#sangue collina

[bellascarousel]

Trick or Treat? 🦇

I hope people will consider this a treat. Have some world-building Lore in the form of my magic system. Below the cut, cuz this is gonna get long.

So, in the world of Sangue Collina (which, I'm 90% sure I'm changing the name of the city to Collina Insanguinata - which I totally need to double check the spelling of) there are three groups of people that exist in the shadows, unknown to most of the world. The vampires, werewolves, and Mages. Don't ask me why Mage is capitalized. It just is. Anyway, vampires are made, werewolves and Mages are born.

Werewolves are hereditary. They usually shift for the first time around puberty. They are not tied to the moon, shifting is completely voluntary. And, most injuries can be healed by shifting. They have a strict hierarchy that is honestly pretty similar to the line of succession to a Monarchy. Pregnant werewolves cannot shift, and because of this, cannot heal themselves if they're injured. Werewolves and vampires are usually mortal enemies. But, there's a truce here. Exactly what caused that, I don't know. It's a pretty basic truce. The vampires stay out of the forest, the werewolves stay out of vampire-owned businesses, and they both refrain from trying to kill each other. The wolves honestly mostly stay out of the city at night.

The vampires are made by having vampire blood forced down their throats after they've died. There's a fairly short window of opportunity for this. They get super-speed, super-strength, and enhanced senses. Though they can turn the enhanced senses on and off at will. The one enhanced sense they cannot turn off, is their sense of time. Vampires will always know exactly how far away sunrise is. That one is a survival trait. They become projective telepaths (though, they can only Send to one person at a time). And they also become effectively immortal. They stop aging, and don't get sick, so they won't die of natural causes. The only ways to kill one are sunlight, fire, and chopping off their head. (No, a stake through the heart won't cut it.) Their bite contains two different kinds of venom. One acts as a hypnogenic allowing the vampire to alter their victims' memories. That's how they remain hidden, because nobody who has been bitten by one remembers it. The other can, like their enhanced senses, be turned on and off. It causes an almost sexual pleasure in their victims. The theory is that it's to keep the victim from struggling, which actually makes it easier to not accidentally kill them. They can heal wounds with either their saliva or their blood, and will usually lick a bite to close it when they're done feeding. Vampire bites are not automatically fatal, and it's actually rare for someone to die of a vampire bite. Vampires can be affected by drugs, including alcohol, in their victims' blood, or by adding blood to a drink.

Mages are where I had the most fun. Mages are born. And there are several types.

Time Mages can see the future or the past, and can control time. Stopping it, rewinding it, slowing it down, and speeding it up.

Energy Mages can do all sorts of fun things. They can control the weather, start or put out fires, fuck with gravity, they're telekinetic. Basically, they can manipulate just about every form of energy to varying degrees that vary from Mage to Mage.

Spatial Mages basically manipulate space. They're clairvoyant, and able to see things far away. They can teleport themselves, other people, or objects. This is different from telekinesis. Where an Energy Mage would move something from one place to another by moving it through the intervening space, a Spatial Mage would simply connect the space the object currently occupies with the space they want to move it to for a second and then holding it in the new space while they disconnect the spaces.

Mind Mages are telepaths. They can read minds, project their thoughts, read and manipulate emotions, and have the power of compulsion.

Life Mages are healers. Pretty self-explanatory, I think.

Necromancers are... well... necromancers, LOL. They can create zombies (by force-feeding a corpse their blood). and can control the dead. And yes, that includes vampires.

There's another kind of Mage that is almost completely passive. They can sense magic, but not really use it. The one bit of active magic they have is the ability to make the amulets that all Mages wear and bind them to their owners. I'm sure I had a name for this, I do not remember it at the moment.

By the time a Mage child is five or six that last type of Mage will be able to tell what kind of Mage the child is going to be. Some families have a predisposition towards one type or another, but any child can really end up as any kind of Mage. The amulet the child is presented with reflects their type. Time gets a sun, Energy is a lightning bolt, Spatial is the only 3-D amulet - they have a globe, Mind is a brain, Life is a tree, and Necromancers get a skull. This amulet is made out of obsidian, but it glows. A Mage can have another Mage charge their amulet and use it to store types of magic they don't naturally possess.

It is possible for somebody from a Mage family to not become a Mage. And it is possible for there to be entire family lines that are actually descended from Mages, but have no magic, themselves. It is also possible for somebody who has Mage blood but isn't a full-fledged Mage to have some latent abilities that can be triggered. The trigger is a combination of a traumatic experience and a magical trigger. Yes, this means that there are vampires who had no idea that magic was even real, much less that some ancestor or other of theirs was a Mage who suddenly find themselves able to do some pretty freaky shit beyond the "normal" vampire abilities. (For instance, Catie is an Empath, Eli is a firestarter, William can Send to more than one person at a time, Polly is a Seer - though Polly knew she had Mage blood.)

And finally, there's the Medeas. They are vampires who used to be Mages. They can only be turned by another Medeas. If any other vampire tried to turn a Mage, not only would they stay dead, but even a Medeas wouldn't be able to turn them after that. Though, a Medeas can turn a normal human. They lose most of their old abilities, including the ability to use their amulets. They do keep some, but become no more powerful than any other vampire who happens to have Mage blood.

And that is the gist of my magic system. I have no idea if something this long was what you had in mind when you created this event, but apparently I've been dying to share this nonsense, and you opened the floodgates.

[bellaleighwrites]

Sangue Collina - Welcome To The (Urban) Jungle

All right, I'm doing this. I mentioned (threatened) that I was thinking about it a while back. Then got sidetracked trying to decide if I wanted to do this now, or wait until it had gone through a bit of revision. And realized that the people who had inspired me were posting first drafts, so... Why not? Anyway... this is rough draft. I'm currently working on analyzing it in order to plan a proper revision. I know that a lot will be changing - including plot things. I'll probably repost when it's closer to being ready for betas, too.

One note, included in the things that will change, is the name of the city. I kind of Anglicized it, and am starting to not like that. I have a few ideas on what to change it to, and will probably end up posting a poll for help deciding. But, for simplicity's sake, the tag will stay the same, even after I figure out the real name of this city. So... without further ado... the first scene of Book 1 of The Vampires Of Sangue Collina. Below the cut due to length

Sangue Collina. Its name means blood hill and many a historian has spent far too many hours hunched over old records, trying to find some indication of the battle or tragedy that earned it its name. They looked in vain. Those that know the truth about who founded it have their own theories, though. Perhaps one of them, or even both of them, is correct. Those in the know suggest that it was to the founders what a name like New Hope or New Haven would have been to a human. A hope for a brighter future. For the founders of Sangue Collina, a land flowing with blood would have been a mecca. Others, those who know even more, suggest that the battle it was named for simply hasn’t happened yet.

Historians aren’t the only ones who scratch their heads over it, though. Architects wonder at the flat roofs that do not seem designed with midwestern winters in mind. And at the number of balconies, not just on houses and apartment buildings, but the upper stories of businesses, as well. Business owners question why so many businesses, from stores to bars, to nightclubs, to movie theaters, have apartments above them. Interior decorators find the number of homes and apartments with heavy-duty blackout curtains fascinating. And, if any of them could remember their own involvement in its existence, there would be a great many people who would question why there is a forge in the basement of a nightclub. Not that any of them would ever guess the truth behind those many mysteries.

The night of the fall equinox begins much the same as every other night in the city. Most of the people go about their usual business, unaware of the two groups of people for whom sunset is either the end of their day — or the beginning. As several people make their way out of the city, heading for the safety of their homes in the forest outside of town, behind those blackout curtains there are others who are just about waking up. As the last of the sun’s rays fade from the skies, the true rulers of Sangue Collina open their eyes and prepare to own the night. Curtains are opened, and men, women, and at least one apparent child leap from balconies. Either down to the streets below or up, turning those flat roofs that architects wonder at into highways. The nightly hunt is on. Not that any of the prey would even know if they had been caught.

There is one house where the curtains are opened, but nobody emerges onto the balcony. For Elijah Cavendish, there will be no hunt. There is no need. Nor is there a desire for it. For him, blood bags work just as well, without the fear of taking too much and accidentally killing someone. And so, his evenings start differently than the others’. With blood drunk, not from a vein but out of a wineglass. Sitting at the desk in his study, staring up at the portrait of the woman he once planned to marry, but who instead was the first person he ever killed.

He finished his glass of blood and set it down on the desk. And then he closed his eyes and Sent his thoughts to his housekeeper. :Good evening, Beverly. Is there anything that needs my attention, this evening?: He smiled when she appeared in the doorway. How she could walk so quietly that even he couldn’t hear her was a mystery. Though, perhaps that had been part of her gift from Nicolaus.

“Nothing at all. The daytime managers of both the Rhiannon and the Athenaeum have checked in and things seem to be running smoothly. As of right now, you can safely take the night off.”

He had to laugh at how well she understood the rest of what he was asking her. Then again, that could have either been in the way he worded the question, or simply because she knew what this night was for him. “I think I will, then. Get some painting in. I’m almost finished touching up Edward’s portrait. Maybe after that I’ll start on something that is more just for fun.”

“It would be nice to see you working on something that wasn’t designed to cause you pain. Maybe a nice landscape? Or the view of the city from the penthouse window?” She came in and picked up his glass. As she was leaving, she turned around. “Happy birthday, Mr. Cavendish. Do try to spend at least some of it doing something other than wallowing in guilt and self-pity.” And with that final jab, she walked out of the room, leaving him alone with his own thoughts.

Too bad what she suggested was easier said than done. He left the room and walked to his studio. And let himself spend a few hours lost in the past. Maybe not the best way to spend his birthday, but in some ways it was easier to think of those who would be long dead even if he had never been born. There were far too many for whom that was not the case.

Though, truth be told, his family did not actually fit that, either. While it was true that they all would have died of old age centuries ago, that was not at all what happened. No, their deaths all came in one blood-soaked night. The night, nearly three centuries ago, that the war between him and Ana started.

Eli would never forget that night. How he had huddled in the wardrobe Edward had hidden him in and tried not to cry as he listened to his parents' and older siblings' screams of pain and terror. Tried to be the brave boy his brother had begged him to be. Tried to block out the noises. All the noises. Not just the screams, but the other noises, as well. Noises he couldn't begin to understand at five years old. Noises that he blocked from his memory as he got old enough to understand what they were. Because they made no sense. Until the night, eighteen years later, that he was made to understand what had caused them. Moans, not of pain, but of the vampire venom induced erotic pleasure they were experiencing even as they were being drained dry.

And, somehow, that was all his fault. It was the opening shot in Ana's centuries-long vendetta against him for some crime he hadn't even committed yet. Two hundred ninety-five years later, and he still didn't know why. Why she had ordered his family killed. Why she had saved him. It was probably why she was still alive. Why he could never bring himself to kill her. Because the night Anastasia Delaney died, would be the night that Eli lost any chance he had of learning why she had hated him so much. What he could have possibly have done to deserve the living Hell she plunged him into. Again and again.

[kon-igi]

NON PUOI SFUGGIRE ALLA VITA

Parcheggio la macchina in cortile e come sempre guardo attraverso la porta-finestra della cucina, leggermente socchiusa.

Vedo un canovaccio appeso alla cappa aspirante sopra i fornelli e so che quello è il segnale che qualcosa è andato storto.

Entro.

Erano in cinque ma adesso ne è rimasto solo uno, terrorizzato e pieno degli schizzi di sangue dei membri della squadra di assalto; terrorizzato ma deciso a tenersi davanti mia moglie e a puntarle una Glock 17 alla tempia... no, scusate... è una Glock 22, quindi calibro .40.

Quello che lui non può vedere è lo Stand di mia moglie che gli galleggia sopra: Regina Noctis in piena modalità Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen e infatti non mi stupisce notare i pezzi degli altri quattro sparsi sul pavimento della cucina.

Regina Noctis è uno Stand quiescente completamente cieco e sordo ma quando si strappano le suture da palpebre e padiglioni auricolari nemmeno io riesco a contenerne la sete di sangue.

Richiamala, per favore - le dico, tenendo d'occhio le lame dei coltelli da macellaio, viscide di sangue, che stringe in mezzo alle pallide dita oblunghe - perché non riesco a usare contro di lei il mio Earth On John, visto che non posso colpirti.

Regina Noctis scompare.

Il tizio sta farfugliando qualcosa su alcune foto compromettenti in mio possesso che devono essere distrutte ma continua a tenersi stretta a petto A. - che peraltro comincia ad avere un'espressione annoiata - e a farle oscillare la canna della Glock tra guancia e orecchio.

Ancora quella storia delle foto... cioè, perché devo avere lo stesso nome e lo stesso cognome di un fotografo fiorentino che si vuole atteggiare a fotoreporter d'assalto, salvo poi cagarsi in mano e lasciare che vengano a cercare me?!

Ok, amico, metti giù la pistola e poi ti dico dove trovare le fot... - mi fermo perché un piccolo puntino rosso sta sciabolando sul petto di A. per poi fermarsi in mezzo alla sua fronte.

Fisso, immobile.

Poi ricordo e capisco.

Guardo mia moglie negli occhi, sorrido leggermente e poi sussurro

- CAMMEI VATICANI...

Lei piega le ginocchia e si lascia cadere a terra, scivolando via dalla presa del tizio. Il puntino rosso che prima era in mezzo alla fronte di mia moglie adesso è sulla gola del poveraccio.

TUD!

E il tizio è a terra, con una presa d'aria supplementare tra mento e petto..

A. si rialza, guarda la porta-finestra e mi indica un piccolo foro nel vetro - È stato uno dei tuoi amici?

Diciamo di sì - le rispondo, uscendo in cortile - intanto vai a prendere il fusto di acido fluoroantimonico ché poi dobbiamo ripulire.

Ho calcolato la traiettoria di tiro, quindi so dove trovarlo.

Raggiungo il terrazzamento naturale sul fianco della collina, accanto al noce - Sai, quella volta non ti ho salvato dal barile mezzo pieno d'acqua perché poi tu ti dovessi sdebitare con me... questo non significa che io non ti sia riconoscente, però. Grazie e comunque... bel tiro!

Per terra c'è un fucile di precisione Dragunov SVD con mirino a intensificazione di luce notturna e puntatore laser, sul grilletto un piccolo topo che mi fissa coi suoi occhietti neri, fa vibrare i baffi e poi saetta via nella notte con uno squittio di saluto.

Come diceva il mio sensei 'Questo è il pianeta terra. Non puoi sfuggire alla vita neanche nel più tetro dei sotterranei'

[soldan56]

Perché Luca Marinelli canta "The ghost of Tom Joad" di Bruce Springsteen

Tom Joad è il protagonista del romanzo più importante di John Steinbeck, probabilmente il più esistenzialista e sensibile scrittore americano del 900. Certamente uno dei più libertari (il rapporto di profonda amicizia con il filosofo libertario Edward Ricketts e i lunghi scambi di idee in scrittura influenzarono molto il pensiero di Steinbeck). Il capolavoro letterario esce negli Stati Uniti nel 1939 e noi lo conosciamo con il titolo di "Furore".

Woody Guthrie, il grande poeta cantautore antifascista, maestro di Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen e Bruce Springsteen (tra i molti), scrisse la struggente ballata "Tom Joad" l'anno dopo, nel 1940. Nove anni prima che Springsteen venisse al mondo.

La storia di Furore, per chi non l'abbia mai letta, è l´epopea drammatica della trasmigrazione della famiglia Joad, assieme ad altre centinaia di poveracci, dall'Oklahoma attraverso il Texas, il New Mexico e l'Arizona, lungo la famosa Route 66 che conoscerà altre storie letterarie (Kerouac fra tutti), fino alla California, in cerca di un modo di vivere meno misero. Ci troveranno solo il modo terribile di sopravvivere: paghe da fame, caporalato, lavori da schiavi. Sono gli anni della Grande Depressione. Smagriti da un regime di lavoro che non bastava neanche lontanamente a nutrirli, picchiati, senza una casa, vivevano in baracche di fortuna (spaventosa la somiglianza con le città dormitorio dei migranti in Puglia oggi).

Ed è questa la storia che Springsteen, 55 anni dopo, nel 1995 vuole raccontare. Non certo per mettersi in competizione con il suo maestro Woody Guthrie (che lo stesso Springsteen definì "inarrivabile") ma per renderla più moderna e attuale ai nuovi lavori schiavisti negli Stati Uniti. Tom Joad, nel testo di Springsteen, è un fantasma ancora presente nell'America di oggi, come se cinquant'anni dopo, ben poco fosse cambiato.

E il testo è un pugno allo stomaco che toglie il respiro:

"Uomini a piedi lungo i binari diretti non si sa dove, non c'è ritorno; elicotteri della stradale che spuntano dalla collina,

minestra a scaldare sul fuoco sotto il ponte, la fila per il ricovero che fa il giro dell'isolato.

Benvenuti al nuovo ordine mondiale.

Famiglie che dormono in macchina nel Sud ovest. Né casa né lavoro né sicurezza né pace. La strada è viva stasera ma nessuno si illude su dove va a finire.

Sto qui seduto alla luce del falò

e cerco il fantasma di Tom Joad.

Tira fuori un libro dal sacco a pelo,

il predicatore accende un mozzicone e fa una tirata aspettando il giorno che gli ultimi saranno i primi e i primi gli ultimi.

In uno scatolone di cartone nel sottopassaggio ho un biglietto di sola andata per la terra promessa.

E tu hai un buco in pancia e una pistola in mano e dormi su un cuscino di sasso, ti lavi nell'acquedotto municipale.

Diceva Tom: Mamma, dovunque un poliziotto picchia una persona, dovunque un bambino nasce gridando per la fame,

dovunque c'è una lotta contro il sangue e l'odio nell'aria cercami, e ci sarò.

Dovunque si combatte per uno spazio di dignità per un lavoro decente, una mano d'aiuto, dovunque qualcuno lotta per essere libero, guardali negli occhi e vedrai me."

I Tom Joad di oggi, descritti da Springsteen, sono messicani, africani, sono le nuove vittime di un Nuovo Ordine Mondiale ancora affollato di poliziotti che picchiano, bambini che piangono per la fame, gente senza lavoro e senza libertà.

E allora perché un attore affermato e bravissimo come Luca Marinelli sceglie proprio, esponendosi, di cantare la poesia sociale di Springsteen? Non può essere semplicemente un caso.

Dopo gli insulti ricevuti da quell'area politica che governa l'Italia per aver interpretato Mussolini, e dopo la valanga di commenti feroci sui social, alla sua persona, alla sua sensibilità di attore, lui risponde con un urlo che ha ormai ottant'anni. Quell'urlo di rivalsa, di libertà che albergava in Steinbeck, in Guthrie. E questo lo rende simile ad Elio Germano, altro artista raro che esprime sempre il suo pensiero libertario contro le ingiustizie.

E la canta pure bene. Uno dei pezzi di Springsteen più difficili da interpretare. Quindi un grazie a Luca Marinelli che solleva ancora una volta quel grido degli oppressi. Di qualsiasi epoca.

Olmo Losca il video: https://x.com/MichelaMeloni1/status/1878807190137700720

[bellascarousel]

Okay, having seen both @goodluckclove and @an-indecisive-nerd do this, it looks like fun.

So! Let's say that ~1300 years ago, when a certain someone died on a battlefield in Ireland, he stayed dead. Without him around threatening to blow up the world in 2025, there's no need to stop him in 2015. So! Here. We. Go.

Does Arika even exist? I honestly have no idea. Maybe Isaac and Livvi meet a different way, and that part of the timeline continues on, only slightly altered.

But, even if she DOES exist, without the threat of WW3, we don't need Polly able to have visions. So, no Aurelios family curse. Polly doesn't die in a hunting accident, because Nicolaus can see her death coming in time to stop it.

Since Polly doesn't get turned at 10, she never triggers her Mage blood. No visions of the end of the world means that Nicolaus won't have any reason to have somebody stop him from aging so he's there to prevent it. Polly and Nicolaus both lead fairly unremarkable lives and die of old age in like the 8th century?

Fast forward 900 years. Polly and Nicolaus are both long dead. Ana still runs away from home, Nic had nothing to do with that. But, Polly isn't there to turn Ana. I don't remember if Ana died from something else and Polly just brought her back, or if Polly killed her to turn her. But, it hardly matters. Either way, she dies in the 17th century.

Without Ana, that horrible night when Eli's family were all murdered never happened. Eli grew up as the perfectly well-adjusted youngest son of a Duke. He either becomes a cartographer, or his father and oldest brother use their connections to help him make a decent living as a portraitist. We'll say that he still meets and falls in love with Josephine Leighton, and ends up marrying her and having kids.

Without Eli being turned, Benedict dies of yellow fever. He was 20 years old.

Fast forward to WW2. Catie had probably still been turned. We can say that without Eli there, she would have grabbed both Bianca and the baby at the same time. But, without Eli there to stop her, she would have gone back for her parents. She would have been in the house when it exploded.

Since Catie died in Cassino, she wasn't at the Liberation of Paris Which means that when Dani died, she stayed dead.

By the time we get to 2015, which is when this story would have taken place, the only characters alive are Adam, William, Laura, and the wolves. Adam would have no reason to be in Collina Insanguinata.

I genuinely have no idea what this story would be about. Maybe an interesting parallel slice of life. Show Collina Insanguinata by day through Sam and Zach's eyes and by night through William and Laura's.

*edited because I hit send before I finished fact-checking my timeline. I had when Catie and Dani met wrong.

question for authors: what if the plot just. didn’t. didn’t happen. what if their world just stayed normal. what if they didn’t need to suffer the way a plot demands, grow the way their current arcs dictate. yk. what if nothing happened.

[swingtoscano]

La collina è notturna, nel cielo chiaro.

Vi s'inquadra il tuo capo, che muove appena

e accompagna quel cielo. Sei come una nube

intravista fra i rami. Ti ride negli occhi la stranezza di un cielo che non è il tuo.

La collina di terra e di foglie chiude con la massa nera il tuo vivo guardare, la tua bocca ha la piega di un dolce

incavo

tra le coste lontane. Sembri giocare alla grande collina e al chiarore del cielo: per piacermi ripeti lo sfondo antico e lo rendi piú puro.

Ma vivi altrove.

Il tuo tenero sangue si è fatto altrove.

Le parole che dici non hanno riscontro con la scabra tristezza di questo cielo.

Tu non sei che una nube dolcissima, bianca

impigliata una notte fra i rami antichi.

Cesare Pavese

[sciatu]

MILAZZO - BAIA DEL TONO

Partendo da Milazzo in autobus, si raggiunge facilmente il lato che guarda verso Palermo di quella lunga striscia di terra protesa verso nord che è Capo Milazzo. Su questo lato, da cui è possibile vedere le Eolie e l’Etna, vi è una lunga spiaggia amata dal sole che prosegue dritta e chiara fino a finire in un golfo formato dal piegarsi verso ovest dell’alta collina che costituisce il Capo. Dopo quella curva, la scogliera prosegue alta e scoscesa, formando qua e là insenature e spiaggette fino ad arrivare alla punta estrema del capo per poi piegarsi verso sud a formare l’altro lato del lungo promontorio. Su questo lato, ricco di uliveti e lunghi filari di uva da cui nasce il Mamertino, solo poche case, immerse in grandi giardini circondati da bouganville rosse o arancione e palme dall’esili forme. La lunga spiaggia sul lato ovest è quindi l’unica parte dove è possibile fare quell’oziosa attività che consiste nel prendere il sole e nuotare nelle acque calde e trasparenti del mare. Dove la lunga spiaggia finisce c’è la baia del Tono o, come è chiamata in siciliano “a N’ Gonia”, parola derivata dal greco che vuol dire semplicemente “l’angolo”. La baia del Tono era la parte terminale della più grande tonnara del lato nord della Sicilia, attività cruenta dove centinaia di tonni venivano uccisi per garantire la sopravvivenza della popolazione costiera. Di tutto quel dolore e sangue che si perdeva nelle acque marine non è rimasto nulla. Pigramente ci si lascia bruciare dal sole attendendo l’ora di pranzo per mangiare a prezzi modici nei vari stabilimenti balneari un delizioso piatto di paste con le sarde o alla norma. Verso sera il cielo si accende in tramonti che tolgono il fiato e stupiscono per l’assoluta bellezza.

Leaving from Milazzo by bus, you can easily reach the side facing Palermo of that long strip of land extending northwards which is Capo Milazzo. On this side, from which it is possible to see the Aeolian Islands and Etna, there is a long beach loved by the sun which continues straight and clear until it ends in a gulf formed by the high hill that forms the Cape bending towards the west. After that curve, the cliff continues high and steep, forming here and there inlets and small beaches until it reaches the extreme point of the cape and then bends towards the south to form the other side of the long promontory. On this side, full of olive groves and long rows of grapes from which the Mamertino wine is born, only a few houses, immersed in large gardens surrounded by red or orange bougainvillea and palm trees with slender shapes. The long beach on the west side is therefore the only part where it is possible to do that idle activity which consists of sunbathing and swimming in the warm and transparent waters of the sea. Where the long beach ends is the Tono bay or, as it is called in Sicilian "a N' Gonia", a word derived from the Greek which simply means "the corner". The Tono bay was the terminal part of the largest tuna fishery on the north side of Sicily, a bloody activity where hundreds of tuna were killed to ensure the survival of the coastal population. Of all that pain and blood that was lost in the marine waters there is nothing left. You let yourself be burned by the sun while waiting for lunchtime to eat a delicious plate of pasta with sardines or alla norma at reasonable prices in the various bathing establishments. Towards evening the sky lights up in sunsets that take your breath away and amaze you with their absolute beauty.

[diceriadelluntore]

Memorie Della Collina

Su Instagram mi è stato mandato uno di quei template da condividere con le serie tv. E tra la scelte c'è questa: rispetto ad altre dello stesso periodo (inizio anni 2000m la serie è andata in onda dal 2003 al 2012), è probabilmente meno famosa, ma One Tree Hill ha ancora dei fanche la ricordano con affetto. La serie, creata da Mark Schwahn, ambientata nella fittizia città di Tree Hill in Carolina del Nord e segue le vite di due fratellastri, Lucas Scott (Chad Michael Murray) e Nathan Scott (James Lafferty), il cui rapporto evolve, nel corso della serie, da acerrimi nemici a fratelli devoti. Tra gli altri protagonisti, Peyton Sawyer, interpretata da Hilarie Burton, Haley James, interpretata da Bethany Joy Lenz e Brooke Davis, interpretata da Sophia Bush (che sono i personaggi nella foto).

Tra le chicche della serie, due musicali: è stata l'unica serie, insieme a The Sopranos, ad avere il placet direttamente dai Led Zeppelin per l'utilizzo di un loro brano (in questo caso, Babe I'm Gonna Leave You); lo stesso titolo della serie, One Tree Hill, venne a Schwahn mentre ascoltava The Joshua Tree degli U2, che hanno una canzone dello stesso titolo. La quale è un gioiello dalla storia triste: One Tree Hill è infatti il nome di una località non lontana da Auckland da cui proveniva Greg Carroll, uno degli assistenti di Bono, morto in un incidente stradale in Irlanda mentre guidava la motocicletta nel 1986, dopo pochi giorni dall'inizio delle registrazioni del memorabile disco. Il brano è famoso perchè, ricorda Brian Eno, Bono lo riuscì a cantare per intero in una unica, toccante, registrazione, con il famoso finale cantato in falsetto.

Ci giriamo per esporci al freddo, perdurante gelo Mentre il giorno supplica la notte di avere pietà Il tuo sole così splendente non lascia ombre, solo segni Scolpiti nella roccia sulla faccia della terra La luna è alta e su One Tree Hill Vediamo il sole tramontare nei tuoi occhi

Tu corri come un fiume verso il mare Come un fiume verso il mare

E nel mondo un cuore di tenebra, una zona di fuoco Dove i poeti parlano dei loro cuori Poi versano il loro sangue per averlo fatto Jara* cantava, la sua poesia un'arma, nelle mani dell'amore Lo sai il suo sangue ancora grida dalla terra Esso scorre come un fiume verso il mare Come un fiume verso il mare

Non credo in rose dipinte o cuori che sanguinano Finché le pallottole violentano la notte dei misericordiosi Ti vedrò ancora quando le stelle cadranno dal cielo E la luna diventerà rossa Su One Tree Hill

Oh grande oceano Oh grande mare Corri verso gli oceani Corri verso il mare

*Victor Jara, cantautore, musicista, regista teatrale e poeta cileno, fu barbaramente assassinato cinque giorni dopo il golpe dell'11 settembre 1973 contro il Presidente Salvador Allende, vittima della repressione messa in atto dal dittatore Augusto Pinochet

Chi leggerà questo post ha ricordi di questa serie? O ne ricorda un'altra legata ad una particolare canzone?

[bellaleighwrites]

He just got to his desk to brush it off, when he heard Benedict’s voice in his head “Uncle… It really is Catie.”

He froze at that. “What do you mean, it really is Catie?”

“I mean that Catalina Terranova is alive and well and in Sangue Collina.”

He braced himself on his desk, as his legs turned to jelly. “Benedict Elijah Leighton, if this is a joke, it is really fucking sick.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you about this, Eli. She’s here. It’s really her. She’s… She thought that you were dead. She’s a bit of a mess, right now.”

“All right. Don’t force her. I’ll be here when she’s ready to see me.”

He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t need to breathe, but right now, the fact that he couldn’t was definitely an issue. There was a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t begin to understand. His heart had stopped beating two hundred seventy-seven years ago. So, why did it feel like he was having a heart attack, now?

Catie was alive. She was alive, and she was in his city, in his club. She was ten feet away, trying to get up the courage to come see him. He wanted to run out there. To grab her and spin her around. To just hold her close, until his mind and his heart could both accept what his senses were telling him. But, she had thought that he was dead. This was as much of a shock to her as it was to him. And she was an Empath. He couldn’t add his own swirling emotions to what she must be feeling, right now. Bad enough that she had to deal with Benedict.

Daily Sip 5/26

You can reblog this post.

You can make your own post.

You reblog someone else's snip!

Just tag it sipofsnips so everyone can find each other. ^.-

[bellascarousel]

OC Interview

Thanks for the tag, @katenewmanwrites

Eli from Sangue Collina will be answering these.

Do you have any hobbies? If so, what ones?

I paint. Mostly portraits. Though, perhaps painting portraits of people whose deaths I feel responsible for can hardly be called a hobby. My housekeeper is always getting on me to paint something that isn't designed to cause me pain. But, at least the portraits are a way to keep my loved ones with me.

I also have an extensive library, collected over the centuries. I love reading, both for fun and doing research on various things. My pet project is collecting books on Necromancy to try to find a way to save Ana from herself. Though, some would call that a fool's errand.

Be honest. Who could you trust most with a secret?

Beverly. She's been with me for a very long time, and knows all of my secrets. She's the one who makes the arrangements when we need to move to a knew city. And on more than one occasion she's shoved me into a box and mailed me to one of my friends. I've been trusting her with my life for over two hundred years, longer than even Benedict has been alive.

Do you dream often? What do you dream about?

It's rare for a vampire to dream. we usually sleep like the dead. Though, I sometimes have nightmares about the night my family died. I don't know if I've ever told anyone about that. Though it wouldn't surprise me if Beverly knows.

Have you ever been in love?

Twice. Once upon a time, back when I was human, I wanted to marry Josephine Leighton. But then we both died and put an end to that. Now, I'm in love with Catie. I'm really hoping for a happy ending, this time. I want to be standing with her in my arms when the world ends.

What is your least favorite thing in the world? What is your pet peeve?

My least favorite thing in the world? How would you even quantify that? As for a pet peeve, I'm going to go with people talking in movie theaters. You've paid for the privilege of watching this movie. So, watch it. Why pay money to watch a movie and then talk though it so that you don't actually know what is going on? But, even worse, you've now made it so that nobody else knows what's going on in this movie that they paid to see. If you want to talk through a movie, wait until it comes out on DVD or comes to Netflix or Amazon Prime. Don't waste, not only your money, but the money of everybody around you going to a theater and ruining the experience for everyone.

Would you team up with your worst enemy if it was your only option?

Absolutely. I'd probably have to keep her on a tight leash. But, I would absolutely team up with Ana if it was to do something good that would help people.

Tagging @elizmanderson @dyrewrites @stesierra and anyone else that wants to do it.

[bellaleighwrites]

WIP Intro: Sangue Collina

Figured it's past time I started actually talking about my writing in here. We'll start with the novel I'm revising.

Working Title: The Vampires of Sangue Collina, Book 1. I don't actually have a working title for it. The Scrivener file is called Eternity's Sacrifice, but I'm not sure I still like that.

Status: In revisions

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Setting: A city in Illinois called Sangue Collina - which means "Blood Hill" in Italian. The city is unique for the world that it's in, in that the vampires and werewolves have a truce. In most of the world, they're mortal enemies. The vampires rule the city from the shadows. And the humans are totally unaware of the existence of these two groups of supernatural beings. And unknown to anyone except a very select few, the night is fast approaching when the fate of the world will be decided in the streets of this city.

Summary: Once upon a time, Elijah Cavendish was a duke. But, that was back before he died. Our story starts 277 years later, on his 300th birthday. A newcomer to the city has contacted Eli's nephew, Benedict, claiming to be a friend of theirs that they both thought died twelve years ago. When it turns out to actually be that friend, her arrival sets in motion a chain of events that only the local Seer, her Time Mage older brother, and the man who has been working with them for over a millennium to try to prevent the premature end of the world could have ever seen coming. When Eli has reason to believe that his homicidal Sire is in town and gunning for his friends, he decides it is time to cut his losses and do something permanent about her. Only to be told that if he comes back from his confrontation with her in one piece, then within a year the city would be covered in the ashes of their kind - but if he doesn't, then within a decade, the whole world would be. Eli just wants to keep Catie, the woman he's loved for decades, safe. But, his world is going increasingly mad. There's a war coming, a war that will actually prevent World War Three. There's a Necromancer on the loose in a city full of walking corpses. And Eli's own long-dormant firestarting abilities have made a surprise resurgence - but are now out of his control. But, when he discovers just who the Necromancer is, the price he's asked to pay to protect the people he cares about may prove to be too high.

Tags: general tag: #Sangue Collina

Snippets: #Sangue Collina snippets

Progress reports: #Sangue Collina progress

Character intros: #Sangue Collina characters

[micro961]

Andy Moore pubblica “Nero Fumo”

Un fantasy oscuro tra rito di passaggio, potere e identità

“Nero Fumo” è il romanzo che consacra la scrittura di Andy Moore, pseudonimo di Andrea Morelli, come una voce intensa e originale nel panorama del fantasy italiano. Ambientato nella città immaginaria di Zmirrat, tra deserti infuocati, antiche leggende e un sinistro quartiere avvolto dal mistero, “Nero Fumo” è una riflessione sul dolore, sull’eredità che ci portiamo dentro e sul coraggio di restare umani. Aram-Zym, sedici anni, deve affrontare il tradizionale rito che segna il passaggio all’età adulta: quando l’oscurità cala sulla città e il Ventre, il quartiere proibito e infestato da un fumo nero, si trasforma in trappola mortale, Aram e i suoi amici si trovano risucchiati in una spirale di paura, perdita e rivelazioni. Il protagonista scoprirà verità dolorose su sé stesso, sul potere che scorre nel suo sangue e sull’enigmatica figura del Signore della città, Ach-Noim. A sorreggere la sua lotta, ci sono la presenza silenziosa e potente della madre Ilyam, la guerriera Syrthia e l’amicizia indistruttibile con Malhud, compagno di vita e di battaglie. Proprio in “Nero Fumo”, Andy Moore mostra una padronanza matura del genere, mescolando suggestioni mitologiche, ritmo narrativo serrato e profonda introspezione. La sua scrittura, evocativa e simbolica, porta il lettore in un altro mondo, estremamente vicino a certi dolori dell’adolescenza e della trasformazione. “Nero Fumo” è il secondo romanzo dell’autore, dopo “Il canto della civetta”, ed è stato vincitore della sezione Fantasy del Premio letterario “Romanzi e generi” 2022. È inoltre parte di una narrazione più ampia che troverà nuovi sviluppi nel prossimo romanzo “La montagna senza tempo”, in uscita a luglio 2025.

Acquista il romanzo

Andrea Morelli, nato a Livorno nel 1967, vive e lavora a Lucca. Laureato in Scienze Biologiche, si occupa di industria farmaceutica ed è attivo nel mondo letterario con interviste, recensioni e pubblicazioni. Ha frequentato corsi di scrittura creativa con l’agenzia “Saper Scrivere” e partecipa regolarmente a concorsi di narrativa. Tra le sue opere: “La casa sulla collina”, “Il canto della civetta”, “Nero Fumo” e il prossimo romanzo fantasy “La montagna senza tempo” (Pinguino Libri, in uscita luglio 2025).

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/andy_moore_libri/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andrea.morelli.547

[bellascarousel]

I've had this happen so many times with Sangue Collina. Starting with the fact that the book EXISTS because my first ever role-playing character went "sooo... that guy you thought I thought of as an older brother? I'm in love with him. Have fun with that." Polly's original incarnation said 5 words - "my brother is an idiot" - and not only changed her own backstory, but explained where Catie's Empathy came from, gave Eli and William some nifty abilities, and basically added some fun stuff to my world-building and magic system. And my Muse spent the entire first draft hitting me upside the head with Eli's books. Those books are now a major factor in a huge plot point in book 1 AND are going to be the answer to the Mucguffin everyone will be looking for later in the series. It's been a wild ride, but it's fun.

One thing I genuinely like about writing, is how the story unfolds as you write it. You may start with a general idea, but little did you know that something you put in the story would become a major symbol, or that two characters would grow as close as they did, or that apparently you need a scene between Character A and Character C…

I just love how the story grows under your fingers, and becomes something beyond what you first imagined. 

[cuorerock]

Hai creduto che mille acri di terra fossero molti, fermati quest’oggi e questa notte con me, entrerai in possesso dell’origine di tutti i poemi. Io, io celebro me stesso, io canto a me stesso! E ciò che io presumo devi anche tu presumere perché ogni atomo che mi appartiene è come se appartenesse a te. Ozio ed esorto l’anima mia, ozio e m’attardo a mio agio ad osservare un piccolo filo d’erba. La mia lingua, ogni atomo del mio sangue è nato qui, da genitori anch’essi nati qui e i loro padri parimenti e così i i padri dei loro padri io ora a trentasette anni in perfetta salute comincio sperando di non cessare che alla morte. Il fumo del mio respiro, bisbigli, diffusi gorgoglii, radice d’amore, filamento di seta, inforcatura e viticcio., il mio inspirare e il mio espirare, il transitare dell’aria e del mio sangue attraverso i miei polmoni, il suono eruttato dalla mia voce! Abbandonate i vortici del vento, qualche rapido bacio, qualche abbraccio, un lungo accerchiare di braccia. Il gioco della luce e dei riflessi negli alberi all’oscillare dei rami flessuosi, il godimento della solitudine. O in mezzo alla folla per le strade o lungo i campi o sui fianchi di una collina, la sensazione di salute! Il palpito del mezzogiorno, il canto di me che mi alzo dal letto e vado incontro al sole, ciao sole! Sole! L’ultimo barbaglio del giorno si attarda per me, riflette la mia immagine dietro le altre concreta come tutte nel deserto d’ombre e mi induce alle brume e al crepuscolo. Mi dissolvo nell’aria e fondo la mia carne in vortici e la trascino in frange merlettate e il morire è diverso da ciò che tutti suppongono, è ben più fortunato. Mi lascio in eredità alla terra rinascere dall’erba che amo. Se ancora mi vuoi cercami sotto la suola delle scarpe, difficilmente saprai chi sono e perché ma tuttavia ti infonderò salute e benessere. Se non riuscirai a incontrarmi all’inizio non perdere il coraggio, se non mi trovi in un posto, cercami in un altro, starò fermo da qualche parte ad aspettare te. Tratto da Song of Myself, una poesia scritta da Walt Whitman e inclusa nella raccolta Leaves of Grass, pubblicata per la prima volta nel 1855.

[ilcercatoredicolori]

Sono testimone del tuo grido antico e di quelli che ti hanno chiamato e respinto. Cosa cerchi con occhi spalancati nel buio, mia bellezza d’argilla e sangue?

Quante volte ti ho visto piangere la sera trascinando la tua vita nel freddo. Sono corso da te scalzo e impaurito e ti ho accarezzato la fronte tenebrosa.

Sei voce straziante della mia carne assetata che brucia nel fuoco della tua selva. Non c’è veleno che calmi le nostre passioni in questa collina brulla e impazzita.

Gëzim Hajdari

[bellascarousel]

I actually did something like this in Sangue Collina. Eli's damn books were EVERYWHERE. This man has an entire library at his house, plus more books in both the Athenaeum and his hotel. In the first draft, not only were all of those bookcases mentioned - the first time we met him he was reading, he brought a book to a strip club simply because that was the last place anyone would think to look for him. Every other chapter, there was SOME mention of his books. Took me forever to realize my brain was going "pay attention to the books, the books are important." Once I figured out WHY the books were important, I went back, got rid of some of the mentions of them, and added in places where they were actually plot-relevant in book one - one of which is actually foreshadowing their bigger importance later on. Brains are funny, sometimes. And sometimes your subconscious figures shit out long before you do and smacks you upside the head with symbolism and foreshadowing until you actually listen and figure out what it's trying to tell you.