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clouseplayssims · 8 months ago

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So, sim holidays.

I sat down and really focused on my mega list of things to do and implement in Edirann, and one of the bigger chunks was a functional holiday system. I plan on the general holidays being based on a mix of real holidays and sims-canon holidays, which are below the cut, and I'll be using this mod as my baseline.

But it did make me remember that I'd like religion traits, potentially with holidays of their own. My question there would be: is it possible for a trait (item in inventory essentially) to trigger pop ups at all? Like "It's x, time to begin morning prayer." etc.

Anyway, time for my rough drafts for holidays!

WINTER ---The Purge First Day of Winter Celebrate in home.

Clean all objects, place brooms outside every door, reset fields for spring. Said to purify the home and keep Our Lady of the Glitch at bay. In the evening set lighted candles at the front door.

---Winterfest ? Celebrate in home.

Sims should decorate their home, put up a traditional Winterfest tree in their front yard, and have a holiday meal. The king provides 1 butcher parcel of duck to all indentured and peasant families.

---Snow Flake Day & Bonfire Night Last Day of Winter Celebrate in home, the fields, festival grounds, and feasting grounds.

Give gifts to friends, neighbors, and family - apples, wheat and oranges favored. The king will also provide gifts. Ice skating, snow activities. Followers of Zeus should make promises for accomplishments for the year to come. Bonfires in the fields. Toast tress and crops with spiced cider. Decorate the home with evergreen boughs. Hang mistletoe above main door - it will also be hung in public spaces. Chop down tree on land and burn in small ceremony (yule log) with the mantle decorated with evergreen and dusted with flour. Keep fire going for 2 days. Common to set out gold pillar candles, wreaths, holly, poinsettias. Feasting grounds serves all who attend a turkey dinner and dessert.

SPRING ---Feast of Fools First Day of Spring Celebrate in the festival grounds.

A child sim is randomly selected as King For A Day.

---Love Day Third Day of Spring Celebrate in the field, festival grounds, and feasting grounds.

Traditional day to celebrate courtship and romance, as well as fertility and the first bloom of spring crops. Sims should send love letters, go on dates, and kiss under the mistletoe. Dancing is common, and a lucky woman will be crowned the Queen of Love & Beauty and hand out prizes. It's good luck to gather flowers on this day.

*Followers of St. Persephone should visit the grounds in hopes of creating a Luck Baby.

*Followers of Mara often marry on this day or propose. A child born on this day is considered a blessing from Mara.

---Flower Day ? Celebrate in festival grounds and feasting grounds.

A celebration of fertility and motherhood. All ladies wear flower crowns and hunt for colorful eggs. Men are expected to try and catch a live rabbit to bring good luck to their homes, presenting the rabbit to a sweetheart is considered the highest of regard. Stay up until midnight dancing and drinking around the maypole. Sims should also wake early the next morning to watch the sun rise. ( Traditional foods of the season include leafy green vegetables, dairy foods, nuts such as pumpkin, sunflower and pine, flower dishes, sprouts. Herbs and flowers of the season include daffodil, jonquils, woodruff, violet, gorse, olive, peony, iris, narcissus and all other spring flowers.)

SUMMER

---Leisure Day ? Celebrate at home.

Sims are to do no work on this day. They should spend the day relaxing, swimming, or exploring the festival ground. Many games are played on this day and the king awards ribbons and prizes to the winners of multiples tournaments like log rolling and axe throwing.

---Stendarr & Artemis Festival ? Celebrate at home.

Sims should do their best to earn a skill point or learn something new. Acts of charity are encouraged. This is the day before the first harvest and it is tradition to bake barley loaf on this day to eat.

---Humble Day ? Celebrate in festival grounds and feasting grounds.

The bones of St. Humble are moved to the festival grounds and displayed where they can be touched for luck before being returned to the shrine. (The custom of placing a cabbage on the doorstep of girls who had behaved imprudently through the year was a more novel method of social control. Regardless of the care they may have undertaken with their flirtations and indiscretions, they were surely to be found out on Mayday.) Foods traditionally served at this time include apples, grapes, crab-apples, pears, grains, breads and berries. Herbs and flowers favoured for the celebration include all grains, heather, blackberries and sloe.

FALL ---Harvestfest ? Celebrate in home and in fields.

Farming sims should take in their first harvest on this date. Other sims can symbolicly harvest in the royal fields. Cook a large family meal that all sims sit down and eat together. Socialize with friends and family. ( The Druids call this celebration Mea'n Fo'mhair and honor the The Green Man, the God of the Forest, by offering ciders, wines, herbs and fertilizer to trees. Symbols of Mabon include wine, gourds, pine cones, acorns, grains, corn, apples, pomegranates, ivy vines, dried seeds, tobacco, and horns of plenty. Herbs and foods associated with Mabon include acorns, benzoin, ferns, grains, honeysuckle, marigold, milkweed, myrrh, passionflower, rose, sage, Solomon's seal, thistle, vegetables, breads, nuts, apples, pomegranates, potatoes, carrots, and onions. )

*Followers of Kynareth sacrifice a small animal to the goddess.

---Spooky Day ? Celebrate in the home, field, festival grounds, and feasting grounds.

Sims should put out treats for friends and neighbors, paint faces with skull paint, and honor their dead. ( Bonfires were lit and fortune-telling were popular activities. Mask wearing was also part of the celebrations. The festivities were similar to those of Carnival, just before Lent, though on a smaller scale. There was much feasting, drinking and playing of games, as well as story telling and sometimes, plays. Cock fights, pig baiting and sport events such as racing, leaping or wrestling were other favourite activities. Food was plentiful right after the harvest. Meat, from the autumn slaughter of those animals that it was not possible to house and feed over winter, could be salted or smoked to preserve it, but sausages and other foods made from offal would not last long. They had to be consumed fairly quickly before they spoiled. It also was the day that marked the end of old contracts. Hired help moved on to new positions and there were farewell and welcoming banquets for them and the new staff.)

*Followers of Kynareth sacrifice a small animal to the goddess.

---Festival of Talos ? Celebrate in the field, festival grounds, and feasting grounds.

A large tournament is held and the best swordsman, archer, and fighter are provided places of honor at the feast and prizes from the king. ( This feast marked the sowing of wheat, the brewing of ales for winter and the preparations for the winter season. The feast of St. Michael and All Angels or Michaelmas fell about the time of the autumnal equinox. His feast was celebrated with a traditional well-fattened goose which had fed well on the stubble of the fields after the harvest. In many places, there was also a tradition of special large loaves of bread.)

LOCATIONS Festival Grounds Fields Feasting Grounds Humble Shrine

#kingdom of edirann #worldbuilding

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felinisnoctis · 10 months ago

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INTERLUDE: LORREN’S STORY

Something a little bit different - the story before Bonded Pairs, of how the space wolf came to the farm.

CW: Death, Cancer

They said it was bad luck on his part to bond with an elderly human like that. Celeste already had grey hair and wrinkled skin when they met. She’d been widowed a decade ago and she lived alone in a big house in the country, all her children grown up and gone. They’d used to work the farm themselves, she told him, and she’d sold extra sewing on the side to help make ends meet, along with the goods from the farm. They didn’t raise animals like her parents had, but they traded for ham and sausage and hunted deer and wild birds.

He’d taken it on himself to see that the freezer stayed well stocked with wild game. He wrestled down a canid that came too close until it accepted him. Celeste said she was a “wolf-dog” and sighed when he brought her home. He chopped wood to keep the house warm and plucked figs from the trees for her to make into preserves. She couldn’t sew anymore, her hands hurt too much, but she still loved to cook.

Then there came a time when the wood he chopped wasn’t enough to warm her. He held her close to his chest, even as he walked the kilometers into town for her to see the apothecary. She didn’t want to, she said. She didn’t want to be a bother. He took her in anyway.

They ran a bunch of tests and said cancer. They said that they could try chemotherapy, see if they could shrink it enough to take it out, but it would be risky and she might die from the treatment. She refused. She was an old woman, she said. Let her die at home.

He heard the whispering about him too, even though he pretended not to.

What happens when she’s not around?

He’s big. Not primaris, but almost the same size.

Could go out of control…might cause a lot of damage.

Boy that size, not easy to take down.

He’d had to restrain feral marines before. The area was isolated. They had strong enough cages, in an emergency, if an astartes was a threat to himself or others or needed care and couldn’t understand what was going on. He ignored the whispers. They didn't understand.

A few days later, her oldest grandchild moved in. A youngster who would have been a techpriest in his era, and shared both their frequent lackadaisical attitude towards gender and their near-universal annoyance at what the mechanicus called “the laity” and Robin called “end users.”

Celeste slept more and more. They’d given her something to ease the pain. He stayed by her side as much as possible. He could at least keep her warm and comfortable. The blankets never seemed to help anymore, but holding her close did.

A few weeks later, he felt her breathing slow as she slept and heard her heart finally stop beating. He knew it was coming. He still howled and snarled as the loss tore at his soul, his own hearts beating rapidly as though they could give her her life back.

The funeral was a few weeks later. He ran wild in the woods until then, ripping through the trees away from people and tearing the corpses of coyotes apart for food. But he made sure he was dressed and groomed properly before he showed up at the little country church, his unarmored bulk barely fitting through the door. He howled a prayer no one understood to the sky as she was lowered into the grave and covered over, even though the others shifted away from him as he did.

Then he went home. She was gone, but he could still stay with her grandchild and keep the farm going. She would have liked that, he thought, as he finished butchering the fresh turkey he'd brought Robin for dinner. Robin was rolling out fresh pastry noodles in the kitchen and would appreciate the meat.

#space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #warhammer 40k

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luckyreds · 6 months ago

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Christmas in Bastogne 1/4

"We knew it was Christmas. Earlier that day, Ben, Ernie, and Dave found a little spruce tree and claimed it as our Christmas tree. Christmas Day was no different than any other day - we killed Germans, and they tried to kill us. That night, we huddled together in almost darkness, trying to stay warm, and we wrote letters home. I wrote a letter to my mother telling her how we were all eating turkey and dressing around the campfire and singing Christmas carols. Everybody wrote letters like that. I wasn't about to tell her what it was really like - we were so cold and tired and miserable. There was no turkey. We had cold field rations, and we were glad to have them. We couldn't have a fire that night because the Germans were so close. Some of the men were humming Christmas carols, but nobody was singing because we were too close to the Germans. One of the chaplains came around and led us in a quiet prayer. Mack and I talked about all of the great Christmases we had in Longstreet, about how his father would go into the woods and chop down the biggest tree he could carry home, and about how my mother would be cooking for days before Christmas. It seemed to both of us that our past belonged to other people, not to us, at least not during that night in Belgium. So, we all lied to our families. I never told my mother about the real Christmas of 1944."

- captain Jack Holmes on Christmas in Bastogne 1944 X

#Bastogne #history

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mintyisms · 6 months ago

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Classic Christmas Song Starters

lyrics taken from popular christmas songs

You're as cuddly as a cactus.

I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree.

Last Christmas I gave you my heart, but the very next day you gave it away.

It doesn't show signs of stopping, and I've brought some corn for popping.

It's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you.

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Later we'll have some pumpkin pie, and we'll do some caroling.

What a bright time, it's the right time to rock the night away.

When you walk down the street, say hello to friends you know and everyone you meet.

There's a tree in the Grand Hotel, one in the park as well.

On every street corner you'll hear silver bells.

Hang your stockings and say your prayers 'cause Santa Claus comes tonight.

Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree won't be the same, dear, if you're not here with me.

I'll wait up for you, dear.

From now on our troubles will be miles away.

In the meadow we can build a snowman.

Leave a peppermint stick for old St. Nick hanging on the Christmas tree.

There's no place like home for the holidays.

If you ever saw it you would even say it glows.

Everybody know a turkey and some mistletoe help to make the season bright.

Tidings of comfort and joy.

Strike the harp and join the chorus.

What fun it is to ride and sing a sleighing song tonight!

Shall I play for you on my drum?

Do you hear what I hear, ringing through the sky?

Good tiding for Christmas and a happy new year!

There must have been some magic in that old silk hat they found.

The world is your snowball for just a song. Get out and roll it along.

Maybe just half a drink more.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas with every Christmas card I write.

#roleplay meme #rp meme #sentence meme #sentence starters #roleplay starters #rp starters #[ meme ]#[ lyric ]#[ win ]

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burlveneer-music · 1 month ago

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Big Hands - Thauma - a fine new Fourth World album from a name that is new to me

Big Hands is the alias of Andrea Ottomani, an Italian-born, London-based artist, whose productions have maintained an impeccable level of homogeneity over the last decade. His debut album, titled Thauma, was conceived in dreams over two consecutive nights as he traversed the storm-ridden Mediterranean Sea in late June 2024 and was later brought to life with the intent of preserving the sounds and structures as they were originally dreamt. Composed of ten tracks that seamlessly morph into one another, the album contains recordings of tuned percussion instruments (such as bells and the balafon) captured whilst travelling across the Mediterranean (Italy, Greece, Egypt, and Turkey) as well as collaborations with his tight-knit orbit of talented musicians. Palestinian artist, بنت مبارح (Bint Mbareh), echoes and wails in dialogue with Abraham Parker’s & Izzy Karpel’s brass interjections on Fuoco Lento, then proceeds to send chills down the spine as she starts singing in Arabic on A Juniper Tree Whose Roots Are Made of Fire. Tenor saxophonist, Buster Woodruff-Bryant, lays down snake charmer waltzes on Sticks And Stones, followed by a spiritual sax solo on Rinascita which features the natural timbres of Yusuf Ahmed’s bamboo kit. Mantras, along with recordings of Andrea’s community, are dispersed throughout the album, amplifying the nostalgia and melancholy associated with the music. There’s an underlying archaic thread woven into the percussion that meshes perfectly with the organic acoustic instruments, ultimately becoming indistinguishable from the electronic drums or modular synthesis. Field recordings of the sea, cicadas, call for prayer, and the overall recurring noise from the surroundings evoke a vivid sense of space and are the foundation for realizing this visionary sound. Music by Andrea Ottomani Additional percussions on A4 by Yusuf Ahmed and on B2 by Hayato Takahashi Artwork by Andreas Bauer

#Big Hands #fourth world #electronic #experimental #uk #2025 #marionette #Bandcamp

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fifteenonaskateboard · 4 months ago

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My Volunteering Experience at Sadhana Forest and Buddha Garden!!

Sadhana Forest Experience

Walking barefoot on the sand every day, eating vegan food, and trying a mud bath for the first time in my life—being in the cold water, applying clay on my body in the serene weather—was an unforgettable experience. I also attended a sound bath for the first time, which was quite powerful. For a few minutes, I couldn't feel my body at all. As part of my seva, I participated in various activities like washing dishes, cutting vegetables, cleaning the kitchen, serving food, cleaning pathways, washing blankets, folding clothes, engaging in forest activities, and stitching. i loved doing the activities there but I struggled to connect with people but later on i did find some people with whom i loved talking and spending time during our food breaks. Overall, my time at Sadhana Forest was okayish. Maybe it was because I couldn’t connect deeply with people or because I had very little time for myself—except during night walks. Despite that, I was really proud of myself for walking more than 25,000 steps daily! My fear of darkness suddenly vanished. Some nights, I would walk alone, gazing at the stars and fireflies, listening to music, and talking to my boyfriend. That was my only personal time, and I would get so exhausted that all I wanted to do was sleep. I lived in open-door huts with no lights. The first night was difficult, but after that, I slept like a baby—fear was just gone.

Vegan Food I Tried (That I Remember Eating):

Ragi Idli

Ragi Pancakes with Jaggery Syrup

Peanut Butter

Corn-Carrot Vegetable Stew

Ragi Porridge

Mint Biryani

Cabbage & Carrot Stir-fry

Drumstick Leaves Stir-fry

Lentil Stew with Red Rice

Ragi Laddu with Coconut Milk Tea

Papaya-Pineapple Jam

Buddha Garden Waking up early in the morning, watching the sunrise, planting seeds—lettuce, radish—collecting weeds before planting, and feeding it to the turkeys and hens every morning. Connecting with people through conversations about organic farming, life, travel, food, yoga, meditation, birds, flowers, and books, and sharing breakfast together. A place where no one judges you, a place full of warmth and love <3. Reading in the kitchen while listening to the birds, trying different teas—mango ginger tea, lemongrass tea, and blue pea flower tea- (picked the ingredients from the farm itself). Digging my hands in the sand and walking barefoot every morning in the fresh, clean air- felt a deep connection to the earth. At night, watching the sky full of stars, sitting on the terrace, gazing continuously in hopes of seeing a shooting star. Being surrounded by fireflies every night—it felt unreal, as if I were living in a dream. It was just so magical. There was a dog too, and her name was Bamboo. <3 I even saw my favorite bird—the kingfisher—at Buddha Garden. Most evenings, I spent my time by the pond—a place so quiet, so full of calmness. I would sit there reading, listening to music, observing birds, and watching the sky. I would made cloud affirmations, watch the sunset, and observing its colors reflected on the water. A place where no humans were around—just me and nature. After my morning work, I would take a shower, get ready, and go out to explore Auroville. At night, exhausted from the day, I would simply lie on my bed, close my eyes, and fall asleep.

Exploring Auroville I went to the Matri Viewpoint with one of the friends I made there. We also visited the art museum, where the paintings were beautiful, and the place was so peaceful. On our way back, we passed a big banyan tree, and I touched it. The next day, I traveled alone to the Tibetan Pavilion, where there was a small Buddhist prayer space. I meditated there, and there was also a swing and a small garden. I sat there, did some reading, and enjoyed the calmness. The next day, I attended a poetry session. The day after, I went to the library with another friend and found an interesting book. I spent my time reading there, and I also watched a beautiful, cuddly, sleepy cat that everyone loved. I also went on a solo cafe date, where I had a latte and spent time reading the first volume of Heartland. I also explored Solitude Farm, where they make food using fresh vegetables from their own farm. The owner taught us how important it is to know where our food comes from and showed us his farm. He also told us about his favorite book, The One-Straw Revolution by Masanobu Fukuoka. I met my friends there, and we had lunch together before heading to Pondicherry. In Pondicherry, we explored the Mangrove Forest, saw the point where the river and ocean meet, watched the sunset, and enjoyed mushroom chat near the beach. We also explored the market, where I bought a heart-shaped ceramic essence holder for my boyfriend. I had the yummiest brownie at Farm fresh. I also went to the Inner Chamber of Matri Mandir, a place with powerful, positive energy. I meditated in front of the crystal in the inner chamber, which was one of my dreams come true. The aura of the place was something, you know. I also did tree meditation with a banyan tree over 100 years old. The next day, I went to the Botanical Garden with one of my friends from Buddha Garden. To reach there, I walked about 6 km, I took the longer route mistakenly, but I finally made it. The garden was huge, filled with different types of trees, some medicinal. I also saw a pond full of lotus flowers, lily pads, little fish, and frogs. I spotted different flowers, birds, and even a peacock. There was a flowering plant covered with butterflies, looking like a fairyland of butterflies. It was so beautiful. The Botanical Garden has all my heart, and it was one of the best days of my life. There were steel stairs that led to a viewpoint of the entire garden, and my friend and I reached the top. I also explored the flower garden and being around the flowers made me feel happy and alive. I also had dinner date nights with myself. I had the world’s best pizza, and i really meant it, it was very tasty. On another date night, I had mushroom fry—I had never tasted anything like it, so delicious. The cook of that place was very kind—he shared some of his stories and told us he wakes up before sunrise every morning. He also mentioned how drinking water helps keep gas away (haha) and talked about a locket he wears that protects him from diseases (I forgot what it was made of, but I think it was Tulsi wood). I also went to the beach—being in the ocean and listening to the waves is just so soothing, isn't it? And in the Auroville market, I had another tasty pizza at Pizza Casa and explored the market. I bought a three-clove earring made of coconut shell, a Moonstone crystal ring (symbolizing new beginnings), a hemp bag, and some handmade paper. I also got myself some books.

This volunteering experience is always going to stay close to my heart. 💌💌✨✨💕💕🍀🍀🌏

#life #personal #diary #auroville #volunteering #nature #some unforgettable memories

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hannahssimblr · 2 years ago

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Chapter Seven (Part 3)

The sun has already begun its descent behind the horizon when we all sit down to eat at three o’clock. These later December days are so short that sometimes I wonder why the sun bothers to show up at all, and why not just give up its teasing and go away altogether until it’s ready to stay and commit to a decent amount of daylight.

The candles in the centre of the table flicker and dance in the fading light and the lights on the christmas tree twinkle, and the sight is so cosy and festive that I suppose I don’t really mind all that much about the dusk. Uncle Sean sails out of the kitchen carrying the huge roasted turkey fit for ten, and everyone applauds with delight as he smiles as though he’s the one who slaved over it all morning. He places it right in the middle of the table surrounded by the roasted carrot batons and the crispy roast potatoes, parsnips, mash, brussels sprouts, homemade yorkshire puddings, ham studded with cloves, gallons of gravy and bread sauce, so much food that one might think it’ll last for days, but it will be gone in an hour.

Granny makes us say a prayer in thanks for the food, and the minute we’ve finished Conor and Decky start lunging for it, taking heaping spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, great big hacks of meat and drowning it all in gravy while Aunty Catriona stares at them like they’re wild animals at the zoo.

“Leave some for the rest of us, please.” she says to them and Uncle Sean laughs. “Sure they’re growing boys, Cat, leave them at it.”

“They’re gone past growing, sure they’re twenty six and twenty three.”

“G’way, Catriona.” Says Conor with a mouthful of honey roasted ham. “There’s plenty for us all.”

Sean turns to Fabiana next to him as the food makes the rounds of the table. “Bread sauce, love?” He says, holding up the jug, and she pulls a disgusted face and shakes her head, and as he passes it over her to granny, Fabiana looks over at me with a little, secretive smile. I grin back, pleased that she’s chosen me as an ally among the chaos of this family dinner.

Somebody opens a bottle of red wine and she reaches for it and then bends over the table and starts pouring it into my crystal glass, the ones that only come out of the cabinet on Christmas day. I feel my mam’s eyes on me as I have a drink from it.

It’s a while before anyone tries to speak, our mouths all full of food as we ravage what’s on the table. I’m so hungry now that I can’t think of anything else, the food tasting a thousand times more delicious because of how long I’ve waited for it.

“So Michael, how’s the new job going?” Catriona says to my dad eventually, once her plate is about three quarters of the way finished. “I know you were let go from your previous one recently.”

“Going grand.” He says, patting the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin, his movement a little bit slow and sloppy. “I work nights now in the factory, worse conditions, I suppose, but better money. No big change from the last place to be honest… we make catheters now.”

“Ah, I suppose you’ll take what you can get. That’s how the economy is these days.”

A pause. “And how’s the love life, Cat?”

“Well actually I amn’t seeing anyone at the moment.”

“Oh right. What happened to yer man?”

“Who?” Says Sean, and my dad waves his fork around at aunty Catriona, searching for the right name.

“The fella from accounting at her work.” He settles on eventually, and she rolls her eyes and goes back to her food.

“Not seeing anyone.” She repeats. I take a large glug of the red wine.

“That’s a pity, sure we were all hoping for some news about more grandkids.” My mam elbows him in the arm, and he looks at her in surprise. “What?”

“Dad and Fabiana are already having another baby, did you not know that?” Says Decky. “She’s seven months pregnant, like.”

“Ah yeah but sure like…” He trails off, and I feel hot with embarrassment of him already, as clearly he’s already had a few drinks too many. His eyes are watery and heavy. I drain the end of my wine glass and Fabiana immediately fills it again.

“Anyone tried the brussels sprouts?” Says granny. “They’re especially delicious this year.”

“No, brussels sprouts are sick.” Says Conor.

“They’re very healthy for you.” Attempts Fabiana and he immediately rolls his eyes at her.

“Yeah, alright. Can we talk about something else?�� I stiffen and look from Conor to Decky, Fabiola to Sean. Clearly something is not right in their family this Christmas, and I wonder how the boys really feel about their father dating a woman young enough to be their sister. I watch her face fall and the way that she goes back to picking at her food with a bent head.

“Tell your granny about school.” Sean says to his youngest son then, and Conor regards him with total incredulity.

“I’m graduated, dad.”

“Are you? Weren’t we at that yoke in your university only last month?”

“Yeah. My graduation ceremony.”

“Oh right, yeah.”

“I’m working with the county council now.”

“Forgot about that.”

The only sounds at the table are the scraping of silverware against the plates. I take another long drink from my glass and instantly Fabiana is wielding the bottle again. I have a feeling she’s going to have me drink the whole thing, wishing it could be her instead.

“Fabiana.” I say softly. “You’ve got to slow down. I have a hard time saying no to people.”

“Just a bit.” She says, and then to my horror, all eyes are on me as my mam starts a fresh tirade.

“Since when do you drink?” She says accusingly into the silence.

“Um. I don’t know.” I say feebly, feeling like a child caught rotten doing something against the rules.

“She’s drank for years.” Decky pipes up unhelpfully. “Remember I saw you drinking cans of cider outside Kennedy’s pub in town after you and your friends weren’t allowed in. What age were you then? Must have been fifteen.” He’s laughing because he thinks he’s told a funny anecdote, but he has no idea how tone deaf it is. I stare at him in disbelief. What is going on at this dinner table? How did he think that was an okay thing to say? My mother’s eyes narrow at me.

“I’m eighteen.” I squeak. “I can drink if I want to.”

“Is this what you’re doing up there in Dublin?” She demands. “Up in those pubs drinking away all of your money?”

“No, mam. I’m not like that.”

“I’m disappointed.” She says, and then looks from me to my father with a resigned look on her face, and I know what she’s thinking. That I’m going to end up just like him, stuck to the bar in some pub all weekend until I get carried out by the bouncers and tossed into a taxi only to crash into the house at two in the morning and fall asleep on the couch until noon. Going from work to the drink and then back again in this endless, drunken spiral.

“There’s something about women who drink.” She announces to the table. “I think there’s nothing worse, nothing less attractive than that. You know, when you see a man, messy drunk, stumbling on the streets, it’s bad enough, but when it’s a woman it’s a hundred times worse.”

“That’s sexist.” I say to her.

“It isn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t the same, and I don’t appreciate this new bolshy attitude you have. Where are you picking up all these notions?”

“You can’t just say ‘it isn’t’ and then not have any reason why. That’s the definition of a double standard.”

“Well it’s my opinion. What do you lads think when you see drunk women out on the street on a Saturday night?” She closes in on my cousins who look at each other and shrug, mumbling incoherencies.

“You wouldn’t go out with someone who did that, would you?”

“Uh I dunno.” Decky says. “Depends.”

I feel a horrible lump in my throat and my chest hurts. I hurt. I take a steadying breath before I speak in case I cry. “Are you saying that’s the reason you think that I…” I trail off, too humiliated to finish my sentence.

She looks into my face then, wavering slightly but not backing down. “Boys don’t like girls who drink.”

I look at my father, drunk at three in the afternoon, lazily eating his dinner without bothering to close his mouth all the way. “So they like girls who enable their drinking instead, right?” I say and when her face falls I realise it’s too late to take the words back. They’re out there, filling the room with this dreadful, grim weight, but I continue anyway, throwing my hand up in the direction of my dad. “Is this what you want for me?” I ask her. There isn’t a sound from anyone at the table, not even a clink of glass against the delft, and my mother just opens her mouth and closes it again. I get up from the table in a hurry, the chair scraping against the floor. I throw my napkin onto my plate and rush out of the room and up the stairs towards the bedroom that granny has made up for me.

“Does anyone want the Christmas pudding?” I hear her murmur to the table, before I shut the door behind me.

Prev // Next

#sims #sims 4 #ts4 #simlit #sims 4 story #sims story #writing #fiction #romance #sims 4 storytelling #sims4 storytelling #sims storytelling #lucky girl part 2

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bisexual-yuri · 1 year ago

Text

Talent and Blessings Don’t Matter in the Hospital (Lessons from ECMC)

There is only so much process you can reasonably expect someone to do

I feel like I’ve hit my limit

Shit’s got me feeling bored and stupid like the village idiot

Need my creativity need a job

I’m all full of all sort of needs to sort out this agony of idleness

They say it’s a kindness to myself to take so much time to myself but what do I do all by myself except circle a drain I don’t want to drain out of?

Can I take a plane or a train off this cliff of boredom without alarming me and everyone that loves me?

Still processing neuropathy and dark shit discussed in therapy

Like the fact that the nurses sedated me against my will needlessly because they were scared of me

Don’t care that they’re the real scary she’s, the real scary ones

The ones keeping me locked away from the sun and the fan

It felt like nobody cared that the son of God sees all including patient abuse, including how if you scary enough they’ll take your fuckin’ shoes

They don’t got a clue the trauma they causer with the drama and gel/powder painted claws, damaging psych mentality, my prayer is done so more it be

Amanda and JD, were they manic or just anxious?

Why did Corey have to take all this?

Why won’t Fawzi just get all the words out?

Why wouldn’t they just let Jaxem the fuck out?

People no danger to themselves or me

Still in lockup, docs give no fucks you see

False profits and false prophets get out easy

Druggin’ the fun out of Aggie

You ain’t fun no more, that’s how you get free

Behavior in the health, good behavior in hell

And it doesn’t even come with Mercy

Quitting’ Cymbalta cold turkey

Can’t see color, can’t smell nothin’, feelin’ wonky

Temperature a mess, cold water on hot hands

No one cares to listen, no one really understands that big emotions are not themselves a disease

Drug’ll fuck your mind up till you can’t even see

I’m Eliza spitting’ rhymes now, not lies now, no I’m no fucking donkey

It’s a song but I wrote it in the wrong key

Singin’ red teeth, spitting truth through the nose bleed

Now I got time to kill but no blood to spill

You can’t take anything further away from me

Robbed of all my autonomy, my work and my loves all a trifecta of purgatory

Abuse and sex crimes by blonde bitches who look at me and see witches

Plural

I’m just one person, big feelings on a fleshly mural

Trying to make sense of the senseless violence done to me

Trying to make sense of the senseless violence done period

I’m deadly serious

This shit needs to get a hard look at it

A world full of angels seeking their halos and wings, instead get shot down with syringes and bans that take wedding rings

No wedding ring for me, no wedding ring for Sarah not even a tattoo

In the hospital they treat you like a damn fool and then wonder why you behave any differently

Sorry ECMC but the truth you saw in there ain’t the real me, it’s the me you brought out of me

It’s the eagle you carved out of a hummingbird that was trying to rest on a dead tree

I’m not a dead me, I’m just me, so why did you try killing me to make me whole again?

I’ll tell you doc, you have cost me all sorts of friends by locking me up in this shit

Made some new ones too, but the anger and the loss are harder pills to swallow than anything you gave me in follow up

Divorce the PTSD, divorce from real me, you people never trusted me to take care of me

It’s scary

I know in a moment I had lost my mind, but damn is that license to be so fucking unkind?

How am I supposed to find peace in the belly of the beast?

How is anyone supposed to heal when you hit them hard with rules about what is and isn’t real?

Makes you wonder who’s the delusional one, the patients or the system

All I know is the needle toothed fucker takes everyone as a victim and doesn’t care if we scream or we cry

More fuel for the fire, more reasons to make people want to die to escape this

I know Al, you’re still here and you can’t take this

Neither can I, knowing people suffer every day in this hellfire of some hospital’s fucked up design

But what can I do, I’m just one person and I don’t even have a second shoe to drop because of what the hospital took from me

I have a lot of friends, lot of family

Most people ain’t so lucky

Screaming on the wind “why did you do this to me and him and her and them and everybody?”

I wish I knew an answer, I wish I had a better answer than just to scream

Maybe someday when I am healed I will have energy to dream of a better future for this

But for now, all I can do is sleep

#poetry #poem #not hetalia #original poem #the tortured poets department #poets on tumblr #edgar allan poe #ranpo #port mafia #suegiku #ranpo edogawa #nh #places #q

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werdlewrites · 1 year ago

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masterlist - ao3 - kofi - twitter @ djomamma

share support through likes, comments, and reblogs!

summary: “I had a daughter, once.” It’s not something he brings up in casual conversation. The way she was and the light that trailed after her every step. Most don’t even know by his choice to keep that life locked away in secrecy. It’s not a tactic to forget, but rather to dull the blade as it works to carve his heart out. “Sara,” warning: Canon child death, celebrating a bullshit "holiday", Hopper is a swetie pie wc: 2,342

Out in the woods of Hawkins, Indiana, a small cabin is set alight for the holidays. The music plays from an old stereo, bouncing off every wall to keep the resident inside at peace, though it was hard to come by. The stove is burning, and the oven has been on for an unknown amount of time. No fire is needed, as the chaotic cooking has encouraged sweat on her brow. This is what she’s agreed to, more or less. Hopper had asked again about the holidays, and she sat long in silence, thinking it all over. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would bring some light into a dark place—or a blackened soul. It’s something normal, and normal is what she desires. So, Hopper promises a night of peace and to bring home a pumpkin pie if he can find one at the last minute. He pictures a simple dinner—cooked-up leftovers or from the scraps left in the pantry. He pictures them working together before settling down at the small table, telling stories, and basking in the spirit of something old and familiar. Autumn takes this as an opportunity to blossom—to be the girl she once was. She had charged through the grocery store, bumping shoulders with all of the other rushed shoppers in search of a proper meal. Hopper was long gone for work by the time she had started preparing. Pushing herself harder and working with recipes she had learned over time as she cooked alongside her father.

It’s a difficult image to cast out. Her father was in charge of the turkey and stuffing, while she worked on the vegetables. They had listened to music just like this—like now. He would tell stories from his youth and the way his parents behaved at the table—grandparents she had never met. They would teach him a new card game and play it just after the table had been cleared. The tradition passed on through time. A stack of cards was laid out over the table, informing his daughter of the rules. Sometimes, she played stupid. Waiting for him to go easy on her and to take pity before she announces a victory. Their last holiday had been different, though. An argument arose as heated words spilled out across the table, his frustration at work clashing with her desire to talk about a missing mother. Most of the food had been left uneaten and stored away, and the pair went their separate ways for the night to wallow in their grief. He apologizes the following morning over a cup of coffee, and she does the same. Life seemed to ease back into routine after that. She feels the ache of his loss now, despite the wound he’s torn open in her chest. But is it his absence that hurts the most? Or is it the feeling of togetherness? Can she find it here, beneath the dying trees? A sense of belonging.

As the sun begins to sink below the treeline, most of the food has finished cooking. The girl shifts and organizes everything out onto the countertops, saying a silent prayer that all of her hard work wouldn’t wind up cold and untouched. That he wouldn’t be pulled away until late in the night, now that she’s found something to look forward to. But the sound of her walkie-talkie has a brief moment of static, with Hopper’s voice calling out on the other line. “You there, kid?” A glass dish nearly falls from her hands as the sound of his voice breaks through sweet songs. She scrambles across the way, flipping the dial low enough for him to hear her reply, knowing he’d start to panic if she took too long. “Yep!” she calls out in a hurry, nearly breathless. “I’m, uh, I’m here.” Worry begins to brew in the pit of her stomach, leaving her in sickening anticipation of disappointment. Anticipating the words “I’m sorry" to rattle through the speaker just before he gives the bad news. But the reality is much sweeter. “Just a few minutes out. I found a pie.” Autumn lets out a small huff of a laugh, a genuine smile on her face. “Had t’beat an old lady for it." “Hey, don’t tell me about your dirty business. I’m not going t’be a witness for your crimes,” she jokes, hearing the joy in his simple response. “You’re no fun. Be home soon.” He thinks nothing of it as the walkie-talkie clicks off, while she’s left with a mind of static. He calls this place home. Can it really be so easy?

It’s not long before she picks up on the rumble of his engine, the brilliant headlights breaking through closed curtains just before all goes dark beyond the wall. Autumn discards her makeshift apron—an old, thinned blanket she’s assaulted with scissors—tossing it to a pile of dirtied clothes meant for the laundry mat. She can hear his footsteps creeping in closer, and in a matter of seconds, he’s standing at the threshold, beer and pie in hand. He goes to speak—to greet her after a long day spent away working—but the sight nearly robs his lungs of air and leaves his mind vacant of thought. Blankets had been folded for the sofa, pillows fluffed and set up right. The rugs had been cleared of their constant debris as they moved in and out of the cabin. A seasonal candle is lit at the coffee table—something he knows didn’t come from his own home but rather hers. It’s melted down to nearly nothing—well-loved and given a new purpose. “W-what is all of this?” The girl before him appears clueless, following his eyes and finding nothing truly out of the ordinary. It was a special occasion, wasn’t it? “It’s…dinner?” She answers with unease, suddenly worrying she has done something wrong. She tries to make amends for something she’s uncertain of, words fumbling out. “W-we didn’t really talk about what t’eat, so I guessed,” she says with a small shrug. “Everyone likes potatoes.” Still, the officer studies the room in silence, and her anxiety grows just a little higher. Unaware that this cabin had gone through long years of emptiness, never basking in the warmth of a home-cooked meal, just like Hopper. “Did I do something?” she questions, and finally his attention is locked on the girl. “No,” he reassures, his tone gentle and kind. “No, this is—it's great, really.” He steps further into the cabin, drinking in the sight of a proper meal laid out for him—all from a teenager.

The oven dings, and she’s suddenly sprinting past him. “Don’t judge it when you see it,” she says with a playful glare. “It was so last minute, I-” Hopper places his offerings down, suddenly filling the space at her side to steal away the mitts. “I’ve got it. You, uh, you go sit or something.” It’s his way of getting her to relax, and reluctantly she gives in, finding her seat at the small table for a moment of peace. “Where’d you learn t’do all of this?” A rush of heat spills out from the oven as the door opens, revealing the smallest, cooked turkey set in a tray. If it were litter, it’d be the runt, and it leaves him smiling in amusement. “Uh, m-my dad, really.” He tries not to give the confession too much attention—not to make a big deal out of something that brings her heartache. He casually glides over it. “Yeah?” “Wanted t’teach me structure? He said it was important t’stay busy," and she finishes with a snort. “Guess it just stuck.” Hopper shrugs, tearing away pieces of the meat to let cool before plating up. “I can think of worse things.”

Autumn is up at his side in no time, a leaf-printed paper plate in hand as they load everything up for dinner. “What was your dad like?” She questions once they sit—the table is so small that their plates nearly touch. It’s a foreign feeling—being so close in comparison to the larger table, keeping a family of two separated. The corner of his lip twitches in amusement at ugly memories, long gone but leaving a stain. “An asshole,” he answers bluntly. “Must’ve done some good, though. I followed right in his footsteps." Her brows pulled tight together in wonder. “He was-?” “Police chief,” he finishes for the girl, taking a bite of the still-hot meal. “He was miserable t’live with.” Autumn can feel the seam tearing apart in her mind, rendering her silent as Hopper talks. She can’t help but think of him and the lies he’s spread—how deep they ran. And if this life meant anything to him, the way it did to her. She suddenly stands from the table to grab a small dish, piling green beans onto Hopper’s plate. “Your plate is nothing but beige,” she comments, wearing a mask of something playful to hide the hurt. “I like beige.” Rolling her eyes, she joins him again, though not in the way they had both hoped. She stares down at the food, fork in hand, but fails to make the next move. She can feel the loss burrowing deep, nestled in to expand with time until it’s unbearable to ignore, forcing herself to purge until there’s some relief from the pressure. Autumn realizes her appetite is quickly fading and simply sits back in the chair to focus on keeping the floodgates closed. Hopper takes note of the sudden shift, his utensils laid out with the plate pushed aside. The girl doesn’t seem to notice or budge from her place—attention locked but vacant.

A calloused hand runs along his face, studying in silence. He’s held onto his own share of pain, whether it be his or someone else's. Moving through life to take on their burden with poor attempts to leave it all behind in the office. It comes home with him and keeps the man awake at night until the stories are drowned out by another drink. He recognizes her desperation to bury it all—to move forward until it weighs you down and it’s too late. She’s just a girl placed in a war zone and asked to fend for herself. To make do with what’s been done. Hopper never looked for help when he found himself lost in grief, and though she isn’t asking, he can’t stomach the thought of a soon-to-be seventeen-year-old wasting away with no guidance given. So he reaches out to her through troubled words. “I had a daughter, once.” It’s not something he brings up in casual conversation. The way she was and the light that trailed after her every step. Most don’t even know by his choice to keep that life locked away in secrecy. It’s not a tactic to forget, but rather to dull the blade as it works to carve his heart out. “Sara,” he says, wearing a genuine smile as her name passes through, easing down the memories they’ve made—both good and bad. "The biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen.” He risks a glance in her direction, uncertain of what he may find. Her skin has reddened and gathered up at the tip of her nose as sympathy creeps in, but she’s silent. “She, uh, she died when she was seven. Cancer,” the word is choked out, feeling its thorny vines strangle at his throat before it reaches the surface. “I-I lost everything after that. But, I guess, we were already losing it all before it happened. Just this—this dark cloud, y’know? Knowing what’s comin’ and not bein’ able t’stop it.” A shaken breath catches in her throat, swallowed back down with teeth buried into her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. She can see his wounds beneath the dim lighting—old and still wide open for infection—festering and climbing through veins until his heart gives in. But he’s here, speaking about a life he once lived, desperate for an antidote so her smile never fades from view. So he can guide someone new through what Sara never had. “There was no more happiness. No family dinners—nothin'." The girl doesn’t notice she’s crying until a tear spills down her cheek, hastily wiped away to keep him safe from any guilt. “This would be my first time celebrating with someone. Since I lost her.”

He leans in closer, his shirt nearly pressed to the pile of food, as he speaks in a lower tone, wishing to ease the weight she bears in her chest. Choked back sorrows to fill her lungs. “I didn’t have much hope; maybe you feel the same.” Her stare is glossed over, heavily burned by tears, before a single blink sends them cascading down soft cheeks, vanishing in her neckline. “My fight was long, and I don’t want that for you, kid. I can’t imagine what you could be thinking or going through. T’lose all you had known.” A shaken breath fills her chest as her gaze shifts elsewhere, finding his focus had begun to swing and shatter at the small wall she tried to build back up. “And if you feel like you’re just out there with no lifeboat, call for help. Say something. You’ve got a whole life t’live. Don’t let yourself drown.” The girl lets a heavy sigh escape, arms crossed, with her head tilted back to the ceiling, allowing brewing tears to slip back from where they came.

"Weak."

Autumn’s sleeve wipes and scrubs at her cheeks until they are flush, removing evidence of a broken mask before facing him again. There’s a small smile in her expression. Still uncertain and struggling. But Hopper gives a gentle nudge to her plate, an act of encouragement, and there’s a huff of a laugh heard. Without much thought, she takes her glass in hand and offers it out to Hopper, her voice gentle: “To hope.” A smirk slowly eases its way out into the dim lighting of the cabin, reaching for his opened beer to meet her in the middle, clinking together.

"To hope.”

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brookstonalmanac · 8 months ago

Text

Holidays 11.10

Holidays

Area Code Day

Day of Remembrance of Ataturk (Turkey)

Day of Russian Militsiya (Russia)

Día de la Tradición (Day of Tradition; Argentina)

Dr. Livingstone, I Presume Day

Father’s Day (Estonia, Finland, Norway, Sweden)

Forget-Me-Not Day

The Goddess of Reason, Liberty & Philosophy Feast Day (a.k.a. Goddess of Reason’s Day; France)

Guinness World Records’ Day

Hari Pahlawan (Heroes' Day; Indonesia)

Harrow Day (French Republic)

International Accounting Day

International Giantess Day

International Interns Day

International Science Center and Science Museum Day

Los Santos Uprising Day (Panama)

Maputo Day (Mozambique)

McHappy Day

Microsoft Windows Day

Militia Day (Tajikistan)

National Bong Day

National Civic Pride Day

National Science Center & Science Museum Day

National Toothpaste Appreciation Day

National Wheat Day (Brazil)

National Yawning Day

National Young Reader’s Day

NET Cancer Day

Not A Father's Day

Police Day (Russia)

Quark Day

School Counselor & School Psychologist Recognition Day (Australia)

Scots Fir Day

Sesame Street Day

Sleep Dangerously Night

Toilet Day (Japan)

Toothpaste Appreciation Day

U.S. Marine Corps Day (a.k.a. USMC Day)

Wear Green Day

Winegrower and Winemaker’s Day (Ukraine)

Wizard Day

World HTLV Day

World Immunization Day

World Keratoconus Day

World Public Transport Day

World Run Day

World Science Day for Peace and Development (UN)

World Top Up Day

World Youth Day (WFDY)

Youth Day (Kyrgyzstan)

Food & Drink Celebrations

Gooseberry Day (India)

National Boilermaker Day

National Mussels Day

National Pork Belly Day

National Vanilla Cupcake Day

Independence & Related Days

First Cry of Independence Day (a.k.a. Los Santos Uprising Day; Panama)

2nd Sunday in November

Day of Prayer for the Promotion of the Redemptorist Missionary Vocation [2nd Sunday]

European Day of Wine Tourism (EU) [2nd Sunday]

Father’s Day (Estonia, Finland, Iceland, Norway, Sweden) [2nd Sunday]

Grandparents’ Day (South Sudan) [2nd Sunday]

Hasla Bayramy (Harvest Festival; Turkmenistan) [2nd Sunday]

International Tongue Twister Day [2nd Sunday] (also 3.2]

National Day of Mourning (Germany) [2nd Sunday]

National Donor Sabbath [2 Sundays before Thanksgiving]

National Pupusa Day (El Salvador) [2nd Sunday]

National Tree Festival (Tunisia) [2nd Sunday]

Orphan Sunday [2nd Sunday]

Remembrance Sunday (Australia, Canada, UK) [2nd Sunday]

Sandwich Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Seven For Sunday [Every Sunday]

Sleepy Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Sundae Sunday [Every Sunday]

Sunday Funday [Every Sunday]

Survey Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Swans and Ladders Tournament (Mirano, Italy) [2nd Sunday]

Volkstrauertag (Memorial Day; Germany) [Sunday before Totensonntag]

Weekly Holidays beginning November 10 (2nd Full Week of November)

Geography Awareness Week [2nd Week]

Global Antibiotic Awareness Week [2nd Week]

International Fraud Awareness Week [2nd Week]

International Week of Science and Peace (thru 11.16] [Week Including 11.11]

National Nurse Practioner’s Week (thru 11.16]

National Split Pea Soup Week [2nd Week]

National Young Reader’s Week [2nd Week]

Operating Room Nurse Awareness Week (thru 11.16) [2nd Full Week]

Orangutan Caring Week (thru 11.16) [2nd Full Week]

Perioperative Nurse Week (thru 11.16)

Transgender Awareness Week [2nd Week]

World Kindness Week (thru 11.16) [Week Including 11.13]

Festivals Beginning November 10, 2024

Jamaican Jerk Festival (Miramar, Florida)

Mayday (Katowice, Poland)

South Florida Seafood Festival (Coconut Grove, Florida)

Feast Days

Adelin of Séez (Christian; Saint)

Áed mac Bricc (a.k.a. Aed MacBrice; Christian; Saint)

Ancestor Day IV (Pagan)

Andrew Avellino (Christian; Saint)

Arbrosimus (Christian; Saint)

Baudolino (Christian; Saint)

Chhath Parwa begins (4-Day Hindu/Vedic Festival of the Sun God Surya; Nepal)

Chhat Puja Parva begins (a.k.a. Surya Sasthi; 4-Day Hindu/Vedic Festival of the Sun God Surya; Parts of India)

Cthulu Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Elaeth (Christian; Saint)

El Lissitzky (Artology)

Festival of Cybergnosticism

Festival of Spiritual Indulgence

Festival of St. Bebiana (from beer, "to drink")

Friedrich von Schiller (Writerism)

Galungan (Celebrating Victory of Dharma over Adharma; Bali)

Grellan (Christian; Saint)

Gus the Mailman (Muppetism)

Henry IV (Positivist; Saint)

Holly Black (Writerism)

Jacob Epstein (Artology)

James Broughton (Writerism)

Justus, Archbishop of Canterbury (Christian; Saint)

Kate Seredy (Artology)

Leo I, Pope (Christian; Saint)

Look Inside Day (Starza Pagan Book of Days)

Look on the Bright Side of Life Day (Pastafarian)

Louis le Brocquy (Artology)

Lübeck martyrs (Christian; Martyrs)

St. Martin's Eve [patron saint of tavern-keepers] (a.k.a. ...

Mārtiņi (Ancient Latvia)

Martinisingen (Germany)

Martinmas Eve

Milles, Bishop of Susa (Christian; Saint)

Neil Gaiman (Writerism)

Nincnevin (Old Scots festival celebrating Diana)

Noemí Gerstein (Artology)

Nymphia (Christian; Saint)

Old November Eve (Honoring the Goddess Nicnevin; Ancient Scotland)

Sina (Christian; Saint)

Theoctiste (Christian; Saint)

Tryphena of Rome (Christian; Saint)

Trypho, Respicius and Nympha (Christian; Martyrs)

Wangala Festival (Meghalaya, India)

Wild Hunt Day (Celtic Book of Days)

William Hogarth (Artology)

Wish-Spoiling Sports Day (Imps, Gremlins, and Grumpy Goblins; Shamanism)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Binary Day [1011] (8 of 9)

Sensho (先勝 Japan) [Good luck in the morning, bad luck in the afternoon.]

Unfortunate Day (Pagan) [54 of 57]

Unglückstage (Unlucky Day; Pennsylvania Dutch) [27 of 30]

Premieres

Ben and Me (Disney Cartoon; 1953)

Blank Space, by Taylor Swift (Song; 2014)

Blueing the Blues, recorded by Muggsy Spanier (Song; 1939)

Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Live: 1975-85 (Live Album; 19986)

Butterflies (UK TV Series; 1978)

Catch-22, by Joseph Heller (Novel; 1960)

Change of Habit (Film; 1969)

Dash & Lily (TV Mini-Series; 2020)

Days of Future Passed, by The Moody Blues (Album; 1967)

Don’t Blame Me, by Taylor Swift (Song; 2017)

Dug’s Special Mission (Pixar Cartoon; 2009)

The French Lieutenant's Woman, by John Fowles (Novel; 1969)

Fuck (Documentary Film; 2006)

Ghost in the Shell: The New Movie (Animated Film; 2015)

God Bless America, by Irving Berlin, sung by Kate Smith (Song; 1938)

The Golden Bowl, by Henry James (Novel; 1904)

Good Noose (WB LT Cartoon; 1962)

Happy Land (Film; 1943)

Horses, by Patti Smith (Album; 1975)

The Iceman Cometh (Film; 1973)

I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night, by The Electric Prunes (Song; 1966)

The Living Desert (Documentary Film; 1953)

The Marvels (Film; 2023)

Murder on the Orient Express (Film; 2017)

My Left Foot (Film; 1989)

Nights in White Satin, by The Moody Blues (Song; 1967)

Paddington 2 (Film; 2017)

Piano Concerto in C Major, by Ferruccio Busoni (Piano Concerto; 1904)

The Polar Express (Animated Film; 2004)

Rebel Yell, by Billy Idol (Album; 1983)

Reputation, by Taylor Swift (Album; 2017)

Riot in Rhythm (Flesicher/Famous Popeye Cartoon; 1950)

Sesame Street (Children’s TV Series; 1969)

The Song of Hiawatha, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Poem; 1855)

Stranger Than Fiction (Film; 2006)

There They Go-Go-Go! (WB LT Cartoon; 1956)

Those Beautiful Dames (WB MM Cartoon; 1934)

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (Film; 2017)

Toot, Whistle, Plunk and Boom (Disney Cartoon; 1953)

The Vicar of Dibley (UK TV Series; 1994)

Violin Concerto in B Minor, by Edward Elgar (Violin Concerto; 1910)

Welcome to the Pleasuredome, by Frankie Goes to Hollywood (Album; 1984)

A Wizard of Earthsea, by Ursula Le Guin (Novel; 1968) [Earthsea #1]

The Wreckers, by Ethel Smyth (Opera; 1906)

Wyrd Sisters, by Terry Pratchet (Novel; 1988) [Discworld #6]

Zuma, by Neil Young (Album; 1975)

Today’s Name Days

Andrea, Andreas, Jens, Leo (Austria)

Lav, Lavoslav, Leon (Croatia)

Evžen (Czech Republic)

Luther (Denmark)

Mardi, Mardo, Märt, Mart, Märten, Martin (Estonia)

Martti (Finland)

Léon, Noé (France)

Andrea, Andreas, Jens, Leo, Ted (Germany)

Arsenios, Arsinoe, Irodion, Milon, Orestis, Orion, Rodios, Sosipatros (Greece)

Réka (Hungary)

Andrea, Baudolino, Leone, Trifone (Italy)

Erasts, Mārcis, Mārtiņš (Latvia)

Andrius, Galvydė, Leonas, Vaišviltas (Lithuania)

Gudbjørg, Gudveig (Norway)

Andrzej, Lena, Leon, Ludomir, Nelly, Nimfa, Probus, Stefan (Poland)

Cuart, Erast, Olimp, Rodion, Sosipatru (Romania)

Tibor (Slovakia)

Andrés, León, Noé (Spain)

Martin, Martina (Sweden)

Flora, Florence, Florian, Jocelina, Joceline, Jocelyn, Jocelyne, Jocelynn, Joselyn, Joslyn, Justice, Justin, Justina, Justine, Justus (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 315 of 2024; 51 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 7 of Week 45 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Hagal (Hailstone) [Day 15 of 28]

Chinese: Month 10 (Yi-Hai), Day 10 (Wu-Yin)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Wu-Chen]

Hebrew: 9 Heshvan 5785

Islamic: 8 Jumada I 1446

J Cal: 15 Wood; Sevenday [15 of 30]

Julian: 28 October 2024

Moon: 67%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 7 Frederic (12th Month) [Louis XI]

Runic Half Month: Nyd (Necessity) [Day 4 of 15]

Season: Autumn or Fall (Day 49 of 90)

Week: 2nd Full Week of November

Zodiac: Scorpio (Day 18 of 30)

#Holidays

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honey-minded-hivemind · 2 years ago

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Fun Facts for the 🧿Clearsight!AU:

• The three tribes of Pantala (the SilkWings, HiveWings, and LeafWings) get along a little bit better in this au. There was still an event similar to the Tree Wars, but instead of the wicked HiveWing queen winning, the SilkWing queen giving up her throne, and the LeafWings nearly being wiped out, a less evil HiveWing royal challenged her and won the throne, and made peace between the two other queens and their tribes.

• The SilkWings live in the Hives and in their own silk web cities in the trees. The LeafWings still have a forest kingdom to live in. And everyone has at least one palace and major trade good.

• The three tribes have trade between each other, trading and selling various foods, drinks, art, supplies, and many other things, from various silk products, dyes, and tea from the SilkWings, fruits, herbs, and cuttings from the trees and vines that the LeafWings grow, and honey, meat, and medicine from the HiveWings.

• Each tribe's kingdom has at least one temple dedicated to the All-seer, and a dedicated Librarian and acolytes, who all defend the Book of the All-seer and its two copies from those who would steal it or destroy it. They upkeep the temple they are at, taking care of the grounds, cleaning the temple, and providing prayer scrolls for those who visit. They also will hold private council with those experiencing a crisis, to offer what comfort and aid they can to those in need.

• The tribes have their own stories of the All-seer, who had many, many legends behind their title. From stories of saving the tribes' ancestors from epic disasters, warning the descendants on how to prevent dangers to them, and various tales of how their guidance helped the historical queens and royal families steer away from ruin, there are countless stories about them and their powers. There are also a few places in libraries for books containing quotes or discussing the All-seer and their visions, as well as books analyzing their prophecies and dreams.

• The platonic yans aren't too fanatic. Some of them are religious, but their main goal is keeping the Reader safe, happy, and secure in their kingdom, while guiding them (and trying not to come off as obsessed, because dear moons this tiny dragonet looks exactly like their ancestor/deity THREE MOONS) They are trying to see the Reader as their own dragon, even if they all secretly belive they are the All-seer's reincarnation.

• The queens assign some of their best soldiers and advisors, possibly even a relative or two, to watch over the Reader. No one wants to risk someone hurting them or worse, and while sure, the All-seer seemed to see everything and the Reader is what they think is them come again, they'd rather not risk anything. That would be foolish on their part. No, best to cover every corner so nothing goes unnoticed and unstopped.

• The reader is rather friendly, if not a bit shy and awkward. They aren't used to other dragons and dragonets liking them so much. They also aren't always aware of social cues, such as what is or isn't appropriate to talk about (example: don't talk about gross, bloody, or squicky things when someone is eating. Other example: when in a scary/dark situation/place don't discuss all the ways you can die or the different odd deaths of people in gory detail). They are a kind, nervous dragonet, just rather paranoid and anxious.

• The reader likes sweets, meats, and citrus fruits. Lemon tarts, chocolate with orange peel, honey buns, lemon-and-herb salmon, honey-roasted turkey, sausage balls, and lemons, oranges, limes, and grapefruits.

• The platonic yanderes are unsure of how to deal with the reader. The dragonet who is supposed to be their ancient ancestor/deity is a seer, so they can possibly see anything they could do. That makes it hard to try anything, as the reader could simply foresee their actions and outmaneuver them. On the one talon, they find it amazing. On the other, it's rather annoying when your ward obsession can see what you plan to do and then avoid what you had planned. On the third talon, they're cute, so they aren't too upset with them.

• The adult platonic yanderes are very protective. They also ask all sorts of questions. They want to understand the reader, but aren't sure of the extent of their abilities, so they would like to understand more. And their ward child gets to ask them anything about them and their tribe! To them, what better way to bond than to understand each other, showing the other something entirely new?

• There are hugs. Many hugs, tail twining, wing nudging, head and snout touching, and general fluffy, loving gestures. The platonic yans want to show this tiny little prophet proper care and love, and the reader, unaware of their darker thoughts, wants to repay their kindness.

• And... everything between the reader and platonic yanderes is platonic!!! You have been forewarned😉

(Enjoy these fun facts for the 🧿Clearsight!AU!)

#honeycomb thoughts #platonic yandere marvel #yandere platonic marvel #platonic yandere marvel x reader #platonic yandere xmen #yandere x-men #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #🐉Wings of Fire AU #🧿Clearsight!AU

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rbks-coffee-beans · 17 days ago

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bean of coffee past

so there's actually no official documentation stating who discovered the first coffea plant...!

however, in the 9th century, according to legend, kaldi, a goat herder, was the first to discover coffee beans (noticed the goats got super freaking caffeinated and high and stuff after eating them)

kaldi told this to the monks at the monastery and they all stopped sleeping during evening prayer!! (because they were so hyped on the drug)

in the 15th to 16th century, coffee started being traded on the arabian peninsula

15th century was yemen, and in the 16th century it gained popularity in iran, egypt, syria, and turkey

coffee gained popularity in Europe during the 17th century, but not everyone liked it at first

basically people asked pope clement VIII if it was okay and he was like “DAWG THIS SLAPS WHAT"

after this coffee began to be a more common breakfast drink, as opposed to beer or wine

the coffee meant people were more alert and less drunk while they worked which was so good because we love not having drunk people at work!!!

during the later half of the 17th century, the dutch got coffee tree seedlings and planted them in indonesia (island of java) and began trading coffee

the dutch created the first coffee blend, combining arabian coffee with the coffee grown on java, calling it "mocha java"

in the early 18th century, the mayor of amsterdam gave a coffee tree to king louis XIV of france

the king then had it planted in a garden in paris, where gabriel de clieu took a seed and valiantly transported it to martinique

this seed transplant paved the way for the spread of coffee throughout the americas where we now have coffee today!!

everybody say thank you to gabriel de clieu

(thank you gabriel de clieu)

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wishfulsinkings · 21 days ago

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𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

a oneshot novella for levi ellison written in first person. inspired by redemption by nathaniel rateliff.

I reckon I came into this world wrong from the jump.

Mama died givin’ birth to me. That’s what Daddy told me, years later, sittin’ on the back porch with a cigarette hangin’ off his bottom lip and a look on his face like he was tryin’ to swallow a stone. Said it plain, like he was readin’ the weather — not angry, not sad, just tired. “You cost me your mama,” he muttered, like it was a bill that never got paid. I didn’t ask no questions. I just nodded and let it sit in my chest like wet concrete. I was her last breath and his second son. Maybe that’s why he never looked me in the eyes too long.

We lived in a lopsided double-wide trailer out on the edge of Mentone, where the pines grow thick and the dirt stays red year-round. That place wasn’t much — two bedrooms, thin walls, a roof that leaked even when it didn’t rain. The floors bowed in the middle, the front steps wobbled, and the linoleum peeled back like a scab. But it was ours. Sort of. Rent was cheap, and nobody asked questions, which was a mercy Daddy needed more than most.

Daddy worked behind the church, in this old tin-roof garage he’d rigged up from scraps — more rust than metal, but it held. He fixed what he could: lawnmowers, busted pickups, tractors that hadn’t moved since the Carter administration. He was good at it too, when he wasn’t drinkin’. Most days he had grease up to his elbows and a socket wrench in one hand. Other days, he sat on a paint bucket out back, drinkin’ Wild Turkey straight from a jelly jar, starin’ off into the trees like he was waitin’ for somethin’ to crawl outta ‘em and end it.

We didn’t have money. Weren’t much of a family neither, not in the way people talk about families at church — all dressed up and smilin’, passin’ casseroles down long tables. We had duct-taped boots and holes in our jeans, three forks between the lot of us, and a propane heater that clicked louder than it heated. Still, it was home. It had to be.

Then there was Emmett.

My brother. Five years older, harder than coffin nails and twice as stubborn. He was the kind of boy folks crossed the street to avoid — always had a bruise, always had somethin’ smart to say, never looked afraid of nothin’. He raised me more than Daddy ever did. Probably more than he should’ve. He taught me everything worth knowin’ — how to climb trees without gettin’ caught, how to clean a fish, how to swing first and ask questions later. When Daddy got mean, Emmett stood in front of me like a fence — not unbreakable, but damn sure tryin’ to be.

He wasn’t soft. Never said he loved me, never tucked me in. But he looked out for me. Stole bread from the gas station when we didn’t have dinner. Took the blame when I broke the porch light. He made sure I had what I needed — not much, but enough to keep breathin’.

We shared a room at the end of the trailer — two twin beds, one window lookin’ out over the woods. Our walls were plastered with crumpled band posters and old NASCAR calendars, the kind you pull out of a garage sale box and don’t bother hangin’ straight. There was a hole in the corner where we kicked through the drywall once durin’ a fight. Never patched it.

At night, I’d hear Emmett talkin’ in his sleep. Mumbled stuff, sometimes cries. He didn’t know I was listenin’. He didn’t know I prayed for him neither — not the churchy kind of prayers, more like pleas. Whispered words into the dark, askin’ somebody, anybody, to keep him from fallin’ apart.

He smoked Marlboros, red pack, the kind that made your throat burn. Kept one behind his ear, even at school. He stole cassette tapes from the Jiffy Mart in Fort Payne. Music was his quiet place. Said Ronnie Van Zant made more sense than the Bible, and honestly, I believed him. He had a busted-up Walkman that shocked him sometimes, but he wouldn’t trade it for nothin’.

One night, I asked him why he never smiled.

He lit a cigarette slow, took a drag like it hurt, and leaned back on his elbows. “’Cause bein’ born in a place like this,” he said, “it don’t leave much to smile about. We came into the world already losin’. Don’t matter how fast you run, you ain’t gettin’ out clean.”

He looked at me then — real hard, like he wanted me to understand. “You don’t owe this place nothin’, Levi. Not one damn thing.”

I didn’t say nothin’ back. Just watched the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, wonderin’ if maybe he was right.

Mentone never grew. Not really.

Folks said it was a quiet little mountain town, but quiet’s just what you call a place when nothin’ ever changes and most the good’s already packed up and left. We had a post office, one school, a bait shop that doubled as a diner if you didn’t mind your grits tastin’ like gasoline, and a church that clung to the edge of town like it was waitin’ on God to come back and finish the job.

I was thirteen when I started realizin’ Emmett wasn’t gonna make it.

He’d be gone for days sometimes. Said he was helpin’ haul firewood for old man Foster or doin’ drywall out by DeKalb, but I knew better. He was runnin’ with the Carvers — that family out near the river in the mountain who grew weed in old bathtubs and thought showerin’ was optional. You didn’t ask too many questions about the Carvers unless you wanted your tires slashed or your dog poisoned. Emmett started wearin’ that look — eyes heavy, teeth gritted, skin pale in places it shouldn’t be. He was eighteen but looked thirty on a bad day.

He still came home sometimes. Late nights, smellin’ like smoke and somethin’ sharp I couldn’t name. I’d be up waitin’ — actin’ like I was readin’ or drawin’, but really just makin’ sure he made it back alive. One night he stumbled in with his nose bleedin’, eyes glassy. He didn’t say a word. Just dropped onto his mattress and lit a cigarette with shaky hands.

“You okay?” I asked.

He blew smoke at the ceiling. “Don’t ask stupid shit, Levi.”

That was the end of it.

I started goin’ to church around that time. Not ‘cause I believed — not really — but ‘cause it was warm and they gave out donuts. Miss Claudia, the preacher’s wife, said I had a kind soul. I didn’t know what that meant, but it felt nice comin’ from someone who smelled like peppermint and said “bless your heart” without soundin’ mean.

I sat in the back pew, hat pulled low, eyes on the stained glass. They talked about forgiveness and light, about God havin’ a plan and trials shapin’ the faithful. I wanted to believe that. I did. But sittin’ there with my boots stickin’ to the floor and the preacher’s words bouncin’ around like moths, all I could think about was Emmett out somewhere with a needle or a switchblade or worse.

If God had a plan for us, He sure kept it secret.

Daddy was gettin’ worse, too. The cough he had in the winters started stickin’ around come spring. His hands shook more. He stopped fixin’ things, stopped carin’ if the lights worked or if the water heater rattled like a snake in the walls. He still drank, but slower, like he was tryin’ to outrun somethin’ inside him. Sometimes I’d catch him starin’ at Mama’s old picture — the only one we had left, propped up on the windowsill with a crack down the glass. He never said her name, but he looked like he was rememberin’ it.

I did most the cookin’ now. What little there was to cook. Beans and bread. Ramen noodles if we got lucky. Emmett never ate with us anymore. He’d drift in, shower, maybe sleep, then vanish again. Sometimes I’d hear him fightin’ with Daddy out on the porch — low voices, angry, like two dogs growlin’ over a bone neither of ‘em wanted. I never stepped outside. Just sat on the floor with my back to the wall, holdin’ my breath ‘til the screen door slammed and one of ‘em stormed off.

That year, I got my first job — sweepin’ up at the Feed & Seed after school. Mr. Hawkins paid me five bucks an hour under the table. Said I worked like I had somethin’ to prove. I did. I wanted out. Not just outta the trailer or outta school, but outta the heaviness that lived in my chest. Every dollar I made went into a coffee can under my bed. My “maybe someday” fund. Maybe I’d buy a truck. Maybe I’d go to Nashville. Maybe I’d just make it far enough where folks didn’t know my last name.

Emmett laughed when he found it.

“You savin’ up to be disappointed?” he asked, shakin’ the can.

I snatched it back. “You ain’t the only one who wants outta here.”

He nodded slow, eyes distant. “Yeah. But the gettin’ out ain’t the hard part. It’s the stayin’ gone.”

On my thirteenth birthday, he gave me a pocketknife. Said it was Daddy’s when he was a boy, though I’d never seen him use it once. The blade was dull and the handle was cracked, but I held it like it meant somethin’.

“You keep this close,” Emmett said, sittin’ on the trailer steps, shadows stretchin’ long behind him. “Ain’t for fightin’. Just so you remember — you ain’t helpless.”

I never told him, but I cried that night. Not for the gift. For him. For what he was becomin’. For the feelin’ that I was losin’ him a little more each day.

Mentone didn’t care. It stayed the same — same potholes, same old men at the gas station talkin’ about Reagan like he still ran things. The world moved on, but we didn’t. We stayed broke. Stayed tired. Stayed stuck.

And I started to understand what Emmett meant when he said the dirt here don’t just cling to your boots — it sinks into your bones.

By the time I was sixteen, Lookout Mountain wasn’t just a landmark—it was a whole other world. Folks in town called it God’s porch when they were bein’ kind, but the boys I ran with called it something else: the Edge. A little cliffside just past the fire road where the pine trees gave way to shale rock and you could see half the valley spillin’ out beneath you like a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

That’s where the Carvers held court. Three brothers, all older than us, rough as a wild hog and meaner than any preacher’s sermon on a Sunday morning. They lived up there in a squat house made outta salvaged wood and rusted-out tin, sittin’ like a sore tooth in the side of the mountain. No one went up there ‘less they were invited, and if you did, you better not be wearin’ cologne or lookin’ soft. They didn’t treat ladies right, and everybody knew it. Some girls still went, wantin’ to be part of the scene, but they always came back quiet, shirts tugged straight, mascara smudged, mouths full of nothin’. Emmett warned me early: “Don’t bring no girl up there, and don’t you ever go thinkin’ them boys understand what respect means.”

Still, he spent plenty of nights on that ridge.

Said it was the only place he felt invisible, like the world couldn’t reach him past the firelight and the whiskey. I reckon he liked bein’ nobody, ‘cause down in town, he was always somebody—Mama’s ghost, Daddy’s shame, my protector. But up there? He could just sit back, pass a bottle, laugh at dumb stories, and forget we were born broke and cursed.

I followed him once, just once, when I was near fourteen. He didn’t want me there, but he didn’t tell me to go home neither. Just tossed me a warm beer and said, “Keep your damn mouth shut.” The Carvers looked me over like I was meat that hadn’t been cured yet. One of ‘em—Tanner, I think—asked if I was the “quiet Ellison kid.” I didn’t answer. Just nodded and kept my eyes on the fire.

They told stories. Dirty ones. Mean ones. One about a girl from Dogtown they tied to a tree and left overnight, laughin’ like it was some big joke. I felt sick to my stomach, but I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. Emmett watched me from the corner of his eye like he was waitin’ for me to run. I didn’t. I stayed till the fire burned low and the beer made me dizzy and the stars felt too close. That was the first and last time I ever went up there.

Later, walkin’ back down that steep path in the dark, Emmett said, “That place ain’t for you. You got too much heart. They’ll eat you alive up there.”

Maybe he was right.

By that year, Daddy was barely workin’. The garage was still open, but it was more rust than business. He spent most afternoons sittin’ shirtless on the porch, scratchin’ lottery tickets and coughin’ hard enough to rattle the nails outta the walls. Some days he forgot who I was. Called me Emmett or worse, “that boy.” I stopped tryin’ to fix it. Sometimes, you just let folks forget.

Emmett had a knife on him at all times by then—big, bone-handled thing he’d found at a yard sale and kept sharp enough to shave with. Said it made him feel safe. I didn’t ask from what.

And the church started callin’ me. Not ‘cause I was holy or even curious. Just… I needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere with walls that didn’t echo with Daddy’s hacking or the Carvers’ laughter. Pastor Moore didn’t press me. He let me sit in the back, near the window, where the light came in soft and golden. I didn’t believe in much, but that window made me feel clean, like I could start over if I sat real still and listened to the hymns.

I didn’t pray, not really. But sometimes, I’d whisper things under my breath—little nothings like, “Please keep Emmett safe,” or “Don’t let Daddy choke in his sleep.” I wasn’t sure if anyone heard me. Maybe that’s not how it worked. Maybe it was like talkin’ to a locked door and hopin’ someone was home.

But I kept goin’. And no one stopped me.

I turned twenty just before the towers fell.

Kate Dawson was born — she wasn’t kin, but her name drifted through town like a new song on the wind, one I’d hear again when the time was right. That summer was full of firsts and lasts, a crossroads marked by the heavy scent of honeysuckle and hard truths.

It was early September, the air still thick and warm like it didn’t know summer was over. In Mentone, the seasons change late — everything here clings to the past a little longer than it should. Folks, too. I remember the way the pine needles stuck to my boots, the crunch of gravel under the weight of time, and how the nights were just startin’ to cool off, the smell of woodsmoke and rain hangin’ low like a hymn half-forgotten.

By then, I was taller than Daddy, broader in the shoulders, with a jaw Emmett said made me look “too damn serious.” I didn’t feel grown, but I guess I must’ve looked it. Twenty years old and still stuck in the same town, same trailer, same creakin’ floorboards and Sunday morning silence. I was workin’ part-time at Henson’s Tires off the main strip, changin’ flats and listenin’ to grown men cuss about politics they didn’t understand. Emmett had stopped tryin’ to hold down a job — said he was “makin’ ends meet,” but everyone in town knew that meant hustlin’ for whatever pills he could flip or swallow.

That summer, he got picked up in Fort Payne for possession — oxy and meth this time. Daddy posted bail with money he didn’t have, and I remember sittin’ in the cab of our old truck afterward, starin’ out at the courthouse with my hands in fists and my mouth shut. Emmett came out laughin’, bruised up but full of that cocky grin, like he was bulletproof. Said, “Ain’t no cell that can hold me, Levi.” I didn’t say it, but I knew the grave could.

Daddy had started changin’ too. He wasn’t drinkin’ like he used to. Some days he wouldn’t touch the bottle at all, just sit on the porch with his toolbox and try to fix whatever had rotted over the years — the porch rail, the saggin’ screen door, the busted axle on his old mower. He didn’t say much, but the silence felt different now. Not heavy, not angry — just tired. Like maybe he was tryin’. Like maybe the years had taken enough from him and he was ready to give back a little, even if it was too late for Emmett and too soon for forgiveness.

That’s when I met Jessa.

She wasn’t from around here—her family moved through now and then like a soft breeze, bringing a little color to this dusty place. I’d known her for a while, but that summer, something shifted. We found ourselves sitting on the rickety porch of my trailer, the sun dipping low behind the trees, the air thick with crickets and cicadas. She laughed easy, a sound like whiskey and wildflowers. I was nervous as hell; my hands shook and my voice cracked, but there was a tenderness in her eyes that made me forget the years of fear and silence I’d been carrying.

That night was my first. My first real time holding someone close, feeling skin on skin, the sweet heat of breath mingling in the dark. It was awkward and beautiful all at once—like stepping into a river for the first time and not knowing how deep it was. We fumbled through whispered words and gentle touches, her hands soft against the roughness of mine. I was scared and hopeful, feeling like maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than this small town and its broken promises.

But the world outside our little bubble was turning harder.

After September 11, the air felt different—heavy with fear and anger. The news kept playing on the radio, and everywhere I looked, people were talking about duty and sacrifice. I felt a restlessness gnawing at my bones, a need to get out and prove something. So I signed up for the Army.

When I told Emmett, he was sitting on the porch, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His eyes were tired but steady.

“You really gonna do it?” he asked, voice rough but steady.

I nodded.

“Don’t come back all busted up,” he said, flicking ash to the ground. Then, after a long pause, “And don’t forget where you came from.”

I didn’t.

Not long after that, Emmett was gone. They found him one cold morning—drug overdose. It was the kind of death that didn’t come with warning, just a quiet ending to a battle too many had lost. I held that news in my chest like a stone—heavy, cold, and impossible to swallow.

Daddy cried that night. I’d never seen him cry before, and the sound was something I’d never forget. The silence that followed was even louder.

I packed my bag with dreams and grief, stepping toward a future that was as uncertain as the road ahead—facing the unknown with nothing but hope and a heart full of hurt.

Boot camp hit me harder than a summer storm rolling over Lookout Mountain. One day, I was still wrapped up in the sticky heat of Alabama nights, the smell of pine and dirt thick in my lungs, and the next, I was swallowed whole by a world that didn’t know what to do with a kid from a busted-up trailer.

They called me Private Ellison now. No Levi. No kid who grew up listening to Emmett’s old rock tapes on a busted Walkman or watching Daddy fight the cough that rattled his chest like a freight train coming through. Just a soldier, one of hundreds trying to figure out how to keep their heads above the madness. The drill sergeant’s voice was like a whip cracking through the cold air, sharp and unforgiving, pounding commands until my arms burned, my legs screamed, and my heart felt like it might give out.

The mornings were the worst — crawling out of a bunk that felt colder than a grave, muscles tight as wire, and the biting chill sneaking through the thin walls of the barracks. But it wasn’t the pain or the exhaustion that wore on me the most. It was the silence between the shouting, the quiet moments when I was left alone with my thoughts — the memories I tried so hard to shove away.

I thought about Daddy back home, still coughing and wheezing, still stubborn as an old mule, fixing engines with grease under his nails and regret heavy in his eyes. I thought about Emmett — his empty bed, the way he ran from the law and his demons, and how that bottle and those pills finally caught up with him. The news came in a letter, a cold thing with no answers, just the fact that he was gone, gone for good.

And then there was Jessa. God, Jessa. I remembered the night we first laid together under a blanket of stars, the way her hands trembled and her breath caught when I kissed her. It was the first time anyone ever looked at me like I mattered — not like I was just some country kid stuck in a nowhere town. Her laugh was like a spark in the dark, and holding her made me feel like maybe I could leave all the dirt and pain behind, even if just for a little while.

The other boys in training didn’t ask much about where I came from, but when they did, I told ‘em I was from Alabama. That was about as far as I went. Mentone was a name they didn’t know, and even if they did, they wouldn’t understand the slow, heavy way that town clings to you — the way it drags you back no matter how far you run. I didn’t tell them about the rusted-out trailer or the nights I spent listening to Emmett’s nightmares through the thin walls, or how the creek outside our house ran muddy with all the troubles we carried.

We trained hard — marching till our feet blistered, crawling through mud that stuck to our skin like it was tryin’ to hold us down. They tore us apart so we could be put back together as something lean and mean, ready to face whatever hell awaited. But the truth was, no matter how many times I fell or got yelled at, the ghosts of Mentone clung to me like shadows.

Letters from home were my lifeline. Daddy’s shaky handwriting told stories of quiet days, greasy hands, and nights spent alone in that same trailer, listening to the wind howl like it was mourning something lost. Jessa’s letters were softer, full of hope and the kind of love that made me think I might just make it through this. But Emmett’s side of the mailbox was empty — a hollow space that ached like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

I tried to bury it all beneath the weight of my boots and the discipline of the Army, but those old ghosts — Mama’s face, Daddy’s curses, Emmett’s rage — they followed me everywhere. Like the mountain winds whispering through the trees back home, they never let me forget who I was or where I came from.

No matter how far I marched, the past was still with me, dragging behind like a chain I couldn’t break loose.

Boot camp tore me up worse than any fight back home. Sweat drippin’ like rain off my brow, muscles scream’n like I’d been hammered by a freight train, and that drill sergeant barkin’ orders sharp as a rattlesnake’s bite. They broke us down, built us back up in their image — lean, mean, and ready to kill without thinkin’. But I swear, nothin’ could’ve prepared me for the desert heat or the weight of what was waitin’ for me overseas.

When I first touched down, that dry, blisterin’ sun slapped me harder than any backhand. It wasn’t the sticky Alabama heat I knew — this was a different beast altogether, a sun that burned through your skin like fire licking at dry brush. Dust got in every crack and crevice, and the wind carried the stench of diesel and sweat, mixed with something sour I couldn’t place.

Nights was the worst part. Out there in the dark, with nothin’ but a few flickerin’ campfires and a sky so black it felt like it’d swallow you whole. That darkness didn’t bring peace; it held a kinda quiet terror. You could hear it breathin’ all around — the whispers of the desert, the rustle of critters, the distant boom of gunfire. I’d lie there, eyes wide, ears sharp, tryin’ to chase away the ghosts that danced just beyond the firelight.

Those ghosts came alive real quick.

One afternoon, we were settin’ up camp near some blasted-out ridge, the sun hangin’ low and heavy like a weight on your shoulders. I glanced over and saw one of the younger boys, barely old enough to grow a beard, shakin’ as he loaded his rifle. His hands were twitchy, eyes wide as a scared rabbit. Made me think ‘bout Emmett — tough as nails, but haunted by somethin’ fierce underneath all that anger.

Then, just like that, the world exploded. A mortar round landed too close, and I was thrown to my knees, ears buzzin’ like a hornet’s nest. Time slowed down, like everything stretched thin as taffy. Smoke curled around us, fire crackled, and men were fallin’ all around. I tasted dirt and blood — salty and bitter — and somewhere in the chaos, a voice cut through the noise, soft and broken. Called my name like a prayer I couldn’t answer. It weren’t real, but damn if it didn’t feel like a blade twistin’ in my gut.

Patrols became a fight for every breath, every step. Learned quick to keep my head low and my eyes peeled, but that fear—goddamn, it dug in deep. Like a sickness you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you prayed or drank. You start seein’ things — shadows movin’ in the corner of your eye, faces of friends lost, the lines between right and wrong blurrin’ into one long nightmare.

I’ll never forget that night beneath the stars, the desert sky so clear it was like lookin’ into God’s own eye. The quiet was thick enough to choke on. I lay there thinkin’ ‘bout home — the creak of that old trailer, Daddy’s rough voice, Emmett’s hard stare, and Jessa’s smile that felt like the only good thing left in a world gone sideways.

But all I could see was fire and smoke. Hear screams echoin’ in my head like a bad country song stuck on repeat.

Come home didn’t mean the war left me behind. It followed me like a shadow, dark and silent. Sometimes I’d catch myself driftin’, eyes glassy, lost in those blasted hellscapes. Faces of the fallen crowded my mind, pushin’ and pullin’ like the tide.

The army taught me how to fight and how to keep goin’, but it sure as hell never taught me how to come back whole.

By the time I made it back to Mentone for good, I’d been gone nigh on nine years. Nine long years mostly spent far from that red clay and cracked linoleum trailer where I grew up. Every visit home before that was short — too short to catch my breath or patch up the pieces stretched thin by time and distance. I was twenty-nine now, but inside I still carried that scared boy who left with more questions than answers, fists clenched tight against a world that sure as hell didn’t wait for him.

Emmett’s gone. That truth sits heavy on my chest every day, like a stone I can’t lift no matter how hard I try. I don’t say much about it, don’t go talkin’ ‘bout the how or why — it’s enough just knowin’ he ain’t here. His absence is a silence loud enough to drown out everything else. The hurt of losin’ him runs deep and dark, and sometimes it feels like it ain’t never gonna let me be. I catch myself thinkin’ about him in the quiet moments, rememberin’ the hard lines in his face, the way he carried all the weight of this broken town on his shoulders.

Jessa was the first girl I ever let close. She was the one who saw past the rough edges, the scared kid hidin’ behind a hard stare. Our time together was short — just a few stolen weeks in that old trailer — but those nights still burn in my memory. The first time with her was like steppin’ off a cliff blindfolded, all nerves and tenderness tangled up in the thick summer air. She was soft-spoken but fierce, and she didn’t promise forever ‘cause she knew better. After I left, she packed up and moved on to a place where the world had more light and less broken things. Reckon that was best for her, though it left a hollow spot in my chest that ain’t never healed.

Daddy was still holdin’ on when I came back, stubborn as a mule and twice as rough ‘round the edges. Years of hard livin’ had carved deep lines into his face, and the whiskey breath was still there some mornings, but he was tryin’ — tryin’ to be better for what was left of us. His cough had gotten softer, like he was fightin’ to breathe a little easier, but the look in his eyes told me he carried his own battles, ones he didn’t talk ‘bout. Sometimes, late at night, I’d hear him hummin’ old hymns low and slow, a sound that made the house feel a little less empty.

Kate Dawson was ten years old now. She wasn’t kin by blood or name, but in a town like Mentone, everybody’s story gets tied up somehow. She was born while I was gone, a fresh piece of the puzzle that made the town what it was — small, stubborn, and stubbornly hopeful. Didn’t know then how much she’d matter to the road I was walkin’, but her bright eyes and quick smile were a sign the town wasn’t done yet.

Boot camp came fast after I signed up, a brutal fire meant to burn the boy outta me and forge a man in his place. Then came the war — the endless desert sun, the biting sandstorms, the sounds of gunfire and loss that echoed in my dreams long after the battle ended. I watched friends fall silent beside me, felt the weight of those lost years settle heavy in my bones. The memories don’t fade. They’re like scars, buried deep under the skin, achin’ when the night grows still.

Comin’ home was like steppin’ into a faded photograph — same dusty roads, same cracked porches, same worn faces lined with years and struggle. The bar on the highway was still there, its neon sign flickerin’ like a tired beacon. The general store smelled of sweat, pine, and cinnamon — smells that rooted me back to a time I thought I’d lost. The preacher’s voice still rolled over the Sunday morning air, but I wasn’t sure if I believed any of it anymore. God and me, we’d been through a rough patch I wasn’t ready to talk ‘bout.

I wasn’t the boy who left. I was a man shaped by absence, by war, and by the ghosts of a home that both held me tight and pushed me away. Beneath it all, though, I was still that scared kid, still tryin’ to find a way to belong in a world that seemed to have moved on without me.

Comin’ back to Mentone, I knew I couldn’t run forever — not from the past, not from myself. Daddy was still workin’ the same busted-up garage behind the church, grease under his nails and that stubborn look he wore like armor. Said I oughta learn the trade, keep the family business alive, and hell, I reckon he was right. The smell of motor oil and the clank of wrenches felt familiar — like a language only a man from around here could understand.

So I rolled up my sleeves and got to work, learnin’ the ropes the hard way. Fixin’ engines and patchin’ up busted-down trucks brought me closer to Daddy, even if words stayed heavy between us. There was pride in the work — honest, dirty work that didn’t ask questions or judge you for what you’d been through. Every bolt I tightened was a reminder I was holdin’ somethin’ together, even if it was just an old engine.

Kate Dawson was still growin’ up just down the road, and I found myself lookin’ out for her like I never did for myself. She was a smart little thing — quick with a smile and a stubborn streak that reminded me more than a little of Emmett. Her Ma was barely hangin’ on, and Kate needed help with school and other things that folks ‘round here took for granted. I’d give her a ride in my beat-up truck, help with her homework under the flickerin’ porch light, and sometimes just sit with her so she knew she wasn’t alone.

But all that care came with a price.

The nights grew longer and quieter, and the weight of what I’d seen overseas settled deep in my bones. I found myself reachin’ for a bottle more and more — at first just a swig to take the edge off, then more to forget the ghosts whisperin’ in the dark. Whiskey became my friend and my curse, burnin’ down the hurt but leavin’ a hollowness behind.

Daddy saw it too, though neither of us said much. We were men, after all — too proud to admit the battles waged inside. Sometimes I’d catch him leanin’ against the workbench, a cigarette droppin’ from his lip, lookin’ older than his years. I figured we were both just tryin’ to survive, holdin’ on to whatever scraps of normal we could find in a town that never quite healed.

Kate kept growin’ up faster than I could keep up with, and I swore I’d do right by her, no matter how hard that meant fightin’ my own demons. The garage became my refuge and my prison — a place where the engines roared louder than the memories, and the nights ended with the smell of gasoline and regret.

Somewhere deep down, I hoped I was still the boy who could be better — better than the broken pieces I carried, better than the shadow of Emmett and the mistakes I couldn’t undo.

But hope, out here, was always a fragile thing.

Kate Dawson wasn’t kin to me, never lived under my roof, but I’d been around long enough to watch her grow. From a wild little girl who’d chase cicadas in the summer heat to a fifteen-year-old with fire in her eyes and a laugh that could cut through the thickest Alabama humidity. I helped her when I could — drivin’ her to school, makin’ sure she had what she needed. Folks said I was lookin’ out for her like a guardian, but lately, that feelin’ got all kinds of twisted inside me, and it scared the hell outta me.

I kept tellin’ myself it was just thoughts — just the kind of stupid, reckless nonsense that slips into a man’s mind when he’s been drinkin’ too much and sleepin’ too little. But the truth was, those thoughts were darker than the night that swallowed this town whole after the streetlights went out. I’d catch myself watchin’ her in ways I knew weren’t right. The way her hair caught the sunlight, the way her voice sounded laughin’ with her friends, and suddenly, my mind’d drift somewhere it had no business goin’.

I hated myself for it — every time those thoughts crawled in, they felt like poison seeping deeper with no cure. I tried to drown ‘em out with work, with the clank of wrenches and the smell of engine grease. But the silence between those moments was loud as thunder in my head.

It wasn’t like I wanted to hurt her — God knows I didn’t. But wantin’ or not, the line I swore I’d never cross was blurrin’, and I felt myself teeterin’ on the edge. I was scared of what that meant for me, scared of how it could ruin whatever shred of good was left in this busted-up heart of mine.

Some nights, I prayed. I prayed for forgiveness, for strength, for a way to make it stop. But prayers don’t always work when the devil’s got a hold on your mind.

And Kate? She had no clue. Just a bright light growin’ in a place that’d seen too much darkness. I kept my distance, tried to bury those thoughts deep where no one could find ‘em, but the weight of them sat heavy on my chest, harder to shake than a summer storm’s thunder.

I knew I needed help — maybe more than I ever had before. But askin’ for it? That was harder than wrenchin’ an engine in the dead of winter.

And so now, I stand out on the porch, the sun sinking low behind the pines, paintin’ the sky all kinds of colors—pink, orange, purple—the kind that makes you think maybe there’s still some good left in this world, even if it don’t always show itself easy.

The dirt road is quiet, the kind of quiet that presses down on you, reminding you of all the things you done and the ones you left behind. I think about Emmett—how much he means to me, even if we never say it loud enough. I think about the mistakes I make, the darkness I wrestle with, and the things I wish I could take back.

Mama’s voice feels distant, like a song lost on the wind, but I swear I hear it sometimes, soft and steady, telling me to keep moving. Daddy’s old truck sits in the yard, rust eating at the edges, just like time wears on all of us.

I ain’t proud of the man I am. Hell, some days I barely recognize the one looking back in the mirror. But there’s a fire still burning—small, stubborn—telling me it ain’t over yet.

Maybe this broken town, these crooked roads and busted trailers, they’re all part of who I am. And maybe that’s enough for now.

I light a cigarette, take a deep breath, and look out toward the horizon.

There’s a long road ahead, and I reckon it’s mine to walk—one step at a time.

#𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫: levi ellison

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