“As for my writing voice in general, well, you get old and your language gets like your shoes or your kitchen gear—you don’t need fancy stuff any more. You’ve learned how to just say it.”
- Ursula K. LeGuin (via colubrina)








The one fandom question I’ve never seen answered well: what is the difference between a drabble and a one-shot? I feel like it’s a personal opinion - for me, a drabble is anything under 1k words, and a one-shot is anything 1k+.


Yeah I feel the same. Maybe 1500 words would be my cutoff point though.

Yeah, 1500 is about right, too. I’m mostly going off the “once you hit a triple digit word count, it’s a one-shot,” theory.

So like 10 years ago when I started out fandom in Harry Potter, a drabble had a restricted word count. 100 word drabbles were really common. But it could be 300 or 500 words. But the challenge was the perfect drabble word count. And then a one shot was anything that wasn’t restricted by a word count.

This was common nomenclature in fandoms about 10-15 years ago. A drabble was, specifically, a 100-word story. A 200-word story was often called a double drabble. I’m not sure when the terminology changed; I still think of a drabble as being exactly 100 words.

Ah, yes. A drabble was EXACTLY 100 words. And then suddenly one day I looked up and drabbles were 1000 words. The times, they are a’changing ;)

Gonna die on this fucking hill, but a drabble isn’t even a fandom term, and it has a meaning and a history, and it’s a hundred fucking words. Damn it. Double damn it for 200. Ahem. (I fucking hate Jeopardy, but my mother loves it.)
Other lengths have variable definitions, depending on who you ask. SFFWA for the Nebulas are as follows:

Short story < 7500

Novelette 7500 - 17,500

Novella 17500-40,000

Novel > 40,000

And, of course, NANO uses 50k for novels. 

But unlike those, which were categories put into place for the sake of classifying existing shit, a drabble is a category designed around a word count as a challenge. 




Carry on.

Ugh I tried to load the weather radar in and it took my whole computer down and I lost the post I’d been picking at for a long time. 

Oh well. 

I woke at 4:30 because the wind was picking up and battering the canvas of the roof corners, and so I hauled myself out of bed and tidied everything I’d left outside so it wouldn’t get drenched. My weather app showed a line of storms heading straight for us to hit around 6am, so I gave up on sleep, got dressed, battened down all the yurt hatches, and came inside. I waited for it to be light enough to see colors, and went out and harvested one particular important filler we rely on that can’t be harvested wet– if there are water droplets on the leaves and you put it into the cooler, it gets black dots where the water was. (Basil. Yes, lemon basil is a perfect bouquet filler and smells wonderful. But it’s delicate and will wilt if not put into the cooler after harvest! Ugh.)

It started raining as I finished harvesting just now, but not enough to damage the leaves. Still, I left them in a cool spot near the cooler, not in it; we’ll put it in later. I hope the leaves are dry enough.

New looks at the radar indicate that the storm’s mostly going to miss us… but the next one won’t. Womp-womp. Today’s flower harvest is going to be very interesting.

y’all love to mock asian nail salon owners so here’s a little background for your dumbasses:

during the vietnam war, many vietnamese refugees came to america, a lot being women and their children. an american actress, tippi hedren, flew to sacramento, ca. to visit a refugee camp. she wanted to meet the women who were living there and figure out ways to support them. many of them had lost their husbands in the war and were now left without an income and many had no knowledge of how to begin to provide for themselves and their children. while there, tippi noticed that many of the women were fascinated with her manicured nails. tippi had gotten the idea to fly her manicurist to the refugee camp to teach the women how to do nails, in hopes of giving these women a way to support themselves and their families. tippi had paid for 20 women from the refugee camp to attend beautician school and help them get their licenses & eventually find jobs. about 51% of manicurists in the u.s. are vietnamese and many of them are direct descendants of these 20 women who were given the chance to go to beautician school at the courtesy of tippi. so next time y’all want to mock and make fun of hardworking nail techs and treat them like shit, just remember that this is all because of the labor and the persistence of their ancestors who came here with nothing.

A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Aug 16, 2017 at 6:32pm PDT

ARACHNOPHOBES DON’T LOOK! This is my own Charlotte’s Web friend, my yurt roommate. I’ve named her Dolores, she’s a female Spotted Orb Weaver of truly magnificent size, and she spends 45 minutes at least every night weaving me an elaborate chandelier. She’s not the world’s greatest roommate, sometimes she gets overambitious with the web thing, but she’s quiet and eats bugs, so.
I’m not super chill with spiders but her formidable presence actually seems to drive other spiders off, so I’m reassuring myself that at least she’s so huge I know where she is so she’s definitely not in my hair.
#spider #arachnid #yurtlife

Butterfly Bush (Buddleja davidii) - peace after struggle

The best gardens are peacefully busy, filled with the quiet focus of life doing nothing but getting on. There’s nothing better than a big Buddleia bush in the dog days of summer, exploding soundlessly with colour, sweet heady smells, and life. Thousands of butterflies, bees and many other good garden friends are all there to get what they need and add to the rich tapestry of life which congregates on this beautiful plant.

The butterfly bush didn’t make it onto European shores until the late 19th century, but immediately made work of thriving. It self-seeds, which means that if it’s left unchecked it will grow everywhere and everywhere. It’s the scourge of train-tracks and old buildings, and can break up any loose soil it finds. This isn’t always a bad thing, however (although it can drive out native plant species if its spread is not controlled). After World War II, it became known as “bombsite bush”- as it turns out, the ravaged rubble of an attacked street is the perfect place for this plant to thrive. When the devastation has passed, there is room for sweet and colourful flowers to bring back the butterflies.

(illustration and writing by Mira Gryseels)
Chicken processing day. I have been semi-permanently booted out of the evisceration room to the finish pluck table since we’re long-term out our usual heads and feet guy, who’s having wrist surgery and is therefore like, super not around. The young lady apprentice from Kansas has filled in for him; she’s very soft-spoken and sort of shy but once in a while will quietly say “this is when Heads-And-Feet Guy would make a slightly sexist joke about hairy legs,” and we all nod and laugh.

rambling behind cut on various topics.

The two apprentices this year, I don’t know that I’ve talked about much. Young Lady is from Kansas and has red hair and super-fly looking metallic red hearing aids; she didn’t find out she was hard-of-hearing until high school, and before that had just said “what” a lot. She’s got some sort of genetic condition where her midrange is unusually bad, so when they test for bad hearing they test the high and low ends and thus didn’t catch it. Downside: the midrange is where people talk, so she just never knew quite what was going on. She reads lips a lot and tends to wait to weigh in on a conversation until she’s got her thoughts in order, so I guess it’s sort of mis-stating things to call her “shy”. 

The other one is a very young man (freshly 18) from New Jersey. He’s very self-possessed. Young Lady was admitting that she’s way behind on the news lately, so Young Man was filling her in on Charlottesville. He’s taking a semester off from the Early College kinda dealie he’s enrolled in, so that he can do this internship, and so he’ll have time to kill after the internship ends in October but before the next semester starts. He’d said he might just roadtrip around and see all his friends, and come back for turkey slaughter, but as we got discussing Charlottesville, he said he might instead seek out an antifa group to do some direct action stuff. I told him to be careful; I’m not sure what his actual heritage is but he’s arguably some shade of brown, at least in the eyes of law enforcement in this extremely segregated region, and I worry. But 18 is the age to do those things, if you’re going to. [He’s the lovely young man standing just to the side of my brother-in-law in the chicken-cutting-up video from earlier today.]

Anyway. I’m enjoying them both, they’re both very bright and happy to work hard, which is what you want in apprentices– they’re here to learn, not have their time wasted. Young Man has occasional bouts of being 18 and certain that he’s got the world figured out, but he takes correction gracefully, which is pretty key. 

I finally have the yurt set up how I like it, and I’m going to be leaving on Saturday, for two whole weeks, to work at my day job, alas. Two or three? I’m not sure. 

I took a second video of the chicken-cutting-up today; Instagram cuts off at a minute, so I recorded another one not in the app, and it’s 1:52 and is the whole process. B-I-L asked that if I post that, I set it to dubstep, to be like a video I sent him forever ago of drone footage of combine harvesters somewhere with enormous fields that was set to dubstep and highly amusing to us both. So now I have to figure out how to edit videos just to do that. I’m sure I can figure it out. 

Anyway, if anyone wanted to see the entire process, from whole carcass to salable parts and soup carcass, I’ll have that up later when I figure it out. 

I almost posted a photo of Dolores. She’s being decorative, currently; she’s spun her web across the face of my hanging lamp, and in silhouette, she looks like a Halloween decoration. She’s a very pretty spider, but more crucially, I’m to the point where I’m just more comfortable when I can see her. If i can’t see her I worry she’s somewhere I might squish her or she might bite me or something. I doubt she’d bite me but still. 

B-I-L is so arachnophobic, and he’s worked hard not to pass that on to his daughter, but I actually feel like me having this “pet spider” has helped her a bit, because she’s at an age where she finds it entertaining to pretend to be scared of things but she mostly doesn’t with spiders, she brings up Dolores and says “it’s probably her, don’t be scared Daddy!” and such, which is very cute.

In other news I reread Found Cat and you guys, when did I manage to write a cute story? WTF. Does anyone else do that, reread your old shit and be like how did i come up with this  or is it just me?? It’s not even a question of it being good or bad or anything, it’s just like, what kind of mind created this??? I kind of want to go back to it, I know I had a bunch more written. Maybe I will. 

A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Aug 15, 2017 at 1:14pm PDT

Looks like Zack’s time to completely take a carcass apart for sale-ready parts is about two minutes including pulling skin off and putting it all in the right spots. Still, not too shabby. How fast can you part a chicken? (at Laughing Earth)

Okay, friends, let’s talk about going to protests and weaponizing our whiteness, if in fact we are white.

You know what the protesters who marched with Dr. King wore? Their best. Their clergy stoles, their suits. If you’re a doctor or a nurse? Wear your scrubs. If you’re a parent? Wear your PTA shirt if it’s too hot for a suit. If you’re a student? Dress like you’re going to go volunteer somewhere nice, or wear a t-shirt that proclaims you a member of your high school band, your drama group, your church youth group. Whatever it is, make sure it’s right there with your white face.

This is literally the tactic of the people who marched with King in the 60s, and we need to bring it back, and bring it back HARD.

I do this all the time when I go to marches. I wear my cutest, least-offensive geeky t-shirt, crocs and black pants, or I wear my t-shirt that mentions my kid’s school district, or now I’ll wear the pink t-shirt that says I’m part of the Sisterhood at my shul. If it’s cold enough, I wear a cardigan and jeans and sit my ass in my wheelchair. (I need to anyway.) I put signs on my wheelchair that say things like ‘I love my trans daughter’ and ‘love for all trans children’ or something else that applies to the event. Dress like you are going to an interview if you can, or make yourself look like a parent going to pick up a gallon of milk at the corner store. Make yourself “respectable.” Use respectability politics and whiteness AS A WEAPON.

Fuck yes I will weaponize the fact that I look like a white soccer mom. And you should do this too if you can. Weaponize the fuck out of your whiteness. If you are disabled and comfortable with doing so, turn ableism on its head and weaponize it. Make it so that the cameras that WILL be pointed at you see your whiteness, see your status as a parent, see your status as a community member. See you in your wheelchair or with your cane. If you have privilege or a status that allows you to use it as a weapon or a shield, use it as a shield to defend others or a weapon to break through the bullshit.
Chicken processing day! Bonus shot of departing cousins picking flowers. They came and caught chickens before they hit the road. One last dose of the farm. (at Laughing Earth)

Hell yes, everyone is always welcome to do any of the things, you will have my undying love and appreciation for it. (Translations are also a-okay.)
We had a melon tasting today. Our favorite canteloupe, Athena, is a Monsanto product, and all ethical/corporation-feelings considerations aside, Monsanto has an awful habit of improving beloved varieties and then making the original unavailable. So, a replacement must be found, and comparisons must be made. A melon called “Hale’s Best” was the crowd favorite but we’ll repeat the experiment to be sure. (at Laughing Earth)
My Dude visited over the weekend (arrived Friday afternoon) and left this morning so I have a little more time to myself. 

He pronounced the yurt cozy and much improved by the additional headspace; in its old configuration he couldn’t stand upright anywhere except directly under the roof ring, and not comfortably, but here he can make his way around it reasonably well. He’s six-three, so. 

He also was charmed by Dolores, who put on a show for us his first night here– very actively and excitingly weaving an elaborate web all through the middle of the yurt.

Saturday night we watched a Scary Movie with Sister and her husband– it wasn’t very scary really, but it was a horror movie filmed in the farmhouse at the end of its period of being vacant, so it had some sort of creepy vistas. Mostly, we were watching for the interior shots. “Every window had shutters! Wonder where they all went!” “Oh my god the wallpaper. The wallpaper? Yikes. I don’t know if I’m glad or sad this is black and white.”

The movie was awful and not worth watching again for the architecture, though it had a few things that were neat to see. Mostly, the older section of the house had the action shots in it, and it had already begun to be restored– at least enough that the farm’s interns were living in it, so it was approximately in the configuration it is today. 

The writer/director/producer, it turns out, was an RIT grad, and so is Vegetable Manager who now lives in that section of the house, so we’re going to make him watch it.

In our absence, Dolores had spun a web encompassing most of the yurt, including some attachment strands on the bed, so I peeled those off. She sulked, didn’t weave any more that night, and in the morning was gone. I see she’s taken up residence next to the door again, where I tromp through the web basically daily, so I fail to see how this is going to win her anything, but.

Currently, having spent the entire weekend boiling tomatoes on the stove, I’m 23 minutes into a 35-minute boiling-water batch of canning tomato sauce, so I figured I’d take a moment to look at the interwebs. Sorry I haven’t been around. My queue’s run out but there have been some Instagram crossposts I hope have been entertaining. 
The Livestock Department models the new uniforms (j/k they’re water shields for pastured chicken feeders). (at Laughing Earth)

A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Aug 14, 2017 at 5:56am PDT

Fresh pasture for the October batch of pigs, and narration by a small helper. (at Laughing Earth)

A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Aug 13, 2017 at 1:47pm PDT

Cousin shenanigans in the Quackenkill by the waterfall.


Aug. 13th, 2017 06:46 pm
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Emily Dickinson (x)
Farmbaby found a feather and said it was a “hopeful and delicate thing” and is requesting the whole Emily Dickinson poem, which we’re not sure where she heard. Off to look it up now. 

A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Aug 13, 2017 at 5:45am PDT

Farmbaby is disappointed that @this_girl_is_a_squirrel had no new videos to watch this morning so we made our own with Chipmunk.



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