#Dawn Landscape Print

[funnyartprintsnow]

Wild Sheep Dawn Print- Countryside Serenity Art (Print only no frame)

[rothgalleries]

Embracing Tranquility and Witnessing Sunrise at Rafe's Chasm on Cape Ann

Rafe’s Chasm is a popular spot for sightseeing, photography, and enjoying the natural surroundings. Visitors can explore the beautiful rocky coastline, take in the breathtaking views of the Atlantic ocean and chasm, and immerse themselves in the tranquility of this natural coastal gem. It is important to note that Rafe’s Chasm is a rugged and rocky area, so it is advised to exercise caution when…

[artinovo]

Hybrid sci-fi landscape... 😁 #art #artist #printerly #prints #luxury #artprint #landscapes #pattern #contemporaryart #otherworldly #dawn #australianart #antigravity #neon #nontraditionalart #uniquestateprints #spaceship #ufo #alienworlds #decor #decoration #interiors #interiordesign #abstract #plains #lux #style #sophisticatedart #digitallandscape #unique https://www.instagram.com/p/CgjdmlSv7wt/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[yjhariani]

Sunday Morning Ride

Warnings: Sharing a cigarette, bike riding.

You bent down by the side of the bed as you reached your hand out towards Simon’s arm. He was still deep asleep, but he did say he would do it a few days ago.

“Simon, wake up,” you quietly started, leaning closer to his ear.

There was no verbal response at first, but Simon stirred a little.

“What time is it?” Simon lazily asked.

“Well, sunrise is about an hour away,” you answered.

“Why’d you wake me up, then?” Simon replied.

“It’s Sunday,” you said.

At the mention of the word Sunday, Simon opened his eyes.

“I just showered and maybe I’ll make us a quick breakfast while you get in there? Breakfast tea, too, maybe?” you said.

Humming in agreement, Simon moved and sat next to you. He put a hand on your back.

“Just something light. We’ll get to that place anyway,” you nodded.

“Alright,” Simon nodded.

“Great,” you kissed him on the cheek. “Your jacket’s ready. Your gloves are ready. I laundered your helmet a few days before you arrived home. Checked the bikes to the shop, too. Everything’s great.”

“Told you you don’t have to do that,” Simon said.

“Well, if we’re gonna do this every Sunday up until you leave again, I need to make sure we’re driving safely and that we’re having the best experience,” you explained.

Simon said nothing, but he leaned his head towards yours and rested his temple on top of your head for a few seconds.

“I better get ready so we can catch up with the sunrise,” Simon said.

With so, the two of you continued the early day. As you said, you prepared a bit of breakfast whilst Simon went to take a shower.  Afterwards, you and Simon had that quick breakfast. 

With about half an hour left to spare before sunrise, the two of you were dressed appropriately with leather jackets and gloves. Simon had a skull-printed buff pulled up to his nose. You were waiting for them to heat up for a minute.

Simon walked up to you at some point after you put your helmet on. He made sure that your helmet was attached to your head right.

A couple of minutes later, the two of you were on the road, riding side by side. Occasionally, one of you rode behind the other, but most of the time, you rode side by side on the mostly empty road.

Buildings soon turned into trees and straight asphalt roads soon turned into hills. There was a long road upon those hills where the two of you could practically watch the sun rising as you drove.

At some point, the two of you made a stop by the hills. The two of you parked your bikes by the side of the road. You leaned your backs on one of the bikes, drinking whatever hot beverage you prepared in a thermos earlier while your helmets were seated on the other bike.

This had to be one of the things Simon looked forward to as he counted down the days of his deployment. Every time he was home, the two of you would do this every Sunday morning. Ride your bikes from dawn and the two of you would be home by noon if the two of you decided not to stop by a lot of places.

Where the two of you would stop every time was this hill where the two of you take a break whilst watching the sunrise and a restaurant located in a quiet town where the two of you would get your proper breakfast of the day. For some reason, neither of you could remember the name of the restaurant.

Sometimes, you rode one bike instead of two. That was better if the dawn was colder than usual. 

This dawn was not that cold, but you and Simon were still sitting very close together on your first stop. Simon started lighting up his cigarette at one point.

“This place,” Simon exhaled some smoke, “looks a little different than I remembered.”

You looked at the landscape in front of you, trying to see if you could tell what had changed about the scenery.

The mix of orange and blue sky, layered with sunshine-weaved clouds on top of rows of trees. Roads folding towards the cliff edge that the two of you were standing on.

“I think,” you took the cigarette from Simon’s fingers, “there are more trees down there. More colours, at least,” you pointed at a general area that you noticed had changed before putting the cigarette in between your lips and took a drag of it.

“I see,” Simon hummed.

You hummed in agreement as you exhaled the smoke out of your mouth. Simon gestured at you to hand over the cigarette and you did.

The two of you were there, sharing a cigarette and something held by a thermos cup. Most of the time, Simon and you only sat in silence. However, that was one of the things Simon liked about this trip. That it happened that early that the two of you were not always in the mood to talk yet.

At times, you would lean your temple on Simon’s upper arm. Another time, Simon would put his hand around your waist. Sometimes both altogether.

Once the cigarette was finished and Simon and you had emptied the thermos cup, the two of you continued your ride.

Hours passed by and eventually the two of you arrived at the restaurant that neither of you could remember the name of. You ordered your sat on the same table you always did. You ordered your breakfast of choice.

As the sun continued rising, Simon and you started talking more and more. You exchanged stories this time.

Simon had always been a person of a few words and there was not a lot of shop-talk around you. When he did talk about work, he always used his coworker’s pseudonyms.

“This one time, my captain was… yelling for people to get him soap. So, we sent our friend Soap to him and turned out he was asking for the real thing,” Simon said.

“No way,” you chuckled.

“Yeah. He was in the shower, too,” Simon nodded. “Should’ve figured it out just by that.”

You chuckled.

Simon would only tell the good stories. Never the bad ones. He seemed to be happy talking about those people. People you would probably never see in person.

Every time, Simon would tell you that he kept you a secret for your own protection. Calling it bullshit was no use. Besides, he made it so that you would not need to be in that part of his life. He made it so that him being with you was just enough and it was without adding all the ‘bad’ part of his life.

The thing was, his friends knew. They knew that there was someone out here making Simon less grumpy, providing him some all around positive energy that gave him a good mood. They might never meet you, but, hell, they were grateful of you.

“You know, we could do this thing more than once a week,” Simon said.

“You wanna do it again tomorrow?” you asked.

Simon looked hesitant at first, but he nodded once and lifted his shoulders lightly.

“Let’s do it again tomorrow, then,” you nodded.

“Different route,” Simon said. “One bike.”

“Sure, yeah,” you agreed.

There was a shy smile on Simon’s face when you said that. No matter how many times you had seen it, it always melted your insides.

“Thank you,” Simon said.

“Anything for you, boo,” you replied.

[kolajmag]

COLLAGE ON VIEW

Landscape Vernacular

Todd Bartel at the Art Center Gallery at Anna Maria College in Paxton, Massachusetts, USA through 10 April 2024. Todd Bartel’s “Landscape Vernacular” series is an ongoing, decade-long research-based collage series addressing the history of land depiction and changing attitudes about land use and ecology. Catalyzed by interlocking combinations of dictionary definitions, texts, and images, “Landscape Vernacular” collages juxtapose vintage imagery and ephemera from the 18th- through 21st centuries, chronicling the dawn of the Anthropocene. Read More

*****************************

Kolaj Magazine, a full color, print magazine, exists to show how the world of collage is rich, layered, and thick with complexity. By remixing history and culture, collage artists forge new thinking. To understand collage is to reshape one's thinking of art history and redefine the canon of visual culture that informs the present.

SUBSCRIBE | CURRENT ISSUE | GET A COPY

SIGN UP TO GET EMAILS

[adore-laur]

BULLSEYE: PART ONE

— a lonely small-town boy meets a demure city girl (this series is unfinished)

| The Boy | 

Morning fog drifts throughout Lurgashall, West Sussex. Doves faintly coo in the dense forest. The sound of the rushing river nearby gives life to the rural landscape. The pathway is hugged by trees on both sides, weeping willows and broadleaf evergreens bending over the gravel as if to greet passersby. The sky is a silky shade of periwinkle, and the sun gently grapples to peek out from behind a sheet of looming stratus clouds. Squirrels and hares race through the thicket to rustle and stir up insects. The crickets will soon chirp and wake the rest of the sleeping nature around them. 

Distant footsteps crunch rock fragments with each stride, the approaching noise startling the birds as they scatter away to their homes nestled in the slim branches above. A boy whom the townsfolk know as Harry is the product of the sound. His intriguing and mysterious presence always makes itself known, even to placid wildlife. Unless he's with his father, of course. In those moments, he's a silent shadow in the background of the older man's domineering limelight. 

As the steps grow louder, creatures turn their heads to observe the boy's blue, melancholy aura that walks the timeworn path every dawn. He holds a metal bucket filled to the brim with fresh water from the stream. It's heavy but no challenge for his strong arms. He ventures down the winding trail, disrupting the pebbles with each clunky trudge of his steel-toed boots. Atop his head is a cowboy-esque hat made of straw, and his freshly showered hair, damp and curly, makes an appearance underneath as it dries with assistance from the crisp breeze. His long legs are clad in light-wash jeans, and his upper half is covered with a cream-colored button-up. He leaves it open over a trusty white tank top, the fabric sticking to his perspiring chest. Humidity is starting to make its presence known, and he wishes autumn would arrive faster. He despises summer for his own repressive reasons. 

Harry is not a cowboy by any means. He's what people would instead consider a rancher. His father had once told him that there was a significant difference. A rancher doesn't wrangle cattle or compete in barrel racing. They don't herd sheep or wear chaps. Nor do they own a lasso or race horses for profit. No, Harry takes care of the horses. He nurtures them by feeding, grooming, and riding them across the village fields. He speaks to them when he locks the stable up at night, telling them about the newest baby born in tiny Lurgashall or the fawn he saw grazing in the pasture. 

He works at his father's ranch. It provides services such as horseback riding and equestrian lessons. His father handles the latter, having grown up in the village his entire life and acquiring decades of experience. On the other hand, Harry helps with the guided horse tours by visiting the picturesque countryside a few times daily with a group of locals or tourists. They travel the paths overrun with blossoming flowers and satiny grass matted down by hoof prints. Farthest out on the tour, they stop at beautifully eroded rock formations on the hill and soak in the expanse of the sky.

It never gets old, yet the boy still feels stuck. He's caught up in a constant cycle of living the same day repeatedly, always ending with desolation crawling into his lonely heart that so desperately wants to be loved. It doesn't help that he doesn't have many friends, not that it's such a horrible thing. However, living in a place with a whopping population of six hundred people leaves him relatively isolated. He doesn't mind, though. He's grown used to going home to his cabin in the woods and having the entire place to do as he pleases. He can play his records as loud as he wants. He can get drunk off cheap whiskey and dance around his living room, thinking about all the things he should have said and done in his past. He can fall asleep under his quilted blanket and dream of flying through the sky, his fingers sweeping through the soft grass of foreign fields he wishes to visit one day. 

When Harry does manage to hang around other people, it's usually at the singular pub in Lurgashall. It's small, with a rustic, sixteenth-century interior and matching decor that comforts him. He walks there from his cabin or the stables, either chosen way taking less than ten minutes, and admires the scenic view of the whole journey. 

Whenever he steps through the doorway, he comes alive. Talking to strangers and locals, listening to their stories with endless questions bubbling up inside him. He sometimes rides his horse there and ties it to the porch fence, then excuses himself from the pub for a moment to feed them a carrot that he always keeps in his satchel. Hogging the jukebox by playing Dolly Parton back-to-back until a drunk man yells at him to pick something else. Harry will often go behind the bar and help serve drinks to the patrons, charming them with his infectious smile, never forgetting to undo a couple of extra buttons on his shirt to attract anyone interested. Someone usually is, but he never acts on their flirtatious exertions. Harry prefers going back to his cabin alone with rosy cheeks and a dizzy head. His father calls him a dry-as-dust introvert with how much time he spends in solitude. So be it, the boy thinks. He's doing perfectly fine on his own. 

Harry's favorite thing to do at the pub is partake in a game of darts. He claims he could be a professional one day and travel the world, knocking down any competition far and wide with ease. He'll play by himself for hours straight with complete focus and a light buzz coursing through his blood from the beer or whiskey he drinks. The local ladies will watch while whistling and cheering him on. It feeds his narcissism nicely. Then he'll stumble home and crash on his bed, getting no more than four hours of sleep before dragging his feet to work the following morning with a headache and a feeling of existential dread about the stand-still life that his father gave him. Needless to say, the boy has some unresolved daddy issues. 

That's not to say Harry isn't fond of where he lives and works. He loves horses and showing people the beauty of his hometown. He doesn't mind waking up at dawn to sit with the horses after completing his duties. He'll bring his sketchbook and pencils and draw potential ideas for tattoos. 

Oh, don't even get him started on tattoos. His father hates them, so Harry gets dozens out of pure spite. His arms are covered with ink inspired by his own drawings. He will often tattoo himself with his gun and supplies in a drawer at his cabin since the nearest tattoo parlor is an entire town away. He honestly can't get enough. The feeling of the needle piercing his flesh brings him a painfully addictive pleasure he hasn't found anywhere else. 

It's six in the morning when Harry walks into the main stable. He hears the familiar sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks. This is where he can stop thinking about everything wrong in his life. This is where he goes to get away from his father's disapproving demeanor. This is where he can reminisce about his mother, his angel in the sky guiding him toward better days. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

It takes just under an hour to drive from Portsmouth to Lurgashall. There's green everywhere, a pleasant change from the grey city. Boundless fields and forests seclude the cozy, spaced-out cottages and farmhouses along the road. It's technically not even a road; it's simply a gravel path looping throughout the village. 

Cramped in a car with three other people, it's becoming hard to breathe with the muggy air wafting in because someone insisted on rolling the windows down. It's almost comical to think about how city girls could survive staying here for a week after being conditioned to traffic and bumping into people on concrete streets. 

The girl, who suburbanites know as Shyla, has friends who insisted they travel to the countryside to temporarily flee their swarmed hometown of Portsmouth. They quite literally threw a dart on a map of England to determine the destination. Lo and behold, it hit the microscopic region of Lurgashall. 

Eight square miles. Six hundred residents. She's absolutely dreading it. 

Shyla was left out of the trip planning. She also wasn't given the option to ride shotgun in the car. Now, she's on the way to go horseback riding at a ranch when her friends know she's never ridden one before and has absolutely no desire to. The guided horseback tour is private for the four girls. Shyla is thankful for that since she doesn't want strangers laughing at her inability to steer a horse properly. Needless to say, the girl doesn't have a great support system. 

See, Shyla is lonely even when she's around her friends. They ignore her and leave her out of conversations. They only hang out with her when they need something out of it — a designated driver, money, or someone to tease. Shyla is fed up, to be honest, but she's too terrified of confrontation. She doesn't want to lose the only people she has left. 

Once the ranch comes into view, Shyla feels her heart sink with an anchor of anxiousness. From the backseat window, she admires the rolling hills that expand as far as the eye can see. Behind the ranch is a fenced pasture connected to the stables. Horses are tied up, chewing on hay and stomping their hooves, causing dust to swirl in the stale air. 

Gravel crunches under the car's wheels as they slow down. No parking spots are marked, so they park in front of the wraparound porch. The ranch building is cute, with its horseshoe hanging above the front door and the crooked wooden sign that reads Styles Stables. 

Shyla thinks maybe this won't be so bad after all. The exterior atmosphere of the place seems inviting enough. She wonders how the business stays afloat in such a small town, especially since there are currently no other cars. The owner will be in for a surprise when a group of girls from the city asks to ride their horses. Her friends can be obnoxious sometimes, so she prays they won't embarrass her and make anyone's job more difficult. 

They all clamber out of the car and stumble toward the front door on legs that haven't been used for a while. Shyla strays behind, trying to get fresh air in her lungs. Plummeting apprehension has suddenly hit her. 

The door is already open, revealing a naturally lit room. Shyla is the last one to step inside, and she's taken aback by the overpowering smell of sawdust and leather. It's a spacious area with creaky wooden floors decorated with only a rustic bench and a shabby front desk. There are two men behind it. One has grey hair that shines from the sunlight pouring through the window. The other has curly brown hair. Their backs are turned, and they seem to be poring over a stack of papers. 

One of Shyla's friends rings the silver service bell to get their attention. The silver-haired man slowly turns around with a stoic expression and studies each person. He seems intimidating right off the bat. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers at the other person behind the counter. The boy flinches slightly and silently hurries out the back door. Without a word, the older man slides four waivers toward them. They paid beforehand, and Shyla assumes they must not have anyone else riding today since he didn't ask for their names. 

Her three friends sit on the bench to fill them out, leaving Shyla to remain standing and write on the splintered surface of the desk. After they finish, they give the papers to the man. Shyla gets negative vibes from him. It's no wonder no one comes here; the owner is the most off-putting person she's ever met. 

Then he speaks. A low, gruff voice thunders when he says, "Harry, my son, will be your guide today. Go out the back door, and he'll situate everyone with a horse based on experience. Let me know if he's cranky. I'll make sure to give him a stern talking-to." 

They all nod and head to the stables. They're met with posts lining a fence that several horses, all varying colors and sizes, are tied to with rope. Shyla's eyes start watering from the dryness outside—or maybe from fear. 

The boy, who Shyla now knows as Harry, carries saddles out and begins setting them on a few select horses. She has an unobstructed view of him now, so she takes in his outfit, consisting of a beige button-up with a brown leather jacket over it and jeans with a hole just below each of his knees. His hair is almost parted down the middle, with some loose curls hanging over his forehead, and there's faint stubble growing above his lips and along his jaw. 

Once the horses have saddles on, Shyla watches Harry lead a tall, sleek black horse in front of the girls. Shyla guesses it's the one he'll be riding since it doesn't have a saddle on, and it looks daunting. He ties it to the entrance gate leading to the trail, then brings another horse out. He's silent the entire time, and Shyla thinks he might actually be cranky. She's not a snitch, though. 

Harry stops in front of the girls after the four horses are tied to the fence. He clears his throat, then asks, "Has anyone here never ridden a horse before?" 

Shyla glances over to her friends and quickly realizes she's the only one who hasn't. With a hesitant raise of her arm, she indicates her inexperience. The boy locks eyes with her and nods before untying a copper-colored horse. He walks it over to Shyla while adjusting its saddle. 

"This is Quake," he explains, patting the horse's neck. "We use him for beginners. Are you comfortable mounting him by yourself?" 

"Um, I've never gotten on a horse before, so I might need some help." 

"Sure. Start by putting your left foot in the stirrup." Shyla steps into the stirrup and waits for further instruction. "Then push down on it to lift your leg up and over his body." 

He's watching her every movement. Shyla swallows her parched throat. She does what he says and hoists her leg to stretch uncomfortably over Quake's wide body, then sets her feet in both stirrups and holds onto the saddle's horn. She peeks over at her friends to see if they'll be proud of her, but they're all too distracted taking pictures on their phones. She tries not to let it bother her. 

"Do your feet feel loose at all?" Harry asks, placing the reins in her grasp. 

"They feel a bit loose, yeah. I also feel like they're too low. Sorry, I'm short." She doesn't know why she's apologizing. She just feels bad for being a beginner and wasting everyone's time. Her friends are obviously bored while waiting for her. 

"All right, let me fix those for you." He grabs the left stirrup and pulls the strap to tighten and lift it, his fingers grazing Shyla's ankle. She almost shivers at the touch. He goes over to fix the other one and gives her a questioning thumbs-up. She hastily nods to confirm they're better. 

"What's your name?" he mumbles as he adjusts Quake's bridle. 

She almost forgets it but manages a quiet murmur of "Shyla." 

"Shyla. Pretty name." Harry puts his hands on his hips. "So, if you want to steer right or left, just turn the reins in that direction. The hand you write with holds the reins, but you can use two if you're more comfortable that way. If you want to slow down or stop, gently pull the reins back. Quake is a good horse, so there shouldn't be any problems. Going downhill, you want to lean back. Going uphill is when you'll lean forward. If Quake stops moving, just lightly kick his side. Let's see... always sit up straight, but keep your body relaxed. No need to worry about trotting or accidental running since he's our most easy-going horse. He doesn't get spooked much." He exhales, eyes squinting from the sun. "That's it, I think. Any questions?" 

Shyla shifts in the saddle, overwhelmed by all the rules. "No, I should be fine. Thank you." 

"No problem." He hikes his thumb over his shoulder. "Quake will just stand still for right now, so I'll get everyone else set up." 

Once everyone is on their designated horses, Harry unties his horse and gracefully mounts it. He then takes his leather jacket off and hangs it over the fence post, skillfully turning his horse around to lead the front of the line. 

"Okay," he says, looking at everyone. "Since Shyla hasn't done this before, I'll have her ride behind me. Sound good?" 

The girls all nod their heads. Harry opens the rusty gate and gets his horse to start walking by clicking his tongue, causing the other horses to follow suit. Shyla sees him twist back to check on her, and she smiles softly to show she's good. He just bows his head and stares straight ahead again. 

Shyla doesn't remember what she was ever anxious about. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Harry has concluded that the girl behind him is catastrophically pretty. He finds himself looking back at her every so often to make sure she's all right, and each time he does, she grants him an innocent smile paired with eyes the color of chestnuts. 

Harry has also concluded that her friends are absolute shit. They won't stop gabbing about city gossip with their whiny voices. He thanks his lucky stars that they're not behind him; otherwise, he would be seconds away from getting his horse to kick them off. The girl not being annoying, who Harry now knows as Shyla, is reserved and respectful. Whenever he subtly steals a glance at her, she's admiring the nature around her and petting Quake's neck with a delicate hand. 

When they finally reach the rock formations, everyone gets off their horse to stretch their legs and appreciate the view. This is Harry's favorite part. He likes to watch his groups be impressed with how beautiful little Lurgashall can be. 

He observes Shyla with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Her wide eyes scan over the rocks and endless greenery around her. For some reason, it makes his mouth twitch with a ghost of a smile. 

Five minutes pass before they begin their trip back to the stables. Shyla, who has been otherwise quiet, suddenly speaks up, much to Harry's surprise. Her friends are too busy talking about where to get dinner to join in. 

"How long have you been doing this?" she asks. 

Harry turns his head toward her momentarily before turning back and taking a deep, calming breath. He's awful at small talk unless he has alcohol in his system. He keeps his backstory vague and says, "Around a decade. I started as a guide when I was sixteen. My father built the ranch long before I was born, so I kind of had no choice but to follow in his footsteps." 

It's true he didn't have a choice, but there's a more personal side to it that he can't talk about without either crying or getting angry. It's about his mother and any fleeting thought of her begs for tears to fall. If he starts crying on a horse in front of a pretty girl, he's officially hit rock bottom. 

"Is it just you and him working at the ranch?" Shyla questions further.

His shoulders tense. "Only us," he curtly replies. Shyla must notice his discomfort because she's silent the rest of the way back. 

Eventually, they arrive at the stables. Harry smoothly dismounts his horse and walks over to help Shyla off Quake first. He reaches his hand out, and she firmly grips it while swinging her leg over and hopping onto the ground. His thumb lightly strokes the back of her hand before he lets go. If she feels it, she doesn't let it show. 

As Shyla dusts off her pants, Harry glimpses at her friends, who are getting off their horses and taking more pictures of themselves. Irritation simmers inside of him. They could at least pretend to care about her. 

He shakes the thought from his head and coughs gingerly into his fist before mumbling, "Have a nice day, Shyla," and bidding farewell with a two-finger salute. 

Again, he's awful at making conversation. He gets nervous, especially when mesmerizing brown eyes give him a tenderhearted look he hasn't seen since his mother left him. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla and her friends have decided to go out for cocktails tonight. Much to everyone's disappointment, there's only one pub in Lurgashall to choose from, but it'll have to do. They drove aimlessly after horseback riding since the checkout time for the inn they are staying at isn't until tomorrow morning. The girls are terrible at planning, so they have no other option but to sleep in the car tonight. It's going to be hell. 

It's ten o'clock when they walk through the threshold. Shyla's view is instantly bombarded with people chatting, dancing, and drinking in every corner of the confined space. Her friends are already heading toward the bar to order drinks. Shyla lingers behind and soaks in the lively environment. Friendly smiles fleetingly greet her. Bony limbs accidentally elbow her. Boisterous laughs invitingly lure her in. 

As her curious eyes scan the room, she quickly spots a familiar face. Harry, the boy from the ranch, is in the far corner, standing next to a retro jukebox. He's wearing his brown leather jacket from earlier with no shirt underneath, and several tattoos can be seen in the dim lighting of the pub. He nurses what looks like a glass of whiskey or bourbon in his hand as he slowly sways to the song playing. He's mouthing the lyrics with his head tilted back. Shyla recognizes the song as "You're the Only One" by Dolly Parton. She flits her gaze away so he doesn't catch her gawking. 

The mix of conversations around her on top of Dolly's smooth-as-butter voice creates an ambiance that eases her anxiety. Clinking glasses and the sudden outburst of hysterics make her want to participate in the drunken bubbles. Walking over to the bar, Shyla finds an open stool to sit on when Harry suddenly slides behind the counter with a beaming smile and dilated pupils. She stares at him for a while, trying to understand how quickly he noticed her. Now, his tattooed torso is right in front of her, and she thinks he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen. 

"Hi!" Harry cheerfully greets, blowing a curly strand of hair away from his face. Shyla can immediately sense that he's a bit tipsy. 

"Hey," she says awkwardly. "Um, do you work here?" 

"I don't work here," he slurs with a smug raise of eyebrows. "But I can make you anything your heart desires." 

Oh, so tipsy Harry is an entirely different person. Got it! 

"Could I please get a lime margarita?" she asks, his intense eye contact making her flush. 

He winks as he grabs a glass from under the counter. "Coming right up, Miss Shyla." 

She's shocked he remembers her name as she watches him run a lime wedge along the rim of the glass and skillfully coat it in salt. After that, he pours the liquid ingredients into a mixer filled with ice and then shakes it like a professional bartender. His stomach muscles flex as he does so, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek in concentration. Shyla wonders how he's so good at making drinks if he doesn't work here. 

Once he pours the concoction into her glass, he kisses the lime wedge and garnishes the rim. Lifting it in a cheers gesture, he slides it toward her. Who is this man? He can't be the same one she met earlier today. 

"Thanks," Shyla mumbles meekly. She takes a sip and puckers her lips at the sour taste. 

Harry's palms cradle his cheeks, his elbows resting on the counter. He has a cute smile on his face as he watches her expression. He looks like a kid in a candy store, his dimples deep enough to build a dreamland in them. 

"I'm tipsy," he admits, his mouth barely moving. "Apologies if it's not my best work." He stands up straight with a slight sway. "Hey, do you know how to play darts? I can teach you. Not to brag, but I'm pretty decent." 

Shyla peeks at the dart board snug in the corner of the pub. She's never played before, and her friends probably don't care that she's not with them, so she nods, grabs her drink, and heads over. Harry shuffles around the counter to walk beside her. He smells like pine trees with a hint of something floral. 

They reach the board, and Harry leans against it with his ankles crossed. He takes a dart and points it at her. "So," he says, "the simplest version we can play is 301. Easy rules. We each start with 301 points, yeah? The goal is to reach zero; to do that, we have to try to land the dart on high numbers to get there before each other. We subtract the scores each round, and whoever gets there first wins. However, if you go past zero, you bust out and have to reset your score to what it was when you started your last turn." 

Shyla's sure she'll be terrible at it, but at least it'll be something fun to do while her friends get hammered without her. She takes a gulp from her margarita to get some liquid courage churning, then sets her glass on a nearby stool and grabs a dart, the only pink one in a bundle of red and blue ones. She stands a decent distance away from the board. 

"Is there a certain way to throw it?" she wonders aloud, spinning the dart between her fingers. 

Harry tuts. "I'm not supposed to help you since we're competing, but yes, there is. Here, let me show you." He stands behind her, his bare chest resting against her back. His cologne and presence dangerously invade all of her senses. 

"See the white line in front of you?" he says, his warm breath heating her ear. "It's called the oche. You can't step over it, or you'll be disqualified. Your feet need to be hip-width apart behind it, okay?" Shyla spreads her feet to the appropriate length. "Keep your feet at that width and then turn sideways to face the board," he adds. She does as Harry says. He continues, "Place every finger except your pinky on the barrel of the dart. Toward the front of it." Shyla attempts to mimic his direction. "Ah, ah, ah. Not too firmly. Try not to curl your fingers. Keep them long and open." 

She readjusts her fingers on the dart, then turns her head to meet Harry's eyes. He licks his lips and nods. "Good girl. Now raise the dart to eye level with your elbow at a ninety-degree angle." Shyla feels him lightly grip her wrist to raise it as he bends her elbow. "Just like that." 

Fuck. Her skin is on fire, surely. 

"Now tilt the end upwards a bit," he murmurs, his thumb stroking her elbow, "but don't let the tip drop too far down. Then aim it right at the bullseye. Is this your first time throwing a dart?" 

Shyla swallows. "Yes. Sorry if I end up putting a hole in the wall." 

Harry hums a low chuckle. "Trust me, you won't. So, what you'll do now is use your dominant eye to aim. You held the reins at the ranch with your right hand, so I'm assuming you're right-handed?" 

He remembered. Is that the bare minimum? Shyla can't think straight when she can feel every single one of his breaths against her neck. She manages to squeak out an affirmation. 

"Okay. Keep your right eye open and close the other one. Then pull your hand back and keep your shoulders motionless as you throw it." Harry's hands place themselves on her shoulders. She tenses but relaxes instantly when he gives them an assuring squeeze. "Place weight on your foot closest to the board when you throw, but don't lean or sway. Stay as still as possible." 

"All right," Shyla whispers. "Then I just throw it forward, right?" 

"Snap your wrist forward, not downward, as you release it. And always remember to follow through with the motion." 

He removes his hands from her shoulders and tucks in the tag from the neckline of her shirt. Has that been out the entire day? How embarrassing. 

Shyla clears her throat and gets ready to aim. She closes her left eye and keeps her shoulders still like Harry said. She then lightly pushes her foot closest to the board and snaps her wrist to release the dart. 

Not quite a bullseye, but pretty damn close. In Shyla's peripheral, she sees Harry whistle by sticking his pointer and middle finger in his mouth. He removes them and claps slowly but not mockingly; he looks thoroughly impressed. Shyla curtsies and takes a sip of her drink. 

It's Harry's turn, so he takes a red dart and stances up behind the line. Before he gets any further, Shyla can't help but ask, "How do you play when you're tipsy? Won't your hand-eye coordination get messed up?" 

Closing one eye, he pokes his tongue out in concentration and gracefully releases the dart. It hits the bullseye. He glances at her and smiles lopsidedly. "Practice makes perfect, darling." 

She's stunned by his perfect aim as he removes the two darts and then writes down both scores on the nearby chalkboard. When he faces her, he spreads his arms out and arrogantly shrugs. 

"You're good," Shyla compliments, breathing out a laugh and clapping. 

"All in a day's work," he replies, gesturing his hands like he's dusting them off. 

Shyla is about to grab another dart when Harry suddenly gasps. "You're Still the One" by Shania Twain starts playing from the jukebox. She really enjoys the song, too. She's not tipsy enough to dance around like everyone else, but when Harry holds his hand out for her to take, she can't refuse. 

"What about our dart game?" she asks, taking his warm and calloused hand. He twirls her and brings her into his chest, beginning to sway them to the romantic song. One hand in hers, the other gravitating to her waist. 

"Nothing else matters when Shania comes on. You'll have to stop by again so we can finish." 

"Already trying to get me to come back, huh? I'm only here for a week, so you better make it worth it." 

She hopes that came across as flirty. The margarita in her bloodstream is doing wonders for her boldness. 

Harry's eyebrows dip sadly. "You're only here for a week?" 

Shyla's unoccupied fingers graze along his abdomen. His skin is soft but somehow firm. "I'm from Portsmouth, which is about an hour southwest. I'm here on a girl's trip." 

"Oh, a trip with your shitty friends?" he says monotonously as he looks over at them. They're taking shots and talking way too loudly. "Sounds absolutely riveting." 

Shyla's mouth clamps shut. Had he really noticed that they mistreated her? Is it obvious? 

"I mean, it's been fine so far. They're just a little more outgoing than me." 

"Bullshit. They treat you like rubbish, and I've known you for less than a day." 

Shyla is quiet because she knows he's right. If she can see it, why can't anyone else? She's in this boy's arms, touching his skin, and she feels more comfortable with him than the girls she's been friends with for years. Is that wrong? Or is this a feeling she shouldn't fight? 

Shyla stares into his glassy eyes and then down at his lips. Something is magnetizing about him. He pulls her in and makes her feel seen.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" Harry asks, just loud enough to hear over the music and chatter. "I have a jacuzzi, or we could listen to records and dance some more." 

"I would really like that," Shyla says, releasing herself from his proximity. "Um, let me go tell my friends." 

"Screw them." He catches her hand before she can leave, pulling her back. "Just come with me. They're too plastered to notice you'll be gone." 

Shyla thinks they wouldn't notice even if they weren't plastered. "Okay," she gives in, playing with his fingers. "Are there taxis here? Maybe an Uber?" 

Harry laughs, his nose wrinkling as his hand rests on his stomach. "I'm afraid taxis in Lurgashall are nonexistent." He gently picks an eyelash off Shyla's cheek. "Listen, it's a ten-minute walk to my cabin. We can get to know each other on the way there." 

She doesn't have to contemplate. "Let's go." 

—— 

| The Boy & The Girl | 

On the journey to his cabin, Harry sobers quite quickly. Shyla had a few sips of her margarita, so there was only a faint buzz coursing through her veins. They talked about what it was like growing up in their respective hometowns and their favorite music artists. He's a Dolly Parton fan, and she's obsessed with Blondie. 

They round the corner of the main path, his arm slung around her shoulder. When the cabin comes into view, Shyla's breath hitches. It's a black A-frame structure with a wooden balcony. The jacuzzi Harry mentioned is surrounded by potted plants. The place is completely secluded in the forest, with no other houses visible for miles. 

Harry guides her up the stairs and to the front door, opening it for her. He reaches for the light switch, and the room lightens as they enter. To their left, there's a kitchen, a cozy and compact area with a small island and a counter along the wall. A tilted window panel is angled over the sink, providing a glimpse of the pine trees outside. 

His living room is opposite the kitchen. It has a leather couch, a rustic fireplace, and rugs scattered across the floor. Along the wall is a bookshelf packed with all sorts of titles. On the other wall, there are shelves filled with records, and under them is a vintage record player. The wallpaper is old-fashioned, with picture frames holding minimalistic paintings of roses, daisies, and orchards. 

A rickety staircase leads to a loft area where his bedroom is. It fits a queen-sized bed and a square wooden bathtub next to it. String lights hang along the log rafters and railing, creating an inviting and intimate ambiance. 

Harry begins removing bags off the counter in the kitchen while Shyla admires his space. "Sorry for the mess," he mumbles, putting groceries in the fridge. "I wasn't expecting anyone tonight." 

"It's okay. You have such a beautiful home." Shyla hopes she's not intruding when she asks, "Is it just you that lives here?" 

"Just me. And my horse on occasion." Harry is suddenly nervous. It's been so long since someone was in his home. Does she think it's odd that he lives in a cabin alone in the woods? Does she think he's a loser for having a bookshelf stuffed with romance novels? 

"I would kill to live here," Shyla says, disproving his insecurities. "Living by yourself sounds so nice. I have to live in a congested apartment with one of my friends you saw today." 

"Hmm," he hums while slowly walking toward her. "That's a shame." 

"It's fine. Once I get my degree, I'm going to find somewhere to live on my own." 

He stops in his tracks. This girl keeps surprising him. "Yeah? What do you study?" he asks as he changes his course and strides over to his record player. 

She joins him and replies, "Psychology. I want to be a school counselor." 

"Shit... you're quite clever, then. Have you been trying to psychoanalyze me all night?" 

"From what I can tell, you're a very composed person. At least on the outside." She begins sifting through his records. There's ABBA, Supertramp, Stevie Nicks, and Pat Benatar. He's an old soul.

Harry stays silent at her assumption as he takes a black record out of its sleeve and carefully sets it on the turntable. He moves the needle to a specific spot, and a crackling song eventually filters through: "My Girl (My Love)" by Dolly Parton. It's her slowed-down version of the original song by The Temptations. 

Leaning his hip against the table, he watches Shyla take out a Stevie Nicks record. She gazes up at him and gently smiles before setting it down and closing the distance between them. Her hands innocently grasp the lapels of his leather jacket. His skin looks so smooth under the subdued lighting of the cabin, the black ink on his chest and stomach standing out. 

Shyla begins taking his jacket off, raising her eyebrows to silently ask if she can continue. He nods, so she removes it and lets it fall to the floor. Then, she drapes her arms around his bare shoulders. Harry hesitantly places his hands on her waist, swaying them to the steady music. He can't remember the last time he touched someone like this. 

He has always felt like a bullseye. Everyone tries to hit him straight in the heart and win his affection, but they miss every time. No one has gotten close. No one has wanted to get to know the real him. 

Except for Shyla. 

She hit him in the bullseye when his green eyes met her brown ones. She pierced his lonely heart, and now he's terrified because he knows he'll mess it up. He's forgotten how to love another person and keep a flickering spark from dying. He takes the road less traveled and refuses love before he can get hurt. 

Yet he craves it like a greedy beast. Every night, he becomes jealous when he goes to the pub and watches couples dance. He becomes wretched when he tipsily listens to love songs and wishes he had someone to sing with. He becomes desperate when he falls asleep and dreams of being held by someone. 

The opposing path is right in front of him, but he's scared. He should run away before it grows into something he can't control, right? That's what he's used to. But as they sway, Harry obliterates those thoughts and focuses on the present. This sweet, gorgeous girl is in his arms, and she's real. 

When the song ends, Shyla steps away and moves toward the sketch papers she noticed while dancing. She admires the unique designs; flowers, suns and moons, and minimalistic landscapes of oceans and desert views fill the pages. 

"Did you draw these?" she quietly asks as her fingertips trace the graphite. 

Harry clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He's slightly embarrassed since no one has seen them besides himself. "Kind of. Well, yes, actually. I have a lot of tattoos, as you can see. I drew most of the ones on my skin myself." 

"These are incredible," she says, facing him. "You're so talented. What's your favorite tattoo?" 

This is what he means. She's the only one who tries to dig past the hardened shell around his heart. 

Harry spreads his left arm out and doesn't hesitate to point to a specific one above the inside of his elbow. Shyla leans in closer to read the small lettering. 

Mirror in the sky, what is love? 

"I got it for my mother," he explains, his throat tight. "She's... not with us anymore. She passed away eight years ago. Anyway, she would always play "Landslide" on her guitar when I was a kid." 

He hasn't opened up about that in years. What is this girl doing to him? 

Her fingers delicately touch the ink. Harry watches her softened eyes graze over the other tattoos on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers with a sympathetic frown. "I lost both of my parents, so I understand how difficult it is." 

She rarely talks about her parents. Why is it so easy with him? 

"Shyla," Harry breathes, grabbing her wrists in comfort. "God, I'm sorry. That's awful." 

"It's okay. I was only four when it happened, so I don't remember much. But growing up with no parents was strange. I still feel lost a lot of the time." 

"Yeah, I get that. We don't have to talk about it anymore. Kind of a mood killer." 

Shyla laughs and nods. "I agree." She pauses and says, "Hey, I think I'll take you up on that jacuzzi offer you mentioned earlier." 

"You read my mind," he says before letting go of her wrists and walking toward the patio door leading to the balcony. 

When they step outside, the nighttime chill makes them shiver. Harry turns the string lights on above the circular jacuzzi tub and then presses the button to turn the water heater and jets on. The moon and twinkling stars above make the forest visible, the leaves rustling in the wind. She's glad she dressed warmly. 

Oh no. She just remembered that she doesn't have her swimsuit. It's in her luggage in the trunk of her friend's car. 

"Harry?" Shyla says timidly. 

"Yeah?" 

"Um, I don't have my swimsuit with me." 

He twists around and blinks once while checking the water temperature. "Oh. Well, that's a problem." 

"I could walk back to the pub and grab it out of my suitcase," Shyla suggests. She really doesn't want to say goodnight to him yet. 

"No, no. It's late, and you don't know your way around. I could… give you a pair of boxers to wear? Is that weird? Sorry, I shouldn't—" 

"No, that would work! If you're okay with it, of course." 

"I'll be right back." Harry shuffles back indoors, and Shyla dips her fingers in the hot, bubbling water of the jacuzzi. This night has not gone as planned, but she's not complaining. 

Moments later, Harry comes back with a folded pair of grey boxers. He shyly hands them to her before they both turn their backs to change. He first removes his shoes and jeans, then puts on a pair of white swim trunks he grabbed from his dresser. He usually sits in the jacuzzi completely naked, but that's neither here nor there. 

Once he's changed, he doesn't turn around in case she isn't done yet. 

Shyla puts his boxers on and decides to keep wearing her shirt. She regrets not wearing a bra tonight. She'll have to cross her arms over her chest the entire time. 

"Okay, I'm all set," she says, shifting her hair to one side. 

When Harry slowly turns around, his breathing instantly falters. She's in his boxers. It seems wrong, but so right. 

He gestures for her to get in the tub first. Seeing her curves and exposed legs makes his blood rush. Once she's in, he gets in and sits across from her. He submerges his entire body in the water except for his head as Shyla brings her knees to her chest and thinks of something to break the awkward tension. 

"Thank you for tonight," she says eventually. "And for making me a drink and teaching me how to play darts. And how to ride a horse." 

Harry rests his arms against the edge of the jacuzzi. "My pleasure. I hope I didn't mansplain darts to you. I just love playing and got excited when I got to teach someone." 

"No, it was fun. I'm totally going get a bullseye next time we play." 

"Good luck," he murmurs with a smirk as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "So, you're planning on coming to the pub again tomorrow?" 

"My friends will probably want to since they seemed to be having a wonderful time." Shyla rolls her eyes at the thought. "I'm sure they wouldn't care if I went alone, either." 

Harry opens his eyes and studies her face. He can't help but wonder why she's friends with such horrid people. They should appreciate her grace and kindness, not ignore her, and act like she's a burden. 

It's quiet for a few seconds before Harry sits beside her. The silence that ensues is unbearable as he brushes his arm against hers. 

Then, without warning, his pinky grazes the back of her hand under the water. It's the lightest touch, but it sets her skin ablaze. His eyes are burning holes in the side of her face. Flipping her palm so it faces up, she awaits his next move. Her heart nearly gives out when his fingers slowly walk across her palm. His thumb strays and begins stroking the crease, stretching directly underneath her own fingers. 

Enough of the tension. 

Shyla straddles Harry's right thigh and holds the sides of his neck. He stares at her, hunger and smug desire in his eyes like he wants her to initiate something.

"Is this okay?" she asks. Harry isn't saying anything, so she wants to be sure. 

"Can I ask you two things?" Harry replies, his voice low and steady. Shyla is confused, but she nods anyway. "First question: Is this okay?" His hands rest on her ass. She nods again, more eagerly. "Good. Second question: Do you want to ride my thigh?" 

Oh. Shyla was not expecting that. When she feels Harry lift his thigh to apply a slight pressure to her core, it feels heavenly. 

"I've never done it before, but I want to try," she whispers as she grinds against the defined muscle. 

Harry groans at her movement and pushes his hands on her ass to keep her grinding against him. Shyla rocks back and forth, the relief making her whimper into his neck. He keeps his thigh propped up as he runs his hands across the expanse of her back. 

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that." 

"It feels so fucking good," she says. Her swearing causes Harry to let out a low rumble and nip at her jaw. She doesn't even know what she's doing to him. 

"Atta girl," he praises, barely brushing his lips against hers. "Use it. Make me a mess." 

Shyla realizes they haven't kissed yet. His lips look soft and inviting, and they're right there, so she tests the waters and gently, almost hesitantly, suckles on his bottom lip. Harry smirks into it, causing their lips to part. 

She shakily exhales as she continues grinding against his thigh. "Kiss me."

He laughs at her impatience, then envelops his lips with hers. He kisses her deeply, moans getting caught in both of their throats. Shyla slows her motions down since she's close. 

Harry's tongue parts her mouth, and he inhales when she starts sucking on it. She switches to gliding her tongue under his. A fueled desire to be closer makes their teeth clash, and their hands roam near dangerous places. He lifts her and sets her over his other thigh, never breaking the kiss. A fleeting glance at her face tells him she's confused by the change, so he separates their mouth contact and squeezes her hip to get her attention. 

"I tattooed something on my thigh a couple of days ago," he says, his chest heaving. "It's still sensitive. I want you to ride it." 

Shyla doesn't waste any time as she grinds down, continuing her mission to orgasm strictly using his thigh. She can't see the tattoo he mentioned due to the cloudy water, but the thought alone makes the pressure bloom in her stomach. Harry's jaw goes slack as she rides the sensitive skin with fresh ink on it. The friction is borderline painful, but he loves it. It hurts better than any needle piercing his flesh. 

"Good girl, Shy," he whispers. His cock is throbbing at this point, straining uncomfortably under his shorts. "Gonna make me come just from watching you." 

The nickname and one last skim over his thigh has Shyla stilling and pouring her moans into Harry's ear. She feels like she's floating outside of her body as she orgasms. 

Harry, on the other hand, isn't done yet. He situates her body so that it's facing a jacuzzi jet. His arm circles around her stomach as she straddles backward on his slick thigh, the pulsating jet directly in line with her core. Shyla cries out from the sensation, her head lulling against his shoulder. Harry rubs soothing circles onto her clit through her — his — boxers as the jet stimulates everywhere else. She can't help but grind against his thigh again as another orgasm begins building. 

"Again," he encourages against her cheek. "One more for me." 

The double stimulation and his dirty talk quickly coax another orgasm out of her. Shyla's body crumbles when she releases for the second time, Harry's hands rubbing up and down her trembling thighs. 

"You did so good," he says, pulling her away from the jet. He turns her around, and she wraps her legs around his waist. 

Shyla clings to his warm body, slumping her head against his neck and breathing heavily from the adrenaline. Harry holds her and soaks in the physical intimacy he's been craving for so long. His cock is still aching, but he just wants to hold her right now. Feel her skin melt with his. Her heartbeat. Anything other than loneliness. 

After a while, Shyla removes herself from his arms and stands up on shaky legs. She steps out of the jacuzzi and looks at the sky. 

"You're leaving?" Harry asks with a hint of insecurity. 

"I should get back. My friends will be wondering where I am." 

"Ah, okay. Wait here. I'll get some towels." 

Harry hops out of the jacuzzi, his bulge on full display, and then goes inside. Water drips all over the floor as he jogs upstairs to his loft, palming at his cock to get some relief. He bites on his fist to stifle his moans as he swiftly grabs two bathroom towels he keeps by his dresser. 

Shyla's cum is on his thighs. She came twice on each of his thighs and soaked all the way through the boxers she had on. Even when he got out of the water, the result of it stayed on his skin. On his new tattoo, no less. The mental picture is unbelievably raunchy. 

When he steps back outside, he sees Shyla squeezing her shirt out. Her nipples are pebbled underneath, and he nearly passes out from the explicit sight of her casually standing before him. He snaps from his immature fantasy and hands her a towel. She dries herself off, a weird silence lingering in the air. Harry hates it. How did they go from being intimate to not knowing what to say? Will she ask to stay the night? Or will she leave him lonely like everyone else? 

He turns around when Shyla begins to remove the boxers. He nibbles on his swollen bottom lip, dries himself off, and puts his leather jacket back on. He decides to just keep his swim shorts on so he doesn't have to face the shameful reality of how she made his cock the hardest it's been in years. 

Shyla inhales sharply, making Harry turn back around. "I'm going to leave," she says, buttoning her denim shorts. "My friends are probably blackout drunk, and I need to drive them before they stupidly do it themselves." 

He nods understandingly. She's right, but that doesn't mean he wants to say goodnight to her yet. "Will you let me walk you back to the pub?" he softly asks. 

Shyla smiles and gestures for him to lead the way. He puts his shoes back on while she does the same. They then head down the stairs, Harry grabbing a lantern on the way so they can see. 

In the limited light, Shyla catches a glimpse of the tattoo on his thigh. It looks like the head of a tiger, and she notices the leg hair surrounding it is still coated with her arousal. It must not have washed off in the jacuzzi. Something fervent stirs in her stomach when she realizes he didn't even wash it off when he went back inside. 

They walk to the pub silently, and Shyla is irked by the awkwardness. Did she do this whole thing wrong? She checks her phone and sees that it's almost one a.m. 

She's about to shake every doubtful thought from her mind, but when they finally arrive at the pub, the car she rode in is gone without a trace. 

Now that's just cruel. 

Shyla takes deep breaths while swallowing her anger. It manifests as prickly heat spreading across her skin like wildfire. The inn they were going to stay at tomorrow is close by, so she could just see if she could acquire a last-minute room. It's not a big deal, right? 

Harry is furious. Who does that? He can't believe anyone would do something so disrespectful to such a kind girl. It doesn't matter if they're drunk; it's selfish and reprehensible in his eyes. 

"Stay at my place," he says abruptly, his jaw clenching. 

Shyla looks at him and shivers from the breeze. "I can't. Listen, I had a great time, but I need to figure this shit out with my friends and make sure they're okay. I'll find directions to the inn and get a room for the night." 

"Shy, I'm not letting you walk alone when there's a pub full of drunks nearby." 

That damn nickname makes her weak. 

"I carry pepper spray in my pocket. Go home and get some rest." 

Harry sets the lantern down before stressfully raking his hand through his hair. "I won't get any rest if I don't know you're safe," he says. 

"Do you have your phone with you?" Shyla asks. "I'll give you my number." 

"I- I don't use one," he mutters, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 

"You really should have a phone, Harry." Her posture perks up. "Wait, the pub has to have one, right? Go in there, and I'll call it when I get to the inn. Does that sound good?" 

Harry sighs and peers at the door. "Yeah, sure. But I'm gathering a search party if I don't hear from you in twenty minutes." 

"Don't worry. I know self-defense." 

"Good, but… just please be safe," he says anxiously.

"I will." Shyla begins walking down the gravel path. "I'll call the pub. Promise." 

Harry helplessly watches her leave. He should say something, maybe convince her to stay with him, kiss her, walk her to his cabin, and hold her under the covers. But he's an idiot that fucks things up every time. 

When Shyla calls the pub seventeen minutes later, Harry answers and gets his heart broken. She tells him that her aunt is picking her up tomorrow to go back to Portsmouth because she got into a nasty argument with her drunk friends over the phone on her way to the inn. 

She hangs up before he can say anything, and he can't help but feel like he just lost her. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla's aunt arrives at eight in the morning. Despite all the yelling over the phone, her friends were decent enough to drop her luggage off at the inn where she managed to get a room. 

They were smart enough to have one of them be the designated driver at the pub. As much as Shyla is beyond livid, she's relieved they're all in one piece. But she can't forgive them for leaving her without knowing where she was. 

Then there's Harry. God, she feels sick to her stomach about what happened. She hung up on him because she was frustrated. Not at him, but at her friends who had been assholes, telling her she should've told them she met someone and went home with them. Well, she technically did go home with someone, but she thinks it's common decency for friends to tell friends when they're taking the car with her belongings in it to who knows where. 

Shyla was going to wait until she calmed down to call the pub, but it would have taken too long. Harry would have gone looking for her by then, so she spoke to him in a high-strung tone and told him she was going home. She was so focused on finding someone to pick her up that she didn't get to ask him about seeing each other again.

She has no way of contacting him now unless she calls the pub again or the ranch he works at. What would she say? Would he even want to talk to her? It doesn't matter since she doesn't plan to return to Lurgashall. Her friends are still staying there for the rest of the week, and with the tiny population, she'd be bound to run into them. 

Shyla looks out the car window as the city of Portsmouth slowly fades into view. She's back where she's comfortable and ready to stay with her aunt for a few days until she finds another apartment. 

Everything will be fine. She'll forget about her friends and forget about Harry. It was just one night. She has always been replaceable. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Why can't he just say what he means? Why did he let her walk away so easily? Why won't she leave his mind? 

Sitting in the bathtub in his loft, Harry numbly stares at the ceiling as the water's warmth consumes him. Rose bath salt tints the water pink, and petals from his mother's favorite flower float on the surface. He purchases a bouquet from the general store every week since it's the only physical remembrance he has left of her. His father got rid of everything else. 

On the table across from his bed, a record player echoes Dolly Parton's Jolene album throughout the cabin. "Lonely Comin' Down" plays, and Harry almost laughs at how the lyrics perfectly fit his forlorn mood. 

He didn't get much sleep last night after the phone call, maybe three hours interrupted by tossing and turning. He had jerked off in the bathroom, feeling unbelievably ashamed of himself. He then drowned his sorrows with whiskey until his heart became heavy enough to knock him unconscious. He woke up the following morning with a migraine and drank some more whiskey for breakfast. His soul sank when he saw the Stevie Nicks vinyl Shyla picked out still on the table. 

She won't leave his mind. Her presence lingers everywhere. 

He wallows during his bath and thinks of everything he should've said and done differently. He's drunk with blurry vision from either the alcohol or tears. He doesn't know or care. All he wants is to feel her again. Try to love her. He's known her for less than twenty-four hours, yet it feels like a lifetime. He felt it at the ranch, the pub, and the jacuzzi. She pulls something out of him that hasn't seen the light of day in so long — nervousness, desire, sensuality. Idyllic emotions that are otherwise scarce in his life. 

He has never fallen this fast before—never at all… until now. It was inevitable that he'd be an idiot and not fight for her. He let her slip through his fingers without a kiss goodbye, and now she's miles away, probably cursing his name. 

Swallowing the aching lump in his throat, Harry lets the petals in the water mend his damaged soul as tears of loneliness drip down his face. 

—— 

[theresattrpgforthat]

I'm looking for an RPG where you make a setting collaboratively as a group, ideally with a roleplaying element. I know of Dawn of Worlds, A Quiet Year and Microscope but I'm trying to cast a wider net?

Can you help me out?

THEME: Worldbuilding & Roleplaying

Hello friend! I’m first going to direct you to two other posts I’ve made in the past, one about Town Builders, and one about Map-Making! Not all of them focus as much on roleplay, but I love a number of those games dearly. That being said, there are plenty more world building games out there that I’d love to talk about, and these three certainly allow for a lot of roleplay!

Ech0, by Role Over Play Dead.

Peace. Kids playing in mech wreckage. A ghost. 

One last journey across an ancient battleground to find a pilot's final resting place.

Ech0 is a game about three children and the ghost of a dead mech pilot, travelling through ruins of old battles, looking for the place where the pilot died. The group of you will craft a world shaped by the wreckage of wars past, with mech bodies embedded into a landscape, transformed into memorials, and (possibly) repurposed into something else. You’ll use these landmarks to illustrate a map and craft a history: do the children know what the war was about? Or has it been lost to history? 

I think this is an excellent game for the beginning of a campaign, mech or otherwise. If it’s a mech campaign, it might be set in the far future, after the war that you’ve already fought, or it might be the introduction of a planet that’s enjoyed a few decades of peace before getting launched into yet another conflict. Perhaps the mechs embedded in the soil will be unearthed to fight again and those children you created for Ech0 grow into ambitious and desperate pilots. It’s up to you!

Orichalcum, by Justin Quirit.

To find our way home, we must sift through the ruins and our memories of the Empire. But in our remembering, we must not forget what we have created for ourselves.

Orichalcum is a tabletop roleplaying map game for 1-5 players. Players will lay out a map of the Empire that oppressed their ancestors and drowned in a deluge of its own making. By remembering what was left behind, they will draw a connection from the past to the present. Their people, the Exiles, have evolved past the Empire's ways, and these differences will become features on each player's map of their island home. Orichalcum is a game about drowning empires and imagining utopias.

In this game, players will use printed “tiles” to help determine the kinds of peoples they represent, and the ways they differ from the Empire that has fallen. Each player will draw five tiles and place three; after each player places three tiles, your characters will go home. 

This is a beautiful game to describe a world after a ravenous Empire has finally met its end. I can see this acting as an epilogue after a campaign has watched the world end, or as an introduction to a world post-apocalypse, as different groups rise from the ruins. The pillars give the group inspiration and focus, and by the end of the game, you’ll have a number of different islands, each with unique cultures and peoples, to draw from for rich character backstories.

Lighthouse Keepers, by Chloe Sobel.

The sea was once a city. The sea is still a city: trenches stretch into the deep, dark and teeming with life, mirroring city-nights above.

In the world above the sea, there is a lighthouse. The lighthouse has always been there.

Lighthouse Keepers is a map-drawing game for 1-4 people about a lighthouse and the things that lurk outside it in the deep. You play a collective of lighthouse keepers living in an offshore lighthouse, a tower that stretches from its lantern high above the waves all the way down to the bottom of the sea in the hadal zone.

The game design is based on Avery Alder’s The Quiet Year and Carter Richmond’s Anomaly. Its themes are inspired primarily by Julia Armfield’s Our Wives Under The Sea and, by happy coincidence, it bears several thematic similarities to Robert Eggers' The Lighthouse.

This game has two versions; one with art and one without, in case players feel uncomfortable with some of the sea creatures depicted. This is a horror game - there is something in the water; nobody knows what it is, but everybody fears it. If you want to create a world where a lurking horror grows ever closer, this is absolutely the game for you.

Other games I’ve recommended in the past

Voyage, by Brendan McLeod.

Oldhome: Trip to Turtle City, by Takuma Okada.

[daisychainsandbowties]

prompt! mary + "we give those we love nicknames, because love requires a word that belongs to us alone" (fredrick backman)

Mary sits cross-legged in the courtyard, hood pooled around her shoulders, staring straight ahead without seeing the younglings in her eyeline, pretend-duelling in a patch of sunlight.

Her hands pluck at the air, threading strands of invisible luminescence between her fingers, tugging them into a lattice, an alignment of colour and intention.

She ignores the ache that spirals through her hips from sitting in the same position for hours and hours, as dawn came and put dew onto everything, as the sun touched the furthest edge of the courtyard, coaxing the flowers back into bloom. Sound, sight, the texture of the stone beneath her, all of it fades as Mary presses every ounce of her concentration into holding her Force shield.

It’s supposed to be second-nature to her at this point. The others do it with a gesture, with a breath, casting a loose net of Force into the air to deflect soft projectiles and, more recently, stones. Mary has bruises all along her arms, her ribs, from blocking each one with her body.

Shannon’s fingers soft up under her shirt, probing each with terrible care.

“It’s not like… building a wall.” She said this, unhelpfully, while trailing the tip of her tongue along the path of Mary’s neck as they lay on her bunk, tangled up in Shannon’s nudibranch-print blanket. She splayed her palm over Mary’s shoulder, pressed lightly. “It’s more like throwing a tantrum. You just… put it out there.”

“Ah, that explains why you’re so good at it.”

Shannon’s teeth on her neck. Not a warning, never anything angry, just the pressure of her mouth.

“Oh, my girlfriend is a Jedi and a comedian?” Her breath laced with the faintest hint of toothpaste and the sour candy she ate afterwards, “Score.”

That was the same word she said on Ilum, shivering from the cold after Mary pulled her from an ice-cold pool. She stood with her teeth chattering, tucked her hands under Mary’s shirt to steal her heat. They were climbing through caves of ice and rock and monsters in search of kyber crystals and their first real lightsabers, not yet really certain of love.

In the dark, Shannon pressed a dozen of her effortless, invisible shields into the air above them, inviting Mary to press her hand into it, to feel the stretch of the molecules.

She explained it a dozen times, stretching her metaphors until she fell asleep with her mouth partly open, resting on Mary’s arm until it went numb. Still, Mary didn’t move.

The shield wouldn’t come to her. She could meditate for hours, trying to lash out with the Force, pretending to run with blaster bolts darting past her body, but no amount of daydreaming brought her any closer to manifesting a shield.

Maybe it was because, for her, using the Force has always been a thing of motion, a blind reaching-out. She touched it, used it first amid the blur of rock walls back on Tatooine, when she was seven and taking part in deadly races across the landscape of her home planet. Pod-racing was banned in Republic space, but there were no laws on Tatooine, just gangsters.

She remembers how she used to surround herself in a nimbus of something as her podracer threaded through the others. Her helmet rattling overlarge on her head and all the world reduced to the desert and the track and the need to cross that finish line. She used it more than usual on the day she met Shannon, performing a breakneck manoeuvre around crash close to the finish line, forcing power into her engine as she burned a runnel of hypermatter into the sand, taking a corner so fast that any other human would have broken the ship into pieces, but Mary held it through brute force.

The stands erupted when she pulled up, climbing out before the afterimage of the rupulsor-lines had disappeared from her eyes. She fought with the strap of the helmet under her chin, and then looked up and saw her.

The girl on the sidelines, surrounded by a gaggle of other, oddly-dressed children. There was a woman behind them, dark eyes fixed on Mary as she stood there.

The helmet slipped from her fingers, making a hollow noise as it bounced away from her boots, which were held together with random bits of leather and twine. She listed a little against the hot metal chassis, exhausted, but her eyes moved back to the  girl, odd and golden with her hair chopped short.

She darted through the opening of the garage as Mary approached it, ignoring the other drivers glaring at her back and wondering if she’d be safe walking the eight miles back through the desert to her little nook in the old cave systems.

Wondering if Watto would pay her or insist on sinking her winnings into ‘repairs’ on the pod.

If she had enough credits in her threadbare backpack to buy some algae packets on the way through Mos Espa.

Then the girl, rushing out to meet her. Behind her, tall and steady and strange, was her guardian. Mary had always been observant – you had to be, living as an orphan on Tatooine – so she noticed the weapon on the woman’s hip as it caught the light.

She froze, even as the girl skidded to a halt in front of her with her arms behind her back, trying to stretch as tall as Mary.

She was shorter, just by an inch.

The Jedi stayed in the shade of the garage opening, letting the others racers stream inside, watching them shoulder-check Mary on their way past, though they avoided the other girl like water parting around a stone.

Mary wanted to run, or hide, or go back and drive the pod straight home even if it meant being charged for the fuel cells, but something in the girl’s posture stopped her.

She stuck out a small hand for some reason.

“Hi, I’m Shannon. You race well, but your corners are sloppy. You know momentum is a vector quantity, so you should keep to your lines as much as possible.”

Her hand stayed where it was with Mary staring at it. She didn’t know what a vector quantity was, but she knew how to take corners out in the desert. With a glare, she said, “The sand doesn’t let you travel in perfect lines. It has texture, and it moves with you. If I tried to move in a straight line, if I tried to fight it, I’d just lose more speed.”

“Oh, like a boat.”

“A what?”

“That’s enough, Shannon,” the Jedi called from inside the garage, but not harshly.

The girl – Shannon – stuck her hand back in the pocket of her robes. They were beige, and clean.

Mary, in contrast, wore her better shirt and the soft pads on her shoulders and her arms and her knees, which would stop her skin from sloughing off if she got thrown from her pod. They were patched together from dozens of trash piles, cannibalized into something that made her look like an overstuffed sofa.

“Master,” Shannon did a dainty little half-turn, heel rotating in the sand with a dancer’s grace, “I think I can feel it!”

Mary clutched at her helmet as the Jedi nodded, gesturing for Shannon to return to her side, which she did, hopping over and slotting herself in a half-step behind the Jedi.

Nothing spared Mary from that dark, alert gaze. There was a softness threaded under the Jedi’s words as she spoke, but they were a command.

“Tell me, child, where are your parents?”

A day later, Mary sat in a ship sent all the way from Coruscant to collect them, belted into a seat with cold metal coating her spine in goose-pimples. Her arms, too.

The ship had atmospheric controls, according to one of the droids tucked in at the entryway. The other children had ignored it, but Mary stopped to stare at it, all shiny in its casings, so unlike the PIT droids who scuttled around her pod at the refuelling stations.

Droid binary was Mary’s fourth language, so she wasn’t very good with it, but she knew enough to understand that atmospheric controls meant the ship could sit at an even 283 Kelvin, despite the heat of the desert.

Shannon noticed her prodding at the goose-pimples on her arms. At the time, she just thought of them as cold bumps, lacking the vocabulary for describing cold. Even in the desert, at night, when the temperatures can plummet fast and hard, Mary never left her skin so uncovered as to see it take on that texture.

“You’ll get used to it,” Shannon chirruped right in her ear. She’d claimed the seat next to Mary by glaring at one of the other younglings, who bowed out with the grace Mary expected from a Jedi in training.

Back then, Mary didn’t know what a bird was, but in the years to come she’d describe Shannon to herself as birdlike, flitting from place to place as though forever on the edge of flight.

“Get used to what?”

“Being cold.” Shannon nodded sagely, “Space is cold.”

The hum of the engine started in the metal all around them, and Mary pressed down into the seat, trying not so show fear. In Mos Espa, people could smell fear from a half-mile away even over the mounds of Ronto dung and the smell of roasting meat, so Mary had learned to bury hers deep out in the desert. She only took it out when she was alone with the light of her lantern, praying that her solar battery would last long enough for her to rehydrate the algae packet stuffed down in her boot.

A hand slipped over her armrest, catching Mary’s fingers in a tight, sweaty grip. “Don’t worry,” Shannon said lightly, “If we explode, we’ll barely understand that we’re dying before it’s all over.” She seemed to think this was comforting.

It was.

Mary stared, gravity pressing her into her seat as the ship peeled away from the planet’s surface. It only occurred to her then that she was leaving, and that in all likelihood she would never go back to Tatooine. She clung to that hand – her hand - as the ship accelerated, staring at the fingers criss-crossed with lines of charcoal, or ink.

Shannon was always sketching. She’d sketched Mary’s little house – or, well, her cave – when the Jedi drove them there on a speeder so that Mary could say goodbye to it. She wasn’t supposed to take anything with her, because she was going to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, because Jedi had to leave all of their past behind them.

There was nothing she would have taken, anyway, except perhaps a spare algae pack to keep in her boot, just in case it was all a trick, but the fingers tangled in hers felt solid as the ship transitioned into weightlessness and Mary floated up against the straps holding her in her seat. She became suddenly and violently aware of being loosened from the ground; that there was no ground, only space.

She clung to Shannon’s hand, laughing despite herself at the absurdity of it all. Over the roar of the engine, she heard Shannon yell, “I like to just pick a direction and call it down. It helps you not to feel sick if you can orient yourself, even arbitrarily.”

It was odd, hearing words like arbitrary coming from a seven-year old girl. The children Mary knew spoke mostly in curse words and a melange of different languages all competing with each other for syntax. She blinked, looking around for a direction. It made sense to decide that the floor of the ship was down, but some part of her knew that she had already oriented herself instinctually in relation to the hand clasped around hers, in relation to the girl at her side.

Shannon

///

She senses her first.

It’s a feeling Mary didn’t understand, for months and months after they kissed and the bond snapped into place. She described it to herself over and over as an indescribable warmth, or the first bite of food after starving, or the feeling right before you reach the finish line when you know you’re going to get there before anyone else.

‘Oh.’ She remembers sitting in her room with Shannon, elbows pressed together as they sat in the frame of the window looking out at the lights in the city where it poked above the bedrock. Mary sat there trying to describe what she felt when she touched Shannon, all the while watching a sketch take shape on the pad in Shannon’s lap, but it stopped when she floundered at the end of a sentence.

Shannon looked at her, and said ‘oh’, and then dropped her pencil onto the pad to take Mary’s hand. ‘I can describe it for you, if you want. It’s very simple, actually.’

‘I’ve been doing emotional long-division over it, so I hope not.’

A tight laugh, ‘It’s not really a, um…’

‘A skill issue?’

That was old slang, from the race track. A thread of their first argument about sand and corners and momentum.

‘No, it’s just…’ Shannon licked her lips, huffed out a sound that was not a laugh, not a sigh. Just an exhalation, maybe. ‘When I reach out for the bond,’  her hand tightened around Mary’s, ‘It, uh, it feels like coming home.’

That left her speechless. Many things did.

In the courtyard, with the impression of a barrier shimmering in the air like oil on water, Mary senses her first.

Sees her then, resolving into a smear of colour and light. Mary has to pick her out in pieces; her particular gait, sprinting full-tilt across the courtyard. The padawan braid behind her right ear, threaded with a ribbon of blue silk, a white band at the bottom because Shannon is studying healing.

She keeps bringing her notebook full of anatomical sketches into Mary’s room, showing her joints and tendons and using words like abduction and adduction, circumduction and plantarflexion.

Mary thinks she does it on purpose, because she thinks it makes her sound seductive.

It does.

She runs, trailing a succession of disapproving but unsurprised looks from Jedi in various meditation poses. Her braid is stuck to her neck with sweat and Mary knows immediately that she must have been  ten levels down eating shrimp noodles, must have climbed up through the ducts and the elevator shafts to get here. Indeed, as the barrier wavers and collapses, as the feeling of home cuts through Mary’s concentration, she sees the streaks of black grease on Shannon’s hands as she hops over a decorative stream and straight through a bush until she has a straight shot at Mary.

Without deciding to, Mary stands, braces her backfoot for the moment Shannon crashes into her, hands tangling in her robes. “If you’re being chased by a fruit vendor again I’m not-”

But Shannon just pulls her behind one of the pillars, still out of breath. Her fingers leave stains on Mary’s robes.

“Did you-”

“Yeah the lift was taking too long to arrive but Mary, listen. I just had the worst thought in the world.”

“So you just had to share it with me.”

“Mary this is so, so serious.” And, despite the dab of sauce on her chin, despite her sweaty hair, longer now and pulled into a tail, she does look serious. Mary’s hand tightens on her shoulder, a wordless thing passing through the bond between them.

Shannon smiles, melting into Mary’s arms. She ducks her head, presses into Mary’s sternum, voice almost lost in the folds of her robes. “So I was down arguing with someone about the best broth for synth-noodles and you know it just hit me that we’re both shipping out soon. You have Cere and I have fucking knobbrains-”

“His name is Vincent.”

“-and then we’ll be ready for the trials in literally no time because you’re amazing and I’m stubborn.”

She pauses, suddenly. Mary rolls her eyes when she realises it’s for dramatic emphasis, and not so that Shannon can catch her breath.

“And then… we’ll be Jedi.”

“Shan, please tell me it isn’t just occurring to you now that we’re going to be Jedi.”

A finger pressed to her lips. One of the decorative fountains has a flaw in its plumbing - Mary can hear it, like she could always hear claws in the dirt when womp rats tried to bite her ankles back on Tatooine.

She listens to that, instead of the flutter of her heartbeat, as Shannon traces her bottom lip almost absently.

“No,” she admits. “I know we’re going to be Jedi, but did you ever think about, you know, what they call Jedi.”

“You mean Master.”

Shannon buries her face in Mary’s chest again, voice decidedly muffled now. “Mmff. Yeah. That.”

She waits, so Mary takes the bait, works it out. Just like long-division, always working back and back to follow the threads of Shannon’s thoughts. Mary imagines she’s untangling the wires of the repulsor engines in her pod, working to snap the energy field into place that latches the vehicle together and lets it fall apart gracefully when it doesn’t smash against a rock face.

It takes her almost a minute, during which Shannon keeps up a steady stream of pathetic noises.

Then, “Oh. Oh shit.”

“I’m going to erase myself from all legal records immediately.”

Mary looks down at her, at the nape of her neck still damp with sweat, the messy tangle of her tied-back hair. “Oh, come on. It won’t be that bad…. Master Masters.”

She darts a kiss onto Shannon’s scalp in the instant before her head whips up, pulling back to avoid Shannon’s head, to appreciate her consternated glare. Her laughter echoes through the courtyard, drawing eyes, but for once Mary doesn’t mind as she pulls Shannon into a hug.

She squirms, whispers harshly into Mary’s jaw, “You’re the worst girlfriend in at least nine parsecs.”

“Are you really upset?”

“Yes,” but she’s fiddling with Mary’s padawan braid. It’s simple, compared to Shannon’s with her bright silk thread, just a black band to mark her study in covert operations, in linguistics and in dampening her Force-signature. All the little techniques that keep Jedi spies alive in hostile space.

Mary kisses just under her ear, smirking when Shannon’s shivers against her. They’re still behind the pillar, but Shannon makes a small, wild noise and grabs Mary’s hand, pulling her into a small stand of tall shrubs and flowerbeds.

When they stop, she presses into Mary immediately, tongue slipping through her teeth. Mary kisses her back, feeling the Force spin around them as invisible threads of light.

Shannon breaks away with a breathy sound, taking both of Mary’s hands in hers and raising them up, leaning into them.

It’s an old game of theirs, locking hands, trying to push each other out of a ring of chalk sketched onto the ground. Now, it’s just habit.

“You can be the same as me,” Mary presses her thumbs into the soft centre of Shannon’s palms. “I don’t have a last name at all, so everyone will call me Master Mary, I suppose, which… also sounds stupid.”

“I promise to just call you Mary.”

They’re out of sight now, hidden among the tall shrubs and hushed by the noise of the water trickling through the grooves under their feet. Shannon doesn’t need to go up on her toes anymore to kiss her – she’s a whole inch taller, which she claims is ‘probably because of all the shrimp noodles and the shrimp chips and the-’

‘Wait, doesn’t ‘shrimpy’ mean small in Basic?’

‘Whatever.’

Mary feels the brush of her lips again, struck by their bond, that feeling of home, home, home. The kiss is long, lingering, Shannon’s hands slipping inside her robes, over her ribs. She knows where the bruises are, presses some and avoids others, swallowing the small sounds Mary makes.

It feels, for an instant, like they’re back on that ship making anchors of each other, like the floor is down but Shannon is the centre of it all.

When they pull away there’s a soft shimmer in the air all around them, a tight bubble that presses their bodies close. Shannon’s hands linger on Mary’s hips as she looks up, lips bruise-bright. She reaches out, and a cascade of colour erupts where her hand makes contact with something solid, shimmering and almost invisible.

“You did it,” she breathes, taking her hand back. Little globs of colourful light cling to her fingers for a moment before fading. “You made a shield.”

It’s stupid, repetitive, like things always falling toward the ground, but Mary reaches out and takes Shannon by the jaw. Kisses her because she knows too many languages to say the words that erupt in her mouth like bruises onto skin.

No, you’re my shield.

[poindexters-labratory]

[mybeingthere]

Camille Bombois (1883 – 1970) was a French naïve painter especially noted for paintings of circus scenes.

Bombois was born in Venarey-les-Laumes in the Côte-d'Or, in humble circumstances. His childhood was spent living on a barge and attending a local school until the age of twelve, when he became a farm worker. During his free time he drew and competed in wrestling competitions at local fairs. He became a champion local wrestler before joining a traveling circus as a strongman and wrestler.

In 1907, Bombois fulfilled his dream of moving to Paris, where he married and worked as a railway laborer, eventually finding a night job at a newspaper printing plant handling heavy newsprint rolls. Despite the exhausting nature of his job he painted from dawn to dusk, sleeping little. He showed his paintings in sidewalk exhibitions, but his earliest paintings, revealing the influence of the old masters in their subdued use of color, attracted few buyers.

1914 marked the beginning of four-and-a-half years of military service in World War I. Bombois spent much of it on the front line, earning three decorations for bravery. Upon his return home, encouraged that his wife had succeeded in selling a number of his paintings in his absence, he resumed his routine of night labor and daytime painting. In 1922, his sidewalk displays in Montmartre began attracting the attention of collectors. The art dealer Wilhelm Uhde "discovered" him in 1924, and exhibited Bombois' work in the Galeries des Quatre Chemins in 1927.[1] In 1937, his works were shown in the exhibition "Maîtres populaires de la réalité" in Paris. His first solo show was in 1944 at the Galerie Pétridès. Critics compared Bombois' work to that of Henri Rousseau, which it resembled in its naïve drawing, crisp delineation of form, and attention to detail, although Bombois was less of a fantasist than Rousseau.

The paintings of his maturity are bold in color, featuring strong contrasts of black, bright reds, blues and electric pinks. Drawing from his own experiences, he often painted circus performers and landscapes with fishermen. His paintings of women are emphatic in their carnality, and his landscapes are notable in their careful attention to space, and to the effects of reflected light on water. Bombois' works are on view in many public collections, notably the Musée Maillol in Paris.

In 2023, Bavarian town of Passau in Germany restituted a painting by Bombois that had been looted from Jewish collector Marcel Joseph Monteux, who was murdered in Auschwitz-Birkenau on August 15, 1944.

(wiki)

[funnyartprintsnow]

Wild Sheep Dawn Print- Countryside Serenity Art (Print only no frame)

[rothgalleries]

Sunrise Reflection of the Wonson Paint Manufacturing Buildings in Gloucester on Cape Ann, Massachusetts

Sunrise is my favorite time of day, I love the quietude and peacefulness. The iconic red brick structures of the historic Wonson Paint Manufacturing Buildings in Gloucester on Cape Ann, Massachusetts had been on my sunrise photography bucket list for quite some time. I visited here in the past but weather did not allow for a colorful sunrise shot until this time around where it finally all came…

[duckprintspress]

Created Works Round-Up: December 2023

Duck Prints Press’s monthly “created works round-ups” are our opportunity to spotlight some of the amazing work that people working with us have done that ISN’T linked to their work with Duck Prints Press. We include fanworks, outside publications, and anything else that creators feel like sharing with y’all. Inclusion is voluntary and includes anything that they decided “hey, I want to put this on the created work’s round-up!”

Check out what they’ve shared with us this month…

Songbird in the Demon's Hall by Boomchick / Lucy K.R. / @boomchickfanfiction

fiction || tian guan ci fu/heaven official's blessing || m/m || xie lian/hua cheng || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 14,966 || complete

summary: Xie Lian lives as a prisoner and performer in the mansion of a mortal lord until demon king Hua Cheng arrives and upends the nightmare Xie Lian has only begun to understand.

other tags: Offscreen death and violence, starvation, captivity, food, hurt/comfort, recovery

AO3 - TWITTER

​

Quality Assurance by D.V. Morse/NursingGeek / @nursinggeek

fiction || the ink that bleeds || f/m || amihan chanthara/lucien allard || general audiences || no major warnings apply || 1,023 || complete

summary: Ami is working on getting some Christmas cookies made for her customers when Lucien arrives. He does always try to be helpful.

AO3

​

Another Mess to Clean by D.V. Morse/NursingGeek / @nursinggeek

fiction || hermitcraft smp || no ships || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 1,331 || complete

summary: As she worked on the lighting for the path connecting her base to the Deep Frost Citadel, Pearl briefly considered the merits of adding some spruce leaves or even some of the other colors from her landscape, when she heard a familiar sound that made her instantly crouch.

AO3

​

A Whole New Adventure by D.V. Morse/NursingGeek / @nursinggeek

fiction || supernatural || m/m || castiel/dean winchester || general audiences || no major warnings apply || 766 || complete

summary:

When Dean had agreed that Cas could get Mary a pet for Christmas, he thought he'd been pretty clear. A pet. One. Singular. Having one additional species in the house was going to be challenging enough.

So a cat and a dog, well, kitten and puppy, were a bit more than Dean had bargained for.

AO3

​

Secret Recipe by D.V. Morse/NursingGeek / @nursinggeek

fiction || secret life smp || platonic or familial || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 973 || complete

summary: Just because their task was to be a Secret Santa didn't mean Cleo needed to bake Christmas cookies. They'd like to roll back time and tell their past self that, because this was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.

AO3

​

Erasure Interruptus by D.V. Morse/NursingGeek / @nursinggeek

fiction || doctor who || no ships || general audiences || no major warnings apply || 1,154 || complete

summary: Wiping the data storage from an x-ray machine might not be the weirdest job Melissa had ever had, but this was definitely the weirdest day.

AO3

​

Collecting the Temporal Toddlers by D.V. Morse/NursingGeek / @nursinggeek

fiction || doctor who || poly (multiple genders) || twelfth doctor/jack harkness/river song || general audiences || no major warnings apply || 1,138 || complete

summary:

River Song could be a lot of things. "Reporter" wasn't her favorite, but with the Doctor missing in 1957, it would have to do.

AO3

​

Anglerfish by S. J. Ralston / @mindfulwrathwrites

fiction || original work || no ships || mature || graphic depictions of violence, major character death || 13,743 || complete

summary: A deep-space cargo vessel picks up a distress signal 700 light years from anywhere and diverts to investigate.

other tags: Horror, Sci-Fi, panic attacks, suffocation, POV character losing their grip on reality

TUMBLR - LINK

​

reaching for that civil dawn by Shadaras / @shadaras

fiction || original work || platonic or familial, m/m || teen & up || creator choses not to use warnings || 5,391 || complete

summary: When Chun Tao arrived at Luo Manor, Zhang Fei was kneeling on the ground, covered in the ashes of what had once been a rich merchant’s home.

Despite Zhang Fei's murderous reputation, Chun Tao knows him well enough to ask for an explanation instead of attacking indiscriminately—this isn't his usual style. Still, Chun Tao doesn't expect to join Zhang Fei on a revenge quest after hearing what he has to say...

other tags: Wuxia, Reluctant Allies to Co-Parents to Lovers, Aftermath of Violence, Magic Cat

AO3

​

Hooded Falcon by Shadaras / @shadaras

fiction || dmbj (sha hai) || platonic or familial, shippy gen || wu xie and hei xiazi || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 1,836 || complete

summary: Hei Xiazi tries his best to take care of Wu Xie as long desert days blend together.

other tags: Slice of Life (DMBJ Style), Desert Expedition, Grounding Touch, Introspection, Cartaking

AO3

​

Perfection by Terra P. Waters / @terrapwaters

fiction || stranger things || f/f, f/m, poly (multiple genders) || jonathan byers/chrissy cunningham/steve harrington/nancy wheeler || mature || no major warnings apply || 18,617 || complete

summary: Chrissy Cunningham is surprised when Jason Carver asks her to the Homecoming dance Junior year. After all, the voice in her head insults her every chance it gets. When Jason starts saying the same things, well, they have to be true, don't they? With help from new friends, Chrissy realizes she doesn't have to put up with Jason's abuse any longer. The thing wearing Jason's body doesn't agree.

other tags: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Domestic Violence, High School, School Dances, Period-Typical Homophobia, Eating Disorders, Post-Season/Series 01, Bisexuality, Bisexual Female Character, hearing voices/unreality, vomiting, domestic abuse, insults, passing out/losing consciousness, gun violence, internalized homophobia, fatphobia

AO3

​HAPPY READING!

[tracichee]

The audiobook of KINDLING is coming, and I can't tell you how excited I am! 🔥 HarperAudio gathered director Ramon de Ocampo and seven stellar AAPI performers for the cast, and you'd better have this one pre-ordered, because it's going to be so, so good. ⚔️ Listen when it launches on Feb. 27--same day as print!--on Libro.fm, Apple, Audible, or wherever you listen to audiobooks. 🎧

CAST

Catherine Ho as LEUM

Jeanne Syquia as AMITY

Amielynn Abellera as KET

Joy Osmanski as EMARA

Allison Hiroto as BEN

Erika Ishii as KANVER

Ferdelle Capistrano as SIDDIE

🎁 Audiobook pre-orders can also be submitted for prints! Get three faux "Polaroids" of the kindlings when you follow the instructions below or on my website:

With your purchase (or library request) of Kindling made before February 27, 2024 at 11:59pm PT, you can receive three beautiful “Polaroids” of the seven kindlings, featuring art by Naomi Giddings! Orders made through Linden Tree Books in Los Altos, CA will also arrive with a signed Kindling bookmark. Submit your receipts + your name and mailing address exactly as you’d like them to appear on the envelope to: chee.preorders@gmail.com. Offer open internationally until 02/27/24 at 11:59pm PT or while supplies last. ​ Linden Tree Books | Bookshop.org | Barnes & Noble | Amazon | Indigo

[Video desc.: video footage of landscapes ranging from plains at dawn to desert during the day and mountains at dusk; a female voice reading the first lines of Kindling by Traci Chee; background music of taiko drums]

[wackyart]

SHOP DROPS AGAIN !!

Hey again people of the internet !! So here are 3 landscape studies I did last week, inspired by some places in one of my dnd campaigns !!! "Through a Dream", both Inprnt and Redbubble:

"Dawn", available on both Inprnt and Redbubble:

"Sundown", available on both Inprnt and Redbubble !!

There's a 15% off sale on Inprnt right now and a 20% off one on Redbubble friends !!!

[radiato]

Radiant Dawn Over Majestic Peaks Painting

This painting captures the awe-inspiring moment of sunrise illuminating a serene valley nestled amidst majestic snow-capped mountains. The radiant sun casts its golden hues, breathing life and warmth into the cold, crisp morning air. The vibrant colors of autumn leaves signify the transition from summer's end, adding a touch of ephemeral beauty to this timeless landscape.