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fkingsteverogers · 3 years

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Tell Me We’ll Be Just Fine

A/N: A couple points: 1) I made a new blog for these writings to make them easier to find 2) I have a tag list! lmk if you want to be added to it 3) For my non US babes and others, your third amendment rights say you can’t be forced to house soldiers. Long Story Short

Contains TFATWS Episode 5 spoilers

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With John Walker being Honorably Discharged after an International Incident, you’re stuck under house arrest. (The United States Government would tell you house arrest is too strong of a word, it’s simply Strongly Advised you stay in your apartment.) You want to scream from the rooftops that you had nothing to do with him, that it was all an act, but you’re being Strongly Advised, so that’s not an option. You hope, wherever he is, Bucky is having a better time than you are.

Five Days; Eastern Europe:

Bucky is not having a good time. They’re in a country where everyone wants them dead, holed up in a shitty motel and all he can think of is the absolutely devastated look on your face when he walked out the door. It makes him brood.

“You have to talk about her sometime.”

“Who?”

“Whoever makes you frown like that.”

“‘M not frowning. What do you know about it anyway? You’re single.” So maybe he was being an ass about it. You were so far away, probably cuddled up with John or Steve, and he was here, sitting in a motel room with Sam. John Walker was probably feeling you up right now, running his hand over those beautiful thighs of yours as you kissed him, making soft little noises--he clenches his fist so hard he breaks the bowl he’d been holding, splattering rice and beans all over the floor cracked tile floor.

“Yo, man, what the fuck?!”

Day One; New York City:

Steve’s allowed to visit, because of course he is. He flashes some badge and the guards (who are Strongly Advising you), stand down. “Why are you here, Stevie?” And you hate that you still call him Stevie. Stevie is what you called him on the quiet nights when you two were alone and he was still yours. Steve gives you his sad smile and you want to fall into his arms, to sob into his chest and tell him how you fucked it all up. You don’t.

“Just go, Stevie.”

Four Days; Eastern Europe:

Sam goes to do some surveillance, announcing that he “couldn’t deal with this shit,” leaving Bucky alone in the shitty room they were sharing. Before he’d been deployed, he would’ve spent an afternoon alone in a hotel curled up with a pretty girl or a handsome boy. During the war, he’d spend a quiet day catching up on some sleep or rereading a well loved copy of The Hobbit. During his Hydra days (which he hated thinking about but also couldn’t stop thinking about), there really weren’t days off. There were days where he killed and days where he didn’t. Since then, he’d spent most of his days off trying to remember how to be a human.

You had made those days feel like living again. And now you were John’s girl, dressed all pretty up for him and everything. Bucky’d been fucking stupid to think you’d want someone like him, someone damaged, someone with blood on his hands. You were good and soft and pretty. You spoke four languages and had probably read every book ever written.

You’d been good enough for Steve.

He breaks another bowl and has to lay down after.

Day Three; New York City:

You glare down the solider that’s sitting in your kitchen, eating a sandwich. “This is violating my Third Amendment Rights, you know.”

The smug bastard grins and keeps eating his sandwich.

Two Days; Louisiana:

“That shield’s the closest thing I’ve got left to a family, so when you retired it, I felt like I had nothing left.”

The mission had gone down as well as any of their missions go, they’d been shot at, gotten out by the skin of their teeth. Sam left to go back home as soon as he could, Bucky followed. Where else did he have to go?

“You have her.”

He didn’t, not really.

“I don’t want to talk about her, Sam.” Bucky tosses the shield, scowling deeply.

Sam sighs, catching the shield. He turned to face his friend, were they friends?, and looked him up and down. “Yeah, you do.” So maybe Bucky does want to talk about you, about how betrayed he feels by you choosing Walker over him. The government hadn’t been powerful enough to stop some gossip magazine from publishing a spread of you and Walker, you in a little red sundress that makes you look incredible and his hand on your thigh. There’s some bullshit story about how you met and had been so enamored with him you’d asked him for coffee on the spot.

It makes Bucky physically sick with rage.

Day Four; New York City:

After four days of being Strongly Advised, you’re ready to start pulling out your hair. The news is nonstop coverage of what happened to John Walker, the green beret who had gone crazy and killed a man in a moment of grief induced rage. And to top it all off, People released a spread that makes you want to scream. The whole shoot hadn’t been your idea, some government publicist had insisted it was necessary to sell the story. In reality, it’d been five hours with John’s hands all over you, grinning like the cat that got the cream. During a break, he’d asked you about Steve, his tone suggesting something that was none of his business.

“You don’t get to talk about Steve.” John had smirked at you, running his tongue over his teeth. It clearly annoyed him, someone thinking he wasn’t good enough for something. “What about your wife, John?” A look of surprise crosses his face but it’s gone in a moment, the mask he wears to keep people out back in place.

“Olivia isn’t part of the deal. I thought we could be friends,” he spits the word out like it’s dirty, “but clearly you’re not interested in that, clearly you’re interested in--”

“Be careful how you finish that sentence, John.” Your voice is low, betraying the landmine he’s almost stepped on. Given the chance, you’d stab John Walker in his pretty face. Decades in prison means nothing when the love of your life abandoned you and the man you thought you could count on ran out. (So maybe you were thinking about Bucky, it doesn’t actually matter.)

Bucky had been a solid presence in a sea of uncertainty. He’d made you feel safe and okay. After Steve’s departure and the death of Tony, the only member of your family left, solid and safety had been in short supply. He’d showed up, ate his cold beans in silence in the kitchen, and hadn’t left. He’d made you laugh in a way you hadn’t in months. You’d developed a routine, Bucky would wake up before you and boil water for tea, you’d stumble out and cook something to serve as breakfast, and you’d both go about your days. In the evenings, you’d come together, talk about the stupid shit that had happened during the day, watch a movie on Friday nights, and go to bed. It was nice to have a routine, something and someone you could depend on.

The nights had been quiet since he left.

Twelve Hours; New York City:

Bucky’s plane lands and he breathes a sigh of relief.

It’s raining when he steps out of the airport, a down pour by anyone’s standards. Fine by him, less people to avoid. He manages to make it to the little coffee shop outside your apartment without getting too soaked. Going up there wasn’t an option, not when you were probably angry with him for running out. So he sits, drinks endless cups of coffee and watches.

“She takes it two creams, no sugar, if you want to bring it up to her.” Bucky turns and finds himself face to face with Steve. His friend looks old, but happy, at peace even. There’s so much he wants to say, he wants to ask Steve why he left, what he thought about Walker. He wants to punch him or throttle him or hug him. Bucky wants a long fucking hug.

“I don’t think she wants to see me, punk.” Steve sits, shaking his head.

“I didn’t think she wanted to see me, either. Sometimes she doesn’t know what’s good for her..”

Before Bucky can reply, before he can really process what Steve is saying, he gets a text from Sam and he’s off to save the world again.

Day Five; New York City:

Because the universe hates you, you can’t even use your phone to entertain yourself. Someone leaked your personal number and it hadn’t stopped ringing since. And, since the internet has no nuance, they’re mostly death threats. You’re reading a book when the guards who are Strongly Advising you abandon their posts. There’s something going on, something that no one bothers to inform you about.

You go back to reading your book. Hopefully Bucky’s not being thrown through a wall.

Thirty Minutes; New York City:

Bucky gets thrown through a wall.

It fucking hurts and he’s dizzy after. Like can’t-walk-straight-am-I-actually-drunk-dizzy. Sam, the useless bastard, loads him into a taxi, tells him he’ll be fine, and gives the driver your address. Bucky’s dimly aware of this fact, aware of the fact that this poor man is driving him, a bleeding super solider, to the one place he wanted to be but wasn’t welcome.

Two Minutes; New York City:

The guards aren’t back by the time the downstairs buzzer starts ringing incessantly. You’re in the middle of your book, right at the moment where the head-strong damsel and the Lord she hated are about to kiss. You try to ignore it, With a groan, you stomp down to the doors.

Standing there, half supported by Vasily, the Russian cabbie (who is definitely into some shady business), is Bucky.

Now; New York City:

You thank Vasily, telling him you’ll pay for the cab when you see him on Friday for Shabbat, and take the bleeding Bucky into your arms. Bucky mumbles something, clearly speaking Russian but too lowly for you to actually understand. Vasily glares at him, muttering curses as he stalks away.

Dragging Bucky up to your sixth floor apartment means sharing a run in with Daisy Mae, your elderly neighbor who’s 90% blind and enjoys loitering in the elevator. She seems to take offense to Bucky mumbling Russian children’s songs to himself.

“Speak English dear, not Communism. We’re in the United States.”

“Mind the business that pays you, Daisy Mae.”

She hmphs, but doesn’t say anything else. Bucky, for his part, gives a rousing performance of the Russian alphabet. Finally, you get Bucky into your apartment and unceremoniously drop him on your couch.

It’s not long before he falls asleep, leaving you to stare at him for hours, wondering just what he’s going to say when he wakes up.

When he does wake up, it’s to the scent of your soap, sweet watermelon that always leaves an aching in the pit of his stomach. Waking up on your couch, smelling your soap, and listening to you cook feels like a dream. How many times had he thought about this exact moment while he was with Sam? Soon enough you’d turn the corner from the kitchenette and smile at him, that beautiful smile that never failed to make him feel a little dizzy.

And then he’d wake up in a shitty hotel room, listening to Sam take a shit through the paper thin walls.

He waits, but when you appear, you’re frowning anxiously. And God, you’re so fucking beautiful. You’re wearing a pair of tiny sleep shorts that expose your long legs to his greedy eyes. Your hair is pushed back off your face, exposing the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen.

Steve was a lucky man, to be able to love you. Maybe one day he’ll find a woman like you to love, if he’s lucky. Has he ever been lucky?

Bucky looks confused when you appear holding tea. “Hi.” He doesn’t say anything back, just frowns back. Your mind races, realizing he probably doesn’t want to see you, that he was dropped off here by some well meaning friend, and he was going to get up and walk out the door again.

“At least let me clean you up before you go.” Bucky nods wordlessly, looking like he’s still a little stunned. He takes a seat at the kitchen table as you pull down the first aid kit you’d put together when Steve was still here. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s still oozing a little blood. It’s in such a place you have to situate yourself between his legs in order to get to it.

It’s quiet while you work, Bucky’s never been a man of many words and now he’s probably trying to figure out how to tell you you’re never going to see him again. As soon as he’s cleaned up well enough that you’re satisfied he won’t die sitting at your kitchen table, you step away to admire your handy work. Bucky’s left hand, his metal hand, catches your wrist and pulls you back to him. It holds you there while his right hand comes up to cup your face, running a thumb over your cheekbone.

“You’re so beautiful.”

He’s not sure what possesses him when he pulls you back into him. All he knows is if he doesn’t get you close, if he doesn’t tell you how fucking beautiful you are, he won’t be able to breathe. You make a little noise of exasperation, your gorgeous lips parting. “I mean it.” “Bucky…” You try to pull away but he holds you there, studying every inch of your face and committing it to memory. There’s an electricity between the two of you, it feels like the air is charged enough to light that stupid snail lamp you’d bought from Arrow or whatever that store you loved was called. “Bucky…” You repeat, your voice softer, in a tone he can’t quite describe

Before either of you can move or say anything else, the door swings open to reveal Sam and Torres, flanked by three soldiers. None of them take notice of what feels like a very compromising position.

“Oh good, you’re here, Sargent Barnes. You're all being moved to a safe house. Pack enough for an indeterminate amount of time.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #tfatws #tfatws x reader #tfatws imagine #I hope ya'll like this one as much as the other one!!#these idiots don't realize they're in love and I HATE it #I have all kinds of plans and I'm so excited for this to become a series #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #ls!reader #Sara writes

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morkofday · 3 years

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get to know me

am going to mix these two different tag games into one post so thank you a lot for tagging me @jazthespazz and @i-am-just-a-kiddo ♥

it’s somehow funny to do these same games again after a while so let’s see what I come up with:

Part I

name: real name petra but i prefer vish/vishie over here ^^

pronouns: she/her

star sign: aries ♈

height: 178cm (which am coming more and more proud of while i realize how damn tall every cdrama actor is lol)

time: 10:37pm as am answering this one

birthday: 10th april!

nationality: finnish

fave bands/groups: ah well this is always a hard question but let’s go with these: BTS, DAY6, OneRepublic, Hurts, Oneus, Hoppipolla, TXT, Red, Mamamoo

fave solo artists: (forgive me if i’ve assumed any of these wrong) Novo Amor, Talos, Crywolf, Liu Yuning, SYML, EDEN, PVRIS, Joker Xue, NF, Halsey, Sleeping At Last, Nuz, HyunA, Sam Smith, Taemin

song stuck in your head: it’s OneRepublic’s Rescue Me bc of the song tag game i did earlier today :’D that one always gets stuck in my head whenever i as much as see the title lol

last movie you watched: i think it’s The Yin-Yang Master (2021)? I haven’t watched any movies after that bc am so busy with all of my dramas haha

last show you binged: i think binged would be The Journey Across the Night! I watched that as a whole in 4 days

when you created your blog: in 2013

the last thing you googled: ummm i think it was “what is a ball of wool called” bc of fic purposes haha as a non native speaker i always get a bit lost with words like this

other blogs: none, i just dump everything here like the idiot i am

why i chose my url: dates back to my intense summer of binge reading J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series. Vishous was my favorite of the brothers haha. i first used this username in some random game on my nintendo ds lol

how many people are you following: 358 which somehow feels like a lot but also like way too few?? i should probably search for some new blogs with other topics than cql, bts and/or dmbj bc i do love a lot of things at once

how many followers do you have: over 800

average hours of sleep: i’d say around 7h

lucky numbers: i remember answering 5 previously? i don’t really have a lucky number but 5 pops into my head

instruments: nope, no. not touching those tyvm. i admire everyone who can play any instrument tho

what i’m currently wearing: black jeans, socks with foxes on them (plus my woolly socks), a gray cardigan (my fave thing ever!) and an orange/brown top

dream job: writer would be ideal but that is very faaaaar into the dream zone

dream trip: around different parts of asia to taste all the amazing food ;; maybe a road trip of sorts through europe? or inter railing? another trip to london bc i miss that ;; a trip to the very northern part of lapland to see all the auroras etc! i’ve never been that far north :’D

fave food: if i need to quickly name something then sushi. otherwise am pretty fine with anything spicy

top three fictional universes you’d like to live in: i remember thinking about this a lot the last time i answered this but hmm. currently i’d say dmbj still bc that world is fascinating AND i would love to talk to the characters. mass effect would be the second one currently bc i miss those games and the space stuff is super cool! and the third one would be assassin’s creed rogue bc that is my fave ac game and i like the northern sea and the places in it AND i could probably be one of abstergo’s employees instead and just test/play those simulation games haha

Part II

Last Song: am currently listening to my playlist with just everything so i have Andrew Belle’s The Enemy playing right now (also I only just now realized that Andrew Belle also sings Pieces which is one of my fave songs? my bff linked that to me after it played in some tv series she was watching)

Last Movie Last Stream: i didn’t want to mention the same movie again or skip this question and i’ve wanted to talk about this anyway so! i watched Liu Chang’s bday live last night :’D it was so much fun even if i couldn’t understand anything. it was just nice to watch him being himself and have fun and chill with his fans. also the songs were amazing ;; i cried with Liu Sang’s character song as well as the ending. and all the while i couldn’t turn my gaze away from his eyes! he has such pretty eyes and they were absolutely Sparkling throughout the whole stream, it was so nice :’)

Currently Reading: Devotions by Mary Oliver (i adore her poems! they’re a very nice change after Siken haha) and then some uni stuff for a course about culture and mental health plus my thesis

Currently Watching: Douluo Continent, Word of Honor, The Long Ballad

all of these are amazing and make me feel different things! i started Douluo Continent just a while ago and am now on ep 16 i think? it’s been very pretty and very chill and i watch it during the weekend while i wait for new episodes to the other two :’D it’s nice to see Xiao Zhan again and i’ve enjoyed the rpg game type of feeling in it? the group of seven is doing amazing and it’s interesting to watch them craft their team work! Word of Honor again has reached the ending and i just hold my breath with it. am not too far gone with it so i am not getting as heavy feelings about it as i probably could but i enjoy it alot still and i do cry at times ^^ and then The Long Ballad has just blown me away! i didn’t expect to love it this much and be this invested in it but everything about it has been such a positive surprise and it keeps making me super emotional! i love the characters and the story and the romances even! it’s a great accomplishment for me. also yes i cry on the daily bc of hao du and bc of ashile sun’s hair haha

(i am also rewatching Ultimate Note kind of and been thinking about getting into rewatching Reboot bc it has been on my list ever since i finished it)

What is antipoetry to you: okay hmm i had to google this too and have to agree with Kiddo here. i don’t have strong feelings about poetry tbh, i wasn’t into poetry that much before maybe a bit over year ago? Siken has really blown me away haha. but i have always loved song lyrics which i never thought as poetry but then Kiddo said to me that they consider them poetry and yeah ok. i agree? so idk poetry can be whatever i suppose. i’ve never seen any rules in it anyway. i know there are many rules for different types of poetry but then again. i feel like poetry has always been just words put together to feel things and i guess that is the core purpose of every written type of art in the end right?

Currently craving: a drama as good and as personal as The Journey Across the Night. that show really just stole my heart and i want that feeling back. i think about that show every day. i miss Li Jia and his two partners. i miss the vibes. i miss sitting on my floor watching it and just sobbing my heart out haha. also! craving a properly subbed, whole version of Anti-Fraud League. only the first 12 eps are badly subbed out there. wetv has... blocked? deleted? the whole show??? i need it to my life, i wanna see Xiao Yuliang being cute as Mi Ruo and i wanna know where the story goes smh

thank you so much for these both! i had fun ^^ also am sorry this is so long but haha if you’re asking me to talk about myself and my interests then this is what you get :)

tagging (to do which ever part you want or both!): @cross-d-a @jockvillagersonly @humanlighthouse @kholran @xcziel @minmoyu and @leonzhng ♥

#tag game #this was so much fun ok #also yes am an emotional mess #especially when it comes to liu chang/liu sang #and if anyone has any knowledge #about anti-fraud league #then am all ears???#thank you for tagging me!!

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pussymagicuniverse · 4 years

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4 Christmas Traditions that are Actually Pagan

Christmas is an iconic holiday, designated by decorous evergreens, a golly old white man in a red suit and cap, reindeer pulling sleds, and the Christian nativity scene. Those of us who celebrate it go through the motions of upholding the aesthetic: twinkling lights, nutcrackers, angels, and stockings hung on the mantle.

But where do these traditions come from? And why are they so closely associated with Christianity?

Many Christian and Catholic traditions reflect a blend of the various cultures that existed as the religion developed into an institution. Pagans, or polytheistic communities, worshipped multiple gods and goddesses and honored them throughout the year with celebrations, feasts, and rituals. As Christian influence spread throughout Europe, the Church sought to incorporate elements of paganism for the sake of converting them.

Christmas is no exception. The widely-celebrated holiday that commemorates the birth of Jesus Christ is more closely aligned with pagan festivals for the Winter Solstice. Some historians believe that Jesus Christ wasn’t born on Christmas, but was incorporated into pagan traditions to encourage polytheistic people to convert.

Throughout cultures and religions, Winter Solstice celebrations honored the Sun and its return, bringing some light to the darkest day of the year. It’s a time of hope, rejuvenation, and new beginnings.

Roman pagans honored Saturn, God of Time, to honor the New Year. Pre-Christian Scandinavians celebrated Jol, a festival that involved eating boar, burning large logs, and celebrating goats. Celtic mythology recounts the battle of the Oak King, who represents light, and the Holly King, who symbolizes night.

The holiday traditions we celebrate today take on a new meaning when considering the pagan context they were created in. Here are four Christmas traditions that were inspired by pre-Christian pagan communities.

Christmas Tree

Referred to as a Yule tree by Germanic pagans, evergreens were cut down and brought inside the home to symbolize eternal life. Since their vibrant green color never faded, these trees were believed to discourage the onset of death, destruction, and evil spirits. Their resilience in the coldest months of the year reflected the belief that they encouraged the return of the Sun. Along with the tree, evergreen branches were often hung throughout the house or crafted into wreaths to harness their protective powers and symbolize everlasting life.

Our modern tradition of decorating Christmas trees with lights, holly, tinsel, and ornaments mirrors the pagan custom of ceremoniously honoring evergreens. Roman pagans believed that keeping trees in the homes would provide a place for wood spirits to be warm. They’d hang delicious food and sweets on the branches for their mystic guests to eat.

Father Christmas

The symbol of Santa Claus in modern times is a combination of pagan traditions and early Christian figures. His name and good-nature are most closely linked with St. Nicholas, a Greek bishop who lived in Turkey during the 3rd and 4th centuries. He was an early Christian who defended his community from religious persecution and was imprisoned until Constantine declared Christianity the Roman Empire’s primary religion.

Germanic pagans believed that the god Odin embarked on a hunt during Yule. He led the party through the sky with a horse named Sleipnir who had eight legs. This mythic creature is speculated to pre-date reindeer because of it’s ability to jump long distances. It was customary for children to put out food for the horse in their boots, which Odin would thank them for by giving them small gifts.

Christmas Caroling

During Saturnalia, the week-long Roman celebration for Saturn, boisterous groups of people would meander throughout town carousing, but naked. That last part didn’t seem to carry over into modern times, but the tradition of merry-making through singing did.

In other cultures, however, this tradition was specifically performed by children who would go door to door and sing for their neighbors and fellow villagers. They were gifted with gifts, food, or small tokens of appreciation for their effort.

Hanging Mistletoe and Holly

Druids used both mistletoe and holly in ceremonies performed during the Winter Solstice. Holly was believed to embody “masculine” energy and was most often used to ward off evil spirits from entering the home. It was placed over doors, windows, and the fireplace, acting as a guard to dispel negative energy from sacred spaces.

Mistletoe was believed to symbolize divine fertility and was harvested for the purpose of wearing as an amulet or hanging above someone’s bed to encourage conception. Like holly, the plant was also posted over doorways to secure it from threatening forces like bad weather or malevolent spirits.

Cassidy Scanlon is a Capricorn poet and witch who uses her artistic gifts as a channel for healing herself and others. She writes poetry and CNF about mental health, astrology, queer love, pop culture representation, and how social structures shape our perceptions of history and mythology. When she’s not writing, she can be found petting the local stray cats, exploring the swamps of Florida, reading 5 books at a time, and unwinding with her Leo girlfriend.

You can visit her astrology blog Mercurial Musings and explore more of her publications on her website.

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clarounette · 5 years

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The dream that just won’t die - A Royal Romance fanfic (part5)

Note: a little update to keep the flow steady. I haven’t written that much or that often for a long time. I hope you’ve enjoyed the little changes from the game so far :)

Pairing: Drake Walker x MC (Riley Smith)

Rating: at least R, maybe M (not sure yet); PG for now

Tags: @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @notoriouscs @drakesensworld @i-bloody-love-drake-walker

This is part 5 (under the cut)

Rest of the fic to be found on my blog with the tag TDTJWD

By the time Tariq and Maxwell came back, midnight had come and gone. They quickly ordered four crème brûlée - less than palatable, Drake had to admit.

All the chairs in the bar rested upside-down on the tables, which shone after Riley gave them a good scrubbing with a rag. She had also swept the wooden floor clean, waiting patiently for their party to wind down. It was time to go to their next stop.

They forbade Liam to pay his share, as he was the guest of honor, and Drake volunteered to give the money to Riley while his friend sent a text to tell their driver to pick them up. Drake walked to the counter behind which their waitress was putting away glasses and bottles.

“Thanks for taking care of us tonight,” he said to her back.

When she turned around, she smiled so brightly one could think she didn’t mind working so late. Maybe she didn’t. Not really. Maybe she had no choice and tried to look on the bright side of life. “My pleasure. I hope you enjoyed our finest example of American meal and booze.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not from around here, right?”

“Nope.”

“Let me guess.” She pursed her lips, and Drake couldn’t take his eyes off them. “Somewhere in Europe, but I can’t figure out where.”

“What gave us away?”

She laughed. “Your accent! Though yours is less pronounced. Of course, I could be wrong about you. It’s not like you speak a lot.” Her teasing smile with a hint of mischief in her deep brown eyes almost put a grin on his face.

He could have drowned in those eyes, but his time was up. Time for goodbye. Quick, like a bandaid. “Anyway, have a good night.” He caught up with the group waiting at the door without looking back. Because what was the point.

“Guys, I need to make a bathroom stop before we go. The car should be here. Go ahead.” Liam pushed them out, and they did as asked.

The limo was down the curb, but they waited outside the bar, enjoying a bit more of New York’s sleepless night. Drake looked at the pitch black sky - not a star to compete against the city’s brightest lights. The chilly air smelled of candy and garbage, which unsettled Drake’s stomach.

Finally, the door opened on Liam, but he wasn’t alone.

If Drake had thought Riley was a gorgeous woman in her shapeless apron and black pants, seeing her in a sexy green dress made his heart flutter. “Wow.”

Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline, but she seemed to like his stark compliment.

“I mean, I almost didn’t recognize you.” A blatant lie. He would have recognized her smile anywhere.

When Maxwell whistled, Liam slapped him upside the head. “Guys, show Riley some respect!”

At least, Maxwell looked contrite. “Yeah, sorry. You coming with us?”

“If it’s okay with you,” she replied, glancing nervously at Drake.

He had been ready to forget about her completely, and now she was going to spend their last night in the United States with them. In a club. Where there were going to be dancing and drinking. He sighed. “We’re heading to Kismet.”

“I suppose she’s dressed adequately for the occasion,” Tariq quipped.

She looped her arms around Liam’s and Drake’s. “Then let’s go! The night isn’t getting any younger!”

#The Royal Romance #TRR #Drake Walker #fanfic #TDTJWD

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furtivefreckles · 5 years

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All Right Kids, Here We Go

I’m not going to apologize anymore for not/ being late posting because it wastes precious space that I could be telling you cool stuff! So here we go!

My first two weeks in Spain have been amazing! Classes have been going well and seem like they’re going to be easy. They are all in Spanish, and have been very interesting so far. I’m taking a class on fútbol (soccer for my Americans), on Spanish cinema, on Spanish media, and on Spanish poetry. We’re going to watch our first movie in the cinema class tomorrow, I’ll let you know how it goes!

My school is in Alcala de Henares, a beautiful city that boasts being the hometown of Miguel de Cervantes, the author of Don Quixote. He is everywhere, from the statues in the plaza to the graffiti in the alleys. The city is extremely walkable, and it is very common to see families with small children, elderly couples, and just about anyone else you could imagine, walking the streets at any time of the day or night. I’m convinced that no one actually sleeps here, except for during siesta. Siesta is Spanish for nap, and is the time of day right after their lunch, from 2-5 pm, where most store close and everyone is kind of expected to take it easy. It’s wonderful to be expected to take naps, but it really breaks up the day into weird chunks. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.

My host family, Antonia(Toni) and Julio, are wonderful. They are an older couple that has been doing this for 12 years, having started after being empty nesters for a few years. They have three grown sons who live in various corners of Europe, and they treat me like the daughter they never had. Every time I walk in the door I am greeted with besitos(kisses) on the cheek, in the European style. Toni overfeeds me, but is very gracious when I say that I can’t possibly eat more. Julio is amazed that I don’t play basketball, because of how tall I am, especially since I’m a bit too long for my bed jajaja.

As for trips and other cool things that I've seen and done include but are not limited to:

Next three: El Escorial, a Palace/Monastery/School/Cathedral

Next two: The Valley of the Fallen, which has a lot of intense politics behind it because it was built by the prisoners of war that lost the Civil War to honor those that died in the Civil War, and Franco, the dictator that ordered construction of this site, is buried there with the fallen from both sides.

Photo creds to Jordan on this one because I can only take aesthetic shots like seen below

Next 8: The Royal Cathedral in Madrid, It is relatively new, less than 50 years old, but still beautiful! I got to go up on the roof and got a pretty great view of the city. The flowery stained glass was in a stairway that led to the roof. It was probably my favorite part because it is something so small that not many people would see, but that they still took the time to make it beautiful.

And lastly, friends being goons!

Eating Pollo y Salsa Ranchera with LaRhonda

Getting Churros with hooligans

Commemorating getting Churros with Hooligans, and loving that my hooligan friends Adriana and Matt were able to come brunch with me during their busy hooligan lives

Got free food with Jacob as we played extras in a dental clinic commercial. Free food is good food.

In front of the Archeological Museum with Anna, Jordan, and Meghan! It was a beautiful place, and they let us in for free<3

All in all, I’m having a great time. Special shoutout goes to Matt Del Busto for posting his own blog, which you can find here, and inspiring me to actually do my own. As always, send me your prayers! I’m no longer in Jerusalem, but there are plenty of cool holy places that I want to go sit in and pray for y’all!! If there’s anything you ever want to know more about, ask! I’d love to answer questions.

TL;DR: I’m loving Spain, making cool friends, seeing cool things, read Matt’s blog, send me prayer intentions!!

#Spain #spanish #madrid #study abroad #el escorial #host family #alcalá #alcala de henares #yellow raincoats #furtive freckles

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howling-harpy · 5 years

Text

Peonies and primroses in Pennsylvania fair

Word count: 6780 Rating: G Pairing: Winters/Nixon

Summary: Harry is excited. He’s on a holiday from work, Dick has been discharged from service, and Nix let it slip in a letter that he was planning to visit, so Harry seized the opportunity to tag along and make it a reunion. Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction based on the HBO drama series and the actors’ portrayals in it. This has nothing to do with any real person represented in the series, and means no disrespect. A/N: This is a sequel to my fic “Dear lover”, found on my blog but not linked here because Tumblr hates links.

Summer, 1952

Harry was excited. He had been looking forward to this week since late winter when the matter had been agreed upon via letters, and now that the day had finally arrived, he was ready to go. Kitty watched him with amusement. “I’d ask you if you packed everything you need, but since you’ve packed and repacked thrice, it would be a stupid question.” Harry just grinned at her. She was right: the suitcase had been sitting by the door since yesterday. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, “and for your patient supervision.”

She huffed a laugh and turned back to the kitchen. “Is your friend going to stay long enough for coffee?”

Harry glanced out of the front window to the driveway for the umpteenth time, still seeing no car, and absently answered: “Uh, I don’t know. You never really know with Nix. I asked him to just pick me up on the way, but he’s never been one to turn down a treat either.” Harry followed Kitty to the kitchen and sat down at the table. There was a coffee cake under a glass dome, baked only yesterday and iced this morning, and it was clear that Kitty wanted to present and serve it to a guest, but whether this was the occasion or not was unclear. Kitty seemed to sense that and directed one of her sharp looks at Harry, tilting her head. “But you’re both very anxious to get on the road to see your friend, aren’t you?” Harry smiled sheepishly. “Yeah.” He didn’t need to explain it to her: he had told her more than enough in the letters he had written from overseas, and shared enough pictures, postcards and letters from Nix and Dick for her to understand. Kitty smiled knowingly. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” Harry sighed. “Yeah, I haven’t seen Nix since -45, or Dick since he moved back to Pennsylvania. And now it’s going to be all three of us again.” Just thinking about it brought a bright smile to his face, and again he glanced outside to search for the car Nix had described. “Really, I’m so glad Nix mentioned this visit in his letter. It didn’t even occur to him to pick me up even though I live along the way, that dog.” “He always seemed a bit aloof,” Kitty noted. Harry grinned. “He is, but it’s part of his charm. Dick always says he knew he was in trouble from the moment he befriended him.” Kitty gave an indulgent little laugh, a sound that both joined and separated her from their boyish habits and experiences. After only half an hour, a beautiful blue Buick finally turned on the Welsh’s driveway. Harry could barely keep himself from darting up and running to the door, but managed to stay put long enough to watched the car park and a dark-headed man get out of it. Kitty laughed at him when he skipped to the door and yanked it open before Nix got the chance to ring the doorbell. With a grin on his face, Harry took in the man in his early thirties standing on his doorstep, a finger reaching for the bell and now frozen in surprise. “Lewis Nixon,” Harry said. Nix’s surprised expression melted into a familiar smile, now worn on an older face. “The one and only,” he said, opened his arms and welcomed Harry’s enthusiastic hug. They hugged tight for a good while and gave each other friendly slaps on the back before Harry pushed Nix at arm’s length to properly look at him friend. “You look good, Nix,” he said, “and haven’t changed a bit.” He wasn’t lying either, there was the same mischievous gleam in Nix’s brown eyes that hadn’t faded in seven years, his hair was combed back, and his face was clean-shaven with the bluish touch of five o’clock shadow already there. He might have been older now, more distinctively mature rather than boyish, but Harry couldn’t tell. It was Nix just as he remembered him. The corner of Nix’s mouth tugged upwards in a lopsided smile. “You’re just the same too. It’s good to see you, Harry.” Harry grinned, and Nix returned the expression. When they had grinned at each other enough while hanging on the doorway, Harry remembered himself and with a slap on Nix’s arm invited him in. “Come on! We can be on our way as soon as we’d like, but come say hi to Kitty at least.” “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Nix said. “I listened to you yapping on and on about her too much to miss the real deal.” Nix didn’t take his jacket off and Harry didn’t offer to take it, guessing that they’d be leaving almost right away, but Nix did take a good look around the house when Harry took him to the kitchen. Kitty was standing by the kitchen counter when Harry and Nix stepped in and came to meet them with a charming, curious smile on her face. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Nixon. I’m Katherine Welsh,” Kitty said and offered her hand in a greeting. Nix gave her one of his charming smiles, took her hand and gave it a graceful shake. “Mrs. Welsh, it’s an honor to finally meet you. Harry spoke of you so much.” “And he wrote about you,” Kitty countered, “only good things, I promise.” “So he lied! Good man,” Nix said and laughed, let go of her hand and put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Kitty didn’t laugh, only smiled and gave Nix a sharp once-over that he bore with resilient ease. “Will you be leaving right away or would you like to stay for coffee?” Kitty asked, looking between the men. “I baked a coffee cake.” Harry glanced at Nix, still not knowing their plan and wondering how Nix felt about it; he had always been restless when things really mattered, and seeing Nix here without Dick in his tow was strange enough to remind him that this was supposed to be a quick stop on the way. “We do have a lot of road ahead of us still, ma’am, but cake sounds wonderful,” Nix said, swinging on his heels. Kitty tilted her head. “Are you in a hurry?” Nix shifted again, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets. “Well… Not exactly, no. But you see, it has been a long time since we’ve seen our friend, and we did agree to go directly to him, so it feels a bit strange to linger.” Harry took another look at Nix and suddenly realized that he looked tired. It was the same strain he had gotten used to seeing during the war and thus didn’t immediately recognize as unusual now, but Nix really looked like he had been driving all night. A memory surfaced, a whole collection of them, of Nix looking like that, shifting and anxious and restless, and Dick leaning into his space to bump shoulders or just gazing at him with that reassuring calm of his, and Harry wished they were already there so Dick could do it now. Kitty looked at Harry and Harry looked at Kitty, and Kitty nodded. “I’ll pack you some cake and coffee on the road then.” Within half an hour with Harry’s suitcase, packed lunch and cake, some sandwiches, and coffee in a thermos, Nix and Harry were on their way. Nix drove even though Harry had offered to. As soon as they settled on the highway with only smooth open road ahead of them, Nix relaxed with only one hand on the wheel of gestured towards the plastic boxes of Kitty’s baked goods. “Give me some of that cake, will you?” Harry threw him a surprised look but got the box out anyway. Nix had never been a person with a sweet tooth before. “Sure. Kitty’s an amazing cook and baker, I bet you’ll like this.” Kitty had cut the cake into ready slices and Harry handed one to Nix, who took a large bite out of it, neverminding the crumbs falling in his lap. “I bet. I saw that cake the second I stepped into your kitchen and haven’t stopped thinking about it since,” Nix said, mouth full. Harry laughed, filled with pride. “She’s amazing. I think I’ve gained a dozen pounds just eating her food.” “Yeah, I can see that,” Nix noted playfully, eyes gleaming. “I’m the same. Ever since I stopped drinking I’ve been craving pastries. If it’s made of wheat and hopefully chocolate-covered, I will want it.” Harry broke a slice of cake in half for himself. It had a sweet coffee-chocolate icing, and Harry marvelled at Kitty’s skills as he inhaled the rich, spicy smell of the cake. “You quit for real then, huh?” For some reason Nix looked awkward for a moment, swallowing the cake and half shrugging. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. It just… Well. I don’t drink, but I do eat to make up for that.” He gave a laugh, light and ironic. “First when I stopped drinking I lost some weight, and then gained it all back when I started eating. There’s a balance in the universe, I suppose.” “That’s good to hear. Now you and Dick can go about frustrating barkeepers by ordering plain lemonades together,” Harry chuckled. Nix laughed with him, but afterwards started to chew on his bottom lip, almost nervous. Harry watched him from the corner of his eye for a moment and didn’t have to wonder what that was about. Bringing up Dick was like that, and Harry could empathize. All three of them had been so close back then, and that feeling of camaraderie didn’t fade with time, but distance felt weird. When Harry had last seen Dick he had felt it as strongly as before, all of it, like they could just go back to army right then and there, and Harry would still be as willing to take a bullet for Dick as he had been back in Europe. Nix and Dick had been as thick as thieves and close friends already when Harry had joined their posse, so he could only imagine what Nix was feeling right now. Harry looked at the road ahead of them instead of Nix when he said: “So how long has it been? Since he moved out?” Nix didn’t answer right away even though he certainly knew the answer. Hell, Harry wouldn’t have wondered if he knew the exact number of days. “Four years,” Nix said finally. “He moved out four years ago when the job didn’t turn out that well, and he moved back into his home state. We’ve been writing some, but because he was called back in service and all that we haven’t seen each other since when he left New Jersey.” Harry had enough tact to not ask about the job. He had about a hundred theories, but if he was perfectly honest he didn’t want to ask Nix about his family; every time it came up it was like pulling a trigger on one of Nix’s moods. “Well, you were getting a bit old for living together like that," he joked. "I really don’t get it, after army I certainly had had enough of bunking together with other smelly guys.” Nix snorted. “Harry, if all guys are smelly, then how on Earth can you ask your poor wife to share a house with you?” “As a group! Guys are smelly as a group!” “Sure, sure,” Nix admitted but with a smirk on his face. “Lucky for us, two is hardly a group.” “Maybe you’re right there,” Harry said with good-natured humor. Besides, Dick had always been very meticulous with his hygiene anyway, so maybe their living situation had been amicable as long as it had lasted. That brought another thought back in Harry’s mind: “I can’t believe you almost ditched me from this visit!” he said, slapping Nix in the arm. “Hey, ow, I’m trying to drive here!” Nix whined. “And I didn’t try to ditch you, you already saw Dick a few years ago! It’s my turn now.” Harry scoffed, then laughed. “He’s my friend too, you selfish ass! We both used to see him every day, it’s not like once every few years is going to suddenly be enough!” “Yeah,” Nix said, suddenly sighing so heavily his breath trembled. “Yeah, I know.” Harry sensed something strange in the air between them, something dark and aching and impossible to pinpoint, so much like Nix’s moods which he thought had been left behind with his boyhood and drinking. He slapped his arm again, gentler this time. “Oh, don’t be like that. We both know you’re his favorite anyway, so there’s no reason to pout. I want to see my buddy too, is all.” Something about that seemed to comfort Nix, because a smile was back on his face again. Harry took out more cake for both of them. “Come on. It’s not that long a way to go either. We’ll be there in a few hours.” The car seemed to speed up a little bit, Nix straightening up on the driver’s seat. “Yeah.” * Dick had moved back in Pennsylvania, near a small city with lots of open fields and forests around it, and a view towards distant mountains that were blue against the horizon. Nix had a map of the area that he asked Harry to read for him, and when Harry folded the map open, he saw a route already planned onto it with a pen. They drove through the city and into the outskirts, through fields and across a river, past scattered houses with yards and big gardens. Harry pointed out the right turn, a smaller sand road off the main road, lined with giant oak trees, and they drove that road all the way to its end. At the end of the road, surrounded by a meadow and a half wild orchard, was an old two-story house, freshly painted with a sharp dark-tile roof and a homely looking porch. They passed a letterbox that read “Winters” on it, and Nix took the car slowly to the driveway that was only tire tracks in hay and grass. While Nix drove, Harry kept his eyes on the house. It looked nice and large, and he would have bet that Dick had painted it himself. While they were still driving down the driveway, Harry saw the front door swinging open and a man stepping out onto the porch. There was no mistaking Dick Winters for anyone else, not with his unmistakable posture, height and still bright red hair. For some reason Harry had expected him to be wearing his uniform, but despite that thought his blue jeans and plain button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows were a natural fit. The front door left wide open behind him, Dick watched them from the porch with no shoes on and a bright smile on his face. Nix parked the car and while he was still busy shifting the gear off, turning the engine off and gathering his things, Harry was already up and out of the car, waving at Dick. “Hey! It’s been forever, buddy!” Harry greeted him, strode right to the house and jumped the few steps up to the porch. Dick gave him a warm smile. “Hello, Harry,” he said and leaned down to hug him. Hugs from Dick were a rare thing, he was always very formal and proper even amongst friends, but apparently after two years apart and in front of his own house he was much more relaxed, and Harry accepted the hug with joy. “It’s been too long,” he sighed when they pulled apart. “Yes, yes it has,” Dick said in return, and then his eyes darted back towards the car. “Welsh! I’m not carrying your stuff for you!” Nix shouted from behind the car, popping the trunk open. Harry barked a laugh and skipped back down to go get his suitcase. Nix’s impatience was even funnier considering that he had dragged probably three times more stuff with him than Harry had, the small suitcase barely even fitting in the trunk of the car with Nix’s bags and travel chest. Nix was hovering by the car, one of his bags swung over his shoulder and pretty obviously hiding behind the trunk’s hood and the tail light. Harry frowned at the nervous display, and for the first time it occurred to him that Nix himself might not have been entirely blameless in what had caused Dick to leave New Jersey. Harry wondered had there been some sort of a falling out, some bigger crisis or an argument between the two, but immediately after he figured that had it been something serious Nix wouldn’t have come in the first place. And even if there had been something bad between then, it would have taken place four years ago, and now was now. It was all about clearing the air. So Harry settled on direct action, slammed the car’s trunk shut, grabbed Nix by the lapels of his jacket and dragged him behind him to the house. “Now, wait a moment…” was all Nix managed before he found himself being pulled up the front steps and essentially thrust right in front of Dick. Harry could barely hold back his grin. He glanced at Dick, whose expression was utterly unreadable but his eyes were welling with emotion, and then at Nix who was lingering on the steps, acting almost coy. “Hi, Lew,” Dick softly said, his hand raising in a small wave despite their proximity. Nix looked flustered, looking up at Dick through his lashes. “Hi.” Harry huffed a laugh before striding into the house, leaving the two at each other’s mercy. The house was old, probably from the previous century, but recently renovated, the paint on its walls clearly fresh. It was a nice house with dark wooden floors, big windows and a lot of open space. The hall gave way directly into a roomy kitchen, where Harry could see clearly new cabinets, a large masonry oven and a stove, and by the window a good-sized dining table. He peeked into the living-room as well, seeing a fire place, a tea table and some armchairs, a plush green carpet on the floor and an empty china cabinet in the back. There were stairs in the hall leading upstairs, where Harry assumed the bedrooms were. He set his suitcase down by the stairs and shook off his coat. The house seemed pretty well furnished, but there were also signs of how recent the move had been: various necessary things were still missing. There was no coat rack, for example, only one of the chairs from the kitchen with a pile of coats and sweaters and a few hats on it, there were carpet rolls by the living-room doorway, and boxes stacked up by the stairs. Dick was clearly still in process of moving in and making the house his own, but still it already had a homely feel to it. Harry had his coat folded over his arm and was glancing around when Dick and Nix stepped inside. Whatever had been between them outside had vanished, both smiling easily. “Oh, just… Put that wherever,” Dick said, spotting the coat over Harry’s arm and gesturing towards the clothing pile on the chair. “I’ve only just started settling in, renovations delayed the furnishing and so on.” “I think we’ll manage,” Harry said, tossing his coat on the top of the pile. “It’s a really nice house, Dick.” Dick smiled, pleased. “Yeah? I thought so. It needed, and probably still needs, some work, but I really liked the location, the garden and the fireplace.” “How many rooms do you have?” Harry asked. “There’s the kitchen, the living-room and the bath downstairs, and four bedrooms on the second floor, plus a small attic chamber.” Harry nodded, impressed. “That’s nice. There’s room for a family here.” Harry’s chest grew warm just thinking about his friend having a family of his own. Dick would be amazing at it, and he would deserve all of it. The garden would be a perfect place for kids to play in. Dick smiled, proud and happy. “Exactly. A family,” he said, glancing at Nix. Harry wondered if family was a sore subject for Nix, but couldn’t figure out a tactful way to express his lack of judgement about his situation. He could only hope that Dick could communicate it well enough with a look, as he often did with Nix. But Nix didn’t look offended or called out at all. He was circling the hall and peeking into the rooms like a dog in a new house he was curiously inspecting. You could almost see his tail wagging. Harry and Dick exchanged a look about him, and then with a fond shake of his head Dick cleared his throat. “Do you want to see the house some, Nix?” Nix started and gave a laugh, a bit awkward like he had got caught doing something forbidden. “Yeah, sure. Although I can already tell you need some curtains here.” Dick laughed and showed them around while also appointing them rooms to put their things down and settle in. The kitchen and the living-room were pretty well arranged, but with a closer look both had a strong mark of generous relatives and a helpful mother on them, and the upstairs were clearly more a work in progress. Still, Dick had his own bedroom, a guest room, and an office with a couch bed. Harry took the guest room while Nix dropped his stuff into the office. They had dinner at home, mashed potatoes with chicken roasted in the oven and a side salad. Dinner turned easily into coffee and biscuits, which continued so long that the day turned into evening, they got hungry again and made sandwiches to take with them into the living-room. Conversation was just as easy as always, now maybe even more so because they all had so much to tell. Only a few years had passed, but many things had happened and changed, and letters could only express so much. Harry talked eagerly about his job in the school system, about all the students and the curriculum he was trying to get approved both by the higher-ups and the teachers, and mused on how he, a former unruly school boy, had now joined the ranks of the school staff and was forced to consider his past antics in a new light. Nix confessed to similar escapades during his school years but without any remorse. Predictably Dick had been a model student, and Nix briefly teased that had they known each other in school he would have lured him in trouble. Dick had a new job in the city and he seemed excited about it. He managed personnel, and getting to use his organizational skills in practice brought him a great deal of satisfaction. He didn’t mention New Jersey at all, and neither did Nix, and Harry didn’t ask. Harry had taken a bottle of whiskey with him, but now found he had no one to share it with. Nix shook his head. “Yeah, no, I quit over a year ago. I think I told you.” “Yeah, you did, but… Completely?” Harry asked, brows raised. Nix shrugged with a half a smile. “Yep. There was really no middle ground there for me. It was either keep drinking or kick the habit for good.” “Damn. Who do I drink with now?” Harry sighed. Nix’s smile was almost a grimace. “It wasn’t really good for me.” Harry bumped their knees together. “I hear you. I’m happy for you, Nix, but drinking alone is no fun either.” Dick took half a sandwich from the plate and turned to Harry. “You may drink in my house. It’s allowed.” Harry considered this. “Well, maybe a glass or two, even though it’s not that fun. It’s not like I drink much at home either.” Dick went to fetch him a glass from the kitchen. Harry filled it, then mindfully placed it as far away from Nix’s corner of the table as he naturally could. “Kitty doesn’t like you drinking, huh?” Dick asked when Harry took a sip of whiskey. Harry smiled fondly and felt a tug of longing at the mention of his wife. “No, she sure doesn’t. We haven’t really talked about it and she isn’t that forward about it, but she doesn’t like to see me drunk, so I limit myself to a glass every other weekend, if even that. It’s so easy to forget about when you don’t do it that often.” Nix scoffed. “Oh, I wish. My first three months dry were hell. I didn’t have a wife to keep me straight either.” Harry smiled sympathetically. “I bet Dick took that upon himself, huh? Wrote you weekly letters of moral support and brought you back in the fold?” The traces of grimace vanished from Nix’s expression and his eyes lit up. He waved his hand dismissively, and that was all Harry needed to know that he had hit the nail on the head. He laughed. Dick grinned too. “Merely simple words of encouragement to support what was already there,” he noted, and Nix’s smile stretched into a grin as well. Dick’s eyes twinkled. “Despite the distance and my service, I always have time for my men.” Nix snorted and shook his head, blushing. “Oh, right! How are the young American soldiers nowadays?” Harry asked. Dick took a moment to think about it, sighed and shook his head. His expression turned nostalgic. “Not like we were,” he finally said. “I don’t think there will ever be another bunch of guys as dedicated and fine as we were.” “Cheers, I’ll drink to that,” Harry said, and Nix clinked his soda bottle with his whiskey glass. “I’m officially discharged now,” Dick said. “That’s it for my time with the army, for real and certain this time.” “Everyone still calls him Major though,” Nix said to Harry, who chuckled. “So, what’s next for you then?” Harry asked. “My civilian career and tending to my garden,” Dick said. Harry rolled his eyes at Dick’s avoidance. “That we already covered. I meant on the social front. Still no date for Dick Winters, huh? No babies about to take up those bedrooms?” Dick had grown up and gained enough confidence around this talking point that he didn’t blush, but instead returned Harry’s look with one of his noncommittal, blank ones. “No kids. I’ve already explained this to my parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles, my little sister and most of my friends.” Harry raised his hands in a peace offering, dropping the subject. It was a difficult one for him as well, so he left it. “How about a wife? I bet there’s a line by now,” he asked. Dick huffed, finally flushing a bit and dropping his gaze. “That would be the logical first step to kids, at least. But no, no wife.” Nix sniggered, slumping down on his chair most likely in order to reach to poke Dick in the shin. “Not from the lack of trying either, on everyone else’s part, that is. His mother and all the nice ladies at his church are taking waiting numbers for their and their friends’ daughters and nieces.” Dick threw him a look and rolled his eyes. Harry joined in the teasing. “Your bedroom is for two, though. Are you sure there’s no one to take up the extra space?” Despite his blush, Dick managed to smirk. “Even if I were to take someone to my bed, that doesn’t make that person a wife.” Harry sputtered and laughed and Nix inhaled his soda, ending up spitting half of it out in the following coughing fit, making Harry laugh harder and Dick grin. The evening went on. They played a few rounds of cards and stayed awake defying their growing exhaustion. Harry downed three glasses of whiskey and with his lowered tolerance dozed off in one of the armchairs, and so did Nix despite not having had a drop of alcohol. Harry kept drifting in and out of dream, vaguely aware of Dick quietly moving about and taking dishes to the kitchen, and even more vaguely aware that when the flowers of the wallpaper started to look like real plants blooming from the walls, he was asleep. He toed that fine line, sinking into the cushions, enjoying the light buzz of alcohol and the joy of being with his two closest friends, and observing the living-room wall bloom with peonies and primroses and deep green wines, covering everything and gently pulling everything into their world. Quiet words drifted into Harry’s dream. At first they didn’t register at all, too soft and nonsensical to be anything but a dream. “Lew. Wake up, Lew... Lew… Hey, hi. Hi.” “Mm hi.” “Shh, Harry’s asleep.” “Yeah, me too.” The words were soft, almost muttered, the voices so gentle and smooth that they seemed to belong in the dream world with the flowers. “How do you like the house?” “It’s perfect. Just… perfect. I love it.” “I’m glad.” A beat of silence, short as a breath and still like hours in the dream. “I wanted to carry you over the threshold.” A quiet laugh. “You are… So much.” “Too much?” A humming sound. “No, just right. Just perfect.” A shifting sound from a chair, the cushions shuffling against clothing. “Come ‘ere.” A deep sigh filled the room, a strangely layered sound, and it took Harry’s dozing brain a moment to realize it came from two people at once. It was a strange sound, both like the air being knocked out of someone as well as a sound of deep contentment. “I’m so happy to see you again,” Nix whispered, his voice strangely muffled. Dick sounded a little strained. “Yeah, you too. I missed you so much.” The words were finally registering to Harry, not only as coherent sentences with meaning, but also as things spoken by familiar voices that he recognised as his friends’. Their voices were quiet and soft, gentle like they sometimes briefly were when they seemed to talk about something just between themselves despite having company, but the words were something Harry hadn’t ever heard from them before and they didn’t fit the picture. Puzzled, Harry listened, and after a moment risked turning his head towards the voices a bit and cracking his eyes open ever so slightly. Nix was still in his chair where he had dozed off, Dick was standing right next to him, and they had their arms around each other. Nix had his arms wrapped tightly around Dick’s middle, his face pressed against his stomach, Dick’s shirt covering half of his mouth and muffling his words. Nix had his eyes closed. “Don’t ever leave again.” “I won’t,” Dick reassured softly, “don’t you either.” Nix nuzzled against Dick, his palms flat against his back. “I won’t, I promise. I won’t ever leave you. I’ll stay right here with you, I swear.” “At our house.” Dick sounded almost giddy. His hands were cradling Nix against him, one sunken into his hair and gently combing through it again and again. Nix smiled and pressed his cheek more firmly against Dick’s stomach. “Yeah. Our house.” Another pained sigh sounded in the room. Nix’s brow furrowed, and like caught in a flood of some emotion he turned to fully bury his face in Dick’s shirt, mouth open in a trembling gasp and his hands grasping at his back. “I’ve been so lonely, Dick,” he said in a small voice. “I missed you. I’ve missed you for years, and it feels like I still do even though you’re right here.” “Oh, darling.” Dick sank down to sit on the armrest of the chair in a fluid motion as if spurred on by Nix’s tone alone, and as smoothly he wrapped his arms around Nix, pressing his head against his chest instead of his middle. Dick’s hand stroked Nix’s back, up and down in an urgent caress, and his head came to rest on top of Nix’s, fair cheek to black hair. “My darling.” They stayed together like that, and Harry watched them through his lashes. They swayed a bit, rocking from side to side while wrapped around each other, tight but gentle, in an embrace that despite everything didn’t seem tight enough for them. They stayed like that for a long while, both with their eyes closed, Nix pressed against Dick and squeezing him to him, and Dick leaning over him like wanting to shelter him. They remained like that even when the flowers and vines faded back into the wallpaper and became just pictures again. Harry was wide awake but closed his eyes again. He didn’t think anything, just concentrated to staying still and inconspicuous, afraid of intruding on this moment that he was definitely not welcome to. “Are you tired?” Dick asked quietly. Nix mumbled something into his shirt. Then, “yeah. I was too anxious to see you again to sleep, and then I drove all day.” Dick hummed, his voice thick with affection. “Poor you. You should go to bed.” “We really should.” “Do you think we should wake Harry and tell him to go to bed?” Harry was uncomfortably aware that both of them were looking at him then. Nix made an agreeing noise. “We probably should. He’ll mess up his back like that.” Despite agreement, neither one made a move to get on with it, and for a long while it was quiet. For such a long while in fact, that despite the tension and the shock Harry felt himself drifting off again. The next thing he knew was that he was nudged awake. Dick was shaking him by the shoulder. “Hey, buddy. You should go to bed.” Harry blinked and looked around. The living-room was dark, and Nix was nowhere to be seen. Harry let himself be pulled up from the chair, stretched until something in his back popped, and then followed Dick upstairs and into the guest room. As he got into bed he wondered briefly if he had dreamed it all. When Harry woke up the next morning and got dressed, he still wasn’t quite sure if he had dreamed it or not. He was almost entirely sure that it had been real, he had been awake to hear and see it after all, but… But. He stared out of the window and felt the gears in his mind grinding. There was some sort of a mental block in his head just refusing to comprehend any of it. He had seen and heard that. It felt like everything had just been called into question, and every single thing, every single interaction and factoid was now re-evaluated in the light of this new information, and all of it formed one mess of a puzzle in Harry’s mind. How had something like this slipped by him for so long? Or how had they managed to hide it? Harry thought about Nix and Dick and tried to see their friendship as something different and more. He had seen them wrapped into each other in a manner that was definitely not simply friendly. Nix hanging onto Dick like that may have been excusable if he was drunk, which he wasn’t, but Dick holding him like a bride, stroking his hair… Harry rubbed his hands over his face. How had this escaped him was the question. Maybe it was because neither Nix or Dick matched his mental image of men like that, but that was a flimsy excuse for not seeing what was going on right in front of him. How had their friendship got into that point? How had Harry missed something like that? He had always known that Nix was special to Dick, that there were Dick’s friends and then there was Nix, but somehow it hadn’t added up. Another disturbing thought arose in Harry’s mind: had he known all along, but chosen not to see it? Was he that cowardly that he would let himself live on in denial rather than face the truth? And if he could deny it, did the truth even matter that much? Or did it matter so much in fact, that denying it was the only way to cope? He thought about Nix’s soft, openly vulnerable voice confessing how much he had missed Dick. He thought about Dick stroking Nix’s hair. Suddenly Harry felt himself flushing. Four years they had been apart and only yesterday been reunited. No wonder Nix hadn’t wanted Harry to tag along, he must have been looking forward to the reunion and wanted it to be private. He rubbed his face again. Whatever the case was, he would have to face them both and go have breakfast. He could tell by the sounds around the house that at least Dick was already awake. It turned out that he was wrong. Both Dick and Nix were awake, but only Dick was actually preparing breakfast and Nix was sitting at the table, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Good morning,” Dick greeted Harry with a bright smile, ever the morning person. “Have a seat.” Harry did. There was a pot of oat meal on the table, as well as a selection of homemade jams, a bowl of sugar and butter on a plate. Dick was making toast in a pan on the stove and brewing coffee while at it. Harry made himself a bowl of oat meal with butter and a spoonful of strawberry jam. “Did you sleep okay?” Dick asked. “Yeah,” Harry answered and wasn’t lying. It was being awake that was giving him trouble. “Do you want toast with that?” Dick asked. “Sure. Thanks.” “Give it a minute and you can have these slices.” When the toast was done, Dick served two slices to Harry and put two more in the pan. It was a beautiful summer morning outside, and from the way the sun was shining from the blue sky one could tell it was going to be a hot day. Harry watched Dick make two slices of toast for himself, then pour three cups of coffee. Dick set his plate on the table, then brought the coffee cups over. He handed Harry one, then made one cup with milk and sugar, and another with only a dash of milk. He set the other cup in front of Nix, touching his arm to get his attention. Nix opened his eyes and was happy to find a cup of coffee in front of him. They shared a smile, and Nix took a clearly pleasurable sip of coffee, slightly more awake but his eyes still drooping. Dick was leaning his cheek on his hand and watching Nix with a fond smile. Then he caught Harry watching him from the corner of his eye and the smile was contained. Harry took a bite of his toast and shrugged. “Go on, be happy in your own house. It’s allowed,” he said, teasing being an easy and familiar routine to fall back on. Dick cast his eyes down and smiled. He took a sip of his own coffee and glanced at Nix again. “Yeah, I know. It’s not that, it’s just… Well. It’s good to be home, you know.” Harry nodded. “Yeah.” And he did know. He glanced out of the window into the half wild garden that Dick was only starting to tame. It would be a lot of work, all on top of the usual fuss with a day job and maintaining an old house like this one. “You really going to have a family here, Dick?” Dick turned fully to Harry then, perhaps hearing the several layers of the question. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if he did; Dick was always prepared for everything, after all. But Dick met his gaze head on, steady and unwavering. It looked like he turned the question over in his mind, but just to amuse Harry. He seemed like he had the answer ready already. Dick nodded. “Yeah, I’ll have a family. Maybe it’ll be small, but it’ll be loving and good.” Harry stared back at him and took another bite out of his toast. Dick studied him intensely then, like he was looking for something, and Harry allowed him. After a moment Dick seemed to find what he was looking for, because he nodded to himself and returned to his coffee. “You know what they say, Harry,” he said, “homes are not found, they are built. Families as well.” “Yeah.” Harry tasted his oat meal with the jam. “This is really good.” Dick nodded. “My mother and sister will get the compliments.” It was a warm, cozy kitchen, and the breakfast was sturdy and delicious. Coffee and occasional nudges from Dick together were slowly waking Nix up. The sun was already high up. It was going to be a beautiful day.

#band of brothers #winnix #winters/nixon #mun ficci

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balkinbuddies · 5 years

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We’re celebrating July 4th with the ALAN Review article entitled “Where Are They Now? Remembering Our Most Popular Young Adult Authors.”

An article written by Don Gallo appeared recently in the Summer 2019 issue of The ALAN Review entitled “Where Are They Now? Remembering Our Most Popular Young Adult Authors.” Among those remembered were four authors with whom I worked very closely during my years at HarperCollins and, with Don Gallo's and the ALAN Review's permission, I'm including those remembrances on the Balkin Buddies blog:

Here they are in the order they appeared in the article:

Paul Zindel [Tied for first place with S.E. Hinton in 1988]*

Paul Zindel's death in March 2003 ended the brilliant career of a unique individual. Not only did he win a Pulitzer Prize for Drama and an Obie Award for Best American Play in 1970 for The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds (1965), but he was also one of the earliest writers in the field of contemporary literature for young adults. The Pigman, published in 1968, is still one of the most well-known and widely taught novels in the genre. He followed The Pigman with My Darling, My Hamburger (1969); Pardon Me, You're Stepping on My Eyeball (1976), The Undertaker's Gone Bananas (1978); Harry and Hortense at Hormone High (1984); and other novels with attention-getting titles. His writing revealed how well he understood teenagers, believing that “adolescence is a time for problem-solving – for dealing with the awesome questions of self-identity, responsibility, authority, sex, love, God, and death” (Gallo, 1990, p. 228).

In addition to Gamma Rays, this versatile author wrote a number of other plays, including And Miss Reardon Drinks a Little (1971) and Ladies at the Alamo (1975), as well as a number of movies and television scripts that include Up the Sandbox (1972), starring Barbara Streisand; Mame (1974), starring Lucille Ball; Runaway Train (1985), starring Jon Voigt; Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-glass (1985), with a cast of 50 stars that included Red Buttons, Ringo Starr, Scott Baio, and Shelley Winters; Babes in Toyland (1986), starring Drew Barrymore and Keanu Reeves; and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1989), starring Keshia Knight Pullman. During those years working in Hollywood, Zindel associated with numerous movie and television actors and became good friends with Walter Matthau who lived in the house next door.

In his later years, Zindel, always knowing what would appeal to teen readers, turned from realistic fiction to monster/horror books, such as The Doom Stone (1996), Rats (1999), and Night of the Bat (2001) – all of them filled with suspense and action and all selected as Quick Picks for Reluctant Young Adult Readers.

Zindel reveals a lot about himself in his 1987 autobiographical novel, The Amazing and Death-Defying Diary of Eugene Dingman, except that the fictional Eugene grows up in Bayone, New Jersey, while Paul grew up on Staten Island, New York. Of his teen years, Paul says bluntly: “I was an awkward freak.” More about Zindel's early life, family, and adventures can be found in his autobiography, The Pigman and Me (1992), which was named one of the 100 Best of the Best Books published for teenagers during the last part of the twentieth century. In 2002, the American Library Association bestowed upon Paul Zindel the Margaret A. Edwards Award for lifetime achievement, and later that same year, he was presented with the ALAN Award for his contributions to young adult literature.

M. E. Kerr [Tied for fourth place with Robert Cormier and Katherine Paterson in 1988]*

Writing under the pseudonym of M. E. Kerr, Marijane Meaker was one of the earliest authors to gain notoriety in the YA publishing world with Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack!, published in 1972. Among her 20 popular novels are Is That You, Miss Blue? (1975), I'll Love You When You're More Like Me (1977), Gentlehands (1978), Him She Loves? (1984), Night Kites (1986), the Fell series (1987, 1989, 1991), and Deliver Us from Evie (1990). Kerr has always chosen to write about differences in people, “understanding them....trying to make sense of it all, never losing sight of the power love lends.”

In an interview published in Teenreads, she explains her motives: “I was very much formed by books when I was young....I was a bookworm and a poetry lover. When I think of myself and what I would have liked to have found in books those many years ago, I remember being depressed by all the neatly tied-up, happy-ending stories, the abundance of winners, the themes of winning, solving, finding – when around me it didn't seem that easy. So I write with a different feeling when I write for young adults. I guess I write for myself at that age” (“M. E. Kerr).

Marijane Meaker began her career in publishing after she was unable to sell any of her stories to magazines. She presented herself as Ms. Meaker, a literary agent with six clients, and sent out her own work under various pseudonyms, male as well as female. One was a middle-aged female teacher writing true confessions (at $300 a story); another was a young college woman selling to magazines, such as Redbook and Ladies Home Journal; a third “author” told a story, titled “I Lost My Baby at a Pot Party,” about her child wandering from a house where a saleslady was pitching Teflon pots. Along the way, a Gold Medal Books editor convinced her to write a novel about sorority life, for which she earned $4,000 a book at a penny a word. This very resourceful writer also published two or three adult mysteries a year under the name of Vin Packer, and other novels were penned as Ann Aldrich and Laura Winston. Her books for children are published under the name Mary James. “A lot of my stories,” she says, “sold well enough for me to enjoy trips to Europe, an apartment off Fifth Avenue in New York City in the 90s, and a Fiat convertible.”

M.E. Kerr's novels for teens have won multiple awards, including a Christopher Award in 1978, a Golden Kite Award from the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators in 1981, a California Young Readers Medal in 1992, the Margaret A. Edwards Award from the American Library Association in 1993 for her lifetime contribution to young adult literature, the Knickerbocker Award for Juvenile and Young Adult Literature in 1991, the ALAN Award in 2000, and the Golden Crown Literary Society Award for her groundbreaking works in the field of lesbian literature in 2013. In 1996, Long Island University awarded her an honorary doctorate.

A collection of her short stories for teens – dealing with dating, love, race, bigotry, homosexuality, self-love, and acceptance – titled Edge, was published in 2015. And Highsmith: A Romance of the 1950s, a memoir recounting Meaker's relationship with famous mystery writer Patricia Highsmith, was published in 2003. Still writing at the age of 91, Meaker recently completed a novel about gay life in New York City during the 1940s and how she became a literary agent for her own work. It's titled Remind Me, based on the lyrics of an old song from that time written by Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields (1940): “Remind me / Not to find you so attractive / Remind me that the world is full of men.

Katherine Paterson [Tied for fourth place with Robert Cormier and M. E. Kerr in 1988]*

Born in Qing Jiang, China, in 1932, the middle daughter of missionary parents, Katherine Paterson has lived in a variety of places, from Tennessee, Virginia, Maryland, and New York City to China and Japan, where she was a Presbyterian missionary. She now lives in Montpelier, Vermont.

Her highly regarded novels include The Sign of the Chrysanthemum (1973), Of Nightingales That Weep (1974), Master Puppeteer (1975), and Rebels of the Heavenly Kingdom (1983), but she is known best for Bridge to Terabithia (1977), which won the Newbery Medal in 1978; The Great Gilly Hopkins (1978), which won the National Book Award in 1979; Jacob Have I Loved (1980), which won the Newbery Medal in 1981; and Park's Quest (1988), which made The Horn Book Fanfare Honor List in 1988. Published in 1996, Jip, His Story won the Parents' Choice Story Book Award and the Scott O'Dell Award for Historical Fiction in 1997. In 2006, Bread and Roses, Too won the Christopher Award and was a Bank Street Best Children's Book of the Year, a Notable Social Studies Trade Book for Young People, a Parents' Choice Gold Medal historical fiction book, and one of Voice of Youth Advocate's Top Fiction for Middle School Readers.

Paterson has also authored several autobiographical books about her writing, including Stories of My Life (2014), and is a coauthor of Consider the Lilies (Paterson & Paterson, 1986), a nonfiction book about various plants of the Bible that she wrote with her husband, John.

Over her long writing career, Paterson has also received a long list of awards for her body of work. Among them are the Kerlan Award from the University of Minnesota (1983), the ALAN Award (1987), the Hans Christian Andersen Medal for Writing (1998), the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award (2006), the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award (2013), and the Massachusetts Reading Association Lifetime Award, along with writing awards from Germany, France, and Sweden. In 2000, she was declared A Living Legend by the Library of Congress, and for 2010-2011, Paterson was the US Ambassador for Young People's Literature. She is also the recipient of more than a dozen honorary degrees, including ones from Vermont College of Fine Arts, the University of Maryland, Hope College, and Washington and Lee University.

Paterson's latest novel is My Brigadista Year (2017), set in Cuba in 1961 during the literacy campaign that made Cuba a fully literate nation in one year.

Robert Lipsyte

The author of The Contender (1967) turned 80 years old this spring, as his ground-breaking novel passed the 50-year mark in print. Lipsyte is also the author of One Fat Summer (1977), Summer Rules (1981), The Brave (1991), The Chemo Kid (1992), The Chief (1993), and Raiders Night (2006) for teens, and for young readers, The Twinning Project (2012). Lipsyte's list of publications for teenagers isn't especially lengthy when compared to those of some authors who have been writing for the same length of time, but that's because writing books for and about teenagers is only one kind of work he has done especially well. He has also published a number of short stories, essays about sports issues, and biographies of several sports celebrities, such as Muhammad Ali, Jim Thorpe, and Michael Jordan, as well as several nonfiction books for adults, including Nigger, with Dick Gregory (1964), the African American satirist; Sportsworld (1975/2018); and Idols of the Game (1995). As the author of The Contender, one of the very first realistic novels about contemporary teenagers, Robert Lipsyte was honored with the Margaret A. Edwards Award by the American Library Association in 2001.

And that's not all. Among other things, Robert Lipsyte has been a highly respected columnist and prize-winning sports reporter for The New York Times, a correspondent for the CBS television program Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt; the host of his own award-winning television interview program, The Eleventh Hour, on New York City's public television station, WNET Channel 13; author of a television documentary series about sports; and the Life (Part 2) series for PBS-TV on subjects of interest to older people. He is also the author of an entertaining memoir, titled Accidental Sportswriter (2011).

In addition to speaking at a lot of high schools, Lipsyte recently has been flying to North Carolina for a week at a time to teach at Wake Forest University, which he says he enjoys very much. He continues to write a monthly column, mostly on local politics, for his hometown weekly, The Shelter Island Reporter, which he says “gives me as much pleasure as the old Times' column.” He also occasionally writes about sports and politics for a site called Tomdispatch, which distributes to a batch of leftish publications like The Nation and The Guardian. If that's not enough, after his cameo on the O.J.: Made in America documentary film (Edelman, 2016) that won an Oscar, he gets called often to pontificate on various TV documentaries, most recently on one about Sonny Liston, three on Muhammad Ali (including one by Ken Burns), and another on that “hard year” 1968.

Meanwhile, this very busy author has been promoting the film, Measure of a Man (Scearce, 2018), starring Donald Sutherland, based on One Fat Summer, Lipsyte's 1977 novel about a bullied teen. View the trailer at https://trailers.apple.com/trailers/independent/measure-of-a-man/. “I have toyed with a new YA novel,” he claims, but where will he find the time?

*Based on the list of 169 authors' names Mr. Gallo sent to 41 present and past officers of ALAN in 1988, asking them “to identify the most important and popular YA fiction writers of the time and to add other names of writers they felt were as important.” Due to space limitations, he “limited this investigation to the top 30 authors included on that 1988 list.”

The ALAN Review Summer 2019

Reprinted with permission from the ALAN Review and Don Gallo.

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt and get to read the entire article. Personally, I feel honored to have worked with such incredibly talented authors as well as with all the amazing people at ALAN.

For information on Balkin Buddies, be sure to visit our website or blog.

Catherine Balkin, Balkin Buddies

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hannahharrington · 5 years

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CRYING IN EUROPE (postcards from italy)

I struggled with whether or not to post this; I still am, honestly, because it is very raw in every sense. This is something I wrote a year-minus-two-weeks-ago, holed up in an AirBNB in Rome, about losing my good friend Jaymee and the bizarreness of having the best and worst time of your life simultaneously. I did not look at it ever again until a few days ago. It wasn’t written to share with anyone, only because I needed to put thoughts down at the time. Any editing has been very minimal.

The last section I wrote yesterday.

CRYING IN EUROPE (postcards from italy)

1. The first time is on the first day. I land at Heathrow only to find out the express train isn’t running because of the snowstorm and the tube is beyond fucked. I nearly cry out of frustration and jet lag exhaustion but I don’t. I end up emerging from Shepherd’s Bush Market half a mile from the hotel and have to drag my suitcase through blustery snow that whips me so hard in the face it makes tears leak out of the corners of my eyes.

2. The second time is the next morning, five minutes after I first find out you’re dead. I guess the first five minutes are a mix of me just having woken up, an hour before my alarm, still on New York time as I scroll idly through my phone messages only to see it blowing up with the news; and maybe shock can be used as an excuse, even though we all knew it was coming.

3. Over the Hilton London Kensington breakfast buffet for Hilton Honors Members. I’m telling Barry how I was supposed to see you before it happened. My voice cracks and eyes overflow with tears, and I’m apologizing and Barry is being so kind about it even though I can tell he’s not really sure what to do or say, which is okay because I don’t know either. It occurs to me later that in all the years we’ve known each other, this is the first time I’ve ever cried in front of him.

You said you were terminal, and released to home hospice care, and I told you I would fly to California if you wanted and read you mean celebrity blog comment sections, like how I did for you when you visited me in Brooklyn (I’ll never forget how we laughed until we cried like middle schoolers at a sleepover). I followed your lead in trying to blunt reality with a joke because that’s what you always did. The last thing you posted on any social media was a repost of our Facebook “Friendaversary”, saying how you were due for another one of my dramatic readings. I was going to buy a plane ticket when I got back from this trip. I was supposed to be there.

4. The first cigarette I smoke.

5. And the second, all while thinking about how terrible a person I am for smoking because you hated it and hated having cancer and hated that I would do something that could make me sick. You wanted me to stop, and if this were a movie I’d quit on the spot. But it isn’t and so instead I stand chain-smoking and hating myself.

6. In the shower.

7. We go see the Hamilton matinee hours after we find out, and it’s the cruelest twist of fate, experiencing this thing you loved so deeply and brought into my life and that we shared together. You’re the reason I saw it with everyone else at the matinee Obama attended. I lost the lottery, the lone one of all of us without a way in, and I was feeling a little sorry for myself and about to leave. I went to say goodbye to you, and immediately you pulled your Jaymee magic and got me a ticket at the literal last minute. And it really did feel like magic.

When you first saw it at the Public, I tried the lottery and lost, and I joked for you to go on without me, to die a million happy deaths. You said if I were being mugged and you were the only one who could save me, you’d still make me wait until after the show. I know if I skipped it you’d literally come back to life and kick my ass. But that doesn’t seem like a bad deal. I’d never see Hamilton again, I’d burn all of my playbills, even the one from the off-Broadway run I got signed by the original cast at the stage door. I’d tear the donut bag in half, the one we joked about being good luck, the one I had Lin-Manuel Miranda autograph. I’d do all of that if it gave me five more minutes with you.

I keep my shit together more or less until the second act. When Hamilton pleads to Washington with Why do we have to say goodbye?, I start crying and don’t stop until curtain call.

8. Right before I left on this trip, I threw together a playlist for my phone. The last song I added was Eva Cassidy’s cover of “Fields of Gold”, thinking it’d be pretty background soundtrack for train rides through lush, rolling Italian countryside. A year ago I went down one of my weird little Internet research rabbit holes and read all about Eva, her melanoma, how she died and her last performance, and wondered why there hadn’t been a movie made about that particular beautiful tragedy. After Hamilton I tell Barry I feel better, like it was an emotional release, but then the next afternoon we go to a pastry café and they play a jazz standard cover of “Fields of Gold” over the speakers and my chest seizes.

9. Friday night we’re supposed to meet up with Jen for dinner before she flies back to Philly. I’m sick to my stomach in the cab ride over to her hotel, and when we get to her room I drop my purse and hug her and don’t let go. That thing happens where I’m trying not to cry and it makes me cry harder and I can feel Jen crying too. We sit and Jen and Danielle talk about their travels and the whole time I feel on the verge of throwing up. Finally I say we need to talk about you, about what we’re going to do. Jen says June told her sometimes in Filipino culture they ask for donations for the family instead of flowers, so she’s not sure what’s preferred. I don’t know why I was expecting Jen to have more information, something to make me feel better, but nothing she tells me does. I take one of the Ativans my mom gave me for the plane ride because I can’t calm down. You said they gave you Ativan at the end. You said it helped. It helps me too.

I excuse myself from their room and get lost in the dimly lit maze of their hotel, until finally I find a side exit to the courtyard, and I light a cigarette and text my mom, who happens to be around. I try calling, but this stupid SIM card I got won’t let me connect to the US, so I wait until I’m back at the hotel and Barry is out at his show. The instructions to dial out don’t tell me the overseas rates, but I call my mom anyway, and spend twenty minutes on the phone with her sobbing like a child.

When we check out of the hotel, I’ll find out the call cost me over a hundred pounds, which probably with the obscene exchange rates approximates to three hundred dollars. I rationalize that’s what I would have paid out of pocket for an emergency therapy session anyway.

10. I find your aunt on Facebook and ask her what the family wants done. An hour later she messages me back to say flowers would be lovely. Your mother is beside herself with grief, she says. You were her best friend, she says.

It feels better to be doing something, to feel productive, so I make it my mission to organize the flowers for your memorial. The whole next day between sightseeing at Kensington Palace I’m looking up florists in San Mateo, figuring out who wants to contribute, making sure everyone is included. Bridget agrees to place the order. It’s midnight my time when I run downstairs for a smoke. Bridget and I are trading texts, trying to figure out what to write on the card. I’m not a writer, she says. You should do it, she says. I start crying because I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this. When I go to head back into the hotel, a British girl with blue hair sees me wiping at my eyes. She calls me love and asks if I’m okay. I’ve been in New York too long; my own public meltdowns don’t even embarrass me anymore. I’ve forgotten that the rest of the world doesn’t politely ignore you when you’re losing your shit on the sidewalk. I know how I must look, crying messily in my pajamas, walking around like an open wound just bleeding over everything.

I try to stop the tears long enough to assure her I’m fine, really, and when I stumble out the words that a friend of mine just passed away, she grabs me in a hug before the words finish getting out. She’s so nice that it makes me cry even more and I let her convince me to take the free cigarette she offers. She tells me she’s here with her gay husband and I joke through tears that I’m here with mine too. We stand and talk about Camden Market and the magic of New York at Christmastime, and when she’s satisfied I’m not a suicide risk she adds me as a friend on Facebook.

11. Things feel different in Venice. I start to feel like maybe I’ve hit the bottom of this, it’s only up from here, and even as I’m thinking it I know it’s delusional. I had the same feeling when my dad died, and I learned then that grief is not linear. There can be moments where it’s all temporarily bearable, only for a fresh wave of pain to knock you flat on your ass a minute later.

But for most of Venice I feel lighter, like the darkest clouds of the storm have passed. We get lost in the labyrinth of alleyways and eventually I duck into a Murano glass shop. Back in January when I went to Fort Myers, I took an Uber from the airport, and for the first time ever I had a woman driver. During the drive to the beach somehow the subject of this trip came up. I mentioned I’d be in Venice, and she told me how her day job was at an art gallery. They made jewelry from Murano glass, a Venetian technique. She made me promise to seek it out when I went.

The shop has all kinds of figurines, and in the back corner I discover these thimble-sized cows. Cows were your thing. Not just thing—borderline obsession. I still don’t know what it is about them you loved so much, but you did. When I was in Amsterdam I passed by an actual Cow Museum, snapped a photo of the storefront and sent it to you. You couldn’t believe I didn’t go inside. Now I’m here in Venice, looking at these little cows and thinking of you, and of course I have to get them. I scoop four of them into my palm and go to the cashier and whatever part of my heart that’s been healing over gets ripped open raw again. My throat burns too much for me to manage anything more than a cursory grazie as I watch him bundle them delicately in bubble wrap. It almost feels selfish to hurt this much, when there are people in this world who loved you longer and harder and better than I did. But I do.

12. In Florence Barry and I split up for the day. He runs off to the Duomo while I visit the Ambrogio market, the one the owner of our B&B tells me is for locals. I pick up random ingredients for my mother, whose burgeoning interest in the culinary arts still baffles me considering I subsisted on almost nothing but microwave dinners as a child, and two sweaters for myself.

I’m back at our apartment-sized suite, arranging the packaged pasta and sun-dried tomatoes on the wooden table for an Instagram photo when I click some random button that takes me to my inbox.

There’s only one message in there and I realize it’s from you, from over two years ago. I click to see it’s a video taken in Marie’s Crisis. Some pitch perfect soprano sings bars from an unrecognizable show tune at the piano, and then you turn the camera to yourself, bobbing your head along with a coy smile. I can’t believe it. I click out accidentally and have to Google for instructions on how to find it again. The video is only fifteen seconds but I watch it ten times in a row and then put my head down on the table and cry until it hurts.

13. Bucket list items have a greater sense of urgency now than they used to. At the last minute I find a woman who agrees to take me to a horse farm in Tuscany. She meets me at the Piazza Cavalleggeri behind one of Florence’s countless gorgeous ancient basilicas and takes me to meet her business partner so he can drive. He’s an old guy who speaks zero English, and it becomes evident when he climbs into the driver’s seat that he has Tourette’s. Every ten seconds his tic makes him jerk the steering wheel so the whole car swerves. We lurch our way up narrow roads that wind up huge hills, endless greenery on all sides, the woman chattering happily about vineyards and olive trees as I brace myself in the backseat, positive the guy is going to tic us right into oncoming traffic and certain death. It rains on the way there, and the woman worries it’ll be too wet to ride, but sure enough we arrive and the sky clears up just long enough for me and two other American girls to go for an hour-long trek. It’s been ten years since I’ve been on a horse, and I’m nervous about it, but the second I’m in the saddle everything comes back to me. We ride through steep hills, surrounded by the kind of scenery that’s beyond picturesque. It’s so gorgeous it doesn’t look real, like an oil painting. For the first time in days I feel a weightless kind of happiness. I know as it’s happening that this is something I will remember for the rest of my life.

When the woman drops me back off in Florence, I trip over myself thanking her profusely, holding back tears because I don’t want to explain that that was maybe the most beautiful experience of my life and I’m so grateful that for three hours the Jaymee is dead, Jaymee is dead, Jaymee is dead track stopped spinning in my head.

14. Rome is a welcome change of pace. I like big, bustling, metropolitan cities; they make me feel comfortable. Safe. Even just through glimpses out the taxi window I can see Rome is bursting at the seams, vibrant and colorful and a startling clash of ancient and modern. Our driver asks where we’re from and I say New York. He laughs and tells us he doesn’t like America, but he likes New York.

On a tour of the Vatican museums, our guide shares all the juicy stories of how Raphael and Michelangelo loathed each other, and the illicit love between Antinous and Hadrian, and we marvel at the frescos on every wall and the breathtaking scope of the Sistine Chapel and the inside of St. Peter’s basilica.

I was skeptical as I always am of anything to do with organized religion, but you liked the new Pope. You thought he was progressive, refreshing. You’d joke all the time about your “Jesus problems”, how you struggled to reconcile your Catholicism with your personal politics.

Afterward Barry scurries off to scale the bell tower. I ask our guide if there’s anywhere in the basilica to light candles, like how you can do in St. Patrick’s. She tells me it’s not allowed—it’s too much of a hazard, especially after a crazy man declared himself the second coming of Jesus and attacked Michelangelo’s Pietà with a hammer, chipping off fifteen pieces in the mayhem, including Mary’s nose.

Instead of waiting for Barry outside in the square I retreat back into St. Peter’s, to the closed off chapel. The guard asks me if I will be praying. It forces me to confront what I’m really planning to do, and after a heartbeat of hesitation I stutter out a yes, slip through the parted curtains to the pews. I’ve never prayed in my life; I have no idea how to do it. I look to see how others around me kneel and try to imitate the stance, hands folded in front of me, knees against the padded rest. It all feels clumsy and awkward until suddenly it doesn’t. Suddenly I’m just crying. I watch my thick tears plop onto concrete and absently wonder how many people before me have spilled salt on these floors. Probably a lot.

I don’t know how to pray. In my head I’m just screaming please forgive me, and I don’t know if I’m saying it to God or to you. I guess I know now what Catholic guilt feels like.

I should’ve been there. I should’ve brought Schmackary’s cookies and the good luck donut bag and flown out to California and seen you. Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was? Why did you have to make your yes a joke? (A quip about doctor’s orders, it comes as no surprise you embraced the gallows humor.) Why couldn’t you be earnest? Why couldn’t just say I need you right now, I don’t have much time, please be here? Did you even know? Because I swear I didn’t. I thought I could wait. I thought you had more time. None of it fucking matters because I can’t forgive myself, not ever.

…And that’s it. That’s where I stopped writing. I didn’t cry on European soil again after that. Not because the last cry was cathartic or healing; it wasn’t. The healing would come later, long after my plane touched down again in New York. It happened in ways I can’t explain, slowly, until one day the thought of you didn’t automatically bring me to the brink of tears or knock the wind from me like a sucker punch to the gut, where the tenderness of loving memory ran parallel with the heartbreak rather than being subsumed by it. Eventually the day came where I could think of you and how you were and what we shared, not only of the ways I failed you. A year later and I still think of those too, sometimes. And there are still tears, sometimes.

I feel like I always had this idea that you go through The Worst Thing and life just evens out after that. My Worst Thing happened when I was in my teenage years and I was supposed to be in the clear afterwards. But life doesn’t work that way. There’s no plateau, no neat ever after. And every so often we break in ways where yes, you can scrape the pieces together and carry on, but you’re never made whole again. You’re never the person you used to be. You become a new version of yourself, mismatched and full of jagged lines, and you find a way to forge ahead.

In the immediate soul-crushing wake of the 2016 election, someone created a Subway Therapy project in the tunnel of the 14th Avenue station that stretches from Sixth to Seventh. I went to see it then, a modern day marvel: the long tiled wall papered with thousands of bright post-its, each full of encouragement and commiseration from fellow grief-sick New Yorkers. The sight was a life preserver in the sea of misery I’d floated in that entire week. I was not alone in the feeling, however singularly devastating it felt.

Countless others have been here. I am not the only one to have shed my tears on ancient chapel floors, unable to imagine I would ever feel okay again. Experts painstakingly restored the Pietà after the attack, but if you were to find your way behind the bulletproof glass and touch the Virgin Mary’s cheek, you would still feel hairline traces of their work, a difference of texture; if you were to peer close enough, you would see the faint lines on marble that belie its pristine repair. It was broken once. It could not be remade exactly as it was. It’s no less a masterpiece.

That day in the 14th Street station, I peeled off a blank post-it and wrote out an Abraham Lincoln quote I’d read once: Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You cannot now realize that you will ever feel better… And yet this is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again.

Time buffers out the rough edges. It is the only thing that does.

#jaymee

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oneflewovermyhouse · 5 years

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Snitches Get Stitches: An Ode to The Elf on the Shelf

You better watch out You better not cry Better not pout I’m telling you why Santa Claus is coming to town

That’s it. That is all parents have needed since 1934 when John Frederick Coots and Haven Gillespie wrote this endearing and menacing ditty to threaten children into the submissive state that is good behavior. It has been recorded more than 70,000 times since its inception, which speaks to the utter desperation of parents everywhere to get their kids to get their proverbial shit together for just one month. For the most part, it works, however fleeting the results are.

For some reason (most likely the desire to cash in on parents’ hopelessness at the holidays), in 2004, Carol Aebersold and her daughter Chanda Bell decided to write The Elf on the Shelf, a book that looks to be a classic Christmas tradition of yore, but is in fact a modern manifesto that cheerfully serves as a reminder to children young and old that Santa is essentially Big Brother that is reminiscent of the Patriot Act, or at least Facebook. The presence of an omniscient fat man that either delivers toys or coal to kids based on their behavior apparently was no longer enough. Now, he needs a sentinel to literally watch over children to ensure compliance. It was as if we asked kids to believe all these years, they began to doubt the monitoring referenced in Coots and Gillespie’s anthem, we placed a creepy elf doll on the mantle, and those same kids all of a sudden collectively gathered that shit just got real.

The elf watches over the children and reports back to Santa all of the wonderful behavior and deeds that the children have exhibited, right? Well, if he was honest in his reporting, I think Christmas morning would look a little different in most households. I want to honor the traditions of central Europe and host a miniature Krampus on my shelf. Krampus is paired with Saint Nicholas, but instead of rewarding children for good behavior (a seldom occurrence in my house), he punishes the children for ill-behavior in the forms of lashing with branches, eating them, or transporting them to the depths of hell – ya know, jolly stuff. Think about it – if you are good, you may get another video game, however if you are bad, a horned, anthropomorphic figure described as “half-goat, half-demon” with fangs will come for you in your sleep. Put that bastard on your bookshelf, and see how things go.

Ok, so now we have an elf and a book – not all bad. There are rules? Are you kidding? I have to move this damn thing every night to continue the magic, or is it to tell the kids that nowhere is safe? It says Elf on the Shelf; why can he not just sit in one place for the season…on the shelf? Every night, at approximately 11:00, my wife and I look at each other when we realize we have not moved them (yes, we have two), and we utter some four-letter word and argue over whose turn it is to relocate the spies. We used to get creative like everyone else and have them in cute scenarios like eating fruit, hanging from chandeliers, or taking marshmallow dumps, but over the years we have gotten to the point that if we move them to a different room, we deserve Parent of the Year. Hell, my kids have bought them clothes – if that’s not pouring salt on a gaping wound, I’m not sure what is. So, now we have incorporated wardrobe changes into the equation – awesome.

“Oooh look, Twinkles is wearing her sparkly scarf with boots and a snow hat.” “Cool! Jingles is wearing his skis and goggles. But where is his leather jacket?”

I also like coming home after work, and my kids ask me if I found them yet. It takes every ounce of me to not look at them and say, “They’re probably right where I put them last night, unless they truly are magical.” But, I don’t. I look around with my feigned look of curiosity and anticipation until I come upon them in the location where I left them. I make some comment about the mischief the little a-holes have gotten themselves into, and then continue with the afternoon. Magical, right?

The scenarios have gotten especially mundane as well. It’s no longer, “what are they doing today?” but more like, “where are they sitting now?” Besides, how can they keep a watchful eye if they are having a sack race with Iron Man and Barbie? They have work to do; this is no time for play.

At this point, I usually wrap up my blogs with some redeeming feel-good synopsis much like Doogie Howser, M.D. did after every episode as to how he pined over Wanda and chummed it up with Vinnie. Not this time. I hate the Elf on the Shelf. I hate what they stand for. I hate the labor involved in maintaining their “magic”. And, I hate that they “watch” my kids all the time – that’s my job. When we were kids, we were told to behave because Santa is watching. Now, he has a felt-clad army - that retail for $30 at Hallmark – that do his dirty work for him. If I were a kid, I wouldn’t want an elf. Those nosy little bastards have no business spying on me 24/7. Snitches get stitches. #Krampus2019

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kmp78 · 6 years

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FINLAND 1 - 0 - 0 🇫🇮

A QUICK COMPILATION OF ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW - AND WISH YOU NEVER DID.

1. You may call us Finland and Finns, but we call ourselves Suomi and suomalaiset.

2. Altho if you don´t mind, we would rather you did not call us anything ever. Actually if we could both pretend each other doesn´t even exist, that would be just great!

3. Yes we are a notoriously shy and reserved nation with a gigantic inferiority complex - especially when compared to our neighbor Sweden.

4. Who incidentally we loooooove beating in hockey.

5. Saimaannorppa aka Saimaa ringed seal can only be found in Finland and is highly endangered.

According to a count done in 2015, there are only about 320 individuals left, and therefore quite understandably whenever one is found dead in a fisherman´s net or by the hands of a poacher etc., it causes headlines and outrages.

6. 70% of Finland is made up of forests - that´s roughly the size of the entire area of the United Kingdom.

7. Finland was awarded the Summer Olympics for 1940, but then things got all sorts of fucked up thanks to Adolf & co., so those plans were scrapped even tho we had a brand-spanking new Olympic stadium and everything! Dammit!

Oh well, we were compensated in 1952 when we finally got the honor of hosting our only (so far) Olympic games.

8. Those 1952 Olympics were the first time Coca Cola was introduced to Finns.

9. No, we do not have polar bears.

10. We also don´t have KFC, Wendy´s or Dunkin´ Donuts.

11. Yes I am very upset about all those things mentioned above but especially about KFC.

12. Finland was the first country in Europe which gave women the right to vote (1906).

13. The Finnish language does not separate words such as “she” or “he”. We just use a gender-neutral “hän”, which means “that person”.

14. The national bird of Finland is the whooper swan.

15. Helsinki has the world´s most Northern metro system.

16. Savonlinna hosts their annual Opera Festival in a Medieval castle.

17. We are vindictive and petty as HELL. Just ask Silvio Berlusconi.

http://kmp78.tumblr.com/post/155861218049/finland-chronicles-part-14

18. A Finnish person will drink approximately 129 litres of milk a year.

19. Some years ago, the word for mother (”äiti”) was voted the most beautiful word in the Finnish language.

20. Moomins are, as some of you MAY REMEMBER FROM A SPECIFIC DEBACLE FROM EARLIER THIS YEAR, from Finland and were created by OUR Miss Tove Jansson.

21. Unlike many other countries which after gaining independence tore down all statues and other remnants of their history under foreign rule, in Finland we chose to keep ours up as reminders of our past.

For example, on our main square aka the Senate Square you will find Czar Alexander II standing proudly.

22. And speaking of statues, one of the landmarks of Helsinki is Havis Amanda.

It depicts a mermaid who decides to leave the sea and walk on... well, not water.

Each year on April 30th, she is “crowned” with a cap, to represent all those who have graduated from secondary school and earned their caps.

23. As of 2010, internet access has been a legal right in Finland.

24. Do you have one of those cupboard things over your kitchen sink, the kind where you place your dishes to dry?

That was invented by a Finnish woman called Maiju Gebhard in 1945.

25. The longest word in the Finnish language is “epäjärjestelmällistyttämättömyydelläänsäkäänköhän”, which loosely translates to “not even by her lack of organization, do you suppose”.

26. Angry Birds are from here.

27. Finland is also the birth place of the most successful ski jump champions of all time, Matti Nykänen.

28. After his sports career came to an end, Matti has been a permanent fixture in the tabloids with his... issues... involving alcohol abuse, domestic abuse (he even served time in prison for attempting to kill one of his many ex-wives) and an assortment of careers including stripping and now singing.

He is also responsible for one of our most beloved and useful quotes of all time: back in the 80s when he was still jumping from towers and competing in Canada, he got into some “situations” and was sent back home as punishment. When he arrived at the airport, a journo asked him “Matti, did you drink alcohol?”, to which Matti replied “Maybe I did drink, maybe I didn´t drink”.

All bases covered then!

The man is a fucking genius.

29. There are absolutely ZERO public payphones anywhere in Finland.

30. For a very short period of time back in, Finland had a female president AND a female Prime Minister.

Sadly that arrangement came to an abrupt end when the Prime Minister was forced to resign over a scandal involving some sort of Iraq documents which I´m still, a decade later, completely baffled by.

31. As those who come on this blog surely know by now, Yours Truly is a passionate berry picker - and being a berry nut in Finland is easy indeed since a) we have one of the cleanest natures in the world and b) all living things you find in nature, you can keep - within reason, of course.

Usually a good principle is to keep about 100 meters distance from the nearest house. Other than that, you´re good to go!

32. People in in Northern Finland aka Lapland area have a very specific unit of measurement called the “poronkusema” which could be loosely translated to “Reindeer´s piss”. Roughly it means the distance a reindeer can walk before needing to urinate. It´s quite a long distance...

33. Our current President Sauli Niinistö is a survivor of the tragic tsunami which took place in South-East Asia on Dec 26, 2004. Over 200 000 people (including almost 200 Finnish tourists) died in one of the worst natural disasters of our time - Mr. Niinistö and his sons saved their own lives by climbing up a telephone pole and staying there for several hours.

34. In Finland October 13th is National Failure Day which aims to encourage people to share their failures and learn from them rather than hide their heads in shame and pretend all is well.

35. The REAL Santa Claus lives up in Rovaniemi and you can visit his village all year long.

36. Sheldon gave us a good laugh and an ego boost.

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37. We like eating Rudolf with lingonberries and mash.

38. On some years we get A LOT of snow, but on others we get practically none. Back in 1997, in Lapland the snow reached up to 190 cm.

Incidentally I am 155 cm.

39. In the Finnish language there is an alphabet called Å which isn´t actually a part of a single Finnish word in the entire Finnish language - it is simply a remnant from our many centuries spent under Swedish rule.

40. Unesco has reported that Finland´s tap water is the cleanest in the world.

41. A handy Finnish saying: “Early bird catches the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese”.

42. For some God forsaken reason, Finland and Estonia have the same national anthem.

43. Sadly accurate these days.

44. Sadly accurate these days.

45. Rosina Heikel (1842 - 1929) was Finland´s and in fact the Nordic countries 1st female doctor.

46. When something is a failure/a dud, the common term in the English language is “a lemon”. Over here, it´s “susi”. Susi also means wolf.

47. And susi should not be confused with sisu!

48. In Lapland you can spend your vacation in an igloo.

49. Fines for speeding are determined by the offender´s income. Basically if you earn more, you have to pay more. The highest fines have been over 100 000 €. Stay poor, kids!

50. Pamela Anderson´s grandparents were from Finland.

51. Yes we like getting our drinks on, and most of us go abroad to Tallinn to get our drinks on for a lot less €s.

52. In Lapland, the Sun never rises from November to January.

53. In reverse, the Sun never sets from June to July. We call it “The Nightless night”.

54. Finland has exactly 1 Eurovision victory under its belt.

55. In 2018 Saara Aalto will be repping us.

Please vote for us. Please?

56. Nokia became famous for their mobile phones, but originally they manufactured rubber boots.

57. We don´t dub movies or TV shows.

58. We do however sometimes give them ridiculous and extremely SPOILER ALERT-y names. For example, “The Shawshank Redemption” was translated to “Rita Hayworth - Key to escape”.

I mean... C´MOOOOON!

59. Sometimes that´s all you can do.

60. Simo Häyhä aka “White Death” was one of the deadliest snipers of all time. During a 3 month stretch of the Winter War, he shot roughly 200 Russian soldiers before getting shot in the face himself. He survived and lived to be 96.

61. We don´t use the 1 and 2 cent coins. You CAN try paying with them as they of course are legal currency, but there are no guarantees you´ll get very far.

62. Feb 14th may be a day for lovers for the rest of the world, but we know it as “Friend´s Day”.

63. Tipping is not (thankfully) a part of the Finnish culture.

64. The guy longing for Sven in Titanic (the coat dude) was portrayed as a Swede, but was actually a Finn called Jari Kinnunen.

65. Karelian pies with egg butter are the best thing ever.

66. Märket island which is situated between Finland and Sweden had to have the border lines twisted a bit because the Finns who built that lighthouse, accidentally built it on the wrong side...

67. While often named as one of the 5 Scandinavian countries, Finland isn´t technically even a part of Scandinavia: we ARE however a part of the Nordic countries.

68. If you are invited to a Finnish sauna, you are expected to go nude.

69. Finnish armed forces are mandatory for men but voluntary for women.

70. Moomin mugs are peculiarly popular especially among Asian tourists. They can sometimes pay even thousands for rare ones.

71. We never had vikings, but there is one viking tale about a princess called Skjalv, daughter of the Finnish King Froste (those aren´t even Finnish names...), who was stolen as war loot to Sweden but ended up strangling her captor with a gold chain.

72. Our 4th president was Kyösti Kallio, who was forced to resign from office after the Winter War on December 19th 1940. On that same day he was about to step onto a train to take him back home for retirement, when during his final official ceremony at Helsinki Railway Station, in front of his soldiers and while the orchestra played, he suffered a fatal heart attack and died right there in front of everyone. Legend says he collapsed into the arms of our greatest war hero and later president himself, Marshall C.G.E. Mannerheim (seen in the white hat next to President Kallio).

73. Marshall Mannerheim is the only person in Finnish history who has been rewarded that particular military honor. In fact, he is and forever will remain the only person who has the title “Finland´s Marshall”, an honor bestowed upon him for his services to his home country during Finland´s tumultuous early years of independence.

A few years ago he was voted by the Finns themselves as the most important Finnish person of all time.

74. In June 1942, Adolf Hitler came to Finland to pay his respects to Marshall Mannerheim on his 75th birthday. As a little “souvenir” for future generations, the sneaky Finns recorded a snippet of his and Mannerheim´s private conversation.

It is the only known recording of Hitler speaking with a calm, normal voice, as he was very particular about only being filmed while screaming and ranting his ideologies.

youtube

75. Roughly 3 million tourists visit Finland each year and I think at least 2 500 000 of them are always going exactly where I´m going too.

76. We like to make things hard for foreigners.

77. We don´t have any mountains.

78. But we have lakes. We have a shit ton of lakes. 187 888 lakes to be precise.

79. FYI

80. All our days end with -tai (Monday = maanantai, Tuesday = tiistai etc.), except for Wednesday. Wednesday is called keskiviikko.

81. We have a lot of free time.

82. J. R. R. Tolkien used the Finnish national epoch the Kalevala as inspiration for the languages in the Lord of the Rings saga.

83. The St. Louis Arch was designed by a Finn called Eero Saarinen.

84. Every summer we arrange what is called Kaljakellunta aka “Beer float” which pretty much just consists of taking a floatie and a case of beer and... well, that´s about it.

85. If you want to enhance your sauna experience, you can use a birch whisk.

86. The bubble chair was designed by a Finnish man called Eero Aarnio.

87. Thursdays are the “official” pea soup and pancakes day all over Finland.

88. Finns love queuing.

89. Life expectancy for men is 78 years and for women 84 years.

90. In Tornio you can play golf in two countries:

http://kmp78.tumblr.com/post/155901150914/finland-chronicles-part-15

91. Finns invented the so-called Molotov´s cocktail.

92. All people in Finland must pay a TV tax even if they do not they own a TV.

93. We celebrate Christmas on the 24th of December.

94. Finns love salmiakki aka salty licorice.

I don´t, btw.

95. Finland is one of the few countries in Europe which has not banned sex with animals - and some actually take advantage of that loophole...

http://kmp78.tumblr.com/post/156161829244/finland-chronicles-part-21

http://kmp78.tumblr.com/post/156257574544/finland-chronicles-part-23

96. Armi Kuusela won the 1st ever Miss Universe pageant in 1952.

97. In 2006, Conan O´Brian did a sketch about looking like our then-president Tarja Halonen and it ballooned into a huge movement.

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98. Weeeeell...

99. On every Independence day, the current president hosts a party at his residence for about 2 000 dignitaries, celebs, politicians etc. We riff raffers sit at home in our sweatpants and watch it on TV with some nachos and snarky comments.

100. MONTY PYTHON KNOWS.

youtube

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SUOMI, AND THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING.

Despite you reeeeally getting on my nerves SO MUCH and SO OFTEN, I still love you. 💙 💙 💙

#finland 100 #suomi 100 #itsenäisyyspäivä #december 6th 1917 #thank you #100 facts for 100 years #national pride #also shame for good measure

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whatever-the-fucky-i-writes · 6 years

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Shadows Dance - Part 1

Word Count: 1,564

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Death, Mentions of torture, Blood, Swearing, One mention of drug use

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from the MCU.

Tags: @beccaanne814 @winterbvrnes

Author’s Note: AND HERE WE ARE! The original reason for making this darn blog! [Cue Thomas Sanders Voice] Story Time! So the amazing winterbvrnes was having a writing challenge and I had been toying with the idea of actually writing something rather than just creating stories in my head that will never have the honor of meeting the lovely Ms Paper. The basic premise was that you take a line from a song, book, poem, whatever you want and write a story about it. I decided to go for it, choosing the line “Sometimes goodbye's the only way. And the Sun will set for you." from the song Shadow of the Day by Linkin Park (a song that I may or may not have listened to on repeat while writing this whole thing). And even though they ended up taking down the challenge and later leaving Tumblr, I decided to still write this story. And so ten months later, my first (on purpose) fanfic is finally done. Infinity War wasn’t out when I started writing this so there’s no spoilers or anything from that movie in here. I’ve split it up into four parts and I’m going to try and exercise what little patience I have and try to not post them all in one go. Part two will probably be up within the next few days.

And I just want to give special thanks to beccaanne814. I am so thankful that she decided to read this, and her kind words and support gave me the extra boost I needed to actually put this out into the world. If you don’t already know of her, you should totally go check her out; her writing’s amazeballs!

So without further ado, here is my Bucky x Reader series, Shadows Dance.

You had joined the Avengers a few years ago. After Steve’s half of the Avengers had fled, Tony had started to compile a list of special individuals whom he believed had the makings of potential recruits. However, that wasn’t the reason you were recruited. Were you on the list? Yes, your exemplary background as an ex-Marine and the fact that you were pretty dang smart ensured that, and having powers didn’t hurt either. No, the reason you were recruited was that you actually saved a few Avenger butts when they found themselves in a sticky situation at a Hydra base that you had infiltrated while working with Nick Fury in Europe. And after you’d finished saving their asses, you just had to come back to the compound for celebratory drinks. And, after Tony talked it over with you and Fury, you all decided it would be beneficial if you stayed.

And after a brief adjustment period, you began to fit right in. You could keep up with Tony and Bruce’s scientific ramblings so you would often find yourself wandering down to the lab on restless nights to keep Tony company and provide second (or third) opinions on whatever gizmo or gadget he was working on. Your main sparring opponents were Nat and Steve, but you would also face Clint and Sam to shake things up sometimes. All in all, you got on well with everyone on the team, aside from Bucky. He wasn’t that good with new people yet so your interactions were often spent in silence, or very near to it. That’s not to say you avoided him, you could often be found watching TV in the main room together, but you didn’t push him to talk to you; you figured that when he felt comfortable enough, he would talk. And about half a year later, talk he did. After you got over what felt akin to shock at his first attempt at initiating conversation with you, you would talk about anything and everything. You two were like peas in a pod and he became your best friend (but you’d never tell Tony that — his fake offense would be unbearable.) Your room was just down the hall from Bucky’s so you’d often find yourself comforting him after nightmares, and he found himself doing the same for you. And on the weekends when you guys weren’t running missions, you’d often have movie or TV show marathons in each others room. And that’s how things were for the next year and half-ish.

However, after Bucky and the sweet art student (she had to be the nicest human being you had met outside of the Avengers) broke up, you became very conflicted. You felt bad because your best friend was hurting and you only wanted him to be happy, but you also felt… relief? And that’s how you realized that what had once been platonic, for you at least, had become romantic. But your friendship with him meant the world to you so you kept your feelings a secret so as to not jeopardize that. You didn’t want to fuck it all up by revealing your feelings and having him not reciprocate which would lead to inevitable awkwardness. So you resolved to only be there for Bucky in his time of need and to simply stay his friend.

Two Years Later...

You had a bad feeling about this. The rest of the Avengers were out on other missions, leaving you and Bucky to respond to a tip from somewhere in eastern Europe. Some stoner had been wandering through the woods after some… recreational activities when they had seen “strange military-looking trucks” heading further into the woods. Now, normally people wouldn’t give too much credence to what the high youngster had said, but the area they described was home to a known, although thought to be abandoned, Hydra base. You two had quickly loaded up the Quinjet with all the necessary supplies and your suits and taken off. Bucky locked in the auto-pilot sequence and turned around. You tossed him his suit with a nod of your head as you both turned around and got dressed.

“You good?” he asked as you propped your foot up on a seat and hunched over to begin to lace the tac boot up.

“You can turn around,” you responded. Finishing with that a few moments later, you straightened out, almost feeling a sense of comfort in your suit. Your ensemble consisted of black tac boots and pants, not unlike Bucky’s, and a long-sleeved black spandex shirt underneath a bulletproof vest. Nat had tried to convince you to wear a catsuit once, but you only got as far as putting one on and deciding it was definitely not for you. It clung in all the wrong places and you could just feel the major wedgie waiting to happen.

Well, turns out you had pretty great intuition because, wouldn’t ya know, your bad feeling had meant something. It meant that you and Bucky had been dumbasses for going in alone. Your intel and surveillance had grossly underestimated the total population and size of the base. It was supposed to be mostly abandoned, intel telling you that there was nothing more than a ghost crew present, just enough to keep it running. And Bucky’s reconn indicated that those numbers should have been right. It was supposed to be relatively small, a few hallways, a few rooms, a lab or two with a central control/security room, nothing major. Instead, you got a sprawling, underground maze of hallways that all looked the same and countless rooms with iron doors with as many agents as you could possibly squeeze into the place. Screw base, this was a stronghold. And you and Bucky had gone in with a carefully laid plan that had fallen into pieces when confronted with their overwhelming numbers. Needless to say, the two of you were captured, and, recognizing who Bucky was and inferring who you must be, they decided to hold off on killing you until you answered a few of their questions while strapped to some pretty sturdy-ass, cold, metal chairs.

Day and night bled together, the lines between dream and reality, waking and unconsciousness were blurred by ever-present pain. After, oh gosh you didn’t even know how long it had been… you decided to call it a long while, a rookie guard had made the mistake of standing too close to you while overseeing one of Bucky’s sessions. The guard had turned as Bucky passed out, his head slumped forward onto his chest. ‘Sick fucker,’ you thought, ‘wanting to get a better view of someone else’s torture. What would your momma say?’

But lucky for you, his desire to get a better view left the side of his leg exposed to you, allowing you to see the knife he kept strapped there. You quickly formulated a plan, knowing you had to act before the guard turned his back towards you completely. So even though the angle wasn’t quite ideal, you reeled back and with all your might head-butted the guard right in his balls. As your chair began to fall forward, you twisted it so that your hand brushed his leg, allowing you just enough to time to snatch the knife out of its holster without him noticing. While he was caught up in his pain, you slid the knife underneath your arm, trapping it between your forearm and the arm of the chair. Just as you finished, the torturer, who had quickly strode over from where Bucky was strapped to his chair with a malicious glint in her eyes, was picking your chair back up, slamming it back onto all four legs. Your eyes met those of the guard, who was looking at you with enough vitriol that you almost felt insulted. It wasn’t your fault they had lousy spacial awareness. The contact was cut swiftly as you experienced a different kind of contact. Namely that between a fist and your face. You could taste blood as your head snapped violently to the side. Waiting until your vision stopped swimming, you wearily turned your head back, already able to feel a nasty bruise forming thanks to a probably fractured cheekbone. Man, that lady had one hell of a right hook.

And that was only the beginning. The pummeling that followed was nothing short of absolutely brutal. As she left the room, leaving you and Bucky alone in the room you were being contained in, the guard was forced to reassume his position outside the door. You lingered on the edge of passing out, whether it was from pain or exhaustion, you didn’t know. But you knew you had to stay awake. And, though you dreaded what would happen if this next step went wrong, you knew you had to get someone to come back in there. The only way out was through a door that opened from the outside, a buzzer letting the guard outside know when someone wanted to be let out. So in order to get out, you needed someone else to come in. You managed to maneuver the knife out from under your arm and made quick work of the ropes that were holding you in place. ‘Time to go to work,’ you thought as you swallowed heavily, preparing yourself mentally for what was to come.

To Be Continued...

#marvel fic #marvel series #bucky barnes x reader #shadows dance

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jayceparkblog · 2 years

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The Truth about Christmas, Santa Claus and Reindeer

Santa Claus—otherwise known as Saint Nicholas or Kris Kringle—has a long history steeped in Christmas traditions. Today, he is thought of mainly as the jolly man in red who brings toys to good girls and boys on Christmas Eve, but his story stretches all the way back to the 3rd century, when Saint Nicholas walked the earth and became the patron saint of children. Find out more about the history of Santa Claus from his earliest origins to the shopping mall Santas of today, and discover how two New Yorkers Clement Clark Moore and Thomas Nast were major influences on the Santa Claus millions of children wait for each Christmas Eve.

This post contains links. Thank you so much for your support and for helping keep this blog running!

CONTENTS:

The Truth about Christmas, Santa Claus and Reindeer

The Legend of St. Nicholas: The Real Santa Claus

Sinter Klaas Comes to New York

Shopping Mall Santas

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

Santa Claus Around The World

Christmas Traditions in the United States

The Ninth Reindeer, Rudolph

The Legend of St. Nicholas: The Real Santa Claus

The legend of Santa Claus can be traced back hundreds of years to a monk named St. Nicholas. It is believed that Nicholas was born sometime around 280 A.D. in Patara, near Myra in modern-day Turkey. Much admired for his piety and kindness, St. Nicholas became the subject of many legends. It is said that he gave away all of his inherited wealth and traveled the countryside helping the poor and sick. One of the best-known St. Nicholas stories is the time he saved three poor sisters from being sold into slavery or prostitution by their father by providing them with a dowry so that they could be married.

Over the course of many years, Nicholas’s popularity spread and he became known as the protector of children and sailors. His feast day is celebrated on the anniversary of his death, December 6. This was traditionally considered a lucky day to make large purchases or to get married. By the Renaissance, St. Nicholas was the most popular saint in Europe. Even after the Protestant Reformation, when the veneration of saints began to be discouraged, St. Nicholas maintained a positive reputation, especially in Holland.

Sinter Klaas Comes to New York

St. Nicholas made his first inroads into American popular culture towards the end of the 18th century. In December 1773, and again in 1774, a New York newspaper reported that groups of Dutch families had gathered to honor the anniversary of his death.

The name Santa Claus evolved from Nick’s Dutch nickname, Sinter Klaas, a shortened form of Sint Nikolaas (Dutch for Saint Nicholas). In 1804, John Pintard, a member of the New York Historical Society, distributed woodcuts of St. Nicholas at the society’s annual meeting. The background of the engraving contains now-familiar Santa images including stockings filled with toys and fruit hung over a fireplace. In 1809, Washington Irving helped to popularize the Sinter Klaas stories when he referred to St. Nicholas as the patron saint of New York in his book, The History of New York. As his prominence grew, Sinter Klaas was described as everything from a “rascal” with a blue three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, and yellow stockings to a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a “huge pair of Flemish trunk hose.”

Shopping Mall Santas

Gift-giving, mainly centered around children, has been an important part of the Christmas celebration since the holiday’s rejuvenation in the early 19th century. Stores began to advertise Christmas shopping in 1820, and by the 1840s, newspapers were creating separate sections for holiday advertisements, which often featured images of the newly-popular Santa Claus. In 1841, thousands of children visited a Philadelphia shop to see a life-size Santa Claus model. It was only a matter of time before stores began to attract children, and their parents, with the lure of a peek at a “live” Santa Claus. In the early 1890s, the Salvation Army needed money to pay for the free Christmas meals they provided to needy families. They began dressing up unemployed men in Santa Claus suits and sending them into the streets of New York to solicit donations. Those familiar Salvation Army Santas have been ringing bells on the street corners of American cities ever since.

Perhaps the most iconic department store Santa is Kris Kringle in the 1947 classic Santa Claus movie “Miracle on 34 Street.” A young Natalie Wood played a little girl who believes Kris Kringle (played by Edmund Gwenn, who won an Oscar for the role) when he says he is the real Santa Claus. “Miracle on 34 Street” was remade in 1994 and starred Lord Richard Attenborough and Mara Wilson.

The Macy’s Santa has appeared at almost every Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade since it began in 1924, and fans of all ages still line up to meet the Macy’s Santa in New York City and at stores around the country, where children can take pictures on Santa’s lap and tell him what they want for Christmas.

Twas the Night Before Christmas

In 1822, Clement Clarke Moore, an Episcopal minister, wrote a long Christmas poem for his three daughters entitled “An Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas,” more popularly known as “‘Twas The Night Before Christmas.” Moore’s poem, which he was initially hesitant to publish due to the frivolous nature of its subject, is largely responsible for our modern image of Santa Claus as a “right jolly old elf” with a portly figure and the supernatural ability to ascend a chimney with a mere nod of his head! Although some of Moore’s imagery was probably borrowed from other sources, his poem helped popularize the now-familiar image of a Santa Claus who flew from house to house on Christmas Eve in “a miniature sleigh” led by eight flying reindeer to leave presents for deserving children. “An Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas” created a new and immediately popular American icon.

In 1881, political cartoonist Thomas Nast drew on Moore’s poem to create the first likeness that matches our modern image of Santa Claus. His cartoon, which appeared in Harper’s Weekly, depicted Santa as a rotund, cheerful man with a full, white beard, holding a sack laden with toys for lucky children. It is Nast who gave Santa his bright red suit trimmed with white fur, North Pole workshop, elves and his wife, Mrs. Claus

Santa Claus Around The World

18th-century America’s Santa Claus was not the only St. Nicholas-inspired gift-giver to make an appearance at Christmastime. There are similar figures and Christmas traditions around the world. Christkind or Kris Kringle was believed to deliver presents to well-behaved Swiss and German children. Meaning “Christ child,” Christkind is an angel-like figure often accompanied by St. Nicholas on his holiday missions. In Scandinavia, a jolly elf named Jultomten was thought to deliver gifts in a sleigh drawn by goats. English legend explains that Father Christmas visits each home on Christmas Eve to fill children’s stockings with holiday treats. Père Noël is responsible for filling the shoes of French children. In Italy, there is a story of a woman called La Befana, a kindly witch who rides a broomstick down the chimneys of Italian homes to deliver toys into the stockings of lucky children.

Christmas Traditions in the United States

In the United States, Santa Claus is often depicted as flying from his home to home on Christmas Eve to deliver toys to children. He flies on his magic sleigh led by his reindeer: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and the most famous reindeer of all, Rudolph. Santa enters each home through the chimney, which is why empty Christmas stockings—once empty socks, now often dedicated stockings made for the occasion—are “hung by the Chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there,” as Clement Clarke Moore wrote in his famous poem. Stockings can be filled with candy canes and other treats or small toys.

Santa Claus and his wife, Mrs. Claus, call the North Pole home, and children write letters to Santa and track Santa’s progress around the world on Christmas Eve. Children often leave cookies and milk for Santa and carrots for his reindeer on Christmas Eve. Santa Claus keeps a “naughty list” and a “nice list” to determine who deserves gifts on Christmas morning, and parents often invoke these lists as a way to ensure their children are on their best behavior. The lists are immortalized in the 1934 Christmas song “Santa Claus is coming to Town”:

“He's making a list

And checking it twice;

Gonna find out Who's naughty and nice

Santa Claus is coming to town

He sees you when you're sleeping

He knows when you're awake

He knows if you've been bad or good

So be good for goodness sake!”

The Ninth Reindeer, Rudolph

Rudolph, “the most famous reindeer of all,” was born over a hundred years after his eight flying counterparts. The red-nosed wonder was the creation of Robert L. May, a copywriter at the Montgomery Ward department store.

In 1939, May wrote a Christmas-themed story-poem to help bring holiday traffic into his store. Using a similar rhyme pattern to Moore’s “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas,” May told the story of Rudolph, a young reindeer who was teased by the other deer because of his large, glowing, red nose. But, When Christmas Eve turned foggy and Santa worried that he wouldn’t be able to deliver gifts that night, the former outcast saved Christmas by leading the sleigh by the light of his red nose. Rudolph’s message—that given the opportunity, a liability can be turned into an asset—proved popular.

Montgomery Ward sold almost two and a half million copies of the story in 1939. When it was reissued in 1946, the book sold over three and half million copies. Several years later, one of May’s friends, Johnny Marks, wrote a short song based on Rudolph’s story (1949). It was recorded by Gene Autry and sold over two million copies. Since then, the story has been translated into 25 languages and been made into a television movie, narrated by Burl Ives, which has charmed audiences every year since 1964.

Read more game theme on Christmas day: https://cupdf.com/document/santa-claus-55a14d3d04e00.html

#Christmas 2022 #Stanta Claus #Reindeer

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