The town I grew up in was surrounded by a river. No matter which road you took leaving town you had to cross it. The ancient, muddy Big Sioux River. Every spring and sometimes in the summer it would rage and flood until it felt like the town was under siege. No one could leave and no one could enter until it subsided.
Coming home from the bar one night, my grandfather missed the bridge. He was going almost one hundred miles an hour when his ‘58 Chevy jumped the river, crashing into the opposite bank. He was decapitated. His body impaled by the steering column. They never did find his head.
Strangely enough, some twenty years earlier while fishing in that same river, he reeled in the top part of a human skull. He took it to the Sheriff who sent it off to a lab in the city. They tested it and found that it was over 200 hundred years old and most likely Native American. The lab returned the skull to the Sheriff and he gave it back to my grandfather.
Grandfather kept the skull in the basement. He’d take it out and show it to you if he had a couple beers in him. I held it in my hands after he died. I wondered if it was somehow his skull and time was a strange circle.
I was ten when I saw my first dead body. It was on the bank of that same river, off a different road. Some guy wrecked his motorcycle in the night. His body lay next to the river under a blue tarp the cops had thrown over him. My dad pulled the truck over on the other side of the bridge and we walked to where the cops were. We leaned over the rail of the bridge right over the tarp as one of the cops pulled it off. A heavyset dude lay there, almost like he was asleep. But he was so white it was startling. He was wearing an Earl Campbell football jersey, the same kind Cristopher Cross wore in his music video for his mega 1980 hit “Sailing.”
When I was in college, I woke up one morning after a long night of debauchery and someone had covered me up with a blue tarp. I’d passed out in the back yard. When I first opened my eyes I didn’t know what the hell was going on. The world was on fire in blue. I thought I was dead under a tarp like that guy I’d seen when I was a kid. I swear I could actually hear the words to that Christopher Cross song.
“Well, it’s not far down to paradise, at least it’s not for me
And if the wind is right you can sail away and find tranquility”
When I was 14 my best friend and I drove a couple of girls down to the river and parked a hundred yards from where I’d seen the dead guy in the Earl Campbell jersey. My buddy and his girl took off with a 6-pack to build a fire in a clearing. I just kinda sat there as I hadn’t been alone with a girl since I was a little kid. I couldn’t think of anything to say so I told her about the body I’d seen when I was a young. She wanted to see where. I chugged the rest of my beer and grabbed a couple fresh ones, pointing out the way.
She laughed and dashed off and I dizzily chased her. She was pretty, far too pretty for me. I caught up with her by the bridge and told her the body had been on the other side. She grabbed a beer from me and cracked it open, accidentally spraying herself. She squealed like the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I took off my t-shirt. She wiped her face with it, then ran off under the bridge to the other side.
She was stopped by a tangle of white gardenia plants all abloom. “This is the spot,” I said. “His family must have planted them,” she said, half shocked and half sad. I instinctively reached out to comfort her and she grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me full on the mouth. I almost passed out from the excitement and the beer and the running and the perfume and the gardenias and the death.
Three years later she shot herself in the heart with a 12-gauge shotgun. She was pregnant. It wasn’t mine. We’d broken up more than a year before.
It didn’t make any goddamn sense. After I heard about it, I got in my car and drove. I wanted to get the fuck out of that stupid little town. It had been raining for three days and the river had flooded. So I pulled over and watched it. The water was raging in wild white cap torrents and I wondered if the bridge would hold.
PAIRING: Harry/Y/N RATING: R lol WORD COUNT: 10k y’all!!! REQUESTED: nope !
this is my longest one shot, it took up like 20 pages on microsoft word lmfao !! anyways it took me a bit longer than usual bc i went through a slight block (rip) but it is finished and i’m quite proud of it!!
feedback is much appreciated, it rly motivates me!! ok that’s it i hope u enjoy :-)
Summary: Just like his freckles and bowlegs, Dean’s slight pudge has always been a part of himself that he’s never felt completely comfortable with. After a few miserable days of unsuccessful dieting and choking down rabbit food, Cas reminds him exactly how beautiful he is.
“You’re getting kinda chubby!”
Charlie makes this remark lightly, offhandedly, as she passes by Dean on the way to breakfast that morning: Dean had been stretching his arms overhead in a yawn so that his cotton shirt rode up over his stomach, which Charlie takes the opportunity to poke.
Startled, he looks down just in time to see the disconcerting way in which her fingertip sort of smushes into the soft, freckly flesh.
Dean halts in his tracks, blinking comprehensively. “Wait, what?” is all he can think to say.
Charlie, who’d been nonchalantly continuing on her way down the hall, turns to look at him. “Well, you don’t have to sound so offended about it,” she laughs. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way or anything!”
Dean folds his arms defensively. “Then what did you mean, Charles?”
“First of all, I answer only to Charlie, Ms. Bradbury, or the Illustrious Queen of Moondoor. Next, I just meant you put on a couple pounds. Maybe getting a bit of a tummy. It’s no big deal.”
Dean looks comprehensively down at his stomach. Now that he thinks about it, he has been eating more these days – he’s been going through sort of a “nesting period” during his relationship with Cas: lots of baking pies, burgers, etc. He didn’t think it was noticeable.
Taking note of the gravity of his expression, Charlie laughs, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “You don’t have to look so glum about it! It’s cute.”
Dean glowers at her, tugging self consciously at his t-shirt. “M’not cute,” he mutters grouchily. “I’m a warrior.”
Charlie laughs again. “Alright, warrior. Hurry up and take care of your morning breath – Kevin’s making waffles again!”
With that, Charlie skips off down the hall, leaving Dean to steep in his juices. He lets Charlie laugh it off, of course – he knows she didn’t mean any harm – but the fact is, Dean’s always known he’s had a little bit of pudge around his midsection, and he’s always been the slightest bit insecure about it. Just like his freckles and bowlegs, it’s one of the things about himself that he’s never particularly liked.
His one solace was convincing himself that these features weren’t as noticeable to everyone else as they are to him. Now, that seems to have changed.
Dean pulls up the rim of his shirt, noting sourly the way in which his pudge protrudes slightly over the waistband of his pajama pants.
i quit sephora and now i feel much more comfortable being able to talk about my issues with makeup culture as it has evolved, so here’s a bit of a venting session from me! wall of text ahead!
to start: i think makeup is great, it’s incredibly fun, and i will alway stand by it as an invaluable method of immediate and non-permanent self-modification. it can help a lot of people with self expression and (mostly gender) presentation, and the fact that there are so many people who feel truer to their internal selves with the help of makeup is wonderful.
BUT, that said, makeup culture itself is awful. i was in cosmetic sales for about 3 years, i’ve been an avid makeup enthusiast for a good decade, and it disheartens me the way people come to view themselves because of makeup culture. before i worked at sephora i was much more optimistic about makeup, and y’all would see me go blue in the face defending it– working in cosmetics shed a LOT of light on the things i would prefer to ignore.