#Brass Plaques for Benches

[classicmemorialbenches]

Techniques we use to depicting images on memorial bench designs

At Classic we have a number of techniques we use to depict images on our memorial bench designs and one of our favourite things to do is the colour resin inlay. There are several techniques that can be used. Here are,

✅Preparing the artwork

✅Carving the shapes into the wood

✅Pouring all of the colours

✅Skimming off the excess glue

✅clamped

[fic-over-cannon]

jason todd returns to gotham city full of fire and biblical vengeance but it's not the same place he remembers.

there's a plaque on the park bench right outside of the public library that wasn't there before. it reads "in memory of jason todd-wayne: a son who is loved as much as he loved books". the wood of the bench is weathered, but the brass of the plaque still shines.

nostalgia drives jason todd to visit his favourite gargoyle, worn and familiar. what is strange are the flowers left there. little robin figurines and keychains. we remember you, the city whispers.

curiosity drives jason todd to look up the newest robin, only to be redirected to a digital memorial himself. gothamites offering up the worst moments of their lives that were just another tuesday to jason. how grateful they are to him. how sad they are that he is gone. how much they love the second robin that flew high for them.

jason todd is a son of gotham, and as much as he might forget it in the heat haze of anger, she remembers him.

[kobold-sanctuary-buss-island]

BLUE MOON BALL DAY FIVE/SIX: "Fine dining"

While i was in the bathroom, i disgorged about twenty five large chunks of cobaltite, which completely demolished the (thankfully clean) bowl and tank of the toilet, and left a rivulet of greywater flowing out under the door to soak into the floorboards. I left the poisonous and dodecahedral rocks to their own business, alongside the toilet's ballcock, laying pathetically on the floor, and headed to the dining room.

I was starving after a long night with no snacks to speak of (apart from a couple of oranges and a mouthful of brass), so i sat down on a wooden chair near the end of one of the tables. Though, as soon as i sat down, my tail erupted in pain from touching the back of the chair, so i was forced to sit on the chair side-saddle, hiding my tail under the tablecloth so nobody touches it. My entire torso hurt from the fight with the automatons.

A silver call-bell was waiting for me. I rang it, and a small charcuterie board floated over to my position on the table. I consumed its minature yet vast arrangement of hard cheeses, hams, sausages, pastrami, forcemeats, mushrooms, prawns, savory pies, bread, crackers, grapes, olives, lettuce, peppers, radishes, carrots, cucumber, and celery, though i shunned the miniature pickles. Small dishes of vinaigrette, caviar, blue cheese, and honey were provided alongside the starter.

The next course of the meal was a most abhorrent combination. Which was, according to the little plaque that came with it, the meat of a lobster and a whole Kobe steak together with Pule, Stilton, Parmigiano Reggiano, Västerbotten, and Halloumi cheeses, tuna, black truffles, seaweed, jalapeño, ghost pepper, guineafowl, pheasant, alligator, quail eggs, beef tomatoes, spaghetti, onions, lettuce, banana, saffron, foie gras, vanilla, rice, fugu pufferfish, and a most unpleasant concoction of sauces i can't all remember, all stuffed between the buns of a burger, sous vide, baked into a pastry shell, deep fried, and finally bathed in a different seething mixture of liquids.

The other people near me at the table glanced with concern as i choked down the Ozymandian ex-Soviet apartment complex of the "Four Elements sandwich", one thin and inesculent slice at a time. Serbian cheese and Japanese fish waged total war upon French duck and Vietnamese shrimp paste. None of the flavours mixed well, the fillings spilled in every direction once i broke through the bomb-proof exterior with my woefully non-vorpal knife, and if i couldn't get the "horrible safari-themed barbecue inside the Deepwater Horizon" taste out of my mouth, i feared that i might have developed a fatal case of Reggae Reggae Sores. My bleeding nose was not helping the situation, and it peppered the aftertaste with a generous hint of sweaty pennies.

My face was covered in various sauces after eating that crude obelisk dedicated to the pharoh of conspicuous consumption, so i made haste and re-entered the bathroom to wash it all off. The dessert was a pleasant variety of chocolates with strawberry ice cream.

After the meal, we all walked outside into the gardens, and down the main path towards a small french-style pavilion building. Behind the building was a wonderful view, as the treeline was short, and the Blue Moon was finally visible. I took a picture on my camera, of course. We were then seated on wooden benches facing the river, and the fireworks were set off. The display went on for ten minutes, but i was in too much pain to really care about it.

Those were my fifth and sixth logs of the Blue Moon Ball. Everything hurts. I'm tired. I want to go home.

[slowroadtosantiago]

Day 11 - Navarrete to Najera

My phone is saying 11.9 miles today, but we’ve faffed about a bit in Najera and the walk distance was 10.6 I think.

We set off just after 7:30 as usual with full packs. It’s started to get lighter at that time, the sun was already well up, and we were once again happily assaulted by the dawn chorus.

Our breakfast stop was 4 or so miles up the road in a place called Ventosa and all along the run in there were art installations, mainly large photos of the local area or people. Breakfast was the usual coffee, fresh orange juice and a pain au chocolat.

We carried on walking through wine country and Jane took a photo of me in one of those daft cutouts as a pilgrim enjoying the wine. She refused to have her photo taken there, spoilsport!

As we were walking we were caught up by Janita who we met over dinner in Viana. She’s in her 20’s from Germany and has been given a sabbatical to do some travelling. We walked along together passing a chap playing Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones on a guitar. The landscape opened out to the mountains either side.

We stopped for a break at a bench and were joined by one of her friends, Yom from Strasbourg, who was also on a sabbatical.

The outskirts of Najera soon arrived and we said goodbye to the two youngsters.

We hadn’t booked anything and hoped to stay at the Municipal Albergue but when we got there it was closed for repairs! So we found a cafe to have a lemonade and look at our options. The other side of the bridge was another albergue that I had contacted last night who told me they don’t do reservations but would be open at 2 (it was 1 by then). Starving, we bought a small roll each from a bar and sat on the grass in front of the albergue to wait, along with a few others who had the same idea. After a while we plonked our bags in a line outside the front door as more people were arriving. I had to look up what ‘queue’ was in French for a couple of ladies who hadn’t clocked the protocol (it’s ‘file’ by the way).

Anyway, bang on 2 it opened and 15 euros each later we got settled, showered and chilled. Jane has again taken the top bunk for me. It’s another quirky place with interconnecting rooms and lovely old furniture. The rooms are designated male and female this time.

I have been amusing myself today taking photos of all the different styles of Camino directional signs. Quite often you are just looking for a painted yellow arrow, and in towns the signs could be anywhere, brass shells on the floor or proper wall plaques.

After a few hours rest we wandered out to the Monastery of Santa Maria la Real built out from a cave where in the 11th century the King of Najera found an altar with the Virgin Mary. It was an interesting half hour.

We then went to have a glass or two of wine (1 euro 20 per glass!) and some food.

We’re now back at the hostel chilling having planned our next few days.

Tomorrow is a longer stage to Santo Domingo de la Calzada so we’re having our big bags transported again. It also looks like it might rain so the ponchos will be coming out!

[welcometorust]

Session 2>

Session 1 Summary

The Players wake in a musty brick basement, with no recollection of how they got there. Some faded images burned into the back minds, along with fading sounds of vibrant life, grinding machinary and a ticking clock.

As the Bird Automata immediately falls off a tall stack of crates, being caught only by the fast reflexes of the large Automata, they discover that their smallest companion is still unconscious, and all their memories are foggy.

Quillis and Ludo can each remember something substantial of before they woke, what they have been up to until recently and the general narrative of their lives so far.

While Ani is able to remember little more than their name, therefore assuming they may have not been anything before this point.

After confirming that the trapdoor above is locked by throwing their unconscious companion at it (Ani also confirms this via the ladder afterwards) the party decides to try and break it open by force, having Ludo throw Ani (and subsequntly a crowbar) at it repeatedly.

As this proves to be ineffective, their unconcious companion is placed in Ludo's backpack, Quillis is placed on his shoulder, and the party explores the basement.

Opening one of the crates to find it full of metal scrap and mechanical detritus. They check the mouse hole in the wall to see if any of them could squeeze through it, they also test Ludo's weight on the ladder, which promptly breaks.

Ludo and Ani move a crate directly beneath the trapdoor, wedged in the remains of the broken ladder, climbing atop it, Ludo breaks open the Trapdoor's latch with the crowbar.

Ludo throws Ani and Quillis into the room above, and starts stacking more crates around the ruined ladder. As the clawed pair begin their investigation of the room, which appears to be a workshop scattered with tools, materials and plans.

Quillis finds and liberates a rubbing of the Valley map, knocking as many things from the desk as he can in the process. Ani finds and inspects a brass plaque bolted to the wall at the back of the room.

Ludo climbs their precarious crate stack and makes an efforts to jump into the room above, getting only his torso sprawled halfway onto the floor, and is then pulled up the rest of the way by Ani.

Opening the skylight and trying both doors in the room to find them jammed, the party determines that the front door's locking mechanism is rusty and Ludo oils it with an oil can they found in the basement, successfully unlocking it.

After trying and failing to lever the brass plaque off the wall, the party inspects a scatter of papers on one of the benchs, finding the designs for their automata bodies pinned to the wall.

Ludo shows an impressive lack of dexterity attempting to make a rubbing of the wall plaque, Ani makes a better one.

Ludo throws Ani through the stained glass panel of the back door.

Ani finds that the back room of the building is a studio apartment, with a messy bed, kitchenette and presumably a bathroom behind another door to the side.

Ani liberates a fork and tosses it back out through the broken stained glass before being lifted back through into the main room by Ludo.

The party exits the workshop into the junkyard that surrounds it, and inspect the squat automata by the front door of the building. Using the cylinder and crank they found in the workshop, they activate it, playing the message:

Welcome to The Creator's house

They are currently working

Please do not disturb

Confirming that the blank cylinders contain no message, they find the gate of the scrapyard is closed with a padlock and chain, which Ludo breaks with the crowbar.

Seeing the rolling fields of grass and wildflowers spread before them, and taking note of the ominous marking gouged into the ground in front of the gate, the party decides to see if Quillis can fly, by having Ludo lob him as far as possible.

Quillis cannot fly.

Unperturbed, the party returns to the house to see if they have missed anything that may help them decide their next course of action, they find a Bee in the grass near the door of the house and a large brass wind up key on one of the desks.

Distantly seeing fields to their left and a town to their right, the party decides to make for the town.

[too-tired-to-write]

'Every day, at around two thirty in the afternoon, Rob Halford would walk his ageing spaniel Rocka up to the benches and sit for a while. Mostly, he sat there alone. Sometimes in the tourist season people would sit and chat, and sometimes locals he knew would stop for a minute or two. But mostly it was just him and Rocka, watching the gulls and sometimes eating an ice cream.'

[weirdstrangeandawful]

Part V – Kite

TW: None! They get a break!

Word count: 931

<-Part IV – All In a Day’s Work

Table of contents

Part VI – Eighteen Going on Nineteen->

To the untrained eye – Carroll’s untrained eye at least – the sail loft is quite possibly the definition of organised chaos. Various workbenches lie toward the front, each boasting a subtly ornate brass plaque engraved with someone’s name. The word “Belfast'' is emblazoned overwhelmingly everywhere, as it is on the rest of the port. Various charts and equipment hang on the walls, the paper and ink alike faded from years of exposure to the sunlight and brackish air. More equipment adorns the benches and shelves and every possible surface save the floor – which, by contrast, remains remarkably devoid of clutter. Most glaring of course are the bright, large canvas sails, both hung and labelled in the back room when not being worked and spread over various workbenches in the front.

Kyte, clearly one of the more experienced sailmakers around despite his tender age, stands over the shoulder of someone who Carroll guesses to be an apprentice, demonstrating some technical sleight of hand that Carroll could not hope to comprehend. He looks up at the brief interruption of the light spilling in when Carroll transits the doorway. A smile plays at his lips and he checks in with the apprentice before casually walking over to Carroll.

“Hi!” Kyte’s voice is soft and confident – a stark contrast from what it had been the night before. He’s at home here. “Just come to see me or…?” “Well,” Carroll matches Kyte’s fond smile, “yes. And also I have a spare sail that’s in rough shape.”

Picking up a small wagon, he calls back to a junior sailmaker working near the apprentice, “Can you deal with this morning’s job?”

“No, that one’s the kite,” a mischievous glint appears in the junior sailmaker’s eye.

“I’m aware it’s the kite, I don’t see what that has to do with me!” Kyte sighs, a hint of sarcasm pervading his voice, “Sorry,” Rolling his eyes in faint amusement, Kyte heads out with Carroll, “Let’s go.”

“What was that all about?” Carroll asks, mildly confused.

Kyte shakes his head with a breath of slight laughter, “They find it the funniest thing in the world to turn over all kite repairs to me… you know, because of my name.” The empty little wagon bounces jovially over the cobblestone behind him.

“Oh! Right. That is rather unfortunate.” A snort of laughter escapes Carroll’s nose. “Sorry.” A second snort escapes Kyte’s and the pair continue laughing at each other the whole way down the port. As does the oblivious little wagon.

Ethel greets them at the Resolute, the hairpin once again in her teeth, and her unruly ringlets of hair once again everywhere but where they should be. “I see you’ve found your sailmaker,” she quips at Carroll.

Before Carroll can object, as he opens his mouth to do, Kyte jumps in pleasantly and ever-so-slightly mischievous, “Yes. He has.”

Turning the attention back to himself, Carroll pointedly strides away toward the spare sail. Ethel winks at Kyte who suppresses a smile before following Carroll to the canvas lying draped over a rail near the mast.

Muttering to himself, Kyte inspects it, “Bloody gaff sails. Asking for trouble, that’s what this is. May as well paint a great big bull's eye on it and hope for the best.” Moving to the more heavily damaged section, he looks at Carroll with vehement confusion, “What exactly have you all been doing to this poor sail?!” He packs it up tight and lowers it into the wagon, giving it a final loving pat. No less than four separate mouths hang open when Kyte looks up. Kyte looks confused.

“How did you do that?” Ethel volunteers to ask.

“Do… what? Pick up the sail and plan to take it back to the sail loft as is… my job?” Kyte responds with continued and increasing confusion.

“Yes… We can’t,” Ethel explains.

“Rowan can,” Quinn chimes in, sitting a ways away, looking through scheduling papers. A loose one, about as unruly as Ethel’s hair, flies up in the breeze and sticks to their face.

“Look at him, Quinn! Well, take the leaf of paper off your face and look. He’s half Rowan’s size!” Helen retorts, having (possibly permanently) misplaced her tact, “Besides, Rowan shouldn’t be lifting things– Where is he anyway? Probably lifting things, the lovable idiot.” She hurries below deck to find her predictable patient.

Carroll steps in, escorting Kyte off the docked ship before they can harass him further. “Sorry about them, they’re…�� Carroll fails to find an acceptable excuse for his crew, “…like that.”

“I like them.” Kyte’s smile is somehow crooked and even at the same time. The jolly little wagon looks somewhat less jolly with its new burden. “Besides, they get a free pass for associating with you.”

Carroll’s eyes sparkle slightly in the morning sun as he smiles and he tilts his head downward. Kyte can’t quite tell if it’s flirtatious or adorably embarrassed. He breaks it off, grabbing the wagon handle once again, “Okay, if you want to see me tonight – and I certainly want to see you – I’m going to have to be left alone to work.”

Nodding in mock misery, Carroll sends him off with a parting hug. He watches Kyte drag the little wagon behind him with more ease than Carroll could ever hope to achieve. It takes little time for one of its wheels to catch in the cobblestone. Yanking it free, Kyte turns back to Carroll watching him, and dramatically hangs his head in lighthearted shame until he rounds a corner and disappears from view into the morning port’s clamour.

[classicachievements]

Different Plaques and How You Should Use Them

Plaques add a great degree of formality to their presentation. The clean metallic lines, sharp etching, and bold lettering work exceptionally well with formal commemorative items. In recent times glass plaques have gained a lot of popularity as a gifting item, but the true effect of commemorative plaques comes from metals.

Plaques serve multiple purposes, especially as visual communicators. Everything from historical information, personal merits, and travel information to branding, logos, and memorials can be etched onto plaques. They can also be used in corporate and personal gifting.

Usually, plaques can be made out of materials such as brass, cast bronze, aluminum, copper, zinc, and stainless steel. Depending on the climate and humidity of a particular, you can choose the best possible material that would ensure minimal rust collection even when placed outside. Choosing the right kind of material for plaques is an important task that should be fulfilled with the right information. Plaques placed outside and open to the elements can lose their elegant charm very quickly once the green tinge begins to show.

Different types of metal can be used to represent different things as they give a varied effects and can be useful in different conditions. Some examples are –

Cast Bronze – Plaques made out of cast bronze are commonly used for memorials, dedications, historical markers, and identifications.

Stainless Steel – Stainless steel offers a great deal of durability due to the large number of raw materials that are melted to make it. It gives a very refined, modern, and clean look when used in plaques. The lighter color of the steel makes writing on it more legible, making it a popular metal to be used for informative plaques in museums, etc.

Aluminum – Plaques made out of aluminum are guaranteed to last you a lifetime, and considering their cost in comparison to other materials and the amount you get, aluminum is much more cost-effective in the long run. It requires minimal maintenance and adds solidity to the plaques. Cast aluminum’s affordability accounts for its use in address and dedication plaques.

Copper – Though copper is a little heavy on the budget, it creates a very sleek and elegant look. The unique color of copper is immediately evident, too, making it easily recognizable. It is commonly used for building identification, bench plaques, and park informatives.

Zinc – Zinc is as versatile as metals come, and it is very cost-effective. It comes in a wide array of finishes that can be replicated to look like other metals.

Outdoor bronze plaques are some of the most durable plaques that can be made. These plaques are made by pouring molten bronze into sand molds. Visit Classic Achievements for all of your outdoor plaque needs. You can also find a wide variety of other customizable awards and plaques to choose from on their website.

[finlaure13]

[Image Description: a brass plaque on an old wooden bench which reads “In memory of Roger Bucklesby. Who hated this park, and everyone in it."]

[classicmemorialbenches]

How do I get a bench in memory of someone UK?

To get the best memorial bench in memory of someone in the UK, you can follow these steps:

Research bench suppliers: Look for suppliers who specialize in memorial benches and have a good reputation. Check their reviews, ratings, and previous projects.

Choose a material: There are different materials used for memorial benches, such as wood, metal, and stone. Choose a material that will suit the location and the purpose of the bench.

Select a design: You can select a design that is unique and meaningful to the person you are memorializing. You can customize the bench with an inscription, a plaque, or a carving.

Check the regulations: There may be regulations on the type of bench, the size, and the materials used. You will need to check these with the landowner and the local council.

Consider the location: Think about where you want to place the bench. It could be a park, a garden, or any other public place. Consider the surroundings and the view.

Get a quote: Contact the supplier and get a quote for the bench and its installation. Make sure to ask about any additional costs, such as delivery and maintenance.

Arrange the installation: Once you have chosen the bench and agreed on the price, you can arrange for its installation. Make sure to coordinate with the landowner and the local council.

By following these steps, you can get the best memorial bench in memory of someone in the UK. Remember to choose a design and a location that will honor the person's memory and bring comfort to those who visit the bench.

[bronzeplaque]

Commemorative Plaque

We can also remember them by their love, hobbies, or the communities in which they were a part. We can also use memorial plaques to honor people or places that are important to us while they are still alive. Here are some reasons why you should receive a Commemorative Plaque Near Me to remember their health:

Go https://bit.ly/3klxokD

#CustomPhotoPlaques #plaquesonline #bronzeplaque #plaque #artplaque #DedicationPlaque #plaque

[sholiofic]

For my h/c bingo “desecration” square

--

So here was a thing Sam hadn't known until he looked it up: Novi Grad had a sister city in the U.S.

Sam was a little unclear on how exactly the whole concept of sister cities worked—international harmony, blah blah. New Orleans had a bunch, including Caracas and Liverpool. 

Novi Grad's sister city was a place called Ogden, Iowa.

Sam visited it with no real expectations of finding anything he didn't expect to find in Iowa. And he didn't. It was a little town off the freeway. There was a freeway box-store plaza with a Staples and a Chick Fil A, and a winding road leading into a little downtown with small turn-of-the-past-century brick buildings, dominated by antique stores and a pizza place.

And there was a small park. Sam pulled into one of the handful of parking spaces and got out.

The air was heavy and damp, with cicadas shirring in the trees. He walked into the little circle of mowed grass and park benches, and looked up at a near replica of the Eastern European Sokovian monument.

It was a little cheaper, he guessed, made mostly of concrete, and somewhat smaller. But it looked a lot like it. There were some benches around it, and a few bits of trash scattered around. Sam moved to pick them up. There was a brass plaque in front of the monument. He went and looked.

Pretty basic stuff, nice and soft. A few lines about the civil wars in Sokovia, a little about the tearjerker of Novi Grad's destruction, and a brief tribute to the Sokovian dead. It was nice, and Sam thought that visitors to the park might learn a little, but not a lot. 

He sat on a bench for a while and looked at the memorial. There were some kids playing on the playground equipment in a different part of the park, and at one point a dog walker went through, giving him a smile. As midday rode into afternoon, an ice cream vendor set up on the edge of the square, and Sam bought a creamsicle and walked back to his car.

It was a peaceful place. He didn't know what any Sokovian would think of it. He didn't know if it was a respectful tribute to the dead, or just some kind of middle-American cashing in on the emotional cachet of feeling good about the deaths of people in a far-away place. No one from Sokovia would ever come here for catharsis or healing. The people of the town probably didn't attach much meaning to it. 

But he thought, perhaps, it had been sincerely meant.

*

He forgot about it for a while, and then came back to find it vandalized.

It was a shock to the system, the swoops of colorful, profane graffiti and the interpretive sign kicked over.

Sam started picking things up.

"Hooligans," said an angry female voice. He looked around to see a white woman, about fifteen or twenty years older than he was, struggling to lift the interpretive sign back into place. She had short silver hair with a bright blue stripe down the side.

Sam went to help her. 

"Thanks," she said, sweeping her hair out of the way. She was wearing overalls with a cluster of pins on the shoulder, mostly punk ones from the '80s. Sam felt vaguely old. "I'm Jen. You look kinda familiar."

"I have one of those faces." He turned back to the monument before she could make the Captain American connection, which he still didn't like. "Do you have anything to wash this off?"

It turned out that Jen had come with a bucket of soapy water. They scrubbed at the monument, and he learned that Jen was the local librarian, and was married (to a guy; Sam found this initially surprising and firmly squashed it) with three kids.

"Do you know there's a monument like this in Romania?" Jen asked while they scrubbed at it.

"It's formerly Sokovia," Sam said. "Yeah, I've seen pictures."

"I think I'd like to go there," Jen said. "My great-grandmother was Sokovian, you know."

"Really?" Sam said. "That's neat." He was thinking how absolutely unimpressed and baffled Zemo or Wanda would've been at that statement. But he got it, why it mattered to her. There was a kind of feeling about this that you didn't quite get if your last cultural ancestors back into your cultural heritage were your parents. 

"There's a Sokovian expat community in town," Jen said. "We have a couple of really nice Sokovian restaurants, more than you'd think for a town our size. You should get lunch at the South Bend, it's really good."

"I will," Sam said. 

And he thought that he ought to visit the Sokovian memorial that Bucky had been to in Europe. He hadn't ever been there, not to the original one.

He did get lunch at South Bend and it was good, Jen was right. 

[woosluv]

say my name — hongjoong

series ml

— rating / genre: pg-13 / sci-fi, dystopian

— warnings: slight suspense, you and joong get chased

— word count: 1.7k

— summary: you wake up in the dimension hongjoong is stuck in. it's up to you to find and rescue him from where the android guardians have him trapped.

[ start ]

Your eyes opened to see you were in a museum. “Ma’am?” You looked over to see a young boy, somewhere in his teens, poking your shoulder. You think you looked startled because he was quick to put his hands up in defense and show he meant no harm. “Can I help you with something?” You turned to face the boy completely. He spoke a bit more timidly this time. “Um, the museum is about to close. You need to start making your way to the exit.” You nodded as you looked back to the piece in front of you. The boy started to walk away as you looked a bit closer at the description. Say My Name. You looked back at the sculpture then back at the silver plate in front of it. Say my name and I shall appear. Beware that the name you call upon doesn’t summon the wrong being. You looked at the bottom of the plate where a set of initials sat. KHJ. With that thought in mind, you made your way out of the museum and looked around.

You looked down at your body and saw you were wearing the same outfit from before. You sighed. “I wonder if I have a house here.” You went to check your bag and your pockets for something. You frowned when you came up empty. “Now what.” You sighed as you looked around. There was nobody around, the street silent as if the city was void of people altogether. 

You figured that you would walk around and find some place to sleep for the night before returning in the morning. You walked around for a while before you found a small building that had the words bed & breakfast written on the sign above the door. Walking inside, you decided that this would have to do for the night.

You had returned to the museum the next day and sat in front of that exhibit again. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but it was just so interesting and different from anything you had ever seen in a museum before. Who would make such a thing and display it at a museum? The brass horn sat propped up on a stand, just sitting there. It was so plain but it had caught your attention the more you stared at it.

“You okay, miss?” You turned to see a dark figure standing behind you. You smiled as you nodded your head, hoping he’d leave it at that and go away. “You sure? You don’t look okay to me. You’ve been sitting here for a while just looking at this piece.” As you went to speak, the hood of his sweater pulled back a bit. You paused in your place when you saw a peak of his face. You recognized him. But where had you seen him?

“Miss?” You focused back on what he was saying. You looked back at the art piece in front of you before you looked back at him. “I’m fine. I was actually wondering if you knew who made this piece? It’s really interesting.” The man nodded as he took a seat on the bench beside you. He looked at the piece for a second before he spoke in a hushed tone. “The artist’s name is Hongjoong.” You nodded as you studied the piece. “The horn is used for making grand announcements, making special calls. But with the horn comes power and authority. Only people of high power use horns.” You nodded, a bit confused but still trying to follow along.

“I think deep inside the artist was feeling something, something he didn’t quite understand. Something he feared.” You looked back at the plaque as you read the words. “Beware that the name you call upon doesn’t summon the wrong being. Who could he be talking about?” You stayed quiet for a while as you mulled the words over in your head, a little more confused than before with the lack of actual explaining.

You sighed as you looked at the initials. “Hongjoong.” You muttered the name so quietly. You could hardly hear the words yourself. But somehow, he had heard it. “Hmm?” You looked at the man beside you with wide eyes. “What?” He seemed to have realized his mistake when he met your eyes. Suddenly, screaming could be heard from the other room. The man, who you could only assume was Hongjoong, stood up and grabbed your arm. “We need to go, now.”

You could see a white fog creeping into the room as you followed Hongjoong out of the exhibit and towards a door that led outside. “Follow me, quick.” You didn’t think you would, but you kept up with Hongjoong as he ran through the dark of the night in a direction you hadn’t been in before. Pretty soon, you pulled up to a shabby warehouse. As soon as you ran inside, you stopped to try and catch your breath, leaning on your knees as you took a look around.

You gasped around your words, thoughts coming out quicker than you were able to catch your breath. “I’ve been here before.” You tried to swallow some saliva down to wet your dry throat as you looked around. You finally looked at him and met those familiar eyes. “You brought me here before.” He looked at you, confused at your words. “What are you talking about? I’ve never even been here before, myself.” You chuckled a bit at his words. “Um, the other you brought me here.” He threw his head back in confusion. “Please. Stop talking for a second.”

After a couple of minutes of catching your breath you found yourself walking around. The place was empty aside from the familiar dingy couches in the middle of the room. “So, are we gonna get chased down every time I say your name?” Hongjoong looked at you when your voice broke the silence. “Not every time. It’s hit or miss. I think it depends on who says it.” You nodded as you sat down on the couch. You lowered your voice to a whisper as he sat next to you. “Can I ask you something?” He nodded as he looked at you.

“You’re stuck here aren’t you?” You were too scared to meet his eyes but you could hear the way he shifted in his seat at your words. “What do you mean?” You looked at him and searched his eyes. You could tell he was a bit uneasy. He looked around the big room before he settled back on your eyes. 

“I don’t know.” You looked at him questionly. “I mean, I know something’s wrong, I just don’t know what.” You nodded at his words. “What do you mean?” He sighed. “I mean, I live everyday going to work and spending all day creating things I don’t fully understand and when I come home.” You could see the fear in his eyes when he caught his words. He took a deep breath before he continued quietly. “People follow me everywhere I go and I don’t feel safe.” You nodded as you tried to think. “Did they follow us today?” You froze when he began to nod very slowly. “The whole time at the museum?” You stopped and waited for his response. He nodded. “What about here?” He thought about it for a second. “It won’t be long until they find us. We couldn’t have gone very far.”

You nodded as you tried to think over your next words. “Look, I’m supposed to save you. Somebody took you from your dimension and dropped you here and have had you trapped making these art pieces ever since.” He nodded. “I think I dreamt of you before.” You nodded back. “I’ve dreamt of you too.” It was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “And 7 other boys. I don’t know who any of them are though.” You nodded in agreement.

“Me neither. But look, we should probably get going now before they find us and kill us.” Hongjoong sat up as you fumbled through your bag. “This’ll help us get where we need to go.” You pulled out the cromer and motioned for him to put his hand on it beside yours. “Close your eyes and try to dream of home.” Hongjoong shook his head. “I can’t think of home. I don’t know where home is.” You sighed as you tried to think.

Finally you came up with an idea. Just as you went to speak, you heard banging outside. “Quick, tell me about that dream you had with those boys.” Hongjoong stuttered over his words. “U-uh. There were 8 of us.” A loud bang caught both of your attention but you just motioned for him to continue. “We were all at the beach, having so much fun. One of them was swimming in the pool and he had all his clothes on like a weirdo.” You laughed as you saw your dream play back in front of your eyes. “Close your eyes and keep thinking of that.”

You could see the glow of the cromer from behind your eyes already. Your heart was racing at the thought of escaping the android guardian’s grasp and escaping unknown consequences. The light was bright, almost blinding as you went to open your eyes. The world was a bit hazy, but there you sat with Hongjoong in what seemed to be a quiet slumber. “Joong, open your eyes.” But his eyes stayed shut. The world stuttered as if there were an earthquake shaking below your feet. You could hear a distant clanging echoing in the space you were in. “Joong, open your eyes. Quick.” You leaned forward to shake him.

You could hear the banging getting louder and you were all out of ideas. If he didn’t open his eyes soon, the android guardians would barge in and probably kill you. Just as you had started to give up, Hongjoong opened his eyes with a loud gasp. You didn’t waste any time as you yelled at him. “Quick! Turn it!” Just as the world began to peel away, you could hear the sound of the door from the warehouse slide open. You could see them, dressed in white and running towards you at full speed. The world seemed to slip away so slow. You looked over to meet Hongjoong’s  eyes as they hurdled towards you. Your grip tightened on the cromer, and just as their white gloved hands reached out, the world went black.

[ end ]

taglist: @wooyoung-a

[confusedbyinterface]

It's with disappointment that I share the news that my public installation 'An English Garden' has been taken down early, following complaints and threats made by a group of conservative local Councillors in Southend, UK. These individuals (one of whom is a former UKIP Councillor) took issue with a plaque included in the work, which critically reflected upon Britain's nuclear history and colonial legacy - that is, instead of celebrating Britain's nuclear capabilities, the work highlighted Britain's devastating nuclear tests on Indigenous Lands in Australia during the 1950s and 60s. We were given a 48 hour ultimatum to remove the work before the Council would intervene to censor the “offending” plaque, and subject the work and associated arts communities to a national media campaign that would frame the work as “a direct far left wing attack on our History, our People and our Democratically Elected Government.” Seemingly said government and its global scale nuclear arsenal was not considered robust enough to endure the airing of historical facts and critique via a rose garden art installation. To clarify, An English Garden consisted of a garden of Rosa floribunda “Atom Bomb” (a rare species of cold-war era rose) and “Cliffs of Dover” Iris. Additionally, brass plaques highlighting the site's proximity to the facilities where Britain assembled its early atomic weaponry in the 1950s were installed on benches. The work aimed to hold space for the contemplation of British colonial legacy - an unavoidably complicated legacy which contains such seeming opposites as rose gardens and enduring nuclear violence. What remains of 'An English Garden' now, is a series of empty garden beds. Over the coming months, I’ll be working with others in Southend and Australia to transform this void into a space for further dialogue.

So a bunch of conservatives decided a garden commemorating the atomic tests at Maralinga was too offensive so they had it uprooted. They nuked us, or rather, they drove the Pitjantjatjara people from their land and nuked it (I've held a hunk of glass formed by the nuclear bomb melting the sand, it looked like a gobbet of phlegm), but we can't even have a rose garden because that's an "attack on the People". A bunch of Australian soldiers got leukemia after being ordered to crawl through the fallout to test whether that would cause leukemia, but what's really offensive is the plaque mentioning that it happend.

Great job. You're really protecting Britain's international reputation, you fascist bastards.

[its-elvie-innit]

In the SMP im in, im supposed to join the server for the first time when a friend of mine and their friends declared war

After I join, I’m going to make a femboy cafe to make money and get information on the enemies

The only thing that is banned from entering my cafe are lawyers

One of the main enemies is a lawyer, and also i don’t want a health code violation.

I should also mention that I WILL be wearing a maid dress while working

Also, don’t go into the basement.

Please add an honorary item frame in the back named "elvies conscience." Like a brass plaque on a park bench, dedicated to a beloved passed park ranger, because you've Literally Killed It with this ask. My conscience is dead now.

[funnywiccan]

Night at Black’s Manor (a Father Brown fanfiction) - Chapter III

Kembleford’s police station was nestled in a building made of the same yellow bricks of the others. It stood out for his main entrance painted in dark blue with a sign where the name and the function of the building were written in white; near the entrance there was a shiny brass plaque that stated to ring the bell. Outside there was a pole with a notice board, both painted in blue, and an old telephone box, also blue, one of those once used to call the police in the past century. Rosie approached it immediately, exclaiming excited: -Oh my God, is it real?? It’s exactly like “Doctor Who”’s one!!- She read a memorial plaque drived next to the box: “The last cabin in service at Kembleford – March 18th 1996”.

Sid chuckled, looking at her while she was taking some selfies in front of the old thing under the serious glance of the policeman next the main entrance. When Rosie finished her shoots, the same agent let the two youths in, judging them harmless.

Into the station time seemed to had stopped. If it wasn’t for some modern elements, like the computer on the big desk that was encumbering the already modest hall, a visitor could have had the sensation to have been transported at least seventy years back: the walls, painted in a gloomy and dull bright blue, were occupied by pieces of furniture made in dark wood and benches in the same material, slightly brighter; oak panels with papers and notifications hanged up on alternated with windows in toughened glass. Metal card file cabinets coloured in pistachio green were at the agents disposal whenever they walked back and forth the offices behind the hall’s desk. A narrow hallway on the left brought to a more reserved area, and Rosie supposed it was the prison cells one.

-Sergeant Goodfellow?- asked Sid, and the man behind the desk, who was busy at the phone, raised his glance and gestured towards the guy to wait a moment.

Rosie studied the man for a moment: he wasn’t too old, his thin dark blonde hair was the victim of a merciless baldness and some wrinkles signed his face, that together with his bluish green eyes transmitted a natural politeness. His black uniform showed his sergeant grades and was impeccable in all its folds.

After a minute, more or less, the man ended the call and sighed towards Sid: -I’m sorry, it was a nuthouse the whole morning. What do you need?-

-I was looking for Valentine.- Carter gestured to Rosie to get near: -My friend here want to talk with him.-

-He’s in the interrogation room. And he’s a little nervous, father Brown get involved again in his investigations.-

-Father Brown?- repeated the girl, curios.

-He is Kembleford’s priest. You’re not from these parts, are you?-

-No. Or better, I was born here but I came back just today.-

-Well… Welcome back. Sergeant Goodfellow, miss…?-

-Rosie Black.-

A confused yelling coming from a room on the right of the hall confirmed the words of the sergeant: a voice above the others sounded really upset, while another one was trying to calm down the first voice owner. A moment later a short man, with a more evident baldness and with a pair of dense brown moustaches, entered the hall slamming a door behind him and grumbling: -If only there’s a law that allows to throw in prison all the meddlers…!-

-Are you okay, inspector Mallory?- asked Sid, mocking the man.

Rosie looked better at the newcomer: he had stains of black powder from head to toe and seemed tired as well as angry; the shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows was ragged and the knot of his tie was loose, so much that, with the weight of the golden tie pin that was failing to keep the accessory at place, this one bounced rigidly and ridiculously at every movement of the inspector.

The man turned to Sid with an angry glance: -I hope you’re here to get away father Brown, Carter!-

-I didn’t vene know he was here. What happened?-

-Ask Sullivan, I am fed up!- With a fast and stiff walk he closed himself in an office slamming again the door behind him.

-He is Mallory, Rosie. And this is just a taste of his terrible personality.-

-I will remember it.-

Another man came out, more calm but giving a heavy sigh, from the room on the right.

He was the exact opposite of Mallory: his dark brown hair was perfectly combed with the line on the right, well shaved and his clothes were flawless, from the starched collar of his shirt to the end of his trousers. His light brown eyes were watchful and revealed a certain exasperation.

Rosie noticed that when he entered the scene Sid changed his tone, becoming more cheerful: -Hello, Sullivan!-

-Carter? I was about to call you; it’s for father Brown.-

-What did he do?-

-I can’t give you the details, but… He put his nose again in the police’s affairs.-

-Robbery? Homicide? Kidnapping?-

-He will tell you everything later. Just to let you know, Mallory flying right down in a coal storage.-

-Ah, that explains his shabby look.-

Next to the inspector an older man appeared, dressed like a priest and with a black umbrella hanging from his arm. He was rather high and sturdy, and his round and chubby face made Rosie smile a little; it reminds her some sort of full moon. Behind a pair of glasses with the golden frame there was a pair of lively light blue eyes. The priest putted on his head a really vintage black hat with a large brim and apologized with the inspector for the hustle he caused.

-The next time you want to secretly enter in a property be sure that nobody sees you; there’s always a snoopy old lady in the neighbourhood that calls the police when she spot something strange.-

-Uh, words of wisdom!- said Rosie.

The two men looked at the girl, like she was invisible until that moment; Sid introduced her immediately: -Rosie Black. A dear friend of mine, more like a sister, just came back in Kembleford.-

-Nice to meet you.-

-Father Brown, nice to meet you too Rosie- said the priest with a smile and a little bow with the head, while Sullivan shook her hand with a courtesy smile, a little forced but just for his tiredness.

-I’ve heard the name of Rosie Black?- Another male voice came from the room, and a fourth man appeared with an amazed expression behind the priest. High like this last one, he was near to his sixties, wrinkles of expression signed his face and forehead; the short grey hair was well combed and hid light blue eyes almost opened wide seeing the girl, that smiled in recognizing him: -It’s been a while, chief inspector Valentine.-

-Yes… A lot of time.-

-I must admit that it makes me feel so old looking at you right now, Rosie.- Valentine let Rosie settle in the chair in front of his desk, and while talking he did the same in his office armchair: -I still remember when I brought you here that night. You were exactly where you are now. Your feet didn’t reached the ground!-

-Yes, it’s true.-

-How are you? And your parents?-

-Good. Dad has been transferred here for his work, so I think we will stay in Kembleford for a long time.-

A strange silence fell, that was mixing embarrassment and awareness from them both that their respective thoughts were addressed to the past.

Valentine would have never forget about Rosie. Like he had never forget about every single child that in his career he protected from a world full of monsters without scruples, or about those who he must had and wanted to do justice, even if it was too late.

Those moments where still well impressed in his memory: he and another agent that broke down the door of Black’s manor, the crazy old lady in the hallway that was screaming, shabby like a terrible crone and with a kitchen knife in her hand, and a frightened to death Rosie, shaking of fear and cold, soaked of water, that in her father’s study was hold on tight to a teenager Sid like a castaway would have hold on to his only handhold.

Rosie, instead, would have never forget about Valentine, of that policeman that, in her child fantasy, like a knight fought the horrible witch that tried to kill her and saved her and Sid, picking up her in his arms and brought her in the safety of the police station while she was crying desperately. Not only, he was by the side of her family for the whole legal phase of that affair. Growing up the girl started to disrespect authorities, but she learned to respect people like Valentine, that not only work a job but believe in what they do.

-So… Chief inspector, uh?- she tried to say to break the silence, -Do you still hunting criminals or you’re stuck behind this desk?-

-I do still chase them, but in a different way. We must keep up with the times.-

While the two were talking in the office, in the hall Sid told briefly to father Brown and Sullivan that the Black family was momentarily guested at Montague Hall*, and that lady Felicia recommended him to, if he had meet them, to tell them that she would organized a welcome dinner.

-I would never refuse an invitation from lady Felicia- smiled the priest, while Sullivan looked at his wristwatch: -I have a mountain of papers and reports that are waiting for me, but… Maybe I have the time to go home, after my turn, and give myself a refresh. If I go back to work immediately.-

-Don’t your eyes cross, reading all those paperworks?- joked Carter.

Sullivan ignored the provocation. He just looked at Sid with the expression of someone too in a hurry to talk more, and saying goodbye to the other two he concluded: -See you this evening.-

Carter looked at him while he was walking away, tempted to gave the inspector one last pop, but to the thought didn’t followed an action, because Rosie exited from Valentine’s office and while closing the door she repeated with more enthusiasm the same greet of Sullivan: -See you this evening!-

Walking along Kembleford’s streets Rosie made a lot of photoshoots, followed by Sid and father Brown, who tried to start a conversation with the girl while carrying by the handlebars his black bicycle: -So, Rosie: the village is like you remember it?-

-More or less. In thirteen years some things have changed. That building over there, for example.- She pointed at a little house which facade was decorated under every window by rectangular vases full of flowers: -All those plants weren’t there before.-

-Really? What a good memory you have!-

-And she’s right- said Sid, -When the old owner died his daughter came to live there, and she is a lover of flowers.-

-Anyway I am curious, father.- The girl took another picture before turning back towards the old priest: -There was another priest here before you. Father… Bohun, I think?-

-Not exactly. The Reverend occasionally visited St. Mary’s church, and sometimes he covered my predecessor for some days. Did you know him?-

-No. Let’s just say that when mum was able to drag me to the Mass I saw him there. What happened to him?-

Brown sighed, shaking his head with a desolate face: -He committed a terrible crime, and he’s still paying the consequences.-

-Seriously?-

-Oh yes, father Brown himself discovered that he was the culprit- said again Sid, lighting up a cigarette, -Valentine didn’t know who to put in jail.-

-So… You’re a detective, father? I’m surprised.-

-He solved a lot of mysteries! Even the police chief gave him a commendation.-

-But we can talk about this at the dinner; we’re arrived at the church.- The priest mounted the bicycle and gave two pushes on the pedals to do a little slope, waving the two youths: -See you at Montague Hall! I will bring Mrs McCarthy too!-

Rosie tilted her head, confused: -This father Brown is really peculiar. He doesn’t seems like the other priests.-

-And how are other priests?-

-Dunno. I haven’t been in a church in years. I even didn’t do catechism.-

-Oh, don’t say it in front of Mrs M, you’ll give her a heart attack.-

-Who?-

-Mrs McCarthy. She’s the priest’s housekeeper of the St. Mary. All of us call her Mrs M. You will meet her tonight.- He took a puff from his cigarette and gave the girl a pat on her shoulder: -Let’s go. There’s a place we need to see before going home.-

-Retrieving the car, maybe?-

-No, another one.-

The other place Sid was talking about was a wide playground, built on an emerald green lawn, where a big slide made of wood and iron and another one in coloured plastic were at the centre; around these there were rocking animals, a structure to climb made in iron and painted in blue and swings of different heights. The area was empty; maybe the children were still at school.

Rosie smiled: -It’s still the same!- She ran immediately to the biggest slide and looked under the metallic part, looking for something. And even if it was a little faded by time there it was: a scribble that she and Sid made when Rosie was still a child, that represented one of the teachers of her primary school; a parody of an angry face with a big mouth open, distressed eyes and a phrase in a comic cloud: “If you don’t study I’ll punish you!!”, something she said regularly.

-Aah, miss Jasper… How many frogs I put in her desk drawer!-

-Now she’s Mrs Wollen. She got married around seven years ago.-

-Do she still live here?-

-No, but really near, at Gloucester. She’s still a teacher.-

-I bet she’s still tormenting poor children with her sleepy maths lessons.-

Sid laughed, while Rosie walked to the swings and sat on one of the seat; the chains didn’t creaked under her weight, only the hooks emitted a keen sound when she dangled a little pushing with her feet on the ground: -A lot of things from the past are coming back in my mind. Eh. It’s so dull said like this.-

-Rosie, listen…- Carter leaned with an arm to the swing structure: -Are you sure you’re okay?-

She tightened her grasp around the chains, looking down: -… Sid, can you keep a secret?-

-Sure.-

-You know why mum didn’t want me to meet Valentine?- She barely dangled again: -Because since dad told us that we would have come back here I had terrible nightmares. I hadn’t had them in years.-

-Nightmares… On that night?-

Rosie nodded: -But there’s something strange. A sensation. Like...- She suddenly stood up, letting the seat dangling messily behind her: -Never mind. It’s getting late.- She turned to her friend and get back her smile: -And I’ve promised mum that I would have look pretty tonight.-