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if a body catch a body…
#ough…need this book to get out of my head. he is unfortunately sooo real#last 5 chapters…hrnngnnhhgh#i fear you’re headed for some terrible fall! i’m standing on the edge of a massive cliff! i didn’t want to go back to the museum! nmndnfhfhf#the catcher in the rye#holden caulfield#catcher in the rye#j. d. salinger#my art#my art 2023#please ignore the field of rye.#illustration#comic#literature
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The Applications Of Different Types Of Silages
We have mentioned a few times now that Silage is available in various delicious flavors for your dairy farm animals. However, did you know that all these have different applications too? Well, as Silage Agro Private Limited, we will discuss the applications of different types of silages today.
Corn Silage
Corn Silage is a well-known and preferred fodder because of many reasons, such as:
Corn Silage Bales are high in energy.
It is high in digestibility.
Corn Silage is easily adapted to mechanization from the standing crop to feed-out time.
Many dairy farms and some beef farms around the world use corn silages. It is also available as ready-to-eat fodder as NutriMeal Silage or any other name, depending on the manufacturer.
Advantages of corn silage
It can be fed to cows, buffaloes, and bulls.
Keep your ruminants healthy.
Increases milk yield.
Suitable for lactating cows.
Sugarcane Harvest
Generally, it is a significant byproduct of the sugarcane industry, left in the field after the cane harvest. However, the way it (the top has been removed) is harvested results in essential variations in the composition, especially for neutral detergent solubles or nitrogen-free extractives such as Sugarcane Silage.
The trash from sugarcane harvest is also a nutritious product, which we can convert to Silage by following the correct processes.
Advantages of Sugarcane Silage
It is loaded with fiber and low in crude protein.
It is high in Dry Matter (DM) digestibility and Organic Matter (OM) digestibility.
Wheat Silage
We have recently observed that Wheat Silage has become a preferred feed for dairy cows for many reasons.
Wheat can provide a fall-cover crop or fall-cover pasture.
Your ruminants can feed on it or graze it in the fall with little or no effect on grain or forage output in the upcoming spring.
Advantages of Wheat Silage
We, Silage Agro Private Limited, have collected the advantages of wheat silage for you. Please look at the benefits your cattle get when you feed wheat Silage.
You can use it as an in-between feed when you run out of last year’s fodder and haven’t harvested this year’s crop.
If you properly feed your ruminants wheat silage with a balanced ration, it can be helpful to increase or maintain the high protein in the milk yield.
Other types of Silage
There are other silage types, too, other than the four we mentioned. We can’t completely ignore these. So here’s a list of the various healthy and tasty silage products for your farm animals.
Grass Silage.
Alfalfa Silage.
Sorghum Silage.
Tropical grass Silage.
Wood Silage.
Oat Silage.
Rye Silage.
Pea Silage.
This concludes our blog on silage applications. Thank you for reading.
#Silage Ludhiana#Punjab Silage#Silage Punjab#Buy Silage Online#Silage Manufacturers in India#Best Corn Silage
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gluten free sourdough starter notes; day 3
Something silly about me is that the idea of fermentation really freaks me out because I am terrified of alive bacteria and mold and fungi, which my brain lumps together for some reason. Terrified. I cannot deal with mushrooms, for example, unless I’m hiking and see them in the woods. This fear doesn’t make any sense but I still have it. Like, I learned about the bacteria in yogurt and did not eat it for 4 years. I still have to actively block out my knowledge of cheese and yogurt. I was only recently able to start eating pickles. Blue cheese, Sauerkraut, and Kimchi all freak me out. This is silly and I am actively trying to get over it. It took me a while to become alright with the idea of making sourdough due to this, but the allure of being able to cheaply make my own bread instead of paying a ton of money for gf bread from the farmer’s market or store was so powerful I decided to try and over come my fear (prompting friends and my partner to be like omg so proud of you--that’s how bad my phobia is). My rough understanding of sourdough is that it is not like cheese, it is different because yeasts are feeding on the flour rather than the flour molding (???). If I am wrong please do not tell me! So I have been reading about sourdough for a fuller understanding, esp. about different yeasts types.
This brief article suggests that the diversity of sourdough microbial communities cannot be explained by location--and here’s another article talking about how microbial communities in sourdough are also on bakers’ skin biodome. But both articles are talking about gluten flours (wheat, rye, etc). I was wondering if there are specific yeasts attracted to rice flour, but this Serious Eats article suggests that the flour doesn’t matter as long as it converts into the right kind of sugar for microbial production. However this Scientific American article says a lot of yeasts come from the flours itself and the flour determines the flavor, I guess because of the yeasts and lactic acid bacteria (LAB) attracted to the flour/attached to it?? Hm! If this works out maybe I will also try a sorghum flour starter.
The Serious Eats article says that the lactic acid bacteria (LAB) in sourdough are also at work in pickles and sauerkraut and kimchi! so I need to get over myself!! 😭
I started my gf sourdough starter, Jonathan, 3 days ago. A baker once told me to bring my mix of flour and water outside and walk through a field to attract wild yeasts so I took my starter out into the yard and took a lap around. I’m using brown rice flour based on this recipe. I also have been tying a dishtowel over the quart jar I’m using instead of using the lid. I am storing it on the top of the fridge for temperature reasons.
I was a little concerned about the starter working because I chose to use tap water and the recipe advises to not do this b/c most tap water has chlorine, which impedes the growth of the starter. However my city has some of the best tap water in the world, so I ignored this. It’s working out quite well. I’ve been feeding Jonathan 50 g of brown rice flour & 50 g of water twice a day. By last night there was some sort of liquid on top--it is possible this was hooch? The recipe says hooch forms when the starter is “hungry” so I am wondering if 50 g of flour is not enough. I hope to start switching to 100% hydration feedings (1:1:1 ratio of starter/flour/water) soon.
By this morning at 7:30 the starter had almost tripled in size and was light and springy with a lot of bubbles. The recipe advises to start discarding today. There’s still some bad bacteria in the mix since it’s only 3 days old so I can’t use the discard for anything yet. It definitely smelled sour.
I am going to try to make sourdough with this recipe. I will start with the suggested flour mix and boule shape. I am fascinated by the idea of using psyllium husk as a binder/gluten replacement. I haven’t used it before; these days I mainly use flax egg as an egg replacement. My research suggests psyllium husk is very popular with the gf sourdough community right now. Since it’s a literal husk (the recipes I’ve consulted do not advise using psyllium husk powder) I’m a little concerned about how it will mix in with the bread. I’m hoping I can start experimenting with the bread itself after I’ve had the starter for about 2 weeks.
#sourdough diaries#i wrote out the instructions and recipes in my admin journal so I don't constantly have to refer to these recipe webpages#bc the recipe essays are like 2000 words long#anyway i'm lucky i live in an old house i think#I am SO sorry this is so long idk how to do a cut anymore#long post tag#bread#food tw#baking#edit the other nice thing about sourdough is that it is baked at like 500 degrees so the fermentation aspect is not as scary to me#blue cheese is not cooked (to me knowledge) and thus terrifies and confounds me daily
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Little White Planes (John/F!Rook)
Spacing night be off cause I'm posting from my phone. (I'll fix it and any spelling or grammar mistakes later... It's 6:30am). I didn't know what else to call this.
Also John is ooc because I make him too soft 🥺
My first Far Cry 5 fic/piece.
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His radio crackling to life is what woke him. The voice coming from it is what made him sit up sharply.
"John? You awake? Please tell me this is your frequency… John?"
"Well this is an unusual surprise. Can't sleep, Deputy?"
"Is it safe to assume those little planes on your coat aren't just a questionable fashion choice?" she asked, making him frown.
"Did you call me in the middle of the night just to insult my clothing?"
"No. I have a perfectly good reason for calling you."
"And what might that be?"
"I may or may not have... stolen a plane."
"May or may not have?!" He couldn't help the laugh that broke through the sentence. "Do you even know how to fly one?"
"Yeah, of course, I just wanted to talk about the weather up here!" Her tone light and playful then switched to sharp and angry. "Why the fuck do you think I'm calling you?!"
"Okay, the sass is neither necessary nor appreciated."
"John. Help. Me. Land," she growled. He sighed as he got up and slipped on his shoes and coat. If he let her die he'd never hear the end of it from Joseph.
"Alright, alright. Where are you?"
"Wher-? Where am I? The sky, John!"
"Yes, I know that part." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where are you in relation to the ground?" he asked before quickly pressing the talk button again. "And don't say up!" He heard her let out a mix of a groan and a sigh before she answered.
"I don't know!" He could hear the panic and tension in her voice.
"Take a breath. You're obviously within distance to contact my radio. Look down, what do you see?"
"I'm kinda trying to avoid looking down, thanks!"
"Afraid of heights, Rook? Maybe don't steal a plane. Just an idea."
"I'm not afraid!" She snapped back almost immediately.
"Ah, that's your pride talking, Deputy. Something else we have to talk about."
"Fine, you wanna know how fucking scared I am? I'm terrified okay! I hate heights, I hate planes! I'm only doing this cause you had it in the first place!" This made him frown.
"Wait, you stole my plane?!"
"I stole Nick's plane back. Get over it and help me! … Please, John. I don't wanna die." He froze as her voice broke. "I know my death wouldn't even affect you. Hell, it would help your stupid project to have me gone…"
John grabbed the keys to his car and started making his way up and out of the bunker. He'd stayed there as opposed to his ranch after a long day of confessions. A decision he regretted seeing as this let Rook sneak in and steal a plane without getting caught.
"None of us want you dead, Deputy." She let out a scoff. "If you want me to help you, I need to know where you are. You've got the plane up and flying, as long as you keep steady, looking down isn't going to suddenly change that."
"Uh .. Falls End is kinda far but I can see it. I think that's… uh… Larry's place?"
"Think you can make it back to my hanger?"
"Rather not get shot on sight, thanks."
"There's a big field west of Fall's End. North of that crop circle."
"Yeah I see it. Why can't you just tell me how to land it at Nick's? He has a runway."
"I'd also rather not get shot on sight, thank you very much."
"Wha- okay fine just get me down."
...
He managed to talk her through the steps and as he arrived at the field he saw the yellow plane slowly descending.
"Good. Good. Nice and easy." He stepped out of his vehicle as she flew slowly overhead, a moment later touching down with a jolt in the empty field. As he jogged to the plane he explained how to fully shut it down and made it to the plane just as she popped the door open. "Woah!" She jumped down, almost tripping in her rush to get out of the plane, and he caught her by her biceps as she landed in front of him. He chuckled at her startled expression upon seeing him but he gave her a soft smile. "You're alright."
"You're here." She blinked at his face then looked down. "Are those… planes on your PJs?" He sighed at the smile coming to her face.
"Yes." He rolled his eyes at her snicker. "They were a gift."
"Sure they were." She smiled up at him and he swallowed. A moment later she shocked him by suddenly hugging him. Her arms wrapping tightly around his middle. He slowly returned the hug. "Thank you, John." She whispered into his shoulder.
"Of course." He let his chin rest on the top of her head as his eyes closed. A small, silent, content sigh escaped him. She gave him a squeeze, signaling the end of the hug, and he reluctantly released her. She took a step back from him and he subconsciously frowned. She glanced in the direction of his car that he'd left running, driver's side door wide open.
"So, you gonna tie me up now?" He blinked at her as his eyebrows shot up.
"I-..."
"Just figured this is a perfect opportunity for you to try and get me to confess again," she continued with a shrug. "We both know I won't. But it's better than getting shot with bliss bullets and dragged to you."
"Oh. Yes. I-I mean no. That's not why I'm here." He let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's late. As you can see, I'm not really dressed for confessions at the moment." He made a big gesture down at his clothes making her grin. "And I'm sure you're tired after all that."
"Almost dying in a plane will do that to ya."
"You didn't almost die. You were fine." He rolled his eyes but had a smile on his face.
"Yeah, I guess. Had a good co-pilot." She winked at him. She actually winked at him. He let out a breathy chuckle before he cleared his throat.
"Can I.. drive you somewhere? Doesn't feel right just leaving you in the middle of a field so late. No tricks. Just a ride."
"I'm a big girl, John." She put her hands on her hips.
"Of course-"
"But you better." John blinked as she started towards his car. He followed, after a moment of staring. "Feel bad leaving the plane here but Nick knows I'm not a pilot."
"And yet he had you steal his plane back?"
"He didn't wanna leave Kim by herself."
"Of course," John muttered with a frown. Rook hopped into the passenger's seat as John slid into the driver's.
"Heated seats. Fancy. Though not surprising."
"What's wrong with wanting to be comfortable?" he asked with a frown.
"Nothing. Nothing." Her eyes landed on the bobble plane on the dashboard. "This your personal car?" she asked with a chuckle as she poked the toy.
"Yes," he said as he lightly swatted her hand away.
"Cute." He ignored her and started to pull the car back to the road.
"Seatbelt." She rolled her eyes. "Aren't you a cop?" She clicked the seatbelt on before turning to look at him. He glanced at her after a moment of her just staring. "What?"
"You came alone."
"Yes."
"You really didn't wanna use this as an opportunity to capture me." It almost sounded like a question, like she couldn't believe it.
"Is it so hard to believe I wanted to make sure you landed safely? I'm not heartless."
"No, just a sadist." He opened his mouth to reply but stopped himself, but only for a moment.
"I'm starting to think you're a masochist." She laughed aloud at that; John found himself smiling.
"What's the phrase 'glutton for punishment'?"
"Is that a confession?"
"You wish." She let out a scoff. He hummed but gave no other reply.
"Where am I taking you?" he asked.
"Hmm… where won't you get shot?"
"Why don't you give Nick a call? Tell him where his plane is. He can get it while you stay with Kim."
"And you don't think he'll shoot you?" He didn't have to turn his head to know she was looking at him like he'd gone crazy.
"I won't drive right up to the front door."
"You're supposed to kiss your date at the door, not make them walk 500 feet to it." He chuckled. "That's not how you're supposed to get a girl's heart racing."
"Is there another sin I should be considering adding to your list, Deputy?"
"Oh please, buy me dinner first then we'll see about lust."
"Dinner wouldn't be the first date," he said without missing a beat.
"Oh yeah?" she sounded intrigued. For some reason this made his chest flutter.
"Flying lessons."
"Oh hell no." She let out a laugh. "If you think you're getting me back in a plane you're outta your mind, Johnny." The two laughed together.
"You don't trust me?" he asked. "As your pilot," he quickly added. "What happened to me being a good co-pilot?"
"Flying lessons on the ground, sure. You want me in the air again, I better be in the backseat with a parachute." Maybe she didn't mean to imply that she trusted him with her life as a pilot but that's how he was going to take it.
"Might take you up on that." He glanced over to see her smiling. "That's not an invitation to steal anymore planes."
"Didn't even cross my mind."
As they grew closer to the Rye's airstrip, Rook called Nick on the radio. She explained where she left the plane and that she was heading back so she could stay with Kim while he went to get it. Nick, of course, understood and let her know he appreciated that she at least got it back for him.
John pulled over to the side of the road at the end of the runway. Rook opened her door but stopped and turned back to him.
"Hey John," she started. He watched her. "Thank you. Really, I mean it." The smile she gave him made his chest tighten.
"Of course." He returned the smile. She leaned back into her seat.
"Bring this John to my confession." She poked him playfully in the chest. His smile grew and he had to actively stop himself from stopping her as she finally climbed out of the car.
"Goodnight, Rook."
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This kinda just kept going and I didn't know how or where to end it… was probably way out of character for John so sorry about that but the idea came to me so I wrote it. This is my first FC5 piece.
Again it's 6:30 am. I still need to reread this to fix little mistakes but I wanted to share it cause I haven't posted any writing stuff in so long.
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something nice about you - a’ven
you feel like home.
something about you is so... comforting? you feel like walking into a coffee shop where no one is a stranger. you're a warm cup of tea on a lazy sunday morning, a chill rainy evening. everything about you is a heartfelt embrace, the faint reminder that we're never alone in this world. when you say 'i love you', people trust you. your hair smells like vanilla and you wear comfortable clothes. your friends have fallen in love with you, but they're too afraid to say it.
tagged by: @maleficiv and @trishelle (once again, thank you for thinking of me :D) tagging: @yshai-tia, @fleetingfigures, @windupmuffin, @flamesworn, @theimperialnuisance, @ceduli, @fields-of-rye (though if any of you have already done this one, please feel free to ignore this tag ehe)
quiz here!
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Highland Destiny Chapter 12 ~Dark Truths~
Jamie didn't want to leave Claire's side particularly now when she's at her most vulnerable and damn it, he just got her back...well almost. Today they were supposed to be having breakfast in the hope of clearing the air of whatever doubts she may still harbour, and maybe talk about the "talk", but instead, she's in the hospital high as a kite, his to-do list is getting longer by the second, and he has had very little sleep. His disposition was very fragile and the fact that he had spent a few hours the night before in jail, charged for assaulting Tom Christie, meant he was treading on thin ice.
The thought of Tom Christie made his blood boil. He had been nothing but a pain on his backside ever since they were young lads. What was supposed to be a healthy competition in all aspect of their growing up, Christie had always turned it into a heated rivalry and dispute even though he excelled in more fields than Jamie, especially academically. Christie had made it his life mission to out-do him whenever the opportunity presented itself whether it was in sports, girls, popularity, friends. Still, somehow Jamie, more often than nought, seemed to trump over him as if God was playing some cruel trick, much to Christie's ever-growing annoyance over the years.
It did make Jamie wonder if he had anything to do with what happened to Claire. Joe did say it was plausible, but would he go that far to score a point against him? Could Christie be really that calculating and devious? Although he found Claire's earlier uninhibited display of seduction quite erotic and amusing, it had entered his mind that the drug may have been intended for that purpose. The thought had given him chills, and Jamie was glad that he had arrived at the pub on time when Claire collapsed. Christie never disguised his attraction towards her even though she had been oblivious to it, and Jamie had tolerated it for her sake. But if it turned out, he had anything to do with drugging Claire, and if anything happened to their unborn child, God knows what he would do.
Jamie read Finn's text once again. Jamie, please come ASAP to the bar. I have some footage from our surveillance camera that I want you to see. But before he left, he stood by Claire's bed looking down at her peaceful face and remembered her love declaration before sleep took over. His heart lightened, easing his fatigue and disconcertion, her words like a balm to his soul.
..........
Jamie arrived at Scotch & Rye Pub. The door was still closed to the public, but the door immediately opened before he could knock. Finn had been expecting him.
"Jamie lad, it's good ye made it on time. I've had a call from the police asking for the surveillance footage from last night. I figured it might have had something to do with Claire, and I thought ye might be interested in seeing it first," Finn chattered excitedly, not wanting to reveal too much before Jamie has had a chance to look. "This way, follow me."
Jamie's heart was pounding, anxious of what he might find out. He thought of Claire to find his calm as he followed the bartender to the back of the bar that led to a tiny office. Finn instructed him to sit as he started some program on his computer. He opened four browsers up on his screen, two of it showing different angles of the bar, one at the entrance and one outside the building.
Finn played the first video which showed the entrance, and then he fast-forwarded to the correct time and played it. Jamie could see the pub was full, and people were coming and going.
"There!" pointed Finn as he paused the video. "That's the lad Claire was with...Tom."
"Aye, Tom Christie. Claire said they were meeting in a pub, but I dinna ken at first that it was this pub she meant." Jamie leaned forward to take a closer look and noticed Tom was easily recognisable. "Play that a bit forward please."
Finn used his mouse to manipulate the next still picture instead of playing the video. "That one?"
"Aye, that's the one. Can ye zoom in, please." Jaime's eyes were squinting trying to make out the hazy picture. "Right, stop." Behind Tom Christie was Laoghaire MacKenzie, they were both entering the pub. Claire wasn't on the video yet, but Jaime expected that. "Right, let's play the next one."
So they played all the videos, reviewing each footage that had Tom in it. Jamie noticed from the outside camera that Laoghaire and Tom arrived together. Once inside, they were both stood at the far end of the bar, talking and watching the entrance. On the next video, he saw Claire arriving and Tom coming over to greet her and Laoghaire was not on the screen. Then Finn played the footage of the bar where Tom was ordering drinks, and Laoghaire was once again in the picture. Everything seemed quite normal, two friends chatting and laughing. Finn manipulated the video with the cursor to watch the film in slow motion and what he saw next, made Jamie sick to his stomach. He saw Tom Christie retrieving from the inside pocket of his jacket what looked like a vial, emptying it in a glass of wine before disposing it into Laoghaire's open bag. The rest of the footage became a blur as Jamie sat back, trying to comprehend what he just saw.
Jamie envisioned all sorts of scenario in his head if he hadn't arrived on time, and he recalled Tom's words when he cradled Claire in his arms when she fainted. "Listen, Fraser, I'll deal with this. I'm a doctor, and I'll make sure she gets to the hospital. Go and join yer friends." Had Tom planned to take Claire to his home? What was Laoghaire's part in it? Why would she take part in some heinous activity, and what did she have to gain from this? He remembered Claire's behaviour from earlier and couldn't help but wonder, would she have been as wanton with Tom if he had managed to take her home? Oh, Christ! Jamie was getting sicker by the minute. He didn't know whether to punch the wall next to him or to throw the computer screen on the floor, but he knew he needed to get his anger under control. But Jamie was reeling...reeling mad, thinking of their unborn child and the possibility of a loss and Claire's heartache when she finds out. Jamie thought of all the times he had tolerated Christie's taunts, smear campaigns, vilification, disparagement towards his person, and he had endured it all in good humour. But not anymore. This time Christie had gone too far.
Then his phone rang. It was Joe.
"Jamie, listen. I found out from the board that Tom had taken Ketamine and some other drugs from the hospital unsigned and unaccounted for. This is not public knowledge, so don't do anything stupid - don't jeopardise the investigation. The police are on their way, and they probably want to talk to Claire. So she will need you. You hear me mate?"
He took a deep breath. "I hear you, Joe. I just need to sort some things out, and I'll come as soon as I can. How is she?"
"She's fine, Jamie. I'm more worried about you. Don't do anything rash and make matters even worse. Think of the unborn child, ok?"
"Aye Joe, don't worry, ye have my word."
After speaking to Joe, Jamie called Angus, the head security at the distillery. "Angus, I don't have time for an explanation but listen carefully. Under no circumstances is Laoghaire MacKenzie allowed to leave the premises. Make sure one of yer lads keeps an eye on her. This is a serious legal matter. I will explain later."
"Aye Jamie, nae bother, I will personally see to it," the voice on the other end replied.
Before he left the pub, he had some copies of the video made and sent to his lawyer, Ned Gowan and on his private email account.
..........
"Laoghaire, into my office NOW!" Jamie roared as he stepped off the lift and strode past Laoghaire MacKenzie's desk, not caring if there were other employees within earshot.
Laoghaire knew Jamie was on his way up. She had a ready-smile plastered on her immaculately made-up face, but her expression quickly changed as she was summoned in a deprecatory manner, which was very unlike Jamie. Her face turning red, she quickly stood up and followed him to his office and slammed the door after her.
"What the fuck has gotten into ye, Jamie? How dare ye speak like that to me in front of the people!" waving her hands in the air, her cornflower blue eyes shooting daggers.
"Sit and shut the fuck up," Jamie bellowed, as he angrily sat down and swiped the neatly stacked papers from his desk, sending them flying into the air. "Ye will talk when I tell ye to!"
Laoghaire was nonplussed, her mouth opening and shutting like a blowfish. She wanted to remain standing but thought better of it, having previously heard of stories of Jamie's rare temper.
In a much lower voice, nevertheless, steely, Jamie spoke. "Tell me what part ye played in lacing Claire's drink with Ketamine."
The colour drained from her face and what she saw in Jaime sent chills down her spine. His eyes normally full of warmth and humour had turned glacial blue flashing wrath and fury. "Oh God, did something bad happened to her? Oh, God, oh, God. I didn't mean to." Her eyes wide and filled with panic started to well up.
Known for his chivalrous acts and saving damsels in distress, Jamie was not having any of it and ignored Laoghaire's cries. "Start talking," he said in a warning tone as he turned his attention to his laptop momentarily.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry, Jamie," she blubbered. "Tom wanted Claire, and...and... he reckoned you stole her from right under his nose. He thought if ye found out Claire had been with him, ye wouldn't want her back." She closed her eyes tight, as fresh tears flowed before she continued. "And...I...I have always been in love with ye. I thought...we had something together back then and then ye discarded me. I thought if the Sassenach was with Tom, maybe ye could look at me the same way ye look at her."
"We never had anything together," Jamie snapped acerbically. "Ye forced yer way into my life the way ye snuck into my room after Hogmanay in Lallybroch years ago. Aye, I was drunk, and I remember vaguely what happened. A couple of months later ye came to me announcing you're pregnant so I decided to do the right thing. I said to ye I'd marry ye after the baby was born. As it turned out, ye weren't pregnant at all. But I stayed with ye, thinking ye need help. And what did ye do? Ye paraded yersel' in town every night with Christie knowing I will know. Ye knew our history and still..."
"That's because ye never treated me like yer girlfriend. I did everything for ye, and still, ye were indifferent," she cried bitterly. "I thought ye stayed because ye have fallen in love with me. But whenever ye came to my bed, it was like making love to a log. I went with Christie to make ye jealous..."
"How can ye make someone jealous who never wanted ye in the first place?" Jamie cut in dispassionately. "Ye never endeared yersel' to me no matter how I tried to see something good in ye. Instead, ye constantly lied, manipulated people around ye to get what ye want and now this...I dinna ken how ye can think what ye did has something to do with love. What ye did was selfish and egotistical."
"I thought ye wanted me back when ye hired me. Did ye ever love me at all, Jamie?" she asked miserably, the tears staining her cheeks with black mascara.
"I cared for ye, Laoghaire, and maybe I felt sorry for ye. But, no, I never loved ye. Ye never gave me a reason to when ye had me." Jamie shook his head as if seeing the past replayed before him. "Aye, I felt sorry for ye...yer da was a cruel man, and ye didna have it easy. And I hired ye because I thought ye would have grown up. But no, ye're just the same wee pathetic lassie." Jamie paused, contemplating his next words. And when he finally spoke, his tone was caustic and sharp. "I dinna care what ye and Christie do to me...ye can do what ye like, and it will just bounce off me. I would even let ye off. But this time, I'm not letting this pass. Both of ye nearly killed the woman I love, and there is a possibility she might lose our baby. You and Christie will pay. I will make sure of that."
"No, Jamie, please...oh God! I'm so sorry. I'll do anything ye want. It was mostly Tom's idea," she wailed in a grovelling plea. "Tom stole the drugs from the hospital, and I kept it for him for safekeeping. I gave it to him before we arrived at the pub and Tom was the one who put the drug in Claire's wine. I only went along with it because I thought with her out of the way...and she with Tom...maybe we...us...could be together."
Jamie's face was unmoving, and he scorned at her pleas. "You are a vile person Laoghaire MacKenzie. Ye and Christie deserve each other and whatever is coming for both of ye next. Hope and pray that nothing happens to our baby because if something did, ye would wish ye've never laid eyes on me. Save yer pleas and apologies for the court. I am done with both of ye."
"NO! Ye have nae proof, James Fraser! Ye fuckin' wanker...ye send me to the court, and I promise ye, I'll do far worse to yer Sassenach bitch. That fucking witch was nothing but trouble since she arrived. Ye hear me? Ye have no proof!" Laoghaire screeched, her eyes wild and her face contorted in rage.
Jamie then turned his laptop around, and to Laoghaire's horror, she saw a video messaging program up on the screen, live with Rupert and two police in the background. Before she could react, the door opened, and four officers led by Rupert walked in.
"Laoghaire MacKenzie, you are under arrest on suspicion of assisting in administering an illegal substance with an intent of indecent assault and causing grievous harm. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." Two officers lifted her bodily from the chair and secured her wrists in cuffs as Laoghaire screamed abuse and obscenities at Jamie.
Jamie just sat and watched, his face impassive as they led Laoghaire away from his office.
Then his phone rang. It was from Joe again. Christ now what! Jamie still had pending voice messages he wanted to attend to from his sister and Ned Gowan, but he thought it could wait.
"Jamie..." Joe spoke cautionary. "Claire is missing..."
"What?!? What do ye mean she is missing? She's in bed sleeping, she's too doped to go anywhere..."
"Geillis came to her room for a visit, and she found Claire wasn't there. The bed covers were on the floor, but she found Tom Christie's phone. He must have dropped it..."
"What the fuck! I thought he was detained!" Heart pounding, Jamie was already standing up, grabbing his keys and jacket.
"He was. Two officers were watching his room in the hospital...they must have wandered off thinking he was minimal risk. They didn't take him last night to jail because Gail, who was on duty, wanted to keep him in after Tom suffered a concussion from your blow previous night..."
"Ye have surveillance cameras in hospital, right?" Jamie didn't bother using the lift. He was already running down the emergency stairwell.
"Yeah, we are on it..."
"I'm on my way." Oh God, please let her be alright!
..........
Claire opened her eyes, and she saw the floor moving under her feet. Realising she was on a wheelchair, she tried to move her head and felt a painful kink to her neck. She groaned as she lifted a hand to massage the muscle spasm.
A hand patted her on the shoulder. "Dinna worry my love, we're soon there." It was Tom Christie's voice.
She had a hazy recollection of Tom coming into her room, dressed in his lab coat wearing a stethoscope around his neck. His face was swollen, and his hair matted, and she had asked him in her groggy state if he was alright as she reached out a hand to touch his face. Tom had said something along the line that he fell and that he was okay. Then he had carefully lifted her off the bed and told her he was taking her to be examined.
Wincing at the painful discomfort of sitting slumped on the chair, Claire tried to gather her bearings. She noticed the corridor was void of people and activities, but her mind was too foggy to think clearly. When Tom finally wheeled her into a room, Claire realised immediately she was in an empty pathology lab. Something was very wrong, and before she could utter a word, there was a sharp sting on her arm. Once again she drifted into darkness, dreaming of Jamie running towards her but never quite catching up and somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she could hear Tom singing Every Breath You Take by the Police.
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Blind Date
Thank you so much to my amazing friend @outranks for betaing this and encourage me in every step to write this. Also a big thanks to the lovely @starsandskies for giving me her insight of John which I greatly appreciate. _________________________ Pairing: Rook (Not a Deputy yet) x John Seed Rating: SFW, no warnings. Pre-Game events
To abandon her old life was the hardest decision she'd taken knowing fully well it was the only way to get out of that shroud of toxicity. David had sworn with words that had punched her in the gut, not to leave her alone until she'd finally forgive him, something Rook knew was not gonna happen in the next month. Year. Hell, probably never. It wasn't as much the act as the treason, the lies and deceit that now felt like venom sluicing down her throat. It was wrath and it was consuming. It shouldn't hurt like this, she was better off, yet head tripped over heart 99 times out of 100.
Not knowing where to go, calling Kim had seemed a brilliant idea. Much to her chagrin they hadn't seen each other in a long time, despite have been partners in crime in school, and pretty much sharing the tiniest detail about each other’s life once they were away. Those phone bills had been sky up high. Even after she married Nick, who was everything Rook could’ve asked for Kim, they were still as thick as thieves.
So, in seconds Mrs. Rye had had everything decided, coaxing Rook to move back to Montana where they’d be waiting for her. It sounded like the perfect set up. Away from the constant hubbub and chaos New Jersey was.
Her old Chevy roared up the highway, as the corn fields passed in a blur. It’d been a hell of a long trip but somewhere between the sight of the far away mountains and the mauve streaks of the sky, Rook felt a bit more at ease. She spotted the sign of Fall’s End at the distance and decided to drop by the closest grocery shop to buy the stuff she needed to prepare her killer spaghetti bolognesa to thank Kim and Nick to allow her to stay with them. Her mouth watered at the thought.
The car skid to stop just outside the only visible store Rook could find. The place was small, crammed with supplies and the man in charge was attentive and polite. She glanced around. There was just another person aside her, who now fidgeted with something standing next to a pile of toilet paper. Rook looked at him as she passed by and her brows arched. He was definitely the most handsome man she'd seen. Just a little taller than her, trim and lush beard and brown hair slicked back. When he tipped his head up, a breath caught in her throat. Blue eyes clear as country sky stared back at her, icy hue making her words stutter in her mind.
The corner of his lip quirked slightly in a smile that she decoded as a form of remote acknowledgement of her presence, so she nodded and made an stately retreat.
Right. Pasta.
It was ridiculous. The way her knees trembled a little when she finally seized the pasta and the tomatoes. She didn't know the man. For all Rook knew he could be married, engaged, or plainly not into her. And really. She was just tangling her thoughts when the reality was they were nobodies to each other.
Rook sighed.
The only thing left to pick was the parmesan. Memories of her mom's recipe huddled in her mind once she stood in front of the cheeses and picked the one she remembered.
"You don't want that, darling, it's nearly… inedible."
It was that man. His voice was sinfully sweet, a tinge of pleased satisfaction falling thick from his tongue.
"Excuse me?"
The fact that he just called her 'darling' before insulting her childhood memories, kicked her sudden infatuation to the back of her mind.
"That… cheese you just picked-- it's definitely heinous, a crime to use it in a good bolognese," he said, looking inquisitively at the ingredients she carried clutched to her chest. "This one on the other hand…" A tattooed hand offered her a different one, as she watched a smug grin come alive on his face.
"Thanks. But I think I'll go with this one."
A wave of annoyance was starting to shatter her polite smile, as she sidestepped him, walking to the check out.
"Suit yourself, dear."
Rook knew it was far better to ignore the taunt, but again, she wasn’t known for being the smart type. “Are you a professional cheff perhaps?”
The man just laughed. A short, sharp sound that made a shudder wrack her spine despite her best efforts. “I’m a lawyer.”
Huh. “Ah, well, yeah-- thanks.”
“I’m not wrong, dear.”
She clenched her jaw, waving a goodbye as his final words brushed her on her way to the register.
She was about to leave the store, when the same honeyed voice greeted her from the store’s TV.
"The salvation is within your reach, join us at Eden’s Gate--"
‘Lawyer my ass’. The man was a fucking preacher.
“Fucking televangelist.”
Apparently you couldn’t trust people in this town.
___________________
Hope County was as idyllic as a bucolic painting but far more interesting. Her life in Rye's household was proving to be oddly cheerful even if half the time Rook was forced into the pleasant inaction of a well-tended guest. The grey dawns creeped one after the other and slowly, slowly, she started regaining a little of her previous balance. Thick amounts of anger, heavy as tar, fizzled out with every day she spent trudging across golden barley fields.
That was, whenever Kim and Nick had to go to business in town, leaving her on her own. Otherwise, Rook was always hedged by activities ranging from helping Kim to administer the property, to assist Nick with never ending tuning and 'reparations' of his plane. Which Rook suspected had a bit more mileage than was safe, not that she would’ve voiced that thought in front of its owner. The man was head over heels for Carmina, the seaplane.
"Pass me the torque wrench, Rookie.”
Rook heard Nick’s huff from beneath one side of the plane, where he was bent trying to determine the source of the jarring sound of metal scratching metal everytime he turned on the engine.
She fumbled in the tool box until it produced what she was looking for. "Here."
"It was just routine crop-dusting," he mumbled more to himself than Rook, "dunno what coulda got wrong."
"Bet you'll figure it out soon enough."
"I'm fuckin' counting on it, tell you that-- A friend and I go on testing flies on the weekends, y'know?"
"More like dick measurement contests, but with planes, you mean." Kim chided in carrying a tray of sandwiches and three beers.
Nick almost jumped on the spot, hitting his head with the open door of the plane. "It ain't like that, Kimmie, you know that."
"Yeah, right." Kim rolled her eyes an sipped her beer, an amused smile tugging her lips.
"John's a good guy," Nick said.
"Who’s John?" Truth was that Rook wasn't as interested as to actually want to know, but she didn't want to seem rude, after how amazing they'd been with her. Asking didn't cost anything.
"A guy who moved here 'bout couple years ago," Nick said, "nice guy but keeps pretty much to himself except for--"
"The dick measurement contests," Rook and Kim offered in unison with devilish twin grins, the words a slap on Nick's face.
"Very funny you two," Nick groused.
Kim sauntered to Nick and kissed him, softly, nothing more than a chaste peck on the lips. The way Nick clung to her waist, receiving every bit of what she was giving with complete rapture, as if they hadn't kissed almost a hundred times already that day, struck Rook right in the middle of her current train of thoughts. Even in their best moments, David had never been like that, had never shown an ounce of the joy that reeked from Nick every time he held Kim.
He'd never loved her and now she knew it. Suddenly Rook felt ill.
"C'mon," Kim said with a dreamy smile, holding Nick's hand, "let's have some lunch."
-------------------
A month went by in a heartbeat and Rook started thinking about getting a job and settling there. Coming back to her roots, in a sense.
“I’m glad to see you smiling again, honey,” Kim said after putting in the oven the result of their hard work.
She had been trying for the last half hour to teach Rook how to make the perfect crust for an apple pie, after she ate six slices and demanded to know the magic behind it. Now they both sat at the isle, sipping two cold ones.
“Yeah, kinda hard not to in a place like this-- I mean it’s… breathtaking.”
Kim smirked. “It has its ups and downs, like every place I guess. You never meet too many new people.”
“But I mean that’s good in a way, right? You get to deepen your relationship with the ones you already know?”
It was so different from the rhythm of living in New Jersey. Always fast. A ceaseless flow of new things that after a while were always not enough. Like David. And maybe that’d been the problem.
“You thinking about that asshole, huh?”
Rook just sighed. “I mean-- maybe that was the problem, we moved in together too fast, I don’t know--”
Kim set her beer down, and placed one hand over one of her own. “No, sweetie. The guy was always an asshole, trying to pretend he wasn’t one. Knowing him more-- less, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
Rook let out a soft, dry chuckle. She knew that, but trying to understand how all went to hell in a handbasket was helping her to realize this time, she wasn’t the failure.
“I should’ve listened to you, Kimmie.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not your signature move,” Kim said, voice tinged with amusement.
Rook laughed, the joke unspooling the frayed, worn out tension curling up inside her.
“How do you meet good people?” Rook asked, not really expecting an answer.
“I guess-- I guess it’s a matter of you know-- just knowing people.” Kim arched a brow. “Do you wanna start dating again?”
“See, I don’t know. Yes? No? I don’t--” Rook sighed. “I just wanna know people, like you said, and maybe then-- who knows.”
Kim nodded along her stuttered monologue, her eyes glinting with what Rook identified as a sudden idea. She knew Kim’s ideas were to be feared or celebrated. “What about John?”
“Who’s John?” It took Rook point-three seconds to realize who Kim was talking about. “Nick’s weird plane friend?”
“He’s not weird and he’s a good man.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that. I mean--”
“He’s really good looking,” Kim said, pointedly.
“So you think I can be convinced with the promise of a pretty face, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Seriously, Kimmie, you think so little of me,” Rook said with faux offense, sporting a half-grin. She wasn’t totally opposed to the idea and she trusted Kim above all. Maybe this could be a good onset, and it didn't matter if things went sideways or if the guy ended up being a self absorbed prick that just took a swim in a barrel of cologne: it was a step in the right direction. “Fine, but make sure he’s into this too. I don’t wanna spend time with a guy who feels I ambushed him.”
“No worries, honey. I’ll take care of everything.”
__________________________________
She admired the view in the mirror for a few long seconds, trying to convince herself it was not such a bad idea. Rook had never considered herself beautiful, but she was pleased by her reflection. The plain navy blue dress she'd packed almost without thinking, seemed fitting yet comfortable which was exactly what Rook wanted. She didn't want him to think she was trying too hard, especially if he wasn't going to return the favor. The silky fabric caressed her fingers as she glided them over the skirt, trying to fix any visible creasings. The nervous squirming in her stomach intensified as she went down the stairs, to meet the Ryes.
"Ain't you a sight for sore eyes, honey," Kim chirped, with a big grin on her face.
Rook tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear, painfully conscious of her own blushing. "You think so?"
"Bet your money on it." Kim gave her a reassuring smile, before holding her hands. "Nick's gonna take you there-- John insisted you two should have dinner at his ranch which I think is nice, 'cause the Spread Eagle is good and Old Gary is a nice guy but the place isn't suited for a proper date."
Rook quirked a brow. "He has a ranch?"
"Yeah, I think you'll like it."
This was it. The physical display showing she was kicking her past to the curb, ready to start anew. Rook blew air hard, shaking her head and her carefully combed curls.
"It'll be fine, honey, and you can always call either me or Nick if you want an early pick up for whatever reason, m'kay?"
Rook nodded before hugging Kim.
"Thanks, Kimmie-- for everything."
Kim's eyes glinted, smiling warmly. "Go have fun."
-----------------------------------
Rook shivered when a current of wind blew up, her dress whipped around her body by it. The night sizzled with warmth, suiting for the end of July, yet Rook clutched her arms as if it was freezing before stepping through the threshold of the house.
The door had been left open, a clear statement of how peaceful and quiet this side of the County was or of how much John trusted his neighbours. She could feel her heart drumming under every inch of skin, from her toes up to her temples. Her eyes swiveled down to the perfectly set table at the side of the great living room, and she let out a small gasp of surprise. It was definitely far more intimate than any scenario she'd expected.
The room was dimly lit and she almost missed the man standing next to the fireplace with his back turned.
When she took a step forward, the click of her heels against the floor seemed to snap him out of his silence and he swirled to face her.
Oh. Oh no.
"Ah, Rook, it's such a pleasure--"
The words were cut in a dry halt, while a glaze of confusion set on his face. Apparently he was as dumbstruck as she was.
Rook was trying her best to not let her jaw hit the floor, because "plane John" was the "parmesan guy", as she referred to him in the abridged version she'd given to Kim. In Rook's book the guy was a total jerk and a liar. Definitely not someone she wanted to spend the evening with.
He recovered quicker than her. "I didn’t know you were staying with the Ryes," he said with a saccharine voice.
"There was no reason for you to know it,” she said with her chin held high. "I'm sorry-- this was a mistake--"
"On the contrary, my dear," he said, taking a few steps in her direction, his eyes drinking in the sight of her, "I believe this is a very right encounter."
Rook gulped despite herself. He had no damn right to be this handsome: perfectly tailored black trousers and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he could've passed for a model if he wanted to. She bit her lip to cut the spell.
"You lied to me," Rook blurted out. 'And insulted my choice of cheese,' she wanted to add but it didn't seem like a proper claim.
His brow creased. "I beg your pardon?"
"You told me you were a lawyer but I saw you on that televangelical infomercial."
She didn’t know what she was expecting but it certainly wasn't him huffing a laugh. "So you jumped to the conclusion I should've been lying because lawyers aren't men of God?"
Rook wasn't feeling as confident in her assertion as a minute ago, nevertheless, she retaliated. "Actually the opposite, I think."
John finally broke in an honest, clear, ringing laugh that was as annoying as it was enticing. What a contradiction this man was.
"Well, normally you'd be right, but it does happen that I am both," he said, walking to the table and reaching a hand in her direction. "I can tell you all about it if you stay with me for dinner."
Rook weighed the options in speed mode and agreed. After all saying no over the parmesan, would've been a whole new level of petty even for her.
She took the hand drawn in her direction and her cheeks flushed when he closed his fingers around it. It felt warm, and a little rough, and something wild fluttered in her stomach at the contact. It'd been ages since she'd felt like that, like the central focus of attention, like he was the lucky one having her there.
Her heart tumbled again when he reluctantly let go of her hand to pull the chair for her. A small gesture done with the ease of something that came natural, not just for show.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded and flashed another dashing smirk in her direction. Thank God she was sitting because by now her knees were jello, courtesy of those striking blue eyes.
"I have to say I wasn't expecting my date to be the beautiful stranger I met a month ago," he said in a frank tone, sitting at her side. "I often wondered if you were still around."
Rook almost let out a goofy giggle. She shouldn't have let it rattle her that much but the fact that he called her beautiful, aside from making wonders for her ego still hurt by the betrayal, in that matter of factly tone, just brushed aside some of her doubts about him.
"Do you say the same to all your dates?" She quipped.
By some magic trick her question made his composed manners crack a little. A light blush spread over his nose and cheeks. "I haven't had a date in years if I have to be honest."
For the first time that night, she smiled at him. "Then we're in the same boat."
"Better to say, the same plane," he said serving her a slice of a handmade lasagna, the smell making her stomach rumble of hunger.
"I bet you are as head over heels with your plane as Nick is with his," she scoffed.
"Not true, darling," he said, "as much as I like Affirmation, my plane that is, things are just meanings to an end." He leveled his gaze with hers, almost breathtaking under the candlelights. "I reserve love just for people."
Rook shuddered under his veiled words and for a moment found herself wondering how would it be to be loved by him. It was silly, and utterly naïve. She was floundering in spirals of ifs when the truth was he was only being polite and she was being delusional.
"Shall we?" She asked gesturing to her plate, swallowing her inconvenient thoughts.
John's eyes lingered for a few seconds on her, his mouth quirked in a smirk. "Of course."
-------------
By the end of the meal Rook had learned everything there was to know about John Seed the lawyer and PR of Eden's Gate Project.
She wasn't a woman of faith, considering herself mostly a respectful audience rather than willing participant but John had been so convincing she'd agreed to join him for the Sunday service next week.
A pang of regret assaulted her for thinking bad of him for so long when in all honesty he seemed a good person, if well, a bit overeager about his beliefs, culinary and religious alike. The whole night had left her under the impression than despite his candor on the questions she asked, there were a lot of things unsaid especially surrounding his upbringing.
She knew he had siblings, part of Eden’s Gate as well, and that his whole life now revolted around it. He seemed too perfect to be truth and when the night was over, she found herself wanting this wasn't just a one time thing.
"I had a really great time," she said taking her phone out of her purse to check the time and dial for Kim.
"It was a pleasure-- no, a delight, to have you with me tonight and I hope is not a bold assumption to think this was not a one time only thing-- or am I wrong?"
Rook's heart pounded heavily in her chest. "No, you’re not," she said with a soft smile.
This man was certainly in his own league. When her eyes finally fell to her lockscreen, she bit back a scream. It was 2:00 a.m.
Probably seeing the distress on her face, John leaned forward, a hand placed over hers. "Is something wrong? "
"It's-- it's 2:00 in the morning!" she yelped, "I can't -- damn, I can't call Kim right now, it'd be so rude."
He huffed a short laugh. "Don't worry, darling. I'll take you there."
He stood up, offering her a hand that she took quickly, thinking about how inconsiderate she'd been with the Ryes. At least she had her own key.
"Thank you, so much, I don't -- I don't wanna bother you though, it's quite far."
"Nonsenses, my dear. It's my pleasure."
She hadn't realized he was still holding her hand, when he stopped right at the threshold of the house.
"I know--" He chuckled, and cleared his throat, clearly nervous, and Rook's knees bucked at his proximity, "I know I have no right asking this of you, but-- may I kiss you, Rook?"
There was a slight waver in his otherwise confident request, Rook found endearing. She would've been lying if she said she hadn't toyed with the idea more and more as the night progressed, imagining the scrape of his beard over her chin, the hard press of his mouth over hers--
"I'd very much like that," Rook answered, thanking her stars she wasn't croaking out of pure nervousness.
She felt her cheeks burning as he closed the distance between them, painfully slow, blue eyes delving into hers as if to pry into her soul.
His hand slid up, thumbing at her jaw, fingers resting against her neck, warm and gentle. Rook's heart galloped when he leaned in, not diverting her eyes from those magnetizing blues. Her breath came in shallow exhales when finally his lips brushed hers, soft and slightly damp. Tentatively first, shy eagerness that untethered with every second passed.
Rook closed her eyes, taking in the sensations, flitting and stark, careening through her. Kissing someone hadn't felt like this in a long time if not ever. A kiss capable of send jolts of pure exhilaration and new-formed vertigo to the farest corner of her being. She could feel every inch of his chest pressed to hers, warm and solid, his tongue sliding along the seams of her mouth, and every movement drove her further away from heartache, further away from the feeling of hollowness. So quickly, so effectively. It felt so right. And it was scary.
She broke the kiss, gauging the impact of how screwed up she was.
"Is everything alright?" John asked, lips swollen, breathing coming out in small puffs. The whole sight and the pitch of his rough voice wreaking havoc on Rook's gut.
"Perfectly." She allowed herself a genuine smile that he promptly returned, holding her hand and finally guiding her to the black SUV parked at the garage.
"Thank you for that, my dear," he said with a pitch that made her half-formed hopes, gain reality. "Now, let's take you home."
Hope County looked beautiful and daunting at night. Dark blue scattered with silver glimmer of distant stars.
Sitting at John's side Rook felt alive. She could even say she forgave David. She didn't care at all about it anymore, because if it meant coming here, and coming here meant meeting John, then it wasn't all tragedy.
Living here was going to be perfect, and she was going to seize every second of it. In that moment John turned his head to look at her and she was struck by the sheer glee waving back at her from those clear blue pools. A light squeeze of her hand as a silent reassurance.
Of what? Rook wasn't sure yet, but she was determined to find out.
#far cry 5#far cry 5 fanfiction#john seed#deputy rook#john seed x f! deputy#pre-game events#john seed x female deputy#john seed x rook#not yet a deputy
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Translation For Preview Of Banana Fish Ep 24 (End)
This is the last episode folks!
This time, it’s an all-Eiji dialogue.
Eiji:
Morning glow sky, a face silhouette blends with the light.
The figure that was gazing out the window were dazzling.
You, who shoulders everything alone and keep going forward...
I wished I could change places with you.
If that wish can’t come true, the least I should be by your side.
You’re such a gentle and kind person yet you keep on blaming yourself...
But please do not forget, you are not alone.
Please do not forget Ash, there isn’t a single night that will not come to dawn.
Next time on Banana Fish, “The Catcher In The Rye.” (Straight translation; catch in the rye field)
To @coba-banana @coba-banana2
バナナフィッシュの最後まで、漢字を教えてくれた、本当にありがとうございました。
You're always such a kind person, I hope you will stay active on Tumblr.
もっと話したい、もっとcobaさんのお絵かきを見たいんです! ヽ(*´∀`)ノ
どうか、Tumblrにいてください。m(_ _)m
To @silverquillsideas
If you didn't pushed me to do this translating thing, I probably wouldn't even dare to try ever! LOL Thanks mannnn! (ง ˙ω˙)ว
Changes may be made for satisfactory.
Well this is the last dialogues for this series. I hope we all can learn a lot from the story and the characters, never to take granted of our love ones, cherish every second with them, help those in need, stop with the damn stereotype thinking, stop being so judgemental, don’t be so ignorant, be thoughtful of others.
If the 80s and 90s issues and crisis don’t teach you anything, you can still learn a lot from what happened and ongoing in the 2000s, but it’s better to learn all the history so we don’t repeat it and progress better from it. The least I hope, we don’t have more kids suffering like Ash and his gangs, or worst. But that’s the reality, we can only do so much but it doesn’t mean we’re gonna give up, a lot of us are still kept on going.
Btw I will keep on translating the rest of the early preview dialogues from early episodes of the series, which is from ep 4 to ep 8, and Im gonna make a list post of those translations.
Thank you very much for taking the time to read my Banana Fish preview dialogue translations every week and up to this point. I hope you all have enjoyed and learned something from those translations.
#banana fish#banana fish translation#banana fish episode 24#last episode of banana fish#banana fish last episode#translation for preview of banana fish episode 24#okumura eiji#eiji okumura#ash lynx#asheiji
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"(ʃƪ ˘ ³˘)" (from gayleb)
(ʃƪ ˘ ³˘) meme: @feralandfair
The first thing Jester does when they arrive in Ice Haven is start a snowball fight, because of course she does. Snowflakes have steadily drifted across their path since early morning and where the beginnings of their journey through these far northern lands had been barren and damn near frozen solid, the town streets are powdered white on their arrival.
“War!” she shrieks with a solid wad of snow clutched in a clawed fist. Beau is her first victim and the monk screams loud enough that several shopkeepers poke their heads from their doorways to see what the commotion is about.
“Shit, shit, shit!“
Nott spins in place quicker than a top. There’s a flash of pink as Caduceus bends down, a tremulous shout as he hefts the goblin off her feet.“I’m good at these, remember,” he reminds her, loud enough for Molly to overhear. There’s dangerous certainty in his tone as he sets her on his shoulders, then shoves a too-huge snowball into her tiny hands. Above it, Nott’s smile turns wicked. “Aim for Mister Fjord.”He has got to get out of here. Molly spins around only to jerk back at the image of Yasha yards away, arm wound back, aiming for—“Don’t you bloody d—” he starts, then hits the street with an undignified yelp when she pitches. Paf!“Scheisse!”Molly twists around and cackles. Chunks of snow cling to Caleb’s hair, to his beard, which he scrapes away with pink, raw fingers. They crust and drop into the folds of his layered, knitted scarf, glittering like little crystals. He looks unamused as he crouches down at his side and shakes himself off.( Behind them, Fjord shouts, “HA!” while Nott screams, “Bastard!” )“Sorry, love,” Molly says, though he doesn’t sound very sorry at all. The last thing his grin is is apologetic. “Every person for themsel—”Snow goes up his nose and into his mouth after Caleb smashes a handful into his face. “Every person for themselves,” he parrots in a deadpan while Molly splutters. He paws at his eyes, but Caleb’s gone by the time he can see without ice prisming his vision, down the street, making a beeline for Jester. He doesn’t seehim shove snow down her jacket, but he hears her squawk, watches her leap about in circles as she scratches at her back.I love him, Molly thinks helplessly, then scrapes up some of the snow around him when he realizes he has no idea where Yasha disappeared to and that’s a dangerous position to be in indeed. Fjord, he decides, rolling to his feet, is going to make an excellent humanoid shield.-“You Zemni boys really know how to handle your balls.”Molly stands in the street with Caleb, searching for a bookstore under the guise of looking for an apothecary ( which he’d initially taken to mean find an alley for a quickie but realized it’s too cold and he’s simply too desperate ), the rest of their party having scattered in search of lodging and supplies. His hair hangs in damp, chilly coils around his face, so he gathers it up, considers exiling the mess of it to a short ponytail.
The flower buds around his horns are still firm shut, have been since the first sign of a nip in the air. Poor dears. He pats them as if they’re separate entities, little pets, and not a part of him. He’s glad for his rebirth, but there are some things he misses about being completely tiefling—like his tolerance for cold and flowers that didn’t bloom when Caleb so much as glances at him. He supposes there are worse things in the world than trading white lies for white flowers.“Ja, well,” Caleb sighs, breath puffing out white. “There is not much to do in the Fields but to play with your balls.”Molly’s laugh rings out like a gunshot. Ages ago he’d think he was being ignored the way Caleb half turns from him at the sound of it, but he’s long since caught on to the ways he hides his smile, tiny thing that it is. “That woman,” he says, once Molly’s amusement subsides. “She said it would be this way, but. Hm.” He pulls gently at his beard.“Maybe she has a poor sense of direction,” Molly hums, noting the pinkness of Caleb’s fingers. He draws his hand away from his face, clutches it between his palms to press at the chill. “What happened to your gloves, darling?”The wizard looks a bit abashed, fingers twitching in his grip. “Ah. The fireball. Last night.”“Mmm.” It’s all he says. Molly draws his hand to his mouth huffs his warm breath against his palm. Caleb allows it.“There is a bakery at the corner,” Caleb murmurs absently.
“I know, I can smell it.” His voice is muffled. The wizard twists his hand away much to Molly’s chagrin, but then it returns as he proceeds to lace their fingers together to lead him down the road. Their boots crunch through new snow, squish through puddles of slush.
“The snow got into Jester’s dress,” he explains while Molly steps closer to insinuate himself against his side. “Pastries might get me back into her good graces.”
“You shoved snow in my face,” Molly points out, tail coiling around the other’s waist.
“You sacrificed me to Yasha,” Caleb returns. Molly pushes the bakery door open and they are met with a gust of heat and the scent of baked goods. Caleb takes his hand back and rubs them together as he ducks under Molly’s arm into the shop. “I suppose circus people will always be thick as thieves.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Molly grins, tail swishing.
“Oh boy, looks like you two have had a bit of a day.”
A dwarven woman settles across the counter, smile a cocktail of amusement and sympathy at their current circumstance. He supposes they do look a little bedraggled. Her face is pleasant and round as a sundial, hair in two thick black braids coiled up around her head in a style that reminds him of Toya.
“Ja, ja, we had a bit of scuffle outside,” Caleb says, drifting forward. His gaze is fixed on the counter, laid out with breads and pastries. “Do you have bear claws?”
“This one’s all business, huh?” she snorts, glancing at Molly, who tears his eyes away from Caleb to fix her with a grin that just barely trips into sheepishly charming.
“Always. He gets his mind on something and it’s best to clear the path. Never stops to smell the roses.”
“You are almost a rose.”
Molly lays a hand across his chest. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
The sleepy flowers in his hair certainly want to.
The baker’s truly impressive brows crest towards her hairline.
Molly bobs on the balls of his feet. “Sorry, darling, what’s your name? Lovely spot you’ve got here. Very warm.”
She snorts, “Tapeesa, and thank you. Should hope it is, what with the oven going. Unfortunately, the only bear claws you’ll find around here are out on the tundra, still attached to the bears.”
“Shame.” Molly watches Caleb lean over a tray of dark loaves, staring at them with an inordinate amount of longing.
Tapeesa wipes her hands absently across her roughly hewn apron. “Semla is our most popular sweet, I think. A good choice if you like cardamom and almond paste. Isn’t a bear claw, but I’d say it’s much tastier. Goes well with a warm drink.” And thus the sales pitch begins.
They end up leaving the shop with a bag of semla and an assortment of frostings, some fry bread that will not make it to the corner if Molly can help it, and a loaf of rye wrapped in crinkly paper.
“I forget,” he says around a mouthful of fresh, warm bread. “How delightful this can be.”
Caleb slows to a stop and pushes the semla into his arms. “Hold this for a moment, please.”
Molly takes it, reveling in the warmth of the bag against his breast, and folds another bun into his mouth. It isn’t very flattering, but Caleb’s seen him in plenty unflattering states at this point ( plus, he’s seen him dead and is anything more unflattering than that? ). Caleb’s busy unwrapping the loaf of bread he’s purchased to pay him much mind. He digs into the ends with his thumbs.
“Would rather wait to see if the inn has butter before we lay into tha—what in the Moonweaver’s name are you doing?”
Caleb’s shoved his whole bloody hands into the loaf of bread, looks up at him and blows a strand of hair out of his face.
“Gloves,” he says simply.
Molly’s jaw works like the hinge of it is broken. Warmth bubbles up in his chest.
“Caleb. Darling, I have gloves you can use.” When he speaks, his voice climbs, vapor coiling up from his mouth.
“You mean the ones in Jester’s bag?” the wizard returns with a little sniff. “The bag that is currently with Jester?”
Molly gapes at him.
At this man standing half in the street with his hands lodged in a loaf of bread. At this man who is staring at him with his chin jutted out while wearing fresh dark rye as a muff because he burned the gloves Molly got him to ash with his magic. The warmth that unspools in his chest is overwhelming as it is plain and simple, there as it always has been, and Molly greets it with a wild giggle that blossoms into a wilder grin. He reaches out to stroke a hand through Caleb’s mussed hair, to pull him forward and laugh a kiss against his cold, chapped lips.
“Gods, I love you,” he says because he can’t help it, because he needs to say it, has needed to say it for so long now. There will never be a more perfect moment than this, than Caleb in the street wearing bread after a snowball fight.
( But there will be, so many more moments, each more perfect than the last, and Molly—oh, he’ll greet every one of them with I love you I love you I love you. )
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1.
“Keep still.”
Sederis paused, letting his brother attend to his tailored military garb of blues and golds.
“You know they’re not going to listen to you,” Solendis said, smoothing the curve of his brother’s collar. “I’m sure you remember what happened the last time you made a similar request. To them, you’re just a warmonger. A noble brat trying to drag his people into wars that are not their own.”
“But they are their own,” Sederis stated.
“No Sederis, they are not. Not to them. You need to stop treating the Council of Kearn like your Bannerlords.” Solendis took him by the shoulders and turned him round, ensuring that each polished button was immaculate. “They are not generals. They are merchants, landowners, and serflords who represent the will of your people- whose purpose was to give the common man a voice- which I still think is the worse idea you’ve come up with to date.”
Sederis chuckled dryly. “Worse than swimming with you in one of Silvermoon’s public fountains?”
“That was one time,” Solendis sighed, “and it was the height of summer. Now focus.” He snapped his fingers at the Household guards that lined his city-based apartment, the perfect place to make final preparations before their journey to Kearn’s City Hall where the Council awaited them. “You need to play to their need of security; appeal to their petty titles, and affirm that you’re the only way they’ll retain them. If they think they’re better off serving the Alliance if they make landfall, then this is a lost cause from the start.”
Sederis looked to his armed escort, dressed in the realm’s finest brocade and bronze plate mail, and shook his head. “Why do you think I’m going to appease them?”
“I thought appeasing them was your idea.”
“It was. I changed my mind. War’s coming, Solendis. They can either fall in line or be destroyed. Whether that’ll be at my hands or at the hands of the Alliance is completely up to them.”
--
Sederis watched the streets of Kearn part ways before his carriage as they made their way towards City Hall. He wondered when he had become his father. Perhaps it had been when he began to speak in the language of power, a cold language he had adopted to better appease his Bannerlords. People had become subjects, soldiers had become fodder, and the bountiful fields that gave the Emberglade’s its namesake had become nothing more than mere resources. It was a language that could reduce his lands and everything within it into printed ink-stained numbers that could be measured- quantified- and calculated in order to keep the balance of power steady. It was a balance that the Council of Kearn chose to ignore. Today was the day he was going to rectify that.
They arrived at the ancient hall that had been built when elves first made landfall on these shores. Tall columns held up alabaster masonry, carved with images of colonial triumph. But unlike other halls of Thalassian architecture, they were not gilded in gold, but in iron. ‘A display of solidarity and strength,’ Sederis had once been told by his father. ‘Unlike the opulence of their masters in Silvermoon.’
The arrival of the Lord of the Emberglades and his host of eight house guards was announced by the clattering of military boots against sterile marble. Clerks of this seat of provincial power parted before them as they headed straight to where they were awaited.
Solendis checked his timepiece. “Fashionably late,” he jested, stopping at the doors to the council chambers.
“Mistakes.”
“What?” Solendis cocked his head in curiosity.
“I never told you. But when I created this council, I modelled it after what I had seen in Pandaria. A system of mutual checks and balances. A voice for the common folk. Instead they’ve become”
“Noble goal. Poor execution.”
Sederis frowned. “Birthed of idealism, arrogance and stupidity. My stupidity.” He opened the final door to his destination. “I spent all my time in power trying to make up for my father’s mistakes. His wrath. His brutality. But In doing so, I’ve made new ones. All for the sake of the people.”
“That’s how you learn,” Solendis said as his brother disappeared behind closed doors. “That’s how we learn.”
--
Sederis gazed up at the lowborn lords of iron and rye. They sat upon false thrones, elevated and surrounding circular stage upon which he stood. He wasn’t afraid of them, not like he had been the first time he faced them.
“You’ve come to discuss the topic of war,” spoke one.
“Again,” spoke another.
“Because we are at war,” Sederis stated. “We stand alone at the brink of annihilation. The Alliance are at the gates of Greenwood Pass, and the fleet sits off the coasts of the Great and Forbidding seas, cutting us off. It is only a matter of time before an invasion begins, once they realize that we’re not going to be starved out of our own lands.”
“This much we know,” said a council woman. “I’m not sure if you’ve been paying attention, with all your… galivanting with the Sunguard, but the crown is bleeding us all dry.”
Another cleared his throat. “Almost half of all grain we produce is being levied, along with a substantial portion of the abled bodied.”
“The people and the land are almost at its breaking point. Exhausted, not only from what we give to the crown, but also from the contributions to Legionfall of which you insisted… or have you already forgotten your own demands of your people?”
Sederis sneered. He hadn’t expected war so soon after defeating the Legion. He hadn’t expected the new leaders of Azeroth to be so unbelievably stupid. “None of these things change the fact that war is coming. When the Alliance invades- and they will invade- our beaches are likely to be the first ones to be hit.”
“If you want to know what’s the best for your people. Then the answer is clear. Surrender.” The council woman spoke for the rest of her brethren, who all stayed quiet as she continued. “The only way to spare them from the horrors of war is to ensure that those horrors never make it to our shores. Given the strength of the Thalassian navy, if the full force of the Alliances does decide to invade, there will be absolutely no stopping that.”
“You all truly believe that?” Sederis stood dumbfounded before the Council of Kearn.
“If we surrender, the provinces and the tens of thousands who live within them will be spared. Perhaps they may have to suffer under the occupation of a foreign force for a while, but they will live all the same.”
The council woman cleared her throat. “That’s if you really desire what’s best for your people, as the only one who’d lose anything in this scenario would be you. Your lands, your title, your prestige, but the people will be safe.”
“And what happens if they’re pushed to desperation?” Sederis stared each of them in the eyes. “If the crown brings to bear all the might of the Thalassians, and they turn to less honorable conduct. What then? What’ll stop them from scorching the earth of the Glades? What’ll stop them from butchering every man woman and child?”
“Surely they wouldn’t-”
“Says the man who has never seen war.” Sederis spat. “If you think the people will be better off under the mercy of a people who care nothing about them, then you all are sorely mistaken.” Silence descended upon the chamber, and each of the eight members of the Council of Kearn looked at each other. “Our only option is to prepare for it. To die to a man defending our homes-”
“We disagree,” spoke the council woman.
“What other option do you have? Flee?”
“Surrdener,” spoke another of the eight. “You were just told.”
“And I just told you why that is not an option. Are you all daft?!” Sederis yelled, his voice amplified by the chamber. “I will not put the people at the mercy of those who’d- who have- put the innocent to the sword before.”
The council woman stood forward. “As the Council of Kearn, representing the will of the people of the Emberglades, our decision- should the Alliance make landfall- will be to surrender immediately. You and your Bannerlords may do as they please with whatever meager force of militia you can scrape together, but we will have no part in this war.”
Sederis went quiet.
“Are you dissatisfied with our answer?” Asked one of them. “Do you only agree with the will of your people when it suits you? If all you do is bend us to suit your desires, then what was the point of this farce?”
“When my father died,” Sederis began. “When I came to power, I stood up for the people. When I established this council and gave you your voices, I did so because I refused to be like him. I see now that I was wrong. Because all you did with your newfound power was to clamor for more.
“You’ve opposed everything I’ve set out to do, from ensuring our children weren’t put on the altar of war to giving Legionfall our all. You were all too content to sit on your asses while the world burned down around you- as long as you aren’t the ones paying for it.
“This council is a joke. A mark of status. A power move in the petty games that you lowborn lot play. This council represents the people as little as you care about them. This meeting proves that without a hint of doubt. So, as Lord of the Emberglades, representative of the Crown, hereby abolish this farce.”
With a snap of his fingers, the members of his house guard who had been waiting by the door, entered the council chamber and took the lords of iron and rye from their thrones. With a snap of his fingers, he rectified old mistakes and made new ones.
For the sake of his people.
Art by Isharton
@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel @thenaaru @dorksworn
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i had an idea of what would happen if the deputy just took john to the ground instead of shooting him down and killing him, so this is what happens after I guess.
posted on ao3 as well
there’s a read more, i promise, if it doesn’t show up on mobile i cannot apologize enough lmao
Fields of Holland Valley rolled passed, the truck going fast enough to blur them together so they were more like smudges of browns and greens. Rook wasn’t planning on slowing down, not until the roads were barred by trees thick enough no one would be able to see them from the sky.
His radio crackled from its place in the center console and Mary May’s voice filtered through the static.
“Dep, I - please, just, if you can hear me - answer as soon as you can. If no one hears from you by tomorrow morning, we - we’ll just - “ The shaky breath she released into the speakers sounded more like popping bubble wrap than it did a sigh, but Rook knew it too well to mistake it for anything else. “Please, just get back here.”
He didn’t like lying to her. Even if it wasn’t exactly lying, the remorse crawled from his chest and into hands, curling his fingers around the steering wheel tighter. It was for the best, though, Rook had to keep reminding himself that.
He pried a hand off the wheel, reached for the radio, and shut it off. John Seed watched the movement, but didn’t say a word.
He’d been like that for well over twenty minutes; silent. It was a drastic difference from when Rook had first shoved him into the passenger seat, when he’d been hissing every curse from under the sun, struggling even though his arms were held behind him, bound by a complicated knot Rook had made from John’s own dumb fucking coat. The way his head lolled back and forth probably wasn’t a good sign, Rook decided. How John had been fighting and resisting before almost made Rook forget he had fallen a few hundred feet from the sky.
While there were a lot of things people could say about the youngest Seed sibling - a good amount no one would be able to argue against - being a bad pilot was not one of them. With the way Nick had knocked him, the plane should have dropped like a rock, but John had managed.
Still, he’d hit the ground hard. Rook wasn’t about to risk everything by driving a Seed to safety only to have him die to a concussion he couldn’t wake up from.
“You’re awfully quiet over there.” He looked away from the road for a second to make sure John could hear him. Sure enough, he was met with the other’s gaze, burning with exhausted rage. It made Rook grin. “Only so many ways you can tell someone you’re gonna carve their skin off, huh? I get that.”
John rolled his eyes - honest to god rolled his eyes - and kept them focused on the sky, like he’d rather burn his retinas from the setting sun rather than look at Rook. He still didn’t say a single thing.
“Seriously.” Rook turned his attention back to the road but kept the grin on his face because he knew it would irritate the other to see it. “What happened to the guy who could never keep his fuckin’ mouth shut, huh? Loved hearin’ himself talk? Couldn’t get through a night without you barking your shit in my ear and now you’ve finally got nothing to say?”
John remained quiet and when Rook spared him another brief look, he was still squinting up at the sky. Rook resisted the urge to knock the sunglasses that were still miraculously perched on his head down and over his eyes, just to be a nuisance; harder for John to ignore. He didn’t, afraid to find out if they actually could move from there or not.
Rook blinked and refocused his vision, remembering to return back to the task of driving.
“Why am I here?” John’s voice was quiet, most likely on account of the wheezing, rattling noise his chest made every so often.
Rook weighed his chances of getting the medical clinic near the Ryes’ house to accept them as patients without alerting the entirety of the county before he responded to the Seed. “I mean, that’s a little introspective, y’know? More soul searching for oneself rather than a topic of conversation, but if that’s what you wanna talk about,” he shrugged. “Unless you meant generally, then - “
“Just kill me,” the other groaned petulantly, mostly a whine but Rook could hear the underlying tone of genuine desperation. He was scared, shocked, confused, Rook could see all of it in the color of his eyes. Saw too much of it, his pupils like pin pricks from the intake of harsh sunlight, only leaving him with blue. John must have been searching Rook, too, found something he wasn’t fond of as well if the next shuddering breath he took was anything to go by.
Rook tore his gaze away again so he didn’t have to look at him.
John leaned forward as far as his bonds would allow, the muscles along his shoulders straining from the pull of it. He didn’t seem to care, or maybe everything else pained him much more for him to notice the duller ache of it. “Joseph saw this coming, all of it, no matter what you did - we knew what was coming. If this is the path you’re making, I’m supposed to be dead. Joseph saw it to be so.”
“That’s not - that’s not how the fucking world works.” Rook bit the inside of his cheek, breathed out through his nose; steadied. “He’s not a goddamned oracle or prophet - he’s just a man, how could he know what I would do?” He pulled the truck on a turn without slowing much, the brakes whined and the momentum pressed him against his door. The road was darker, hidden by the trees like Rook had intended, but he still felt cut open and bare for the world to see. The world and John fucking Seed. “I didn’t come here for that,” he confessed. “I was just a replacement for Williams ‘cause he called in sick. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I never wanted to hurt anybody - never wanted to kill anybody.”
“Liar.” The way John said it, low and on an exhale, made the word come out like a hiss, like a curse. Rook flinched when he heard it, but only slightly. “You came down on our project like a plague. Dozens of our followers lay dead on the street by your hands and you’ve never batted an eye.” He jolted in his seat suddenly and Rook knew it was a subconscious attempt to grab at him, pull at his shoulders until the only thing he could see was John, only hear his voice, only feel the grip, like a vice on his skin. It frustrated him to be held down, so much so that he continued speaking through the grit of his teeth. “Never batted an eye and yet you still refuse to see. I carved it into you, wrote it across your chest so you would be reminded every,” he took a breath. “Waking,” another one. “Moment.” He let the silence sit between them for a moment, the air in the cab so tense it sat like lead in Rook’s chest. “You still don’t see it,” John whispered finally, then scoffed as if in disbelief, shook his head. “You don’t care.”
Rook veered off the road with a violent jerk, the tires kicking up dirt and mud until they finally rolled to a stop. He counted to three, looked at John, looked away, counted again. “I do care. But they - none of these people will stop until I deal with you. You and your family.”
“Dealing with us,” John repeated slowly, anger still evident in his voice. “This is dealing with us? Going on the run from my men and your own?” He punctuated himself by jerking his chin at the silenced radio between them. “If you were smart, you would have killed me. My chosen will find us. They’re trained - “
“I know, I know.” He sighed and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. “Trained hunters, best of the best, pros at what they do. I fucking know. I’ve seen Brother Jacob’s training grounds.”
When he finally lifted his head after a few more calming moments, he found John still hung forward, strung up by his seatbelt threaded through his coat’s tied up sleeves. He was staring passed Rook, outside his window, somewhere else entirely. It reminded Rook of just hours before, how John had been sat over his hips with a hand running over his bare chest, hot with Rook’s own blood. He spoke about sin then, too, but with the same far away look in his eyes; expression dazed as if he was remembering something he thought he had buried deeper than he had.
“Why am I still alive?” He asked again.
No matter how long he tried to hide it, the answer would never change. Obvious, like a puzzle he’d already solved time and time again, or a knife stuck through his skull. If he were a better man, someone with more worth and sense, Rook would have hesitated. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. “I want to save you.”
John laughed something ugly, a rasp from his throat that sounded more like a cough. He slumped back in his seat, head thumping against the rest behind it. “I was already saved.”
In order to resist begging the other to understand the insanity in his defense, Rook switched gears and parked the truck so he could curl his fists over his knees. There were layers and layers of trauma and violence and conditioning Rook would have had to dig through to get John to see it. He imagined it would have been akin to hammering through concrete with only his hands. There were just too many reasons for John to be the way he is, but none of them made it right.
Rook heard the rumors of John Duncan when he spent enough time in the valley. It didn’t mean much to him until he found himself strapped to a chair in the man’s bunker. He told Rook about his upbringing, hesitated before he called the people his parents, went on to describe how they had beaten their faith into him until it was all he knew. The wrong faith. Joseph found him, had shown him that. John used prettier words when he recounted the tale, though; a stark contrast to the hand on Rook’s throat. Despite it all, Rook was enamored. And high, for lack of a better term, having just woken up from a Bliss bullet to his thigh. Whatever the reason, he soaked up every word and touch John gave him, leaned into him, never took his eyes off of him. John had noticed that, practically preened from Rook’s devoted attention. Hudson, who had been sat across the room from him, noticed as well. She screamed through her gag like she was begging him to come to his senses, but he hadn’t, not until John had left, dragging her with him.
Sitting in the truck now, Rook wondered if he ever truly did come to his senses.
He mimicked John’s busted laugh without meaning to. “I think we have different meanings for the word ‘saved’, then.”
John made a noise, almost a groan but cut off short so it was more like a thoughtful hum. “I wish Joseph would’ve just let us kill you all.”
“Yeah,” Rook agreed. They listened to the rumble of the truck’s engine, Rook tapping his fingers along to it. “What the fuck am I going to do?”
“The smart thing,” John suggested. Rook laughed again, because evidently he was not prone to choosing the smart thing and John goddamned Seed was not one to talk. “You have been cleansed in our rivers,” John continued anyway, pointedly ignoring his amusement. “I have exposed you to your sin. All that is left is for you to confess - to accept the Father’s word into your heart. He saw it like he had seen everything else; you, standing in the Garden of our new world.” He was back to staring at Rook with those large, desperate eyes, like all he needed from the world was Rook’s agreement - for him to say yes. “I just need to get you to see.”
That night, the night Rook thought back to so many times, where he received his second baptism was when things started making more sense to him regarding the youngest Seed brother. He remembered how immediate John’s muscles had frozen at the sound of the Father’s gentle-voiced scolding. Rook had never torn his eyes off of him, even though they stung from river water and Bliss, just so the image of John shamefaced and terrified would be hard to forget. He was still rigid when his brother brought their foreheads together, maybe even more so then. This one shall reach the Atonement. Or the Gates of Eden will be shut to you, John.
The intensity of John’s actions were driven by something deeper than the need to save as many as he could by way of confession, something more personal. Without Rook, there would be no John. He found himself staring at the letters scratched into the other’s chest and wondered if that had anything to do with it. If his sloth was the reason behind it all, as he would perish without the help of others. Maybe John was never clean himself, had yet to reach his own atonement - and Rook was it. To cleanse one would save the other, and together they would walk, side by side, to the supposed end of the world.
He hated that all of their madness started making sense to him. He wished John had just drowned him in that fucking river.
Rook breathed in deep, let it out as a long, suffering sigh that ended with a firm “fuck”.
“I wish you weren’t so fucking crazy,” he said at last.
John didn’t snap back like Rook thought he would. He kept staring, waiting, Rook realized, because it was the first time he didn’t dismiss his long winded speech with a fuck off as his definitive no thank you.
“Deputy?”
Rook returned his gaze back to him, like he always would. All of the Seeds had something magnetic about them, but John always had drawn him in. The bastard knew it, too, smiled something wicked when Rook didn’t look away; manic and large, fucking feral. His eyes were blue, made up of poems Rook wished he knew how to recite so he could put an exact pin on the feeling they gave him. If he had known the words to describe them, maybe it would have grounded him, set him steadier on his feet so it would’ve been harder for John goddamned Seed to knock him off them. He didn’t know them.
Rook was finding he didn’t know much of fucking anything.
lemme know if there’s any mistakes or if the read more didn’t fucking work i’m so paranoid about that shit
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oooh how about a Houdini!style Gavin who gets kidnapped or arrested by the police and no one expects it, but he just vanishes on them as soon as their backs are turned?
(Omg Missy I’m finally getting to this I swear. Clearly this is your punishment for STILL NOT FINISHING DOGS god woman)
Gavin Free could not be contained.
No one really knew why it seemed to always happen; the young Brit was often the first of the Fakes to find himself caught when a heist went tits up while he was on the field, and typically the hacker would patiently wait for one of his cohorts to rescue him, irritating whoever happened to be stuck on duty in holding with inane questions and pointless comments. The LSPD had all but accepted their fate when it came to trying to hold the man- usually, a well placed cherry bomb would draw the on duty cops away from the room, and when they returned the man was gone, a cheeky note taped to the two way mirror announcing his departure. Sometimes the Vagabond would simply waltz into the station and declare he was there to retrieve Free; occasionally, Ramsey would just pay the man’s bail with an irritated sigh.
Not this time.
At least, that was what Lt. Miles Luna thought as he marched Free down the hall towards the solitary holding cell set away from the others. He hadn’t had the joy of being on duty any other time Free had been brought in, though he couldn’t understand why everyone seemed to grow anxious whenever the man was brought up in conversation. He didn’t seem too dangerous- foolhardy, yes. Destructive? Certainly. Annoying? More than Kerry after he won Mario Kart, for sure. But he had seen Free on the news feeds, and there was no way one clumsy, ridiculous criminal would be escaping his this time.
He had a plan.
“Are you putting me in solitary? Miles. Lovely Miles. Why would you ever do that? I thought you were trying to get prompted?” He ignored the Brit as he marched him into the small single occupant room, taking a precautionary look around the area to ensure there was nothing the man could use to escape.
“I’m pretty sure even you can’t escape from Solitary, Free. Just sit there and be quiet.” He glanced at the man- blond hair still perfectly coiffed, a smudge of ash on his face the only thing out of place on tanned skin. They’d caught him during what had appeared to be a simple robbery; a shot of luck where the others of the Fakes had taken off too quickly into the night. “Your little crew took off pretty quick. Do they just abandon you often?” He smirked as the man frowned, and took a step back towards the door, wary to turn his back on the criminal.
“What? No. Well. I suppose Geoff and Michael sometimes leave me places just to laugh when I’m caught, and if I’ve done a silly Rye and Jack might just leave me wherever but that’s just how we are. I’ve left them to get caught plenty of times, if it’s just you lot.” Free grinned, leaning forward from where he had sat on the single cot occupying the room, hands braced on his knees. “Anyways, I won’t be here long.” Miles narrowed his eyes, bending slightly to bring them closer to eye level with each other.
“You’re not going anywhere, Free. You’re in solitary, no one can rescue you from here.” Free raised a brow, before reaching forward to poke Miles’ nose with a smirk.
“If you say so, Lt. Luna. Why don’t you go have a coffee? I’ll be fine in here...all alone.” Miles glared as he slapped away the hand, straightening up and turning to leave.
“You’re gunna be all alone for a long time Free. Life without parole, they’re saying.” Free snorted behind him, and Miles shook his head as he left the room. Slamming the door closed, he ensured it was properly locked before heading to the break room, feeling pleased with himself. He made his way to the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug full before moving to sit with Kerry and Barbara, grinning to them. “Well, Free’s not going anywhere any time soon.” Kerry snorted, and Barbara reached across the table to pat his arm, giving him a condescending look.
“Miles. Oh poor, sweet Miles. You poor naive man child. Where’d you stick him?” Miles shook off her hand, frowning at her tone as he glanced towards the door.
“Solitary. He can’t get out of solitary, Barb. C’mon.” Barbara gave a snort as she picked up her coffee, and Kerry sighed, shaking his head as he glanced at his watch.
“He’s probably already gone, dude.” Miles shot Kerry a look, downing his coffee and standing before pointing at the two.
“I’m going to go check on him. And when he’s STILL THERE you both owe me tacos.” The two waved, smirking to themselves as Miles made his way back to the room he had left Free in, shaking his head.
There was no way he could escape in the five minutes Miles had been gone.
Sliding the view window open, he frowned as an empty room greeted him. Sweeping the room with his eyes, he unlocked the door and pushed it open, giving a groan as he realized that the room was, in fact, empty. He cursed, entering the room and taking a look around. It was completely empty- as though Free had never been in the room at all, no marks or marrs on the door, nothing. He moved the cot, frowning as a bare, empty wall greeted him.
“What the hell?” He spotted a piece of crumpled paper taped to the wall next to the door, and snatched it up to look at it, giving a groan of frustration at the words that greeted him.
‘Sorry mate, better luck next time!’
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The Best Bacon
This is my submission for the first round of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. Enjoy!
The Best Bacon
by RL Wilson
Fairy Tale/Impenetrable/a coward
It is a common misconception that farm animals are unaware of their destinies. In fact, they are more aware of their fates than most humans are of theirs. Most farm animals are okay with knowing and sometimes even proud of their purpose. A dairy cow will give milk until its dying day. A sheep, its wool. Horse and oxen provide labor and transport. And what about a pig?
“Mama,” the little piglet squeaked, “How do I become the best bacon?”
Mama snorted from her wallow as the piglet’s siblings suckled greedily at her teats, “You eat, silly piggy.”
And so, the piglet dove in to join his brothers and sisters. The piglet ate and ate until he was near to bursting with milk but could not catch up to his brothers and sisters. One by one they outgrew him. And one by one the farmer came and led them away until the little piglet was the only one left.
“Mama,” said the little pig, “When will the farmer come for me? I want to be good bacon!”
Mama snorted, “Soon, silly piggy.”
But that day did not come, and little pig grew sad. He would never become big enough to be good bacon for the farmer and his family.
One day, when the farmer arrived, he did not come alone. He led a fiery, brown pony with his daughter astride. The pony tossed his head and the girl broke into peals of laughter as the little pig looked on in curiosity.
“You have to groom and feed him every day, my daughter,” the farmer said. “Clean his pen too!”
The girl jumped off the pony and hugged her father, “Thank you, Papa!”
And she came every day, just as her father asked, and the pig found a welcome distraction from his melancholy. She groomed the pony until his coat glistened and the pony would prance proudly as she rode him the field. She mucked the stall and added fresh straw every day. The pony grew rounder and prouder with the feed she gave him. The farmer came everyday too, but not to take the little pig to the butcher’s block. He fed Mama and the little pig with a frown.
“Mama pig, what am I to do with your runt?” He asked Mama one day with a shake of his head. “He is too small to make a proper meal!”
The girl, finished with her chores, came over and climbed the fence to look in on the pig, who sat in the muck staring forlornly at his hooves.
“Papa, he looks so sad! Does he have to become sausage? He could be a friend for my pony! He probably wouldn’t be very good sausage.”
The little pig’s ears drooped even more. He was sad to hear the words of the farmer and his daughter. He had a dream of being the fattest pig and the best bacon, but it seemed he was not even good enough for that. He wouldn’t even make good sausage!
The farmer frowned, “Pigs are not pets, my daughter.”
“Please, Papa!” She begged, hugging her father around the neck.
The farmer grinned, unable to resist, “Okay, my sweet, but you will be responsible for him and the pony.”
“Yes, Papa!”
And so, the little pig finally said goodbye to his mama and went to live with the pony on the other side of the barnyard. His excitement at possibly being more than bad sausage was interrupted by the cruelty of the pony. The pony chased and nipped at the little pig in good fun, laughing as the pig tried to escape on its short, stumpy legs. The pig ran and ran until was wishing to become sausage again.
The little pig’s only respite was when the little girl came to care for him and the pony. The pony would leave him be and the little girl would bring him baskets filled with leftovers from the farmhouse and the bakery in town. The farmer had only given slop to the little pig and his mouth watered at the sight of fresh vegetables and stale baked goods the girl brought. Potatoes and cabbage and carrots! Stale loaves of sourdough and rye! Sometimes she even brought pie! Sweet pies, savory pies. They became his favorite treat. She would give him a good scratch under his bristly chin and then feed him the delectable goodies.
To both the surprise of the pig and the farmer, the little pig grew to not be so little. With all the food, care, and even all the running he did to avoid the pony’s harassment, he grew fatter and more muscular than any of his siblings had been. However, he found himself not wanting to become bacon anymore. He loved the little girl and how he loved pies! The farmer’s longing glances began to fill the pig with a sense of dread instead of pride.
One day, the little girl came out with a basket containing an apple pie, still steaming from the oven. The pig immediately began to drool at the sight. The girl smiled, but it was a sad smile. She carefully laid the pie in front of the pig and he dove snout first through the warm crust. As he ate, she leaned against him and scratched his favorite spot behind his ears.
“Papa says you are ready to be good bacon,” She sniffed, and the and the pig understood her sadness. However, this was his destiny! To become the best bacon!
“I love you little pig!” She said before breaking into tears and running towards the pony.
Crying, the girl rode the pony out the gate and onto the forest trail. The pig wondered if you could be both sad and happy at the same time. He was sad to leave the girl, but he was happy to final serve his purpose as a pig!
The pig was lying happily in a wallow, bathing in the warmth of the sun to enjoy his final day, when the pony came racing out of the woods.
“Pig! Pig!” The pony wailed. “There is a monster in the wood!”
The pig rose, blinking in his warm stupor to see the pony was disturbingly riderless.
“Pig! The girl fell! I spooked and she fell! Oh, the monster has her! She’s doomed!”
“You left her behind?!” The pig cried, sticking its snout through the fence as the pony shook in his hooves. The pony only lowered his head in shame.
The pig had always believed he was destined to be bacon. He had been proud to become good bacon and to provide to farmer’s family. If he faced a monster, it could kill him and then how would he become good bacon? Besides, what could a little pig like him do? He wasn’t a strong pony or even a boar, but the little girl was in trouble. His little girl! He could stay and wait for the farmer to help her or… He stamped a hoof as he made up his mind.
He backed up to the far corner of the pen and ran as fast as he could toward the fence. The board’s shook with the impact of the pig’s head but did not budge. He did it again. And again. And again.
His snout was filled with splinters, but he didn’t stop. Blood welled from a cut across it as he stepped back one last time. With a squeal, he reared up and leapt forward. He slammed into the boards, the two lowest snapping in a flurry of splinters. The pig tumbled through. Dazed, he shook his head and sniffed at the air. Catching the girl’s scent, he took off running in the wood.
The sound of the boards snapping in twain snapped the pony out of his fright and he followed the pig into the forest. The pig traced the girl’s scent to a glen in the middle of the wood. The pony whinnied in fright as he slid to a stop.
“Oh, there it is! The monster!” He cried.
The pig stared in disbelief. The “monster” was the shadow of a gnarled albeit ugly dead tree on the face of a large rock. The pig ignored the pony’s cries and snuffled at the earth in search of the girl’s scent. He followed the smell around the tree. The little girl sat up against the trunk, hugging her skinned knees to her chest as tears ran down her cheeks. When she saw the pig, she cried out with relief and flung her arms around his thick, pink neck.
“Oh pig!” She cried, “I was so frightened! My leg is hurt, and I thought no one would ever find me, but you came for me!”
The pig told the pony to fetch the farmer and the pony eagerly galloped back out of the wood and away from the “monster”. The girl hopped over to the pig on one leg. She clambered on his back and he carried her carefully out of the wood. The farmer was waiting for them with the pony’s reins in his hands and his face pale with fright for his daughter. He scooped the girl from the pig’s back and into his arms. She sobbed into his broad shoulder as he carried her home.
The farmer came back later to find the pig sitting among the broken fence rails. He called the pig and the pig walked through the hole to stand in front of the farmer. He looked up at the farmer and the farmer looked back with a puzzled smile. The farmer knelt in front of the pig and laid a warm hand on the pig’s head.
“You would have been mighty fine bacon, little pig” the farmer laughed.
The pig never saw the butcher’s block. He lived out his days loved by both the farmer and his daughter. The girl grew older, but she still cared for him every single day, often sneaking him fresh pie from her mother’s kitchen and inviting him on her rides with the pony. The pig died of old age in a meadow of wildflowers under the warmth of the spring sun with the farmer, his daughter, and the old brown pony at his side. Not once in the rest of his lifetime did he think about becoming bacon ever again.
Many believe farm animals are unaware of their fate as food. In fact, they are more aware of their destiny than most humans and find comfort, even pride, in the knowing. They give into the fact that their destiny is unyielding and unchangeable. However, there are some that take matters into their own hooves and force their fate to change.
The End.
Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave critique. This is the first piece of writing I have made public personally and not really reflective of my usual style, but it was fun to write all the same!
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
#writer#writing#writers on tumblr#short story#fairy tale#children's stories#NYC Midnight#Short Story Challenge#2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge#writeblr#writers community#fiction
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Holden C*ace*field: Asexuality and Representation
Some background: At the end of my junior year of high school we read Catcher in the Rye in my American Lit class. A friend pointed out a quote to me and said “hey, Holden kinda seems asexual to me.” I hadn’t been particularly interested in the book before she pointed it out, but once I read the quote I saw what my friend saw. Further reading absolutely convinced me that Holden was demisexual.
My English teacher however, did not have the best history with queer coding. When we read The Great Gatsby many in my friend group were convinced that Nick Carraway was gay. When one friend brought it up in class, however, she got shot down almost immediately. The teacher only brought up queer coding once, in reference to The Scarlet Letter, saying that Chillingworth was gay because there was subtext that he sexually assaulted Dimmesdale. Which, if you’ve read the book? Not the conclusion I’d jump to. He kept using the words “homoerotic subtext” which also did not sit well with us.
Needless to say, I did not bring up my demi-Holden theory in class. I did not want to deal with the teacher shutting me down like he had my friend. So instead, after AP tests and I’d handed in my last major paper for the year, I wrote an essay. Full semi-formal style, MLA formatting, definitions of everything, multiple sources and examples all correctly cited. Nothing he could fight me on.
And you know what he did? He fought me on it by throwing my argument back at me without the label. What followed was a few days of me stomping around, ranting to my friends that had helped me with this about how he wasn’t listening to me. I stopped the communication after a few back and forth exchanges. I was getting nowhere.
I’m still proud of the essay. I would classify it as one of the better things I’ve written, simply because it was an argument I actually cared about. So I’d like to share it, share why I relate to Holden even in a small way, because maybe it’ll help someone else.
–Mod Sherlock
When I first ran across the word asexual I didn’t think it applied to me. But it turns out whatever definition I had read was wrong. Asexual simply means that one does not experience sexual attraction. I’ve come to terms with that, and embrace my being asexual, or ace, proudly. You’ll see me down at Pride in June having fun with my friends, decked out in purple, black, and white. Problem is that not many people know about us. The last GLAAD survey had aces as about four percent of millennials (Accelerating Acceptance 2017). That is a bigger estimate than the last one we had at one percent back in 2004.
Of course, asexulaity is kinda an umbrella term. That GLAAD survey involves aces, demisexuals, and graces. I myself identify as asexual because I cannot conceive of what exactly sexual attraction is. People look at someone else and go, “I’d hit that,” or they appear in sexual fantasies? I literally cannot make sense of it. Many people have tried to help, none succeeded. I know a few people who identify as demisexual, which means that they only experience sexual attraction to someone once they form a deep emotional bond. They have to be dating the person, or close friends, or any other number of meaningful relationships, before they experience sexual attraction. There are others who identify as grey-asexual, grace, which means that they have only limited experience with sexual attraction. They may only experience it intermittently, maybe only once or twice in their life. This differs from demi in that they may experience it without the deep emotional bond. Asexuality is best thought of as a spectrum. The ace spectrum is from allosexuals, those who do feel sexual attraction, to aces, with demi and graces somewhere in the middle (AVEN).
The fact that we don’t experience sexual attraction doesn’t mean that we aces can’t have meaningful relationships. The split attraction model (SAM) is about the difference between sexual and romantic attraction. People can have two different orientations for different attractions. I have several panromantic asexual friends, who experience romantic attraction to all genders, yet no sexual attraction. There are homoromantics, biromantics, heteromantics, every sexuality has a romantic equivalent. This of course includes asexuality as well; those who don’t experience romantic attraction identify as aromantic. I identify as an aromantic asexual because romance is an enigma. Like, what the hell even is romance? Going out on a date with someone? Movies are more fun with more people, why not bring a couple friends? Ice cream or food? How is that a date? Romance is entirely dictated by societal norms and I, for one, am tired of it. Why should I be expected to date anyone if I don’t want to? And why is it that everytime I walk home with a male friend I get people asking me if we’re dating the next day and every time I think “oh my god no we’re neighbors he’s gay and I’m aroace what the flippity fuck people.” But I digress.
The SAM stems from the fact that there are many different types of attraction, some of which are easy to confuse with sexual attraction. Sexual and romantic attraction exist and are often conflated. A common attraction variation for aces to use is aesthetic attraction, which is simply thinking that someone looks nice. I can think that someone looks pretty in a military dress uniform without being sexually attracted to them. In addition there is sensual attraction, which means that someone experiencing it wants to interact in a tactile but non-sexual way. For instance, Carrie Fisher? Was very huggable. Both aesthetic and sensual attraction are extremely easy to confuse with sexual attraction and are often so intertwined that a person cannot tell them apart. Sensual has a sexual connotation for some people but i’ve never seen it used in a sexual way. In addition, I know that before I realized I was ace I would categorize who I considered ‘sexually attractive’ by who was aesthetically pleasing and just called that sexual attraction.
Enough with the SAM, though we’ll get back to it. A common misconception about asexuals is that we don’t have sex as a rule. That’s blatantly wrong, that’s the definition of celibacy. We have different levels of comfortability with sex. Some are sex-positive, which means that they enjoy or even want sex. Others are sex-ambivalent, meaning that they don’t particularly care either way. Still more are sex-repulsed, which means that they viscerally consider sex gross and do not want to participate in it or even talk about it depending on the extent of their repulsion. Like everything, this is a spectrum. Allos can also have these opinions on sex, they are not limited to aces.
The major problem that most asexuals face is ignorance. The estimated number of asexuals was so low in 2004 partly because there just isn’t wide enough knowledge about us. That number rose three percent in the past thirteen years in part because AVEN, the Asexual Visibility and Education Network, was formed and started to help spread word. Yet we are still ignored and pushed aside, even pathologized:
“….because sexuality is taken for granted as necessary to normalcy and normative bodies….asexuality is and has been historically diagnosed as a problem in need of medical reress and treatment….[the DSM has] “hypoactive sexual desire disorder” (DSM-III-R 1987)….”female sexual interest/arousal disorder” and “male hypoactive sexual desire disorder” (DSM-V 2013). Such labels indicate that low levels of sexual desire were seen by sexology and continue to be regarded by scientific medicine as ‘unhealthy’ and abnormal, reflecting more broadly on society’s negative attitiudes toward asexuality” (Przybylo 186).
Sexual attraction is so pervasive in our society that when someone doesn’t feel it they’re treated like they have a mental illness. I’m sure there are more examples of this, but I don’t have the stomach to go looking for more. I had to talk myself out of looking through the DSM for myself, I don’t need to find more examples of bigotry and prejudice.
Even so, I find unintentional (I hope) examples of aphobic attitudes in my own classroom. Calling sexual attraction “normal” hurts. That tends to imply that anything against the norm is bad, to be shunned and destroyed. I’m reminded of a song by my favorite band, called “We Are the Others,” which has the lyrics: “Normal is not the norm/ It’s just a uniform/ Forget about the norm/ Take off your uniform/ We are all beautiful”(Delain). “Normal” is not a thing. Everyone is weird to someone else, but that doesn’t give one reason to be a bigot.
On top of this ignorance is the fact that erasure is so common in what little media we have. There was a recent TV show based of a series of comic books from Archie called Riverdale. One character, Jughead Jones, was an aroace in the comics (Riseman). In the TV show they erased Jughead’s aromanticism by placing him in a clearly reciprocated relationship with Betty, and his asexuality is up in the air, but likely erased as well (Alexander). Riverdale is just one of a few that erase ace identities. Most a-spec characters are in obscure books that you would never hear of if you didn’t go looking for them, or in webcomics which are unlikely to gain a mainstream audience. There has not been a mainstream confirmed ace character. Ever. This erasure and ignorance is what makes headcanons so important. I headcanon many of my favorite characters as ace because I relate to them so well, so why shouldn’t they share my sexuality as well? That’s why when I find a character that has a wealth of canon evidence that they might be aspec, I find the bandwagon and start driving.
So when I realized that Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye might be asexual I hopped right onto that bandwagon and hit the gas. It was actually one of my friends that pointed out that Holden might be asexual. I read the quote they sent me, and immediately poured myself into the book. I kept notes on everything that Holden did, everything he said, that seemed like he might be aspec to me. As I read I related more and more to Holden, and I am convinced that Holden is aspec. I propose that Holden is a heteromantic demisexual who, having never seen the terms, confuses sensual and aesthetic attraction for sexual.
Before I get into the meat of it, let’s clear up one thing: asexuals can still get aroused. I mean, it’s a little hard to have sex without that and some of us do have sex no matter what some people seem to think. There is an important distinction for aces, however. In her article “Introducing Asexuality, Unthinking Sex,” Ela Przybylo writes that “Scholars who study the physiology around asexuality suggest that people who are asexual are capable of genital arousal but may experience difficulty with so-called subjective arousal. So when the body become aroused, subjectively-at the level of the mind and emotions-one does not experience arousal”(183). This is a very important distinction. Aces may have general arousal, but we have nothing to direct it at. Our mind is separate from our body in this case. There’s one line in Catcher about Holden feeling horny: “After a while I sat down in a chair and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I was feeling pretty horny. I have to admit it” (Salinger 63). This is after he walks into the hotel and sees several indiscrete people doing rather sexual acts on the balcony. What strikes me about this is that, despite feeling some general arousal, he just sits down and smokes a cigarette. This may be just me misunderstanding, but people do not just sit down and have a smoke when horny? That doesn’t seem like something an allosexual would do. In addition to that, Holden does not seem to be reacting to a particular instance and has nowhere to direct his attentions. His body may be reacting to the ‘perverts’ on the balcony, but his mind is completely clear. Holen is not experiencing subjective arousal. As stated above, this is generally an ace thing.
Another very ace thing Holden does is hire a prostitute then ask her to talk with him, not have sex. In general, when one hires a prostitute, one does so for sex. Holden goes into the fiasco with the thought: “I figured if she was a prostitute and all, I could get in some practice on her, in case I ever get married or anything. I worry about that stuff sometimes”(Salinger 92). This on the surface seems like a typical thing for a young adult to worry about, but, really? Who the hell worries about sex? Holden goes into this so objectively, thinking about getting married in the future and getting practice on her. This is a typical thing for a confused ace who has no idea that they are ace to worry about. After he thinks this the prostitute, Sunny, shows up. They talk for a bit and then Holden is very surprised when Sunny just up and pulls her dress off: “…she stood up and pulled her dress over her head. I certainly felt peculiar when she did that. I mean she did it so sudden and all. I know you’re supposed to feel pretty sexy when somebody gets up and pulls their dress over their head, but I didn’t. Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling….Boy, was I feeling peculiar….All she had on was this pink slip. It was really quite embarrassing” (Salinger 94-95). Yes, Holden, according to societal conventions one will supposedly feel horny when met with a mostly-naked person of the opposite gender. But people go against those societal conventions all the time. Asexuals, for instance, would not feel ‘sexy’ when met with a naked girl. Holden’s peculiar feeling may be the fact that he doesn’t know Sunny, and thus has no chance of feeling sexual attraction towards her. It may also be caused by possible sex repulsion of some degree when faced with someone he doesn’t know. This is, of course, ignoring the fact that he hired a prostitute then proceeded to ask her to just have a conversation with him. That is such an ace thing to do I mean, come on, who would do that.
Even more critical beyond Holden’s uncomfortableness when faced with sex, is the fact that he self-admittedly doesn’t get what sex is all about. Contemplating the people doing ‘crumby’ stuff on the balcony of the hotel he’s staying in, Holden thinks:
“Sex is something I really don’t understand too hot. You never know where the hell you are. I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it - the same night, as a matter of fact. I spent the whole night necking with a terrible phony named Anne Louise Sherman. Sex is something I just don’t understand. I swear to god I don't”(Salinger 63).
Holden’s opinion on sex is that it’s confusing. He just simply doesn’t understand how to go about it. He makes himself rules for gods’ sake. He doesn’t understand why people do the do, why people go beyond ‘necking.’ Sex is so centralized in our culture that for an ace person, navigating the world is a problem. Centralization of sex in culture includes the beliefs that sex is needed for romance, the act of sexual intercource is key to adulthood and maturation, and sex is important for a healthy life (Przybylo 181). The key bit here is that Holden seems to believe that he should want sex with people, but he doesn’t understand sex. The centralization of sex confuses him and he ends up reaching for ways to make sex make sense to him, like a set of rules that he immediately tosses aside. He ends up doing the same thing that many aces do before they realize their sexuality: pretending just to fit in. He hires the prostitute because he thinks that might help him with his sex game. He feigns a desire for sex as real life aces often do: “As one participant from a study on asexual masculinity discusses, as an adolescent he had to “play along” with his male friend who “were all into porn mags” and checking out girls, feigning a desire for sex in order to fit in but ultimately “los[ing] out socially because…. A lot of social activities seem to be … centered around sex (Przybylo 2014:229)”” (Przybylo 188). Holden doubts that everyone has these desires and questions people that have sex just for the hell of it. He tells Carl Luce during their conversation: “[i regard sex as] a physical and spiritual experience and all. I really do. But it depends on who the hell I’m doing it with. If I’m doing it with somebody I don’t even-….This is what I mean though. I know it’s supposed to be physical and spiritual, and artistic and all. But what I mean is, you can’t do it with everybody-every girl you neck with and all-and make it come out that way. Can you?”(Salinger 146-147). Holden sees people like Stradlater going and having sex with basically random girls just because they want to. He sees them doing it with girls they’ve only known for a couple hours, and questions, “you can’t do it with everybody?” He simply doesn’t see how people can just essentially randomly hook up and have a desire for the other person. This is a very common thing for aces to question. How do people just hook up if they don’t even like the other person? What underlying attraction is there? Don’t you have to know the person? The concept of a one-night-stand doesn’t exist to many aces.
This brings me to my crowning jewel: Holden basically explicitly states that he is demisexual. Just after the previous quote, while he’s talking to Luce, Holden says this: “You know what the trouble with me is? I can never get really sexy- I mean really sexy- with a girl I don’t like a lot. I mean I have to like her alot. If I don’t, I sort of lose my goddamn desire for her and all. Boy, it really screws up my sex life something awful. My sex life stinks”(Salinger 148). Holy. Fucking. Crap. That is the definition of demisexuality. Holden only has desire for a girl when he “likes her alot.” Demisexuality is only experiencing sexual attraction when a deep emotional connection is formed. Holden just almost explicitly said he’s demi. To back me up even further, I sent this quote to a few ace friends with the caption “if this isn’t aspec then idk what is.” Their responses: “HECK U RIGHT,” “Wow that’s practically explicit,” “If you can’t see the ace-ness inherent in this you need to get your eyes checked,” and “That’s one of the most canon ace things I’ve ever read and [I’m] willing to throw down with both teacher and author in the parking lot over this” (Fuck Yeah Asexual). If I have friends, demi friends who know the definition and use it all the time, willing to freaking fight Salinger and my teacher over this, you know it’s good.
Part of the reason that my friends may be so willing to fight people for Holden to be demi is that we have basically no representation in popular media. I found a total of five major canon ace characters in pop culture when I went looking. Every single other character I found was minor or from something that hasn’t inundated pop culture yet. Of those five, only two explicitly used the word asexual. Luffy from One Piece is commonly believed to be asexual, as is Maya from Borderlands 2 (SBS Volume 54, W.). One of these is a manga, the other a video game. While they do have very large audiences, neither character is confirmed ace in their media, purely by the creators word. Todd from Bojack Horseman is asexual as well(season four ep 3). Raphael from Shadowhunters is ace in the TV show, and aroace in the books, and I already mentioned the fiasco with Jughead (“By the Light of Dawn”, Alexander). Because we have so little representation, interpretations of famous literary characters like Holden as aspec really helps with overall awareness of the ace community. Awareness is coming around, slowly but surely, but every little bit counts.
So I will fight for ace Holden. I will drive this bandwagon right over anyone who objects, throwing my heaps of evidence and definitions out the windows. Maybe I’ll wrap the definition of demisexuality around my little crowning jewel and lob it at anyone who wants to fight me. Y’all are entitled to your opinions, but if you come say I’m wrong and ‘ruining books with my queer characters’ you’re gonna get a great big ball of demi-Holden evidence thrown at you. And I’m gonna wrap it all up nice and pretty in the demi flag.
#asexual#demisexual#literary essay#we're here we're proving they're queer#ace#demi#ace spectrum#mod sherlock
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Seasons of the Hunt: Part II of our Series on the Enigmatic Hungarian Partridge
By Dan Magneson, USFWS Fisheries Biologist
Editor’s note: As a part of National Hunting and Fishing Day (Sept. 23, 2017) and Public Lands Day (Sept. 30, 2017), the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s Pacific Region is highlighting hunting, fishing and public lands, as well as the importance of the North American Model of Wildlife Conservation. Be sure to read part one of Dan’s story here.
Photo credit: gwbf.org
SPRING
The covey has disintegrated, with the young from the previous year having paired off and formed strong monogamous bonds with Huns from other coveys. If they are both still alive, the original parents will stay together and start yet another new family. If one has since died, however, the survivor will readily form a pair bond with a different mate.
If the Hun is like a feathered cheetah when it comes to speed, then they are like a feathered rabbit when it comes to reproducing themselves!
The nest site is usually chosen in sparser dried stems of taller grass intermixed among the stalks of broadleaf weed cover consisting of the previous year’s dead growth and thus creating a light canopy overhead; hay and alfalfa fields that received mowing the previous year are virtually never chosen as a nesting site. Huns have a decided propensity for nesting in strips of cover along fencelines and in wide ditches along roadsides, possibly a function of their spending so much of their time along the edges of the adjacent fields.
Depending somewhat on the latitude, the great majority of the nesting will take place from around Memorial Day to the first day of the official start of summer at the solstice; both the male and female are devoted parents and will actively defend the nest.
The female constructs a simple ground nest while the male stands guard. That task completed, she will typically lay from 16 – 18 buff-olive eggs (although there are occasionally white specimens) and sometimes as many as 22 eggs, by far the most of any gamebird in North America and in fact among the most of any bird on earth.
This, coupled with and enhanced by extremely good early brood rearing conditions, explains what enables the Hun to generate such steeply-sharp population spikes in certain years and explains why coveys may then be unexpectedly encountered in areas where you traditionally have never seen them.
Normally, the Hun is much less subject to mortality from predation during winter weather than are most other upland gamebirds – except predators can and often do exact a heavier toll during horrifically-bad winter weather of exceptionally long duration.
But they have an even greater Achilles Heel, whereupon their numbers really take it on the chin: above and beyond anything else, especially extended periods of cold and wet conditions early in a chick’s life can be deadly and very severely depress Hun numbers in the coming autumn; the importance of warm and dry conditions to the very young one-and-a-half inch tall chicks cannot be emphasized enough. So please, no rain dances now!
As the chicks continue to grow toward maturity, they become less and less associated with cover that has a canopy overhead.
Outside of this acutely-vulnerable period of their lives, I would expect that Hun populations would do better in dry and droughty years in the more easterly portions of their North American range, and conversely do better in moister than normal conditions in the generally more arid westerly parts of their range.
Photo: Hunting for huns in Montana. Photo credit: Hank Shaw
SUMMER
The female carefully conceals the eggs with vegetation whenever she briefly departs, and by now the last of the later clutches will hatch out in July, and insects are of paramount importance to the hungry chicks at this time of year; the high protein levels are necessary to fuel their rapid rate of growth and development.
AUTUMN
In the dryfarmed prairie regions, such as North Dakota, to be consistently successful in the early hunting season look for the birds along the grassy fringes between the wheat stubble and neighboring Siberian elm and Russian olive shelterbelts, or back-and-forth along the margins of other relatively-light cover types bordering the wheat stubble. The Hun coveys will be comprised mostly of inexperienced and naïve young-of-the-year birds, affording you closer shots and more opportunity to flush them again since they generally won’t go very far before landing. Their early season behavior always reminded me a great deal of hunting bobwhites along the osage-orange hedgerows back in my native southwest Iowa.
Photo credit: Donald Jones, Montana FWP
Composed at its core of immediate family members, falling in with this central covey along the way are otherwise-unpaired adult Huns.
Besides watching them in order that you can go pursue them again, there is another reason – if you have shot at them. Sometimes a bird you thought you had missed or barely “tickled” suddenly drops from flight deader than yesterday’s news, or you see a bird land short of where the rest of the covey put down. You owe it to your quarry to try to get these otherwise-wasted birds into your bag.
Huns will commonly feed early in the morning and again late in the afternoon; food is plentiful, so it doesn’t take them long to get their fill. Then they will loaf during midday in the vicinity of the edges of the fields. In wheat country, their diet may be almost entirely comprised of the kernels of this grain, along with sprouts of volunteer plants.
Like a big ol’ trophy bucket-mouthed bass near an old submerged stump, Huns seem to orient to certain features in an otherwise homogenous landscape. That elevated knoll or hillock or that lone bush or rock pile out in the wheat stubble are good spots to focus your efforts upon, as are abandoned farm machinery and implements in old ranch junkyards and the like. I remember once hunting an ocean of wheat stubble, and the only feature different was an old Christmas tree that had been dumped out there. And that was right where I found a big covey of Huns.
You may be able to flush the same covey twice or maybe three times, and very rarely four times. Huns really stick together, and the first flush is likely to be straight toward some landmark familiar to that covey. The second flush will likely see them veering in something of an arc. The countryside may look fairly featureless to you, but rest assured it is not to them. If you flush them a third time and at the limits of their home range, they might well turn and come right back over your head in order to return to familiar turf – which is quite often the same spot you originally found them, or near to it, and thus demonstrating that they really are rooted or anchored to a certain home range.
If you do succeed in fragmenting the covey into singles and doubles, these are the birds to pursue because they will likely hold much tighter and subsequently flush at much closer range than is likely with the remaining bulk of the covey
In the sagebrush country of Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, Washington, Oregon and the far northern portions of Nevada and Utah where irrigated agriculture is more the rule, again look for Huns in areas adjacent to stubble fields of wheat, rye, barley and other small grain crops. Much of the time this will be along the steeper foothills next to the flatter cultivated farm fields. Mostly grassy cover interspersed with dots of occasional sagebrush is ideal, and don’t forget to check the grassy heads of basins and especially the deeply sun-shielded and sometimes surprisingly-moist creases between hills, and especially on the very warm days of the early season. The Huns can find cooler shade among the broader-leafed shrubbery, and the damp conditions are conducive for attracting insects and also for growing succulent shoots and tender grass tips; Huns are always partial to a meal of fresh salad greens, no matter what the season.
I like best the places where the border along the sagebrush and wheat stubble fields really weaves and wanders a lot, where the wheat is surrounded on three sides by sagebrush and grass or conversely those lone and long fingers of sagebrush and grass protruding far, far out into the wheat stubble.
Keep an eye peeled for the places the Huns take dust baths, and the odd loose feather or two confirming that. And look for piles of droppings indicating where they have roosted; the individual droppings are pointed at one end and broad at the other, looking like a miniature green sugar cone with a scoop of white vanilla ice cream.
If you shoot a double-barreled gun, a fast 20-gauge with a #7 ½ load in a barrel choked improved cylinder and the other barrel choked modified with a #6 load should do a fine job in most instances.
Insects such as beetles, grasshoppers, crickets and ants will continue to be taken by Huns, but the carbohydrates and lipids found in grains have by now begun progressively making up more and more of the diet as the overnight freezing-frosty temperatures causes the insects to die off for the year.
But there are those coveys of Huns who live out their entire lives never once feeding on cultivated, domesticated cereal grains from farm fields.
In the Sawtooth National Forest south-southeast of Twin Falls, Idaho I used to hunt mule deer in a rather pristine, broad valley that was, as best I recall, either entirely ungrazed by cattle or else only very lightly grazed. I probably put up more coveys of Huns down there more often than anywhere else I’ve ever been, and they were miles and miles from the nearest agricultural areas. They were absolutely thriving out there in that desolate country. So don’t ignore those vast holdings of public lands that are managed by the U.S. Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, the public lands adjacent to the big western reservoirs managed by the Bureau of Reclamation and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, and those portions of U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service-managed National Wildlife Refuges which may be open to hunting.
There are often steep hills associated with these wilder areas, and the birds usually flush downhill and then hook off one direction or the other towards the end of their flight. I don’t think it is a deliberate and diabolical attempt on their part to better elude your finding them again; instead I think they are just trying to reduce their air speed in order to make a soft and easy landing. Don’t be too surprised if they subsequently start to slowly work their way up another hill. You can use the rough terrain to plot a quiet and more concealed approach and if you have a partner, one hunter can start working downhill from above them while the other starts working up the hill from a point just below where they originally landed. Watch especially any stragglers that flush late behind the main body of the covey; these birds often cut corners and take shortcuts to catch up, giving you a better idea of where they’ve landed if the flight of the main covey has been obscured by an obstacle.
But I’ll tell you, when it comes to pursuing opportunities to make multiple flushes in steeper country, don’t be surprised if the Huns wear you out before you’ve worn them out.
As autumn grows long in the tooth, the Huns will have wised up considerably, becoming in many cases ultra-wary and hyper-alert. It is about now they begin to start flushing so wildly, far out of shotgun range, and start showing you just how well they can twist and turn on a dime once in flight. Oddly enough, Huns do tend to generally hold well for a pointing dog – provided it doesn’t press them too closely. The ideal Hun dog is one with the endurance of the Energizer Bunny, and that casts to-and-fro across the field very widely, but is solid as a statue when it goes on point, allowing you plenty of time to get there. But don’t dilly-dally with these now-skittish Huns! Hunt the dog into the wind, and don’t be afraid to experiment if need be: circling far out to the side and around the covey, then coming in directly at the dog, sometimes perplexes the Huns just long enough for a decent shot at them. A hawk whistle may help freeze running birds in their tracks; to imitate a hawk, some hunters will go so far as to tie a dark helium balloon to their belts in hopes of likewise helping to pin the Huns down into place.
I’d stick with all #6 loads now, and consider moving up to a 12-gauge shotgun. You never know for sure what Huns might decide to do on a given day, whether to flush nice and close or way out there beyond gun range. But I think I’d lean more toward a modified or full choke, though, as it is more likely to be the latter case.
WINTER
I used to go to college in Bottineau, North Dakota, which is located in the far northern (and central) part of the state. A blizzard would be howling and wind-driven snow would be coming in thin, powdery waves across the ground, the mercury standing at far below zero.
Yet the Huns would be out scurrying around and feeding right in the midst of it, so impervious that they seemed imbued with immunity to bitter cold.
For such a small bird, the winter survival skills of the Hun border on the incredible; they are absolutely unfazed by the same ferocious blizzards that can lay waste to an entire population of pheasants.
Their habit of forming a warm roosting ring is part of it: with snow lingering on the ground, one author spoke of repeatedly finding different overnight roosts used by the same covey of nine Huns. They had always very consistently packed into an area smaller than what a single pheasant takes up.
But unlike either pheasants or bobwhite quail, if conditions get bad enough, then the Huns will use the blanket of snow itself as insulating cover, readily burrowing down into it to escape especially severe and otherwise deadly conditions.
The wind may whip up some big snowdrifts, but other areas are commonly kept largely snow-free by the very same winds, which gives the Huns a place to forage for food.
But if there is a fairly uniform and persisting cover of snow of four inches or more, the Huns will start to utilize woody cover, as Aldo Leopold noted in 1931: “Hungarians come nearer being able to get along without cover than pheasants or quail, but during snow they do require some heavy grass, weeds, or standing corn.”
In the northwestern quarter of the state of Iowa, it’ll be wild plum thickets for certain any time there is one in the Hun’s home range, just like with the bobwhite quail in the bottom two tiers of that state’s southernmost counties.
In the Dakotas, it will likely be stands of lilac and caragana.
Out here further to the west, it’s going to be shrubs such as snowberry, hawthorn, chokecherry and buffalo-berry.
Mimicking fox hunters is a viable option, whereupon you don white coveralls and wrap your gun in white tape. You might consider packing binoculars tucked down inside your coveralls to keep them from fogging up or flopping against your chest. Neither food nor length of daylight is as plentiful now, so looking even out into the very middle of fields such as wheat stubble becomes more worthwhile as the Huns are now generally spending a greater proportion of the daylight hours feeding. One thing that will help you after a new snow is that now there are fresh Hun tracks with which to betray their presence. Scanning far ahead will help you plot an ambush; if you don’t see the Huns actively moving about, then look for “dirt clods” sitting out there and protruding up from the snow.
Also don’t forget the effects of the wind chill factor. Look for Huns to escape the cold winds by locating themselves on the lee sides of hills, steep and sheer protective creek banks, and also man-made structures such as abandoned farmstead buildings as well as lone grain bins and machine sheds. If such areas also receive warming rays of sunshine and the thinner areas of snow melts off to boot, so much the better. The wind can work to your benefit by better masking your approach, but bear in mind that the now-nervous Huns will compensate by relying on their vision just that much more when conditions diminish the effectiveness of their sense of hearing.
As in all seasons, if there is a spring or seep where sprouts continue to grow from the unfrozen mud, they are worth checking out for Huns.
I definitely would go with a 12 gauge shotgun in the winter, and preferably one with a PolyChoke as you again never quite know at just what range at they will choose to flush on any given day. I usually like a more tightly-choked barrel with a #6 shell in the chamber, and I follow that up with #5 shells in the magazine for successive shots at probable longer ranges.
But if the snow is especially deep and worse yet covered by a thick glaze of ice for a prolonged period, the Huns will become desperately hungry, and then begin approaching gravel roadsides, livestock feedlots, silos, and farmsteads in general, searching for barer ground anywhere where they might locate some food. But no ethical hunter would ever exploit such a pitiful plight.
Late in the winter, after the season closes and the weather warms and the snow melts off, the males will begin squaring off with one another and engage in ritualized fighting, with the victor getting to stay where he is and the vanquished bird having to leave.
Female Huns are more aggressive during this period than the females of most other gamebird species, and will decisively lower the boom on any other females caught flirting with their chosen mate. And which male Huns are the favored mates? The ones seen as leaders within the covey and also those who seem to maintain a state of heightened alert.
The cycle of a new Hun generation is beginning anew.
SUMMING IT ALL UP
Coupled with the topography, the direction and the angle and the intensity of the sun along with prevailing weather and wind patterns combine to create a seasonally-changing mosaic of different plant species and ultimately plant communities of varying density. This in turn provides the Huns a home range in which they can capitalize upon the best opportunities for their continued survival and perpetuation of their own kind.
For you to be a consistently-successful hunter of these birds, you’ll need to develop the ability to discern these differences and how they interact; that in turn will get you pointed in the proper direction and better narrow things down to just where the Huns are likely to be found on any given day during the changing seasons.
And all of this is alluring to a hunter, or should be, creating a charismatic aura and enticing you to try to take apart and figure out just what makes these birds tick.
The upside to learning in this big outdoor classroom is the generally grand and glorious scenery, the stunningly-spectacular sunrises and sunsets in this otherwise-austere landscape, the wild and sometimes surreal cloud formations, the weird and grotesque rock formations, the sego lily and Indian paintbrush, that old corral with those giant and golden cottonwoods, and all the solitude to be found in the American Outback that is Hun Country.
It’s a classroom in which you will never become bored.
Best of Luck to you the reader during this hunting season and in all in your future Hun endeavors!
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Stop shaming recipe bloggers for writing a lot
Every so often, someone will act very angry online because a recipe they clicked on has "too much text." They wanted to make mushroom ravioli, but instead had to scroll through a bunch of words about what mushroom ravioli means to a blogger's family. Boring!
It's true that many (if not most) food bloggers write long narratives preceding their recipes. Sometimes, they explain how they developed the recipe. Other times, they share why they chose to post this particular food, or explain the modifications they've made to accommodate family members with dietary restrictions. They might share a story about the dish providing them comfort in a difficult time, or how cooking the dish with a loved one healed a broken relationship. Food is personal, after all; it comes with stories.
So why do so many people rush to mock them?
Cadry Nelson, a food blogger who runs the vegan website Cadry's Kitchen, includes narratives with her recipes regularly. (She's also written an essay about recipe narratives.) This is partially because she wanted to document her transition to veganism, the context in which she developed much of her work. In doing so, she'd create a reference point for readers curious about going vegan themselves.
"I was trying a lot of produce I’d never had before, as well as re-creating old familiar flavors but without meat, dairy, and eggs," she explained in an interview. "I didn’t have many other friends who were vegan at that point."
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This summer it will have been 9 years since we loaded up all of our belongings into a U-Haul & moved across country from Los Angeles back to Iowa, where David & I were born & raised. On the way, we stopped at FUD restaurant in Kansas City. The restaurant is gone now. But they were known for their raw dishes & jackfruit recipes. I especially loved their jackfruit Reuben. I figured it was high time I made my own version. The jackfruit is pink from beets. It’s topped with homemade #vegan Thousand Island dressing, @goldminenaturalfoodco garlic kraut, and beautiful marbled rye from @newpioneercoop. Get the recipe on the blog. Link in profile. #vegansofiowa #vegansofig #veganfoodporn #reubensandwich #veganreuben #whatveganseat #vegancomfortfood #vegansandwich #foodporn #foodphotography #foodstagram
A post shared by Cadry Nelson (@cadryskitchen) on Feb 7, 2019 at 10:46am PST
Sharing this information doesn't just benefit her readers, either. It also helps her secure a place in the saturated food blog realm. "Through these posts, I’ve gotten to know bloggers’ flavor preferences too," Nelson said. By sharing stories on blogs, people get to know the types of foods [and] flavors that specific recipe creators enjoy. You figure out who is a good match for your own palate."
So why do people have such an issue with people writing about their own food? It seems to come down to convenience. Generally, perturbed readers complain that it takes too long for them to scroll down to the recipe itself.
Historian Kevin Kruse, for example, tweeted his disdain for recipe narratives last weekend: "Hey, cooking websites?" he wrote. "I don't really need a thousand words about how you discovered the recipe or the feelings it evoked for you ... I'm trying to feed my family. No need to curate the experience for me."
SEE ALSO: Why the '15-minute recipe' sets you up to fail
"GIMME THE RECIPE HON MY SCROLL FINGER HURTS," tweeted Chelsea Peretti last November.
Admittedly, it is irritating when anything is difficult to find on the internet, especially when we've come to expect an easy-as-pie user experience from every app and every website. It can feel like a slog to scroll through paragraphs of text when all you want is a list of ingredients.
But the thing to interrogate here isn't necessarily whether blocks of text are annoying — it's why people think these particular blocks of text don't deserve to exist.
Nelson thinks there's an element of sexism to the critiques she sees about recipe writing. Home cooking is still a deeply gendered pursuit, and writers whose work centers on home cooking are still perceived as less professional, less valuable, and less worthy voices. "The feeling seems to be that they don't think these writers have something of value to offer," Nelson said.
There's been high-profile backlash to the backlash against recipe narratives. After Kruse's tweet, Smitten Kitchen creator Deb Perelman tweeted a thread on the matter, encouraging recipe writers to "write as long and as in-depth as your heart desires about recipes and anything else they drum up in your mind and ignore anyone who says you shouldn't."
1. These websites are free to read and free to not read. /3
— deb perelman (@debperelman) February 16, 2019
2. It's mostly women telling these stories. Congratulations, you've found a new, not particularly original, way to say "shut up and cook." [I just don't see don't see the same pushback when male chefs write about their wild days or basically anything. Do you?] /4
— deb perelman (@debperelman) February 16, 2019
3. Not that you asked, but I love context, both in the recipe's development and the way it knits into your life. I wish more people who cooked got to tell their stories. /5
— deb perelman (@debperelman) February 16, 2019
Like Nelson, she also called out detractors' casual sexism. "Congratulations, you've found a new, not particularly original, way to say 'shut up and cook,'" she tweeted. "I just don't see don't see the same pushback when male chefs write about their wild days or basically anything. Do you?"
"I wish more people who cooked got to tell their stories," she added.
There's also a more technical element at play where recipe narratives are concerned: search engine optimization (SEO). Recipe bloggers want to catch the attention of the illusive Google algorithm — and, ideally, land their recipe on the coveted first page — so they must demonstrate "authority" in their field. This means more comprehensive content, which is really hard to pull off with a concise recipe alone. (Tons of people will be using the phrase "apple crumble," for example, but only you can write your own story about it.)
"When I’m writing, I try to tell a story that has a hook as well as please[s] the Google algorithm," Nelson said. "I do keyword research ... I see what kinds of questions people have around the topic, and look for ways to anticipate their problems, and answer their questions, so that they will have a successful cooking experience. Lately, I’ve been adding more step-by-step pictures of how to make dishes, as well as videos, because Google says that readers want that."
Even though she's noticed people criticizing lengthy posts, Nelson maintains that writing a lot — authoritatively, of course — is what's going to get eyes on her recipes. "People say they want shorter posts, but Google values information," she said. "It’s hard to give information without using some words along the way."
SEO and marketing experts agree that Nelson's approach is a smart one, especially in such a saturated landscape. "Because a recipe usually consists of a listing of ingredients and steps, it’s often very difficult for a search engine to discern what this article is trying to convey," Pete Herrnreiter, who is the VP of digital strategy at The Motion Agency, explained via email. "By developing a richer upfront with background on the dish ... it [helps to] define the post."
Content strategist Abby Sanders, who works for Von Mack Agency, also emphasized the advantages of differentiating one's recipe from the pack. "These days, search engines are pretty effective at determining whether a page can serve as an 'expert source' on a specific query," she said. "So any additional content that includes certain keywords, as long as it's coherent and well-written, will improve that page's ranking."
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Who'd have thought two such aggressively wholesome ingredients could taste so exceptional together? To be honest, not me. But we come back to this again and again whenever we are looking for a hearty vegetarian meal because it tastes like a luxury, not a compromise, especially heaped on grilled bread. [Spinach and Chickpeas on smittenkitchen.com or linked in profile]
A post shared by smitten kitchen (@smittenkitchen) on Feb 19, 2019 at 9:10am PST
As a caveat, Sanders mentioned, there are "plenty of other factors that play a role in rankings, such as domain authority, links to that page, and the list goes on. But from a sheer content standpoint, it does make good sense for a food blogger to write some extra, interesting copy around their subject."
So, fine. Finding a list of chili ingredients would be easier if we didn't have to scroll. But recipe bloggers are writers, and they have stories to share that are poignant, funny, and valuable — even if you (and I) don't love every single one you read. And if you really don't like the narratives? There are plenty of places for you to find story-free recipes online, though you might have to pay for a subscription to see some of them. Also, cookbooks exist.
"My food blog is my own. It’s my creative space. I spend a lot of time testing the recipes, taking photographs, making videos, and writing my stories," Nelson said. "If people aren’t interested in any aspect, so be it."
"My blog is Cadry’s Kitchen. It’s literally the place where I cook," she added. "I don’t know why I would write myself out of it."
WATCH: What happens to your body when you eat spicy food?
#_category:yct:001000002#_uuid:2fa419ed-0e61-3bf7-b8cc-5ae1f1bc6278#_lmsid:a0Vd000000DTrEpEAL#_author:Chloe Bryan#_revsp:news.mashable
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