#drop down html

[codenewbies]

CSS Drop down Menu

[somerunner]

[Video description: In Playstation 1 graphics, an old man walks onto a snowboard course with his walker. He clips the snowboard through his walker, holding it for a second, and blasts off into the sky. Electronic music plays throughout; the beat drops when he flies away.

/End description]

I beg my followers to check out Battle Tapes' music video for their song "Brand New" - since I figure most people don't click on Youtube links, I took the liberty of using some tools to clip just the beat drop.

The rest of the video is just as good as this.

Here's the link; it's inline instead of embedded because it's 3am and I'm paranoid that people on Tumblr go "ew an embedded Youtube link": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tp6an4eVzP8

[divinector]

Drop Down Menu On Hover

[codingflicks]

Drop Down Menu HTML CSS

[cheswirls]

updating fics list (not completely lmao) and probably it would be a good idea to compile all the oneshots i wrote directly on tumblr and port them to my ext harddrive. just in case

[victorborkowski]

do u guys wanna see the automod script i just wrote for the *metoph*bia subreddit i help moderate

#The following script is for text submissions, mainly to curb false reassurance seeking atm type: text submission body (full-text): [“will this make me sick”, “will i get sick”, “will i tu”, “will this make me tu”, “does this mean i will tu”, “will i get fp”, “will i get a sb”, “will i get nv”, “what are the chances of me”, “is it contagious”, “will i throw up”, “will this make me throw up”, “will i get food poisoning”, “will i get a stomach bug”, “does this mean i will throw up”, “will i get norovirus”] action: filter action_reason: false reassurance seeking comment: Hi /u/{{author}}! It looks like you’re seeking false reassurance, which is not allowed in our subreddit as per rule 3. This is because it is harmful to sufferers of emetophobia. You are more than welcome to edit your post’s content and then make a new post. If you think this was a mistake, please contact the moderators. If you are struggling at the moment, (here is a link to resources to help with anxiety/panic)[link] set_locked: true

i cant even begin to explain how fucking nice it will be once we implement this shit because Oh <My Fuckingn God do we have so many people just blatantly ignoring this rule

also i told my therapist abt this and she was like......well honey as long as it's not harmful to you! and i'm sitting here rn like god. no. u know what. i think it's actually REALLY fucking helping my recovery atm because i just am constantly reminded of how bad i used to be and how i NEVER want to be in that place ever again. and also i've always been so talk the talk but cant walk the walk when it comes to my recovery, as ik so many of us can be at times lmao, but like....if im out here providing heartfelt advice to ppl struggling in such low places it feels kinda insane of me to not also be working on myself ykwim. like. yeah. anyways. this script is so sexy

[cameronsbabydoll]

can you write about when rafe finally signed the divorce papers ??like did he put up a fight or just signed because he knew the reader will always be his idk

how does ex!husband!rafe react to you serving him divorce papers?

gif credits @mjwritings

wc: 407 — a/n: i love these cute color html thingys

you didn’t even think he’d show.

not after the fight you had — the worst one yet.

not after the way you packed your things, took your son, and left the house that was more of a cage than a home.

but here he was. at your door. Looking like hell in that expensive suit — wrinkled, unbuttoned, like he hadn’t slept since you left.

and in typical rafe fashion… he didn’t look regretful.

he looked pissed.

silent as you set the manila envelope on the table between you both. divorce papers. all filled out. all it needed was his signature.

his jaw ticked.

"you’re really doin’ this," he said, low and flat.

like he didn’t believe it until right now.

like he still thought you'd crawl back.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. you just nodded once, heart in your throat.

rafe sank into the chair across from you like it personally offended him to sit in something so normal. elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth, just staring at you.

"i gave you everything," he muttered after a beat. "house. cars. clothes. what more did you want from me, huh?"

your stomach twisted.

"freedom," you whispered.

that got his attention.

his eyes cut up to you — sharp, electric. a muscle jumped in his jaw.

"you had everything because of me."

you didn’t flinch. not this time.

"i lost myself because of you."

and for once — for once — rafe didn’t have a quick, cocky reply.

he leaned back slowly, staring at the papers like they were a foreign language. like signing them was the same as carving you out of his chest.

but in the end? he signed.

not because he accepted it.

not because he agreed.

he signed because that was rafe cameron — so arrogant, so sure — believing deep in his bones that paper didn’t mean a damn thing.

that you’d always be his.

he pushed the papers back across the table with that infuriating half smirk.

"you think this changes anything?" he rasped.

and when he stood — towering, wrecked, beautiful in that awful way he always was — he paused by your chair. leaning down just enough to murmur it against your cheek, so low it made your heart drop:

"you’ll come home eventually. you always do."

and then he was gone.

leaving behind nothing but his signature on a page.

and the ghost of his grip still wrapped tight around your life.

[catt-nuevenor]

A Brief Guide on Uploading ChoiceScript Demos to Itch.io

Since Dashingdon is shutting down, and there will be a lot of folks wanting to host their ChoiceScript demos elsewhere, I thought it'd be a good idea to provide a brief guide on how to do so for itch.io.

This is for Windows in the folder actions, but it shouldn't be too difficult for folks to translate for Mac. This also assumes you haven't changed any of the files within your game folder other than those found under 'scenes'.

Within your game folder, locate the 'web' subfolder, right click it and select 'Send to' then 'Compressed (zipped) folder. Name your newly compressed file something sensible, and I recommend moving it to a new folder outside of your game files, just to keep everything neat and tidy.

2. Assuming you already have an itch.io account, navigate to your dashboard, and click the 'Create New Project' button.

3. Name your project as you like, and under 'Kind of project', select the 'HTML' option.

4. Set the 'Pricing' to 'No Payments', you cannot use ChoiceScript for profit unless it is with the Choice of Games or Hosted Games publishing labels. No one wants to get in trouble unnecessarily here.

5. In the Uploads section, upload your newly zipped file we made in step one. After it's finished uploading, you'll be given one drop down and two tick boxes. You need to tick the 'This file will be played in the browser' option.

6. I've found so far that 'Viewport dimensions' work quite well for desktop at 1080 x 640. Either use these numbers or experiment and find what works best for you.

7. You must tick the 'Enable scrollbars' option for your game to display properly, otherwise options, text and buttons can be clipped off the bottom of the viewport.

8. Continue filling out the rest of the form, or skip it for now and scroll all the way to the bottom to the 'Visibility & access' section. Here make sure you have 'Draft' selected. This prevents others from finding your game until you're ready, and I always recommend play testing things before you make your work public.

9. Finally, hit the 'Save' button, then go and have a look at your creation by hitting the 'View page' link. And there you go! When you're ready for public release, just change the option in section 8 to 'Public'.

---

A few things to bear in mind about hosting on itch.io:

There isn't currently any way for your readers to save their game. I'm sure someone could write in a plugin similar to Dashingdon's at some point, but as for right now, this isn't available. See addition/edit below.

Make sure you properly tag your game with the 'choicescript' and 'interactive-fiction' tags. There are an awful lot of games on itch.io and it's easy to get lost in the crowd. Make sure folks can find you by having the right tags.

I hope this brief guide was useful to folks.

Best of luck to you with your writing!

---

Addition/Edit:

Thanks to @hpowellsmith for bringing this to my attention. You can add save functionality to your game by using this addon:

The ChoiceScript Save Plugin

Just tried it out on my own game and it works perfectly.

Rather than run through the addon author's own tutorial here, I'll just forward you to the Readme on their Github page.

One small note I would add is when it asks you to make the two small additions to your index file, make sure you right click the file and open it with your coding program, don't double-click it as this will just open it in an internet browser, and it won't give you the access to what you need to change.

[dduane]

A brief interruption of service

Just to let people know that over the weekend, @petermorwood developed—with somewhat unnerving swiftness—a severe throat infection that has deprived him of his voice, and his sleep, and his food (because it hurts a lot to swallow) and a lot of peace of mind while we've been busy trying to get him the medical assistance he urgently needed (short of going to the ER/A&E) at an Irish bank holiday weekend. And we'll be at our local doctor's tomorrow as well, dealing with this issue further until it shows signs of moving toward being resolved.

We'll be in and out of here, reading everything as usual... but please don't expect a lot of new postings. As usual these days, Ko-Fi is there for those who feel inclined to drop something in the pot to assist with the cab fares. (It's moments like this when you really feel the flip side of the realities of having given up your car when you live in the country...)

Thanks, all.

(aside to @brown-aes-sedai in the comments: …Boy, I wish I could get some of that, but it's somewhat harder to lay hands on these days after it was discovered that the use of xylocaine has previously unexpected cardiac implications, even in its topical forms. [I used it once long ago with good results on DeForest Kelley, when he came down with laryngitis at a Trek con. It can't be all that often that a nurse can claim to have cured Dr. McCoy…]) 😊

(and to @nimblermortal: does this look anything like what you have in mind? https://www.asiamarket.ie/drinks-bites/beverages/gold-kili-instant-ginger-drink-with-honey-360g-18g-x-20.html )

[codenewbies]

Dropdown Menu

[yanderedrabbles]

SORRY IK THIS ISN'T A QUESTION I SHOULD ASK- but i'm making a bog and when i looked at urs i noticed for ur pinned post you made one of the words' the font a baby blue (the sinners welcome u), which confused me bc tumblr has colours without a range of hues (except for the blog title). So I was curious...how did you do it?

I can defo tell this is not a question you would have expected in ur inbox bae

it's super easy!

The method I use is mostly applicable to the mobile website, but I'm sure you can use it on desktop and the app as well.

First, type out whatever you want in your tumblr post.

Next, head to this website.

Type or paste your text into the upper bar and choose your colours. To get the text all baby blue, I chose solid colour from the drop down menu.

Next, copy the HTML code it generates.

On your tumblr post, you're going to press the little setting button in the upper corner. Where it says rich text, you're going to change it to HTML.

Your post is going to look really scary but don't worry! You're going to select the text you want and then replace it with the code you copied.

Once you've done that, press the preview button and you'll be able to edit like normal! This is particularly fun if you want to use gradient text or if you just want more fun colours

[divinector]

Dropdown Navigation Menu

[codingflicks]

Transparent Dropdown Menu

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Thats MY girl | CH 6

4.0ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ | ᴄᴇᴏ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

CW : Age gap if you squint, PLUS SIZED READER, power kink, cheating, modern au, new york, assistant reader, readers a little awkward but we love her anyway, sugar mommy, SMUT, fingering, cunninglings, strap, bondage, lingerie, angst, pregnancy

A/N : I did the number wrong in the html maker so now its a different color

The message still lingers on your phone screen.

You’re not alone.

Your fingers tremble as you lock it and shove it deep into your bag like burying it might make it disappear.

But your pulse doesn’t slow.

Across the office, Sevika’s still walking toward you. Casual. Calm. Like she doesn’t know anything’s wrong.

Because she doesn’t.

Not yet.

You push out of the chair so fast it skids back with a loud scrape.

“Hey,” she calls, her voice low and curious. “You good?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah—I just—bathroom.”

Before she can say anything else, you turn and walk off, not too fast, but fast enough that you can feel her eyes on your back the whole way.

You duck into the bathroom, lock the door, and brace your hands against the sink.

You don’t even look at yourself in the mirror.

You just breathe.

Try to, anyway.

You squeeze your eyes shut, jaw clenched, chest tight.

You weren’t hallucinating.

That was your apartment door.

That was you in that photo.

Someone was there.

Watching.

And now they know more than they should.

You turn on the sink and splash cold water on your face, biting the inside of your cheek until you taste blood.

You don’t cry.

You can’t.

Instead, you whisper to yourself—

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

But deep down?

You’re not.

Because this isn’t a random message.

This isn’t a prank.

This is someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“Hey,” Jinx calls, her voice muffled but concerned. “You okay in there? You kinda stormed off like–.”

You take a shaky breath.

Then unlock the door and yank her inside before she can finish the joke.

“Whoa—” she stumbles in, startled. “Okay, wow. Ambush therapy session?”

You lock the door behind her.

She immediately sobers.

“...You’re not okay,” she says, tone dropping. “What happened?”

You grab your phone, hands still shaking, and pull up the photo messages. Your thumb hovers for a second—like showing her will make it real.

Then you hand it to her.

She scrolls through slowly.

The café photo. Your apartment door.

Then the message.

You’re not alone.

Jinx doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then: “...Okay, I’m not gonna lie. That’s fucked up.”

You nod, hugging your arms.

“How long ago did you get these?”

“Right before you came over.”

“And you haven’t told Sevika?”

Your silence answers for you.

Jinx stares at you like you’ve grown another head. “What the hell are you waiting for? You don’t just not tell your hot crime boss girlfriend when you’re getting stalked—!”

“I’m not telling her,” you cut in sharply.

Jinx blinks. “...Why the hell not?”

You rub your eyes with the heel of your hand, jaw tight. “Because if I do… she’ll kill them.”

Jinx stares at you, lips parting like she wants to argue—but then slowly closes her mouth.

You continue, voice low. “I’ve never seen her like that, but I’ve seen enough. She’d lose it. She wouldn’t stop. And I’m not trying to drag her into something that’ll ruin her life just to protect mine.”

Jinx leans against the sink, arms crossed.

“So you’re protecting her… by keeping yourself in danger?”

“I’m not in danger. Yet.”

“That’s a really optimistic ‘yet,’ babe.”

You both fall quiet.

Then Jinx exhales and mutters, “Sevika’s gonna explode when she finds out you didn’t tell her.”

You nod once. “I know.”

You look at her, eyes burning.

“But if this gets worse—I mean really worse—you’re the one I’m calling first.”

Jinx stares at you.

Then nods.

“Deal.”

The rest of the day crawls.

You keep your head down, fingers glued to the keyboard, pretending every email you send is more urgent than the thoughts crawling around in your skull.

You try to breathe normally. Try not to look at your phone. Try to tell yourself the cameras in the ceiling aren’t pointed at you.

No one notices.

Or so you think.

You make it through a meeting, half a spreadsheet, and a painfully long slideshow review. Everything feels too loud, too bright, too exposed.

But you keep going.

Because working feels better than thinking.

You’re in the middle of reviewing vendor receipts when a shadow falls over your desk.

You don’t register it.

Not until a hand gently touches your shoulder.

You flinch hard.

You spin around, eyes wide, heart in your throat—

It’s Sevika.

She pulls her hand back immediately, eyes narrowing. “Hey—whoa. It’s just me.”

You’re already standing, taking a shaky breath. “Sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t hear you.”

Her brows knit.

“You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah, just… focused. Didn’t sleep great.”

She studies you, gaze dropping briefly to your hands—shaking slightly where they grip the back of your chair.

“You sure?”

You force a smile.

“Positive.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

But she doesn’t push—yet.

“Alright,” she says finally. “Let me know if you need to step out or something.”

“Thanks,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

She walks off, slow and still watching you from the corner of her eye.

And when she’s gone, you sit back down.

Hands still trembling.

Chest still tight.

And you realize—

This isn’t going away.

You’re curled up on the couch, lights dimmed, TV playing something you’ve already stopped paying attention to. The screen flickers across your face in soft, disconnected colors.

You’re trying to relax.

Trying to breathe.

You keep checking the time.

Sevika’s supposed to stop by soon—said she’d bring takeout. Said you could “pretend to be normal together.”

And for a few minutes, it feels like that might be possible.

Until your phone buzzes.

Your stomach drops before you even look at it.

You know.

Unknown number.

You hesitate.

Then swipe.

It’s another photo.

This one’s taken from just outside your window.

Through the curtain.

You’re in it—blurry, grainy, but it’s you on the couch, phone in hand, legs pulled up under you.

Taken tonight.

Taken minutes ago.

Your blood runs cold.

Another message follows:

You look better when you’re alone.

You shoot to your feet, heart hammering so loud you can barely hear the TV anymore.

Your hands are shaking as you back away from the window—just a few inches. Like that’ll help.

You fumble for your phone, heart thudding in your ears.

You want to call Jinx.

You want to scream.

But before you can decide—

There’s a knock at the door.

You freeze.

Stare at it.

One beat.

Then another.

“Hey,” Sevika’s voice calls, muffled through the wood. Calm. Normal. “It’s me.”

You don’t move.

You look at the phone in your hand.

Then the door.

Then the window.

You take a deep breath.

Then another.

And unlock the door with trembling fingers.

Sevika stands there, takeout bag in hand, dressed in dark slacks and a jacket she probably hasn’t taken off since she left the office. Her brows lift the moment she sees your face.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah,” you lie. “Just tired.”

She eyes you a second longer, lips parting like she’s about to question it—but then she steps inside.

You shut the door quickly behind her. Lock it.

One, two clicks.

You feel her gaze on your back.

When you turn around, you’re already moving closer to her—too close, maybe. Not quite touching, but close enough that she pauses mid-step.

You don’t explain.

You just… need to be near her.

The scent of her cologne grounds you.

The soft rustle of her jacket as she shifts her weight makes your breath come easier.

Sevika watches you carefully.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You look up at her.

And your voice comes out softer than you expect. “Can we just… sit for a bit?”

She doesn’t ask questions.

She sets the food down on the counter without looking away from you and nods. “Yeah. Course.”

You follow her to the couch, closer than usual, and when she sits, you slide right beside her—your thigh pressed against hers, your hand barely brushing her knee.

She glances at the contact.

Then at you.

But she doesn’t pull away.

She just leans back.

Arm stretching over the back of the couch—right behind your shoulders.

“I’m here,” she says, not loud. Not soft.

Just true.

And you nod, staring at your phone face-down on the coffee table.

Still silent.

But still watched.

The sunlight streaming through the window is soft and golden, warm against your bare legs as you stretch under the blanket. Sevika is still asleep next to you, her arm slung lazily across your stomach, her breathing steady.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

Still.

Safe.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You flinch.

Sevika stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

You lean over and grab the phone.

Unknown Number Voicemail: 1 New Missed Call: Westview Mental Health

Your stomach turns.

You slip out of bed quietly, heart pounding as you answer the number when it buzzes again.

A nurse answers. Gentle. Professional.

“Hi, this is Meredith from Westview. I’m calling about your mother—Marie.”

You sigh, already rubbing your forehead. “Yeah, no. Look, I’ve told you people before—I want nothing to do with her. She made her choices—”

“She’s dying,” the nurse cuts in softly.

You freeze.

“I—what?”

“Her long-term addiction’s taken a toll on her body and brain,” she explains. “There’s cognitive decline. Organ damage. Her body’s shutting down. We don’t know how long she has.”

You swallow hard, suddenly cold.

“She’s been asking about you,” the nurse adds after a pause. “Every day. Keeps asking when you’ll come. She keeps calling it her ‘final visit.’”

You say nothing.

You can’t.

“She doesn’t have many moments of clarity left,” the nurse says gently. “But when she does, it’s you. Over and over.”

There’s a long silence.

You barely whisper your next words. “...Why now?”

“I don’t think she knows what time means anymore,” the nurse replies. “But I think she knows she doesn’t have much of it left.”

You don’t even realize your hands are shaking until the phone slips a little in your grip.

You end the call.

You stand there in the doorway to the kitchen, sunlight still brushing your shoulder like nothing’s changed.

But everything has.

Behind you, you hear the rustle of sheets.

Then Sevika’s voice—still groggy, half-asleep.

“Babe?”

You don’t answer.

You just stare at the wall.

And feel like you’re seventeen again.

You stay standing in the kitchen for a long moment, back turned to the bedroom, the phone still in your hand.

You hear the creak of the mattress as Sevika sits up.

“Babe?” she calls again, more alert now.

You turn slowly.

She’s there in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her hair a mess

She sees your face.

And everything in her softens.

You take a shaky breath.

“My mom’s dying.”

The words fall out flat. Numb. Like they’ve already been said a thousand times in your head.

Sevika doesn’t rush toward you. Doesn’t say “I’m sorry” or “What happened?”

She just watches. Waits.

Your voice cracks on the next part.

“She’s in the mental institution still. They called this morning.”

Sevika nods once. “What do you need?”

That question almost breaks you.

You look down, lip trembling.

Then back at her.

“Can you come with me?” you ask quietly. “I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

There’s a pause.

But only because Sevika’s already crossing the room, closing the distance, taking your hand in hers.

“Of course,” she says, no hesitation. “You’re not going through that alone. Not ever.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

She squeezes your hand.

And for the first time in years—maybe your whole life—

You’re not walking into your mother’s world alone.

You stay standing in the kitchen for a long moment, back turned to the bedroom, the phone still in your hand.

You hear the creak of the mattress as Sevika sits up.

“Babe?” she calls again, more alert now.

You turn slowly.

She’s there in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her hair a mess, one of your oversized T-shirts clinging loose to her frame.

She sees your face.

And everything in her softens.

You take a shaky breath.

“My mom’s dying.”

The words fall out flat. Numb. Like they’ve already been said a thousand times in your head.

Sevika doesn’t rush toward you. Doesn’t say “I’m sorry” or “What happened?”

She just watches. Waits.

Your voice cracks on the next part.

“She’s in the mental institution still. They called this morning.”

Sevika nods once. “What do you need?”

That question almost breaks you.

You look down, lip trembling.

Then back at her.

“Can you come with me?” you ask quietly. “I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

There’s a pause.

But only because Sevika’s already crossing the room, closing the distance, taking your hand in hers.

“Of course,” she says, no hesitation. “You’re not going through that alone. Not ever.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

She squeezes your hand.

And for the first time in years—maybe your whole life—

You’re not walking into your mother’s world alone.

The nurse leads you and Sevika down a quiet hallway. The walls are pale blue, the air sterile, humming faintly with the buzz of too many fluorescent lights.

Your stomach flips with every step.

Room 213.

You hesitate at the door.

Sevika touches your back—light, steady.

You nod once.

And push it open.

The room smells like lavender air freshener and something faintly metallic. It’s dim. Peaceful in the most unsettling way.

And it’s filled with porcelain bunnies.

Dozens of them.

Lined on the windowsill. The nightstand. A few stacked awkwardly on the edge of a bookshelf. Some are chipped. One is missing an eye. All of them stare with those glossy, painted-on eyes like they know something.

You freeze in the doorway.

She’s in a wheelchair by the window.

Thin.

Pale.

But sitting up straight, cardigan wrapped around her narrow shoulders like armor.

She turns when she hears the door.

And smiles.

“There’s my girl,” she says, voice raspy, too bright.

You swallow, stepping inside.

Sevika stays right behind you.

Your mother’s eyes scan your face, then trail to Sevika—lingering.

Then she frowns slightly. “Where’s your boyfriend? The soft one.”

You pause.

Then clear your throat.

“We… broke up.”

“Oh.”

You glance at Sevika, then back at your mom.

“I’m with her now,” you say, quiet but firm.

Your mom doesn’t react at first.

Then—

“Good.”

You blink.

“What?”

She shifts in the wheelchair slightly, fingers fidgeting with the corner of her blanket.

“That boy always reminded me of William,” she says. “When we were teenagers.”

You feel your stomach drop.

Her tone is offhand. Nostalgic, even. Like she’s remembering an old movie—not your father.

You glance at Sevika. Her jaw is tight, but she says nothing.

Your mom keeps staring out the window.

“He was sweet, at first,” she adds. “Always wanted to touch. Always wanted to control. Thought he was in love. He only hit me after we moved in together.”

You stand frozen.

Silent.

“She never talks like this,” the nurse whispers from behind you. “This is the clearest she’s been in weeks.”

Your mom looks at you again.

Smile too small. Too calm.

“I’m glad he’s gone,” she says. “I wouldn’t want you ending up like me.”

You force yourself to speak.

“...I’m not.”

But your voice trembles.

Because you’re not sure who she’s talking about anymore—your dad, your ex...

Or herself.

Your mother shifts in her chair again, her fingers fumbling with a folder tucked into the pocket of her blanket.

“I’ve been waiting to give you this,” she says, her voice suddenly clearer than it has any right to be. “Didn’t want the nurses to mail it.”

She pulls out a worn envelope—yellowed at the edges, creased like it’s been opened and resealed a dozen times. She holds it out to you with shaking fingers.

You hesitate.

Then take it.

The paper feels heavier than it should.

You open it slowly.

Inside: a will. Signed. Dated. Official.

And your name—typed cleanly in all caps under the words SOLE BENEFICIARY.

Your heart pounds as your eyes scan the document.

“Wait…” you whisper.

“She left you the house,” Sevika says beside you, reading over your shoulder.

You swallow hard. “The house?”

Your mother nods. “It’s yours now. I had the deed transferred.”

Your hands start to tremble again.

“That house is…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence.

A graveyard of memories.

Fist-shaped dents in drywall. Screams behind closed doors. A gunshot in the middle of the night that rewired your entire life.

You stare at the will like it might disappear if you blink hard enough.

“I don’t want it,” you whisper.

“It’s still yours,” your mother says simply.

Like it’s a kindness.

Like it’s a gift.

You’re still staring at the will when your mother speaks again.

Her voice is lower now. Slower. Like she knows she’s dragging you somewhere you don’t want to go.

“It hasn’t been emptied.”

Your head lifts.

“What?”

“The house,” she clarifies, turning her gaze back to the window. “No one’s lived there since that night. The police cleared the body… but no one touched anything else.”

Your throat goes dry.

She keeps going, like she’s telling you what groceries she forgot to buy.

“Your room’s still the way you left it. Posters. Clothes. The crack in the mirror. It’s all there.”

You feel like the floor might drop out from under you.

“All of it?” you whisper.

She nods slowly. “All of it.”

You can’t breathe.

“I couldn’t go back,” she continues, as if that explains everything. “And no one else would. So it just… stayed like that.”

You glance down at the will again.

That house.

That night.

Every scream etched into the drywall.

And now it’s yours.

Like a haunted time capsule no one else was willing to open.

Your mother looks back at you.

“I thought maybe you’d want it.”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know what’s worse—

That she kept it for you.

Or that part of you does want to see what’s still there.

You don’t say anything.

Not right away.

You just hold the will in your lap and stare down at it, the weight of her words crashing into your chest like a slow, rising tide.

The silence stretches.

Sevika shifts beside you, her voice low. “Hey…”

You look at her.

Your eyes are too still. Too wide.

She studies your face. “You okay?”

You swallow thickly, and then—smile.

It’s small, too polished, too practiced.

“I’m fine.”

It’s a lie.

She knows it.

But she doesn’t call you out—not here. Not now.

Your mom doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

Instead, she reaches again into the pouch tucked beneath the blanket on her lap, and pulls out another envelope—this one sealed neatly with handwriting scrawled across the front in looping cursive.

“From your father’s side,” she says simply. “They sent it here a couple weeks ago. I didn’t want to open it.”

Your breath catches.

You take it with careful fingers.

The envelope smells faintly of dust and old perfume. Like it came from someone who still irons their Sunday shirts and keeps photos in albums.

You open it slowly.

Inside: a typed letter.

You scan it.

“We’d love to see you, sweetheart. It’s been too long. The family reunion is this july, and you’re more than welcome. We miss you. Your cousins still talk about that Fourth of July in the backyard. You’re always part of this family, no matter what happened.”

And then—

At the bottom, in smaller print:

“Please understand, we’re keeping this invitation between us. We don’t want your mother involved.”

Your hands tighten around the page.

The words blur for a moment before you blink them back into focus.

Sevika watches you closely, waiting for something—anything.

But you just smile again.

Same hollow curve of your lips.

You fold the letter. Slide it back into the envelope.

And say nothing.

Because somehow, this hurts more than anything your mother’s said today.

The drive home is quiet.

At first.

Sevika tries.

She talks about a board meeting being pushed, some new intern that almost accidentally deleted half the HR server, and how Mel’s been on her ass about quarterly reports like she doesn’t already handle half the company blindfolded.

You don’t respond.

You nod occasionally.

Maybe give a hum in the right places.

But you're not hearing her.

The letter still sits in your bag like a bomb waiting to go off.

The will.

The bunnies.

The smell of your mom’s room.

Your hands are folded in your lap, nails digging into your palm with every turn of the wheel.

Sevika glances at you, notices the way your eyes stay glued to the window, unfocused.

You haven’t said a word since you left.

Then—

At the next intersection, she slows at the stop sign.

And your voice breaks the silence.

“Take a left.”

Sevika glances over. “What?”

You don’t look at her. “Just take it.”

She hesitates.

Then makes the turn.

The road narrows, lined with trees now, familiar but suffocating. The sun’s starting to dip, casting long shadows that stretch across the hood of the car.

Another few moments pass.

And then she asks—cautious, like she already knows she won’t like the answer:

“Uh… where are we going?”

You finally turn to look at her.

Your voice is low.

Even.

“A place I should’ve burned down a long time ago.”

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[mariacallous]

lol philadelphia inquirer bodying nyt

https://www.inquirer.com/opinion/editorials/first-presidential-debate-joe-biden-donald-trump-withdraw-20240629.html

President Joe Biden’s debate performance was a disaster. His disjointed responses and dazed look sparked calls for him to drop out of the presidential race.

But lost in the hand wringing was Donald Trump’s usual bombastic litany of lies, hyperbole, bigotry, ignorance, and fear mongering. His performance demonstrated once again that he is a danger to democracy and unfit for office.

In fact, the debate about the debate is misplaced. The only person who should withdraw from the race is Trump.

Trump, 78, has been on the political stage for eight years marked by chaos, corruption, and incivility. Why go back to that?

To build himself up, Trump constantly tears the country down. There is no shining city on the hill. It’s just mourning in America.

Throughout the debate, Trump repeatedly said we are a “failing” country. He called the United States a “third world nation.” He said, “we’re living in hell” and “very close to World War III.”

“People are dying all over the place,” Trump said, later adding “we’re literally an uncivilized country now.”

Trump told more than 30 lies during the debate to go with the more than 30,000 mistruths told during his four years as president. He dodged the CNN moderators’ questions, took no responsibility for his actions, and blamed others, mainly Biden, for everything that is wrong in the world.

Trump’s response to the Jan. 6, 2021, insurrection he fueled was farcical. He said a “relatively small number of people” went to the Capitol and many were “ushered in by the police.”

After scheming to overturn the 2020 election, Trump refused to say if he would accept the results of the 2024 election. Unless, of course, he wins.

The debate served as a reminder of what another four years of Trump would look like. More lies, grievance, narcissism, and hate. Supporters say they like Trump because he says whatever he thinks. But he mainly spews raw sewage.

Trump attacks the military. He denigrates the Justice Department and judges. He belittles the FBI and the CIA. He picks fights with allies and cozies up to dictators.

Trump is an unserious carnival barker running for the most serious job in the world. During his last term, Trump served himself and not the American people.

Trump spent chunks of time watching TV, tweeting, and hanging out at his country clubs. Over his four-year term, Trump played roughly 261 rounds of golf.

As president, Trump didn’t read the daily intelligence briefs. He continued to use his personal cell phone, allowing Chinese spies to listen to his calls. During one Oval Office meeting, Trump shared highly classified intelligence with the Russian foreign minister and ambassador.

Trump’s term did plenty of damage and had few accomplishments. The much-hyped wall didn’t get built. Infrastructure week was a recurring joke. Giant tax cuts made the rich richer, while fueling massive deficits for others to pay for years. His support for coal, oil drilling and withdrawal from the Paris Agreement worsened the growing impact of climate change.

Trump stacked the judiciary with extreme judges consisting mainly of white males, including a number who the American Bar Association rated as not qualified. A record number of cabinet officials were fired or left the office. The West Wing was in constant chaos and infighting.

Many Trump appointees exited under a cloud of corruption, grifting and ethical scandals. Trump’s children made millions off the White House. His dilettante son-in-law got $2 billion from the Saudi government for his fledgling investment firm even though he never managed money before.

Trump’s mismanagement of the pandemic resulted in tens of thousands of needless deaths. He boasts about stacking the Supreme Court with extreme right-wingers who are stripping away individual rights, upending legal precedents, and making the country less safe. If elected, Trump may add to the court’s conservative majority.

Of course, there were the unprecedented two impeachments. Now, Trump is a convicted felon who is staring at three more criminal indictments. He is running for president to stay out of prison.

If anything, Trump doesn’t deserve to be on the presidential debate stage. Why even give him a platform?

Trump allegedly stole classified information and tried to overturn an election. His plans for a second term are worse than the last one. We cannot be serious about letting such a crooked clown back in the White House.

Yes, Biden had a horrible night. He’s 81 and not as sharp as he used to be. But Biden on his worst day remains lightyears better than Trump on his best.

Biden must show that he is up to the job. This much is clear: He has a substantive record of real accomplishments, fighting the pandemic, combating climate change, investing in infrastructure, and supporting working families and the most vulnerable.

Biden has surrounded himself with experienced people who take public service seriously. He has passed major bipartisan legislation despite a dysfunctional Republican House majority.

Biden believes in the best of America. He has rebuilt relationships with allies around the world and stood up to foes like Russia and China.

There was only one person at the debate who does not deserve to be running for president. The sooner Trump exits the stage, the better off the country will be.

[knsecretary]

ATHELETE! ONYANKOPON X READER SUMMARY: a short piece on if ony was a track star. this is mild self-indulgence WARNINGS: no capitalisation intended ........................................................................................................ trackathlete!ony who loves what he does, but his coach gets on his nerves sometimes trackathlete!ony who SWEARS he doesn't love the attention, but when he wins? Yeah, you gon’ see all 32 of his teeth shining as he takes that victory lap. trackathlete!ony first saw you talking to one of your friends after a track meet.

trackathlete!ony who couldn't help but watch the way the shorts clung on to you, the way your crystal necklace glinted in the sunlight. the way you threw your head back and laughed when sasha almost bust her ass on the hot pitch outside

trackathlete!ony who (very nonchalantly) asked connie and sasha for damn near a whole week when you were gonna come back. when he finally learned you were single? yeah, it was a wrap trackathlete!ony saw you at the fresher's fete, watching you look all pretty dancing to the front of the stage

trackathlete!ony who almost shyly looked away at the video his friends showed of a party promoter capturing him take the most wicked wine of his life from you "cut that shit out. acting like i wasn't there" "you real shy for someone with no behaviour 2 nights ago" Now you were a 2nd year. and fortunately for trackathlete!ony the one night you went out as the night you two got to not so officially meet. it also helped that you and sasha shared the same envi elective

the next thing you knew, you were seeing trackathlete!ony talking to sasha while she (very innocently) asked for a study date. he of course was just there to "drop off something ". "oh [y/n] i didn't know you'd be so early" "sasha you told me 3:30" trackathlete!ony who then took the initiative to introduce himself that day

trackathlete!ony NEVER played about you. he was picking you up every week, an arm wrapped around you at parties. he made sure he was behind you when you were throwing it back. now who else was meant to catch that but him? huh? oh okay...

trackathlete!ony always made time for you. he was always down for a group study session with you. "mama what's all that fancy shit there" "it's an html page ony..."

trackathlete!ony who loved when you came to his track meets. he always made a point to let everyone know you were there. "my girl's here right now." "nigga i don't fucking care" and he'd have the widest smile on his face too.

trackathlete!ony loved driving to the parties with you. it makes it easier for you both to go back to his place without waiting on a shuttle "ony...! baby lemme go shower first" "wan' fuck you right here though mama" "baby i smell like beer and rum..."

trackathlete!ony whose guilty pleasure is watching you in his shirts with nothing else on, especially when you working at your desk with a research paper or just coding. trackathlete!ony who love loves his girl <3