#gchqactivity

Due to lack of activity,

@mrsryderofcarroll

@locallegends

@unfortunatesvuls

@d-lewis

The following Fcs have been reopened.

Alex Kingston

Leighton Meester

Sabrina Carpenter

Laura Harrier

Ian Bohen

We're a week back from the holidays, and thus it's time for the group's first activity check. The following blogs have 24 hours to post on the dash or contact admins, or their roles will be reopened.

@mrsryderofcarroll

@locallegends

@unfortunatesvuls

@d-lewis

Please Unfollow:

“Only three? That's tough,” Declan chuckled. The Carroll native was nothing but memories. His height recorded in pencil on the kitchen wall of his childhood home. The long dry, dusty driveway he'd done donuts with his truck in. Prom. Graduation. His tearful move to LA. He remembered everything.

A drunken teenage night with Ruth. One cool winter night, they'd snuck a bottle of peach schnapps from his grandparents and drank it under the California stars. Intoxicated and silly, they giggled and climbed into the front seat of a rusty old 1966 Camaro tucked away in the garage where they told secrets and fell asleep in each other's company. Declan's grandparents scolded the two stupid teens but still made pancakes in the morning.

A trip to the beach with Vincent. The summer of seventeen was the kind of hot that only the clear water of the Pacific could cool. Declan had just gotten his license and drove Vincent to the beach with the windows rolled down and the radio turned all the way up. Declan splashed his friend and to return the favor, Vinny had pushed him butt first into a crashing wave. He got the worst sunburn but it was well worth it.

His first solo recital at the church. Declan's first job in his teens had been an accompanist for the episcopal church he attended with his grandparents. The music coordinator invited him to perform at Eversong that Christmas and he'd eagerly accepted. He’d been so nervous but once he was on stage, it was like it was just him and the piano. His arrangement of his grandmother's favorite hymn had brought her to tears. She was so proud.

March Laurel Carter; the Boy Next Door //self-indulgent musings, Poppy Court -> in town -> Poppy Court: Morning to afternoon.

Winters in California were nothing like Virginia. Although the temperature sometimes dipped in the low thirties and forties, March Carter missed the snow. He missed the Blue Ridge Mountains and the green, green, green. But he had made his choice to move Carroll, and he had to live with the consequences. 

As he watched the sunrise from his back patio, the retired Olympic rider took a sip from his mug before pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. The steaming liquid was bitter and delicious. He had to admit that the coffee was, in fact, better here. During the quiet of the morning when he was all alone, March wondered if he'd been too hasty in quitting. It'd been nearly a year since his accident, and he still remembered it vividly. A cracked helmet split in two, a collapsed lung, broken ribs, a shattered shoulder, and worst of all—he couldn't finish that, though. Remembering the hill where he buried his best friend was too much even now.

His neighborhood was silent in the early hours of the morning. Several of his neighbors had made their way to work, but other than that, he was alone with his first cup of coffee. During his morning routine, March liked to mentally check through what he had planned for the day. As an Olympic coach, March split his time training locally and traveling to the LA Equestrian Center. His weekends were usually filled with back-to-back horse shows and clinics that only slowed down slightly during the winter months. That was the good thing about winters in California. Mild temperatures and rare snowfall meant consistent time in the tack. 

On today's agenda, March wasn't needed anywhere. That was rare. He planned to catch up on the chores that had gotten away from him. Not one, not two, but three loads of laundry waited for him, and he needed to pick up groceries. He was running low on essentials and couldn't justify ordering takeout for a third day in a row. Now that he wasn't on a strict Olympic diet, March was on an adventurous streak. He still ate healthy, well-balanced meals, but he wasn't terrified of making a mistake anymore.

The last thing on March’s to-do list was to drop clean blankets off for Joy at the barn. He tried to venture out to see his mare at least four days a week and ride because seeing her always lifted his mood. He felt like an overprotective mom the way he doted on her and constantly posted pictures of her on his Instagram. But he didn't care. Everyone already knew he was a crazy horse boy.

When March finished with his coffee, he dropped his dish off in the sink and made himself a quick breakfast. He tuned into the local radio station for some background noise while he cooked. Although a fried egg was simple, it was such a versatile protein. This morning, he decided to use it as a topper for leftover vegetable fried rice because he was a fiend for roasted sesame seeds and soy sauce.

After breakfast, March begrudgingly tackled his laundry. His three loads devoured his morning, leaving him his entire afternoon for visiting Joy and grocery shopping. He spent a few leisure hours at the barn grooming and riding Joy before bundling her up in a waterproof blanket. Despite him always telling his students no treats, he offered his mare an apple core and a few peppermints before turning her out in the pasture. 

On his way home from the barn, he stopped at the grocery store to stock up on the essentials. He was desperately craving a big pot of chili and cornbread. The thought of warm spices made his mouth water.

As he was leaving the store, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Dumping the bags in the backseat, March withdrew his phone and read the message. 

MOM: Can you pick up my crock-pot from Lucy Forbes and drop it by my house?  March struggled to conjure an image of Lucy Forbes in his mind. She was an older woman, he thought, maybe in her seventies? He recalled she went to church with his (also an atheist like her son) mother. 

MARCH: Sure, where? He quickly typed a reply. Just as he was about to put his phone away so he could leave the parking lot, he saw three white dots appear on his screen indicating his mother was typing. MOM: She'll be at the station.*Stadium. Home game tonight!

March grimaced. He hadn't planned on going out tonight. He had a date with his soup pot and fifty dollars worth of chili ingredients. For a moment, he contemplated rescinding his offer of being his mother's delivery boy but ultimately decided against it.