1) I met up with @malloryrunsthis, who had a very popular sign among both runners and spectators. A few runners even stopped to take a picture of it. There was a woman about 30 feet ahead of us who also had a Trump-related sign that said something along the lines of “Run like Trump is right behind you.”
2-3) I got two (good) photos of @busybeerunningfree! After snapping these two, I tried running ahead again to get a few more, but they didn’t turn out so great. I tried looking out for other Tumblrs, but I missed you all. (We definitely need matching Tumblr uniforms to make it easier to identify people when they’re running, ya knoooow?)
4-9) Costumed runners! Including a pirate, a 1920s gangster?, a cheeseburger, Forrest Gump, Harry Caray, and Waldo.
10) Not sure what to think of this guy. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a henley tee. Did he just wake up and decide to jump in the race? But also, that bib number belongs to a 43 year old woman. Was he running in place of a relative who couldn’t make it in the last minute? We may never know…
walls ‘verse ficlet (in which puck is offended and there are dramatic denunciations)
Here’s another little thing I wrote during my time away from tumblr. For a couple of months, I was pretty deep in a depressive episode, and there were a few people who kept the connection going by every so often sending me cute pics of otters or hedgehogs (hearts to @svmadelyn@coffeekristin@mosgirl9@winds-wanderer@veritas0three). It’s always been easier for me to write something for someone, so this was my response riffing on the pic below, sent by @mosgirl9/starzgrl.
Takes place in the 09-10 season.
Jon’s digging in his pocket for his key card; he can hear
the tv through the door as well as yips that mean Puck’s still hyped up. He
gets that way after games sometimes; Jon’s never quite figured it out. It
doesn’t always correspond to Patrick’s post-game mood, and that’s true tonight.
Patrick had gone 0 for 3 and Jon can hear, once he finally unlocks the door, that
the shower’s still on, as it had been 20 minutes earlier when Jon had gone down
to the coaches’ suite for a brief meeting.
Griffe is sitting on the bed, eyes fixed on Puck, who is
clinging halfway up the brocade drapes.
“Pangur Bán,” says Jon reprovingly, right as Puck
launches himself through the air to the desk, war whoop in full force. He skids
a little, pushing Patrick’s wallet and the key cards to the floor, but then
he’s off again, landing on the arm chair.
“Prepare to die!” he intones dramatically to
Griffe, then bounces onto the bedside table, knocking the phone awry. In the
next second he’s gathered himself for a divebomb attack on Griffe, but her
reflexes are as good as Niemi’s, and she bats Puck right out of the air. He
squawks and flails on the edge of the bed, grabbing at the duvet with his
“And she knocks it out of the park!” Griffe says,
like she’s Harry Caray. “What a slugger that girl is.”
Puck loses his battle with
gravity and plops indecorously onto the floor. He lies there moaning
extravagantly, though Jon can see him peeking over, assessing his effect on