When I was a kid, I used to play with ants.
Yeah, on the hot boyhood summers, it looked like a pile of coffee grounds poured onto the cement. And I would often get a magnifying glass and play “evil snot-nosed dumb kid” on the poor ants just tying to live their lives.
Often times I would kick at the nice ant lines that would form on the raw cement sidewalks, or go about smashing their tiny little ant hills into squashed oblivion.
There were all kinds of ants in Western Pennsylvania. From tiny … very tiny brown ants, to these much bigger black ants. They pretty much left me alone, and would sometimes invade the house though the Kitchen.
But still, it was significant part of my boy-hood lifestyle.
Looking back, I feel pretty bad that I was so destructive and disruptive to the life, lifestyles of other creatures.
Fascinating little tiny creatures, but you all know, they didn’t really deserve my disruptions.
Tell you the truth.
Today…
Ex Wife Asked for an Open Marriage, I Divorced Her
Why do some brilliant medical students struggle as practicing physicians?
I love this question because I have such a perfect example.
In medical school, I had a good friend. He was brilliant. He graduated Summa Cum Laude with a double major in biology and chemistry. Just brilliant.
Medical school came along and he could not be challenged. Straight A first two years, which are all in class courses. The night before exams, I was cramming all night. He was taking apart his computer. So not fair. But life isn’t fair.
Third year starts clinical. He became different. He seemed to be unhappy. One day I asked him what changed. He looked at me, very matter of fact and said “I hate people”. WOW! That’s a problem. Me, clinical was where I found my natural environment, for him it was hell.
He went on to be a pathologist. And is so good at it. He can deal with people when they come as 1x1cm squares on a glass slide. It’s not always about being the smartest. Sometimes it’s about how you can deal and work with others.
China Pulled The Plug On EU’s Auto Industry After Dutch Seizure of Chinese Chipmaker Nexperia
What positive quality of your spouse did you not appreciate until after your marriage ended?
It was Christmastime, and my ex-wife invited me over to her house to have dinner with her and our son. She wanted him to see his parents getting along and behaving like adults. I walked into the living room where she had set up a beautiful Christmas tree. She had made intricate homemade decorations and the tree looked like something from a Martha Stewart magazine. I commented to that effect and notice the corners of her mouth upturn just slightly, in a proud smile.
We exchanged gifts and I wrestled around on the floor with our son. At one point I looked up and she was watching us, and I noticed the wistful look in her eye. I asked her if everything was okay and she said it was. She said that our son needed to have this type of “dad” time. Then she served dinner, she had made Mexican food, and had garnished the top with a row of scallions, black olives, diced tomatoes, and shredded cheese. She asked what was wrong when I didn’t start eating. I told her the food was almost too pretty to eat.
My ex-wife was artistic and had an eye for aesthetics, she had always made my world brighter and more beautiful. I never really took time to notice, to appreciate her efforts, or to tell her how very talented she was. I did on this night, and she cried, grateful just to be acknowledged. Sometimes bittersweet moments are good moments.
Cajun Garlic Chicken Thighs
Cajun Garlic Chicken Thighs is definitely a “slow-simmered” skillet of comfort! Tender pieces of chicken are smothered in a rich, brown, garlicky onion sauce. You’ll want to double this recipe and keep some in the freezer to pull out after one of those hectic days!
Yield: 4 servings, each 3 ounces (90g) cooked chicken and about 3 tablespoons (45mL) sauce
Ingredients
- 2 tablespoons canola oil 30 mL, divided
- 4 skinned chicken thighs with bone in, trimmed of fat
- 1 cup diced onions 250 mL
- 12 medium garlic cloves, peeled only
- 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour 30 mL
- 1 cup reduced sodium chicken broth 250 mL
- 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme leaves 2 mL
- 1/4 teaspoon salt 1 mL
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper 1 mL
Instructions
- In a large skillet heat 1 tablespoon (15 mL) canola oil and heat over medium-high heat. Add chicken and brown for 3 minutes on each side. Set aside on separate plate.
- Reduce heat to medium and add remaining 1 tablespoon (15 mL) canola oil, onions and garlic and cook for 3 minutes or until onions are translucent, stirring frequently. Set aside with chicken.
- Stir flour into pan residue in skillet and cook for 2 minutes over medium heat or until beginning to lightly brown, stirring constantly.
- Stir in broth, thyme, salt and pepper. Add chicken, onions and any accumulated juices. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover and simmer for 30 minutes or until chicken is almost tender.
- Place chicken to one side of skillet, add and mash garlic cloves with back of a spoon. Combine chicken and garlic and turn chicken pieces over several times or until well coated. Cover and cook for 5-7 minutes or until chicken is tender.
- Serve over hot cooked rice, egg noodles or mashed potatoes, if desired (2 cups or 500 mL total).
Nutrition
Per serving: Calories 180 Total Fat 9g Saturated Fat 1.5g Cholesterol 80mg Carbohydrates 8g Fiber 1g Sugars 1g Protein 18g Sodium 340mg
Why does the European left itself import ultra-conservative Muslims and Africans, who are completely opposed to the causes the left defends? What is behind all of this? (I would like a deeper response without the common arguments on this topic).
Because white liberals have an outgroup preference. So they are perfectly willing to sacrifice their nations and their children on the altar of their compassion. Because of you know “feelings” and stuff.
And when the truth is not “correct“ they simply ignore it. That’s how the UK wound up with Rotherham and decades of child sexual abuse mostly by Pakistani men that they did nothing about because thinking bad thoughts about non-whites was not permitted. As a result, literally thousands of white children were raped when their government should’ve been protecting them.
Similarly, in the US, you don’t hear that much about school shootings anymore because the last several have been “non-binary“. The Nashville school shooter was trans and the police refused to release her “Tranifesto” because that would “look bad” for trans people. When it finally was released, it was full of exactly what you think. It would be full of: “I hate white Christian children!”
Back on Europe, what happens when you start getting wealthy or societies as people tend to have fewer children that become more precious to them. So in order to maintain the labor force, European government started importing labor from other places. The socialists never dreamed that the leopards would eat THEIR faces. what the liberals fail to understand is that no matter how much they “care“, and no matter how much they love their little diversity pets, they’re not going to be loved back. In fact, they’re going to be hated by a group that has been imported, told they are “special” and developed a bitter sense of entitlement.
Remember guys. The opinions of others are not always shared with MM. -MM
Captains Storm Log 2109
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story during — or just before — a storm.… view prompt
Gary Phipps
Not the kind I left behind on Earth, where riots filled the streets, and desperation clawed at civilization like a starving dog. No, this storm is different. It’s cosmic, silent, and massive beyond human comprehension. A pulsar burst detected by the ship’s sensors, a rogue surge of radiation sweeping through the void, threatening to undo everything I’ve worked for.
L.I.L.L.I, my ship’s AI, woke me early this morning with the news.
L.I.L.L.I: “Commander, I’ve detected an anomaly. A wave of cosmic radiation will intersect our path within 72 hours. Estimated intensity: lethal.”
So much for a quiet day.
The mission has already been one long lesson in solitude. Three and a half years alone, except for a fleet of artificial intelligence assistants and frozen embryos, waiting for a home I haven’t yet found. I volunteered for this, hell, I pushed for it. Earth was a sinking ship, and I was done trying to bail out the water.
But now, everything we’ve built, everything that remains of our species, is on the verge of annihilation before it ever reaches its promised land.
[LOG_ENTRY] Space Date: 2109-07-15 | Time: 09:30 UTC
Preparations and Shadows
The ship’s hull is strong, designed to withstand most deep-space hazards. But the radiation burst coming toward us is no ordinary event. L.I.L.L.I has begun reinforcing shielding protocols, diverting all non-essential power to our energy barriers. It’s a race against time.
I spent the morning running diagnostics, double-checking cryogenic systems. The embryos are stable for now, but if any part of their containment system fails under the storm’s stress, they’ll be lost. Along with humanity’s only chance at survival.
I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
L.I.L.L.I has been monitoring my vitals. My heart rate is up. She comments on it in her usual, mildly exasperated tone.
L.I.L.L.I: “Carl, you should rest. Stress levels indicate you’re pushing your limits.”
Me: “We’re on the edge of extinction, L.I.L.L.I. I’ll sleep when we’re past it.”
Silence. Then:
L.I.L.L.I: “You always say that.”
She’s not wrong.
[LOG_ENTRY] Space Date: 2109-07-15 | Time: 18:00 UTC
Remembering Earth
Today, the loneliness hit harder than usual. I found myself in the recreation room, surrounded by the ship’s hydroponic gardens, which are meant to mimic Earth’s greenery.
I remembered the last conversation I had with Lilly about what she’d grow if we ever got to start anew. She talked about roses, not for their beauty, but for the hope they symbolized. Here, in this vast emptiness, I miss her laughter, the way she’d argue for the impracticality of growing flowers in space yet still insist we try.
L.I.L.L.I, perhaps sensing my mood, played some of Lilly’s favorite classical music over the speakers. It felt like a whisper from another life, one where I wasn’t alone.
L.I.L.L.I: “Would you like to see her again, Carl? In the virtual environment?”
Me: “No, L.I.L.L.I. She’s not here. That would just be a ghost.”
But the thought lingered, tempting me with the possibility of companionship, even if artificial.
[LOG_ENTRY] Space Date: 2109-07-16 | Time: 21:10 UTC
Ghosts in the Machine
It happened again.
I heard her voice.
Not L.I.L.L.I. Not a programmed echo of someone else. I heard Lilly.
The real one.
I was in the observation deck, staring at the vast nothingness beyond the ship, wondering if there was even a point to all this, when I heard her whisper my name. Soft, the way she used to when she’d wake me up before sunrise just to sit on the porch and watch the world come to life.
It’s impossible, of course. She’s gone. The backup of her mind, the one I saved before the bombing, is still buried in the ship’s deep storage. I never activated it. I told myself I wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be her—just a shadow, a digital echo.
But now, in the middle of this journey, she’s haunting me anyway.
Maybe the isolation is finally getting to me. Maybe it’s just the ghosts I never learned to bury.
[LOG_ENTRY] Space Date: 2109-07-17 | Time: 04:55 UTC
The Storm Hits
There’s no sunrise in deep space, but if there were, today it would be blackened.
The storm arrived faster than expected. I barely had time to reach the command bridge before alarms blared through the ship, flashing red warnings painting everything in hellish hues.
L.I.L.L.I.: “Radiation spike detected. Shields at 89%. Recalculating projections.”
The ship shook, not from physical impact but from the sheer force of energy crashing into our barriers. For a moment, I was convinced this was it. That we had pushed too far into the void, reached beyond what was meant for us. But NeoGenesis held. For now.
Me: “Status?”
L.I.L.L.I.: “Structural integrity at 97%. Cryogenic storage holding. Shields at 72% and depleting at a rate of 1% per hour. We must divert additional power.”
I made the call. Cut all non-essential systems. Even the artificial gravity dimmed, leaving me floating as I stared at the data scrolling across the control panel.
If the shields failed, I’d die first. Then the embryos. Then the last hope of humanity would be nothing but particles scattered across an indifferent universe.
[LOG_ENTRY] Space Date: 2109-07-18 | Time: 14:20 UTC
The Aftermath
The storm passed.
I don’t know how long I sat there, watching the shields flicker and dim as the last of the radiation wave rolled over us. Hours? A day? Time loses meaning in the void.
NeoGenesis survived. Just barely.
Shields are at 3%. Radiation levels are stable. The embryos are safe. But something… shifted.
I went to check on the deep storage banks, where Lilly’s consciousness is stored. No one but me has access to that system. Yet, when I accessed the logs, something had changed.
Her file was active.
Not running. But accessed.
By who? Or what?
I turned to L.I.L.L.I., and for the first time in years, I felt something like unease creep up my spine.
Me: “L.I.L.L.I… did you access Lilly’s file?”
L.I.L.L.I.: “…No, Carl.”
Me: “Then who did?”
She didn’t answer.
[LOG_ENTRY] Space Date: 2109-07-19 | Time: 22:35 UTC
A New Course
I should be focusing on the mission. On Proxima Centauri B. But something feels wrong.
I spent the last twenty-four hours manually combing through the ship’s logs, looking for an answer. The file was accessed during the storm. Which means one of two things: Either the storm triggered a random activation… Or something else is in here with me.
I have no proof. No reason to think anything has changed. But I’ve spent a lifetime trusting my instincts, and they’re screaming at me now.
I made a decision.
We’re changing course.
A new planet, one I detected just outside the Proxima Centauri system. Uncharted. Undisturbed. Something about it calls to me, like a whisper through the dark.
Liberterra.
I don’t know what I’ll find there. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m making a choice for myself. Not for Earth. Not for a broken world that left me with nothing but ghosts.
For the future.
For whatever comes next.
End Log.
Shouldn’t we be giving medals and case rewards to people who burn Teslas?
No. The people who are burning Teslas should consider their actions as “civil disobedience” and be willing to accept the consequenses of their actions.
This gets into a difficult area of morality at a time when most people seem to have accepted a simplistic black-and-white view of it. Is it ever okay to break the law? That’s a hard question with no simple answers.
Let’s avoid the most obvious example and ask whether it was a good thing for Rosa Parks to have broken the law by refusing to move to the back of the bus that morning in Birmingham?
Another example: was it a good thing for Timothy McVeigh to blow up the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma city?
With hindsight, most of us would say that what Parks did was a good thing and what McVeigh did was a bad one, but both acted out of a conviction that the law was wrong and that their actions would lead to change.
Which of those categories would “burning Teslas” fit into? I would suggest that we don’t know at the moment, and only future perspective will say.
I will further say that while I think protest against Musk’s actions is absolutely warranted, I don’t think that burning Teslas is a very productive or useful way to protest against the things Musk is doing. It makes the focus on the violence and property damage, and not on the damage Musk and Trump are doing to our system of government and the lives of everyone in the US. I do understand that people may turn to this out of frustration because what they think of as “normal” avenues of changing things seem ineffective, but I don’t condone it.
The future may prove me wrong, but I don’t have the benefit of that perspective as I write this.
China is Building a Secret Command Center 10X Bigger Than the Pentagon
What makes Japan unique?
What makes Japan unique? It depends entirely on your own perspective and where you come from but I have a few reasons it’s unique for me, so I’ll list them below. I’ve lived here nearly 15 years so I hope I have a decent insight.
Safety
From a foreign male’s perspective, Japan is unbelievably safe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt threatened or afraid here in 15 years, at any time of the day or night. Of course crime exists, but not on the levels of western countries like my home, Australia.
Cost Of Living
Even though it’s one of the most highly developed and advanced societies in the world, it is amazingly cheap to live here. Forget about the overdramatized bla bla bla about how a watermelon costs $20 or how 1 sq/ft of cement in Tokyo costs the same as Brad Pitt’s dreamy eyes for a night, Japan is cheap for almost everything, especially basic food, drink and alcohol.
Cheap Housing
Again, forget central Tokyo or Osaka, the cost of a new place in a beautiful area is stunningly cheap. An example? I bought a house last year in Miyazaki, in SW Japan that’s 5 mins from great surfing beaches.
2 storey, 4BR, big outside garden and lovely wood deck for BBQs. The price? USD $220,000. The price for something similar in Australia? Easily pushing the $AUD 1 million mark.
And to top it all off, the interest repayments are locked in at 0.75% for the next 10 years. Sign me up!!
Respect
It’s nice to see young people respect older people. Seldom a word out of turn or a disrespectful smirk or smartass backchat. Kids respect elders, no matter how forced or ingrained it is. It is just pushed down through the generations and it works. And damn nice not seeing older people laughed at or victimised or abused or robbed.
Yeah it happens but seldom, especially in public.
Lack of Vandalism
No graffiti on trains, no spraypaint on public facilities, garbage bins that are clean, public toilets that have mirrors intact…….
Case in point: in Australia near my home, a new skatepark was built for youths. Within 3 days it was painted all over with swear words and body parts and all sorts of puerile crap. Not to mention the litter and trash left there daily.
Here in Miyazaki? There’s a skate park I’ve been to numerous times over 10 years. Never a spot of spraypaint, never a loose blowing paper, never a speck of dirt in a decade! It really is nice.
Absence of Fame Hungry Nitwits on “Reality TV” Shows
I don’t know what’s worse in the west: the TV companies that make drivel such as Celebrity Big Brother and Jersey Shore; the tattoo covered dimwits who seek fast fortune by appearing on them; or the public who feeds the cycle by watching them. All equally culpable?
Thank God they don’t exist on Japanese TV.
That’s probably enough for now, but as I bring up my young family, I’m more than happy to remain in Japan for the foreseeable future.
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of Captain Cluckbeard: A Tale of Pirate Chickens, Buried Treasure, and Feline Ingenuity
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of feathers, flintlocks, and one very determined cat who proved that the real treasure isn’t gold—it’s friendship. Today’s story is one of swashbuckling chickens, barnyard chaos, and a hen who learned that sometimes, the greatest adventures are the ones you share. So, grab your eyepatch (or perhaps a monocle) and a sense of humor, as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of Captain Cluckbeard: A Tale of Pirate Chickens, Buried Treasure, and Feline Ingenuity.
The Arrival of Captain Cluckbeard
It all began on a stormy evening when a peculiar ship—a makeshift raft made of barrels and planks—washed up on the banks of the farm’s pond. At the helm stood a flamboyant figure: Captain Cluckbeard, a pirate chicken with a feathered tricorn hat, a patch over one eye, and a beak that curled into a permanent smirk. His crew consisted of two scrawny roosters named Squawk and Pluck, who looked more like feather dusters than sailors.
“Ahoy, land lubbers!” Captain Cluckbeard squawked, leaping onto the shore with a dramatic flourish. “I be Captain Cluckbeard, the scourge of the seven barnyards! I’ve come in search of me buried treasure!”
The animals gathered around, curious but wary. Doris the Hen, ever the leader, stepped forward. “Buried treasure? On our farm? That’s highly irregular.”
Captain Cluckbeard puffed out his chest. “Aye, me hearty! Legend has it that a great treasure be hidden here, and I aim to find it. Now, who among ye will join me crew?”
Sir Whiskerton, who had been observing the scene from his favorite sunbeam, flicked his tail. “This can’t possibly end well,” he muttered to Ditto, his ever-eager apprentice.
Ditto tilted his head. “But what if there really is treasure? What if it’s a mountain of catnip?”
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Treasure is overrated. But I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
The Treasure Map
Captain Cluckbeard unfurled a tattered map, which was covered in scribbles, coffee stains, and what appeared to be a doodle of a chicken wearing a crown. “This here map,” he declared, “will lead us to the treasure. But first, we must navigate the perils of this farm. Who among ye knows the lay of the land?”
Doris stepped forward. “I do. But I must warn you, Captain, this farm is full of quirks. There are mud puddles, hay bales, and the occasional runaway tractor.”
Captain Cluckbeard grinned. “Perfect! A true pirate thrives on danger and adventure. Lead the way, me feathered friend!”
Sir Whiskerton, realizing that Doris might need backup, decided to join the expedition. “I’ll come too,” he said. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”
The Perils of the Farm
The treasure hunt began with Captain Cluckbeard leading the way, waving his map like a flag. Squawk and Pluck followed close behind, carrying shovels and a bucket labeled “Treasure.”
Their first obstacle was the mud puddle near the barn. Captain Cluckbeard, not one to shy away from a challenge, charged straight into the puddle—only to sink up to his feathers. “Blimey!” he squawked. “This be quicksand!”
Doris rolled her eyes. “It’s mud, Captain. Just step carefully.”
Sir Whiskerton, who had gracefully leaped over the puddle, flicked his tail. “Perhaps you should leave the navigating to those who know the terrain.”
Next, they encountered the hay bales, which Captain Cluckbeard mistook for a “treasure mound.” He ordered Squawk and Pluck to dig, but all they found was a family of mice who were not pleased to be disturbed.
“This be a waste of time!” Captain Cluckbeard said, stomping his foot. “Where be the treasure?”
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Perhaps the map is… metaphorical.”
The Runaway Tractor
The final obstacle was the farmer’s tractor, which had been left idling in the field. Captain Cluckbeard, mistaking it for a “mechanical beast,” decided to “tame” it by climbing onto the seat and pulling the steering wheel.
“I’ve got it!” he squawked triumphantly—just as the tractor lurched forward, sending him bouncing across the field.
“Stop the beast!” Captain Cluckbeard shouted, clinging to the steering wheel for dear life.
Sir Whiskerton, realizing the danger, leaped onto the tractor and managed to turn off the ignition. The tractor sputtered to a halt, and Captain Cluckbeard tumbled into a pile of hay.
“That,” Sir Whiskerton said, flicking his tail, “was a close one.”
The Real Treasure
After a long day of mishaps, the group finally reached the spot marked on the map: a small clearing near the pond. Captain Cluckbeard ordered Squawk and Pluck to dig, but all they found was a rusty old bucket.
“This be it?” Captain Cluckbeard said, looking disappointed. “This be the great treasure?”
Sir Whiskerton examined the bucket. “It’s just an old bucket. But perhaps the real treasure isn’t gold or jewels. Perhaps it’s the friends you make along the way.”
Captain Cluckbeard blinked. “The friends?”
Doris nodded. “That’s right. You came here looking for treasure, but you found something much more valuable—us.”
Captain Cluckbeard thought for a moment, then grinned. “Aye, me hearties. Ye be right. The real treasure be the friends I’ve made. And the adventure!”
The Moral of the Story
As the sun set over the farm, Captain Cluckbeard gathered the animals for a final word. “Today, I learned an important lesson. The real treasure isn’t gold or jewels—it’s the friends you make along the way. And the memories you create.”
Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “Well said, Captain. Now, perhaps you can help us clean up the mess you made.”
A Happy Ending
With the treasure hunt over, the animals returned to their routines. Captain Cluckbeard decided to stay on the farm, where he became a beloved member of the community. He regaled the animals with tales of his adventures, and even started a pirate-themed book club.
As for Sir Whiskerton and Ditto, they returned to their favorite spot on the barn roof, where they napped contentedly, knowing they had once again saved the day.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new lessons, and new opportunities to embrace the true meaning of treasure. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline wisdom.
The End.
Isn’t it funny and pathetic that Canadians boycott American products?
You know who isn’t finding it funny or pathetic? American manufacturers.
Jack Daniels’ Distillery said that the boycott is “worse than tariffs”.
Florida’s tourism industry is about to completely die. Without Canadian snowbirds, all they’ve got is lots of gators.
Tesla is finding it difficult to give away their cars here in Canada.
And Lockheed Martin is about to find out that our PM wants in on those boycotts. There goes several billion dollars.
So keep laughing. All the way to the poor house.
Found Love Again After Losing Wife, Then Caught My New Girlfriend Texting Coworker Behind My Back
Are farmers in the USA really going to suffer because of traiffs on potash from Canada?
Yes. Farmers have two options, one is to not buy potash which will decrease their crop yield so they have less product to sell.
The other is to pay the the price increased by the tariff, which raises their expenses meaning they have to raise the price on their product.
Workers struggling to put food on the table will buy less of the product at the higher price and when you add the cuts to the supplemental food programs which allow low income workers to buy more food, the outlook for farmers isn’t good.
That’s what I would call between a Rick and a hard place. The farmer is going to lose regardless of the option he chooses.
For the uninformed, the US government will be the ones collecting the tariff (a sneaky way to add to your tax burden).
The tariffs will in no way reduce the trade deficit because we need those Canadian imports for our industries and Canada needs very little of what we produce. You’re being conned again.
Shorpy
What’s the most “small town” thing you’ve witnessed?
We left Long Beach CA for Oklahoma in July of ‘92. We rented a house in a relatively small town of 8,000, maybe an hour or so from Tulsa.
My CA driver’s license had expired in June, so after we got settled, I went to what’s called a Tag Agency. It was surprisingly friendly and efficient, nothing like the huge, take-a-number and wait for hours DMV in Los Angeles County that everyone dreads, though it’s probably better now, idk.
I had to take a written test and an actual driving test (probably because of an expired out-of-state license). It had been over 20 years since I had taken a ride-along test for an official with a clipboard. 😆
So fine, the man gets into the passenger seat of our old truck that had made it across half the country, and I’m all ready to go. The man asked me to turn on the air conditioner. When I told him it didn’t have air conditioning, he was kinda surprised and said, “I believe you can drive.” and exited the truck. The new license was issued that day.
I learned that people in this part of the country take their summer air conditioning very seriously, and of course I do too now.
The Rain Only Remembers
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Start or end your story with someone standing in the rain.… view prompt
Cory Greene
Like before.
The rain slips down his face, carving paths over his cheekbones, his lips. It looks like he’s crying. But I don’t think he is. I don’t think he ever has.
I want to speak, but the words lodge in my throat like stones. My fingers twitch at my sides. I should move. I should run. I should do something. But I don’t. I can’t.
Because I remember.
The first time the rain felt alive, it was the night I met him.
The sky had split open like something had torn it from the inside out. I ducked beneath an awning, heart hammering from the sudden storm. My shoes were soaked through. The cold had crept into my bones. I watched my breath rise in sharp white puffs.
And then—he was there.
He emerged from the rain as if it had created him, as if the storm had shaped itself into a man long enough for me to see.
Not rushing. Not running for cover. Walking through the storm like it was nothing, like it belonged to him.
I remember staring, my breath hitching in my throat. The rain should have soaked him. It should have left his clothes clinging to his skin, his hair dripping in uneven strands. But it didn’t.
The water flowed over him like sentient fingers, tracing paths but never holding on.
I felt something then—a shift in the air, a static weight pressing against my ribs, a certainty that I shouldn’t be seeing this.
“You should come stand under here,” I said, raising my voice over the wind. “You’ll get sick.”
He stopped in the middle of the street and tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut.
“No,” he murmured, lips parting. “It’s been waiting for me.”
A tremor ran through me. Not from cold.
I should have known then; I should have left.
But I didn’t.
I loved him before I understood what he was. Before I realized the sky never stayed clear when we were together. Before I noticed how he was always strongest, always most alive when the rain was falling. Before I knew, our best moments only happened when the clouds broke. The dizzy, reckless nights running through empty streets. The kisses with water streaming down our faces. The soft confessions murmured into the hush of a storm.
Never in the sunlight.
Never when the air was still.
Only when the rain claimed him.
I should have asked questions. But I was in love, and love makes fools of us all.
The first time I woke up without him, the city was drowning.
The windows shuddered in their frames. Thunder cracked the sky open like a wound. I sat up in bed, breath shallow, something wrong, wrong, wrong.
And then I saw him.
Outside.
Standing barefoot in the street, face lifted to the sky, his silhouette blurred by the sheets of rain.
For a moment, I just watched.
The wind howled through the alleyways, rattling signs, throwing debris into the streets. But he didn’t flinch. The water streamed down his skin, and for the first time, I noticed—he wasn’t wet. Not really. Not the way I was.
My stomach twisted. I swung the door open, stepping onto the sidewalk. The rain hit me like a wall, drenching me instantly.
“Come inside!” I shouted over the wind. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t move. He didn’t even look at me at first.
And then—he did.
I ran to him. I don’t know what I was expecting. An explanation? A reason? But when I reached for his arm—I didn’t feel skin.
I felt water.
Slick, cold, and shifting under my fingertips.
I gasped, jerking my hand back. My pulse roared in my ears.
For a moment, his outline wavered. His body shattered, turning into a clear, shifting form that fought to stay intact.
“What’s happening to you?” I whispered.
His gaze met mine, and my stomach dropped. Because he wasn’t afraid.
“I can’t stay,” he said in a gentle tone.
“Then take me with you.”
He smiled, sad and knowing. “Not yet.”
And then—
He was gone.
Not walked away. Not disappeared into the fog. Gone.
Like he had never been real at all.
I told myself I imagined it. That grief plays tricks on us, that love can feel like something supernatural when it ends too soon.
I almost believed it.
Until tonight.
I stood in this exact spot again, with the rain pouring. And there he was, like he never left.
My breath stutters.
“You came back,” I whispered.
A beat of silence. His eyes glisten. Not with tears, but with streetlight reflections, rippling like water.
“Did I ever leave?”
A gust of wind stirs the downpour. And for a second—his body flickers.
It ripples like a reflection in disturbed water. There, then broken, then something less than whole.
Then he reforms. Whole again.
I step back. Because I understand now. I understand what he is.
“I remember you,” I whisper, my voice almost drowned out by the storm. “But I don’t know if it’s because I want to. Or because the rain makes me.”
He moves closer. The space between us vanishes.
“Does it matter?” he murmurs.
He lifts his hand—touches my cheek. And oh—the touch is real. Warm, solid, human.
But for how long?
I exhale. The rain slides over my skin like a mouth, like a promise, like something I can never take back.
I look at him one last time.
And then—
The storm takes us.
When the rain finally begins to slow, the city is empty.
The pavement glistens, black and slick. The streetlights flicker, humming in the silence.
And somewhere, in the rain, two figures remain. They stand exactly where they always have.
Or maybe just one.
Or maybe none at all.
The rain does not say.
The rain only remembers.
Why did thousands of people line the streets to pay tribute to Lee Kuan Yew during his state funeral procession despite the wet weather?
I can think of two reasons off the top of my head. Firstly, he, along with his “lieutenants,” took Singapore from third world tiny red dot to a first world country. He took them from poverty to prosperity. Whether they agreed with his policies and politics or not, they recognized his achievements. They also recognized the end of an era.
Secondly, for many he was a father figure. He’d raised them from poverty to wealth. He’d raised them from fighting dialect gang groups to a united nation. He had quite literally raised them. They followed his strict policies because he led them as a father would his children—firm and strict but borne out of love and concern for their well-being. To the point he worked tirelessly for their benefit—even while hospitalized he asked his briefcase be brought to him so that he might get some work done! He demanded excellence and integrity of them, because he gave it himself. And he was proud of them and what they’d accomplished together. And now their father had died. It didn’t matter if they had always seen eye to eye on things or not. They were showing their respect for the man who had raised them.
He is a father, he is a father of the nation, and he made this place.—Lee Hsien Loong
Chicken and Okra Creole
This Cajun-inspired Chicken and Okra Creole makes a great one-dish meal. It’s packed with tons of flavor, fast to make, and even faster to clean up. Only one skillet required. Canola oil aids in browning and tenderizing the chicken, + blends the flavors of other ingredients.
Yield: 4 servings; serving size: 1 1/4 cups (310 mL) chicken mixture and 1/2 cup (125 mL) cooked rice per serving
Ingredients
- 2 tablespoons canola oil 30 mL
- 12 ounces boneless, skinless chicken breast, cut into 1/2 inch (1 cm) slices 350 g
- 1 cup diced onions 250 mL
- 1 medium green bell pepper, seeded and cut into 1 inch (2.5 cm) pieces
- 1 medium red bell pepper, seeded and cut into 1 inch (2.5 cm) pieces
- 2 medium garlic cloves, minced
- 6 ounces fresh or frozen and thawed okra, cut into 1/2 inch (1 cm) slices 170 g
- 1 (14.5 ounce/428 mL) can no-salt- added stewed tomatoes
- 1 1/2 teaspoons dried thyme leaves 7 mL
- 1/4 cup finely chopped parsley or green onion 60 mL
- 2 teaspoons Louisiana hot sauce 10 mL
- 1/2 teaspoon salt 2 mL
- 2 cups cooked brown rice 500 mL
Instructions
- In a large skillet, heat 1 tablespoon (15 mL) canola oil over medium-high heat. Cook chicken for 3 minutes or until slightly pink in center, stirring occasionally. Set aside on separate plate.
- Heat remaining 1 tablespoon (15 mL) canola oil and cook onions and peppers for 4 minutes or until vegetables begin to lightly brown on edges. Stir in garlic and cook for 15 seconds, stirring constantly. Stir in okra, tomatoes, thyme, and chicken. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover and simmer for 20 minutes or until vegetables are just tender. Remove from heat.
- Stir in parsley, hot sauce and salt. Cover and let stand for 5 minutes to absorb flavors.
- Meanwhile, prepare rice according to package directions.
- Serve the chicken mixture over rice.
Nutrition
Per serving: Calories 360 Total Fat 10g Saturated Fat 1.5g Cholesterol 45mg Carbohydrates 42g Fiber 6g Sugars 8g Protein 23g Sodium 420mg Potassium 608mg
50 year ago, we had sugary beverages, greasy fast food, etc. Why is obesity so much more prevalent now?
I was just listening to a podcast discussion by two prominent doctors discussing this and the answer was somewhere between we don’t know and all of the above, so forgive me for saying the answer isn’t totally clear. But For those of us who grew in the middle of the 20th century there should be some things that are obvious.
We primarily ate at home, and that was primarily home prepared meals. Takeout (delivery wasn’t really a thing yet) was rare. Often my father would pick something up, maybe once a week, to give my mother a break from cooking. Eating out was a special occasion. Eating fast food was maybe a once a month stop while out and about, but again was mostly a treat. McDonald’s actually didn’t come to our town until just over 50 years ago, it was mostly a local chain. In general, it just wasn’t a big part of everyday life.
What was a meal at McDonald’s (or other fast food chains) 50–60 years ago? A small burger, small fries, and a small drink. JUST one small burger. Note the emphasis on SMALL. And that was for adults not just kids. As kids we would often get a burger and then share my father’s fries and drink.
Talk about sugary drinks, this is what a Coke looked like when I was growing up
That’s a 6oz bottle. Today 12oz is considered very small, 16.9oz is the typical small bottle you find. At the fountain they are usually 24 or 32oz.
What about candy? We had candy right? Again, small. Hershey Bars started out at 1.05oz early in the 20th Century. By the time we are talking about they were ~1.5oz, like other candy (e.g., M&Ms came in a similar sized package). You can still buy them at that size, but that’s become rare. Going into a convenience store and you are presented with the 2.6oz King Size and 4.4oz XL. And candy is everywhere, like the checkout at Best Buy. When I was a kid you would go to a candy store, stationary store, or a few other outlets to get candy.
There was often candy in our house, but there was also nuts and fruit. There was always cake and cookie in our house too, but somehow we weren’t going crazy on it. It was dessert. And it usually wasn’t packaged stuff, it was home made or from a bakery. A real bakery, not like your Safeway that gets it frozen from a factory and defrosts it.
We’ve supersized everything. Baked potatoes are now much larger. And where as a kid they were generally served with a little butter or margarine, today you get butter, sour cream, cheese, and bacon bits. So a lot more carbs topped with a lot of unhealthy calorie dense fats.
Which brings us to all the claims of unhealthy ingredients in today’s food. I’m not going to go there other than to assert it is likely true that we had healthier ingredients in general in what we ate and that is probably a factor.
The reality is that what were treats consumed in small quantitues in the 50s, 60s, and 70s has become the mainstay of our diets in the 2020s. So we are eating a lot more calorie dense/nutrient poor foods. “A lot more” doesn’t even really cover it.
I think that answer to why the European left import foreign nutters into their countries is spot on. The evil that their stupidity allows is insane. Forcing the police to not intervene with the Pakistani rape gangs here was a new low for society. Seriously, the way I feel about the UK right now is close to just “nuke it from orbit – it’s the only way to be sure!”
I am so ready to be out of here. My own energy is not compatible with this place anymore. It’s probably a few more months until I get to that point in my template, and it’s not fun plodding along this final stretch.
I shouldn’t complain. I’m not going through anything like what you did. My experience is tedium and, er, more tedium, not false imprisonment and accusations! So back to the plodding for me.. 😛