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themetaphorgirl · 4 years

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this is completely out of the blue but i just imagine spencer with a fear of heights that he doesn’t really realize until maybe he’s exploring campus one might and he gets stuck up in the rafters of the chapel, staring down and being too stuck with fear to move and hotch/morgan eventually find him and carry him down. either that or he terrifies the other kids because he sometimes climbs trees to read in and get so HIGH and hes so SMALL and “dear god, spencer, you’re not a CAT” - 🐇

hi yes hello I am physically incapable of writing short drabbles

but I hope y’all like it!!!!

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Really, it was Emily’s fault.

The St. Thaddeus campus was covered in tall trees, broad oaks and sap-covered pines and twisting dogwoods, and while it was strictly against the rules to climb trees, and the school groundskeeper was notorious for losing his mind at anyone caught...Emily had never been one for following rules.

And once Emily started climbing trees, Derek couldn’t abide being outdone, so he had to climb higher than her, and faster. And he started teasing JJ, who wouldn’t stand for that, so she would climb up and join them too.

Penelope was adamantly against climbing trees (“I am in a skirt and heels and there is too much nature, let me sit on my picnic blanket in peace, thank you very much”) and Hotch was a stickler for rules (“it’s not worth the risk, and you guys should get down”). Alex sometimes settled for a lower branch, broad and solid enough to stretch out her legs and read a book, and James sometimes joined her. Dave subscribed to Penelope’s theories (“I’m not scuffing these shoes up. They’re brand new. Italian leather.”) and stayed on solid ground.

Spencer was just jealous.

He was the smallest of all of them; Penelope was the next shortest and he didn’t even reach her shoulder. There was one particular pine that he could climb onto the lowest branches, but besides being small for his age, he didn’t have the muscles in his skinny little arms to pull himself up higher. On more than one occasion Emily and Derek had offered to hoist him up to a taller branch, but he was so personally offended that they just laughed and left him to struggle on the ground by himself.

“You’ll grow eventually, passerotto,” Emily had said, ruffling his hair and making him scowl in embarrassment. “For now you’re just our little munchkin.”

“I’m not a baby, Emily!” he had shot back. “I’m ten!”

After a while it got too cold to sit outside in trees, and they retreated to the coffee shop in the student union or the seventh floor common room in Lincoln House, or the library while Alex worked, and tree climbing was forgotten.

They also forgot how stubborn Spencer was.

The door to Spencer and Derek’s shared room was open; Hotch knocked lightly for formality’s sake and peeked in. “Hey, bedchecks,” he said. “You guys okay?”

Derek pulled off his headphones. “Huh?”

“Bedchecks,” Hotch repeated. “How are you and…” He stopped. “Where’s Spencer?”

Derek looked around the small room. “Uh...no idea,” he said. “He was here, though, I’m pretty sure.”

Hotch checked his watch. “Okay, well, he’s never missed bedchecks before,” he said. “Is he in the bathroom?”

“Maybe,” Derek said, sliding off his bed.

There was no sign of Spencer in the bathroom, or the common room, or the lobby of Lincoln House. “God, we need to get him a phone,” Hotch said. He rubbed his temples. “Okay. When did you see him last?”

“He was at dinner,” Derek offered. “Maybe he’s with Alex? Or the girls?”

“Text Penelope, her phone’s glued to her hand and she’ll answer faster than JJ,” Hotch said. “I’ll text Alex. But she’s always gotten Spencer back here on time for bedchecks.”

Derek held up his phone first.

pen ~*baby girl*~ garcia 8:14pm noooo I havent seen boy wonder since dinner!!

“And then it’s just a bunch of emojis,” Derek said. Hotch’s phone buzzed. “What did Alex say?”

mom friend miller 8:15pm I don’t have him. did you lose him???

Hotch groaned. “God, we lost him,” he said.

“Should we go looking for him?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, I have to,” Hotch said.

Derek scowled. “Hey, I’m coming with you,” he said. Hotch opened his mouth to argue. “Yeah, I know, I’m an underclassmen and I’m supposed to be in my room by eight. Fuck that, you’re my RA and you don’t have to report me to Gideon. And let’s be real, Gideon won’t care.”

Hotch sighed. “All right, fine,” he said. “I’ll text Alex and Emily too. But I’m not letting JJ and Penelope get in trouble.”

Hotch’s phone buzzed again; Derek leaned over his arm and snickered at the screen.

the cause of my headaches prentiss 8:17pm holy shit hotchner did you lose a whole ass child?????????

“Okay, okay, let’s just go,” Hotch said, rolling his eyes.

They grabbed jackets before they left; it wasn’t snowing yet but the November air had a sharp cold bite. It was already dark, and Hotch tried to stifled the worry beginning to crawl at the back of his neck.

The girls met them in the courtyard. Emily had already washed off her makeup and tied her hair up in a scraggly excuse for a ponytail. “How’d you lose Spencer?” she asked.

“I didn’t lose him!” Hotch protested.

“Emily, tease him later when we’ve found Spencer,” Alex said. She jammed her hands in her coat pockets and her long hair spilled over her shoulders. “Where’s the last place someone saw him?”

“Dinner,” Hotch said. “He must have slipped off somewhere without anybody noticing. I don’t know where he could have gone. Or why he would have gone.”

“I don’t think he would have gone back in the main building, I’m usually one of the last ones out of there and it’s locked up tight,” Alex said.

“He’s got to be somewhere on campus,” Emily said, tugging the zipper of her North Face jacket. “And I don’t think he would have wandered too far.”

“We’ll split up,” Hotch said. “Just stay in contact. Text the group chat in fifteen minutes with any updates.”

They headed in their separate directions; Hotch pulled his hood up as the wind started to blow. It wasn’t like Spencer to wander off without telling anyone where he was going, or without getting back to his dorm by curfew.

He wouldn’t worry yet. Or at least, not acknowledge that he was worried.

He’d almost reached the end of the fifteen-minute window when he got to the overgrown fence around the abandoned amphitheater. That would make sense- the older kids had shown it to them at the beginning of the school year and it was one of their most common hang out spots before the weather had gotten too cold.

He reached through the ivy covering the gates and rattled the latch.

“Hello?”

He nearly pissed himself.

“Who said that?” he said, a little too sharply. He wrestled with the gate, trying to forcibly yank it open.

“Hotch?”

He stopped. He knew that voice.

“Spencer?” he said. “Where are you?”

“...up here.”

He let go of the latch and took a step back. “What do you mean, ‘up here’?” he said.

Several tall trees flanked the amphitheater. The branches of a particularly tall pine rattled. “I mean...up here,” Spencer said.

Hotch looked up. He could see a little figure huddled on a branch about fifteen feet above the ground. “What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?” he said.

“I might have miscalculated,” Spencer said in a small, wobbly voice. “I just wanted to practice.”

“Practice climbing trees?” Hotch said. “Spencer. It’s past bedchecks. The sun’s gone down. It’s freezing.”

“I was only going to be out here for a little while!” he protested. “I just...climbed a little higher than usual. And then I realized something.”

“That you’d made a terrible, terrible mistake?” Hotch said dryly.

“Uh-huh.”

Hotch sighed. “So you climbed too high and you can’t get back down?” he said.

A pause. “Uh-huh.”

Hotch pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Let me text the others,” he said, typing out a message to the group chat. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”

“I’m very tired of sitting on a tree branch that does not have enough stability, but other than that, I’m okay,” Spencer said. “And...I might be a little cold.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Hotch said. He peered up in the dark tree branches; he could just barely make out Spencer’s silhouette. “Well, we’ll get you down. But I may tell Gideon you missed bedchecks.”

“No, Hotch, please, don’t get me in trouble!” Spencer protested. “I’ll be good! I won’t do it again!”

Derek jogged towards them. “Hotch, you found him?” he called. Hotch silently pointed upwards. “Holy shit. What’re you doing up there, pretty boy?”

“Regretting all my life choices that brought me to this point!”

“You’re only ten. How many life choices have you made so far?”

“Enough to regret this! Please get me down!”

Derek grinned, his hands on his hips. “Should we let him sit up there a little longer, let him think about what he’s done?” he asked.

“No, I think he’s suffered enough,” Hotch said. “You climb up and get him, I’ll spot.”

Derek pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “All right, all right, I’ll get him,” he said.

Hotch crossed his arms and watched as Derek climbed easily up the pattern of branches. “Be careful,” he called.

“Why are you talking to a tree, Hotchner?” Emily asked.

He glanced back at the girls. “I’m not talking to a tree, I’m talking to the child prodigy stuck in a tree,” he said.

Alex sighed heavily. “Oh, lord,” she said. “Spencer? Are you okay?”

“I’ll be better when I’m out of here!”

“Is Emily here?” Derek said. “Can you climb up a little and spot?”

“Yeah, I can!” she said. She pulled herself up, her long legs in her flannel pajama pants still visible but her upper half vanishing into the trees.

“Don’t drop him!” Hotch warned.

“Yeah, please, don’t drop me!”

It was a slow process, but eventually they got Spencer back onto solid ground. His knees buckled the second Derek put him down. “Give me a second, give me a second,” he sighed, pressing his hands over his face. “Oh my god.”

Hotch crouched down beside him. “What have we learned?” he asked.

“I’m never climbing trees again,” Spencer said, slightly muffled. “Never again. The ground was so far away.”

“Not a fan of heights?” Emily teased.

“Any hopes I had of being an astronaut have been officially dashed.”

“You could have gotten seriously hurt, Spencer,” Alex said. “What the hell were you thinking?”

He huddled on the ground, his face still covered. “I was tired of everybody teasing me!” he said. “I thought that maybe...I could practice now, and then in the spring nobody would tease me for not being able to climb trees...and...and it’s extremely childish now that I’m saying it out loud.”

“It is childish,” Hotch said. “Alex is right, you could have gotten hurt. And what if we hadn’t come looking for you? You could have-”

Spencer raised his head, and the tear tracks on his cheeks were shiny in the moonlight. “Can you yell at me tomorrow, please?” he asked.

Hotch softened. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he said. “Not yelling, I promise. But we’re going to have a talk.” Spencer nodded, his lower lip trembling. “And I won’t tell Gideon, as long as you promise to never pull a stunt like this again.”

Spencer nodded again. Hotch held out his hand to help him off ground and he took it, wobbling to his feet. “I promise I’ll never pull a stunt like this again,” he said.

Emily pulled him into a hug. “And I’ll lay off on teasing you, okay? I’m calling a truce,” she said. She frowned and pushed him back to hold him at arm’s length. “You are freezing. Jesus.”

“Hotch, give me your hoodie,” Alex said. He took it off quickly and she slid Spencer’s arms through the sleeves and zipped up the front. The cuffs dangled past his small hands.

“I updated the group chat,” Derek said. “Dave and James were about ready to drive over here and help look.”

Spencer’s lower lip wobbled. Alex hugged him tightly and he wrapped his arms around her waist, hiding his face against her stomach. “Come on, darling, let’s get you back to your room and warmed up,” she said.

“Yeah, Penelope and JJ are making hot chocolate,” Derek said.

“Oh, I’m definitely coming back with you guys,” Emily saiid.

Spencer peeked out from the safety of Alex’s hug. “There’s still marshmallows, right?” he asked.

Hotch playfully tugged his jacket hood over his head. “As long as you didn’t eat all of them,” he said.

Spencer pushed back the hood and grinned. “I might have left a couple,” he said. “You know, I could see the creek from all the way up there.”

“Oh, yeah?” Emily said. She ruffled his hair. “Maybe you’ll try this again later, when you’re a little taller. I bet you’ll be taller than me someday.”

“Not taller than me, though,” Derek said. “Almost, though.”

#criminal minds fanfiction #au: patron saint of lost causes #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #alex blake #derek morgan #🐇#my sweet bunny anon #caitlin writes things

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disgraceddogstar · 4 years

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Sirius Orion Black III

birthday: november 3rd house: gryffindor blood status: pureblood loyalty: order of the phoenix clubs: astronomy, astronomy homework, dueling zodiac: scorpio mbti: enfp-t (campaigner) alignment: chaotic good

✓ Humor ——- “Did you like question ten, Moony?”

He is barking laughter and poorly timed jokes, puns upon puns - seriously. A grin as wide as the day is long, carefree and easy. Light in the black of war; white sheep in the Black family. His good humor has covered him and carried him through all that he’s seen. It’s as much a shield for himself as it is those with whom he surrounds himself.

✓ Loyal ——- “Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!”

He is fierce, heart full for those he holds dear. Not many are kept that close, but there is no hesitation when asked to give his life. Warmth and comfort, in the crook of his smile and the corners of his eyes. Brilliance and steadfast companionship: a dog is man’s best friend.

✓/✕ Strong-Minded | Judgemental ——- “Besides, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us.”

He is a tree rooted to the earth, tall and proud. Unmoving and firm against the hailing storm. Beliefs, unwavering, unwilling to hear. Opposition is wrong, and he knows it as well as he knows the stories written in the night sky. He is strong-willed and stubborn; a brick wall would be more receptive. He thinks himself open-minded, but it is only another belief.

✕ Impulsive ——- “What is life without a little risk?”

He is snap decisions made in the heat of the moment. Turbulent and emotional, judgement shifts as easily as debris caught in the tide. Words, biting, leaving scars as easily as laughter erases them from his mind. Passing thoughts in an endless stream of chaos - why waste time paying mind to outcomes when you can just act?

✕ Rebellious ——- “There are things worth dying for!”

He is 2 am, leather, and a mess of discarded liquor bottles scattered about the floor. Blood-kissed knuckles and knuckle-kissed jaw. Smirks and sighs toppling from carved lips. Caught in a tempest, winds whipping his hair about his face, unable to see, blindly stumbling along, deafening roars threaten to consume him - one foot in front of the other. Raw magic crackling in the air, electricity against your skin; a beautiful sight when it implodes.

headcanons: (tw: mania, depression, alcohol, slurs, mentions of dysphoria, mentions of abuse)

Patronus: It’s commonplace that a Patronus will match a witch or wizard’s Animagus form, if they happen to be such, and Sirius is no exception. His Patronus takes the form of a dog, matching that of his Animagus counterpart: a bear-like German Shepherd. German Shepherds are known for being intelligent, loyal, and fiercely over-protective. Any close friend of his would attest to the fact that Sirius exemplifies those qualities. He is a bright wizard, and he would do anything for those he cares about.

Wand: As badly as Sirius sometimes wishes his wand was made from Dogwood (think of the irony! the puns! the beauty of the universe!), he was chosen by a Cypress wood wand with a Dragon Heartstring core, 15 inches, rigid.

“Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.”

Sirius won’t think about the wandlore behind cypress wands and their masters dying a heroic death until the fleeting, infinite moment in which he begins to fall in the Department of Mysteries. He will think it ironic, then, that his death is hardly heroic at all; that, naturally, James and Lily had far more heroic deaths than him. (He will also think about finally, finally reuniting with them again, and he will think of how sorry he is for leaving Remus and Harry behind, but James, here I come.)

“As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.”

It is of interest to note that dragon wands tend to be easily swayed towards the Dark Arts. Sirius thinks it should be noted, and then he will tell it to fuck right off, thank you very much. He knows that, had things gone just a little differently, he wouldn’t have had any difficulty using Dark Magic; in fact, he’d have been rather adept at it. Sirius laughs at the notion - and would like to tell the Dark Lord that he can fuck right off, too.

Sirius is a very quick learner. He is intelligent and, when he puts his mind to a task, he is able to stay determined and focused. Magic runs strong in his veins, so it’s only natural he be paired with a wand that is able to keep up with him and his raw power. That being said, however, Sirius’ magic is - too often - unpredictable. It has been since he was a child, and he still experiences outbursts of unintentional magic when his emotions get the better of him; the dragon wand nurtures his accidental magic, at times.

&--------Little Lion Man

He is named for the Dog Star, the most brilliant star in the sky, visible from anywhere on Earth - an actuality he embraces and carries with him from the moment he is able to understand its meaning. Ancient namings signify he is scorching, sparkling, bringing destruction and rebirth. He is important, and his name informs everyone of such.

But he is the point of Canis Major, a hunting dog, ever looking towards his master, Orion. Later, he would think it ironic that he was intended to obediently follow the hunter across the sky. When he was young, though, he did follow his father, his master, with wide eyes and a thirst to learn, to emulate. He did, after all, carry his father’s name as one of his own. He thought it only right that he be his hunter. He learned quickly enough to leave Orion Black be.

His name embraces the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - a reality he despises when he is older. He is taught to believe that to be a Black, to be a Pureblood is to be royalty. He believes it.

He spends the majority of his childhood being trained to be the perfect Pureblood heir, to be the perfect Black. He attends many Pureblood-only balls and events, and is taught the proper way to mingle with other Purebloods. He learns manners and etiquette, and he is expected to be a proper child. There are never many other children at the balls, but he is reminded that it is improper to run about and make a fool of oneself like ordinary children; he is, after all, anything but ordinary.

How could he be? His name attests to his brilliance.

&--------My Manic & I

Sirius is living with undiagnosed Bipolar 1 Disorder. It won’t ever be diagnosed or named in-game since they’re living in the 70s (it’s still fairly misunderstood now), but it definitely affects him. I feel like his upswings are pretty intense, and it usually results in him wanting to be out all the time and doing things, and he feels infallible and invincible, and he’s a lot more likely to be reckless (even more so than what is typical for him) and make snap decisions. He definitely has a tendency towards dangerous ideas that he thinks are absolutely brilliant (see: the Prank with Snape). On the other end of it, though, Sirius’ lows are very low, and he self-medicates with alcohol when he’s suffering from the worst of his depression (see: pretty much all of Order of the Phoenix). But I don’t think that Sirius recognizes the depression as such. It’s a lot easier for him to acknowledge when he’s feeling great and on top of the world as opposed to when he’s feeling like shit and struggles with getting out of bed in the morning. He’s a lot more likely to hide that side of himself, too, and play it off with a smirk and light-hearted joke at someone else’s expense. He became an expert at hiding his emotions at a young age, after all.

&--------I Want to Break Free

If someone were to ask Sirius his gender and sexuality, he would quirk a brow and scoff and let out a bark of laughter because what sort of daft question is that? But, secretly. he enjoys the company of both men and women.

Sirius doesn’t remember the exact moment when he realized that he was attracted to men. Maybe it was sometime in his third year, when he had accompanied James to watch the Quidditch team practice. Maybe he had caught himself staring at one of the seventh years - a boy with shaggy brown hair and a strong jaw - as he flew around the Pitch. Maybe he had felt the distinct swoop in his stomach as he had watched, and maybe he had imagined what it would be like to kiss the older boy.

But Sirius only really remembers being too afraid to say anything to James, Remus, and Peter, being afraid that it would change everything and they would think him a freak that they didn’t want to be friends with, anymore. Especially after his “prank” on Snape in 5th year, Sirius doesn’t want to do anything that could again alienate him from his friends. They’re all he really has.

Something else he would never admit to is the many times he has passed frilly shop windows and imagined being able to wear whatever clothes he wants that he sees, or wished he could be as comfortable in his own skin as David Bowie, or Freddie Mercury. Sirius doesn’t always feel exactly right in the body he has, and he doesn’t understand it even a little bit. After all, it’s hard enough to deal with the war; he doesn’t want to even begin to focus on the whole gender bit.

In modern terminology, he would identify as gender-fluid demiromantic pansexual, but that’s too fancy and way ahead of his time, so all he knows is that he’s queer - just another way in which he would have disappointed his family.

&--------The best thing that has ever happened:

“I know that you will make us proud, Sirius.”

No one ever expected Sirius to be a Gryffindor; he certainly hadn’t when he had stepped up to the stool to be sorted his first year at Hogwarts. His entire family had come from Slytherin. He even knew that, somewhere in his lineage, he was related to Salazar Slytherin himself. But as Sirius’ attention had drifted to the far table of green and silver, he had felt a tug in his stomach that he hadn’t really understood.

….“GRYFFINDOR!”

He ignored the shouts and jests coming from the Slytherin table to rightfully take his place amongst the lions of Hogwarts. He was joined, thankfully, by James and the redhead he had met with the greasy boy (he was grateful - and always would be - that the greasy one ended up in Slytherin).

It wasn’t before he was whisked away to his dorm and he got to know his fellow dormmates: one sickly-looking boy named Remus and a short, ordinary boy named Peter. Sirius thought he could do without Remus and Peter. Who needed them when he had James, his best friend? But Remus and Peter did prove themselves when they turned the greasy boy’s hair a bright shade of pink for a week. That, Sirius decided, was enough to earn his respect.

The four of them quickly became inseparable, and Sirius decided that being a Lion was worth the consequent Howlers he received, even if meant returning from the Christmas hols with bruises hidden beneath scratchy sweaters.

&--------And the worst: "Blood traitor! Filth! Scum!“

He tried not to cry out as his mother punished him one final time for being an insolent disgrace; he wouldn’t give her the pleasure. He was worse for the wear, however, when she finished with him and sent him off to think about his disobedience. Again. Sirius sat, on the edge of his bed, trembling; it was out of his control. He thought, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what he must do.

He needed to leave.

He hastily threw what belongings he could into his school trunk, gathering up anything he deemed important. He was able to perform a simple expansion and levitation charm - he decided he could deal with the Ministry later - and led his trunk out of his room. But he knew he needed to stop at his brother’s room before he left.

Sirius loved his brother and he has always loved his brother, but Regulus was not like him. He was weak-minded and bent to the wishes of their parents. Sirius always wanted to keep Regulus safe from them, from Mother, but he went to school and was sorted into Gryffindor and it changed. He became the disgrace, and it had been up to Regulus to be the perfect son. Sirius never wanted that for him, and he didn’t want that for him now. So he tried to bring Regulus with him. He wanted to ask, wanted him to leave and escape the hell they had grown up in.

But Regulus didn’t leave with him. He wasn’t like Sirius. He was an idiot, and he didn’t leave. So Sirius goes. But not before he watched as his mother blasted his name from the family tree.

(Sirius will always regret not making Regulus leave with him.)

#abintro #bio #hc&.{the boy with the broken halo}#writing&.{my manic and i}#aesthetic&.{killer queen}#abuse cw

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kingofdirtandnothing · 4 years

Text

polyfacetious asked: just…stay for the night.

Aaaaaangst!: (Accepting)

“Oh honey lamb, I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world right now.”

Thomas walks long fingers up the valley and rise of James’ back, stretching droplets of cooling sweat beads into longer strokes, a painting of his own making, in more ways than one.

A nice companion piece to the one drying on the insides of James’ thighs.

But, if Thomas is being honest with himself, it’s worrying that his friend even feels like he has to ask. They’ve parted ways now and again throughout the centuries, never more than a few decades at a time, but they still ebbed and flowed like the tide.

It wasn’t often his little pebble wanted to dig in and fight the tide. (And who was Thomas to deny the man who asked for next to nothing?)

“I was thinking...” He draws the words out, a puff of chilled air following his fingers, just the barest hint of blue beneath the nail. Ice cube, not frostbite. It’s effort he makes for no one else.

“That maybe we might dust off the Big House.” The house has been his for centuries now, passed down through trusts and shell companies since the 1800s. It was more than just a place warded to the high heavens. It was the only home Thomas had ever known.

Sometimes, he could stand on the stairwell with his eyes closed and still hear the bustle of servants and the quiet voices of his mother’s maids, their laughter like a babbling brook.

But newer than those ancient memories, there were still good ones. Aged like a fine wine. Sitting in his father’s study, whiskey in hand and James across from him, somehow even more reticent when he was in his first lifetime. Thomas had told a dalliance once that James was downright damn chatty compared to when he met him. She didn’t believe him.

She found a new Sugar Daddy the next day. Thomas didn’t stand for anyone disparaging his friend, be it with words or actions.

“Go home.” He punctuates the honeyed, long syllables with a press of his lips against a dark shoulder. “Relax for a few decades.” And one to the base of his neck. “Take it easy.”

“What do you say, my little Dogwood flower?”

#ch: thomas #polyfacetious #polyfacetious | james #look when you have semen references a paragraph in it just feels like common decency to slap a readmore on there #also that's the state flower of virginia because he's nothing if not a velvet trimmed cliche #v: tmi

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chiseler · 4 years

Text

When Nature Was Golden

Let’s open with a few passages of deathless prose from the classics.

EMORY’S SOFT-SHELLED TURTLE (18 in.; to 35 lb.) is the only Southwest member of an edible group with long necks and short tempers. Handle with care.

BELTED KINGFISHER Where there are fish there are Kingfishers, beating the air in irregular flight, diving into water with a splash and emerging with fish in their beaks.

THE EASTERN MOLE or common mole makes the mounds that dot your lawn. You are unlikely to see any moles, for they stay underground unless molested.

You saw them in the basement of your third-grade best friend, or in your school library. If you were lucky, you had one or two at home—your older sister read them first, years ago; maybe they’d even belonged to one of your parents. Paperback books just a bit smaller than pulp fiction novels, though equally thick, their illustrated pages of a glossier, higher quality. The typeface was Futura, that design marvel of yore, also seen in the old Hall of Dinosaurs in the American Museum of Natural History. Insects, Seashores, Mammals, Reptiles and Amphibians—which did you have? The Golden Guides gave us our natural world in all its glory, and managed to do it in a singular style, dry yet affectionate, concisely informative and never, ever dumbed-down. They were written for children, but each, too, is a cracking read for any adult eager to learn. Or to remember.

Naturalist Herbert S. Zim, who founded this series of guides and wrote many of them, was born in New York in 1909. Raised there and in Southern California, he finished his B.S., M.S., and Ph.D at Columbia University. He was then a science teacher for twenty-five years—at Ethical Culture schools in New York City, and later at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. One wonders where on earth he found the time to crank out so many books. Each was a loving collaboration with other educators, not solely Zim’s effort. But the synthesis of these people, the meticulous research required to bring together all the info, was his responsibility, from 1949 until the early 1970s. Zim, in 1969, was also the editor of an 18-volume set of encyclopedias named Our Wonderful World.

Of the 84 Golden Guides, Zim wrote or co-wrote 24. Is it confirmation bias that makes me believe those are the best of the bunch? The simple style is charming, with phrases like Rock Ground Squirrels, found in the Southwest, are our largest terrestrial squirrels. What grace: with a hint of pride to be from the United States, he said that the squirrels are ours. (I also appreciate that he uses the word “unique” correctly, without qualifiers. The Barn Owl is unique, not “totally” or “somewhat” unique.) The occasional anachronism amuses. Once in awhile Zim tells us which kind of turtle or ground squirrel makes a good pet, if captured.

You have been seeing birds as far back as you can remember and you will continue seeing them wherever you may be. It’s a real pleasure to see them. You can see more birds and more kinds of birds by learning how to look. This book will help you. It is not written for the expert, but for people who want to see birds just for the joy of it.

First become familiar with the mammals pictured and described. Look through the Key to Mammals on the next pages so that you can recognize the major mammal groups. Try to see the mammal well enough to decide, for example, whether it is a rodent or a shrew.

Familiarity with fishes gained by thumbing through pages at odd moments may enable you to make rough identifications at sight. Use this book as an “arm-chair” guide, but also take it into the field with you, for that is where it can be used best. On fishing trips take it along in a plastic bag.

Originally named the Golden Nature Guides, the series name was shortened to “Golden Guides” when they began branching out into other topics—for example, Guns, Sports Cars, and Casino Games. But these adult subjects did not make it into most family rooms, and the more popular guides about flora and fauna, insects, weather, stars, and the like are the ones most frequently found today. The illustrations by James Gordon Irving and others are remarkably detailed, the beauty of pure accuracy from a time when nature photography was rare.

A particularly enchanting feature of the Guides is the family tree, usually a two-page spread of swooping, color-gradated branches, each limb ending in a small picture of an animal in its biological order, labeled something like “Cutlass Fishes” or “Scorpion-Flies.” No less an artist than Matt Groening would eventually parody this format for his Life In Hell comic, describing the evolution of record-store clerks from sullen teens.

Herbert Zim, in his long career as an educator, was the one who brought lab instruction into science courses at the elementary-school level. Anyone who looked through a microscope before they reached ninth grade might have him to thank. And one attribute of Golden Guides is the way they expect one to get involved, not just in the field, but with “amateur activities” like building a birdhouse or preserving animal tracks in plaster. Through such deep engagement, the reader is encouraged not just to appreciate nature, but to discover new things about it, making new contributions to science.

He demanded no less of himself. Going through what biographical information there is on Zim, which is all very straightforward, one notices the list of scientific associations he belonged to, numbering more than twenty. They included the Audubon Society, the Union of Concerned Scientists, the Everglades Natural History Association, and the International Union for the Conservation of Nature. Truly, this was a vigorous and busy man.

Like so many cultural products of their time, the Golden Guides can look antithetical to today’s progressive values. Just ask the Yuman Indian woman who sits weaving cotton, bare-breasted, in one of the pictures in a guide to the American Southwest. In little vignettes we see depicted dozens of trappers, fishermen, tourists, birdwatchers—all white, mostly male. Under the entry for “Other Suckers,” Zim claims “some are so easily caught that every boy knows them.” If the Guides were written just for boys, this is a great shame, though their ubiquity meant that many girls of all different backgrounds would find them. The scientific language is devoid of prejudice, by its nature, and is there for any young person dedicated enough to study it. It prizes the natural world above all. One passage recently took me by surprise for its passion, on a page about the fishing industry: If you are interested in fishes, conservation—the wise use of all our natural resources—is your problem too.

Maybe it’s our current predicament that makes one particularly fond of the outside world, and of non-humans. Back in March, I started watching a live online feed from The Aquarium of the Pacific each night, comforted by the variety of fish, sharks, and rays that swam peacefully by. Curious about a small fish with long, showy gold fins, I consulted Fishes to identify it, and Irving didn’t disappoint. Meanwhile, Herbert Zim informed me that the species, named Lookdown, belong to the mackerel-like family of “jacks” and are fine eating.

In 1934, Zim married the Russian-born Sonia (Sonnie) Bleeker, who had studied anthropology at Columbia. The couple had two sons. Bleeker, too, worked in the book world—as an editor at Simon and Schuster, then as a full-time children’s book author. They eventually moved to Florida. Just like the descriptions in the guides, these biographical facts fall well short of being dull. They force me to imagine how energetic, how full life must have been in the Zim household as the kids grew up; and how many subtropical species kept Herbert company in his later years. After Bleeker’s death, he married Grace K. Showe in 1978. He died at Plantation Key in 1994, of complications from Alzheimer’s.

LIVE OAK has become a symbol of the South. The low, spreading tree, often covered with Spanish moss, marks old plantations and roadside plantings. The elliptical, blunt-tipped, leathery leaves are evergreen—that is, they remain green and on the tree throughout the year. The acorns are small but edible; wood is used for furniture. Two other southeastern Oaks (Laurel and Willow) have leaves of somewhat similar shape, but they are thinner and more pointed than Live Oak. Several western Oaks are evergreen. Botanists apply the unqualified name Live Oak only to this species. Height 40 to 60 ft. Beech family

In a Manhattan backyard in the middle of June, a couple of mourning doves fly between the trees. I’m aware that the gentle woop-woop-woop sound they make is not their voices but their wingbeats. The dogwood’s cream-yellow blooms have begun to fade, as is proper at this time. Above me a juvenile blue jay, still fluffy, shrieks out his typical noisy cry. I’m intrigued to see a red speck moving among the hairs on my arm—it’s a clover mite, an insect I haven’t noticed in decades. As recently as 1982, I was a four-year-old marveling at the rolling movement of clover mites on a windowsill—smaller than pin heads, bright candy-apple red. Somewhere along the line they stopped showing up, at least with the frequency they did back then. Now, seeing even one evinces a swell of emotion. (Incidentally, the same is true of another brightly-colored beauty, the red eft, which used to be so numerous in summer that we had to tiptoe on New York State gravel roads to avoid stepping on them.)

We learn more from Zim’s texts than he bargained for. His Golden Guides speak of a midcentury United States where all these animals and plants were still commonly seen. Just based upon my memories from the past 20 or 30 years, there seem to be fewer animals everywhere; in the 1950s, then, was the Earth just teeming with them, in every corner of every suburban lawn? Having learned that the biomass of insects, in particular, has started to fall fast, I yearn for the spectacle of clover mites and hastily do a search for them. Yes, the internet reassures me: we in New York City still have lots of the red bugs, enough to warrant a FAQ page from a pest-control company. They’re harmless to humans, pets, houses, and furniture. They munch grass and reproduce parthenogenically, which means every individual can lay viable eggs, without mating.

Of course, the sites telling me this haven’t worded their data quite as eloquently as Herbert Zim would have. Still, I thank him for the spark of curiosity that got me there at all. He taught me not just how to identify a clover mite, but how to care about her.

by Amanda Nazario

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hortascountrysidenotes · 5 years

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And ever Drier

Since returning from “up north” the weather has been glorious bar one night when it managed to rain a little bit followed by a cool cloudy day. Gorgeous sleepy September sunshine - another thing missing apart from moisture is wasps - or at least here - hardly a wasp all summer. The beekeeper is happy and fortunately the hornet that was circling the roof in May and June looking for a nesting site never stayed so there are no predators in that department for the bees in this warm autumn.

A humming bird hawkmoth is visiting the late flowers in the containers - enjoying the last of the lobelia and Verbena Sissinghurst Pink - and another little visitor this evening that brings joy was a tree sparrow. When we arrived at Beck Farm some 30 years ago we had a thriving flock which suddenly completely disappeared. It soon became obvious that as no habitat per se had disappeared that they had clearly lived in the ruined barn next to us. The barn was renovated about four years after our arrival which coincided exactly with their disappearance. It was a classic ruin - elder and bramble growing inside and around the doors which obviously provided the perfect habitat for these dear little endangered birds.

I am really starting to put the garden to bed in some ways and tidy up for winter. We have had a visit from our tree surgeon which was highly successful so the purple plum, yew tree by the house and the top of the Italian Alder have been seen to and so blissful to have it all chipped and left for us to use rather than struggle with bonfires etc. All the topiary yew is done and I have started the endless round of the box hedging for the last time this year. Blight returned in the classic time of July, but is very superficial and as we intend to reduce the height on two runs in front of the borders, I dont see it as a problem. The hedges will look a bit sad next spring but should soon perk up with some fertiliser and Top Buxus.

The bindweed in both the pond and bog areas has been dreadful so I have spent much time pulling it off dogwoods and iris so at least it looks better and the dogwoods will look good in winter without all the bare stems and dead brown leaves of the wretched weed festooned amongst it. Its a ghastly job as there is still a bit of insect life in both those areas and a number of nettles!

We have done a lot of training but had a minor disaster yesterday when we were having a very happy time doing a walk up in sugar beet with cold game, clays and all sorts of bangs and pops going off to help keep the dogs steady. Mavis having almost got over her habit of putting game down about 6 yards short, reverted to her default setting so I decided to go back to the plan we put in place before of running at her on the way back to get to her before she puts the bird down. Unfortunately she came flying back with the pigeon at top speed but its wing was over her eye and she completely didnt see me approaching. Before I knew what had happened she had run straight into me taking my legs from under me like a good rugger tackle and I fell down on top of her with the game bag full of dummies for extra weight. Poor Mavis did scream and was absolutely overcome with shock shaking and quivering and looking so forlorn. I was a bit bruised today and stiff but my main concern was whether she would have a mental scar as she was very shaky all evening. Luckily she bounded out of the kennel and in the afternoon we did a few dummies and tennis balls with her usual enthusiasm. We have some cold game available so before we go away I am just going to check that all is well so I can enjoy the break as by the time we get back we are up for the real thing and training really goes on hold until March. What a palaver!

An amazing crop of Williams pears - lots stewed with blackberries for crumbles in the freezer and loads of poached ones in syrup too. The Doyenne de Comice and Concord will hold until we come home. Apples - the William Crump are good and a reasonable crop. Spartan a huge crop but small despite the thinning. Quite a few on Jupiter - absolutely no Sandringham cookers this year after a glut last year and only one little Cox Self Fertile - no James Grieve at all.

We set sail for Slovenia for a week with some trout fishing in the rivers that are in the foothills of the Julian Alps. I am told it is stunning so am very excited and we shall have a day in Ljubljana first. Not a language I shall take to I dont think as there dont seem to be many vowels, but it will be fascinating to hear it spoken and see the culture.

Before leaving however various things to do in the garden - rake up rubbish and leaves from under the walnut trees so I can mow off the rough stuff down to a low level. Do a quick dead head of anything that is still flowering - the dahlias are now struggling with no water and the Cafe au Lait have formed buds that never opened - very sad. Try and cut some more box hedging if not too sunny. Am not really even cutting the grass but will give it a light trim where it has managed to grow a little. Put all the wallflower plants and honesty out in the open from the coldframes so the promised showers do some good.One wisteria the macrobotrys has sent out yet more shoots so I shall deal with those and all the excess on the Pyracantha at the front of the house - clearly as this is shady in the afternoons and sits in the lowest point there is good moisture still and Maigold looks wonderful after her customary second flowering so maybe she is not on the way out after all and we shall have her to look forward to in May 2020. Bulbs coming the week after we return so it will be time to rip out the summer containers and do the winter ones - the grasses are kept in pots ready and the skimmia look healthy too.

HORTA

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crazyclouds5281 · 3 years

Text

Beast 1

The Killing Curse does not leave a mark. Ever. It forces the soul out of the body without touching it at all. What happens, then, when something takes possession of the empty husk?

Thomas Dorian Potter could barely contain his excitement. He was finally going to Hogwarts! His parents had told him so many stories of their years there- most of his father’s involving pranks, much to Lily’s fond exasperation- that Thomas didn’t even want to wait for the Hogwarts Express. He had begged his parents to just let him Floo straight over, or Apparate him there, but his mother put her foot down.

“It’s tradition, Thomas. You’re getting on that train.” And that was the end of that. So, here he was, at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, staring in awe at the steel beast in front of him. The Express was much more impressive than he expected, shining red and spewing steam.

Thomas was excitedly chatting with Ronald Weasely and Neville Longbottom, his two yearmates and best friends. Molly Weasely was giving the twins, Fred and George, a stern talking-to, while Arthur just chuckled about their latest prank. Percy looked about ready to join his mother in scolding his younger brothers, but she didn’t pause long enough for him to slip in his own comments. So, he simply glared at them, arms crossed, Prefect badge glinting on the breast of his robes. Ginevra hid behind her mother’s leg, staring at Thomas longingly, not that he noticed. James, Sirius, and Remus were joking around, with occasional input from Ted Tonks, who was also here with his wife, Andromeda. Their daughter, and Thomas’ cousin, Nymphadora, had already gotten on the Express, along with Cedric Diggory, the Weasley’ neighbor.

Suddenly, Thomas was dragged into a crushing hug by Lily, who sighed sadly. “Oh, my baby’s growing up so fast!” she cried, much to Thomas’ embarrassment.

“Mum!” he hissed, “Not in front of my friends!”

She swatted him on the back of the head, not releasing him. “Hush, you! I’ll hug my son if I want to! It’s going to be so quiet without you running around the house,” she said, already overcome with nostalgia.

“Mum!” Thomas whined, squirming in her grip. The snickers of his friends made him turn bright red.

“Fine,” Lily drawled, letting him go, but not before planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “You three get on the Express now- don’t wanna miss it, do you?”

“Bye, Mrs. Potter,” Ron and Neville chirped, dragging Thomas on board, then proceeding to take the mickey out of him.

“Oh, shut up!” Thomas snapped. “Don’t act like I didn’t see your mum wipe the dirt off your nose, Ron!” He grinned victoriously when the youngest Weasley son went as red as his hair. The three boys broke down into chuckles, lightheartedly shoving each other as they went to find a compartment, dragging their trunks along with them. They found an empty one towards the back of the train, loading their trunks up on the racks and plopping down on the comfortable seats, stretching out a bit.

“So, which class are you blokes most excited for?” Neville asked.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts!” Thomas said instantly. “I’ve already defeated a Dark Lord, so it’s obviously gonna be my best class!” he boasted, making his friends smile.

“I dunno, I’m kinda looking forward to Flying,” Ron said, a wide grin on his face. “Have I told you guys about that time I-”

“Hit a Muggle hang glider with Charlie’s old broom? Only about a million times,” Neville teased, making Ron cross his arms with a faux-pout. “I’m gonna enjoy Herbology. Mum doesn’t have much time to work in the greenhouses with me, what with being an Auror and all.”

“Speaking of being an Auror,” Thomas said, rising to his feet and pulling out his wand- ten inches, dogwood, dragon heartstring core- “Dad finally showed me a spell that he said is essential for all Aurors.” He spun his wand in a circular movement, and cried “Prot-!”

The compartment door slammed open, startling the three boys. Thomas dropped his wand from the shock.

“Hello, I’m Hermione Granger,” a bushy-haired girl with large front teeth introduced herself. “Would it be alright if I sat with you three? The people in the other compartments are horribly rude,” she rattled off. Hermione’s eye caught sight of Thomas’ wand as he picked it up, and placed her hands on her hips. “Were you about to do magic? Well, let’s see it. I’ve already cast a few of the spells in the Charms textbook, and they worked perfectly.”

The boys shared confused glances, before Ron shrugged, not seeing the harm in letting her sit with them. Thomas repeated his wand movement, shouting “Protego!”

“Er, mate… Was something supposed to happen?” Ron asked, barely holding in his chortles. Thomas frowned.

“Yeah. Dad said it was a Shield Charm.”

“Looks more like a prank,” Neville said, making Ron lose control and begin howling with laughter. Thomas stomped his foot in frustration.

“It worked when Dad did it, I swear!”

“Protego?” Hermione piped up. “That’s not in the First Year curriculum. I would know- I’ve already read all the books. It probably didn’t work because it’s too advanced for you.”

Thomas bristled at the slight to his abilities, but Ron came to his defense, stopping his cackling. “Hey, he’s the Boy-Who-Lived! He defeated the Dark Lord when he was a year old- nothing’s too advanced for him!”

“You’re Thomas Potter?” Hermione asked, latching on to the new piece of information. “I’ve read all about you! Is it true that you rode a dragon to Russia to help the Kremlin against a goblin invasion?”

“Uh… What?”

“Oh! Did you broker a peace treaty with the Canadian Prime Minister after you saved his daughter’s life?”

“Who?”

“Ooh! What about that time-!”

“Wait!” Thomas yelled, holding his hands. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all your adventures in the books, of course!”

“Books?” Thomas asked, looking at his two friends. “What books?”

Realization dawned in Ron’s eyes. “Oh, I know what she’s talking about! A buncha people have written all these crazy things about you- Ginny’s obsessed with ‘em, despite how absolutely barmy they are.”

“Books are not barmy!” Hermione cried, offended. “They wouldn’t have been published if they weren’t true!”

“I hate to break it to you, Hermione, but Thomas hasn’t done any of that stuff,” Neville said gently. The girl looked to be on the verge of hyperventilating.

“But, but, books don’t lie!” she shrieked, bushy hair fluffing out even more. The three boys were starting to panic; none of them knew how to deal with a crying girl! They were saved by the compartment door slamming open once more. A platinum-blond boy, with his hair slicked back by copious amounts of gel, stood there with a superior smirk on his face. Flanking him were two goons, one tall and one fat, neither very intelligent judging by how dull their eyes were.

“I heard Thomas Potter was starting Hogwarts this year.”

“Malfoy,” Thomas growled, right hand tightening around his wand.

“Looks like it’s true- I was wondering if you might be denied entry for being too stupid. Anyways, I’m here to extend a hand of friendship. Now that you aren’t being led around by the nose by your blood-traitor father, maybe you’ll have the good sense to accept it. After all, the Malfoys are one of the most prominent Pureblood families in all of Britain. You would be wise to fall in line, Potter.”

“Are you even listening to the crap coming out of your mouth, Malfoy?” Neville snarled, as he and Ron stood, pulling out their wands- nevermind the fact that none of them knew any spells that would do anything worthwhile.

“Bugger off, ya slimy little git! Nobody’s joining your stupid Junior Death Eater club!” Ron snapped.

“Longbottom,” Malfoy greeted imperiously. “And look at that, another Weasel. How many does that make now, fifty? Hogwarts really needs to do something about this infestation in its halls. I suppose Potter would count amongst you idiots, what with his hair. What’s up with that, anyway, Potter? Did you dye it to look like a cheap knock-off? Or did your whore mudblood mother get a little too frisky with Weasley Senior?”

Thomas hauled off and made to slug Malfoy in his fat mouth, when a hand came out of nowhere and latched onto the boy’s wrist with an iron grip. The First Years all made various noises of surprise when a tall boy with disheveled black hair stepped into view, wearing dark gray sweatpants and a forest green hoodie. He dropped Thomas’ arm, then stooped down so he was face-to-face with Malfoy, emerald eyes glowing fiercely.

“Leave.”

Surprisingly, the three Death Eater wannabes obeyed, scurrying back up the train.

“Harry!” Thomas cried excitedly. His next cry was one filled with pain, however, as the young man slapped him upside the head. “Ow! What-?”

“Sit down. Shut up.” A livid glare stifled any protests, and all four First Years did as he said, despite three of them not being the target. “You idiots woke me up with all your yelling.” The dark bags under his eyes, which looked more like bruises, attested to how much he actually needed his sleep.

“S-Sorry,” Thomas stuttered. The older boy stared at him for a long moment, that seemed to stretch infinitely, before turning away, allowing the redheaded boy to finally breathe.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he rumbled, sliding the compartment door closed behind him. For a long while, silence reigned between the four eleven-year-olds, the rumbling of the train a dull roar in the background.

“Who… Who was that?” Hermione asked Thomas weakly.

“My older brother, Harry.”

---

Thomas was positively shaking with nerves. They were about to be Sorted, and his parents had refused to tell him how. Ron was convinced they had to fight a troll, though it was the twins who told him that, so all four agreed it was probably just a joke. Neville said it might depend on their heritage, but that didn’t quite sit right with Thomas. After all, despite the Potters traditionally being Gryffindors, Harry wasn’t (then again, Harry wasn’t exactly normal by Potter standards). Hermione theorized they might have to take some sort of test that determined their personality, which was apparently a Muggle thing. Thomas didn’t really get it.

Finally, however, Professor McGonagall ushered them into the Great Hall. The starry ceiling was absolutely gorgeous, and the archaic architecture of the Hall was a lot different than the Potter home in Godric’s Hollow. In the middle of the Hall was a hat, sitting on a stool. One of the wrinkled flaps opened up, and then-

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty…”

It started singing! Thomas didn’t particularly pay attention to the song, too amazed by the fact that a hat was singing. Even in the Wizarding World, that wasn’t something one saw often. Eventually, McGonagall started calling people up in alphabetical order. Each student sat on the stool and wore the Sorting Hat, which screamed out a house name after a few moments. Hermione and Neville both ended up in Gryffindor, making Thomas cheer loudly, though moreso for the latter. Then, it was his turn. Thomas sat down on the stool, and the brim of the Sorting Hat dropped over his eyes, blocking out the Great Hall.

“Let’s see, let’s see…” a voice echoed in his head. Despite being somewhat prepared for it, he still jolted a bit. “Headstrong, you are. You don’t think much before jumping into things, and you have no problems with confrontation. A bit of an aversion to reading, so Ravenclaw’s out, and you tend to not do things you don’t like, so Hufflepuff is as well.”

“Don’t put me in Slytherin!” Thomas thought loudly, hoping the Hat could somehow hear him.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, lad. Better be GRYFFINDOR!” The House name was shouted out loud, and the Great Hall erupted into cheers. The loudest were the Weasely twins, who stood up on the table and yelled, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” With a wide grin, Thomas did a few deep bows, shooting a smug smirk at Draco Malfoy, and going to join his housemates. There were many congratulatory pats on the back, and people introduced themselves to the Boy-Who-Lived in droves, which made it a little hard to keep track of all the new faces.

Thomas had a feeling Hogwarts was going to be fun.

---

Hogwarts was not fun. Classes were boring. The teachers lectured for the majority of the period, leaving hardly any time for the practical lesson, and they always assigned feet of homework to people who didn’t do the spell correctly in class, such as Thomas. His hand ended up aching by the time he went to bed, every day, without fail. And then came Friday, when Gryffindor had double Potions.

The Boy-Who-Lived sat down next to Ron in the classroom in the dungeon. The youngest Weasley son was shooting suspicious glares at the Slytherins on the other half of the room.

“I don’t like sharing classes with all these slimy snakes,” Ron whispered, looking at Malfoy pointedly.

“Yeah? Well, my Dad said Snape’s the worst of them,” Thomas muttered back. It was at that moment that the classroom door slammed open, and in strode a tall man, with greasy hair, a hooked nose, and dressed in billowing black robes.

“You are here,” Severus Snape began, soft voice echoing through the room, “To learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” The man began roll call afterwards, not even glancing up when a student answered to their name. At least, until he called on Thomas.

“Potter.”

“Here.”

Snape paused, staring at Thomas for a long moment. “Ah, yes… Our resident celebrity,” he drawled. The Professor finished roll, and then turned back to Thomas. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, what would be the result of adding powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Thomas gaped, too shocked at being singled out to make a sound. Meanwhile, at the next table over, Hermione’s hand shot into the air like a rocket. However, Snape stayed focused on the Boy-Who-Lived.

“No answer? Well, let us try again. Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to locate a bezoar?”

“I… I don’t know, Sir,” Thomas answered reluctantly. Once again, Hermione’s hand was waving in the air, and once again, Snape ignored her.

“Then, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Thomas remained silent, red rising to his face as he fumed.

“Pity,” Snape muttered. “Clearly, fame isn’t everything, is it, Mr. Potter?”

“Dad was right- you really are just a big git,” Thomas whispered under his breath. Unfortunately for him, the entire classroom was silent, so Snape heard him easily enough if the thunderous expression on his face was any clue.

“Out, Potter.”

“Wh-What?”

“I want you out of my classroom. I will not tolerate such insolence, such disrespect! Go to the Headmaster’s office, and you can expect at least a month of detention.”

“You can’t-!”

“Two months.”

“But!”

“Would you like to make it the rest of the year?” Thomas fell quiet, and Snape smirked smugly. “I thought not. Pack your belongings, and get out- now.”

Filled with anger, Thomas did as he was ordered, shoving his quills and papers into his bag haphazardly. He was a bit more careful with his inkwell, making sure to cap it, but that was all. He kicked his stool back under the table, and shot Snape the filthiest glare he could as he passed by the greasy bastard.

“Oh, and… Fifty points from Gryffindor.”

---

Everything pretty much went downhill from there. Much to Snape’s chagrin, he’d only been able to assign two weeks of detention, but that was far more than Thomas deserved, in his own opinion; two hours of scrubbing cauldrons by hand, or writing lines until his wrist cramped (and then continuing to write while his muscles spasmed painfully) every evening after dinner cut into much of his freetime. Thomas had to choose between hanging out with his friends or doing his homework, since he didn’t have time to do both, and the choice was obvious. After all, homework didn’t talk about Quidditch.

Snape continued being a snide arse in Potions, so whenever the Boy-Who-Lived talked back, the bat of the dungeon gleefully tacked on yet another few days of punishment. It eventually totalled up to the two months Snape had promised, and Thomas became more and more agitated as the weeks went by.

Hermione did her best to coerce them into finishing assignments, but eleven-year-old boys had a notorious lack of common sense, so it was an exercise in futility for the bushy-haired girl. More often than not, she ended up storming off with a huff, while the boys laughed at her indignance, then went back to whatever they were doing.

It all came to a head on Halloween. The First Year Gryffindors were in Charms, with Professor Flitwick standing on his stack of books to lecture them on the Levitation Charm.

“One of a wizard’s most rudimentary skills is levitation. Or, the ability to make objects float. Now, don’t forget the nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing. A swish and flick! Everyone?” The class repeated the movements together. “Good. And, don’t forget to enunciate! The incantation for the Levitation Charm is Wingardium Leviosa. Give it a try, all of you.”

A chorus of prepubescent voices filled the room as each student practiced the charm. One of the more notable attempts was by Ronald Weasely, who chanted the incantation, then flailed his wand up and down like a mace.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Hermione said, holding a hand up. “You’re going to take somebody’s eye out, Ronald. Besides, you’re saying it wrong. It’s Levi-o-sa, not Levio-saaa.”

The redhead rolled his eyes. “You do it then, if you’re so bloody smart,” he said, grinning smugly as he got ready to watch her fail. “Go on! Go on!” Hermione shrugged.

“Wingardium Levi-o-sa!” With a swish and a flick, the feather floated into the air, guided halfway towards the ceiling by Hermione’s wand. Ron stared at it in shock, and the rest of the room grew silent.

“Well done, Ms. Granger! Truly spectacular! Five points to Gryffindor, for being the first one to learn today’s spell!”

Ron fell into a sulk, not even noticing when Seamus Finnegan somehow managed to blow up his feather. After class, the youngest Weasley male jammed his supplies into his bag and stormed out of the room, followed by Thomas and Neville.

“It’s Levi-o-sa, not Levio-saa,” he mocked, pitching his voice higher to mimic a girl’s voice. “She’s a nightmare, honestly- it’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”

A moment later, Hermione stormed past Ron, shoving him aside and scurrying down the hall. An awkward silence fell among the three boys.

“I think she heard you,” Thomas finally said.

---

That stench… It was unfamiliar. Not one he’d smelled in these halls before. There were many other strange ones, as there was at the start of every year, but this one was noxious, overpowering… Predatory instincts roused, his bones contorted and he dropped to four legs, ready to begin the search.

It was time to hunt.

---

“That stupid, rotten Ronald Weasley,” Hermione Granger whispered to herself, sobbing quietly. She didn’t know how long she’d been here, curled up in this stall in the second floor bathroom. It must’ve been a few hours, at least. However long it was, though, she still felt raw.

She’d come to Hogwarts hoping to find people like herself. People she could fit in with, people she could be friends with. That hadn’t been possible in the Muggle world, what with the bouts of Accidental Magic that became more frequent the more she was bullied. However, this school was supposed to have people like her; people who could bend the rules of reality. And, she’d hoped, people who had the same love for learning as her. After all, how could they not want to learn everything they could about magic? It was, by far, the most interesting subject she’d ever come across, and the fact that she could actually replicate the things she read in her books with nothing more than a few words and a wave of her wand made her feel powerful. Like she was more than the daughter of two dentists, more than a bushy-haired bookworm with too-big teeth and an even bigger attitude.

All she found in this castle was disappointment.

The Savior of the Wizarding World was just a typical eleven-year-old boy- not even a particularly pleasant one! The students were the same jealous cretins she’d grown up around, unable to handle that someone was smarter than them, able to do things they couldn’t, and they sought to tear her down to make themselves feel better. One of the most revered wizards in the country, her own headmaster, seemed like nothing but a barmy old man. It didn’t help that he hired rude people like Professor Snape, or incompetent people like Professor Quirrel.

It all added up to a very unhappy Hermione Granger, one who was starting to wish she’d never accepted her invitation to this stupid school. Then, the bathroom door exploded.

---

It was close. The second floor was where the scent was the strongest, and the monstrous bellows, like cannon blasts to his sensitive ears, let him know he was in the right place. The smell was almost unbearable, but he blocked it out, instead following the loud crashing, as whatever he hunted destroyed the room it was in.

He pushed himself faster.

---

A troll. A mountain troll, judging by its gray skin, incredible height, and the absolutely horrid smell, Hermione’s quick mind analyzed. However, while her thoughts were racing with panic, her body was frozen in terror. She’d exited the stall to see what all the noise was about, and immediately regretted it when the wall blew inwards. She was nearly brained with a piece of marble, only avoiding it because she fell on her rump with a shrill shriek. The troll roared once more, waving its club wildly, and Hermione answered with a scream of pure fear.

She scrambled backwards until she hit the far wall of the bathroom. Unable to stand, she simply curled up in the fetal position, covering her head with her arms, waiting for her demise. The troll advanced towards her slowly, swinging its cudgel around and demolishing each stall it passed, the steel crumpling under the thick wood like it was aluminum.

The only warning the mountain troll had was a low, bestial growl that reverberated off the tiles, before something slammed into its back, sending the massive monster flopping to the floor hard enough to crack the slick tiles. Razor-sharp teeth dug into the back of the troll’s neck, and it had just enough time to grunt in confusion, before its spinal cord was severed. Its ugly, misshapen head dropped to the ground, bouncing against the ceramic.

Silence reigned. Hermione, who had fully expected to be dead by now, cautiously peered past her arms, and came face-to-face with a large cat with insanely long fangs. A sabre-toothed tiger (Smilodon, her academically-inclined brain automatically corrected). It had to be over five feet tall, dwarfing Hermione’s modest height (modest for her age and gender, that is). It had thick, midnight-black fur that shone lusciously in the magical light. Its most noticeable feature, however, were the bright, emerald eyes that stared at her passively.

The smilodon hopped down off the troll’s back and stalked over to the trembling girl. There was intelligence in its eyes, though, and Hermione had a feeling the feline wasn’t going to kill her, despite the purposeful manner in which it moved, and the crimson blood dripping from its fangs. She pushed herself upright, standing on shaky legs, back pressed against the cold marble wall. Then, right in front of her, the smilodon began to change. Its long body became more compact, and it became a few inches taller. Its teeth shrunk, snout flattening, hair shortening, and before her stood Thomas’ older brother, Harry Potter. Even as a human, he cut an imposing figure, with his glowing eyes- amplified by the lenses of his glasses- apathetic stare, and the blood smeared across his lips. His tongue darted out, licking up the red liquid, only for him to turn his head and spit it out a moment later, a grimace on his face.

“Troll blood,” he murmured distastefully, turning his attention back on Hermione. “Shouldn’t you be at the feast?” His rumbling voice shook her out of her daze.

“Um, I…” She was too embarrassed to admit that she’d been in here, bawling her eyes out. So, she did something she much preferred; she rushed forward and circled her arms around his waist, burying her face in his solid stomach. “Thankyousomuch!” she forced out. Tears were sliding down her cheeks once more, but this time, it was in relief that she was still alive.

Hermione chanced a glance up when she noticed that her saviour was rather silent, and was unnerved by his flat expression. “Move,” he grunted, plucking her off the ground by the back of her robes. The First Year made a noise in the back of her throat, choking when her collar pulled against her neck uncomfortably. Harry unceremoniously deposited her outside the bathroom, not even bothering to make sure her feet were steady. She stumbled back against the wall, nearly falling. When she straightened up, she went stock-still with terror, unable to force her body to move away from the grisly scene in front of her.

So much blood...

---

It was a few minutes before the Professors arrived. Minerva, Severus, and Filius all skidded around the corner, Quirrel following after a few seconds.

“Ms. Granger!” Minerva shouted, “What are you doing here!?” The girl didn’t respond, and it was only then that she noticed her staring, horrified, at a gaping hole in the wall. Minerva pulled out her wand, ready to hex to bits anything that popped out, while herding her Lion a few steps away. Severus and Filius slowly approached, peering into the shattered bathroom, and the half-goblin squeaked.

“Mr. Potter!?”

“Potter, what do you think you’re doing!?” Severus barked, pointing his wand at the boy. Quirrel looked about ready to faint again. Curious, Minerva crept closer, and gasped, unable to comprehend what she saw. Standing ankle-deep in the guts of a troll corpse was Fourth Year Ravenclaw, Harry Potter. He was positively drenched in crimson- it dripped from the bottom of his blue-trimmed robes, was smeared over the lenses of his glasses, and nearly covered the entirety of his face. The only reason he was recognizable was because of the trademark Potter hair, which looked like a localized tornado had swept across his scalp.

Potter swiped a sleeve across his glasses- the motion drawing Minerva’s attention to the wicked, curved silver knife in his right hand- in an attempt to see who was talking to him, not that it did much good.

“I’ll be done in a moment,” the boy grunted. His knife melted into a metal baton- a wand?- and he waved it, Conjuring multiple cylindrical glass tanks. Another wave, and the troll organs, lined up on a tarp on the bathroom floor, were each guided into one tank. The last three were filled completely with dark red blood. The glass jars were all wrapped up in one burlap sack, while another bag was Conjured and filled with solid body parts, such as teeth, bones, nails, and the skull. A few Charms cleaned all the grime off Harry, and he stepped down from the ripped-up corpse, gesturing with his wand for the two floating sacks to follow after him.

“Can I help you, Professors?” Potter asked, his tone indicating it was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

“You can start by explaining what this is, Potter,” Severus drawled, looking pointedly at the disastrous scene behind the Fourth Year.

“I believe it’s rather obvious, Sir,” Potter replied dryly. Severus rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment further.

“Why weren’t you at the Halloween Feast, Mr. Potter?” the Deputy Headmistress asked.

“Personal reasons,” he deflected quickly, and Minerva grimaced. Of course he wouldn’t care to celebrate on this night.

“Yes, my apologies,” she said. “Ms. Granger? What about you?” she asked the girl who was standing a few paces away. The girl flushed, seemingly embarrassed.

“I… Came her because… Some of the other students were teasing me. I swear, I didn’t mean to skip the feast! I just lost track of the time!” she cried, tears prickling the corner of her eyes. Minerva felt righteous rage burning in her breast.

“Who?” she asked, ready to slap every single one of them with detention for the rest of the year. Bullying the poor girl enough to make her cry in the bathroom for hours was horrible on its own, but for it to result in her nearly dying to a troll attack!? They were lucky Minerva wasn’t contemplating expulsion! It was only the fact that this sort of incident was nearly impossible to plan, especially for a student, that kept her anger in check. Granger looked panicked, as if she didn’t want to reveal their identity and let them be punished- a kind sentiment, but utterly misplaced, in Minerva’s opinion- when Potter opened his mouth.

“Weasley Number Six, hm?”

Granger’s jaw dropped. “H-How…?” she asked, unable to formulate full sentences. Potter snorted.

“That little fool has been putting his foot in his mouth for as long as I’ve had the displeasure of knowing him. I doubt the vaunted Boy-Who-Lived is completely innocent, either.”

Minerva’s nostrils flared. “Is that so?” She turned to Granger. “Is Mr. Potter correct, Ms. Granger?” Shame-faced, the girl nodded, and Minerva’s heart went out to her little Lion. She swept forward, engulfing her charge in a tight hug. That was all it took for Granger to break down into sobs.

“I just- wanted to h-help him perf-form the Levitation Charm!” Granger wailed. Minerva squeezed her tighter, glancing at Filius for confirmation. The Charms Professor nodded, scowling furiously.

“Mr. Weasley was sitting next to Ms. Granger during class, and he didn’t seem to be having much success. I remember deciding to leave him be and help a few other students, because I saw Ms. Granger explaining the spell to him, and figured he was in good hands.”

Minerva was positively quaking with fury. “Mr. Potter, would you be so kind as to escort Ms. Granger to the Hospital Wing? I believe a Calming Draught would not be remiss at the moment. I have students to discipline.”-

Potter sighed, and looked to Severus, who flicked his wand at the troll remains, taking control of them. “I will bring them down to my office. Collect them before breakfast.”

“The livers are off-limits; I actually need those for a project.” Minerva quirked an eyebrow at the interaction, but didn’t comment. Potter came forward and scooped Granger up in a princess-style carry, causing the girl to squeak.

“I hardly think that’s appropriate, Mr. Potter,” Minerva said, lips thin with disapproval.

“Have you seen how short her legs are? I’d like to get to the Infirmary today, thank you.” Minerva snorted quietly, noting how Granger buried her face in the crook of Potter’s neck, face flaming. She smiled slightly.

“Well, since Ms. Granger seems so comfortable, I’ll allow it this time.”

“Professor!” Granger cried, sounding scandalized, though she made no move to change her position. The old Scot chuckled.

“Off with you two. Filius, Severus, I suggest you two head down to your own Common Rooms and inform the students that the situation has been taken care of.”

The other Professors nodded, before Severus said, “Fifty points to Ravenclaw, Potter, for saving a fellow student’s life.” The Potions Master stalked off down the hallway, robes billowing dramatically behind him. Filius exclaimed his agreement, and scampered away to Ravenclaw Tower, while Minerva strode gracefully to the Lion’s Den, ready to raise hell.

Tonight’s verbal arse-whooping would be legendary.

---

“Sit there, Mr. Potter. I must check you over.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you fought a bloody troll, that’s why!” Madame Pomfrey shrieked.

Harry scowled. “I didn’t fight it, I killed it. There’s a difference.”

“Don’t get smart with me, lad! If you think I won’t put you over my knee-”

Hermione giggled, watching as the Mediwitch stood toe-to-toe with the raven-haired boy, attempting to glare him into submission despite him being nearly half a head taller. The elderly woman was standing in front of the door of the Hospital Wing, blocking Harry’s attempt to leave after dropping Hermione off. The First Year felt a bit hurt, but decided that, since he’d already saved her life, he wasn’t obligated to spend more time around her. She was, however, secretly pleased when he stepped back into the Infirmary, sitting on the bed next to hers with a huff.

“Fine. Just get this over with. I’ve things to do,” Harry said impatiently. Madame Pomfrey swatted him on the head.

“I will finish when I do, and not a second sooner!” Harry muttered something about crazy old hags, earning yet another thump. Madame Pomfrey began waving her wand and whispering incantations. Lights appeared in front of Harry, and Madame Pomfrey finally cut off the flow of diagnostic spells, nodding in satisfaction. “Well, it seems you were telling the truth, Mr. Potter.” The boy growled and made to leave, only for the nurse to stop him. “However, you’ll be staying here until Professor McGonagall arrives. She Floo-messaged me, and wishes you to keep Ms. Granger company.”

A rumbling noise echoed from his chest, and the Fourth Year looked enraged. However, Madame Pomfrey just whipped out a bar of chocolate from the pocket of her robes and shoved it into his hands. The boy reluctantly quieted down, tearing open the wrapper and nibbling on the corner. Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes.

“Like a toddler,” she muttered, a fond smirk on her lips. Harry stuck his tongue out, moving to sit in the chair next to Hermione’s bed. He tapped a finger to the inside of his right wrist, and a leather-covered book with no visible title appeared, startling Hermione something bad.

“How did you do that?” Hermione asked, eyes sparkling at the thought of more arcane knowledge. Harry just cracked open the book, leaned back in his chair, and began reading. Hermione considered pouting- it worked on her parents, sometimes, when she was younger- but decided against it. He wasn’t even looking at her in the first place. They sat quietly for a while, but the silence was starting to drive Hermione mad. She didn’t even have a book to occupy herself! “So, what year are you in?”

“Fourth.”

“And you’re in Ravenclaw, judging by your robes.”

“Mm.”

“Fifth Year is when students do their OWLs, yes?”

“Mm.”

“Are you prepared for them?”

“No.”

“What? Don’t you know they’re the most important exams in your life, alongside the NEWTs? Your grades on those exams can very well determine the course of your life, such as which classes you’ll be allowed to take from Sixth Year on, and after Hogwarts, which jobs you’ll be qualified for! You must prepare properly for them- your very livelihood depends on it!”

Harry flipped the page in his book.

“Are you listening to me!?” Hermione shrieked, making the Fourth Year glance up, looking very annoyed.

“Yes. I simply chose to ignore you.”

Hermione huffed. “How rude!”

“It’s more rude of you to assume I knew none of that, despite me being in this school for longer than you,” Harry droned, returning to his reading. His eyes were flitting across the words at incredible speeds- speeds that Hermione knew she couldn’t match.

“Are you even reading, or just skimming the pages?” she asked snidely.

Harry snapped his book shut, making the First Year flinch. “Is there a reason you’re trying to piss me off?” he hissed, glaring at her menacingly. His emerald eyes glowed with a fierce light, cowing Hermione. She tried drawing upon her Gryffindor courage, but to no avail. A shiver racked her spine.

“I-I wasn’t trying to make you angry. I’m simply trying to impress upon you the importance of your exams,” Hermione explained weakly. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I don’t need you telling me that.”

“You said you weren’t prepared for your OWLs, even though they’re next year!”

“Why would I bother with that when I’ve already done them?”

“...What does that even mean?”

“It means, I did my OWLs in Second Year,” Harry said slowly, condescendingly. Hermione ignored his tone.

“What!? How!? Would I be able to do that as well!?”

“That is a matter to take up with you Head of House, Ms. Granger,” Professor McGonagall interrupted, striding out of Madame Pomfrey’s office, where she Flooed in. “And, since I am here, I am forbidding it. You will take your OWLs in your Fifth Year, along with the rest of your classmates.”

“But, Professor McGonagall, Harry-”

“Mr. Potter is a special case, Ms. Granger.” That was when the Deputy Headmistress noticed the bar of chocolate the Fourth Year was nibbling on. “I see Poppy had to bribe you once more,” she commented, beyond amused. Harry glared impotently, the effect ruined by the eagerness with which he bit into the treat.

“‘S not my fault,” he grumbled around a mouthful of gooey goodness. “The smell of potions is too strong in here.”

“Well, then I suppose I shan’t ask you to suffer it any longer. You may return to your dorm for the night, Mr. Potter.” The young man positively rocketed out of the Infirmary, making the Iron Lady of Hogwarts chuckle fondly, shaking her head. “That boy…” She occupied the chair he had been sitting in, turning her attention to her little Lion.

“How are you, my dear?”

“I’ve… Been better,” Hermione hedged. “The Calming Draught seems to have worked, at the very least.”

“Yes, Madame Pomphrey’s skill in potion brewing is only outclassed by Severus, a Potions Master. She does good work.”

“Um, Professor…” Hermione trailed off, unsure how to say what she wanted to. She fiddled with the loose fabric of her robes.

“Yes, Ms. Granger? If you have a question, you need but ask.”

“What’s going to happen with Ronald and Thomas?”

McGonagall’s face darkened like a black thundercloud. “They, along with Mr. Longbottom, will be serving three months of detention, and have been deducted fifty House Points each. Given how Mr. Potter- the younger, that is- has already lost fifty points for insulting Professor Snape during class, I’m afraid this might put Gryffindor out of the running for the House Cup.”

Tears sprung to Hermione’s eyes, despite the Calming Draught. The first term wasn’t even done, and all her hard work had already been undone? She had gained the most points among the Gryffindor First Years through her diligent, if somewhat excessive, work, and it resulted in nothing? McGonagall seemed to be able to follow her train of thoughts, because she stood and put a comforting arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but bullying will not be tolerated in any capacity. Hopefully having the rest of the House being quite cross with them will set those boys straight. At any rate, I have paperwork to do. Will you be fine on your own?” Hermione nodded, and Professor McGonagall strode out of the Hospital Wing, leaving the bushy-haired girl alone with her thoughts.

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction

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corkcrab7-blog · 5 years

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TV Review: Mayans MC 1.2 “Escorpión/Dzec”

Mayans MC Season 1 Episode 2: “Escorpión/Dzec” Directed by Norberto Barba Written by Kurt Sutter Created by Elgin James, Kurt Sutter Starring JD Pardo, Clayton Cardenas, Edward James Olmos, Sarah Bolger, Michael Irby, Carla Baratta, Antonio Jaramillo, Raoul Max Trujillo, Richard Cabral, Danny Pino, Emilio Rivera FX Air Date: Tuesday, September 11, 2018, 10pm

Last week on Mayans MC, we were reintroduced into Kurt Sutter’s world of biker gangs, this time on the Latin side. The Mayans MC were featured in the Sons of Anarchy pilot, and in return, the Sons (with a new leader) had a cameo in this pilot. Young Ezekial (EZ) Reyes (JD Pardo) is a prospect with a brother in the club, a butcher father (not of humans) who is sucked in somehow, a son and an ex who are now the family of a cartel leader, and a detective to whom he slips info to. This kid is in all kinds of trouble. And not because he’s in an MC, where everyone shoots up rivals or that they sell drugs through a dress shop front. Excited yet?

Warning! Spoilers for episode 2 below.

Mayans MC 1.2 “Escorpión/Dzec” review: The rebels follow Galindo’s (Danny Pino) family, hold them at gunpoint, and take the baby, a scorpion crawling symbolically, while Emily (Sarah Bolger) screams into the night.

Felipe (Edward James Olmos) talks to his dead wife about his worries about EZ, “Stay close my love.” He is still my favorite part of the show (but it’s only episode 2).

No word on the baby. Emily demands answers now about everything. Her husband promises her he’s gonna go to the MC.

Dogwood Louie shows up at the dog shelter/addict shelter and they give chase. They don’t know why they are chasing him. Louie flips his car over. Turns out he was running because he didn’t know Coco’s (Richard Cabral) sister was 16 and doing porn. They promise not to kill him for double the cut. But… it’s not really Coco’s sister.

The MC gets the call from Alvarez (Emilio Rivera). Galindo wants to meet. He’s asking for their help as a personal favor. EZ remembers driving by the plates at 60 miles an hour. The kid has a photographic memory. Angel (Clayton Cardenas) promises that he will make a call to Adelita (Carla Baratta) – “It’s Emily’s kid.”

A video from the rebels has gone viral, and the transcript posted everywhere. “It is time for the devil to be afraid.” They think Galindo will cave.

EZ goes to his pop, but is reluctant to burden him. “I’m all you’ve got, son.” He loves his brother and it hurts him for Angel to be involved. He tells him everything. EZ is so torn up about this.

Sons of Anarchy cameo alert! Chuck (Michael Marisi Ornstein)! No fingers Chuck! Coco checks out Chuck’s computer. That girl means something to Coco.

Galindo tortures a food truck man and his son. EZ spits out, “Maybe if you didn’t treat them like greasy fuckin’ peasants, you’d still have your son.”

The MC realizes something is up with the dog shelter, and go in guns up. Alvarez says guns down and there’s a fun rumble.

Galindo’s parents tell him the real story of how his brother dies, to tell him to let his son go and move on. Will he listen? Emily sees her father-in-law talking to one of the goons. They send a message. The food truck guy and his son are dead by fire with the flyer stuffed in their mouths. Galindo’s mom makes Gemma look like an angel. Adelita is shaken, which was nice to see as I thought that girl was an ice cube.

Emily shows up at Felipe’s to see EZ. “I need your help.” She asks EZ to give her truth. He tells her about the 2 burned innocents. He promises to not let anything happen to her son, and flashbacks to his mother’s death.

Coco picks up his mom the hooker. “We gotta talk.” That is an interesting moment. What’s going on?

This episode was better than the first. We saw more depth with EZ, as well as Bishop (Michael Irby) when he didn’t punish EZ for mouthing off to Galindo. The Galindo’s seem very much in love, but I would not be surprised at that turning ugly in an episode or two. I do want to see more chemistry with EZ and Emily. Right now, he just seems eager to please. I like that the MC cares about kids the way they do. They are not soft, as you can tell from the easy fighting and killing, but they show mercy, which is not something you see very often in this world.

Mayans MC airs Tuesday nights at 10pm ET on FX.

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Source: https://www.geeksofdoom.com/2018/09/12/tv-review-mayans-mc-1-2-escorpiondzec

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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mmmthornton · 7 years

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tagged by @internetangstar

Name: Mary Nickname(s): ...Mmmary? Zodiac Sign: Aries Height: 5′5″ so exactly average haha Ethnicity: white/hispanic Orientation: lesbian Favourite Fruit(s): oranges, strawberries, blueberries Favourite Season: fall Favourite Book(s): gay star trek buks, anything by Kurt Vonnegut Favourite Flower(s): pink dogwood blossoms are my fav! Favourite Animal(s): cats, dogs, honestly almost any Favourite Beverage(s): whiskey, black tea w milk Average Hours of Sleep: ~7 Favourite Fictional Characters: all of my tiny gay garbage sons; James T. Kirk Number of Blankets You Sleep with: sheet + duvet cover + maybe a fuzzy blanket if needed Dream trip: Barcelona! Blog Created: ~2011 i think? Number of Followers: about 900 now!

Tag 20 blogs: oof i ammm bad at this soooooo @father-jellyfish @anarchism-lesbianism @boy-gesserit @localhorrorlesbian @femmewastelander @hypothesis-hobbyist @lordgoldeneyes aaannnd any other mutual of mind since I am bad with names/several drinks deep on this thursday eve’, but i wanna get to know all of y’all more <3

#me #my life #ask meme

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lzteach · 6 years

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Barbara Claypole White grew up in the English village of Turvey with big dreams of becoming a novelist. So, armed with a history degree from York University, she went to work in the London fashion industry. After she failed to snag the job of her dreams—and was wallowing in excessive self-pity—her boss sent her to New York on business. Flying home over the Atlantic, she fell for the handsome American professor who had picked her up at JKF Airport with a well-informed comment about English author P.D. James. (Fiction matters, people.)

Eighteen months later, Barbara embarked on a new life as a faculty spouse, freelance writer, and marketing director in a small Midwest college town. She also had a dirty little secret: she was writing a novel. Set against the backdrop of eighties fashion and the arrival of AIDS in London, it was spectacularly bad.

Then Barbara learned she was pregnant, and her husband was offered a distinguished professorship at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. The family moved to the forest outside the historic town of Hillsborough, and Barbara became a stay-at-home mom and a woodland gardener. Both passions would shape and guide her writing voice. She also started a new manuscript called Dogwood Days, but her writing ground to a halt when her young son was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

They entered into exposure therapy, and Barbara began her ongoing journey of educating herself about life with anxiety. Growing up, she had watched family members struggle with mental illness in secrecy and shame. She was determined her son would follow a different path. As he began to reclaim his life from irrational fear, Barbara returned to her manuscript. One day, a charismatic entrepreneur with severe OCD strolled into her imagination and refused to leave. His name was James Nealy.

Barbara rewrote Dogwood Days with James as her hero. When it won second place in the Carrie McCray Memorial Literary Awards for Novel First Chapter, she began to think, “Maybe.” She joined a nonfiction project for parents of children with invisible disabilities called Easy to Love But Hard to Raise, began blogging through the highs and lows of life with OCD, and landed an agent and a two-book deal. Dogwood Days became The Unfinished Garden and won the 2013 Golden Quill Contest for Best First Book. The In-Between Hour, which was chosen by the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance as a Winter 2014 Okra Pick, followed. She also became an OCD advocate for the A2A Alliance, a nonprofit group that promotes advocacy over adversity.

Her third novel, The Perfect Son, was picked for Amazon’s Kindle First Program and became a Goodreads Choice Award 2015 Nominee for Best Fiction. Echoes of Family, another darkly quirky BCW tale, launched in 2016 and was chosen as a finalist for the Women’s Fiction Writers Association’s annual Star Award. Coming in January 2018, The Promise Between Us revisits Barbara’s passion for chipping away at stereotypes of OCD. She is currently hard at work on novel six (technically seven)…when she’s not waging war against squirrels and voles or gardening with a watchful eye open for Horace, the black snake who likes to scare the UPS guy.

But what of her brilliant son, formerly known on social media as the Beloved Teenage Delinquent? Now the Artist in Residence, he is still her muse and one of her trusted early readers. Dubbed the Warrior Poet by a local magazine when he was still in high school, he graduated from Oberlin College (Phi Beta Kappa) and is now a writer, a musician, and a trainee sound engineer. Barbara and the Prof firmly believe he will change the world.

Meet Author Barbara Claypole White

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networkingdefinition · 4 years

Text

Maple Quotes

Official Website: Maple Quotes

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• A lone maple leaf resting on sand Have you ever been out for a late autumn walk in the closing part of the afternoon, and suddenly looked up to realize that the leaves have practically all gone? And the sun has set and the day gone before you knew it, and with that a cold wind blows across the landscape? That’s retirement. – Stephen Leacock • A river is the most human and companionable of all inanimate things. It has a life, a character, a voice of its own; and it is as full of good fellowship as a sugar maple is of sap. It can talk in various tones, loud or low, and of many subjects grave and gay…. For real company and friendship there is nothing, outside of the animal kingdom, that is comparable to a river. – Henry Van Dyke • A sad sort of vulnerability was wafting from her, making the night smell like maple syrup. – Sarah Addison Allen • A solitary maple on a woodside flames in single scarlet, recalls nothing so much as the daughter of a noble house dressed for a fancy ball, with the whole family gathered around to admire her before she goes. – Henry James • A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn’t it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures? – Ivan Turgenev • After the keen still days of September, the October sun filled the world with mellow warmth…The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her…In October any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible. – Elizabeth George Speare • Again the blackbirds sings; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers. – John Greenleaf Whittier • And again it snowed, and again the sun came out. In the mornings on the way to the station Franklin counted the new snowmen that had sprung up mysteriously overnight or the old ones that had been stricken with disease and lay cracked apart-a head here, a broken body and three lumps of coal there-and one day he looked up from a piece of snow-colored rice paper and knew he was done. It was as simple as that: you bent over your work night after night, and one day you were done. Snow still lay in dirty streaks on the ground but clusters of yellow-green flowers hung from the sugar maples. – Steven Millhauser • Anne reveled in the world of color about her. “Oh, Marilla,” she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it? Look at these maple branches. Don’t they give you a thrill–several thrills? – Lucy Maud Montgomery • Around in silent grandeur stood The stately children of the wood; Maple and elm and towering pine Mantled in folds of dark woodbine. – Julia Caroline Dorr

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Maple', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_maple').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_maple img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • But truth be told, I’m not as dour-looking as I would like. I’m stuck with this round, sweetie-pie face, tiny heart-shaped lips, the daintiest dimples, and apple cheeks so rosy I appear in a perpetual blush. At five foot four, I barely squeak by average height. And then there’s my voice: straight out of second grade. I come across so young and innocent and harmless that I have been carded for buying maple syrup. Tourists feel more safe approaching me for directions, telemarketers always ask if my mother is home, and waitresses always, always call me ‘Hon. – Sarah Vowell

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• Catch a vista of maples in that long light and you see Autumn glowing through the leaves…. The promise of gold and crimson is there among the branches, though as yet it is achieved on only a stray branch, an impatient limb or an occasional small tree which has not yet learned to time its changes. – Hal Borland • Consider the many special delights a lawn affords: soft mattress for a creeping baby; worm hatchery for a robin; croquet or badminton court; baseball diamond; restful green perspectives leading the eye to a background of flower beds, shrubs, or hedge; green shadows – “This lawn, a carpet all alive/With shadows flung from leaves’ – as changing and as spellbinding as the waves of the sea, whether flecked with sunlight under trees of light foliage, like elm and locust, or deep, dark, solid shade, moving slowly as the tide, under maple and oak. This carpet! – Katharine Sergeant Angell White • Do you think I’m wonderful? she asked him one day as they leaned against the trunk of a petrified maple. No, he said. Why? Because so many girls are wonderful. I imagine hundreds of men have called their loves wonderful today, and it’s only noon. You couldn’t be something that hundreds of others are. – Jonathan Safran Foer • Everyone had a Japanese maple, although after Pearl Harbor most of these were patriotically poisoned, ringbarked and extirpated. – Barry Humphries • For anyone who lives in the oak-and-maple area of New England, there is a perennial temptation to plunge into a purple sea of adjectives about October. – Hal Borland • For hours she had lain in a kind of gentle torpor, not unlike that sweet lassitude which masters one in the hush of a midsummer noon, when the heat seems to have silenced the very birds and insects, and, lying sunk in the tasselled meadow grasses, one looks up through a level roofing of maple-leaves at the vast, shadowless, and unsuggestive blue. – Edith Wharton • For watching sports, I tend to drink Guinness; early evenings always begin well with a Grey Goose and tonic with plenty of lime; and on a cold winters night, theres nothing quite like a glass of Black Maple Hill… an absolute peach of a bourbon. – Martin Bashir • Freezing concentrates sugar (maple sugar), alcohol, and salt solutions as efficiently as heating distils water or alcohol from solutions. Open pans of maple sugar can have the surface ice removed regularly (each day) until a sugar concentrate remains. Salts in water, and alcohol in ferment liquors can be concentrated in the same way. – Bill Mollison • I always feel at home where the sugar maple grows…. glorious in autumn, a fountain of coolness in summer, sugar in its veins, gold in its foliage, warmth in its fibers, and health in it the year round. – John Burroughs • I always go to the lowest common denominator for that ingredient. So if I think squash, I try to think what it means to me — and if it doesn’t mean anything to me, I’m not gonna do well when I cook it. So [squash] means to me: fall, maple syrup, cinnamon, and things just come into your head so you can narrow the vortex and make it a bit smaller and you go with something because there’s no time. – Geoffrey Zakarian • I always have a good quality extra virgin olive oil. A cheap quality oil will end up cheapening your dishes. And I love sweetening my dishes with maple syrup. It has a bit of a bitter kick at the end that works wonderfully in savory dishes. – Nadia Giosia • I am passionate about tea, running, the idea that we are bound only by the limits of our imaginations, and maple syrup. – Misha Collins • I ate breakfast in the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to the station through the most glorious October colouring. The sun came up on the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orange and the stone walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear and full of promise. I knew something was going to happen. – Jean Webster • I drink maple syrup. Then I’m hyper so I just run around like crazy and work it all off. – Rachel McAdams • I grew up trying to play for the Toronto Maple Leafs, not Team Canada. Didn’t even know it existed. – Adam Oates • I happen to know everything there is to know about maple syrup! I love maple syrup. I love maple syrup on pancakes. I love it on pizza. And I take maple syrup and put a little bit in my hair when I’ve had a rough week. What do you think holds it up, slick? – Vince Vaughn • I have a maple leaf tattoo over my heart, quite literally, and my two favorite things on Earth are being in Canada and making movies. – Jay Baruchel • I like Toronto a lot, it’s a good city. The only thing that really annoys me about Toronto is that you’re turning Maple Leaf Gardens into a grocery store, which is absolutely nothing short of disgusting. – Rick Wakeman • I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, the air gold and so clean it quivers. – Leif Enger • I sit where the leaves of the maple and the gnarled and knotted gum are circling and drifting around me. – Alice Cary • I think maybe, if I could be a Canadian super hero, I’d have some kind of freezing power and some sort of maple syrup weapon. Could be a little sticky. – Nathan Fillion • I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple. – Janet Fitch • I used to go to Maple Leafs games all the time when Nic shot To Die For here in Toronto. This is a great city. I love it here. – Tom Cruise • I was cutting and threading pipe in the tunnels to get water into the shower rooms for athletics. I was repairing old metal windows, fixing cement walls where rain was coming through, and drying out the maple gym floors in hopes of removing the warping. – Tom Baker • I was just getting acquainted with the wood. I wanted to see if it was maple or pine. – Kurt Rambis • If it’s not 100 per cent pure maple syrup, it can’t be called ‘pure maple syrup. – Nancy Greene • If you’ve only got one day to live, come see the Toronto Maple Leafs. It’ll seem like forever. – Pat LaFontaine • I’m not from a maple producing area and so my maple syrup credentials are very much of the eating side. – Nancy Greene • I’m very proud to be wearing the “C” for the Maple Leafs. It puts a smile on my face everyday – Mats Sundin • In New York and New England the sap starts up in the sugar maple the very day the bluebird arrives, and sugar-making begins forthwith. The bird is generally a mere disembodied voice; a rumor in the air for two or three days before it takes visible shape before you. – John Burroughs • In spring when maple buds are red, We turn the clock an hour ahead; Which means, each April that arrives, We lose an hour out of our lives.

Who cares? When autumn birds in flocks Fly southward, back we turn the clocks, And so regain a lovely thing That missing hour we lost in spring. – Phyllis McGinley • In the long dusks of summer we walked the suburban streets through scents of maple and cut grass, waiting for something to happen. – Steven Millhauser • It is a poor observance of our first century as a nation if we run up a flag of surrender with three dying maple leaves on it. – Charlotte Whitton • It is a vast wilderness of rocks in a sea of light, colored and glowing like oak and maple in autumn, when the sun gold is richest – John Muir • Leaf fans loyalty is unshakeable. The fans keep coming back and it hurts, I have been there. I have lost in game six to go to the finals with the Maple Leafs, against Carolina and what a great final that would have been. – Curtis Joseph • Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer. – Sara Teasdale • Many of the artifacts of my house had become potential devices for my own destruction: the attic rafters (and an outside maple or two) a means to hang myself, the garage a place to inhale carbon monoxide, the bathtub a vessel to receive the flow from my opened arteries. The kitchen knives in their drawers had but one purpose for me. – William Styron • Maples are such sociable trees … They’re always rustling and whispering to you. – Lucy Maud Montgomery • Maple-trees are the cows of trees (spring-milked). – Henry Ward Beecher • Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The sailing pine,the cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry, The builder oak, sole king of forests all, The aspin good for staves, the cypress funeral, The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage, the fir that weepest still, The yew obedient to the bender’s will, The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill, The myrrh sweet-bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, The fruitful olive, and the platane round, The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound. – Edmund Spenser • My end goal in the piano is to play Scott Joplin’s ‘Maple Leaf Rag. – Miranda Leek • My first semester I had only nine students. Hoping they might view me as professional and well prepared, I arrived bearing name tags fashioned in the shape of maple leaves. – David Sedaris • My love of maple syrup. I’ve been known to knock back a can over a couple days: A swig here, a swig there, and next thing you know it’s gone. It’s a habit I have to stave off. I don’t want to lose all my teeth. – Rufus Wainwright • My uncle, Mr. Stephen Maple, had been at the same time the most successful and the least respectable of our family, so that we hardly knew whether to take credit for his wealth or to feel ashamed of his position. – Arthur Conan Doyle • No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning. – Edmund Clarence Stedman • October turned my maple’s leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers: Soon these will slip from the twigs’ weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser’s fingers. – Thomas Bailey Aldrich • Oh! to be a child again. My only treasures, bits of shell and stone and glass. To love nothing but maple sugar. To fear nothing but a big dog. To go to sleep without dreading the morrow. To wake up with a shout. Not to have seen a dead face. Not to dread a living one. To be able to believe. – Fanny Fern • One day the ‘Maple Leaf’ will make me King of Ragtime Composers. – Scott Joplin • Our lives are like islands in the sea, or like trees in the forest. The maple and the pine may whisper to each other with their leaves … But the trees also commingle their roots in the darkness underground, and the islands also hang together through the ocean’s bottom. – William James • Spring has many American faces. There are cities where it will come and go in a day and counties where it hangs around and never quite gets there. Summer is drawn blinds in Louisiana, long winds in Wyoming, shade of elms and maples in New England. – Archibald MacLeish • That`s a maple leaf, Canadian, not just for being too European but too Canadian. Not so subtly putting [Ted] Cruz`s face inside that maple leaf there. – Chris Hayes • The approach to that movie wasn’t, ‘Lets make this movie about Amsterdam and maple syrup.’ The concept was, ‘Lets go to Amsterdam. Amsterdam is fun.’ So we flew to Amsterdam with our cameras and we saw what happened and then we got back and we sat down and we said, ‘What’s the movie here.’ That’s when we realized that the movie was ‘The Maple Syrup Saga’. – Casey Neistat • The ash her purple drops forgivingly And sadly, breaking not the general hush; The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea, Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; All round the wood’s edge creeps the skirting blaze, Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. – James Russell Lowell • The food that’s never let me down in life is porridge, especially with milk and maple syrup, which is delicious. Paris isn’t a porridge place, but I can buy it in London when I’m there and bring it back with me. – Marianne Faithfull • The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit’s one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself like a once-blind man unbound. The gaps are the clefts in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fiords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock-more than a maple-universe. – Annie Dillard • The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I’ll put a trinket on. – Emily Dickinson • The rinsed foam swirled into one drain that always clogged come October when the maples dropped Canadian propaganda over everything. – Daniel Handler • The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. – Bliss Carman • The spirit of the year, like bacchant crowned, With lighted torch goes careless on his way; And soon bursts into flame the maple’s spray, And vines are running fire along the ground. – Edith M. Thomas • The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown. – John Updike • The sugar maple is remarkable for its clean ankle. The groves of these trees looked like vast forest sheds, their branches stopping short at a uniform height, four or five feet from the ground, like eaves, as if they had been trimmed by art, so that you could look under and through the whole grove with its leafy canopy, as under a tent whose curtain is raised. – Henry David Thoreau • The summer ends and we wonder who we are And there you go, my friends, with your boxes in your car And today I passed the high school, the river, the maple tree I passed the farms that made it Through the last days of the century And I knew that I was going to learn again Again, in this less hazy light I saw the fields beyond the fields The fields beyond the field – Dar Williams • The very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background, where the pine flourishes and the jay still screams. – Henry David Thoreau • The wilderness is near as well as dear to every man. Even the oldest villages are indebted to the border of wild wood which surrounds them, more than to the gardens of men. There is something indescribably inspiriting and beautiful in the aspect of the forest skirting and occasionally jutting into the midst of new towns, which, like the sand-heaps of fresh fox-burrows, have sprung up in their midst. The very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background, where the pine flourishes and the jay still screams. – Henry David Thoreau • The woman is not just a pleasure, nor even a problem. She is a meniscus that allows the absolute to have a shape, that lets him skate however briefly on the mystery, her presence luminous on the ordinary and the grand. Like the odor at night in Pittsburgh’s empty streets after summer rain on maples and sycamore. – Jack Gilbert • The world of life, of spontaneity, the world of dawn and sunset and starlight, the world of soil and sunshine, of meadow and woodland, of hickory and oak and maple and hemlock and pineland forests, of wildlife dwelling around us, of the river and its wellbeing–all of this [is] the integral community in which we live. – Thomas Berry • There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow • There were so many miracles at work: that a blossom might become a peach, that a bee could make honey in its thorax, that rain might someday fall. I thought then about the seasons changing, and in the gray of night I could almost will myself to see the azure sky, the gold of the maple leaves, the crimson of the ripe apples, the hoarfrost on the grass. – Jane Hamilton • There’s nothing people like better than being asked an easy question. For some reason, we’re flattered when a stranger asks us where Maple Street is in our hometown and we can tell him. – Andy Rooney • This fastest of all games [hockey] has become almost as much of a national svmbol as the maple leaf. – Lester B. Pearson • This hill crossed with broken pines and maples lumpy with the burial mounds of uprooted hemlocks (hurricane of ’38) out of their rotting hearts generations rise trying once more to become the forest just beyond them tall enough to be called trees in their youth like aspen a bouquet of young beech is gathered they still wear last summer’s leaves the lightest brown almost translucent how their stubbornness has decorated the winter woods. – Grace Paley • To her bier Comes the year Not with weeping and distress, as mortals do, But, to guide her way to it, All the trees have torches lit; Blazing red the maples shine the woodlands through. – Lucy Larcom • We don’t want you convicted for condiment theft. You go to that prison, you’ll meet big-time operators. Maple syrup stealers. – Deb Caletti • We must keep these waters for wild rice, these trees for maple syrup, our lakes for fish, and our land and aquifers for all of our relatives – whether they have fins, roots, wings, or paws. – Winona LaDuke • We would much prefer to see ownership in the hands of the Maple Group, if only because we would much rather see Canadian ownership of our stock exchange. What we are first of all interested in is making sure that Montreal is able to preserve that niche or expertise. – Jean Charest • When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing’d insects of the sky. – William C. Bryant • When you were a kid, if you went to the Montreal Forum or a hockey game at Maple Leaf Gardens, which I did, there was a great feeling. The new stadiums don’t have it. Why don’t they have it? Building codes. – Frank Gehry • With the fans and the Toronto Maple Leafs organization, the way I’ve been treated here has been awesome. – Mats Sundin • Writing an informative yet compact thriller is a lot like making maple sugar candy. You have to tap hundreds of trees – boil vats and vats of raw sap – evaporate the water – and keep boiling until you’ve distilled a tiny nugget that encapsulates the essence. – Dan Brown • You cannot imprison me!” He bellowed. “I am Hyperion! I am-” The bark closed over his face. Grover took his pipes from his mouth. “You are a very nice maple tree. – Rick Riordan

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'i', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_i').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_i img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

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equitiesstocks · 4 years

Text

Maple Quotes

Official Website: Maple Quotes

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auburnfamilynews · 7 years

Link

A driveway, still wet from an afternoon shower. I’m halfway up to the mailbox when I notice an earthworm writhing its way back over to paydirt. I pick it up.

“Don’t ever get excited about spring games,” the earthworm says. “They don’t mean anything.”

A cardinal lands on a nearby dogwood branch. “He’s right,” it chirps. “The most vanilla defenses in existence, played by walk-ons and third-stringers. Getting your hopes up because of something any player did in that setting is dumb. And I’m a bird.”

“Everyone knows it,” a junebug says as it buzzes by. “Spring games are worthless.”

“Everyone,” the earthworm adds. “Even me. Don’t be stupider than me.”

I cock my arm back to wing the worm into the bushes, then decide otherwise. I cup it in my hands, bring it close to my face.

“You can tell me that. It’s OK. The whole world can,” I whisper. “But you can’t make me listen.”

I set the worm down beneath the hydrangea and finish walking up to the mailbox. I open it to three bills, and a flyer for a house remodeling service I can’t afford.

***

“Mommy, Mommy,” a begoggled and bewater-winged child interrupts as his mother chats up a friend by the pool. “Can I go swim in the deep end?”

She looks up. Braden Smith, Prince Tega Wanogho, Austin Golson, Darius James, Wilson Bell, Casey Dunn, Mike Horton and Marquel Harrell are sitting along the other end of the pool with their feet in the water. They wave.

The mom pauses, and waves back.

***

A set of polished steel elevator doors open on the lowest level of a secret underground bunker. The (actor playing the) President strides out, accompanied by two Secret Service agents and a white-coated scientist. At the end of a metal-lined corridor the President enters a glass-walled observation room. He looks out at a two-story concrete vault, its steel doors inexorably closing around a golden cylinder covered in gauges, blinking lights, and cables. The words “KAMRYN PETTWAY HAMSTRINGS” have been stenciled in black on the cylinder.

“They are secure, sir,” the scientist says.

“Good,” the President says, as the doors lock shut with an echoing bang. “I don’t think I need to explain to you, Doctor, why they must be preserved at any cost.”

***

11 gladiators wearing orange-and-blue breastplates walk from the dark tunnel into the blinding light and deafening noise of the Colosseum. They squint, their eyes adjusting, and learn they are surrounded on all sides by roaring caged tigers. The Emperor signals from his balcony, and the cage doors begin to slide open.

“Again?” one gladiator asks. “We just did this five weeks ago.”

***

A 1930s archaeologist brushes away dust and cobwebs from the ancient stone doors at the bottom of a crypt. His torch reveals an inscription chiseled into the surface, written in a long-forgotten runic alphabet. He mouths the words as he reads them.

“What does it say?” whispers the beautiful woman behind him.

“‘BEHIND THIS DOOR LAY THE TROPHIES OF DREAMS, BUT ONLY A DEFENSE BEARING THE PASS-RUSHER FORETOLD MAY UNLOCK IT,” he says. The archaeologist bends his face to the door and uses his pocketknife to pry away a clot of dirt. A keyhole. He and the woman turn their heads at the sounds of footsteps in the tunnels behind them.

“The book, Alana. Quickly.”

She opens her canvas satchel and hands him a book bound in cracked, centuries-faded leather. He opens it to its midpoint and pulls an ancient iron key out of the hole cut into its pages. The key has a picture of Jeff Holland carved into its handles.

“Let’s hope this works,” she says. He nods, pushes the key into the door, and turns it. They look at each other for a brief second as nothing happens, then brace themselves against each other as the walls shudder, the floor shakes, and the doors grind their way open inch-by-inch.

***

An old VHS home movie: Chip Lindsey, age 8, shrieking with excitement as he tears the wrapping from gift after gift on Christmas morning.

***

A fedora-wearing Daniel Carlson reads a newspaper in a smoke-filled cafe in 1940s London. A dark-haired woman walks in, looks around, smooths the front of her dress and adjusts a hat labeled “Lou Groza Award.” Carlson puts his newspaper down and waves her over.

“About damn time,” he growls, offering her a cigarette and a light as she sits down. “Five more minutes, I was out that door.”

She takes a drag off her cigarette and exhales, smiling. “The world past that door’s a crazy one, Legatron,” she says. “Patience is the same virtue it’s always been, though. You’ll see.”

***

A freshly-plowed field under a staggering sun, long ago. A boy and his father, both in overalls, walk along the furrows. The father takes great fistfuls of seeds out of a burlap sack, scattering them in arcs across the field. The sack is adorned with the local feed store’s five-star logo.

“Papa,” the boy asks, “will all of these seeds grow?”

“No, not every one,” the father answers. “But if you’re working with quality at the start” — and he gives the sack a shake — “you can take your day’s rest knowing things’ll work out all right at the finish. We’ll have ourselves a bumper crop of wide receivers this year, don’t you worry.”

***

Carlton Davis and Javaris Davis walk into the impossibly bumping Halloween party from this year’s most popular teen movie, dressed as the Wonder Twins. They bump fists.

***

“Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!” the child yells from his darkened bedroom. The silhouette of his mother appears in the doorway. “What is it, sweetie?” she asks.

“I’m scared. There’s a monster in my closet,” he says. She starts to tell him there isn’t, but he interrupts. “There is, Mommy, I saw him! Last year! And the year before that! He had green skin, and purple eyes, and couldn’t complete a pass more than four yards downfield! He told me he was going to eat me, just like he ate the end of last season!”

She walks over and turns on the closet light. “See? No monster.”

“But he was there! He could come back as soon as you turn the light out! Or there’s a injury! One play, Mommy, one play and he could come right back. He said …” the boy continued through a whimper, building into hot tears, “he said … he said we’d lose to Georgia again! He’d make sure of it! I hate that monster, Mommy!”

His mother comes over, turns on the bedside lamp, and strokes his hair. “I got you something,” she says. “I was going to wait for your birthday, but maybe you can have an early surprise. I’ll be right back.” She leaves, and comes back with a blanket. She pulls the boy’s old blanket off the bed and unrolls the new one over him, the boy sitting up just enough to see the picture of Sean White printed across it, head-to-toe.

“This can be your security blanket,” she tells him. “Whenever you feel scared of that monster in the closet, just remember you’ve got this to keep you warm, and safe, and monster-free. As long as you’ve got this, that monster can’t bother you.”

The boy snuggled down under the blanket. She was right — everything felt OK again. He could go to sleep, and everything would be all right. “This is nice,” he says. “I’m so glad I have this, Mommy.”

“Me too,” she says. “Good night.”

***

Two animal control officers walk into a darkened basement, flashlights on.

“Refresh my memory: how big this thing supposed to be?” the first says to the second.

“Doc says about the size of a poodle. Still just a freshman. Not sure how it broke out of its cage.”

“You ask me, buncha eggheads lose their science project, oughta be the eggheads down here looking for it.” He swings his flashlight around. “Where you at, buddy? Let’s go, little guy, game’s on.”

And that’s when the 12-foot-tall, three-ton Derrick Brown roars out of the shadows.

***

You open up a YouTube video on your computer. It’s me, speaking into the camera and wearing a “Debbie Downer” t-shirt.

“Look, this point is too complicated to convey via dumb metaphor, so I’m just going to say it,” I say. “Obviously any team with Kamryn Pettway and Kerryon Johnson is doing pretty well for itself at running back. But I’m not sure that unit’s as loaded as the consensus seems to believe. Both those top two guys have meaningful injury history, for starters. Johnson took a step forward in 2016 and should have a big year as a receiver under Lindsey, but he needs another step forward to if he’s going to be a difference-maker in Auburn’s biggest games — he averaged 4.2 yards a carry against Power 5 teams last year. (Pettway? 5.5.) You’d expect someone from the list of candidates behind Johnson to emerge as a threat, but Kam Martin’s the only one whose shown flashes during actual competition, and are those anything other than flashes? Is Devan Barrett ready already? Malik Miller? I dunno.

“What I do know is that worrying about an issue this minor — scratch that, a potential issue this minor — tells me how much confidence I’ve got in the rest of this roster. I’d like to think they won’t give Pettway 39 carries against Mississippi State again, and that it’ll matter. And Lord knows I’d expect any running back with a functional set of knees and ankles to be productive behind this particular offensive line, coached by this particular offensive line coach. But for Auburn to beat the teams I want Auburn to beat this season, they may need a back that’s more than ‘productive.’ And if Pettway’s not healthy, I’m not 100% sure they’ve got one.

“The good news: I worried about the state of our running backs last year, too, and one of them rushed for 1,224 yards in 10 games. End transmission.”

The video stops, and you get annoyed with YouTube for making you click to prevent the follow-up clip from playing automatically.

***

Admiral Ackbar is on stage with Truman, both looking over sheets of paper. He turns to the empty theater.

“Do I really have to do this?” he yells, brandishing the paper.

“Yes,” I say into the microphone at the director’s desk. “Just follow the script, please.”

Ackbar sighs, turns towards Truman. He makes a sweeping gesture in his direction, then looks out over the future audience. “It’s … a trap!” he says, unconvincingly.

***

A metronome ticks its way across the wee hours on a sleeping man’s nightstand. The pendulum arm has the words “Tre Williams and Deshaun Davis” written along it.

***

An old woman lifts her glasses with one hand to peer at the jigsaw piece in the other, then leans forward to inspect the nearly-completed puzzle spread across her kitchen table, then gently taps the piece into place.

“Grandma, what jigsaw are you doing?” a pigtailed 8-year-old asks as she bounces into the room.

“The 2016 Auburn Tigers,” she says. “But there’s one piece missing. Could you help your grandmother out and look under the table for me, sweetie?”

“I think I see it,” the granddaughter says, dropping to her hands and knees and crawling forward. “It’s here, right under the center.”

***

Jarrett Stidham is pulling on his socks in the pregame locker room. We hear voiceover: it’s Gary Danielson.

Stidham is pulling his shoulder pads and navy blue jersey over his head, adjusting straps, buckling buckles. Danielson’s voice repeats itself, speeds up.

“Jarrett,it’sAuburn,vs.Alabama,fortheSECWesttitle,forthetriptoAtlanta.Formorethanthat.They’recallingthisoneofthebiggestIronBowlsthat’severbeenplayed.Whatdoesitfeelliketoknowyou’llbeplayinginagamelikethis Jarrett,it’sAuburn,vs.Alabama,fortheSECWesttitle,forthetriptoAtlanta.Formorethanthat.They’recallingthisoneofthebiggestIronBowlsthat’severbeenplayed.Whatdoesitfeelliketoknowyou’llbeplayinginagamelikethis”

Stidham ties his cleats, pulls on his wristbands, adjusts his belt.

He laughs at a teammate’s comment we don’t hear. He goes over one or two things with a wide receiver, nods.

He bows his head for the pregame prayer. He looks straight ahead as Malzahn begins to deliver his final words before the game. Nessler’s voiceover continues to blur.

“jarrettitsauburnvsalabamaforthesecwesttitleforthetriptoatlantaformorethanthattheyrecallingthisoneofthebiggestironbowlsthatseverbeenplayedwhatdoesitfeelliketoknowyoullbeplayinginagamelikethis jarrettitsauburnvsalabamaforthesecwesttitleforthetriptoatlantaformorethanthattheyrecallingthisoneofthebiggestironbowlsthatseverbeenplayedwhatdoesitfeelliketoknowyoullbeplayinginagamelikethis jarrettitsauburnvsalabamaforthesecwesttitleforthetriptoatlantaformorethanthattheyrecal—-”

Stidham pulls on his helmet and the voiceover stops. Malzahn is done. Silence as Stidham and his teammates march out of the locker room and down the Jordan-Hare tunnel behind Malzahn. Silence as they holler at the ceiling, clap hands, tap the back of each’s other helmets, jump in place. Silence even as the shakers peek over the railings at the end of the tunnel and the green of the field beckons.

Silence until Jarrett Stidham steps through the chemical smoke onto Pat Dye Field for the Iron Bowl, when we hear the loudest noise of his life.

***

Gus Malzahn is reading the January 2015 Field and Stream in an office waiting room.

“Mr. Malzahn,” a woman’s voice says off-camera, “it’s time.”

Malzahn nods, sets the magazine on the end table beside him, pats his knees, stands up, and walks purposefully past the edge of the screen.

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