#Atlantic Chart

[jadafitch]

Seaweeds Tees! Available soon through Liberty Graphics

[anza-redstar]

American baby-name census data 1880-2021, fyi

[artworksstore]

Please follow the link and check out the great products created from this nautical chart at Fine Art America. If this isn’t the nautical chart you’re looking for, I have additional nautical charts covering the Florida East Coast.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Falco - Rock Me Amadeus 1985

"Rock Me Amadeus" is a song made by Austrian musician Falco, for his third studio album, Falco 3. It was written by Falco along with Dutch music producers Bolland & Bolland.

It topped the singles charts on both sides of the Atlantic. It was Falco's only number one hit in both the US and the UK, despite the artist's popularity in his native Austria and much of Europe. Falco became the first German-speaking artist to be credited with a number-one single on both mainstream US pop singles chart, the Billboard Hot 100 and Cash Box Top 100 Singles. Prior to Falco, "99 Luftballons" by Nena got to number one on Cash Box, but peaked at number two on the Billboard Hot 100.

The song is about Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, his popularity and his debts. A longer version (eight minutes), named the "Salieri Mix", appeared on the initial US release of the album Falco 3. The song was inspired by the movie Amadeus.

In the seventh season episode of the Simpsons, entitled "A Fish Called Selma", Troy McClure and other cast members stars in a Planet of the Apes musical theatre adaptation "Stop the Planet of the Apes, I Want to Get Off!", featuring a musical-style parody of "Rock Me Amadeus", "Dr. Zaius".

"Rock Me Amadeus" received a total of 79,4% yes votes!

[seonghwaddict]

super duper pretty — kim hongjoong

in which you haven’t heard from him in years but a single drunk phone call ends up with you tangled up in your bed.

musician!kim hongjoong x fem!reader. genre. angst, suggestive, friends to lovers. warnings. drinking, tension, kissing, suggestive content. wc. 4k. rating. pg-13.

lilo’s notes. AGHDHSJDJJAJDJSJDHSJS GRRRR WOOF WOOF AWOOOO GR AHHHDHDHDHHDS

listening to. right here, chase atlantic.

masterlist.

you weren’t someone hongjoong could bring himself to think about much these days. despite having known each other since childhood and been best friends, he hadn’t spoken to you in three years, too caught up in his thriving music career.

album, tours, interviews, collaborations. it all kept him busy and away from you. his chase for stardom had him isolating and distancing himself from friends and family. and, sure, it was shitty, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the people he was told would hold him back. he didn’t have time to regret it. regretting leads to stagnating and stagnating would lead to the end of his career.

that’s not to say he didn’t miss you. of course, he did. but on the last day he spoke to you, it ended in an argument he didn’t have the energy to resolve. so, he left. he left you.

him not having time to regret it was more an ideal rather than a truth.

in reality, he regretted leaving you more than anything else.

but three years later he still hadn’t talked to you, afraid it would ruin his pride if he came running back to you. yet he couldn’t deny how he felt like he was on top of the world, the best producer and rapper in the scene. his career was thriving and his newest album topped charts across alll platforms. when all the interviews and promotions were finally over, he decided to treat himself ot a little celebration, renting a club in town and inviting every major celebrity he had connections too.

the night was spent dancing and throwing back shot after shot until he could barely stand. he enjoyed it at first, but slowly the effects of the colourful drinks made him feel much too hot and cramped in the sea of dancing bodies. making sure no one noticed, he escaped through a back door into the cold, fresh air. he felt the sudden urge to leave, but in his drunken state it would be difficult to navigate his way home.

without thinking, he slumped against the red brick wall and pulled out his phone, dialing a number he’s always know by heart. it rang three times before the person picked up.

“hello?”

hongjoong didn’t realise how much he missed your voice until you uttered that word so softly. he could picture you somewhere in your appartment, maybe in the kitchen to get a snack, tilting your head in confusion at the unfamiliar number.

“hey,” he really didn’t know what else to say, staring intently at a leaf on the ground.

you went completely silent on the other end and for a moment he thought you’d hung up. but, eventually, you spoke again, only this time a certain firmness to your voice.

“what do you want?”

“come pick me up,” his words slurred and molded together and you had a hard time unnderstanding him, sat stifly on your couch, “please, i need you to pick me up. just… just this once?”

you didn’t know what to say. you wanted to scream and yell at him and demand a proper explanation as to why he just walked out of your life like it was nothing, but at the same time, you wanted to sob and confess how much you missed him.

still, you couldn’t help but ask, “what the hell happened, hongjoong?”

"i- i'm drunk," he slurred, sounding even worse than before as he shuffles his feet on the floor pebbled floor. "like, really, really drunk," he insisted with a quiet groan, but you already came to that conclusion. "come pick me up… please?"

you stood up from your couch, pacing around you living room as you listened to him speak before stopping by your window and looking out into the night sky. he was the last person you thought would call you at this house, not having heard from him in three years. but here he was, drunk and begging you to pick him up from god knows where.

“fine.” you said simply, swallowing down the lump in your throat as you grabbed your coat from the entrance of your apartment and slipped on some shoes, not bothering to change out of your nightwear. “where are you?”

“um,” he looked around. the back door led into an alley, but if he walked off to the right he’d be right by the entrance. with his free hand supporting him on the wall, he did his best to get there. “outside the, uh, club,” he explained, though it was really helpful, “by the-” he cut himself off with a sigh, resting his forehead against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut in frustation of his lack of clarity, “the red one.”

your eyebrows furrowed at his vague description as you got to your car, getting into the drivers seat and just sitting there until he could give you a proper answer. “the… red… one?”

“it’s got, um,” he looked around the surrounding area, spotting a familiar place just across the street, “in front of that café we used to go to?”

“oh.” you recognised that, hesitating for a moment before starting the car, unwanted memories of the countless hours you spent with him there clouding your thoughts. all the talking and studying and laughing. “find somewhere to sit.”

“okay,” he nodded to himself, taking some steps to a wooden bench and pointing at it as if you could see, “i’m gonna sit on this thingy.” his drunken stupor had him laughing at himself as he takes the final steps to sit down. he swayed a little but not enough to make him lose balance and fall. once sat, he nodded and grinned at nothing in particular, just proud he was able to manage the simple task you gave him. “i’m sitting.”

“good, great,” you hummed approvingly, holding back a smile at his antics, “now… just hang tight, i’ll be right there, okay?”

“okay.”

it felt good to sit here, he realised with a sigh as he leaned back and tipped his head to look up at the stars. the gentle caress of the night air and the dimmed sounds of the city around him a soothing backdrop to the chaos in his head.

a silence followed his words, tense but not uncomfortable. the red exterior of the cheap club came into view soon enough and you slowed to a stop to park in a free space. you got out of the car and looked around until you found a familiar figure sitting on a bench tucked below a little tree. you hesitated again for a moment before walking to him as slowly as possible, your heart pounding in your chest. he hadn’t noticed you yet, having shut his eyes at some point.

it took you some long moments but you finally pulled yourself together and cleared your throat, making him startle as you muttered a tentative, “hey.”

he glanced toward the sound of your voice, blinking away the drunken haze as he attempted to focus on the world around him. his vision unclear and unfocused as looked up at you, struggling to recognise you for a moment. the bright streetlights made his head ache a little; the world a blur and all he could do was struggle to focus until he could see you properly, the familiar feature snapping him back to reality.

you shifted back and forth on your heels awkwardly, waiting for him to say something as he just stared at you, face flushed and intoxicated. your hair was messy and you wore shorts and a loose light grey sweater. you wondered if he even recognised you, or were you just a stranger to him?

“you came,” he breathed after a while, eyes taking in every detail on you. he focused on you; the way the moonlight caught on your skin, the soft furrow of your brows and subtle downturn of your lips. your eyes, his favourite eyes in the world, looking back at him. “you actually came.”

“you called,” you answered, almost breathless as you also took him in. his style looked a little edgier than when you’d last seen him, though still as chic as ever. short bleached hair, the corners of his sharp eyes smoked out.

“i did,” he nodded, attempting to stand up before slumping back again, “but you actually came.” the alcohol made his words feel heavy, pushing them out in soft sighs as his eyes locked with yours again. he grinned stupidly, “you’re like, pretty.”

you almost laughed at his words, shaking your head lightly, “and you’re like, drunk,” you scoffed jokingly, “come on, it’s late, let me get you home.”

“no, i mean,” he whined, pouting dramatically and now you weren’t sure if the pink tint of his face was from the alcohol or something else, “you’re like super duper pretty.”

unsure of how to respond to his compliment, you only chuckled nervously and offered him a hand to help him get up. “come on.”

he stared at your hand for a few long moments before grasping it and standing up with your assistance. he stumbled a little but caught himself as you led him to the car. your nudged him to get into the passenger seat as you walked around to get into the driver’s.

it was dark in your car, your face dimly illuminated by the screen that displayed a map of the area. you look even prettier in this light, he thought, the sharp shadows making your features stand out that much more. your cheeks soft and round and your eyes sparkling with reflections in a way that made his wander all over you.

neither of you said anything for a while as you sat there. seemingly lost in his drunken daze, he realised how familiar this felt, being there with you, just you and him. everything felt right. he let out a soft hum before leaning back, tilting his head back against the seat and closing his eyes.

“my place is closer than yours,” now that he wasn’t looking at you, you felt comfortable enough to break the silence. finally buckling your seatbelt, you tried to ignore the way butterflies swarmed in your stomach at the thought of his eyes on your body, “you can stay for the night, if you want.”

“do i get the couch?” he turned his head to peer over at you as you start the car, “or…” he giggled, “or… we can share the bed.”

you raised an eyebrow at him, surprised at how flirtatious he was being. “we’ve shared before so, i guess… if the bed is more comfortable for your then i’m fine with sharing it.”

memories of your late night excursions with him rushed back to you and you briefly wondered if he would touch you the same as you laid together. would the feeling of his hand in yours bring you the same comfort? or the protective grip on your back or thigh? you don’t mention any of it.

“let’s just share,” he whispered back. he sounded tired, though if asked he could probably go on a ten page rant of how much he missed being close to you.

he, too, thought of all the night you spent together. the laughs and the touches that felt so real. he remembered how comfortably you would fit in the same bed, laying side-by-side and watching random movies until dawn broke. how easily you’d fall asleep as you shared blankets, face mere inches away from each other but never quite touching.

he wondered if it was possible to relive those times, gazing over at you for a moment before shaking his head and look out the window. those were nothing but drunk fantasies.

“okay,” you whispered back, trying not to look at him, trying not to shiver at the softness of his voice. a little slurred, but still soft.

he was always like that with you. soft.

people would mistake the two of you for lovers more often than not when they first met you, but it was always denied with flushed cheeks and awkward giggles. and it was true. no matter what was said or done, you always remained just that. best friends. it was for the better, made things much less complicated. especially when he took off and you never saw him again.

at least, until now.

the silence in the car was palpable, broken only by quiet breaths and the low hum of the car. it was a calm silence, mildly comfortable despite how heavy it felt, weighted down by all the things unsaid.

eventually, you slowed to a stop and pulled into your parking space in front of the apartment building you lived in. turning off the car, you got out and beelined for the entrance. he knew where to go anyway, not looking back at him as you led the way to your apartment.

the door opened to your living room and kitchen area, just a little messy since you weren’t expecting anyone to come over anytime soon. you made quick work of shucking off your jacket and placing your shoes aside, telling him to wait for a moment before you disappeared through a hallway he knew led to your bedroom.

you returned quickly, a pile of folded clothes in your arms that you held out to him, explaining he had left them a while ago. his body itself didn’t change much, so you figured they should still fit. you didn’t want his sweaty dishevelled suit on your bedsheets.

as he changed, you paced back and forth in your bedroom nervously, thinking about all the possible things that could happen. but you stopped quickly when you heard the bathroom door unlock, practically jumping to lay in bed. you tucked yourself into one side of the large bed, covers pulled up to your chin as you face away from him.

you heard him pause for a moment before you felt the bed dipping behind you and the covers shifting as he blanketed himself too. despite there being a considerable amount of space between you, you still felt him body heat brushing against yours in the thick silence. even though you can’t see him, you knew for a fact he’s probably laying on his back to look at the little glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to my ceiling years ago and never took down.

you sighed and whispered, “hongjoong?”

“uh-huh?” he hummed, eyes closed for a moment before he turning his head to glance at your back.

you squeezed your eyes shut, taking a deep breath before finally asked the thing you’d been dying to know. “did you ever miss me?”

“more than anything,” he breathed and you felt him shift to lay on his side, facing you. he wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold you like he used to. his voice held a hint of melancholy but he didn’t elaborate more.

you turned too after a moment, not taking a second to notice just how close he was, the thick white covers shifting slightly from the movement. your voice quivered slightly as you spoke, eyes stinging with welling tears. “i missed you too, you know… i missed you every day since you left and every day i hoped you’d come back. but you never did.”

his heart clenched at you admission, the voice he loved so much threatening to turn into sobs. the truth was, he wanted to, countless nights sat alone, wishing he turned back to knock on your door.

“i-i wanted to,” he stammered, whispering ashamedly.

“it’s fine, i got over it,” you forced yourself to focus on the pillow under his head instead of his handsome face.

his brows furrowed as you averted your gaze, eyes following yours even if you refused to look at him. he knew you well enough to know when you lied. he knew you well enough to know you didn’t get over it. didn’t get over him. he mumbled, “did you really?”

your lip trembled at his question but you kept your gaze locked on the white fabric, pressing them together to get them to stop as a few tears spill over the corners of your eyes.

you shook your head, your little voice breaking with overwhelming emotions, “n-no, i didn’t.”

you shifted your look to his hesitantly, your skin tingling from his warmth. your eyelids fluttered as you tried to hold back the tears.

"don’t," he whispered, thumb slipping down to caress your jaw. his eyes searched yours, your eyes wide with sadness and something he couldn’t quite understand. "don’t hide it. you don’t always have to be so strong. not in front of me.”

those words snapped something in your mind, no longer able to swallow down the lump in your throat as you threw yourself into his inviting arms, yours wrapping around his neck as you sobbed into the slope of his shoulder.

“why- why did you leave, w-why didn’t you come back... p-please, i need to know.”

he didn’t expect the sudden break down, but still held you close. one hand at the back of your head, the other holding you by your waist, your bodies pressed against each other and he let his lips press against the top of your head, making you shiver.

he rubbed your back, letting your tears fall wherever they man, muttering reassurances iagainst your hair. his faint scent of whiskey and mint mingled with your vanilla shampoo, his eyes shutting at the oddly comforting mix of smells. you felt him press repeated kisses to your messed up hair.

sobs racked your body for a few more minutes before the tears stopped falling and your breaths evened. you nodded against him, pulling your head away from him to look up at his face, at his eyes. the hand at the back of your head slipped forward to cup your cheek again, brushing his finger along your skin. he traces your cheek bone and along your harline down to your jaw, his eyes shifting between yours in disbelief that his skin was on yours once again.

“i was afraid,” he admitted, barely a whisper, “i was afraid that if i came back, i’d fall for you more… and then i wouldn’t have been able to spend a day without you, wouldn’t be able to chase after my dream. but… at the time, i didn’t recognise you were part of it, you know, my dream.”

your breath hitched as the words registered, “you- what?”

you cut him off with something you'd been wanting to do for a while; you kissed him, hands holding either side of his face. his eyes are widened in surprise, though he didn’t hesitate to lean into the kiss, returning it as quickly as you did it. his hands tightened around you, pulling you as close as he could.

your lips fit against eachother so perfectly, like the lego sets you’d force him to build with you when you were younger, every curve and edge of your bodies slotting together naturally. he got lost in the sensation of finally getting what he dreamed of, a hand slipping below the hem of your shirt to hold onto your bare waist, just wanting to feel closer to you.

his mouth tasted of exactly what he smelled like, mint and traces of whiskey, whimpering against his lips as you welcomed the taste and the touch. your whimper unlocked something, the kiss growing more urgent, restlessly pushed against each other without air left between. you could barely breathe, but you didn’t care as long as his lips stayed locked on yours for as long as possible.

but eventually, he bit down on your bottom lip ever so slightly before pulling away, catching his breath as you caught yours. your chest heaving as you refilled your lungs with air, face flushed from the realisation of what you just did and from the thought of what else you might do.

he glanced down at your swelling parted lips, jimmy coated by your mixed saliva, his pupils blown wide with desire.

“i wanna…” he mumbled, breath unsteady, “i want to…”

he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, at least not until he noticed the way you peered up at him expectantly with that curious gaze. “what is it, joong?”

that nickname. he hadn’t heard it in a while. three years, actually, because you were the only one that called him that. his eyes searched yours.

“i want to do that again,” he admitted, cheeks warming, “and again and again and again… and so much more than just that.”

your breath hitched, intestines tied into knots as you struggled to figure out what you should say. the truth was that you wanted that too, wanted to feel his lips and hands all over your body. but, as his breath fanned over your face and you caught the traces of alcohol folded into the smell of mint gum, you were reminded that there was a thin possibility he didn’t mean any of it.

“you’re drunk, joong… it’s better if we don’t.”

he frowned, his grip on you loosening. “but you want to, don’t you?” he countered, “you know you want this too, so why not?”

“i just-“ you paused to sigh, continuing with an even tone, “i just don’t want you to regret anything.”

“i meant every goddamn thing i said,” his brows furrowed for a moment and he squinted, trying to emphasise his point, “so, i can’t regret this. i can’t regret you.“

you bit your lip, thinking carefully before sighing, the tension leaving your body as you played with the string of his hoodie.

“how about this…” you suggested, speaking slowly, “if you can wake up and tell me you remembered all this, then we can see where this goes.”

“and if i don’t, you’ll never mention in again?”

you nodded, slightly anxious as you wait for him to agree. it didn’t take too long, seemingly an acceptable compromise for him as he nodded.

“okay,” he agreed, his hand on your waist beneath your shirt tightening once again, “let me just kiss you one more time though, i won’t be able to sleep if you don’t.”

you laughed at his silly excuse, forehead dropping against his shoulder for a moment before lifting to look at him again with a grin that made you feel so stupid and in love. “fine, just one more time.”

networks. @cromernet @wonderlandnet @cultofdionysusnet @pirateeznet @atzhouse

permanent taglist. @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb @seonghwasbbgirl @likexaxdaydream @dreamingofyeo @yalyallic @yunhoswrldddd @coffee-addict-kitten @thunderous-wolf @chngbnwf

[anarchywoofwoof]

"Wow! Wow! Wow! North Atlantic sea surface temperature anomalies are going vertical again. And yes, I needed to extend the y-axis. Yesterday's temperature of 24.49°C (76.08°F) was 4.2σ above the 1991-2020 mean. The previous high for July 17 was 23.71°C (74.68°F) in 2020."

this is bad

exponential growth at it again

the y axis has been extended like 3 times in the last week

this chart was at 0.6 like 3 days ago

Summer 2024 is going to be bad, worse than anything we’ve ever seen. It will shock the world.

[vanwritesfan-fiction]

Addiction

Part One: A Chance Encounter

Warnings: Language, mentions of alcohol and being drunk

A/N: Ok, so not smut, but its coming, we have to set the scene first 😉

You felt your phone buzz in your hand, the screen illuminating your face in the dark dining room as you looked through your text messages. You rested your back against the bar located in the corner of the room.

Darien: Wish you were here. London is boring without you

You: That’s impossible. You’re literally in my favorite city right now

Darien: I’ve been in my hotel ever since work ended. My team went out to the pubs without me

You: You should really be going out with them

Darien: Always thought my first time in London would be with you. Love you

You: I-

You were stopped from responding by a glass of liquor being shoved in your face. You looked up to see Sierra in front of you, double fisting two glasses of what you suspected to be a rum and coke, your choice of drink for these industry events. You were among the Hollywood elite tonight in a New York City restaurant, celebrating some actor, whose name you couldn’t bother to remembers, fifth trendy and over-priced alcohol launch. You were far from a celebrity, but often made the guest list of these events on behalf of your boss. Working as the assistant for the VP of publicity at Atlantic Records admittedly had very few perks, one of them being able to rub elbows at parties with the latest TV heartthrob or whoever managed to be at the top of the Billboard 100 chart that week.

Did you sound a little jaded? Sure, but you were also borderline tipsy.  

“Was that Darien?”, she asked, looking around the room as she took a small sip from her glass. “Ooh, Bad Bunny. That’s five.” Sierra bounced on her tippy toes as you narrowed your eyes to get a better look across the dark room. The two of you had spent the last hour trying to identify as many celebrities as you could. You were losing, having accidentally mistaken Kevin Jonas for Joe Jonas. You tried to argue that it was an easy mistake, given that they were brothers, but Sierra was unwilling to give you a pass.

“I don’t think that’s Bad Bunny, and yes. He just got done with his meetings for the day. He decided to stay in the hotel for the rest of the night I guess.” You took a big swig of your drink. You way past the part of the night where you were still feeling the effects of alcohol. “All of his colleagues went out to some bars.” You slipped your phone back into your clutch, tucking the bag underneath your arm again. You’d respond to him when you got home later.

“Dull Darien”, Sierra slurred her words as she giggled out the nickname she had given your boyfriend when you started dating over three years ago. You caught her just as she stumbled over her heels, making a mental note to watch how many drinks she had.

Sierra had been your best friend since essentially birth. Your moms were best friends, and you grew up two houses down from one another. When you were kids you were attached at the hip, and not much had changed over the years, as she became your plus one to all of these events. She knew you better than you knew yourself, and she was never shy about how she felt about your boyfriends. There had been Jerky Jacob, your high school boyfriend, Bossy Brian, a guy you had dated right out of college who Sierra was convinced was a narcissist, and finally Two-Timing Trey, who had earned the name for obvious reasons.

“Enough with the nickname, S.” You warned with a dramatic roll of your eyes, knowing she had no intention on stopping. “He’s not dull, he’s just-“ you were having a difficult time finding a word that wouldn’t edge her on. “He’s boring. Just say it. Not an exciting bone in his body.” You opened your mouth to object, but quickly closed it. Truthfully you had no defense. Darien was boring, and that was putting it nicely. The first time you met him, you definitely didn’t feel the usual butterflies of excitement, but you were just getting out of your relationship with Trey, and you weren’t looking for thrill or adventure, you were looking for safety, and if Darien was anything, he was safe.

“I’m just saying, you’re hot as fuck, you could probably have any guy you wanted. Hell, you could probably walk up to any of these celebs and go home with them.” You scoffed, tipping your glass up to get the last drop of top shelf rum. The dress you were wearing was borrowed from one of your stylists friends, a sequin cocktail dress from 16Arlington with a rather large peekaboo cutout at the front that showed off your cleavage. “Did you ever think that maybe I don’t want some random celeb. Maybe I like my dull boyfriend.” Your words sent Sierra into a fit of giggles, partially from her inebriation and partially because she knew you were lying through your teeth. “Please don’t pretend like if Drake came up to you right now, you wouldn’t jump at the chance to leave with him.”

“Damn, my money was gonna be on Brad Pitt. He seems like more your type.” You turned on your heels to see a tall figure, his chestnut curls hitting right at his eyebrows, a frame to his gorgeous blue eyes, the rest of his hair cut into a mullet. You immediately noticed his handsome smile as you studied his face. You had learned early on in your career how to identify which guys were someone and which ones were wannabes in this industry. He was tall enough to be an athlete, but too lanky. He still had life in his eyes, something that a lot of actors lost when they realized they were selling their soul for a recurring role on a CW drama. That left someone in the music industry. You recognized him, his face was hung up in the halls of Atlantic Records, but the name escaped you.

“He’s a little bit out of my age range. I prefer my actors to still have a will to live.” Your joke earned you a chuckle from the-, the mullet suggested alternative band, but the cocky stance and southern drawl to his accent made you think rapper- the rapper. “Well, tell me-“, he paused to allow you to fill the silence with your name. “Y/N, and this is Sierra.” You gestured at your friend who was having trouble standing up straight, her hand gripping the bar to steady herself.

“Well, Y/N, Brad Pits loss is my gain.” His words were suggestive, no doubt, but he spoke with such a confidence, you weren’t sure if he was actually flirting with you, or if that’s just how he talked with everyone. “I’m Jack.” He extended his hand out to you, and you cautiously accepted, quickly breaking apart.

“I know where I know you from. You’re Jack Harlow! I love your song”, she snapped her fingers carelessly, hoping it would jog her memory, “Business Class.” She punctuated her words with a hiccup.

“Close enough.” He chuckled, his gaze never leaving your face. He was trying his hardest not to look down at your body, even though he thought you looked fucking gorgeous. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere.” Jack’s eyebrows perked up when you spoke. “I see your face every day on my way to work.” You could tell you lost him when his face fell. “Sorry, I should probably explain. I work for Jason.” You could see the dots quickly connecting in his mind. “Oh, fuck yeah, I love Jason. He’s keeps me out of trouble.”

You felt your phone vibrate against your side. You were inclined to ignore it until you felt it pulse a few more times. “Sorry, I have to get this.” You just missed Jack’s look of disappointment as you looked down at your phone.

Darien: Couple of pictures of the view from my hotel. Wish you were here.

You scrolled through the photos, all different, slightly out of focus angles of the Thames. Leave it to Darien to also take the most boring pictures.

“Must be really important.” Your head shot back up at Jack, who was now resting his elbows atop the bar. “Oh, it’s nothing.” You shook your head as your phone slipped back into your bag. “Just a family member.” You weren’t sure why you lied in the moment. Jack didn’t know you, and besides the initial flirting, he wasn’t trying to make a pass at you. At least as far as you could tell; you were just starting to sober up.  

“Let’s ask Jack.” Sierra was now standing in the middle of the two of you, leaning a little too close to Jack for comfort. He backed up as he smelled the vodka on her breath. “Jack, Y/N is dating this guy right now, and I think he’s just the most boring person on the planet.” Jack looked at you with a smirk on his face as you tried to hide your embarrassment, feeling the heat creep up your neck. Jack was hotter than any guy you had previously dated and was already more exciting than your current boyfriend just in five minutes of conversation.

“I mean, the only thing he likes talking about is Game of Thrones and his Lego collection.” Sierra continued, ignoring your pokes to her side to get her to shut up.

“He sounds like a fucking nerd.” Jack uttered under his breath, but you heard him loud and clear. Sierra did as well, frantically nodding her head. “He totally is.” She lowered her head, most likely thinking that was going to help her whisper, but her next words were loud above the blaring music. “Plus, she told me the sex is terrible. Like he barely lasts for more than a couple minutes.” You caught the look of smugness on Jack’s face as he listened to how unsatisfying your current sex life was.

“Okay, I think that’s enough. Time for you to go home.” You yanked at Sierra’s arm, causing her to fall into Jack. He caught her just in time, helping to hold her up. You roughly grabbed her phone out of her hand, pulling up the Uber app. “Fuck”, you cursed under your breath, seeing that the closest Uber was about 30 minutes away and surge pricing had gone into effect.

“Hey, I’ve got a car waiting that you guys are more than welcome to use to get back to your place.” Jack could tell you were more than done with the night, and he hoped his gesture would smooth out your less than successful meet cute. “Are you sure, we really can wait for an Uber.” As if she had timed it, Sierra’s knees buckled, Jack catching her under her arms. “I’m sure.

****

You rubbed your hands up and down your arms, crossing them over your chest as you left the venue. It was colder now than when you arrived, and you were wishing you had that coat that was laying on your bed back at your apartment. Jack followed behind you, Sierra’s arm draped over his shoulders for support. You quickly located the black SUV waiting at the curb, and opened the door, watching as Jack helped Sierra into the back of the vehicle, immediately slumping over to lay across the seats.

“Thanks, Jack, I really appreciate you letting us borrow your car. How are you gonna get back?” You looked at your feet as you asked the question, resisting the urge to look up at his face; his eyes were even brighter underneath the streetlights.

“I’m actually staying right there.” He pointed across the street to a tall metropolitan style building, the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. He stuck his hands into the front pocket of his trouser pants, his shoulders pinned to his ears as he tried to stay warm as well. “The car was just in case I wanted to head to another party, but the hotel bed sounds a lot more appealing right now.” There was that tone again, so suggestive, as if he was inviting you to his hotel room as well.  “Have a good night, Y/N. Hope I see you again.” He extended his hand out, his nails perfectly manicured, and you found yourself wondering what his hands would feel like exploring your body. You let that thought ruminate in your head for a second before coming back to reality. You grabbed his hand, returning the gesture, the two of you lingering on the sidewalk. “Goodnight.”

Jack watched as you climbed into the vehicle next to Sierra, before jogging across the street to his hotel.

“He seemed like a nice guy”, Sierra remarked as she rested her head against your shoulder, closing her eyes, “and he was hot as fuck.” She let out a hum of amusement as she started to drift off to sleep.

“Yeah, such a nice guy.” You flipped the room key around in your hand that Jack had planted there. You grazed your thumb over the engraved letters, “The Waldorf Astoria Hotel, Room 1423”, emblazoned in gold lettering on the plastic card.

Tag-List:

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[jomiddlemarch]

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds

Walter had died a week ago and Gilbert didn’t want to go home. He sat at his desk and pretended to himself there was another prescription to write or that he’d told John Campbell to call round when he could, there might be something Gilbert could do for his bad hip, something he’d seen in a medical journal, the receipt for a liniment that truly was better than the salve old Mrs. Thelma Morrison stirred up of an evening, more efficacious and less likely to advertise his arrival with the rank scent of ramps crushed in tallow.

It was a lie.

There was no work yet to be done that would keep him, unless there was some queer version of mercy at play that would deliver a fisherman with a hook deep in his palm, calling for finesse and patience, the lamp lit against the dark.

It was quiet, the voices in the harbor hushed or still, and there was nothing more for him to do but admit the truth.

He simply didn’t want to go home.

It was not that the house would be empty, though that would be its own grief he knew. To go home to Ingleside and find no lamp lit against the dusk, no Anne on the sofa with a basket of mending and a book marked with a frayed scrap of ribbon, no Susan banging about in the kitchen, no Rilla dandling Jims on her knee, cheeks pink with a self-righteous spite as she complained about her Junior Reds, so much like her mother had been at the same age. The rooms all too big, the silence too loud.

And agony and yet, a surcease.

The house was full. Anne and her suffering, her grey eyes dark, her hair dressed very simply, beyond any attempt at vanity, drifted from the sitting room to their bedroom, aimless or beyond settling. Susan, cooking up whatever she thought might tempt one of them to take more than a few bites, catching herself about to mention Walter every third sentence, Miss Cornelia coming by with a basket of baked goods Gilbert would bring on his rounds to prevent wasting the food that no one in the house would eat. Rilla with her sisters, Nan and Di home from the college, all three reminding Gilbert of nothing more than a wilted nosegay, Nan and Rilla’s eyes reddened from weeping, Di’s lips bitten, chapped, her bright hair bundled back in an old-fashioned snood she’d have previously mocked in amused derision, the littlest Meredith girl sitting beside them, too thin, too pale. She’d been in love with Walter, that was clear now, and it was no longer charming or worth shaking his head over ruefully.

So many broken hearts. None he could fix.

Jem didn’t know yet, nor Shirley. He and Anne had agreed not to cable or write either of them. There was nothing they could do but grieve for their brother but that grief might be a distraction they could ill afford. The girls hadn’t argued as he’d expected and it was Rilla who’d spoken up, saying Let him be alive a little longer then while Nan crumpled up the letter she’d been writing to Jerry Meredith.

She would have been telling him about Walter. She wouldn’t risk him, nor the rare chance that he’d come across Shirley or Jem and mention Walter’s death. It was impossible to think Jerry would simply run into Jem in the trenches, except that stranger things had happened and Walter, his inquisitive little boy with his mother’s eyes, had been lost to them. His name on a telegram was all they’d get unless some officer in his battalion had the wherewithal to pack up his few remaining personal belongings and send them back to Ingleside on a ship that didn’t get sunk crossing the Atlantic.

Impossible.

Real.

His office was a place of relative respite. Walter had spent little time there, not interested in doctoring, not like Jem or Di, and so he couldn’t haunt it. There were charts to review and journals to leaf through, and no one came who wanted him to be anything else other than Doctor Blythe.

Not Dad. Not Gil dear.

His own parents, thank God, were dead. Marilla too and Mrs. Rachel. 

The clock ticked. He’d have to leave soon enough.

The face that peered in through the door after the briefest, smartest rap, was not one he’d have ever expected.

“I was sent to fetch you, but we can go the long way back,” Mary Vance said. In the failing light of evening, her queer, pale eyes gleamed like the stones he’d liked to skip across Willowmere when he’d idled on the way home from Green Gables. There was a sturdiness to her shoulders and the set of her chin that had become reassuring to a man who now lived in a house of wraiths. She was twenty-three, just a year younger than Jem, a woman grown and not a girl, though she’d no pretense to vanity in her person or tone. Practical and imperturbable, she was one of the few people he could think of he needn’t take care of.

“Mrs. Blythe sent you?” he asked. He tried not to hope Anne had worried enough to speak of it.

“Mrs. Elliott,” Mary shrugged. She knew he would be disappointed, but she wouldn’t lie. “Said you’d soon be needing a doctor yourself if you missed your supper and she doesn’t think highly of Susan’s fish pie in any case.”

“Fish pie,” Gilbert repeated, getting up from his chair and reaching for his overcoat. He ought to be made of sterner stuff, the autumn only just beginning, but he’d been cold at the marrow since he’d learned of his son’s death.

“Mackerel. Had a good catch, down at the cove. I s’pose old Susan thought as long as it was pie, you’d like it,” Mary replied. She smiled, not coaxing but wry, suddenly reminded him of his mother. Neither was much given to effusiveness or cossetting.

“Susan’s not old and it’s not kind to say it,” Gilbert said.

“But it’s not too rude to hear it,” Mary countered. “She was born old, Miss Baker, and if you told her that, she’d be proud of it.”

He laughed then, a startled, almost choked sound he hadn’t known he was capable of, but she’d been so apt and so matter-of-fact…

“You’re quite observant, you’d make a good doctor,” he said.

“Maybe. Not for the likes of me, all that education. And I’m too blunt,” she replied.

“A nurse then,” Gilbert said.

“The War won’t last forever,” she said. “When it’s over, it won’t all be an agony. Sickbeds and wounds to be stitched. There’ll be other lives to live. Work to do. Dreams, for the ones who put stock in such things.”

“Not for everyone,” he said. His boy, gone away, his voice silenced. It hurt worse than little Joy, who’d never asked just one more question, Papa, at bedtime, before Jem had convinced him to call Gil Dad or Father, who’d never made him notice the dappled light of the woods or made him laugh calming Rilla down from her rage at being called Spider.

“No,” Mary said and Gilbert braced himself for the consolation. The balance. Walter died with honor. He’d had his poem read round the world. He’d made his peace with it. 

It happened. People died young.

Ruby Gillis.

Kenneth West.

Captain Jim’s lost Margaret.

Walter Blythe.

“Mrs. Elliott will have my hide if I don’t get you back before she leaves and Marshall gets antsy left to his own devices,” Mary said. She pulled a very large, very clean white handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and handed it to him. “But we can still take the long way back. I’ll manage the driving.”

“Marigold needs a light hand,” Gilbert said. 

“I’ll manage, Doctor Blythe. You needn’t worry about me,” Mary said. She gave him another sharp look. “I’ll take the hankie back before we’re at Ingleside. Mrs. Blythe and old Susan won’t be bothered. And Rilla’s war-baby said a half-dozen new words today, so they’re in decent spirits. It’s just the pie you’ve got to choke down.”

[oneheadtoanother]

Ice-free polar summers here we come 🙃

[the-volterra-chronicles]

The Orkney Islands, Scotland, October 17, 1953

Demetri had never been more grateful for his inability to feel the cold than right now, standing knee-deep in the frigid waves of the Northern Atlantic. The mission to handle some feral newborns in Scotland had been more tedious than anything and he was thankful for this brief reprieve before he and Felix went home. His friend had decided to go hunting, leaving Demetri alone with his thoughts. The feel of the breeze on his face and the smell of the salt in the air brought near-faded memories of his human life to the forefront of his mind.

The rocking of the deck beneath his feet as he sailed from Greece to Egypt. The sea spray on his lips as he charted the stars from the ship's bow. The roughness of the ropes as he and the first mate tied the sails tighter against the summer gales that almost ripped them from the mast. The heat of the sun on his skin as he helped the merchants unload their wares onto the dock. The drunken laughter of his crew as his captain loudly declared him the best damn navigator in the world and dared everyone nearby to find someone better.

Then there was the sharp pain of Amun’s bite, the molten heat of the venom as it filled his veins, the burning in his heart before it stopped forever. Demetri had thought that being turned would be the most life-changing thing that would ever happen to him until Aro, Felix, and Chelsea (Charmion at the time) approached him with a proposition. It hadn’t been an easy decision but it was easy enough to make him feel guilty for a few decades afterwards.

He had respected Amun, and still did, as both a sire and a mentor but his life in Egypt hadn’t given him what he truly desired, something Amun couldn’t afford to give him: freedom. As a member of the Volturi elite guard, Demetri had seen more of the world than he ever thought possible before he’d been turned. He’d traversed the entire continent of Africa, climbed to the peak of Mount Everest, and became one of the first vampires to explore the New World. And yet he still came back to the ocean every chance he could.

Demetri couldn’t remember much about his mother but he could remember her telling him that he had seawater in his veins when he was a boy. As he stood in the surf, shoes and slacks soaked in salt water, he imagined it seeping through his diamond-hard skin and into his veins. Perhaps then, he could retain a small piece of the calm he felt now, with the sand beneath his feet, Cassiopeia above his head, and the ocean surrounding him. A small moment in time that would live on forever.

[mindblowingscience]

With warmer oceans serving as fuel, Atlantic hurricanes are now more than twice as likely as before to rapidly intensify from wimpy minor hurricanes to powerful and catastrophic, a study said Thursday. Last month Hurricane Lee went from barely a hurricane at 80 mph (129 kph) to the most powerful Category 5 hurricane with 155 mph (249 kph) winds in 24 hours. In 2017, before it devastated Puerto Rico, Hurricane Maria went from a Category 1 storm with 90 mph (145 kph) to a top-of-the-chart whopper with 160 mph (257 kph) winds in just 15 hours. The study looked at 830 Atlantic tropical cyclones since 1971. It found that in the last 20 years, 8.1% of the time storms powered from a Category 1 minor storm to a major hurricane in just 24 hours. That happened only 3.2% of the time from 1971 to 1990, according to a study in the journal Scientific Reports. Category 1 hurricanes top out at 95 mph (153 kph) and a hurricane has to have at least 111 mph (178 kph) winds to become major.

Continue Reading.

[rhapsodynew]

"Pictures from the exhibition". How Emerson, Lake and Palmer decided to turn Mussorgsky into a rocker — and what came of it

Nowadays, the combination of rock and classical music is no surprise to anyone. And anyway: what can surprise us at all? But in the post-Woodstock era, the impossible seemed possible, and the most daring experiments found an appreciative audience.

On March 26, 1971, the band Emerson, Lake & Palmer took to the stage of the city hall of the glorious city of Newcastle to play the music of the Russian composer Modest Mussorgsky in a way that no one had ever played it before.

Mussorgsky wrote "Pictures from the Exhibition" in the form of a series of piano pieces dedicated to the exhibition of works by his late friend, the artist and architect Viktor Hartman. After the composer's death, the work was repeatedly arranged for the orchestra. The idea to adapt the suite came to Keith Emerson after he and his wife attended a performance of "Pictures" at the Festival Hall in London in April

The very next day, Emerson purchased the sheet music and invited bass guitarist Greg Lake and drummer Carl Palmer to rethink the score in the form of a rock piece. Emerson, Lake & Palmer used several pieces from Mussorgsky's suite, adding their own pieces. Emerson and Palmer took over the arrangements, Lake added lyrics to the three movements.

In December 1970, ELP performed "Pictures" in London with the intention of releasing the record as an album. The concert was even filmed. However, something went wrong, and the musicians were not satisfied with the result.

The second attempt took place in March of the same year. The performance in Newcastle was recorded on a mobile studio. In this region, ELP had strong public support. More importantly, there was a real organ in the hall. Emerson promised not to bang on the keyboard with a hunting dagger, as he had done earlier during the concerts of the band The Nice.

Keith Emerson played five different keyboards on stage that day. With the growing popularity of progressive rock in the early 1970s, electronic keys became ubiquitous and for some time even competed with the electric guitar in terms of visual appeal. The audience was literally mesmerized by the witchcraft with sounds and timbres.

The album begins with a leisurely "Walk", but gradually increases the tempo, like a kettle heated to a boil. The fury with which Keith Emerson hammers on instruments during the recording of "Pictures" is amazing. It becomes clear why he was called Jimi Hendrix Organa.

Having launched Mussorgsky into the stratosphere, ELP complemented the album with Lake's gentle song "The Sage", "Blues Variation" and the turbulent whirlpool of "The Curse of Baba Yaga" with a whirlwind of Emerson keyboard textures, which in places pulls on natural hard'n'heavy.

The completion of the album — the majestic "Bogatyr Gate" — to some extent anticipates the "Bohemian Rhapsody" of the Queen group.

"Pictures from the Exhibition" was released in the UK in November 1971. Atlantic Records postponed the release of the record in the United States, fearing failure. But after "Pictures" topped the import chart a month later, the album was hastily released overseas in early January 1972. By April, the record had sold over 500,000 copies.

The mix of classical and rock was a novelty that intrigued young listeners. Interest in the "Pictures" was spurred by the growing sales of pianos and piano lessons for teenagers.

The original may not need rock processing, but the idea of performing a classic suite by a Russian composer from the 1800s in front of a screaming rock crowd is incredibly audacious. And, of course, I need to thank ELP for the fact that under their influence thousands (if not hundreds of thousands!) of listeners decided to listen to the real Mussorgsky and expanded their musical horizons.

In 1999, "Pictures from the Exhibition" were inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame. But not in the version of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, but on the album by pianist Vladimir Horowitz. Which is quite fair.

[mapsontheweb]

Egerton Portolan chart of the Atlantic Ocean, ~1510.

[scilessweetheart]

quotes from my senior year lit class’s modern adaptation of hamlet (titled “keeping up with hamlet”) that only get funnier the longer they sit in my brain

“how are you doing?” “oh, you know. same soup, just reheated, baby!” - hamlet, pulling a monster energy drink out of an industrial sized fridge

“polonius! why’d you stand under my copy of the atlantic?” -hamlet, after beating him to death

*snorts a line of coke and then introduces herself* - gertrude

*tagline in asides is “feels super awkward”* - hortatio

“listen to me. hamlet’s a douchebag!” - laertes

*played by a 6 foot man with a thot knot and a scrunchie* - ophelia

“he gave me his favorite monster tab necklace! plus, he’s an aries and i’m a libra. we’re a match. i even checked his natal chart.” - ophelia

“women! they’re so caught up in things. they don’t even know about the stock market. it just… it saddens me.” - polonius

*reading texts from hamlet to ophelia* “‘ophelia. i love you. i dream of smelling your skin when you sleep. if you don’t love me i will kill myself.’ you know. some real criminal minds shit.” - polonius

“life’s a prison and you’re my cell mate, guildencrantz!” - hamlet

“hey hamlet, what are you doing?” “watching the… moving pictures. have you ever seen one?” “…. you mean a movie? the tvs not even on.” - polonius and hamlet

“ophelia! you stay here and read this fanfiction. he’ll think you’re all alone.” - gertrude

*hamlet starts his famous monologue* “not this emo shit again” - polonius

“please just take your monster tab necklace back… it’s sticky.” - ophelia

“hah! that stain on the couch looks like a camel.” - hamlet

“i’m actually sending hamlet to [rival school] to be put to death. that way he’ll stop being such a little dickhead.” - claudius

“look at these two men! this is claudius and this is your husband!” *holds up a picture of handsome squidward and willy shakes* - hamlet

“great i’m going to have to kill you. this is my mob, by the way.” - laertes

“here lies the poor, dead, super dead, ophelia.” “babe! no! babe! aw fuck, the fair ophelia!” - hamlet at the funeral

“funeral costs are so expensive. *to the camera guy* how much are the royalties on this?” - horatio

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

hi! i’m curious, what does “not being self-taught” mean? if i took English classes and extra creative writing classes does that mean i’m not 100% self thought? i was just wondering :0

No, I just meant that I have a Bachelor's in Creative Writing. Which is a weird degree, and not one you see much in the U.S.

But most people who go to school in the modern U.S. get at least ~10 years' education in writing and reading English. Obviously it's going to vary in quality and focus, but modern literacy is off the charts compared to 100 years ago. Which is everybody's win.

I've also been lucky with regard to high school English teachers, to be clear — I used to straight-up turn in fan fiction as homework and get passing grades for it. (I guess from Ms. S's point of view, my 15-page AU of Great Expectations about Magwitch and Mrs. Havisham conspiring to burn her house down, collect the insurance money, throw a lavish wedding, and run off to Australia under fake names.... at least proved I'd read Great Expectations? Which is more than most of my class could say?)

Most valuable of all: from 1st to 4th grade, I had teachers who'd assign the class to "write a page a day." What about? Didn't matter. Some people wrote diary entries, some people wrote lists of things they could see, some people (me) wrote about scientists saving the Titanic passengers through trying to turn them into fish but accidentally creating horrible mer-mutants instead. We weren't graded on grammar, or content, or handwriting, or whether trout-people could survive the North Atlantic; we were just graded on having written. That exercise (no offense to my professors) was better for my literacy than any college class on Poetics Theory or Advanced Essay could ever be.