writing outdoors

Писать утренние страницы даже в походе? Ну конечно. Этот ритуал настолько вошёл в привычку, что стал второй натурой. В пять утра выползти из палатки и, усевшись на берегу, фиксировать поток сознания на бумаге, поглядывая на снующие вверх и вниз по реке пароходы. Что может быть приятнее?

Those days where I can look up at the sun and feel the warmth radiate through me, feel the breeze awaken every part of my soul, hear the birds lighten my heart with their beautiful songs, and see the flowers reach towards me with their vibrant colors, make all of the days of darkness worth even just a little bit of sun.

Who likes to go outside and who is the hermit?

All I can imagine here is Steve dragging Tony outside by his feet, Tony uselessly trying to hold on to anything he can.

“Tony, come on.”

“Nooo - i have - work to do, Rogers - dammit, let me go!”

“You’ve done too much work, and now we are going for a nice walk outside-”

“Nope, nopedy nope-”

“-And we’re going to talk about our feelings- ”


“And we going to hold hands as we have a stroll in the park…” Steve jibed, still holding onto Tony’s feet.

“Ughhh,” Tony groaned in annoyance as he gave up struggling and lay face down on the floor.


A muffled groan.

“Well, then guess I’m just gonna have to -” Steve leant down and swooped Tony up into his arms, hearing him gasp, as he realised he was being carried bridal style. “- Carry you outside like this,” Steve finished, and smiled hugely at Tony’s shocked face.

Tony shook his head.


“Yes.” Steve started walking towards the door, holding onto Tony tightly.

“No - Friday - BRUCE! Help me!”

“Nah, Steve’s right, you need to go outside.”

“I’m afraid I cannot help you, boss.”

“No! I’m being kidnapped - Friday…you’re my last hope!” Tony said dramatically, clinging onto the door frame as he was carried outside. Bruce laughed at Tony’s comical face, shaking his head at them.

Steve took Tony out into the open and carried on walking with him in his arms. He didn’t weigh that much; so it wasn’t a problem, in fact he probably could walk around with Tony like this all day.

“There, wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Tony pouted at him.

“I hate you,” Tony said, as he leant his head on Steve’s shoulder in defeat, already feeling the freshness of the air on his face and the warm sunlight beating down on them.

“I know,” Steve smiled, holding him close. “I love you too.”

ID #71163

Name: AJ
Age: 30
Country: USA

I’m a Mom, wife, and Cat Guardian in New Mexico! I love sending/receiving snail mail, so I’d love to have a consistent penpal. My hobbies/passions/addictions include (but are not limited to): spending time with my Family, listening to music, singing, doing crafts (mainly knitting and crochet), enjoying the Great Outdoors (hiking is my jam!), reading, photography, animals, writing, watching movies and Netflix, hanging out on social media, coloring, and teaching (I homeschool). I love rainy weather and Autumn! I’m wicked friendly, genuine, kind, honest, and positive, and I’m 100% accepting of everyone. I’m LGBTQ+ friendly (and not just because I’m part of the community), and I love all people - as long as they are not hateful, mean, dishonest, fake, homphobic, or racist. I’m Atheist, but I don’t reject anyone who is religious - so I really hope no one rejects me for my lack of beliefs. There is plenty more to get to know about me, and I’m one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet…so let’s do this! I may be “old,” but I’m pretty awesome. :D

Preferences: I would prefer my penpal(s) to be at least 18, and not be the bad type of person I mentioned above. I also prefer not to discuss politics, as I have seen how awful people can get when discussing that topic. I’d love to talk about anything and everything else, though - both the good AND the bad. :) If you’re someone who would love a handmade gift someday, that’s a perk!

We’re working on a story from Rowan Oak, William Faulkner’s antebellum home in Oxford, Mississippi. We were skulking around outside, thinking we didn’t really have time to go in, tempting though it was. But the exuberant curator, Bill Griffith, caught us peeking and insisted we join him for a tour. I’m so glad we did! This is Faulkner’s writing room, and that’s his portable Underwood on a small table his mother gave him. Sometimes he’d move the whole setup outside to write outdoors under the trees. My other favorite thing in this room: the can of Scram Dog Repellent he used to keep ‘em away from his fancy climbing roses.

Listen for our story Monday, Feb. 13th, on All Things Considered.


anonymous asked:

Rebelcaptain, accidentally married

Yeah, I didn’t even try to make this three sentences, whoops. Look, I did it for the “secretly married” AU prompt, but the idea of this just cracked me up too much. NO REGRETS.

give me a pairing and an au and i’ll (try to) write a three sentence drabble

Cassian woke up to a pounding headache, the irritating feeling of sand lodged in every crevice of his being, and a heavy weight on top of him. When he lifted his head, he saw a few confusing things: the remains of what looked like had once been a bonfire, most of his crew and the aliens they were attempting to negotiate with sprawled on the breach looking how he felt, and most importantly, Jyn lying partially on him, her hair out of its typical fashion and a wild mess, and wearing a shredded white dress. Where had that even come from? Why was she wearing it? And why was she sleeping on him in front of everyone? Hell, why were they all passed out on the beach?

Carefully, so as to not disturb her and to keep his head from rocking, Cassian detangled himself and slid out from underneath her. Pulling his jacket off, he bunched it up and pushed it to Jyn until she took it to use as a pillow, mumbling something (that sounded an awful lot like his name) under her breath. Rubbing at his bleary eyes, Cassian stumbled around the passed out bodies and tried to take in the scene, but he didn’t understand any of it.

Only bits and pieces of the night flooded his mind: the leader of this group of aliens insisting on their glasses being refilled after every decision made, people and aliens dancing and singing (had Bodhi been singing?), a fire so bright and large in his memory that it made him blink now and his head ache, Jyn taking his hands and pulling him into the crowd, her teasing laughter, her daring smile, the three little moons shining all around her as she splashed about in ankle-deep water. He needed to radio K-2 back at the ship, but he hadn’t any ideas about what he would say.

“Ah, I knew you would be the first to wake!” a familiar voice called out much too loudly.Turning around, Cassian found Chirrut standing in the ocean, the alien planet’s strangely warm water lapping at his bare feet. His back was to Cassian, but it didn’t seem to matter. Cassian made his way towards him, but kept out of the water. Somehow, he’d managed to keep his boots on whereas everyone else seemed to have lost them during the night. “Baze is such a late and heavy sleeper. It’ll be troublesome convincing him to rise after last night.”

“What happened?” Cassian asked, his voice hoarse from having just woken up. He ran his fingers through his hair, but the memories didn’t full return. “I do not remember everything. Whatever was in those drinks was strong. I should not have agreed to having one after every single settlement.”

“It was a part of custom,” Chirrut pointed out, “and you did not want to insult them.”

That sounded like him. He’d chew on a hard rock if it meant a mission succeeding. Apparently that went with drinking as well. “Yes, well, I should not have continued drinking after the talks were done. What were we thinking?”

“We were rejoicing,” Chirrut told him. “We were celebrating.”

Cassian furrowed his brow. “Celebrating what? Their agreement to allow us to build a small rebel base on their planet?”

Chirrut lifted his face to the sky, the blue sun glowing brightly in his cloudy eyes, and replied with a very cheeky grin on his face. “Your union.”

“My what?” Cassian stared blankly at Chirrut, but the blind monk offered no more wisdom. His…union? He didn’t understand what Chirrut meant. It didn’t make any sense. “What…?”

He turned back around to examine the scene and his eyes locked onto Jyn, her arms wrapped protectively around his jacket where his body had been moments ago. He thought of… Him tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, an assortment of strange alien flowers making a crown on her head, her body snug and warm against his as aliens sang and danced circles around them, tugging on her hand as they jumped over a smaller fire and laughing when they bumped into each other, pulling her behind a hut to greedily kiss her lips and drag the already torn skirt of her dress up–

Cassian pressed a hand against his head and felt something unusual against it, something hard and cold. When he glanced down, he saw what it was and his heart about stopped: a rather crude, but mostly smooth dark metal band around one of his fingers. His ring finger.

“Congratulations on your marriage, Captain,” Chirrut said with barely contained laughter. Despite his obvious amusement, there was a very pleased expression on his face as well, as if he was genuinely happy about the situation. “Technically speaking, you and Jyn married under this planet’s customs. I’m not sure how that will extend throughout the galaxy as they don’t have a legal system here, but I suppose we’ll find out.”

Jyn was going to murder him. She was going to come to, find herself in a dress of all things, notice the ring on her finger, and put two-and-two together. She would find the blaster that must be with the rest of her clothes and she was going to shoot him. Because somehow or another, they had all gotten drunk while on a mission and he’d convinced her to marry him. He knew without remembering that he had done it – that he had been the one to ask – because he could hear the end of this galactic war ticking inside of his mind and he was afraid of an outcome that didn’t involve him finally being an honest man.

“Your bride is waking, I believe,” Chirrut said, bringing Cassian out of his thoughts. “It would be a shame for her to wake up alone on the morning of her first day as a married woman.”

My god, my wife, Cassian thought as he watched Jyn beginning to stir in true. She looked absolutely lovely in that dress with her wild hair and blinking eyes and his heart betrayed him with a painful thump where his mind once would’ve fought fiercely against it. She connected eyes with him, her brow furrowed in the confusion that he had felt shortly before, and he found himself walking to her with nothing to say and everything on his mind.

This was going to be a very rough morning, hangover notwithstanding. K-2 was never going to let him hear the end of this.

ID #71482

Name: Kelsey
Age: 25
Country: USA

I like reading (poetry, YA, sci-fi/fantasy, memoir), writing, cooking, crafting, and spending time in the great outdoors (hiking, floating, camping). I like a variety of music from indie to country to classic rock. I do watch TV & movies, but not as often as I read.

I suffer from several chronic illnesses, which I’m kind of new to and still adjusting to the spoonie life.

So, if someone wants to send recipes back and forth, share writing or stories, or just talk, let me know! I’m just looking to try something new.

Preferences: I only ask that you’re 18+ and speak English.

By the sea

I like to sit beside the sea
And close my eyes just enough,
That I can say I’m here alone
I pretend I’m the last human,

All my troubles drift away,
It into the waves endless repeat
Its slow certainty comforts me,
My senses leave on the tide,

The freedom I seek
Comes from living
On a small island,

Where I must keep every thought
Every action packed in the land,
They get stepped on by mistake,
I feel their soft shell break

Another I must free to the sea.

Originally posted by livingstills

LA River


It’s 4:30am. My insulated travel french press is sitting sullenly on the counter. It’s been there all night, steely throat agape, hungrily awaiting its morning meal of coffee grounds and scalding water. If the little fucker had fingers I’m sure they’d be tapping impatiently.

“Flyfishing.” The word typically conjures images of freestone rivers, pristine landscapes, and trout flashing like living jewels in a crystal current.

“Los Angeles.” The name is reminiscent of palm trees, botoxed celebrities, and urban sprawl pocking the landscape beneath the seasonless glare of a perpetual sun. It may be the last place that comes to mind when someone says “flyfishing.”

But here I am in Los Angeles at 4:47am, travel french press nestled contently in my cup holder, rolling North on the 710 towards Pasadena to flyfish the LA River with my brother.

By 6am we’re on the river. We will find no trout here. Once upon a time, before the concrete shackles that now bind its banks were installed in the name of flood control, this river held a run of wild steelhead. But they haven’t been seen in these parts since the 1940s. No, we’re on the hunt for the carp that thrive in the warm, dirty water that runs the 50-mile gauntlet of concrete and freeway overpasses, down to the Pacific Ocean.

Despite the knowledge of this unfortunate history, I find myself surprised by the strange beauty of the river. The soft hues of an LA sunrise cast scraps of foliage struggling through cracked concrete in a charming light. In certain sections, where the river bottom is intact, where the reeds and willows grow thickest, there still lingers a hint of what once was; the last remnants of that river magic all fishermen know. It still clings to the crevices and hollows of this river. You’ll catch its shimmer out of the corner of your eye.

My brother and I didn’t catch any fish this day. Our plan was to fish here regularly, until we cracked the code on the carp that scour the slimy river bottom. But life had other plans and I found myself moving to Idaho before we had a chance to return. Instead, I’m left with a memory of our lone encounter with this crippled river. And perhaps too, a sliver of hope. Maybe even a river as damaged and broken as this isn’t beyond hope. Maybe it just needs half a chance. That river magic lies dormant, but not dead. I’ve seen it. It is waiting for a chance to bloom once more.

ID #58956

Name: Gabriel
Age: 21
Country: USA

I. I’m glad my advertisement managed to grab your attention! My name’s Gabriel and I’m a 21-year-old musician/writer from Boston, MA (US). I’m resubmitting in hopes of finding someone brilliant with whom to write letters/exchange beautiful thoughts and ideas. I pray this reaches someone startlingly fascinating. Destroy me with your words.

II. Passions:// Reading (Lord Byron, Norton Juster’s The Phantom Tollbooth, Yukio Mishima, Arthur Rimbaud, Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes); Music (Prince, Frank Sinatra, Syd Barrett, The Avalanches, Sharon Van Etten, John Coltrane, Angel Olsen); History; Literature; Anatomy/Physiology; Tea; Writing; Late-night Walks; Writing/Recording Music; and Hiking Outdoors.

All responses tremendously appreciated~!

Thank you.

Preferences: III. Requirements/Preferences:// Ideally age eighteen onward; male or female–it doesn’t matter to me; and from anywhere; although not required, a sense of humor is greatly appreciated; and a commitment to writing letters on a fairly consistent basis, too.


Standing Stones Sculpture near Tre’r Ceiri Iron Age Hilltop Fort at Nant Gwrtheyrn, exploring the Iron Age and Celtic heritage, 8.5.16. 

Park Prompts
  • We both use this jogging trail but you’re always ahead of me by only a few steps and I never catch up. Today I came later and I found you waiting by the trail, waiting for me to go jogging with you. 
  • I’m spending the night at the Yosemite camp grounds and I met some very pretty strangers on my way in who I partied with, woke up to some wolves huddled around my tent, and may have been accepted into a werewolf pack. 
  • I failed to realize that the park squirrels were so forward as to jump into your hands if you so much as have food. I hope this explains why you just got a squirrel thrown at you. 
  •  You come by the dog run every day to pet all the dogs, and I don’t care that much because my dog loves everyone, but now my dog doesn’t even want to play with me at the park, only you. I’m going to have to either ask you to stop doing that or get to know me better so you can play with my dog more.
  • I’m taking an art class that’s held at the park and it’s nice and all but the wind is getting too much to handle and my canvas flew onto you, leaving a big paint smudge on you. I swear I’ll personally clean your clothes, I know how to get the paint out.
  • We’re both park rangers and nothing ever happens here so we just play games at out station and wait for the next shift to come in.