#Scaffold branches

[pinehutch]

Feel like there's a type of fun I've forgotten to be having!

[hedgehog-moss]

The first episode of our shearing saga ended with Poldine being freed and happily running towards her family (who, let me remind you, had abandoned her and refused to provide any emotional support during her first ever shearing.)

I followed her, hoping to snap pictures of a heartwarming family reunion. Which didn't happen. Poldine's mum and grandma mostly looked perplexed.

Then horrified.

Poldine was, understandably, driven to existential despair by her mother's reaction to her new haircut.

Needless to say, when I tried to catch Pampérigouste to shear her, it was next to impossible. She knew what awaited her and wouldn't go anywhere near me, even when I made the Muesli Whistle (which usually draws a Pavlovian response out of her), even when I threw a handful of actual muesli in her direction to attract her. If anything she looked vexed that I could think she was no smarter than a pigeon.

But I have a PhD in catching Pampe. I decided to try something I'd never tried before: lie in wait by the watering hole like a hyena. You see, there's a gate near the water trough that can open all the way in either direction, and I figured I could simply trap my llama between the gate and a tree.

I waited, I waited, and eventually, finally, Pampe got thirsty.

Once she was trapped behind the gate it was very easy to halter her, and then she grumpily followed me to the corral, where I tied her to a post to shear her.

As soon as I switched on the electric shears, she freaked out. She reared up like a wild stallion, started foaming at the mouth, desperately pulling on the rope, it was awful! I tried to turn on the shears some distance away then get progressively closer when she got used to the noise, but she didn't get used to the noise. I tried to sing her favourite protest song over the noise, I tried everything; she kept acting like I was an exorcist and she was possessed by a swarm of demons. Eventually I thought I should just start shearing and get it over with as quickly as possible.

Pampe was so good with the llama shearer two years ago! She was perfectly calm and relaxed! She didn't care at all about the noise of the shears even when they were right behind her ears!! What is the explanation for this?

(when I expressed surprise at her good behaviour with the shearer back then, someone said she reminded them of the type of brat who's well-behaved with their teacher at school but insufferable with their parents)

Pampoldine stayed right next to her mum the whole time her ordeal lasted. Poldine, you are too good for this world.

These are my only two photos of Pampe being shorn, because my photographer was busy trying to soothe her by petting her, or distract her by offering her a hazel branch to eat. At some point Pampe tried to lie down and play dead, which made shearing her neck complicated, so my photographer was promoted (or demoted?) to Llama Scaffolding—she had to lean against Pampe with all her weight to prevent her from lying down. The last time I'd seen a llama play dead was when Pyrgus was sent away, which was pretty heartbreaking...

(Pampe possibly expected to receive the same amount of sympathy, but we had to remind her that Pyrgus was a child being separated from his mother forever while she was an adult getting a haircut.)

Since I sheared her as fast as I could, Pampe looks worse than her daughter—much less smooth, with some remaining woolly spots here and there that I wasn't able to go back to because she kept shaking her head, kicking her feet, squirming and generally acting like she was being tortured. It's now clear to me that she was only well-behaved last time out of spite, because I'd warned the shearer that I had one Difficult Llama. I sort of already suspected it at the time:

Please note that as soon as I released her, all the fuss and drama ended. In an instant. I thought she was going to jump away from me when I took off her halter, and run like hell, or stand there shaking from stress, but no—she ate a few hazel leaves from the branch (no longer panting, no longer drooling) then scratched her neck with her back hoof looking very composed, then trotted away lightly and happily.

[ceilidho]

exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

-

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too. 

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him. 

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon. 

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death. 

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world. 

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege. 

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning. 

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house. 

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow. 

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather. 

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar. 

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since. 

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt. 

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest. 

He turns down the street leading to his house. 

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty. 

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar. 

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away. 

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear. 

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him. 

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet. 

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this. 

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought. 

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months. 

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought. 

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right. 

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark. 

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table. 

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries. 

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes. 

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache. 

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?” 

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road. 

Still, he asks. 

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain. 

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable. 

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly. 

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?” 

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.  

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin. 

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason. 

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him. 

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together. 

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right. 

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny. 

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems. 

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise. 

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet. 

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing, 

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?” 

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation. 

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit. 

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else. 

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off. 

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.” 

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself. 

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

[applepixls]

can we talk about grians character development this season?

this time last year if he built a tree he would've asked for scar's help or asked him to consult on how to improve it. this time last year he wouldn't have even made farms in his base, he would've gone to the shopping district and if he needed to do redstone he would've asked for someones help/advice.

this season hes researching weird tree terms like pollarding and coppicing and da vincis rules about how trees should exist in proportion from trunk to branches. he's implementing scar's technique of using dirt scaffolding to plan out the shapes of organic builds and he's looking at his finished result and realizing it would look better and more realistic with 10% of the leaves gone. AND he's thinking about how it looks good from EVERY DIRECTION (normally he only cares about one side of builds, hence them all being unfinished and backless) and the perfect little bonus is that he's proud of it. it is so easy to look at your work and compare it to others' and think yours isn't good enough or just dislike your work from looking at it for too long. we're all conditioned to need approval from other people but to allow ourselves to take pride in our work is so!!!!! cracked skillset. theres a bit less evidence with the redstone but he still is finding tutorials for farms and adapting them to his needs and changing tick speeds so it works on laggy servers like hermitcraft and even if the sugarcane isn't a particularly original design it also isn't made following a tutorial meaning he figured it out all on his own!

while im sad our favourite codependent menace is getting a little less codependent (/hj, i mean this in a very silly way) i am so impressed by the amount of little changes its taken to make it to this sort of big noticeable change

[gingericywolf]

Unlocked: YAZ YAY DAY

The sugary peachy taste still lingered in the back of her tongue as she looked over the treehouse 'project'. Or better her sketch refined so over and over with the same almost drying pen that it was near illegible. The cracking sound of the support pilon begged for their attention. Like the missing planks on the first floor or the need to find a way to bring materials up more efficently.

There was so much to do. And they were short on arms today. Darius gave her the supervisor role as he and Brooklynn left to find useful stuff at the zipline and Kenji was just standing around, moving a broken piece of wood with his foot from time to time.

The only one working was actually Sammy of course, moving mountains of debris on her own.

Using a branch as a crutch she limped over to them

'Are we gonna so something for that crying pole or not. I don't want the floor to fall on me while I rest after all this hard work'

'Maybe don't rest under the unstable flooring' she replied to the rich boy.

'She got a point!' Sammy said, looking at a broken beam to see if there where any nails they could use.

'Well. Okay yeah, sure, whatever. But we can't finish the flooring if that thing keeps breaking down. Or bring stuff up. Useless if we finish all the house and then can't use it cause it can't bear weight' kenji rolled his eyes, kicking another plank.

With a sigh she had to admit, kenji was right -ew-.

'Fine. Let's think of a way to stabilize that.' She scanned what they had to work with

Broken wood pieces, some bamboo sticks, dinosaur bones, some spare elastic bandage.

[Prev] - [Next]

[ghwosty]

that motivational "hang in there, baby" poster but instead of the cat hanging from the tree branch it's Eddie Vedder hanging from the stage scaffolding

[songsformonkeys]

Saying I love you after a fight (Joel Miller x reader)

Month: January

Word count: ~1100

Warnings: None

Notes: I haven't written anything in months, so consider this my very shaky attempt to dip my toes back into the writing pool. It's not a masterpiece by any means, but I'm proud that I actually managed to sit down and finish it. Not beta read in the slightest

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's a quiet creak when the front door opens in the other room. The sound easily penetrates the haze of sleep, despite the low volume. Years spent sleeping in unsafe places have conditioned you into being a light sleeper and even though you're safer now, the habit still lingers.

You blink your eyes open in the dark, seeing next to nothing in the sparsely furnished bedroom. The darkness became so much darker once electricity was no longer a common occurrence, and light pollution was nothing but a very distant memory.

The following seconds feel like forever as they tick by while you wait for the next sound to give you clue about whether or not to reach for the knife on your bedside table. But then you hear the low rumble of Joel's voice as he says goodnight to someone in the hallway, and you relax briefly, but not completely.

The fight from earlier is still fresh in your mind, the echo of the slammed door still reverberating through your bones. You wait, not sure if Joel will actually join you or if he's still angry enough with you to opt for a night spent on the couch.

You had known there would be hell to pay when you'd decided to climb that old scaffolding, disregarding the knowledge that nothing was ever as sturdy as one hoped, nowadays. But the door had been blocked, you and the others had needed to get inside, and digging through all that rubble would have taken up way too much time and would have caused way too much noise.

The choice had been between trusting old wooden planks and risking a swarm of infected coming their way. So you'd chosen the planks.

It had been a calculated risk, regardless of what Joel had said when the others had come carrying you back, your ankle badly sprained from the fall after the rotten wood had suddenly broken under your weight, just as you were reaching the top.

He had been furious, his hands shaking with held-back anger as he rolled the bandage around your foot.

The yelling had started soon after, the two of you arguing in a way that you never would have allowed yourself to do if there hadn't been fortified walls between you and the infected outside of camp.

It had felt good to yell. Less good that Joel refused to see your point of view. And the opposite of good when he eventually stormed out of the apartment, knocking over a chair in the process.

You'd hobbled over to pick it up when you could no longer hear the stomp of his heavy boots out in the corridor. You'd envied that he got to be the one storming off. You'd been pissed off too, had wanted to make an equally dramatic exit to prove it. Because you knew that if the roles had been reversed, Joel would have made the exact same decision you had. He would have been up on that scaffolding too when it broke. He was just too fuckin' stubborn to admit it.

Now, hours later, he's come back. And something like relief spreads in your chest when you hear the bedroom door open and, a moment later, you feel the mattress dip on Joel's side of the bed.

Neither of you speaks, even though you know Joel knows you're awake. Neither of you has ever been able to sleep through the other one crawling into bed.

It's a King size bed so there's plenty of room for the two of you to have your respective spaces. Right now, you're acutely aware of every inch of distance between you.

The silence is thick enough to slice through with a knife and you realize that unless either of you breaks it, no one is getting any sleep tonight. You almost think it would serve the stubborn asshole right. Almost. But in the end, you decide to be the bigger person and so you pick up the proverbial olive branch and reach it across the canyon of space between you.

”How did it go?” you ask, despite not actually knowing exactly what Joel had done during his hours away. You figure that's less important. You just want him to speak. There's a couple of more seconds of silence, just long enough for you to start wondering if maybe Joel is still too pissed for a truce. Then you hear him let out a slow exhale as if he's been holding his breath.

”Uneventful,” he replies.

”Uneventful is good,” you say. The bandage around your ankle is a good reminder of the opposite. Before Joel can make the same connection and have the fight from earlier refueled, you continue. ”What the Hell did Tommy have you do out there anyway. You smell like a forest fire.”

That draws an amused huff of air out of Joel, and you count that as a win.

”Just a good ol' family barbeque.”

”Sounds cozy. Invite me along next time?”

”Depends. Are you gonna fling yourself into the fire?”

You feel your hackles raising as the tension comes creeping back into the room at the jab. Forcing yourself to ignore it, you take a deep breath before speaking calmly.

”No. Might fling you into it though.”

Joel doesn't answer immediately and you can tell he's considering his options. Finally, he sighs like you're the sole source of all his grievances. It's not entirely fair. You wouldn't consider yourself responsible for more than 60%. Tops!

”How's the ankle?” Joel asks instead, seemingly changing his mind about rekindling the argument between you two.

”Not great,” you answer, seeing no point in lying. Joel would know. ”But the bandaging helped.”

”I'll see about finding you some painkillers in the morning,” Joel says, and you know him well enough by now to hear the apology in his voice.

”I can make you breakfast before you leave,” you reply, hoping that he hears the same apology in yours.

”...That'd be nice,” Joel answers.

The silence that falls next is void of the tension that had hung so heavily between you just a couple of minutes ago. It's only broken by the soft even breaths coming from Joel's side of the bed. You listen to them as you finally relax again.

You're certain Joel is asleep when you whisper ”I love you.”

You turn, facing away from the man sharing your bed as you hug the corner of your blanket close to your chest with a slow exhale.

Then Joel shifts and a strong arm curls protectively over your waist.

”I love you too.”

[pinkydevil16]

JJ Maybank x reader: Rescue

Y/n almost made it over the fence, panic filling her as her parents shouted at the men to grab her, she'd just come home after a week of being with the pogues and now she was being chased by two guys from kitty hawk. 

"Don't fucking touch me." Y/n shouted as they grabbed her shirt, Y/n ducking out of it as they held on, her shirt ripping from her body as she made it over the fence. Looking behind her as she kept running, her parents giving her false concerned looks as she sent them a glare. The men now holding her shirt as they turned to her parents, the four of them talking as Y/n kept running, if she could get off figure 8 then they wouldn't be able to get her in the cut. She could get to the pogues and be safe, her mind racing as she ducked under a branch, her bikini top covering little as she ran through the trees, small cuts appearing on her arms and ribs. Y/n could hear cars near her, not wanting to look incase they caught up to her, she knew they wouldn't stop, it was their job to kidnap troublesome kids. 

"Y/n come back! It's for your own good baby." Her mum's voice echoed, the sound of a car driving slowly made her freeze, dropping to the ground as she squeezed her eyes closed. She was so close to the cut, another mile and she could duck between the buildings until she got to John B's, sure her parents would try there but if JJ was there then no one could take her. 

"Come on kid, we don't wanna hurt ya." Y/n opened her eyes, she could see the two men, one on either side scouting the woods, she needed to go and quickly. Taking a deep breath Y/n began sprinting, the two men shouting out as they ran after her, her feet carrying her quickly as she dodged twigs and logs. 

"Y/n! Stop!" Her dad's voice, the one who was meant to be sensible, the one who promised he would never send her away and now he had two goons chasing her to throw her into a van and take her who knows where. 

"You're not fucking taking me." Y/n shouted back, hitting her arm harshly into a tree as she cried out in pain, getting into the cut just as the men got closer to her but they didn't know it like she did. She'd run from cops, kooks and psychos with guns, she knew how to lose these bastards. Climbing up the scaffolding before running across and jumping down to another building, the goons cursing as she left their eyesight, Y/n dipping between houses and jumping fences until she saw John B's house. JJ's bike and the twinkie outside, she could see the pogues inside as she tripped. 

"Shit." Y/n cursed, her leg cut open and bleeding as she scrambled to get up, her parents car and a van pulling up as she exited the tree line. Her parents and goons cutting her off from the house, her eyes staring at them as her mum had tears in her eyes.

"Baby, look at yourself. You're bleeding and exhausted, this isn't you, come with us and we'll get you cleaned up." Her mum's voice was soft, getting closer as the goons began crowding her but Y/n stepped back, looking towards John B's as the door opened. Y/n sprinted as the goons ran at her, a hand around her waist sweeping her up as she fought against them, her dad opening the van as they tried to shove her in. 

"Y/n." JJ's voice cut through her, his body slamming into a goon as they dropped her, John B and Pope running towards them as they pulled the goons away. Y/n hitting the ground as she tried to get up, her mum and dad trying to grab her as she crawled back and kicked at them.

"Don't touch me! I'm not going." Y/n shouted, her voice raw as she cried, JJ wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his arms, her body shaking as the pogues all stood around her. The goons getting up off the ground as her parents held each other and looked at her.

"This has gone on long enough. You're almost 18 and we thought you'd grow out of this rebellious phase but this is ridiculous. Get in the van." JJ glared at her mum as she spoke, Y/n's hands clutching onto his arms as he moved them both further back into the pogues, Y/n's body tiring as her knee started aching. 

"You can't just kidnap me and ship me off to some fucking boot camp because YOU think i'm a problem!" JJ held her tighter, placing a small kiss to her shoulder as she shook on his arms, her parents taking another step forward as they tried to get to her daughter. The pogues standing between them, protecting Y/n.

"You got shot at! Your 'best friend' convinced you to sink a boat with him and you left for a week going who knows where. Hell you ended up on an island because of these kids! Grow up Y/n, do you want to be running for your whole life, in and out of jail because of the path you chose. Because we won't be bailing you out anymore, we won't be there to baby you." Her dad's words made her want to cry but Y/n stood straighter in JJ's arms, her hands now running up and down his arms.

"You threw me out a week ago, you told me you were done. You called me saying there was an emergency, i was happy to be rid of all this shit but you decided to meddle. And you know what? I love being a pogue, i love working at the wreck and living on the cut. I don't need you, i have never needed you because you don't need me. You needed a perfect daughter, but i don't want to be one. So fuck off. Cut me out and throw me away already, i don't need you." Y/n was now almost out of JJ's arms, his hands on her hips as she spoke, his eyes staying on the goons as they crossed their arms. Her mum sighing as she turned to the men.

"I already called the sheriff, get her in the van. I don't care how." Y/n's eyes widened as her mum walked away, phoning the sheriff again for back up as the goons looked towards her dad who nodded, JJ now pulling Y/n all the way back before pushing her towards the house. JJ and John B intercepting the goons as Pope pulled Y/n into the house, two cop cars pulling up as Shoupe got out.

"Y/n, come on. I don't want to do this, they're your parents." JJ laughed as he pushed the goons back, Shoupe sighing as he looked at the two boys, looking back to where Y/n's parents stood together.

"JJ, John B, come on. She's gotta go home, her parents want her to be safe." JJ shook his head, his eyes darting between the cops coming out the car and the goons explaining what they were doing.

"She doesn't want to go man, i'm not letting them kidnap her." John B nodded, the pair crossing their arms as Shoupe sighed and shook his head. 

Pope pulled Y/n through the back door, a bag packed filled with some clothes, food and drinks as they ran towards the boat. Shoupe shouting as he spotted them, Pope panicking as the cops and goons ran after them, shouting at them to stop as he climbed into the boat. JJ and John B rushing after them as they got closer and closer, Y/n moving to get into the boat as one of the men caught up to her. The two of them carrying her back as she struggled, JJ and John B trying to pull them off as three officers stood between them.

"No! Please no! JJ!" Y/n cried, hitting one of the men holding her in the face as she struggled, her back hitting the dirt and knocking the air out of her lungs as she gasped, trying to feel anything but the harsh pain as the men went back to pulling her up. 

"Let her go!" JJ shouted, pushing the officer out the way as he tried to get to Y/n, Shoupe now pulling him away as he put handcuffs on him, his whole body shaking as he tried to get to her. 

"Kid you don't want to spend a night in jail for this." Shoupe spoke, pulling JJ back as they watched Y/n struggled in the men's arms, the officers now holding John B and standing by the van. Y/n managed to kick her foot on the van, the man holding her flying back as she landed on him, rolling onto her side and running past them as she ran towards the water. Her dad running towards her as JJ tried to get out of Shoupe's hold, the older man pushing him down and pressing his knee into his back, his officer doing the same to John B as Y/n's dad grabbed her. The two fighting until the two men managed to grab her again, tears streaming down her face as she fought, another officer dragging Pope around the corner as they hauled Y/n into the van.

"Let her go! Let her go!" JJ shouted, his body being pressed into the dirt as Shoupe held him down, all three pogues fighting to get to their friend as they locked the door, her hands hitting against the glass as she cried for them. 

Y/n laid in the bed at kitty hawk, her anger stewing more and more as she stared at the ceiling, she'd already been reprimanded for trying to escape and now she was being punished for being disrespectful. The others were all asleep, she didn't know what time it was but she wanted to be anywhere else, she'd take the woods and a bear over the overly happy bastards who told her what to do. A loud noise making her sit up as the other girls woke up, a dark figure in the room that made them panic until Y/n heard a voice that made her whole body stop.

"I'm looking for Y/n." JJ. Her whole soul left her body as she jumped down and into his arms, tears in her eyes as he held her close and inhaled harshly wanting to remember her in his arms forever. 

"JJ." Y/n whispered, feeling like she was in a dream as his body grounded her, the two of them hold each other close as they relaxed into the hold. JJ pulling back and holding her cheeks as he looked over her face, convincing himself not to do it, not to ruin the friendship but he couldn't stop himself.

"I need to kiss you." Y/n barely got to nod before JJ's lips met hers, her hands fisting in his shirt as he grabbed at her pulling her closer and closer until she was sure she would be apart of him. JJ slowly pulling away as he stared at Y/n, a small smile on her face before she lightly pushed him away.

"You here to rescue me handsome or take me to bed?" Y/n teased, JJ grinning as he pulled her arm back towards the way he came in.

"One at a time gorgeous." Y/n held back her laughter as he helped her out, the pair running away from the camp and back to Outerbanks.

[willtheweaver]

A writer’s guide to forests: from the poles to the tropics, part 8

We’ve made it to the tropics. I hope you enjoyed this, and found it useful in your writing.

Tropical rainforest

Probably the most recognizable of forest environment, and among the most threatened.

Location-Latin America, Africa, Australia, Indonesia, and the Pacific islands in between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn. Many forests have been felled or heavily altered by human activity.

Climate-Subtropical to tropical, with conditions being wet year round. Rain does not fall all the time, with a defined rainy and dry season. (What’s the difference? Rainy season has rain almost daily while in the dry season you will have to make do with high humidity and morning fog) At higher elevations, nights are cooler, though still well above freezing, and mist and rain are more common(this is why mountainous RF are called cloud forests)

Plant life- This is a tree dominated environment. The understory and forest floor are dark, unless trees have recently fallen. Many small plants are arboreal, nestled in the upper branches of trees. Vines and other climbers use larger plants as scaffolding. In areas of poor soil, tropical pitcher plants (Nepenthes spp.) and bladderworts (Utricularia spp.) get much needed nutrients from animal sources.

Animal life- Rainforests are the most biodiverse environments on Earth. Insects are everywhere, as are the animals that eat them. Birds and primates can be found from the canopy to the forest floor. The moist conditions make for an ideal habitat for frogs and toads. Apex predators are the big cats-think jaguars, tigers and leopards. Some species of herbivores can be quite large; Africa is home to gorillas and forest elephants, while the island of Borneo, Sumatra, and Java support rhinos and orangutans (though the further of these species is uncertain)Waterways are home to all sorts of fish(there are more species in the Amazon river than in the Atlantic Ocean), and larger animals, such as otters, crocodilians, and even river dolphins. Isolated islands have far fewer mammal species, with bats being the only ones, but hardy insects, reptiles, and birds making up the majority of the biomass. Deforestation and the introduction of invasive species have caused the extinction of many animal species, with island forests being the hardest hit.

How the forest affects the story- When one thinks of societies in the tropics, it usually is through the lens of western stereotypes designed to shock audiences and give ‘civilization’ something to conquer. Avoid this at all cost! There is more to the forest. Before the Spanish conquest, the Amazon was home to cities, and the agricultural societies of New Guinea are believed to be contemporaries with the farmers of Mesopotamia.

Grain does not do well in the tropics, so farming will be based around plants such as açaí, coconuts, taro, breadfruit, bananas, and manioc. These can be supplemented by hunting and fishing, but long term storage will have to be addressed. High humidity is a breeding ground for bacteria and fungi, so organic material will have to be kept dry so they don’t rot. The concentration of microorganisms also means that good hygiene is needed to avoid disease.

Settlement will always cause disruption, and the extent of your character’s activities can have a big impact on the forest, and your story. And remember, the activity of a small village will be different to that of large scale logging. Management, use, and abuse of the rainforest can be a driving factor in the plot. How will your characters react? Is the threat from outside or from within? The destruction of the rainforest is one of the main factors, along with unmitigated greenhouse gas emissions that is causing the current climate crisis. Can your characters do better? Or will you create a cautionary tale that shows us the grim future we are currently barreling towards? (That choice, my dear writers, is completely up to you)

[trekkitkat]

Some more reasons why Thomas Andrews my favourite person from history.

As a kid, his friends nicknamed him “Admiral” because of his skill and fondness of boats. 

He loved animals, looked after bees and horses and was very kind and gentle with them. 

At school, he wasn’t so great at academics, but the teachers and students still loved him for his generosity and honesty, “Wherever he went, he carried his own sunshine.” 

Staying at a hotel on a trip with friends, someone broke a bed rail. Thomas look responsibility for it and paid for a new bed. He fixed the broken bed and gifted it to an elderly cleaning lady at the hotel for her invalid husband. He and his friends carrying it to the couples' house and setting it up for them. 

As a teenage apprentice at the Harland and Wolff shipyards, he was known to do things like finish his own work early so he could help an old workman with his tasks, stay late to catch up the work of another apprentice who was sick, encourage others who were struggling.  A foreman noted, “It seemed his delight to make others around him happy.” 

He worked all day in the shipyards, then took night classes in drawing, mechanics and naval architecture. 

As head of the Design Department, he had in depth knowledge of all fifty-three branches of the shipyard, 

He was a natural and good leader. The workers at the shipyard looked up to him because he was good-natured, direct and intelligent and he could bring that out in others too. He saw people and respected them. If someone had an idea or suggestion, he wanted to hear it. 

He climbed an eighty-foot scaffold during a gale to save a man who got stuck. 

He didn’t believe himself above anybody and saw the workers at the shipyard as his friends.  He advocated for better housing, education and shorter working days for labourers. And he hated politicians who tried to fuel class divide and tension. 

During Titanic’s voyage, he wrote or sent telegrams to his wife from Belfast, Southampton, Cherbourg and Queenstown, telling her how the ship was fairing and the details he was working on.  A couple who shared the same dining table with him said he was very proud of the ship, but what he wanted to talk most about was his wife, daughter and family. 

Stewardess May Sloan said, “He made you feel on the ship that all was right. It was good to hear his laugh and have him near you. If anything went wrong, it was always to Mr Andrews one went.” 

And this is just a sample of what this man was like. He was an absolute gem. One of those rare, special people that make the world better just by existing. 

[the-adventures-of-lydia-brown]

Fragment no. 1

~Have you ever tried to capture a likeness?~

It is a remarkably difficult task, whatever medium it is done in. You can spill thousands of words or set a thousand strokes on a canvas and still you might not even come close to flawless portrayal.

And if you are one of those lucky few in whom a keen eye for detail unites with a sense for overall composition, in whom a passionate heart unites will a steady hand or with a clear, discerning mind full of sharp and unforgiving wit, in whom years and years of practice honed every skill to needlepoint precision, your true and accurate work will still lie - by omission.

As a certain painter once wrote,

Ceci n'est pas une pipe.(1)

Sometimes, our medium simply doesn't allow us to capture it all - and sometimes, it is our own perception. Have you ever looked at the Moon from the other side?

But at least in these cases the original indubitably exists and is its own perfect image. But what about cases where your subject itself is half mist?

If you aren't careful, you might completely twist what fragile structure it has. Some might pride themselves on such things. "Behold," they say, "I found a seed of a world in my mind this morning, and I immediately set off to work. Before dinner, I added another stunted Yggdrasil to my bonsai garden. Look, most of its branches are even completely solid! I had to twist a bit here and there to make it happen, of course, but look at its perfect, chiseled, eternal form. None of it reaches beyond the limits of comprehension."

Some prefer to work as an archaeologist does, taking away spoonful after spoonful of sand, gently brushing away what remains until they find the form they were seeking.

Some simply collect the things they do not want to fall to namelessness. And some -

Some take the fragile, vague, yet already manifested things, or those that once were and are rotting away, or those that have started and may yet continue and equip them with supports, crutches, scaffolding of all manner that they may not be crushed by their own weight.

It is a fool's errand. None can predict the ends to which their actions might lead.

But that, too, is a part of life.

A butterfly pinned in an entomologist's collection might grant you a better view of its colours and patterns, but that butterfly can not unwittingly cause a hurricane at the other end of the world with a flap of its wings (2). Maybe, the key is to try to preserve both the living, unpredictable and blurry and the still, comprehensible and clear - even though being layered atop each other may not exactly help with comprehensibility. After all, they can always shift into more comfortable positions if you leave them some room for that.

It is difficult work, one that requires commitment, to pull things out of the vague mist of possibility completely - and it might never be finished.

But still...

To keep, to restore, to inscribe upon the air with your voice the name of what you wish to preserve;

To spin and weave threads of thin air and wild fabrication and somehow reveal a little truth (3);

There is some honour to be found in both of these things.

Once upon a time, both were done by singers (4).

Perhaps, that custom never should have stopped.

[see-arcane]

With Jekyll, it was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic. [...] I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him. [...] Nor must I delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. [...] Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment?

All of this comes together to provide the most interesting part of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The battle between perceptions of just who and what Edward Hyde is.

Is he solely the primordial selfishly reckless id of an otherwise upstanding and deeply repressed man? If so, Jekyll's constant attempts at disconnection must be read as a sinner attempting to paint the self he becomes while intoxicated as another awful entity, a thing that delighted in cruelty while it could be gotten away with and is now an excuse to point fingers at the mirror or the Devil to keep Jekyll's own hands clean, if only in his mind.

Is Edward Hyde simply Henry Jekyll as he might have been in another life? One sans repression but still loaded with Jekyll's intelligence and most basic wants. If so, then he is not an impulse given flesh, but a doppelganger in all but appearance. The Self, made Other. He is not an imbecile or an inorganic flaw, just Jekyll himself pulled through a sieve until only the untethered Wants and Hates remain.

What if Edward Hyde began as inorganic, as no more than a bleak reflection of Jekyll, but eventually coalesced into an entirely separate thinking identity? A new soul that budded from the original like a branch? A mind-son or a conjoined twin revealed decades too late. If this is the case, only then might half of Jekyll's excuses and reasonings hold water--but only half.

Because Jekyll himself either cannot grasp or refuses to fully accept all of what Edward Hyde is. The amount of contradiction in Hyde's actions and Jekyll's attempts at defining him go in too many directions. He's a clump of wicked and delightful impulse who wears Jekyll as a costume. He's artificial. He's real. He's an it. He's a he. He is Jekyll. He is himself.

Even at the end, Jekyll fumbles with his initial estimate of Hyde's state. A coward who hides in him and the lab to avoid the death penalty! Yet in the last lines he admits to the possibility that Hyde will decide to end himself rather than risk further pursuit or a trip to the gallows.

He claims to fear Hyde ripping up the letter in a fury, assuming the document would only be spared because of Hyde's feverish focus on the moment-at-hand. But there was no doubt time to destroy it before chugging the poison. Hyde could have done both. He didn't. Implying the little imp of impulse felt no desire to.

Think back on Hyde's last moments alive. Right before the door was broken down. Pure despondency. Pure wretchedness. Pure grief.

“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

The far end of a fretting frantic animal of a man, trying desperately to save himself. Well, selves. There is no safety for Hyde without them both. ...But also no freedom. To save the beloved man who is the bandit's cave also means retreating into that cave permanently.

And if Edward Hyde is his own man? If Hyde is a man at all, whose core is impulse itself? Imagine the hell of such a life. A sentient tumor. Forever.

Of course he chose oblivion. But to do that last courtesy--to not spoil or destroy Jekyll's parting words to his friend--I have to wonder what it means.

Did it simply slip his attention as Jekyll assumed?

Did he relish in a last mote of bitter joy at the reputation due to be ruined by its reading?

Or was the impulse in him not all unvarnished evil after all? A callous, a brutal, a vicious character; but even the sinner cannot hold to sin as a constant. No villain genuinely dedicates every second of their life to committing cruelty outside of a comedy. Hyde didn't either. He was only ever impulse in its entirety; blunt and greedy as a brattish child. And the stamp of it was obvious! Enough to inspire hate at a glance. Just as we can sneer at strangers in the news when we know what loathsome acts they've been up to, inflicting pain on others for their own gain.

But they too are human.

In the end, I think Jekyll was happier going to his end without admitting Hyde was as much a human soul as he was.

And he left the letter untouched to make sure Utterson knew it.

[sixpennydame]

You're Not a Hunter, You're a Gatherer

It seems that every writer moot I have is feeling some kind of burn-out right now. I read an amazing post today from Sarah Gottesdiener of The Moon Studio that I think every writer/artist/creative needs to hear:

Many of us are taught to be creators in a way that mimics punishment and productivity culture. To push, force, and maybe even flagellate ourselves into making work.

(Then when it comes to sharing work publicly, it’s another little punishment party going full blast inside, amirite?)

This is a capitalist, patriarchal, hierarchal way of doing things.

To hunt down our innocent ideas and wrangle them in between our bloody, iron grip hands feels like abuse.

To contort our process, our work, and maybe even ourselves so that we might create work that we *think* will get us: paid, laid, loved, and accepted. (Which are all branches of the same gorgeous tree of belonging and security. May we all experience these freely!)

You are not a hunter. Exhausting yourself by chasing down the next innocent idea like that will solve your problems when it only feeds the loop of insecurity and lack. When you operate in hunter mode, deep in a dopamine deficiency, relying on the next big kill to satiate the gaping void inside, nothing you do will ever be enough.

You are a gatherer. Everything you need is a stones throw, or a right click, or a meditation, or a conversation away. Everything you create is a conversation with the world, and it is infinite. Because source is infinite. Ideas are infinite, and form is infinite. Deep exhale.

​ The hunter mentality, complete with spears and endless bloodshed, can live inside of our processes. Ursula K. LeGuin suggests a different approach, the Carrier Bag Method. The first tool was a net, a vessel. Thousands of years ago our ancient ancestors foraged, gathered, carried the life force of abundance back to their homes, and were nourished. This process required curiosity, patience, and an ability to use what already existed on the land they inhabited.

​ Your creations are meant to be friends, stewards of your ideas, companions to others’ fruits, and in conversation with the greater world.

When you create from that space, it’s much easier to get ideas, have a process that is delightful, and share your work with ease.

Here’s an overview of one of the creative processes that works for me. ​ 1. Everything I create is for me, first. What excites me, or interests me, or will force to grow, learn, or implement different behaviors? That is my starting point. ​

2. Structure proceeds flow. Creativity needs containers. Create core intentions and fun rules. Outlines, lists, schedules all help to provide a base, an anchor, some scaffolding. ​

3. Use the Carrier Bag Method whenever possible. Live life. Look around. Gather. A conversation, an insight on a walk, a podcast episode, a shade of the sky: anything and all things can be inspiration. Anything that sparks insight can be fertilizer for creative projects. Never start from a blank page of life. ​

4. Program the subconscious to be the master creator. Know how you ask Siri to set timers, look up information, and help you out? That’s what your subconscious is…but for, like, your intuitive creations and messages. Tell your subconscious you need to write that book, that social media message, that report, or that newsletter by a certain time in a certain way in a certain way and watch what happens.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

[a POV video is posted of someone, probably Jack, walking through a forest of absolutely massive trees.

The trees' limbs have been twisted and manipulated like especially huge bonsai, decorated with fluttering ribbons and greenish-blue worm-lights. Some branches are walkways, some have been shaped into platforms or scaffolds for the numerous buildings that seem to grow from the tree like strange fruits.

There are homes, shops, hospitals, farming relays, and all manner of things either suspended from the branches or halfway grafted onto the trees' trunks. A few buildings seem to be INSIDE the trees themselves somehow, without hurting them.

Jack stops for a moment to take it all in, ignoring the crowds of excited tourists hauling ass towards the nearest nursery gardens.

An elf scuttles head first down the trunk of a nearby tree, like a squirrel. This is apparently normal behavior for them, as their feet are able to rotate almost completely backwards in order to help with this task, in addition to their long tails helping to balance them. The elf looks up, halfway down the tree, catches Jack filming and waves at the camera before continuing on their way down.

There are very clear and obvious elevators and other methods of transport up and down the trees, but it looks like that specific guy just wanted to scamper today.

Jack continues on his way towards the nursery gardens, ushered by elves in fancy clothes.

The gardens themselves don't look very special, they're just flat patches of dirt encircled by the roots of the towering trees. Rich black soil, meticulously plucked of grasses and weeds so that only an army of bright green sprouts can flourish. There are paths through the garden made of flat stones, carved with names, dates and symbols. records of those born there.

There are midwives strolling through the gardens, some plucking and pruning weeds in different parts of the gardens, some watering the sprouts, or measuring their growth. They're all dressed the same, in heavy leather gloves, wide brimmed hats with fine veils, leather knee-pads, dense looking boots, aprons, and overalls. A midwife pauses in their work to wave at the tourists, gently patting the soil around a healthy looking sprout. The sprout wiggles, and all the nearby midwives stop what they're doing to coo at it.

"Almost ripe." An elf says, leaning towards Jack with a conspiratorial grin. The elf in question is milk white with black eyes and grayish hair, her skin covered in hundreds of eye shaped tattoos that give her the appearance of a birch tree that decided to be a person. She points at another plot, this one full of healthy, wriggling sprouts. "Those are mine, with any luck they'll be picking them today."

"Mozzels!" Jack says.

A guide, dressed in bright red and holding a flag so he's easy to see, leads the tour group deeper into the gardens. "The midwives would like to remind you that non elf visitors are asked to stay on the paths at all times, both for your safety and for hygiene reasons, we don't know where you've been or what you've stepped in so please don't track it into our nursery."

The paths are very pretty anyways, so Jack doesn't mid staying on them. The stones all vary, some are natural, some are concrete or glass, all of them are carved with names and dates and family symbols.

"I feel kinda bad stepping on these, they're so pretty..." Jack says, lifting his paw so he can get a good look at a chunk of polished river stone carved with a whole LITTER of names.

"Don't be." Says the birch elf. "They're made to be stepped on." But even she pauses and points at a stepping stone, it's very old and the name on it is almost worn completely away. "This one's mine though, look it still has my teeth marks in it."

It's hard to tell with all the wear and tear and dirt, but there are several deep grooves in the rock like something had tried to eat it.

The tour stops in a section of the gardens marked with dozens of little stakes and flags, each next to a little sprout that's wiggling and writhing almost impatiently.

"This is the plot where we keep the smaller clutches and singlets, or anybody that doesn't want a big patch all to themselves." The tour guide says, keeping the tourists at a respectful distance while the soon to be parents gather near their patches.

Midwives scurry to and fro, arms full of baskets and blankets, big soft brushes, and hand scales like the kind people use to weigh fish.

A midwife kneels in the dirt, wraps their fingers around a sprout and PULLS. In a flurry of dirt and screaming, out pops a brand new elf kitten. Flailing limbs and gnashing baby teeth, the kitten hisses at the midwife who holds it at arms length by the sprout and the need for such thick gloves becomes very apparent. The kitten is brushed free of loose dirt, weighed, and wrapped in a blanket before being handed over to its parents.

It has not stopped screaming and hissing and carrying on the entire time.

This is normal.

The entire garden soon fills with the hisses and shrieks of newborn elves. Several of them crawl out of the dirt of their own accord before the midwives can pluck them and immediately try to bite something or someone with their wretched little egg teeth.

A milk white elf kitten waddles up to Jack with the utmost certainty, sniffs her paw, and immediately sits on it like they belong there.

"Ah!" Jack gently nudged the kitten towards the birch elf. "I think this one is yours maybe?"

The birch elf laughs and scoops up the kitten, nuzzling its dirty little face. "Nah, mine are back toward the front, this one IS my nephew though."

The kitten squeaks and beeps, flailing his little limbs in what might be delight.

Soon all the wandering babies are rounded up and given to the correct parents, pictures are taken, records are recorded. Someone tries to put pants on a kitten and almost loses their fingers.

Jack gets to hold a singular elf kitten, the kitten is so sleepy and little and slightly fuzzy.

Jack cries on and off for 10 minutes, with the video ending there.]

[skoulsons]

Heart Swollen With My Loving For You

Some tlou2 spoilers fyi. I also wrote this in both canons but that’s typical of me

Her head is heavy against his chest, the thump-thump of his beating heart filling her ear. Her mouth was open as she laid against him, deep breaths escaping her sleeping state.

He hasn’t held her in three and a half years. She wasn’t letting him get close to her; he was like another clicker chasing her off of unstable scaffolding, this time after the heart she opened so willingly for him.

He was trying to save her; to protect their relationship. He knew she wouldn’t understand the choice he made; but it wasn’t even a choice. He loves her, and that’s all it was. Love. There wasn’t a choice to be made. From the second he woke up on that stretcher without her, the Fireflies fate was set in stone.

She’s snuggled up next to him, her body half draped across his. Her left leg is thrown over his as her left arm is haphazardly laid across his chest.

The choice cost him. His most important relationship in twenty years was torn, a veil beyond repair. A burned bridge. Branches previously grafted together were sawed apart. One shove was all it took. The physical pain in his chest from being shoved away; his hand batted away from her shoulder when he tried to comfort her. His touch was always welcomed, needed from her, and then she was refusing it. Don’t fucking touch me. The look in her eyes drilled a hole through his heart, blood from their now estrangement pouring out into his chest cavity. He couldn’t breathe, his chest constricting to try and make up for the loss of her. Three years prior, she was what filled that empty cavity that Sarah left in him. But in that clearing outside Saint Mary’s, a new empty cavity, for a new daughter, was formed.

His left arm is around her small form, softly coating her back in gentle circles and patterns. His right arm is on his stomach, Joel gingerly tracing the tip of his fingers along her forearm.

He rode at a distance on their way home from the hospital, cautiously watching her ride ahead of him. Her shoulders were slumped, posture depressed; Ellie completely barren of him from her life now. He watched her as she occasionally brought a hand to her face to wipe her tears away or to cover her face in an attempt to hide her sniffling or small sobs. He couldn’t do anything about it and, somehow, that chest pain from her shoving him away was minimal in comparison to the way it was suffocating him now; Joel unable to take in a full breath their entire ride home knowing he was the reason.

Her head is right over his heart, rising and falling with Joel’s chest as he draws in full, sufficient breaths.

He was so patient. Never poking, prodding, or pushing her to talk or interact. She was adamant in keeping her distance, and he let her, as much as it broke his heart. They were inseparable, attached at the hip through their day-to-day life. At home, she always had a reason to be close to him. Hand holding, back rubs, or extra hugs during mundane tasks. She’d cling to his arm, her hands wrapped around his bicep as he read a book. He’d kiss her head more than normal, some a little more serious than others if he knew she needed those unspoken words that always seemed to be heard through a kiss to her temple.

He brought his left hand from her back to her hair, smoothing it down her neck and back. He carded his fingers through her strands from her scalp to her ends, gently tearing through any tangles that were building up.

He brushed her hair on the harder days, the both of them sitting on Joel’s bed as he brushed through the tangles that built up over the weekend. When she didn’t have the strength to take care of herself, he always did everything he could. Getting her hair brushed by him was cathartic, calming the swirling storm of thoughts in her head in a matter of minutes. He was always gentle, apologizing if her hair was ever pulled too hard. Brushing her hair always ended in a hug and an occasional thank you from Ellie; and it was never just for brushing her hair.

He tilted his head to her, his nose burying in her hair as his mouth grazed the crown of her head.

There was one day they were snowed in, Ellie refusing to leave his side or his field of view. Joel offered to brush her hair again, just to give her that relief she relished in on the harder days. After refusing that offer, he asked to braid it. Ellie accepted that time, the both of them sitting on Joel’s bed so he could work. Her body was tilted to the side, her right leg bent as her knee was propped up on his sheets as her left was steady on the ground. He was behind her in a similar position, Ellie sitting against the shin of his right leg. He brushed her hair a few times over to prep it for the braiding, smiling at the way she always relaxed with the small action. All done, baby. She leaned back against his chest, her head falling right under his chin. Joel brought his arms up and crossed them across her chest, holding her tight against him. He placed his cheek against her temple as Ellie held onto his wrists across her chest. He kissed her temple, rocking them slowly back and forth on his bed.

Joel breathes in, the lavender scent of her hair making him smile against her hair.

She was safe. Her hair was clean; she was clean. She was eating and sleeping again. That sparkle in her eye that he sweared only glowed a bit brighter whenever she talked about space was back. She was eating again, too. She was sleeping and working at the stables again. There was a way that she used to walk that seemed to fade for those two years that was back now. Joel realized, now, she started to walk like him during their journey. She was in so much pain she changed the way she walked.

Ellie adjusted slightly against him, readjusting the arm on his chest into a fist resting against him. He grabbed her hand on his chest with his right, carefully opening her fist to hold her fingers in his. He wiggled his fingers into her grip, hers lightly draped over his.

She was here, his little girl against his chest in the dark of the night. A leg over his leg and her arm on his chest, hand in his. His left arm was around her back, gentle patterns being drawn through his her shirt. The thump-thump of his heart filling her ear, the comforting song keeping her nightmares far away, buried under the weight of his proof of life.

He was so damn grateful.

He rubbed his calloused thumb back and forth over her knuckles as he brought it up to his chin, lightly kissing her knuckles.

She shook awake at the contact, her fingers tightening around his as she lifted her head from his chest, eyes adjusting to the moonlight streaming in.

“‘S just me, baby,” he soothed, rubbing a few more strokes down her back as he lifted his neck off the pillow so she could see him.

She exhaled, nodding. She turned her head to him, a questionable look on her face, sleep coating her voice. “Have you slept? Like… at all?”

He chuckled, his voice in a gruff whisper. “A little bit earlier. Been awake for a while now,” he confirmed as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles again.

“C’mon, old man, you need some sleep. We have plans tomorrow.” He grinned, eyebrows rising briefly at the backhanded endearment she loved to call him.

He caught her eyes in the moonlight seeping through the curtains pulled loosely in front of his windows. The same eyes that stared right through him that day were the same ones looking at him now. That day, her eyes were full of tears, a few dripping to the collar of her shirt. He saw and felt every ounce of her gaze. Anger, disbelief, betrayal. All of those emotions twisting into some sort of emotional corkscrew, digging into his heart and turning every which way before being forcefully pulled out; a new cavity created in the depths of his heart just from the way she looked at him. We’re done.

And then there was this moment. Those same dark brown irises looking at him again. Looking up at him from being tucked against his side, the white of her sclera highlighted from the moonlight coating his room. Her eyes searched his, that all-too-familiar sparkle in her eye as she watched him, and she wasn’t even talking about space. But she didn’t have to talk about space for that sparkle to make itself known. We’re like a… binary star. She was looking at the person bound to her. She was looking at the person who, after years of being in an irregular orbit with, was back in their pull, orbiting even stronger than before.

Now, there was trust, faith, and love in her gaze.

He dropped his head back against his pillow, breaking from his thoughts. “Oh, that’s right. Guitar strings?”

“Mhm. And maybe some more picks if we happen to find some.” She laid her head back against his chest, adjusting herself so her ear was right over his heart again. The study thump-thump slowly lulling her to sleep again.

“Absolutely, kiddo,” he said, bringing her knuckles up to his chin again, kissing them twice. He adjusted his head against hers, mouth pressed into the crown of her again, kissing the mess of her strands that had bunched up from her adjusting.

“G’night, Joel,” she mumbled, a sigh escaping her lips as she settled her weight onto him completely.

The hand behind her back pulled her closer into him, rubbing a few heavy strokes up and down her spine. “Goodnight, baby,” he whispered.

It’s overwhelming to him, really. She’s his. He’s hers. He gets to keep her. After years of doubts if she’ll come back home to him and if she’ll ever be able to talk to him again, she was here. The days he spent thinking back to them leaning over his porch and what they told each other. I would like to try. I’d like that.

They were seeing the effect of that now. How she tried and succeeded and how he waited for her, over the moon that she was even willing to come back. She was willing to push through and to try and reconcile with him. And whether she did it or not didn’t change anything. He would’ve waited until the ends of the earth. He would’ve waited until time itself stopped. He would’ve waited til every star lost its place in the sky, falling into the void of space. He would’ve waited until his last breath.

But he didn’t have to wait anymore.

I did okay. She’s home safe. I have her again.