I am new to having a drum sander, and I am having an issue that I assume is operator error. I sent a guitar body blank through my planer and got it nice and flat, using a planer sled. Once finished there was just a bit of snipe on the board.
I decided the best way to deal with the snipe would be to send it through my brand-smoking- new Supermax 16-32 drum sander.
I am not sure what went wrong, but the board came out twisted. Or, at least when I put it on my tablesaw it wobbles like a twisted board. Went in straight and flat, came out twisted.
I have not used a drum sander before today, so I assume I am doing something wrong, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how this happens.
Any advice, or has anyone else experienced something similar? Any chance I got a bad machine with a bent table or something?
Thanks for any and all help, Jeremy

This guy(34M) and I(21 nonbinary) have talked before and met about 6 months prior. At that time, we had been talking for a few weeks on a dating app before we had met and everything was going good. Conversation was stimulating and we were both obviously attracted to each other, and if I remember correctly, the conversation was never inherently sexual in any capacity. The night we had met was pretty fun, he took me out to a well known part of the city that is pretty beautiful at night and we had to have been talking for at least an hour or two. Things eventually shifted to kissing and then foreplay, which then led to going back to his car to hookup(which I was all for!). He drove me home which seemed a little awkward on his part, but I thought things were generally fine. Of course I had assumed he wasn’t as interested afterwards considering that he wasn’t nearly as talkative, so I eventually just stopped messaging him and unmatched him.
Flash forward to about a month and a half ago as of writing this, I see him again on a a different app. I guess out of morbid curiosity I swipe right and see that we matched again. This time around the conversation was more sexual but still maintained that same energy he had previously. We meet again, go back to his place to hookup, and he again gives me a ride home. I will note that this ride home seemed increasingly more awkward to the point that I was debating asking him then and there why he was acting like that. If anything, it would’ve been nice to have had a FWB situation since we both had enjoyed our time together both times, but I was only open to the possibility of something more in the first place since he was so open ended with what he wanted.
Also adding that I understand that my feelings are overshadowing my typically rational mind and I keep telling myself he isn’t interested, but the answer I’m looking for is how to ignore or deal with said feelings and if asking him directly would be best for my brain’s concept of “closure” and the fact that it’s so irritating lol. Reading all of this puts some things in perspective, but I’d love to hear some honest opinions on what I should do.

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After I put my youngest children down for bed I opened a wine my new coworker gave me as a gift and had the smallest swirl, sniff, and sip. I threw it away and went back to Spotify and ignoring impending doom beating in my chest every time I stare at a screen. Maybe I’ll watch a ghost movie. Maybe I’ll stare at the ceiling. It seems ironic and applicable to my life right now. I don’t know what I’m searching for but you probably need my origin story:
I moved my little humans to an entirely new city and state with no other contact to our prior lives and just want to feel okay for a night or even a few nights if you can withstand me that long. We escaped trauma from many different facets of life and now are left to figure out how we can make this life a happy one on our own. Today I started a new job. The old me is far too qualified and would have gawked at the daily duties. But for right now, I am safe and figuring it out. It will provide enough for us. I’ll do my job with pride and happiness I haven’t felt in a long time. It allows me to stay home with my younger babies and I couldn’t be more happy about that. Today was a half day, I spent most of it writing and editing this post. I talked to few people and it made me feel…. Something. Not better, but some sense of normalcy. Friday is near and I am not sure why I hate the weekends these days but I do.
We are crammed in a small house on over 20 acres that I am convinced ghosts might also be inhabiting. Maybe a lonely mouse or two are wandering the window sills three times painted over with shitty eggshell paint. Maybe I’ll paint a room tonight, add some color and love to these empty walls. Paint a mural. I’ve always joked about having a living space as dark as my heart. I might throw up black paint on the walls. The doors creak, the floor is uneven, all the lights flicker. We didn’t come with anything of value, so this place will be our home and safe haven. I will fill it with love and honesty. I haven’t been able to feel that except in fleeting moments. Nobody will ever have to pretend and I will never raise my voice or hand out of anger.
My children are my world but just for a while I want to be myself, truly myself, without the fear of someone using it against me. I’ve tried to have relationships and friendships of various success and total disaster and they all end the same: I can’t be genuine. I was living in a burning house and I thought the whole world was on fire. I learned a few weeks ago it wasn’t. So I packed us up and drove until my eyes got wet. I had extinguished the flames and saw the wreckage that had started to occur. What was done was done and I could not go back. People have reached out and all I can say is I’m so sorry but I had to go
The only people I want to talk to are ghosts of past attempts to make things right. I’ll learn to be okay with that one day, but not today.
If you haven’t deduced by now, I am not a good person. But I am trying to be. I owe a lot of people a lot of things through this weird life, before, and after. I can’t reach out to them now. I can’t right all my wrongs. Maybe they’re reading this now and wondering if it’s really me. Putting my small puzzle pieces together in this post. After all, stranger things have occurred under happenstance and wanderlust. I crave a simple life with simple desires. I don’t need much. I don’t know who I am but I know what I am not.
Not just: the new single lady with three kids showing up to a town under suspicious circumstances, covered in ash and soot, an eternity of bruises and scars on her alabaster skin, a mother, a friend, a lover, a stranger, someone’s sweet escape, his or hers or theirs anymore
What I am lies entirely up to my next course of action. I’m not sure what it is. This is a rough start to a new Season 1. You may have decided this isn’t for you. Very well then, move along. Maybe you’ll stick around for season 2 where I get my redemption arc. Or your curiosity is piqued just enough to reach out to me. Season 3 and 4 are pending production costs and fan interest. We will see. Stay tuned.
Let me trauma dump on you on a voice or video chat like we've been friends for years, like it's a typical Tuesday night after one of you is going through it
Like we have known each other for a split second and a lifetime all at once. I might end up painting an entire bedroom tonight just to feel normal. I might end up laying on the ground listening to one of my 150+ Spotify playlists I can’t stop creating.
l might ghost you, but the odds are in your favor. Or not. You can have a drink of your own, or whatever vices you have these days. I don’t judge. We can watch something together, or just sit quietly with small talk. I’m a good listener and talker. Let me tell you a sad story with no ending because I’m still writing it. Maybe I’ll start writing again in a few months. Make sense of everything again. I had a lot of hobbies in my past life. I’m pretty good at everything, but only really good at a few things. I abandon most things I enjoy.
I have therapy three times a week and it’s the only human I’ve kept in contact with since I left in the middle of the night. It’s been lonely, to say the least meaningful words possible. I am not looking for a sound board to gaslight and abuse, honestly I just want some company while feeling alone. Silence but understanding. Suffering together can be enlightening. I am longing for something I am not sure exists. I’ve felt it in raw moments before it got ripped away. Just enough of a kiss, a hug, a tug of the hair, of truth… to want to crave more and more. How selfish and cruel life can be.
I can supply an endless amount of good music, TV shows, movies, jokes, and make you feel like your life doesn't suck compared to mine. I like to make people smile and laugh. I think I’m a natural caretaker and I care far too much far too easily, it’s probably my kryptonite. Someone once told me if I had just been honest maybe this wouldn’t have been this way, so I’ll pose the question: does death take drowning in a puddle or ocean differently? The end product is happily the same. Am I wrong?
I will respond to chats or messages as I can. I have 3 kids, I’m not looking for love or a baby daddy, or anything weird. Please do not ask me for pictures or sexual advances. I’ve already said what I was looking for but it gets misinterpreted every time. Being alone at night is what bothers me the most about this life. I know I can’t be alone in these thoughts. Are you out there? Do you care? Show me you care and I can be there.
I will leave you with a quote I've been repeating in my head for weeks, often the last thing I can remember before I drift to a nothingness of dark sleep:
"Those who escape hell, however, never talk about it. and nothing much bothers them after that.”

Hello all, I’m really in need of some help/advice on how to handle a situation with a friend. A good friend of mine has been dealing with some mental health issues. He’s been very secretive about it within our friend group, but I have some privileged information that isn’t known to all. I’m not sure what his specific diagnosis is but he’s had episodes of mania, imaginary thinking, grandiosity. I know that recently he was found on a local college campus dancing around saying the rays of light were playing music that he was dancing to, after this episode he was in a inpatient psych ward for a few days, started on meds and seemed be back to near baseline. He called me today and he seems unwell. We were on the phone for and hour and nearly the entire time he was just on a rant. He was noncoherent, jumping from topic to topic with no clear through-line, he had some grandiose speak, and some conspiratorial speech at well. I’m a physician, but I’m no equipped to handle psychiatric issues. Nothing that he said made me concerned for self harm or harm of others, but I’m a very concerned friend and idk what I should do. He’s in his 20s and is a vet, idk if that could help guide you all in the advice you give. Anything would be appreciated.

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Contact me to get Iman Gadzhi - Agency Navigator by chatting me on +44 759 388 2116 on Telegram/Whatsapp.
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Iman Gadzhi - Agency Navigator course is one of the best products on how to start a marketing agency.
Iman Gadzhi - Agency Navigator includes over 50 hours of step-by-step training covering EVERY aspect of building an agency from scratch. This is almost a plug & play system with enough success stories to back it up! Signing clients, running Facebook ads, building out your team, on-boarding clients, invoicing, sales... this course has everything covered for you.
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It was late in the morning when Adam woke from his dreamless sleep. Warm sunlight poured through the cracks between the window blinds, casting bars of shadow along his naked body.
Sleeping naked was a habit he had picked up from Jen. She had insisted upon it, to his great bemusement. Because why would a man wear clothes to keep warm in bed when a woman could do the job much better? Being a young man, Adam couldn’t find fault in that particular orcish custom.
But some orcish customs… Adam had learned how disruptive they could be.
Adam threw his legs over the side of the bed so that he sat upright. He stared off into space, frowning.
Disqualified.
Somewhere in his mind, in a hazy construct of the great hall back home, that word hung over his portrait on a gilded plaque. Right next to the words Disappointment and Failure.
Adam shook his head, groaning. Was it frustration? Disgust? Adam couldn’t tell. He knew the thought was absurd. His family wouldn’t disown him for losing a tourney much less getting disqualified from one - especially since getting kicked out wasn’t even his fault.
The Castermans were a proud, ancient house, this was true. But they didn’t put so much value on trophies and medals and honors the way other Stakari houses did. They would never consider tossing their youngest aside… But that didn’t stop Adam from feeling fear and doubt.
Every young man who ever lived feared being a disappointment to his family. And as the fourth son of his father’s line, Adam had the unenviable position of being measured against his older brothers. Royce, Dane, and Garen, loving and supportive as they were, weren’t simply his older brothers. They were titans, looming tall and casting their shadows over their baby brother.
His brothers had all been exceptional at the paths they chose. Military man, beast wrangler, and a bonafide wizard. All impressive and noble occupations. Of course Adam was happy for them. But his brothers had set some incredibly high standards. All through his youth, the youngest Casterman feared he would never measure up.
But then, in his teens, Adam discovered his passion for history. Stories of kings, warriors, tyrants, and heroes. Of great bloody battles and fallen cities. Of ferocious beasts and mighty slayers. Adam drank it all in like a man finding an oasis after wandering lost through the desert sands. Especially so for the history of his home, the Kingdom of Stakaria, as well as his family and his own noble blood.
The Castermans had earned their greatness, Adam proudly reminded himself. Jorr Casterman won his knighthood defending the Lord of the Bluewater several centuries back. During a skirmish against a wild raiding party, the lord had been unhorsed and at the mercy of a monstrous ogre. He would have died on that battlefield had Jorr not slain the towering beast.
Adam had no towering beast to slay. The days where men could make their names with sword and shield were long past. So the youngest Casterman chose to sharpen his mind. His battles would be fought and won with pen and ink. Not at all the kind of man a she-orc would fall for, one might have thought.
The young noble pondered on that for a moment as he stood up and stretched. He groaned, his body still quite sore from the tourney matches he had managed to win. Then he went to the dresser at the foot of his bed and dug out a pair of boxers.
As he tugged them on, his mind drifted to Jen… and her sister, Sayla.
His girlfriend’s sister had interfered during one of his matches and got him disqualified from the tourney. Attacked him with real daggers, too. It was a wonder she hadn’t been arrested - though the security staff might have simply thought she was part of some viral stunt.
The whole situation was absurd. So absurd that Adam was more bewildered than upset - though he wasn’t without anger. He had worked hard to get into the lists. And to have it all taken away because of his girlfriend’s secret plan…
Adam tightened his jaw as Jen and Sayla’s “clan chief” business came to the forefront of his mind. He still needed to talk to them about that. He might as well, right? There was nothing that was going to un-disqualify him as far as he could tell. So why not learn more about the absurdity that screwed with his life?
He inhaled deeply through his nose, then frowned. The scent of sweat stung his nostrils. He would need to shower soon. But first, he would check his phone. He hadn’t answered anything from anybody after he left Jen and Sayla at the diner last night. No doubt his voicemail and email had some build up that needed some looking over.
Adam found his cellphone right where he left it, sitting on his desk. Sure enough, he found a long list of missed calls and unread messages. All of them from Jen.
The corner of his mouth twitched some at the sight. It wasn’t quite a smile, but there was a wryness about it.
In a way, the attention felt nice. It showed that Jen cared. Adam already knew that, of course. Jen was the kind of girl who was very open - and physical - with her affections. But the dozens of messages of apology proved that Jen at least felt appropriately guilty over the whole mess. The disqualification and the secret plan to make him her clan’s chieftain.
Chieftain Adam Casterman, leader of the G’Kalis Clan. Reader of books, slayer of essays, husband to she-orcs. Adam grinned at the sheer absurdity of it.
On the one hand, becoming a clan chief would have been a rather unique way of making a name for himself. And Adam had read up on orcish clan customs. He couldn’t deny that taking multiple wives had a certain appeal.
But Adam was nothing if not a realist.
Surely being a chieftain came with a whole mountain of responsibility. Even if Adam agreed to Jen’s proposition, where would he find the time to fulfill all of the duties that came with his new role? By the Allfather, he was a college student barely out of his teen years. He already had responsibilities here on campus. And what would he even tell his parents? That his girlfriend asked him to essentially marry her and her sisters and he said yes on a whim?
Adam rubbed his temple. It was way too early for such heavy thoughts. He put down his phone and switched over to his laptop to check his email.
His inbox was mostly as expected. Some newsletter stuff, spam that hadn’t been filtered out… And one message from Trevelyan Institute Administration.
That last one gave Adam a moment of pause. He stared at it, the email sitting unread on his computer screen. Dread slowly crept into him, slithering up his back, under his skin, making his hair stand on end.
It was a disciplinary response to the nonsense at the tourney. Adam knew it. Was he being put on probation? Was he expelled?
His mouth had gone dry. Surely, his face had gone ghostly white as well.
Adam collected himself, gathering his wits and nerves.
He ran the cursor over the email and clicked on it.
- - -
“Stop calling him.”
“Quiet.” Jenakka snapped, glaring at her clan-sister. The green she-orc turned her eyes back to her phone, staring at the message of apology she had just finished writing. She’d already written several others, but there was always something that Jenakka felt like she forgot to say. So she ended up writing another.
The G’Kalis clan scholar had been pacing around her dorm room ever since she woke up. She’d hardly gotten any sleep last night. Sayla, of course, had slept like a rock.
She’s as thick as one too…
The gray-skinned champion sat on Jenakka’s bed, her back pressed against the wall with her long legs stretched out. Sayla watched her sister walk back and forth across her dorm room, boredom clear in her red eyes.
Boredom and not an ounce of guilt. Typical.
Jenakka huffed through her nose and hit send.
“You’ve already left several messages. You’re making yourself look desperate.” Sayla droned in a flat voice. There was another look about her now, Jenakka noted. Distaste. The clan champion continued, muttering. “More than you already have…”
Jenakka whirled around on her heels, fuming. She pointed accusingly at her clan-sister, a scowl twisting across her face.
“You’re the last person who should be giving advice!” Jenakka was near-shrieking. The other students who lived on her floor might have heard her, but Jenakka did not care. Her relationship with Adam might have been irreparably damaged because of the brainless fool sitting on her bed. The clan scholar collected herself just a bit, breathing in. “After that debacle at the arena it was a miracle you weren’t detained. The clan can’t afford to have its champion behind bars, as you well know.”
Sayla was on her feet then, but Jenakka feared her little. Tall and strong her older clan-sister was, but Jenakka knew Sayla took her clan oaths as seriously as Mystic Akari. She would never hurt anyone of the clan. Still, Jenakka glared as the taller she-orc stepped up to her.
“Don’t lecture me, sister. Don’t you dare.” Sayla growled, her red eyes hard and cold. “I took action. You’re the one who spent a year playing Lord and Lady with her darling human. And such a wonderful choice, too.”
Jenakka’s anger flared hotter, now blazing in her heart.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You promised the clan you’d find us a chieftain.” Sayla raised her voice, her words hard with anger. “Instead, you spent all this time on some pretty boy lordling. Beyond ideal? Don’t make me laugh!”
Sayla turned away then, scoffing. Jenakka glowered, her hands tightening into fists.
“He beat you didn’t he?”
“He did not beat me.” Sayla snarled as she whirled back around. Her red eyes were now sharp like her daggers. Her lips tightened into what was almost a pout. “Our fight was interrupted.”
There was a knock at the door then. Both orc women turned their eyes towards it. Sayla merely looked annoyed at the disturbance, but Jenakka deflated some, her shoulders falling slack. It was probably one of the other dorm residents coming to check because of the shouting.
The knocking came again. Jenakka sighed and went to answer it, collecting herself just enough to put on a fake smile.
No problem here, ma’am. Just two orc sisters having a shouting match over the future of their clan!
She opened the door… and found her dear Adam standing in the hall!
“Hi.” He said, wearing a small smile.
Jenakka felt a rush of emotions then. Relief that Adam bothered to come see her. Happiness at seeing her love in the flesh. Embarrassment because she didn’t know what to say. All those text messages were nothing compared to seeing him again face-to-face.
Leaping forward, she wrapped her arms around him in perhaps the tightest hug she had ever given. With her face buried into his neck, she took in his scent. He smelled of paper and wood and steel. And a hint of soap as well. He showered recently, she noted. As she pulled back, she also noticed his clothing. He had dressed nicely. A brown coat over a white shirt and fitted jeans. Adam always made some effort to look presentable. But the fact that he bothered at all today was a good sign. Jenakka’s heart fluttered.
“I’m glad you came.” She said warmly, pulling the fresh-faced human into her dorm room. She closed the door shut behind them. Then she reached out and took Adam’s hands with hers. She stared into his eyes, hoping he would see the sincerity of her words. “And again, I’m so, so sorry about the tourney.”
Jenakka then shot an expecting look towards Sayla, who was standing by her desk with her arms crossed.
The clan champion gave Jenakka’s boyfriend a once-over. Then she wrinkled her nose.
“I’m not.” Sayla answered bluntly. She gave Adam a curt nod. “You still need to prove your worth as a fighter, pup.”
“He’s two years older than you.” Jenakka simmered. To her irritation, her clan-sister merely shrugged.
“Still younger than me. Still a pup.”
Jenakka frowned, fighting the fire inside her that Sayla was unapologetically stoking. She wasn’t going to break into another argument in front of Adam. He had dealt with enough problems because of her.
She turned her eyes back onto her boyfriend, giving him a regretful look.
“Sorry about her, too.” She told him.
“It’s no problem.” Adam said. A moment of silence passed, with Adam’s eyes roaming around Jenakka’s dorm room. Jenakka wanted to try and imagine what he was thinking, but the prospect made her anxious. So she simply waited. Finally, he spoke again. “So… I’m here.”
Jenakka stepped closer, hesitant but hopeful. She allowed herself a tiny smile.
“Does… does that mean you have an answer for us?”
Adam nodded.
“I spent a long time thinking last night.” Her boyfriend started. Jenakka tried to parse the tone of his voice, but the words came from his lips level and even. “Thinking about you. About us. I’d be lying if I said these last few months weren’t some of the best of my life.”
Another moment of silence. Jenakka drank in the lines of Adam’s face, watching him clench and unclench his jaw. She bit her lip, waiting.
“Growing up, I was always afraid that I’d never be as strong or as handsome or as skilled as my older brothers.” Adam spoke again, his brow furrowing as a sliver of discomfort weaved into his words. “I always questioned my worth as a man. Until I met you.”
Jenakka’s heart ached for him. She moved even closer, close enough that she could enjoy his scent again. On instinct, she darted forward and kissed him softly. The taste of his lips was quite welcome after the doubt and worry that plagued her last night. And surely Adam found the affection pleasing. He did not push her away.
The clan scholar pulled back after a time, sighing.
“I never cared if you were a fourth son. I wouldn’t have cared if you were the fortieth. I love you, Adam.” Jenakka spoke those words with her entire heart and spirit. She could only pray that her human would truly listen.
“But you still kept the truth from me.” He answered in a cool tone.
Jenakka winced. She averted her eyes from his for a moment. Was it shame? Regret? Embarrassment? Or all of them at once?
“I was waiting for the right time to tell you. But no moment ever felt right.” It was the truth. But Jenakka feared - no, she knew it wasn’t enough. She hadn’t told Adam about her intentions for him. For her clan. The fault for the resulting mess belonged to her and her alone.
Jenakka knew Adam was the understanding type. But was he the forgiving type? She could only hope.
“Do you have an answer or did you come here to waste more of our time?” Sayla’s sharp voice cleaved through their intimate moment.
Jenakka whipped her head around to shoot her sister a withering glare. A venomous retort bubbled up in her throat, ready to spew. But then Adam broke into a flat chuckle.
"Wow.” He said to Sayla, deep laughs rumbling in his chest. “You are a real piece of work.”
Sayla only gave a rude gesture in response. Jenakka felt a flash of anger, but it was tempered by the fact that Adam almost certainly had no idea what it meant.
“She’s always been like that.” Jenakka murmured into her boyfriend’s neck.
Adam chuckled again. Jenakka took it as a good sign. Next, he pulled away some so that he could look her in the eyes.
“I can… understand how your situation might have been awkward. I don’t like it, but I get it. If you told me about the clan stuff from the start, I might have just blown you off as a loony.” Adam pressed his lips into a line, appearing to consider his next words. “Being your clan’s chieftain… I take it that this is a big responsibility…”
Jenakka’s heart soared. He wasn’t refusing her outright. And that was enough for her. She jumped on the opening, seizing the opportunity as her clan-mother taught her.
“You wouldn’t need to carry that whole weight by yourself.” She insisted, clutching his hands tightly in hers. Her thumbs brushed over his knuckles, gentle and loving. “G’Kalis is a small clan, but you’d still have five of us to help you understand and perform your duties.”
Adam quirked his lips, weighing her answer in his head. He gave a short nod.
“That’s… good to hear, I suppose. And the extra free time will probably help, too.”
Jenakka blinked. She held her breath.
“What do you mean?” She asked cautiously. She needed to hear him say it.
Adam gave her a faint grin. He breathed in deeply through his nose.
“I got an email this morning.” Her tall, strapping human started, his grin widening some. “From the university administration. After that whole deal with Miss Daggers last night, I was afraid I was going to face some disciplinary action.”
“They didn’t blame you for that, did they?” Jenakka winced as the chaos from the arena flashed in her head.
“No. Turns out the email wasn’t about that tourney stuff at all. I’ve been exempt.” Adam gave her an incredulous look. “From all of my classes until spring. Special clan privileges, apparently. Clan members get excused from course work if they have spiritual rites that require their attention.”
Jenakka reeled back, bewildered. Why would Adam have special clan privileges…
Oh.
Realization struck her like a mace to the back of her head. The clan scholar turned and gave Sayla an accusing look. But the eldest daughter of G’Kalis appeared as baffled as any of them.
“Don’t look at me.” Sayla said, shrugging. “I only came here to initiate my chieftain trial.”
Jenakka narrowed her eyes, looking from Sayla to Adam. She only had to think for a moment before an answer presented itself to her. The only answer that made any sense, at least.
“Matriarch Hera.” Jenakka whispered. She looked into Adam’s eyes, hoping he was following along. He nodded back to her and she took it as a good sign. “Our clan-mother. She must have registered you as our chieftain already. Either her or Akari.”
“How?” Adam didn’t seem shocked or offended, only confused. Jenakka couldn’t blame him. These last several hours or so had completely turned his life into some absurdist comedy.
“I might have sent my clan your personal information.” Jenakka winced as she said it. A sour look crossed Adam’s face. She gave her boyfriend an apologetic look. “I just thought they wanted to know more about you! I’ll fix it. We’ll fix it! Sayla and I, we’ll head back to our clan and we’ll clear all this up! I promise!”
“We’re all going.” Adam told her. Jenakka was taken aback for a moment. She felt the urge to ask him to elaborate on what that meant. But the look in his blue eyes told her everything. And deep in her heart, Jenakka G’Kalis felt jubilation. Her boyfriend… her chieftain turned his eyes to Sayla, his words hammering out like black iron.
“If I’m going to be your clan’s chieftain, then it’s time I met the rest of you.”
- - -
First Previous
- - -
You can read the next two chapters on my Patreon.

[Flying Sparks

Pre Order Now](https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon)Chapter 2
“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!” The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding

Hi folks,
My 21st birthday is tomorrow (June 1st), but I'm from out of town and I don't have anyone to go to the bar with. I really don't want to miss out on the experience of going out, so does anyone want to come with me? I live near State Street. I can send pics or what have you to verify I'm a real person.
A bit about me: I'm a trans guy into vintage computing, law, and trivia (haven't lost a tournament in a dozen years!). If I'm being honest, I spend most evenings at home with my cat doing puzzles and watching math YouTube. I promise I'm not as boring as I sound, I actually used to do science communication work.
I know it's short notice and kind of a weird ask, but please feel free to comment or DM if you'd be interested in hanging (or even just giving badrink recs). Thanks for reading!

Flying Sparks

Pre Order Now

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Chapter 2

“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”
The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert.
“And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales.
“Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots.
“Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.”
“What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?”
Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type.
“Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.”
“I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown.
“Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!”
The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders.
“So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots.
“Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone.
“One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked.
“Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare.
“So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked.
“As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied.
“And?”
The biologist groaned and rubbed her face.
“As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.”
“Frass?”
“Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table.
“Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?”
“Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate.
“Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!”
“It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness.
“It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly.
“Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back.
“Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.”
The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body.
“Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.”
“Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake.
“Not me, him,” Ama said.
“Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said.
Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer.
“Emerald,” Ama said.
“Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded.
Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince.
“Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone.
“I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch.
Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time.
Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again.
“I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered.
“I could do it,” Drake offered.
“You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.”
Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder.
“Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.”
“Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up.
“Same as usual,” Ama confirmed.
Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes.
“I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room.
The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden.
“And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them.
Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat.
“Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?”
Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well.
“From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence.
She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her.
“Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-”
The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment.
“I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.”
Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?”
Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change.
“Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.”
Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure.
“Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.”
He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest.
Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet.
Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around.
Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life.
There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies.
Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it.
“Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?”
Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question.
Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules.
The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers.
However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow.
He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock.
He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday.
The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it.
The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root.
“Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.”
It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here.
He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable.
​
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“Flying Sparks”
Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon
#FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding

Flying Sparks

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​
https://i.redd.it/6f86bj3rab3b1.gif

Chapter 2

“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”
The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert.
“And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales.
“Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots.
“Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.”
“What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?”
Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type.
“Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.”
“I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown.
“Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!”
The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders.
“So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots.
“Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone.
“One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked.
“Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare.
“So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked.
“As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied.
“And?”
The biologist groaned and rubbed her face.
“As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.”
“Frass?”
“Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table.
“Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?”
“Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate.
“Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!”
“It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness.
“It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly.
“Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back.
“Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.”
The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body.
“Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.”
“Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake.
“Not me, him,” Ama said.
“Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said.
Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer.
“Emerald,” Ama said.
“Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded.
Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince.
“Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone.
“I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch.
Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time.
Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again.
“I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered.
“I could do it,” Drake offered.
“You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.”
Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder.
“Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.”
“Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up.
“Same as usual,” Ama confirmed.
Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes.
“I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room.
The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden.
“And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them.
Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat.
“Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?”
Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well.
“From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence.
She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her.
“Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-”
The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment.
“I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.”
Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?”
Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change.
“Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.”
Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure.
“Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.”
He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest.
Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet.
Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around.
Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life.
There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies.
Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it.
“Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?”
Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question.
Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules.
The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers.
However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow.
He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock.
He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday.
The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it.
The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root.
“Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.”
It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here.
He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable.
​
https://i.redd.it/9qd7tgqrab3b1.gif
“Flying Sparks”
Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon
#FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding

I'm lucky enough to have connected with a dom who I'm unbelievably sexually compatible with. On top of that, we can talk for hours about non-kink related topics, and he's just a very sweet guy in general. We're currently doing long-distance, with plans to meet up in the near future.
We have a brat/tamer dynamic, as he's a bit of a sadist and enjoys putting me in my place. I love this about him, and it fits perfectly with our kinks. This started after tons of negotiation, talks about consent, and a clear list of what's okay and what is not. We both make an effort to communicate and do check-ins often.
Lately, he's been encouraging me to be more submissive in general - not just following the rules but doing what he asks. Being obedient. The problem is, I don't always *want* to be obedient. But I usually do them anyways because they are reasonable tasks. So far, I've been trying my best and taking my punishments when they're deserved.
Until today.
I was very thoroughly punished today for, you guessed it, disobedience. I was also rewarded afterwards, and I thought all was good. But then I was told to do something, and I figured I would just do it later, no big deal. Which obviously blew up in my face, because I was *just punished for almost the same thing*. Long story short, he wanted to give me the same punishment again and I tried to argue with him and change the punishment. I acted like a total brat, and not the fun kind.
Punishing myself (almost always with spanking) is taxing, and I already did it today, and the thought of doing it again made me just... throw a tiny tantrum and put my foot down. I couldn't make myself submit. I didn't want to.
Honestly, I just want him to be the one to punish me, but I know he can't and it's not his fault, there are many reasons why we need to wait to do in person. The alternative, I suppose, is just reducing rules and punishments all together, which I would prefer, but I don't think he would like that.
We're planning on discussing it later once we've both had time to reflect.
Do you guys have any advice on how to handle things when one person in your dynamic doesn't feel like submitting? Or when there are disagreements about punishments? This is the first time I've genuinely not wanted to submit to him, and I'm not sure how to tell him that without hurting his feelings.
All advice is welcome :)

[Flying Sparks

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Chapter 2 “Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!” The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding

I'm toying with a couple ideas of businesses to start. I'd love feedback on how to execute them well, what I should be aware of, or any ideas for enhancement. Help me pick which, if any, to do.
1. An Ice Cream Truck Tracker. Ever heard the music from an ice cream truck, only to never catch up with it? Users can see all Ice Cream trucks near them, track common routes, see prices/products in advance, and even ping nearby trucks to request they stop by. Ice cream truck operators can send in their location to the app so users can see them, serve ads/offers to users, and get insights on where/how to improve sales. Revenue would primarily come from truck operators. Focus would be on beach/park/vacation areas where lots of trucks operate. Could be expanded to food trucks in general. Challenges: hard to get a critical mass of users to be able to market to truck operators. Data accuracy would be important, but accurate live map data can be expensive. Limited market size.
2. Pickleball coaching. Pickleball is exploding in popularity and most people who play are affluent. The business would partner with current tennis/fitness coaches, teach them the rules & fundamentals of Pickleball, and pay them an hourly rate to lead group and private lessons. Would advertise at local fitness centers, 55+ active living communities, and parks. Could also arrange matches, tournaments, clinics, etc. Could also set up an online shop to sell gear. Challenges: already exists nearly everywhere and would be competitive. Many fitness centers already offer this in-house and wouldn't welcome outside competition.
3. Live Christmas Tree Additive. Live Christmas Trees are growing in popularity and are also generally purchased at tree farms. The tree farms typically have limited revenue each year based on the number of trees they have. They'd all love to add a few extra dollars to every ticket because that's the only way to grow revenue. I'd contract a botanist or something to help me make a proprietary powder to be added to live tree water. It would extend the life of trees, keep them greener for longer, and enhance moisture retention in the tree, reducing fire hazard. I'd put the powder in bags, and sell it for $5 at the point of sale at Christmas Tree Farms, giving the farm operator a chance at an extra $1-2 per customer. Challenges: Extremely seasonal, extremely limited market, thin profit margins. This probably gets started as a side-gig and maybe never grows beyond that.
4. Online Mini Golf Supply Shop. I'd be drop shipping mini golf clubs, balls, scorecards, etc. The value add is that I would set up web domains related to parks that have free mini golf with bring-your-own equipment. There are several of these in my town, and probably tons across the country. So, if there's one at 55th Street Park, I would set up 55thstreetminigolf (dot) com with my online shop. I would make a very official looking sign that simply says "Equipment available at 55thstreetminigolf (dot) com". I'd hang it right beneath the actual official sign that the parks have explaining that they are free and BYO equipment. This would not be sanctioned by the city/municipality, but odds are good no one would notice or care. I could do some additional long-tail search advertising too. Challenges: Would have to set up independently for each park/location. Could get in trouble for posting unofficial signage. Relatively low volume and low margins, so not a big opportunity. But once it's set up, it would run itself.
5. Indoor Golf-in-the-dark. Buy old warehouses/barns near vacation destinations. Clear them out, pave the inside, set up black lights, music, neon decor, and mini golf holes. Can sell snacks at the front counter. Can do birthday parties, company events, etc. A perfect bad weather activity at vacation places. Could also set up as a turnkey franchise. Challenges: hard to find good locations that aren't too capital intensive. Requires design/creativity skills to set up well. Overall a lot of upfront capital and work.