in the cracks of light (can we just get a pause?)

hazel crawford. thirty-two. grade school teacher & novelist. of course you can have it all. what are you going to do? everything, is my guess. it will be a little messy, but embrace the mess. it will be complicated, but rejoice in the complications.

[demoncity]

It seems like the world is so fast to move its interest to someone else. When I think about filmmakers and actresses that I have admired my whole life, I’ve admired their entire body of work. I have admired what they began with and what they’re doing now. And now I feel like there’s such a weird pressure to find the new face. I don’t get it at all. I want to see women evolve. I want to see a body of work. I want to see all of it.

[ccrawford]

davidgoldmann​:

‘hand it in tomorrow, it’ll be alright’ and other lies by david goldmann

date: twenty-fourth, march 2021 location: brooklyn, new york summary: cue stage right mr. book-sleuth 

his bag barely made a sound as he threw it between the two front seats of his dad’s old 86′ bmw. quiet but not completely silent because it did have something to say… ‘this trip to go and see his parents was going to have to be a short one.’ it had to be. his publisher was breathing down his neck– james cross had been absent from the new york time’s best seller list for too long and if he didn’t want to kiss his fancy new york city apartment (it had an actual bathroom) goodbye he was going to have to write another one. something quick, flashy and something that would keep his reader’s begging for more. david told him he’d have it in six months… it had been five, and the thirty-five-year-old had barely even written one sentence to its name. and none if you didn’t think the the single line of fucks he’d strung together to construct the first one counted as a thrilling starting point.

“– hi, rachel here.. sorry i’ve missed y–” he hung up. voice mails irritated him to no end. always too short.. and with a habit of cutting you off just before you had everything out you wanted to say. where was the option to press 1 and finish the rest off? where was the option to press 2 and throw a string of obscenities at whoever decided that someone making a phone call had something they wanted to say that could be summed up in less than twenty seconds? like, if that was the case david would’ve sent a goddamn-fucking-text. oh, whatever. he’d call her later. he despised texting and wasn’t about to spend five minutes of his time trying to construct something that came off as ‘okay but not sorry sorry because it still wasn’t his fault’ to his girlfriend right now. he had new york city traffic to battle.

by the time he was pulling up outside his parent’s house his phone had alerted him of a new email he’d just got. his heart picked up a beat. it was stupid to spend such a large amount of his week looking forward to her emails, but he did. only before he could pull it up his father’s knuckles met the glass of the driver’s side window and forced his attention there instead. “are you going to get out anytime soon or did you drive all this way just to keep me and your mother waiting…” hi dad. after motioning for his father to step back… though for a moment enjoying the image of hitting him just a little with his door, david climbed out of his car and offered up a tight smile to the man in front of him… “i just got here…” he watched as his father glanced down at his watch and shook his head, before walking back off into the house… “when are you going to cut your hair… you’re starting to look like one of those meth addicts, David.” just for that, David decided he was going to grow it another three inches longer. “David!” he let his mom pull him against her chest as he stepped into the kitchen and attempted to steal a tasting of whatever she currently had under the foil… a quick snap of her small hand had him jerking away.. “not yet… so, what’s this i hear from Aaron that you’re single again…” oh for fucks sake. 

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date: twenty-fourth, march 2021

location: queens, new york

summary: if people were weather, she would be a category 5 hurricane

There was nothing Hazel Crawford couldn’t do if she put her mind to it -- well.. maybe besides balance a bottle of rose, four (new to her but old in the general sense of the word) hard cover books, and a pile of to-be-graded assignments in her arms while attempting to unlock her apartment’s front door. She made the decision, without hesitation, to let her poor student’s book reports and latest art projects scatter across her hallway floor in an effort to save both her wine and books (life’s true necessities). She could pick up the loose sheets of paper, after all — the bottle, on the other hand, would make quite the mess and she couldn’t even bare the thought of first editions hitting the solid ground below her feet without cringing just the tiniest bit. She really hadn’t had much of a choice.

After safely making it inside (dodging the army of animals waiting for her just beyond the door) and cleaning up the mess her lack of coordination had caused, Haze took a seat at her kitchen table and let out a sigh she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding — it had been a hell of a long day, Fridays were always tough. With the children on edge in anticipation of the weekend just out of their reach and the never-ending stream of emails from the school board’s administrators subtly reminding her, once again, that they’d appreciate it if she ‘toned down her fashion choices just a little bit’ — which, come on, who doesn’t love colour?! — she almost hadn’t made it through the day. It was simply the thought of that very same bottle of rose that she had, only seconds before, guarded with her life did she make it through.. that, and of course, the knowledge that her babies awaited her arrival back home.

She reached her hand under the table and was instantly treated to a very wet but welcome and familiar lick — that was Pancake, her golden retriever. He was always the first to say hello. The moment Hazel walked through her apartment door, she knew her man would be waiting for her, tail-wagging like she was the greatest sight he’d ever seen (when, in reality, it was the opposite, she was quite sure). Next, she spotted Mocha’s dark tail from around the corner. She chuckled softly, as she rose from her chair and reached for both the animal’s empty food dishes which sat neatly beside her refrigerator atop themed mats (sunflowers for Pancake and crescent moons for Mocha -- each a representation of their extremely unique and utterly perfect personalities).

“Are you two cuties hungry?” She practically sang as she poured Pancake’s dinner into his bowl first (otherwise, the pup would eat the cat’s food without second thought - he wasn’t the smartest crayon in the box but that only made Hazel love him more). After she’d situated Pancake, she worked on Mocha’s fishy dinner. The feline finally made an appearance, head-butting her leg as a way to say ‘welcome home, mom’ before digging in herself. It was then did Haze wander through her apartment, eyes dancing over her messy living room (which, she made a mental note -- that she’d more than likely ignore -- to clean this weekend) and headed into her bedroom.

The room, lined with more books than most libraries housed, was Hazel’s very own slice of heaven on earth -- the same could be said about the rest of her apartment, sure, but there was something very special about her bedroom (and no, she wasn’t about to throw out some extremely corny line about this being where the magic happened). Instead, this room held all her most prized possessions, including her two fish: Salmon and Gillfunkel. Their fish tank sat atop her small desk, right by her bedroom window. The Neon Tetras’ were as much a part of their little family as Mocha and Pancake or even herself, which would be clear to anyone given the chance to steal of a glimpse of their tank (which was ever so often featured on her Instagram page) -- decked out with castles and gems, plants and algae, tunnels and other playground-esque accessories -- simply put, the two fish lived a life of luxury.  

Hazel reached for the tiny holder of fish food, which was tucked away in her desk drawer. She twisted off the top and quickly sprinkled some flakes into the water and smiled as her fishies swam together towards them, their tiny fish mouths sucking the food in like in the same, almost too-adorable, way they did each morning and night -- a sight the brunette never grew sick of.

As she made her way back into her kitchen, she grabbed her treasured bottle of rose and, with the precession only an expert wine opener could posses, uncorked the bottle and poured herself a healthy glass. Her fingers slipped around the stem, her other hand reaching for a half finished bag of gummy worms she’d left on the counter the night before. She turned quickly on her heels, only stumbling slightly (which, for her, was a definite win) and headed towards her living room -- dropping down onto her comfy couch the second her legs hit the base. Haze settled in as swapped the bag of candy for her phone, which she tugged out of her pant pocket, but not before tossing a cherry favoured worm between her teeth.

No new messages.

No problem, she wasn’t the type of girl who had to wait for a man to reach out to her -- and besides, David wasn’t a man in that sense. Sure, he was a man but he wasn’t her man.. Hazel wasn’t even sure she had a man and if she did, he would more than likely be found at a sleazy, outrageously priced, hipster bar in the middle of Manhattan; with a crowd of over-cologned men who truly believed they were god’s gift to women -- he definitely would not be found in her email’s inbox, a wonderfully witty subject line waiting just for her eyes to be treated to.

With her iPhone balancing against her knees, Haze giggled to herself between sips, as she typed away at her new email.

Subject: re: re: re: Hungarian Princess seeking handsome American man with large ban—heart and much generosity Email: DG, I know you’ve been waiting patiently for an update on the ever-so-exciting saga ‘Where have my left shoes been sneaking off too?’ Well, I forgot something on my way out this morning and had to come back home, caught the culprit redhanded.. Turns out, Mocha has been framing Pancake this entire time. That tiny kitty is too smart for her own good, and poor Pancake.. he just wants to be a good boy. How Mocha fit my boot in her mouth is beyond me but I always have been prone to believe cats are of an intelligent species. She was dragging all my left shoes into the spare bedroom, hiding them behind a dog bed Pancake likes to settle into for his afternoon naps. I suppose, the moral of this story is I shouldn’t be so quick to blame the man down the hall (who, like I mentioned in my last email, drinks far too much milk for an adult man). You can call off the elaborate manhunt we previously planned, Mocha has been given a good talking too and my left shoes? Other than a few teeny tiny teeth marks, they’ve been safely returned. Any who, enough about my personal zoo (I’ll spare you the details of Salmon and Gillfunkel’s fish spat this morning.. it got ugly), how was your day? Hope it wasn’t as chaos-filled as my own. Adios (for now), HC

[dakotajohnsxn]