#appropriate that I should write the majority of this while stranded in an airport

[laughingphoenixleader]

also. kanera on an airplane for the three sentence fics.

behold, Kanairplane (as @accidental-spice called it one time and it never left my brain)

Kanan settles into his seat on the plane, but his spirit is far from settled.

Restlessness fills every nerve within him, as per usual, especially when he's in a plane. He squeezes his eyes shut, attempting to block out the waves of memories that come crashing in. "GO, CALEB!"

General Billaba's voice rings through his mind, the memory like a knife in his gut. For the umpteenth time, he curses the no-alcohol policy that goes for every airline. He would know. He researched all of them in pursuit of one that would let him bring a drink on his flight, but, alas and, similarly, alack, he found nothing but disappointment.

So here he is, with a two-hour flight straight through Misery Lane to look forward to. I hate it here.

"I'd consider buckling your seatbelt, mate," a cool, Irish-accented voice recommends from the window seat to his left. Kanan glances over at the ebony-skinned man with waist-length, pitch-black braids next to him, who wears an unbothered expression paired with a raised eyebrow. He has a cool, unaffected air, like you could throw a brick at him and he’d just catch it and ask “is that all you’ve got?”

Kanan nods, pulling the seat belt and shoving the silver end intothe…. well, other silver end, but it's the actual buckle, so it's different.

When he glances out the window, it isn’t the pavement of the airport that he sees, it’s air filled with ash and fire. He curses under his breath, dragging his gaze away, wishing for something, anything to distract him from the memories that keep crashing in over the next indeterminate amount of time.

But then his prayer is answered. A voice sounds over the loudspeaker, one that pulls Kanan straight out of his flashback and back into the present, and he feels like he’s just been dragged out of water that had been drowning him. He sucks in a deep breath, but it catches in his throat as he listens. The voice is warm, musical, and distinctly feminine. He’s never heard anything like it.

“This is your pilot speaking,” the voice announces in a friendly tone, so different from the impersonal one so often used by airline pilots. Different in more ways than one. “And I like to do things a little differently around here—I’ll be conducting your flight safety announcement this afternoon.”

Kanan’s spirits rise way more than they should at the knowledge that he’ll be hearing a lot more of this voice. He’s not sure exactly what it is that has him so spellbound—something about it makes him want to follow it anywhere.

The pilot scatters little witticisms throughout her flight safety announcements—“keep your seatbelts fastened, because I just rewatched Top Gun: Maverick and got inspired”—“put the oxygen mask on anyone who is a child or is acting like a child first”—“this is not a toilet seat cover it is a life jacket”—that have Kanan chuckling to himself all during what is the most entertaining beginning to a flight he has ever experienced.

“She’s a fun one, isn’t she?” the Irish guy comments from nearby.

“Yeah,” Kanan replies, a smile tugging on one end of his mouth. “Seems like it.”

“Text people—tell them that you love them, or never wanna see them again. or whatever,” the pilot adds when she’s telling them to turn their phones on airplane mode. Kanan snorts at that. He desperately wants to meet this woman—or at least see who could be attached to a voice and sense of humor like that.

He ponders this as he stares out the window for the next long while, actually seeing the fluffy clouds blanketing the area underneath their plane rather than smoke-streaked sky, for once. Somehow, this woman has eased and pacified his ravaged, PTSD-ridden mind that he hasn’t gotten therapy for, both because he isn’t interested and because he can’t afford it anyway. What money he has, he spends on alcohol and buying things for whatever girl he might be spending time with, which changes often. As does his place where he’s living—hence the secret third thing that saps his bank account—flights away. Away from the suspicious Imperial gazes that’ve been following him all too much lately, in this case. As per usual.

Then the plane is shuddering, and warning sirens start blaring, and Kanan thinks he’s just lost it again. But the screams from the passengers around him and, especially, the shouted curses that he’s never heard before in his life from the nearby Irish guy convince him that, somehow, this is real. As is the smoke covering the windows of the right side of the plane as it leans to one side.

We’ve been hit.

Somehow, impossibly, their commercial airplane has been hit.

The voice shouts over the loudspeakers now, its musical tones now strained, yet firm and strong. “Everyone remain calm! Follow safety protocols—evacuate from the plane!”

People begin grabbing their lifesaving devices, scrambling for oxygen masks, and generally panicking. Kanan shoves a mask onto his face and breathes in deeply, then springs into action, helping people put on their oxygen masks, placing comforting hands on people’s shoulders—but then the loudspeakers fill with that amazing voice, now tinged with urgency. “If anyone has any piloting experience, I need you up here now.”

Kanan stops short. He’s definitely got piloting experience. But the idea of getting into a cockpit again…he doesn’t have the courage for that. Not after the last time he was in one. General Billaba’s screams echo through his mind for what feels like the thousandth time.

But these people need him. And the owner of that voice needs him.

So Kanan finds himself stumbling up the aisle, the plane lurching beneath his feet. Hours seem to drag by as he makes his way to the cockpit door. He hears more explosions outside that he doubts are real, but he finds himself wondering if they might be. He always does. Trauma that deep can’t be reasoned away.

He yanks the door open and catches a glimpse of the most stunning person he has ever seen—but he forces himself not to focus on that right now. He takes in the scene—red lights flashing, copilot passed out on the console, vibrantly purple hair splayed all over it—and tells the pilot, keeping it brief, “Air Force vet. What do you need?”

The next indeterminate amount of time is a whirlwind of shouting things back and forth, pressing buttons, pulling levers, and managing communications with towers and other planes. The pilot and Kanan somehow slip into a rhythm, working together to keep the plane upright and figuring out exactly what the problem is. They discover that the plane has been grazed by what seems to be some sort of missile. Nothing vital on the inside of the plane was hit, but the same can’t be said for the right wing.

The Imperials don’t exactly clear areas when they conduct training exercises. They aren’t that cautious, and they don’t care that much.

It takes every ounce of Kanan and the captain’s combined concentration to keep the plane stable, but they manage it somehow. They find the closest runway possible and haphazardly land the plane. Well. It’s more of a crash than a landing. But the plane’s in one piece, and there are no worrying sounds from the passengers, and there are already people running up to help.

The pilot next to Kanan lets out a breath that it sounds like she’s been holding for a while and falls back into her seat. She sticks out her hand for him to shake. “Captain Hera Syndulla.”

Kanan shakes it, finally taking a good look at her. Captain Syndulla is as beautiful as her voice, which is saying something. She has stunningly jade-green eyes, two dark, thick braids streaming down her back, ending in spiraling curls dyed as green as her eyes. Her warm tan skin about the same shade as Kanan’s glows next to the crisp white uniform she absolutely rocks. Confidence and capability practically pour off of her, and the relieved, exhausted smile she throws him as they shake hands lights up the cockpit. The golden wings pinned right above her heart gleam as brightly as her eyes are. “Kanan Jarrus,” he tells her, after he realizes that he’s been staring for what hopefully wasn’t too long. Nice to meet you, Captain Syndulla.”

She scoffs. “I just trusted you to help fly a plane with me. Call me Hera.”

“Okay, Captain Hera,” Kanan quips with a grin. She rolls her eyes.

“I guess I can live with that,” she tells him, a smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze shifts to the window.

“I like to call things like this “very exciting landings,”” Captain Hera explains, gesturing towards the window.

“You mean, crashes?” Kanan asks helpfully.

The captain turns to him and narrows her eyes, her expression and flat voice one of the most terrifying things Kanan has ever experienced, and that’s saying a lot. “I never crash.”

Startled and fearing for his life, Kanan gives her a respectful two-fingered salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

She nods approvingly. Then her expression softens. “We make a pretty good team,” the pilot remarks, her voice warm and pleasant (read: heavenly and angelic).

“Yeah,” Kanan says with a smile. “Yeah, we do. And it’s an honor, Captain.” He might have added juuuust a bit of flirtation into that last bit.

“Thank you,” she tells him, placing a hand on his arm. He goes very, very still, and has to remind himself to breathe. “Not just anyone could have or would have stepped in like you did.” Her voice is overflowing with gratitude, and he is absolutely overjoyed to have brought that kind of gratitude to her.

“Any way I can repay you?” she asks, her question genuine, and it sends Kanan’s heart pounding.

He considers.

He second-guesses.

Then he goes for it.

“Can I treat you to dinner?”

She doesn’t seem altogether surprised by this. But what he’s holding out for is if she seems displeased by it.

So far, so good.

Captain Hera tilts her head to the side, considering. “I don’t go on dates with just anyone,” she tells him, her voice neutral, and Kanan isn’t sure whether to set his hopes lower or higher. But when a smile lights her face, it doesn’t even matter whether she says yes or no, because he’s just happy to have made her smile.

“But you’re clearly not just anyone,” she finishes, and his heart skips several beats. His stomach flips. This is the best moment of my life.

Okay, that last thing’s kind of concerning.

“It’s a deal, then, Captain Hera,” he replies, smiling crookedly at her, attempting to ignore the way his heart is thundering. Giddiness fills him. He feels like a teenager again, even though he’s successfully asked out so many different women. Somehow, this Captain Hera is different. Special.

Years later, sitting across from her at dinner in their dining room in their home, wedding rings on their hands, that’s truer than ever.

[thelefthandersdilemma]

Dining with Hands with Muslims

I didn’t always think about my handedness. Being left-handed means being subjected to a series of minor inconveniences that affects the fabric of everyday life. But it’s mostly invisible. There are times, though, when situations force me to confront my handedness. Like when someone sees me writing and they feel compelled to point out that I’m left-handed. Or when my handedness clashes with another’s culture and deep-seated beliefs. Like in this story I’m about to tell you. Bear with me here, this will be long—mostly because I want the world to meet the man behind the most absurd(?) extraordinary(?) experiences of my life.

Two of my friends and I were flying to India via Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Because it was a cheap flight, there was a 6-hour gap between our arrival in Malaysia and our flight to India. BUT instead of checking in early like responsible young adults, we hung back and waited at the last minute to check in. Like the idiots that we were.

At this point, I must note that Filipinos need a visa to travel to India. You could either get a visa beforehand or get one upon arrival. It’s a long story, but my friends got a visa beforehand while I opted to get a visa-on-arrival. In hindsight, I was the one idiot here.

We took our sweet time and arrived at the check-in counter with only 15 minutes before the flight took off. The girl at the counter looked at my visa-on-arrival papers and paused. She called to her supervisor, shuffled my papers around, and talked between themselves. Then the supervisor looked at me and said, ‘You can’t take this flight’.

What.

‘You don’t have a hotel booking. You need a hotel booking for your visa.’ He went on to explain that if I get denied a visa, the airline would have to shoulder the costs of my flight back to Malaysia. And then I’d have to book a flight back to India. It was too much trouble for everyone involved. He kept looking at his watch.

“But... But...”

‘Look, there’s a computer shop there.’ He points at a shop directly behind us. Does this happen often enough that it actually made sense to put a computer shop right by the check-in counter? ‘Run to that shop, book a hotel, and print it. The flight is in 10 minutes. Go go go!’

So we ran. I rushed to book a hotel, any hotel. But the supervisor burst into the shop and called out desperately, ‘they can’t wait anymore the plane is about to leave!’ Just as I received my booking confirmation.

‘I’m printing it out!’ I shouted just as desperately, watching him herding my two friends to an attendant.

‘We’re not leaving without her!’ My other friend cried out as the escort took them.

‘If you stay here, you’ll all have to buy new flights!’ We were backpacking. I guess we looked the part.

Running, my friend looked back at him and hollered, ‘Take care of her!!!’

‘I will!’, he hollered back.

Jesus Christ. Was I in a movie? It wouldn’t have been more absurd to me if my friend turned into a pillar of salt. But my disbelief waned quickly. I went back to the shop and had my booking printed. It was about 10pm. At least I was in Kuala Lumpur, right? There was bound to be a hotel just a stone’s throw away from here. I walked out of the shop to find the supe standing there, waiting for me. There was no one else to turn to. He took me back to the counter to buy the earliest flight to India. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon the next day.

‘Are there any buses or cabs that could take me to the nearest hotel?’, I asked. Apparently, buses only ran until 10pm. And we were not in Kuala Lumpur. Kuala Lumpur was 45km away. And no taxi would take me there at this hour. And he himself would take me to the nearest hotel. The movie in my head was turning into a thriller real quick.

To prove he was trustworthy, he gave me his business card. Mr. X Nizam. 100% certified employee of Air Asia. Nothing in there about whether or not he liked to kidnap stranded backpackers on the side.

We passed by the bus station and there were people lined up to board it. I don’t remember now if I asked him where those buses were going and why I couldn’t ride those. I just blindly followed this guy to a dark parking lot, gave him my bag, which he dumped into his trunk, and then sat on the passenger seat. I didn’t even realize he had a ‘talking car’.

‘Door unlocked. Door open. Door closed. Door locked.’ It announced ominously, in what I could now only describe as a Hello Kitty voice.

All the blood was draining out of my head as we drove farther and farther from the airport. I had no Internet, my cellphone battery was dying, and I didn’t have the appropriate plug adapter for Malaysia. The road was dark and the ride was long. I had one hand on the door latch and the other on the seatbelt latch. Where was he taking me? To his house? To a dingy motel room?

Then a building with blue neon signage came into view. A hotel! An actual, not-shady-looking hotel! But why was he going in with me? He insisted on carrying my bag and talking to the clerk. He then escorted me to an upper floor. Oh god, what if this was a secret human trafficking ring? He opened the door to a room, dropped my bag inside, and gave me the key. Did I have everything I needed, he asked. I told him about my charger situation. (WHY!)

But he did not cross the threshold. He stayed right outside the door as he bid good night and promised to come by the next morning.

He arrived at exactly 8am the next morning with a plug adapter in hand. We had plenty of time ‘til the flight—he thought he’d take me to a traditional Muslim breakfast and a tour of KL while we waited. By this time, I was 90% convinced that he was not a human trafficking crime lord.

LEFT-HANDER CONTENT STARTS HERE

He took me to a Muslim family eatery. The food choices were all burning red with spice—I couldn’t tell them apart! When I sat on a table with my plate, I immediately got confused.

‘Why aren’t you starting?’ He asked.

‘Where can I get utensils?’

He let out a chuckle and called to a staff, who chuckled along with him. The staff excused herself and went to the kitchen and prepared some utensils for me. ‘We don’t eat with utensils here’, he explained.

‘Oh, are we eating with our hands? I’m sorry, it’s fine! I can do it. I’m a Filipino. I know how to eat with my hands!’ I quickly dipped my left hand in the washing bowl and proceeded to grab some food from my plate.

‘Nooooo!’ He exclaimed, an unmistakable expression of disgust on his face.

‘What?’

‘You don’t eat with your left hand!’

‘Why?’

He lowered his voice in a whisper, ‘that’s what you use to clean your butt when you poo...’

Should I have told him that I was left-handed? That I actually use my right hand to clean my butt? I didn’t. If I did, he’d probably be even more disgusted. Probably lose his appetite too. So I took a deep breath and used my right hand instead. Having breached a major law of hand-eating conduct, he decided to observe as I flailed about with my right hand.

‘You eat like a 5-year old’, he concluded. ‘That’s how I ate when I was 5, before my mom taught me how to eat properly.’

‘You mean there are rules?’ The tide has certainly changed now but during these times and as I was growing up, eating with your hands was looked down upon, especially among the upper-middle class. You definitely won’t see people doing it in restaurants. Even in small family eateries like the one we were in, it would be pretty rare to see someone using their hands to eat. Some people wouldn’t even admit to knowing how to do it. This is of course rooted in our colonial past. In our history class, we were taught that one of the “good things” our colonizers “gave us” were the spoon and fork (and occasionally the knife).

To discover that hand-eating actually has a dignified, deeply-rooted tradition was a revelation to me. It definitely gave me a sense of pride in my cultural identity—an identity that centuries of colonial oppression tried to erase.

’You have to teach me!’ It was one of the most educational dining experiences of my life. One that I will now teach anyone bored enough to read this long-ass post.

Mr X Nizam’s Lessons on Dining with your Hands

Use only one hand*. Your right hand. Because your left hand is “dirty”. X_X

Rest your left arm at the edge of the table across your chest. Place your right elbow on the table and keep it there. Don’t lift it. Only your forearm should move at an angle to reach the food.

If you’re eating meat, pull a small, bite-sized chunk of meat with your fingers. Then pinch some rice and push them in to a small, bite-sized clump at your fingertips.

Use your thumb to push the food into your mouth.

Keep your hands clean. Keep your food on your fingers—absolutely no food should reach your palms. Anything you put on your fingers should go to your mouth.

Remember I mentioned the food being full of spices? Well, it did a number on both of us and we had to run back to the hotel to, erm, relieve ourselves. Don’t you just hate it when you meet someone through strange circumstances and then suddenly you need to drop big noisy ones just hours into knowing each other? I just sat there, enduring the noise he was obviously hearing from the other side of the room. And when I was done, I had to stop, pause, and reflect. Not because I just dropped a deuce noisy enough to wake the entire hotel, but because I now faced a dilemma. A LEFT HANDER’S DILEMMA. *dun-dun*

After what I’ve learned about dining with your hands and the left hand’s place in its etiquette, was I really going to wash myself with my right hand? What if we eat with our hands again for lunch? How would that make me feel then? But I couldn’t use my left hand. I had no idea how to do it. As far as I know, it was always bidet on the left and cleaning on the right. So I had to what was “right” for me. Heh. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and washed with my right hand.

---

*There are some types of food where you’re allowed to use both hands, but there are rules about it. Sadly I can’t remember them anymore. :(

[carlotam45548644-blog]

Tiny Penis Solutions.

Open Boat by Stephen Crane is a tale of 4 man unfortunately stranded in the endless ocean in a tiny boat. We had this concern up with Nice Airport and their exclusive help supplier Samsic and comprehend the flight terminal has validated his suspension," the airline statement claimed. You are actually incorrect if you assume that it is flawlessly alright for you to be actually the one making the calls between you and the man you really love. . . Ladies dislike social clumsiness, therefore if she is actually actually certainly not right into the conversation and she can tell you are actually hitting on her, saying she possesses a sweetheart is actually a great helpful escape from the pain. When a man recognizes his way around the kitchen and also is actually certain and also qualified, that is actually therefore lovely. As a solitary qualified male in my early 30's I allow affection hinder of an absence of experience and also profundity. As any kind of lady or even male who wears underwear recognizes, bras are actually generally 2 to 3 times the cost of underwears. A Russian that resides happily under today device from federal government in Russia should either feel that guy possesses no soul, or even that, if he has, that is actually not worth developing.

In fact, attractive women bombarded by dating asks for from dozens men everyday; for a lady the reliable and effortless way is actually to examine exactly how confident a guy is actually just before understanding him. For me when I to begin with read through the 1st webpage from the aviator script that read much like you viewed, opened on a wonderful environment, reddish mountain ranges, pants are brokening coming from the heavens. In watch this video one, the picture is virtually as well beautiful as well as split with supernatural surrealism. Among the general honest truths regarding penis enhancement is actually that it is going to help every man so long as the physical exercise as well as the inflexible routines are actually followed appropriately. Return the guy you love and also make your ex guy affection as well as need you forever. A lot of men don't pay attention to one part, yet the whole plan and also if the lips fit, she is actually regarded lovely. The best necessary factor to consider concerning effective ways to bring in a good guy right into your live is actually to become confident. Women perform not wish to date a nice fella." She prefers be with a self-assured and also arrogant person which has individual and lots of perspective Wonderful guys are too effortless for her and come under that dreaded buddy" classification. In some cases, during when a male notifications that arousal has actually happened and the amount of time when he has an orgasm is actually therefore fast that he possesses no time to discover an exclusive location in which to ejaculate. Sports bra: While they are actually primarily made for ladies, a sporting activities breast support could fulfill its own objective for a man also. Apart from old lady's who keep in mind having the ability to receive Cinder toffee coming from the great male at the sweet store when they were actually younger for a few outdated dime's the majority of you might certainly not have actually heard the term. I was actually a service male and also wore all of them day-to-day under my suits produced the time speed what a fantastic feeling. Theological writings placed the primary distinction in between man and animal in the previous's ability for reasoning as well as thinking, some potentials that pets are believed to possess none. She truly intends to get and also fulfill a pleasant male wed, but Agnes wards off every effort.