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kissbentennyson · 4 years ago

Note

Hey hope you don't mind but I got a cute writing idea for bad ben or any of the alternative bens.That being their s/o wants to dye some of their hair to match ben since they've been thinking about it even surprising ben with their new look.

(I really like your writing and keep up the good work!I hope you have a nice day/night.😊💖)

Yes! thank you for this! I might do an Albedo Version on a later date, but for now, have this!

Manic Panic

Bad Ben x reader | readers gender is not mentioned.

It was the smudged hair dye you had to scrub from the counter, and the ugly new stain he left on your light blue pillow case after insisting he was going to stay the night- in your bed- with nothing covering his wet hair. The thought of dying your hair black hit you the evening after you re-dyed his roots. Turns out, the reason it was so urgent- was because he had plans- criminal plans for the next night. You had the idea as you sprayed stain remover on the pillowcase and cried to whatever god exists to help remove it.

You thought it would be a fun, funky little surprise for your boyfriend. You had no idea how he would react, but once the thought was in your head there was no going back. You had sat on your counter- looking at the half used bottle of splat before you. You could- no. never again.

Keys? Check. Wallet that doesn’t look like a wallet? Check. Weapon that doesn't look like a weapon in case you get mugged because Bellwood is the worst place to live in the south west? Check.

You kept your head down, never looked at anyone- even in the store until you got the hair dye. Now, you had two choices that weren't completely awful. Arctic Fox and Manic Panic. However, the Transylvania black had a nasty side effect of fading to multiple colors at once- so raven black it was. Picking it up you felt the eyes of the models on the cheap box dye packaging stare you down from a foot away. Almost 13 dollars? Shit, I should've gone to Sally’s hours ago. It would have been cheaper there.

The walk back to your apartment went a lot cheaper- but maybe it was just the sun going down that made you walk faster. You got home, finished up some school work, made dinner, then started your little craft. You washed the old dye brush you kept under the sink clean of any leftover color and gloved up. You started with your roots, thoroughly brushing over the natural color that you had finally let grow out for the first time since 8th grade.

You let your phone play a show you’ve been trying to watch for the past month while on the charger as you treated your hair like a canvas getting primed. You put it on thick, working down to your tips as you paced around your bathroom. The noise from your phone began to sound like static amongst the silence everywhere else but the bathroom. You were completely alone- and would be for any amount of time.

Ben never shared his plans with you. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because if you got caught up with the cops or one of the gangs that have him on their shit list- you could tell them you didn’t know, and have that be true. You could never be held accountable for his actions, he wouldn’t do that to you. But, you missed him. More than anything, you missed him and wished that you could at least have a date to look forward to. It was always painfully quiet without him- and that made it worse.

Finishing up slathering your hair with the black goo and putting on a disposable shower cap, you went back to your room to work on- anything really- until the hour was up. Your fingers rapidly clacked against the keys, sentence after sentence lining the page, every few minutes flipping tabs from source to source. This essay is due tomorrow- and the time you spent dying both yours and your boyfriend's hair was supposed to be used on finishing it.

In the dead silence of the apartment you hear the deadbolt on the front door click back and forth- like someone was trying to open it. Adrenaline causes your heart to pound immediately, you fix your shrimp posture and sit with your head up like a meerkat. Pushing the laptop off of you, creeping to the bedroom door. You watch down the hallway as it continues to move back and forth. This happened often in Bellwood- break-in’s I mean. Part of you was afraid, but the other whispered to you gently about the heavy wooden bat in your bedroom closet.

Then, it unlocks, the clack of the metal shooting through you like a bullet. It opened and the dim living room was lit by the “porch” light, the silhouette of your boyfriend making his way in. Oh, it’s just Ben. OH SHIT, IT’S BEN.

“Babe! I’m back…” His voice drops slightly, a little bit of embarrassment creeping through. “...and I need to lay low for a little bit.” Your lips press flat as you estimate how fast you can make it to the bathroom- and lock the door before he gets to you. You wanted to at least wash the dye out before he gets to see.

You push yourself from the door frame, bolting into the bathroom. You grab the door and push it, almost getting it closed before something- someone stops it. His fingers slip around the edge of the door as he starts to push. “Heeey babe, that you?” you put your full weight onto the door, grouting lightly. “Mhmm.” your feet slide over the tile as he gets the door open another inch. “Whatcha hiding from me?” There's a light sing-song tone to his voice, and you giggle out your answer. “Nothing- I'm naked. Stop being a creep Ben!”

He knows you’re playing with him the moment you laugh. “Mm, don’t believe that.” He shoves just a bit harder, momentarily taking his weight and fingers off of the door. You use this to your advantage, the door slams shut, and you don’t hesitate to lock it. You choke out another giggle, stuff like this being normal for the two of you. He absolutely has the ability to break the door down, but he -for the most part- lives here too and knows you will absolutely make him replace it.

You slide down and lean your face against the cool wood, hearing him playfully scoff. That gentle, yet whiney, playful tone takes over his voice. “Alright doll, if you want to play hard to get, fine. But you have to come out some time, and when you do-” “You’ll kiss me and act like nothing happened!” Yeah no, he will not be using intimidation tactics on you. You have some, rather, compromising photos of him that would definitely cause a stir.

The timer on your phone beeps from your bedroom, alerting you to start washing the dye out. Running the water to room temp and kneeling outside of the tub, all that can be heard from outside of the door is the abrupt shutting off of the alarm and a gentle hum. The melody? The title screen theme from Sumo Slammers. Humming like that is a way to intimidate the person you are pursuing, to know that you are waiting for them. It doesn’t intimidate you though, in fact, it only brought one stray thought to your mind.

Nerd.

The water feels warm on your hands, but cold against your scalp as you wash the better dye from your hair. Your neck aches after a good while, now completely unsure if you had gotten it all out. But you throw the town in anyways. The showerhead clicks off and you use an old shirt to towel dry your hair, using the actual towel to mop up all the water that you had splashed onto the floor- not your brightest moment, but it works.

As you pat the water from your shoulders, you finally open the door. He moves into action, ready to play fight. His hand slams into the door frame above you to stop himself, the ‘ready to pounce’ grin melting off of his face. Brain stalling, he stands there staring. “Do you… like it?” Slowly, his other hand rises from his side and to the side of your hair. Gently passing his palms and fingertips over your damp hair.

“...Why?”

You feel your face warm as your thought process actually, you know, processes. “Well, when I touched up your hair, it made me consider dying my hair again. But I… I wanted to match you. I thought that it would be cute, y’know?” With a light ‘tsh’ in amusement, his lips curve into a tilted smile. But this one was different, usually it would have some hijinks behind it- but this, this was unlike any you’d seen him have before. There was a pure, and genuine joy behind his expression- and for the first time, since the beginning of your relationship, butterflies fluttered inside of your chest.

He leans forward, pressing a sweet and chaste kiss to your lips. His hand stops, his forefinger resting just under your jaw, thumb rubbing your jawline. He takes a deep breath in, your lips parting only mere centimeters from his. “I love it.”

#ben tennyson x reader #alternate bens x reader #bad ben x reader #proship dni #ben 10 x reader

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smoothcurvesinteractive · 6 years ago

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Dad’s Oven Tandoori Chicken

I’m not going to do a bunch of useless exposition. This is my original recipy for Tandoori chicken that can be made most places you can find spices. I call one specific brand of tandoori spice mix, I like this particular brand, but it may be hard to find. It is a dry spice mix, so I suggest you find a dry tandoori spice mix, or create your own to taste.

With that:

3 tablespoons peanut oil

1 thumbs of fresh ginger root (that is, as much ginger as one of your thumbs)

1 chopped roma tomato

1 Onion (ideally walla walla sweet)

1 complete garlic bulb ( T least 7 cloves)

4 cups plain greek yogurt

1/2 can frozen lemonade concentrate (or equivalent highly concentrated lemonade)

1 lemon

1/2 cup sour cream

4 oz dellah tandoori spice mix

4-6 lbs chicken pref dark meat (ideally leg parts, thighs and drumsticks) but whatever you like as this also works for turkey, tofu, lamb, bamboo shoots. Pork Chops. Beef and Goat not so much, )

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon (fresh ground if ya can)

1 tablespoon paprika

1 teaspoon cumin (NOTE, the relatively small amount of cumin)

1 tablespoon dried chili flakes (the kind you put on pizza)

Utensils

Cutting board

Medium sauce pan

1/2 cup measuring scoop

Tablespoon measuring scoop

Plastic or Metal Ladle (NOT WOOD, unless you want the wooden ladle to forever taste like tandoori chicken)

4 quart sized freezer bags (Do not skimp on the bag quality or you will be cleaning up for days)

This tandoori chicken is made in 2 phases over night

Phase 1 Make sure 3 lbs of chicken are brought out of freezer and thawing Pan on stove top turned down low,

Pull the frozen can of lemonade concentrate out of the freezer, set it into the sink so it does not make a mess as it begins to thaw.

4 tablespoons peanut oil (Can use any oil, but peanut oil adds a subtle nutty flavor)

peal and finely dice/mince all that ginger (DO NOT USE GROUND GINGER, FRESH ONLY) Yes, your whole thumbs worth of ginger, yes that is a lot of fresh ginger. Your house will start to smell wonderful and only get better. Put the ginger in the pan with the oil, turn the pan up just a touch while you peal the garlic.

Garlic, A whole bulb, at least 7 large cloves, don’t skimp. chop the garlic, no need to mince the garlic, coarse chop works recipe. Toss this into the pan with the oil and ginger.

Now chop Half an onion and throw it in

Stir. If there is any smoke, or steam, or the oil is changing color you have heat up to high. If the ginger gets scorched, it is ruined, dump it, wipe down the pan, start over.

let the oil onion garlic and ginger simmer for 10 min, the garlic should start to change color, and so should the ginger, and when the onion starts to go clear you are ready for the next step.

Once the ginger has started to get “mushy”

it is time to Add the rest of the dry spices. That is 4 oz of dry tandoori spices, then 1 tablespoon EACH of cinnamon, paprika, dried chilis, and only 1 teaspoon of cumin (do NOT over do the cumin)

Once that is all in the pan, look at the pan and exclaim out loud: “What a bloody pile of goose droppings is this? that looks like a mad man’s amount of spice” This must be said aloud, while facing the pan.

Now that is out of the way:

wash and Chop one whole lemon, into 8ths or 16ths toss it into the pan, DO NOT PEEL the lemon, we actually want what is in the rind of this lemon. Toss the lemon into the pan without abandon, as dry spices will see this as permission to make an attempt to ballistically flee the pan.

finely dice 1 roma tomato and add to the pan

Next add the lemonade concentrate. The lemonade concentrate should be mostly liquid by now.

At this point Turn up the heat to medium, and stir. Make sure the onion and lemon are throughly coated with spicy goo. Once none of the diced ingredients are individually identifiable as anything more than reddish brown lumps it is time to add the dairy to this wonderfully earthy spicy citrusy smelling concoction

Add 4 cups plan Greek yogurt. Greek Yogurt produces best results. The exact amount is not critical, you can easily add 6 cups of yogurt and the chicken will still turn out delicious.

I once only added 2 cups yogurt to this, The resulting spice mix was so intense it could be seen from geo synchronious orbit. If you do adjust the amount of Yogurt, maintain the ratio of 4 cups yogurt to 1/2 cup sour cream.

And yes now add the sour cream. I am quite confident that no self respecting indian restaurant has ever added sour cream to their tandoori mix. But I do, The sweet and tartness contributed by the sour cream puts this tandoori recipe over the top.

Let cook on medium medium low for 20 to 30 mins stir gently, frequently. As before, none of the ingredients should be individually identifiable, everything should be a homogeneous rust red, and it should smell FANTASTIC. You are NOT trying to “cook down” or “reduce” the yogurt or sour cream.

The Mix should “Blop” and attempt to splatter all over your kitchen, just a few times. Do not get the sauce so hot that it "simmers” no neat little bubbles. You know you’ve done good if the sauce tries to spatter the ceiling once.

While the sauce is Bloping

Get about 3 lbs of chicken quartered into pieces sized such that that 3 pieces will HALF fill a quart sized ziplock freezer bag. Again, ideally 3 pieces per bag. I did not specify white meat or dark meat. If you do not like dark meat chicken, Try it with this recipe, it really is better with dark meat, and you won’t be able to tell the difference by the time it is served.

After the sauce has Blopped for 20 min or so, take it off the hot burner, stir it as it cools down. It needs to cool enough to handle without burning you.

Once the sauce is cool enough to handle, put half a ladles worth in the bottom of each plastic freezer bag,

In this next sequence DO NOT COMPLETELY FILL the freezer bags, The freezer bags should be 3/4 to 8/9 full

then put 1 piece of chicken in each freezer bag,

then add a full ladle of sauce into the bag, on top of that piece of chicken.

Repeat until you have smothered each piece of chicken with a ladle of tandoori sauce.

AGAIN DO NOT FILL the bags completely. For quart bags an ideal amount is 3 thighs and 1 drumstick.

Bleed the air out of the bags.

Now, HAVE FUN squish all that sauce around in the bags making sure the sauce is roughly squeezed and massaged into every piece of chicken. Give each piece of chicken a good saucy massage in that baag.

Fun fact: due to the high acidity of this sauce, provided by the the lemon juice , the chicken begins chemically cooking as soon as it touches the sauce.

Once the chicken is throughly massaged and relaxed. wash the bags off, because we all know you made a mess.

Some tandoori recipes have you put the chicken straight into the freezer. DON”T DO IT.

Put the, now clean, bags in the refrigerator for at least 8 hours. Consult a biologist for how long chicken soaking in a miild acid bath could sit at cool temperatures. If for some reason you forget the chicken and leave it in the fridge for a few days it should still be OK once cooked.

It should be noted that this tandoori uses, as it’s base, most of the known raw plant based anti bacterials. (Ginger, garlic, onion, lemon, chili)

(I’m just gonna ignore the fact that we added 2 dary substances that likely contain multiple strains of live bacterial cultures)

This concludes phase 1

Phase 2 Fire or Ice

If that looks like too much chicken for one meal, now is a good time to pop one or all of those bags into the freezer.

This stuff will keep in the freezer longer than non marinated chicken due to the hugh acidity of the marinade, and the face that the chicken has been chemically cooking all the time it has been marinating

Oven:

Pre-heat oven to 375.

Coat a rimmed baking sheet with tinfoil.

Empty contents of freezer bag onto sheet and spread. You may want to add some fibrous vegetables to make use of any extra sauce, bamboo, asparagus, whole baby corn work great.

Put this into the oven on a middle rack

Turn the oven temp up to 425 (Bet ya never saw that coming)

Cook for 8 min

While that is cooking thinly slice a lemon, and make onion strings out of the other half of the onion.

take the stuff out of the oven, turn over the chicken,

put back in the oven for another 8 min

At this point the sauce should be drying out, and tips should star to blacken

pull the chicken out, turn it one more time, cover the chicken with the onion strings, then put the lemon slices on top (The order is actually important)

Put back in the oven and keep checking on it until the sauce drys out. The chicken should be red in color and the tips of chicken are black and the ends of the onion strings have shriveled up and started to turn black.

Note: Only little tips of chicken and sauce lumps should blacken.

take the chicken out and let cool.

and if you followed this recipe you will have delicious chicken AND NO SIDE DISH. Pair this chicken with rice or naan, because we really do need carbs.

#food #indian #chicken #spicy #cooking #diy #recipies #one room at a time #one oven at a time

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unfallen-angel · 6 years ago

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Curious Creatures PT. 1 Venom/Eddie Brock x reader

Masterlist Part 2

This is my first time writing for Venom, but I got this idea after watching the DVD for like the 8th time!

Imagine having Venom save your life, but instead of being terrified you are intrigued and slightly attracted to the giant mass of black goo. And Venom is equally intrigued by you and can’t seem to leave you alone.

This is the first installment (not sure how long it will be) and is establishing all the important things. More to come! Please let me know what you think and IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED!

"So if I hit the 8 ball in the pocket I lose? And I have to hit the white ball with the pool stick to hit another ball into a pocket? This game sounds really complicated. I don't know..." You purse your lips and blink your eyes innocently up at the three burly men leaning against the pool table in front of you.

The one in the stained white wife beater smirks and folds his arms across his chest, hiding the curling patch of black hair peeking up from the neck of his shirt. "We'll go easy on you. Fifty bucks for a game. Two hundred for redemption." He bares his yellowed teeth at you. Eyes sliding up and down your form, taking in your exposed skin. You were wearing a denim mini skirt, low cut grey converse, and a tight black v-neck sweater. Hair pulled up in a messy bun, exposing your long neck. Easy distractions.

Twirling your hair around your finger, deep in thought, you wonder if this is a good idea. Three men. $200 a piece. That's nearly one months rent for your apartment. In one night. "I guess I can try one game," you sigh, defeated, and chalk up your stick with the little blue cube, your bangle bracelets jingling with the motion.

Their raucous laughter fills the room. 'Wife beater' pulls a stick from the holder on the wall while the other two men disappear for another round of drinks. "I'll give you the first game. Just you and me. $50 even and you're in." His voice is excited as he reels in his prey.

Fishing in your pocket, your fingers wrap around the fifty dollar bill you had strategically placed there, you hand him the money and watch as he breaks and the multi color balls shoot out in all different directions. He sinks the solid 2 ball and the striped 12 ball. "So does that mean you get to decide what color you want?" You chime in and lean over the table, interested.

"Sure does, sweetheart. I'll take the stripes. So you just try to sink those solid color ones, okay?" He winks at you and you try not to vomit in your mouth.

"I'm going to go get another beer for my nerves while you finish your turn. I'll be right back!" you call over your shoulder with a wave of your hand. "Hey, Jake, can I have another?" Your palm smacks the top of the smooth, wooden bar twice to get his attention. He nods once. "Thanks!" you shout over the chatter and turn to take in the scene around you.

The dimly lit, dingy bar was crowded for a Thursday night. Rock music played softly in the background from the old, beat up jukebox machine in the corner. It smelled faintly of cigars and stale beer, but it felt homier than most places in the city. Jack sets the beer bottle in front of you before turning back to talk to the other patrons sitting on bar stools around the bar. "Don't cause any trouble, y/n, those are regulars," He mutters as he wipes a glass dry with a rag before setting on the top shelf.

"I thought I was a regular, Jack," You whine softly and stick out your lower lip, pouting.

"Yeah. A regular pain in the ass!" He retorts and continues to dry glass after glass. "Geezus. You look like shit," He calls as a man in a dark leather jacket stumbles onto a bar stool at the other end of the bar. The man just smiles and nods once. His eyes shift back and forth uneasily and he flinches suddenly, like someone had snuck up on him.

"Do you ever feel like your whole life is just... shit...? Meaningless? Messed up?" The man mutters as he orders a drink.

Jack stares at him in silence for a moment before saying, "Nope." and placing a bottle in front of him. Jack was right. That man did look like shit.

"Hey honey! It's your turn now!" 'Wife beater' calls from the pool room. Jack shoots you a warning glance. You smile at wave slightly as the man looks over at you with blurry eyes. Skipping down the two steps, you let your heels click loudly on the tiled floor as you pick up your pool stick and survey the table. He had only landed two shots. Biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking, you line up and sink the striped 13 followed quickly by the 15. "You're pretty good at this. Are you sure you haven't played this before?" His eyes narrow suspiciously.

"They were just lined up for easy shots," you lie smoothly and purposefully miss the next shot, the cue ball bouncing aimlessly off the side and rolling to the center of the table.

"You wouldn't be hustling us now would you, darlin?" He steps behind you, pinning you to the table with his body. "That wouldn't be very lady like, now would it?"

"No. I swear. I've only ever watched my brother play. I didn't even know how to rack the balls," you stutter, holding your breath so you don't vomit from his close proximity. They buy your story and continue the game. He sinks the eight ball and grabs the money on the side of the table with his beefy hands. Your stomach lurches at your lose, but sometimes you need to lose a few to win big. At least that was what you had come to learn. "Redemption? You all against me?"

They raise their eyebrows and whistle lowly. "You so eager for us to take all your money, sugar?"

Rolling your eyes, you shake your head. Enough with the pet names, you creep. "I just want the chance to win it back. That was my portion of the rent this month," you admit sheepishly and bat your eyelashes.

"Well who are we to disagree. Redemption. 200 bucks a piece boys. Let's give the lady another game." They place their bills in a pile on the edge of the table. You smile and place your own money on the top of the pile. "Stupid bitch." One of the mutters as he chalks is pool stick and breaks the rack.

"Dump asshat," you mutter under your breath and watch the game. The odds just didn't seem fair. They didn't add up for you, but you knew that they were heavily buzzing now and you were their greatest distraction. Leaning forward, you use your stick for balance, and push your cleavage out just a little, catching the attention of two of the three. You smile when you catch them staring and bite your lip. They nearly fall over each other, knocking 'wife beater' off balance and he misses the shot. "My turn!" you chirp sweetly and sink all of your numbered balls followed by the eight ball.

"What the-!" They shout in protest. "Hey! You cheated." The reach for you with sweaty palms, but you dance just out of reach.

"Thanks, boys! It's been fun! See you later!" Shoving the pile of money in your pocket, you dash up the steps without looking back. "Bye, Jack! Be back to pay my tab in a few! Forgot I left my curling iron on!" Your fingers close around the strap of your messenger bag and you fling it over your shoulder as you dash out the door, nearly running into the man in the leather jacket. "Sorry!" you shout over your shoulder. breathing deeply, you take off in a sprint down the sidewalk. Those idiots are far too out of shape to actually chase you anywhere. They barely made if out the front door before getting winded. "Easy peasy," you mutter and slow to a walk, turning into the park on your left.

The cold night air brushes across your skin, the cold tingling just a little. Should have grabbed your jacket when you grabbed your bag. It was fresh and crisp. The smells of grass and dirt fill your nose as you inhale deeply, reveling in the peace and quiet of this little retreat in the otherwise bustling city. Turning your head to make sure no one followed you, you take the concrete steps two at a time, climbing to the top of the hill that overlooks downtown.

It was beautiful at night. The lights of the city twinkling against the black backdrop of the night sky. All life just ceases to exist when you sit in the grass under a large oak tree, hidden from view from the walking path. Your eyes close as the silence of the world engulfs you.

Until a twig snaps.

"Hello, little dove. What's a pretty little thing like you doing alone in the park at night?" A menacing voice cuts through the silence.

You whip your head to the left and right, trying to see through the inky blackness. The streetlights didn't reach this far from the path. "I'm waiting on my boyfriend," you answer lamely and clutch your bag to your chest, fingers clasping around the taser in the front pocket.

"You look just like the girl my friends described that cheated them out of money in a bar. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

You shake your head, eyes searching for the owner of the voice.

He scoffs and steps into the light, eyeing you dangerously. "Cut the shit, you little bitch. Give me the money you took and I'll let you go. Fair trade. You're life for just a little cash." He holds out his hand to you, wiggling his fingers impatiently.

"He's lying." An animalistic voice reverberates around you. It sounded calm, but strangely disembodied.

"Who the fuck said that?" the man growl and pulls something from his back pocket. A long blade glints in the yellow light of the streetlamp. "Show your face."

"He's not nice. He's very bad, right? We can eat him?" The voice pauses, as if waiting for an answer, and then speaks again. "So many tasty snacks."

"Who are you?" The man's voice cracks as he turns in the direction of the voice. His entire body goes rigid. His face pales, and you could see the sweat soaking through his grey t-shirt. "What the... What are you?" he whispers and starts backing away.

Curiosity gets the better of you and you edge closer to the halo of light, trying to see what was happening. That's when you see a hulking, black mass step into the light. Towering at nearly 8 feet tall, the creature stalks forward slowly, like a predator. The dragon-sharp teeth bared in a snarl. A long, pink tongue flicks the air in front of it like a snake, but you know that it can see perfectly. It's large, white eyes narrow just a fraction as it takes in the whimpering heep of a man before it. "WE are Venom." It's voice echoes through your mind.

You know that you should turn away. You should run. You should scream. But you remain silent. Watching in silent awe as the creature continues to stalk forward, circling the man. Toying with him. Like a cat toys with a mouse before it eats it. You watch as the massive muscles of it's chest rise and fall in an even, steady rhythm. Before you can blink, it's massive jaws open and close around the man's throat, tearing his head clean off his body. Your stomach lurches and you gag in the bushes beside you.

Venom turns to you and regards you curiously. "Another snack?" His tone was questioning. "Why not?" It demands, protesting a voice you never heard. "Looks tasty. Smells tasty.... I can smell your... you're not afraid?" It accuses you, narrowing its eyes.

You stand slowly and hold your hands up, palms out. "Not a snack," you say, trying to keep your voice calm. You had seen what this thing could do in a split second. "Thank you."

"What for?" Venom asks, standing straight up, towering over your small frame.

"For saving me."

"You are weak. Defenseless. Tiny," it states, matter of fact. "I was hungry."

"Uh huh." You nod once and take a few steps closer, trying to make out what the creature was. "What are you?"

"WE are -"

"Venom, yeah I heard that. That's your name? What are you made of?" You stupidly reach your fingertips out, trying to touch it's arm.

Venom snarls and jerks away. "You are stupid. Why do you stay? Why are you not afraid?"

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant when in fact your knees were shaking so much that they might give out on you, and smile slightly. This thing was right, you are stupid. "I'm just curious. You know what they say... Curiosity killed the cat." picking up your bag, you start walking back down the concrete steps, leaving the headless body and Venom behind. "Thanks again!"

"WAIT!" It's voice rumbles through the air.

Turning your face, you see it bounding toward you. "What?"

"Not safe. Bad people in this world." it's tongue flicks out and slides across it's needle-like teeth, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Yes. But I'm fine. I just live three blocks away. I think I can make it on my own." You wave and start walking again, closing your eyes tight, trying to squeeze the image of Venom's tongue out of your mind. "Maybe I'll see you around!" you say loudly and disappear into the night, trying to fight the urge to sprint all the way to your front door.

"Eddie, What is Curiosity and why did it kill a cat?" You hear Venom mutter quietly, holding your breath, you wait for a response, but nothing comes. "Do they taste good?"

You release the breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and slump against the front steps of your apartment. "Holy shit! It bit that guys head off!" you whisper, your brain finally coming out of shock. "And I tried to touch it! What is wrong with me?!" Fumbling with the keys, you unlock the door and duck inside before you think of any other idiotic ideas for the night.

***

"We will follow her." Venom's voice vibrates with unease.

"Why would we do that? Leave the poor girl alone. She's had enough for one night!" Eddie's voice floats through Venom's head.

"Safe. She needs to get home safe."

"Why do you care so much?” Eddie snaps but gets no response from Venom other than a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I'm sure she's fine big guy,” he sighs. “Let's go home. I'll make you some tater tots."

Venom's body hums with pleasure at the thought of warm tater tots. "But first..." He surges forward suddenly, his body airborne as he dashes through the park and climbs onto a nearby building. His eyes scan the sidewalks, searching for you in the moonlight. He finds you quickly and leaps from roof to roof, following you all the way to your doorstep. "She is safe," he hums proudly. "Now… Tater tots."

Eddie inwardly rolls his eyes. “Yeah, buddy, tater tots.”

#Venom #venom 2018 #venom symbiote #venom fic #venom x reader #venom x you #venom x y/n #eddie brock #eddie brock x you #eddie brock x reader #symbiote #symbiote oc #venom x oc #eddie brock x oc #venom oc #we are venom #curious creatures

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savetopnow · 7 years ago

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2018-03-30 04 MUSIC now

MUSIC

Brooklyn Vegan

Panopticon releasing double album next week, playing fests

Julia Holter debuted songs from new LP in Mexico, covered Leonard Cohen in Spanish

Gorillaz debut new track "Hollywood" ft. Snoop Dogg in Chile (watch)

June of 44 announce reunion shows

Superchunk expand tour, playing Jersey City after European dates

Consquence of Sound

Dave Grohl’s first band, Scream, to reissue 1988 album No More Censorship

Mike WiLL Made-It and Pharrell recruit Rae Sremmurd, Big Sean, and Quavo for new song Aries (YuGo) Part 2 and video: Watch

The Weeknd to release new album, My Dear Melancholy, tonight

Julian Casablancas’ The Voidz discover a hellish cartoon dystopia in new “Pyramid of Bones” video: Watch

The Best of What’s Coming to Netflix in April 2018

Fact Magazine

Relaxer unveils debut album A Family Disease, releases 22-minute track

Watch a beautiful documentary about Ryuichi Sakamoto’s tsunami-damaged piano

Tom Misch – Against The Clock

Soho Rezanejad is the daring Dane blending darkwave drones and intense philosophy

Visual artist Jesse Draxler announces Misophonia art book on Sacred Bones

Fluxblog

Fifth-Dimensional Views

Late Night Games

The Middle Of A Cold Premonition

The Moon Right Behind Me

Make Me Feel Right

Idolator

The Weeknd Is Dropping An Album Called ‘My Dear Melancholy’ Tonight

Alicia Keys’ Stunning Style Evolution Throughout The Years

Lauv Rushes Towards The Bitter End On New Single “Chasing Fire”

Katy Perry Eats Chicken Nuggets & Performs “Act My Age” On Japanese TV

Album Preview: Everything We Know About Christina Aguilera’s 8th LP

Listen to This

Tyler the Creator - OKRA [Rap]

The Noisy Freaks & Wicked City – Get Down [Future Funk & Glitch Hop]

Alice Phoebe Lou -- Berlin Blues [Indie Folk] (2014)

Goat Girl - The Man [indie rock] (2018)

Will Smith - Miami [90s Hip hop]

Popjustice

NONONO’s new one is v excellent and here’s the video

New Music Friday: all hail Let’s Eat Grandma’s miniature pop symphony

Paloma Faith’s branded content is better than your branded content

Saluting the artwork for PRETTYMUCH’s Healthy

Louisa Johnson interview: “We went, ‘oh, fuck it, let’s just get drunk’”

Reddit Music

Mike Shinoda - Crossing A Line [Pop/Rap]

ALESTORM - Drink [Pirate, Rock] (Official Video)

The Raconteurs - Steady As She Goes [Alternative]

The Rolling Stones - (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction [Rock]

Goo Goo Dolls - "Iris" [Alternative Rock/Soft Rock] (1998)

Rolling Stone

The Weeknd to Release New Album 'My Dear Melancholy' Tonight

Hear Tyler, the Creator's Surprise New Song 'Okra'

ODESZA on Their 'Cinematic,' Percussive Live Show

Lil Skies: SoundCloud Rap Gets Its Small-Town Success Story

Fabolous Arrested Following Domestic Violence Allegation

Slipped Disc

New York Philharmonic loses a new v-p

Andris Nelsons: Without music, I wouldn’t be able to breathe

Watch: Principal flute plays on during brain surgery

Death of a great quartet cellist, 68

A soprano in praise of Verdi bikinis

Spotify Blog

Taylor Swift’s New Delicate Video Only on Spotify

Spotify Expands Secret Genius With the Launch of Studios

Spotify and Genius Team Up to Launch Déjà Vu Podcast, Hosted by Stereo Williams

Spotify Celebrates Black History Year-Round with Launch of Black History Is Happening Now

Spotify Launches Integration with New and Existing Cadillac Models

We Are the Music Makers

I made a straight up vocal comparison with 4 microphones ranging from $6,500 to $250. I figured you guys would appreciate it!

What VSTs are artists like Shirobon and Luke Million getting that smooth, crisp daft punk vocoder?

I’m looking to up my camera and audio game. Video inside for my current set up:

I want to make electronic music like glass animals

Getting a 'garbled' 'distorted' effect when combining multiple saxophone tracks in my video editor

#music

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ecotone99 · 6 years ago

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[NF] Life At Sea, From The Kitchen

(WC 4,321, photography included in post https://slugpace.com/life-at-sea-in-a-kitchen/)

I cannot tell whether the crunch under my barefoot is granola or crusted salt. This dimly lit room would make a great prison cell, or better yet a coat closet, instead it is my home for the next 26 days. “All hands to the mainsail,” comes an echoing cry as a group of 14 to 17 year olds struggle to hoist up the billowing white sail.

I am struggling with my current mission too; several boxes of angle hair spaghetti and a Costco sized can of tomato sauce need to transform into dinner for thirty-four, as I contemplate how I got myself into the situation.

The answer is simple- Michoel.

He is the charismatic camp director with the gall to take a group of orthodox Jewish boys to the wildest places imaginable for one month every summer. From the peaks of the Great Rocky Mountains to the rain forest like trenches of coastal Washington. This year marks 11 years since he first embarked on this improbable mission.

During a jog in the morning of an early April day I saw his caller i.d. appear on my phone. There are few calls I would answer during a run but I knew Michoel would appreciate it. “Uh, doing real, uh, well,” I respond to his question while gasping for air. “That’s great Huds, how is your July 15 through August 13 looking? I need a cook.” His gung ho attitude is infections and while I never had aspirations to be a sailor, let alone a cook on a sailboat, I agree to a job I don’t fully understand.

The Exy Johnson is a tall ship, modeled after the Brigantine vessels once used to transport tea and tobacco across the Atlantic. Most of those boats have long since been replaced by liners, the sweat of sailors by gasoline. Boats like the Exy are left to enthusiasts.

With the tomato can opened and a pot of water boiling I deceive myself into thinking all I have left to do is dump in the pasta, let it simmer for half an hour, drain it, and mix in the sauce.

I step outside the galley for my first walk around the boat. I immediately notice three boys slumped against the railing, one of them is leaning over it, throwing up. I recognize Tzvi as the one who just threw up. He made an enthusiastic introduction early that day when we set sail, leaving me with the nugget that he was notoriously prone to motion sickness.

Moving past him and to the front of the boat, or the bow in sailor language, I find myself at the main deck. Its most strident feature is “the jacuzzi,” the main gathering area where we do morning prayers, all hands meetings, and hang out. The little tub is crammed with weary campers. One boy is talking animatedly to Captain Dan, “No, I don’t think we will make it all the way to San Francisco, but let’s see how we do getting out of the marina first,” he responds. San Pedro is still visible to the east of us. Sailing from this Southern California port to the San Francisco Bay was Michoel’s original plan when he called me months ago. It had more recently been swapped out with the far more attainable goal of circumnavigating the 5 Channel Islands off the coast of Southern California.

I amble back to the galley to check on the pasta. As I insert a beat up serving spoon I am met with resistance halfway down the pot. Clumped pasta. I drain and rinse the overcooked pot of goo in an attempt to improve the situation. It is 4pm and despite the quality of dinner it is ready. 2 hours early for dinner but too scared to step away from my “creation” I pull myself up to the only viable sitting space in the galley; a small linoleum topped counter. Two sentences into a collection of the best short stories from 1998 I am nauseous.

After dinner I make my way to the jacuzzi, focusing on my breath, trying to dispel myself of the nausea. I find a huddled mass of other sick boys, a dire difference to the group of boys I saw there several hours ago. I wedge myself between the two least nauseous looking boys I can see. Soon I start wondering, realizing how 26 days is a long time. Among the other sick on board I have some relief in knowing I am not alone. There are a handful of boys that are already unsettling at home on the Exy, none of them sit besides me. George, one of the crew members, tries to assure us matter-of-factly that, “Within a few days you’ll find your sea legs. Then you won’t feel a thing.” What started as slight dizziness is turning into the urge to purge myself of dinner, my trust in George is low.

With my approval half a pot of misshapen pasta is unceremoniously dumped overboard. As soon as the rotation of boys assigned to helping me with kitchen duties start scrubbing the dull grey pot my thoughts drift, breakfast. It is hard thinking about scrambled eggs while wanting to never eat again.

As I put away all the kitchen equipment, giving the pot a personal once over, I prepare the kitchen for tomorrow morning. The sun has long since set and although we are not more than two dozen miles away from the mainland the stream of stars above head is vivid. The boat is quiet now. The only noise is water gently lapping against the side of the boat.

I am tired but can’t force myself to go below deck. A trip to the stuffy and equally smelly main quarters is unappealing. I make my way back to the jacuzzi instead. There are only a few campers left out, the most ailed among us. Staring into the empty and dark horizon Captain Dan says, “You guys will have to go to sleep eventually, especially if you are in shift 3, you are on duty starting at 4 am.” “I am going to throw up if I go down there,” a short kid with a New York accent, whose night this may have been his first away from home in his life, says. “I know you feel bad right now but once you get into bed and close your eyes you will start feeling a lot better. And practically speaking you really can’t stay on deck all night.”

Among the haggard herd of unwilling sick people I eventually make my way down stairs. The main haul is essentially a very wide hallway. On both sides there are triple tiered bunk beds, each with a thin foam pad. I crawl into my new abodes and shut my eyes tight. Dan wasn’t lying. I fell asleep fast.

“Hey Yehudah, wake up, Fern sent me down to get you.” I peek at my phone, it says I have zero bars and it is 6am. My messenger, a tall boy with brown hair, looks like he would rather be sleeping. His shift has been up since 4am. When I get on deck there are only 3 campers and 2 crew members in sight, everybody else hiding in bed.

Aside from the slight residue of nausea left over from last night, like the stubborn pieces of burnt spaghetti left glued to the pot on the galley counter, I can feel another uncomfortable sensation. It is an ache in my chest, a rare feeling among the sensations of my life but a feeling I identified with quickly. It is the dull dread I get before public speaking or having a physical confrontation. Its cause is obvious- my responsibility to feed everyone. I soon decipher a consistent routine; As I am preparing a meal the dread builds until I am finished. It starts to dissipate as everyone lines up to get lunch, as I see people are actually willing to eat my cockamamie impersonations of honey dijon chicken wings, caesar salad supreme, or whatever I scramble together. The sensation completely leaves when and if I announce seconds and the food is finished off. An occurrence that would not happen until after a few days on the ship and I had developed some kitchen acumen.

After five days I feel like I am getting into the swing of things. The slight nausea persists but I have only thrown up once. Tzvi, my new constant companion in the kitchen, hasn’t been so lucky. His pale face greets me after breakfast, “I have just about the greatest idea for lunch,” Tzvi is funny, despite his nausea, and an appreciated help in the kitchen. But he is 16, I am dubious of his great idea when he excitedly reveals it, “Let’s make some french fries! Give everyone a taste of home. It’ll be much better than the baked potatoes you have planned.” “Common,” I say to him with pretend hurt, “Everyone loves my baked potatoes.” “No offense Yehudah, your potatoes are B-L-A-N-D. Your recipe is oil, potatoes and salt.” Tzvi says.

“I’d like to see you do better,” I respond. “I will. For lunch. French fries.” He is alive with the idea, for a moment it overshadows his sickness. “Alright you make these french fries, I am going to make egg salad. You have 5 hours until we serve. Please don’t mess this up, I only have so much food aboard.” I am becoming increasingly more aware of how the boats stock of food will not get us through another 22 days.

“Yes!” Tzvi goes in for an enthusiastic high five, “You are not going to regret this.” My egg salad will take less than half an hour to prepare. “If his plan flops I will just serve wraps with lunch”, I think silently to myself as I walk towards the jacuzzi.

I listen to Michoel give a pep talk to the usual crowd of jacuzzi residents. It is clear I am not the only one rethinking my decision to be a part of this voyage. By 12 o’clock I decide to go back to the galley, start working on that egg salad, and salvage whatever Tzvi and his gang didn’t ruin.

Tzvi is wearing the flamboyant floral kitchen apron, between his hands, an improvised tray made of a discarded cardboard box. In the box there are, to my amazement, french fries. I am pleasantly taken aback. I smile, “Wow those look good, can I have some?”

“No food until it is served,” he replies, parroting one of the lines I tout daily. Then his smile fades, “Uhh we are seriously going to have to limit everyone’s portions.” The tray he is holding is the only tray. One tray of fries for 34 hungry people. I serve lunch with tortillas after all. My usual dread leaves as I serve the last scoop of egg salad.

On the morning of the 8th day of the trip I wake up early to start preparing rations for the next five days. I visit the bow of the ship to greet whichever shift is on. When I get there all twelve of them, plus 4 crew members, are crowded around the railing. An odd sight for 5am. Then I see it- the back of a whale emerges 30 feet from the boat. My first reaction is panic. It is huge, bigger than the ship itself. But no one else seems irked. I quickly transition to awe, realizing we are in no danger. The whole ocean comes up to say hello that morning. Dolphins, schools of catfish, the whale even emerges a few more times. The closest experience I ever had to this was seeing Shamu at six flags, it isn’t comparable. As conservationist and ranger premier George Melendez Wright once observed, “Generations ago man was accustomed to wild animals, but that has all been buried in city life. Whenever he has seen wild animals at all, they have been presented in some way compatible with dense populations […] comes a day when his heart skips a beat. Walking along a deep forest trail he comes upon a single bear eagerly peeling the bark from a log in search of fat white grubs. This is a fresh thrill and it brings the realization that the unique charm of the animals in a national park lies in their wildness, not their tameness, in their primitive struggle to survive rather than their fat certainty of an easy living. The new concept involves an appreciation of the characteristics of a real wild animal, notably, that each wild animal is the embodied story of natural forces which have been operative for millions of years and is therefore a priceless creation, a living embodiment of the past, presentiment of the future. It teaches the new joy of seeking out the wild creatures where they are leading their own fascinating lives instead of having them pauperized in camp where each individual animal becomes a bull in a china shop.”

We are in the headwaters of a national park that also happens to be an island, Anacapa. It is the reason I am preparing rations. During the phone call I had with Michoel 4 months ago he told me we would be doing some camping this year, “Listen mate I have a couple Islands in mind. Santa Barbara, Santa Monica, or Anacapa. Let me know what you think, where we should bring camp.”

I gave the matter little thought and when he sent me an email the next week, asking which island I liked, I googled each one and choose the one that looked the nicest; Anacapa. I later found out we became the longest time residents since a hermit named French made this his home in the 1950’s.

“My break from Cooking” I think over and over again, smiling to myself as I distribute tortillas, salami, small packages of condiments, a bruised apple, an orange, and a few cheese sticks into 29 Hefty 40 liter garbage bags. Each camper will have all the food they need and I will only have to worry about feeding myself for the next few days. This was going to be the vacation I needed.

The small island is visible by midday. A crew member ferries groups of 4 to the small island. The boat and the crew members will leave us ashore while they go back to the mainland and do a resupply.

I am the last to leave the ship, doing a once over of my galley before I go. “Don’t worry, we will keep it safe for you, won’t mess anything up,” Fern, the first mate, says. As I step onto Anacapa I feel euphoric, free of all responsibility, of the daily dread of making food. The joy dissipates as I realize we are not the only ones on this island. In my “research” of the island I neglected to uncover that from May to August Anacapa is home to 10,000 pairs of mating western gulls. 20,000 adult seagulls and their countless bratty kids. They are our companions for the next four days on this tiny island. I stop noticing the non stop crowing and moaning of the birds during day two. But they don’t stop noticing us, stalking us overhead anytime we venture out of our tents. Anacapa is soon dubbed Ana-crap-a

Every day we swim, jumping from the jagged cliffs off the island. I get to read without getting nauseous, but most of all I appreciate not having to cook. The four days passed faster than any four days of my life. I achieved a kind of relaxation that can only be found after an immense buildup of pressure has been released.

“16 days left,” I think to myself as I start chopping wilted carrots back in galley only hours after returning to the ship. I am the first aboard and am ready to get back at it. Baked potatoes and romaine salad for lunch. I recommit myself to finding both literal and metaphorical balance in the kitchen for the days to come.

After lunch an all hands meeting is called. Every person aboard assembles around the jacuzzi. Captain Dan stands near Fern at the helm. She starts talking loudly, “I hope you guys all had a good time on Anacapa, we heard those birds where relentless,” she smirks but quickly gets serious, “We are headed into what may be the most intense stretch of this journey. This stretch of ocean is known to be treacherous. By the looks of it some of you are already feeling the swells increase, this will get worse by tomorrow. If your shift is on, or you are on deck for any other reason, you will need to be clipped into a harness at all times,” safety lines we usually only use at night, “ above all else be smart. If you follow our orders and use your common sense we will get through this fine.“ I look around, some of the faces seem to be saying, “bring it on”, most of the others look unenthusiastic, I feel both.

I fall asleep without issue but upon waking up feel the boat swaying more than usual. I step outside and almost lose my balance. In the galley I make a plan: I will serve the simplest meals I can think of to survive today. Cereal and milk for breakfast, peanut butter and jelly tortillas for lunch, hot dogs and broccoli for dinner.

After lunch the swells start approaching 8 feet, sending waves on deck, soaking any passersby, and returning me to a state of utter sickness. I decide I better get started on dinner before I am decapacitated. When 4pm rolls around Fern’s words from last night seem too tame. Anything that isn’t bolted down goes flying, inside the galley, on deck, or below. A lost book, an odd sock, even someone’s shoes, float past the galley window. The tossing to and fro is worse than any roller coaster I have ever been on. I go to the jacuzzi to seek refuge. Michoel is explaining how it is impossible for the boat to capsize, “The haul is just to darn heavy, we will all die long before this ship turns upside down. Just hold on tight. Isn’t that right Malley Gaster” he says, smiling in my direction.

I hear the thud of pots and realize things in the galley are out of control. I grab two people who look like they are doing okay, Carol and JJ. They both had a glint in their eyes last night when Fern was describing this. Together we hatch down all the windows and fasten the pot to the stove. If that gets out of place I am screwed. Inside the oven the hot dogs are bouncing like kids on a trampoline. At least it is contained. With the windows closed the galley becomes stuffy as hell, my nausea worsens. I leave Carol and JJ with instructions, “Listen guys, serving dinner on deck clearly ain’t gonna happen. We are going to open the port side window and serve dinner from there. Got it?” They both nod in affirmation, “Alright, great, feed anyone who is hungry and find me if you need anything, I will be throwing up near the jacuzzi.”

I bolt out of the galley in time to lean over the railing as I let my guts out into the raging ocean. It is cathartic but I still feel like crap as I sit in the jacuzzi. The waves are 12 feet tall at this point and there is no escaping the salt water raining down on us. “All hands strike the square sails,” Fern shouts, I make a weak attempt to help bring the sail down, “Heave, ho. Heave, ho.” I don’t have much juice but I yank the damp line like my life depends on it, “Heave, ho. Heave, ho.” The sail comes down all at once. We scuttle back to the jacuzzi. As I pass the galley I see Carol and JJ within, feasting on hot dogs, I afford a small smile to myself. At least someone on board is having fun.

People usually don’t talk about the calm after the storm but that describes the next day perfectly. In fact the rest of the week goes by without much event.

Dinner the next night, burgers, are cooking in the oven as I start sauteing some vegetables on the stove. It usually takes me 25 minutes to get the two large pans finished. Today an hour passes and the vegetables still don’t look ready. I peek inside the oven at the burgers, they look partially cooked. When I take one out for a taste I realize they are completely raw inside. I go behind the galley, where the gas canisters are stored, to make sure the valve is on. They are on but the pressure barometer tilts back and forth. I consult Fern. She figures out pretty quickly the propane is empty. “How the hell am I going to finish making dinner?!” I ask Fern. I know it is not her fault but I am frustrated. I trust the crew to make sure everything boat side is in order so I can do my job.

The stir fry becomes an avocado salad. I throw the burgers into the freezer, hoping it hasn’t already developed some god awful bacteria. Thankfully there are cheerios and almond milk left over from breakfast. Without an ounce of shame I serve it with the aforementioned salad.

The next morning land comes into sight again. This time it is the mainland, our last stop before sailing back to San Pedro. The Santa Barbara port looks childish compared to the vast sea I am used to. People dressed up in beach attire. Their only care if there will be traffic on the way back home later that day. It all seems so trivial compared to that hellish evening two days ago, or the horde of birds on Anacapa. I can still hear them caw if I close my eyes.

Today I will go into town with Captain Dan. He will pick up a replacement gas canister for the oven and stove. I will go to Safeway and stock up on produce. It has been a week since I had anything fresh left to serve. I find the two big carts and giddily set off down the aisles. Two hours later they are both overflowing with avocados, greens, corn, potatoes, chips, tomato sauce and their like. Having cooked for 3 weeks I knew exactly what I want. Dan easily locates me and my brimming carts in the Safeway parking lot. In one trip I am back to the galley. Now stocked with enough goods to keep everyone on board happy for the final week.

The next day we set sail again. This time back, south. When we are well out of sight of Santa Barbara the next day we take a break from sailing in favor of swimming. Before jumping from the edge of the boat I lather on layers of shampoo and soap, a desperate attempt at cleanliness. The feeling of being in the ocean, in the middle of nowhere, is sublime. I am completely consumed by the oceans vastness. Getting clean also felt pretty darn good.

Just as everyone makes it back on board a school of dolphins comes up to the spot we were swimming. I feel like life on the boat is actually becoming enjoyable in that moment, it does not last. I decide to go all out for lunch. Cheese fondue, toasted tortillas, and a fresh romaine salad with my yet to be famous sour dressing. As I zest lemon, mostly mayonnaise at this point, the boat tilts to its port side, my right. I am already used to the sporadic movements of the ship, even in calm seas, but the dressing is not secured. It falls off the counter. In a slow instant I am covered in it. Not only is this the last of my mayonnaise, I forgot to replenish in Safeway, I am no longer clean. My good mood is gone. I wipe of the viscus, white, concoction from the least likely and most obscure parts of the galley. I use a lame olive oil dressing in its place.

Today is our last day at sea, day 27. The wind starts to slow down during lunch, mashed potatoes. There is not much to do on the boat, the boys lazily strike all the sails as the port comes into view. After dinner Captain Dan breaks out his banjo, Fern her fiddle. They start belting out lively bluegrass tunes. Before long everyone aboard is dancing. For once the boats rocking has nothing to do with the swells, we are securely tied to the docks of Ports O’Call in San Pedro. It is uninhibited dancing, the made up jig full of uncoordinated movement, the happy dance of a sailor headed home. It has been a hard month. This celebration is as much a farewell to the good times had as much as it is a welcoming embrace of the land to come.

Everyone sleeps well that night, there is no “on shift.” The regularities of society we have been “lacking” seep in overnight. The boat gently caresses the wooden port with the occasional thud, as it comes into contact with a rubber mooring buoys hanging off of the boat.

Months later when I close my eyes I can feel the motions of the ocean, and for a panicked moment try to remember if I took the lunch meat out of the freezer to defrost, only to remember that responsibility has long been fulfilled. It was more demanding than any job I have ever had, yet I am better for it.

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