#this is a joke since I work at a salmon farm

[siriannatan]

Big and Small Distractions - ScWhimmy - Scott fWhip Jimmy

I wanted to give Jimmy a fWhip crisis so here we are.

AO3

______________

Jimmy could not for the life of him focus on what Scott was saying to him. It was not a good thing just before a big meeting of all the local rulers at House Blossom about recent bandit raids several of them have faced recently. The biggest issue was because of whom he was so distracted. fWhip. The dreadful count of Grimlands. Even if their empires were on somewhat friendly terms it didn't mean Jimmy liked him in any way. There were several ways fWhip distracted him.

For one, today seemed to be one of those rare days fWhip decided to actually change out of his work clothes- and Jimmy means all the tinkering and farming and building fWhip did - and dress up. His sooty and dusty clothes were replaced by a fancy suit complete with a vest and a deep burgundy tailcoat jacket and even a frilly ascot instead of his usual fraying and singed scarf. At least only the top part of the ensemble was visible. He'd have an even harder time listening to Scott complain about Gem's issue with Rivendell having its own magical academy. It was rare to see fWhip without his heavy working boots on. So rare Jimmy froze when the count walked in with an annoyed grimace and a cane - an elaborately decorated cane and not the usual simple one he walked around with. And his damn hair was styled and had no sticks, leaves or soot in it - and since when was it long enough to be braided? And since when did Grimlands have a crown? A dark metal twisted into the shape of a flower crown of the native to Grimlands wither roses.

And for two - since when were fWhip's fangs this long, sharp and pointy?

"Should I be jealous?" Scott chuckled behind his fan. Due to his ice magic anywhere but Rivendell and his enchanted embassies were too warm for the elven king. "You've been staring at him a lot today, and not glaring," he added, clearly not annoyed. If anything he was enjoying this chance to amuse himself with Jimmy's obvious interest in fWhip. He loved poking fun at Jimmy even though they were really close allies.

"I'm... I might be... Were his teeth always this pointy?" Maybe he has just noticed something that was obvious to everyone.

"Hmm, now that you say it they are a bit pointier than most humans," Scott hummed as fWhip laughed at something Sausage said, Gem did not look as amused by it as her brothers were. "And he did dress rather nicely for him today so I can understand why you're staring as much as you are," he chuckled, still hiding behind his fan. It was possible he used it more to mess with Jimmy than actually to cool himself down.

"Scott, please..." Jimmy sighed. He sometimes regretted ever allying himself with the elf.  Unfortunately, he perfectly hid all this sass under layers of cold professionalism. "I'm having a crisis over here, some support please."

"I'm not helping you ask Lizzie to bless your crush," Scott chuckled, referencing a funny joke Joel once made about Jimmy's sizeable crush on Scott.

"Lizzie would kill you, me and fWhip, and probably not in this order," Jimmy muttered, making effort to glare when he caught fWhip looking at him. The damned salmon bastard had the audacity to smirk in response.

"You're cute when you pout," Scott giggled and waved to fWhip. It earned him an eye-roll but he didn't seem too bothered. "What I mean is that I will not be offended when you make up your mind about making out with him as long as I'm allowed to watch."

Jimmy would say something rude in response but just about then Lizzie and Joel walked in so he kept it for later. For now, he distracted himself by holding Scott's hand. He might have been hoping it'd annoy fWhip, for whatever reason. And the cold actually helped him pay at least some attention and even participate in the meeting. He'd worry about fWhip and his mouth later.

#my stuff #my stories #fanfiction #empires smp #empiresshipping #empires jimmy #empires scott #empires fwhip #kind of...

[mxvladdy]

Little Stardew somethin’ somethin’

*Barges into your house with fluff nobody asked for* In this house we LOVE and RESPECT our sad boi and wish him well. 

Hopeful Fluff of Shane getting better. Idk what to call it but I wrote it soooo-

TW: Mentions of alcoholism and withdrawals symptoms 

Mornings were your favorite. The crisp mountain air coming in from your open windows. Helping erase the slight bitter tinge of mead and wine fermenting in your basement before the next festival. Pouring another cup of coffee you watch the sunrise from your kitchen window. It’s golden rays bounce off the river water flowing lazily outside your garden wall. A few fat salmon jumped out teasingly, scales shining in the cool fall air. 

“Whatca think Salem?” You pat your shepherd's head. “Fishing after herding the sheep? Or a horse ride into town? I think Gus has got some new treats for ya.” Salem woofs, wagging his tail once before trotting to his dog bowl. He eats quickly then eyes the back door expectantly. “All right, herding it is.” Checking the breakfast casserole in the oven and peeking in on your boyfriend’s sleeping form you tiptoe out the house to get your morning started before breakfast. 

Watering and harvesting took longer than usual. The fruit trees hung low and groaned under the weight of their labor. The peaches looked exceptional this harvest too. You pick them, making a mental note to preserve some for Evelyn and Abigail then sell the rest to Pierre. After the harvesting and several trips to the storage shed you go to check on all your babies. 

Several new chickens had hatched overnight too. Three brown, a white, and another void. You tuck the little black chick into your hoodie and give it a smooch. As useless as their eggs were for eating you always had a soft spot for these tiny goth chickens. Taking it to the coop you had specially built for your void-born feathered friends you deposit the little one amongst its brethren. It peeps in thanks before waddling off to peck at the fresh feed.

Morning chores done, you jog back to your house hoping your casserole hasn't burned. The house smelled of spiced ham and fresh garlic when you reentered. The rest of the windows open to let in the river breeze and faint scent of your flower patches. The fireplace roared in its corner, chasing away the frosty nip that clung to your cheeks. “Shane?” You follow the noise from the mudroom to the kitchen entrance. 

“Ye?” He poked his head around the corner. Warm brown eyes blink at you blearily. The corners of which were still crusted over with sleep. He must have just rolled out of bed. “Morin’.” He yawns widely scratching at his rumpled old gridball hoodie. Exchanging a brief morning breath laden kiss you smooth down a few of his more wild strands of bed head. 

“Thought you were taking the day off?” Your lips touch again, pulling a happy little hum from him. 

“I am. Just thought I would finish making breakfast so you could put your feet up faster. Plus, I think I finally figured out your ham recipes.” He drags you to your favorite spot at the breakfast nook before going back to the oven. “It’s the clove to cinnamon ratio ain’t it? Too much of either distract from the flavor of the fat.” 

You nod in approval at his deduction. He pours you another cup of coffee, his hand shakes on the carafe handle. He was jittery today. Whether it was his anxiety spiking or just the jitter after a decent night of sleep you don’t know. But he’ll tell you when ready. He catches you staring when he turns back with two steaming plates of your eggs and veggie casserole and a thick slice of ham. “Tell me what you think.” 

“I’m sure it's fabulous. Gus better watch out or there will be a new chef in town.” Shane practically glows at your praise watching you like a hawk as you eat. You inhale it, the morning exercises catching up with you. He lets you eat in silence, his previous twitchiness evaporating into a nervous silence. “Everything good?” You ask in between bites. You hated to pry or push but sometimes he needed a little nudge to get talking. 

Shane stares into empty space above your head worrying his low lip. His fluffy brows dipping low. “Shit-ye- I got something to talk to you about.” He rose then, shuffling off to your shared bedroom. You exchange a worried look with Salem. He whined low in his throat then followed Shane. Since Shane had moved in Salem had stuck to him like glue. It tickled you, as he was not the friendliest dog to people that took your attention away from him. But, with Shane, he found a couch companion and a late-night walking pal. It worked out great for Shane’s mood and recovery. 

Your boyfriend reappeared with a black binder and several stacks of paper. He places them in front of you. “I’ve been thinking over what you’ve said.” He stuffs his hands in his hoodie pockets burrowing himself deeper into the thinning fabric. “Between you and Harvey I-I want to have a go at it.” His eyes are downcast in shame. You riffle through the brochures. 

Brentforest Care Facilities 

“It’s a three-month inpatient care program. Harvey helped me set up the initial psych evaluation and has vetted for it. He’s got some friends that work there too. He-we think it would be good to work on a few hold-ups I’m having.” His stomach turns sour at the downward tug of your lips when you see the zero’s on the page. “Marnie is helping me cover the cost, an’ after the first few weeks I’m even allowed guests.” He pitters out, the overwhelming need to fill the dead air as you read disappeared as quickly as it had come. 

“You got it all sorted out huh?” You look up from the documents. Shane nods. You look back at the books, then him. He forces himself to breathe through his nose. This is it. This was the last straw, it had to be. He couldn’t blame you though- he wasn’t worth the effort. 

No-nope. Not starting this again. He fought with himself shaking the thoughts right out of his head. He trusted you. Dr. Martina trusted you. You were there during the worst of his withdrawal symptoms. The fevers, and shakes; you never flinched from his unwarranted shouting and irritability either. How many sleepless nights had you spent comforting him as he wept over things he wasn’t ready to talk about. You had gone through a lot with him and still was. You wanted to see him healthy. This was just another step. 

“Dr. Martina- my therapist- and I have been working on this for a bit. I just need a few more signatures and to make the initial payment. Then- then I’m good.” He raises his eyes to meet yours, pushing the fear he felt further down in his chest. 

His arms were suddenly filled with you. Your warm body flush with his. Soft skin and fresh windswept hair flooding his senses with your hug. “I’m so proud of you.” You mutter into his jacket. Farm callus fingers grip him close inviting him to hug you back. Shane let out a shaky breath he hadn’t even known he was hiding and reciprocated. He held you close and rocked you both side to side. “What do you need me to do?”

“Mmm?” He pulled you away from his neck. You loved burrowing your face there for some reason. Months ago he had hated when you did that. He always thought he smelt of stale sweat and the recycled air of the JoJo Mart. It had clung to every part of him for years. Hardly attractive by anyone's standards. But now, working out in the coops and fields alongside volunteering at the Community Center, it had all but disappeared. Now you swore he smelled like earth and like the pine trees that grew around your house. You had even admitted his sweat smells better too. Perhaps his alcohol sweats were finally lifting. Or maybe it was the better diet you made him eat. 

“What do you need of me?” You kiss his scruffy cheek. Eyes alight with determination and affection. 

He returns your kiss with a light peck of his own. “A few signatures- to show you can visit. An’ if there was an emergency you would be a contact. If-if that’s ok with you?” He asks.

“As if you had to ask.” You beam putting your forehead to his. “I’ll miss you.” You whisper between feather light kisses.  

Shane sighs in utter relief around your coffee scented lips. “Promise to write?” He asks cupping your cheeks to rub his thumbs over the sun kissed skin. “And feed Charlie too?” You laugh, nose scrunching up in delight at his joke.

You seal the deal with a kiss. 

#stardew valley #fan fic writing #stardew shane #It's fluff #i wanted it so I made it #tw: alcohol #just in case #shane x farmer #gn!farmer

[lilhawkeye3]

This Ohio discourse has got me dying to create discourse about every other state now hehe so I officially present:

Hawk’s review of 36/50 US states!

In alphabetical order because that fuckin song “50 nifty United States” has been stuck in my head since fourth grade.

Arizona: Phoenix is hot. Can’t believe y’all choose to live in a place that gets haboobs. Saw Sen. John McCain in the airport. I feel that sums up the state well. 4/10

California: as a resident of the state of Oregon, I’m legally required to say fuck California😌 unless anyone else talking shit about Cali and then we got your back😤 SoCal vs San Fran vs Northern Cal are totally different worlds though. 7/10

Colorado: damn idk how y’all breathe there, them air is thin. But really pretty out there! 7/10

Connecticut: oh my god fuck New Haven. And Stamford, and Hartford, and— Yknow what? Let’s just toss the whole state into the Sound. For real, traffic is the WORST here and I’m so sorry that y’all gotta live like that. 3/10

Delaware: I cannot believe this is considered a state. There’s no difference between Delaware and Maryland/Pennsylvania. 1/10 should not be a state

Florida: “the only hills in Florida are the highway ramps and the Matterhorn!” —the shuttle driver at Disney World. He was right. Shit is flat as fuck here. And hot. And humid. The Gulf Coast is nice? But tbh it’s just all very touristy which is kind of a bummer. 5/10

Georgia: ...I can’t with the humidity or thinly veiled racism. But y’all got nice peaches! Also Black Panther filmed there so thank you for blessing us with that. 6/10 for fruits

Hawaii: okay pineapple farms are cool. Tbh I just feel really bad for how much mainlander/tourist bs all the islanders put up with. Ik price of living is v high and keeps going up. That said I did love Hawaii... although I was stung by a jellyfish. Hate those little bastards. 8/10 for wonderful people and nature

Idaho: as an Oregonian I’m required to also say fuck Idaho 😝 you da hoes. Okay for real tho southern Idaho has become v white white and kinda scary tbh. The northern part of the state is pretty chill tho. Also Oreida kettle chips are partly made in Idaho so I gotta give you half credit for that. 4/10

Illinois: at least you’re not Indiana. 4/10.

Indiana: I never want to step foot in Gary, Indiana again in my life. (Passed a Mack truck hauling a race car to Indy 500 though so that was cool.) 2/10

Iowa: I almost moved here. I’m so glad I didn’t. Why are the Quad Cities actually a group of five towns? I hate that. Also the roads were all cement, felt like driving on a sidewalk. Was also interesting because the second we got out of the city proper, it was just... corn fields everywhere. 2/10 y’all raising children of the corn.

Kentucky: I really don’t have anything to say about Kentucky. I thought the trees were pretty? 5/10 yeah idk

Maine: my relative has totaled two cars by hitting moose in Maine. Maine scares me. Or rather, the moose do. Also the lobster roll hype is real. And the coast truly is beautiful. 8/10 but an extra point for the moose bc I hate that relative so 9/10

Maryland: oh god Baltimore. Also I’m blaming you for the DC traffic because it’s on the land you gifted them. 3/10

Massachusetts: Patriots fans are the worst NFL fans (the racism is real, especially after fans burned the jerseys of Black players who knelt for the anthem). Liking Dunkin’ Donuts is not a personality trait. The North End in Boston is truly the best place to get pizza in the entire country. Western Mass is not the same state. And the Cape Cod bridges give me nightmares. 5/10 but cause I had to pay taxes two years and it really is Taxachusetts, knocking it down to 4/10

Michigan: it’s a lot bigger than I initially thought. 5/10

Minnesota: it’s Canada but in the US. Pretty driving through the southern part. Cops suck tho. 5/10

Montana: okay Montana is downright gorgeous. (Except Billings. Sorry, Billings.) I must include a photo. I wanna get a cabin here and just exist. 8/10

New Hampshire: can’t decide if it hates Massachusetts or wants to be Massachusetts. All it knows is that it’s better than Vermont. Which... y’know, valid. (If you wanna see NH culture watch North Woods Law tbh). 4/10

New Jersey: why are there so many goddamn highways in this state? Also there are more places to weekend trip than the Shore or the Poconos. Although you do have people pump gas for you just like Oregon, so... that’s valid. Things my friends have added: Newark airport is cursed (valid), the jughandles are nightmares (true), pork roll/Taylor Ham is good and so are bagels and New Jersey pizza (allergic so idk), and everyone is split on whether the shore is actually decent or not 😂 I give it a 3.5/10 out of spite

New York: NYC is fun, Upstate is MASSIVE but really beautiful. Long Island is... yeah I don’t have anything nice to say about Long Island. 8/10 For NYC, 6/10 for Upstate, -2/10 for Long Island, gives us an average of 6/10

North Carolina: very good peaches. Isn’t South Carolina. Keep it up👍🏽 6/10

Ohio: I already told y’all how I feel about this flat ass boring state. I feel no need to slander it any more lmao. 3/10

Oregon: she flies with her own wings, mi amor🥰 to list all the reasons I like Oregon (and the issues too bc it ain’t perfect), I would need a whole other post. I’ll just leave you with this picture I took of Mt. Hood, the queen of our Cascades. 11/10

Pennsylvania: so apparently PN is three states hiding in a trench coat like NY. There’s upstate, philly and Pittsburg. Personally I think they’re just trying too hard and wanna get the same recognition as NY. Meh. 5/10

Rhode Island: THIS FUCKIN SHAM OF A STATE Just merge it with Connecticut and be done with it!! It’s tiny. Providence sucks. There’s nothing unique about this state that you can’t find in Southern Mass (except MA has cheaper taxes so y’all come to work and shop in MA anyways smh). Also the fingers are really annoying to drive down to get to some beach areas haha. 2/10 you’re barely better than Delaware.

South Carolina: my Black father was invited to a party celebrating General Robert E Lee’s birthday. So... 0/10

South Dakota: very gorgeous, didn’t realize the Missouri River went this far west, but VERY LARGE. I mean it looks big on a map but then you get there and... yeah. No speed limit on highways is a great time though. And the Badlands have mountain goats! 6/10 bc while pretty, living there seems really hard. (Picture is me in the Badlands).

Texas: gave us Juneteenth and Beyoncé and JJ Watts. Thank you Texas. But is very big, got independence from Mexico to keep slavery (yikes), is like 97% private land (yikes) and is like the second or third largest state. Very big. That said, everyone I’ve ever met from Texas is lovely. 6/10.

Utah: Other than Idaho, this is the whitest state I’ve been to. Or it feels that way. Like a, the people crossed to the other side of the street and held their bags because I’m brown, state. And I don’t ski so I can’t even say that’s a good thing (I fell off the ski lift the one time I went, long story). Yeah 0/10.

Vermont: wants to be New Hampshire or Canada and can’t decide which. So it’s just kinda there. Pretty hills though. 3/10

Virginia: let’s be real we all forget that Virginia exists west of Richmond. Nova is a beauracratic and traffic nightmare and half our neighbors had to pass security clearance checks. Hampton Roads and beach area is a tourist and mosquito nightmare. But there were dolphins and I made snowmen on the beach. Good times. 6.7/10

Washington: again, legally required as an Oregon resident to say fuck Washington because it’s all your fault we now are getting a toll on the I-5 border. But you’re better than California. And the Sound is really cool for fishing, love Wicked Tuna. And the fish market. Best salmon I’ve had. Eastern Washington... y’all got Spokane but the rest is kinda sparse. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 8/10

Wisconsin: cheese is actually good. Again, pretty state, much larger than I initially thought. 7/10

Wyoming: this was the ONLY STATE I lost cell service in when diriving cross country. Kinda surprised it wasn’t Montana, but no, it was Wyoming. Views are gorgeous though so I was distracted either way. 4/10

Thank you for joining me on this cross-country edition of Tea Time with Hawk. Please respond with any reactions, corrections, addendums about any and all of the states mentioned. And thank you for taking part in this wholesome Clone Wars fandom discourse with me 🥰💕

DISCLAIMER: THESE RATINGS ARE ALL A JOKE PLEASE DO NOT ACTUALLY GET MAD ABOUT IT

#ohio discourse #50 states reviews #oregon #midwest #california #texas #New York #massachusetts #deep south #midatlantic #New England #united states #the clone wars #DISCOURSE COMMENCE

[creator-zee]

184

I apologized to my soulmate, wherever they were, as I slammed into the ground. I knew my entire back would be bruised from that. I grit my teeth as I struggled to fill my empty lungs, pushing myself back up into a fighting stance. The dragon continued stalking towards me. Teeth bared, but it had run out of fire hours ago. I dodged another swipe of its claws, rolling underneath it. I dodged the tail swipe, by leaping up and grabbing onto the spikes. The sharp edges, cutting into my hands slightly.

Sorry. I thought again.

I held on though, even as the dragon trashed. I climbed steadily up it’s back, until I was seated on it’s back. Well, seated was a generous word, I was crouched on it’s back, between it’s wings and hovering over the spines on its back. I stayed on though, until he calmed.

He was our newest rescue, a dragon from an abusive farm. He didn’t trust anyone and wouldn’t let anyone near him. The problem was that dragons weren’t like horses. There was no option for slowly building trust. Dragons only trusted though that they could trust to protect them. It was how they worked in society. Dragons would mate, based off fighting. The challenger would have to win to gain the dragon’s trust. 

The main problem us humans faced when trying to train them was that we couldn’t fly, didn’t have claws, or sharp teeth, and we weren’t as strong. So, beating them and gaining their trust, so that we could train them was a challenge. We had found that if we used tools to aid us, the dragons didn’t accept it as a fair win.

That’s why despite dragons being common for travel, entertainment, and companions, trainers were far and few between. It also meant I was constantly apologizing to my unknown soulmate for the bruises and injuries I gained each day that they had to share as well.

The dragon, a red spine back, had finally calmed under me. I jumped off his back, landing on the ground next to him. He lowered his head in submission to me. I rubbed his muzzle gentle, some of my blood getting on him. A deep throaty sound escaped his throat, similar to a cat’s purr.

I smiled. The bruises and cuts were always worth it, hopefully my soulmate would understand that someday too.

I turned away from the dragon, I really needed to give him a name, and headed to the stables. He followed me, nudging my shoulder lightly with his head.

I chuckled. “Oh, now look who wants to follow me.”

He just snorted.

I laughed. “Yes, yes, I’ll get you a treat. We reached the stable and I climbed into the loft. Red spine backs, what did they like again. They were carnivores, and particular to fish. Right. I moved to the far end, and opened up a cooler, pulling out a raw salmon.

I heard  the sound of flapping wings as he tried to get up into the loft, but it was far to small for a dragon to fit, except the small little terrors.

I held the fish away from him as I climbed down the ladder and he pranced slightly in place, waiting for me to give it to him. I tossed it to him, and he caught it in midair, scarfing it down, whole. I shook my head.

“Come on, you have to head back out to the pasture, I have chores to do.” I told him, I really needed to think of a name. The naming responsibilities had fallen on my shoulders after I took over most of the brunt work for my father when he broke his arm in a rodeo. It wasn’t even dragons, but a plain old horse. I shouldn’t insult horses, they were great too, but they couldn’t fly or breath fire.

He nudged my shoulder again playfully, and I couldn’t help but wonder yet again at the stark difference in dragons once they gained their trust. The bond formed ran deep. That’s partially why I hated my job, having to sell my dragons away to people who hadn’t earned their trust like I had. They would behave, I would make sure of that, but they might not ever truly trust their new owners.

I sighed, as I rubbed his snout, as I opened the gate to the pasture. “I think I’ll call you Slammer. If only, because I’m going to be feeling that slam for a few days, if not weeks.”

He just blinked in response and I smiled. “Go on, run, fly, just don’t go too far.”

That was another challenge with dragons. They had wings, so stopping them from escaping was difficult. That’s why you had to gain their trust first, or get them trained. Otherwise, unless you had a giant bird cage they would just fly away immediately.

Slammer ran away from me, breaking into a gallop before taking off and circling above, stretching his wings.

I smiled up at him, before heading back to the stable. I had training for Tea and Spine and I was giving lessons to a new person this afternoon. I should probably clean the blood and dirt off myself before then.

I lost track of time unfortunately, and while I was rubbing down Spine’s scales, cleaning them of dirt, I heard the rumble of a truck approaching.

“Dammit.” I cursed softly, causing Spine to ruffle his wings nervously. “It’s fine.” I quickly reassured him as I led him outside the stable. I rubbed his shoulder.

“Go home.” I said softly, and he responded to the commanded, taking off and flying towards the paddock.

I wiped my hands off on my pants but it didn’t make much difference since they were just as dirty.

“Sorry.” I apologized to the woman currently walking up my driveway,  “It’s been a busy day, I haven’t had a chance to get cleaned up since training. Z, by the way.”

She just smiled. “Gwyn, and I don’t mind. It is a farm. I didn’t expect for everything to be pristine.”

I laughed. “Good. Now, come on, let’s find you a dragon to ride. What experience do you have?”

I had my suspicions, Justine from the clean state of her clothes, but I’d let her confirm them or prove me wrong.

“I rode as a kid, but dropped it in high school in a failed attempt to fit in. So I’d say ‘so rusty that I’m practically a beginner.’”

I nodded. “Got it. I know just who you can ride, Ripper.”

“R-ripper?” She repeated, terrified.

I laughed. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. She’s actually a very sweet common ridgeback. She earned that name after ripping my favorite shirt when I was gaining her trust.”

“Ohhh.” She muttered.

“Come on, let’s go get her, she’s out in the fields, so just stay close to me. I have some newbies in the field, and I don’t know how they’d react to a stranger if you got too far from me.” I warned her.

She nodded, stepping closer to me.

I saw Ripper soaring high in the distance. 

“Cover your ears.” I warned Gwyn, before I called for Ripper, a loud shrieking call, that mimicked a ridgeback’s call. Ripper responded in kind, before circling back and landing a little ways away from us and walking up to us, lowering her head. I rubbed it gently, before grabbing Gwyn’s hand and urging her to do the same.

“Woah...” She muttered quietly. “It’s been so long. Also, damn that was an impressive call.”

I removed my hand from hers, smiling softly, but that smile faded when I realized I had left blood on the back of her hand.

”Ah, crap, sorry.” I apologized quickly. “I haven't bandaged my hands since I dealt with Slammer this morning.”

She looked at me slightly concerned, wiping her hand off on her shirt. “Slammer?”

”A red spine back.” I explained, as I led Ripper to the stables to be tacked up. “He’s a new rescue. His spines cut my hands.”

“A the name? Is he a jail bird?” She asked, and I chuckled at her joke.

“No, he didn’t go in the slammer. He slammed be in the ground. Left my back completely riddled with bruises.”

She froze mid step. Her face was shocked, but otherwise unreadable.

“Your entire back...?” She muttered.

“Uh, yeah.” I shrugged. “Don’t worry it happens all the time, jsut one of the risks of being a trainer.”

“No, I know.” She muttered. “That just means...” She trailed off and showed me her own palms in explanation. They had bruises right where mine were cut.

“Ohhhhh....” I muttered, knowing what she was getting at. “You’re my... I’m your....”

She nodded. “Soulmate, we’re soulmates.”

“I - I don’t, this is, I don’t know what to say. This is so unexpected.” I stammered, caught completely off guard. Ripper sensed my anxiety and gently butted her head against my shoulder. I rubbed it welcomingly.

“Well... I’m relieved that the reason I’m always covered in bruises is not because you are abused or something.” She admitted.

I chuckled slightly at that. “I swear some of these guys do abuse me.”

“Do you run this whole place by yourself?” She asked, surprised.

I shook my head. “My dad does the paperwork stuff, you probably talked to him on the phone. But I do all the manual labor, since he broke his arms, it’s never been the same since. Dragons can be pretty easy to handle after you gain their trust -“ I rubbed Ripper’s snout affectionately “- but, it’s the gaining their trust that’s hard. You have to be in top shape for that.”

She murmured, nodding. “I can see that.”

“What?” I asked, head snapping to face her.

A blush spread on her face, and I was sure my own wasn’t much better.

“It’s just - you’re...” She gestured oddly to me. “Um, fit.” She settled on, before pointedly looking away from me.

“Thanks?” I muttered, unsure. “Let’s just focus on this lesson, okay? We can talk after, maybe after I’ve had a shower.”

She nodded. “Yes, okay. So, what’s first?”

I settled into teacher mode, an easy mold, one that I didn’t have to worry about. Nothing was off, until after the lesson ended.

I had decided to let Gwyn ride Ripper around on her down, to cool her down, while I checked on the dragons, farther out in the fields. I needed to make sure that they still had water and give them their food.

It was all going well until Tide, one of my few amphibian dragons, decided to play in the water... while I was filling it. I ended up completely soaked. I sighed, as I stared at the goofy face of the dragon, her frills around her face raised in excitement. I couldn’t be made at that face. I smiled and rubbed her snout.

“Tide, go soak someone else.” I chastised, but with no malice in my tone. “Maybe someone with scales that won’t get soaked to the bone.”

She chattered, flapping her wings a few times, spraying me yet again with more water before taking off. I shook my head, as I trudged back up to the barn, Gwyn and Ripper catching me by surprise. I had forgotten about them because of Tide’s distraction.

“What happened to you?” Gwyn asked, slightly horrified.

“Tide happened.” I muttered. “She’s an amphibious dragon, and likes to play in the water. It was my misfortune to try and fill it when she was in a playful mood.”

Gwyn slid slightly awkwardly off Rippers back. I noticed she had a slight blush on her cheeks, and I didn’t realize why, until I remembered I was wearing a white shirt, dammit Tide.

“Sorry...” I apologized. “I can change...?” I offered.

“I’d - um - I’d like that.” She muttered.

“Think you can untack her?” I asked, as I climbed up into the loft.

Gwyn shook her head. “No.”

“No worries.” I called back down. “I should have some spare clothes stashed up here, I can be down in a sec to help you.”

“Okay.” Gwyn called back up.

I rummaged around in the loft in a bin, managing to only find a spare bra and tank top. Hopefully, that was at least a little better.

I climbed back down the loft, and by Gwyn’s beet red face and small gasp. It wasn’t better. A small part of me was happy, but most was just apologetic for making my soulmate so flustered.

“Sorry.” I apologized, again. “Let me just get this off, and then I can grab more clothes from inside.”

“No need to hurry.” Gwyn muttered, and I turned to her surprised.

“What was that?” I asked, confused.

“Uh, nothing.” She stammered.

I ignored it, quickly taking Ripper’s saddle and bridle off, and hanging them in the take room, before giving her the simple command, go home. She left after nuzzling me one more time.

“I think we are due for a conversation.” I said, as I led Gwyn back up towards the house.

“Uh, yeah.” She agreed. “What do you want this to mean?” She asked, gesturing broadly between us.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we can just continue meeting up and see where it goes?”

She nodded, smiling. “That sounds good. Besides I do want more lessons.”

“Of course.” I answered, slightly flushed myself. “Here, let me give you my number. I can’t promise I’ll be responsive though. I tend to leave my phone in the safety of the indoors so it doesn’t get smashed or waterlogged.”

Gwyn nodded. “Understandable.”

“Let me just run inside real quick to grab it.” I told her before sucking inside my house to grab my phone off the table in the entryway. I had several missed texts from a friend.

I ignored them for now and opened up my contacts, offering it to Gwyn. She quickly put her number in. I sent her a quick text, hi, so that she would have mine.

“Just text me for your next lesson.” I said.

She nodded. “I will, see you later Z.”

I waved goodbye as she pulled out in her truck.

#soulmates #injuries on one show up as bruises on the other #dragons #water misshaps #writing #not edited

[himbo-beel]

Hey uh…quick question…where did you get the salmon from buddy?

#me thinks #this is a joke since I work at a salmon farm #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me beelzebub

[jolie-in-the-underground]

Fallout (Q and Grim fic)

I actually wrote this last night in response to that completely tragic mini fic my sister posted over on @skeletonsgrim about Grim’s suicide attempt. Then I just REALLY got the urge to watch Ironman, though, so that’s why you’re only just now getting this 8′D i’m terrible i’m sorry

So uuuuuh enjoy the feels and Q’s reaction? *sweats*

Q reached the end of the internet and lingered at its ever expanding horizon of new content, scanning it all with every bit of processing power he could spare that wasn’t already committed to maintaining his world and other vital operations.

It was, to say the least, a startling amount of tech being bent to a single purpose. Q had long since grown out of the lodge basement, and all these years later now owned entire server farms around the world, one of which he maintained in the basement of his home. His basement that was bigger than most people’s entire house.

“Sans, what on earth are you doing down here?” called a familiar voice as the sound of footsteps on the stairs tripped Q’s sensors and pulled him back into the robotic body in which he spent so much time these days. “It feels like we have heated floors upstairs!”

“sorry, peaches, looking for something,” he responded distractedly, his attention still primarily on the ongoing search.

“Looking for what?” Q’s one-time landlady asked with an incredulous laugh. “The lost treasure of the Sierra Madre?” She grimaced and waved her hand in front of her face as she entered. “Lord, it sure feels like the Sierra in here! Do you have the cooling units going? The whole place is going to go up like a match at this rate!”

A soft huff of laughter escaped Q in spite of himself. “if i didn’t have the units going, only flames would live here now. as for what i’m looking for…” he paused and grimaced, once again hit with the inconvenience that came with having a best friend no one else could see. This was far from the first time he’d had to maneuver around the subject of Grim when talking to someone else. “well, it’s something very important, and we’ll leave it at that.”

The answer earned him a lift of a feminine brow as the woman stepped closer, “That’s… vague.”

“peaches, trust me, if i could explain, i would,” he mused tiredly. The search for Grim was starting to drag at him, but he kept at it. Being what he was, Q’s void plagued doppelganger didn’t carry a phone that could make use of satellites or cell towers, leaving it completely reliant on wifi for any sort of communication. It made getting in touch with him a challenge, to say the least. That, and his habit of teleporting overseas on a whim to fight eldritch horrors from beyond the veil of reality were why Q had finally insisted that Grim start wearing a tracker, just in case. The other monster had eventually agreed, though it had taken a great deal of pestering on the AI’s part.

Q was very persistent when it came to getting what he wanted, though. Grim hadn’t really stood a chance.

Now, though, the tracker wasn’t working, and the only time that ever happened was when Grim took one of his brief, painful trips into the void to see his family. There was always the chance the tracker had been broken, of course, but after what had happened with that piece of shit anonymous message someone had left on his friend’s blog… Q would have bet everything he owned on Grim taking it to heart and…

The AI shifted uncomfortably in place as the servers around him kicked into high gear, sending the temperature shooting up another few degrees. Q had found that the only way he could even begin to keep track of Grim’s movements when he wasn’t wearing a tracker was, oddly enough, via posts on conspiracy blogs, ghost hunter forums, UFO sites… it was ridiculous, really. Still, humans’ inability to see Grim while still being able to see the things he moved or the lives he saved often wound up on these sites, attributed to other phenomena entirely. They’d both had a good laugh together about the skeleton’s official cryptid status, and Q had put together an algorithm that would seek out such mentions that might be attributed to his friend. He’d done it as a joke so he could send the results to Grim whenever a new one popped up, but now…

Now it was his only hope to track where his friend might have disappeared to if his tracker wasn’t working.

A large part of him insisted that it was a foolish endeavor, all data pointed towards one result and logic insisted that Grim had made a trip to the void, not had his tracker damaged. The rest of Q, though, held on tight and insisted that maybe he had. It was better than the alternative.

When the tracker had initially gone offline, the AI had quirked a brow, but not descended into outright panic. After all, he wasn’t Grim’s keeper, if he wanted to pop off into the void for a few minutes, it wasn’t any of his business…even if his friend was generally pretty good at keeping him up to date when he was planning anything like that. But then they’d passed the five minute mark and Q had begun to worry. Then six dragged into seven, into eight… now they were ticking steadily past nine and a half and the monster was frantic.

“This is big, isn’t it?”

Q’s eyes darted to the woman beside him and saw her gazing up at him, brow furrowed with concern for whatever was bothering him. The way her lover’s expression contorted in response only deepened her frown and made her reach out to him on reflex.

“Ouch!” she yelped and snatched her fingers back the moment they came into touch with his overheated exterior.

Before he could even apologize, the tracker alert dinged quietly and Q’s eyes went wide.

Grim was back. He’d cut it down to the second, but he was back.

“i gotta go,” Q said and darted towards the back of the long room where there was a ladder bolted to the wall leading up to a hatch in the ceiling. Around him, the servers continued to hum for a minute, then gradually began to back down and enter their cooling cycle.

“What?” came the startled reaction from behind him. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“i think so,” Q called back as he mounted the first rung and started up hand-over-hand. “i’ll be back in a bit, peaches, don’t wait up.”

“Where are you going?” the woman asked with a blink as she trailed after him down the stacks, long since inured to the AI’s eccentric comings and goings.

“uh-” Q paused and actually looked at the tracker map now, then rolled his eyes hugely and let his head sag forward to hit one of the ladder rungs with a dull clank. “alaska, apparently.” The woman behind him made a startled, almost affronted noise until he twisted where he hung on the ladder and bent to land a kiss on her upturned cheek. “i’ll be back in a few hours, promise.”

She rolled her own eyes now, but turned so her lips caught his now that he wasn’t so overheated as to burn her. “Fine,” she said when they broke contact. “Bring me back some smoked salmon or don’t come home at all, though.”

He laughed and started to climb again. “yes ma’am.”

“The candied kind!” she clarified from the bottom of the ladder as he pushed his way up through the hatch.

“who do you think you’re talking to right now?”

“My husband, the guy that’s abandoning me on date night to make a trip to Alaska to find the lost treasure of Sierra Madre!”

Q had disappeared up through the hatch, but at her shout poked his head back over the opening and grimaced apologetically. “i’m sorry peaches, it-”

Her expression softened when she saw the discomfort in his gaze and she waved him off with a smile, “I know,” she said. “Just hurry up and go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

His wife blew him a kiss and the AI pantomimed catching it, then shot her a wink and said, “see you in your dreams, peaches,” then closed the hatch and stepped up onto the patch of cement he’d had laid in their expansive back yard.

Once at its center, he paused and kicked off his shoes, then rolled his pants up to his knees before stripping off his hoodie and the t-shirt he’d been wearing under it. The shirt he tossed aside, and the hoodie he tied off around his waist before activating his flight array. Panels on his body lifted and shifted as the specially designed engines flared to life and launched him effortlessly into the air.

Yeah, alright, so he might have borrowed the idea from Ironman. So what? It was a good design and he felt cool as hell as he soared up and over the city, then breached the cloud layer to find himself over a sea of gently shifting white illuminated by the rising moon. The monster took a moment to orient himself to the tracker location, then shot off towards the northwest at speeds that would make jet blush.

It didn’t take him long to get where he was going, and the fact that the tracker had moved a bit since coming back online gave the AI some relief on his trip north to find his friend. Unfortunately, that still left him with plenty of time to get worked up.

He was coming in far too hot and fast, Q knew, but when he spotted his friend cresting a hilltop at the base of a mountain, all caution went out the window.

The monster dropped out of the sky like a stone, and only a last second burst from his boosters kept him from hitting hard enough to leave a crater. The close call was, however, enough to char the earth for several feet around, and Q left it to smolder as he marched towards Grim with an expression like a thunderstorm.

His best friend had the good grace to look ashamed of himself, and dropped his gaze from Q’s as he approached. It wasn’t enough to allay the AI’s wrath, however, as he shouted, “nine minutes and fifty-five goddamn seconds, grim!” and jabbed at the air between them with a finger.

“yeah,” was the solemn response as the other monster still refused to meet his eyes.

Q stared him down for a long minute, but when Grim offered no defense he made a sound of irritation and stormed off some distance and paced for a moment before marching right back to demand, “you were really ready to pack it in, weren’t you? This little trip was your last hurrah so you could die on your brother’s fucking doorstep wasn’t it?!”

Pinned under the weight of his friend’s gaze, Grim shifted uncomfortably, but finally managed to say, “i… not on their doorstep. not intentionally.”

He’d known as soon as he got back that he was in for a lecture, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Q’s ability to cut to the quick of a subject when it suited him had always been able to wrong-foot Grim considering his friend’s usual proclivity for half-truths and teasing, and that was still the case now. The bluntness of it shone a light on the harsh reality of the almost permanent solution the skeleton had sought for his temporary problem, and the disappointment in his voice stung like a lash.

Q pointed wordlessly at Grim, struggling to find the words he wanted, but failing, so his hand tightened into a fist and he turned his back on his friend and walked away again to give himself some space. Mechanical body struggling to keep up with the onslaught of emotions the AI was suffering, Q’s hands began to tremble and he shook them out angrily, then put them to use dragging his hoodie off his waist and pulling it on. He zipped it up and adjusted it with short, sharp movements as he collected himself.

“i’m sorry,” Grim finally managed to say quietly as he approached to stand at Q’s side, eyes on the sprawling view of the forest and distant, glittering city that was laid out before them.

The AI looked at him sharply, eyes narrowed. “that so?” he asked bitterly. “what would ‘sorry’ have done for me or your brothers if you hadn’t come back?’”

Grim’s shoulders slumped further, making him look as though he were ready to fold in on himself. “nothing, i know. I’m just… i’m sorry, q. It was a moment of weakness, and i-”

Q’s eyes flashed and he turned to jab his friend in the shoulder as he hissed, “you don’t get to say sorry yet, you jackass!” Grim flinched, but took it and nodded, though his submission only made his friend angrier. “you don’t get to just lay down and give the fuck up, grim! you don’t get to go out like some goddamn tragic poet on your brothers’ front door step and traumatize them for the rest of their lives watching you die and turn into some horrible fucking monster!”

As though the first jab had opened him up for more, the next turned into a hard shove that sent Grim stumbling back several steps, though he quickly caught his footing and stood his ground when Q advanced on him, fury clear in every line of his body and gesture of his hands.

“and you know what?” the AI continued as he reached out a third time and grabbed Grim by the sweater so he could pull him in and give him hard shake. “my best goddamn friend does not get to leave me behind without so much as a word!” Q’s expression, full of righteous anger a moment before, shifted into one of anguish as he shook Grim again and said, “not even… you couldn’t even do me the kindness of a note, grim.”

Grim met Q’s gaze and he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came as he stared up at the other monster, helpless in the face of his hurt.

An incoherent sound of pain escaped the AI and he shoved Grim away from him bodily before turning his back on him again, hands fisted tight in the pockets of his hoodie. “you don’t…” he began, struggling to speak before finding the words and shouting them, “you don’t get to just leave us behind!”

“q-” Grim tried again and reached out to his friend, hand coming to a rest on his shoulder, only for him to pull sharply away.

“no! you still- you get to listen, goddammit!” the AI said fiercely as he turned to glare at his friend. “your brothers aren’t here to lecture you, so that leaves me, and you’re gonna fucking listen!” Grim’s eye sockets widened fractionally, and Q took advantage of his silence to speak. “you fucked up in the past, grim. you fucked up bad, and that guilt is something you’re gonna carry with you for the rest of your damn days.” The other monster flinched visibly, but Q pressed on relentlessly. “but that guilt does not entitle you to an early check out, you asshole. not only does it literally help nothing and no one, but…” he faltered, expression becoming pained once more, and this time when he reached out to Grim, it was with a hand that was not only slow and unsteady, but in search of reassurance that his friend was, in fact, really there with him. It landed on the other monster’s shoulder, the fabric of his impossibly black sweater painfully familiar beneath his fingers.

“i’m sorry,” Grim said for the third time, and this time, Q seemed willing to hear him out. “you’re right. me screwing up and feeling bad over it doesn’t entitle me to ending things the easy way. people rely on me and i almost let them… let you down. i’m sorry.”

Q tried to smile, but the result was a confused grimace torn between humor and a soul deep need to cry that his mechanical body could not fulfill. Hand still on his friend’s shoulder, the AI gave Grim a gentle shake as, in an unsteady voice, he said, “you know, for a supposed genius, you’re like… the biggest idiot i’ve ever met, bro.”

The words startled a laugh out of Grim, and unlike his friend, he did begin to cry. “yeah,” he agreed with a trembling smile and an unsteady breath as tears began to spill down his cheeks once more, leaving inky trails across his stark white features. “well, takes one to know one.”

“shut up,” Q groused with a weak laugh that trailed off quickly as he met Grim’s gaze and his expression went solemn. “it’s not… i’m a selfish asshole, grim, i don’t give a shit if you stay because you want to take responsibility for how you messed up in your timeline, or if you wanna stick around because i’m your friend and you like all my sick science toys i let you play with,” they both laughed unsteadily at this before he continued, “i don’t care as long as you stick around. i just…” the monster took a completely unnecessary breath and released it in one long, shuddering rush. “-don’t know what i’d do without you, man,” he admitted weakly as he gave his friend another gentle shake.

“turn into a super villain, probably,” Grim said as he lifted a hand to his face and tried to mask the fresh rush of tears there by pretending to wipe away the ones that still lingered from earlier.

“heh, the wife would never let me,” Q mused and dragged Grim in for a hug. “well,” he amended as he settled his arms around the other monster’s shoulders, “maybe on weekends. she’s kinky like that.”

The shorter skeleton grunted as he was dragged in against his friend’s broad, hard chest, but didn’t complain. Synthetic Q’s body might be, but contact was still contact, and the physical sign of affection was a balm to Grim’s tired, aching soul. He let his forehead drop onto his friend’s shoulder and took a breath of his own. “i have no idea how she puts up with you,” he grumbled with a soft snort.

“me neither,” Q admitted with a chuckle. “probably has something to do with-”

“if you make a dick joke right now, i’m out,” Grim cut in sharply and Q barked a laugh. They stood there like that for a minute, Q’s arms around Grim’s shoulders in a tight embrace that his friend leaned heavily into as he returned it in kind. They were both shaken by the near miss they’d had that day, and after all the tears and shouting, it was only then that the immensity of it all really hit them. Q’s grip on his friend tightened at the thought of what he’d almost lost, and Grim had to fight back a sob at the pain he had inadvertently caused to the people closest to him in pursuit of freedom from his own.

Eventually, Q said, “you’re not alone, grim. we’re here for you, not because we have to be, but because we want to be. just… try not to forget that again.” Grim couldn’t respond, but he nodded against Q’s shoulder, and the other monster sighed. “you’re smearing that emo-ass mascara of yours all over my damn sweater again, aren’t you?” he asked, referring to his friend’s ink-black tears. Grim nodded again, but Q just patted him on the back and gave him a pass on it this time.

When the shorter skeleton finally pushed gently away from his friend, he grimaced and said, “you reek of ozone, man, what the hell?”

“was doin’ mach one out over the ocean,” Q remarked after a moment, “probably from that.” He slung his arm around Grims shoulders and they both started walking together down the hill towards town.

“what? thought you were doing mach three for sure judging by that entrance you made, ironman,” grim drawled.

“nah, didn’t want to lose my pants again,” Q said with a shit-eating grin, and Grim laughed long and loud at the mental image.

((Try not to be too hard on on Q for shouting, guys, Grim is like a brother to him and the fact that he almost lost him so unexpectedly scared the shit out of him. Hope you guys enjoyed! Wrote and post this with my sister, @nighttimepixels permission, of course, and Grim belongs to her! Q, obviously, is mine, heh.))

#suicide mention #Grim sans #skeletons grim #quarantine sans #machinatale #undertale #skeleton ex machina #jolies tumblr exclusives #jolie writes

[aromatickindling-blog]

Hmm, I’ll sort this out into the Stardew Valley Farmer as villager prompt with visuals and less words one day...

Green

Appearance:

    Green's an average sized young woman with minty hair tied up into a messy ponytail, part of her side swept bangs awning her sharp aquamarine eyes. If you're observant, you can see slight bags under eyes, covered with foundation powder to avoid questions from people. Her wardrobe's quite functional, filled with different boots for all occasions, thick working gloves, shade hats, winter fur caps, and cargo pants in different neutral colors, working well with her cotton button jackets. Her favorite happens to be the dark green formal jacket with a popped collar. The equipment she carries on her hip belt is well-taken care of, polished to the nines before being covered in all sorts of filth. She does have a strong liking for long scarves, goggles, and small, subtle hair pins, though.

    For some reason, her freckles tend to appear in curves and triangles; she has one that looks similar to Orion's Belt that she brings up as a conversation piece if she has to do small talk. Of course, she does take pains to cover up the scars she's gotten from her spelunking adventures in the mines and the Skull Dungeon. A Serpent pack left a particularly nasty one stretching down her left calf to her ankle. She prays to Yoba no one notices.

Summary:

    An ambivert erring on the side of introverted behavior, Green's the one of the twin grandchildren of Stardew Valley's previous farmer, come to take over Smaug farm. Thanks to years of neglect and her grandfather's 'brilliant' idea of staking land in a wilderness full of monsters, she's got her work cut out for her. Worse yet, with the Gotoran-Ferngill Republic conflict in full swing, she's especially reluctant to open up to anyone in the Valley. However, with the Adventurer's Guild and the Museum in town, she'll be able to settle in. Yet if anyone bothers getting to know her well enough, they might detect a hint of loneliness in her eyes.

At her Grandfather's grave, Green has planted an orange tree and told him:

    "If I can't see myself becoming part of the community here, Grandpa, I'll at least keep my part of the deal. I'll make sure the farm is up and running smoothly by the end of the second year. If the war continues...if Sage isn't back home here at that time, and I'm still unable to find someone I can trust here...I'll come after him. I'm sorry Grandpa, but I hope you can understand me on this. Mayor Lewis can take over the farm; it'll be a great source of revenue for Pelican Town...they'll need it more than I do. But thank you...for giving me an out from my former job. It was suffocating."

...For some reason, every Friday and Sunday Green never fails to greet the traveling cart merchant. Apparently, the two exchange letters; strangely, the writing doesn't match the merchant's personal chicken-scratch. After the bus has been repaired, you might even catch a glimpse of her with a strange bodyguard speaking about a "Mr. Qi." Who is this Mr. Qi, anyway?

Love: coffee, hazelnuts, goat cheese, poppy, fairy rose, dinosaur egg, all fossils and bone artifacts, duck feather, thunder egg, all soups, bone flute, mead

Likes: all flowers, all fruit, dried starfish, ornamental fan, ancient sword, fiddlehead fern, all dwarf scrolls, iron bar, copper bar, maple bar, lava eel, void salmon, honey, garlic, hot pepper, cloth, arrowhead, wine

 Dislikes: truffles, truffle oil (don't ask), super cucumber (once again, don't ask), beer, pale ale, morel mushroom (she's reminded of that one frog with all the holes in its back. And bot flies, the spawn of the underworld)

Hated: wicked statue, skull brazier, elvish jewelry, prehistoric hand axe, golden mask, Robin's axe

Personality:

    Green's the quiet observer of the twins, almost akin to a shade behind her brother's bombastic front. She's not the type to normally initiate conversation either, so only when she is required to, when she wants to give advice, or when she needs information will she, reluctantly, start one with a person. She's very polite about it too. But, you may have found her committing a social faux pas during the first year when she climbed on everyone's houses for a bird feather or little critter. Mayor Lewis chewed her out harshly for it. From then on out, it was only natural cliffs, rock faces, and trees she would climb onto, if not her own farm buildings.

    She is often found doing work on the farm, at the museum with Gunther, or training with Marlon at the Adventurer's Guild during the day, almost always with a cup of coffee and the occasional maple bar. Once Smaug farm is up and running, she does build a small training arena in front of the greenhouse. Don't ask why. When evening arrives, she disappears into the mountains and doesn't return home until 1:00 am in the morning. Some days may involve her leaving for Calico Desert early in the morning until 1:00 am. Shane often swears he would see blood leaking out of her when she was returning home at night. No one believes him thanks to how well Green dresses her wounds. This can only last so long with how she's burning the candle on both ends. On the weekends, no one is capable of tracking her down while she's out on her foraging hikes, much to her relief. Even better is during those evenings when everyone is at Gus's Saloon, when she can sneak into the Community Center to repair it with the Junimos before going home to refine sketches, put away gathered inventory, and generally wind down for the night with a tune from her harp, a nice hot soak, and a quick gaming session. Only on Sundays does she dare oversleep to offset the lack of it during the weekdays.

      Once more comfortable with people, she becomes more straightforward with her answers, although any questions regarding her family or her spelunking episodes are deflected or redirected to another topic. Outgoing villagers are more likely to get to this point. Snarky jokes will be made about the topic at hand, light teasing may occur if she is addressed directly, and, if it pops into her head, a few puns. Don't ask about her hikes or finds, she will become quite detailed with the scientific basis for everything she came across.

    Yoba help her if any of the single townsfolk become interested in her. Poor Green won't know what to do with herself, all her secrets might be spilled into the public square with that kind of relationship. What should she do now, how much of her activities should she cut back to spend time with them, what will they think of her once they find out what she's been trying to hide from the villagers, will their relatives approve of her, how long before they find out about her hiding her wounds from plain sight, do they like mint breath or coffee breath, are they allergic to poppies and fairy roses, will they mind her fossil collection, should she pick up cooking again, video game nights or movie nights, are they up for hiking, are they not okay with PDA, do they like cuddling, will they not mind her wrapping her arms around them as a greeting, do they like nuzzles, nape kisses, why her, and why are they even interested at all?! THESE ARE ALL IMPORTANT QUESTIONS...at least in her mind, they are. This is why she comes off as aloof, not only as a deterrent for anyone interested, but also as a result of her trying to strangle any feelings of affection that might develop for anyone else. Also, Yoba help the poor sap that does start to develop a crush on her; her lack of self-care and time during the weekdays is sure to wear on them.

    But, she is more than willing to make adjustments for them should they accept her, all of her. Green's probably going to ask them to come out to the beach at night near the solitary rock to spill her heritage as a half-Gotoran, half-Fergillan to them, mental escape routes calculating in her head but another part of her pleading this will be okay and she's just paranoid. From there, if accepted, she will tell about her brother and her parents, how Sage left for the army after a nasty spat with her regarding the Gotoran conflict, how her Gotoran Father died for helping the Ferngillan side, and how her Ferngillan Mother's MIA, probably in an underground resistance movement against the Gotoran government. She's only had her brother as a social crutch before he left, and it's the main reason why she bottled herself up. Why bother with people if all they're going to do is break your heart once you're close with them? But, she'll admit she was wrong, and then apologize for unloading all of this onto to them, and for not trusting them as much before. From there, she'll become more and more honest to them about her activities.

    The letters she was swapping with the merchant happened to be correspondences with her brother, usually curt and to the point. She makes it a priority to leave out any bitterness from his leaving her since he's in danger and needs all the help he can get. As for Mr. Qi...money is great and so is spelunking. That's all I'm going to say, other than it's a dangerous profession that has left her with a number of gashes...all of which she's refused to go to Harvey's for, much to her partner's dismay. As for the music drifting near the railroad tracks at night, it was her playing a couple tunes her father taught her on her mini-harp. She might even offer to serenade them from time to time.

    Despite her insecurities about herself, Green's quite the affectionate lover, offering sweet words in their ear, leaving small gifts for them after she visits their house, engaging in conversations more often with them, and giving out subtle public displays of affection, whether it be the joining of their hands, brushing their shoulders clean, a lingering look, or a soft caress on the back of their hand if they're slightly agitated. It's still quite confusing to her what to do and she'll hesitate early on about it, but she'll slowly ease into it...and wonder how the hell did this happen??? Then not care and nestle in close to them at night after pressing a kiss to their neck. Grandpa works wonders in keeping his grandchild in Stardew Valley. What a magnificent bastard he is.

Inventory:

·         Mini-harp

(You can hear the notes of a melody off near the mountaintops during the night, drifting down onto the railroad tracks...)

·         Obsidian knife

(A memento of her brother, before he left for Gotoro. Held closely to the hip, sometimes the chest whenever she thinks of him. It's as though the essence of the sea has imprinted onto this knife.)

·         Lava katana

(Can't go wrong with cauterizing deliberate wounds on monsters. Makes it less messy! Smells horrific...)

·         Herb satchel

(Most remedies have plant-based compounds to thank for their use. After trips to the mines or the Skull Dungeon, its strangely lighter. Smells strongly of mint.)

·         Pack

(Contains most essentials, from food to water to tools and, of course, a loaded first-aid kit. Got to be prepared for all sorts of insanity the spirits bring about when they're angry. For some reason, the pack smells of pine needles.)

·         Sketchbook

(Contains all sorts of colored sketches of landscapes, plants, monsters, rocks, animals, and even pressed flowers...wait...some of the villagers are sketched in here too? Has a light floral scent.)

[newagesispage]

                                                                          OCTOBER    2019  

 PAGE RIB

 Stephen King has released yet another: The Institute

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Salmon Rushdie has given us Quichotte

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October 1: Jimmy Carter is 95!! Go Jimmy

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For some new discoveries and theories on the often told tale, check out Chaos: Charles Manson, the CIA and the secret history of the 60,s by Tom O’Neill.

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Metallica has cancelled their tour.

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The Creamery Bridge in Vermont was closed for a time because of a Sasquatch scare.

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Days alert: Woo Hoo!! Dr. Rolf is back!! ** Why do they keep using that ‘WET PAINT’ sign all over the town square? A joke?  Really painting the sets and they just leave them up for an inside laugh? ** The Shah/Jen story was good.. it showed what a good actor he really was. He was always so blah! It’s funny that as he left us , we finally get his back story. He even mentioned Norman Bates. ** Stefan is out.  Claire is in.  I loved Dr. Rolf’s “pro life” line. Will many of the young girls get pregnant, ( think Lani, Ciara, Gabi, Sarah, Haley and Kristen) and will all the babies get mixed up and will Days jump a year ahead? Well, that’s the rumor. ** What is up with Hope?

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Senator Chuck Grassley is applying for his second bailout since October for the farm he owns. ** $30 billion in welfare has been given to farmers.

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This whole vaping scare is not really a surprise. Why do companies have to be so greedy and fill these with nicotine anyway? Why do good flavors have to be taken off the market because parents can’t keep them away from the kids? Can’t we have fun flavored simple mist in a vaping apparatus that has no dangerous chemicals? So many people just need that occasional outlet and something to do when relaxing.

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Spy devices were found near the White House. They believe Israelis are responsible.

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Word is that around Liberty University, Jerry Falwell Jr. uses fear in dealing with staff and sends them pictures of his wife in sexual situations.

****

They need to make a biopic about Rickie Lee Jones and it should star Hillary Swank. JS

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A CIA source has been pulled from Russia they say because Trump can’t be trusted not to tell Putin who he is. The operative is the agent who confirmed the interference in the 2016 election and has worked there for decades.

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Rose McGowan and some of the Me too movers and shakers would like Lisa Bloom to be disbarred after her dealings with Harvey Weinstein.

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Mark Sanford is running for President.

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Sarah Palin’s husband has filed for divorce.

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Stacey Dash was arrested for domestic battery in Florida.

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Stranger Things has been renewed for season 4.

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Hey.. Robert King.. Glad that U R back!

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People from Alabama were calling the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in a panic after scary clown 45 included them in the path of Hurricane Dorian. Commerce Secretary Wilbur Ross threatened to fire meteorologists who contradicted the idiot.

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John Legend and Chrissy Teigen got into it with the Pres. She called him a pussy ass bitch.

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In the 80’s, 80% of our clothing were made here in the U.S., now it is 3%.

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The House Judiciary committee is holding hearings about hush money to Karen McDougal and Stormy Daniels.

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Conversion therapy leader, McKrae Game has announced he is gay.

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It is odd that we don’t hear more about women who are addicted to crime shows. It is such a thing.

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Weight Watchers is not WW. OK.

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North Carolina’s political maps have been deemed unconstitutional and must be redrawn.

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In Nashville, Rev. Dan Reehil has banned Harry Potter books at the St. Edwards School

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Why does Fallon imitate his guests all the time? He is always repeating what they do much like a child would.

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Scary Clown’s personal assistant, Madeline Westerhout is out.** John Bolton is out.

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$32.50 for a Trump key chain? What?

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SNL started off the season with a bang. Woody Harrelson hosted and ended by showing support for Greta Thunberg. The next hosts will be Phoebe Waller- Bridge, David harbor, Kristen Stewart and Eddie Murphy.

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A man was chopping down an old diseased tree when a cannonball fell out of it. This particular cannonball in a tree was near a home that was used as a hospital during the first battel of independence, Mo. in the Civil War.

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In Kentucky, Mitch McConnell said yes to treasury funds for an aluminum plant backed by a Russian oligarch. He said no to treasury funds for coal miner’s health care and pensions.

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Joe Biden pledges to take no fossil fuel money but then attended a fundraiser hosted by Andrew Goldman, founder of Natural Gas Company, Western LNG.** It’s so sad, Biden leads which makes it seem that the people who pay the least attention decide who is going to run this place.** He really has to stop saying, “Look”,  all the time.

*****

The Sept. 12 Dem debate was exciting, I loved the kudos that Biden and then others gave to Beto for his actions in Texas after the shootings.  Other than that Biden seemed to stumble a lot especially with his, “make sure the kids hear words” stuff. O’Rourke seems to have finally hit his stride with, “Hell yes, we’re gonna take your AR-15’s.”  I’m not even sure I agree but I loved so much that he had the guts to say it. I’m in! His only real problem was the color of his tie, it washed him out. Later, Briscoe Cain sent a tweet to Beto: My AR-15 is ready for you.** Yang, as usual was not given enough time but he did calm the others when they wanted to spar. He spoke so clearly and did not sidestep.  He had a great point with the U.S. not starting wars because we are not too good at rebuilding. Case in point: Puerto Rico. He also proposed $100 in democracy dollars so people can participate and give to the candidates they believe in. He seemed to tear up when talking about missing his son’s first day at school.  His salesmen pitch like giveaway was too much though. ** Buttigieg had a good idea with his ‘community rural visas’ to bring immigration everywhere.** Warren and Sanders were straight forward with no real surprises. Gotta thank Bernie for reminding us that he didn’t vote for Bush’s war or Trumps military spending bills and the crowd seemed to love him. Both at the debate and after (like Bari Weiss on Maher’s overtime), people keep calling Bernie ‘President’. Accidents? ** Harris was cool and calm but seemed a bit scripted.  She was the only one to really bring up Trump. ** Protestors had to be cleared as Biden started his final words. They were yelling, “We are DACA recipients. Our lives are at risk.” I’m sure it had to unnerve him as he began to talk of his sad life and his family. The late night comics said that he did a good job but I didn’t think so.** Klobachar told us a lot about herself. I think I learned the most about her. Castro, who I really liked a lot at the first debate, should just get out after this performance. ** Why was Rahm Emanuel there?** The Trump campaign sent a banner flying over Texas  Southern University. ** DeBlasio is out.

*****

By the end of September, Warren is #1 in New Hampshire. She is 2 points behind in the nation and Yang is #4!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“We will no longer sell the AR-15 to the public.”- Colt   Thanks Beto!!  A simple candidate has made more positive change than Scary Clown. Stop being so scared Dems, change can happen!

*****

When Warren was on Colbert she said,” Why don’t we just quit now and do a selfie line?  The selfies are the most fun about this. Really? The night before, after her rally she selfied for 4 hours.

*****

Young people will propel the changes in the views of this country. The young demographic thinks differently on guns and climate and the young usually rule eventually. VOTE!!

*****

An intelligence official filed a formal whistle blower complaint against our ruthless Archie Bunker on steroids about his interaction with a foreign leader. It seems that it was a phone call with Ukraine’s Zelinski about the Biden’s but things are still unfolding.  Did he pressure people to work with Guilliani? The transcript is out and Pelosi has started a formal impeachment inquiry. When the WH sent talking points to their republican colleagues to try to calm the waters, they accidently sent them to the Dems too.  The WH also moved the info to a private server as we now know there is even more stuff there. Wouldn’t it be justice if the private server brought him down? ** Blame is flying everywhere. Trump has thrown Barr and Rudy and even Pence into the mess. Rudy tells us that he went to the Ukraine for the state department but they say no! He has been so rude and unhinged on the talk circuit. He has now been subpoened.** Joseph Maguire, acting director of National intelligence was only on the job a few days when he was informed of the whistleblower complaint. He was questioned all day in hearings and was very polite. Both sides could calm down on the snarky.** The Secretary of State is basically holding down 3 jobs.  The WH is quite under staffed  and there is talk that they may bring in outside people to handle the situation but Trump does not want that.  The campaign is where they will really fight, that is where all their money is. ** The ambassador to Ukraine has stepped down.**

*****

Now word is that Trump and Barr tried to get Australian PM Scott Morrison to look into those who were behind the Russia investigation. Pompeo is now getting pulled in too. It is really like the tin foil hat conspiracy guy down the street is running this country.

*****

Never compare your insides to someone else’s outside.  -Thank you Rob Lowe

*****

Hillary and Chelsea are headed out to promote their new book, Gutsy Women. It is impeccable timing but I am sure she is so sick of talking about the big blowhard elephant in the room. It really is time to hear from her again.

*****

Law and Order SVO started its 21st season with a little nod to Gunsmoke. What a great touch.

*****

Has the military really spent $200,000 on Trump’s Scottish resort?

*****

What’s up with the Cleveland Browns? They are winning.

*****

4 feet of snow in September in Montana?

*****

Seth Meyers went too far with his Rudy hate. I am a bit disturbed that Seth, Maher and Colbert get nearly as bold in the other direction as Fox News. Yes, these are evil people running the country and there is enough that they do without calling them out on things that are not your business.  About Rudy marrying a second cousin, Seth said “that’s awful.” Don’t pass your prejudice and judgement on these people like others do on color and religion et al. Cousins can marry, it’s not illegal and how might that make the children of cousins feel?  

*****

Pennsylvania  Senator Michael Folmer was arrested for child porn that was on his computer and has since resigned.  I am sure that if he went on Fox and said nice things about the fearless leader that he could get a job in the White House. It seems to be the way it is done, Fox is the audition.

*****

Robert C. O’Brien is the new National Security Advisor.

*****

The family of John Dillinger do not believe that he is in the grave. A body id buried in Indianapolis but they have asked for an exhumation.

*****

Millions came out on the 20th to ask for action on climate change. Go Greta Thunberg !! Some are spinning it that since she is autistic, she has been abused by her parents by being forced into her activism. I have seen no evidence this. She makes more sense than most leaders on the subject. Fox’s Michael Knowles even called her mentally ill and has since apologized. Thoughts? ** Central America is starving to death because of the impact of climate change. Reports from the Trump administration prove this and aid has been cut off which causes migration.

*****

Trump us jumping into bed with Saudi Arabia who has the 5th largest defense budget in the world. Troops are being sent to Iran.

*****

Doc Martin is here with its 9th season. The dog will fall in love. The Doc and Louisa’s relationship is doing well as their careers are shifting. It all just reminds me how much I want to live in Cornwall.

*****

The biggest grossing tours of all time as of this year are. 1. Ed Sheeran: The Divide 2. U: 360 3. Stones: A Bigger Bang 4. Guns N Roses: Not in this lifetime 5. Coldplay: A Head Full of Dreams 6. Roger Waters: The Wall 7. AC/DC: Black Ice 8. Stones: No Filter 9. Bruno Mars: 24K 10. Madonna: Sticky and Sweet

*****

James Corden put Bill Maher in his place. Fat shaming is as wrong as any other. Bullying is never funny. The week after Maher’s rant, Michael Moore went on and had lost some weight. Hmmm.

*****

Hiking with Kevin has the best guests, there is really a cross section of all kinds of people.  A hike seems to break down defenses and the stories are great!!

*****

The North Dakota pipeline spill that was said to be 10 gallons worth was really millions of gallons.

*****

Almost Family is a show about a sperm donor. It is good to see Tim Hutton again.

*****

A woman gets a late night show.. check out A Little Late with Lilly Singh.

*****

Prodigal Son stars Michael Sheen as a serial killer called The Surgeon.

*****

Julian Fellowes will bring us The Gilded Age about 1885 New York.

*****

Some are freaking about all the official stays at Trump properties. The whole thing is a ridiculous mess. Mitch and the boys would be screaming to the heavens if this was a different President. The really sad part is that the crews that are just there to help POTUS and the VP say the stays are so costly that their expenses won’t even cover food. ** Did a Glasgow refueling stop finally tip off the house oversight committee to the far reach of all these expenditures?** They claim there is never anything to hide. Why do they always hide everything?

*****

Demi Moore has a new tell all titled Inside Out that seems full of revelations.

*****

Check out the saga of the Donald J. Trump state park in NY which is really nothing more than a tax write off full of overgrown land and abandoned old buildings.

*****

Check out the Art Bell vault.

*****

Scary Clown was going to meet with the Taliban at Camp David as 9/11 was upon us.** The Taliban says their doors re open.**Word is that the congressional inquiry into 9/11 has 28 redacted pages which showed evidence of the Saudi’s involvement in the attacks.

*****

Scottish courts ruled that Boris Johnson illegally suspended parliament.

*****

From his reaction, Colbert behaves like Letterman in that a guest should dress a certain way. Personally, I like Conan’s casual ways. Now, I like Colbert but he also seems to push people to talk politics when they don’t really want to. Move on!

*****

“We are in a very difficult situation at the moment, especially in the U.S., where all the environmental controls that were put in place, that were just about adequate have been rolled back by the current administration so much that they are being wiped out.” –Mick Jagger

*****

“When you’re 85 years old and you have children and grandchildren, you will leave them nothing if we don’t vote these people out of office in Brazil, in London, in Washington. They are ruining the world.” –Donald Sutherland

*****

Check out the new film, The Burnt Orange Heresy.

*****

Finn Wittrock, Paul Giamatti and Amy Irving will appear in A Mouthful of Air.

*****

“The lungs of the earth are in flames.” – Leo Dicaprio. The Amazon, the world’s most diverse eco system is getting no help from its own leaders and they won’t accept help from the G7. It’s all about building more crap to them. It is as if three fourths of the U.S. was on fire.** Wouldn’t it be a great idea if Jeff Bezos, who has taken flak for not paying taxes and for workers conditions would step up and pledge a huge sum to help save the rainforest that bears its name?? The world needs heroes.

*****

Better Call Saul has wrapped season 5.

*****

Hasbro has bought Death Row Records.

*****

The San Francisco board of supervisors has declared the NRA a terrorist organization.

*****

New SNL cast member Shane Gillis who was in hot water after racist remarks surfaced, has been let go before he ever hit the stage.

*****

Mike Pence claims he was bit by American Pharoah but his trainer is not too sure about that.

*****

Obama Netflix?

*****

Kieran Culkin and Jazz Charton had a little girl that they named Kinsey Sioux.

*****

Dollface on Hulu looks interesting.

*****

In sexual harassment news: Brett Kavanaugh has been hit with other allegations. Not all accusations are coming from the victims.** Placido Domingo has been accused by 20 women of unwanted advances.

*****

The71st Emmys have come and gone. There is a lot to celebrate in television right now with over 500 scripted original shows. Highlights include Norman Lear winning for Live in front of a studio audience: Norman Lears’s All in the Family and The Jeffersons to become the oldest winner ever at 97. Other winners were Leaving Neverland for best doc.  Glow won for stunt coordination. Succession won for their theme and for writing. RuPaul won for reality host and Drag Race won for show. Russian Doll took home cinematoghraphy. Carpool Karaoke : When Corden met McCartney:Live from Liverpool took home a statue. Peter Dinklage won for best supporting actor, Fleabag won big and Game of Thrones took home the top prize.  Other winners were Bill Hader, Patricia Arquette, Ben Whishaw, Billy Porter and Jodie Comer.  SNL with Adam Sandler and Last Week Tonight were winners.  I was so excited to see that Ozark won for Julia Garner and Bateman for directing. Succession won for directing.  I thought  the fashion went wrong with Amy Poehler, and Dascha Polanco. There was awesome fashion with Regina King, Viola Davis, Maya Rudolph, Bob Odenkirk, Billy Porter, Angela Bassett, Michelle Williams, Kerry Washington, Zendaya, Sarah Silverman, Catherine Zeta- Jones, Karamo Brown, Gwyneth Paltro, Catherine O’Hara, Emilia Clarke, Phoebe Waller Bridge and Niecy Nash.** The In memoriam was fucked up when they honored Andre Previn  but showed a very much alive Leonard Slacken. Let me run that part of the show, they are always messing that up. It may not matter much longer because the ratings were so low. It is already a shame that they don’t broadcast the daytime Emmy’s.

*****

R.I.P. Jim Leavelle, Carol Lynley, T Boone Pickens, Daniel Johnston, Robert Frank, Ric Ocasek, Eddie Money, Sander Vanocur , Peter Lindbergh, Robert Haunter, Jacques Chirac , Jose Jose , Bob Esty, Wayne Fitzgerald, Jessye Norman and Cokie Roberts.

[andya-j]

There must be no compulsion to hide the bodies. Otherwise I’d have never found them. It was a Tuesday night. I was riding home after work, my leather roll of knives strapped across my back. I’d left my apron on the hook at the restaurant, but I still smelled like the kitchen. Before Doreen had moved out two months ago, she’d jokingly accused me of having a series of affairs at work, and that I was trying to mask the scent of all those other women with garlic and turmeric. It had been funny, a running joke, at least until the new sous-chef needed me to walk her through cleanup again after hours, and then leaned back into me while I was reaching around her to demonstrate where the fryer basket clicked in. I had been with Doreen four years, then. And the sous-chef—what the cheating man says in stories is that she didn’t mean anything. But that’s not right. That’s not fair. What she meant for me, it was a way out. So far, this is how my life’s gone, pretty much. I do all this work to build a thing—in this case trust, a relationship, someone to watch stupid television with, someone who lets me sleep late because chefs keep different hours—and then, once the Jenga tower gets tall enough to look a little bit scary, I start pulling out blocks, seeing how far I can skeletonize my life before it all comes crashing down again. Taking the bike paths home each night after work, though, it reminds me that I wasn’t always like this. There was a time. It was college. I was on the racing team. The university was buying us the latest bikes, sleek things, bullets with wheels—we weighed them in grams—and the sponsors were supplying us with the same shorts and helmets and gloves and glasses the pros wore, and every day my legs were pumping, pushing, pedaling. That was the only time I hadn’t started pulling out blocks, as it were. If college had lasted forever, I’d still be out riding, just zoning out at forty miles per hour, choosing the line I was going to take, just like Coach was always saying. You have to choose your line. Coming home at two in the morning, Velcroed into my old racing shoes that have the clips worn down to nubs—dull little nubs my pedals know like a ball knows its socket—I could pretend that life had never ended. That I was still me. That I hadn’t run Doreen off on purpose. That I wouldn’t run the next Doreen off just the same. All the other kitchen staff who biked in and out, their bikes were these bulky hybrids. Some were even labeled “comfort.” The comfort in riding—it’s not physical, it’s spiritual. My bike’s built for racing, still and always. Aggressive stance, the bars dialed low so you have to lie down on the top tube, pretty much. A butt-floss saddle canted forward like I’m a time trial racer. The only concession to middle age, I suppose, is the light clamped to the handlebars. It makes me feel old, but I’d feel older if I endo’d into the creek. The trail between the restaurant and my apartment is lit up intermittently, these pale yellow discs you kind of float through, but there are plenty of long, dark tree-tunnels over those two and a half miles. Those tunnels are fun to shoot in the dark, don’t get me wrong, but the dark isn’t the thing to worry about. The whole year, there’d been a battle going on in the opinion pages of the newspaper. Motorists were bullying bikers, bikers were kicking dents into fenders and doors. Nobody’d been hurt too bad yet, but it was coming. One of us was going to get nudged a bit too hard by a bumper, nudged hard enough to get pulled under the car, and the motorist was going to walk for it like they always do, and then cyclists were going to be riding side by side from one ditch to the other, stopping traffic for miles. It had happened before, and it was happening again. Even up in the mountains. Apparently—this just going from what I read, as I stick to asphalt and concrete—the hikers had been sabotaging the trail against mountain bikers. Deadfalls, rocks, the occasional spike. Helmets or no, riders were getting hurt. And now it had come to town. For five nights in a row, there’d been driftwood from the creek dragged up onto the trail. It was then I’d relented, finally started running a headlight. And the headlight was how I saw them. The bodies. Two guys, young, floating in the shallows where the creek turns west. On the shore was the large piece of driftwood they’d been trying to dislodge, to drag up across the trail. It was too much for two people. But they were the only ones there. One of them was floating facedown in the water. The other was on his back. His throat was gone. No blood was seeping from it. They were on the news by seven in the morning, the two dead kids. College students from one of the farming towns on the eastern plains. I had considered reporting them myself, but it was just a fluke of timing that I’d been the one to find them, I decided. Someone else would come along at about daybreak. Boulder’s full of concerned citizens, people for whom it would be a rush to get involved. Me, I was tired. We had two new bussers. You wouldn’t think a couple of non-lifers that low on the food chain would change the dynamic of a kitchen that much, but dishes, they’re our lifeblood. It had been chaos and emergency, from the first group reservation on. I deserved to just come home, watch some vapid cop drama until the sun came up. The last bit of the news I saw was the weather. The spring melt was coming down hard. Tonight the creek was going to be lapping at the concrete of the trail again. Awake again by three in the afternoon, I clamped my bike up onto the rack by the breakfast bar—by what would have been the breakfast bar—and administered to its various needs. The same way soldiers in movies are always taking their weapons apart and reassembling them, old cyclists, we like to perform our own maintenance. Old. I’m even starting to say it. When Doreen was leaving for good and ever, was on her last walk-through to be sure the last four years of her life were completely boxed up, we’d of course had to have it out a little. The main thrust of her accusation involved me just wanting to feel young again. That I’d never let that part of myself go completely, like other men did when it was time to grow up. I hadn’t had any accusations for her to feed on, to cultivate, to take with her and coat with saliva like a pearl. Just apologies, and very little eye contact, and one last offer of the apartment, which we both knew had just been a gesture, as it had been mine when we’d met. For dinner I ate sliced deli turkey straight from the container. Hang around a hospital for even ten minutes, you’ll see the nurses huddled up at the handicapped entrance, stabbing cigarettes into their mouths. Hang around chefs long enough, you’ll find us in the fast-food drive-throughs of the world. There we’ll be, walking out of the gas station with a bag of chips for dinner, so we can have enough energy to plate some salmon at sixty-per. The world doesn’t make sense. I tuned the news back on. The eyewitness—a senior citizen in a tracksuit with actual stripes on the sleeve and legs—was telling her story about finding the bodies. I watched the woods behind her, where the camera didn’t mean to be looking. At first I thought I was looking for myself—stupid, I know—but what I saw, what nobody else was seeing, it was a pair of cycling glasses, hanging by their elastic band from a small, bare sapling pushing up through the dank brush, way over in the ditch you never ford into, because you know it’s a literal dumping ground for the homeless population. What got me to hit the rewind button, then the pause button, it wasn’t as simple as castoff equipment. I’ve peeled out of I don’t know how many sunglasses and gloves and jerseys while riding, because I didn’t have time to dispose of them properly, but needed the ounce or two they’d free me of. What got me to hit the stop button was the color pattern on the elastic band. It was from a company that had been defunct since my junior year of college. And these glasses, they weren’t for the sun. They were clear. The kind you wear when riding at night, when what you need is a gnat-shield, goggles to keep you from tearing up, to keep the world from blurring away. And they were ten years old, at least. They had to be. I ate my turkey from the bag and I kept those clear glasses paused on the screen. Just watching them. My twenty-year-old self would have been disgusted, but when it started drizzling at five in the afternoon, and I was scheduled to meet the two new bussers twenty minutes before dinner prep—six—I accepted the ride downtown Glenda next door was offering. She asked after Doreen, said it had been too long since we’d been over for drinks. I agreed. Because she saw how I’d tried to shield my newly spotless bike from the water, loading it into her Honda’s hatchback, she backed up between the restaurant’s dumpsters for me. I grabbed my roll of knives and told her to drop in this week, tell the hostess she was my guest and, once again, she said she might just do that, thanks. Did she know Doreen was gone? Was this a game we were playing? I didn’t know, but it was too late to stop. I nosed my bike into the space past the line of coat hooks, chained it to the handrail like always. The components alone are probably two grand—all Campy, all high-end—and, while I’d like to think restaurant staff are good people, I also consider myself something of a realist. Only one of the bussers showed up for my hands-on training. I should have gone easy on him, repaid his loyalty or discipline or stupidity or whatever it was, but instead I just heaped all the attitude and scorn I had on him, and told myself that this is how it is for everyone, starting out in the kitchen. You’re tough or you’re gone. If I was chasing him off with this, then I was doing him a favor. He must have needed the work. The three times I came out to talk to tables—the first was someone I’d worked with years ago but wasn’t thrilled to see, and the other two were first dates showing off their food IQ, but masking it as simpering complaints—I made sure to linger long enough to see whether the groups huddled on the wrong side of the hostess podium were glittering with raindrops or not. I’d left my bike at the restaurant overnight a few times before, either hitched a ride home with a server or manager or just cabbed it, but I wanted to get out and stretch tonight, if possible. Judging by my second two trips out to the dining room—dry shoulders from the hostess podium crowd—it just might be possible. Granted, there would be puddles, a slick spot or two, and my bike would need another thorough rubdown once I got home. But the wind in my face would make it worth it. It always did. And, after a rain, the paths and bike lanes are usually devoid of traffic, completely lifeless. All mine. Coach used to always tell us to choose our line, to stay focused on that, to not look anywhere else but the direction you’re going. It was advice that worked in the kitchen as well. The line I could see ahead of me, it led past cleanup, out the back door, down the bike lane for half a mile before swooping and banking onto the path for nearly three glorious, empty miles. In the alley at two in the morning, my clothes steamed at first. It always made me feel like I was just touching down in this strange atmosphere, my alien fabric off-gassing, adjusting. It was just temperature differential, of course. It had been happening since I first started washing dishes, would clock out soaked from head to toe. I usually wasn’t this wet by the end of the night, had already paid those dues, but, because I was ready to be shut of the kitchen, and because the captain has to go down with the ship, I’d stepped in beside Manny, our dishwasher of nine months. You can’t help getting sprayed, especially when you’re dealing with a ladle. But we got it done in half the time, racked the wine glasses so they wouldn’t spot, and then I saluted him off into the night, hung my apron on its hook, and rolled up my knives. I should have been using them to cut up the day-old bread for croutons—a ten-minute job, with nobody tugging on my sleeve—but screw it. Sometimes you just have to walk away. Feed yourself first, right? The bike lane away from the restaurant was as empty as I’d imagined. I leaned back from the bars, planed my arms out to the side like I was twelve years old again. What do people who lose that part of themselves do, I wonder? When Doreen had accused me of not growing up, I’d felt parentheses kind of form around my eyes, the question right there in my mouth: And? It’s not some big social or emotional impediment to still be able to close your eyes, pretend to be an airplane. Some people hold on to that with video games, some with books about space, some with basketball or tennis, if their knees hold together. For me it was a bike. For me it was this. Soon enough the path opened up just across the creek, inviting me to slalom down it one more time, but I stopped mid-bridge, still clipped in, my arms crossed on the rail on the uphill side. The melt was coming fast, and hard. The surface of the water breathed like a great animal, the sides of the creek surging up just over the bank, washing the concrete of the path and then retreating. I was definitely going to be up until dawn, drying my bike out. Somebody old and sensible, they probably would have gone the long way, the dry way. My only concession was turning my headlight on, and hitching the strap of my knife-roll higher across my chest, like the bandolier it most definitely was. The first mile, the water never even crested up over my valve stem. And, down here by the creek, the sound was massive. It felt like the mountains were bleeding out. But I didn’t forget the promise I’d made earlier: A mile into it, right at the bend where the creek turned west, I stepped my right foot over the top bar, rode sidesaddle on my left foot, and looked behind me, at the rooster tail of mist I was leaving. It was stupid. It was wonderful. Before the bike rolled all the way to a stop, I stepped down into the grabby muck, hitched the bike up onto my arm like I was racing cyclo-cross. What I was really doing was playing detective. The mud in the tall grass and brush and tangle of vines and trash turned out to be sloppier than I’d hoped, but I trudged and clumped through it, picked those clear glasses off the naked sapling like the fruit they were. I’d been right, that afternoon. These were seriously antique, from another decade of cycling gear. Usually, something like this hung in a tree or set up on a rock with another rock there to keep it from blowing away, it was just what you did when you stumbled onto something somebody else had dropped. It was only kind. Surely they’d be back, looking for it, right? This was too far out for that, though. There were closer places to the path to hang a piece of equipment. I stood there by the sapling, raised the wet glasses to my face and looked through them. At the shiny path. At the silhouette of trees waving back and forth. At the creek where the two college kids had been floating. For maybe twenty seconds, I couldn’t look away from that bend. It was like I was seeing them again. Like a puzzle piece in my head was nudging itself into some bigger picture. Before it could resolve, I looked over, to the right. There was someone there. On a matte-black aluminum bike. You can tell aluminum from carbon by the turns in the frame. Aluminum bikes, they’re ten years ago as well. And the rider—where I was in kitchen rags, like usual for the ride home, he was in tights. Not shorts or a bib, but some kind of wet suit a surfer might wear: slick black like a second skin, ankle to neck to wrist. It would have been terrible in the sun, and at night it had to be terrible as well, since there was no way your skin could breathe. To match the black seal suit, this cyclist also had black shoes and black gloves, a flash of pale skin at wrist and ankle. No helmet. And—looking down to what I was holding—no glasses. I held them out across the muck, through the misting rain, and in response, this night cyclist, he snarled. I’d never seen anybody actually do that before. Like a dog you were happy was on a chain. “What?” I said, only loud enough for myself, really. He was already whipping his bike away, standing to granny gear it through the silt just under the water. When he looked back, his dank black hair was plastered to his white face. And his eyes—they were all pupil. Like smoke, like a whisper, he faded once he made the dry concrete. For maybe ten seconds, I considered what had just happened. And then I saw it for what it was: An invitation. A challenge. A dare. I smiled, splashed through the tall grass, ran past the deep water, and hit the concrete running alongside my bike, catapulted up into the saddle already shifting hard, my nostrils wide because my lungs were about to need air. It had been too long since I’d really gotten the opportunity—the need—to open up. Coach had diagnosed me early as a sprinter, and he’d kind of sneered when he said it, like there was no hope, really. He’d work with me, sure, but I was what I was. For four years it made me faster, better, harder. He was right, though: I’m a born sprinter. I’ll burn through my quads those first two miles, leave the whole pack in the dust. It was one mile until the trail nosed up into the canyon for twenty vertical miles. It was one mile, and this night cyclist, he only had about a half-minute head start. If only Doreen could see me now. Where I finally saw him again, it was at the pond the low part of the trail had become, downtown. He was standing there, one foot down in the water. There’s no way I was making any more noise than the flooded creek, but still, as soon as I rounded the corner, he whipped his head back settled his black eyes on me. I gave him a cocky two-fingered wave from my grips. He didn’t wave back. He was watching the water again. My big plan was to walk my bike up beside him, so as to keep from whipping water into his face. Not like we weren’t both already soaked, but manners are manners, even at two in the morning, in the dark and the rain. He never gave me the chance. I was fifty feet away when he hauled his bike around, rode the lapping edge of the water through the wet grass, all the way up to the road, stepped down for just long enough to lift his bike up onto the cracked sidewalk that runs up there. He didn’t lift his bike because he didn’t have momentum—the climb he’d just made would have even taxed my sprinter’s legs in their prime—he lifted it because road bike rims, especially old aluminum ones like he was running, they’ll crimp in from that kind of action. I bared my teeth just like he’d done, and I gave chase, having to run my bike up the last ten or fifteen yards, when my narrow road tires started to gouge into the mud. By the time I clipped in on the sidewalk, he was a receding black dot in the car lane. I ramped down off the curb at a handicapped place, and I gave my bike every last bit of myself I had. We took the turn—on the road, not the path—up into the canyon maybe ten seconds apart, him running the beginning of the red light, me catching the end of it, leaned over too far for wet asphalt but I didn’t care anymore. My left pedal snagged on the blacktop, hitching the ass-end of the bike over a hiccup, but the tire caught somehow, and I rode it out. Watching my line. I was watching my line. It led straight to him. He looked back just like Coach was forever telling us not to, but it didn’t slow him or tilt him even a little. A half mile after the turn, the road started its wicked uphill slope. Twice I’d gone up it, but that was fifteen years ago, and the road had been barricaded off for the event, and I’d still been pretty sure I was going to have to sag wagon it. Not because I was a sprinter. Because I was human. I’d promised myself never again. But this was now. This was tonight. I geared down, stood on the cranks. He was there in my headlight. Not riding away. Just crosswise in the road, like a barricade himself. I rear-braked, my rooster tail slinging past without me, like my intentions were going where I couldn’t. The night cyclist wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t anything. He was just looking at me. “I’ve got your—!” I said, pulling the clear glasses away from my neck, against the elastic. He turned in a huff, uphill, and, because I had the jump, I figured I’d be alongside him in two shakes. Wrong. He was faster on the climb than I was. It wasn’t even close. Even with me screaming for my lungs to be deeper, for my legs to be younger, for the grade to flatten out. It was like the mountain was sucking him uphill. And when he looked back on the first turn, his mouth wasn’t haggard and gasping like mine. He was calm, even. Not winded in the least. Two miles into it, blood in my throat, I had to stop. I threw up over the guardrail, then collapsed across it, not caring how it was chiseling into my midsection. No headlights came along to hitch me down the hill, into town. “What are you?” I said to the night cyclist, wherever he was. Miles away by now, I thought. Or—watching me from the trees? I tried to bore into the darkness, to catch his outline there, but then I was throwing up again, from deep, deep inside, like I was dry heaving all the years between who I was and who I had been, and then I climbed back into the saddle like the rag doll I was, rode my brakes home, taking the roads this time. I was bonked by the time I crawled into my living room. The adrenaline had burned through all the blood sugar I had, and left me in the hole for more. I couldn’t remember the last time this had happened. I didn’t miss it. It was like having sludge for blood, and having to look at the world through one narrow, long straw. I settled my bike against the back of the couch in exactly the way I never do—it was Doreen’s couch—unrolled my knives on the counter to be sure the oiled leather had kept them dry, and then I ate great heaping handfuls of corn chips and chocolate morsels from the pantry. Not because that’s any kind of magic formula, but because they were the first things I saw. It took ten or twelve minutes, but I finally woke up enough to rack my bike, dry it with a hand towel from the kitchen, even going so far as to twist off the valve stem caps, blow any lingering droplets in there back onto my face. Only after my bike was properly stabled did I change into dry clothes myself. Just some mountain bike shorts I’d only bought because they were on clearance and I had credit at that store. They were my house shorts, had a pocket right on the front of the thigh. My phone dropped into it perfectly. I turned on the television to see if our race had been documented, but all up and down the dial it was just cop shows sentenced to ten years, hard syndication. The first time I woke still watching, I rolled off the couch, checked to make sure the front door was secure—never trust yourself when your blood sugar’s flatlined—then climbed into bed on what I was still calling my side. The way I turned the lamp off in the living room was by shutting my eyes. The next time I woke, I wasn’t completely sure that’s what I’d just done. The way my legs were still both burning and noodled at the same time, I thought for a second that maybe I was at the end of a long ride, years ago. Something up in the peaks, in the thin, crisp air, permanent snow back in the shadows of the evergreen. Was that where he lived, I wondered? The night cyclist? Except—nobody could make that ride up the canyon. Any sane person would fork over the change for the bus. But this night cyclist, he hadn’t had a pack, hadn’t had a rack on his bike. If he did live up the hill, what was he even down here in the big wet for? Exercise? Recreation? That would be more like suicide, having to make that climb after bopping all around town in the dark. And, yeah, now that that was on the table: the dark. No light? Nothing reflective to him at all. Like he just wanted to whip past, be already gone by the time the smear he’d been even registered to anybody on the trail that late. “What are you?” I said out loud, but the comforter muffled my voice. Which was good. There was a shadow stretched out through the open doorway of my bedroom. My heart gorged up into my throat. And then, like my heart was that loud, the head of that shadow, it cocked around in a way I knew. A way I remembered. It was him. My first response was to curl deeper into the safety of my comforter. My next response, it was to ask him how he’d done that. How he’d sprinted uphill, away from me, a born sprinter. And on a relic of a bike at that. Keeping the blanket around my shoulders, I stood, shushed over into the doorway, for some reason superstitious about stepping directly into his shadow. Like it was a well I could fall into? Like that blackness was going to leech up through the print of my bare feet? I don’t know. It was instinctual; it was automatic. It was polite. In magical places, you make all obeisance you might think proper. He knew I was there, had probably clocked my approach from the exact instant I’d stopped breathing. What he was holding, and considering, it was his clear glasses. The reason he was considering them, it was that I’d put them on the plate Doreen had decreed the home for all glasses. The reason he was reconsidering them, it was that right there in the bowl were mine. My daytime ones, polarized, iridescent, and my night ones, clear and sleek, the elastic tight and young. My clear ones were enough of an update on his that they were practically a reinvention. He looked up to me, and his face, it was cut stone. Harsh, angular, pale. And those eyes. I’d been right, last time: The pupils or irises or whatever, they were blown out. There was hardly any white. Of course he didn’t need a headlight. Creatures of the night, they get along just fine in the darkness. There were no eyebrows, either. “What happened to you?” I almost said. And his thighs—if I hadn’t seen him ride, I’d never have clocked him for a serious cyclist. A rider who can rabbit up the canyon even just a mile or two without breaking a sweat, his quads should be jodhpured out past what any denim could ever contain, with thick, veined calves to match. Like gorilla forearms. His legs though, they were slender, smooth. Probably pale as his face, pale as those wristlets of white between his gloves and sleeve, between the cuff of his tights and the crescent of his shoe-tops. He must be corded like steel, and wound tight. At which point, finally, I cased the front door. It was shut, the deadbolt still twisted tight. Meaning—yep. Right on cue, the drapes over the sliding glass door billowed in, then sighed back out onto the balcony. The third-floor balcony. “I know what you did to those kids in the creek,” I said. “Before they were in the creek, I mean.” It was supposed to be what kept him from coming for me. Knowledge. Except, idiot that I am, I’d made sure he knew that the only place that knowledge lived, it was in my head. Dig that out, and he’d have nothing to worry about. “You didn’t have to,” I added. “They were never going to get that log moved.” He just stared at me. Evaluating me, it felt like. How long had it been since anyone attempted conversation with him, I wonder now? If he had spoken, if he could, what would he have even said, after so long? Would he have asked why a die-hard cyclist was defending those who would do violence to cyclists? Looking back, my guess is that he couldn’t speak at all. Not without showing me his teeth. “I didn’t invite you in here,” I said to him, my bulk—with the comforter—filling the doorway. To show how little threat I was, he turned away from me, studying his glasses again. Then raising them, to inhale their scent. “I didn’t wear them,” I said. “Not really.” What he was smelling, it was my sweat on the band, from when they’d been around my neck. From when I’d been chasing him. In a moment’s association, then, I knew that that was how he’d found me here on the third floor of an apartment building miles away from the last place I’d seen him. He’d picked my scent out of all the smells of the city. Out of all the thousands of other bodies out after dark. He’d known me through the rain. I swallowed, the sound of it crashing in my ears. He’d come here because I’d seen him. He’d come here because he couldn’t be seen. “You don’t ride in the sun, do you,” I said. It wasn’t really a question. I nodded down to the glasses he was still considering. “And the stores are only open in the daytime. So you can’t—you can’t update your gear.” I could tell by the new stillness about him that he heard me, but he didn’t look up. “Take them,” I said. Slowly, by labored degrees, he looked over to me. “Mine,” I said. “Take them. You need them.” Because it wasn’t in him to leave evidence behind, he hooked his down over his neck like I’d worn them, then settled mine around his head, the continuous lens cocked up on his forehead. When he lowered them, the dents left from the elastic’s pull didn’t fill with red color. But I’d known that wasn’t going to happen. “You’re fast,” I said to him. “I used to be fast.” He looked up to me for what I knew was the last time. I knew it was the last because there was a grin spreading across his face. No, not a grin. A sneer. What he was saying was that he was fast. The fastest. And he didn’t need lungs. And he slept—where he slept, it was probably burrowed into a hole somewhere up the canyon. Under a rock ledge, in a cave only him and the marmots and the chipmunks knew about, and whatever beetles and grubs can live in gaspy thin air, without the sun. The moment his grin flashed into a smile, I saw the dirty yellow sharpness past his lips and I took an involuntary step back. That was all it took to spook him. He moved like quicksilver over the couch, past the rattan stools, and onto the balcony. I rushed over after him, to see him silently touching down, or swimming through the night air, but he was already gone. I should have expected nothing less. Three nights later, the waters receded from the bike path. I hadn’t been riding to and from work. Doreen had called, actually. Just to talk. I told her to swing by the restaurant soon, that I’d make her favorite, like old times. Her breath hitched a bit over that. Four years, that’s a long time. For me too. “And you need to be careful,” she said, when we were both signing off awkwardly—awkward because we’d been saying the same thing at the end of every call for so long. What were we supposed to say now? “Careful?” I said. “Those two kids who died,” she said. “They weren’t riding,” I told her. “Just be careful.” I promised her I would and we somehow broke the connection. It was my night off. What she’d said, though. It was a challenge, wasn’t it? You only have to be careful when you think something can really happen to you. When you’re twenty, twenty-five, nothing in the world can touch you. To prove that still applied to me, I unclamped my bike from the rack, checked the tire pressure front and back, then nodded to myself about this, trucked us downstairs, to the sidewalk that led to the path that ran alongside the creek, up the canyon if I followed that far. It was one, two in the morning. Late enough that the hand-in-hand lovers would be bedded down someplace secret. Late enough that all the smokers who’d promised they’d quit weren’t out for one last drag. Just me and the creatures of the night. My headlight only stabbed fifteen, twenty feet into the darkness. To show I could, that I still had those legs, I pumped hard for the black space of the mountains. I knew better than to try to make the whole climb. But even a little would prove something. I made it the same two miles, not pushing hard, just steady climbing, before I wheeled around, rode gravity back to town. Two homeless men, tuned to nature better than the usual baby stroller crowd, stepped away from each other to let me slip between them at thirty miles per hour. I nodded thanks, but it’s always an empty gesture. You’re going too fast for it to register, and you can’t ever check back to see if they even saw your gratitude. Empty gestures are what make the world go round, though. I swooped under two, three bridges, pedaling though I didn’t really need to. There was still silt on the concrete. It crunched under my tires like sugar granules. “Careful,” I said again, to myself. Just retasting the word. Mining into it for what Doreen had really been trying to get across. I looked down, shut my eyes—I was on a straightaway, the one that tunneled through the next quarter mile or so of trees—watching my top tube coast back and forth instead of doing the first thing Coach always said: keeping my eyes on the line I was taking. My headlight was what saved me from myself. A piece of driftwood, obviously dragged up onto the path. Doing it without thinking—it was years too late to stop—I bunny hopped the wood. When you’re clipped in and your bike goes eleven pounds, you can do this. I came down with both tires at once, like’s proper if you want to keep control, and had to skid immediately, as clearing the next chunk of driftwood would only land me on a third piece. This wasn’t just a symbolic attempt to sabotage the trail. This was set up to hurt any rider who came at it with a head of speed. I didn’t wipe out, though. It was close, but I knew to cantilever out, ahead, and keep hold of the bike so it didn’t crash into me, send us both spinning into the darkness. It was a once-in-fifty tries dismount, but I landed it. Breathing hard from the close call, all the profanity I knew welling up in me, I looked back at what almost was, what should have been if I hadn’t just cashed in all my luck for the next ten years, and then I directed my headlight ahead, into the turn, to what other obstacles awaited. The night cyclists’s white face looked back to me. His white face and his red mouth and chin. His deep black eyes. I flinched, but then realized why he wasn’t already at my throat: He was impaled on the seat post of his own bike. He was impaled just like I would be, if I hadn’t reeled all my speed in. But my speed, it had probably only been half of his. I could see what had happened, too. Like me, he’d bunny hopped over the initial chunk of driftwood but, going faster, his hop had carried him farther, into the next strategically placed driftwood. It had been too much to recover from. He’d probably fallen over sideways, slapped the concrete of the trail hard, but he was going fast enough that instead of splatting into a skid, he bounced, he cartwheeled. And his bike was right there with him, coming apart at its welds, components spinning up into the night sky. Specifically, his seat. Only, the clamp hadn’t let go. The seatpost, it had snapped. A carbon-fiber seatpost, it would have splintered, would be showing thread. An old-style aluminum post like he was running, though, it’ll snap off up near the saddle, leave a ragged tube, a hollow spear. The night cyclist had hit the tree with his back, hard, and an instant later his bike’s seatpost, still extending from the bike itself, had jammed through his sternum. The blood around that wound, it was black, even at this distance. Not red like the blood at his mouth. I adjusted the strap across my chest, only just then realized I had my knives with me. They were clean, like always, but I could tell from the flare of his nostrils that he knew what I was wearing. That this was just one more insult the night had for him. One more stupid thing between him and wherever he was going. His lips thinned, his teeth baring, but before he could complete his display, he whipped his head over to the left. I looked too. Nothing. No sound. And then there was. Not voices, but brush and branches, parting. At first I thought it was the two dead boys from the creek, risen. But one of them had shaped sideburns this time, the other a shaved head. Different college kids. What they were carrying was a double-bit axe and a camp hatchet, one of those kinds with a textured hammer on the back side. And then I realized exactly where we were: at that bend in the creek. It’s why I’d thought they were the dead boys, risen. These were their friends, then. The other night, they’d tried to muscle that big log up onto the trail. This night, they’d come back with proper tools. To finish the job the night cyclist had interrupted. And to avenge their fallen comrades, as they probably saw it. When one of them dragged a flashlight up to the night cyclist, I saw that his chin and mouth, their redness wasn’t from himself. That Double-Bit and Hatchet were still standing, that meant that, a few minutes ago, they’d been three. I finally tracked down to the night cyclist’s feet, and there was the body that had to be there. The boy who had stepped too close, to taunt. At which point his two friends had decided to go for tools. For weapons. And they still hadn’t seen me. Because bicycles, when properly greased, they’re quiet. I laid my bike down into the grass, unlimbered my roll of knives, spread them out before me. I didn’t know for sure that Double-Bit and Hatchet could kill the night cyclist like they wanted—they’d still have to get close—but the sun would be coming up eventually, and if he was still pinned to the tree, then they might as well have killed him. The night cyclist saw me stepping forward but didn’t move a muscle on his face. And, because his eyes showed so little white, even if he was watching me, the two still coming at him wouldn’t have been able to tell. Double-Bit hit him once, swinging his great axe like a baseball bat into the night cyclist’s shoulder, and then Hatchet came not at the night cyclist, but the bike. He caught it on the bottom bracket with the hammer side, the full force of his impact traveling up the aluminum frame, driving the seat post deeper into flesh. The night cyclist didn’t even grunt. The black blood just slipped from his mouth, oiled his chin and chest. He did smile, though. “What do you have to smile about?” Hatchet screamed, bouncing like a boxer on his toes, wrapping up to swing again. Double-Bit smiled, seemingly pleased with how the night was falling out, but he caught me in his peripheral vision, too. At the last possible instant. He turned away just fast enough that my paring knife caught him across his open mouth, instead of his temple, like. The blade crossed between his upper and lower teeth, the dagger-point nicking the bunched-up jaw muscle at the back of his mouth on both sides, I was pretty sure. He reeled back, away from the pain. Into the mouth of the night cyclist, open just as wide as his now was, like a snake about to swallow an egg. When the night cyclist bit in, some of the blood spattered onto my face. I was wearing my backup clear glasses, but still I flinched, blinked. This all in a moment cut so thin it was nearly transparent. In the next moment, Hatchet was turning to me. I flipped the paring knife around and grabbed it by the tip, as if to throw—on the cycling team, we’d fake-lob a water bottle high to someone, then spray them hard with the water bottle we secretly had—and while Hatchet had his arms raise to protect his face, I drove my eight-inch knife up into his belly, digging for his diaphragm. Maybe I got it, I don’t know. He fell back into the night cyclist’s bike, fell back hard enough to crack it to the side, out of the night cyclist, and then the night changed. The night cyclist slumped down, free of the seatpost, his hair hanging over his face, and inside I was screaming at myself to run, to ride, to leave this place. But Hatchet was already coming for me, holding his guts in with one hand, his weapon high in the other. He would have got me, too, if the night cyclist hadn’t stabbed a hand forward, dug his sharp fingers into Hatchet’s calf. Instead of pulling Hatchet’s throat to him, instead of climbing hand over hand up to Hatchet’s throat, he simply pulled that calf to his mouth, and, with Hatchet facedown in the muck now, he drank, and drank deep, his Adam’s apple working up and down with each swallow. His eyes, they never left mine. When Hatchet was drained, just his foot spasming, the night cyclist pulled himself over to Double-Bit, drank some more there as well. And then he rolled over, convulsing in the mud, holding his shoulder. I could have run then, I know. But I didn’t. When he could, he stood weakly, looked up the path the way I’d come, then back the other way. We were alone. He lurched forward, for his ruined bike. “No,” I said. He stopped, studied me, his eyes showing real fatigue for the first time I’d seen. Shaking my head no, I pointed with my paring knife back to the bike in the grass, the one he could surely smell. He looked into that tall grass, then back to me. “Take it already,” I said, and nodded down to his bike. “Need to put this one out of its misery.” His front wheel was taco’d, one drop was lower than the other, and one of the cranks had bent in under the top chainring. I couldn’t imagine going that fast through the darkness, alone. It was a rush just thinking about it. “What the hell are you?” I said when he took that first step bike-ward, though I knew. In reply, he took my paring knife forearm in the cold grip of his good arm, pulled the meat of my hand right up to his mouth. He opened slow. His teeth were impossible. I had my big knife in my other hand, but it might as well have been someone else’s hand. He lowered his teeth to my skin, his eyes never leaving mine, and I understood what he was offering. Eternal youth. Night rides forever. Going faster than I’d ever dreamed. He was offering to share the night with me. What had my scent told him, revealed to him? Standing in the living room of my apartment, had he smelled the flavor of Doreen’s last accusations? I don’t put anything beyond him. Or his kind. When his teeth brushed my skin, I didn’t jerk back, but I did hear myself say it, my eyes welling up: “No.” He stopped, looked up into my face. “I’m going to call her back,” I said, trusting that he knew what I was talking about. Who. He held my eyes for a moment longer, long enough for me consider exactly what I was giving up here, then he nodded, pushed my arm back to me. He licked his lips, dabbing at a bit of dried blood, and then his eyes snapped up to the path. Company, soon. “Go,” I told him, and when he walked by I smelled it on him, from him. The decay. If he ever peeled out of his suit, it must smell like the grave for acres in every direction. Partway to my bike, he scooped up my leather roll, slung it back to me as if it was something any chef could possibly ever just leave lying there. Then he leaned my bike up from the grass, stepped across the top tube then back off, to adjust the seat. Not with a multi-tool, but by pinching the clamp’s bolt between his fingers. When he stood into the pedals, the bike was dialed perfect for him. He clipped in with both feet, just balancing there, getting the feel of this new machine—he liked it, could sense the speed locked in its geometry—and then, without looking back, he powered away, into the silhouette of the Flatirons, which, at night, are the maw of a great cave. Who he must have passed, who showed up two, three minutes later, it was a pregnant woman and a guy. They were bundled up, both crying over something—I’d never know what. He’d let them pass, though, the night cyclist. He surely needed even more blood to rebuild himself, but he needed worse to ride. I understood. With every part of myself, I understood. When the couple got to me, the pregnant woman yelped, stumbled back—I was standing in the gore of three more college kids, both my knives dripping, bug-eyed under the clear glasses, my face spattered with blood—and, and this is why I love the world, why I’m going to cook Doreen’s favorite meal tomorrow, just take it to her: The man, scrawny and useless as he was, he stepped in front of her, to stand between her and the monster I looked to be. “There’s no compulsion to hide the bodies,” I said to them like a joke, spreading my arms as if to showcase my night’s work—words and a gesture that would be on the national news by morning—and then I bowed once and stepped back into the darkness, and came out onto the path a half mile later, walked up onto the plank bridge, my knives cleaned and in their roll again. The waters were surging beneath me, inexorable, going for miles and miles, for centuries. I patted the rail’s cold steel and walked on across, home.

There must be no compulsion to hide the bodies. Otherwise I’d have never found them. It was a Tuesday night. I was riding home after work, my leather roll of knives strapped across my back. I’d left my apron on the hook at the restaurant, but I still smelled like the kitchen. Before Doreen had moved out two months ago, she’d jokingly accused me of having a series of affairs at work, and that I was trying to mask the scent of all those other women with garlic and turmeric. It had been funny, a running joke, at least until the new sous-chef needed me to walk her through cleanup again after hours, and then leaned back into me while I was reaching around her to demonstrate where the fryer basket clicked in. I had been with Doreen four years, then. And the sous-chef—what the cheating man says in stories is that she didn’t mean anything. But that’s not right. That’s not fair. What she meant for me, it was a way out. So far, this is how my life’s gone, pretty much. I do all this work to build a thing—in this case trust, a relationship, someone to watch stupid television with, someone who lets me sleep late because chefs keep different hours—and then, once the Jenga tower gets tall enough to look a little bit scary, I start pulling out blocks, seeing how far I can skeletonize my life before it all comes crashing down again. Taking the bike paths home each night after work, though, it reminds me that I wasn’t always like this. There was a time. It was college. I was on the racing team. The university was buying us the latest bikes, sleek things, bullets with wheels—we weighed them in grams—and the sponsors were supplying us with the same shorts and helmets and gloves and glasses the pros wore, and every day my legs were pumping, pushing, pedaling. That was the only time I hadn’t started pulling out blocks, as it were. If college had lasted forever, I’d still be out riding, just zoning out at forty miles per hour, choosing the line I was going to take, just like Coach was always saying. You have to choose your line. Coming home at two in the morning, Velcroed into my old racing shoes that have the clips worn down to nubs—dull little nubs my pedals know like a ball knows its socket—I could pretend that life had never ended. That I was still me. That I hadn’t run Doreen off on purpose. That I wouldn’t run the next Doreen off just the same. All the other kitchen staff who biked in and out, their bikes were these bulky hybrids. Some were even labeled “comfort.” The comfort in riding—it’s not physical, it’s spiritual. My bike’s built for racing, still and always. Aggressive stance, the bars dialed low so you have to lie down on the top tube, pretty much. A butt-floss saddle canted forward like I’m a time trial racer. The only concession to middle age, I suppose, is the light clamped to the handlebars. It makes me feel old, but I’d feel older if I endo’d into the creek. The trail between the restaurant and my apartment is lit up intermittently, these pale yellow discs you kind of float through, but there are plenty of long, dark tree-tunnels over those two and a half miles. Those tunnels are fun to shoot in the dark, don’t get me wrong, but the dark isn’t the thing to worry about. The whole year, there’d been a battle going on in the opinion pages of the newspaper. Motorists were bullying bikers, bikers were kicking dents into fenders and doors. Nobody’d been hurt too bad yet, but it was coming. One of us was going to get nudged a bit too hard by a bumper, nudged hard enough to get pulled under the car, and the motorist was going to walk for it like they always do, and then cyclists were going to be riding side by side from one ditch to the other, stopping traffic for miles. It had happened before, and it was happening again. Even up in the mountains. Apparently—this just going from what I read, as I stick to asphalt and concrete—the hikers had been sabotaging the trail against mountain bikers. Deadfalls, rocks, the occasional spike. Helmets or no, riders were getting hurt. And now it had come to town. For five nights in a row, there’d been driftwood from the creek dragged up onto the trail. It was then I’d relented, finally started running a headlight. And the headlight was how I saw them. The bodies. Two guys, young, floating in the shallows where the creek turns west. On the shore was the large piece of driftwood they’d been trying to dislodge, to drag up across the trail. It was too much for two people. But they were the only ones there. One of them was floating facedown in the water. The other was on his back. His throat was gone. No blood was seeping from it. They were on the news by seven in the morning, the two dead kids. College students from one of the farming towns on the eastern plains. I had considered reporting them myself, but it was just a fluke of timing that I’d been the one to find them, I decided. Someone else would come along at about daybreak. Boulder’s full of concerned citizens, people for whom it would be a rush to get involved. Me, I was tired. We had two new bussers. You wouldn’t think a couple of non-lifers that low on the food chain would change the dynamic of a kitchen that much, but dishes, they’re our lifeblood. It had been chaos and emergency, from the first group reservation on. I deserved to just come home, watch some vapid cop drama until the sun came up. The last bit of the news I saw was the weather. The spring melt was coming down hard. Tonight the creek was going to be lapping at the concrete of the trail again. Awake again by three in the afternoon, I clamped my bike up onto the rack by the breakfast bar—by what would have been the breakfast bar—and administered to its various needs. The same way soldiers in movies are always taking their weapons apart and reassembling them, old cyclists, we like to perform our own maintenance. Old. I’m even starting to say it. When Doreen was leaving for good and ever, was on her last walk-through to be sure the last four years of her life were completely boxed up, we’d of course had to have it out a little. The main thrust of her accusation involved me just wanting to feel young again. That I’d never let that part of myself go completely, like other men did when it was time to grow up. I hadn’t had any accusations for her to feed on, to cultivate, to take with her and coat with saliva like a pearl. Just apologies, and very little eye contact, and one last offer of the apartment, which we both knew had just been a gesture, as it had been mine when we’d met. For dinner I ate sliced deli turkey straight from the container. Hang around a hospital for even ten minutes, you’ll see the nurses huddled up at the handicapped entrance, stabbing cigarettes into their mouths. Hang around chefs long enough, you’ll find us in the fast-food drive-throughs of the world. There we’ll be, walking out of the gas station with a bag of chips for dinner, so we can have enough energy to plate some salmon at sixty-per. The world doesn’t make sense. I tuned the news back on. The eyewitness—a senior citizen in a tracksuit with actual stripes on the sleeve and legs—was telling her story about finding the bodies. I watched the woods behind her, where the camera didn’t mean to be looking. At first I thought I was looking for myself—stupid, I know—but what I saw, what nobody else was seeing, it was a pair of cycling glasses, hanging by their elastic band from a small, bare sapling pushing up through the dank brush, way over in the ditch you never ford into, because you know it’s a literal dumping ground for the homeless population. What got me to hit the rewind button, then the pause button, it wasn’t as simple as castoff equipment. I’ve peeled out of I don’t know how many sunglasses and gloves and jerseys while riding, because I didn’t have time to dispose of them properly, but needed the ounce or two they’d free me of. What got me to hit the stop button was the color pattern on the elastic band. It was from a company that had been defunct since my junior year of college. And these glasses, they weren’t for the sun. They were clear. The kind you wear when riding at night, when what you need is a gnat-shield, goggles to keep you from tearing up, to keep the world from blurring away. And they were ten years old, at least. They had to be. I ate my turkey from the bag and I kept those clear glasses paused on the screen. Just watching them. My twenty-year-old self would have been disgusted, but when it started drizzling at five in the afternoon, and I was scheduled to meet the two new bussers twenty minutes before dinner prep—six—I accepted the ride downtown Glenda next door was offering. She asked after Doreen, said it had been too long since we’d been over for drinks. I agreed. Because she saw how I’d tried to shield my newly spotless bike from the water, loading it into her Honda’s hatchback, she backed up between the restaurant’s dumpsters for me. I grabbed my roll of knives and told her to drop in this week, tell the hostess she was my guest and, once again, she said she might just do that, thanks. Did she know Doreen was gone? Was this a game we were playing? I didn’t know, but it was too late to stop. I nosed my bike into the space past the line of coat hooks, chained it to the handrail like always. The components alone are probably two grand—all Campy, all high-end—and, while I’d like to think restaurant staff are good people, I also consider myself something of a realist. Only one of the bussers showed up for my hands-on training. I should have gone easy on him, repaid his loyalty or discipline or stupidity or whatever it was, but instead I just heaped all the attitude and scorn I had on him, and told myself that this is how it is for everyone, starting out in the kitchen. You’re tough or you’re gone. If I was chasing him off with this, then I was doing him a favor. He must have needed the work. The three times I came out to talk to tables—the first was someone I’d worked with years ago but wasn’t thrilled to see, and the other two were first dates showing off their food IQ, but masking it as simpering complaints—I made sure to linger long enough to see whether the groups huddled on the wrong side of the hostess podium were glittering with raindrops or not. I’d left my bike at the restaurant overnight a few times before, either hitched a ride home with a server or manager or just cabbed it, but I wanted to get out and stretch tonight, if possible. Judging by my second two trips out to the dining room—dry shoulders from the hostess podium crowd—it just might be possible. Granted, there would be puddles, a slick spot or two, and my bike would need another thorough rubdown once I got home. But the wind in my face would make it worth it. It always did. And, after a rain, the paths and bike lanes are usually devoid of traffic, completely lifeless. All mine. Coach used to always tell us to choose our line, to stay focused on that, to not look anywhere else but the direction you’re going. It was advice that worked in the kitchen as well. The line I could see ahead of me, it led past cleanup, out the back door, down the bike lane for half a mile before swooping and banking onto the path for nearly three glorious, empty miles. In the alley at two in the morning, my clothes steamed at first. It always made me feel like I was just touching down in this strange atmosphere, my alien fabric off-gassing, adjusting. It was just temperature differential, of course. It had been happening since I first started washing dishes, would clock out soaked from head to toe. I usually wasn’t this wet by the end of the night, had already paid those dues, but, because I was ready to be shut of the kitchen, and because the captain has to go down with the ship, I’d stepped in beside Manny, our dishwasher of nine months. You can’t help getting sprayed, especially when you’re dealing with a ladle. But we got it done in half the time, racked the wine glasses so they wouldn’t spot, and then I saluted him off into the night, hung my apron on its hook, and rolled up my knives. I should have been using them to cut up the day-old bread for croutons—a ten-minute job, with nobody tugging on my sleeve—but screw it. Sometimes you just have to walk away. Feed yourself first, right? The bike lane away from the restaurant was as empty as I’d imagined. I leaned back from the bars, planed my arms out to the side like I was twelve years old again. What do people who lose that part of themselves do, I wonder? When Doreen had accused me of not growing up, I’d felt parentheses kind of form around my eyes, the question right there in my mouth: And? It’s not some big social or emotional impediment to still be able to close your eyes, pretend to be an airplane. Some people hold on to that with video games, some with books about space, some with basketball or tennis, if their knees hold together. For me it was a bike. For me it was this. Soon enough the path opened up just across the creek, inviting me to slalom down it one more time, but I stopped mid-bridge, still clipped in, my arms crossed on the rail on the uphill side. The melt was coming fast, and hard. The surface of the water breathed like a great animal, the sides of the creek surging up just over the bank, washing the concrete of the path and then retreating. I was definitely going to be up until dawn, drying my bike out. Somebody old and sensible, they probably would have gone the long way, the dry way. My only concession was turning my headlight on, and hitching the strap of my knife-roll higher across my chest, like the bandolier it most definitely was. The first mile, the water never even crested up over my valve stem. And, down here by the creek, the sound was massive. It felt like the mountains were bleeding out. But I didn’t forget the promise I’d made earlier: A mile into it, right at the bend where the creek turned west, I stepped my right foot over the top bar, rode sidesaddle on my left foot, and looked behind me, at the rooster tail of mist I was leaving. It was stupid. It was wonderful. Before the bike rolled all the way to a stop, I stepped down into the grabby muck, hitched the bike up onto my arm like I was racing cyclo-cross. What I was really doing was playing detective. The mud in the tall grass and brush and tangle of vines and trash turned out to be sloppier than I’d hoped, but I trudged and clumped through it, picked those clear glasses off the naked sapling like the fruit they were. I’d been right, that afternoon. These were seriously antique, from another decade of cycling gear. Usually, something like this hung in a tree or set up on a rock with another rock there to keep it from blowing away, it was just what you did when you stumbled onto something somebody else had dropped. It was only kind. Surely they’d be back, looking for it, right? This was too far out for that, though. There were closer places to the path to hang a piece of equipment. I stood there by the sapling, raised the wet glasses to my face and looked through them. At the shiny path. At the silhouette of trees waving back and forth. At the creek where the two college kids had been floating. For maybe twenty seconds, I couldn’t look away from that bend. It was like I was seeing them again. Like a puzzle piece in my head was nudging itself into some bigger picture. Before it could resolve, I looked over, to the right. There was someone there. On a matte-black aluminum bike. You can tell aluminum from carbon by the turns in the frame. Aluminum bikes, they’re ten years ago as well. And the rider—where I was in kitchen rags, like usual for the ride home, he was in tights. Not shorts or a bib, but some kind of wet suit a surfer might wear: slick black like a second skin, ankle to neck to wrist. It would have been terrible in the sun, and at night it had to be terrible as well, since there was no way your skin could breathe. To match the black seal suit, this cyclist also had black shoes and black gloves, a flash of pale skin at wrist and ankle. No helmet. And—looking down to what I was holding—no glasses. I held them out across the muck, through the misting rain, and in response, this night cyclist, he snarled. I’d never seen anybody actually do that before. Like a dog you were happy was on a chain. “What?” I said, only loud enough for myself, really. He was already whipping his bike away, standing to granny gear it through the silt just under the water. When he looked back, his dank black hair was plastered to his white face. And his eyes—they were all pupil. Like smoke, like a whisper, he faded once he made the dry concrete. For maybe ten seconds, I considered what had just happened. And then I saw it for what it was: An invitation. A challenge. A dare. I smiled, splashed through the tall grass, ran past the deep water, and hit the concrete running alongside my bike, catapulted up into the saddle already shifting hard, my nostrils wide because my lungs were about to need air. It had been too long since I’d really gotten the opportunity—the need—to open up. Coach had diagnosed me early as a sprinter, and he’d kind of sneered when he said it, like there was no hope, really. He’d work with me, sure, but I was what I was. For four years it made me faster, better, harder. He was right, though: I’m a born sprinter. I’ll burn through my quads those first two miles, leave the whole pack in the dust. It was one mile until the trail nosed up into the canyon for twenty vertical miles. It was one mile, and this night cyclist, he only had about a half-minute head start. If only Doreen could see me now. Where I finally saw him again, it was at the pond the low part of the trail had become, downtown. He was standing there, one foot down in the water. There’s no way I was making any more noise than the flooded creek, but still, as soon as I rounded the corner, he whipped his head back settled his black eyes on me. I gave him a cocky two-fingered wave from my grips. He didn’t wave back. He was watching the water again. My big plan was to walk my bike up beside him, so as to keep from whipping water into his face. Not like we weren’t both already soaked, but manners are manners, even at two in the morning, in the dark and the rain. He never gave me the chance. I was fifty feet away when he hauled his bike around, rode the lapping edge of the water through the wet grass, all the way up to the road, stepped down for just long enough to lift his bike up onto the cracked sidewalk that runs up there. He didn’t lift his bike because he didn’t have momentum—the climb he’d just made would have even taxed my sprinter’s legs in their prime—he lifted it because road bike rims, especially old aluminum ones like he was running, they’ll crimp in from that kind of action. I bared my teeth just like he’d done, and I gave chase, having to run my bike up the last ten or fifteen yards, when my narrow road tires started to gouge into the mud. By the time I clipped in on the sidewalk, he was a receding black dot in the car lane. I ramped down off the curb at a handicapped place, and I gave my bike every last bit of myself I had. We took the turn—on the road, not the path—up into the canyon maybe ten seconds apart, him running the beginning of the red light, me catching the end of it, leaned over too far for wet asphalt but I didn’t care anymore. My left pedal snagged on the blacktop, hitching the ass-end of the bike over a hiccup, but the tire caught somehow, and I rode it out. Watching my line. I was watching my line. It led straight to him. He looked back just like Coach was forever telling us not to, but it didn’t slow him or tilt him even a little. A half mile after the turn, the road started its wicked uphill slope. Twice I’d gone up it, but that was fifteen years ago, and the road had been barricaded off for the event, and I’d still been pretty sure I was going to have to sag wagon it. Not because I was a sprinter. Because I was human. I’d promised myself never again. But this was now. This was tonight. I geared down, stood on the cranks. He was there in my headlight. Not riding away. Just crosswise in the road, like a barricade himself. I rear-braked, my rooster tail slinging past without me, like my intentions were going where I couldn’t. The night cyclist wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t anything. He was just looking at me. “I’ve got your—!” I said, pulling the clear glasses away from my neck, against the elastic. He turned in a huff, uphill, and, because I had the jump, I figured I’d be alongside him in two shakes. Wrong. He was faster on the climb than I was. It wasn’t even close. Even with me screaming for my lungs to be deeper, for my legs to be younger, for the grade to flatten out. It was like the mountain was sucking him uphill. And when he looked back on the first turn, his mouth wasn’t haggard and gasping like mine. He was calm, even. Not winded in the least. Two miles into it, blood in my throat, I had to stop. I threw up over the guardrail, then collapsed across it, not caring how it was chiseling into my midsection. No headlights came along to hitch me down the hill, into town. “What are you?” I said to the night cyclist, wherever he was. Miles away by now, I thought. Or—watching me from the trees? I tried to bore into the darkness, to catch his outline there, but then I was throwing up again, from deep, deep inside, like I was dry heaving all the years between who I was and who I had been, and then I climbed back into the saddle like the rag doll I was, rode my brakes home, taking the roads this time. I was bonked by the time I crawled into my living room. The adrenaline had burned through all the blood sugar I had, and left me in the hole for more. I couldn’t remember the last time this had happened. I didn’t miss it. It was like having sludge for blood, and having to look at the world through one narrow, long straw. I settled my bike against the back of the couch in exactly the way I never do—it was Doreen’s couch—unrolled my knives on the counter to be sure the oiled leather had kept them dry, and then I ate great heaping handfuls of corn chips and chocolate morsels from the pantry. Not because that’s any kind of magic formula, but because they were the first things I saw. It took ten or twelve minutes, but I finally woke up enough to rack my bike, dry it with a hand towel from the kitchen, even going so far as to twist off the valve stem caps, blow any lingering droplets in there back onto my face. Only after my bike was properly stabled did I change into dry clothes myself. Just some mountain bike shorts I’d only bought because they were on clearance and I had credit at that store. They were my house shorts, had a pocket right on the front of the thigh. My phone dropped into it perfectly. I turned on the television to see if our race had been documented, but all up and down the dial it was just cop shows sentenced to ten years, hard syndication. The first time I woke still watching, I rolled off the couch, checked to make sure the front door was secure—never trust yourself when your blood sugar’s flatlined—then climbed into bed on what I was still calling my side. The way I turned the lamp off in the living room was by shutting my eyes. The next time I woke, I wasn’t completely sure that’s what I’d just done. The way my legs were still both burning and noodled at the same time, I thought for a second that maybe I was at the end of a long ride, years ago. Something up in the peaks, in the thin, crisp air, permanent snow back in the shadows of the evergreen. Was that where he lived, I wondered? The night cyclist? Except—nobody could make that ride up the canyon. Any sane person would fork over the change for the bus. But this night cyclist, he hadn’t had a pack, hadn’t had a rack on his bike. If he did live up the hill, what was he even down here in the big wet for? Exercise? Recreation? That would be more like suicide, having to make that climb after bopping all around town in the dark. And, yeah, now that that was on the table: the dark. No light? Nothing reflective to him at all. Like he just wanted to whip past, be already gone by the time the smear he’d been even registered to anybody on the trail that late. “What are you?” I said out loud, but the comforter muffled my voice. Which was good. There was a shadow stretched out through the open doorway of my bedroom. My heart gorged up into my throat. And then, like my heart was that loud, the head of that shadow, it cocked around in a way I knew. A way I remembered. It was him. My first response was to curl deeper into the safety of my comforter. My next response, it was to ask him how he’d done that. How he’d sprinted uphill, away from me, a born sprinter. And on a relic of a bike at that. Keeping the blanket around my shoulders, I stood, shushed over into the doorway, for some reason superstitious about stepping directly into his shadow. Like it was a well I could fall into? Like that blackness was going to leech up through the print of my bare feet? I don’t know. It was instinctual; it was automatic. It was polite. In magical places, you make all obeisance you might think proper. He knew I was there, had probably clocked my approach from the exact instant I’d stopped breathing. What he was holding, and considering, it was his clear glasses. The reason he was considering them, it was that I’d put them on the plate Doreen had decreed the home for all glasses. The reason he was reconsidering them, it was that right there in the bowl were mine. My daytime ones, polarized, iridescent, and my night ones, clear and sleek, the elastic tight and young. My clear ones were enough of an update on his that they were practically a reinvention. He looked up to me, and his face, it was cut stone. Harsh, angular, pale. And those eyes. I’d been right, last time: The pupils or irises or whatever, they were blown out. There was hardly any white. Of course he didn’t need a headlight. Creatures of the night, they get along just fine in the darkness. There were no eyebrows, either. “What happened to you?” I almost said. And his thighs—if I hadn’t seen him ride, I’d never have clocked him for a serious cyclist. A rider who can rabbit up the canyon even just a mile or two without breaking a sweat, his quads should be jodhpured out past what any denim could ever contain, with thick, veined calves to match. Like gorilla forearms. His legs though, they were slender, smooth. Probably pale as his face, pale as those wristlets of white between his gloves and sleeve, between the cuff of his tights and the crescent of his shoe-tops. He must be corded like steel, and wound tight. At which point, finally, I cased the front door. It was shut, the deadbolt still twisted tight. Meaning—yep. Right on cue, the drapes over the sliding glass door billowed in, then sighed back out onto the balcony. The third-floor balcony. “I know what you did to those kids in the creek,” I said. “Before they were in the creek, I mean.” It was supposed to be what kept him from coming for me. Knowledge. Except, idiot that I am, I’d made sure he knew that the only place that knowledge lived, it was in my head. Dig that out, and he’d have nothing to worry about. “You didn’t have to,” I added. “They were never going to get that log moved.” He just stared at me. Evaluating me, it felt like. How long had it been since anyone attempted conversation with him, I wonder now? If he had spoken, if he could, what would he have even said, after so long? Would he have asked why a die-hard cyclist was defending those who would do violence to cyclists? Looking back, my guess is that he couldn’t speak at all. Not without showing me his teeth. “I didn’t invite you in here,” I said to him, my bulk—with the comforter—filling the doorway. To show how little threat I was, he turned away from me, studying his glasses again. Then raising them, to inhale their scent. “I didn’t wear them,” I said. “Not really.” What he was smelling, it was my sweat on the band, from when they’d been around my neck. From when I’d been chasing him. In a moment’s association, then, I knew that that was how he’d found me here on the third floor of an apartment building miles away from the last place I’d seen him. He’d picked my scent out of all the smells of the city. Out of all the thousands of other bodies out after dark. He’d known me through the rain. I swallowed, the sound of it crashing in my ears. He’d come here because I’d seen him. He’d come here because he couldn’t be seen. “You don’t ride in the sun, do you,” I said. It wasn’t really a question. I nodded down to the glasses he was still considering. “And the stores are only open in the daytime. So you can’t—you can’t update your gear.” I could tell by the new stillness about him that he heard me, but he didn’t look up. “Take them,” I said. Slowly, by labored degrees, he looked over to me. “Mine,” I said. “Take them. You need them.” Because it wasn’t in him to leave evidence behind, he hooked his down over his neck like I’d worn them, then settled mine around his head, the continuous lens cocked up on his forehead. When he lowered them, the dents left from the elastic’s pull didn’t fill with red color. But I’d known that wasn’t going to happen. “You’re fast,” I said to him. “I used to be fast.” He looked up to me for what I knew was the last time. I knew it was the last because there was a grin spreading across his face. No, not a grin. A sneer. What he was saying was that he was fast. The fastest. And he didn’t need lungs. And he slept—where he slept, it was probably burrowed into a hole somewhere up the canyon. Under a rock ledge, in a cave only him and the marmots and the chipmunks knew about, and whatever beetles and grubs can live in gaspy thin air, without the sun. The moment his grin flashed into a smile, I saw the dirty yellow sharpness past his lips and I took an involuntary step back. That was all it took to spook him. He moved like quicksilver over the couch, past the rattan stools, and onto the balcony. I rushed over after him, to see him silently touching down, or swimming through the night air, but he was already gone. I should have expected nothing less. Three nights later, the waters receded from the bike path. I hadn’t been riding to and from work. Doreen had called, actually. Just to talk. I told her to swing by the restaurant soon, that I’d make her favorite, like old times. Her breath hitched a bit over that. Four years, that’s a long time. For me too. “And you need to be careful,” she said, when we were both signing off awkwardly—awkward because we’d been saying the same thing at the end of every call for so long. What were we supposed to say now? “Careful?” I said. “Those two kids who died,” she said. “They weren’t riding,” I told her. “Just be careful.” I promised her I would and we somehow broke the connection. It was my night off. What she’d said, though. It was a challenge, wasn’t it? You only have to be careful when you think something can really happen to you. When you’re twenty, twenty-five, nothing in the world can touch you. To prove that still applied to me, I unclamped my bike from the rack, checked the tire pressure front and back, then nodded to myself about this, trucked us downstairs, to the sidewalk that led to the path that ran alongside the creek, up the canyon if I followed that far. It was one, two in the morning. Late enough that the hand-in-hand lovers would be bedded down someplace secret. Late enough that all the smokers who’d promised they’d quit weren’t out for one last drag. Just me and the creatures of the night. My headlight only stabbed fifteen, twenty feet into the darkness. To show I could, that I still had those legs, I pumped hard for the black space of the mountains. I knew better than to try to make the whole climb. But even a little would prove something. I made it the same two miles, not pushing hard, just steady climbing, before I wheeled around, rode gravity back to town. Two homeless men, tuned to nature better than the usual baby stroller crowd, stepped away from each other to let me slip between them at thirty miles per hour. I nodded thanks, but it’s always an empty gesture. You’re going too fast for it to register, and you can’t ever check back to see if they even saw your gratitude. Empty gestures are what make the world go round, though. I swooped under two, three bridges, pedaling though I didn’t really need to. There was still silt on the concrete. It crunched under my tires like sugar granules. “Careful,” I said again, to myself. Just retasting the word. Mining into it for what Doreen had really been trying to get across. I looked down, shut my eyes—I was on a straightaway, the one that tunneled through the next quarter mile or so of trees—watching my top tube coast back and forth instead of doing the first thing Coach always said: keeping my eyes on the line I was taking. My headlight was what saved me from myself. A piece of driftwood, obviously dragged up onto the path. Doing it without thinking—it was years too late to stop—I bunny hopped the wood. When you’re clipped in and your bike goes eleven pounds, you can do this. I came down with both tires at once, like’s proper if you want to keep control, and had to skid immediately, as clearing the next chunk of driftwood would only land me on a third piece. This wasn’t just a symbolic attempt to sabotage the trail. This was set up to hurt any rider who came at it with a head of speed. I didn’t wipe out, though. It was close, but I knew to cantilever out, ahead, and keep hold of the bike so it didn’t crash into me, send us both spinning into the darkness. It was a once-in-fifty tries dismount, but I landed it. Breathing hard from the close call, all the profanity I knew welling up in me, I looked back at what almost was, what should have been if I hadn’t just cashed in all my luck for the next ten years, and then I directed my headlight ahead, into the turn, to what other obstacles awaited. The night cyclists’s white face looked back to me. His white face and his red mouth and chin. His deep black eyes. I flinched, but then realized why he wasn’t already at my throat: He was impaled on the seat post of his own bike. He was impaled just like I would be, if I hadn’t reeled all my speed in. But my speed, it had probably only been half of his. I could see what had happened, too. Like me, he’d bunny hopped over the initial chunk of driftwood but, going faster, his hop had carried him farther, into the next strategically placed driftwood. It had been too much to recover from. He’d probably fallen over sideways, slapped the concrete of the trail hard, but he was going fast enough that instead of splatting into a skid, he bounced, he cartwheeled. And his bike was right there with him, coming apart at its welds, components spinning up into the night sky. Specifically, his seat. Only, the clamp hadn’t let go. The seatpost, it had snapped. A carbon-fiber seatpost, it would have splintered, would be showing thread. An old-style aluminum post like he was running, though, it’ll snap off up near the saddle, leave a ragged tube, a hollow spear. The night cyclist had hit the tree with his back, hard, and an instant later his bike’s seatpost, still extending from the bike itself, had jammed through his sternum. The blood around that wound, it was black, even at this distance. Not red like the blood at his mouth. I adjusted the strap across my chest, only just then realized I had my knives with me. They were clean, like always, but I could tell from the flare of his nostrils that he knew what I was wearing. That this was just one more insult the night had for him. One more stupid thing between him and wherever he was going. His lips thinned, his teeth baring, but before he could complete his display, he whipped his head over to the left. I looked too. Nothing. No sound. And then there was. Not voices, but brush and branches, parting. At first I thought it was the two dead boys from the creek, risen. But one of them had shaped sideburns this time, the other a shaved head. Different college kids. What they were carrying was a double-bit axe and a camp hatchet, one of those kinds with a textured hammer on the back side. And then I realized exactly where we were: at that bend in the creek. It’s why I’d thought they were the dead boys, risen. These were their friends, then. The other night, they’d tried to muscle that big log up onto the trail. This night, they’d come back with proper tools. To finish the job the night cyclist had interrupted. And to avenge their fallen comrades, as they probably saw it. When one of them dragged a flashlight up to the night cyclist, I saw that his chin and mouth, their redness wasn’t from himself. That Double-Bit and Hatchet were still standing, that meant that, a few minutes ago, they’d been three. I finally tracked down to the night cyclist’s feet, and there was the body that had to be there. The boy who had stepped too close, to taunt. At which point his two friends had decided to go for tools. For weapons. And they still hadn’t seen me. Because bicycles, when properly greased, they’re quiet. I laid my bike down into the grass, unlimbered my roll of knives, spread them out before me. I didn’t know for sure that Double-Bit and Hatchet could kill the night cyclist like they wanted—they’d still have to get close—but the sun would be coming up eventually, and if he was still pinned to the tree, then they might as well have killed him. The night cyclist saw me stepping forward but didn’t move a muscle on his face. And, because his eyes showed so little white, even if he was watching me, the two still coming at him wouldn’t have been able to tell. Double-Bit hit him once, swinging his great axe like a baseball bat into the night cyclist’s shoulder, and then Hatchet came not at the night cyclist, but the bike. He caught it on the bottom bracket with the hammer side, the full force of his impact traveling up the aluminum frame, driving the seat post deeper into flesh. The night cyclist didn’t even grunt. The black blood just slipped from his mouth, oiled his chin and chest. He did smile, though. “What do you have to smile about?” Hatchet screamed, bouncing like a boxer on his toes, wrapping up to swing again. Double-Bit smiled, seemingly pleased with how the night was falling out, but he caught me in his peripheral vision, too. At the last possible instant. He turned away just fast enough that my paring knife caught him across his open mouth, instead of his temple, like. The blade crossed between his upper and lower teeth, the dagger-point nicking the bunched-up jaw muscle at the back of his mouth on both sides, I was pretty sure. He reeled back, away from the pain. Into the mouth of the night cyclist, open just as wide as his now was, like a snake about to swallow an egg. When the night cyclist bit in, some of the blood spattered onto my face. I was wearing my backup clear glasses, but still I flinched, blinked. This all in a moment cut so thin it was nearly transparent. In the next moment, Hatchet was turning to me. I flipped the paring knife around and grabbed it by the tip, as if to throw—on the cycling team, we’d fake-lob a water bottle high to someone, then spray them hard with the water bottle we secretly had—and while Hatchet had his arms raise to protect his face, I drove my eight-inch knife up into his belly, digging for his diaphragm. Maybe I got it, I don’t know. He fell back into the night cyclist’s bike, fell back hard enough to crack it to the side, out of the night cyclist, and then the night changed. The night cyclist slumped down, free of the seatpost, his hair hanging over his face, and inside I was screaming at myself to run, to ride, to leave this place. But Hatchet was already coming for me, holding his guts in with one hand, his weapon high in the other. He would have got me, too, if the night cyclist hadn’t stabbed a hand forward, dug his sharp fingers into Hatchet’s calf. Instead of pulling Hatchet’s throat to him, instead of climbing hand over hand up to Hatchet’s throat, he simply pulled that calf to his mouth, and, with Hatchet facedown in the muck now, he drank, and drank deep, his Adam’s apple working up and down with each swallow. His eyes, they never left mine. When Hatchet was drained, just his foot spasming, the night cyclist pulled himself over to Double-Bit, drank some more there as well. And then he rolled over, convulsing in the mud, holding his shoulder. I could have run then, I know. But I didn’t. When he could, he stood weakly, looked up the path the way I’d come, then back the other way. We were alone. He lurched forward, for his ruined bike. “No,” I said. He stopped, studied me, his eyes showing real fatigue for the first time I’d seen. Shaking my head no, I pointed with my paring knife back to the bike in the grass, the one he could surely smell. He looked into that tall grass, then back to me. “Take it already,” I said, and nodded down to his bike. “Need to put this one out of its misery.” His front wheel was taco’d, one drop was lower than the other, and one of the cranks had bent in under the top chainring. I couldn’t imagine going that fast through the darkness, alone. It was a rush just thinking about it. “What the hell are you?” I said when he took that first step bike-ward, though I knew. In reply, he took my paring knife forearm in the cold grip of his good arm, pulled the meat of my hand right up to his mouth. He opened slow. His teeth were impossible. I had my big knife in my other hand, but it might as well have been someone else’s hand. He lowered his teeth to my skin, his eyes never leaving mine, and I understood what he was offering. Eternal youth. Night rides forever. Going faster than I’d ever dreamed. He was offering to share the night with me. What had my scent told him, revealed to him? Standing in the living room of my apartment, had he smelled the flavor of Doreen’s last accusations? I don’t put anything beyond him. Or his kind. When his teeth brushed my skin, I didn’t jerk back, but I did hear myself say it, my eyes welling up: “No.” He stopped, looked up into my face. “I’m going to call her back,” I said, trusting that he knew what I was talking about. Who. He held my eyes for a moment longer, long enough for me consider exactly what I was giving up here, then he nodded, pushed my arm back to me. He licked his lips, dabbing at a bit of dried blood, and then his eyes snapped up to the path. Company, soon. “Go,” I told him, and when he walked by I smelled it on him, from him. The decay. If he ever peeled out of his suit, it must smell like the grave for acres in every direction. Partway to my bike, he scooped up my leather roll, slung it back to me as if it was something any chef could possibly ever just leave lying there. Then he leaned my bike up from the grass, stepped across the top tube then back off, to adjust the seat. Not with a multi-tool, but by pinching the clamp’s bolt between his fingers. When he stood into the pedals, the bike was dialed perfect for him. He clipped in with both feet, just balancing there, getting the feel of this new machine—he liked it, could sense the speed locked in its geometry—and then, without looking back, he powered away, into the silhouette of the Flatirons, which, at night, are the maw of a great cave. Who he must have passed, who showed up two, three minutes later, it was a pregnant woman and a guy. They were bundled up, both crying over something—I’d never know what. He’d let them pass, though, the night cyclist. He surely needed even more blood to rebuild himself, but he needed worse to ride. I understood. With every part of myself, I understood. When the couple got to me, the pregnant woman yelped, stumbled back—I was standing in the gore of three more college kids, both my knives dripping, bug-eyed under the clear glasses, my face spattered with blood—and, and this is why I love the world, why I’m going to cook Doreen’s favorite meal tomorrow, just take it to her: The man, scrawny and useless as he was, he stepped in front of her, to stand between her and the monster I looked to be. “There’s no compulsion to hide the bodies,” I said to them like a joke, spreading my arms as if to showcase my night’s work—words and a gesture that would be on the national news by morning—and then I bowed once and stepped back into the darkness, and came out onto the path a half mile later, walked up onto the plank bridge, my knives cleaned and in their roll again. The waters were surging beneath me, inexorable, going for miles and miles, for centuries. I patted the rail’s cold steel and walked on across, home.

From Horror photos & videos July 14, 2018 at 08:00PM

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#Horror Ghost Paranormal

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13 Creative Examples of Brands Using Twitter’s 280 Characters

Ever since Twitter made the exciting (and controversial) decision to expand their character limit from 140 characters to a whopping 280 characters, brands have been exploring new ways to make the most of the added space. Twitter implemented the change after discovering that nine percent of tweets in the English language hit the character limit.

“This reflects the challenge of fitting a thought into a tweet, often resulting in lots of time spent editing and even at times abandoning tweets before sending,” wrote Twitter Product Manager, Aliza Rosen in a blog post. With the expanded character count, that number plummeted to only one percent of tweets hitting the limit.

For businesses using Twitter as part of their marketing strategy, composing clever 280 character tweets provides an opportunity to communicate more effectively with your audience. Some brands have shown off their sense of humor by hitting the limit with jokes, others have used the longer tweets to express an impactful message. Here are some of the best ways businesses have deployed the 280 character tweets.

Sports brands boosting engagement with 280 character tweets

Chicago Bears

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Bears.

Thanks, @Twitter.

— Chicago Bears (@ChicagoBears) September 27, 2017

Borrowing from the beloved Saturday Night Live sketch, the Chicago Bears used all 280 characters to tweet out the signature tagline, “Daa-Bears” to all of their 1.6 million followers. Without the use of audio, the marketers behind the Chicago Bears cleverly conveyed the over-the-top Chicago accent parodied in the SNL sketch via tweet.

Their funny use of the famous catch-phrase paid off. The tweet received nearly 12,000 retweets and 53,000 likes. The catch-phrase is treasured by both fans of the team and fans of the classic sketch.

Da Bears thanked Twitter at the end for giving them extra characters with which to extend the catch-phrase beyond previously imposed limits. The effect? A shared laugh among Twitter users and more engagement for the franchise.

Seattle Mariners

┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| _ ┻┳| •.•) This is a bad idea. ┳┻|⊂ﾉ ┻┳|

— Mariners (@Mariners) September 27, 2017

In true Seattle style, The Mariners created a sarcastic response to Twitter’s announcement of the 280 character tweet. Using punctuation to build a brick wall with an ornery-looking stick figure at the bottom, the Mariners did not mince words when they pronounced, “this is a bad idea” in their 280 characters tweet.

Drawing attention to the potential for misuse of the longer character limit, the marketers behind the team demonstrated how giving Twitter users 280 characters could be a poor choice. The team banked on the cynicism of their fan base to appreciate this vein of biting humor.

With 21,000 retweets and nearly 59,000 likes, the Mariners read their audience correctly and delivered on the joke.

NBA Referees

Now that we all have #280Characters, we expect your Twitter complaints about specific calls against your favorite teams to be calm, well-reasoned, and full of complete sentences. Thanks in advance for this positive step forward in basketball officiating-related discourse."

— NBA Referees (@OfficialNBARefs) November 7, 2017

The National Basketball Referees Association used the 280 character extension to make light of the cyber abuse directed at them by angry fans. Addressing the many complaints the association receives from the public over their judgement calls during games, the refs asserted that the unsolicited feedback should be written more thoughtfully now that Twitter users have access to a full 280 characters.

The tongue-in-cheek tweet earned 7,400 retweets and 24,000 likes. Turns out that the NBA Referees playful sense of humor was a slam dunk.

Media brands using 280 characters to connect with fans

National Geographic Wild

🐶🦊🦁🐵🐔🐥🐺🐛🐜🐢🐙🐠🦍🦒🐖🐕🕊🦔🐻🐮🙈🐧🦆🐗🦋🦗🐍🦑🐟🐘🐃🐏🐩🐇🐭🐼🐷🙉🐦🦅🐴🐌🕷🦎🦐🐳🐆🦏🐂🐑🐈🐁🐉🐹🐨🐽🙊🐤🦉🦄🦖🦀🐳🐆🐪🐄🐐🐓🐀🐰🐯🐸🐒🦇🐝🐞🦂🦕🐡🐋🦓🐫🐎🦌🦃🐿 🐶🦊🦁🐵🐔🐥🐺🐛🐜🐢🐙🐠🦈🦍🦒🐖🐕🐕🕊🕊🦔🐱🐻🐮🙈🐧🦆🐗🦋🦗🐍🦑🐟🐟🐊🐘🐃🐏🐩🐇🐭🐼🐷🙉🐦 #280characters

— Nat Geo WILD (@natgeowild) November 8, 2017

When we think of the National Geographic Wild network, we think of ruthless lions stalking their innocent prey on the savannah, vicious tigers hunting wild boar, and of course, Cesar Milan, Dog Whisperer. Naturally, the marketers behind the network capitalized on Twitter’s emoji feature to jam pack all our favorite animals into 280 characters.

Marvel UK and Ireland

I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. #280characters http://pic.twitter.com/2QDi9fw6Ey

— Marvel UK & Ireland (@MarvelUK) November 8, 2017

Marvel UK and Ireland took the only line spoken by Groot, the beloved character from the movie Guardians of the Galaxy and employed repetition for comedic effect. Now that Twitter allows videos and photos in addition to more characters, the brand was able to put together an eye-catching, fun tweet for fans of the film.

The 280 character tweet received 989 retweets and 1,000 likes, making us all wish that we were Groot.

Law & Order: Special Victims Unit

In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories. *DUN DUN*

— Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (@nbcsvu) November 7, 2017

The crime show Law & Order franchise has managed to stay relevant since 1990 by continuing to build on its fan base and staying social media savvy. When set loose on Twitter’s new 280 character limit, the social media marketers behind the Law & Order: Special Victims Unit brand tweeted out the full introduction that plays at the beginning of every episode. Almost as iconic as the show itself is the *DUN DUN* sound effect that cuts between scenes.

Fans of the show demonstrated their approval through 259,000 likes.

Spotify

Song titles only… Good luck 🙃 1. 1️⃣💃 2. ☂️ 3. ⚫️(🎩+✨) 4. 🏄🇺🇸 5. 💔🏨 6. 🏰⤵️🗻 7. 8. 🎀🦆💛 9. 👱❌🔥 10. (🙍+🍺)❤️ 11. 🚀👱 12. 👯🌙💡 13. ⏰🕰⏱⏲ 14. 🦁+🗣 15. 🗞✈️✈️ 16. 📞🙋🤷 17. 🍬🏪 18. 🐦🐦🐦 19. 💥💥 20. ⬆️🌆🙍#280characters

— Spotify (@Spotify) November 8, 2017

Spotify created a fun emoji quiz to test the brand’s followers on popular song titles. The tweet solicited significant engagement with 200 comments, 853 retweets and 2,700 likes. The company found a creative way to maximize the potential of 280 characters by choosing something interactive and relevant to the spirit of their business.

Food businesses making the most of 280 characters

Denny’s

last night we received the 280 character count. we traded the extra 140 for beans. not even magic.

— Denny's (@DennysDiner) September 27, 2017

The social media wizards over at Denny’s tapped into their famous well-spring of oddball wit to craft a goofy tweet about trading in their extra 140 characters for beans. Coffee beans? Baked beans? Unclear. All we know is that they definitely weren’t magic beans.

Moon Pie

This account has been asked to test Twitter's new 280 character limit, but as a 100-year-old brand, we believe our fans most enjoy traditional tweets with brevity, so we declined. We hope to continue to provide a fun, positive place to discuss MoonPies moving forward. Thank you.

— MoonPie (@MoonPie) September 27, 2017

Moon Pies used all 280 characters to say that they were too old fashioned to use all 280 characters. The food brand delivered a double whammy, highlighting their long history while showing off a light-hearted sense of humor. Poking fun at Twitter’s decision to expand the limit, Moon Pies demonstrated that they still got it.

Aroma Espresso Bar

Sustainably farmed Atlantic Salmon, honey-roasted carrots prepared in-house, couscous, roasted red pepper and green peas, parsley, pistachio and za’atar, served with creamy sumac and yogurt aioli. A holiday meal made for #280characters. #wheretheheartis http://pic.twitter.com/KQlPZBy597

— aroma espresso bar (@aromaespresso) November 26, 2017

Even with a smaller profile than big name fast food joints, Aroma Espresso Bar managed to entice Twitter users with a detailed description of one of it’s healthy meal offerings. Accompanied with a professional quality photo, the 280 characters are put to good use in a straightforward tweet. You know exactly what you’re getting at Aroma Espresso Bar in Canada.

Pizza Hut

(•_•) <) )╯50% /

(•_•) ( (> Off /

(•_•) <) )> Menu /

(•_•) <) )╯Priced /

(•_•) ( (> Pizzas /

(•_•) <) )> Online. /

🍕🍕🍕🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕

Through 11/12.#280characters

— Pizza Hut (@pizzahut) November 8, 2017

Pizza Hut used all 280 characters to create eye catching stick figures announcing a 50 percent off deal online. A Twitter user scrolling through their feed would have a tough time missing this visually engaging tweet. Another brand making light of Twitter’s move to add more characters by employing them in the silliest fashion possible. The pizza emojis don’t hurt either.

Brands improving customer service via Twitter with 280 characters

Amazon

Hi Charlene, sorry to hear you aren't able to open your book. Have you checked that your internet connection is stable, if so have you attempted to access it on a different device or via an alternative browser? ^TI

— Amazon Help (@AmazonHelp) November 17, 2017

The Amazon Help account can now address people’s complaints using their full name and even a signature of the customer service representative addressing the concern. With the extra characters, Amazon customers will be even more likely to engage with the business over Twitter.

IKEA

We currently have some technical issues with our IKEA Online ordering systems. We are working hard to sort this out as quickly as possible, so please bear with us, and we will be up and running again shortly

— IKEAIESupport (@IKEAIESupport) November 18, 2017

Ikea can now fully express their polite regrets when something goes wrong on their website. The business made use of their 280 characters to inform aggravated customers that they were aware of the technical issues in their online ordering systems and asked for patience while they resolved the issue. Classy move, Ikea.

Since the initial release of the 280 character extension, many businesses have chosen to stay true to the original spirit of Twitter and keep it brief. Whether you choose to go all in on 280 characters or show off your cleverness with the brevity of 140, make it clever and make it count.

Boost your impact on Twitter with Hootsuite. Monitor customer conversations, connect your teams, and grow your followers—all from the same platform that use to manage your other social media accounts. Try it for free today!

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13 Creative Examples of Brands Using Twitter’s 280 Characters

Ever since Twitter made the exciting (and controversial) decision to expand their character limit from 140 characters to a whopping 280 characters, brands have been exploring new ways to make the most of the added space. Twitter implemented the change after discovering that nine percent of tweets in the English language hit the character limit.

“This reflects the challenge of fitting a thought into a tweet, often resulting in lots of time spent editing and even at times abandoning tweets before sending,” wrote Twitter Product Manager, Aliza Rosen in a blog post. With the expanded character count, that number plummeted to only one percent of tweets hitting the limit.

For businesses using Twitter as part of their marketing strategy, composing clever 280 character tweets provides an opportunity to communicate more effectively with your audience. Some brands have shown off their sense of humor by hitting the limit with jokes, others have used the longer tweets to express an impactful message. Here are some of the best ways businesses have deployed the 280 character tweets.

Sports brands boosting engagement with 280 character tweets

Chicago Bears

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Bears.

Thanks, @Twitter.

— Chicago Bears (@ChicagoBears) September 27, 2017

Borrowing from the beloved Saturday Night Live sketch, the Chicago Bears used all 280 characters to tweet out the signature tagline, “Daa-Bears” to all of their 1.6 million followers. Without the use of audio, the marketers behind the Chicago Bears cleverly conveyed the over-the-top Chicago accent parodied in the SNL sketch via tweet.

Their funny use of the famous catch-phrase paid off. The tweet received nearly 12,000 retweets and 53,000 likes. The catch-phrase is treasured by both fans of the team and fans of the classic sketch.

Da Bears thanked Twitter at the end for giving them extra characters with which to extend the catch-phrase beyond previously imposed limits. The effect? A shared laugh among Twitter users and more engagement for the franchise.

Seattle Mariners

┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┻┳| ┳┻| ┻┳| ┳┻| _ ┻┳| •.•) This is a bad idea. ┳┻|⊂ﾉ ┻┳|

— Mariners (@Mariners) September 27, 2017

In true Seattle style, The Mariners created a sarcastic response to Twitter’s announcement of the 280 character tweet. Using punctuation to build a brick wall with an ornery-looking stick figure at the bottom, the Mariners did not mince words when they pronounced, “this is a bad idea” in their 280 characters tweet.

Drawing attention to the potential for misuse of the longer character limit, the marketers behind the team demonstrated how giving Twitter users 280 characters could be a poor choice. The team banked on the cynicism of their fan base to appreciate this vein of biting humor.

With 21,000 retweets and nearly 59,000 likes, the Mariners read their audience correctly and delivered on the joke.

NBA Referees

Now that we all have #280Characters, we expect your Twitter complaints about specific calls against your favorite teams to be calm, well-reasoned, and full of complete sentences. Thanks in advance for this positive step forward in basketball officiating-related discourse."

— NBA Referees (@OfficialNBARefs) November 7, 2017

The National Basketball Referees Association used the 280 character extension to make light of the cyber abuse directed at them by angry fans. Addressing the many complaints the association receives from the public over their judgement calls during games, the refs asserted that the unsolicited feedback should be written more thoughtfully now that Twitter users have access to a full 280 characters.

The tongue-in-cheek tweet earned 7,400 retweets and 24,000 likes. Turns out that the NBA Referees playful sense of humor was a slam dunk.

Media brands using 280 characters to connect with fans

National Geographic Wild

🐶🦊🦁🐵🐔🐥🐺🐛🐜🐢🐙🐠🦍🦒🐖🐕🕊🦔🐻🐮🙈🐧🦆🐗🦋🦗🐍🦑🐟🐘🐃🐏🐩🐇🐭🐼🐷🙉🐦🦅🐴🐌🕷🦎🦐🐳🐆🦏🐂🐑🐈🐁🐉🐹🐨🐽🙊🐤🦉🦄🦖🦀🐳🐆🐪🐄🐐🐓🐀🐰🐯🐸🐒🦇🐝🐞🦂🦕🐡🐋🦓🐫🐎🦌🦃🐿 🐶🦊🦁🐵🐔🐥🐺🐛🐜🐢🐙🐠🦈🦍🦒🐖🐕🐕🕊🕊🦔🐱🐻🐮🙈🐧🦆🐗🦋🦗🐍🦑🐟🐟🐊🐘🐃🐏🐩🐇🐭🐼🐷🙉🐦 #280characters

— Nat Geo WILD (@natgeowild) November 8, 2017

When we think of the National Geographic Wild network, we think of ruthless lions stalking their innocent prey on the savannah, vicious tigers hunting wild boar, and of course, Cesar Milan, Dog Whisperer. Naturally, the marketers behind the network capitalized on Twitter’s emoji feature to jam pack all our favorite animals into 280 characters.

Marvel UK and Ireland

I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot. #280characters http://pic.twitter.com/2QDi9fw6Ey

— Marvel UK & Ireland (@MarvelUK) November 8, 2017

Marvel UK and Ireland took the only line spoken by Groot, the beloved character from the movie Guardians of the Galaxy and employed repetition for comedic effect. Now that Twitter allows videos and photos in addition to more characters, the brand was able to put together an eye-catching, fun tweet for fans of the film.

The 280 character tweet received 989 retweets and 1,000 likes, making us all wish that we were Groot.

Law & Order: Special Victims Unit

In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories. *DUN DUN*

— Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (@nbcsvu) November 7, 2017

The crime show Law & Order franchise has managed to stay relevant since 1990 by continuing to build on its fan base and staying social media savvy. When set loose on Twitter’s new 280 character limit, the social media marketers behind the Law & Order: Special Victims Unit brand tweeted out the full introduction that plays at the beginning of every episode. Almost as iconic as the show itself is the *DUN DUN* sound effect that cuts between scenes.

Fans of the show demonstrated their approval through 259,000 likes.

Spotify

Song titles only… Good luck 🙃 1. 1️⃣💃 2. ☂️ 3. ⚫️(🎩+✨) 4. 🏄🇺🇸 5. 💔🏨 6. 🏰⤵️🗻 7. 8. 🎀🦆💛 9. 👱❌🔥 10. (🙍+🍺)❤️ 11. 🚀👱 12. 👯🌙💡 13. ⏰🕰⏱⏲ 14. 🦁+🗣 15. 🗞✈️✈️ 16. 📞🙋🤷 17. 🍬🏪 18. 🐦🐦🐦 19. 💥💥 20. ⬆️🌆🙍#280characters

— Spotify (@Spotify) November 8, 2017

Spotify created a fun emoji quiz to test the brand’s followers on popular song titles. The tweet solicited significant engagement with 200 comments, 853 retweets and 2,700 likes. The company found a creative way to maximize the potential of 280 characters by choosing something interactive and relevant to the spirit of their business.

Food businesses making the most of 280 characters

Denny’s

last night we received the 280 character count. we traded the extra 140 for beans. not even magic.

— Denny's (@DennysDiner) September 27, 2017

The social media wizards over at Denny’s tapped into their famous well-spring of oddball wit to craft a goofy tweet about trading in their extra 140 characters for beans. Coffee beans? Baked beans? Unclear. All we know is that they definitely weren’t magic beans.

Moon Pie

This account has been asked to test Twitter's new 280 character limit, but as a 100-year-old brand, we believe our fans most enjoy traditional tweets with brevity, so we declined. We hope to continue to provide a fun, positive place to discuss MoonPies moving forward. Thank you.

— MoonPie (@MoonPie) September 27, 2017

Moon Pies used all 280 characters to say that they were too old fashioned to use all 280 characters. The food brand delivered a double whammy, highlighting their long history while showing off a light-hearted sense of humor. Poking fun at Twitter’s decision to expand the limit, Moon Pies demonstrated that they still got it.

Aroma Espresso Bar

Sustainably farmed Atlantic Salmon, honey-roasted carrots prepared in-house, couscous, roasted red pepper and green peas, parsley, pistachio and za’atar, served with creamy sumac and yogurt aioli. A holiday meal made for #280characters. #wheretheheartis http://pic.twitter.com/KQlPZBy597

— aroma espresso bar (@aromaespresso) November 26, 2017

Even with a smaller profile than big name fast food joints, Aroma Espresso Bar managed to entice Twitter users with a detailed description of one of it’s healthy meal offerings. Accompanied with a professional quality photo, the 280 characters are put to good use in a straightforward tweet. You know exactly what you’re getting at Aroma Espresso Bar in Canada.

Pizza Hut

(•_•) <) )╯50% /

(•_•) ( (> Off /

(•_•) <) )> Menu /

(•_•) <) )╯Priced /

(•_•) ( (> Pizzas /

(•_•) <) )> Online. /

🍕🍕🍕🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕 🍕

Through 11/12.#280characters

— Pizza Hut (@pizzahut) November 8, 2017

Pizza Hut used all 280 characters to create eye catching stick figures announcing a 50 percent off deal online. A Twitter user scrolling through their feed would have a tough time missing this visually engaging tweet. Another brand making light of Twitter’s move to add more characters by employing them in the silliest fashion possible. The pizza emojis don’t hurt either.

Brands improving customer service via Twitter with 280 characters

Amazon

Hi Charlene, sorry to hear you aren't able to open your book. Have you checked that your internet connection is stable, if so have you attempted to access it on a different device or via an alternative browser? ^TI

— Amazon Help (@AmazonHelp) November 17, 2017

The Amazon Help account can now address people’s complaints using their full name and even a signature of the customer service representative addressing the concern. With the extra characters, Amazon customers will be even more likely to engage with the business over Twitter.

IKEA

We currently have some technical issues with our IKEA Online ordering systems. We are working hard to sort this out as quickly as possible, so please bear with us, and we will be up and running again shortly

— IKEAIESupport (@IKEAIESupport) November 18, 2017

Ikea can now fully express their polite regrets when something goes wrong on their website. The business made use of their 280 characters to inform aggravated customers that they were aware of the technical issues in their online ordering systems and asked for patience while they resolved the issue. Classy move, Ikea.

Since the initial release of the 280 character extension, many businesses have chosen to stay true to the original spirit of Twitter and keep it brief. Whether you choose to go all in on 280 characters or show off your cleverness with the brevity of 140, make it clever and make it count.

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