, trying to blink away the burning behind his eyes. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't face her, knowing what he'd done. What he'd forced her to give up, only to fucking ruin everything with his stubborn Munson blood. Why couldn't he just keep his stupid mouth shut? Why did he have to say whatever the fuck was on his mind? He couldn't just suck it up and be a yes man, just once, and now––

"Eddie?"

Chrissy's voice cut through the darkness, interrupting the self-deprecation whirling in a maelstrom through his mind. It was soft, half-groggy with sleep, and Eddie took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Sorry to wake you, sweetness," he said, speaking to the wall. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

Silence filled the void between them, and Eddie thought she hadn't really even woken up. That is, until one of her arms came around his abdomen, her body sliding across the sheets until she was aligned completely against his spine. Lips pressed against the back of his neck, a soft hum curling across his skin as she nuzzled into him.

"You okay?" she asked softly. Some life had returned to her voice, and Eddie cursed internally. The last thing she needed was to be woken up in the middle of the night by his fucking issues.

"'Course, baby," he rasped. He laid his arm over hers reassuringly. "Just a little wired. I'll try and relax, yeah?"

Chrissy let out a slow breath. After a moment, she released her hold on him, scooting back slightly and making tears prick anew behind his eyes. She knew. She fucking knew that she was in bed with a stupid piece of––

"Can you turn around for me?" she asked. Closing his eyes, Eddie took a deep, slow breath, the inhale skipping rope across his lungs like a competitive game of double-dutch. But he could deny her nothing, so after a moment, he complied.

She was looking at him.

Having moved out of the light from the window, all he could really see was the glimmer of her eyes. But still, he knew her, and she knew him, and he knew that she was reading him like a goddamn book.

"What happened?"

Eddie sighed. Shrugged. Looked anywhere but the starlight of her eyes against the dark backdrop sky of their room as he desperately tried to shove his emotions into the fucking dirt.

"Y'know," he finally said, his voice obviously wet, goddamnit, "just, uh, quit my fucking job. No big deal, Cunningham, right? Anger got the best of me. I, uh, exploded at Randy and ruined everything."

He expected her to scoff or laugh or roll her eyes. A perfectly reasonable reaction to his attempt at joking. Instead, she was just... quiet. Contemplating, maybe, though it was hard to tell in the dark.

Contemplating leaving me.

Serves me fucking right.

Her arms were around him in the next second, gently pulling his face to hers. Warm, soft lips caressed his forehead for a long moment, stealing the breath straight from Eddie's lungs and finally releasing the torrent of tears he'd kept mostly at bay.

She eased herself up, holding him close and finagling her body so he could rest his head on her chest. Gently petting his hair in slow strokes that made him want to sob like a little kid.

"It's alright, baby," she murmured softly, lulling his fretting emotions a little bit more with every slow stroke of her fingers through his tresses. "We'll figure it out. We've got some savings, right? And you've hated it there for months. This is a good thing, Eddie."

"You sure?" Christ, he sounded so fucking weak.

It took him a moment to remember that Chrissy was always his strength.

"I'm positive," she promised. Angrily, she continued, "You're too good for that place, anyway. They sucked. Vampires, all of them."

That startled a laugh out of him, and he buried his face in her chest, listening to the slow beating of her heart. Fuck, what a sound. What a sensation.

What a love.

"You're so fucking good, Cunningham," he said after a moment.

"So are you," she replied immediately, scratching her fingernails against his scalp. "You're my favorite."

Jesus Christ, she's immaculate.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You're mine, too, sweetness."

She giggled, the sound vibrating up his cheek and making his own smile stretch until it ached with his adoration for her.

"I know, Munson," she said. "I love you."

#hellcheer #eddissy #eddie x chrissy #eddie munson #stranger things #chrissy x eddie #hellcheer drabble #chrissy cunningham #self doubt

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theequus · 1 year

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McCullough Peaks HMA 2 - Cody Field Office by BLM Wyoming Via Flickr: The McCullough Peaks Wild Horse Herd Management Area (HMA) is located 12 to 27 miles east of Cody (70 miles east of Yellowstone National Park) and encompasses 109,814 acres of land, including the McCullough Peaks Wilderness Study Area. The climate is typical of a cold desert with annual precipitation averaging five to nine inches. Stock reservoirs and intermittent streams fed by winter snows and spring runoff provide adequate water for the HMA. Topography is highly variable, ranging from mostly flat to slightly rolling foothills carved by drainages, to colorful badlands and desert mountains featuring steep slopes, cliffs and canyons. A diversity of coat colors (bay, brown, black, sorrel, chestnut, white, buckskin, gray, palomino, and blue, red and strawberry roans) and patterns such as piebald and skewbald are found in the McCullough Peaks wild horses. The animals tend to be moderate- to large-sized and habitat conditions are such that the horses are in very good condition. The combination of size, conformation, coat colors and patterns, and excellent physical condition have become a draw for potential adopters and a matter of reputation for McCullough Peaks horses. Be sure to bring your binoculars and always look on both sides of the roads for both the mustangs and other wildlife! DIRECTIONS Travel east from Cody on Highway 14-16-20 to mile marker 72 (about 18 miles). On the left you will see a gate; horses are often in this area and you can enter if you choose. If not, continue to near mile marker 74 where you will see a kiosk and the Whistle Creek road sign on your left; enter, proceed to pipeline marker 75 (about 6 miles) and enjoy the remarkable panoramic view of the badlands. LATITUDE / LONGITUDE 44.4634, -108.6388 PHONE 307-578-5900 EMAIL [email protected] www.blm.gov/visit/mccullough-peaks-wild-horse-herd-manage...

#flickr

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 2 years

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Lake Powell Still Shrinking The second-largest reservoir in the United States now stands at its lowest level since it was filled in the mid-1960s. The view from above is sobering. Lake Powell, a key component of the western U.S. water system, is currently filled to just 26 percent of capacity, its lowest point since 1967. On August 22, 2022, the water elevation of the lake surface was 3,533.3 feet, more than 166 feet below “full pool” (elevation 3,700 feet). The natural-color images on this page show portions of Lake Powell in the summers of 2017 and 2022, as observed by Landsat satellites. The Operational Land Imager on Landsat 8 acquired the 2017 images, while the Operational Land Imager-2 on Landsat 9 acquired the 2022 images. Lake Powell straddles the border of southeastern Utah and northeastern Arizona; most of the area shown is in Utah. The August 2017 images were chosen because they represent one of the highest water levels from the past decade. On August 16, 2017, the water elevation on the lake, as measured at Glen Canyon Dam, was 3,633.04 feet. On August 6, 2022, it stood at 3,535.38 feet, nearly 98 feet lower. The animated line plot below shows water levels at the dam since 1980, when Lake Powell was nearly full. The red line marks “minimum power pool elevation”; below that water level, hydroelectric turbines at the dam can no longer generate energy effectively. The Colorado River basin is managed by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation (USBR) and other agencies to provide electric power and water to roughly 40 million people—most notably the cities of Las Vegas, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and San Diego—and to 4 to 5 million acres of farmland in the Southwest. River water is allotted to states (including tribal lands) and Mexico through laws such as the 1922 Colorado River Compact. Downstream from Lake Powell, water storage at Lake Mead on August 22 stood at 28 percent of capacity, and the entire Colorado river system held just 34 percent. At the same time, roughly 86 percent of the land area across nine western states was affected by some level of drought, according to the August 16 report from the U.S. Drought Monitor. After three years of intense drought and two decades of long-term drought in the American Southwest, federal water managers have been forced to reduce the amount of water that will be portioned out to states around the Colorado River watershed in the 2023 water year. According to an August 16 announcement from the U.S. Department of the Interior, Arizona will receive 21 percent less water from the Colorado River system next year; Nevada will receive 8 percent less; and Mexico will get 7 percent less. Based on August 2022 modeling projections, USBR expects total inflows to Lake Powell to be just 62 percent of average for the year. Hydrologists predict that Lake Powell levels could drop to about 3,522 feet by January 1, 2023. In an August 16 status report for Glen Canyon Dam, USBR noted that “two separate urgent drought response actions...will help prop up Lake Powell by nearly 1 million acre-feet of water...through April 2023. To protect Lake Powell, more water will flow into the lake from upstream reservoirs and less water will be released downstream.” Specifically, more water will be released from Flaming Gorge Reservoir, about 455 river miles upstream of Lake Powell; and less water will be released from Lake Powell downstream to Lake Mead. NASA Earth Observatory images by Joshua Stevens, using Landsat data from the U.S. Geological Survey and lake elevation data from the Bureau of Reclamation. Story by Michael Carlowicz.

#space #science #earth observatory #news #nasa #environment #global warming #climate change #water

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thislovintime · 2 years

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Peter Tork and Reine Stewart, late 1960s (photo by Henry Diltz via Getty Images); Jackson Browne and Peter, sometime in the 2000s (photo © Benford E. Standley via Pioneer Troubadours)

“Most of the people who live him (there are seven now) have known Peter for years. Since money has no value to him, and friends do, he lavishes his money on his friends. Peter has spent thousands of dollars just helping, with no thought of getting repaid. (That much has changed — a few years ago Peter couldn’t give much more than a sympathetic ear.) And while most of his friends are somehow involved in the music world, they are friends who went through the same struggles he experienced… Peter apparently has no truck with the countless hangers-on who live parasitically off the newly famous pop people. Peter isn’t as happy as he could be, but he’s relatively content. He’s working at things he likes and feeling creative about what’s going on. He has the freedom to do all the things he wanted to do years ago, such as producing records and making movies and getting into artistic things that are expensive to do. […] With all those people living with Peter now, he has very little privacy, but apparently it isn’t missed. Everyone at the house is working and ‘doing their thing.’ and the house is a simple, unpretentious, very lived-in home. As one person living there puts it[,] ‘It’s a happy, productive household, so full of love you can’t quite believe it.’” - Disc & Music Echo, May 11, 1968

“Peter was an extraordinary man. A philanthropist. The others, who he helped, didn’t have that same generous spirit.” - Reine Stewart, Love Is Understanding (2022)

“[Jackson Browne] nymphed away the summer of ’68 in Laurel Canyon. ‘These beautiful chicks from Peter Tork’s house, they kept coming over with these big bowls of fruit and dope and shit. They’d fuck us in the pool. We’d wake up and see this beautiful 16-year-old flower child who only knew how to say “fave rave,” with a bowl of fruit, get you incredibly high and then take you downstairs and go swimming.’ Other visitors Jackson remembered at musical jams around the house were David Crosby, whom he was meeting for the first time, and Stephen Stills. They were putting together a trio with Graham Nash.” - Rolling Stone, May 23, 1974

“We would catch a ride to Peter Tork’s house on Willow Glen. Peter had been a dishwasher at the Golden Bear in Huntington Beach and now he was a TV star, a Monkee. Sometimes you would walk in and there would be 12 girls in the pool, naked. One time Jimi Hendrix was up there jamming with Buddy Miles in the pool house, and Peter’s girlfriend [Reine Stewart] was playing the drums, naked.” - Jackson Browne, Los Angeles Times, June 1, 2003

“‘I don't mean to paint such a bleak picture of it,’ Tork said. ‘I still felt I was in the vanguard, along with a bunch of other people. I was pretty happy. I had a circle of friends, and it was a lot of fun. God knows, I went through a lot of scenes and found out what I needed to find out, which is, for instance, that orgies are nice, but they're only temporary and they're not fulfilling.’ Tork's infamous orgies were held at the Hollywood house he bought in 1968, previously the property of comedian Wally Cox. At the height of his fame, Tork could have paid for it in cash, but was advised against it. So he took out a huge loan and spent his money redecorating. In the master bedroom Tork's bed was eight feet by eight feet with a foam mattress six inches thick. He had a four-place bathtub put into the bathroom, along with a sauna. He had Mexican tiles laid. He carved his initials into the shower stall. There was red plush carpeting throughout the house, a wet bar in the foyer, six-by-nine-foot picture window in the living room overlooking the San Fernando Valley. The film room was a splendiferous workshop of sandblasted natural wood that housed Tork's resident filmmaker manqué. The screen covered the entire wall, offering a ten-by-twelve-foot platform for the flower of psychedelia's exploding visuals – viewed by exploding heads of all chemical persuasions, days on end. Just down the hall and across a bridge was another wing of the house. Downstairs was a cabana, leading to a fifty-foot pool. There were no houses behind his, so many people preferred to dive into the pool nude – straight out of his bathroom window. ‘I'd rather have nude swimming,’ reflected Tork; ‘it's much easier. There's a certain charge to bodies if they're covered up, and if you remove that, it takes a lot of that extra energy out of things.’

Originally, Tork brought a girl friend to live with him at the house. Then his filmmaker friend moved in. He was followed by a young woman and her son. Later a friend of his girl friend stayed there. When Tork quit the Monkees toward the end of 1968, his new group, Peter Tork and/or Release, moved in. Often, wandering downstairs of an early afternoon. Tork would come upon two or three strange bodies asleep in the walk-in fireplace. But that was all right. At the same time, it wasn't all right. ‘If you're fixed on the notion that an orgy is going to fulfill you, and one doesn't do it, you're going to try a hundred. If orgies don't do it, maybe drugs will. Like the fixated person I was then, I went from one thing to another. I had to try everything: flower power, dope, orgies, fast cars.’ His sternest nemesis was alcohol. ‘In the beginning drinking was a lot of fun,’ said Tork. ‘I have some memories of things that I did drunk that I never would have done sober, that I guess I always sort of wanted to do. But drinking isn't selective. It doesn't let you do exactly what you want to do and keep you from doing the things you don't want to do. Furthermore, at a certain point, and I think with certain personality types, it's addictive. You find you cannot drink moderately any longer. It finally reached a point with me where it was obvious that I was going to die if I kept up with it. I was never hospitalized, but I could see the path. I realized I was out of control.’” - When The Music Mattered (1984)

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tsunflowers · 4 months

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when you go to zion national park for 10/12 months out of the year you are not allowed to drive your own car through the park. you have to get on their shuttle buses. also some of the shuttle bus stops will be blocked due to ice or rockslides or construction. also the bridges within the park might be out

anyway you go all the way up to stop nine temple of sinawava which can take 40 minutes. you get out and enjoy the riverside walk which is like two miles or so and mostly paved. the riverside walk ends here for normal people but for Hikers this is merely the beginning of the most famous hike in the park, "the narrows"

you just get into the river and walk up the river. it's called the narrows bc there's barely any riverbank on either side. you are standing in the river and the canyon is right on either side of you. in the winter the water is cold as fuck so you have to dress like this

as you hike any trail in the park you will run into people dressed exactly like this. they have waterproof overalls and walking sticks and they all wear the same two types of waterproof hiking shoe. I don't know why they would do this. but something like 20% of people I saw in the park today were wearing this outfit indicating they planned to wade through waist high water on some or all of an eight mile trail

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speedyz3 · 2 years

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Relegated to being yard art after a lifetime of hard work. This beautiful GMC truck shows how well built they were back in the day. The rust and patina are beautiful on this truck. (at Nine Mile Canyon) https://www.instagram.com/p/CjFpUYTuLD1/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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utahunfiltered · 9 months

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A petroglyph of a sheep pooping. Nine Mile Canyon, August 1, 2023.

#utah #petroglyph #ancestral puebloans #no filter #nofilter #utah photos #desert #utahunfiltered #public lands

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moorejosie · 1 year

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STATS.

name: josiah ❝ jo / josie ❞ barnabas moore gender & pronouns: cis male + he / him orientation: demiromantic pansexual age: twenty-nine date of birth: 19 august, 1993 zodiac: ☼ leo - virgo cusp ☽ scorpio ↑ gemini occupation: park ranger + wilderness guide positive traits: charismatic + resourceful + intelligent + engaging + hard-working negative traits: flighty + narcissistic + sarcastic + blunt + secretive

BIOGRAPHY.

TW : domestic violence, abandonment, cancer, chronic illness, drugs, death, alcohol

Josiah Barnabas Moore — or Jo, to most, and Josie only if you know him well — was born the youngest of four in a small trailer just a stone’s throw from Fort Payne, Alabama to Laurel and Oliver Moore. They didn’t have very much growing up; his father worked full-time at a struggling hardware store in town, and his mother sold her paintings and handmade jewelry at local markets and fairs when she could to supplement their income, but it was still incredibly difficult to feed and clothe and house a family of six. Their trailer was small, cramped, the siblings nearly sleeping on top of each other as they grew older and rooms had to be shared and sofas had to be converted into beds. The Moore siblings were close, though; they had to be. Laurel and Oliver had a tumultuous marriage, to say the least, and the paper-thin walls of their trailer did very little to muffle shouting matches at all hours of the day and night. His older siblings did their best to shield Josie from the worst of it when he was young, and as a result, they’d often spend much of their time outdoors, exploring the woods surrounding their trailer. He grew up scraping his knees falling out of trees and wading through muddy river water to catch tadpoles in old jam jars. Nature quickly became a safe space, a haven for him away from the chaos of home.

He was thirteen years old when his parents separated. And okay, that’s a nice way of saying his dad just packed up one day and decided to get the hell out of dodge, taking half of Josiah’s siblings with him. With the eldest remaining sibling away at college, Jo and his mother were left alone in a trailer that suddenly felt very spacious to figure out how to fend for themselves. Laurel picked up an overnight job at the gas station about a mile up the road, and by the time he was sixteen, Jo was stocking shelves at the local supermarket when he wasn’t at school — Mama Moore insisted he keep his grades up, it was the only way she’d allow him to keep the job, in spite of the great burden his added income relieved of her. She never wanted to ask her son for help, but he was ready to offer it the moment he could. Everyone else might have left, but Jo wasn’t going anywhere.

In his senior year of high school, Jo was offered a full-ride academic scholarship to the University of Alabama, but he chose to decline the acceptance in favor of classes at the nearest community college so he wouldn’t have to leave home or make an impossible commute five days a week to try and make it work. He didn’t even tell his mother that he’d been accepted, and he tried to act like he couldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes when he told her where he’d be going instead. But she encouraged him all the same, and he graduated with a degree in environmental science all while balancing a full-time job at the supermarket. After graduating, she suggested he try finding a job in the field, and after a few months of trying, he secured a position at Little River Canyon National Reserve. It was about a half hour drive from the trailer, but the pay was good and the benefits even better, and for the first time, he actually felt like they weren’t struggling to get by. He felt relieved. Secure, even. He was happy.

But, of course, all good things must come to an end — a concept with which Josiah is all too familiar. He was twenty-five when Mama Moore was diagnosed with an aggressive and advanced form of breast cancer. For two and a half years, any time he didn’t spend working was spent by her side; taking her to appointments, sitting with her through chemotherapy sessions, teaching himself how to cook so he could make anything she wanted and might be able to stomach. In spite of how dangerous it was and how much of a risk it posed to everything he had, being employed by the government in a state like Alabama, Jo put his botany knowledge to good use and learned how to grow marijuana because he’d heard it helped with the side effects of treatment. He hid it well inside of their trailer, opting to sleep on the couch in order to convert their second room into a space to grow his plants for her, and he very, very rarely indulged with her, insisting that it was strictly medicinal and he couldn’t get caught with it, especially if he got tested at work. He’d lose his job and their insurance, and they’d be even more under water than they already were. ( Not that Jo would ever let her know that; he’d taken on the finances from the time he got his job with the National Reserve, and he’d be damned if he’d let her think for a moment they were struggling. ) They never did get caught, and once she'd moved onto stronger forms of pain relief in hospice care, he got rid of the plants and cleared out the room he'd used for growing.

Once he realized they were nearing the devastating but inevitable end of his mother's long and exhausting battle, Jo wrote letters to his father and all of his siblings inviting them to show up to say their goodbyes. His father never showed up, and much like the first time when he’d left, Jo was left to try and figure things out on his own. There was a small, modest service held for her, and per her request, she was buried in a shady spot under a willow tree. It felt surreal, coming back to the trailer alone, and it took several weeks for Jo to find it in himself to begin to pack up her belongings. He took an indefinite leave of absence from his job and spent many nights seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle as he struggled to swallow the loss of his guardian, teacher, and best friend all in one. He knew he needed a change, that the amount of hurt contained in the peeling wallpaper of that shitty little trailer outside of Fort Payne was too much to continue to bear, to make himself bear. Not when he didn’t have to.

After his mother passed, Josiah decided there was nothing more keeping him in Alabama and nothing left for him there but memories, so after an extended period of isolated grieving, he promptly made the choice to pack up in search of a change of scenery. Something new. An online search of jobs in national parks with zero distance restrictions led him to a listing for an available position as a park ranger at Rocky Mountain National Park near Bradford Springs. Colorado. It was a far sight from where he’d spent most of his life, but still promised the familiarity of mountain views and fresh air the likes of which would serve as reminder enough of home to keep him from growing heartsick for it. The entirety of his life fit into a few bags and boxes in the back of a beige Jeep Wrangler from the turn of the millennium, and with the aid of a bunch of old CDs and a handful of maps picked up at rest stops along the way, Jo made the thirteen-hundred mile drive all the way from Fort Payne to Bradford Springs over the course of two days and one night spent trying to catch a few hours of sleep in a rest stop on the state line between Missouri and Kansas.

Jo acclimated very quickly to his job at Rocky Mountain National Park after a few weeks spent studying the local flora and fauna. His efforts were expedited by his choice in domicile — a cabin out in the woods, only a short walk from the ranger station outfitted with the basic amenities thanks to solar panels and a well that he outfitted with a submersible pump and a supply line to the cabin. Being in close proximity to the ranger station gives him internet access, so he’s not entirely off the grid, but almost everything else about his lifestyle would suggest otherwise. Once he was familiar enough with the area, Jo took on the task of leading guided tours on hikes through the trails, taking tourists through scenic mountain and river paths to explore the natural views and wildlife. He loves his job, for the most part — he’s of the belief that people, generally speaking and on the whole, suck, and he’d much rather spend all his time in the company of the animals and trees, but he’s cultivated a skill for turning on the charm and enthusiasm for his job, if only because it’s a cost well worth the reward.

EXTRAS.

Only a few short weeks after settling into his cabin, Jo was walking home one night when he discovered a wounded baby raccoon abandoned in the brush. Unable to bring himself to leave it there to be a meal for any of the other predators lurking in the woods, the ranger took the animal back to his cabin until he could get it to an emergency vet, and after it was treated for the severest of its’ injuries, Jo brought the raccoon back home to nurse him back to health. He’d never bottle-fed anything before, let alone a raccoon, but he developed a very strong bond with the animal over its first few weeks in the cabin, and it wasn’t long before Jo realized he’d end up having a permanent home there. Meeko’s been living with Jo for over a year now, and in that time, Jo’s learned that he has to child-proof every drawer and cabinet in his home to keep the mischievous raccoons wandering hands out of his things.

Jo is promiscuous and unashamedly so. ( As for if he’ll admit that he uses this as a blatant distraction from feeling anything too real is still up for debate. ) Whether it be flirting with the most attractive park visitors that sign up for his hikes through Rocky Mountain and inviting them back to his cabin for a night of roughing it out in the woods ( a frequent pastime of his ) or his trips into town to hit up the dive bars and clubs and drink and dance and charm his way into the hearts and pants of strangers, locals and tourists alike, Jo is wont to seek out fleeting intimate connections. He’s not one for commitment, not beyond a handful of recurring, no-strings-attached situations, and he’s also not selective when it comes to gender. He just likes people. He’s wondered more than once on Uber rides back to his cabin if some of his successful flirtations have suspected him some sort of kidnapper, serial killer for his cabin out in the woods, but it’s not hard to fall in love with the place once you’ve seen it and understand why Jo would live there.

WANTED CONNECTIONS + MORE TBA.

#bsco.intro #☼ about jo #this was rushed but what else do you expect when i bring in a new muse the night before an event alksdhasd

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sanchezpoetry · 2 years

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For anyone interested, I rewrote the original short story that became the prologue for the book. Check it out! It’s all about overcoming trauma through shadow integration through lucid dreaming. I hope it resonates with people.

The book is here

Prologue

“The Worst Enemy”

This was the end of a long Journey. A journey full of blood, sweat, tears, immeasurable stress, and effort. Miles upon miles of hiking through mountains with obstacles everywhere in between. Deep canyons and splintered rock that cut deep into the skin. High altitudes, thin air that made it difficult to breathe. She had made her way through hundreds of winding roads, cliffs that overlooked the ocean, passed through empty cities, and empty schools. She had bloody sweat that got into her eyes, and reluctant tears that she was ashamed to let out. Tears that she had been holding back for years. After the mental anguish of reaching for something that you’ve been working for, years of effort. Nothing to drive forward other than the promise of what lies at the end, and the hope that that promise is true.

“A rising sun waits for you at the end of this path, along with a shadow that will guide you.” That’s what she was told. By a voice she didn’t know, but somehow recognized. An answer to the questions she had been asking since her adolescence. A solution to a problem. A problem she couldn’t define. A problem that she wasn’t even sure existed. A way to prove herself worthy to [JFS1] [JFS2] no one in particular. To prove herself to everyone that mattered. To win a battle that was not defined by any physical constraints.

So close. So close but so far. It’s never enough. She tried getting up.

“One!” The crowd is screaming, chanting, going wild and echoes yells all throughout the air and she tries to recover off the canvas.

“Two!” She is still in a haze. A small thought lingering in her head saying she should just give it up.

“Three!”

“Get up!”, she thought to herself. “I can’t now! Not after everything I’ve worked for!”

“Four!” “Five!” “Six!” She tried getting up, but her body isn’t responding. Crumbling at every effort to stand.

“Seven!” I’ve been through so much worse than this, goddamn it! Why won’t my body move?!”

“Eight! Nine!”

“For god’s sake, get up!! Get! Up!” With one glove on her knee and one on the ground, she slowly started to rise.

“I can do this!! I can do this!! I WON’T stop!!” She thought as she got up to her feet and put her gloves back up.

Anxiety.

The bell rang as she collapsed again. Her entire body giving out, only one thought ran through her mind.

“I’m so fucking worthless.”

She found a cave at the top of the peak that she finally reached. A cave that descended down deep into the mountains. Inside smelled of fresh water and salted rock. A surprisingly pleasant aroma. But as she took steps closer to it, she felt a dark presence. A powerful hatred lurking inside. The cave was damn near pitch black, and she could barely see a pathway to walk in.

She winced and held her hands to her chest.

A voice in her mind asked if she was really willing to go inside. Go inside such a frightening darkness and seek what she wanted? Is she really ok with going inside and possibly never coming out?

She took a deep breath, clenched her fists, and put them to her sides and answered the voice.

“Yes.”

She took those oh-so-very-important steps to enter the cave that smelt so natural and pleasant but felt so very wrong to enter. As she walked, she put her hands against the walls of the cave to guide her. The rough cave walls had a light, cool moisture to them. She was barely able to see what was in front of her and this action was necessary to keep stable as she walked further in. She caught a few glimpses of what seemed to be scrolls with paintings on them.

She continued on deeper and deeper until she found herself in a large, dimly lit room. She glanced side to side and realized that it was a shrine. The shrine that she was told about. It seemed to be rustic for someone she was told was so wise. Essentially a cave with some minor man-made moderations to it. One single candle in the middle to give light to the surroundings. She noticed some more scrolls with black painted sketches on the walls with unlit candles beneath each. Some scrolls seemed to have an image of buildings, others of some type of vegetations, and others of spiderwebs, and a waterfall? They were difficult to look at with such little light.

After looking around for a couple of minutes to admire the simplistic beauty of the entire shrine she took a few more steps forward and found some steps that went up. She walked up the crudely built steps until she came face to face with someone.

The Sage she had heard about was sitting on a rounded stalagmite with a thin mat on top of it in the back of the small shrine. The Sage was nothing like what she thought any type of wise man would be like. A very large man, shaped like a man who carried boulders for fun. He wore a black hoodie, with jeans, and black combat boots. His attire covered his entire body, showing no skin. A mask covering his face had an evil grin on it.

She could feel the aura of his presence. He seemed angry, yet peaceful. Full of hatred and he knew what he was filled with and accepted it. A peaceful kind of chaos inside. And yet he projected all this while wearing that daunting mask.

Looking around, the girl noticed more scrolls of what seemed to be the same paintings. But these scrolls barely had anything on them. They seemed to be the beginning of rough drafts of landscape paintings. All with another unlit candle under them.

She wondered why he was called the sage of darkness. If darkness was supposed to be where the wicked lurks, how can one be a sage of it? How can something of malcontent be wise in any way? How can someone be so clearly full of hatred and anger yet peaceful like this sage was?

This time would be different. She refused to lose again. She started training twice as hard and trained her mind ever more so. Her shame gave her fuel, her anger was a fire that drove her forward. Her pent-up hatred grew. It was almost as if these emotions were taking the form of a weapon that she was able to use. A terrible weapon.

The Sage stared at her, as if he already knew what she was going to say. An intense yet calm, mask worn stare that looked into her soul.

“Master...” She said with the utmost conviction. “I wanna overcome.”

The Sage waited for her to continue talking, his posture and aura giving the impression that he already knew what she was going to say before she said it.

He glared at her with the same intense, yet calm stare. “And just what is it you wish to overcome?” A stern voice that echoed through the shrine.

The bell rang. The crowd cheered at the upset for her winning in a 1 to 50 chance. She saw her opponent crying and her trainers consoling her. For some reason, despite her past humiliation at the hands of the very same opponent, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her opponent. This made her wonder who her anger and hatred were directed towards in the first place. If she wasn’t trying to defeat her opponent, who was she fighting against?

Her thoughts raced. Flashbacks to everything she had been through. All she has faced in her life. Being born into a family that didn’t want her, cast her aside and being forced in a home with a hateful set of controlling dogmatic parents that would beat her. Studying and scratching her way into a chance at a good education. Pushing her body to the absolute limit of what she thought she could do though her training, then pushing herself even further. All her depressive episodes and suicidal thoughts. She thought of the many arduous trials that she climbed to get to this very place. All of her battles, physical and mental. The very path through the winding mountain trails, thorns, poison, lakes, and wild animals she went through to come to see the Sage face to face. She had already overcome all these things by herself, what was left?

She looked down and stuttered as she tried to form a cohesive sentence. After her flashbacks, her utmost conviction turned into confusion and a loss for words.

“I... I don’t know.” She said.

Not many know what it is like to be born into a family that doesn’t want you. And even fewer know what it’s like to be born with abusive foster parents. Filled with drugs and gunshots all around the neighborhood. How many also know what it is to have her young innocence corrupted by the hands of wrinkled old men and bigger classmates. To have her intellect stifled by words of discouragement from the mouth of the old nuns and priests. The ones who were supposed to protect and guide her. Yet for all this, how many know the courage it takes to run and leave the forsaken place that one might have been forced into? She rose above her fears of the unknown to get to a better place. Yet the shame of her origins and past would haunt her for the rest of her life. A weight she would carry with a strong face and a stronger will.

The Sage let out a light chuckle as if her answer was proving a prediction. “You have a strong look in your eye. An un-shatterable will. A heart that shines with passion. Your strength a bright light that illuminates your entire soul. Yet, for all your strength, you are so easily defeated by your worst enemy.”

She didn’t understand, but she had faith in the undeniable wisdom of one called a Sage.

“Who is my worst enemy, master? What is it that I need to overcome? If I have already overcome all these trials and obstacles, what else is left? Please tell me, I’ll do anything I need to!”

The sage got up off his sitting mat that was on top of that flat stalagmite and started walking towards her until he was an arms distance away and stopped. He stood motionless until reaching out his hand to place it on her shoulder.

Days upon days studying. Obtaining a basic understanding of everything that exists, how to speak with elegance, the world of numbers. Advanced placement tests to get into a college that no one expected her to qualify for. How sad she must have felt, to let her anxiety get the better of her. Math and physics. How a black hole is everything in a point of nothing. How dividing something by nothing is not possible because it means infinity. Everything. To let something as petulant as nerves keep her from grabbing a hold of something she had been working so hard for.

“I know you will do whatever you need to. But what if you need to do nothing? What if you need to do everything? How will you possibly fight against fighting against everything that matters? How will you cope with swinging you fists at the air and meditating on oblivion? How will you learn of nothing?”

She raised her eyebrow and puckered her lips to give an expression of ‘what the actual fuck’. She had no idea what he was talking about.

The Sage let out another small chuckle, turned, and started to walk towards the back of the shrine.

“Come, lass. You worst enemy is waiting.”

This was her last chance. The placement tests. She knew that advanced placement exams for much more difficult than SATs. This score could be her retribution for her recent perceived failures. She learned how to deal with her anxieties. And she refused to let this opportunity slip by. Her efforts rewarded, yet oddly unsatisfying. How could she not feel happy after reaching a goal that she was unable to achieve before?

The Sage led her into an entrance of another deeper cave. The farther they went in the darker it got and the thinner the air became. They reached a dead end. Nothing there but a large room laced with granite and black stone.

The Sage pulled matches from his pocket and lit a candle that was in the middle of the room. After light from the candle made everything in the room visible, She searched around side to side, attempting to analyze the area. All the while wondering what the Sage brought her here for.

“Look to your front.” Said the Sage.

Contrary to popular belief, jumping off a building, pulling the trigger to a gun held at the temple of your head. These things are not for the cowardly. But they do not take courage, either. All it takes is a concluded mind. Many thoughts and feelings raced through her head as she contemplated jumping off the cliff into the pointed rocks below. The warm sunlight heating up her skin as the cool afternoon breeze flowed through her hair. For all her triumphs, for all her victories, she still felt defeated. As if her nameless and shapeless enemy won every battle she had lost and also won the battles that she had won. It made no sense. The only way she could atone for these lost victories was to end it all. Yet she stepped down. She would not see her nameless enemy win so easily.

She quickly turned her head and saw a mirror hanging from a pitch-black wall of stone at a dead end. The Sage slowly and calmly walked forward until he stood right next to the mirror leaning against the black stone wall of the cave with his arms crossed.

He tilted his mask covered face towards the girl. “Stand in front of the mirror and look directly at your reflection.”

The girl did as she was instructed and took a few steps and stood directly in front of the mirror. Her entire face remained expression-less as she gazed into the mirror. Her reflection slowly started to change into a black silhouette. The girl shifted her head back in confusion to what was happening. After her reflection finished shifting its appearance into a solid shadow that took the exact shape of the girl, it took a step forward and came out of the mirror.

There it stood, in all its feculent splendor in the candle lit dead end of the cave, right next to the Sage. The girl’s hatred swelled up within her, causing her to tighten her fists and stiffen her entire body. Her anger filled her lungs causing her breaths to become rapid and powerful. Nostrils flaring, a loathing she never realized had been within her all this time.

The intense silence led to heavy breaths and a flurry of hellish heartbeats. All before a chaotic awakening from a conscience slumber.

Therapy was always seen as a thing of weakness to most of the people she associated herself with. But despite that natural reluctance to admitting she needed help, she laid down her pride. Every session she went to had helped her understand herself more. She did not have demons. She WAS her demon. Yet therapy was not the solution to the inner angst she still felt after all these years. Her therapist told her that she did not need to prove her worth to others. She had even tried looking into the mirror and telling her reflection that she was worth it. She gazed into her reflection’s eyes. Then analyzed her body and saw her reflection shake her head. The words of her therapist sounded like something she had been needing to hear, but it was not quite the answer she was looking for. Just a map to a place that might allow her to find the answer.

The shadow-like creature that came out of the blackened mirror was the visible personification of all her anger. Her shame. Her hatred. Her faulty perceptions. Her depression. Her darkness. Like looking into a black mirror, a darkened reflection of who she thought she was, the thing she had been trying to destroy, the problem she had been facing, the person all her anger was directed towards. The very thing she had truly been fighting against. Throughout all her matches, her studies, her pride. The anxiety she fought against. She had not been trying to prove her worth to anyone but this voice in the back of her head that said she was worthless. Her own voice. Her worst enemy.

Herself.

She lunged forward and attacked the figure with an unparalleled ferocity. Yet every one of her blows added to the power of her worst enemy. The more her anger grew, the bigger the frown of her enemy. The more hatred in her screams, the more power her worst enemy had in its strikes. Every blow was countered by an even stronger blow, every attack stifled by her worst enemy. The young girls strikes’ blocked perfectly by the shadow creature, yet every blow given hurt her limbs as she tried blocking. But for all the fighting, her enemy seemed to be defending more than anything.

She just couldn’t figure it out. Was this creature the energy from her pent-up anger and hatred that she never let out? Was this the concept of energy not being able to be destroyed that she learned in school? If energy cannot be destroyed, was this where her pent-up emotions went to? Her mind raced as she fought harder and harder. But her enemy just grew and grew along with her anger. Small tears began to form in the corner of her eyes as she became more and more confused, not knowing what to do.

The Sage began to speak. A clear, audible, calm, and powerful voice. A soothing tone. A voice of acceptance and strength.

“How would you react when you need to do nothing? When doing nothing means everything? When you realize everyone that matters is no one? When you need to prove yourself to no one? Not even yourself?”

She stopped attacking her worst enemy to hear the words of the sage. And as she did, her worst enemy stopped as well.

The Sage began to speak again.

“You wondered how there can be a Sage of Darkness. How can hatred be wise? My dear, hatred is not the counterpart of love, but its sister. Anger is simply an emotion. And like me, it’s the emotion you naturally drift towards. You’ve accepted your light and willpower as a burning fire that shines light all over your soul, yet you won’t accept the shadows that are cast from that very light. Shadows that take the shape of who you are.”

She stopped fighting and thought at what the Sage said. How would she react when what she needed to do was nothing, yet everything? The very act of doing nothing meant everything. To fight against everyone that matters?

She paused and looked at her worst enemy. Her enemy looking back as if waiting for her to say something. The body language of her worst enemy calling for a warm embrace.

Breathing heavily, she started to talk in spurts.

“So…” She panted.

“I don’t need to prove myself to anyone…”

“… not even… myself?” Her words cut by heavy breaths.

As she attempted to gather her thoughts and calm herself, her worst enemy began shrinking in size. Her frown disappeared into what seemed to be a small smile. Eventually, her worst enemy shrank to the same size as the young woman and mimicked her calmness.

And she realized that she did not need to fight her darkness to defeat it. She has been fighting so much all her life yet could not come to terms with herself. She did not need to prove her worth to anyone, not even herself. She had stripped away the layers of her entire being until nothing but her bare soul was left. There was a beautiful light complimented with a chaotically beautiful darkness. And instead of fighting it, she would accept it. Not just the light of her love and passion, but the darkness of who she was.

Her body took a welcoming stance as she walked towards her worst enemy. And her worst enemy walked towards her as well. She reached out her hand. The figure reached its hand as well.

And it is then that she gained her greatest ally.

#spilled ink #depression #short story #psychology #childhood #trauma #tw suicide #suicide #philosophy #novel

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