"I can start with how I went to marine science camp as a kid and end with that time I accidentally brought a flamethrower into the county courthouse" --- PLEASE EXPLAIN IM SO CONFUSED D:
So, when I was a kid, my parents worked full time, so during the summer, my sister and I were enrolled in day-camp so we’d be adequately tired when we got home, and my FAVORITE camp was Marine Science Camp, run by MSI on the banks of redwood creek, right off the San Francisco bay. It was AWESOME: we got to dissect squid, there was a literal shark tank, which we got to fish leopard sharks out of and Tag Them For Scientific Research, ad we’d go out on the boat once a week and do things like haul a net full of fish out, use a scoop to study benthic creatures and look at plankton under a microscope. I realize now we were essentially doing transects, dissections and other field/lab work for a bunch of grad students but it was FUN.
I totally wanted to be a marine biologist when I grew up and would tell anyone who asked me what I was into about nematocyts and oceanic acidification until The Adult realized their mistake and fled.
At the same time, I was pursing an aggressive interest in the visual arts, which my parents heavily encouraged, becuase they are excellent parents and because it;s was a QUIET hobby unlikely to result in bodily harm, unlike my sister, who got into karate and Theater, which is a surprising dangerous combination.
But then i got to college and realized an issue with this plan: I, hands down, SUCK at chemistry. I did okay in into becuase I’m great at taking standardized tests, and the teacher got suspended halfway through the semester for getting into a fistfight with another prof for poaching his grad student, but Organic Chemistry was a disaster. I’ve never been good at arithmetic, and balancing chemical equations is something i need the dang molecule models for. So marine bio was a No-Go.
So I switched my major over to Art, which turned out to be kind of a disaster (the school managed to lose an entire semester of my grades because the Art Department kept really sloppy records and i ended up dropping out and resuming college elsewhere) and AMAZING, becuase I took a human figure drawing course with professor [REDACTED] who announced on the third day of class: “SWEET THE FOOLS JUST GAVE ME TENURE. CAN’T FIRE ME NOW, SO LEMME SHOW YOU HOW TO MAKE A FLAMETHROWER”
The thing she actually taught us was how to modify a culinary butane torch to empty the canister at a much higher rate than any manufacturer anywhere recommends, which gives you and AWESOME bigass jet of blue flame, but only lasts about 30 seconds per container. She also showed us how to make bandeliers so we could carry multiple containers, “just in case”.
In more practical lessons, we were in class when the first gov’t shutdown happened, so we didn’t have money for models, so she oped to bring in various animals for us to draw instead. there was the usual cats and dogs, but also chickens, horses, a farm hog, a 12-foot Burmese Python and a baby deer that had been abandoned on her porch. It was really fun, both becuase animals are amazing, and becuase they don’t hold still, so you learn to draw REAL FAST, which is a skill that’s served me well since.
A few years later, I was summoned for Jury Duty, and had to show up at the courthouse for selection. HOWEVER, I’d put my usual bag in the wash the previous night, so I grabbed my old school backpack to take with me because I knew I had a sketchbook in there to amuse myself with.
I forgot I also had my flamethrower in there.
I live in a pretty low-crime area, so the metal detectors are actually pretty far into the building- you don’t get scanned until you’re actually going into the courtroom. So for about three hours beforehand, I was sitting in the hallway having a Nice Chat with one of the state park rangers and the CEO of the local call center. We get called in, and as we walk through, my backpack sets off the alarm.
“Fuck.” I say abruptly remembering what would have set it off.
“Do you have anything metal in your backpack?” the security guy asks me. I think he was expecting me to say glasses.
“I forgot that I have my flamethrower in here. I’ll just leave this outside.” I explain, hoping I’m not about to be arrested.
“Please open your bag or leave it outs- your WHAT?” Dude stops halfway through his routine.
“Flamethrower. I made it in art class and will definitely be leaving it here.” I say, carefully putting my bag on the table, zipper open , and pointing at the small butane torch. The guard looks at it, looks at me (pls note, I am small, white, feminine and conventionally attractive so YOU BET privilege was happening here), before deciding that Art People Are Dumb and waving me in after wanding me to make sure I hadn’t accidentally brought anything else in my pockets.
I was not selected for jury duty.
In other news, I still have it, and it still works. I use it for mass-toasting creme brulee.
Well..hi!! I was wonderig if you had any fics where they leave a baby at Stiles' door or de-aged Stiles.. just Stiles and cuteesy babies cause it's my weakness. Love you blog, keep up the great work guys!
Your weakness is almost my weakness. :D Found babies it is! -Emmy
Parrish is holding the infant like a fullback carrying
the football, tight and close to his body, as if he’s afraid someone’s
going to strip it away from him at any moment.
“Sir,” he whispers, “this baby is running hot.”
“So call the paramedics, get Sally on the line. For heaven’s sake,
Parrish, this baby needs a hospital, not the sheriff” The baby is hot to
the touch but his pale eyes, when they blink open, are clear and he’s
not flushed like a feverish infant would be.
“No,” Parrish hisses, “I mean this baby is running hot. I don’t think he’s human.”
John looks at the priest, still standing in the aisle, hunched in
concern. He looks at the baby in his duck onesie and little yellow hat.
(6,798 I General I Complete) *sterek, asexual!Stiles, spark!stiles
“A bird, okay? I heard something on my balcony and when I went out to
see what it was, this giant ass pelican dropped the kid and flew away.” Stiles
feels frozen again for a moment before a grin forms on his lips and
he’s clutching the baby to his chest, shaking with laughter. “You’re
telling me a stork brought you a little werewolf child?” Derek frowns, folding his arms stubbornly across his chest. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me,” He grumbles. “Oh
no,” Stiles says, trying to catch his breath and talk between spurts of
giggles. “I totally believe you. That’s just fucking hilarious.”
Between one thing and another, Stiles ends up living in the rebuilt Hale
House while Derek’s off finding himself. When Hunters arrive on the
heels of a supposedly feral omega, Stiles finds a baby werewolf
abandoned on the front porch… a baby werewolf with the rare ability to
shift into a full wolf.
“Would you stop with the fucking mystery and just tell us already?” Stiles snapped at him.
“We found a baby,” Scott relented, starting to half jog towards the opposite line of trees they had been standing in front of.
looked at Derek and found him frowning deeply. He reached for his hand
and squeezed, Derek looked at him and gave him a small smile, lacing his
fingers with Stiles’.
Scott took them to the big tree in the
middle of the forest that had a hollow bark, except this time when they
looked inside, it wasn’t really hollow. A little girl, maybe four or
five years old, was sitting in there all curled up in herself, her arms
hugging her knees tightly.
(12,206 I Not Rared I WIP) *sterek, character death
After a tragic accident, Stiles and Derek are now taking care of Scott
and Allison’s son. While co-parenting they discover that their love for
their fallen friends isn’t the only thing keeping them together.
“What the hell?” He blinked and jerked his head up to see if anyone was
around. “This is some really shitty joke, right?” The baby was silent,
bundled in pale pink blankets in an honest to god woven basket. Stiles knelt down and poked at it. The baby started wailing, immediately and loudly.
The baby’s wailing is piercing, Stiles doesn’t know how
Derek can stand it. He tries shushing her and cooing at her and
bouncing her a little, but the crying only gets louder, and in addition
to hurting his ears, it’s hurting his soul.
“Stiles,” Derek interrupts him mid-croon, eyebrows meeting over the bridge of his nose, “have you fed her since you found her?”
Stiles gapes and looks down at the baby’s distressed face as she bawls.
It’s been two years since that time Derek and Stiles
spent a night together. Stiles thought they had something, he was so
sure of it, but Derek began to drift away from him and towards the
pack’s old high school English teacher, Jennifer Blake. Stiles will do
anything for an explanation of the relationship between him and Derek,
but when the pack finds a baby in the preserve and Stiles volunteers to
care for the baby, he and Derek are forced to confront the nature of
their relationship and how Jennifer Blake found her way between them.
Or: The pack finds a baby, the baby forces Derek and Stiles to talk about their angsty past, and it’s all Jennifer Blake’s fault.
(25,583 I Explicit I WIP) *steter, alive Hale family, magic!stiles
Several months later, Talia’s settling into her role as alpha, Peter’s
at college, and the time-traveling trio of Stiles, Scott, and Lydia are
getting used to the idea of staying put. Sounds like a good time for
some unexpected guests.
When death, in the form of hunters, comes for a family of Kelpies
seeking refuge in the Preserve - in Hale territory - the Hale Pack is
too late to save them. Before he dies, the male Kelpie presses a
precious bundle into Stiles’ arms and begs the Emissary to take
responsibility for it, which an initially reluctant Stiles does. When he
agreed, Stiles had no idea what the sight of him with a baby would do
to his esteemed Alpha, Derek. If he’d known, he might not have been so
reluctant to agree.
Life had not been very kind to Stiles Stilinski. He lost his mother
at an early age, and watched many of his friends die while he was still
in high school. He had looked at death in the eye more than once in that
year alone. He had thought about dying. More than once. He had
always expected to die mauled by a supernatural creature that wasn’t
supposed to exist, or piss off the wrong werewolf, or try Derek one too
many times: all of his deaths included a ferocious battle for survival. But
this? This wasn’t him being incredibly stupid. He had lived in Beacon
Hills dodging supernatural mauling and killer trees just to die in a
stupid airplane crash. After all that had happened, he was going to die by human hands.
(118,493 I Explicit I Complete) *stiles/isaac, derek/isaac
Isaac swears there are a billion different kinds of baby formulas in this fucking aisle… “Hey, man, you okay?” The
voice startles him; he thought he was alone in his dilemma, and he’s
embarrassed to wonder how long this guy has been standing there
observing Isaac’s pathetic internal meltdown. Something in the guy’s
face seems kind—maybe it’s those Bambi eyes, or the slight grin on his
face?—and Isaac gets the idea that even if he noticed the silent freak
out he won’t mention it. “You okay?” he repeats. “Yeah. I’m fine.” “Can
I—uh—help? Maybe? I’m not the world’s best at the whole baby thing,
but I’m a pretty awesome godfather to the world’s cutest one-year-old
His heart is pounding relentlessly in his chest as he pushes past Denise through the front door. “She all right?” he asks, a gasp more than anything, sweat pearling on his forehead. “Where’s she?” His hands are still covered in dirt and walker blood, the crossbow abandoned on the front porch. “She gonna be fine?”
Denise catches up with him then, resting a hand against his arm that he shakes off at first. “Daryl, calm down. It’s okay,” she reassures him, lifting her hand again and this time he doesn’t push her away. Stops his strides through the room and takes a deep breath. “She’s fine. It looks worse than it is.“
“How’d that even happen?” Rosita had told him what happened the second he walked through the gates with Aaron by his side, their supply run having taken them much longer than anticipated. Had told him that Carol had an accident, fell, somehow cut herself up pretty bad. But he hadn’t stayed long enough for a proper explanation. By the time he made it to the infirmary, he’d been out of breath. “Someone did that to her?” he asks, grinding his teeth and remembering the bruises on her back that Morgan put there all those months ago. The ones he only saw by accident – otherwise she’d have kept them a secret.
Denise shakes her head softly, tightening her grip on his arm when he makes a move towards the room off to the side. “Hey, slow down. She’s okay,” she repeats as if those words alone could ever be enough. “I don’t know what happened, gave her pretty strong pain killers and she’s been out all day.”
He takes a shuddering breath, cringing at the thought of her in pain. “Should’ve been there,” he mutters. He hadn’t wanted to go on this run in the first place. There was no point to it, they’d all known deep down that the small clinic was raided already. “Should’ve-”
“Don’t,” Denise stops him. “Just… be with her now,” she says with a much softer voice, nodding towards the door. It’s cracked open, but not enough for him to catch a glimpse of Carol.
Suddenly terrified all over again, Daryl swallows the lump in his throat. “She really gonna be fine? “
“Yes,” Denise says with a smile, letting go of his arm.
Here is (from left to right) Snickers, Felix and Peanut from our feral kitten family. The mama cat abandoned them under our porch last august and we have been having so much fun taking care of them. Little angels 😸😻
In the early 60s, Karyn Kupcinet (22) was starting what promised to be a stellar acting career in Hollywood. She was the daughter of Irv Kupcinet, a well known columnist and TV personality, and her first acting roles were getting good reviews. But in her private life, Karyn was also struggling with an amphetamine addiction, weight concerns, depression and an increasing obsession with her boyfriend, Andrew Prine. He was also an aspiring actor, but unlike Karyn he wasn’t interested in an exclusive relationship and was dating other women. In her diary, Karyn wrote about stalking and spying on him and she even sent him anonymous, threatening letters with words cut off from magazines, then pretended she was getting them too.
So you see, Karyn wasn’t exactly in a great place by November, 1963. On Wednesday 27th, she was invited for dinner to the house of a friend, actor Mark Goddard, and his wife. There she behaved oddly: arrived an hour late, didn’t eat her food and was clearly under the influence of something. She also told a strange story about finding an abandoned baby at her porch that morning (a few months earlier, Karyn had had an illegal abortion with the help of the Goddards). She left soon after her arrival, and promised she’d call the couple to let them know she’d got home safe.
What happened next is a bit uncertain, since we only have the testimony of a couple of shady guys. Apparently, Karyn went home after dinner and there was visited by writer Edward Rubin and actor Robert Hathaway. They said the three of them watched television and drank coffee, and that Karyn retired to her room and they stayed for a bit longer, leaving around 11 pm and locking the door behind them. Andrew Prine says he talked to Karyn briefly on the phone around midnight and later joined Rubin and Hathaway at the latter’s house, since he lived next door, and they stayed together until 3 am.
On November 30th, the Goddards went to Karyn’s house, concerned because they hadn’t heard about her after their strange dinner together. They found her lying naked, face down on her couch. She had been dead for at least two days. Police found lots of cigarette butts and prescription bottles, and her room was very messy. There was also a cryptic note, written by Karyn, that read: “I’m no good. I’m not really that pretty. My figure’s fat and will never be the way my mother wants it. Why must I be so alone. What’s the use of living with nothing to believe in? There’s nothing only phony motives, selfish egoists, selfless people, fat heads and drunks and I want out. I like President Kennedy, Bertrand Russell, Theodore Reiks, Peter O'Toole, Sydney J. Harris, Albert Finney.“ It’s unclear when this was written.
It looked like a suicide or an overdose, except that during the autopsy the medical examiner noticed she had her hyoid bone broken, which meant she had been manually strangled. Her murder, however, has never been solved.
Rubin, Hathaway and Prince were all persons of interest, of course, but police never found evidence to tie them to the crime. There was also suspicion of a man called David Lange, who lived in the apartment below Karyn’s. He claimed he’d been out on a date the night of the murder, with actress Natalie Wood, no less, and didn’t see or heard anything unusual, but he was also a well known drunk so his testimony wasn’t very reliable.
Because Karyn was murdered a week after President John Kennedy’s assassination, some conspiracy theorists claimed she’d been involved in that murder and then killed in a mob hit. There’s never been any evidence of that.
Oh man! Getting the wrong house/phone number/everything is one of my worst nightmares tbh lol
Cloud double and then triple checked the address. He couldn’t see the numbers anywhere, but judging by the numbers on the street – and google maps – it was definitely this house. Cloud looked at the place.
Sephiroth hadn’t really given him a a picture or anything of his new place. Just the address. If it were anyone else, Cloud would think it was totally weird that pictures of the new house weren’t plastered all over Facebook – after all, he had bought the thing in his mid-twenties, mostly all in cash with a tiny loan. You think the guy would be prouder. Nope, he was still the same old paranoid Sephiroth.
He had remembered Sephiroth saying that the house was okay – high praise from the stoic man. And, well, this house was okay. It was clean, not falling apart, and the yard was mostly maintained. It must have been it.
But, maybe Cloud should just walk around the block once to double check. Sephiroth’s house might be a few doors over. What if he knocked on a stranger’s house with all this beer? He’d look like such a weirdo. Gawd.
Unless Sephiroth was standing at the window laughing his ass off because Cloud was standing in the middle of the fucking sidewalk, arms laden with the beer his friend had fucking demanded in repayment of a bet, just waiting for him to make an even bigger ass of himself. Yeah, those curtains definitely moved. Must be Seph’s place.
Cloud lumbered into the yard. It smelled nice, the flowers were pretty, the grass was still green from the rain last week – or maybe that was moss, he wasn’t sure, and there was a small little porch where Seph could put out a rocking chair and yell at all the passersby.
Cloud took a breath. And knocked.
“Coming!” A voice shouted from inside. It was… it almost sounded too peppy to be Sephiroth. Sephiroth always barked his responses from behind the door. Oh no, oh gawd, that meant -
Cloud watched in horror as the door opened. And standing there with a bright smile, sparkling eyes, and barely clothed was definitely not Sephiroth. Way too tan, way too broad, and oooooh way too half clothed. Cloud had no idea how the boxes of beer didn’t just fall out of his hands.
“Hi!” The stranger chirped. “I don’t remember asking for a beer delivery.” Cloud got looked up and down, the man smiling playfully. “Did Angeal send you?”
“I-I-uh…” Cloud forgot how to speak. Oh god, he couldn’t get words out of his mouth anymore. This wasn’t Sephiroth’s house at all! Cloud lurched back violently, almost losing his footing on the porch step and his elbow conked into the railing with a crank. But he stayed motherfucking upright. That was victory enough because he managed to wheeze out, “Wr-wrong house. Sorry.”
“Woah, there, easy buddy.” The man was at his side in a flash. Cloud couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing the tightest hot pants under that baggy sweater he had ever seen – and also what was this the eighties? “Are you okay?”
Cloud nodded dumbly. Because this guy smelled really, like, really fucking good. And maybe he was a serial killer – why else wouldn’t he have the numbers on his house? Wasn’t it against the law? But would a serial killer really look that… just wow.
“You’re bleeding! I knew I shoulda sanded the railings.” There was a gentle tug on his forearm. “Here, come on, let me get you patched up.”
Cloud, just as dumbly, left the beer on the front porch. After all, he thought, if this hardon inducing guy was a serial killer after all, Sephiroth would notice the abandoned beer on the porch… maybe.
Crossing the threshold broke the weird spell, and Cloud awkwardly took his arm back. “I, I think I should go. My friend lives around here.”
“Hey, I was the one who scared you. I can patch you up. All you did was pick the wrong house.” the man said it gently, soothingly. If he had invited Cloud inside, the blonde was pretty damn sure he wouldn’t say no. “Oh, hey, I know, I’ll just grab some bandaids and stuff and be right back!”
Cloud watching those hot pants and too-bright smile disappear down the hall. It was a homey little place, obviously lived in. Little nick-nacks lined every known surface, garish colors mixing and mashing but somehow coming together in pleasant harmony. And it smelled really good. Like… like banana bread. Cloud took a deep breath, ignoring the ache in his elbow. He could totally die in a house like this.
The stranger came back, with an awkward pile of things in his arms.
“Okay, Spike,” the homeowner laughed. “You got a preference?”
“Uh… landlord’s choice?” Cloud’s voice almost cracked right there. You can do it, Cloud! You can banter! At least he smiled as he said it.
“Chocobos it is.” he laughed. “Oh, uh, I’m Zack by the way.”
“Is it… sanitary for you, I mean, you don’t even know if I have – ow!” Cloud hissed as the antiseptic touched the wound.
“And noooo splinters. You’re a lucky guy. No man has ever come off the railing without one.” the man – Zack was his name, Zack. ZACK – laughed. He just… had this way of speaking.
“Uh, um, I’m -uh- Cloud.” it was a weird name, he knew. It was why he liked hanging out with Sephiroth. They got to be the weird named bros forever. And here was… Zack.
“Cloud? Oooo, that’s pretty. I like Clouds. Did you know,” Zack said casually, “That a cloud can be anything you want it to be? Funniest thing is that no two people see the same thing in a cloud.” Zack looked up, smiling, “neat, isn’t it?”
Cloud coughed awkwardly. “Um, I, could, uh, repay you in beer. I have plenty.” Not like Seph needed a beer gut anyway.
“Naaaw, like I said, it was just an accident. But if you really want to repay me… can you help me eat this banana bread? I’ve made like twelve loafs because somebody told me the wrong date for the bake sale.”
“Deal.” Cloud may have said that too quickly.
As it turned out, Zack was a teacher at the local middle school. And his new, grumpy next door neighbor was the one and only Sephiroth - who didn’t seem to mind being left alone while Cloud stuffed his face with the motherfucking delicious banana bread.
A/N: You guys know the song “Stacy’s Mom” by Fountain’s of Wayne? Yeah.. this is based off that. It’s actually a good song, I really like it. Here is the lyric video, cuz the official one is kind weird???
A/N ps: In this AU Anakin and Ahsoka are nineteen and Obi-Wan is roughly 36ish? Ahsoka’s adopted so i figured it’d be cool to make him about that age. Hit me up if you want a part two.
Imagine: Ahsoka’s Dad has got it goin on.
Warnings: Swearing, and mentions of NSFW stuff.
Fuck, Anakin thinks, swallowing and twisting his hands nervously, he’s hot. Anakin stares in horror for a few moments before offering his hand to Ahsoka’s father, trying to keep his face as blank as possible.
Anakin Skywalker, longtime High School Popular Boy, has just nearly made a fool out himself because the girl he’s currently dating has an amazingly hot dad. With all the girls and boys he’d dated (and let’s be honest, there were several) none of them had had a parent as stunning as Ahsoka Tano’s.
He had sandy-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. A trim beard framed his chin and his chiseled jaw made Anakin want to drool.
Fuck, stop. He’s her father for christ’s sake. Anakin tries and to take a steadying breath and realizes he’s still awkwardly shaking his hand. “Uh.. sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m Anakin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
i. drive yourself into a corner, and carve a cliff to the wall; jump / and again, till you can taste the salt mixed with cement on your tongue. rub it to the roof of your mouth, and let it settle- remember, and everything out your mouth from now, needs to taste of this.
ii. write, because its all you know; take a pen to your legs, and open wide for it. let it hurt. take it like a girl. move the pen to your lips, and suck till you’re coated in blue / now walk around in shame; spilling your guts on porches of abandoned houses. write, because that’s what you need, but know, it doesn’t mean anything.
iii. cover your mirrors to sleep at night; your body is the boy who threw you in the sand in first grade. your body is the trauma you don’t want to relive anymore. your body is the clock you need to stop. your body is the girl who killed you; be afraid / be careful, the mirror is coming for you.
iv. there’s no love like this; there’s so much hardness in your belly, to let him breathe- set him free, before the ocean tastes muddy, and you can’t eat flowers for dinner. stop, before your mouth tastes dirty, and he stops wanting to kiss it. leave before he does; its a smaller surgery- your heart always had a hole in it.
v. take all your dreams, and kill them; you aren’t made for greatness. there’s nothing more to say here. NOTES TO SELF / BEFORE THE OLD SELF DIES OUT COMPLETELY.
this starts out normal and then goes off the deep end, I don’t know what happened
On the way home from work she stops by Blockbuster. He’d requested something “creepy, not gory”, so she checks out Poltergeist. They’ve both seen it before, but they never actually watch the movie, so she can’t imagine it’ll matter.
At the counter she adds on a bag of mixed fun-size candy. Last year they didn’t get any trick-or-treaters - not surprising, considering their house lies two miles down an unmarked dirt road - but you never know, and Scully has no interest in cleaning egg off the siding tomorrow morning.
When she pulls up in front of the house, he’s outside raking leaves in the waning light. She’s glad to see him outside, glad to see him doing something useful. She worries about him alone in that house all day.
There’s a pumpkin sitting on the front porch, perfectly fat and round and orange. “Where’d that come from?” she calls.
Mulder turns to her, letting the handle of the rake rest on his shoulder. “Took a walk earlier. The Harringtons are selling them out of their truck.”
All of this is good news to her. He’d spent the whole sweltering summer lying on the hardwood floor in their living room with a fan blowing on him, refusing to go outside during the day even when she accused him of being a vampire. Maybe that was just a phase, or some kind of reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder.
“I got your movie,” she says, waving the blue-and-white box in the air.
He lets the rake fall to the ground and comes over to grab the box. “Good choice,” he says. He peers in the bag. “And candy? We never have candy.”
“It’s Halloween, Mulder, I’m not a monster.”
“If you were, it’ld be seasonally appropriate.“
She flashes a grin at him. "Besides, we might get trick-or-treaters.”
Mulder looks around at their complete lack of neighbors - way off to the west there’s a little light on the horizon from the nearest house, and that’s it - then back at her. “We’re not gonna get any trick-or-treaters.” Then he shrugs. “More candy for us.”
“More candy for you,” she corrects, linking her arm through his. He smells good, like earth and charred wood, and she brushes a stray leaf from his shoulder. “I’m only going to have one piece.”
“That’s what you always say,” he grumbles. “And then I look up and the whole bag’s gone.”
“I don’t think that’s ever happened.”
“Sounds like an X-file,” she says lightly, and his smile isn’t entirely convincing. One day they’ll be able to joke about it. Eventually enough time will pass. The wounds will scar over, then fade.
I have thirteen cities on the weather app on my phone.
I live in one of them. My grandfather
lives a two day’s drive north,
and I watch the heat skyrocket
and crash in his desert.
Two grandmothers and a flock of
peacocks, an hour outside Sacramento, California, USA,
are a steady ten degrees
hotter in the summer and colder in the winter than I am.
An old roommate in Seattle, a friend in Illinois.
A small town in Missouri that I’ve only visited on Google Maps–
My aunt showed me the tiny speck that is the abandoned trailer porch she reads on,
standing proud in the middle of their wide grassy property.
She showed me her favorite ponds,
My uncle flew me from the hills his family had started in
to this flat gold Missouri land,
scrolling across the Mississippi
with drags of his big rough finger pads.
I’m partial to the way hills cut across the sky,
but my uncle is a farmer.
He says 'flat’ like I say 'free WiFi,’
'dark chocolate,’ or 'gas that costs less than four dollars.’
He traced a broad hand across the touchscreen,
laid out borders he had walked with feet that I thought, as a child,
might shake the earth.
this kind, clever man with big shoulders,
and the kind of crushing hug
that lets you know he means it.
I scroll through my weather app with
my fingers chilling in air conditioning
and my world is shaken, knowing
that the sun is shining on his land,
that flat is beautiful.
It is raining in Fort Collins, Colorado, and hot in Richland, Washington.
It is 52 degrees Fahrenheit in Enkoping, Sweden,
and Reino is probably fixing something broken,
carving something beautiful,
making the world around him better than it was.
A woman who loves me is bundled up in 43 degree weather in Bethany, Missouri,
maybe subbing in a local school,
maybe sitting on her houseless porch in the middle of a golden field that’s her very own.
My phone says the sun is shining there.
The land is flat.
Curled up in my concrete and green grass valley,