#Marble Polishing NY

[oldstonerestoration0]

Revitalize your Marble countertops with Old Stone Restoration & Installation, included in your dedicated Marble countertop cleaning companies in Long Island, NY. We ensure your surfaces regain their pristine shine. Explore our services for a stunning transformation!

[johnnystonework]

Expert Marble Maintenance NY: Your Go-To Marble Polish Company 

When it comes to preserving the timeless beauty of marble surfaces in the bustling city of New York, there's one name that stands out - Johnny's Stone Work. With their unmatched expertise in marble maintenance and polishing, this company has earned its reputation as the go-to Marble Polish Company in the Big Apple. 

Marble Maintenance NY: A Necessity 

Marble, renowned for its elegance and durability, graces countless homes and businesses in New York. However, the vibrant lifestyle of the city can take a toll on these exquisite surfaces. That's where marble maintenance becomes essential. For residents and businesses looking to keep their marble surfaces in pristine condition, Marble Maintenance NY is the answer. 

The Importance of Marble Maintenance 

Marble is a natural stone with a distinct and captivating beauty. However, over time, it can lose its luster due to wear and tear, stains, and other forms of damage. Regular maintenance is crucial to ensure that your marble surfaces continue to shine and impress. 

Why Choose Johnny's Stone Work? 

Johnny's Stone Work has been a trusted name in the industry for years, and their website, [johnnystonework.com/marble-repair-ny/](https://johnnystonework.com/marble-repair-ny/), is the ultimate destination for anyone seeking expert marble maintenance services in New York. Here's why they're the top choice: 

1. Skilled Professionals: At Johnny's Stone Work, their team consists of highly skilled professionals who are experts in marble maintenance. They understand the unique properties of marble and use specialized techniques to restore its original beauty. 

2. Comprehensive Services: Whether you need marble cleaning, sealing, repair, or restoration, Johnny's Stone Work offers a wide range of services to cater to your specific needs. They handle both residential and commercial projects, making them the perfect Marble Polish Company for all. 

3. Cutting-Edge Technology: Johnny's Stone Work employs the latest technology and state-of-the-art equipment to ensure the best results. Their advanced polishing techniques can breathe new life into even the most worn-out marble surfaces. 

4. Customized Solutions: Every marble surface is unique, and Johnny's Stone Work understands this. They provide personalized solutions tailored to the condition and type of marble, ensuring that your surfaces receive the care they deserve. 

5. Affordability: While their quality is top-notch, Johnny's Stone Work believes in offering competitive pricing. They strive to make marble maintenance accessible to all New Yorkers. 

6. Customer Satisfaction: With a long list of satisfied customers, Johnny's Stone Work has built a reputation for excellence in customer service. They take pride in exceeding their clients' expectations with every project. 

Conclusion 

Marble Maintenance NY is not just a necessity; it's an investment in the long-lasting beauty of your marble surfaces. When it comes to choosing the right Marble Polish Company in New York, [Johnny's Stone Work](https://johnnystonework.com/marble-repair-ny/) stands out as the premier choice. Their dedication to preserving the allure of marble, combined with their expertise and commitment to customer satisfaction, makes them the go-to option for anyone seeking marble maintenance services in the city that never sleeps. 

[uwmspeccoll]

It’s Feral Friday! 

Sometimes getting feral simply entails pondering the familiar from an unconsidered perspective and finding fascination in the everyday. This week we’ve selected a work from our Book Arts Collection that does just that. Sarah Peters’ The Moon Has No Weather is a book that posits the earth’s natural satellite as its own archivist—a celestial body with no atmosphere whose physical history is preserved on its windless, waterless surface.  

Inspired by an installation of Peters’ work at the Minnesota Center for Book Arts, The Moon Has No Weather was produced during her residency at the Women’s Studio Workshop and published as an artist’s book in 2013 in Rosendale, NY. The text was letterpress printed in Fox typeface (designed by Chad Kloepfer) on Magnani Arturo paper. The book also includes hand-marbled Hahnemühle Bugra, Thai Mulberry, and handmade abaca papers, as well as selected pages from scientific lab books and a 1984 Polish electronics manual.  

Wanna learn more about how this book was made? You can follow along with Peters’ production process here. Wanna learn more about the thought process behind it? Check out this 1885 text The Moon: considered as a planet, a world, and a satellite (also available for loan through the UWM library catalog).  

--Ana, Special Collections Graduate Intern

View more Feral Friday posts

View another Sarah Peters post

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[jackhkeynes]

A Hotel in Nadacow

excerpt in translation from the early chapters of masquira trevold Men of Jet and Diamond, published (originally in Welsh as Dynnon o Vuhuð a Diamont) by Hasinick Welshman Cadogan Torrior in 1890, shortly after he graduated from the University of Nadacow as a scholar of diplomacy.

Tandic y ðorof dy crevoscr descenn y scagl vars y pascman, Zoe se met afaç eð expatey pall'exedr gran dy davarn. As the evening crowds make their way to the restaurant, Zoe starts to meander through the hotel's grand atrium.

Y placcou fay survol dessur n'un emblemat de veðr entaccað jout jaint sur y paið ne mamour polið. The ceiling soars above, a mosaic of stained glass casting patterns on the polished marble floor.

Zoe parcour un porrujon adornað oc y jardin cloistað dessou surplombant, yon scey un stanc scaudr reflecçon tenant de lumner lougent de constellaçon faus inquillið ny fastig corvað. Zoe crosses an ornate mezzanine overlooking the indoor gardens below, where a shallow pond reflects the twinkling lights of false constellations embedded in the domed roof.

Posc y crasc d'un port defonct, Zoe egrey ortellent ny rout kieð deur y davarn. With the creak of a disused door, Zoe slips into the quiet streets outside the hotel.

L'aer es fresc, y fler portant d'un bris des y Bahassassin e d'uncos douç des y cociner jos camin dont i memour y stal passant oc jorn paravant. The air is cool, scented with a breeze from the Bahassassin and something sweet from the streetside cooks whose stalls she remembers passing earlier that day.

[kpforpresident]

I'll take NY au Clarke wearing that Florence Pugh dress and Lexa short circuiting over it in whatever context you want, please 😌

Lexa ran her fingers mindlessly around the rim of the rapidly emptying champagne glass, staring blankly ahead as she leaned on the nearby polished wooden banister, fresh pine from the beautiful live garland scenting the air around her. She tugged her fitted jacket sleeve back slightly to check the time once more on the beautiful timepiece that Clarke had insisted on giving her as an early present, eyebrows drawing together slightly when she realized it was only five minutes later than the last time that she had checked. Clarke had overrode Lexa's protests that she didn't have an early gift for Clarke, promising it would look perfect with her dark green suit and the silver cuff-links that Lexa had received as a present when she became partner at the law firm last year. Clarke, as usual, was right.

Lexa bit back one more long suffering sigh- the seasonal party was in full swing at this point, the beautiful countryside castle that Lexa’s firm had rented out for the weekend absolutely brimming with excited guests. Slightly harried, tuxedo-clad staff swiftly moved through the ballroom Lexa could just catch glimpses of through the semi-opened double doors, fluidly topping off drinks glasses as everyone wholeheartedly enjoyed the pre-dinner open bar and limitless champagne. The polished marble floors glinted in the muted light that the large glass chandeliers emitted, high heels from the chattering groups of well-dressed women clicking softly on the hard surface.

Christmas music drifted softly through the air through the nearby doors, cracked open slightly so that the chatter and gentle clamoring of the party goers floated over to Lexa. Lexa fidgeted slightly but kept her eyes glued on the top of the staircase, trying to muster some long-forgotten well of patience as she waited for Clarke. A large Christmas tree decorated the area to the left of the staircase that took up the majority of the main room, silver and gold baubles of all shapes and sizes decorating the fluffy emerald pine boughs. A cut-glass star sparkled at the top, glittering lights cascading down the tree to cast a dazzling glow on everyone in its immediate vicinity. 

When Clarke had ushered a surprised, already dressed Lexa out of their suite earlier with a teasing kiss and a promise to make her jaw drop, Lexa had no idea what awaited her. Clarke had kept whatever was in her garment bag a secret since she had picked it up two weeks ago, just softly smiling whenever Lexa mentioned it in a forced casual tone, a slightly evil glimmer shimmering in her eyes. 

When she had been banished from the room Clarke had already had a full face of makeup on, perfectly winged eyeliner complemented by a blood red lip. That had been nearly an hour ago, and while no stranger to high fashion and casually arranged couture looks, Lexa was struggling to imagine what on earth Clarke had possibly packed that would take an entire hour to put on. 

Lexa drained her champagne flute, passing it to a waiter with a quiet thanks as she laced her hands behind her, shifting her weight as she prepared to wait for her girlfriend for a now undetermined amount of time. She happened to glance up as she did- her jaw dropping immediately as she beheld the vision that had started a careful walk down the massive twisting staircase. 

Clarke looked like she had been bathed in starlight as she swept her way down the stairs, a delicate hand balanced on the railing as she grinned brighter than the sun, eyes fixed firmly on Lexa. Porcelain shoulders and delicate collar bones were exposed, the dress ruching right above Clarke’s breasts with large amounts of pleated fabric gathering carefully at her elbows, billowing around her lower arms to create the illusion of larger sleeves. The gauzy, black material revealed an intricate black corset bodysuit. The shape of her body through the see-through was cleverly hidden by the presence of what looked like thousands of stars that had been carefully embedded into the fabric, gathering in a blinding culmination at the very end of the fabric. A gauzy train of sorts swept behind her, parting right above her knees to reveal perfect legs that ended in bow-topped black stilettos. 

With what felt like herculean effort, Lexa snapped back to attention as Clarke reached her, Lexa’s favorite honeysuckle scent drifting in a pleasant cloud around her as Clarke reached for one of Lexa’s slackened hands. Clarke squeezed it questioningly as Lexa failed to properly greet her, electing to give Clarke one more thorough look over as she tried to drink in every detail at once, mind buzzing in what Lexa could only call sheer gay panic. 

“I- you- holy shit, Clarke,” Lexa managed to croak with a burst of concentrated effort, fighting to enunciate properly around her tongue, which suddenly felt absolutely useless in now-dry mouth. “Are you trying to kill me at my own work Christmas party? Because it’s working, I think I have heart palpitations.” Lexa pressed an adoring kiss to Clarke’s cheekbone, mindful not to smear her lipstick as a slight blush touched Clarke’s cheeks. 

“I found it with Rae when we were shopping a few weeks ago and I had to get it, if only to see your face when I put it on- you don’t think it’s too inappropriate for this party, do you?”

A clump of couples passed by, everyone in very standard black and white tie dress. One man stared open mouthed at Clarke as he passed, a tug from his fiercely glaring wife ripping his attention away as they disappeared into the ballroom. Lexa bit back a growing smile as Clarke’s eyes slowly widened in panic. 

She's mine, you soggy white man, Lexa thought smugly as the plain black tuxedo vanished from view into the throng of bodies.

“Oh my god, it is, it's too much, I’m going to give your boss a heart attack, what’s his name- Ryder-I brought another dress, I can go change-”

Clarke made to turn back up the stairs, presumably to put on her second, presumably more chaste option as Lexa grabbed her elbow, pulling her in for a scorching kiss, lipstick be damned. Clarke leaned back after a long moment, dark gaze slightly unfocused as she stared intently at Lexa’s lips. 

Lexa took advantage of her momentary distraction to grab two fresh flutes of champagne from a passing waiter as she pressed a slightly more chaste kiss to Clarke’s still-parted lips. She held a glass out to Clarke who took it wordlessly, wetting her thumb to swipe a smear of red off of the corner of Lexa’s lips. Lexa kissed her palm in thanks as she took one more adoring look at her girlfriend. 

“Clarke, I do not give a singular shit what anyone else thinks, you're the most stunning creature here. Secondly, Ryder is incredibly gay, he's been with his partner Gustus for pretty much longer than we've been alive. Thirdly, and most selfishly, I want to take you back upstairs and peel off that entire outfit with my teeth, beloved,” Lexa whispered into Clarke’s ear, mindful of the passerby that swept through the main hall- mingling in front of the large fireplace that was opposite the ballroom doors as they chattered merrily. 

Clarke’s mouth snapped shut as she stared intently at Lexa, cheeks flushing for an entirely different reason as she laced their fingers together. She tugged them towards the room full of holiday revelers as she took a sip of the fizzy alcohol, matching red nails curled delicately around the slender flute stem. Clarke stopped right outside the doors, using her free hand to run her hand over Lexa’s chest under the guise of straightening her suit jacket as she brushed the underside of Lexa's breast with a taunting touch. Satisfied that Lexa’s heart-rate was once again sky high, she brushed her lips softly against Lexa’s ear, smiling at the immediate goosebumps that formed on Lexa’s neck. 

“Just wait until you see what I have planned for you later, Lex. If you play your cards right, you’ll unwrap more than Christmas presents on this trip.” 

She winked saucily at Lexa’s suddenly glassy stare, pulling her into the crowded room as she tipped back her champagne glass, bright red lip mark stamped on the rim. She swapped it for a full one as she swayed to the music that filled the ornate room, beckoning a stunned Lexa closer as she moved farther towards the dance floor. 

“Keep up, darling- I plan on being a very demanding date tonight.” 

///

this is the main inspo, but also this, and this. Part two most likely coming whenever inspo hits, hopefully within a week or two. feel free to bug me if I don't deliver within that timeframe x.

[omlwhatamidoinghere]

It's a Saturday night and I'm a Senior in college, obv I'm intoxicated rn and being in such a state makes me think about a lot of things:

I would let Alex Turner do things to me I wouldn't even let my own boyfriend do (this is not a sign that I consent to people writing fics about real people)

Pedro Pascal is becoming more and more famous and it's insane to think how long I've been a fan of his since Game of Thrones and became part of the internet side of things not too long ago is crazy to think about, like, I'm so excited that he has come so far and that more people are joining the fandom (even though some people act like they've been a part of it from the Eddie era, my sweet bby, and also act like they own Pedro and the fandom, taking the whole "Daddy" thing too far. Rookie mistake)

We are all beings on a little marble in the Creator's marble jar

Life is really fucking short, live each moment you get (yesterday- Saturday- has been a week since a friend's funeral which made me realize even more how we never know how much time we each have so live life to the fucking fullest)

Going off of the previous point, keep in touch with people you care about. I haven't seen or spoken to said friend in about 15 years and now his older brother is a parole officer and his younger brother is fresh into college. Talk to those people you think about, whether it be a tect sayinf you love them or simpley "Hey, I was just thinking about you today. Hope all is well!"

Matty Healy and Benedict Bridgerton are the same person written in a different font (both are so nice to look at)

I'm drunk

I haven't drank like this since I went to Florida in November (there's never a sober day in Florida with my family. I'm Italian and Polish so we eat a lot and drink even more)

Idk, I think about a lot of shit

Alex Turner and Matty Healy can both fuck me

I have a lot of horny thoughts because I haven't had sex in a long time because ny boyfrie d and I broke up for a short period of time a few months ago (we got back together after a bit cause we needed to work on stuff, specifically something he did) and I lost confidence in myself because of what he did and some of these men I find attractive make me feel better about myself because of the positive outlooks they have on women

If a celebrity you like says negative things about your gender/sexual identity, they can go fuck themselves

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk. My Max Lord fic (@max--phillips) will be coming out soon along with the first chapter of my Frankie Morales fic😘

[silkybows]

PUT ME IN A MOVIE

23rd October, 2021 —

Manhattan, NY.

Rosaline Astor was born into a world of opulence so refined it felt almost otherworldly. The Astor estate, a sprawling mansion nestled within acres of manicured gardens, had been home to generations of her family—each member a guardian of their ancient wealth and social prestige. The scent of polished mahogany, aged leather, and antique heirlooms filled the air, mingling with the faint traces of jasmine that wafted in from the greenhouse. Every corner of the mansion whispered stories of power and privilege, where lives were lived not in the public eye, but behind the veiled curtains of discretion.

The Astors had always prided themselves on their quiet influence. They were the unseen hand that guided the fortunes of nations, the silent partners in the most lucrative deals, the faceless benefactors of the arts. But Rosaline, with her wide, curious eyes and unquenchable thirst for something more, never fit into this world of shadows. From her earliest memories, she dreamed of stepping beyond the gilded cage of her upbringing, of breaking free from the stifling expectations of her family.

Edmund Astor, her father, was a man who spoke little but controlled much. His presence alone was enough to command a room, his icy blue eyes capable of silencing even the most obstinate of men. He was a strategist, a master of the long game, and he expected the same meticulous precision from his children. Vivienne, her mother, was a ghost of a woman, her beauty dimmed by years of quiet suffering under her husband’s unyielding will. Vivienne had once been full of life, with dreams as bright as Rosaline’s, but they had been extinguished long ago, leaving behind a woman who moved through life as if it were a dream she could not escape.

Rosaline’s desires, her yearning for the spotlight, were a blasphemy in the Astor household. Fame was for the vulgar, power for the discreet. The Astors wielded influence like a scalpel, precise and invisible. But Rosaline, vibrant and determined, wanted something more tangible. She wanted to be seen, to be known, to stand on her own rather than in the long shadow of her family’s legacy.

As a child, Rosaline had been a whirlwind of energy and charm, a natural performer who could captivate a room with a smile. Her teachers at the exclusive boarding schools she attended marveled at her brilliance, her quick wit, her effortless grace. But these qualities were seen as liabilities by her family—traits that needed to be contained, tempered, redirected. The Astors were not meant to shine; they were meant to control those who did.

In her teenage years, Rosaline began to feel the full weight of her family’s expectations. The lessons in diplomacy, the endless lectures on the importance of discretion, the carefully curated social interactions—all of it felt like a noose tightening around her neck. She was being molded into something she wasn’t, forced into a role that chafed against the very essence of who she was. But instead of breaking, Rosaline’s spirit grew stronger, more defiant.

By the time she reached the age of 18, Rosaline had become something of a mystery within her social circles. She was the Astor heiress who didn’t quite fit the mold, the woman with the wild eyes and restless energy, who spoke of dreams and ambitions that seemed out of place among the polished marble halls and crystal chandeliers. Her family, exasperated by her refusal to conform, began to distance themselves from her. They didn’t disown her, not officially, but they made it clear that she was on her own. They cut the tether that had always held her close, allowing her to drift into the unknown, hoping the world would teach her the lessons they could not.

Rosaline, however, was not one to drown. The moment she felt the tether snap, she seized the opportunity with both hands. She knew that if she wanted to carve out a place for herself in the world, she would need to do it on her own terms. The first thing she did was transform herself. Gone were the muted tones and understated elegance that had been drilled into her from birth. She dyed her chestnut hair a striking platinum blonde, a transformation that was as symbolic as it was aesthetic. It was a statement—a declaration that she was no longer just the Astor heiress. She was reborn, a woman with her own identity, her own ambitions.

With her new look, Rosaline began to make waves. She was no longer the shy, obedient daughter; she was a force of nature, exuding confidence and charisma that drew people to her like moths to a flame. Men of power and influence found themselves captivated by her beauty, intrigued by her ambition. She navigated the glittering world of high society with the grace of a dancer, each step calculated, each move deliberate. She knew that to achieve the fame and power she craved, she would need to align herself with those who could open the right doors. But Rosaline was careful—she played the game with the same cold precision her father had taught her, never fully trusting anyone, always keeping her true intentions hidden behind a dazzling smile.

It was at one of the many lavish parties she attended that she met Julian Beaumont. Julian was a man who wore his power like a second skin, an older billionaire with a reputation as dark as his expensive suits. He was a master of the art of manipulation, a man who could make or break a career with a single word. Rosaline saw in him an opportunity—a way to climb the ladder faster, to reach the heights she had always dreamed of. And Julian, recognizing her potential, was more than willing to take her under his wing.

Their relationship was a dance of seduction and strategy. Rosaline played her role perfectly, walking the fine line between flirtation and business, giving just enough to keep Julian interested but never revealing her full hand. Julian, in turn, showered her with attention, introducing her to the people who could help her achieve her goals. Under his guidance, Rosaline found herself on the brink of the fame she had always desired, tantalizingly close to grasping it in her hands.

But Julian was not a man to be trusted. Beneath his charming exterior lay a heart as cold as the diamond cufflinks he wore. While Rosaline believed she was using him to achieve her ends, Julian was using her just the same. He fed off her ambition, her desire to be seen, and he began to pull her deeper into his world—a world where everything had a price, where loyalty was bought and sold, where power was the ultimate currency.

One night, Julian invited Rosaline to his penthouse, a sleek, modern fortress perched high above the city. The walls were made of glass, offering a breathtaking view of the city below—a city that glittered like a sea of stars, each light a promise of the power that awaited her. The night began like any other, with soft music playing in the background, glasses of champagne in hand, and the subtle hum of wealth that seemed to vibrate in the air.

But there was something different about Julian that night. His gaze was sharper, his smile colder. As the night wore on, he suggested they move to a more private setting, away from the prying eyes of the city. Rosaline, emboldened by the champagne and the thrill of Julian’s attention, agreed. What followed was a whirlwind of passion, a surrender to the moment that left Rosaline feeling both powerful and vulnerable.

But as dawn began to break, and the euphoria faded, Rosaline realized too late that something was wrong. Julian’s phone was pointed at her, the screen capturing her every move. The shock of it sobered her instantly, a cold wave of dread washing over her. She reached out, tried to snatch the device from his hands, but Julian was faster. The look in his eyes was one she recognized—a look she had seen in her father’s eyes countless times before. A look that said he had already won.

“What are you doing, Julian?” Her voice trembled, the words barely a whisper.

“Just ensuring that our little partnership remains ... mutually beneficial,” he replied smoothly, tucking the phone out of her reach.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. He had recorded their most intimate moments, moments that could not only ruin her but also destroy the Astor name—a name she had fought so hard to redefine. Julian’s threat hung in the air, unspoken but clear. If she didn’t comply with his wishes, the video would be released, and the scandal would be inescapable. It would spread like wildfire through the high society circles she so desperately wanted to conquer, reducing her dreams to ashes.

For a moment, the weight of Julian’s betrayal crushed her. She felt the urge to run, to retreat into the safety of her family’s shadow, to beg for their help. But she knew that going back was not an option. They would see this as proof of what they had always believed—that she was too foolish, too reckless, too hungry for the limelight. They would close their doors to her, leaving her to face the storm alone.

But Rosaline was no longer the naïve girl who had been thrown into the river. She had learned to swim in its dark, dangerous currents, and she wasn’t about to drown now. Julian had underestimated her, just as her family had. He had mistaken her ambition for weakness, her desire for fame as desperation. But Rosaline was nothing if not resourceful. She had been playing this game for too long to be outmaneuvered now.

The weeks that followed were a test of Rosaline’s resolve. Julian’s threat loomed over her like a storm cloud, but she refused to cower. Instead, she plotted, carefully, meticulously, biding her time as she cultivated new alliances. She reached out to those Julian had wronged in the past, leveraging her charm and intelligence to build a network of support. She played the long game, just as her father had taught her, turning each of Julian’s allies into potential traitors.

And then, when the moment was right, she struck.

The scandal that erupted was not the one Julian had planned. Instead, it was his own dirty dealings, his history of manipulation and deceit, that came to light. Rosaline, armed with the evidence she had gathered, played her hand flawlessly, exposing him to the world. The video he had threatened to release became his undoing; she had ensured it was leaked in a way that implicated him as the predator, not her. The narrative shifted, painting her not as a victim, but as a woman who had been wronged and fought back with a ferocity that stunned even her detractors.

The fallout was swift and brutal. Julian’s empire crumbled, his reputation destroyed beyond repair. As for Rosaline, she emerged from the scandal not as a ruined heiress, but as a force to be reckoned with. The fame she had sought was hers, though not in the way she had imagined. She became a symbol of resilience, of a woman who had taken the worst the world had to offer and turned it to her advantage. The power she now wielded was not just a product of her birthright, but of her own making, forged in the fires of betrayal and survival.

In the end, Rosaline Astor was no longer just the girl with the famous name. She had become something far more formidable—an enigma, a legend, a woman who had walked through the fire and emerged, not unscathed, but angrier, more powerful, and more dangerous than anyone could have imagined.

The world had finally taken her seriously, and in doing so, had no idea what it had unleashed.

[premierpaintingpros]

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[distinctivesurfacesalbanyny]

Marble Kitchen Countertops in Albany NY

Marble Kitchen Countertops in Albany NY

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[empiregmqkitchen]

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[oldstonerestoration0]

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[johnnystonework]

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[fiendish-insanity-in-the-written]

[ _the_elegant_percival ]

[ _STARTER_ ]

•

MACUSA

bustled with numerous wizards and witches alike. Doors fluttering open and shutting with a steady rhythm of work to be done. A bright and hopeful Monday morning. Bags and suitcases, purses and boxes whizzed past. Some without holders that travelled to their owners mindlessly. The smell of shoe polish and leather, polished floors and cut wood. Coffee and papers. Perfume and cologne.

The clicking of the elevator that travelled up and down, occasionally shuddering to a halt until rising once again endlessly. Aurors that marched in packs sent out to take care of duties, some of great importance, others less so. Ink pots clicked and quills floated. Parchment crinkled and the shutters drawn up from windows in quick pulls.

The smell of fresh coffee hit Percival's nostrils. His favorite smell, other than the new burning of a cigarette. He smoothed out his tie that tucked curtly into his waistcoat, chain of his pocketwatch jingling a little on his side. Hands reached up to smooth back gelled hair. A regular work day. Never was he fond of Mondays, waking up was always a struggle.

Today was just like any other day.

He heard a new intern would be entering the workplace, as regular custom, he was supposed to greet them. It was only the well mannered thing to do, after all, he was head of office. It was his duty.

As was many things at MACUSA.

Wand tucked into his pocket, his coat fluttered out behind him when he made his way to the mug that lay waiting for him at the desk, bringing it to his wanting lips. His eyes closed once the caffeine touched his lips. Satisfactory.

They knew how he liked his drink.

Percival made a roundabout the large department, tucking his head in the cubicles and giving them swift nods as to check who was late or not. The manager was going to be a bit late today, so he had to check in instead.

Useless.

"So, who is the new witch?" One of the employees turned their heads and spoke with a hushed voice across their desk to a fellow coworker. The opposite individual turned up their head. "No idea. Director will see them later. Until then, we know nothing."

"Ah.." They shook their heads, shuffling through a folder.

Percival had taken his mug to his office, awaiting the call. He drew up his own blinds, dim and grey sunlight seeping into the closed space. The wizard sipped contentedly, eyes following the small figures below. New York, where all the business happened. Where no-maj and magical users alike enjoyed the big city.

Any other morning in NY

A grey morning.

•

@the-elegant-percival

The hallways were always crowded, even when she was alone...

The inverted grimaces of centuries-old faces, whose departure had long since evaporated from where they had left their presence... which few could read from their surroundings. Not rare, only those baptized by the gift, or for some curse, of dark forces. Her foot was treading well and her steps echoing through the desolate corridors of the highly respected academy. A place that, in its womb, in hidden places, gave refuge and rocked the cradle of the rejected. It kept some members of the high class, deep pockets and strong influence, blind to the nurture and growth of true talent.

She didn't even blink when shadows floated on the high marble walls that didn't have a real source. There was no human being beside her, but the marble canvas next to her shoulder revealed the outlines of someone's presence.

Shadows. Past and present.

They were always here, always calling to her, caressing her senses and nurturing her ear canals with their songs, screams, repentance, pleas, threats and stories.

"Damn the nature of your abilities!"

The ruby-haired woman blinked, driving away that deeply buried memory of those reproachful words.

These forms, colored like clouds before the storm, sooty like the darkest night, were the reason for her martyrdom, but also the closest comfort and sense of wholeness. How she longed to see the pictures of them twirling around again, dancing ballet on the surface of old closets, over the dusty covers to the ceiling, mocking the light and using its brightness to show off their self-esteem.

"Cut it out Claresse! Make them stop!"

Screaming. Disbelief. Fear.

These were the reactions of others. The orphanage kids were screaming when Clare’s friends held a show for her. She was punished, by word and hand. Punished for something she couldn't influence, that she didn't understand... for the same thing she hoped would proudly show up again after she was left alone and banished from the others.

And 'the shapes' always came back.

She turned abruptly at the tall honey-colored pillars, toward the west exit, which was reached through the garden. They will be waiting for her there, they agreed. She fixed the edges of her elegant white dress, straightening her collar and letting the red curls scatter across the white surface like bloodstains. A heavy folder filled with all the certificates and permits was pressed against her chest, but regardless of the nature of today's visit to one of her most hated places in this city and beyond, her heart did not show nervousness or contempt. It was beating softly and steady.

A faint sneer flashed on her plump lips when she realized that she had once again given no attention to the abundance of fragrant flowers and elegant branches of tall trees. Not a single gaze at the artificial beauty of this place, one of New York City’s most beautiful gardens. It was the exact reason for her invitation to the ranks of a man for whom she would lay her head on the guillotine without any question.

"Euphorbia milii."

The raspy voice filled with positive energy, even though his subject and calling was everything but blessed with such light.

"Or as some like to call it, The crown of thorns."

The wrinkles around his mouth slightly shifted with grace of age, when MacQuid smiled at her. Clare could see this memory so vividly, as if it was playing once again in the present day, in this moment.

"Are you fond of the delicate beauty of nature?"

This was the question that changed her life, the invisible invitation and a test, one that she passed flawlessly. Silver fox knew fully well that deep green eyes never looked toward the rivers of color that adorned this garden. He knew, because his pale blue eyes had been following her actions for weeks, but he couldn't tell her, the very way it sounded could be misunderstood and condemned. But not a shred of evil intentions or perversions were hidden in his study of the young student. On the contrary, he waited patiently to see her true nature, where her soul really belongs... so he asked this question. To an innocent ear it was uninteresting and normal, but he will know how to read an answer.

"My interest does not lay in the things that are overly enriched with fake delicateness and plastic beauty. Unreal, faked and placed there to keep the weak minds occupied with the idea of an honest and beautiful reality. My apologies professor, but I don't see nothing beautiful about its petals, its excessive colors and deceiving tenderness..I admire the thorns,sir. There is nothing delicate about it, that is why it is tempting, alluring..giving birth to the desire of one's hand to touch it and spill the drop of blood. Pay the true price for holding something so fierce."

No one has ever understood her words as they really were... until that crucial moment. The pride that trembled in his eyes as she laid down her answer to the scales of his interest, drove the sense of appreciation in her bones even today. He gifted her with a lecture that was not on the public curriculum boards. The rows of benches were occupied by only eight students, and she was the ninth.

That day she learned how the voices that followed in the darkness and whispered in the distance, are rejoicing along her side when she was finally accepted fully. Without judgment, without fear or being misunderstood. Where her gifts were nurtured and given promises they will be valued and allowed to spread their roots, grow further and embraced as a blessing.

That man now stood next to the gold-colored gate of the academy, once again forming an expression of enormous pride when his eye were set on his beloved student. A professor, mentor, leader, a friend and a father. Everything she saw in this man. Therefore, she quickened her pace, racing to his side and agreeing to go in the middle of the wasp's nest, doing what is required.

"Miss Archer, right on time. Your timing was always impeccable."

Averil MacQuid, head of the department of History of dark arts and defense from dark magic, greeted her. His age decorated his face with only more elegance and class, his posture welcoming but seeking respect. And respected he was, so much so, that his world was considered as an undisputed guarantor. Therefore, when two positions opened up in the MACUSA for an internship, or better said, a chance to show your talents and commitment for the next six months, you may just get a chance to find a spot amongst their ranks once you finish your respected studies in this prestige academic establishment. It was Clare's final year...and becoming one of the sheep in that hypocritical hoard of mindlessness was never her intention. However, professor chose her, and she responded with humility and dedication to his request. What had to be done, will be carried by the most loyal and gifted one.

"Professor MacQuid."

She lowered her head for a split second, as addressing a royalty, knowing that his eyebrows already knotted on her gesture. He never demanded such treatment from his students, especially her. The title meant nothing behind those closed doors of their enchanted circle.

"MACUSA. The head of our beloved world."

She could hear the taunt in his words, as he gazed at the sky. Nothing more needed to be said, they knew exactly what they think of those who resided behind those doors.

"Collected all your permits? Documents? Recommendations? I think I was too poor on words with the one I wrote. Your skills are beyond that description."

His voice a endless source of encouragement and support, even a stone heart could be melted by his pure spirit. Pearly whites shone on the light given by the sun that was high in the sky.

"You wrote more than necessary, praising me excessively."

She respectfully replied, a tone reserved just for him.

"Nonsense! If nothing, it was watered down!"

He raised his voice, then relaxed his composure, giving another warm and welcoming smile, his signature.

"I am proud of you Miss Archer. Doing favorites is not my practice, but I will speak openly if you allow, and say that I have no doubt you will succeed in whatever you truly believe."

She read between the lines, and a spark of discomfort coursed through her veins. Clare firmly believed he would never use her, nor his other followers, but she could not help but to feel as sent on a mission.

"I will do what is required of me professor, but make no mistake..I know why you've sent me."

Her tone painted with her inner opinion, and she knew he could read as well as her, between the lines.

Welcoming smile evaporated from the older man's lips, now in a thin line, almost insulted but he kept his composure.

"Clare."

He never addressed her so informally before. This made her lips part and eyes slightly widen. She listened to what will come as an explanation for his choice of this word.

"I've chose you because your abilities go beyond everyone else's here. Even some professors will soon be behind you when it comes to talents. Young lady, you make no mistake, this was never an order. I never issue orders, I give choices. And you took yours, as well as you will make another when you step among those walls of MACUSA. You will learn about them from first hand, see their ways, hear their beliefs..then you will choose..and no one will be able to make you choose what is not your own pick."

Life. Life on the line for this man. Clare was certain, more than ever.

* * *

Busy day, like any other in a place like this. Clare payed little mind to the Aurors and others alike, instead listening to whispers of those she now had to keep at bay. The shadows seemed very...distant and quiet here. And she dared not to call them. This place could smell out ones like here almost immediately, and she will not fail. Instead, she stood next to her professor that was announcing them to the secretary, and her *friend* Alice, that did not share her enchanted circle, but somehow, always was near and adored Clare's sharp nature, and Clare developed a strange liking to the girl as well, or at least was not bothered by her constant enthusiasm. Unlike Clare, Alice Brix was not on top of her class, but has a good family background, and was loved by few very powerful professors, so, it was no wonder she got the second spot. Just how it always was here.

"Get your papers ready."

A lady in her late fifties said to the girls, as Clare sighed, pulling her wand permit out and being forced to face a name she left behind long ago.

[met-european-sculpture]

Cream and blue marbled beaker in "zwischengold" glass technique, Metropolitan Museum of Art: European Sculpture and Decorative Arts

Edward C. Moore Collection, Bequest of Edward C. Moore, 1891 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY Medium: Lacquered and gilt double-walled glass imitating polished, variegated marble

http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/187311

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Came across this wonderful, colorful, bright SoHo loft in New York City. It sold for $3,850,000, but it’s the decor that interested me.

Look at the chairs- they’re 1970′s maple Colonial style, (which I personally can’t stand), but they’re decoupaged! See? Even millionaires like our thrifted DIY style.

And, this looks like the kind of sectional sofa that ordinary people would buy. Plus, it’s blue. We can make our apts, and homes look like a million dollar loft.

Love the Victorian repro stools. 

This is the master bedroom.

And it has 2 other bedrooms, but again, thrifted furniture, plus DIY painted and decoupaged things.

The bath, however, is phenomenal. Although, my apt. has old marble- maybe it just needs some polish.

https://www.halstead.com/closed/sale/ny/manhattan/soho/454-broome-street/coop/19015064#

[hallebnails]

I used to think I couldn’t do marbled nails in regular polish BUT @amyytran taught me otherwise, and I’m in love. 🌊 (at Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY) https://www.instagram.com/p/B8HrgRjAB_Q/?igshid=114se1trtaxmt