#WHY DID YOU EAT MY BEST PIECE... TUMBLEWEED EXPLAIN

[vuullets]

what do you mean tumblr ate my greed drawing that took me 15 hours. what the fuck man

[honey-dewey]

The Cowboy Conundrum

Pairing: Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels/GN! Reader

Word Count: 3,128

Warnings: Jack gets heatstroke and suffers the symptoms (passing out, vomiting, etc.), but other than that it’s mostly just hurt/comfort

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell​

The prompt for this week’s Writer Wednesday was given, as always, by the lovely @autumnleaves1991-blog​, and the masterlists are created by  @clydesducktape. 

Out in the middle of the desert, the days were long and hot, usually unforgiving and always unbearable. The sand was gritty, the sun was cruel, and the lack of humidity was somehow a curse and not its usual blessing. 

Why the hell you were in a desert right now was beyond you, but apparently your work had decided to send you to the middle of God’s country, Arizona for something important, so something important you were doing. Well, you were waiting for your instructions in a cabin on the outskirts of some ghost town, but that felt close enough. You’d been here for almost three months, and at this point, you were entirely used to the boringness and the labor of day-to-day life in the desert. 

Thankfully, it seemed the gods were merciful today. Instead of heading into town for a drink or counting tumbleweeds as you always did to stave off the boredom, a horse approached you as you exited your cabin to grab water from the well. It wasn’t a particularly interesting horse, just a regular old bay horse with one small white sock, but what intrigued you was the horse’s rider, or obvious lack thereof. Fully tacked in western gear, the horse had no rider that you could see. No one on the horizon, no shouts above the dry wind, not even a whisper of whoever had sent this horse running to you. 

“Are you alone?” you asked, rubbing up and down the horse’s muzzle. “Are you all alone out here pretty boy? Hm?” 

The horse whickered, shoving against you and flicking his tail. You nodded, looking out over the sienna landscape. “Is there something out there?” 

Another soft whicker, and this time, you could’ve sworn you saw something, a glimmering mirage against the heat. A man, shambling upright, limping with every step. With one blink, he was gone, but the image remained burned in your head. You blinked a few more times, trying to dispel the mirage, but you couldn’t. 

“Oh what the hell,” you groaned, picking up your hat and placing it securely on your head. “What could go wrong?” Already in riding clothes, you wasted no time swinging up into the horse’s saddle and gripping the reins tightly in one hand. “Take me wherever.” 

Immediately, the horse was off, you along with him. Riding was as natural as breathing for you, and you actually felt nice with the wind threatening to upend your hat with every step the horse made. 

It took almost ten minutes to find anything, but the horse seemed to know where he was meant to go and took you there without hesitation. When you finally came upon the crumpled body of a man, you swung off the horse’s back before he slowed to a stop, running alongside him and falling before the man. He was unconscious, his skin as hot as the ground beneath him and as dry as the air you were breathing. You shoved two of your fingers to the side of this neck, just below his jaw, and found a pulse, wild and erratic, racing under the man’s skin. 

“Looks like heatstroke,” you said to the horse, flicking the brim of the man’s hat up and seeing his sun-flushed face. “Yep. C’mon, think you can carry us both?” 

The horse was surprisingly willing to carry you and the mystery man. He knelt down so you could position the man at the front of the saddle, and stood still when you swung yourself up as well. Because of the extra weight, what should’ve been a ten minute trip home was closer to twenty, but before you knew it, you were dragging the man inside your cabin, leaving the horse cool and comfortable in the attached stall beside the house. 

You groaned, hauling the man onto your only bed. You could take the couch until he recovered, you truly didn’t mind. Turning the ceiling fan on, you listened to it creak as you stripped the man of his clothes, piling everything to be washed in a basket by the door. When he was left in only his underwear, you began to relax. You’d need well water, which was typically cool, but for now, you grabbed an ice tray from your ancient freezer, popping out an ice cube and handling it carefully. The last thing you wanted was to drop the man’s temperature too fast, but you had to cool him down. 

In the end, you ran the ice cube across his skin, focusing on the sensitive areas the most, his face, neck, and armpits. He gave no response to the shock of cold, and you couldn’t help but fear the worst. How long had he been out there? You knew heatstroke victims could lapse into comas, and you were technically supposed to call emergency services immediately, but who the hell were you going to call out here? All you could do was treat him as best you could and pray to whatever God resided over your personal slice of hell that the mystery man didn’t die in your bed. 

You sighed, watching the last sliver of ice melt away. The man’s face looked a bit less flushed, and you ducked into your bathroom, coming out holding two thermometers. One was an oral thermometer, the one you were probably going to use, and the other was a rectal thermometer, the one you really should use. The second one was going to give you a more accurate reading, but holy shit. You hadn’t even technically met the guy yet, and you didn’t exactly think sticking a thermometer up his ass was the way to kick off your introduction. 

Giving in, you put the first thermometer in the man’s mouth, watching and waiting for the beep. When it dinged, you pulled it out from between his teeth and sighed. 104.2 degrees fahrenheit. Shit. Still in the danger zone. 

There was no getting around it now. You needed water, and fast. Your shower could only get to lukewarm before it stopped cooling, so you resigned yourself to hauling a bucket to and from the well. The horse looked at you as you sloshed water into the house, hurrying to get back to the man’s bedside before anything bad happened. Thankfully, he seemed to be better when you returned, dropping the remaining cubes from the ice tray into the water, cooling it down for a minute, and then grabbing a threadbare washcloth from the bathroom. The rag seemed to help more than the single ice cube, and you felt comfortable enough after wiping him down for a while to get up and leave him, the water-soaked towel still across his forehead, of course. 

While the man rested inside, you headed outside to tend to the horse, putting his tack away in the miniscule shed beside the house and getting him cozy with some water and hay. He seemed grateful, munching on the hay while you began to fill your laundry trough. It was sat on the porch, the metal tub and laundry line the only way you had found to wash clothes out here. Two buckets of well water did the trick, and then you were grabbing your washboard, soap, and laundry, ready to scrub. 

You were halfway through washing the man’s jeans when you heard a thud inside the house. Abandoning your laundry, you rushed back inside, seeing the man, awake, bent over on the floor, clutching his head and groaning like a wounded animal. You knelt beside him, helping him sit back on his haunches and then slump against the wall, skin flushed and warm against your damp hands. 

“You have heatstroke,” you explained clearly and slowly, grabbing a new wet washcloth and wiping the man’s skin down, taking care around his brown eyes. “You were unconscious in the desert. Your horse found me, and I brought you back to my cabin.” 

The man nodded loosely, his movements uncoordinated. You tracked his eyes, watching how they flickered around your face, never seeming to focus on one thing. “Are you nauseous?” you asked, grabbing an ice cube out of your second tray. You handed it to the man, gesturing for him to put it in his mouth. He did so, nodding as he went. 

“Dizzy?” Another nod, and you were standing to wring the warm washcloth out and re-cool it. 

“Headache?” The nodding increased in strength, and you winced, setting the cold towel against the man’s head, soaking his brown curls. “Pulsing?” You hated the confirmation, and you sighed. “Yep, heatstroke. Just gonna have to keep cooling you off, I guess.” 

You were hesitant to leave the man, but the laundry still had to be done. Eventually, you gave him an old paper-thin bathrobe and let him sit on the porch swing, sucking on ice cubes and watching you scrub his undershirt against the washboard. He never once complained, but he didn’t say anything else either, and you had to wonder, as you hung the shirt to dry, if the man could even speak at all. 

You got your answer over dinner. You insisted he eat plain toast, and he shook his head in refusal. It was a battle you were willing to fight, because you kept pestering him until he finally snapped, “Y’ain’t my damn mother!” His voice was raspy and sick sounding, but underneath that you could hear a richness to his words.

“Even so,” you said, not ready to give up just yet. “You need to put something in your stomach. Just one piece, please.” 

The man’s eyes softened as you pushed the plate towards him. “Half,” he countered. 

You shrugged, ripping one piece of toast in half and giving him the slightly bigger piece. “That works, cowboy.” 

He ate slowly, each bite small and hesitant. He was still woozy, staying in his chair only because of the study back and arms of the chair trapping him in. But his head bobbed and his eyes flickered open and shut, and you were certain his head was still killing him. 

“A good night’s rest will do you good,” you said as you finished dinner, helping the man up and into bed. “I’ll leave the fan on, okay?” 

The man nodded, letting you tuck the thin quilt around his body and leave him with nothing more than a whispered goodnight. 

The next morning, the man seemed to be doing better. His skin was no longer as flushed pink as it was the day before, and he told you over breakfast that his head had finally stopped pounding so hard. It still hurt, but was no longer unbearable. 

Unfortunately, he was still nauseous and lightheaded, stumbling around the cabin and throwing up what meager oatmeal you’d convinced him to eat. It was hell as you followed him to the bathroom and rubbed his back, letting him cry into your shirt for a while before realizing being on the floor couldn’t be good for him. 

“Looks like it’s another bed rest day,” you said, helping him up off the bathroom floor. He swayed in your arms, groaning as you walked him to the bedroom. “I know,” you said slowly, pulling back the quilt on the bed. “But you just have to rest.” 

The man fell asleep quickly, and you left him with the fan on and an open window to let in some breeze while you went outside to get some chores done. It was mostly busy work, hauling well water to fill the house’s water tank, checking on the laundry, feeding the horse from yesterday, and caring for your own horse in the stall beside the mystery horse. By the time you walked back inside, it was nearing noon, the grandfather clock in the living room reading half past eleven. 

The man was awake when you entered the bedroom, and you insisted on taking his temperature. 

“Just a minute,” you promised, holding the thermometer out. “Then I’ll leave. I have to go to town anyway. Think you’ll survive on your own?” 

The man gave you a look as he put the thermometer under his tongue. When it beeped, he handed it to you, and you breathed a sigh of relief. “One hundred and three point six,” you said out loud, putting the thermometer on the nightstand. “Getting lower.” 

“That’s good,” the man said. “I think.” 

“It’s better than it was yesterday,” you said, looking over the small bookshelf in the room and picking a book. “Here. Read as much of this as you can before I get back please. I’ll see if I can’t find anything to help your head while I’m out.” 

You ended up leaving the man with his book while you saddled your horse up and rode into town. The trip was only a few miles, but you almost never walked it out of fear you’d end up with heatstroke, just like the man in your house. 

“Heya Sal,” you said, dismounting and walking up to the convenience store. “How you doing?” 

Sal looked up, his cloudy eyes unfocused. He was older than everyone in town by a wide margin, but no one dared try and help him, lest they end up getting a cane to the ankle. “I’m doing fine,” he said, finally focusing on you. “How are you?” 

“Oh I’m hanging in there,” you said, smiling. “Gotta get some groceries. I ran out of eggs yesterday, if you can believe it.” 

Sal shook his head. “Just don’t go drinking them raw,” he said as you entered the convenience store. “I did that in my youth and let me say, made me sicker than a dog.” 

Smiling, you let the cold of the air conditioning wash over you as the door swung shut. The store was dead empty aside from the owner, who seemed oddly excited to see you. 

“I haven’t seen anyone else all day!” He said happily, hopping over the counter to hug you. “It’s good to see you, how’ve you been holding up?” 

“I’m fine Joey,” you said, hugging Joey back and flicking a stray brown cowlick he’d missed when he was getting ready. “I found a heatstroke victim yesterday, and I’m no nurse, but I think he’s getting better.”

Joey winced. “Out here? It’s a miracle he’s survived!” he said. “Is he okay?” 

You shrugged, reaching around Joey to grab a basket. “Headache,” you said. “Nausea, he’s still running a fever, and he’s woozy, but he’s awake now, so I don’t have to worry about a coma.” 

“Sounds rough,” Joey muttered, picking up a bottle off a shelf and handing it to you. “Here. Painkillers. Should help the mystery man’s head.” 

You grinned. “Joey, you are a lifesaver.” 

By the time you got home an hour later, the sun was at its peak, and you were worried about the man inside. But your worries were just that when you realized he was fine, sitting up in bed and reading the book you’d given him. He looked up as you walked in, carrying the bag of things you’d gotten him. He took his medicine without complaint, even though you knew it was probably nasty, and seemed to perk up when you told him you’d bought him new clothes because his old ones were disgusting. He joined you yet again on the porch when you went outside, although this time you sat beside him, working patiently on a cross stitch project. 

“Do you like working on these things?” the man asked, handing you your thread snips. “When you’re bored?” 

You snorted, tying off the thread you’d finished using. “Yes,” you said sarcastically. “I’m a ninety year old woman who has nothing better to do than to work on a cross stitch in my rocking chair.” 

The man laughed, passing you the thread bundle you gestured at. “I’m serious,” he said, watching you expertly thread the needle you were holding. “You’re very good at this.” 

His words made you warm, and you shrugged loosely. “There’s not much to do out here,” you admitted. “So yeah, I guess I do like it, cowboy.” 

“Jack.” 

“Hm?” 

The man looked you in the eyes, smiling slightly. “My name is Jack.” 

Just like that, Jack was no longer a mystery. He was a constant in your life for two more weeks as he recovered, growing stronger by the day. You gave him chores to do, making sure none of them were too labor intensive, and he pulled his weight around your cabin, hardly ever complaining. At night, you and him would watch the sunset on the porch, sitting side by side on the porch swing. You took care to finish your cross stitch, the tiny, rhythmic X stitches in the fabric lulling you into a state of calm night after night. 

One day, almost three weeks after Jack had arrived, he told you he had to leave. 

“I’m gonna go tomorrow,” he said, tangling his feet with yours under the kitchen table. He had made dinner, the chili a nice warm meal after your long day. “I was out here traveling, and my people back home are probably worried sick about me.” 

You nodded. You understood, you really did, but damn did it hurt to see him go. You liked having Jack around. He was funny and smart and an excellent cook. A tiny part of you wanted to ask him to stay, and then you remembered you didn’t live here either. You were just visiting, exactly as he was. 

The next morning, you helped Jack pack his things, giving him a nice new shirt to wear. 

“It’s thin,” you said, handing him the vibrant red fabric. “So it should help keep you from overheating. Just remember to drink water and to stay cool please.” 

Jack chuckled, putting his hat on his head and tipping the brim up. “Will do.” 

As Jack got dressed, you walked out to his horse, holding your completed cross stitch. It was a beautiful pixelated version of the landscape, the tiny cabin illuminated by the rising sun. Slipping it and a letter into Jack’s saddle bag, you gave his horse one last kiss on the nose before going to tell your cowboy good-bye. 

It was hell watching Jack ride away. He waved to you as he kicked his horse into a trot, disappearing over the horizon line faster than you wanted him to. When he came back into view, miniscule and almost unseeable, his red shirt a stain against the orange of the sand, you waved again, He saw you and his hand raised, bidding you farewell one last time before he looked out over the sea of rising buttes and sienna sand, riding off and leaving you alone under the cloudless sky.

[phinnsyreads]

The Last Man

It’s day 50 of freeze-dried beef stroganoff. Doctor Beckett swallows the meat and rice with a grimace. He’s made a challenge out of it, seeing how long he can eat the same meal without cracking. This is probably as far as he’ll go with this dish, beating his previous record with the chicken curry. At least if he stops here, he’ll have plenty of the beef left to break up the nutrient paste and vitamin pills, once the rest of the prepackaged meals run out.

I’m not looking forward to that day when I find this swill a treat, he thinks.

He looks out of the porthole, imagining the ventilation fans as a breeze blowing across the lunar plain. Not for the first time, he wishes he had tried to smuggle in just one pack of cigarettes. It wouldn’t have done any harm, in the end. Werner would have lost his mind if he’d found out, though.

Werney, the sour-faced, stuck-up bastard. Of all the people to be shot into space with, the O5s had to send me with Site 19’s tie-on-casual-Fridays Werney, the guy who thinks putting sugar in his cereal is the height of adventure. Maybe it’s for the best he went off. Living together, one of us would have by now.

Not a word. Not even an I’m-just-going-out-and-may-be-some-time. You didn’t even shake my fucking hand before you left.

God damn you, Werney.

Beckett thinks back to that day a few months ago, seeing Doctor Werner walking through the craters, heading towards the horizon. Opening a radio channel. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?”

The last words of Man. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?” Jesus Christ.

You didn’t have to explain yourself, or say something deep and meaningful. Hell, “Goodbye” would have been deep and meaningful enough for anyone. I’d have been satisfied with that.

If I’d gone after you, would you have come back?

No, you wouldn’t have come back. That’s why I didn’t say anything else.

God damn you, you bastard.

It was ironic, that gloomy, unsmiling Doctor Werner was the first one to snap, because in the end, it was because he was the positive one. He was the optimist. He believed the briefing from the O5s, that they were to get ready for the next wave of staff, the pioneers of New Humanity rising from the ashes. Even when they both knew no more shuttles were coming, he still thought the Foundation had something up its sleeve, that some portal would appear and the O5s would pop out to give them medals and take them back to the world as it was before.

I guess the day he walked out was when he knew we were the last ones left. I’m still here because, in the end, I was less hopeful than sour old Werney. What was the point of hoping, after they launched LEGIONNAIRE?

Beckett thinks back to the day when everything changed, when it started ascending from the gases of Jupiter. The President on television with the Overseers beside him, the wailing in the streets. The day he told Adrienne where he really worked.

And then, the miracles. Watching LEGIONNAIRE’s first test launch. Jimmy Kimmel making electromagnetic pulse jokes. His nieces and nephews, drawing crayon pictures of rockets and explosions and arguing about which missile was the best. The Pope leading the faithful in prayer to the world’s nuclear bombs in St Peter’s Square, the Lord’s angels made metal.

An end to wars. An end to pointless squabbles and petty politics. All the negative energies of mankind turned to purpose, with an outside threat so faceless, so impersonal, that all vitriol and hatred directed towards it became noble.

Most of the job involved disgust, fear, and at best, grim satisfaction, if things were well done. But those few months – I was proud of the Foundation. I was proud to say I worked there. I was proud to be a human being.

Maybe that was worth it.

Maybe I should be grateful to Werney. Now I can say I’m the last man on the moon. The anti-Armstrong to your anti-Aldrin. One small step for a man, one giant end for mankind.

Another half-remembered memory, of a bright-eyed graduating class at MIT, as Aldrin walks in, telling America’s newest engineers about dreaming and boldly going, cheers and screams from the crowd drowning out any substance of the speech. Shoving past friends and holding out a pen and scrap of paper, the prize following him to Boeing, Cape Canaveral and Site 19. Now returned to dust, like everything else. Suddenly, Beckett has an idea, and heads to the base storerooms.

It’s not like I have anything better to do.

...

A few hours later, the rover is loaded with supplies, and peels out of the garage, the door silently sliding closed behind it. A set of footprints trails into the distance, but the rover bounces in the opposite direction.

He dreams of the first time he went into space, and the last time. Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins are with him. Armstrong, Aldrin, Collins, Beckett, Werner. The last manned mission to the moon. The last mission anywhere.

The rover comes to a stop, the beep of the autopilot waking Beckett from his slumber. He straps on his helmet, tapping the seals. The airlock opens with a hiss, and he bounds down the stairs. The lander is in front of him, flag standing stiffly at attention beside it. Beckett runs a glove over its metal legs, so awkward-looking to modern eyes. His hand comes to rest over Aldrin’s signature.

Did you ever think something like this would happen, Mr Aldrin?

If you’d gone ten years earlier, would it have changed anything?

What if you’d never gone at all?

Beckett suddenly feels weary, and begins to wonder why he came. He stands there, imagining the Stars and Stripes fluttering and the anthem playing, until his oxygen warning begins to sound, beneath a black sky and brown Earth.

He sleeps again on the journey back, dreaming of drawings of da Vinci’s flying machines, Florentine streets, chapel ceilings, drinking red wine with Adrienne.

...

When he returns, it’s one o’clock in the morning, Greenwich Mean Time. He’s missed his daily call, not that it makes a difference any more. Still, it’s best to keep to routines in this place. He boots up the base computer, cycling through the Sites. The live – well, one-second-delayed-live- camera feeds are still active, and he wonders why he needs to see the pictures as he calls, as if they were placed there by a mocking tormentor. Beckett brings up Site 19. The entrance guard tower has collapsed on top of the central building, and it looks like the cafeteria is now gone. The sky is a swirling, roaring mass of dust and sulfur, masonry and debris bouncing past like tumbleweeds, the leftovers of the human race.

Same ol’, same ol’.

He taps the transmitter button.

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

Hello, Site 19. Hello, overseers. Still not coming to get me, yeah?

Maybe Werney stepped into that portal and found his way back there. Maybe he finally found his sense of humour, and messed with the computer before he left. Everything’s back to normal there, and everyone’s sitting in the cafeteria right now, preparing my surprise party.

Werney, can you hear me? I know you can hear me, you bastard. Go back into that portal and come back here right now, you hear me? I want you back here.

“Werney, you bastard, I want you back,” Beckett mutters. “O5s, you can come here too, you hear me? You’ve got some explaining to do, and I don’t give a shit how much more you get paid or what super powers you have.”

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

“I want fucking Werner and the Overseers!” Beckett shouts.

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

“I want my old job back! I want my desk and my office!”

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

“I want my house and my car and – and my lawnmower! You can buy me a new fucking lawnmower! I want to see my brother and mom and dad! I want Adrienne back! I want a bottle of wine to drink with her, I want to see Italy again, I want – I want to see a real fucking ocean again! Not a fucking moon ocean, a real one, with real fucking water!”

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

Beckett slumps over the computer console, shaking with sobs.

“I want to turn on a TV and – and – and – see you say Legionnaire worked, it blew up that alien piece of shit, and it’s not the end of the world any more, it’s just es-see-pea two-three-nine-nine, it’s neutral – neutra – neutralized, and we sent that thing to hell.”

“I want my fucking world back.”

RECEIVING TRANSMISSION.

Beckett sits bolt upright, and grasps the seat armrest to steady himself.

NEW VIDEO FEED ACTIVE.

A colossal mass of alien machinery is on screen, hovering amidst the roiling atmosphere, covered in scorch marks from a thousand atomic blasts.

He falls back into the chair. Not his miraculous deliverance, just the ever-fickle voice-recognition software.

RECEIVING TRANSMISSION.

Another surge of adrenaline lurches him forward. With trembling hands, he presses the transmitter button.

All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted

There is nobody around who can tell if the last man on the Moon is laughing or crying.

===

[The voice of the Doctor Beckett was provided by @iridethedirt.]

===

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[akastarlords]

her officer, his lady

okay, okay. this has been a long time coming for me. this is kind of a passion project. i have always wanted to write this au/story for clawen based off my favorite romance novel series and even made an edit for it. but for months and months it just sat in my drafts. tonight i finally completed it.

i really hope you all enjoy it! <3

1/?

August 5, 1844. Only God knows where, America

So, began another day. It seems as if the past two weeks has melted into one, I can barely even recall leaving Boston. I knew I would be in for a rather long trip, but nothing would have truly prepared me for it. Each morning, rising before the sun even gets a chance to peek over the horizon, and eating a breakfast of questionable edibility.

Claire paused in her writing, a grimace coming to her face. It practically pained her to even think back about the cold she had suffered only a day into the trip. That was only before the stagecoach driver had ‘misplaced’ her luggage somewhere back in Illinois, leaving her with only one trunk to live out of. Taking a breath, Claire resumed to write her thoughts down.

It will be worth it in the end. Oh, to finally see Karen again after all these years. Even if I do arrive to her in a mess. Honestly, I do not believe it was any mistake that repugnant stagecoach driver ‘forgot’ my luggage, he’d probably ‘forget’ me at a stop if he could—

A long and splotchy line stained the rest of the page as the stagecoach rocked heavily from side to side. The jar of ink she had balanced between Claire’s knees spilled a few dark drops onto her dress. It only added to the disarray state her dress was in. The soft lavender color lost in smudges of dirt, dust, and now blotches of ink.

Capping the jar quickly, Claire tucked it away along with her journal into her bag before the stagecoach could go over another bump or drop into another dip. Ever since they rolled into the new state, it had been nothing but endless flat land of dirt, or tall grass, and lots of rocks to rattle the cramped stagecoach.

“Young lady.” The elderly lady who sat next to Claire scolded for no less than the hundredth time since leaving Boston. “I insist you make more room.” She announced with a shove of her boney elbow, right into Claire’s still sore stomach.

A few choice, and decidedly unladylike words rose in her throat, but Claire bit the back. She may have been in the middle of nowhere, but that was no excuse to act out in anyway that would have gained a disapproving glare from her grandmother. God rest her.

Instead, Claire gave the elderly woman an apologetic nod and scooted over the best she could. Still her hands squeezed into tight fists as she imagined giving the woman an earful, just as everyone else in this cramped infernal wagon wished they could.

Another bumpy ride over more rocks had a green color tint Claire’s face, and her stomach churned in protest. Obviously, the questionable breakfast did not agree with her. Not one bit.

Claire swallowed hard as she called out shakily, “When is the next stop?”

“Soon.” The driver hollered back, clearly agitated. Claire gritted her teeth at his tone, but soon felt relief flood through her at the sight of a smoother path that lead to a fort that was walled off, a look out tower in each corner. Claire silently hoped there was a shop where she could purchase some mints to ease up her stomach, as she plucked her change purse from her bag.

When the stagecoach came to a stop, Claire was the first out, practically barreling down the driver. The grimy old geezer swore after her. “Lady! We won’t be here for long! Ten minutes, top!”

Waving her hand, Claire ventured further in the small first area of the town. A building here and there, all spaced out. The one in bright red bricks and white shutters practically made Claire’s heart leap. A commissary!

“Please be open, please be open.” Claire pleaded in a soft whisper, walking quickly over to the building. The door was shut, along with the windows. Leaning up on her toes, she peered into the window. Empty and dark. With a disappointed sigh, she turned away. Her eyes darting around, before catching sight of another path way that lead into the next part of town where more buildings stood. This time, more closely together. Biting on her lip, Claire wondered if she had the time. Her stomach growled and there she decided that she would make the time.

With more brisk steps than her grandmother would have ever allowed her to take, Claire made her way down the path. The pungent smell of coal, smoke, and gunpowder filled her senses. A blacksmith’s shop was nearby, and from the sounds of clanging and loud swearing, at full work.

Claire wrinkled her nose, and held her wrist over it. Not that it provided much help. But the fading scent of vanilla perfume was still more pleasant.

Passing more buildings, her fading hope was restored at the sight of one of the smaller ones, that simply read ‘SHOP’ in faded red paint over the open door. With a relieved sigh, Claire rushed in. The shop was empty, save for the owner at the counter and a tall man with his back towards her in the corner.

Smoothing her dress and fluffing her hair to look the best it could, Claire walked with practiced ease up to the front counter and presented the owner with a polite smile. “Good afternoon, sir.” She greeted.

A snorted snore was the response she got.

Claire paused, and tilted her head. The man’s eyes were wide open! How on earth could he be asleep? Claire raised a hand hesitantly and waved it in front of his eyes. “Sir? Hello, sir? Sir!”

“Snnrk!” The old man jolted awake, and scowled. “Y’ain’t gotta shout. I’m awake.” He griped, and gave Claire a once over. “Where’d you come from?”

“The stagecoach.” Claire explained, but shook her head. “Sir, do you have any peppermint sticks?” She asked hurriedly. Too much time was being wasted. The owner grumbled, scratching his chin before leaning down. When he sat up right again, he placed a jar filled with peppermint candies, and Claire practically felt her mouth water and stomach already easing.

“Yep. I got ‘em. Eighty-five cents for ‘em” The owner said.

Claire smiled. “Wonderful. I will take fifteen cents worth, please.”

“No.”  The old man shook his head. “I said eighty-five cents.”

Claire froze in counting her money and turned her head slowly to the owner. “I beg your pardon? I’m not buying all of them. Just fifteen cents worth.”

“He likes a good bargain.” A new voice commented. Claire barely turned her head to see who it was exactly that spoke. She saw a glance of the tall man standing to the back corner of the shop, before turning her glare back to the shopkeeper.

“Sir, what you’re doing is far from ‘bargaining’. It’s out right thievery.” Claire accused with a sharp hiss.

The old man shrugged carelessly. “Fine. Seventy-five cents then, ma’am.” He bargained, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “Say now…” He said thoughtfully after. “Might that be the stagecoach y’said you rode in on?” He squinted at the window.

Sure enough, the stagecoach rattled on by. A horrified gasp left Claire, and without a second thought, bolted out of the shop and after the wagon. “Wait!” She cried out, waving her arms over her head. “Stop! Wait!” She yelled. No match for the speed of the horses, Claire stopped short and grabbed a stone in her hand. Praying that it would catch their attention and maybe even knock out the driver.

It had been ages since she played rounders. But she remembered as a child, having a pretty good arm for it. Pulling her arm back, she flung the stone with all the might she could, and watched as it sore and landed…no where near the stagecoach. It kept moving on, further and then, out of sight.

Claire stood there still, practically rivaling a statue. A flabbergasted look on her face, as the wind blew past her, raising more dust and a lonesome tumbleweed bouncing by.

“Gee, with an arm like that, they would have you on the national baseball league, don’t you think?” Someone asked. The same voice from the shop. The tall man…

Claire scowled. The man basically watched as her transportation left without her, and stood by and did nothing? Then had the gall to make a joke. “Sir, this is not a humorous situation.”

“I’m sure you could find it so if you tried hard enough.” He countered easily. She could almost hear an idiotic grin on his face. At that Claire felt her blood boil and rounded on him, ready to slap him. Verbally or physically? She wasn’t sure yet.

Again, Claire froze. But this time, it felt like the earth stopped moving along with her as well.

A face she thought she had seen the last of eight years ago stared right back at her, no doubt, feeling the same way she did. He stood there, quiet his eyes watching her, as almost doubting that she was there.

Against her better judgement, Claire spoke first. Her voice quiet, wavering “Owen?”

He tensed, and finally he blinks as if trying to pull himself back to reality. “Claire…” He breathed. Claire covered her mouth, fighting back the gasp that threatened to escape her. Eight years. Eight years since she had her heart broken, and eight years to pick up all the pieces by herself. Only to land in front of the man who caused it all.

“I have to go.” Claire muttered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. Taking a few wobbling steps, Claire tried to pass by before Owen shook his head, and moved to be by her side.

“What are you doing here?” He asked lowly.

Claire whipped her head to him. “Funny enough, I could ask you the same.” She bit back. Owen lifted a brow, and gently stopped Claire from her angered march.

“Are you serious?” He asked, “Claire, you’re in Fort Cloud. A military station.”

At that, Claire finally noticed the uniform Owen wore. Sure enough, it belonged to one who would be considered an officer. Claire breathed out in astonishment and shook her head. Is this why he left?

“Let me ask again.” Owen said. “What are you doing here?”

Claire sniffed and squared her shoulders. “It’s not like I want to be.” She said with a frown. “You saw how the stagecoach left me. I was only supposed to pass through.”

“Passing through to where?”

“Dallas.”

“Dallas.” Owen repeated.

Claire frowned. “Are you an echo?”

Owen snorted. “It’s just I really hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

Claire gave him a weary glance. “How bad is the bad news?”

Owen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “The usual route to Dallas, is well, a very long one. Our messenger riders are off way in the other direction.” He pointed off. “So, until they come back or by some luck another stagecoach comes riding through…”

“I’m stuck here?” Claire wheezed. Again, her stomach began to twist and turn. Owen’s hand coming around her arm lightly to hold her steady as he saw her body begin to sway slightly.

“For now.” Owen nodded, looking over her. “You look like you went through hell. What kind of stagecoach were you on?” He asked more softly. Claire swallowed hard, and shook her head. “C’mon. We’ll see what we can do for you.”

Claire allowed Owen to lead her off the path and to one of the buildings. Her dizzy head spinning as she felt him pull her a bit closer.

*

Owen considered General Morris someone to be firm but reasonable. A man who was like a second father, and would go to any sort of battle should he ask. But now, sitting in the general’s living room, while Mrs. Morris poured another cup of tea for Claire, while the general himself stared Owen down…Owen was really thinking otherwise.

“What are you saying?” Owen asked steadily. “That really can’t be the only way.” He added. He looked to where Claire sat. She looked every inch worn, but still she held herself with pride and that air of an upper-class lady. Owen grinned slightly, but it fell the instant he remembered the general’s words from before.

“You know the rules better than anyone, Grady.” Morris spoke lowly. “It’s not just here, but every military fort anywhere in the country. No unmarried ladies can reside here.”

Owen swore under his breath.

Morris turned his attention to his wife and Claire, then Owen. “You’d know I’d help if there was any other way. Unfortunately, Captain Grady…”

“I know.” Owen replied.

“You know.” Morris began. “You could be the one to help. It would just be a short marriage, at least until we’re able to get Ms. Dearing back on her way home.”

Owen frowned, had he still been the younger and more foolish man he was eight years back, he would have leapt at the chance of becoming Claire Dearing’s husband. Times change though, and so do people he came to learn. It was a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

“Marriage?” Claire’s voice repeated breathlessly. Both men freeze. They hadn’t even notice that she had come over to them. Her eyes are wide, and an unmistakable color of pink on her cheeks. “What do you mean by marriage?”

Owen stood there almost helplessly at a loss of words. “…Yeah.” He finally said, wincing and shook his head.

“What Captain Grady mean, my dear.” Morris cut in. “Is that there’s a strict rule regarding unmarried ladies residing at military forts. They can’t. A quick marriage would be the solution, at least until this situation is resolved and we can get you home safely.”

Claire’s mouth dropped slightly. “Marriage.” She said again, shaking her head. “I-I can’t. Couldn’t it be just a few days that I stay here with you and Mrs. Morris, General?”

Owen breathed in. “I asked him that already. The messengers aren’t due back till late this week, and who knows how far the stagecoach may be by then. In that case, we’d have to send word to whoever in Dallas you were…”

“Karen.” Claire says quickly.

Nodding, Owen continued. “We’ll send a messenger to Karen. She can then come or send for you.”

Shoulders slumping, Claire closes her eyes with a sigh. “This is a bad dream.” She whispered. “Who do I marry? Just some random stranger?” She questioned, snapping her eyes open at the sudden realization.

“That’s one scenario.” Morris answered as Owen began to reply. “But from the looks of it. You and Captain Grady are far from strangers I reckon.”

Claire felt every nerve in her tense. Owen? Her marry Owen? Ha. Maybe a few times years ago she would daydream about the day she would walk down the aisle to meet Owen, but for a long time now, she banished the thought.

“I know.” Owen spoke, as if reading her mind. “Not my first choice either.” He ignored the scowl she sent his way. “But like General Morris said, it’d be brief. In name only, too. We’ll have it annulled as soon as we can when you’re leaving.” He explained. “Also, I don’t trust any guy here, save for two, as far as I can throw ‘em.”

Claire was at a lost. She didn’t know if she was supposed to laugh, or cry, or even swear up a mighty storm. Maybe all three.

A moment passed, before Claire finally raised a white flag along side Owen’s. “Okay. Alright…we’ll be married.”

*

“Your blacksmith…is the priest?” Claire hissed.

Owen nodded. “Baker, too.”

How convenient. Claire held back the rest of her words as the blacksmith-priest began flipping through a worn-out bible. Her hands holding a messy bouquet of hastily picked flowers. Owen having most likely snatched them up from the field past the barracks. Wildflowers of different colors and shapes, vastly different from the roses Claire had thought she would hold. A small smile curved her lips, and she held the flowers closer.

“Alright, so I’ll cut this short. I still got more work to do.” The priest said, clearing his throat. “Owen, you take Miss Dearing here to be your lawful wedded wife?”

Owen’s eyes looked to Claire, and he saw the way she turned her head from him. Her cheeks flushed again. He breathed a quiet chuckle and nods. “I do.”

The priest grinned, and then turned his attention to Claire. “And you take Owen to be your lawful wedded husband?”

Claire gripped the flowers tight and her eyes peeked to Owen. He’s watching her, there’s an assuring look on his face and she feels herself relax as she replies softly. “I do.”

The priest claps. “Then y’all are married! Kiss and get out of my damn shop.”

Owen and Claire stare at each other for a moment, both taking quick glances to each other’s lips, seeing who would be the first to move.

Wordlessly, they turn and make their way out of the shop.

*

The suite for married soldiers and their wives were a few joking inches bigger than what Owen was use to staying in. Still, it was better than sharing with three other men. It was cozy enough as well. A bed, a fire place, and a tiny bathroom. Owen was thankful for that one especially.

He turned to Claire to see her reaction, and found her with a far off and distracted look. Was she really regretting this? Sure, Owen had, and was still having a bit of his doubts. But this was all just in name and would be annulled in a few short weeks.

“Claire?” He called. She hummed in reply.

He watched as she slowly walked around the room. Her slender hands pressed together as linked and unlinked her fingers. He’d seen that action many times before. She had something on her mind.

“Claire, what’s wrong?” He asked.

Claire sighed, and held her head. “This is wrong. All of it is wrong.”

Owen had no idea why that stung so badly. Even after all the years he spent healing when she practically tore his heart apart. How could he just let those words sting him like that?

“I have to tell you something. About me going to Dallas.” Claire continued. She took a deep breath, and pressed her fingers together more. She could barely look Owen in the eyes as she spoke her next words.

“I wasn’t only going to Dallas to see Karen. I-I was going to Dallas to get married.”

[peggyellis]

chicken alfredo

If you’re here for funny or exciting travel stories, or to hear about what Luna and I have been seeing and doing, or if you’re uncomfortable with excessive displays of emotion, please check back on Monday - by which point I promise to regale you with stories of waterfall hikes, teepee fires, late-night karaoke on the rez, aura readings, tumbleweeds, herds of antelope, and much more.

Earlier today, while catching up with my friend Corinna, I joked about the estimated ten pounds I’d lost on this trip.  My shorts are scarily loose and I’ve tightened my wristbands twice already, which, I reported amusingly, seemed impossible given the amount of gas station ice cream and pork rinds I’ve consumed so far.  What I realized much later is that this is probably *all* I’ve been eating.  My two-ish meals a day reduced down to one, and half the time that consisted of a piece of chicken sausage or a small cup of soup.  Much of the food I’ve brought is still in my cooler, and I’ve found myself satiated after a small snack or something I would barely consider a meal.  Strange, given that anyone who knows me knows that I can out-eat even the most voracious of appetites.

So, I started thinking back on the last few days.  As I’d neared closer and closer to Idaho - the furthest planned stop on my trip - the pit in my stomach only grew.  I realized that I was full of trepidation, fear and sadness about the journey home, and I dreaded the day I pointed my car back towards the Southeast.  So, in typical Peggy fashion, I decided to deal with the problem by running even further and putting it off a few more days, heading out towards Seattle.  Why deal with a problem today when you can deal with it tomorrow, right?

Welp, that all came crashing down today.  I couldn’t put off signing my lease any longer, requiring me to pick a move-in date.  As I neared Seattle, a quick scan of the map reminded me that there is - quite literally - nowhere further to run away. (In case you’re curious, the Canada border is closed - believe me, I checked).  I had to start booking airbnbs for the journey home and pick an end date for our time in Seattle.  I had to reach out to my former partner to discuss the logistics of getting my stuff from his house, and I had to start thinking about what life looks like when this trip is over.

Now, I’ve had some tough days before.  I can hysterically sob with the best of ‘em, and I have dealt with some loss and pain and struggle.  But hooooo boy, this put me on my ass.  When a friend back home asked me what I had been doing today, I reported to him that I cried the entire way through Oregon.  Yikes.  At one point, while sitting at a rest stop, Luna climbed into my lap in the front seat, unable to ignore my hyperventilating.  I was out of runway, and I had to accept that if I was going to continue my life as I’d planned it, it was going to involve going home in the very near future.

As I started unloading all of this on him, a dear new friend asked me simply, why do you *need* to come home?  My mom, usually the ever-pragmatic type, advised me not to sign a lease if I wasn’t sold on a life in Atlanta.  And in an unexpected twist of fate, a partner who shaped most of my adult life (and who I called somehow knowing he’d have the answer) reminded me that it’s okay NOT to have the answers, and it’s okay to just take it day by day for awhile.

I arrived at our home for the night, shed some heavy tears, and canceled all of my bookings for the rest of the trip.  I sent an email explaining that my housing situation had changed and asking to delay my lease indefinitely.  I called my Burning Man family, many of whom are here in Seattle, and they immediately rallied with dinners, plans to go sailing, and a schedule of housing for Luna and I that extends well into the fall. I suddenly have a place to stay - for as long as I need - and no one forcing me towards home.

The sun set, and it was dinner time, so I set a cast iron skillet on the fire pit adjacent to our greenhouse home, and set about making dinner.  I’d picked up one of those frozen meals in a bag at the grocery store - you know, the kind that feeds at least two people or a very small family of four.  Everything cooked as I updated friends and family about my plans and threw the ball for Luna.  And then, I’ll be damned if I did not eat the entire thing.  The whole bag.  When I was done with that, I needed dessert, and had half a sleeve of Milano cookies.  After 10 days of barely having an appetite, I was ravenous.  It hit me: the pit in my stomach was gone.  I no longer had to do anything, be anywhere, or be anyone.  I had time, and friends, and the flexibility to figure out what the hell is next and where.

So, friends, looks like this little road trip might have turned into something a little bigger. I don’t have answers, or plans, or an idea of what is next.  And for the first time in possibly my entire life, that is just fine with me.

[lewishamledger]

A shirker’s paradise

Words by Seamus Hasson; Photo by Lima Charlie

For anyone unfamiliar with the cult blog Deserter it could probably be best described as a shirker’s guide to kicking about in South London. It reviews pubs and restaurants as well as offering expert advice on how to get away with doing as little work as possible.          

The writing is iconoclastic, often profane and always exquisite, attracting a dedicated and growing fan base. The duo behind it, Andrew Grumbridge and Vincent Raison – aka Dulwich Raider and Dirty South – have now written a book - Today South London, Tomorrow South London. It’s a chronicle of the pair’s misadventures south of the river and has been described as being ‘part guide, part travelogue.’

I met the irreverent pair for a pint at Sutton’s Radio in Lewisham to find out about the book launch and to ask what they really think about the nine to five. “I’ve never enjoyed it,” Vince assures me. “I find it insulting Seamus on a spiritual level” Andrew concurs.

It’s a Sunday evening when I meet them and just a few days after the book launch. Andrew is sporting a Dulwich Hamlet scarf and Vince is wearing green cords supported with a pair of braces. They each exude a certain anarchistic charm, like the Sleaford Mods but with RP accents.

I find them both in good spirits, that maybe because firstly they’re at where they love being most – the pub and secondly the book launch has gone rather well. “The launch was amazing, I mean it was absolutely packed,” Andrew tells me. “It was at the Dulwich Beer Dispensary. It was so packed my daughter couldn’t get in. It was sensational.”

“We did give the audience free beer early on though, that might have helped,” Vince suggests. “Nothing to do with it,” insists Andrew. The response so far to the book has been extremely positive, even attracting celebrity endorsements from the likes of Jenny Éclair and Jay Raynor.

The first run sold out in the first week “due to a pre –order frenzy,” Andrew tells me, “their words (the publishers), not ours,” and there’s a genuine sense of excitement surrounding it. “It’s actually the second book that we’ve written,” Vince explains. “The first book we did was more about the philosophy aspect of shirking and why you should spend more time not working.

“We got very close to a publishing deal with several high-profile publishers but it didn’t happen in the end and we ended up thinking we would attack the hyper-local stuff we do. We collected some of the stuff about our days out which worked well.”

“The publisher insisted on a pile of new stuff as well which was very annoying because it meant we had to do some work,” Andrew adds. “Yes, and we had to try and link the stories so we actually had a full four seasons of deserting although I wouldn’t call it a narrative exactly,” Vince elaborates.

The two men have an obvious rapport and when it came co-writing the book an almost telepathic sense of each other’s working patterns. “We’ve been doing the blog for so long, we don’t sit down and write the same piece,” Andrew explains.

“It’s always written separately. But basically one would write it and the other would edit it and make suggestions.” “Yes, and because we’re both fundamentally lazy,” Vince adds matter of factually, “what one person would normally do, there were two of us doing so that worked perfectly.”

“I don’t know about you but my Mrs sometimes says she can’t tell who wrote which passage now” Andrew refers to Vince.” “I think there’s definitely a deserter voice.” That voice was first established in 2014 when they launched the blog.

They had been working together on an ill-fated idea for a TV series about aliens but without any of the explosions and horror usually associated with the genre. “It was more about the backroom stuff, like the logistics and the warehouse,” Andrew explains.

“I still don’t know why it hasn’t got picked up.” “Yeah, it’s a mystery, alien admin,” Vince adds. A TV producer they were pitching to advised them they needed more characters and a light bulb went off. They decided to write about characters and places in South London.

“We started writing about what we actually do in our kind of play time; our little days out. I mean I wouldn’t say our days out are necessarily themed but there’s often a reason that sparks it off,” Vince says.

“Yeah, they’ve probably become more themed as we realised you need to do different things to keep people interested and indeed keep us interested,” Andrew adds. “I think the first post we did was about the World Cup in 2014 and where you could watch it with a partisan crowd,” Vince explains.

“So, if you’re watching Argentina why not go to an Argentinian pub.” (Incidentally there aren’t any, but the guys inform me that the Elephant is the best place to go for South American bars in general).

“When we started writing about South East London we realised that nobody else was really covering it as we were,” Vince tells me. “Or the way that we wanted it covered,” Andrew agrees.

“I always wanted to read travel logs that tell you about the darker side of the locale as well as you know the best places to eat or drink. I wanted to know the worst places to eat and drink as well.”

As well as the blog Vincent and Andrew also have their own podcast which covers similar themes - pubs, days out and deserting. It’s a tongue-in-cheek broadcast where the two guys have occasional like-minded guests to discuss the finer aspects of deserting.

They’ve also recently introduced a literary corner to the podcast where they discuss humorous books they’ve both found funny down the years. “We’ve got an insider friend who does still work in a high powered job but he’s an utter slacker and he tells us about his experiences of sleeping on the job and getting away with it,” Andrew tells me.

“We get the odd guest who has an angle on how to live for less such as opting out of the property market and living on a house boat or someone who’s letting their flat and travelling the world,” Vince adds.

“There’s a friend of ours who rents out his house and just travels around all the time. He considers himself homeless, which is a bit rich because he’s renting his house but nonetheless he has to keep travelling because he really has no choice.”

“Obviously not everyone can do it but it’s kind of nice to know that someone is doing it,” Vince adds.

The podcast is split into sections and each episode covers what the pair have been up to since the previous broadcast. There are also sections on what Andrew describes as “the philosophies behind deserting and slacking off, you know how to make ends meet.

“It’s Kind of a support group” he says. “More people I talk to now, I don’t know about you Vince know us for the podcast rather than the blog.” “Yeah I think the podcast is the rising star of entertainment,” Vince agrees. “Our slightly long form written pieces on the blogs are perhaps increasingly old fashioned.

“I mean we like them, because we had to write what we wanted to read I suppose ultimately. We had to amuse each other as well.” “That was a guiding principal,” Andrew agrees. “Just to kind of blow the tumbleweed.”

For now at least, the guys have resisted commercialising Deserter believing that sponsorship or at least certain types of sponsorship may dilute the brand. “To run an ad for windows 10, alongside an article saying ‘don’t go to work, it would just undo everything we stand for, our beliefs,” Andrew explains.

“We’ve had to turn ads down because it just doesn’t feel right.” “Yes, when we started doing the podcast a couple of them we got offered were for razors,” Vincent adds, “and at the time we both had massive beards.”

“They simply hadn’t done their research,” Andrew laughs. Whatever the duo’s hostility to the gloomy nine to five rat race, there’s no doubting their passion and drive for what they do. Their book is an achievement that could only be possible through determination and whether or not they’d like to admit it hard work.

“Although it’s a hyper local book about a small part of the country,” Vince says, “it would be nice if it was received more universally” “Yes,” Andrew agrees, “I think so because the message is a universal one, the message is you can have a good time with the right people wherever you live, you can go out and look for it.”

....................................

Today South London Tomorrow South London is available at all good local and national book shops as well as online outlets including Amazon.