#no cell to text messages with in EF

[sciencespies]

Lynk to soon begin tests of cellular connectivity using first satellite

https://sciencespies.com/space/lynk-to-soon-begin-tests-of-cellular-connectivity-using-first-satellite/

Lynk to soon begin tests of cellular connectivity using first satellite

WASHINGTON — Lynk will start testing cellular connectivity services with its first small satellite in the near future as it plans to begin commercial service early next year.

During a panel discussion at the SmallSat Symposium Feb. 11, Margo Deckard, co-founder and chief operating officer of Lynk, said tests it performed last year demonstrated its ability to transmit text messages from spacecraft in low Earth orbit to unmodified cellphones on the ground, a capability it says can bridge a gap in connectivity.

‘We’re showing in a very stepwise fashion as we test out our technology that cellular band usage from space can play with terrestrial usage of these cellular bands and provide customers with connectivity when they move out of terrestrial cell tower range,” she said.

Lynk performed the tests last year using payloads mounted on Cygnus cargo spacecraft, which operated for a few weeks at a time after the Cygnus departed the station and before reentry. The company has since launched its first small satellite, and Deckard said the company will begin a test campaign with that satellite “shortly.”

The satellite is the first in a constellation that will operate in orbits of 450 to 500 kilometers, altitudes that are low enough that the orbits are “self-cleaning,” with the satellites naturally deorbiting quickly at the end of their life. The full constellation would have about 1,000 satellites providing both voice and messaging services.

Lynk will start providing initial messaging services as soon as early next year with a small fraction of that constellation. “We can provide service globally to customers with intermittent coverage,” she said. “With our initial commercial constellation, you’ll get connectivity every 5 to 20 minutes, depending on where you are on the planet. There are a lot of use cases where you can make money with that kind of connectivity.”

One challenge is spectrum. Lynk uses the same spectrum as terrestrial wireless operators, so that customers can use unmodified phones for those services. Deckard said the company will partner with mobile network operators to use their spectrum, and have them work with regulators to get permission to use that spectrum for space applications.

For its tests last year, Lynk received an experimental license from the U.S. Federal Communications Commission, which included a condition that the company work with mobile network operators to test interference. Two operators, which she did not identify, reported no interference issues from the Lynk transmissions.

Lynk is not the only company seeking to use satellite to extend the reach of terrestrial cellular services. AST SpaceMobile, formerly AST&Science, is developing its own constellation of satellites to provide cellular connectivity. It has not yet launched any satellites, but announced in December a merger with a special-purpose acquisition company, New Providence Acquisition Corp., that will take AST public and provide it with up to $462 million in funding. That merger has yet to close.

Deckard said that Lynk is focused less on developing a customized satellite platform, as AST is doing, and more on the cellular technology. “We use a lot of commercial off-the-shelf proven hardware to make the satellite work, and we’ve focused all of our intellectual property efforts on the ‘secret sauce’ surrounding closing the link margin to the cellphone.”

Other panelists said they expect satellites to play a greater role in cellular connectivity in the future, be it directly as Lynk and AST SpaceMobile are doing, or through cellular backhaul services. One reason is the incorporation of standards known as the 3rd Generation Partnership Project (3GPP) that support satellite communications.

“We will be able to use the same chipsets as we have in regular mobile phones and IoT devices, so you can not only connect terrestrially but also connect directly with satellites,” said Richard Swardh of Comtech EF Data. “This opens up an entire new market for satellites, but also gives satellites access to a whole different level of developers, a community many times larger than satellite by itself.”

Past efforts to incorporate satellite technologies into 3GPP standards struggled to win acceptance, he said. “Satellite was looked at a little bit weirdly,” he recalled. The focus in the past was on competing terrestrial standards, but with the shift to 5G there was more openness to new and alternative technologies.

“There was a much more open environment in the community to expand the use cases out of the core business, which is terrestrial cellular services,” he said. “It’s very exciting time for the satellite industry to be able finally to be there at the table.”

#Space

[sinkingorswimming]

The Cosplay AU I need a name for

(Previous parts found on my cosplay au tag!)

It’s maybe two weeks after Otakon when Yuuri checks his email. He has stuff from his school about prepping for the incoming school year and a message from his class President about a seniors only gathering at the Party Bridge near campus.

He also sees one, subject: HI! <3 from sender vmnikforov@gwu.edu.

Yuuri immediately slams his laptop closed.

He covers his mouth with his hands and squeaks. His best buddy (who is not human) comes bounding off his bed to his desk with concern. Vicchan, his reddish brown toy poodle (yes, named after guess who) is Yuuri’s favorite thing in the world. 

He gets his phone, opens the mail app. Right there in the inbox, marked unread. HI! <3, sender vmnikiforov@gwu.edu.

Yelping, Yuuri closes his eyes and opens the email like it’s a bomb.

Hi, Yuuri! This is Victor, from Otakon? I saw your email on your entry form---hope you don’t mind! Anyways, I have a project in mind for Katsucon in February, and I thought you might be interested in partnering up with me! I know you usually work with your friend, but this is a special idea I’ve had for forever and I feel like after seeing your work up close, you’re the perfect fit! 

If you’re able, I’d like to get together soon to begin discussion---it’s going to be tricky to source some of the materials, especially the lace! Can we meet for dinner this weekend? Say, Saturday at six, The Source on Pennsylvania---it’ll be my treat!

Thanks, talk to you soon! <3

Victor

Yuuri screams. He’s home alone---his mom is at her book club with her old friend, Minako, his dad is golfing at Lansdowne, and his sister is away for the week with her college friends---so he doesn’t need to come up with a lie about the reason for the screams.

He calls number three on his favorites, though.

“Hey, this is Phichit,” he answers on ring #2.

“Oh my God,” Yuuri cries. “Oh my God, he wants a costume, me, us, a pair---oh my God.”

“...What?” Phichit answers.

“VICTOR EFFING NIKIFOROV WANTS TO DO A PAIR COSPLAY WITH ME,” Yuuri shouts.

“Holy shit,” Phichit replies.

“Right?” Yuuri tries to slow his heart. “What do I say? I don’t...it’s not you, it’s a pairs thing, I don’t---”

“Okay, whoa, stop,” Phichit replies. “You are not contractually obligated to only ever cosplay with me. You can do a thing with him, I’m not offended as long as you don’t completely abandon our partnership. I’ll probably do that Bleach outfit you have no interest in, it’s fine! Do the thing!”

“You sure?” Yuuri says.

“Yeah, but I’ll need your help,” Phichit says. “I can sculpt the actual Bankai stuff myself, but sewing the uniform is a little above my pay grade.”

“No problem,” Yuuri says with a sheepish grin. “Okay. Um---I better email him back. Thanks, Phichit. You’re a peach.”

“Yup, sure am!” Phichit laughs. “Talk to you later---my mom needs help with the pool.”

“Can I come swim later?” Yuuri asks.

“Yup! Leo and Guang-Hong are coming, Seung Gil maybe too. I’ll text you a time. Later, skater.” Phichit hangs up.

Yuuri reopens his computer like it’ll bite his hand off. 

Hi, Victor,

I’d love to meet with you! I’ll google the address and take the Metro. My cell is 571-585-1090 if you need to change plans or are running late. 

See you Saturday!

Yuuri

It’s Thursday. He can...be cool for two days.

Actually, no he couldn’t, as was evidenced by his mother on Friday night during their evening ritual of Catan begging him to try to stay still. He did not. Therefore his dad made him forfeit his sheep. 

Catan is an equilizer in the Katsuki household.

Yuuri can’t sleep, his nerves buzzing too much even though he played white noise through the headphones in his iPhone. Did nothing. Vicchan slept like everything was normal. 

Yuuri gets up way too early, obsesses way too long over his clothing, finally deciding he was as good as he can get, drives to the Silver Line, and begins the trek to the District. He gets off at the correct stop, walks to the restauant, and immediately regretts all of his choices up until that moment including being born. 

He is in a nice pair of jeans and a t-shirt. It’d a Wolfgang Puck dim sum restaurant. Oh no why, Victor will think he lacks culture.

“Yuuuuuri!” calls a happy, familiar voice. 

Yuuri starts and his eyes go wide. 

Victor stands before him in a linen dress shirt and a pair of salmon colored pants. His hair and skin are flawless. His eyes are beautiful. Yuuri’s heart stops and restarts. “Hi,” he manages. The shyness comes to the forefront. He wants---he isn’t sure, but...it’s something more than a hello.

He gets a hug. Victor grabs him like they’re old friends, and Yuuri hesitates but hugs him back. He pauses and takes a moment to inhale his scent---it’s not that shitty sandwalwood the douchebags at his school wear, it’s lighter...like lemon balm. 

Victor keeps a hand low on his waist as he steers him to request a table. They get a cute one for two like it’s a date. (Is it a date? Did Victor mean this as a date? Thirteen year old Yuuri will die of joy if it’s a date. It in no way can be a date.)

Victor smiles, looking like Yuuri just gave him a rainbow. “I’m glad you came,” he says.

Yuuri chokes on his water. “Uh, thanks? Um...me too.”

Victor grins. “I guess I should get down to business first. Unfortunately, it has to come before...pleasure.” 

Yuuri pushes up his eyeglasses. He nods. 

Victor pulls up an image on his phone, passing it to Yuuri. Yuuri peers down at it---it’s an elaborate fanart of Fuuma and Kamui from X/1999. They have very detailed wings, there’s obvious hand beading and embroidery on their outfits, and they’re perfectly tailored. Fuuma is in white, Kamui black, and there are red ribbons cascading off both of them. “Red string of fate,” Yuuri says out loud. 

“You spotted that,” Victor replies with a grin.

“I’ll have to get help from Phichit on the wings, I’ve never done them on my own,” Yuuri continues. 

“I have, that I can handle,” Victor says. “It’s more how finely tailored the outfits are. My tailoring is always a bit weak, so I tend to do costumes that don’t have quite such an emphasis. I have access to embroidery machines on campus, so I can have you come up to work on those. It’ll be more expedient.”

“The beading I can do in class, the home ec department is out of stuff to teach me so they just let me bring in my projects,” Yuuri admits. 

Victor gives him a look. “Wow,” he says. “And you’re...just in...high school.”

“Hm, well I turn eighteen Thanksgiving day this year,” Yuuri says. “I need to figure out college stuff soon, as a matter of fact.”

“You should come here!” Victor blurts.

Yuuri starts and looks up. “Um...”

“The Corocoran,” Victor clears up with a blush on his cheeks. “They have a production focus in their Theater program. You could...major in costuming? It’s...well, it’s an idea.”

Hm. 

“Phichit’s applying there,” Yuuri says as he zooms back in on the image. CLAMP and their Christian idolatry, yikes. “He’s going into the fine arts. I guess I could think about it.”

“I just think it’d be nice to have you around school with me,” Victor says. His finger glides over the rim of his glass in a slow pattern. “Chris Giacometti is in the photography department, but...I’d like seeing you every day too. Just think about it.”

Yuuri meets his eyes and...no, he’s imagining it. He clears his throat. “You want to make these for Katsucon?” 

“Mmhmm,” Victor says. He ordered them the duck, and it arrives, smelling crisp and mouth-watering. Yuuri is starving, he realizes. He looks at Victor again, this gorgeous guy even out of cosplay and make up and Photoshop and he---

He blushes and focuses on his dinner.

Victor chats the whole time, Yuuri chiming in where appropriate. When they finish and Victor pays as promised, he takes him on a walk. It’s late enough the murky, humid swampland that is DC has become manageable to walk around, and it’s not even ten minutes to the Mall from the restaurant. 

Yuuri mostly sees shots of the Tidal Basin at night from the end credits of his favorite local news program, but Victor escorts him there with a hand on his back as he extols the virtues of his university as well as his skills at sewing. Yuuri listens and smiles with pink cheeks, telling Victor about what he likes to do besides cosplay---video games with his friends, late nights at the Amphora diner in Reston, checking out Starland in Annandale. 

Victor opens up about his parents---his father a supervisor for a lab at Langley, his mom in the State Department, his dog Makkachin who he moved off campus into a pet-allowing studio as quickly as possible to keep by his side, how he misses the local chain called Another Universe and how he’s considering Dragoncon next year to branch out into film and American comics costumin.

They both marvel at how many times they’ve come to the annual Sakura Matsuri in their very spot at this moment and somehow never met.

The lights are pretty, the stars reflect in the water like sequins embellishing a black velvet gown, and Yuuri with all his heart longs for this to be a date. 

He’s imagining it---but some moments, it looks like Victor feels the same.

They head back to the Metro by the Newseum---Victor to GWU, Yuuri to Tysons. “Let’s do again this soon,” Victor says.”We can meet at G Street, see what our local options are, and head to my apartment for more planning.”

“Okay,” Yuuri agrees. Victor’s apartment, he exalts in his head.

“Ah, Yuuri---” Victor adds. “I have a Gaylord room for Katsu, a nice one with a view. Would you like a spot in it? There’s room for one more.”

“Oh um---” Yuuri stumbles. He’s never stayed overnight at a con before, but he’ll be 18 then. His mom and dad can’t refuse, though they’d probably want to meet Victor for reassurance.“Yes.”

“Okay,” Victor says, his smile shaped like a big heart. “Talk to you soon! I’ll text!”

“See you,” Yuuri says.

They part ways, and Yuuri can’t sleep for the second night in a row, his heart pounds so hard as his smile threatens to split his face.

[quicksilversquared]

This effing hospital is apparently incapable of actually calling the right number when they want to contact my dad. We gave them his cell phone number and my cell phone number but not (to the best of my knowledge) our home phone number, and instead of calling him directly, they’ve dug up our home phone number from when the last time the bipolar family member was hospitalized and they keep calling that, despite being corrected repetitively whenever I hear whatever message they’ve left on the phone and text my dad so he can call them. Because of that, my dad missed talking to the doctor that was supposed to call him today, because they called the home phone and not his cell phone and how freaking inept do you have to be to keep making that mistake??? It’s ridiculous.

additional ridiculous bullshit they’ve pulled includes losing all of the paperwork that got filled out when the bipolar family member was checked in; giving my dad the wrong phone number for the ward, making him waste part of his work day looking it up himself (and then once he finally got it, they couldn’t manage the request to let him speak with the nurse in charge of the family member and instead gave the family member the phone so she could talk to him instead, which was the complete opposite of what he wanted); and not putting an assigned medicine in the family member’s file, instead only offering them meds when my dad and I asked about it (this has since been fixed, following some strongly-worded suggestions from my dad, but we shouldn’t have had to tell them how to do their job in the first place). Like, this is actually ridiculous at this point.

at least the freaking county knows how to do their job. The hospital needs permission from the court to administer meds without patient permission (excluding emergencies, of course, and this is NOT the same thing as offering/strongly recommending medicine), and we have a court date for Monday, which is hella fast compared to last time this happened. Theey’ve just been really on top of their job this time around, and I only wish we could say the same for the hospital :/

additional annoyances : I was supposed to pick up a boatload of public library books from the hospitalized family member’s classroom yesterday because I can’t renew them without a library account number (I had talked to one of the other members of their team and they had promised that things would be ready yesterday), but when I arrived the classroom were locked and both student teacher and sub were gone. I had to ask a different team member to pass on the list of books with a promise to return today and pick them up. It wasn’t a completely wasted trip, since I got to talk to another team member that I’ve known since probably kindergarten and that was really nice since I’m alone for most of the day, but it was just frustrating that that was completely forgotten about. Hopefully they’ll remember today, because I really don’t want to have to go over before school tomorrow just to catch someone in the classroom. Some of us are not morning people.

....also my dad and I somehow have to break the news to my brother, who has been off at college during all of this. also, he was recently diagnosed with depression and already has trouble concentrating without the ‘oh by the way this person was hospitalized again and won’t be able to come down and visit for family weekend’.

[ahumanfemale]

Professional Distance IV

Summary:  Dean and Donna pass a week of separation.

Author:  (A)HumanFemale

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

Warning:  Slightly adult themes.

IV

Donna texted him just before midnight, letting him know that they’d made it back to the hotel.  Her sister-in-law was wasted and had to be poured into bed, so Donna was going to stick around in case she got sick.  She was a good friend - kind and caring.  Dean couldn’t fault her for that.  The downside was that her plane was leaving early the next morning to take them back to Minnesota - she was dropping off her sister-in-law and hanging out with family for a week before she came back to the city for her release party.  

Dean told her to get some rest - he’d see her next week.

He dragged himself into bed late that night but couldn’t force himself to go to sleep.  His head was still buzzing, drunk with the memories of Donna pressed so close to him.  He thought of their kiss and his head spun, taking him right back to the moment he’d first tasted the sweetness of her lips and felt her hands on him.  She’d never done anything but shake his hand before that moment but kissed him like she’d been thinking about it for years.

Donna wanted him.

The thought was a drug and he was hooked, riding the high.  

At this rate he’d never sleep again.

-- X --

Work was harder than he thought it would be the next morning, which wasn't improved by the fact that it was a Saturday.  Dean still forced himself to sit down with his laptop, making peace with his lot.  An alarming number of chapters had piled up in his queue while he was pining over Donna the last few weeks.  None of his authors were making a fuss but he felt bad about it anyway, knowing they were too polite to give him hell.  It was his only task of the morning to try and get to his longest-neglected works.  

Dean worked through the morning and ate lunch at his computer, straining his eyes until he had a roaring headache.  He once again contemplated the need for reading glasses.  The thought made him grimace - he was too young for that, damn it.  He wasn’t even forty yet.

He was popping some painkillers and bemoaning his age when his phone buzzed from his desk.  Distracted, he perked up only when he realized that it was a message from Donna.  He pulled up the message and one eyebrow quirked up in confusion.  

It was a short excerpt of prose but it wasn’t Chloe or Dan.  

Donna dragged herself across the airport, tired to the point of falling over.  The early morning flight had seemed like a good idea until her idiot sister-in-law decided to go clubbing and fall off the wagon.  Donna was up holding her hair out of the toilet until two in the morning.  Their flight left at seven.  There was a chance she was in Hell.  The real one - not that vegan bakery she found in California.

Dean smirked and another message appeared.

The only thing propelling her tired behind through the crowd was her memories of the night before, her brain occupied with thoughts of candy apple green eyes and long legs.  Scruff the color of cinnamon, flecked with gold.  Mmm, cinnamon sounded good.  Every airport had a Cinnabon, right?  Hold on.

This time he laughed aloud, collapsing back into his chair and looking at the ceiling.  It was a few minutes before another message appeared.  

They totally had a Cinnabon.  

Donna was pleased at this turn of events.  With enough carbs she would be able to refrain from strangling the walking hangover next to her.  She had no intention of going down for murder - not today, anyway - so she ate the doughy roll of sugar in a few bites.  If she got an extra one in a to-go box it was a public service, thank you very much.  

Dean snorted.

Anyway, Donna was thinking about Dean.  About the way his full lips caressed the rim of his coffee cup and the way his tongue darted out in concentration while they spoke.  Watching him think was nothing short of pornographic.  Brows drawn, bottom lip between his teeth.  She was a few seconds away from fanning herself even now, with just the memory to keep her company.  Watching those lips in action was a burlesque show - feeling them on hers was another matter entirely.  The taste of him on her tongue turned her inside out.

Dean cleared his throat, shifting in his chair.  

Leaving was the last thing she’d wanted to do that night.  What she wanted was to pay the check, drag him out of there, and pin him against the side of that shiny black car in the parking lot.  She’d kiss him silly, until she couldn’t breathe and her head spun.  If her hands happened to wander, who could blame her?  And if the two of them happened to fall into the backseat, everyone would understand.  Really, just look at the guy.

She had no idea what he would have given for that.  Even now his hands itched to touch her again.  The image of Donna getting handsy with him against his beloved Baby was a daydream he would have to file away for future use.

When her phone rang she wanted to chuck it across the restaurant because she knew what it meant.  It meant walking away from the hunk of beefcake she’d been lusting after for years, just when she got her first taste.  The injustice of it all rendered her breathless.  Surely the universe wasn’t so cruel as to deprive her of him completely.  

Like hell, he thought to himself.  He typed a quick reply, not worrying about interrupting her train of thought.  

The next time I see you, you’re mine.  Hell or high water, sweetheart.

It was several long minutes before Donna replied, making him sweat.  Maybe he should have thought of something better.  He dove as soon as her name popped up on the screen.  

Donna read Dean’s message, the words making her swoon.  She had no choice but to collapse into a puddle in the middle of the airport.  Maintenance en route.  

Dean chuckled and put the phone aside, mouth stretched into a bright smile.  Donna wanted him.  Donna had wanted him for years, apparently.  The knowledge felt miraculous - too good to be true.  Chest tight, he read over her messages again.  Laughed harder, smile hurting his cheeks, wishing he could live in that moment for just a little while longer.  Then reality seeped back in the cracks and it was okay.  His headache had lessened and his work no longer seemed so oppressive.  Things were good.  

His world was better with Donna in it.  

-- X --

Donna sent more of the same messages over the next few days, all in the same narrative format.  They told him about her day, what she was thinking at any particular time.  She didn’t seem to require responses from him, which was good because he rarely knew what to say.  He would comment every so often just so she would keep going.  Mostly he was afraid that he would break the spell that had wound around him, keeping him walking on air.  Those texts had gone from amusing to a lifeline in a matter of days.  If he couldn’t have Donna, they were the next best thing.  

Donna woke with a smile on her face and the smell of breakfast in her nose.  The former because of a certain editor, and the latter because… wait.  Who was in her house?!

...

It was fine.  Donna’s mother had snuck in through the back door to surprise her with food.  Which was normal.  Mothers did that.  Right?

Not mine, Dean thought.  Though she did pick the lock on his front door once when she left her cell phone in his couch.

Donna told herself she wasn’t going to go hang out with Jody this trip.  It was a short one and she didn’t have time to do a five-day hangover recovery program.  But gosh, did she miss Jody.  They’d been best friends since middle school and Jody had a taste for trouble that Donna didn’t.  Drinking and getting matching tattoos kind of trouble.  She’d barely escaped last time, just before she’d drunkenly inked “party girl” into her thigh.  

Dean couldn’t imagine her with a tattoo.  At all.  But then he really wondered if she had one and filed that question away for later.  

The next day Donna was determined to work.

The blank page stared, mocking.  Chloe and Dan were in serious need of resolution but their creator was distracted.  Something to do with her editor, but they didn’t know that.  They only knew that Dan’s wound was infected and they needed to kill the monster and get him to a hospital. He might get sepsis and die at this point.

Poor Dan, he thought.  Tough break.

This was all Dean’s fault.  It might be his fault that Dan existed at all, so when her characters came to life as vengeful fictional spirits they could haunt him first.  

Dean scoffed and replied, Is that a confession?  

A few minutes later she replied, Donna had to go sorry bye.

They spent the week that way, Donna sending prose and Dean sending back snarky comments to keep her going.  He read her messages in between edits, using them as rewards for getting actual work done.  Donna bought books with her mother.  Cooked with her dad.  Got caught texting him under the dinner table, after which her phone was taken away because they didn't buy her telling them it was for work.  It didn’t seem to matter that she was in her thirties.  

She did, in fact, go out with Jody.  

She was, in fact, hung over afterwards.  

It must have been pretty bad because the only thing she sent him the next day was:

Diagnosis: Acute alcohol poisoning.

Cause: Jody effing Mills.

Prognosis: Leave me here to die.

She must have been down for the count because he didn't hear anything else until the next afternoon, when she narrated making travel plans to come back for her release party.  Chloe Ransom’s fifth adventure had hit the shelves the week before and was already a success, leading her publisher to throw her a party to celebrate.  Any other author would have basked and preened but not Donna.  Donna had to take good news and turn it into a death sentence.

Donna finished an email to her stylist and sighed, nerves already mounting.  Her skin prickled in anxiety and all her worst nightmares started springing up in her mind, all in excruciating detail.  Writing was one thing but those people might want her to talk. Out loud. In front of an audience.  What the heck was that about?  

Her fear of public speaking wasn't news to him. Donna had been actively avoiding speaking engagements for years.  She personally felt as though they should just hire an actress to be Chloe so she could come and speak in character, leaving Donna out of it completely.

What if she stuttered?  Or passed out?  Or got sick!  Mary and Joseph, she'd never live that down.  It would wind up on YouTube and that would be it.  End of story.  There goes that writer lady - she tossed her cookies all over her publishers and never wrote again.  

Dean smirked as he walked to his car, finally done for the night.  He replied, That's not going to happen.

Dean didn't know.  He wasn't psychic, but the gesture was appreciated.  

I could be psychic.  You never know.

She did know.  If Dean were psychic all these years it wouldn’t have taken such drastic measures to get his attention.  He would have heard her every depraved thought through a megaphone, straight into his brain.  Donna would have seen the smoke coming from his ears, because she really did have a terrific imagination.

Dean’s eyes crinkled as he smirked. Were you having unprofessional thoughts about me?

Donna would confess to nothing, but the images sprouted up behind her eyes anyway.  Would he ever know the kinds of thoughts she’s had about him over the years?  The sheer number would probably horrify him.  Climbing into his lap on the couch along the back wall of his office, praying no one walked in as she ran her fingers through his tousled hair.  Or looking up at him through her lashes from under his desk as her fingers found the clasp of his belt.

He cleared his throat.  Those are definitely not professional.

You asked, she replied, dispensing with the narration for the first time since they started texting a few days ago.  Dean laughed and sent his reply before putting his phone down and pulling into traffic.

I did.  

Are you coming to the release party?

I always do.  

Maybe don’t bring a date tomorrow?

Dean stopped at a light, smile threatening to break across his face.  If he didn’t know any better Donna was asking him out.  What she didn’t know was that he’d never brought a date to one of her events.  He’d always been afraid that whatever woman he brought would take one look at him near her and figure it out.  The fact that he was crazy about her would have been written across his face.

Maybe I don’t.  What if I find one there?

That’s the idea, handsome.

Dean drove the rest of the way home with a smile on his face and happy anticipation buzzing in his ears.  

He wanted Donna.

Donna wanted him.

They had a date tomorrow night.  

He whistled through dinner, sang while he did the dishes, and still couldn’t bring himself to go to sleep until after midnight.  

[foursprouthappiness-blog]

We Deserve More Than What Modern Dating Is Giving Us

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/happiness/we-deserve-more-than-what-modern-dating-is-giving-us/

We Deserve More Than What Modern Dating Is Giving Us

ANDRIK LANGFIELD PETRIDES / Unsplash

When I was a little girl, my Grandad would walk me home in the winter, when the sun disappeared at 4 p.m. and snow would cover the ground, and every time, he would tell me the same story of how he used to walk an hour from the neighbouring town to spend an evening with my Grandma. No matter the weather, he had to see her, every day. I always hoped for a love like that. A high-school-sweetheart kind of love. Something reliable and faultless. But at 26, I realize that what we have now is world’s away from battling through the snow just for an evening in someone else’s company.

What we have now is modern dating. And it effing sucks. 

Because modern dating takes away everything beautiful about finding someone and falling in love. It gives people a constant stream of better options and a million ways to hide it. It enables men to make you feel as if you are the only girl in the world whilst they’re messaging 10 others behind your back.

It is drowning in loop holes, all giving men both the chance and the ability to see, kiss and fuck another girl all while telling you you’re heading somewhere serious. It’s a hot-spot for all those men who want to have their cake and eat it too. Who revel in having a gorgeous woman ask about their day and make them fresh coffee but who also need that thrill of tit pics and 3 a.m. hookups. Who, for some unknown reason, will never be satisfied with just one girl.

It allows men to lie about this stream of other girls, to make excuses about why they haven’t texted back in a few days or why they’re always busy when you make plans. It somehow gives them an imagined right to treat women as if they’re replaceable, disposable and never good enough. It destroys all of those old-fashioned hearts which still crave serendipity; those moments you only get to see on a big screen, where the guy bumps into the girl at a coffee shop or walking their dogs in the park, who have an instant spark which develops into something wild and chaotic and beautiful.

It shatters this notion that when you’re first dating someone, they are only interested in you. It takes away the idea that movies and books have fed us, that courting is a phase which A. Exists and B. Happens mutually between two people.

It makes our stomachs do a little anxiety somersault whenever the guy’s phone vibrates or he receives a call or the room lights up at night because his cell is forever going off. It puts us in a constant state of limbo but refusing to believe that’s where we are.

It tapes our mouth shut when we want to ask “Where is this heading?” or “What do I mean to you?” Because we know we will only get the same vague response about going slow or casualness or somewhere serious, which at this point seems like a fictional destination.

It turns us into people we never used to be- confused and needy and pointlessly hopeful. 

It denies that little girl who still lives inside all of us, the right to a beautiful story. It takes away that excitement which was born through romantic films and the books we used to fall asleep holding against our chests, of the handsome guy who looked at us if seeing for the first time, who would hold us as if their life depended on it and would stop flights and trains and run through a storm just to confess their love to us. It has replaced the sound of their voice with emoticons and one word answers. With sometimes, no reply at all, just three little dots which stop and start again. Which disappear all together, just like him.

And the worst part is, we still know we deserve more. We still know what is possible. We can still listen to the stories our grandparents tell us. But what will we tell our grandchildren? What kind of magic will we give them to dream about? What will they hope for?

Because I want it to be more than this.

It has to be more than this.

[doxampage]

Commercial Printing: Hand-Drawn Packaging Art

I remember growing up on Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant,” hearing that if fifty people a day came into the recruiting office and sang a bar of “Alice’s Restaurant,” the collective effect would be a movement, the “Alice’s Restaurant Anti-Massacree Movement.”

Well, I see another movement coming, in commercial printing and packaging. In our living room my fiancee and I now have a square corrugated box of nuts, two Chipotle cups, and the printed box for a container of Cabernet Sauvignon “House Wine.” What they all have in common is that all of them look “hand drawn,” and all are monochromatic, flexo print jobs.

I’ve already written a blog post about the humor, playful drawings, and quaint sayings on the flexo-printed nut carton, so I will focus this time on the two cups and the box of wine. I see some interesting marketing benefits inherent in this casual approach to design. I think it’s an exceptionally effective approach that rests firmly on basic principles of psychology.

Overview (the Chipotle Cups)

First the Chipotle cups. I have long been a fan of Chipotle’s design and marketing work because it engages the viewer using surprisingly sparse imagery. Like other Chipotle marketing work, these two cups rely on single-color custom printing. When I look at the ink under a 12-power loupe, I see a dark brown, almost black ink with a hint of red coloration. The halos around the perimeter of the type letterforms, with ink that is somewhat uneven and bubbly under high magnification, indicate flexographic commercial printing. But even on the exceptionally small type, this does not diminish readability. To the naked eye, everything looks crisp.

Each of the two cups includes about 25 lines of printed type. Both are entitled “Cultivating Thought, Author Series,” although the type treatment of this title differs from cup to cup. On one cup, the title is surrounded with drawings of figures, power tools, and electronic gadgets (a TV remote, a cell phone). Everyone seems somewhat stressed out, based on their expressions. They seem to be busy, perhaps overwhelmed with multiple tasks.

The text copy on this cup (written by Colson Whitehead) provides a zany, stream of consciousness glimpse of a couple whose TV is possessed. It only plays reruns of Cheers (the episodes with Diane).

The second cup has only one image, a smallish surfer on a surfboard, with all manner of words (like “creative,” “motivation,” inspiration,” and “love”) jammed together in a “tag cloud” and flowing like a cresting wave behind her. The words nestle into one another and are presented in a hand-dawn font reminiscent of 1960s posters. Their combined image forms the surfer’s wave behind her.

In a stream of consciousness form, the narrator (Sue Monk Kidd) addresses the question of what to do with her life. It’s almost like reading a diary, very personal, very intimate. The text reveals the narrator’s coming to embrace not the answers of life but the questions themselves.

What Do the Cups Say About Life, Art, Psychology, and Marketing?

I think the way to understand these cups is in the context of hand-drawn marketing items in general. Here are some thoughts:

We live in an increasingly impersonal world. No one seems to even notice us, let alone care. Within that context (which goes against human nature), an informal marketing item that directly addresses the reader with a brief, interesting story, can be very compelling. It is personal and concrete in an impersonal world.

Humor makes the pain and absurdity of life less oppressive. (Think back to the zaniness of 1960s movies and TV shows.)

Cool, edgy text copy invites the reader into a small, exclusive group: the smart, savvy people. Everyone wants to be a part of this exclusive club. Even the Chipotle restaurant interior design, signage, and marketing collateral, as well as the restaurant logos on the cups, reinforce this message of ultimate “coolness.” Affiliation is a basic human psychological need. This tribal and casual marketing approach directly addresses this need.

From the point of view of the vendor, the reader is a captive audience. Anything printed on the food packaging (cups, bags, etc.) will be read at some point, particularly if the person is eating alone. (Think about how many times you have read the cereal box while eating breakfast, when you’re not on the phone or checking emails.)

Single color type and art stand out in a marketing arena (i.e., the customer’s entire field of vision) in which almost everything else is presented in full color. Marketing messages compete for your attention. Any marketing item different from all the others will stand out. Ironically, as single-color, casual marketing items become the norm (i.e, the “movement” I mentioned above), they too will cease to be visible to people.

Overview: The Box of Wine

“House Wine” seems to be the name of the company as well as the description of the contents of the box. When I was growing up, liquids came in bottles. Now they come in bags (flexible packaging) and boxes (folding cartons with flexible packaging inside).

The title “House Wine” just works. People these days embrace “utilitarian-chic.” Simple, hand-drawn line art and type give a functional appeal to this box of wine, as does the notation that one box equals four bottles or 20 glasses. People today like lots of information, specifications, details. The box includes all of these.

Again, like the Chipotle cups, the box of wine is printed in one color: black. This is not really true, although the overall look is of a one-color, low-budget job, a functional product with a functional design. It actually has a little blue ink, positioned on the doors of the house (which is the logo, “House Wine”) and the word “original” on one side of the box. The box design looks sparse, just the perfect drink for those who either love to live simply or who have no other choice.

What Does the Box Say About Life, Art, Psychology, and Marketing?

Like EF Schumacher’s book on economics, Small Is Beautiful, this box exudes simplicity in its low-impact, environmentally-conscious commercial printing. Under my loupe I can see the halos around the text and the watery looking ink (with bubbles and other irregularities) that reflects flexographic custom printing. Since the packaging is a box with gloss litho paper covering the corrugated fluting, I’m not surprised that it was printed via flexography (although the litho paper could also have been offset printed and then glued to the corrugated material).

Here are some thoughts about the overall look:

As with Chipotle’s two cups, this box has a simple, casual air. I’d say it would appeal to young people on a budget who want to savor the joys of life but who may lack sufficient cash flow.

These customers may also have a taste for energetic living, the irreverent, and simplicity.

The design is simple and bold, easy and cheap to produce, and environmentally conscious in its appearance. I think it’s aimed directly—and quite effectively—at young urban professionals.

Overall Views

Overall, I love the approach of this product packaging (which is really marketing collateral). My only hope is that the approach doesn’t morph from a quirky and edgy experiment into a movement, and then into a commonplace style seen everywhere. It’s like the bell bottom jeans of the hippies. At the beginning they were a protest. At the end, they were a uniform.

Commercial Printing: Hand-Drawn Packaging Art published first on http://ift.tt/2vVn0YZ

[embklitzke]

UNSETIC Files: Truth Will Set You Free - Chapter 1 (original draft)

NYPD homicide detective Ryce Marshall doesn't remember what happened to her before she woke up in a dirt parking lot in Pennsylvania.  She doesn't know why her lover is so afraid she'll walk away.  She doesn't know that she's already neck-deep in things beyond imagining.

One of the UNSETIC Files, Truth Will Set You Free is the introduction of Ryce Marshall and Jesse Stole into the universe, two NYPD cops on a collision course with the supernatural in more than a few forms.  What follows is the original draft of the first chapter, cross-posted from my Patreon.

One

               “Look, I’m effed up right now and I know it, but that doesn’t mean that the best thing for me isn’t getting back to work.”

               “Missing for two weeks with about half your memory just gone now that you’re back? Sue me if I still think you should’ve taken the day.”  A wry smile twisted Alex Stole’s lips as he watched me slide into my seat behind my desk at the precinct.  I supposed that it must have looked the same as it did when I left it.  “The shrink actually cleared you?”                “There’s nothing wrong with me,” I said.  “According to him and the doctors, anyway.  Just…well.  Just the amnesia.  Either everything comes back or it doesn’t.  Captain said as long as it doesn’t impact my ability to get the job done, I stay on the active roster.”

               My gaze drifted toward another desk not far away from mine, but standing alone—not paired with another, like mine was paired up with Alex’s.  In a dim, darkened yesterday, I could feel my back hit the wood of that desk, hear the pens and papers scatter across the floor, skirt sliding up my thighs, feel warm lips against mine—

               “Ryce?”

               I sucked in a breath and looked at Alex. “What were you saying?”

               “Never mind what I was saying.  You were staring at his desk again.”

               Again. How long had he been gone?

               Hell.  Even that was fragmented.  I couldn’t even remember why that desk’s owner was so important—other than he feel of his hands against my thighs and his lips against mine.

               “He wants you to call him,” Alex said after a moment.  “He said it should be safe.  Agent Scarborough won’t freak out.  Shouldn’t, anyway.  Don’t think the Feds are ever going to give him back, though.”

               “When you’re good,” I murmured, leaving the words to hang, not finishing the thought.

               “Yeah,” Alex said.  “When you’re good.”  He dropped into his chair across from mine.  “I’ll never figure out what you see in my brother, Ryce.”

               “Something his baby brother can’t see, apparently,” I said quietly, staring at that empty desk but swallowing my questions.  Try to sort it all out yourself first, Marshall.  Then roll from there.  You don’t want to come at this from a position of weakness.  I leaned back, running my hands across the blotter before my gaze flicked back toward my partner.  “Are we catching today?”

               “God, I hope not,” he muttered, snagging a folder from the pile at the corner of his des.  “Been trying to catch up on paperwork.  Captain’s had you and I reviewing cold cases for the past few weeks—before your vanishing act, I mean.  Guessing that lead on the Castleton case was a bust.”

               “If it wasn’t, I don’t remember what I found out and my notes weren’t on me when I woke up.”  Abandoned dirt parking lot, ground wet beneath my back, head ringing, blood on the ground a few feet away and not a soul in sight…

               “Dammit, Ryce, will you cut that thousand yard stare?” Alex was staring at me as I blinked back to the present.  His eyes were wider than usual, his jaw slack but brows knitting.  “You sure you’re good? You don’t seem it.”

               “Fine,” I assured him.  “Absolutely fine.”

               “Uh-huh.”  He sighed as he slapped the folder in his hand down flat onto his desktop.  “I still think you should take the day. Call Jesse for a booty call or something and get your head screwed back on straight.”

               A little shiver shot down my spine.  I shook my head.  “Somehow I don’t think that’s the answer to all my problems, Alex.”  I reached for the first file in my own stack and slid my desk drawer open, searching for a notepad and pen.  In my blind groping for both, my fingers brushed against the smooth, flat touchscreen of a smartphone and I pulled back, blinking and staring at the silver-sheathed thing lying silent and forgotten in my drawer.

               “You left it,” Alex said helpfully.  “Took your work cell.  The prepaid.  Found your cell on my desk with a note saying you were chasing a lead and you’d call later.” He gnawed his lower lip.  “You never called, Ryce.”

               “I—I’m sorry, Alex.”  What else could I say?

               He sighed.  “No, I am.  I should’ve come after you as soon as I realized you were gone.  I’ve got no idea what’s been up with you lately—”

               “Alex, I got you shot.”

               “And now I’m fine.  All of my parts still work.  Don’t beat yourself up about shit that’s not worth beating yourself up over.” He stared at me across the desk, over cold case files.  “Give it a week.  We’ll be catching something other than cold files by then and life will get back to normal.”

               “Normal,” I echoed.  Do I have a normal anymore? My fingers curled around my phone and I coaxed it awake.  “Sure. You’re right.”

               “Usually,” he agreed.  “Now settle down.  You want a drink?”

               “Coffee’s fine,” I said absently, poking at my phone. Texts, emails, three voicemails…I squeezed my eyes shut as Alex got up and headed for the coffeemaker in the squad room.

               Four of the texts were from a number I had labeled as Jesse Stole—Alex’s brother, apparently, and the owner of the desk I kept staring at.

               And if my memory and Alex’s colorful commentary are to be believed, some kind of lover of mine.

               “Hell,” I muttered harshly, then started checking my messages.  The first one from Jesse was nothing but an address and the words “meet me.”

               The timestamp was eleven days ago.  Had I met him there as he’d asked?  Where was that place, anyway?

               The next message was sent a few minutes after the first, a date and time set for ten days before.  I bit my lip.

               Either I’d met up with him or I hadn’t.

               The third: Are you okay?

               I shook my head.  Of course I wasn’t.  He’d sent that message nine days ago.

               The last message was from a week ago.  Don’t do anything stupid.  Be careful.

               There was only one text that hadn’t come from Jesse, it instead came from a phone number with an area code I recognized from Long Island.  He’s safe.  Where the hell are you, Detective?

               My lips thinned and my stomach flopped over itself.  The message was from four days ago.

               What had happened during those two weeks when I’d disappeared off the map, off the face of the Earth?

               “Everything okay?”  Alex asked as he set a cup of coffee down near my elbow.

               “Yeah,” I lied.  “Just checking my messages.”

               “Jesse said you should call him,” Alex said again as he sank back into his chair.

               I nodded slightly as I dialed into my voicemail on autopilot.  “I will,” I said, lifting the phone to my ear.

               “Ryce, I don’t know why you’re not picking up, but call me.  I don’t want to just leave things like this.  Love you.”  Click.  The voice sent odd tendrils of emotion through me—my stomach twisted, throat tightened, heart beginning to beat a little faster as other parts of me gave an excited little twitch.  I swallowed hard against the tightness.  Alex was watching me, his expression knowing and a little sad.

               “Take the day,” he mouthed at me.

               My nose wrinkled.  The second message began to play.  The voice wasn’t the same as the first, didn’t cause the same visceral reaction.  This one was male, quiet, coolly professional with the barest edge of anger. “Detective Marshall, I’ve got no bloody clue what you and Stole got up to the other night, but I need you to tell me. He’s gone off the radar and off the reservation and I’m thinking you’re my best shot at reeling him back in again.” The voice rattled off a phone number and an address before the message ended.

               Alex’s hand was on my arm.  I wasn’t sure when he’d come around the desk, but he had. “Ryce.”

               “I’m fine,” I whispered.

               “You’re not.  The last time I saw you this color, your hands were full of blood and you were screaming at me that I’d better not die on you.”  He gently took my phone out of my hand and hung up for me.  “Come on.  I’ll drive you home.”

               “Alex—”

               “I’m not arguing with you about this,” he said. “Not today.”

               “I’m not arguing.”  I pressed my keys into his hand.  “But we’ll take my car.  I’ll pay your cab fare back here.”

               “I’ll take the subway.  C’mon.”  He slid a comforting arm around my shoulders as we moved away from our desks, signed out—me for the day, he for a couple hours—and then took the elevator down to the garage.  It wasn’t until we were safely ensconced in my little blue-gray sedan that he looked at me and asked, “So who left you the voice messages?”

               “The first one was from your brother, I think,” I said quietly, knuckling suddenly stinging eyes.  “Not sure who the other one was, but he was talking about your brother going ‘off radar and off the reservation.’”

               Alex winced.  “Probably Agent Scarborough.  Jesse said something about a knock-down drag-out with him last week.”

               “Who is he?”

               “A Fed,” Alex answered, tone implying that the statement should explain everything.  I just looked at him until he elaborated.  “He’s assigned to some kind of task force investigating the connections between local organized crime syndicates and the new drugs that have been hitting the streets.”

               “He tapped Jesse because of your connections.” I wasn’t sure where the words came from, but I knew they were true.

               “I guess,” Alex said.  “Not every day a capo’s daughter pops out a couple of cops.”

               No. It’s really, really not.  I smothered a frown and slumped low in my seat. “How long?”

               “Six months.  Since right before that Christmas party when you and Jesse had a private affair on his desk.”

               I blushed.  “You—”

               “Half the precinct knows.  If you two weren’t good, the fallout would’ve meant your jobs. Luckily—or maybe not—seems like the Feds are trying to recruit my brother, which would mean problem solved.” Alex sighed.  “Call him.”

               “Your brother?”

               “And Agent Scarborough,” Alex said.  “If he left you a voicemail, he’s expecting call back.”

               “It’s over a week old.”

               “Call anyway.”  Alex shook his head.  “Never know when you’ll need a friend like him, Ryce.  Score points while you can and just tell him that your personal cell was in your desk.  He’ll probably believe it.”

               “It’d be true,” I said.

               “See?  Even more reason for him to believe you.”

               We lapsed into silence for a few more blocks before I broke it.

               “Which do I call first?”  My voice sounded tiny, frightened.  I hated myself for the weakness it betrayed.

               Alex winced.  “I want to tell you to call my brother first,” he said after a moment. “But I think maybe you’d better call Scarborough.  Just in case something’s going sideways.”

               “I thought Jesse told you it’d be okay for me to call.”

               “He did, but I don’t think he knew his handler had left you a voicemail.”

               Handler. This is a little deeper than on loan, I’m thinking.  “Right,” I whispered.  There was something vaguely unsettling about calling anyone but Jesse first.

               So why did you ask for his opinion?  I withheld my sigh and squeezed my eyes shut.

               Alex reached over and touched my shoulder, fingers tightening briefly.  “Keep it together or fall apart if you need to, Ryce.”

               I snorted.  “Real gallant, Alex.  Going to offer me your shoulders to use as a hankie now, too?”

               He grinned as I looked at him.  “There she is.  Miss Snark rises again.”

               I shook my head.  “This is hard for you.”

               “You’ve got no idea.  We’ve been doing this for a long time now.”

               “We were patrolmen together.”

               He nodded.  “You were a couple years my senior, but yeah.  You were my first partner—and let me say it right now that you’re the only one I’d ever want.”

               “Oh, Alex.”  All I could do was smile and shake my head.  “Thanks.”  What else could you say to that, after all?

               “Yeah, well, it’s the truth.”  We hit another turn and he pulled into a parking garage and found my spot two levels up.  As he shut off the engine and tugged my keys out of the ignition, he asked, “You want me to walk you up?”

               I gave it a moment’s thought, then shook my head slightly.  “No, I think I’ll be good.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

               “Okay.”  He dropped my keys into my upturned palm and kissed my cheek.  “Call me if you need anything.”

               “I will.”

               Then he got out of the car and left me there in the parking garage of my apartment building, sitting in the passenger seat of my car.  I dug my phone out of my pocket, stared at it.

               Which one do I call first?

               My head said one thing even as my heart screamed another.  I silently promised myself that I’d come to a decision on the matter by the time I made it upstairs to my apartment.

               That was how I ended up in the corner of my green overstuffed couch with a mug of cocoa, hitting Jesse’s number on speed dial before logic could overrule emotion.

               He picked up halfway through the second ring, sounding vaguely breathless.

               “Ryce?  Is that you?”

               His voice did things to me—things I couldn’t fathom, understand.  I swallowed against sudden tightness in my throat.  “It’s me.  Alex said I should call.”

               “I—Ryce, where have you been?  I’ve been going crazy.”

               “Sorry,” I whispered.  Something about that made me hurt but also gave me a strange sense of satisfaction—a feeling that surprised me and sparked more than a little self-loathing.  “I didn’t—fuck.  Jesse, I don’t remember anything.  Did I meet you?  What happened?”

               Dead silence answered my question.

               “Jesse?”

               “Where are you?”

               “At home.  I took the day.”

               I heard him suck in a deep breath and then exhale it slowly.  “Stay there. I’m coming.”

               “Won’t that—”

               “Get me into trouble?  Probably.  There are some things that shouldn’t be done over the phone, though.”

               What the hell is he talking about?  “Like what?”

               “Like begging for your forgiveness.  Stay put.  I’m coming.”

               “I—okay.”  The knot in my throat wasn’t going away.  “Jesse?”

               “Yeah?”

               “I—I love you.”  The words came out and the tightness began to ease even as my eyes began to sting.  On the other end of the line, Jesse exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

               “I love you, too, Ryce,” he murmured.  “Half hour, okay?  I’ll be there in a half hour.”

               “Be careful.”

               “It’s me.”

               “I know.  Be careful.”  I was holding the phone so tightly my fingers hurt.  “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

               “Count on it.”

               He hung up then and I just sat there frozen on my couch as the minutes ticked by and my cocoa grew cold, unable to fathom the maelstrom of emotions playing through me.

               What the hell was going on—and did I really want to find out?

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Erin M. Klitzke is the author of the UNSETIC Files, What Angels Fear, Epsilon: Broken Stars, and Awakenings.