#tomcat clover

[diristine]

In Case I Make It is becoming my favorite album solely due to Willard!, Falling Up, Tomcat Disposables, White Noise, and Cicada Days holy shit.

The whole album makes me want to cry and scream into the void, yearning for a time long lost to myself. One that I will never have knowledge of yet will grasp for in every breath, every beat of my heart. A forbidden emotion that I simply cannot replicate with any other sustenance, substance, or subculture.

An echo of childhood encapsulated in a chord and a note that rings in a way that both heals and damages in unspeakable unspoken ways. Where my inner child may find peace yet I scream at the loss of such innocence, this album is my beginning and my end. Stretching between the electrons that criss cross my mind, firing faster than I can write this post.

This album is home, it’s a hidden cupboard in the back of my mind I forgot to dust. It’s finding a letter in the mail from a loved one, discovering a four leave clover amidst three leaved ones. This music is a sunrise, a sunset, a disaster that will leave its claws in my soul for longer than I dare hope acknowledge.

I wish for everyone to experience the complexity of emotions and word vomit that flow from my mind into my hands as I write this. I desperately desire for each of you to find an anchor so deep as this album hit, a knock on the wood as to not jinx fate.

Music is a cause and a remedy, one that I will not give up even when it may as well have killed me and buried me six feet below the crust of the earth.

[persephonaae]

New in bloom today is brought to you by wow many of these didn’t get as in focus as I would like! As well as general confusion because I do not know some of these/know them well enough yet but let’s see. I think we got… tomcat clover, larkspur??? California goldfield, San Francisco collinsia (which is endangered), and Danny’s skullcap? The only two I can be certain on are the goldfield and the collinsia. Semi certain on the clover.

[dream-sans-mogai]

Lazy flag combos pt.65

Ft. Aloeian/nullic/x loving none with...

Transnull × (amab) transnull × mercurygenos

Allogender × apothiromantic × uranusgenos

Nonenyo × tomcat bi × nomenyo

No credit needed

[ag-mcgarity-cali-native-plants]

Trifolium willdenovii, or Tomcat clover. Taken in a burn scar north of Wofford Heights. Follow me for flowers! #wildflowers, #flower, #flowers, #californianativeplants, #beautiful, #tomcat, #clover, #nofilter, #picoftheday, #floweroftheday, #nature, #botany (at Wofford Heights, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/CdA8va2LCP0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐂𝐡. 𝐗𝐈𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

The morning feels short. From the moment Rooster and I are awake we are helping each other: kissing each other’s closed lips and pulling the other out of bed, brushing out teeth at the same time but taking turns spitting into the basin. 

I dress myself in the dark, slipping into a cold pair of slacks and a cotton shirt that will hardly touch my skin--it’s supposed to be a scorcher today. And I leave Rooster in the bedroom, belting his pants, to start the coffee maker. It all feels very routine, very easy. 

He pours the coffee and I feed Stevie. The house was very dark, very quiet. 

In the foyer, as I am slipping into my block-heeled mules, Rooster leans against the doorway and watches me. His eyes are gleaming in the morning light, which is only just bright enough for us to see each other. His mouth is pink and clean and smooth. 

“What?” I whisper to him.

He exhales softly--his cotton tee ripples with his breath. He pulls his eyebrows together as he watches me, shaking his head just slightly. 

“I’m still sorry,” he says and his voice is not shy and quiet--it is clear and steady, “that I froze. That I didn’t know what to do.”

 He says this like I haven’t already forgiven every single bit of him--like we didn’t sleep in the same bed last night, like he didn’t wake me up by pressing kisses against my throat and slamming his hand down on my alarm. He says this like we did not shower together last night, holding each other under a stream of boiling water. He says this like he hasn’t already said it before. 

“Bob handled it,” I say, just as clear and steady, except I’m smiling just slightly. 

His eyes fall from mine to the middle of my chest. He stares there for a long moment, still just slightly shaking his head, his eyes untrained.

“You would’ve said something if it was me he was pounding into,” he says, pulling his arms to cross over his chest. 

I think of when Hangman brought up Goose--when they almost fought, when Hangman stalked out like a tomcat and had the audacity to wink at me. But I say nothing to Rooster. He is still staring at my chest, right where my heart is beating, when I cross the small space between us. Tenderly, I put my hands on his cheeks and hold him for a moment. I savor it--savor his warmth beneath me.  

“C’mon,” I whisper, smiling, “it’s take-your-girlfriend-to-work day. Can’t be late.” 

And then he brings his eyes to mine and a smile is dominating his face, eating his pretty pink mouth. I smooth my thumbs over his mustache and grow woozy just feeling it under the pads of my fingers. 

“Girlfriend, huh?” 

I bite my lip, nodding, pretending like my heart isn’t about to fall out of my body. 

“Maybe,” I say, still smiling, “unless you’ve had a change of heart--ow!”

He releases the skin of my hip from between his two fingers and now we’re both laughing, my mouth held open in mock-astoundment. He smooths his hand over my hip where he pinched even though he didn’t truly hurt me, would never, could never. 

My heart pulses because we have these things between us that are only ours. He pinches when I tease, I kiss his palms when he’s sweet, he smoothes the crease between my brows when I’m thinking too hard, and I take little pieces of his anger when his arms are full. Yes, these are only ours, him and mine. It makes my chest ache with want to be able to share these things with someone again, these small little actions that feel so minute and so gargantuan at the same time. 

“Kiss me, baby,” he says, crooning. 

And when we do kiss, he holds my body close to his, presses every one of my hills against every one of his valleys. I am throbbing entirely, tangling my hands in the ungelled parts of his hair, pouring every ounce of affection into his mouth and out of mine.

When he pulls back, still pressed tightly against me, he looks down at me with that silly loved-up expression that makes my knees weak. He pushes my hair behind my ears, kisses both of my temples. 

“Ohhh,” he sighs, still crooning just a little bit in that knucklehead way, “that feels good.”

It makes my chest tingle. Even in the darkness, even that early in the morning, he is so hauntingly beautiful. He was like a statue, standing tall and proud and broad, right here in my entryway. Something that could hold my coat at the end of a long day, but also something I want to see every time I come in and out of that door.

“That might’ve been a dealbreaker for me--hey!”

Then he’s all over me, pinching my hips and grabbing my arms and kissing my face. It’s good--just thoroughly, intrinsically good. We could stay right here and be good forever. 

The rising sun is lemon yellow, feeble and pale, against the cornflower-blue sky. It is a cloudless day and I sit in the middle of the bench on our first drive to work together, in the same car. 

And when we walk into the building together, our skin goosing under the fluorescents because of the frigid air conditioning, we have one more moment of aloneness before the building becomes crowded. I am holding the leather strap on my shoulder, biting a grin, and he has his hands on his hips. It is the moment right before I go left and he goes right. 

“See you in there,” I smile. 

He nods. I know he wants to kiss me again. 

“Looking forward to it,” he returns, pretending to be all sorts of casual, his jaw flexed, his eyes fixed on mine, “Lieutenant Ledger.” 

It is quiet when I walk into the lounge after lunch. The country radio station Hangman always tunes into is playing very lowly on the portable radio beside him, on the couch where he’s lounging. It’s playing so lowly that I can’t even make out what song is on, even as I set my bag down on one of the counters. The oscillating fan is on and whirring discreetly in the corner, sending sporadic wafts of cool air around the stuffy room. The sun is pouring in, golden as ever before, shimmering against the bleached tiles. 

My heels are the loudest sound in the room--maybe even the entire hallway.

Hangman glances up through his lashes at first--and I know it’s because he wants to make sure whoever just came in is worth turning his face for--then turns slightly on the couch to behold me unloading my bag. His face is still one of the most handsome ones I’ve ever seen--smooth and tan, but with just enough fine lines to make him seem real. His lip, though--his lip is swollen slightly and bruised the color of a pale plum. It’s scabbed over by now, just a line of red where his lip broke. 

Bob really got him good. It makes me want to hug Bob, look at his knuckles again. I’m still in mild disbelief that Bob even knew how to hold his fist, let alone the fact that he sprang into the action so suddenly and completely. Maggie would’ve bought him a beer for what he did to Hangman’s pretty mouth.  

“Clover,” Hangman nods and for once, his voice isn’t dripping with that melodramatic gallant tone. 

He sounds, at least I think, normal.

“Lieutenant,” I greet.

It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him since the bonfire, since he said what he said and did what he did. My voice sounds firm, but not unfriendly.

“No ‘Bagman’?” he asks softly before he sighs, “can’t tell if that’s better or worse.”

Everyone is calling him Bagman again--and they’re not being subtle about it. Politely, I give a single dry chuckle. Just one hah. Just one forceful exhale through my nose. He doesn’t turn away from me, even when I look back to the desk, setting my pens and highlighters beside my dictionary. 

His messages--I still haven’t responded to any of them. After the initial text, the one Rooster read with a sneer, only one more was sent. He didn’t try to call again and leave a voicemail, no, no. Just one more five-word message. 

Do you hate me now?

It was sent after Rooster and I had already showered and gone to bed, when we were already sleeping together, when I was praising a higher power for the hunk of man drooling into my naked neck and being lulled to sleep by his loud, heavy breathing. 

This is to say that it was sent late--too late for someone who has to be on base as early as he does. I imagine that maybe he laid awake and replayed the sequence in his head. Maybe he keeps having nightmares about it. Maybe he keeps thinking back to just one thing, one small part of it. Maybe the small part he incessantly thinks about is the blistering, inadvertent tears on my face when I staunched his wound. Maybe it’s my silence that he thinks about, the way I stared at him doe-eyed and slack-jawed as he mouthed off to me. Maybe, and I think this is the most likely scenario, he keeps finding himself awake thinking about the one moment we shared just before he did what he did; when he didn’t draw attention to me, when there was a secret between us, when he was just watching me and I was just watching him. 

Or maybe his ego is so inflated that he just can’t stand to be hated by anyone. This, though--this feels less likely.  

I know his shoulders are stiff now--I know he’s tense. I wish that I could just turn around and tell him to move on--that there are more important things to focus on other than the shitty things he said to me. It’s true, at least partly. When I think about what he said, or how he looked at me, it makes my throat tighten and alarm bells cry inside my skull. When I think about the pile of empty cans at his feet or the way he leaned forward to come close to me or the way he bit his words at me before I pressed cotton to his lips--it makes me want to draw into myself. 

I am still somehow embarrassed by what he did, what he said. 

“Everyone thinks Hangman’s the asshole,” Bob had told me during our lunch break, “so don’t fret.”

I was eating an apple then, sitting with him in the cafeteria at a table in the corner. We were sitting by ourselves, both of us propping our feet in empty chairs. I was strategically eating half of the apple in hopes he would grade me a granola bar.

I nodded. 

It was so like Bob to find that out, perusing conversations stealthily until he attained the general consensus. It was so like Bob to synthesize the information with his own free will and then relay it to me like it was his genuine job. 

“Doesn’t everyone always think he’s the asshole?” 

Bob, who was finishing his salad, pushed his glasses back up his nose as he eyed me. He chewed for a long moment, narrowing his eyes. Then he pointed his fork at me, swallowing hard. 

“Are you implying that my internal investigation is ineffective, Faye?” 

He’d been nothing short of perfect since the bonfire--validating me but not condescending me. Now he was back to calling me everything else besides Fee--which meant whatever pity he felt for me was dissipating. He was stepping down from his position as surrogate sibling, at least in one small way. He was back to teasing me, chiding with me. 

It made me heave a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.  

Even with my back turned, I know Hangman’s eyes haven’t left my form. I know he’s still watching me. And I can feel it, sense it, when he opens his mouth to say something to me--can feel that little intake of breath and the muscles in his face working to speak.

“Listen, I--!”

That’s when Rooster walks into the room, just as I turn to look at Hangman over my shoulder, at his bobbing Adam’s apple and sweat-spackled forehead. If Rooster heard anything Hangman said when he was walking into the room, he doesn’t show it. 

He’s smiling as soon as he sees me, but in a smaller way now than yesterday. I know the mission is weighing heavy on him, especially today when they are relentlessly running the fruitless simulation. His shoulders are pulled together tightly, just like Hangman’s, but his eyes are soft when he looks at me. 

“Hey, you,” I say softly, smiling, letting my hand rest on the table. 

His smile broadens a hair, just a hair. I think he is just about to reach out for me, just about to push my hair behind my ear or lay his hand over my own, when he suddenly realizes Hangman is in the room. 

I watch it--watch his eyes dart between Hangman and myself, watch the way his smile begins to falter. But then he’s looking at me again. 

“Hey yourself, Ledger,” he sighs, “who’s up?”

“Blue team,” Hangman says before I can, “Coyote, Phoenix, Bob.”

Rooster just nods, not breaking his eyes from mine. Still, I know, Hangman is looking at me, my back turned to him. It makes my throat burn.  

When Rooster is this close to me, I can see the sweat in his pretty hair from where his helmet was secured on his head. I can see how red his cheeks are, how bitten his lips seem. He’s stressed. No doubt about it. It makes me want to kiss his face all over, makes me want to serve him dinner in bed, makes me want to wrap my lips around him.

“Coffee?” Rooster asks. 

He’s close to me now, close enough that I can feel the naked skin of his arms against mine, close enough that my fingertips are tingling and my lungs are shivering and my knees are weakening. I want to touch him always--but especially when we are this close. 

“Yes,” I tell him, my voice thin, “please.”

“I take mine regular,” Hangman calls, smirking. 

Rooster pretends not to hear him, doesn’t even glance in Hangman’s direction. 

He winks at me, flirty and sweet, and lets our arms graze as he walks past me. He doesn’t have to ask me how I take my coffee, doesn’t have to ask how much I want. He throws one more glance at me before he enters the hallway again and I smile my prettiest smile. 

“What were you saying,” I immediately ask once Rooster’s form has disappeared, “before?” 

I don’t even turn around. I don’t know if I can look at him when he’s being sincere. So I make my hands busy with papers and pens and clips and sticky notes, pretend like I can’t feel the intensity of his gaze. 

“I know I’m a dick,” he says, “and I know I’m especially a dick when I drink too much, which I did.”

He sounds genuinely awkward for the first time, his smooth voice suddenly jagged as he navigates pauses and stammers. I still can’t get myself to turn around.

“I went…too far. I know I hurt your feelings,” he sighs. 

I nod. 

“Humiliated me,” I add and my tone is just as thin as before.

He inhales sharply and I think if I was watching him, he would be nodding, his eyes untrained as he stared down at the floor. 

“For what it’s worth,” he adds quietly, softly, “I am sorry.”

I am sorry. 

It almost knocks me off my feet. Hangman is the kind of guy no one has to know very long before they immediately understand that he isn’t a “sorry” kind of guy. It stuns me into complete silence. 

The silence between us swallows him and I let it, try to look busy still, try to look like I’m organizing my things and preparing my setup, preparing to listen to the comms, re-engaging after our lunch break. But I can’t get myself to move. 

“I take it you probably don’t like me very much now,” he adds.

I know then and there that he also isn’t someone who can sit in silence. He squirms in it--it makes him crazy. 

“I never said that,” I say quickly, finally turning so he can see my cheek.

Maybe I mean it, too. Maybe I just can’t help it. Maybe it’s because the man that danced with me at The Hard Deck, the one who was so cocky and sure of himself but still sweet with me, is still inside him somewhere. Maybe it’s because I knew even at the bonfire that he had drank too much--everyone did. Maybe it’s because I want to be punished for what I did and he was my unknowing, unlikely punisher. Or maybe he’s just too pretty to not like. 

He’s just looking at me, his face somehow both anguished and soft. His brows are pulled together and his lips are tightly pressed against another in a straight line. His forehead is lined with worry and so are the crinkled beside his eyes, but his gaze is soft now. 

Maybe he wants to say more. His jaw flexes, he inhales through his nose deeply, but then Rooster walks back into the room with two paper cups of coffee, beaming at me. 

“Thanks,” I say, taking the steaming cup into my palms. 

The heat burns intensely through the paper material--and in some ways, it brings me back to where I am right now: I am at work, in the lounge, and I have a job to complete.

Rooster is searching my face and just his eyes on me make me want to melt into the tiles. I want to lean forward and kiss him on his pretty mouth, on his perfect lips. But I just smile at him, biting my lip. Then I settle into the chair and pick up a pen. 

Hangman abruptly turns his portable radio off--a louder quietness fills the lounge. I can feel Rooster and him looking at each other, can hear the rustling of Hangman standing up and readjusting his uniform. Before I can even take the cap off my pen, before I can really blur them out and listen in on the comms, Rooster falls in place beside me with his cup of sugary coffee and Hangman falls into place a few seats away from me with his hands folded. 

The tension is palpable. Neither men are willing to speak first.

But I am at work--it would be silly for me to engage in whatever conversation is necessary between the pilots. 

“Could you turn the comm up?” Hangman asks.

His voice is still that same soft voice from before--the one that seems achingly normal.

Without looking between the two of them, I turn the dial on the radio and begin transcribing. Their eyes are burning holes into both sides of my face--both my cheeks are flushed and I can feel the blood spreading to my neck and chest. 

“Is it hot in here?” Hangman asks. 

I say nothing--wish the world would gobble me up. 

 ☾ ☽

There is a water spot on the drop ceiling, brown and big and ugly.  

I am sitting here in the waiting room of the closest hospital to base and I know that it is warm in here. I know that it is crowded with crying babies and crying mothers and whining children and bleeding men and pregnant teenagers. I know that the lights above me are bright white but feel like they’re neon. I know that the air conditioning isn’t working and that the staff is overworked and underpaid. I know that outside the sun is beginning to sink.  

But I can’t get myself to move--can’t adjust, can’t blink, can hardly breathe. And I can’t look away from the ugly, stupid water spot on the ceiling.

Vaguely, I’m aware that Hangman is on one side of me and Rooster is on the other. I know, I think I know, that they are both standing instead of sitting because they gave their seats to an elderly woman and a pregnant woman respectively. 

We listened to the bird strike--the three of us. We all listened to Bob and Phoenix burn in, listened to Maverick direct them to eject. Listened to their voices scream through the comms. 

“We’re going down, Phoenix! We’re going in! We’re going in!”

I don’t know how I did it, but I did not panic at first. I trailed behind Rooster and Hangman as they hurried to Hondo. I think my ears rang from the moment I heard the calls for ejection. And when Rooster and Hangman started for the parking lot, I was right behind them, my vision tunneling. 

Yes, yes, I was watching them in their flight suits and I could see the blue of the sky and feel the heat of the sun--but I was not really there, no. 

I was back up in our jet on that October day, in the endless blue sky, soaring above the snowy terrain of Somewhere, Europe. I was behind my sister, looking at her pink helmet with the scratches on the back. I was turning my cheek and spotting the third dagger. I was watching Maneater switch to guns. I was being pressed against my seat as we bustered. I was pressing the flare-deployment button and nothing was happening. I was listening to my sister call for help, listening to her scream mayday! Mayday! I was pulling my ejection handle, bursting into the sky in tandem with my twin. And then I was watching her die. That’s where I was--from start to finish, from top to bottom--that’s where I really was. Even when I was in the front seat of the Bronco, my hands folded in my lap, my eyes blinking at the road--I wasn’t there. 

I’m still not here. No, not really. 

When Maverick comes down the hallway, when Hangman and Rooster jump forward to speak to him, I don’t think I can move. They’re a million miles away on the other side of the waiting room and I am stuck here, in this stupid little chair, and the pregnant woman beside me is crying. 

Rooster keeps turning to look at me over his shoulder like I’m a toddler bound to wander off--or maybe that’s just how boyfriends are supposed to check in on their shell-shocked girlfriends. I don’t know. 

And very suddenly, all three of the men are looking at me, I can feel it. So I grip the sides of the chair, grip them until my knuckles are as white as rice, and pry myself out of the seated position. Even though I feel like I’m in the endless blue of an October sky, even though I feel like the plane is about to drop out from under me, I square my shoulders and walk in a straight and narrow line to the three of them. 

“Lieutenant Ledger,” Maverick says and his voice sounds so hollow and deep and if Bob is gone I think I will die, just fucking die, and I will wait to do it until I am out of the hospital so they won’t put me on a crash cart and pump my heart and give me oxygen, “they’re going to keep them overnight for observation, but they’re alright. Cuts and bruises.” 

So that’s when I nod solemnly and excuse myself to the restroom.

My vision is tunneling, but I don’t want to touch the walls. Bob’s face, Bob’s sweet and cute and familiar face, is all I can see as I stumble down, down the hallway and into the public restroom. It’s too bright and smelly and pink and ugly in here. It smells like bile and shit and bleach and antiseptic all at once. And it’s much, much quieter here. So quiet that I can faintly hear Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Wham! playing over the speakers.  

“Fuck,” I whisper and it really does sound like I am saying it from behind myself, like my body and soul have untethered.

Locking myself in a stall, I don’t even have time to fall to my knees or wipe the yellow piss off the toilet seat before my body is reacting to the porcelain toilet under me. 

The bile is acidic, burns me all the way from deep in my gut to my throat and to my mouth. The bile is somewhere between green and brown--coffee and apple and granola bar--and my belly is quivering inside my body. 

Fuck. What would I do if Bob died? My best friend on this empty fucking planet. The only boy in the class, the only boy in our degree interested in learning about Virginia Woolf. The boy who sang into my mouth, his breath hot and scented like UV Blue, at a fraternity party on a dirty rug in a dirty house. The boy whose hair I would cut in my little galley kitchen, who always wanted to listen to Aretha Franklin and Elton John. The boy who would pick me up at my apartment with an umbrella and walk me to my classes. The boy who loved my sister as much as I did. The boy who turned into a man somewhere between graduating college and living beneath the California sun. The man who asked my sister’s dates for their ID’s, who kept a folder on his phone especially for them. The man who hates dancing but will always dance with me when our song comes on. The man who memorized poetry and never showed it off, never became cocksure about it--just said it quietly in my ear. 

If he died today, if he burned in, he would die with a mangled fist because of me. His body would be stunted, perfectly branded by the one and only time he ever punched someone. And it was because of me.

Him, that boy, that man. 

The world would be mighty empty without him--my life would be hollow, echoey. 

And I’m crying now, crying as puke spews out of my nostrils and I have to cough so I don’t choke, but maybe I’m crying because I couldn’t guard him. My shield, the shield I thought was supposed to protect everyone else I love, was penetrable. I had more faith in the universe, in whatever being is controlling this life, before. I thought that I would get just one really, really bad thing that would happen and the rest of my life would be pulling the shards of it out of my skin. I thought if I loved someone hard enough, deep enough, then the shitty parts of it would reflect off me and onto them like a burning ray of sunshine. I thought my shitty thing would be their shitty thing. I thought, if nothing else, that the people I loved would be safe. So, so safe.  

When my heaving is dry, when my belly is empty, I straighten myself out. I wipe my face in the mirror, pushing the black mascara staining my undereyes off my skin with shaking fingers. My mouth tastes putrid--I know my breath smells too. So I swish soap in my mouth, ignoring the bitterness, and wash myself thoroughly with water. 

I leave the bathroom, one foot in front of the other, and pretend like I am okay. I’m fine. I just feel like I’m going to faint. Hangman is standing against an outdated poster wall and when he sees me, he nods in my direction. A nod that says come here. 

When I’m standing in front of him, he looks down at me, starting to survey my features, but I wipe under my nose and speak before he can say anything. 

“Can I see him?” 

His open mouth closes. He nods. The blue of his eyes deepens as he stares at the white tile below my feet. 

“C’mon,” he offers, “I’ll walk you.” 

I don’t need to ask where Rooster is. His best friend burned in, too. I know exactly where he is, where he should be. And I know why Hangman was waiting for me outside the bathroom. 

“You okay, kid?” 

Kid. He’s never called me this before. I almost have to strain to hear him over the ringing in my ears. 

“Fine,” I say, my throat still burning from the bile. 

“I know we aren’t the best of friends,” he starts and I look around us, at the blue-green curtains and the foggy glass windows and the pale people in dirty beds and the nurses with their tired eyes and I want to cry again, “but if you want to talk…”

He leaves the end of his sentence open, open for me to finish. 

Shaking my head, I look at the floor. Count my steps. One, two. Three, four. My feet fucking hurt. 

“I don’t,” I say. 

And now we are in front of Bob’s hospital room. Hangman lets his head fall when we stand in the threshold, not pushing his luck. He won’t go in. 

It’s a private room, one that is nice and spacious--too nice and too spacious for just one person with some cuts and bruises. Navy perks. It’s still terribly outdated and smells too much like body and antiseptic. There’s steel appliances and beeping machines and blinking screens and sterile sheets and trash cans and moving beds. But there’s a nice, big window beside Bob’s bed. He's watching the sunset from his spot in the middle of his big, big bed.

I come rushing back into my body and it feels like running full force at a brick wall and making it to the other side. The ringing in my ear subsides, the vision that is tunneled broadens until I can even see the view from his window. I can feel my body again, every single part and every single nerve, and it hurts so good. 

“Floyd,” I choke out, putting my hands on my hips. 

Bob snaps his head in my direction. His face looks perfect--unblemished with wounds, no matter how minuscule. Thank fucking God. 

“Faye,” he says and his voice sounds so relieved, so sad. 

Swallowing feels like such a task. Hangman is looking at my face and I’m growing pink. 

“You’re grounded,” I say, pointing at him and I don’t mean to but I’m choked up again, my eyes watery, “forever. For the rest of your life.” 

Softly, I hear Hangman chuckle quietly. Then Hangman nods one time, sharply, his eyebrows furrowing. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” he mumbles and just before he spins on his heel and starts down the hallway, he glances at Bob, “don’t die on us, Floyd.”  

Bob is shrugging at me, smiling very small, very shyly. 

“You’re the boss,” he says to me, to Hangman. 

Hangman starts down the hallway by himself, his hands in fists by his side. And now I’m walking to him, putting my arms around him, being careful to navigate the IV in his arm, being careful with his body that suddenly feels very small and precious in my arms. 

Stay here. Stay here with me. Don’t move.

He still smells like he just took a shower, still smells like a clean infant. But he also smells like hand sanitizer and sweat and hospital laundry. His hospital shirt is thin and papery against my arms as I hug him to me, as I let my head fall onto his shoulder. 

“Scared me,” I choke, tears rolling down my face, “you asshole.” 

Even though he’s soft under me, I know that his face is becoming wet now, too. I know he was scared. I know that the breath was knocked out of his lungs when he launched out of the burning jet, I know his chest was heavy with the weight of the atmosphere. I know his belly dropped and he felt like he was soaring, falling. I know he thought of me, of Maggie. I know he was worried about Phoenix--I know he shot out first, flying high above the canyon and in those split seconds where he was alone, I know he was worried that he’d left her behind. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry.” 

Maybe he’s saying sorry because he scared me. Maybe he’s saying sorry because he knows that if he died, knows that if he was gone, that I would be thoroughly and completely alone here. 

“Are you okay?” 

I pull back and my nose is running and I can smell the remnants of vomit that came out of my nose but I hold his arms in mine and try to see his body, even if my vision is obscured with fat tears. His hair is messy and I think there’s a cut there, splitting the skin of his scalp, but it’s small and bandaged. His hands are a bit gnarled, I can tell from the amount of bandage on them, but other than that he looks okay. Perfectly okay. 

“I was scared,” he says quietly and that’s when I realize his glasses are bent and sitting lopsided on his pale face, “but I’m okay. I’m good.” 

Chewing my lip, I nod, just watching his sweet face. I told him I would see to it that he is okay. And for some reason, as I watch his eyes land on the spot of vomit on my shirt, I know that I don’t have that ability. I cannot see to anything, not here, not when I’m on the ground. Perpetually below everyone, everything. 

I want to tell him that if I lost him, I wouldn’t be able to move on. But what good would it do? What purpose would it serve? 

So I just hold his face in my hands; my best friend. My hero. I can feel myself frowning.  

“You two did everything right. Everything. You’re the best WSO.”

The earnestness surprises him. His blue eyes glaze with tears and I stroke his cheeks very softly, very sweetly. The fluorescents are burning my skin. 

“Now that you’re grounded I am,” he whispers. 

I can’t help the wet laugh that falls from my mouth. It hurts and it feels so, so good at the same time. Sweet Bob, his face between both my hands. 

“Okay, I’m gonna say it,” I warn him, widening my eyes. 

He nods a few times. 

“I love you, Bob,” I say, shrugging, “just can’t help myself.” 

“Who could?” He asks. 

 ☾ ☽

We meet between Phoenix and Bob’s rooms, in the empty vast hallway that connects them. I am slumped over by now, too tired to straighten my shoulders, my belly very empty and my eyes suddenly too dry. No more tears to cry, no more bile to heave. 

Rooster doesn’t look much better. His hair is falling, his mustache drooping under his frowning lips. His flight suit is unzipped halfway, black t-shirt clinging to his skin. He can’t get himself to perk up either.

“Hey,” I whisper to him, meeting in the middle, face angled towards him, “she okay?” 

His hands very softly find my elbows and he holds them solidly, looking down at me with his brow furrowed deeply. He’s holding himself steady, grounding himself with my weight. It makes me plant my feet more surely on the tile. His eyes are downcast to look at my parted lips, my pale cheeks. 

“She’s fine,” he says, his voice crackly and deep, “Bob?” 

I nod, coming a little bit closer to him, close enough for my folded hands to touch his canvas flightsuit. 

“Fine,” I whisper. 

The intercom over us is mumbling something, there is distant 80s music playing somewhere near the nurse’s station, babies are crying, machines are beeping. And in this quiet, but also not-so-quiet, hallway we just stand there. His hands over my elbows, the backs of my hands pressed against the flat plane of his belly. We are both looking down at the floor, down at our feet.

“I’ll drive you home,” he whispers to me. 

I nod, looking at the stuff on the toe of his laced-up boots. 

“You aren’t staying?” 

I make my voice flat when I say it--can’t possibly give him anymore grief today. He’s been through enough--too much even. I just want to lay him down on my bed and let him sleep. 

He pushes my knotted hair off my shoulders then lets his hands come to my waist. He grips me, holding me tighter but not closer. My eyes flutter shut. His hands feel like bathing in a pool of warm, soapy water. 

“Have to go back to base,” he whispers, “but I’ll come back late tonight. That okay?”

That okay? As if he couldn’t show up on any day, any time and I wouldn’t have a glass of sparkling wine waiting for him. Like there wouldn’t already be cookies in the oven.

“Whatever you want, Bradley,” I whisper and I really mean it--mean it with every piece of myself. 

Finally, he closes the distance between us. When he wraps his arms around me, really wraps his arms around me, everything else melts away like we’ve just stepped into the shower together. All the shit, all the awful. Every single bit of the day washes away.

If only we were together during the worst parts of each other’s lives. If only he was here when I was discharged from the hospital after the accident, when I was wheeled outside the automatic hospital doors without my twin sister and my parents cried in strange silence. If only I was there when his mother passed, holding his hand as he held hers. If only we had stood beside each other at the funerals--then maybe we wouldn’t have been so lost. Then maybe things wouldn’t hurt so wholly. 

But then I jolt, jolt myself back to reality. Because if something bad could happen to Bob, Bob who I’ve known for what feels like my entire life, then something bad could absolutely happen to Rooster, too. And then it wouldn’t matter how lost either of us ever got because it would be over. Then I would be the one alone, standing over the grave, the blank shots of the rifles ringing through the--

Without a single word, Rooster kisses my throat very tenderly. He kisses my four freckles, still doesn’t speak. But it is enough. It is enough right now to keep me here with him. 

Rooster doesn’t release me, his nose finding its way back in my hair. I don’t interrupt him, just stand here, gripping him, digging my nails into his flight suit. Stay here with me, baby.

“Lead the way,” I whisper finally, pretending like I hadn’t just imagined standing over his open grave, pretending like the smile on my lips is really authentic, really me, “tramp.” 

When we walk back through the waiting room, we both see Hangman at the same time. He is leaning against the wall by the exit, his eyes on the floor as he incessantly rubs the scab on his lip. His hair is falling, too, but the most prevalent part of his being that Rooster and I seem to also both notice in tandem are the purple bags under his eyes. 

I think about his message late at night, think about how early he had been on base this morning. And now it’s night time and he is still here in this dingy waiting room. 

“Hangman,” Rooster says softly when we approach him, our hands joined. 

Hangman snaps to attention immediately, hands dropping to his sides, his lip red with irritation. 

He looks at Rooster with his bloodshot eyes widened just slightly--then flickers his eyes to mine. He looks small standing here by himself, like he is our forgotten child. And I wish I could help it, but my heart throbs because I suddenly want to take care of him, too. I want to run him a bath and let him stay in my bathroom for as long as he wants. I want to pour him a glass of wine and let him pick a movie. 

“They’re good?” 

He is looking between us again. I nod sharply. 

“Fine,” I whisper.

His shoulders drop, chest loosens. I wish that my fingers weren’t tingling, wish that my heart was not throbbing, wish my eyes weren’t so glossy right now. Rooster squeezes my hand and I squeeze his, too. I wish I could press my lips against his palm right now, right this moment. But Hangman is looking down at me very seriously, very gravely. 

“Can I walk out with you guys?” 

Then they’re both looking at me, both of them so exhausted, so stressed, so tight. I think about Bob calling me the boss, think about Rooster looking to me for every decision now. So I nod again, biting my lip. 

“Of course you can.” 

So we walk out together, the three of us. Our eyes are half-shut and our walks are stilted by tight joints and even tighter, more stressed muscles. The night is dark and wide and our cars are parked very far away. Fuck, my feet fucking hurt. 

“Hold on,” I mumble to them before we can even get ten feet from the hospital entrance. 

They both pause, looking back at me as I slip my shoes off and fall back onto the earth four inches shorter and a million pounds lighter. I have to smile at them, smile very small. Silently, Rooster reaches out and takes my shoes from me, holding them. It makes my throat tight--makes me think of the suitors that would hold Maggie’s shoes for her when she got tired of wearing them. Oh, Lord. 

“Do you want dinner, Hangman?” I ask. 

Rooster glances at me from the corner of his eye, mouth flat. I squeeze his hand again. It’s okay. It’s fine. And he seems to understand this--understand that I cannot help but forgive. I cannot help but move forward and take care of everyone. I have always had a soft spot for pilots. 

Hangman is pretending like he isn’t shocked. He’s blinking rapidly at the night around us, his hands in his pockets, his spine straightened. 

“That would be nice,” he says tightly, “thank you.”

Rooster drives me home silently, the headlights from Hangman’s purring Jaguar lighting our silhouettes. I am sitting in the middle of the bench, my head on Rooster’s shoulder. He drives with one hand, his legs spread, his arm draped over me and his free hand holding on tight to my arm. 

Going to California by Led Zeppelin is playing now. 

 It is peaceful in here, listening to the cars whizz past us, listening to the radio, feeling the night air leak in through the cracked windows. Life will not be peaceful for a long time after this. No, no. This feels like the last stop in a while. 

And when we pull onto Mulberry Street--the street with the house that I own, the street where my sister used to drive down all the time--he finally speaks. He clears his throat first and I look away from the eucalyptus trees and the purple sage and desert mariposas being illuminated by the Broncos headlights, look up at his serious face and his flexed jaw. He’s watching the road very seriously, his lips parted. 

“I love you,” he says and I hear it clear as day. 

It sounds like being called home when the streetlights turned on. It sounds like the dinner bell is ringing. It feels like my entire body is being dipped in nectar. It sounds perfectly correct. 

His grip on my arm tightens slightly, just enough for me to notice. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the road, doesn’t dare glance at me. He just keeps watching the street before us, keeps waiting for my breathing to even out. 

“I know,” I finally say because I do know, I really do. 

His face slacks, his grip lessens. 

We pull into my driveway as Hangman parks on the sidestreet. And then Rooster looks at me and the motion light above my garage blinks on. We are just sitting, our thighs pressed together, looking at each other in the warm July air. Here we are, at my house, and he is not going to come inside. 

I stroke his cheek, his skin like smooth leather beneath my cold fingers.

“Come back, okay?” 

He nods, mouth flat, eyebrows pulled together. He’s looking at my mouth. 

“Okay,” he whispers.

And we both know what I mean. We both know that I mean tonight--and every single night after. He knows I mean the mission, if he’s chosen. We both know that I mean always. Come back always, okay?

He presses his lips to mine and we kiss softly, tenderly, sweetly.

And then I’m squeezing his knee and climbing out of his car and closing the door and standing there with my leather bag and my heels in my hands and waiting for Hangman to approach me, his hands in his pockets. He falls in-step beside me and we both wave to Rooster, who is watching us with his throat tight. 

We silently watch the Bronco pull out and start down the street, darkness falling over us, Rooster just a dot of cyan in the dark. Crickets are chirping and somewhere distantly, cars roar on the highway and seagulls cry out fleetingly. If we strain and don’t breathe, don’t make a sound, maybe we can hear the tide coming in.

“Do you like prosecco?” I ask, turning to Hangman. 

The motion-sensor light blinks off. 

It’s almost eleven o’clock when I set our bowls in the sink, dirtied with spinach and white-wine and little pieces of spaghetti. I refill our glasses, taking a deep breath alone in my dark kitchen, my cheeks red and my eyes tired. And then I hold them in my hands, push through the kitchen door, and return to the living room. 

Hangman is sitting against the marmalade ottoman, his legs spread open as he twiddles with the fibers in one of the rugs he sits on. He takes the glass from me thankfully, holding it with two hands. 

I go back to the couch, where I lay against its plushness, my feet on the coffee table. The candles are lit and the curtains are drawn. There is a distinct sense that we are both just waiting for Rooster to come back to us, to come home. 

The Rolling Stones’ album Sticky Fingers is spinning. Wild Horses is playing.

We haven’t said much to each other. He sat at my kitchen table while I cooked and was polite when I served him. We ate in almost complete silence, too, and I don’t know if it’s because we are so tired or maybe because the day has been so long. Or maybe we don’t have anything to say to each other. 

It’s only been an hour since Rooster left us here together, only an hour and a half since we left the hospital as a trio. Not very long at all since we came into the living room after dinner. 

In place of words, Hangman has been looking around my house with shining eyes. It’s the same way other people look at my house when they see it for the first time. Filled with so much color, so much exuberance. It is so interesting to see how I live, the researcher who exclusively wears linen earth tones. My home is beautiful, I know this. I know this because it has been built with my hands, with my brain, with my love. It is everything I have ever wanted in a home. 

Finally, he speaks. 

“Your house is nice,” he says quietly. 

I nod, glancing at him on my floor. He’s looking down into his glass. 

“Thank you,” I whisper, “took a long time to get it here.” 

Another beat passes and he sucks in a breath, looking up at me with his tired eyes and his mouth a singular plane on his face. A shadow is beginning to appear on his face--stubble, a very dark blonde. 

“I like you, you know,” he says and it’s not hasty or reckless. He just says it. 

My eyes fall to my glass, too. Fuck. I say nothing. My throat is tight. 

“You’re a good person,” he continues, “like an actual good person--no bullshit.” 

Graceless lady / You know who I am / You know I can't let you / Slide through my hands 

  I take a long, long drink. The bubbles are making my nose tingle. Stevie is sitting on top of the stairs, blinking slowly at Hangman the same way she blinked at Bob. Well, you definitely aren’t Him. 

“Thanks,” I mutter. 

I wish he would stop talking now. My heart is in my throat. But there is also that need to keep him talking, to let him cry on my shoulder, to spill all of his feelings so I can sweep them into a dustpan and keep the floor spick and span. 

“When I say I like you…” he trails off and I let him, blinking at the sofa, measuring my breaths, “but you haven’t thrown me a second glance. I know you only have eyes for Bradshaw.” 

Fuck. Fuck. 

“You two deserve each other,” he says again, “he’s crazy about you.”

My throat aches with a dry laugh. He’s looking at me.

I can’t help it--it’s the prosecco, it’s the image of Bob in a hospital bed, it’s Rooster’s confession in my driveway, it’s the ghost of my sister in the room with us. 

“Why’d you do it?”

I finally turn and look at his face. I can’t stop looking at the spot where his lip is split. His mouth is ajar, his hair is messy. He’s blinking at me, incessantly rubbing his finger around the rim of his glass. He knows what I’m asking. I don’t have to spell it out for him, I don’t have to point at the elephant standing in the corner. He just knows.

“I just told you why,” he says softly, shrugging. His voice is almost a whisper, which is the first time I have heard him speak so quietly. 

He sounds kind when he speaks to me quietly--sounds real and grounded.

Except he’s talking like he just tugged on my pigtails at recess. He’s talking like he just cut in line in the cafeteria and stuck his tongue out at me. He’s talking like he’s a little boy and I’m a little girl and we still abide by the societal rules of the youth. Be mean to girls when you like them. Pick on them. It makes me a little bit sick to my stomach. 

I actually scoff out loud, loud enough to make him blink in surprise. 

“How elementary of you,” I say, taking another long drink. 

He shakes his head, his eyes falling down to the empty space beside me. Don’t fucking sit here. Don’t move. I feel like anything in the world could happen if he moved and sat beside me. We are two people who should not be alone in a room together--two people so exhaustively different, so on two opposite ends of different spectrums. This empty couch around me, this space beside me--it is not for him. 

He doesn't move.   

“Never said I was a complicated guy,” he responds. 

There’s another beat and I can’t stop thinking about the way his entire body softened when I pressed the cotton to his lips, when I was crying and couldn’t help myself, when I felt like I was on fire. 

“But you don’t hate me,” he says before continuing, “you don’t even dislike me.” 

I shake my head, furrowing my eyebrows just slightly. 

“No,” I confirm verbally, rolling my cheek to my shoulder to look at him again. 

He has turned so his entire body faces me. He is still leaning up against the ottoman, his legs splayed before him, his feet slightly obscured by the couch. His face is warm in the candlelight. 

“Why not?” 

Now I blink in surprise. Why not?

“Because then what’s the point?” I say and I mean it, I really do. 

What is my purpose here, on this earth that my sister is buried in, if not to love? What is the point of my own being, my own entire being, if not to forgive and push forward? Who am I if I am not taking care of anyone--of everyone? What is the reason for my existence if not to nurture? 

I can’t say any of this to him, though--this I am crucially, keenly aware of. 

“The point of what?” He presses. 

I gesture to the air around me. 

“Of this,” I chuckle humorlessly, “of anything.”

He slouches back against the ottoman further, his chest sinking. 

“See,” he quietly says, eyes falling to the rugs, “there it is. That goodness.”

I want to roll my eyes. I want my sister to be here beside me to lighten Hangman up. He is so wholly deflated, sitting here in my house with his belly full of my pasta, and I don’t know how to pump all that cocksure air back inside him. 

“I’m not that good of a person,” my voice quivers, “you know that. Everyone does now.”

Even I know that blow is low when I say it. My face is hot. He doesn’t seem fazed. 

“Having a high body count doesn’t make you--!”

He stops talking when he meets my eyes. I can’t help the expression that holds my features--my eyebrows sloped, my mouth pursed, eyes narrowed. It is a mom look--a look of disappointment, a look that says shhh. A look that is still, in its own way, nurturing. 

But as soon as he feels his face flatten, he inflates a bit. He sits up a little straighter, setting his glass on the ground beside him. 

“Okay then,” he says, “I’ll bite. What makes you not that good of a person?”

 I gape at him for a moment, chest flushed. Fucking pilots. 

“Lots of things.” 

My addiction. The booze. Not knowing I was pregnant for fourteen weeks. Not knowing who the father was. Being in rehab on mine and my sister’s 25th birthday. Wanting to die with her in the woods. Wanting to make my parents whatever parents are when they lose all their children. 

“Like?”

 He’s really pressing now. 

I scoff again. 

“Why do you wanna know?” 

My voice is that silly, unintentional bitter voice that I get when I’m upset.

He gestures to me with wide eyes. Oh, right. Because he likes me. It makes me soften, makes me pull my legs into myself.

With my eyes downcast, I pick lint off my pants and say, “What, you want me to talk you out of having a crush on me?”

I don’t look up, but I see his head when it nods one time, just one solid jerk. Fucking Christ. But I am not ready to give him all the parts of myself that I have given Rooster--not ready to let him know me like Bob does 

“Because I’m still messed up after what happened to me,” I say, “and I saw things that nobody else should have to see.” 

He’s staring at me and my throat is raw. I take another drink, my face so hot that it could make a cake bake. 

“Like what?” 

I snap up at that. His face is soft, plain. He isn’t challenging me. He’s inviting me in a strange, strange way. But no. No, no. These things I’ve seen--they will be mine until I die. Because no one needs to know. I will put her to bed, let her rest, in that small way. No one needs to know about the smell of her body or the way her eyes were wide open. It’s just for me--we were born together and her death will die when I do. 

“You really, really don’t want to know.” 

When I say this to him, my voice is thin and flat. 

“What if I do?” 

I have to bite down hard on my lip. He sounds like Maggie--challenging me in that quiet, intense way. 

“Trust me, Jake,” I say a little bit louder now, emptying my glass before I finish, “you don’t.”

Then I stand up and cross the living room, through the kitchen door, and open my fridge. I am shaking so badly that I almost let the cold bottle slip out of my grip and onto the floor. But I just pour myself another drink and come back into the living room with my glass and the bottle. 

He watches me set the bottle on the table, watches me return to my spot, chewing my lip. 

“That doesn’t help,” he says. 

His voice is calm. That doesn’t help him not like me? I could puke again. 

“Well, fuck me then,” I sigh, exasperated, throwing my hand up and looking at him. 

Then I realize what I’ve said. We both shift in our spots and I shake my head, that silly blush creeping up my chest again. 

“I don’t listen to music past 2016,” I start and I don’t even have to tell him that it’s because it was the last year I was able to listen to music with my sister--the last year she was alive, “and I want to get married and have kids and buy project houses. I don’t want to be in the Navy forever.”

His face is pulling together, lips pursing, eyes narrowing.

 “Maybe I just don’t know you very well, but I’m guessing those are the last things that you want, right?” I ask. 

He nods. 

“Well,” I sigh, smiling, “there you go. Crush averted.”

A quietness falls over us. I get up and flip the record, running my cold hands over my face before I sit back on the couch. He is more pulled into himself now, his legs criss-crossed. 

There is a strange energy in the air--somewhere between buzzing and limp. He’s looking at me still, fingering the carpet beneath his hands. 

“Faye,” he says, his voice profoundly big and loud in this living room. 

It’s the first time he’s ever called me by my name--my actual name, the one that was dissected from my sister’s.

Our eyes meet. 

“I never meant to make you cry,” he says and I know, can tell, that he means it. 

I can’t help but smile. He is such an asshole. He would be so, so perfect for someone like Maggie. He could make a different girl very happy, fill her up so nicely with his words and that face and his body. 

But even as I sit here in his sweet gaze, I am radically and indisputably in love with Bradley Bradshaw. There is not even the beginnings of a single doubt. It is intrinsic to me, the same as forgiveness and kindness is to me. 

“No one ever does.”

After one more moment, one where he rakes his hands through his hair and finishes off his glass and throws his legs out in front of him again, he grins at me. His inflating bit by bit.

“You wanna know what made me text you?”

No, no. Not really. Not at all. Because this is making me very dizzy. Because this is making me ache for my sister in a way that I usually don’t ache for her. I wish I could go give her a panicked phone call in the privacy of my backyard and beg her to come save me. Fuck, she would have a hay-day with this. Relentlessly teasing the two pilots pining after me. Me of all people. Fuck.

I don’t answer, so he just says it, before I can stop him. 

“It was when you came back to get your things,” he says and he still sounds soft but there’s an edge to his voice, “and I said another shitty thing to you--on top of the shitty things that made Bob of all people actually punch me in the face--and instead of shitting on me too--you took care of me. My lip--the cotton. I made you cry and you were still cleaning up my face.”

It makes me embarrassed when he explains it. It makes me embarrassed because I did not attack him the way Maggie would have--all teeth and torn flesh and sharp nails and decisive strikes. No, no. I froze--just like Rooster--and let Hangman say all the shitty things that he said and then I went back and took care of him. 

“You don’t think that makes me weak?”

The voice that says this hardly sounds like my own--so meek, so doubtful. 

He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing. 

“I think it makes you better than the rest of us,” he says gently, “tougher, really.”

“Tougher?” I echo.  

He’s watching me bite my lip. He nods again.

“Yes,” he confirms, “tougher.” 

I’m biting my lip so hard that I taste metal. I wish Rooster would come home now, right now, and interrupt whatever energy is invading this room. Hangman is being too friendly, too sweet--it’s starting to scare me. Maybe he’s delirious. Maybe today has traumatized him more than we thought before.

He’s just looking at me now, smiling faintly, softly. He’s looking at me the way Rooster looks at me--his eyes just a touch too bright, his face a touch too open and pretty. I swallow hard. 

Moonlight Mile is playing now. 

It’s when I move my eyes from his, my chest starting to hurt, that he looks down at his glass again. He sighs very deeply, seems to be thinking about something very hard. I wish we weren’t alone--I wish someone else was seeing him like this so they would understand why I am so soft in some spots. 

“It’s also when I realized you were too good for me,” he says, a little louder now. 

My chest is burning, pulsing. Fuck. I can’t get myself to say anything else--no words will come to me. Not now, not when he is being so obscurely soft. 

“I think I should go,” he tells me. 

I nod, biting my lip. 

“Okay.” 

So we stand up and he looks tired as he ever has before, his lip plum-colored and still swollen. The rest of his face is so pretty that it’s actually mildly offensive. He takes his glass to the kitchen without me saying anything and I trail behind him and cork the bottle before putting it on my fridge. 

There’s that silence again. We don’t say anything as he washed the glass with his hand, don’t say anything while he dries it with a linen tea towel, don’t say anything when he turns to me with his face golden and rosy.

I am just living to be lying by your side / But I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road 

It isn’t until he’s on my front porch that we say anything to each other. I’m holding the door open with my foot, leaning against the doorway with my arms crossed. He is meandering down the steps, but pauses and turns to me. He looks very tired--his eyes are red. 

“Did I stand a chance?” He asks. 

How could I be anything but honest when he’s standing there looking like that?

“No,” I sigh, “you didn’t.”

This gives him some sort of solace. He nods, sucking his lip under his teeth. If his ego is wounded, he doesn’t say anything to me. He doesn’t let his expression run free with the good grief of the situation. 

“Right,” he says, nodding. 

“If you’re too tired,” I say because I have to, because I really have to, “you can sleep here. On the couch.”

He blinks at me a few times before roses paint his cheeks. He shakes his head determinedly. 

“No,” he tells me, “I might get the wrong idea.” 

He winks at me a final time before he finishes the trek to his car, which is parked dutifully on the street and glowing under the moonlight. 

Fucking Christ.

He waves from inside the car and I smile, raising my hand, too. It isn’t until he’s driving down the street that I finally close the door. 

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: I literally can't help myself, I love Hangman so much...such a complex character. and I really love writing dialogue for him!!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[garden-with-squid]

Thoughts on The One-Straw Revolution

I've been reading a digital copy of Masanobu Fukuoka's book, The One-Straw Revolution, available for free here: https://library.uniteddiversity.coop/Food/The-One-Straw-Revolution.pdf

To briefly summarize, Fukuoka's philosophy of "do-nothing" farming meant paying close attention to and working with the natural environment in order to reduce unnecessary work, increase yields, and increase soil fertility when compared to chemical and conventional farming techniques. He greatly impacted the organic farming movement and techniques, such as no-till gardening, cover crops as living mulch, and crop rotation. His philosophy also reminds me of the modern definitions of slow living, permaculture, and degrowth.

More details and personal thoughts/reflections under the cut.

To preface my thoughts, the way Fukuoka writes - humble, straightforward, a little eccentric to most people - sounds just like my dad. That's a big reason why I read it so quickly, haha.

Note, this is largely a philosophy book with a lot of influence from Buddhism and Taoism, though not strictly subscribing to any particular faith. Fukuoka believed that a simple life aligned with nature nourishes the land, body, and spirit, while seeking to control nature for profit, desire, or an abstract concept of "progress" leads to environmental destruction and negative outcomes for humans. My summary doesn't really do it justice, so I recommend reading through the book or intro.

While Fukuoka describes what exact techniques work for his fields, they are not meant to be copied in every garden; farmers must understand the conditions they are growing in and adjust accordingly.

Fukuoka's method includes strategically minimizing human intervention, growing according to what would naturally flourish on the land/season. Strong, well-adapted plants on well-nourished soil will naturally resist pests, disease, and drought. For example, he allows vegetables to grow semi-wild in his orchard without pruning, staking, transplanting, etc.

Recently, I have been anxiously fussing in the garden, checking for water, disease, pests, fruit, etc. as one usually expects a gardener to do, but I do wonder what's the minimum amount of work needed to maintain my plants. It took Fukuoka decades of trial and error to fine-tune his methods in his particular environment, and growers must do the same in their own environment as well.

I currently struggle with seed starting and container gardening. It's certainly appealing to throw some seeds down and let nature decide which ones will live.

I'm still learning the climate in my veggie garden, and my parent's house is more inland with hotter, drier summers and hard clay dirt. How would I set up a productive yard that improves soil health/fertility over time with minimal work? California can and does grow a fuckton of produce, but what types of plants would naturally flourish in my yards, especially when comparing native plants with conventional vegetable crops?

What would a local, "natural" diet look like in Southern California? What food cultures would I draw from - Native American, Mexican, my mom's native Indonesia? What would be nourishing for my body, and how much of that food can I actually grow here?

What cover crops would be best to restore our soil? Perhaps a native like tomcat or pinpoint clover, or a more readily available white or red clover? Is it important to use native plants compared to similar plants from other parts of the world (ex. the Mediterranean), even if they fill a similar ecologic niche? How "green" is a yard in a desert supposed to be anyway?

All of these questions will influence my decisions as a gardener. I've hardly even discussed the spiritual/philosophical aspects of the book either. My Asian philosophy professor would be disappointed that I cannot explain it well, but reading the book is a "finger pointing at the moon" situation; enlightenment cannot be "known" logically, it is only experienced by giving up ego/control/desire. For Fukuoka, that meant living as a part of, not separate from, nature/reality.

Or something like that. Fukuoka is a much better teacher than I am.

Overall, the book was a thoughtful read as someone interested in the healing and restorative work of gardening. This was my favorite quote from Fukuoka:

"Extravagance of desire is the fundamental cause which has led the world into its present predicament. Fast rather than slow, more rather than less - this flashy "development" is linked directly to society's impending collapse. It has only served to separate man from nature. Humanity must stop indulging the desire for material possessions and personal gain and move instead toward spiritual awareness."

I have added two more of Fukuoka's books to my reading list: The Natural Way of Farming, and Sowing Seeds in the Desert.

[shrimp-bird]

Tomcat clover (Trifolium willdenovii)

[willowwhispersspeakeasy]

Quinn’s Danger List

i mentioned that my twst mc is scared of Riddle, so here is their perspective on some other twst characters

Absolutely Fucking Not

Riddle Rosehearts

often called “rolled-heads” instead of his surname by Quinn. they avoid the young man at almost any cost.

Healthy Fear

Professor Trein

Quinn hates being yelled at, especially for breaking rules

Jamil Viper

while not frightened of him Quinn absolutely does not want to get on his bad side

Vil Schoenheit

self explanatory

Should Be Scared but Has No Sense Of Self Preservation

Floyd Leech

“he’s really sweet in his own way. and i kinda like his squeezes. he’s big and strong and… it’s nice to be tiny sometimes.”

touch starved Quinn is used to being ignored by others and Floyd’s attention they greatly appreciate

Jade Leech

“he’s always been nice to me. as long as you don’t take any food he gives you, Jade is wonderful!”

Quinn likes Jade quite a lot. they believe they have a bond with him as the only members in their club. Jade likes them bc they are willing to go into dangerous places to retrieve mushrooms for him.

Rook Hunt

“yeah okay i’m still trying to get him to stop stalking people, but! he’s getting a lot better about it!”

he is not. he simply hides it, or stalks them instead. Quinn is very attached to Rook, often seen following him around for target practice in the woods

Has A Grudge Against

Leona Kingscholar

“he’s just an overgrown tomcat. but i really wish he’d stop being such an asshole.”

Quinn holds not even the slightest fear of Leona. more likely to annoy the lion by trying to force him to go with them somewhere, or occasionally napping on top of him. they still blame him for nearly killing Ruggie.

Sebek Zigvolt

it’s mostly a rivalry with them. Quinn calls him annoying, he calls them uncultured.

Trey Clover

he reports to Riddle, therefor is untrustworthy in their book

Headmaster Crowley

self explanatory

[sneeoki]

I wonder if clover cookie would like will wood music.

Like I could see him singing tomcat disposal, or Willard.

[nightingaelic]

POODLES IN THE WASTELAND

i jest I jest

But 👀

What about pets? Either ones companions would have or a very uncommon one that someone wouldn’t think was a good pet, BUT IS. Deathclaws you can ride like a pony, mole rats that want belly rubs, cazadore’s as cattier pigeons! What are your thoughts?

Or like, Danse or Piper or Fawkes with something hilarious Idek ignore me

Oooookay, here’s my comprehensive list of companions - ALL companions, across Fallouts 3, 4, New Vegas and 76 - and their (headcanon) choices in wasteland pets. I’ll give a little explanation for each - particularly as many of these companions are transients and don’t have the luxury of owning a home to keep pets at. Also, I feel like most of the companions, while they might not necessarily like pets, would be somewhat fond or at least respectful of the pets of the Lone Wanderer/Courier/Sole Survivor/Vault Dweller, like Dogmeat and Rex. 

Bighorners

Lily Bowen: Everyone’s favorite super mutant grandma is already an experienced shepherdess in Jacobstown, and she’s more than willing to tear some night stalkers apart to keep her herd safe. If that’s not love beyond the norm for wasteland livestock, I don’t know what is. She’s probably given all of her bighorners names after the characters in the television reruns she used to watch on holotape in Vault 17, like Grace and Audrey and Lucille. 

Brahmin

Raul Tejada: Actually spent a decent part of his pre-war life living on a ranch, so he knows that most brahmin don’t deserve being labeled “irritable” just because people don’t know how to read their body language. I think he’d follow wild brahmin herds around a bit on a whim and keep them from coming to any harm, especially the little ones. He gives them names like the cattle he grew up with, Corazon and Gordo and Blanca. 

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Doesn’t truck with the wild herds, but she knows that part of the success of a caravan lies with how well they treat their pack animals. All of her caravan’s brahmin have names - Penny, Magic and Sprinkles - and she’s careful to pair them up with drivers who are patient and work well with their various personalities. 

Cats

Butch DeLoria: While Butch ultimately decided to leave Vault 101 behind, I don’t think he would ever truly lose his fear of radroaches after what they did to his mom. Having a little friend to warm his bunk in Rivet City and pounce on intruders would probably set his mind at ease, maybe a black tomcat with one ear named Pepper. He might even gift his mom a kitten when he next comes to visit. 

Star Paladin Cross: I don’t think Cross much sees the use of an animal that doesn’t contribute to the community it lives in, like most of the Brotherhood of Steel. Cats, however, are excellent at pest control, even if the rats are bigger nowadays. I think she’d give the resident cats at the Citadel some pets in passing, and she’d smile when she has to extract playful kittens from inside her power armor frame. She’s especially fond of the cat colony’s matriarch, a scarred old tabby named Gemma. 

Curie: Upon her transition into a synth body, Curie is overjoyed with most animals and their new willingness to approach her for attention. She especially loves cats because she can pick them up and better feel their fur and purring. Her favorite cat is an orange stray in Diamond City that she calls Claude. 

Piper Wright: A companion for Nat when she’s out adventuring, an unbiased friend to bounce the latest opinion piece off of before going to print, and a lap-warmer for when you’re typing up the latest article about the exploits of the Minutemen - what’s not to like? The Wright family cat is a slippery, elegant calico named Sugar Bomb. 

Preston Garvey: While the Minutemen forts and settlements definitely lean more toward keeping dogs around for security purposes, I think Preston likes his pets quieter and less likely to bowl you over in excitement. The one most likely to sleep with him in his bunk at Sanctuary is a grumpy gray gentleman named Anchovy. 

Deathclaws

Veronica Santangelo: If anyone is crazy enough to swipe a deathclaw egg from a nest and try to hatch, rear and train a personal killing machine named Izzy, it’s Veronica. This will probably just alienate her from her Brotherhood chapter even more, but I’m sure she would take special care to make sure that her usual Mojave Wasteland haunts take a peek through a scope to see if the approaching deathclaw has a human on its back before taking a shot. 

Dogs

Clover: I don’t think Clover gets out beyond Paradise Falls much, so the only animals she’s used to are the dogs the raiders bring around when passing through. She probably has favorites among the usual visitors and enjoys tossing them bits of meat when she’s allowed to get away from Eulogy and Crimson. If liberated, she’d probably get at least three of her own dogs to watch over her while she sleeps: One small dog to carry with her, a Pekingese or Pomeranian descendant named Coco, and two large dogs to follow through on intimidation and protection, a mastiff named Rock and a Doberman descendant named Roll. 

Jericho: Jericho doesn’t deserve a dog but he’d probably have one around anyway to sniff out caps caches and hidden loot after he’s shot everyone in the vicinity. Some slinky beagle mix named Dewey, probably. 

Fawkes: I don’t think Fawkes would be picky at all about what kind of dog he’d have. He strikes me as the type who would adopt any half-friendly mutt he ran across. I do think he would have a bit of a soft spot for friendlier mutant hounds, though, and maybe view their mutated circumstances as similar to his own. He’d also be absolutely amazing at playing fetch. Just imagine how far he could lob a stick or ball. All of his dogs would have literary names too, like Byron and Agatha and Edgar. 

Craig Boone: Though he’s a bit of a prodigy at sniping, Boone knows his limitations when it comes to spotting hidden enemies on the horizon. I can see him having a hound dog at his side to find the more elusive ones and help him get rid of them faster. Maybe a bloodhound mutt named Bravo. 

Cait: Doesn’t like people, but she adores dogs. Having had the life where she’s been abused, exploited and forced into slavery, she’s keenly aware that those like the ones who took advantage of her treat dogs much the same. She’s very protective of any dog she encounters and is very likely to punch you in the face if you so much as look at one wrong. She’d probably name any pup she adopted Lucky. 

Hancock: Honestly, he’s just a fan of any animal that is happy to hang out with you whether you’re drunk, high, fighting raiders or patrolling downtown Boston. The Goodneighbor strays know him as the guy who always has mirelurk jerky in his pockets. His favorite is a rough-and-tumble, black-and-white spotted cattle dog descendant that he cheekily calls King George. 

Robert MacCready: He’s not quick to trust dogs, but once he’s sure they’re not a threat, they’re one of the few critters around which he’ll relax completely. He’s still a little wary of them around Duncan, but any dog that’s a part of his family is more or less his son’s permanent babysitter. 

Nick Valentine: Dogmeat is also basically his dog. The two have a history of working cases together, with Dogmeat just turning up whenever a trail goes cold and leading Nick to the evidence he needs to reopen his investigation. Nick doesn’t know how or why Dogmeat does it, but he’s not about to ruin a good thing. 

Strong: I don’t think he would turn down a ferocious mutant hound as a friend. He’d probably feed it mole rats and call it something like Killer. 

Foxes

Beckett: This former raider has a love-hate relationship with a fox that keeps going through his trash. He affectionately calls him Lil’ Bastard. 

Sofia Daguerre: Having crashed back to an earth she doesn’t recognize, I think Sofia would be tickled that the foxes of Appalachia have basically stayed the same despite the bombs. I can see her leaving dinner scraps out on her porch for one that she sometimes spots in the foliage, and slowly coaxing the critter to come into the light. She names her Scarlett once she finally convinces her to eat out of her hand. 

Mega sloths

Settler forager: I would not be at all surprised if this man ran into a mega sloth in the Mire and decided to try befriending it. The creature, probably surprised at this old guy’s nerve, decided to accept the handful of leaves he offered and grew slowly more fond of the guy’s persistence. It doesn’t know its name is Fergus but it does know that if a human is wearing overalls, it’s probably not a threat. 

Mole rats

Deacon: Alright, hear me out. Deacon has a fondness for underdogs, and mole rats are about as underdog as they come. I think Deacon thinks these little guys are cute despite their wrinkles and buck teeth, and I think he sees the value in having a tunneling pet that likes to collect shiny things. One of his deep cover hideouts is in an old tunnel system in the northern Commonwealth, where he hangs out with a young mole rat named Henry. 

Owls

Raider punk: This radio operator got wind of an abandoned nest of owlets in Appalachia early on in his career and, being the nearest to the report, decided to rescue the little guys. Now he has three owls that occasionally drop in at his camp to hoot and accept handouts: Nona, Decima and Morta. While he’s still fond of them, he’s usually disappointed that they aren’t the Mothman coming to visit. 

Rad chickens

Yasmin Chowdhury: Ever the opportunistic cook, she picked up the practice of raising chickens from the settlers at Foundation and has four hens of her own: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. The “ladies,” as she refers to them, give her a constant stream of eggs for omelets. 

Ravens

Settler wanderer: This gal has an affinity with birds, who are always on the move like her. She admires their ability to be untethered and let the wind take them far and wide. Nevertheless, she likes to scatter corn when they come close to her on the road, and formed a sort of friendship with a particularly handsome specimen that she calls Tornado. 

Wolves

Old Longfellow: This guy is the epitome of the meme about dads not wanting pets and then instantly falling in love with whatever animal enters their life. He probably found an injured wolf pup in his travels around the island and took pity on it, nursing it back to health in his cabin. It’s still got a bit of a twisted paw, but follows him around and listens like any other dog and answers to the name Lamoine. 

Yao guai

Porter Gage: I bet this guy adopted an orphaned bear cub and raised it by hand. Now it’s so big that even if Gage thinks he’s an easy target for other raiders due to his age, he’s much less likely to get singled out than he thinks because he has a yao guai following him around like a puppy. The bear’s name is Fuzzy Wuzzy. It has no hair. 

No pets, thanks

Charon: Too likely to accidentally wind up in the line of fire. 

Sergeant RL-3: Too easily corrupted by Communist influences. 

Arcade Gannon: Too much time spent getting in your way. 

Codsworth: Too likely to make messes. 

Paladin Danse: Too many wasted resources. 

X6-88: Too much of a liability. 

Ada: Too easy to lose when on the move. 

Solomon Hardy: Too unsanitary. 

[birdsy-purplefishes]

I saw a lot of wild #wildflowers this year but I’ve also been propagating native and not-exactly-locally-native California wildflowers. Now that I know about genetic contamination being a possibility I have some regrets but I think this is still better than the exotic grasses these are replacing. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ And anyway, they’re not really self-seeding much so far. Here are a few highlights. 1. #MentzeliaLindleyi / #LindleysBlazingstar, allegedly seen in San Diego in the ‘20s & ‘30s but found in parts of Central & Northern CA. 2 & 3. Progress 4. Calochortus weedii var. weedii seedlings collected from seed on my parents’ property. I know at least a few of them survived into bulbs! I got some C. splendens from last year actually coming up right now too (not pictured). 5. Escholzia californica (state flower California poppy) & Nemophila menziesii (baby blue eyes) being photogenic together. 6. Trifolium wildenovii / tomcat clover 7. A nice little blend. 8. Same as that first container but later in late spring/early summer. 9. Leptosiphon parviflorus. This species is a local native but this seed was from a population in Santa Cruz County. Haven’t seen any nearby so cross-pollination is probably not going to happen? 10. Collomia grandiflora, grand/large-flowered collomia/mountain trumpet. Normally grows in the mountains. #naiveplantgardening and #nativeplantgardenjng lol keeping that typo #californianativeplants #californianativeplantgarden #annuals (at Jamul, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/CWvzINXPTc3/?utm_medium=tumblr

[ardawyn]

OC Backstory Weeks by @yourocsbackstory | Week 2: Friends

Introduction | Family | Friends (980 words)

Martha von Hochfels | The Dawnbringer

Friends. Every child finds a friend somewhere. In the birds that sit chirping upon the trees, or stray cats that find their ways over rooftops or open doors. Or even fleeting friends, like raindrops racing one another on the glass of windows that keep you company while you stare outside, waiting for the weather to clear.

When I was a little girl, my dearest friend was my cousin Tilda. Her brothers, too, were very dear to me. But when their lord father wanted them to move to their family estate, I was robbed of those friends that brightened my days. After that I returned to my friends the birds and the cats. I never considered myself as particularly stubborn, but it took long for me to accept their sudden disappearance.

A tomcat I named Clover had become my companion for a long time. I had begged Father to let me keep him, but he hadn't been so keen to let a stray cat into my chambers. So he had allowed me to keep him, to feed him, if only I promised not to bring him inside.

I had other friends, too. Almut, Elisabeth and Ingrid. They were the daughters of Mother's ladies, and were brought to court when I was ten years of age. Ingrid came one year later, but I had warmed up faster with her in a short time than I did with Almut and Elisabeth. But I often felt lonely still.

They had come to court to become company for a princess and not bring comfort to a lonely little girl. I often found myself wondering if they simply did not want to understand me. And when we played, they often left me by myself.

Whatever you wish, princess, they said when I asked them what we should play or do. You are the princess, you decide, was another utterance I often heard. I wanted to be a girl, not a princess.

When I was fourteen years of age, I met Constanza. She was two years older and the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Essia. For years her father shipped wine and other fine goods to the capital of Issarien, and my father had become rather fond of him.

But one time, on an early autumn's day, their ship had been caught in a hazardous storm and Constanza's father Guillen broke his leg as he slipped on the slick deck. My father insisted they stayed in our home for the time being until his leg was healed. Much to Constanza's dislike. Even if she had spend a lot of her years on her father's ship, it had only been the second time that she accompanied him to Issarien. She barely spoke our tongue, I barely spoke hers either, and she had found herself trapped in the colder growing north while her skin longed for the warmer south. Often we all sat together for meals in Father's solar, and while Guillen could laugh and jest with his injured leg, Constanza could not. She looked morosely at all times. Sad and lonely.

And I suffered with her. I did not know her, did not know how she truly felt, but I could understand her frustration. To approach her was the hardest part. To overcome my shyness as well as nervousness, knowing she would not understand me, and I not her.

It had been a coincidence that I stumbled upon her in the library when rain was pouring endlessly behind the thick, cold walls. She sat coiled together on a chair before one of three crackling fireplaces, eyes gliding over the pages of a book. So I gathered my courage and seated myself on the chair beside her. When I glimpsed a few words of the book that was resting in her hands, it was a surprise to see it was written in Narosh. Not a language I was particularly familiar with, but I did know enough words to hold a conversation. I certainly understood more than I actually spoke.

With nervousness putting my cheeks aflame, I greeted her in Narosh. I felt silly speaking the tongue that rolled oddly from my lips. Yet today, I am glad that I dared that step for that was the first time I saw her smiling. Her voice had been thick with an unfamiliar accent when she corrected my weak attempt of pronouncing three short words.

Fortunately, Constanza spoke Narosh much better than I did, and it helped us communicate. It helped us establish a relationship where I thought none was possible. She was not as morosely and unkind as I first had feared, even if her words were brusque at times. It happened even that she was fond of telling stories, mostly of her time on her father's ship, voyaging to foreign countries. If true or untrue was hard to tell sometimes, but I liked to listen to her jaunty voice. Often she spun the stories so that I had to guess what happened next.

Adventurous and lively, Constanza was so different to the girls I spend most of my days with, the girls that should have been my friends but never had felt true. And it was not until a few years later that I truly considered Constanza my friend. Whenever her father sailed to Issarien, she accompanied him, and she even brought me gifts from her home.  Twice she came for a longer visit in the warmer days of summer, until her father returned again.

I do not see her very often, but each time we meet is precious. If Father would let me, I would love to travel to her home too.

Perhaps one day I will see more of Essia than just what stories and gifts tell me. But for now I will await the familiar sails on the horizon with elation for my friend from overseas.

[ds-elf]

WIldflowers yesterday on the Modini Mayacamas, n.e. of Stana Rosa, CA

[dream-sans-mogai]

Lazy flag combos pt.51

Ft. Aloeian/nullic/x loving none with...

Tomcat bi × lemon bi × xeno4xeno

Gay × fraysexual × aspec

Nb guy × questioning × doe bi

No credit needed

[bangoreng]

nightwalker.

In the time of second degrees, mostly masters and of law, it is Saturday of a waxing gibbous nearly full, and the white jasmine plants flower in west berkeley. There are no degrees here, though ten higher than at last week’s rainstorm, now the streets are coming with clovers, orchids, and a black tomcat ambles the mural of people as a garden, a magician sentinel casting my hands to charm the hill of its arching spine, a spell nearly forgotten in this time of thinning bread, thinning love. it would be fine, a little life of waiting with Orion for this saudade to quiet down, occasional glimpses of the sea, and a satchels worth of love notes off course as paper planes, dreams that would make of this avenue in spring a mere projection of the heart.

[fangzhouzi]

方舟子推特合集（330）2020.4.11-15

方舟子 @fangshimin 方舟子，本名方是民，科普作家，新语丝网站。YouTube频道：https://youtube.com/channel/UCgTxdmY7L0I5MKWrrf0Ejtg Translate bio California, USAxys.orgJoined December 2010 46 Following 286.4K Followers 30.6K Tweets

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 钟南山不仅不懂群体，而且搞混了死亡率。他说新冠病毒感染死亡率比流感高20倍以上，是那新冠病毒感染的病例死亡率(2-3%）和流感的感染死亡率(0.1%)相比。现在已经知道，新冠病毒确诊病例只占感染者的一小部分，几项研究都表明新冠病毒的感染死亡率在0.2-0.5%，大约是流感的感染死亡率的三、四倍。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVTvKe8UwAAcaOX?format=jpg&name=medium

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 新时代的种族隔离。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVT7z0DUwAAQkWw?format=jpg&name=360x360 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVT7z0DUUAEwrBa?format=jpg&name=360x360 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVT70ObU8AAfFPi?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVT70OZUMAAQ3LI?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 新时代的种族隔离：抓捕广州的非洲裔居民。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249074928034271232

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 在广州的尼日利亚人即使新冠病毒检测阴性，也不许住酒店，护照被没收。尼日利亚领事赶过去把护照夺了回来还给这些尼日利亚人。有这样的领事不错。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249086320426786821

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 剑桥大学的论文画的新冠病毒进化图不够直观，在墙内被歪曲成病毒是从美国传入武汉的。这张进化图更直观（紫色的是在中国流行的病毒），墙内还怎么歪曲？再说一遍，到现在还相信“病毒是从美国传到武汉”阴谋论的非傻即坏。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVW8XSmUYAE9J3E?format=jpg&name=large

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 张文宏在英文媒体上（虽然是央视的英文媒体）说武汉是最安全的地方，因为已形成群体免疫。在中文媒体上他却说历史上从来没有一个传染病达到群体免疫，以此反对“群体免疫”。见人说人话见鬼说鬼话，是网红医生的基本功。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVXGr0KUwAAurq8?format=jpg&name=medium

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 昨天的微课我谈到我做本科毕业论文时曾在上海生化所因指出实验错误把一名从英国（应是美国）做完访问学者回来的年轻研究员气哭了。当时他是所里的重点培养对象，后来当了副所长，推测他现在应是院士或所长了。查了一下，他的确当过生化所以及后来合并的生化与细胞所所长，但两次评院士没评上。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVXbOIJUcAAyw8c?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 加州“封城”第23天。政府建议进超市遮脸后我首次去超市。我戴了围脖备用。进超市后发现店员按规定都戴口罩，顾客一半戴口罩或用头巾遮脸，一半没遮。我也就心安理得地没把围脖拉上去遮口鼻。东西只出不进，不能退货也不能自带购物袋，又恢复免费提供塑料袋。冰淇淋竟卖光了，都窝家里吃冰淇淋找安慰了吧 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX0T_GU0AIPdGb?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX0T_WUUAAHyJD?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX0UEWUwAEMBgQ?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX0UKwUcAAPJaz?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 今日所见野花：加州蜂植物(California bee plant)、倒挂金钟醋栗(fuchsia-flowered gooseberry)、蓝色节日花(blue fiesta flower)、海岸火焰草(coast Indian paintbrush)。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX8ZhgU8AE43jy?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX8ZhiU0AEeo7y?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX8ZhhVAAAisA0?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVX8ZhiUwAAEIDx?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 超市里各种品牌各种口味的冰淇淋竟差不多被抢光了。难道抢完纸又开始抢冰淇淋？美国超市从来是30天内可以随意退换货，现在以防疫的名义一概不能退了，这真的抄其他国家的作业。好不容易大家习惯了自带购物袋，现在也以防疫名义不让带了，超市免费提供塑料袋，又要产生多少垃圾？相关法律还没修改呢。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYEyACU0AAWmxr?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 曹雪涛在《自然.免疫学综述》发了一篇两页的综述介绍中国治疗新冠肺炎的经验，里面说根据体外实验的结果，中药已证明治疗新冠肺炎在临床有效。原来这个PS院士分不清体外实验和临床治疗。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYO0p2U0AAb5R3?format=jpg&name=large

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 剑桥大学的教授如果知道他那篇想要说明新冠病毒如何从武汉传向世界的论文在中国被歪曲成证明新冠病毒从美国传到武汉，得气疯。虽然少数美国人借病毒源自中国一事歧视中国人甚至扬言向中国索赔，但多数美国人对此是无感的。现在中国却有那么多人要把病毒赖给美国，一般美国人知道了只会徒增反感。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYg7nqU4AE_NFD?format=jpg&name=900x900 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYg7nqU8AImK7y?format=jpg&name=900x900 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYg7p3U8AEetvU?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 环球时报对剑桥大学教授的采访原来有“新冠病毒可能来自东亚”这句话，他们删掉了这篇采访，重新发表时，这句话没了。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYo1f8U8AA0lrf?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYo1mdU4AEXBMR?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 用华为手机就应该主动接受审查，敢抱怨，不怕251？ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVUFDgfUcAAt6jd?format=jpg&name=900x900 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVUFDgfUwAAiU14?format=jpg&name=900x900 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVUFDgfUcAEFMWW?format=jpg&name=900x900

yeer0001 @yeer2018 · Apr 11 实测，华为便签存几个敏感词，过几天再看就变成***了。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 这个同学，你写的东西已经被上传永久存档。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 华为还在赏美国供应商一口饭吃啊？那应该欢迎美国制裁啊。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYy2XOUMAAhcS-?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 极端防疫也不是全无益处，对改善空气质量就有好处，让印度某些城市看到了蓝天。半年前和三天前的新德里对比。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVY4dydU0AA4ysu?format=jpg&name=900x900 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVY4dydU0AA4ysu?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 方舟子谈“疫”（5）：如何预防新冠病毒传染 https://youtu.be/SuhbPlt0-gc

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 11 竟然有人守着剽窃我的推特。推特投诉里好像没有剽窃这一条。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYaldHUwAMaioX?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVYaldSUwAEZYd-?format=jpg&name=small

Jie @Brainstempotent · Apr 12 觉的是你的粉丝干的。 认同你但没办法转到国内。明确写转自你的肯定立马就被屏了。把理性的观点让国内人看到，也算曲线救国吧。题首的“方”字算不算无奈的暗示？

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 什么意思，国内的人看不到我的推特反而能看到此人的推特？此人是剽窃还是粉丝，不会去他的推特看看再说？

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 武汉光谷步行街商户要求退租被抓捕。才解封就想造访？ https://twitter.com/i/status/1249437709401083904

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 都在游行要求减租。戴了口罩让人大胆。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249454426189778944

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 在发明能吃饭的口罩之前，要禁止在高铁上吃饭？ https://twitter.com/i/status/1249473069875253248

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 13岁的小女孩找sugar daddy？这个财新的记者，也是个大佬性侵权利维护者，而且维护的是性侵未成年人，所以尤其令人恶心。财新多的是这类记者。大家还记不记得几年前财新发表长篇报道为肖传国喊冤，篡改国际期刊的论文造谣说肖氏手术的有效性被国外双盲临床试验证实，还获得胡���立的推荐？ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVcU_RtVAAAR5D_?format=jpg&name=900x900 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVcU_RtU8AEeJUX?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 西雅图的疫情比预计的好，为收治新冠病毒重症患者建的战地医院没用上，将拆除把设备送其他州。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVchyAGUYAA8HiJ?format=jpg&name=large

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 像财新这种媒体，比人民日报更坏，因为人民日报是喉舌，其编辑、记者是没有选择的，而财新的编辑、记者是有选择的，他们打着“专业主义”的骗人招牌，选择了替从残害无数儿童的肖传国到长期性侵未成年人的鲍毓明的恶人洗白，从胡舒立到普通记者都缺乏作为人、更不要说新闻人的基本良知，虚伪、坏透了。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVcr-3pUYAA_EAN?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVcr-3pVAAEq16F?format=jpg&name=360x360 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVcr-32VAAQNPmn?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 我这篇揭露胡舒立的“新闻专业主义”的文章在墙内被删了，重发。《评肖传国的弥天大谎和胡舒立的“新闻专业主义”》 https://t.co/mZ96MiZjrB?amp=1

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 加州“封城”第24天。家里卫生纸快用完了，因昨天没买到，今天提早又去了超市，总算买到一大件卫生纸。以前顾客们很注意保持身体距离，而现在那些戴口罩的横冲直撞，就是所谓虚假安全感。路过女儿学校，墙外绿化带野草疯长，从没见过长这么高的棉絮草。一个邻居的草坪没人割了，草也在疯长，开满了蒲公英 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVc8cYmU4AA93m7?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVc8cfFUYAAqR_u?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVc8cveUYAAMXt8?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVc8cwWUUAAIRqb?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 今日所见野花：弗雷蒙特死亡卡马斯（Frémont's deathcamas）、柳蓝花（Texas toadflax）、阿尔德森灯芯草蔷薇(Alderson’s rush-rose)、公猫三叶草(tomcat clover)。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdGCqWUMAIV2Y8?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdGCrjUEAcnfst?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdGCxqU4AIZsA-?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdGC2RUUAAx2kW?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 圣地亚哥已把确诊病例数压到每十天翻倍，把曲线拉得太平了。加州大学洛杉矶分校医学与公共卫生教授认为是时候考虑取消宅家令了，疫情没有预料的严重，新冠病毒感染死亡率也比预计的低得多，在保护老人和慢性病人的同时让低风险地区复工、复学。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdNXf1U8AEkSE0?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdNXf1VAAABVZw?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 刘记彩蛋菠萝派。彩蛋节快乐！ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdVGx7U8AIJYpi?format=jpg&name=900x900 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdVGx6U0AAzLNO?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 钟南山说群体免疫是一百多年前的思路，但是一百多年前哪有“群体免疫”的概念？强制隔离、全民戴口罩、“方舱”医院才是一百多年前的思路，当年美国对付1918年流感大流行就是这么做的。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdegRsUwAE-OUY?format=jpg&name=large

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 不仅川普、川粉在吹捧“神药”氯喹，中国诊治新冠肺炎指南也推荐氯喹。巴西医院尝试用它治疗81名新冠肺炎患者，第6天死了11名患者，紧急叫停。他们的结论是：中国推荐的该药剂量非常毒，在杀死病人。此前法国医院的试验发现该药毒性极强后也叫停了用它治疗新冠肺炎患者。中国的治疗经验他们也敢抄？ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdlYMVU8AEGNJM?format=jpg&name=large

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 12 美国情报部门在去年11月份收集到武汉正发生公共卫生危机的情报，不过在12月才写成评估报告，在今年1月交给川普，不知他有没有读，可能没读（据说他只听汇报不读情报）。此前美国国防部声明去年11月没有这样的评估报告，对新的说法拒绝评论。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdtUEGU4AAcKet?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdtUEFU8AA-QqP?format=jpg&name=360x360 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdtUEFU4AATWfM?format=jpg&name=360x360 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVdtUEJUEAEr1MY?format=jpg&name=360x360

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 中国科研人员不能擅自投稿关于新冠病毒来源的论文。说白了，不能说是来源于中国，说来源于美国才行。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVd0pIpVAAAChr6?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVd0pIpU0AEyN3u?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 波士顿勃健（Biogen）生物技术公司被新冠病毒感染的99名员工及其家属已全部康复，都回去上班了，只有抛下美国的房子、宝马车，与丈夫、儿子一起逃到中国去的黎女士被开除了。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVd6jb-UEAAN2ZZ?format=jpg&name=medium

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 川普不仅在炫耀新冠疫情让他增加了曝光率，而且在炫耀他成为历史上第一个宣布50个州都进入紧急状态的总统，好像那是个值得自豪的纪录。他还骂纽约时报把新冠病毒的来源说成是来自欧洲而不是中国，其实纽约时报只是报道纽约的病毒来源，难道川普是看的中国新闻？ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVeB40wU4AAkmID?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVeB41JU4AAhoo-?format=jpg&name=360x360 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVeB41jUUAI1NQh?format=jpg&name=360x360 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVeB43dUUAAAYDx?format=jpg&name=360x360

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 广州因为在黑人当中发现了一些新冠病毒感染者，就要把所有黑人抓去隔离，还有很多种族主义者翻墙过来叫好。他们就像这个女的说的不会换位思考。试想，如果在海外华人中发现感染者，就要把所有华人抓去隔离，又会怎么样？哦，据说俄国就是这个么干的。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249793578517147649

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 哼哈呼三将 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249803427133018113

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 优胜美地空无一人，这样的奇观百年不遇。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249827250083516416

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 没戴口罩，应该不是最近的事。口罩成了划分时代的标志。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249838379258089472

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 如果不是这个案子成了公安部督办要案，一贯为资本洗白的财新会撤稿？他们怎么不撤了为肖传国洗白的稿？撤稿的同时还要标榜自己的“新闻专业主义”，不要脸到这种程度，无耻之尤嘛。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVhdN2gUYAEU5qY?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 原华为荣耀总裁网上反映华为手机质量问题，被华为海军骂外行。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVhopoWUEAEtapH?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVhopogUEAAfo4D?format=jpg&name=360x360

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 我想了半天还是没想明白，为什么华为坚持要照顾美国企业，赏他们一口饭吃？强烈呼吁华为反向制裁美国企业，才对得起广大爱国用户的支持。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVhwxqcUYAU9Lqf?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 胡锡进不可能对抗政府，因为那是他的衣食父母。胡舒立不可能对抗资本，因为那是她的衣食父母。明白了二胡的处境，也就明白了中国媒体的全貌，不管他们打着什么招牌，“爱国主义”也好，“新闻专业主义”也罢。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 加州“封城”第25天。路过社区公园，几个年轻人违反禁令在打球。这么多天了，想要一直压抑年轻人的社交天性是不可能的。行人都是裸脸，只有一名西班牙裔大妈带两个小孩玩耍时都戴着自制口罩。大妈可能误解建议戴口罩的本意，让小孩受罪了。路两旁开满阿罗约，这是我最喜欢的一种鲁冰花，因其洁白蔚蓝分明 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViKyEzUMAAx7Vj?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViKyE2U8AE39mf?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViKyFaU8AEJQcu?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViKyIWU8AANvQ5?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 老师对学生的识别难度大大增加了。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1249910603444961281

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 今日所见野花：南方灌木猴花(Southern bush monkey flower)、峡谷向日葵(canyon sunflower)、圣地亚哥鼠尾草(San Diego sage)、美丽月见草(pinkladies)。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViaMRTUMAAJmXW?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViaMRYVAAEQZfG?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViaMRVU0AYS6xf?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EViaMRaUUAAVgZL?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 应该再派出兽医院士去接受《自然》的采访，批评西方国家犯的最大错误是没有第一时间服中药，说不定服中药就和戴口罩一样也走向世界了。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVihu0uU4AAOyaH?format=jpg&name=medium

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 英国帝国理工大学研究人员估计的各个年龄段新冠病毒有症状感染者的住院率、住院者进ICU比例和感染死亡率。可以看出，年龄越大，比例越高，青少年的死亡率极低。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVip1JYU0AEQVUF?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 这个表格的数据不知是否准确。如果准确的话，就奇怪了，难道中国本土的病毒发生了变异，基本都是无症状的了？ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVixr4lUYAAPHQ3?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 13 选民的复仇：威斯康星��共和党之所以不顾新冠疫情坚持如期举行选举（州最高法院5:2判决），是因为这次选举涉及一名州最高法院法官，他们认为投票人数少对共和党有利（通常是这样）。结果民主党候选人出乎意料地大比分击败现任共和党法官，把州最高法院保守派与自由派比例从5:2变成4:3，翻盘指日可待。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVi7C0wUUAAQwlq?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 美国佛吉尼亚这个福音派传教士一直坚持在教堂布道，说上帝会保佑他不被新冠病毒传染，感染的人在他的教堂被上帝治好了。然后他被新冠病毒感染，抢救无效，前天去找上帝算帐了。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVjAyP4UwAEMgEF?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVjAyP2U0AUiB28?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 纽约一家医院对3月22日到4月4日到该医院生产的215名孕妇全部做了新冠病毒检测，结果如下：84.6%阴性，13.5%阳性但无症状，1.9%有症状。如果这个结果具有代表性，意味着15%纽约居民已被新冠病毒感染，感染者中88%没有症状。当然，孕妇不是典型人群。不过有的研究也发现大部分感染者没有症状。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVjJy4AUUAErc_X?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVjJy3-U4AIZ6tn?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 编得这么弱智的假新闻中国媒体还传得起劲，搞得联合国跟中国战狼似的，还“汉字认识不？”呢。编这则假新闻的人连世界文化遗产是哪个机构负责评的都没搞明白。按，印度四队棋公认是世界上所有象棋的鼻祖，印度真要申遗也只需拿四队棋甚至国际象棋，犯不着拿除了中国、越南就没啥人下的中国象棋。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVjNayoUUAEQ4zw?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 北京朝阳区青年路某小区，抓获不戴口罩的老外一名。拿钢叉的保安好威武，扬眉吐气就像当年义和团战士。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1250145955501854720

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 华发言人发推特的目的是为了转内销，发给墙内人民看的，哦，不对，墙内人民还没法直接看，只能听环球的转述。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVmS9FmVAAA4FWb?format=jpg&name=large

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 方舟子谈“疫（6）：新冠病毒感染死亡率有多高 https://youtu.be/ERYEM9u4Sto

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 按今天加州州长在新闻发布会上的说法，在加州形成群体免疫或有疫苗之前，生活不会恢复常态，但是将根据情况逐步放开限制，例如餐馆恢复堂食，但顾客进去前要测体温，服务员要戴口罩、手套，菜单用一次性的；学生轮流上课，减少教室拥挤程度。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 我女儿自己在编一个电子游戏，这是她画的游戏题图。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVmuUCgUwAA88sO?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 【美国式东南互保】美国东部自由派州结成联盟，西部自由派州也结成联盟，将互相协调防疫和经济复苏，不再理睬比谁都懂病毒、都懂药物的川普。川普气急败坏，说州长没这个权力，他有绝对权力。实际上州长有这个权力，防疫的决定权在州政府，联邦政府只能提出建议，州长可以不理。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 财新一贯维护大佬性侵权利，并不是现在才开始。这是财新以前关于一起性侵案的报道。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnFXCfUUAIfs3R?format=jpg&name=large

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 西雅图流感项目的研究人员回头检测了今年1月份采集的3800份流感样品中的新冠病毒，全部是阴性。又检测了2月份采集的3308份流感样品，第一个阳性样品是2月21日的。这就反驳了新冠病毒早就在美国传播、被当成流感的阴谋论。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnOlInU8AEKDVg?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 别老盯着纽约疫情多么严重，看加州的情况：洛杉矶是美国第二大城市，只死了320人，旧金山是美国人口密度第二大的城市，只死了15人。加州作为与中国交流最频繁的州为何疫情不严重？专家们给出了各种答案。我觉得主要原因是即使在冬季，人们仍在户外活动，而不是挤在室内。对预防呼吸道传染病这是关键。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnW1xzUMAAi362?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnW1x1UEAAB1Tv?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 加州“封城”第26天。女儿春假结束，但学校还不能开学，只能是通过谷歌环聊和谷歌教室上网课。下了一周雨后，保护区山道积水、泥泞，野草深入道中，时不时要察看是否有蜱虫跳到裤脚。见不到登山者，只偶尔遇见山地车骑手，见到我们都闪到一边让路，听到一人说：在我最狂野的梦中，都没想到会有这种状况。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnqS9GU0AEAs7G?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnqS-9UUAEPYn3?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnqTFtUUAIUX6n?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnqTIxUEAIW_2J?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 对新冠肺炎武汉80岁高龄老人救治成功率近70%，是“非常难得的成果”，意大利80-89岁老人救治成功率79.5%，90岁以上老人救治成功率85%，则说明“西方人不顾老年人死活”。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVneXL_VAAcLfDC?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVneXL2UUAUHNt4?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 写错了，意大利80-89岁老人救治成功率69.5%，90岁以上老人救治成功率75%

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 今日所见野花：美洲野胡萝卜(American wild carrot)、华丽蝴蝶百合(splendid mariposa lily)、粗糙水苏(rough hedgenettle)、毛毛虫穗花(caterpillar phacelia) https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnyuolUYAMwPmY?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnyutjUEAATBPP?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnyu3pUcAEgF-Y?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVnyvAbUEAACMJC?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 中国人民有特殊的福利，被新冠病毒感染了不用怕，轻型、普通型吃连花清瘟胶囊，重型、危重型注射血必净，都是钟南山亲自推荐、国家药监批准的，让中药厂都能分享国难财，外国患者、药厂都羡慕不已。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVn8zpeUUAA5eK2?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVn8zpfU4AQDt-H?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 14 然后可以对墙内宣传连花清瘟胶囊受到了英国人民的热烈欢迎。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVoENPgUwAEUzO-?format=jpg&name=900x900

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 五毛已经涨到了七毛了，怎么这个大学生反而成了三毛？ https://twitter.com/i/status/1250326153358757888

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 川普指着记者：“就你爱卖弄。如果你继续说话，我就离开。”真有这么好的事？ https://twitter.com/i/status/1250509785637634048

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 外星人来了。啥时候把外星文化也传播到全世界？就说只有穿成这样才能杜绝病毒传播。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1250537689356447745

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 在防疫问题上，是政治家还是小丑当领导人，差别还是很大的。5年前奥巴马提出建立疫情响应机制，以防止五年、十年后出现类似“西班牙流感”那样的新发呼吸道传染病。川普上台后嫌奥巴马留下的疫情响应队伍浪费钱，将其解散，现在却抱怨没人料到疫情会这么严重。 https://twitter.com/i/status/1250519959832162304

西裝暴徒 @wandaolaozu · Apr 15 Replying to @fangshimin 奧黑說的應該只是非洲伊斯蘭黑人埃博拉病毒的事情罷了！

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 川粉都有阅读障碍？埃博拉是类似西班牙流感的呼吸道传染病？

西裝暴徒 @wandaolaozu · Apr 15 Replying to @fangshimin 好的，謝謝你的指正，我又看了一遍，奧黑說得確實是不錯，不過，也許，我可以說若干年以後，5年10年後可能會出現大範圍核洩漏事件呢，又或者說三五年後A股又上5000點了，畢竟，政治家大而不當的空話是很隨機的。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 嗯，一个严重的阅读障碍患者还会乱打比方，自作聪明把人家实际实施的方案说成是大而无当的空话。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 Replying to @homelandtale 川普把原来正常运转的FDA和CDC搞坏了，然后川粉就可以高喊这些机构没用了

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 口罩党最近在疯传这篇文章和这张模拟图，认为全民戴口罩能防止新冠病毒传播已被科学证明了。我看了该文的证据，觉得很可笑。他们承认随机对照实验证明戴口罩没能起到预防传染病作用，但认为“自然实验”证明戴口罩有用，证据是某国全民戴口罩后疫情好转了。他们竟认为有无数变量的“自然实验”胜于对照实验 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrdCr_UwAEgPTo?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrdCsAUcAAEltK?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrdCsAU0AcL7z0?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrdCsBU0AAPLkt?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 一个涉及150个新冠肺炎患者的随机双盲临床试验的结果出来了，与对照组相比，使用羟基氯喹的患者的治疗结果和病毒量都没有差异，反而有严重副作用。川普、川粉吹捧的这一“神药”的疗效再次被临床试验结果推翻，他们仍然只能拿“神医”和个案说事，把对此的质疑都说成是自由派的阴谋。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrv2wKUYAAhfrA?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrv2wJU0AISfYR?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 这意思是，因观点不同封号，对一个不自称民主和言论自由的国家，就是很正常的？哦，好像“民主”“自由”也是社会主义核心价值观啊，怎么更喜欢封号？ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVr_asTVAAAEwkD?format=jpg&name=medium

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 能自然形成群体免疫的前提是人体被病毒感染后能痊愈并且产生免疫力。人类不可能对HIV形成群体免疫，因为人体被HIV感染后无法痊愈。科骗居然说非洲某些国家对HIV的群体免疫比较高，对免疫学和病毒学都缺乏常识，也有脸跟着批“群体免疫”没用。据说这个妄人还是中山大学的老师？我真同情他的学生。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrjvS9VcAA11-O?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrjvS-U0AAMAtZ?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVrjvS-UYAA97An?format=jpg&name=360x360

北魚 @yangwenq1 · Apr 15 群体免疫并非真的就是法宝吧，流感人体能痊愈，为什么每年有流感季，死者也不少，你指望肺炎这种病毒的传染性与危害性小于普通流感吗？群体免疫只是下下策，当上策用就不好了，关键就是自律与改变生活习惯，以更科学的方式对付病毒

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 季节性流感没法形成群体免疫的原因是因为流感病毒极其容易发生变异，对以前流感病毒产生的免疫力无效，所以流感疫苗要年年打而且保护性差。但1918年流感大流行最终就是靠群体免疫结束的。不懂的话题啥说几句，不要和科骗一样对免疫学、病毒学都很无知，却一样自信。

北魚 @yangwenq1 · Apr 15 那你可以鼓励美国群体免疫啊，意见不同而已，我认为的下下策被你捧起来

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 群体免疫是传染病发展的一种可能结果，不是什么防疫策略，何来的“下下策”？当然这超出了你这种妄人的理解能力。

北魚 @yangwenq1 Replying to @fangshimin 也就是你认为新冠肺炎不变异？这不笑话吗？

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 Replying to @yangwenq1 你这种无知透顶的妄人还敢笑话别人？如果新冠病毒容易变异到让人的免疫力无效，那么疫苗也不会有效，你就在家憋死吧。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 一个涉及150个新冠肺炎患者的随机双盲临床试验的结果出来了，与对照组相比，使用羟基氯喹的患者的治疗结果和病毒量都没有差异，反而有严重副作用。川普、川粉吹捧的这一“神药”的疗效再次被临床试验结果推翻，他们仍然只能拿“神医”和个案说事，把对此的质疑都说成是自由派的阴谋。

hard fox @Iamhardfox · Apr 15 Replying to @fangshimin 方先生，你可��没读原文。这篇文章虽然指出羟氯喹对新冠没用，但同时显示羟氯喹的也几乎没有副作用（原文用的是rare这个词)。

方舟子 @fangshimin Replying to @Iamhardfox 看不懂表格吗？30%服药的人出现不良反应，2人有严重不良反应。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 加州“封城”第27天。湛蓝的天空没有一丝云彩，以后一直到秋天大都是这样的天气了。山上人来人往，比平时多多了。一个男人活抓了一条响尾蛇，装在登山包里由两名男孩抬着，要带回家让妈妈看了再放生。男人拿出手机让我们看他抓蛇的视频，不顾保持身体距离。另一个男人坐在车库前，悠然地弹着乌克丽丽。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsPkmTUEAEZSAP?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsPkmdU0AEbTr4?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsPk4UUEAASqSX?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsPk7iU4AAfGyD?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 今日所见野花：南方棋盘花(Southern checkerbloom)、金芒五毛菊(golden-rayed pentachaeta)、金田野(common goldfields)、加州紫茉莉(California four o’clock)。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsZMD-UwAA7mAK?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsZMEAVAAEzGYr?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsZMGjUwAArRXW?format=jpg https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsZMM0U0AAKTbR?format=jpg

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 美国政府给每个美国居民（不看身份）发$1200弥补新冠疫情损失，这钱是国会给的（因为国会管政府拨款），具体由财务部发，像美元一样支票上应该只印财务部长签名，川普却要求财务部把他的签名也印上，让人以为钱是他给的，以此收买人心。什么时候川普会要求财务部把他的头像印到美元上？ https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVslQIJU8AA6Qr6?format=jpg&name=medium

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 网上流传多年的段子，羊城网当成其编辑部今天发生的事。中国这些编辑，最擅长搞假新闻，还搞到自己头上。顺便说一下，那句话也不是顾城的诗。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsuOegU0AApsRF?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVsuOehU8AAzVos?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 2013年布鲁姆伯格因为害怕中国政府的报复，叫停了彭博新闻社记者对中国腐败的调查。所以说，不能让商人当总统。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVs3pUyUMAAnoFv?format=jpg&name=medium

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 世界卫生组织有什么问题以后可以调查，但现在正是全球防疫的关键时刻，川普冻结美国给世界卫生组织的会费，用《柳叶刀》主编的话说，就是反人类。川普急需替罪羊，怪罪世界卫生组织的理由是其总干事曾称赞中国疫情透明，但川普自己在一月份也称赞过中国疫情透明，虽然他现在否认这么说过，推特还没删呢 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVtAHzxU4AE6VZc?format=jpg&name=small https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVtAHzzUEAAFftC?format=jpg&name=small

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 这个推成了人品推，趁机拉黑一批反人类的疯子。

方舟子 @fangshimin · Apr 15 纽约公布的新冠病毒死亡人数有三分之一是没有做过核酸检测的疑似病例（死于急救或老人院），因为症状像新冠病毒感染，就都给算进去了。如果在中国这些都是不会计入的。 https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EVtIeGuUMAAdTcd?format=jpg&name=900x900