#334 words

[chaotically-cas]

Never mind I finished my song. It is not steveboy anymore. More like crappy arsonist driver’s license.

[nic-mccool]

Apple Cup

There’s something magical about the chaos of crowds at college football games, and the obstacle course they traverse on the way to their seats. The tailgate party-goers with their fire and food as you walk through the parking lot; the Bible Guy standing in his free speech zone with the megaphone, whose verbal abuse is only occasionally reflected back on him; the Salvation Army ringers who pit us against each other in a desperate attempt to make us forget their crimes; the radio stations handing out free swag from tents posted by the entrance; the plethora of good bad food options.

We work through the stream of purple--punctuated by rivulets of red--up to a pair of much higher seats than we’re used to. The Apple Cup is a lot more expensive than our typical yearly games, and my mom couldn’t afford our usual seats.  

(I like the height, though. When I was little I thought that the higher up the seats, the fancier they were. Like in hotels.)

There’s a lot I’ve been wanting to talk about with her. I made a checklist in my head, and I’ve checked some things off, but many remain and she’ll be heading home soon. I only have this one last day, and yet I can’t bring myself to speak on anything except the cold and shitty pizza as we settle in for the game.

Our conversation peters naturally and I see my chance. I scan my mental checklist, waiting for something worthwhile to come out of my mouth.

“Do you ever talk about me?”

My mom raises her eyebrows, coaxing specificity. 

“You and.. and… and… grandpa. Does he ever mention me?”

She doesn’t frown, per se, but her eyes trace the sky and her mouth pulls itself into a thin line.

“No,” she says, “No, he… no.”

I nodded. I don’t know what I expected, but suddenly I didn’t feel like asking anymore questions. The game started, and I lose myself amongst the swarm of buzzing fans; no longer an individual but a dewdrop in the tide. 

[asheespiquantpeculiarities]

05 - BDSM | Cockwarming | Deep Throating | 69

 Atmon opened his eyes with a very slow blink. There was a haphazardly closed sheer curtain, the sun shone in…

There were pillows strewn about on the floor. There were tiny plants with many tiny figurines stuck next to them in their large pot on the window. Tiny sloths and red pandas and clovers and bumblebees and more… tiny things.

There were drawings in warm colours all over the wall, looking not exactly finished. But enthusiastic and happy. There were books just… hanging on the wall, too. Just like that.

A flamingo was bopping it’s head.

It became more and more certain that this was absolutely not his own home.

He blinked another time and then concentrated on the person in his arms. She smelled… wonderful. All lady. And she’s very nicely round. Best for hugs. And holding. Hair all curled and great to think his nose in.

It was an earthy smell, when he took a deep breath from her hair, ran a hand over her side. And she wriggled her hips against him.

Oh.

He noticed his morning wood.

Huh.

“… mmmmmhhhornin’,”  she took his hand and kissed his palm, before snuggling it to her sternum again.

“Good morning, Rosa,” he said, drowsily.

“Mmmmh… love that voice,” she mumbled, smile audible.

He hummed, closing his eyes again.

She wriggled again and: “Mmmmh, certainly like that, too,” and wriggled onto him.

This should not have been that easy. Last night had been… exceedingly good, then.

So, a reprise in the morning then.

Atmon moved, tensing and completely prepared to do the work, when Rosa grabbed his arm and pulled it close: “No, ‘s too early”

He glanced out the window, sun quite a ways away from the horizon, then shrugged: “But you are are… on me”

“ ‘s nice,” she said. And snuggled deeper into the pillows.

He blinked once again… then kissed her cheek and resettled on the bed once again: “It is”

The world could wait a little longer for them.

[thewritehag]

Got Rick’s POV chapters (just five, but there could be more) outlined. Now to write them. Wow, it’s almost midnight, I should get to bed.

[co301d-blog]

50 Great Teachers

I’ve been going through NPR’s “50 great teachers” series (link here), trying to better understand what it means to be a teacher ally, and a lot of these teachers are just too amazing not to share! I want to share just three of the teachers highlighted, and how what they do/did relates to my growing understanding of what it means to be a teacher ally.

Ali Shalalha: Ali turned a school where only 12% of the seniors at Beit Jann Comprehensive School passed the exams that are qualifiers for higher education into one where every one of the seniors passed. That is phenomenal. While doing so, he cracked down on negative behaviors (cheating), got his car vandalized, and built community. Ali is quoted saying, “"To be a man of education… you can make good community and be better than what we have."

Rodney Carey: Carey works at a school where the focus is helping young people earn their high school equivalency. Carey goes above and beyond to help his students he “gives out his phone number” and gives students in need a ride home. He really wants to see these students (the majority being headed down the “wrong path”) another option, a way out. Giving students a positive option in life is the role of a teacher, and Carey embodies that and more.

Thomas Whaley: Whaley is a second-grade teacher in New York, one that works on uplifting ELL students. ELL students often have lower self-esteems, and think that they will achieve less than their peers, Whaley wants to combat that, and he has been doing a great job. Whaley creates a classroom culture where students aren’t afraid to fail and the sense of community makes the classroom feel safe. The work he is doing here is priceless; these students are lucky to have him as their teacher.

Being a teacher ally means having the best for your students in mind. I hope to be half the ally that these three wonderful teachers are.

[asheewrites]

MississippiRaph’s View

Raphael will wake up and be tired and cold and... he will have a flurry of movement around him. If he chose to during that very day or not. It's always alive and purposeful and mostly disgruntled when it's around him, but there's always something away from himself that is going to interact with him. She'd blow her hair out her face and scowl and throw clothes at him and then leave the room and bring the breakfast and mumble under her breath like he didn't hear her and tell him 'Your breakfast, sir' and wait until she got dismissed by him. She probably actually thought that this behaviour was entirely justified and proper. Hah. Well. He's get up - sooner or later - and dress himself and she might spend the breakfast with him if he asked, making some demeaning comment or another... and then correcting herself. And telling him how he did things wrong... It was a mess. But the thing is, she'd never actually  look... drained. She'd done when she'd been worried about her family. Twice.  It'd been somewhat horrifying to him. But like this... It took maybe two letters before he lost his smile, then. He could not do much for her. He made her life one of a maid. One that had a well-meaning, if lazy, 'master'. Henoch was her chosen one. Well, he was provided for as well. It worked. It worked. Her family was safe. The cat loved to scratch his ankles bloody sometimes... it's descendents are not much better at that... She did not like the dresses. She was not comfortable with the theatre... she was not happy with the reading and writing... But sh used the knowledge on the children. She danced with him, sometimes. It was clear she did not want him. Nothing he could give her she wanted. So he stayed behind and made sure she would be alright. And could trample on some slave owner's presumptious assumptions. She should be happy. Mmmmh.