Friday Five

(I like these things - short enough I don't feel guilty by not cutting.)
1. What is your lineage? Where are your ancestors from?
American. Way back on my Dad's side, we're Canadian.
And then, when you go further back, you actually get to the British Isles: Scots, Irish, English. There's some hint of French, but we all think that's a bad rumour

2. Of those countries, which would you most like to visit?
Ireland

3. Which would you least like to visit? Why?
England, but that's only because Ireland and Scotland are cooler.

4. Do you do anything during the year to celebrate or recognize your heritage?
Dad wears his Scottish kilt on St. Patrick's Day every year. Does that count?
Our big family holiday is Thanksgiving - when we gather and acknowledge friends and family. (And Grandpa pastes the family tree to the wall.)

5. Who were the first ancestors to move to your present country (parents, grandparents, etc)?
The latest would be my great-grandmother, who moved here from Ireland during the Potato Famine. The earliest isn't quite Mayflower old, but one of the subsequent boats. Maybe seven, eight generations back? One of my great-aunts wanted to find out, but when she found the great-grand-whatever who was hanged for horse-thievery, she stopped.

Shimmering heat

Trying to write heat without using the usual words: (heat, hot, sweaty, etc.) I got the idea from someone's journal yesterday or the day before, but I can't remember who.

The brief respite of rain was gone, wisping away with the fine mist that was already rising from the puddles on the sidewalk. The air above the black-tarred road shimmered and writhed. He lifted the glass of iced tea to his forehead, let the rivulets of condensation press against skin, and rolled it from temple to temple. Water, salty and sweet, rolled down his face.

Even the shade was punishing, the air solid and still around him. It almost hurt to breathe, sucking in lungfuls of water with each gulp of air. The skin beneath his thighs was sticking to the vinyl straps of the chair. He'd have red marks that would last until morning, at least.

A cool breath of breeze from the open door was a blessing on the back of his neck, followed soon by the slick press of lips to his nape. He groaned and tilted his head back, arching into the fingers threading along his scalp.

"Come on inside. It's brutal out here."

He unstuck his legs from the chair and slouched down enough that his shorts protected him from the chair. He moved the glass of tea to rest, dripping, on the faintly furred skin of his stomach. "But I like it..."