When Stephen King Dies You Have An Hour And Forty Five Minutes To Get Out Of Maine Before It Explodes

when stephen king dies you have an hour and forty five minutes to get out of Maine before it explodes

Just a legend spouting truths

don't care didn't ask plus this hole you put me in wasn't deep enough and i'm climbing out right now

“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: if anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—she stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late. Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother until we got on the plane and would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out, of course, they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—non-alcoholic—and the two little girls from our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade, and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

— Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”

without outside time we are nothing. never forget this

books to read while Autumn is reigning

a warm cuppa in your hands, sitting near the window, enjoying the rain

with a sprinkle of amour

The Girl at the Lion d'Or by Sebastian Faulks

The Collector by John Fowles

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë

The Broken Wings by Kahlil Gibran

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

with a dash of existential crisis

South of the Border, West of the Sun by Haruki Murakami

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky

My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh

Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao

No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

with a pinch of dark academia

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Maurice by E. M. Forster

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio

with a side of je ne sais quoi

Before the Coffee Gets Cold by Toshikazu Kawaguchi

Death with Interruptions by José Saramago

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

Orlando by Virginia Woolf

After Dark by Haruki Murakami

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

God Of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson

The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yōko Ogawa

The Woman in the Purple Skirt by Natsuko Imamura

If Cats Disappeared from the World by Genki Kawamura

under the covers, with a flashlight in your hands, in the middle of the night

Carmilla by Sheridan le Fanu

Dracula by Bram Stoker

Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice

The Hole by Hye-Young Pyun

The Yellow Wall-Paper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Frankenstein: The 1818 Text by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein by Kiersten White

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

I’m Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

The Maidens by Alex Michaelides

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

The Metamorphosis & Other Stories by Franz Kafka