Quick happy MSR drabble / extended headcanon for @snowvitamins <3
Peering out the window over the kitchen sink to one of her
favorite sights, Scully smiled. In front of her, their figures backed by tall
golden grass, were her two boys, leaping across the puddles in the uneven
The summer heat was oppressive and with their air
conditioning broken on this lazy Sunday, the three of them had splayed out in
the living room all day, fans at full blast, wearing minimal clothing, until
the whoosh of the downpour started.
Scully had insisted that shoes of some sort were a
necessity. As a result, Mulder was now wearing only gym shorts and his work
boots as he chased a squealing William through the puddles and around the yard.
Mulder had never looked more ridiculous. Scully
had never loved him more.
This show is appalling. It teaches nothing but rubbish. I just watched them somehow manage to genderfy colors, hint that women are not even fit for home making, subtly assert that femininity cannot also be sportsmanly, and them make a lame attempt to subvert those things by making the whole thing ironic.
To be more precise: Daddy Pig has his football shirt hanging up near the children’s muddy puddle. It gets splashed. They was it with Peppa’s red dress. Yes, thank you for teaching the children to sort laundry rather than to read or dream or explore. So the shirt is made pink. Daddy Pig arrives and says “I can’t wear a pink shirt to football!” And when Peppa says, quite rationally, “Why not? It’s a lovely color!” Daddy Pig asks the little boy - a baby not old enough to know anything about gender - he says “Yuck”. The announcer declares that the little boy does not like pink. The team shows up, and Daddy Pig is “forced” to play football in his white undershirt. Which he then gets covered in mud.
What the hell are you teaching your children.
Every single episode I have watched has suffered beneath my wrath. At least now they won’t watch it anymore. What a god awful show.
On a positive note, I have found one I quite like, called “Wallykazam”
i dont know if your requestss are open but could you write something about them sharing that chase or whatever it was? that was so so cute and such a small part of the story.
Hey there! My requests aren’t really open per say but this is literally about the storyI just posted & it’s still fresh in my mind, sooooooooooo I think I can make this happen.
plus this is a great excuse to use the baby
Flashback; in your twenties, a devastatingly hot summer afternoon, when your best friend / neighbor Rafael Barba decides to bug you.
It was so, so hot out.
“What the Hell are you wearing?” Rafael had been at classes, and easily decided to help himself into your apartment after they were through. “And why don’t you lock your damn doors?”
You rolled your eyes, too annoyed with the sweat beading across your forehead to properly deal with his berating. This horrible weather had everyone acting up, threw the world off its hinges just a bit. “I hadn’t been expecting company, most people knock.”
“I’m not most people,” his backpack was abandoned, and he made no efforts of hiding the fact that he was quite interested in your outfit. Thin silk? Satin? He could never tell, but it was barely much of anything, hung from thin straps on your shoulders (one had slipped, and you did not appear too concerned with fixing it) and barely reached your thighs. Petal pink and precious, he bit his lip while shaking his head to rid his mind of the thoughts that flooded- he was only a man, after all. “But if you don’t have to wear real clothes, I’m losing this shirt.”
“I don’t give a shit, Rafi, parade around naked if you want to.”
He paused, you spun to look over your shoulder when you couldn’t hear his feet shuffling anymore. Tauntingly, he had the buckle of his belt in his hands, and wriggled brows (what you assumed he considered) seductively as he fumbled with it.
Deadpan; “That was a joke, Rafi.”
Ah, and your friend roared with laughter, but still ditched the belt. The pants could stay, might as well. “You’re grumpy,” after dropping his shirt with the bag, Rafael sauntered your way, and dramatically collapsed alongside you on the chaise. “You have the best breeze in this whole apartment building, you’d think you’d be a bit grateful.”
A whine left your lips, and you continued to gaze longingly out the window. Children were playing in the streets, dancing in water coming from a hose one of them had used to siphon ’rain’ from a hydrant. They probably shouldn’t be doing that, but Lord, they were having so much fun. “I am grateful,” you lay your temple against the wooden edge of the window, propped yourself up with elbows placed on the sill. “I wish I was down there with them, though, they’re having much more fun.”
Curious about the commotion, Rafael placed fists against the cushions on either side of your torso so he could peek around you. They were enjoying themselves, he had noticed them working on the hydrant on his walk back from school. “Well don’t you worry,” shamelessly, he dropped himself, so his chest hit your back and he could curl one arm around your waist. Using you as a resting spot, he pressed his cheek against yours that wasn’t on the windowsill, and used his free hand to comb your sweat-moistened hair out of your face. “Your Rafi’s back, so the fun’s just begun.”
If they had been opened, you’d have rolled your eyes. Instead, you were busy savoring his fingertips and their subtle stroll through your tresses. Why did that feel so nice? You weren’t quite sure, but he didn’t stop, especially not after he twist his face and saw how peaceful you looked. No, instead of getting a drink or watching the rambunctious children stomp in puddles; he watched you, smiled to himself when he felt the tension release out of your shoulders from under him, hid his face in the crook of your neck for just a second despite your damp skin.
This went on for awhile; between the breeze, his petting, and the comfort of his weight over you- you’d almost dozed off. It wasn’t until a tune started playing out in the streets, the tinny music-man jingle of songs you remembered in your own childhood, that you were roused with a start. Your sudden movements apparently surprised poor Rafael, who jumped and gathered a handful of your hair to swipe over your shoulder.
“Want some? I have some extra cash.” The query came after he pressed his lips to your bare shoulder, and you nodded eagerly while staring out at the ice cream truck below. “You gotta put clothes on.”
“I’m wearing clothes, you dolt,” with a smart roll, you managed to knock him off of you, and jumped up to your feet. Still, despite your protest, you went to work tying your hair up in a bun atop your head. “But I will go put a dress on… don’t wanna scare the kiddies.”
Yea, Rafael thought while trying to fight through the blush rising to his cheeks when your lifted arms caused that little… whatever it was… to raise just enough to reveal some of your derriere, they’d surely be terrified to see you like this… or, you’d be why they’d start teaching Sex Ed in the public schools.
“Hurry up,” he managed to squeak out after watching you disappear in your bedroom. “I’ll go without you,” the threat was as fake as his disinterest, and so Rafael lay flat on the chaise to await your return.
He wouldn’t go anywhere without you, unless he had to.
The rain is nice, you try to convince yourself as you drum your fingers on the edge of the bench. The rain is nice. It smells clean and brings with it a refreshing breeze, filling the bus shelter with the scent of a crisp spring day. Maybe if you take a deep breath, you can pretend that you’re a tulip in the middle of an April shower. Maybe if you close your eyes and let your mind wander, it will feel something like getting hit by a playful ocean spray.
But you don’t. Instead you choose to glance at the glass wall on your left. It’s plastered with raindrops, some fat, some minuscule, all of them gliding down the glass in a race to drown the earth. There has always been something calming about the sight of it- raindrops, you discovered early on in your life, have a therapeutic quality to them- but today, you find yourself scowling savagely at the scene because no, the rain is not nice. It is not a spring day and there is no playful ocean. It’s almost winter and it’s fucking freezing. The rain is positively pouring down, your clothes are sticky from the droplets, and yet somehow, despite the miserable situation screaming at you otherwise, you’re still here on the bench after forty-five long minutes of waiting.
It was raining. Rain was generally a good thing. It watered all of the plants, gave the children puddles to jump in, cleared the sky of smog, and put most people in a good mood. Yet, rain wasn’t very good for Alexander Hamilton.
Alexander has seen a lot in his seven years of life. His dad left him and his mom when he was just four years old. Two years later, a really bad storm, a hurricane hit his town. He remembered it all vividly even though he tried to block out all the memories. He remembered the howling winds, and the rain thundering down on the thin roof. He remembered the streets flooding, and him yelling for his mom. His mom would hold him. She almost died of a sickness, but she got over it. The hurricane was devastating. It had destroyed almost all the vegetation on the small island. It destroyed houses, it destroyed electrical wires. It destroyed people. He remembered going out in the streets and seeing people floating on their backs in the water. At first, he would try to talk to them, and then furrow his eyebrows once they didn’t respond. His mom had to break the news to him that they were dead. He was shocked to say the least.
I love this photo because it reminds me of the film images my mom took my siblings and me when we lived on a farm. She’d throw me in some floral dress and lace up boots and the boys would wear shorts and jeans with boots or tennis shoes and we’d just splash and play in puddles and mud, enjoying our own little world. Unfortunately we don’t live there anymore, so when I find little gems like this I tell Jakey about when our family lived on the farm.
Of course Jakey was hesitant to jump in the puddle, so he tiptoed in to make sure it wasn’t too deep, but he loved it once he got used to it.
This photo reminds me of my mom’s photography. She of course had a film camera and I can’t touch the beauty and quality that film has, but hopefully I’ll shoot film one day.
wild winds sweep burning plains carcasses spread thick and high as giants land squishing ironblood soaking through bones and rocks wind mewing in pain alabaster people high on cloud of death rode in packs to decimate the ground dirt pulled gross stuff down and down dripped it in teeth grew large in the chipping bellies grew full in the swallow blood screamed through new bodies homes were built homes built on cracked jaws and stitched split heads new children grew soaked in the puddle of old hate hanged other boys from trees laughed and played kickball pink and round as pregnancy darker boys had their teeth split like marbles picked like pork chops at the dinner table hanged like wisps in the country air shot like dogs in the painful streets split like logs in the pond of our collective visions alabaster children grew sewed up eyes and stuffed up ears and throats of chalk hearts dense as rock limbs cocked as Gun ate money hanged themselves in the marbled basements of their parents guilt like plague swamping up their veins
Love is not the scent of flowers and sunshine in the summer. It is more like the wind that whispers and whistles through the cracks of the windows and walls, floors and doors. It is the remnants of the fire that kept you warm, it is the ashes in the fireplace. Love is the mud following a pleasant, rainy day that brought joy to the faces of children who jumped in puddles. It is the storm after the calm.
It is the aftermath of war - the bloodshed and the wounds, the promises of those who vowed to return home, but never quite made it.
Hi! I just finished Raven Boys (as in less than 5 hours ago) and it started me thinking about pop lit vs classic lit. I'm a lit/philosophy major, and one of my biggest qualms about literature as an academic field is that the books which we pick to be considered "classics" are overwhelmingly dark, sad, and cynical. The writing of many classic authors, while good, is certainly not superior to writing by talented "pop/pulp lit authors". Why is some literature revered and some treated as inferior?
Well, there’s a lot of snobbery that clouds the answer to this question, but I’m going to pretend for a moment that it doesn’t exist. If you remove all other considerations, classics tend to be books that either exemplify (or spawned) their genre or are books with lots of layers. Both of those things encourage scholars to muck about in their pages like unattended children in a mud puddle. Lots to work with. Lots to talk about.
Commercial fiction has different priorities: it’s not that a wild bestseller won’t have layers, but that’s not the point of it, either. Diary of a Wimpy Kid isn’t about to support two hundred years of study, but it was never supposed to. Is it worse than those classics? Better? I don’t think those are really the right words for it. It depends on what your goal is. My goal with Sinner, for instance, was to write a book that a reader could swallow in two hours flat and feel like they had done no heavy-lifting whatsoever. My goal with the Raven Cycle was to write a series that rewarded the re-read (and the re-read of the re-read) and required the reader to pay rather closer attention.
I have not yet written The Great American Novel that I hope is plucked apart in literature courses in two hundred years, and I don’t know that I ever will: it’s not my goal. If you’d like me to point you in the direction of some authors who seem to be doing that (Donna Tartt, Audrey Niffeneggar, Leif Enger), I’m more than happy to, but I also don’t have any problem with not counting myself among them. If my storytelling goals mean that some literature profs will turn their nose up at me at dinner parties, I’m fine with that, too. My goals are merely to write something that leaves readers with a book hangover for as long as humanly possible, and to write things that pay for my Camaro’s spare parts. Better? Worse? I’m doing what I mean to, which I think is a more useful thing to ask of a book.
What are you trying to do, book? Did you manage it?