#apartments in kansas city missouri
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Comet Donati [Chapter 1: History]
Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.
Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+) and drugs, alcohol, smoking, astronomy, mental health struggles, Missouri.
Selected Chapter Quote: “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”
Word count: 4.1k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
* * * I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 * * *
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“You are a professional,” you tell your reflection threateningly, like it owes you money. Your hair is painstakingly tidy, your makeup neat, subdued, businesslike. You are wearing a black blazer, a white blouse, and Cookie Monster pajama pants. You are in your one-bedroom apartment in Kansas City, Missouri: grey, thunderous, humid as hell, June raindrops on the windows. “You have a master’s degree and hundreds of clinical hours and you are not afraid of clients. Not at all! Not even a little bit!”
You check your phone. 2:55 p.m.
“Oh God,” you whine to the checkered tiles of the bathroom floor, to the floral wallpaper. You clutch the cold porcelain of the sink: rose-pink, 1950s, diners and Thunderbirds, housewives and Valium. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t do this. Oh my God.”
But there is no escape! You hurry, sweating profusely, to your laptop. You start the Zoom meeting and wait for your client to arrive, chewing your thumbnail until it bleeds, a scarlet semicircle of dull warm pain, a crescent moon like spilled merlot. You glance at your notepad again. David Mills, 25, married, anxiety upon relocating to a new city and beginning employment there.
Wait.
You confirm with a quick Google search in a new tab. David Mills was the protagonist in Se7en.
You sit back in your swivel chair, eyes narrowed with suspicion. The blue-white luminance of the screen glows on your face like moonlight. Your client is either a coincidence or a liar.
So what? People lie. People lie about therapy especially. So he wants some anonymity. Big deal.
“Strange,” you murmur to yourself.
You have no further opportunity to mull it over. A gratingly cheerful ding announces your client’s arrival in the Zoom meeting waiting room. No avatar, name still listed as David Mills.
“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Here we go.”
You shake the tremors out of your hands and admit him. He pops onto the screen like a bloom of ironweed, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s nighttime wherever he is. The background is dark and indistinct, shadowy; lamplight cascades across his face, topaz and fool’s gold. You are startled to realize that you already know him. And his name is definitely not David Mills.
“…Aegon?!”
He grins, sly and cocky but never cruel. “Hey.”
“Aegon Targaryen??!!”
“That’s me!” he concurs brightly. “What’s up, Stargirl?”
And instantly, you are transported back to almost exactly one year ago: a rooftop bar downtown, neon signs coiled in shades of violet and rhodonite and sapphire, night wind, constellations, ice clinking in misty glasses, locks of his hair skating between your fingers, the sting of his teeth on your throat, the Weeknd. “Hey,” you say softly. And then again, with more enthusiasm: “Hey! I saw you on Good Morning America last week!”
“Yeah? Was I good?”
“Jace was good. You were slightly offkey.”
“Aw shit. I usually am.”
“That’s okay. You’re the hot loser, right? That’s your character?”
“That’s me, baby. That’s why it works so well.”
It’s impossible: time has passed, thousands of miles have opened up between you, and yet it’s like he’s right here in the room, he never arrived, he never left, he’s always been here for life to grow up around like the framework of a house, a trellis, a skeleton. “How did you find me?”
“I couldn’t remember your name, but I figured you must have finished school by now. So I Googled therapists in Kansas City. Do you know how many there are?”
“500,” you guess.
“712,” Aegon says. “At least, that’s how many I scrolled through before I found your photo.”
“Wow.” You’re smiling; you can’t take your eyes off him. A lot of girls have that problem. That’s why he’s worth $100 million. “Couldn’t remember my name, huh? I guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”
He chuckles, a little bashfully, sweeping his blond hair off his face. “No. No, you definitely made an impression.”
So did he. In the downstairs bathroom of the bar, tucked beneath a staircase, stark white florescent lights and red walls, lip biting and ripped seams on your dress. He’d finished in approximately thirty seconds—which, oddly, felt more like a compliment than anything else—and then promptly snapped off the condom, dropped to his knees, and went down on you until you came not once but twice, a rarity for you. But that wasn’t the best part. Afterwards you’d gone back up to the roof together, sat in a quiet corner booth until the bar closed, talked about anything and everything with your bodies folded unconsciously into each other, origami, blended watercolors, whispers and murmurs, your palm on his thigh, his fingertips ghosting the underside of your wrist.
“So,” Aegon says through the laptop screen. “Are you, like, kind of unemployed currently?”
“No,” you reply, palpably defensive. Embarrassing! “I’m clearly working right now. You literally made a virtual appointment with me. I’m just…getting my practice off the ground.”
“Yeah but you seem lowkey unemployed.”
“You are so fucking rude.” But you’re laughing.
“I’m just saying, you had a lot of appointment times available. A lot.”
“I’m recruiting clients!” you exclaim. “I’m not like you. I can’t simulate sex with microphone stands to sell tickets.”
“That was one time!”
You smirk at him, eyebrows raised.
“That was…four times. That I recall.”
“I’m a professional. A serious, grown-up, certified professional.”
“You’re a glorified hobo, admit it.”
“You’re a dollar store Harry Styles.”
“Fuck,” he sighs, clutching his chest. “Okay you win.”
“Why did you do this? Why did you track me down in order to make some fraudulent therapy appointment?”
Now Aegon is something you’ve never seen from him before. He’s nervous. “I, uh…I need your help.”
“Really?”
“Well, not me specifically,” he amends. “We need your help. Comet does.”
Comet. What he means—what screaming fans all over the world mean when they drop this name in Reddit threads or Twitter hashtags or Tumblr gifsets—is the boy band Comet Donati. Three albums, five members: Aegon, Jace, Luke, Cregan, Daeron. The lineup has changed recently. Everyone knows why. “Help with what?”
“I mean…I’m sure you heard about what happened.”
“Yeah,” you say, somber now. Six months ago a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck at the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo. It hit Aemond, costing him six inches of flesh on the left side of his face, his sight in one eye, and his position as the undisputed, archetypal fearless leader of Comet. The celebrity gossip sites had reported that he was taking time off to recover, and then that his younger brother Daeron would be filling in for him at a few shows, and then suddenly Daeron was the fifth member of the band, and everyone was so charmed by his distinctly buoyant, sunshine-and-rainbows quality that Aemond faded from the discourse almost entirely, a ghost, a phantom, an antiquated word like telegraph or courtship or laudanum.
“So things are different now,” Aegon continues. “Things are…not always easy. And I think it might be a good idea to have you around.”
“Look, I’m not…like…” How can you put this? It’s something you have difficulty admitting out loud. “I’m not a real therapist, you know? You’re right, Aegon. I’m basically unemployed. I’m fresh out of my master’s program, I don’t have anywhere near the kind of experience that someone would need to adequately help Comet. So, maybe I could recommend some people to you, but other than that I don’t think I can—”
“It has to be you,” Aegon says.
You shake your head, gazing through the screen at him, through the space and the time. “Why?”
“When Comet performed in Kansas City…when we met at the bar that night…” He is hushed, meditative. “I don’t really remember what we talked about. But I remember exactly how you made me feel.” He smiles, the sort of smile you didn’t know he had in him: soft, pure, nostalgic, without edges. “I think Aemond could use some of that.”
The walls fall down around you, this apartment, this city, this life. “Where are you right now?”
“Capri.”
“Where?”
“Capri,” he says again, amused. “But we’ll be in Rome tomorrow. You can meet us there.”
“In Rome,” you repeat, like it’s Mars or one of Jupiter’s moons.
“Catch the next flight out. The band can reimburse you. We’ll get you a contract of some sort. Nothing too long-term, so you won’t be locked in or anything. A few months. Then we can reassess.”
“Okay, but…I don’t feel comfortable serving as an official therapist to you or anyone else in Comet, Aegon. The circumstances are less than orthodox. And not just because of the…um…bar bathroom situation.”
“Fine, whatever.” He’s high on the victory; the details don’t matter so much.
“Okay,” you say. And then again, giggling wildly at the ludicrousness of it all: “Okay! I guess I’ll see you in Rome tomorrow!”
“Cool. Let me give you my WhatsApp.” You exchange information, and then he grins at you, crafty and radiant through the screen. “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”
“We’ll see,” you reply distractedly, already opening Expedia in a new tab.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Midwest, the East Coast, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, Southern Europe, green to blue and then green again as the plane descends into the Leonardo da Vinci Airport of Rome. You roll your single carry-on bag through the corridors, peering out the windows at cloudless cerulean skies and towering stone pines. Aegon meets you at the bottom of an escalator. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a neon green tank top, and matching Crocs. He’s slightly chubbier than you remember, just as beautiful, just as chaotically charismatic, the sun made flesh. He’s standing with a man you don’t recognize.
“Benvenuta, bella!” Aegon proclaims, nearly tackling you with a hug before taking your bag. He smells like beer, sunscreen, Axe body spray, summer air that unfurls warm and golden in the lungs.
“Oh, thank God,” the other man—possibly Italian, definitely gorgeous—exhales with great relief. “Aegon said he needed to meet someone at the airport and I was 90% sure that you would be a drug dealer. But you do not look like a drug dealer. You’re not a…are you a…?”
“No, I’m definitely not a drug dealer.”
“Okay. Great. Hello.” He extends a hand, tan and muscley. “I’m Criston, I’m the tour manager. It is my job to keep everyone alive and uninjured.”
“Four out of five isn’t bad,” Aegon says. And then, when Criston is clearly distressed by it: “Uh, anyway, there’s an Escalade waiting outside.”
The SUV is massive and black with tinted windows. As you follow Aegon into the backseat, several paparazzi appear on the sidewalk and begin snapping photos, calling out to you and expelling rapid-fire white flashes like lightning. Aegon ignores them. You’ve been travelling all day, and the sun is setting now in Rome. The sky is the color of embers, autumn leaves, Saturn. Criston climbs into the passenger seat and gives instructions to the driver. The Escalade wheels out of Arrivals, paparazzi sprinting down the sidewalk after it to take a few final pictures.
“So,” Aegon says, smiling. He pops open the mini fridge and hands you an ice-cold can of San Pellegrino. “Do you have a boyfriend back in Kansas? Or, maybe, boyfriends?”
“Missouri,” you correct him automatically. “And no. None worth mentioning.” A guy you’ve had lunch with twice, a guy you made out with at an Olive Garden, a guy you hooked up with back at UChicago who you’re still texting, guys who flit in and out of your mind like birds through the sky, impermanent, inconsequential.
“You still on the pill?”
“Yes.” You’re not offended. Aegon is teasing, and so are you. It occurs to you that talking to Aegon is a bit like talking to yourself; there are no awkward lulls, and he rarely says anything that shocks you. “But that’s not why I came to Rome.”
“That’s fine. That’s not why I invited you.”
As the Escalade zooms by iconic landmarks—the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, the Piazza del Popolo—you ask Aegon about them. He has no idea; he makes things up instead.
“That’s the duck waterpark,” he says as you pass a fountain that’s over 1,000 years old. Then he points to a naked statue of an extremely buff Mercury. “That’s me before I started eating carbs again.” His only snippet of accurate trivia comes as you drive by the twilight-lit Colosseum. “Holy shit, that’s where Taylor Swift made out with Tom Hiddleston!”
“Surely more important things have happened there at some point in the past two millennia.”
“I doubt it,” Aegon replies, frowning out the Escalade window, taciturn. “I wish I got to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum.”
Comet Donati is staying at the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, which closely resembles a palace. When the Escalade stops at the front doors, you drag your luggage out onto the cobblestones.
“No no no,” Criston says, grabbing the rolling suitcase from you. He gives it to a white-gloved butler along with a room number and then escorts you and Aegon to the top floor. It’s not until the three of you are in the elevator that you realize you are still wearing your highly unsophisticated travel-day attire: yoga pants, flip flops, a tie-dye hoodie with Louis Tomlinson’s face on it that you purchased from Etsy last winter. Aegon catches you scrutinizing your reflection in the mirrors that line the inside of the elevator.
“Traitor,” he says with a grin, massaging your shoulders. His eyes lock with yours in the mirror. His touch is—just as it was a year ago at that bar in Kansas City when you were home from school on break and he was a transient visitor, fleeting like a rainstorm—familiar somehow, pleasant and comforting but not profound, welcome without being necessary.
“Don’t hate him ‘cause you ain’t him. When was the last time you wrote a #1 hit single?”
“Never,” Aegon readily admits. “Although I got into the Top 5 in Norway once.” No, everyone knows that Aemond was Comet’s Louis Tomlinson: their best songwriter, their relatively unproblematic and grounded team captain, their protector, their compass. And now he has no official place in the band at all.
When the elevator doors open, Criston leads you and Aegon down the hallway to a bustling suite. Inside there are white leather couches and gold-colored lounge chairs, a bar, a staircase that leads up to the loft bedroom, people wandering in and out of air that is hazy with whispers and cigarette smoke. There are men in suits, women in short tight dresses, leather and velvet and sequins. You are woefully underdressed. Fortunately, so is Aegon. He is greeted with a dizzying array of cheers, waves, and toasts. Someone shoves an emerald green bottle of Peroni into his grasp. Kesha’s Your Love Is My Drug is vibrating through the speakers mounted on the wall: “What you’ve got, boy, is hard to find, I think about it all the time…”
“Hey, hey, listen up!” Aegon shouts, stepping on top of an ottoman, and the chatter lowers in volume like a radio being turned down.
You scan the smokey room until you’ve located all five current Comet Donati members: Aegon the disaster playboy, Luke the sensitive and kindhearted one, Daeron the energetic ray of sunshine, Jace the heir apparent in the power vacuum created by Aemond’s departure, Cregan the brooding, mysterious, sexy Northern Englishman. You know them, and yet you don’t. You know the characters they play, their reputations, their public personas…but that doesn’t mean you know them. Aegon is the only man you spoke to at the rooftop bar that night in Kansas City a year ago. So far, the mythical version of him seems quite consistent with reality.
Cregan is slumped at one end of the couch by the window and knocking back shots of what appears to be straight vodka. In the night sky beyond the glass, you can see stars and the illuminated Rome skyline: modern skyscrapers, ancient rubble. At the other end of the couch is Aemond. He’s smoking, drinking something iced and bloody pink, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, all in black like he’s trying to disappear. His left eye, the blind one, is an ethereal cloudy blue that reminds you of renderings you’ve seen of Neptune, Uranus, exoplanets, the Earth from space. He glances up at you and holds your gaze for just a few seconds too long. Then he looks away, bewildered, taking a drag off his cigarette.
Aegon introduces you to the room as you stand beside the ottoman, awkward and ashamed in your Louis Tomlinson hoodie. “She’s a friend,” Aegon says. “And she’s also a therapist.”
“Good, you need one!” Jace shouts through cupped hands, and there are tipsy titters and guffaws.
“Not for me,” Aegon snaps. “For you deranged bitches.”
As Aegon descends from the ottoman—klutzily, stumbling, clutching onto Criston like a baby lemur to its mother—Luke approaches to present himself. He has a mess of dark curly hair that falls over his face and large, honest eyes. There’s a black spiral notebook and a white gel pen in his left hand. He offers you his right. “Hi! I’m Luke Velaryon.”
“Yeah, I know. I spend a lot of time on Comet’s Spotify page.”
He groans. “I look so bad in that header photo.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s the nose. I have a pug nose. The label has been trying to convince me to get it fixed for years.” He turns to a girl who is practically hiding behind him: arrestingly beautiful in a fragile sort of way, gentle like a doe. “Maybe you can help Rhaena talk to people.”
“I have social anxiety,” she explains apologetically. Her voice is very quiet yet lyrical. There are weights tied to her confession, years of shame and despair. Luke throws an arm across her shoulders and hugs her to him, touching his forehead briefly to hers.
“That’s okay.” You give Rhaena a reassuring smile. “It’s super common, and there are a lot of strategies you can try that might make it more manageable.”
“It wasn’t a big deal at first, you know?” Rhaena says. It comes out in a rush like water through a cracked dam. Luke looks astonished but pleased. You have been known to have this effect upon people, a compulsive sort of disclosure that drains, empties, unburdens. Aegon is watching from several feet away, beaming between swigs of Peroni. “Luke and I met before he got famous and we could just hang out around the neighborhood. Ice cream, public parks, Pret a Manger, riding the Tube together. But now…now he’s always meeting new people and there are all these events I’m supposed to go to with him, and I can’t sleep properly for days leading up to each one, and half the time I end up hiding in the bathroom or being too nauseous to eat anything, and…”
Jace is at the bar and slurping a vesper: shoulder-length curls, flashy blazer with nothing underneath it, a contemplative appraisal of you. There’s a stunning girl sitting beside him that he’s not listening to.
As you are explaining the potential benefits of exposure therapy to Rhaena and Luke, Daeron bursts through the crowd to greet you. He’s their Niall Horan: warm, uncomplicated, disarmingly friendly, beachy blond hair, a golden retriever on two legs. He hugs you—spiritedly, like Aegon did—and then compliments your flip flops.
“So you’re our new therapist?” Daeron says eagerly, like this is something he knows they’ve needed.
“Well, I’m a therapist, but I’m not really your therapist. Because I can’t hang out with you guys all the time and also be your therapist. It’s unethical. But Aegon thought I might have some good ideas, I guess. In a strictly unofficial capacity.”
“Okay! Cool! And you and Aegon are…friends?”
“Um…yeah. Sort of.”
“Remember that show in Kansas City last summer?” Aegon tells Daeron. He’s supernaturally gifted at making everything sound blissfully casual, like there couldn’t possibly be more to the story. “I met her at the bar we went to afterwards.”
“Totally,” Daeron says. “Great city. Awesome barbeque.”
Criston asks him: “So, uh, how’s your mom doing?”
Daeron is puzzled. “Fine…?”
“Criston, please stop asking about my mom,” Aegon says. “It’s getting weird. It’s been weird. It was weird four years ago and it’s weird now. She has a husband.”
“Yeah, but is that…you know…is that still going well?”
“Yes, Criston.”
“Fantastic,” Criston mutters, pouring himself a Scotch. He uses the glass to gesture to you. “So what the hell am I supposed to bill her as? Aegon’s friend?”
“She’s a…” Aegon considers this, waving his Peroni around in the air. “Human resources mental health consultant.”
“She’s a what?”
“She helps resolve both intra and interpersonal conflict.”
“That sounds imaginary.”
“Well then you figure something out!” Aegon says, exasperated. “Isn’t this what you get paid for? To make problems go away? To keep us happy? To stop us from killing each other? You figure it out.” He saunters off to grace the drunken masses with his presence. Criston sighs and goes to stand by the wall with a herd of stone-faced businessmen in suits, record label guys, guys who only know how to see the world in terms of contract clauses and account balances.
Rhaena goes to stand by Jace’s companion, who—as you conjure up vague recollections of celebrity gossip sites—is named something like Bella or Bailey. Daeron is commandeered by a gaggle of adoring Italian women. Luke is showing Aemond something in his notebook: black pages, sparkly white ink. Aemond is nodding and giving critique, not that saccharine, generic, brainless kind of praise but authentic encouragement: try to think of a more specific word here, move that line up to the first verse, I love the use of this metaphor. Aemond’s voice dredges up memories you didn’t know you had of him on talk shows, in YouTube compilations, in songs you’ve been streaming on Spotify for years. Smoke drifts from his lips. Ice jangles in his organ-pink cocktail. And again, he looks up at you, inhaling poison as Luke makes his opal-ink edits.
“What’s that drink called?” you ask the bartender, and he squints across the room to where Aemond is seated on the snow-colored leather couch to discern it.
“A Bramble,” he says. “It’s named after blackberry bushes.”
“Can I get one?”
“Sure.”
You procure your drink and when Luke leaves the couch, you whizz past him like a meteor as you walk towards it.
“Hey,” Cregan flings impassively, not knowing why you’re here, not caring either.
“Hey,” you return.
And then you sit down next to Aemond, deliberately on his blind side. He glances over at you, his brow crinkling with confusion. Because—surely, undoubtedly—no one ever speaks about his injury, but it’s veined through everything they do, it’s a perpetual undercurrent that steers his life and yet cannot be voiced without breaching those vigilantly constructed levees of propriety. It’s the elephant in every room. It’s a ghost rattling doorknobs and tapping on windows. And sometimes the only way to free yourself of something is to throw the cage door wide open and set it loose.
“I accidentally wore your competitor’s merch,” you say. “I didn’t want you to have a good view.”
Aemond laughs, and the strangest thing happens: everyone in the room turns to look. On their faces are expressions of shock, bafflement, relief, wonder. Aemond shifts so he’s facing you, one elbow propped on the back of the couch. He sips the Bramble in his right hand, puffs on the cigarette in his left. And there it is, what people like to call a spark, but it’s something deeper than that: organic chemistry, neurotransmitter plumes, wells of marrow that sing to each other from beneath the darkness.
You nod to his cigarette, Benson & Hedges according to the shimmery gold pack that lays open on the glass coffee table. “You think that makes you cool?”
“I know it does,” he says. His gaze flicks down to your Louis Tomlinson hoodie…or what’s under it, perhaps. “Wouldn’t work on you though. Too far gone.”
You hold out your hand. After a few seconds, Aemond passes you his cigarette. You—very stoically, very nonchalantly—take a single drag and then erupt into a coughing fit, eyes watering, lungs gasping, surrendering the cigarette emphatically. Humiliating! Irredeemable!
“Told you,” Aemond notes. But he’s rubbing your back with a hand that is large and strong and yet careful. You smile at him. Aemond smiles too.
Criston pulls one of the suit guys aside and says: “Get her on the payroll.”
#aemond x you#aemond x y/n#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen x you#aegon targaryen ii#aegon x reader#aegon targaryen#aegon ii targaryen#aegon x you#aegon x y/n#hotd fanfic#hotd
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[“William Quantrill was born in Ohio, made his living as a cattle rustler and slave catcher in Missouri-Kansas and Texas, and was living in Lawrence in 1859, although not yet politicized. Quantrill’s pro-slavery terrorism in Missouri coincided with the onset of the Civil War, when he and fifteen men set out to torture, kill, and destroy the properties and livestock of abolitionists and their supporters. In August 1862, Quantrill received a field commission as a captain in the Confederate Army.
By the time of the attack on Lawrence a year later, Quantrill was able to muster a force of hundreds of Bushwhacker guerrillas, nearly all armed with multiple six-shot revolvers. The group staged its attack at daybreak, when everyone in the town was still sleeping. Although the men of Lawrence had drilled and practiced for defending themselves and the town, they stored their firearms and ammunition in the city’s armory, so the sleeping population was defenseless when the lightning attack began. Over a span of hours, the guerrillas secured the main hotel as a command center, slaughtering 150 unarmed men and boys, most of the adult males of the town. They burned about a quarter of the town’s buildings, including all the businesses except two.
For the city of Lawrence today, the trauma of the massacre still resonates, especially for the descendants of the dead and survivors. “‘It was utterly catastrophic,’ said Pat Kehde, a retired Lawrence bookstore owner and great-granddaughter of Ralph and Jetta Dix,” reads a Wichita Journal account 150 years after the fact. “On the morning of the raid, Jetta tried to protect Ralph by standing between William Quantrill’s men and her husband. When Jetta stumbled as one of Quantrill’s men rode his horse into her, Ralph was momentarily unguarded and in that instant was shot and killed.”
“We are in an age where we have a war on terrorism, and we talk about terrorism all the time,” said Lawrence historian Paul Stuewe, “but we don’t think about the 19th-century terrorism.”“It is a calamity of the most heartrending kind,” said the New York Times following the attacks, “an atrocity of unspeakable character.”
Following the Civil War, John Newman Edwards, who had fought for the Confederacy, wrote Noted Guerrillas, extolling the Missouri guerrillas as great patriots of the Confederate cause, romanticizing the taking of life up close, claiming the guerrillas were almost superhuman specimens, trying to place them alongside the valiant Confederate Army to be commemorated. He was fascinated by the guerrillas’ deft use of the pistol, often attacking with one in each hand, rather than a rifle, which was the standard weapon used by professional soldiers. He wrote that before a battle, “a Guerrilla takes every portion of his revolver apart and lays it upon a white shirt, if he has one, as carefully as a surgeon places his instruments on a white towel. . . . He touches each piece as a man might touch the thing that he loves.”
Edwards also portrayed Quantrill and his guerrillas as expert horsemen, shooting while riding fast. In fetishizing the guerrilla revolver and the horse, Edwards heralded the beginning of the “cowboy” and “outlaw” hero of the post−Civil War decades, even though these figures had nothing to do with cattle or ranching or even the “West.”
Some of the most enduringly famous, or infamous, of the Missouri guerrillas—Jesse James, Cole Younger, Myra Maybelle Shirley (Belle Starr), and their brothers—came from land-owning slavers; some, like the Shirleys, ran successful business operations and were well connected politically. Their elevation to post−Civil War social bandit heroes would eclipse their former pro-Confederate deeds. In the two decades after the Civil War, the Winchester rifle was fetishized for killing Indians, and the Colt revolver for outlawry. In the process, gun violence and civilian massacres were not just normalized, but commercially glorified, packaged, promoted, and mass marketed.”]
roxanne dunbar-ortiz, from loaded: a disarming history of the second amendment, 2018
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Endling
Today marks the 109th anniversary of the passenger pigeon’s extinction: September 1, 1914. So in honor of Martha, I thought I’d share this short story of what it’s like to be an endling from her perspective. (It won my college’s flash fiction contest!! ^^) It also features the last Carolina parakeets!! Enjoy, and remember an important species with me.
Photo by Robert Shufelt
When Cincinnati Zoo closed its doors for the night, the boys and I would lull ourselves to sleep with stories of our ancestors from the bits we’ve gathered from visitors. Passenger pigeon flocks were so superior, we owned the skies. There were so many of us, we held the very power in our wings to take away the sun from the ground creatures below. The three of us tried to conjure the image of that many passenger pigeons in our brains, but we – and a few others in our enclosure before us – were the only ones we had ever known.
Ever since the boys died, I’ve received more attention than all my years combined. Like picking apart nuts, I’ve plucked information from the restless chitter-chatter of the Featherless: Martha. New mate. Great prize. Last passenger pigeon.
“Oh, congratulations, darling. You’ve officially achieved endling-baby-maker-status,” screeched the female Carolina parakeet living in the cage across from mine one day.
“I beg your pardon?” I said to the bold, green-and-yellow bird.
Incas, her mate, hobbled over to her side of the perch. “Lady Jane, remember what we said about minding our own business?”
As though she hadn’t heard him, she continued, “Those naked beasts have been trying to get us to make babies for decades. So every egg we lay . . . splat! ” Lady Jane threw back her beak and cackled. “The look of hope dying on their faces never gets old.”
Despite the warm weather, a chill rippled through my body from beak to tail.
“What she means is, they’re the reason why we’re the only ones left of our kind. They slaughtered us and used our bodies to decorate their hats. Why should we give them what they want? If this is the end, we want them to never forget what they’ve done to us,” explained Incas.
I was left with quite a bit to think about after that. The very same species that kept my belly full, my cage comfortable, and my health maintained were responsible for exterminating the great passenger pigeon empire with their . . . guns and traps? Surely they weren’t all to blame — I will never forget this one little boy, Richard, who would visit me during the weekends in the summertime, feed me peanuts, and speak to me as if I were his equal.
Even if Featherless weren’t a factor, even if the end of my kind weren’t at stake, I’ve never much cared for chicks of my own. Would it be selfish of me if I remained chickless? Or should I do my duty to nature and try? But then again, would it do any good if I did?
Although, to be honest, I’m getting to be an old girl. Even if I could, I don’t think this frail, tired body would be suitable for laying eggs. We’ll see. But it’s a pretty big world out there. Surely, there must be some other passenger pigeons besides me . . .
Clipping from Kansas City Star (Kansas City, Missouri), 2 September 1914, page 10
#passenger pigeon#passenger pigeons#martha passenger pigeon#endling#recently extinct#extinct species#extinct birds#extinct animals#extinction#short story#short stories#flash fiction friday#flash fiction#flash fic#xenofiction flash fiction#xenofiction short stories
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Brandon Herring had a lot to look forward to during November of 2016. The then-21-year-old was engaged to a woman he loved, and his fiancé was just days away from giving birth to the couple's first child. Brandon was looking forward to becoming both a father and a husband. Unfortunately, he would never get a chance to do either - as he vanished on November 22nd, 2016. Two months later, Brandon was found deceased. He had been shot to death.
Prior to vanishing, Brandon lived in Raytown, Missouri with his mother and siblings. According to his mother, nothing initially seemed unusual about Brandon's behavior on the day of his disappearance. Then, at some point, Brandon's mother attempted to call him only to find his phone had been shut off. This was an immediate red flag, as Brandon had purposely been keeping his phone on and charged in anticipation of his fiancé going into labor.
Brandon was later reported missing by family members after he did not return home. His family then began canvassing their neighborhood and passing out missing persons fliers. Eventually, Brandon's family spoke to someone who said that they saw him sitting on the steps of the Park Meadows Apartment complex on November 24th - two days after he was last seen. His family members subsequently went to the apartment complex, where they found several shell casings and a unit with a window that had been shot out. Police reportedly collected evidence from that area, but did not find or speak to anyone inside the unit.
In January of 2017, volunteers searched in Kansas City for Kara Kopetsky and Jessica Runions - two girls who had gone missing from the area in 2007 and 2016 respectively. During the search, a body was spotted in a creek at Swope Park. Days later, the body was identified as that of Brandon Herring. An autopsy determined he died from gunshot wounds. His death was subsequently labeled a homicide.
Years have passed, and Brandon's murder remains unsolved. No suspects or persons of interest have been publicly named. It also is unclear if the shell casings or shot out window unit at the apartment complex were ever positively linked to Brandon's case. Very few details about the investigation have been provided.
Brandon's family has vowed to never give up on the fight for justice. There is monetary reward available for anyone with information that could lead to Brandon's killer(s). If you have any information that could help the investigation, please call 816-474-TIPS.
#brandon herring#2016#missouri#unsolved#unsolved murder#true crime#true crime research#tcoriginal#murder case
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Currently on Digital and coming to 4K Ultra HD from writer/director Andrew Haigh based on Taichi Yamada’s Strangers and Searchlight Pictures is ALL OF US STRANGERS.
Adam (Andrew Scott) is living a very secluded life in his high tower apartment in London. A screenwriter, he spends his time writing and being alone until one night he meets neighbor Harry (Paul Mescal). A bit drunk, Harry tries to entice Adam to spend the night. Trying to be polite, Adam makes it clear he isn’t interested. The next day, Adam is off to visit Mum (Claire Foy) and Dad (Jamie Bell) who are happy to see him.
Coming back home he sees Harry again but this time he invites him into the apartment. There begins their passionate relationship. They talk about their families as Harry tells Adam that there is a disconnect with his own parents. Spending a night out on the town, they drink and dance their troubles away. After a fitful night of dreams, Adam tells Harry about his own parents and wants them all to meet.
But reality slowly makes its way to Adam and he holds on to the things he loves.
Scott as Adam is stunning in the role of a writer who is dealing with so much emotion in his life. Relying on his parents for support, he is trying to come to terms with the events of his life. When a love enters into the picture, it is just another piece of his life that is blissful but filled with intensity. Scott moves in and out of the story like his feet are not touching the ground. He flows so smoothly and I am with him every frame through joy and heartbreak. This is a stunning performance by Scott.
Mescal as Harry is the larger-than-life person that seems to awaken something in Adam. He is light, funny, charming and has no judgements toward Adam. At first glance, his character gives off vibes that even had me backing away a bit and that says everything about what Mescal’s performance brings. This character draws you in slowly, is too charming to be ignored and it is all Mescal.
Foy as Mum is supporting of her son and shows him love and understanding. She listens to how Adam is feeling and is such a calming presence for him. That is what Foy brings to the story, with the grace she has come to be known for (watch THE CROWN for another stunning performance) and the eyes of an old soul. Bell as Dad has a history with Adam that is a bit strained as clearly there are things that need to be said between them. I enjoyed Bell’s performance as a man who has a difficult time sharing his feelings.
Searchlight Pictures is responsible for such films as SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE, 12 YEARS A SLAVE, THE SHAPE OF WATER and THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING MISSOURI. They have an extensive film library as well as documentaries, scripted series, and limited series. For more information, please visit www.searchlightpictures.com.
Bonus Features include Featurettes Roots of the Story – Uncover how the director blended his own personal story into the making of this moving film. Hear the cast and crew and learn how the filmmakers approached recreating the look and feel of the ‘80s, from the sets to the hair and clothing and Building Adam’s World – Discover how Adam’s isolated existence was shaped through constructed sets. Visit the locations of exterior shots and learn about the director’s choice to have Adam’s world feel real, and yet not quite real.
ALL OF US STRANGERS has won awards from the Valladolid International Film Festival, Montclair Film Festival, British Independent Film Awards, National Board of Review, Los Angeles Film critics Association Awards, Kansas City Film Critics Circle, and London Film Critics’ Circle.
This film is an emotional roller coaster from beginning to end with Adam at the helm. It is a story of loneliness, love, want of love and family. It is a powerful look at the complexity of life through the eyes of this haunted man. Director Haigh gives us nothing to hide behind when we feel as if there is an intrusion into Adam’s life. It is right before us and the emotion falls over us wave after wave.
Filmed beautifully with an amazing score, ALL OF US STRANGERS is insightful, complex, tender, and gauntlet of emotion. Might I suggest a box of tissue and someone to cuddle with as this moving piece of filmmaking doesn’t mind the teardrops nor our own family emotions mixing with Adams. In fact, I think it wants exactly that.
In the end – the paths to love are many!'
#Andrew Haigh#All of Us Strangers#Andrew Scott#Paul Mescal#Claire Foy#Jamie Bell#Taichi Yamada#Strangers#The Crown
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To start off this blog, my favorite bottle: Dirt Soda
Flavour opinion: tastes like dirt, don't know what I expected there 1/10
Got it while on a trip to Kansas City, Missouri for a competition. The store was apart of a quest offered by the organization I was competing through to get a cool pin. When we got there we had to do a challenge where you were given a short amount of time to run around and find a specific type of soda (like grape flavored, anime themed, etc) and I don't remember how but there was a blindfold involved, it was hilarious
#glass bottles#collection#had like five different people try it#no one really like it#caffine free suprisingly#also the label had such a shoty printing job i can read none of the nutrition facts#not convinced there wasnt actual dirt in there
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should you shield the canyons from the windstorms you would never see the true beauty of their carvings ;
Character Name: Ian Malik
Character Age: 38
Character Birthday: March 5, 1986
Gender & Pronouns: Male, He/Him
Time in Tonopah Valley: 2 years
Occupation: General Surgeon at Tonopah Valley Medical Center
Gang Affiliation: None
Neighborhood: Downtown
Face Claim: Rahul Kohli
BASICS.
Sexuality: Bisexual
Ethnicity: Punjabi Indian
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6’4
Hometown: Kansas City; moved to San Diego at 13
Education: BS in Biology; MD; PhD
Languages: English, Spanish
Relationship Status: Single
Children: None
STATS.
Personality Type: INTJ-T
Moral Alignment: Neutral Good
Positive Traits: Adventurous, Efficient, Intelligent, Loyal, Responsible, Witty
Negative Traits: Confrontational, Defensive, Impatient, Pessimistic, Temperamental
Mental Health: PTSD from childhood, OCD
Fears: Losing those important to him
FAMILY .
Father: Byron Montgomery
Step-father: Lance Drummond
Mother: Tabitha Drummond née Nolan
Siblings: Iris Montgomery (twin sister)
BACKGROUND.
Born in Kansas City, Missouri to an abusive father and a helpless mother. He and his twin sister lived in fear and loathing every day for thirteen years until Riya decided enough was enough. They eventually divorced, and Tabitha moved her and the kids to San Diego to start new.
They didn’t have much money, especially because Arjun never planned to pay child support. Riya often worked two or three jobs at a time to support them, and when they were old enough to contribute they did too.
Ian had always excelled in science and math, so going into the medical field was a no brainer despite all the student loans he’d have to take out. He had a dream of making enough money to take care of his mother and make sure she lived comfortably like she deserved. Ended up going to UCLA for undergrad and Stanford for medical school.
His mother ended up remarrying to a wonderful man named Lance who Ian and Iris just adore. The two of them moved to Tonopah when Lance was offered a big promotion at his company. Ian helped them with the move and made it a point to visit as much as possible, but decided to remain in California to finish out his residency and start his career.
On the heels of a terrible breakup with a long term partner, who cheated, Ian decided to make the impulsive decision to move to Tonopah to be closer to his mother, where he's been for 2 years.
He gets stressed very easily. Although he loves his job and loves what he does, there are a lot of days where he feels like pulling all of his hair out. He remedies this with a lot of smoke breaks and time alone when coming off his shifts.
He hasn't had any contact with his father since his parents divorced and prefers to keep it that way.
A very avid reader and has an extensive book collection in his apartment.
Though he makes a good living as a surgeon, Ian lives incredibly frugally so that he can tend to himself or his family in case of emergency
Very, very, very clean, almost obsessively so. His home growing up was always in some sort of disarray which has made him very particular about his own set up.
Although he loves kids, he doesn't want any of his own. Would much rather be a cool uncle.
Big, big, big LA Dodgers fan (and baseball fan in general)
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Do you think that because you work for the government you can do whatever you like because the government happens to own this property in part you can do whatever you like you cannot
Housing and urban development is renting units that comes with stipulations this isn’t A detention center I’m not property of the government
This is not a military base this is an apartment in Kansas City Missouri USA

I’m a civilian I’ve never been convicted my rights are fully intact
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Play It Cool - Tyson Jost (19/n)
Author’s Notes: AHHHH YES, these two crazy kids get to see each other again after over a month of time apart. You know what that means! Also... there are so many things I want to tell you right here, but you’re going to just have to read on for something I wasn’t even quite prepared to write about, but it flowed so I went with it. I hope y’all enjoy this little curveball I threw in. Also, damn it, this chapter is making me miss Seoul Taco. (IYKYK.) Another fun chapter to write though - I was at the MIN/STL game in the previous chapter, as well as the one in this chapter - always nice to have some source material to work with.
Pairing: Tyson Jost x OFC (AJ)
Word Count: 6796 (why do I keep writing longer chapters?)
Warnings: 18+ ONLY. I’ve tried to keep it classy but if you’re under 18, you gotta go. Adult themes and language. Tyson does get hurt (again?!) in this chapter, but if you followed the rest of his season this isn’t a surprise.
Need the Chapter 18 hookup? https://brainrattlers.tumblr.com/post/693358126122008576/play-it-cool-tyson-jost-18n
The week was a whirlwind, but crept along so slowly at the same time. It was tough for AJ to stay focused on work that week, even if it was only a three day week for her. Tyson was doing his best to keep from phoning it in. He worked hard during practices, and the team won their games at home before hitting the road for Dallas, and then St. Louis again later that week.
So many check-in calls and texts with each other were made, making sure things were still going to plan. Tyson made sure AJ knew what hotel the team was going to be at, she sent her travel itinerary. (Which was driving to St. Louis. No fancy flying, and at least she had her car with her.) He had her pick up a couple more items from his apartment that he could fit in his bag to take back as well.
The game in Dallas ended, the team flew out that night, but AJ wouldn’t get there until Friday late afternoon. Tyson’s teammates had not seen him this antsy before. After practice that afternoon, he headed back to the hotel to get cleaned up. A couple of the guys saw him leaving his hotel room, noticing he’d shaved, and styled his hair. Too warm for a hoodie, he opted for a tee and jeans. Trying to get comfortable in one of the lobby chairs was proving difficult, Tyson was straight up fidgeting in anticipation.
The vibration of the phone in his hands made his heart nearly pound out of his chest.
AJ: Just parked, heading in the main lobby.
Tyson’s eyes could not be peeled from the door as he anxiously awaited her walking in. Sure, they saw each other the previous week in the same city, but he hadn’t been able to physically touch AJ in over a month. All he had wanted to do the last week was hug her tightly to him, and if he had his way, never let her go.
The way he figured it, they’d have about 15 hours together, and he wanted to make the most of it.
The sliding doors to the lobby opened, and in walked a very tired looking AJ. She had left Denver at 3:30am, drove all the way through Kansas, and all the way across Missouri to get to St. Louis by 5:30pm with the time change. The speed limit drop once she hit Missouri made her timing off a bit, but she used as much pedal to the metal as she could to get there. Looking across the lobby, eye contact was made with Tyson who was already up and out of the chair, heading her way.
“Ugh, babe, I need a shower, I have been in the car for over 12 hours, I…”
AJ didn’t even have a chance to finish as Tyson’s warm hands cupped her face, tilting it up towards his and pulling her in for a long kiss. One of his hands traveled to the back of her head, the other heading way down south, pulling her body impossibly close to his. The two held their embrace for an inordinate amount of time, as if time stood still around them. Neither could even hear the chirps and catcalls that came from a handful of Tyson’s teammates making their way through the lobby in search of dinner.
It literally took Tyson getting dizzy from lack of oxygen before the kiss was broken, leaving the couple simply looking into each others’ eyes, panting. Before AJ knew it, Tyson grabbed her hand and was pulling her to the elevator. Pushing the button to the 8th floor, he had already pulled her into him for another kiss that was barely broken when the doors opened for his floor. The two of them stumbled down the hallway, AJ being pulled forward by Tyson walking backward to keep kissing her. He reached into his pocket and whacked his wallet against the lock, and with the click, the door opened and the two nearly fell inside the room.
Tyson could not keep his hands off of AJ. She had barely got her backpack thrown onto the sofa as he was kicking his shoes off and working on grabbing the belt loops of her jeans to pull her back to him.
“Baby, shhh… slow down. Seriously I need a shower, I feel gross from the road… before… dinner… need to… get… cleaned up.”
The smile on Tyson’s lips turned into a wicked grin, curling up at the corners. His lips attached to her neck, as he toyed with the collar on her shirt, pulling it down to expose her collarbones.He knew if he found the right spot just above them, she’d be a whimpering mess, and completely putty in his hands.
He found the spot.
It was clear that AJ was frustrated by this development, but at the same time was starting to not care either. In a quick decision, she let Tyson stay attached to her skin, but started pulling him toward the bathroom. Kicking off her shoes and pulling off her socks with her feet, she reached down to start shimmying out of her jeans. Forcing him to break contact, she tore her shirt over her head, and quickly leaned into the tub to start the shower. Tyson followed suit with his own pants, and AJ slowly peeled his shirt off, kissing her way up his abs and chest with each inch of exposed skin.
Looking down into AJ’s eyes, Tyson had a feral look on his face, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. He damn near picked her up to put her in the shower with some of her underthings still on. Impatiently he waited for her to unhook and pull off everything, although he really did enjoy the show. She tiptoed into the shower, letting the hot water melt away the icky feeling from being on the road, with Tyson coming in hot behind her.
Thanking his lucky stars that the tub had grippy strips, Tyson hoisted AJ up and pinned her against the side of the shower. She yelped at the shock of the cold granite wall, but wrapped her legs around his midsection, pulling his torso flush to hers. It was taking all of his willpower to not just take her right there, and even that was waning. But after a couple minutes of intense making out, and AJ failing at not grinding her hips into Tyson’s, he couldn’t focus on tasting every bit of AJ’s skin he could reach, holding her up against the wall, and keeping himself from just sliding in. It literally was too much for him.
The two stared at each other, out of breath, trying to calm down a bit. Between breathing hard, the hot water, and the sheer intoxication they were feeling from each other, they had to stop for a few moments.
This is probably one of the few times AJ turned the temperature of the water down in a shower, trying to put out what felt like fire on her face. The cold water almost stung across her body, but she finally felt like she was finding herself again, breathing more evenly.
Tyson leaned back against the wall, feeling the coolness against his skin. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a few moments. With a few deep breaths, he was able to compose himself. Instead of the intensity from just moments earlier, a calmness settled in Tyson’s head. With a soft kiss, he turned AJ around, and reached outside of the curtain, grabbing some of the Olaplex shampoo and conditioner that she had turned him onto a couple months prior.
“Close your eyes baby girl, I got you.”
With a tiny dab of the shampoo in his hands, Tyson worked a lather up in AJ’s hair. The light raking of his nails against her scalp elicited a low moan to fall from her lips as her head dropped backward into his hands. It was a sound that he missed so much in the last month. Sure, there were attempts at phone sex, and he occasionally would hear those sounds… but it sounded so much better in person. He leaned her back into the cool drops of water falling from the showerhead to rinse it out, followed up by putting a small dollop of conditioner in her hair.
AJ opened her eyes slowly, and turned, chest to chest with Tyson.
“Want me to return the favor?” AJ bit her lip a little, making eyes at Tyson.
“I learned from the best… only wash every couple of days. And I did earlier this afternoon. This is all about you right now.”
Tyson grabbed some shower gel and a washcloth, working it into suds before gently scrubbing AJ’s neck, shoulders, back, and around to her front. Taking a knee, he kissed the curves formed by her ribs, waist, and hips as his hands slid down her thighs, massaging them lightly.
He may not have wanted his hair washed, but she did run her fingers through the wet tangle of curls atop his head as he looked up at her. It wasn’t the same feral look he had earlier. While it was still intense, the look was softer. It wasn’t lustful. It was adoration and love.
Of course, with the boiling hot passion coming to a gentle simmer, blood and oxygen were getting back to Tyson’s brain. And that cheshire grin of his came back as he looked up, but then leaned down and nipped the inside of AJ’s thigh. She was caught off guard, expecting maybe a kiss, or his fingers sliding upward a bit, but instead gasped, then giggled at the puppy dog look he was giving her. Helping him back up on his feet, he finished rinsing the conditioner from her hair, and shut off the water.
Reaching around the curtain, he found a fresh towel in the cubby next to the shower. Unfurling it, Tyson dabbed it over her body, drying the stray drips of water that cascaded down her skin from her drenched wavy curls. AJ wrapped the towel around her, leaning up to softly kiss her love, with similar adoration in her eyes.
Tyson quickly dried off, and grabbed one of the robes from the hook and slid it on, tying the sash in front. It never failed to amuse AJ that he would do this at hotels - ever since the Ask the Avs segment regarding robes at hotels, she knew he enjoyed the finer things and being pampered. Looking at his watch though, he sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
Tyson had all these grand plans. He wanted to take AJ to a fancy dinner for two. He was going to pull her chair out for her, and scoot her in to the table before seating himself. He was going to cheat a little and they’d share a dessert. Maybe have an Irish Coffee with it. He envisioned them walking back to the hotel room, hand in hand. And once back in the room, his ideal night was going to be making love to AJ until the wee hours of the morning, game that next afternoon be damned. He knew that come morning, they’d have to get a quick breakfast, and kiss each other, not goodbye, but more goodbye for now. He’d be exhausted at the game. But he’d play his heart out, and he’d point at AJ when he’d score a goal, and she’d blow him a kiss.
“Tyson, you still with me babe?”
It took a moment to snap out of the daydream.
“Yeah, I… I just had some ideas for the night, but it is too late to really start them now.”
“So let’s make new plans? Are you hungry?” AJ squinted at Tyson. “I’ve been craving Seoul Taco for a while. Door Dash?”
Tyson chuckled, shaking his head a bit in disbelief. He’d never had a girlfriend that was this vocal about wanting things… didn’t matter if it were dinner, or something she wanted to try in bed. And he was fine with her taking the lead.
Ordering up a couple burritos (and really hoping this was not going to throw him off his game the next day), there was about a 45 minute wait for their food to arrive. AJ threw on a tee and her pajama shorts, and wrapped a towel around her hair, fastening it at the nape of her neck. Tyson didn’t exactly want her meeting the Dasher in the lobby dressed like that, but AJ was too comfy to care. A text alerted her to the arrival of food downstairs, so she put on her shoes sans socks, but still had her hair in a towel. Grabbing a few dollars from her wallet for a tip, she headed downstairs to retrieve dinner.
Setting up a makeshift dining room table on the bed, which probably wasn’t a great idea due to the kimchi fried rice being a little on the messy side inside their burritos, the couple chatted and ate. Laughter and smiles were in abundance. And after sweeping the rice crumbs off the bed, Tyson turned on the TV to find a movie to put on as he leaned back against the headboard with open arms to hold AJ with.
Giving a motion to hold on a moment, AJ grabbed her backpack from the sofa, and pulled out a small bag from one of the pockets. She tossed it at Tyson, who thankfully caught it before it smacked him in the chest. In his hands, he found a bag of Haribo Star Mix.
“Movie snacks? I love that you’re always prepared.”
Tyson tore into the bag and set it to the side, opening his arms again for AJ to join him on the bed. He’d propped the pillows up against the headboard as she was grabbing the candy from her bag. Curling up into his side, one of Tyson’s arms slid around her midsection and held her tight as he kissed the top of her head. The two stayed like this for a good portion of the movie, occasionally a hand would snag a gummy shape from the bag. Tyson always made sure to give AJ the Happy Cola bottles, and she’d give the Twin Snakes to Tyson.
Grabbing another from the bag, Tyson studied it closely and stopped before popping it in his mouth. He looked at AJ.
“This one is for you,” Tyson held the candy in front of AJ, directly in her line of sight with the TV.
AJ smirked and leaned forward, taking the candy from Tyson’s fingers with her teeth, chewed and swallowed. “Thanks babe. I could get used to you feeding me candy in bed.”
This was not the response that Tyson was looking for.
He searched the bag of candy again and dug out another specific piece, and again held it up in front of AJ’s face.
And again, AJ chomped down on it, thanking him for the candy.
Clearly frustrated, Tyson grabbed the bag of candy, frantically searching until he found the last of the particular shape in the bag. Holding it in his fingertips, he held it further from AJ’s face this time. She started to lean forward, when he pulled it away.
“What the hell?”
“Babe, stop.” Tyson inhaled slowly, thinking about what he was about to say. “Look at what it is.”
AJ eyed the gummy ring now sitting on his palm, then looked back at him in slight confusion.
Tyson turned to face AJ, and looked at the gummy ring, then looked at her again. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and, well, this seemed like a sign to me. I know it’s only been a few months…”
AJ wasn’t breathing. All she was doing was staring into Tyson’s hazel eyes, hanging on every word that was coming out of his mouth.
“I know it isn’t ideal, because it’s probably going to get fuzz all over it when it gets sticky, and it’ll probably melt in the shower. But.. will you… be my sweetie?”
Forgetting that she hadn’t breathed in a bit, and trying to process what Tyson just asked, a sharp inhale happened, and started giggling at the first thing that popped into AJ’s head.
Tyson remained quiet, afraid of why she reacted the way she did. He frowned.
“Hey now I was just thinking I never told you I’m not a big yellow gold fan. I do like pineapple though, and I love you. But… I’m needing clarification… are you asking me to…?”
Tyson bit his lip, and nodded. He was now the one holding his breath, and looking for any sort of clue as to what AJ was thinking. His eyes went downward, looking at the candy still in his palm, and looked at her hand next, then back into AJ’s eyes. Finally he broke the silence that heavily hung in the air.
“AJ, will you? Will you be my…”
AJ had been through a lot in the last year, and it took so much arm twisting by Nate to get her to apply for her job. To move to Denver. There were days she had issues picking between mozzarella sticks or fried pickles for a side at her favorite diner. She was the queen of overthinking.
This time though, she didn’t even think. Everything about what was going on just felt… right.
Her answer came in the form of AJ launching herself at Tyson and kissing him deeply. When the two finally separated, Tyson’s heart was pounding and he was trying to catch his breath. The smile on AJ’s face was all he needed. The gummy in Tyson’s hand was shakily slid on his love’s finger.
“It’s beautiful, Tyson.” AJ admired the candy on her finger while giggling.
“I’m going to get you a better one, I promise.”
“Probably a good idea, this one is cutting off my circulation and I kinda want to eat it.”
The two continued to lean into each other, foreheads lined up so they could just look into each other’s eyes for a bit. Neither could believe what just happened. But as much as Tyson would say that he hadn’t planned it, it had been on his mind for a while. The talk with Grandpa Jim after Valentine’s Day, regarding how he knew Grandma Emily was the one. Every day without AJ in Minnesota with him felt like something was missing. It had been on his mind so long, to be honest, that he remembered telling his mom about the afternoon that the two met in the locker room before the game that evening. (“She’s something special, there is just something about her.”) He even realized that the song she was singing was one he would hear her play/sing often in the next six months of their time together - Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine.” It suddenly all clicked as soon as he saw the gold colored gummy band with off-white “stone”.
Very few things in Tyson’s life made more sense than that spontaneous question he posed to AJ.
I don’t think I need to tell you what the two were up to the rest of the night. So while part of his plans were changed, like dinner, and he hadn’t planned on asking the question, a fair amount seemed to stay intact. And it was as Tyson had envisioned - it wasn’t rushed, but instead it was slow, and full of emotion. And it felt different between the two, in a better way.. The newly established bond seemed to free something in the both of them, allowing for further exploration of the connection they shared. But in true AJ and Tyson style, there was still a lot of laughter and smiles. That was destined to be a thing with them from the start. They were both of the belief of if you’re not laughing, you’re being too serious. And while they had their intense moments, the lighthearted were still some of their favorites.
AJ insisted on them getting a couple of hours of sleep as she’d been awake nearly 25 hours, and Tyson had a game to play in about 10 hours. A quick cat nap, and the two were up once again, with one more quickie before heading to breakfast.
Neither had looked at their phones since AJ’s arrival, or so AJ at least thought, and her watch buzzed with a notification from Instagram from Tyson.
Fumbling around the counter trying to grab her phone without getting out of the shower, AJ finally gripped it and was nervous to see what Tyson had posted on IG - mainly because they’d already talked about not spilling the news regarding the status change of their relationship. Tyson swore up and down he wasn’t going to blurt it out to his new team like he did with his last team, even if they all already knew. This time he was going to play it extremely cool.
What he didn’t play it cool about was the fact he was ecstatic that he and AJ were sharing the same physical space even if just for a few hours. And his level of silliness.
josty17 BEDHEAD WAR IS BACK ON, BABY! LFG!
And in all it’s glory, Tyson shared a photo of some very messed up bedhead on AJ. She had no idea when he snapped the photo. But it was definitely from today, it was the same tanktop she fell asleep in, and clearly was the bed in the hotel. She chuckled to herself, knowing full well that was not just run-of-the-mill bedhead, but definitely ASH. (After sex hair, for those that were questioning.)
wicketthewarrior Don’t make me get photos from your mom, Jost. I know she’s got a stash and is more than happy to share.
AJ could hear Tyson cackling from the other room as she hit send, and was toweling her hair off.
Breakfast was a little weird, as it wasn’t a nice quiet bite to eat, but instead a flurry of introductions with Tyson’s new teammates. And it was taking all his self control to not explode with “THIS IS MY FIIIIANNNNNCEEEEEEEE!!!”
Once breakfast was eaten, Tyson had to hop on the bus to head to the arena. The two sighed as he packed his bag, as did AJ (although she was just switching to a different room, there was no way she was driving another 12+ hours home after the night she had, plus going to the game that afternoon). There was a long hug that didn’t want to be broken between the two, but they knew it was coming.
“See you at the game, Jost. Kick some ass.”
AJ had some time before the game to kill, so she checked out the aquarium at Union Station, but really just wished that Tyson had been there with her. One of the dates she really wanted to go on while he was still in Denver was to hit up the zoo together, but schedules and weather never seemed to quite align. She needed to look up whether there was a zoo or not in the Twin Cities, and if not there, maybe there was one near his family up in Alberta. Zoos and aquariums were one of her favorite things to visit - could easily spend all day just watching the various animals. In fact, she had to set an alarm on her watch to head out on time. It wasn’t far, just a couple blocks (in fact that’s where she parked the previous week as well), but she didn’t want to miss the lunch that came with her ticket (she snagged the EXACT same ticket she had the previous week!), and she definitely didn’t want to miss out on warmups - another sign was in tow in her car.
After watching the otters, and chilling out with the jellyfish, petting sharks and rays, and generally taking in the animals of the wet, swimming variety, her watch started buzzing, reminding her to head out.
Getting through security was a bit of a chore, for some reason this week the door folks were being sticklers about her poster. It was well within Enterprise Center’s rules, but they were still harassing her about it. Finally they let her in but it seemed like they really didn’t want AJ’s sign there. Maybe it was the green jersey she wore, emblazoned with JOST 10 on the back. She made her way downstairs to check out meal options for the day, and grabbed a plate and got in line. Not that she was trying to listen in, but she had a good chuckle at the couple behind her.
“Hey hon? This seems really bougie. Like this is way too fancy for us to be here,” the guy told his partner. “I don’t feel like I belong here.”
“Pfft, whatever, we’re fine.”
AJ leaned back and whispered, “I feel that way too, but you know what? You paid for the ticket, you have every right to be here. Eat and drink up!”
The man nodded and smiled.
With her plate full of a variety of things, including Eggplant Parmesan, fried corn nuggets, nachos and strawberry shortcake, AJ found a corner to sit down and just people watch. There were clearly some families there, and there were the bro types, and a few others that clearly looked like it was their first time in the Rinkside Club area. A brass band was piped in on the televisions from upstairs, playing from the concourse outside the arena. St. Louis had a different vibe than Denver, that’s for sure.
Finishing up her meal, AJ snagged her sign and headed back upstairs, to head back downstairs to her seat. The same photographer from the week before recognized her instantly, chatting her up. They talked for a few minutes, until the teams were preparing to come out onto the ice. He knew she was going to be looking for Tyson, and she knew he was going to be taking photos of warmups.
The crowd cheered when the teams hit the ice. A couple guys sporting Minnesota jerseys were standing next to AJ against the glass. It seemed like all the folks in green gravitated to each other, as there was a bit of familiarity, as well as the feeling of power in numbers. The three were chatting as the men in white and green hit their side of the rink. AJ pushed her sign against the glass in front of her. A few of the players tapped their sticks at the glass in front of her as they skated by, usually flashing a quick smile of acknowledgement. She could overhear the two men next to her questioning how she was getting attention. And as per the new tradition, Deslauriers slammed into the glass right at her. This time she was ready, and didn’t flinch. The guys next to her sure did though.
The chat came to a grinding halt when Tyson came by with the biggest of the smiles shown her way. Stopping to read the sign, he didn’t turn the shade of red on his jersey, but sans fishbowl, he was able to kiss the knuckles of his glove properly and fistbump AJ through the plexi, mouthing “Love you, Eggo.”
“Love you too. Let’s fucking GO!” was mouthed back.
Tyson chuckled and skated around to join the group at center ice.
The guys next to her were completely gobsmacked by this. They continued chatting with AJ while the team did drills with Talbot, asking how she knew Tyson, and the rest of the team. A very abridged version was shared, that they started dating when he was with the Avalanche, but since he was traded, she was attempting to split loyalties. The Avs were her team, but Tyson had her heart. And if she was being completely honest, found it interesting watching the Wild and their style of play as it was so different from what she was used to seeing with the Avalanche. They joked about how they didn’t want to meet up with the Avalanche in the playoffs, and with good reason. They were likely the team to beat. At that point they could lose most of the rest of their games and still be the conference champs.
After the team broke apart again on the ice, Tyson did his stickhandling drill in front of AJ as usual, and noticed a family with kids at the glass on the other side of her. Corralling an extra puck, he sent it up and over the glass, behind the net so it’d drop for the kids. Tapping their slapping hands against the glass, Tyson glanced over one more time and winked before heading off the ice for the start of the game. AJ’s heart melted. She didn’t want kids, but damn if Tyson being adorable with little ones wasn’t making her second guess that decision.
(AJ felt like she had problems taking care of herself some days, so she wasn’t about to bring a new life into the world that she may struggle with taking care of - always envisioned being the cool aunt that bought annoying as hell musical instruments to “enrich” her nieces and nephews, and absolutely drive mom and dad nuts. Also she was so excited for arts and crafts of the messy variety so she can just hand the paint-covered children back to the folks, but with fun little art pieces. Unsure of others’ plans, she might have to just be the chosen aunt of her friends’ kids.)
The puck dropped, and it was game on between the Wild and the Blues yet again. Definitely another hard fought game - very back and forth with scoring. Defense seemed a bit soft on both sides. It especially stung AJ when Saad scored, with a Ryan O’Reilly assist. She was still an Avalanche fan deep down, and harbored a broken heart when the Saadfather signed on with the Blues the previous summer after having such a tremendous year with the Avs. O’Reilly… she just harbored a lot of intense dislike for after the way he behaved after leaving the Avs.
Late in the third, Buchnevich hit Tyson near center ice. It was such a fast hit, and sadly, a legal one too. All AJ saw was Tyson still laying on the ice, and suddenly Deslauriers was ON Buchnevich letting him know it was NOT okay for him to hit his teammate like that. Tears were filling AJ’s eyes as Tyson slowly got up, and dragged his foot lightly behind him, trying to get to the bench. As if seeing him limp to the bench and head down the tunnel wasn’t hard enough, the voice hollering from behind her in the stands made her ready to line up like Deslauriers just had with the Blues player.
“BYE BYE JOSTY, TIME TO GO HOME!”
Someone pushed AJ’s shoulder from behind her.
“AWWW is JOSTY HURT? WHAT A CRY BABY!”
The usher near AJ stepped in, telling the very intoxicated man behind her to cut it out, or he was going to be asked to leave.
In the meantime, AJ had grabbed her phone, and was texting away.
AJ: He’s not on the bench. He’s down the tunnel.
Jess: It didn’t look that bad, maybe he lost an edge.
AJ: I have a bad feeling about this, fuck I hate this.
The end of the third period horn sounded, tied 5-5. AJ was trying to breathe slowly to keep the anxiety bubbling up in check, but definitely was struggling. After a quick sweep of the ice by the zambonis, the teams were ready to start OT.
AJ: He’s not on the bench.
Jess: I’m sure it’s just precautionary with playoffs coming up soon. He’ll be alright, you know how tough he is.
AJ: HE JUST GOT HIS FISHBOWL OFF, DAMN IT. Just hope he’s alright. I HATE THIS SO MUCH RIGHT NOW, they’re still not going to let me in the locker room even if I tell them I’m his…
She had to stop herself from typing “fiancée” as she hadn’t told Jess, or even her family yet. This was just something for her and Tyson right now.
… girlfriend.
The scene she made the week prior trying to get past security previously still played out in her head. There was a glimmer of hope being extinguished in her mind that just because he was injured, he’d be able to have a visitor. She knew better, the security was tight, and just doing their job.
Not even paying attention to the game being played, AJ heard the roar of the crowd as Schenn put one past Talbot not even a minute into OT. Angry with the outcome of the game and not being able to get to Tyson, AJ got up while everyone was still cheering, and started walking (almost stomping) to her car. She was still agitated by the guy behind her in the crowd mocking Tyson. She didn’t even care that it was Tyson - a lot of her ire was because it was Tyson, but if it had been any other player on the team they were making fun of for being injured, she would be just as angry. Just the concept of being that much of an asshole made AJ’s blood boil.
Reaching her car in the Union Station parking lot, she opened the door, sat down, and just cried all the frustrations that had bottled up in the last 40 minutes. The physical tiredness of running on about 7 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, the worry of whether Tyson was okay, and the emotional exhaustion from the night before hit AJ hard. Thankful that she wasn’t driving more than a few miles to get to her temporary home, she started the engine to her car, and ended up sitting for a good 30 minutes waiting on traffic to move so she could pay her parking fees and head out.
While waiting in line behind about 4 cars at the pay booth, her phone buzzed. She realized in all this, she never reached out to Tyson, checking in on if he was okay.
Tyson: Hey? Are you OK?
AJ wiped her eyes, realizing she probably was going to look like a hot mess for the toll booth employee.
AJ: Sorry, I just… I kinda shut down. I’m just mentally and physically drained. Are YOU okay though? Fuck Buchnevich. I hope Nic beat the shit out of him. I wasn’t even paying attention, I was trying to keep from throwing hands with an asshole sitting behind me.
Tyson: I tweaked something in my calf, didn’t feel right, so I took myself out. Coach agreed it was the right call.
Tyson: Wait, you did WHAT now?
AJ: Hold on a sec, I have to pay for parking brb
Handing her card to the employee, she thanked them and wished them a good day when they handed back her card and receipt.
Not even sure if he could take the call, AJ pushed the facetime button. He answered immediately, already dressed in his suit to travel back to Minnesota on the team’s flight. Tyson saw the smudged makeup and sighed.
“Sorry, I just.. Ugh. I can’t text and drive. I just needed to know you were okay.”
“Little rest and a little PT, I’ll be just fine. Now what the fuck happened that you were going to PUNCH someone?”
AJ heard the locker room chatter immediately quiet, and she had a hard time coming up with the words to even explain what happened.
“You got hit, and… I saw Nic go after him… and it was like I wasn’t even me anymore when I heard this absolute asshole behind me mocking the fact you were injured. It was taking a lot for me to not turn around and scream, and I imagine if I did, I’m pretty sure that I would have at minimum slapped him, if not more. I still have nail marks in my palm from how hard I was clenching my fist. St. Louis has some seriously not classy fans.”
Tyson couldn’t hide the corners of his lips curling up, his body shaking a little bit.
“Are you laughing right now?” AJ went silent after confronting the odd behavior. Her eyebrow furrowed as she turned onto another street, coming to a stop behind a line of cars.
Looking back, Tyson was indeed smirking.
“Are you hearing yourself right now? You were willing to FIGHT… because someone said something dickish about me.” Tyson turned and leaned back, hollering at someone. “Hey, yeah can you give AJ some fighting lessons? She nearly took on some fan in the stands like you took on Buchnevich.” He looked back and smiled at her again, and Deslauriers leaned into the frame to give a thumbs up. “My woman is willing to fight for my honor, that’s badass! But.. really don’t do that. That’s probably not good for the PR team. I love you though, you know that.”
The sheer exhaustion was evident on AJ’s face, giving a sheepish grin. It was occurring to her how absolutely ridiculous it was sounding. Trying to suppress a yawn, she failed as the line of cars ahead of her started moving.
“I should probably hang up, traffic’s moving and I need to figure out how to get back to the hotel. Text me later?” AJ’s eyes were trained on the road.
“You know it. Text me when you get to the hotel. Love ya babe.”
AJ could hear the chirps in the background.
“Love you too.”
A kiss was blown at the screen as she attempted to find the end call button without looking. With a deep breath, focus was figuring out which road she needed to take to get back. A quick detour found AJ picking up another round of Seoul Taco (knowing she wasn’t going to make it there again anytime soon, and no plans of hitting it up in Chicagoland either), and dragged everything upstairs to her hotel room.
AJ: “Home” for the night. Keep that leg RICEd for the flight back. Text me when you’re on the ground?
Tyson: You know it, **future wife**
The grin that showed up on AJ’s face upon reading that single line of text made her forget all about being angry at the Blues player that hit Tyson, and the fan that she almost got into an altercation with.
AJ: It’s going to take some getting used to, hearing that. I mean other than the fact we’re trying to keep that on the dl, future hubs.
She couldn’t see it, but Tyson had the same goofy grin that graced her own lips moments earlier.
Tyson: Love you
AJ: (heart emoji)
It wasn’t long after AJ took a few bites into her burrito that she ended up wrapping it back up, and stashing it along with an order of sweet potato waffle fries in the fridge. Her eyelids were so heavy, and her brain was SCREAMING at her that she was going to have to drive the twelve and a half hours back to Denver the next day. The attempt to stay up until Tyson texted that the flight had landed failed, and AJ crashed out hard on the bed.
Tyson: Back home, Eggo
The phone buzz didn’t even faze AJ.
Tyson: I hope you’re sleeping, it’s been a wild day and a half. I’m going to crash too. Can’t wait to see you again soon. Text me when you’re leaving in the morning. Love you so much.
The alarm on AJ’s phone woke her up at 6:15, having slept nearly 10 hours made her feel a little out of sorts. A quick cold shower to get more coherent happened, followed by a once over of the room to make sure all her toiletries and clothes made it back into her backpack. Snagging the leftover Seoul Taco from the fridge, she threw it into the makeshift cooler made from a few ice bucket bags filled with ice. AJ headed downstairs to snag breakfast before hitting the road. The fairy tale was ending. Or at least, it was taking a break for the time being.
AJ: Heading back to Denver. Doesn’t feel right going back without you. Miss you already.
Chapter 20 is up! https://brainrattlers.tumblr.com/post/694622680212783105/play-it-cool-tyson-jost-20n-authors-notes
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The Art and World of Luis Quintanilla. This retrospective web gallery features selections from the life’s work of the Spanish artist, Luis Quintanilla. (1893-1978) As organized and arranged by the artist's son, Paul Quintanilla.
He was to paint one more major ensemble of frescoes. From September 1940 until June of '41 he was the "artist in residence" of the University of Kansas City, in Kansas City, Missouri. Here he painted six large panels, covering 375 square feet of wall space, in the Language Arts Building, which depict Don Quixote in the modern world. These are located in Haag Hall at the University of Missouri.
The Ideal World of Sancho Panza
This is the spirit of Sancho Panza: "whose dreams never stray very far from his nicely rounded stomach." In his ideal world he is shown as he appears at a country dance. "When Sancho approaches the social whirl, he does not stand apart; he does what seems to him most natural. He steps in and whirls with every pretty girl passing by... Sancho is that healthy average man who enters wholeheartedly into the gaiety of living whenever, wherever, however he finds it."
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I Gave My Heart To The Junkman
Yesterday I sold my best friend to a stranger for $315.
This was, of course, far less than what a 2005 Kia Sedona ought to fetch, even for scrap alone. There were certainly a lot of useful parts still tucked inside ... but beyond any question of material worth, the sentimental value was incalculable. After all, I had poured so many financial and emotional resources into this long-term relationship, and steadfastly made repairs whenever the need arose, and had shown more unflagging devotion to this soccer-mom minivan than I had for some of my boyfriends, jobs, teeth, and homes. She was my first car, and like any first love, a first car carries a special significance.
I bought my Pamela in March of 2017, springing her from a dusty little shitpot in Bonner Springs, Kansas. I paid $2300 in cash for her, and easily poured ten times that amount into repairs. In just under six years, I replaced her starter, radiator, alternator, thermostat (twice), drive shafts, brakes, catalytic converters, power steering pump, rear shocks, rack and pinion, tie rods, hub and bearing, window motor, door actuator, timing belt, alternator belt, EGR valve, purge solenoid, charcoal canister, air conditioning compressor, cooling fan, valve cover gasket, tensioner and idler pulleys, exhaust Y-valve, oxygen sensors, hood struts, coils, hoses, filters, batteries, rear window, and three camshaft position sensors. We broke down in Iowa, Colorado, Washington, and Florida. We blew tires in Wisconsin, Oklahoma, Minnesota, and Georgia. I got to know the various components of my vehicle, one by one, as they fell apart.
Last week, she failed to start. In and of itself, this wasn't anything new, as she had crapped out so often in the past. But this time felt different, somehow. There was something so final about this silence. I knew, in that moment, that Pamela just didn't want to go any further. She had gone far enough.
With a heavy heart, I made arrangements with the junkman to come cart her away. I took the next few days to clean her out, retrieving all the tools, camping gear, and souvenirs I had stashed in her crates and cargo areas. The last thing I removed was the bobbing statue of Hula Girl, which I had glued to the dashboard back in Missouri. Her nose had gotten chipped in Iowa, when a sudden crosswind thwacked my camera's lens cap across her face ... but her irrepressible smile and cheerful ALOHA had accompanied me for over 99,700 miles, and I couldn't bear to leave her behind. I did, however, tear off the last few shreds of her disintegrating grass skirt, which no longer afforded her any dignity.
I sat for a long while in the driver's seat, holding the wheel that had been in my hands for thousands of hours. Its foam grip had been shredded by the stress of too many white-knuckled rides, all those times when I prayed for us to make it through blinding downpours or snowstorms or terrifying deep country two-lanes or narrow construction zones.
Sitting there, like a kid playing vroom vroom in the family car, I recounted some of our many adventures aloud. "Remember driving down the Vegas Strip? That supercell catching up with us in Valentine? That sunset in the wind farm? Heading out to the Olympic Coast? Devil's Tower? Ed Gein's place? Tinkertown? Bonneville? Waco? That refinery by Dodge City? Sunrise at Monument Valley? That one flat we got in Viroqua, and the farmer helping us change it? Dawn at Cades Cove? Those little hilltop dairy farms in The Driftless? The Badlands? The rim of Bryce Canyon? The meadow in South Park? The pueblos at Bandelier? Finding the trail at Butler Wash? The caves of Maquoketa? Picking up that hitchhiker in Dinosaur? Taking the Mountain Loop Highway up to Big Four? Morning mist on Steamboat Slough? The salmon run at Granite Falls? Taking the Alaskan Way Viaduct? Running along the Skykomish? The vultures on 312? Shiloh? Hooking up with the guys at Magnetic Springs? Going up Mt. Baker?" This went on for ages. Each memory brought to mind another, and another, experiences strung in sequence like beads on a string, a rosary of perils and deeds. After about ten minutes, my soliloquy devolved into a précis ... all I had to do was murmur "Kitty Hawk" and we returned immediately to one of the worst nights in our history, when we had to drive 700 miles through a tornado outbreak with a busted alternator and half a dozen batteries, sometimes driving blind in the rain without headlights or windshield wipers. We had so many close calls in our time together, and our survival sometimes seemed miraculous.
Finally, words failed me, and I wept. I sat there, finding myself once again broke and broken, a few weeks shy of turning forty-nine, devastated at another huge loss, crying my eyes out because my car wouldn't start.
Pamela had listened to me laugh, scream, sing. She heard my deepest secrets, my most buried fears, all the things I will never share with another living soul. She held space, literally and figuratively, as I processed early traumas, the kinds of injuries that had to be coaxed out of my soul like splinters. She kept me company as I mourned lost friendships, raged at failed opportunities, exulted over spiritual and professional victories, learned the lyrics to dozens of showtunes, and sifted through the smoldering wreckage of too many love affairs. She saw me at my very best and my very worst.
We traveled from coast to coast, crossed the Mississippi dozens of times, explored every kind of terrain in the continental US. We'd chased after tornadoes in Nebraska, dodged hailstones the size of tangerines in Oklahoma, coasted into Death Valley with squealing brakes, gunned through the Cascades on bald tires. We'd raced across salt flats and skidded out on gravel roads and slid on ice and got stuck in the mud. We climbed narrow mountain roads, corkscrewing upwards like a buggy in a Disney darkride, and were rewarded near the summits by whispering aspen groves and skies the color of lead. We followed thunderheads across hundreds of miles of cornfields, doubled back to photograph collapsing barns, got lost and found and lost again. We nearly ran out of gas on a stretch of moonlit desert, and were almost forced off the road by a madman near Mexican Hat. We saw insect swarms, murmurations of starlings, clouds rising from firs, incandescent sunsets, fogbound highways at 4:am, hazy feedlots, mine shafts, floodwaters, dust devils, wildfires. She had given me a treasury of beauty.
Pamela drove me to jobs in corporate office demolition, sanitation, construction site cleanup, disaster services, aerospace manufacturing, warehouse fulfillment, toy merchandising, and food delivery. She waited in parking lots while I went skydiving and whitewater rafting and hiking, while I ate, slept, got laid, gathered sharks' teeth, watched lions mate, and raised a circus tent. She carried me to zoos, sex clubs, cemeteries, battlefields, dormant volcanoes, dams, lighthouses, shipwrecks, museums, rodeos, waterfalls, weird roadside attractions, a nude beach, a monastery, a cassowary ranch, and the homes of countless friends. We saw Monterrey, Santa Fe, Orlando, Tukwila, Minneapolis, Fort Sumner, Little Rock, Mukilteo, Pensacola, Oso, Tulsa, Jupiter, Oakland, Bellingham, Eureka Springs, St. Louis, Mosca, Wichita, Portland, Pahrump, Ocracoke, Waco, Memphis, Sarasota, Montgomery, Estes Park, Vernal, Coeur d'Alene, Peoria, Birmingham, Lumberton, Des Moines, Topeka, Darwin, Beaverton, Bemidji, Enid, Deadwood, Hot Springs, Cullman, Austin, Ocean Springs, Chattanooga, Carlinville, Abilene, Darrington, Nashville, Moab, Pagosa Springs, McEwen, and innumerable parks, farms, rivers, and valleys. She took me to Judy Garland's birthplace in Grand Rapids and my own origin point in Ellensburg. We killed a hare near Ogallala and drove below arches made of lightning. We endured for far too long the joyless mazes of suburbia. She brought me into and back out of my homeland. She was my home at times.
Yesterday, a tow truck showed up on Reef Drive, our residence for the last four years. Pamela was marooned just behind her usual spot, along a hedge at the front of the property, in the shade of a nearby palm. A flock of scarlet ibises used to roost on her roof, and a clowder of feral kittens sometimes took shelter beneath her when it rained. There was a big rectangle where the grass had long ago given up and stopped growing. All of this was about to change.
The junkman was a friendly, toothless old chap named Thomas, and he had been doing this job for decades. His skin had been leathered by the sun, his hair bleached into straw, and save for the ball cap and tee shirt he looked exactly like a Gold Rush prospector. On his flatbed slumped a '71 Ford Bronco which had clearly seen better days. In any other circumstances, I'd be delighted to photograph such a wreck ... its windows were blown out, most of its panels were rusted, and it had an appealing patina of green mold, the sort of picturesque decay that I've spent decades documenting. But now it all seemed just too sad for words ... two old vehicles, far past their prime, being taken out to pasture. I thought of how horses used to get shot if they couldn't be ridden anymore.
Thomas indicated that my car seemed to be in pretty salvageable shape, though, and that she was likely to undergo a refurb rather than being scrapped altogether. This gave me a ray of hope that perhaps Pamela might yet play a special role in somebody else's life, and that just because our road had come to an end did not mean she herself was destined for oblivion.
I told him a little about the vehicle he was buying, how famous she was, how there were loyal followers around the world who had been cheering her on for the past several years. "This isn't just a car," I said. "Pamela's been through a lot. She's special." I told him about the memoir I published last year, about how we had traveled together over the whole country and seen the most incredible sights. He nodded and smiled and feigned interest, as he pointed out the numerous papers for me to sign off on. Then he handed me a check, which seemed pitifully small in my hands, and he set about hooking my poor old hooptie onto the tow rig.
I'd witnessed this ritual so many times ... the slow humiliating whine as my baby got hoisted into position, the rattle of chains around her undercarriage, the sinking helpless feeling as the tow truck lurched forward. I had already seen her get pulled away when her radiator blew up in Boulder, when her starter crapped out in Bothell, when her fuel lines got clogged in St. Augustine. But this time was different. This time there would be no joyful reunion at the shop. I stood across the street, and the reality of the situation hit me full force. Pamela, the car who had transformed my entire life, who had freed me from a desperately unhappy stint in Kansas City, who had framed most of America in her windshield, was leaving me forever. In a few minutes, she would disappear, and that would be that.
It's different in the movies, when a love story wraps up. Your heroes ride off into the sunset together, and the music swells, and THE END appears in big fancy letters over the clouds. And as the credits roll and you stand and brush popcorn from your lap you enjoy a tidy sense of closure. There is a clear sense of something having been finished, of a narrative having reached its rightful conclusion. My last few minutes with this minivan, on the other hand, felt weirdly anticlimactic and unsatisfying. I caught a few seconds of video on my phone as the tow truck began its journey. Then I just stood in the middle of the road with my arms hanging limply at my sides and watched as the most meaningful possession of my life rolled away, growing smaller and smaller until she reached the end of the block. And then the tow truck rounded the corner, and left my view altogether, and my Pamela was finally gone.
"Goodbye, old girl," I said, wiping my eyes. "Goodbye." Then I went back to my studio, returned to my easel, picked up a brush, and began the search for a new frontier.
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Saturday, October 29, 2022
Drought in the Great Plains and Midwest is getting more intense, federal report shows
(Yahoo News) A drought in the Great Plains and the Midwest has quickly grown in its size and severity in the last month, according to an update released Wednesday by the National Integrated Drought Information System (NIDIS). Currently, 60% of the North Central U.S. is in “moderate to exceptional drought” with 30% in “severe drought or worse” according to NIDIS, a division of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The worst-hit areas include Kansas, where 30% of the state is in exceptional drought, and Nebraska, which is 12% in exceptional drought. Smaller parts of Colorado, Missouri and South Dakota are as badly affected. While the entire Midwest has been in a worsening drought for months, the western portions of the region—the Missouri River Basin and the Great Plains—have been hit the hardest. Water has dropped to “record low levels” on the Mississippi, Missouri and Ohio rivers, NIDIS reported, which has impeded boats and shipping.
Hawaii’s Big Island gets warning as huge volcano rumbles
(AP) Hawaii officials are warning residents of the Big Island that the world’s largest active volcano, Mauna Loa, is sending signals that it may erupt. Scientists say an eruption isn’t imminent, but they are on alert because of a recent spike in earthquakes at the volcano’s summit. Experts say it would take just a few hours for lava to reach homes closest to vents on the volcano, which last erupted in 1984. Hawaii’s civil defense agency is holding meetings across the island to educate residents about how to prepare for a possible emergency. They recommend having a ″go″ bag with food, identifying a place to stay once they leave home and making a plan for reuniting with family members. “Not to panic everybody, but they have to be aware of that you live on the slopes of Mauna Loa. There’s a potential for some kind of lava disaster,” said Talmadge Magno, the administrator for Hawaii County Civil Defense.
Retirees drawn by the Florida dream wonder: What now?
(Washington Post) For more than a century, millions have flocked to Florida with similar visions to live out their golden years on the beach. The Florida dream exerts a powerful pull: The state consistently ranks among the fastest-growing in the nation. It is forever under construction, with new houses and condos and apartment buildings rising in already-crowded cities. Everyone, it seems, wants a piece of paradise. But Ian, one of the strongest hurricanes ever to hit the United States, upended the idyllic lives so many had planned for themselves in this stretch of the Sunshine State, often pouring in their life’s savings. As Floridians surveyed the damage from the near-Category 5 storm, which killed at least 114 people, some wrestled with painful questions: Should they stay and rebuild? Could they? Florida was already in the throes of a housing crisis; the storm made it worse. Damage estimates reach into the tens of billions, and rebuilding won’t come cheap. Even before Ian, Floridians scrambled to find coverage in the state’s fragile insurance market. Moreover, as climate change makes extreme weather far more common, some question the wisdom of rebuilding on barrier islands and in other delicate coastal areas.
Turkeys
(Washington Post) This Thanksgiving turkey is poised to be a bit more expensive, and for once it’s not due to the supply chain. This one is because of the pandemic, and no, not that one. There’s an avian flu that’s been tearing through the U.S. poultry business, with some 44.6 million birds dying from the virus or being depopulated due to exposure this year. Of those, 6 million were turkeys. The avian flu is on track to be more significant than the 2015 bird flu that claimed 50.5 million birds in the worst animal health event in the history of the U.S.
Crisis-stricken Cuba torn between ally Russia, neighbor U.S.
(AP) When Hurricane Ian tore through western Cuba in late September, causing an island-wide blackout, it left the government grappling with a deepening energy crisis and simmering discontent among Cubans. It also once again thrust the Caribbean island into the middle of an escalating tug-of-war between its seaside neighbor, the United States, and ally, Russia. At a time when Cuba is urging the Biden administration to ease U.S. sanctions that it says stifle hurricane recovery efforts, Russian oil has flooded into the island, providing relief to debilitating blackouts. Russia has shipped an estimated $352 million in oil to Cuba since the start of the Ukraine war, the biggest inflow from Russia this century and enough to cover about 40% of the shortfall in the island’s supplies, according to independent estimates. The sales also potentially alleviated the weight of international sanctions on Russia for its invasion of Ukraine. “(It leaves them) between a rock and a hard place,” said William LeoGrande, a professor at American University who has tracked Cuba for years. “Cuba can’t afford to alienate either side in what is shaping up to be a new Cold War.”
In Britain’s inflation crisis, healthy diets are a casualty
(Reuters) Fresh vegetables and fish are falling off the menu. Packaged pizzas and processed meat are the dishes of the day. Many British households are turning away from healthier foods as rampant inflation pushes them towards cheaper processed meals, according to consumer data and experts who are worried about the nation taking a nutritional nosedive. Joanne Farrer used to regularly serve her three children roast beef dinners or stews packed with fresh vegetables. Now she’s more likely to give them chicken nuggets and fries or sausages and mashed potatoes, which are “cheaper and filling”. Her monthly welfare payment’s mostly swallowed by rent and the rising cost of gas and electricity. “It doesn’t seem like there’s light at the end of the tunnel,” said the 44-year-old, who does voluntary work for a charity in the city of Portsmouth on England’s south coast. “You think, when’s it going to end? But it’s not.”
Putin demands U.S. respect ‘multipolar’ world
(Washington Post) In a keynote foreign policy speech, Russian President Vladimir Putin portrayed Russia as a champion of rising nations in a new multipolar world, which he demanded that the United States and other Western powers begin to respect as equals. Seeking common ground with the right-wing in the West, he described Russia as a defender of traditional Christian values as society has lost its way. Despite making the rivalry with the West a cornerstone of his foreign policy and his every day talking points, Putin insisted that Russia does not fundamentally see itself as the enemy of the West but instead opposes the West’s attempts to instill “strange” and “neoliberal” values in other societies in the world. “There are at the very least two Wests,” Putin said. One is the West of “traditional, primarily Christian, values, freedom, patriotism, the richest culture” that Russia is close to. “But there is another West—aggressive, cosmopolitan, neocolonial, the one acting as a tool of the neoliberal elites,” he continued. “And Russia, of course, will never put up with precisely the dictate of this West.”
Russia warns West: We can target your commercial satellites
(Reuters) A senior Russian foreign ministry official said that commercial satellites from the United States and its allies could become legitimate targets for Russia if they were involved in the war in Ukraine. Russia, which in 1957 launched Sputnik 1, the first manmade satellite, into space and in 1961 put the first man in outer space, has a significant offensive space capability—as do the United States and China. In 2021, Russia launched an anti-satellite missile to destroy one of its own satellites. Konstantin Vorontsov, deputy director of the Russian foreign ministry’s department for non-proliferation and arms control, told the United Nations that the United States and its allies were trying to use space to enforce Western dominance. Vorontsov, reading from notes, said the use of Western satellites to aid the Ukrainian war effort was “an extremely dangerous trend”. “Quasi-civilian infrastructure may be a legitimate target for a retaliatory strike,” Vorontsov told the United Nations First Committee, adding that the West’s use of such satellites to support Ukraine was “provocative”.
At least 42 die as storm triggers floods, landslides in Philippines
(AP) Flash floods and landslides set off by torrential rains swamped a southern Philippine province, killing at least 42 people, leaving 16 others missing and trapping some residents on their roofs, officials said Friday. Most of the victims were swept away by rampaging floodwaters and drowned or were hit by debris-filled mudslides in three towns in hard-hit Maguindanao province, said Naguib Sinarimbo, the interior minister for a five-province Muslim autonomous region run by former guerrillas. The unusually intense rains were triggered by Tropical Storm Nalgae, which was expected to slam into the country’s eastern coast from the Pacific Ocean on Saturday, forecasters said.
Egypt’s economic woes
(WSJ) Egypt and the International Monetary Fund have agreed to an initial deal for a $3 billion loan, officials announced on Thursday. Once approved, it would be the fourth time that Cairo is receiving this type of loan since 2016. Authorities estimate that one-third of Egyptians are currently living in poverty.
Gaslit By Gas Giant
(NYT) Following the death of journalist Jamal Khashoggi at the behest of Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, President Biden promised to treat the Saudi head of state as a “pariah.” However, the president’s aides saw opportunity in reforging the U.S.’s relationship with Saudi Arabia. They began planning a fun trip to the Middle East. The stops? Israel and Saudi Arabia, where they hoped to get a Saudi guarantee to convince OPEC to increase oil production. Before the trip, Biden’s advisors met with Prince Mohammed, securing a two-part deal with the suspected journalist-killer. First, the Saudis would push a 400,000 barrel per day increase in OPEC oil production, moving up the production bump from the planned September date to July. Next, the Saudis would advocate expanding production by 200,000 barrels per day each month from September to December of 2022. When the oil kingdom met the first part of the deal, Biden announced his trip. After first stopping by Israel, the president headed to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, on July 15 to meet Prince Mohammed in person. The two fist-bumped for the cameras and talked behind closed doors, leading U.S. diplomats to believe that the relationship was on the mend. By August, it became clear that this was not the case. Instead of the expected 200,000 barrel per day bump, OPEC only announced a production increase of 100,000 barrels. In September, U.S. officials began hearing rumors that Saudi leaders might push OPEC to actually cut production for October. Despite Prince Mohammed’s assurance that no such cut was coming, on October 5, OPEC announced a decrease of two million barrels per day. Now it looks like the U.S. and the Saudi kingdom are back to square one. The U.S. is now scrambling to deal with the effects on inflation and prices at the pump.
Bees play
(Guardian) Hardworking bumblebees like to play just as much as the rest of us, according to a new study in the Animal Behaviour journal. Researchers found that the fuzzy insects are inclined to spin around on tiny balls, even without first receiving instruction or having other incentives. “There are lots of animals who play just for the purposes of enjoyment, but most examples come from young mammals and birds,” Lars Chittka, a professor at Queen Mary University of London, told the Guardian. “This research provides a strong indication that insect minds are far more sophisticated than we might imagine.”
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Posting here because I don’t want to lose this memory and I also don’t want to blast my life on social media. So this platform seems safer for my true self to be seen and saved for me to look back on.
Worlds of Fun. Halloween Haunt. 👻
Kansas City, Missouri. - October 2022
Robby Robby Robby….
So much to say about this man. We have tried this a handful of times throughout our lives. Starting when we were only in 5th/6th grade. Again in college while I was at OSU. And continued when I moved back to Tulsa and he moved in with me. Our break up was hard on that one. Completely my fault because I couldn’t control my emotions. I grew a TON as a person because of that terrible night. I started a fight for no reason and it was a bad one. After that break up, we didn’t meet up on holidays anymore like we used too. We quit talking at all. I dated Skylar and Eric for years. Probably about 8 years all together of not speaking to Robby. I blocked him out of my life all together because it killed me so much to lose him. He was my first love ever. My deepest love ever. He was my everything. I did and still do love literally everything about him. So I swore him off completely in order to heal and move on. Now we are here. 2022. We are both 31 years old. We both own our own homes. Neither have children nor were married in this time apart. We picked up effortlessly. He reached out to me on Instagram and we talked and he invited me over to his house that night. I came over and we haven’t stopped talking ever since. (I just broke up with an abusive 5 year relationship and had been single for about 4 or 5 months… then talked to Robby and have been for about 3-4 months now.) He says he wants to go slow. Which I’m not entirely sure what he believes slow to be exactly. But I’m just following any leads he gives me. We hook up regularly and kiss and hold hands and snuggle constantly. -all by his request I might add- We know each other better then we know ourselves. He’s so kind and so loving. So giving in every sense of the word. My cards have always been out on the table about how I feel about him. He likes me back but not as intense as I do. Which is fine because I’m out of the ballpark with my feelings haha. He does like me a lot though and feels very very comfortable around me. I’m like a best friend that he also likes to fuck and grab ass lol. Anyway… all of this to say… being where we are in life… 30.. I am very happy to be around him. I hope to have a real future together and if that doesn’t work out, the heart break will be worth it. Just being around him makes me so happy. Viewing life thru his eyes is necessary and life changing for the better and I hope to never lose that. He deserves the world and I want to give it to him. I just hope he always lets me.
We have said it years ago but not yet on this go around but he knows it…. I love him. ❤️
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Missouri police officers have faced criticism from some members of the community after they were accused of dismissing claims about the abduction of Black women weeks before a woman made a dramatic escape from a basement she was being held captive in.
Excelsior Springs, Missouri, resident Timothy M. Haslett, 39, was arrested on Oct. 7 after a woman escaped his home, according to a probable cause affidavit for the arrest.
She told neighbors that she had been held captive for a month in the basement.MORE: Woman abducted at knifepoint jumps out of moving car to escape man she stopped to help, police say
After the 22-year-old woman fled, she showed up at the front door of a neighbor's home wearing lingerie, a metal collar with a padlock and duct tape around her neck, according to the court document.
"It was readily apparent that she had been held against her will for a significant period of time," Excelsior Springs Police Lt. Ryan Dowdy told reporters during a news conference on Oct. 7, according to ABC News Kansas City affiliate KMBC.
Last month, The Kansas City Defender, a nonprofit media startup, posted a video to TikTok alleging that a serial killer had been targeting young Black girls in the area, The Kansas City Starreported.
The video alleged that four girls have been killed and three went missing in the area, according to the newspaper.MORE: Woman allegedly held hostage in New York City apartment uses Grubhub order to alert police
In the video, Bishop Tony Caldwell, a local Kansas City community leader, said he was one of many in the area who had made reports to police of numerous murdered and missing Black women who had been taken from an area on Prospect Avenue in Kansas City, according to the Kansas City Defender.
After the video went viral, Kansas City Police Department spokesperson Donna Drake said in a statement there was "no basis to support this rumor," describing the reports as "completely unfounded," The Kansas City Star reported.
The woman who escaped, who is Black, told investigators that Haslett allegedly picked her up on Prospect Avenue in September and then kept her in a small room in a basement he built. Haslett allegedly kept her restrained by her feet and ankles and whipped her repeatedly, according to the probable cause affidavit.
She was only able to escape when Haslett left to take his child to school, the woman said, according to the court document. She was treated at the hospital and released on Oct. 7, Excelsior Chief of Police Greg Dull told ABC News last week.MORE: Woman missing for 2 months found 'chained up like a dog': Police
After the victim escaped and searched for help, she told neighbors that her friends "didn't make it," alleging that Haslett killed them, Ciara Tharp, whose grandmother provided shelter for the victim until police arrived, told CBS Kansas City affiliate KCTV. Excelsior Springs police confirmed to the Daily Mail that detectives are actively investigating the possibility of two more victims.
Kansas City Police Department spokesperson said in a statement to ABC News that there have been no reports of missing persons, more specifically women missing from Prospect Avenue in Kansas City, Missouri, filed to the department.
"In order to begin a missing person’s investigation, someone would need to file a report with our department identifying the missing party," the statement read. "Again, we notify the media/public anytime our department responds to a homicide in our city and none match, or have been reported to what has been described."
see rest of article
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My question is: have you ever had a moment of connection with a piece of art in a gallery or museum and can you tell us about it?
here’s a story in two pictures of the same piece at the Nelson-Atkins art museum in Kansas City, Missouri, taken five months apart.
(the full work, a piece of Near Eastern art, forgot exactly what civilization)
and my thoughts about it from five months later:
“Knowing that this is writing from over 4000 years ago…I can’t read it, but there’s probably someone who can…”
it’s all about connections and understanding and humanity’s need to express itself and preserve itself. ❤️
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Residents of Line Creek Apartment Complex Suffer Water Damage Amidst Heavy Rainfall
Leaking roofs and flooding pose serious health concerns for residents
Residents of the Line Creek Apartment complex in Kansas City, Missouri, are facing a dire situation as heavy rainfall has caused significant water damage to at least one building. The issue, exacerbated by leaking roofs, has resulted in flooding throughout the complex, leaving residents with damaged property and serious health concerns. As the rain continues to pour, the situation worsens, prompting some residents to consider moving out and demanding action from the management.
Ramya Warrior, one of the affected residents, described the water leaking from their smoke detector as resembling a running faucet. The problems began in early April and have steadily escalated since then. The flooding reached its peak today, starting at 8 am and continuing until the rain finally subsided.
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Water Damage Worsens, Causing Extensive Property Loss
The water damage inside the building has resulted in significant property loss for the residents. Warrior shared how water seeped through the ceiling, causing pictures on the wall to fall and their couch to become soaked. Anthony Heard, who lives downstairs, experienced water coming from his sockets, air vents, and even his mattress.
The walls in his apartment are so saturated that pressing on them leaves an imprint of his hand. The residents have lost clothes, furniture, and electronics due to the flooding.
Management Responds by Providing Temporary Accommodation
The management at Line Creek Apartments has taken steps to address the situation by offering affected residents hotel rooms as temporary accommodation. While this provides some relief, the long-term solution remains uncertain. Warrior expressed uncertainty about her living situation after she is required to move out of her current room on Monday.
Heard has given notice to the managers that he intends to move out and has threatened to protest if charged rent for the month of May.
Health Concerns and Urgent Need for Action
The dire condition of the apartments poses serious health concerns for the residents. The constant exposure to water and dampness can lead to mold growth, which can trigger respiratory issues and allergies. Additionally, the risk of the ceiling or roof collapsing poses a significant danger to the safety of the residents.
The urgency for action from the management is evident, as the affected residents demand a permanent solution to the ongoing water damage.
Community Support and Assistance
In response to the residents' plight, a GoFundMe campaign has been created to support Ramya Warrior during this challenging time. The campaign aims to provide financial assistance to help her recover from the extensive property loss. The community has rallied together to offer support and raise awareness about the situation, highlighting the need for immediate intervention from the management.
The residents of Line Creek Apartment complex in Kansas City are grappling with severe water damage caused by heavy rainfall. Leaking roofs and flooding have resulted in property loss and health concerns for the affected residents. While the management has offered temporary accommodation, the long-term solution remains uncertain, leaving residents unsure about their living situations.
The urgency for action is clear, as the safety and well-being of the residents are at stake. As the community comes together to support those affected, it is crucial that the management takes immediate steps to address the ongoing water damage and ensure the safety and comfort of its residents.
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