#Picturesque synonyms

[mainsbe]

Picturesque synonyms

By the last third of the 18th century, Enlightenment and rationalist ideas about aesthetics were being challenged by looking at the experiences of beauty and sublimity as being non-rational. A view of the Roman Campagna from Tivoli, evening by Claude Lorrain, 1644–5 The term “picturesque” needs to be understood in relationship to two other aesthetic ideals: the beautiful and the sublime. Picturesque, along with the aesthetic and cultural strands of Gothic and Celticism, was a part of the emerging Romantic sensibility of the 18th century. Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty made in the Summer of the Year 1770, a practical book which instructed England’s leisured travelers to examine “the face of a country by the rules of picturesque beauty”. If you don't find what you're looking for in the list below, or if there's some sort of bug and it's not displaying picturesque related words, please send me feedback using this page.Picturesque Picturesque is an aesthetic ideal introduced into English cultural debate in 1782 by William Gilpin in Observations on the River Wye, and Several Parts of South Wales, etc. has something to do with picturesque, then it's obviously a good idea to use concepts or words to do with picturesque. The results below obviously aren't all going to be applicable for the actual name of your pet/blog/startup/etc., but hopefully they get your mind working and help you see the links between various concepts. business names, or pet names), this page might help you come up with ideas. If you're looking for names related to picturesque (e.g. So it's the sort of list that would be useful for helping you build a picturesque vocabulary list, or just a general picturesque word list for whatever purpose, but it's not necessarily going to be useful if you're looking for words that mean the same thing as picturesque (though it still might be handy for that). So although you might see some synonyms of picturesque in the list below, many of the words below will have other relationships with picturesque - you could see a word with the exact opposite meaning in the word list, for example. There are already a bunch of websites on the net that help you find synonyms for various words, but only a handful that help you find related, or even loosely associated words. If you just care about the words' direct semantic similarity to picturesque, then there's probably no need for this. The frequency data is extracted from the English Wikipedia corpus, and updated regularly. You can highlight the terms by the frequency with which they occur in the written English language using the menu below. So for example, you could enter "tranquil" and click "filter", and it'd give you words that are related to picturesque and tranquil. You can also filter the word list so it only shows words that are also related to another word of your choosing. By default, the words are sorted by relevance/relatedness, but you can also get the most common picturesque terms by using the menu below, and there's also the option to sort the words alphabetically so you can get picturesque words starting with a particular letter. The words at the top of the list are the ones most associated with picturesque, and as you go down the relatedness becomes more slight. You can get the definition(s) of a word in the list below by tapping the question-mark icon next to it. The top 4 are: tranquil, scenic, beautiful and lush. Below is a massive list of picturesque words - that is, words related to picturesque.

[chgridlock]

Fine. LN- pt 2.

Part. 1 here: https://www.tumblr.com/chgridlock/749224119672995840/fine-ln-series-1

Y/n and Lando were childhood best friends, an inseparable duo who knew each other’s secrets like the back of their hand. But then came F1. Lando transformed into a playboy prince, his name synonymous with champagne showers and a different model on every arm. Models just like y/n, except for her. Disgusted, she distanced herself, the warmth of their friendship replaced by a biting cold. Y/n, chasing her own dreams, blossomed into a sough-after model, gracing the covers of magazines right under Lando’s nose, well, at least that’s what she assumed. In taught, Lando followed her religiously on social media, a secret admirer hidden behind a facade of arrogante.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, ex best friends au, Lando being a little dick

The torrential downpour caught me off guard, it was way worst now, transforming the picturesque cobblestone streets into a treacherous obstacle course. My flimsy jacket offered little protection against the relentless onslaught, and my heels sank precariously into the slick pavement with each step. I was a comical sight, a clumsy ballet dancer struggling against the elements.

Lando watched from the car, his initial annoyance replaced by a growing sense of unease. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt stab at his heart. Perhaps he had been too hard. Seeing you struggle, your once defiant stance replaced by a comical awkwardness, chipped away at his resolve.

He sighed, a heavy exhale that fogged up the windshield for a moment. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the car back into park, the engine sighing softly to a halt. The silence outside was broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain in the roof.

“Just get back in…” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the downpour. I could sense the shame in his eyes, a fleeting moment of vulnerability before it was masked by his gruff demeanor.

I couldn’t help but scoff at his suggestion. “Oh, really?” I drawled, my voice dripping with sarcasm. With a flick of my damp hair, I sashayed past the car, the precariousness of my heel adding an element of defiance to my movements. “Who does he think he is for real…” I think to myself.

Lando watched me go, a wave of frustration washing over him. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the sound echoing hollowly in the car. “Damn it…” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.

“Can you just get back in the car?” He yelled, his voice laced with exasperation. “Do you have any idea how stubborn you are right now?” The rain blurred his vision as he looked out at my retreating figure, a sense of helplessness gnawing at him.

“You literally said ‘get out’” i retorted, my voice barely a whisper carried on the wind. I stopped, turning to face him, my posture stiff and defiant despite the rain cascading down my face. “It’s not my fault that you’re so-“

He cut me off, his voice rising in frustration. “I said ‘get out’ because you were being difficult…” he explained, the words tumbling out in a rush. But even to his own ears, they sounded hollow.

“Difficult?” I scoffed, the sound laced with a hurt that mirrored his own.

“It’s no my fault that you’re so stubborn and unreasonable that you’d rather walk in this heavy rain and get soaked to the bone than accept my help.”

I stood there, a defiant island in a sea of rain, my jacket clutched protectively around my shivering form. I met his gaze, a silent battle of wills playing out between us. The air crackled with unspoken emotions.

He glared at you, his eyes burning with a mix of anger. His patience had worn thin, freaked by your defiance like a threadbare rope. Dealing with this felt like navigating a minefield, one wrong step and the whole thing would explode.

“Fine,” he spat, the word laced with venom. “Walk home alone in the rain. Be an idiot. Just know that I don’t care if you catch a chill or a fever.”

He revved the engine, the sound growling in the quiet street. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his features as he glanced at you in the rearview mirror. But the satisfaction curdled quickly, replaced by something akin to worry again. How can you do this to him? You felt like a drug he can’t let go.

You stood there, a solitary figure dwarfed by the storm, your bravado slowly dissolving as the rain soaked through your clothes. Seeing you like that, shivering and defiant, chipped away at his resolve. He couldn’t understand why he care. He didn’t want to care.

But you irritated him so much, that the line between annoyance and concern became blurred. He slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. Before he couldn’t think twice, he was out of the car, his boots splashing through the puddles separating you.

He approached you, his jaw clenched tight. He wanted to scream at you, to shake some sense into your stubborn head. But the anger simmered just below the surface, overshadowed by a strange protectiveness he couldn’t explain. He stood in front of you, towering over your rain-soaked form, the unspoken conflict swirling between you thick enough to touch.

“Can you please come in the car now?” He finally managed, his voice rough around the edges. A hint of exasperation lingered, but beneath it, a softer note resonated- concern. Your Lan. “Your clothes are all soaked. I’ll drive you home.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a command, albeit a reluctant one. You sighed, the sound heavy with a concession he wasn’t entirely sure he’d earned.

“Fine,” you mumbled, defeat lacing you voice. “Just because my feet are killing me.”

He rolled his eyes, a flicker of annoyance persisting despite the relief that washed over him. “Then come on”

He extended his hand towards you, a silent invitation. His voice remained gruff, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.

“I can go alone,” you challenged, a hint of defiance clinging to your voice.

He rolled his eyes again, exasperation bubbling back up. “Don’t be stubborn. Take my goddamn hand.”

He barked the order, clearly annoyed. His anger, like a storm cloud, was threatening to engulf the fragile truce that had just been established. But the moment your fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity sit through him, a forgotten memory come alive. Your touch, oh, how he’d missed it. Nothing in the world felt quite as right as the way your hand fit perfectly in his.

He gripped your hand tightly, the warmth seeping through your damp clothes, a silent reassurance in the midst of the storm. His eyes, however, remained stormy, reflecting the inner turmoil he refused to acknowledge. As he walked you back to the car, a grange protectiveness washed over him, a stark contrast to the annoyance that still simmered beneath the surface.

He opened the car door with a flourish, a touch more dramatic than necessary. “Get in,” he mumbled, the gruffness in his voice a mask for the unexpected tenderness he felt. He gently guided you towards the passenger seat, his touch lingering just a moment too long before finally letting go.

Slipping into the car, you stole a glance at him. His jaw was clenched tight, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. A tense silence, descended, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the wipers and the steady hum of the engine.

Despite the anger radiating from him, you couldn’t but feel a flicker of a warmth blossom in your chest. The entire ordeal had been frustrating, a tempestuous dance that left you both breathless and bewildered. His irritation, however, was slowly morphing into something else, a concern he couldn’t quite disguise.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating. Finally, you felt compelled to break it. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely audible over the rain.

He didn’t respond, his gaze unwavering on the road ahead. You knew he heard you, the slight twitch of his jaw a silent acknowledgement. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a tangled web of emotions caught between the two of you.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally broke the silence, his voice cold and curt. “Don’t thank me,” he muttered, his words clipped. “I just did it so you wouldn’t complain about getting sick later.”

He fell silent again, the car an isolated bubble in the storm outside. But beneath the gruff exterior, a flicker of something more complex flickered in his eyes, a secret he wouldn’t share, not yet.

“Great,” I muttered, the sarcasm dripping from my voice like the rain from the car roof. He glanced at me again in the mirror, his jaw still clenched tight. His grip on the steering wheel was a white-knuckled testament to his simmering frustration.

“You don’t even feel the least bit guilty about how stubborn you were?” He scoffed.

“And you?” I shot back, anger flashing in my eyes. He met my gaze for a fleeting moment, a flicker of confusion clouding his features.

“Me? What about my stubbornness?” He genuinely didn’t seem to understand. How could his actions be construed as anything but helpful? The unfairness of it all gnawed at him, fueling his irritation. He wanted to yell, to unleash the torrent of emotions swirling within him, but the words wouldn’t come.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please,” I drawled, the dismissiveness in my tone adding fuel to the fire.

“Don’t ’oh please’ me,” he growled, he stole another glance at me, his expression morphing into a scornful glare.

Silence descended one more, thick and suffocating. He focused on the rain-slicked road ahead.

“Then you shouldn’t have helped me,” I said, my voice laced with a bitterness that mirrored his own.

The anger he’d been struggling to contain flared up, a hot member rekindled. He let out a frustrated sigh.

“I shouldn’t have,” he conceded, the words laced it’s regret. “Now I just regret it because i was stupid enough to think you were sensible enough to realize that someone was trying just to help you…”

He refuses to look at me, the silence reminder of the tangled mess this whole ordeal had become.

“God, you’re so arrogant…” he muttered under his breath, his irritation spiking with every scoff and cold glance you threw his way. “You can’t even admit you were wrong and just stubborn as hell,” he pressed.

“Whatever,” you snapped, the frustration hanging heavily in the air. “Just get me home and that’s it.”

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice tight with barely contained anger. The car fell silent one more, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“And, for the record…” he started after a long pause, his voice low and dangerous. He hesitated, weighting his words carefully. “I hope you catch a cold from the rain.” A childish taunt, but one laced with a deeper meaning.

“Touché..-idiot,” you countered, a sly smile playing on your lips despite your irritation. His words, though mean-spirited, held an undercurrent of concern that you couldn’t ignore.

“Shut up…” he mumbled, his annoyance flaring at your defiance. But beneath the anger, a flicker of relief sparked. He hated the way you got under his skin, the constant back and forth that drove him crazy, yet somehow, it was better than the suffocating silence.

He pulled the car to stop in front of your apartment building, the arrival a bittersweet relief. “Fine.” You spat, flinging open the car door and stepping out onto the rain-slicked sidewalk.

He watch you slam the door shut, the sound echoing through the quiet street. Part of him was glad to see you go, the tension within the car finally released. But another, deeper part, a part he refused to acknowledge, felt a pang of something akin to loneliness at your departure. He wanted to call you back, to follow you inside.

The urge to chase after you was a physical ache in his chest but his stubborn pride, a double-edged sword, wouldn’t allow him to admit defeat. He watched you walk away, your figure growing smaller in the distance, his frown deepening with each step, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. You cast one final glance over your shoulder, your eyes filled with a mixture of anger and something he couldn’t decipher, and you left him alone, alone with the storm outside.

Author’s note: Tysm to everyone who liked the first part of the story. What do you guys think about these two childish idiots? More parts to come ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Tag list: @persiar9 @mia-rrrs @ssararuffoni @kapsylia

[r--kt]

Okay, but why the "Kannabi" Bridge? I mean, why is this called that? Turns out, this is an amazing and very beautiful metaphor.

Kakashi Gaiden analysis. Kannabi — the bridge between two worlds

I will look at this from the side of Shinto culture (based on the materials that I could find, feel free to correct me if you know more about this) and from the side of Kakashi and Obito's storylines.

Contents | cultural code · significance for the plot structure · the idea itself (this one is really important!)

Cultural code

In Shinto culture, it is not customary to divide the world into human and sacred, especially into divine and demonic principles — everything exists in harmony with each other, in a single system.

Kannabi (神奈備) refers to a region that is a shintai (repositories in which kami reside) itself, or hosts a kami. In fact, Kannabi is a place of connection between the human and the spiritual. Usually these are mountains, rivers, and forests that stand out for their beauty. These are such accumulations of natural energy, so sacred that their presence requires observance of a certain rite. So, if in relatively modern times be present next to the blossoming sakura, picnics in picturesque mountains and the like has normalized in Japanese culture, then in ancient times people did not dare to disturb mountains or groves with their presence. In such places, people performed rituals of worship to the deity, wrestling matches, divination, sacred dances, offerings, etc. The territory of the kami did not completely coincide with the territory of worship to them, people still tried to move away from the center of the sacred place so as not to bother their deity. To mark the border of entry into Kannabi, symbolic gates were installed — most often in the form of torii.

examples of kannabi in real life. Mount Fuji and Nachi Falls. [ as I understand, shintai and kannabi are synonymous concepts, but kannabi is broader in meaning. ]

It's all about how important the term is in a cultural context. A place of divine power that cannot be desecrated. From here, the Kannabi Bridge and the surrounding area can also be considered endowed with divine energy — and here the most interesting thing begins.

Significance for the plot structure

Now about the scenario composition. In general, the Battle of Kannabi, as the event itself in Kakashi and Obito's storylines, according to Joseph Campbell's «hero's journey», is a stage of transition between worlds. That's what the symbolism of the place also works for. This is the moment when the hero assumes responsibility for the beliefs he carries and their consequences, and literally or symbolically crosses the threshold between the safe and familiar world to the dangerous and unknown one, embarks on the path of reflection and prepares to meet the unconscious.

Thus, briefly speaking, Kakashi finds the strength to resolve his internal conflict in favor of his father's attitudes about the value of each Shinobi, and Obito sacrifices himself, protecting his loved ones and defending his ideals. Then their paths got separate so that each one could face with the unknown by himself.

In the context of the monomyph model, this is how the beginning of the initiation stage is demonstrated (i.e., the transition from one state to another, which is accompanied by some kind of ritual). Since Kannabi in culture is the boundary between the human and the divine, it can be concluded that this very transition is shown almost literally, thanks to the sharingan awakening and the broken tanto. This is the first turning point in history, structurally coinciding with the end of the first act.

The idea itself

And what do we see in general? In the battle of Kannabi, the religious Shinto subtext is vividly read. For the battle in a sacred place, the moral positive change of the hero (Kakashi) or his original courage (Obito) and a certain sacrifice (Kakashi's eye), the deities give a reward: the power of sharingan, which helps them save Rin, which is shared between Obito and Kakashi and in the future generally serves as a direct demonstration of the spiritual connection between them. At the same time, for the desecration of a sacred place (the goal of the mission was to blow up a bridge), heroes are punished: from this point of view, Obito's death is a certain sacrifice for the damage inflicted on the deity.

There is also information that the name of the bridge - Kannabi-kyo (神無毘橋) - can also be interpreted as «A bridge where the gods won't help». idk if it's true, but sounds cool.

Moreover, the very name of Obito's mangekyo — Kamui (神威) — literally translates as «The Power of Gods». Perhaps it is based on the mentioned concept of the place where Kakashi and Obito received the power of sharingan. And maybe that's why they call the technique the same way: because they treat it rather with such a religious meaning.

and thanks for reading to the end ♡

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Harry on holiday with the fam and the bubba is being really ratty because he’s tired so harry decided to take him for a walk in his stroller to try and get him to fall asleep.

Tired Baby Styles.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - long hair harry as a dad has me going feral, enjoy :)

word count - 1.5k

in which, you, harry and your one and a half year old son, elliott are holidaying in spain, where your little one won’t go down for his afternoon nap, so your boyfriend comes up with an idea to get him to doze off.

In the heart of a picturesque coastal paradise, the sun-drenched atmosphere of a perfect holiday unfurls. As you step into the scene, the gentle rustling of palm trees draws your attention skyward. Their emerald fronds dance in harmonious rhythm with the ocean breeze, casting dappled shadows on the poolside oasis below.

Beside the sparkling cerulean waters of the hotel swimming pool, a symphony of joyous laughter fills the air. A group of exuberant children, their faces adorned with gleeful smiles, leap into the cool embrace of the water, their splashes creating iridescent droplets that catch the sun's golden rays. Each joyful jump adds to the melody of excitement echoing across the pool area.

Lounge chairs adorned with vibrant towels are strategically arranged around the pool's periphery. Here, holidaymakers bask in the warmth of the sun's affectionate caress, their skin kissed by the sun's radiant glow. Their languid postures bear witness to the relaxation that accompanies these precious moments of reprieve from everyday life. Colorful parasols dot the scene, offering a sanctuary of shade to those seeking solace from the sun's fiery embrace.

As the sun's warm embrace envelops the scene, your heart flutters with a familiar sense of contentment. Beside you, your boyfriend of three years, Harry, lounges on a sun-bed, his magnetic presence amplified by the vibrant surroundings. His captivating gaze meets yours, the unspoken connection between you two as strong as ever.

Harry's trademark long hair is gathered into a casual man bun, showcasing the effortless elegance that has become synonymous with his style. The strands that escape the bun shimmer like spun gold, catching the sunlight in a breathtaking dance. His navy blue swim shorts perfectly complement the azure backdrop, a reflection of both the sea and the sky.

Tattoos, each one a piece of art etched onto his skin, paint a story of his journey and passions. The sun cream delicately applied on them accentuates their intricate designs, turning them into living masterpieces that glow beneath the sun's warm touch. The canvas of his skin becomes a testament to his individuality, every inked mark an expression of his creativity and authenticity.

As the gentle waves provide a soothing symphony, your fingers find their way to entwine with his, a familiar gesture of affection that needs no words. The world around you seems to fade, leaving only the two of you and the timeless tranquillity of this moment.

His eyes, a kaleidoscope of emotions, hold yours in a tender gaze that speaks volumes. It's in these quiet, unguarded moments that you're reminded of the depth of your connection, the bond that has grown stronger with each passing day.

As the tranquil embrace of the sun-soaked paradise continues, a sudden shift in the atmosphere ripples through the scene. The melodic lull of the waves falters, and the connection between you and Harry falters for a brief moment. The cause of this disruption is your one and a half year old son, Elliot, whose tired cries pierce through the serene ambiance.

The cries grow louder, and your attention is drawn away from the shared moment to the source of the distress. At the edge of the pool area, you spot Elliot, his tiny face flushed with frustration and exhaustion. The vibrant glow of his blue eyes, a mirror of your own, is marred by glistening tears, reflecting his fatigue and the frustration of a disrupted slumber.

With swift concern, Harry shifts his position on the sun-bed, his tattooed arms extending towards you as if to offer his support. Your fingers reluctantly disentangle from his, a reluctant separation born out of parental instinct. As you approach your distressed son, the cooling breeze seems to carry away the tranquillity that once enveloped the scene.

Bending down to scoop Elliot into your arms, you hold him close, his small frame trembling with fatigue. His sobs echo in your ears, a heartbreaking melody that resonates with the challenges of parenthood. Despite the picturesque surroundings, the most important moment right now is attending to the needs of your son, who has endured a restless night.

As Elliot's cries persist, a sense of helplessness begins to tug at your heart. Despite your best efforts, his sobs show no signs of abating. It's in this moment of shared concern that Harry's soothing presence becomes a lifeline.

With a tender understanding in his eyes, Harry suggests, "M’heart, why don't I take him f’a walk in his stroller? Maybe a change of scenery will help him settle, and y’could use some rest too, considering how the night went."

Touched by his thoughtfulness, you nod appreciatively, your weariness evident in your eyes. Gently handing over Elliot to Harry's awaiting arms, you feel the warmth of his embrace envelop your son. Elliot's cries seem to soften as he nestles against his father's chest, finding comfort in the familiar heartbeat that has always been a source of solace.

With a delicate touch, Harry secures Elliot into his stroller, his gentle hands fastening the buckles with practised ease. As he leans over, his soothing voice fills the air, "Alright, little buddy, we're going f’a walk. Let's see if we can calm down, yeah?"

Elliott's cries continue, a mixture of exhaustion and the desire to be held evident in every sob. The tiny hands that reach out towards Harry's face tug at his heartstrings, and he leans in to brush his lips against Elliott's forehead.

"I know, mate. I know. It's alright," he coos, his voice a soothing melody that dances in the air.

Harry's fingers linger for a moment on Elliott's cheek, a brief caress that conveys love and understanding. With one last reassuring glance, Harry begins to push the stroller, the wheels gliding smoothly along the path. "We're just going f’a little walk, Eli. You'll feel better soon, I promise."

However, the cries persist, growing louder in their protest. Elliott's eyes, pools of innocence and longing, search Harry's face as if pleading to be scooped up into his father's arms. Harry's brow furrows with concern, his heart aching at the sight of his son in distress.

"I know y’want to be held, buddy," he murmurs, his fingers gently brushing Elliott's cheek. "But sometimes a walk can help. You'll see."

Elliott's cries escalate, and Harry's resolve softens. With a tender sigh, he comes to a stop and kneels beside the stroller.

"Alright, alright," he concedes, his voice a mixture of love and amusement. "You win, pal. Y’can come into daddy’s arms."

As he carefully lifts Elliott from the stroller, the little one's sobs gradually subside into sniffles. The warmth of Harry's embrace, the steady rhythm of his heart, provides the comfort that Elliott had been seeking.

"There we go," Harry murmurs, his lips brushing against Elliott's fuzzy head. "Sometimes all y’need is a cuddle, huh?"

Elliott's fingers curl into the fabric of Harry's shirt, his cries softening into whimpers as he nuzzles against his father's chest. With a determined resolve, Harry straightens up and looks towards you, offering a reassuring smile. "I'll walk him until he falls asleep, then I'll bring him back. Don't worry, m’love."

As they slowly move away from the poolside

With Elliott nestled in his arms, Harry's touch is a gentle and soothing presence against the little one's back. The rhythmic motion of his hand, moving up and down in a comforting caress, matches the cadence of his footsteps as he begins to walk around the hotel. The atmosphere in the reception area is hushed, a backdrop of understated luxury that contrasts with the earlier scene by the pool.

As they traverse the hotel's elegant corridors, Harry's soft voice hums a tune that's both tender and familiar. The reception staff offer knowing smiles, a nod to the shared experiences of parenthood. Harry's strides are purposeful yet gentle, a dance of patience and care as he navigates each turn and hallway, his focus solely on the slumbering bundle in his arms.

Passing by the tennis courts, the sound of a playful match echoes in the distance. The rhythmic thud of balls and the occasional laughter form a comforting symphony that blends seamlessly with the ambiance of the moment. Harry's gaze shifts briefly, his eyes catching the lively scene before he returns his attention to Elliott.

As they continue their journey, the soft glow of the indoor bar beckons like a haven. The polished wooden floors beneath their feet create a muted melody, the rhythmic tapping of Harry's steps a quiet rhythm that harmonises with the calm of the evening. It's here, surrounded by the ambient light and the low murmur of conversations, that Elliott's eyelids begin to droop.

As they step into the bar, the air carries the scent of aged wood and the promise of relaxation. Harry's hand continues its soothing motion, now softer and slower, his voice a tender whisper.

"Almost there, little mate," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the peaceful expression that gradually settles on Elliott's face.

In the dim light, they find a quiet corner, a shelter within the embrace of the hotel's interior. Harry eases himself into a plush armchair, still cradling Elliott against his chest. The vibrations of his voice hum against Elliott's ear, a lullaby of security and warmth. And then, as if the journey had been leading to this moment, Elliott's eyes flutter closed.

A tranquil sigh escapes Harry's lips, a mixture of relief and tenderness. He gazes down at his peacefully slumbering son, a soft smile gracing his features.

"Sleep tight, little man," he whispers, his hand gently cupping the back of Elliott's head.

[visit-new-york]

The Williamsburg Bridge remains a beloved and functional part of New York City's infrastructure, offering more than just a physical connection between boroughs. It weaves together the social, cultural, and economic fabric of the city while serving as a reminder of the city's enduring spirit and resilience.

Accessibility for Bicyclists: In recent years, the Williamsburg Bridge has become increasingly popular among cyclists. The addition of dedicated bike lanes and paths has made it a key route for those commuting between Brooklyn and Manhattan by bicycle. This has contributed to the city's efforts to promote sustainable transportation options.

Emergency Services: The Williamsburg Bridge, like other major bridges in New York City, is equipped with emergency evacuation plans and protocols. It is considered an essential route for emergency vehicles and personnel during crises or natural disasters.

Cultural Influence: Beyond its practical role, the Williamsburg Bridge has had a profound cultural influence, particularly in the Brooklyn neighborhood it connects to. Williamsburg, with its vibrant arts scene, has become synonymous with the bridge's name, and it has featured prominently in local art, music, and literature.

In Popular Culture: The Williamsburg Bridge has appeared in numerous movies, TV shows, and music videos. Its distinctive architecture and picturesque views have made it a favorite location for filmmakers and artists looking to capture the essence of New York City.

Connecting Diverse Communities: The bridge has played a crucial role in connecting diverse communities in Manhattan and Brooklyn. It has been a conduit for the exchange of cultural influences, economic activity, and social interactions.

Historical Preservation and Restoration: Various organizations and government agencies have been involved in preserving and restoring the bridge to ensure its longevity. Efforts have included repainting the bridge, restoring its architectural features, and maintaining its structural integrity.

Design Features: The Williamsburg Bridge's towers are constructed of steel, and its suspension cables are made of wire rope. The bridge's overall design showcases elements of the Beaux-Arts architectural style, with ornamental details and decorative flourishes.

Maintenance Challenges: Maintaining a bridge of this size and age is an ongoing challenge. The bridge requires regular inspections, repairs, and upgrades to keep up with modern safety standards and the demands of urban transportation.

Future Developments: As New York City continues to evolve, the Williamsburg Bridge remains a vital part of the city's infrastructure. Future developments and improvements may include further enhancements to pedestrian and cyclist facilities, as well as ongoing efforts to reduce environmental impacts.

Centennial Celebrations: The Williamsburg Bridge celebrated its centennial in 2003 with various events and activities to mark its 100th anniversary. This milestone offered an opportunity for New Yorkers to reflect on the bridge's historical importance.

Artistic Expressions: Over the years, the Williamsburg Bridge has been a canvas for artistic expressions. Street art and graffiti have adorned its support structures and pedestrian walkways, contributing to the bridge's cultural identity.

Traffic Congestion and Alternatives: Like many urban bridges, the Williamsburg Bridge experiences traffic congestion during peak hours. This congestion has prompted discussions about transportation alternatives, such as improved public transit options, to ease the burden on the bridge and reduce environmental impacts.

Hurricane Sandy and Resilience: The bridge, like other infrastructure in New York City, faced significant challenges during Hurricane Sandy in 2012. The storm surge resulted in flooding and temporary closures. In response, the city has explored ways to enhance the resilience of critical infrastructure, including the Williamsburg Bridge, to future extreme weather events.

Iconic Landmark: The Williamsburg Bridge is not just a transportation link but also an iconic symbol of New York City's skyline. Its unique silhouette and the way it frames views of the city have made it a subject of admiration for photographers, artists, and tourists alike.

Community Engagement: The Williamsburg Bridge has been the focus of community engagement and activism. Local residents and organizations have advocated for improvements, safety measures, and the preservation of its historical and cultural significance.

Economic Impact: The bridge's role in connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn has had a significant economic impact on both boroughs. It has facilitated the movement of goods and people, supporting businesses and industries on both sides of the East River.

Night Illumination: The Williamsburg Bridge is often illuminated at night, casting a stunning glow over the East River. The changing colors and lighting schemes have been used to mark special occasions and holidays, enhancing the bridge's visual appeal.

Symbol of Progress: Throughout its history, the Williamsburg Bridge has symbolized progress, connectivity, and the spirit of innovation. It reflects the dynamism of New York City as it continues to evolve and adapt to the needs of its residents.

The Williamsburg Bridge stands as a testament to both engineering innovation and the enduring cultural significance of infrastructure in urban life. It has served as a lifeline for generations of New Yorkers, connecting people, neighborhoods, and opportunities across the East River.

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[petermorwood]

Word changes...

All of the following is IMO, so YMMV. :->

*****

Anyone noticed how "weaponry" is used nowadays in places where "weapons" would work just fine (and is often more correct)?

Yes, they ARE interchangeable, sort-of, but it's clunky and sounds to me either slightly journo-pompous or like a failure to remember the right word so plugging the most similar one into its place.

ETA: I checked one of my dictionaries, and while "weapons" is more modern, "weaponry" is an obsolete word which has come back into favour. I wonder why...?

*****

"Decimate" turns up all the time, usually when the correct word is "devastate".

Merriam-Webster says: "It's totally fine to use 'decimate' as a synonym for 'devastate'. This is why."

Beg to differ.

As the M-W article points out, "decimate" originally meant a Roman military punishment applied to one man in ten of a guilty unit. (Initially execution, but this had a rotten effect on unit morale, so it was reduced in severity to fatigues, extra drill or restricted rations.)

That's now considered a far too specific meaning and only linguistic pedants dig their heels in. Quite right too, and I speak here as a (bit of a) linguistic pedant...

However, it remains a useful word for more generalised incomplete destruction of living things - saying a regiment, flock, herd or population was "decimated" implies there are some survivors without quibbling over how many tenths. If totally wiped out, however, that's when words like "destroyed" or "obliterated" are more appropriate.

On the other hand something inanimate like a factory, city or region would be "devastated" - and in addition, saying someone is emotionally devastated is understandable, but saying they're emotionally decimated is peculiar.

Two words, several meanings.

It's like cutlery: a spork can replace knife, fork and spoon, but individual utensils give a lot more precision and variation of use.

*****

There are also a couple of real howlers, not just transposed words but actual errors.

One I've heard several times is using "siege" (a noun, or thing) instead of "besiege" (a verb, or action).

For reference, there's a term called noun-verbing, and the practice is quite old: "table the motion / pencil you in / butter him up / he tasks me", but all are either when there isn't already a verb-form of the word, or as a more picturesque way of saying something.

(Interesting side-note about "table the motion": in US English, it means "to postpone discussion" while in UK, CA and I think AU English, it means the complete opposite, "to begin discussion". Why there's this difference, I have no idea, but it's worth remembering as a Brit-fix when writing, also in a real-life business context.)

There IS an existing verb for the action of surrounding a castle and cutting it off from outside help, and that verb isn't "sieged". It's "besieged" or "under siege". Anywhere using "sieged" as a verb is wrong. The Firefox spellchecker in Tumblr Edit Mode is telling me it's wrong right now.

Merriam-Webster, I'm looking at you again.

*****

There's also "coronate" used as a verb. "The King was coronated at Westminster Abbey". Nope. He was CROWNED.

Coronate is an adjective (meaning crown-shaped) and was coined in in the 1600s by a botanist, as a word to describe the shape of certain plants.

The current Royal-associated usage seems to be a bastard back-formation from "coronation", because the act of putting on a crown is the verb "to crown".

This is almost identical in German, French, Italian and Spanish, with noun and verb the same. The only difference is that their verbs have, what a surprise, verb-endings (-en, -er, -re and -ar) on the noun while English does not.

Because English doesn't like to make things that easy...

"Coronated" might be people trying to sound archaic, or those who've bought into the dopey "said-is-dead" school, who perform any linguistic contortion to avoid common words, and who've been taught that repetition in a sentence - "crowned with a crown" - is BAD.

Is "coronated at a coronation" in some way better?

Guess what's got uncritical examples...

If that's M-W scholarship, I'll stick to the OED and my old but utterly reliable New Elizabethan Dictionary, thanks very much.

*****

Language is funny: sometimes funny ha-ha, sometimes funny annoying, but often just funny peculiar, because English etc. etc...

[whencyclopedia]

Ajanta

Approximately 67 miles (107 km) to the north of Aurangabad in the Indhyadri range of Western Ghats lie the caves of Ajanta. The 30 caves, famous for their early Buddhist temple architecture and many delicately drawn murals, are located in a 76 m high, horseshoe-shaped escarpment overlooking the Waghora (tiger) River. The river originates from a picturesque waterfall called sat kund (seven leaps) just off the last cave. It serves as a potent reminder of the natural forces that over untold eons have shaped the basaltic layers of the Deccan plateau. Also a part of the Gautala Wildlife Sanctuary, this primordial landscape provides a fitting background to one of the finest collections of paintings from India's antiquity.

Accorded UNESCO World Heritage site status in 1983 CE, the ancient name of the site is untraceable today. Its current name is derived from a neighbouring village, the local pronunciation of which is Ajintha. It would be of interest to note, that Ajita is the colloquial name of Maitreya Buddha.

Timeline & Patronage

The period of excavation (used as synonymous to the carving of the caves) can be divided into two broad phases. The earliest caves (Cave 8, 9, 10, 12, 13, 15A), belonging to the Hinayana phase of Buddhism, can be roughly traced back to the 2nd century BCE, with its period of activity continuing to around the 1st century CE during the rule of Satavahana Dynasty (2nd century BCE – 2nd century CE). The later phase of activities, between 5th and 6th century CE, largely took place under the patronage of the Vakataka dynasts (3rd century – 5th century CE). The Vakatakas were contemporaries of the Gupta Empire. The greatest flourish of this phase took place during the brief but remarkable reign of the Vakataka Emperor, Harisena (460 CE - 477 CE). By then the “mythologising tendency of Indian thought” (Coomaraswamy) had already given birth to Mahayana Buddhism from more austere Hinayana practices.

The excavation and creation of the caves seem to have been a more community effort in the earlier phase. Group efforts contributed to the building of various parts of the caves, from the façades to single cells. Later, however, construction was marked by sponsorship from influential patrons and local feudatories. Inscriptions from Caves 4, 16, 17, 20, and 26 indicate that often multiple caves were constructed under the benefaction of one patron; examples would include local Risika king Upendragupta, Harisena's Prime Minister Varahadeva, and the Asmaka monk Buddhabhadra. Royal patronage did not, however, restrict its accessibility to an exclusive clique. Thus, despite being a Shaivaite emperor (at least at the time of accession to throne), Harisena presided over the execution of some of the finest depictions of Buddhist legends.

Continue reading...

[bethanydelleman]

Northanger Abbey Readthrough Ch 14

PEOPLE THIS IS THE BEST CHAPTER EVER!!!! We have reached the pinnacle of Tilney awesomeness...

my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. This always makes me think of Evelina by Fanny Burney, where the poor heroine always is taken places she doesn't want to go. Luckily for us, the country walk is actually happening! No Thorpes! No rain! Just charming Tilneys.

One of the best earnest quotes in Austen has happened!:

The narrator has taken more of a back seat at this point, but here we have the hero of the novel, openly admitting that not only does he read novels, but he loves them. Henry also seems to understand that Catherine has been mocked about this before, he's very overt in his appreciation of novels. And he calls on her to be proud of him for stealing a novel from his sister, which is just... 🥰🥰🥰 "I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.”

Now is Tilney a little pedantic? Yes. But I find it cute. Sue me.

"...But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly.” “It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do—for they read nearly as many as women.

Catherine has picked up a lot of language from Isabella and Mr. Tilney is subtlety (and not so subtlety) correcting it.

“Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word ‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.”...

“Very true,” said Henry, “and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement—people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word.”

Henry is pointing out both overuse of the word nice and meaning drift. You see a lot of meaning drift comparing Austen's language to ours, words like wonderful, awful, interest, etc. Nice apparently used to mean something close to "neat" and now it means "pleasant" and Henry Tilney is in a battle to preserve it. Well sorry, Mr. Tilney, but you lost. He has a point though, the overuse of a word entirely dilutes it's meaning and can make it basically mean nothing at all.

I love Catherine's speech about history:

The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all—it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes’ mouths, their thoughts and designs—the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books.

She's so right here!

Now while Catherine does spend a lot of time in awe of Henry Tilney and his wit, she does stand on her own opinions. She asserts that "torment" and "instruct" are synonymous and to borrow the phrase of another Austen woman, she will not be laughed out of her opinion! (Jane Bennet, P&P)

Eleanor and Henry soon begin to talk about the picturesque, and from the clues it seems they have opinions similar to Marianne Dashwood and her love of dead leaves. This section is the one I see most quoted by those who think Catherine is too stupid for Henry Tilney or that he is distasteful for wanting to marry an ignorant girl.

I will first point out that ignorance is not equal to stupidity, Catherine is eager to learn. Also, I doubt Henry would have anything to do with the vapid Isabella Thorpe. Catherine may be ignorant about drawing and have trouble with discerning motives, but she is in no way an idiot. If anything, Austen is mocking this sentiment:

Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.

But Catherine did not know her own advantages—did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward.

Does Henry enjoy being admired by Catherine in all his wit and knowledge? Undoubtedly, yes. But he also loves hanging around Eleanor who is just as intelligent as him (riot fears aside). The chief attraction here is not the ignorance. It's primarily the honesty. Here again we have Catherine fully prepared to admit that she doesn't like reading history and that she knows nothing of drawing. She doesn't pretend, she is a creature of no disguise.

Now we get to see Henry making very suggestive statements that go right over Catherine's poor head:

"...Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.” “I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.” “No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”

No doubt! Eleanor is shipping this couple hard. Good for her.

It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. 

Oh Catherine, you've got it bad.

We hear from an Isabella clone (her younger sister), who was left behind from the Clifton Scheme, she is with two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning and says:

“They set off at eight this morning,” said Miss Anne, “and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria.”

Girl, your speech is dripping with envy so much that even Catherine Morland, our intrepid heroine, realizes that you spouting bullshit.

I will give like, 1 half point to Thorpe for actually helping Isabella out and driving his sister to Clifton. But I award it very begrudgingly.

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

Hiiii!!!! Can I please request a headcanon home brew with the reader being friends with rocky? It can be angsty or fluffy or whatever you prefer! Thank you 😁

Took a more lighthearted direction with this, to offset a particularly angsty romantic oneshot that’s eventually to come… One must maintain a balanced diet of their illicit beverages and all. It also ended up a bit specific. Hope you enjoy!

So you’ve become friends with the notorious poet, eh? Congratulations! There likely wasn’t much effort needed on your part.

He’s naturally talkative (and how) as well as sociable (though lacking the skill), but you had to have bumped into him several times in the same setting before a true habit was formed of it.

Being a regular at the café or the speakeasy is the setup that most easily lends itself… maybe one before the other, though he wouldn’t bring you downstairs unless you were explicitly interested. The criminal scene might not be everyone’s cup of tea, after all.

You’re less probable to find out about the Lackadaisy from him, either; it’s likely Ivy told you first, seeing how much you two get along as well as finding you genuinely personable and interesting. But if you end up undeterred by the revelation that he works for a bootlegging operation and would like to take that trip downstairs some night, he’ll be glad to have you see him play with the band!

Speaking of, if you were also an artist, he’d be elated.

The stanzas shall flow like water from an overly tenacious tap regardless of your expertise, of course. Uneducated listening ears are better than none, and he’ll appreciate even surface level analysis and positive feedback if you bother with such. Don’t fret if you don’t understand all of the words or get tangled up in an abundant array of alliterative allegories. You’ll learn to adjust accordingly. (Or so he assures.)

But! If you’re a kindred creative soul, it’s a common ground he’ll hop onto with utmost eagerness.

A fellow poet or writer? He’d hinge on your every word of appraisal. How did you like the flow of this one, (Y/N)? You could practically feel the expressionistic scenery enveloping you with this picturesque wording, could you not? What about that one metaphor about the stars, (Y/N)? Surely it conveyed his message on the sweet transience of life? (Y/N)? Oh, (Y/N)! Please answer him, (Y/N), he’s begging to know.

Don’t worry, it’s not one-sided. He’s always all up in your literary business and half-finished drafts in return, asking plenty of questions and insisting on being your first audience for everything. He’ll listen to you talk yourself out of plot holes and come in handy as a sentient thesaurus whenever you get stuck on the synonyms.

(Though I cannot guarantee he’s capable of providing a distraction-free environment. Any environment truly free of distractions is one where he is absent.)

A musician? Oh boy! Your instruments may not be the slightest bit compatible, but that could never stop him from making the most splendorous harmonies together with his dearest chum!

Teaching each other songs you know is a must. Beloved classics like Vivaldi as well as local tunes from either of your lands of origin; he’s an extremely quick learner, as you’ve found out, with a keen ear and significant thirst for knowledge, especially when it comes to things dear to your heart.

You’ve observed how deeply serene he appears to be when playing a certain song or two with a gentle folk-like ring, as if in a trance of reminiscence. He claims not to understand what you mean when you bring it up… so you play along in silent understanding, earning a smile back when your eyes meet that is, for a change, admittedly softer.

Or perhaps a visual artist? Painter? Comic strip illustrator? Cartoon animator?

He would so brag about having an animator friend (even if only aspiring). To the surprise of no one, he’s a great fan of those whimsical hand-drawn moving pictures. Some may find them silly, but in his vocabulary that’s a staple of high precedence.

Yes, he has been to the movies several times, and a shared interest would provide a stellar excuse to accompany you there. Unfortunately, he both refuses to let you treat and is perpetually penniless, so he has the two of you sneak in by less than rule-abiding means. You’ve gotten thrown out before. (Likely not the first time when going out somewhere with him, and neither is it the last.)

But let’s suppose you’re a painter instead. Likely you’re creating in the chiefly popular styles of the era; impressionism, surrealism, the like. Even if not, he still praises you for sticking to your individuality. If you’re a misunderstood artist like him, he reassures with genuine conviction that you’ll make it into the galleries someday, current trends be damned. (Maybe you both are simply ahead of your time.)

The contents or perceived quality are entirely negligible, because he will find a way to compliment your work. Usually his criticism is focused less around your technical skill and more so his emotions and ideas sparked by the sight that are occasionally heavily abstract or several degrees of detached from your original intent. Still, the different perspective can be… well, interesting to hear out, at least.

When you’re coloring or shading certain parts in certain ways, like circularly or with a soothing curve of the brush, he’ll trail off in whatever he was doing or prattling on about and watch quietly for a bit as you work. It’s only embarrassing when he was in the middle of telling you something; he might even lose that line of thought. (Far from the only time that ever happens to him, so you’re forgiving by now.)

Listen, stimboards didn’t exist in the 1920s. He’ll take what he can get.

As for him, well, his personality isn’t the only thing that stopped substantially developing at the age of twelve. His visual art skills might begin and end at silly-looking scribbles caricaturing himself and the people he knows, but he’s satisfied nonetheless. Ambitious rhymes and ornate metaphors are more his department.

He’s still gotten a chuckle or two out of you with his humorously misshapen efforts at drawing you, so he considers that a win as well.

I’ve mentioned lands of origin. If you’re from a state he’s yet to have visited, he’ll surely ask a number of questions about your experiences living there. But if you’re from overseas? Another continent? Nation he’s scarcely heard of? Square that number and multiply by ten thousand.

It’s exciting to hear about different cultures, alright? He likes to understand you better. In any case you make an easier job of it for him than the other way around.

He’d likely have a lot of respect for you for learning English so well, even more so if mostly by yourself. (Viktor’s intimidating disposition and inclination to punch him at the slightest provocation are not the only reasons he never corrects his phrasing.) If he’d said some difficult or rare word you don’t understand, he wouldn’t have to hesitantly accept your complaints of confusion as exasperated mockery for a change and instead could take the time to kindly explain. Probably in an even more troublesome way. You go through like five overcomplicated synonyms before one of them finally rings a bell… but he’s patient.

Expect spontaneous “hey, how’d you say that in your language?” inquiries in the middle of a conversation, out of sheer curiosity. You may only laugh at his clumsy mimicking of your pronounciation once, because he adapts to the unique sounds of a foreign tongue scarily fast. He greets you with the everyday words you’re rather used to hearing around your hometown thousands of miles away and it’s downright uncanny how natural it sounds. (Which is why you’ve asked him not to do it without warning.)

You can’t quite hold conversations like that yet, but you reckon it’d be fun to annoy everyone else around you with if you ever got him to that point.

The others at the speakeasy are mostly baffled by the fact you’re willingly sticking around, especially if you’re not a colleague, for Rocky’s company. Not many people can, well, tolerate him. He’s honestly a bit much sometimes.

But you liked him when you were running from the cops together in scant apparel covered head to toe in dirt as the flames digesting some poor sod’s patio crackled distantly and you wondered how a starry night walk by the riverside had so inexplicably devolved into acts of incidental vandalism, and you continue to like him nowadays.

He’s your friend, after all. The adventures born of questionable choices are part of the deal. And like his soft-spokenly reluctant cousin (except less so motivated by guilt) you’re there with him through it all to make sure he doesn’t get himself in serious trouble… much.

[licncourt]

I feel like some of you guys are starting to bastardize and misapply the term "gothic" in the same way as "gaslight" and "triggering" and "gatekeep" so

"​Gothic literature can be defined as writing that employs dark and picturesque scenery, startling and melodramatic narrative devices, and an overall atmosphere of exoticism, mystery, fear, and dread."

Gothic is not a synonym for abusive, dark, subversive, fucked up, or whatever else some of y'all want it to be. It's a literary style with specific traits, not a term you can slap on a storyline to protect it and yourself from criticism.

That's all.

[loserboyfriendrjl]

loserboyfriendrjl’s masterlist

FICS:

another pawn out of the game (completed, 1.9k words)

"you opened a door that a kid shouldn't walk through," dorcas said, glaring at the man in front of her, who could keep so calm even though the world was a storm around them, "but you managed to lure them in with the candy of promises you did, but knew that you couldn't keep."

The Sinners and The Saints (wip, 12.2k words, collaboration with enbysiriusblack)

A canon compliant fic, following the events between the graduation of The Marauders and Halloween 1981. Dark times lie ahead, but happiness can be found even in the darkest of times.

the girl gone cray (wip, 23.8k words)

Dorcas was going to avenge their lost lover, a woman with who they couldn't live. But now they had to.

And whoever killed Marlene forgot their wand. They took it into their hands and immediately recognized it.

Peter.

i’ll break your pretty face (wip, 14.6k words)

Dorcas Meadowes had never been one for hatred. They loved people openly, proudly, friends and family, showing them off, a necklace around their neck, keeping them safe, with them. It had always been like that, from the moments with their father, some a blur, some vivid, like a new painting on canvas, to the days spent with their mates, their friends, people they loved.

Dorcas Meadowes had never been one for hatred. Yet what they felt for Marlene McKinnon was exactly that. Marlene McKinnon, with her stupid blonde mullet, with her stupid brown eyes, with her stupid red lips, and with her stupid nose piercing. They resented each other. Loathed, hated, there were so many synonyms that could describe what Dorcas felt for Marlene, and what Marlene felt for Dorcas.

That was, until they'd fall in love.

your lips, my lips (apocalypse) (wip, 12.6k words)

“The apocalypse has… phsst… started. Please make yourselves a supply of… phsst… and stay in your homes. Try to look for… phsst… to defend yourselves from whatever may try to harm you and… phsst… not let anyone inside your home under… phstt… unless you trust them.”

The apocalypse had started. There are two sides. Love and impending doom loom over them, thick and dark, and the end is imminent. It is their choice whether they make their end bittersweet or go down with love in their hearts.

all the sinners (sin again) (wip, 5k words)

The North Sea was clashing against the tall cliffs, foaming at the edges, white and washed away blue and rocky grey all combined. Maybe picturesque, but a sight that could have been turned into a painting that could have made it to the museum. In the back of the art gallery, because something so lifeless would never be the center of attention, but it would be a secret of those who dared wonder further, who wanted to learn its secrets.

The sky was of a light, dull grey, riddled with clouds, and the distant rumble of thunder predicted a storm. It was already raining, a soft pitter-patter that could've slipped unnoticed. Everything was quiet. The Cave was empty.

The last person that had been known to have gone there was Regulus Black, the heir of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, who had disappeared and never came back in 1979, four years before. The funeral had been bodiless; the heir hadn't been found.

Regulus had been eighteen when he died.

as the world falls down (wip, 13.5k words)

This is a fic following The Marauders and their friends from their sixth year to 1981. The world shifts around them, from the believed safety of Hogwarts to the war raging outside their school's gates, and, after they will leave the safety they had been granted, they will need to learn how to protect themselves, and those that they love.

Dorlene, Jily, and Wolfstar slowburn, as they discover their feelings for each other and come to terms with them, and it follows the friendships and the dynamics that are built and then ruined between them, little by little, built and chipped away.

War looms over them, and they will need each other to get through it.

They will need each other's love and friendship as they grieve for the fallen soldiers, people that used to be their friends and that they had loved.

This fic has shifting POVs, to see the way everyone sees the world around them. Their motives, needs, and the way they see the world will be for the readers to see, the characters opened books for you to read.

(I will try to answer to all of the comments you leave on the fic! And I thank each one of my betas, readers, and everyone that encouraged and encourages me to write this fic! :* <3)

narcissa is longing for the sea, but is afraid of the water (and, maybe, the sea is inside her) (wip, 9k words)

Her face seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. She seemed like a distant childhood memory, someone she had used to know, years before, but had forgotten. Someone left in a book between a hundred others, gathering dust already, but someone that was still worth remembering. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been in Narcissa’s books.

Narcissa's life used to be perfect. She used to do what she liked to do, dancing, but an injury stops her from continuing. She is miserable, and seeking to find her worth again. She is brought, by memories, to the café in which she and her father used to spend their time, but it wasn't the same anymore. There was a new barista too, Alice, a charming woman with dark skin and intelligent, warm brown eyes, and Narcissa's heart thrums against her chest whenever she looks at her.

(Inspired by Coraline by Maneskin)

a familiar memory (of what i had once been) (wip, 5.9k words)

Mary MacDonald had thought that she lived at least a semi-decent life. She had a job in a London hospital, and she lived with her sister and five-year-old son, Dean. Her life was absolutely, perfectly normal, despite the fact she didn't remember most of her life. Tucked in the back of her mind, away, unable to reach.

One night, she meets Remus Lupin, the bartender from the club she goes to, and why does he seem familiar? She knows him from somewhere, but she can't quite place him anywhere. Remus tells her all sorts of things, and, in a way, she feels like the same memories dug deep within her start coming back, alive, burning her, a fire that won't stop, but she can't quite bring herself to put it out.

And so, she finds herself talking to strangers and dancing with drag queens in gay bars and finding herself once again, talking sweet nothings about a life she can't even remember, but she knows one thing about it; it had been hers, once.

(Set in the 1980s, this fic features period-typical issues, outdated language, as well as mentioning/dealing with the HIV/AIDS epidemic. This is a general warning for the whole fic, but I will notify you in which chapters this appears and the way it is mentioned/discussed.)

the city that you've torn (the love that we've built) (wip, 2.6k words)

Remus balled Sirius' shirt in his fist. "Take care, alright?"

"Of course I will, my sweet poet. Don't I always?"

"No, you don't. You never do." The words were bitter on Remus' tongue. He didn't want to admit it, didn't want to think of the possibility of living without Sirius. Didn't want to think of an universe where Sirius was not to be, the sky dimmer without him.

"I'll fight for my kingdom whatever it takes. Even if I am to die for it. I'll die for you, too. Now, goodbye, my love." He said, smiling, and he kissed his lover's cheek tenderly. "Write a sonnet for when I will come back, will you?"

Grabbing his sword, Sirius closed the door behind him. Remus stood in front of it, in awe and scared, quills and parchment scattered at his feet.

(Love. War. Secrets. Death. A tumult of rotten feelings and of something unplaceable, a hollow pit in one's stomach, an ache of their heart. The death of a lover.)

cherry lips (adolescent devotion) (wip, 4.3k)

They had earlier picked fruit from the tree in Lily’s garden. The bowl of cherries was empty, filled with only the seeds. The crimson red juice had wet the table, running down their fingers, staining Mary’s lips red. Lily felt the ardent desire to kiss her, to see what cherries felt like on Mary’s lips.

To see what it felt like to love Mary.

(Or, Mary visits Lily in Cokeworth during the summer between their sixth and seventh year, and they fall in love.)

ONE-SHOTS:

Happy Xmas (War’s Over) (1.3k words, gift made for the Wolfstar Server Secret Santa event)

Songfic based on John Lennon's song with the same name as the title

(Early Christmas fic that is dedicated and to my Secret Santa giftee)

one last goodbye and a heartfelt conversation of missing soulmates (0.8k words each, independent works, a part of the girl gone cray series)

there is something in the air (0.6k words, Wolfstar Bingo entry)

Prompt: Free Space. I have decided to turn it into Lie Low at Lupin's because I just love this period, of beginning again and of learning to love again <3

so, please hurry (leave me) (1.2k words)

“And when she was in the plane, and the engines started rumbling loudly, and the people around her were yawning and already falling asleep, seeing the given hour, she closed her eyes, resting her head against the cold porthole, and mouthing one last sorrowful goodbye before starting all over again.”

how a saint could love a flower (1.7k words)

"So, she’d cherish Mary and kiss her body, her lips feathering against soft flesh and dark skin, and her breath would shake against her lover’s skin, because she had been blessed, because Holy Mary herself had descended upon her, in the shape of her own, beautiful Mary, that she would love forever."

fake dating (real love) (3.7k words)

Remus sighed, letting his head hit the bedpost with a thud. The whole thing that Sirius was requesting was just absurd. He had been in love with his best friend ever since they were fifteen when Sirius had broken out of his shell, leather, and cigarettes and cold rings against his friend’s hands whenever they’d meet. Now, twenty-five years old, Remus felt the same way, his heart beating rapidly in his chest whenever Sirius’ name came up. He was in love, he had been in love; and he will be in love, because how could he not love Sirius?

(The one time when Remus dated Sirius, just for the holidays, and found out it wasn't going to be just for that period of time, after all.)

a star has dimmed (with one last flicker) (3.7k words)

Life is similar to a book. Every book has a start and an ending, and all are beautiful, in their way. Some mundane, some exciting, but all books have something, a spark, that makes them unique, that makes them worth reading, because no book deserves to be left on a shelf, dusty and old, its pages still crisp and its ink dried long ago. Each person writes their books, all neat pages and cursive handwriting, chapters and acts, and, at last, the book is finished.

To most, the thirty-first of December would be the chance to new chapters, leaving the one before behind. It would be a possible, granted something, the chance for one to redeem oneself,

For Regulus Black, the new year would be the end.

lately i’ve been dressing for revenge (2.6k words)

Andromeda Black had never been a woman of aggressive action.

She had always preferred a serpent-like attack; quiet, yet deadly, she lured in her prey with empty promises, and, when all was said and done, she would finish them as easily as that. Instead of shouting to the sky the secrets of the world, she would prefer to open Pandora’s box quietly, letting the dark slip out, seeping through the cracks, setting fire to the world and, when all was ash, she’d grin like the devil, warm brown eyes that could turn so dark, so cruel, and she’d set fire to them too, until there was nothing left.

She preferred quietness, of course. She preferred peace and the beauty of a simplistic lifestyle, one in which she would not bother anyone, and one in which she would not be bothered by anyone. Until someone would get in her way, until something would disrupt her peace.

he had a cigarette (with his number on it) (1.5k words)

That was a big, fat lie. He just wanted to call the number on it, really, but how was he supposed to tell Sirius that?

Oh, yeah, I just saw you, but I really fancy you and you’re really fit and I would like for you to call me because I feel the strong desire to talk to you and taste your lips that probably taste like tobacco and the alcohol I saw you drinking in the club, because I totally wasn’t looking at you

— ☆ —

Or, the one in which Remus and Sirius meet in front of a club, kiss, and Remus (or, at least him) falls in love head over heels.

[shuttlescapetown]

Top Family Day Trips in Cape Town

Are you looking for the perfect family day trip destination in Cape Town? Look no further! In this article, we will be exploring some of the top family-friendly day trips that Cape Town has to offer. From picturesque landscapes to exciting activities, there is something for everyone to enjoy. So pack up the car, grab your loved ones, and get ready for a fun-filled adventure exploring all that this beautiful city has to offer!

Beach Bumming: Exploring Cape Town's Best Beaches

Cape Town is synonymous with breathtaking scenery, and its stunning beaches are a big part of that allure. These beaches are a must-visit for the ultimate beach bumming experience, where sun-drenched days blend seamlessly with the vibrant energy of the city.

Camps Bay Beach is a picture-perfect paradise, with its iconic backdrop of the Twelve Apostles mountain range. Powdery white sands, crystal-clear waters, and a lively atmosphere with beachfront restaurants and bars make it a popular spot for sunbathing, swimming, and socializing.

Clifton Beaches: Tucked away in a series of secluded coves, Clifton's four beaches offer a more intimate and exclusive experience. Clifton 4th is particularly popular, attracting a trendy crowd with its pristine sands and stunning sunsets.

Llandudno Beach: This hidden gem on the Atlantic Seaboard boasts a more laid-back vibe and a picturesque setting surrounded by dramatic cliffs. It's a favorite among surfers and those seeking a quieter beach experience.

Muizenberg Beach: Known for its colorful beach huts and gentle waves, Muizenberg is a popular spot for families and beginner surfers. The long stretch of sandy beach also offers plenty of space for picnics and leisurely strolls.

Boulders Beach: Discover a colony of adorable African penguins at this one-of-a-kind beach. Stroll along the wooden boardwalks and observe these playful creatures in their natural habitat.

Noordhoek Beach: Escape the crowds and immerse yourself in the natural beauty of Noordhoek's vast expanse of sand dunes and dramatic coastline. It's a perfect place for long walks, horseback riding, or simply soaking up the sun in a tranquil setting.

Bloubergstrand Beach: With panoramic views of Table Mountain, Bloubergstrand offers a unique perspective of the city. This expansive beach is popular for kitesurfing and windsurfing, thanks to its consistent winds.

Hout Bay Beach: Located in the charming fishing village of Hout Bay, this beach offers a more laid-back atmosphere and stunning views of the harbor. Enjoy fresh seafood at the local restaurants and embark on boat trips to explore the nearby Seal Island.

Remember to pack your sunscreen, beach towel, and a favorite book, and let Cape Town's beautiful beaches transport you to a world of sun, sand, and serenity.

Wildlife Encounters: Visiting the Penguin Colony at Boulders Beach

Discover a unique family adventure by visiting the charming penguin colony at Boulders Beach. Observe these adorable creatures as they waddle along the sandy shores and swim in the pristine waters.

Experience close encounters with African Penguins as they go about their daily activities, making this trip perfect for both kids and adults alike. Don't forget your camera—you'll want to capture every moment of this unforgettable wildlife experience!

Outdoor Adventures: Hiking Table Mountain with the Family

Explore Cape Town's natural beauty on a family-friendly hike up Table Mountain. With various trails catering to all skill levels, everyone can enjoy breathtaking views of the city and ocean below. Make sure to pack plenty of snacks, water, and sunscreen for a fun day out in nature.

Explore unique flora and fauna along the way as you climb higher towards the summit. Encourage your kids to stay curious and engaged by playing hiking games or spotting different bird species. Remember to take breaks when needed and admire the stunning scenery surrounding you. Once at the top, celebrate your achievement as a family with a picnic overlooking Cape Town's iconic landscape.

Tips for Hiking Table Mountain:

Check weather conditions before heading out

Wear comfortable shoes with good grip

Bring layers, as temperatures can vary.

Stay hydrated throughout your hike

To ensure safe navigation, closely follow trail markers.

Take advantage of this opportunity to bond with your loved ones while enjoying an exciting outdoor adventure together. Capture memorable moments through photos, or simply immerse yourself in the tranquility of nature around you. Prepare for an unforgettable day trip that will create lasting memories for years to come!

Cultural Experience: Discovering the History of Robben Island

Take a tour of Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela spent 18 years in prison. Learn about the island's rich history and significance in South Africa's fight against apartheid.

During your visit, explore the prison cells, meet former political prisoners who now serve as tour guides, and gain insight into the struggles faced by those fighting for freedom and equality. Join a guided tour to fully immerse yourself in this important piece of South African history.

Uncover stories of resilience and hope as you walk through the same halls that once held some of the country's most influential leaders. Listen to firsthand accounts from changemakers and appreciate their courage and sacrifices.

Family Fun: Exploring the V&A Waterfront

The V&A Waterfront is a vibrant hub of activity for families in Cape Town. With its mix of shops, restaurants, and entertainment options, there's something for everyone to enjoy. Take a leisurely stroll along the waterfront promenade and soak up the beautiful views of Table Mountain and the ocean.

For a bit of excitement, hop on a boat tour around the harbor or ride the giant Ferris wheel for panoramic views of the city. Don't miss out on exploring the Two Oceans Aquarium with its fascinating marine life exhibits that will captivate both kids and adults alike.

After all that exploring, refuel at one of the many family-friendly eateries in the area offering everything from fish and chips to gourmet burgers. Whether you're looking for adventure or relaxation, the V&A Waterfront has plenty to offer for an unforgettable family day trip in Cape Town.

Scenic Drives: Taking a Road Trip Along Chapman's Peak Drive

Experience breathtaking views on a road trip along Chapman's Peak Drive, one of Cape Town's most iconic scenic routes. The winding road hugs the cliffs, offering panoramic vistas of the ocean below. This road is ideal for families who want to appreciate the beauty of nature without venturing too far from civilization.

Make sure to stop at designated viewpoints to snap some family photos against the backdrop of azure waters and rugged mountains. Pack some snacks and enjoy a picnic overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Take your time cruising down this picturesque drive, soaking up every moment with your loved ones by your side.

Educational Excursions: Visiting the Two Oceans Aquarium

Discover the wonders of marine life at the Two Oceans Aquarium in Cape Town. Kids and adults alike will be amazed by the vibrant array of fish, sharks, turtles, and other sea creatures on display.

Take a guided tour to learn about sustainable fishing practices, conservation efforts, and the importance of protecting our oceans. Interactive exhibits make learning fun for all ages; touch pools allow visitors to feel starfish and sea anemones up close.

After exploring the aquarium, head outside to enjoy stunning views of Table Mountain and Robben Island from the V&A Waterfront. Grab a snack at one of the waterfront restaurants or browse through the shops for souvenirs to remember your educational day trip by.

Foodie Delights: Sampling Local Cuisine at the Hout Bay Market

Indulge in a culinary adventure at the vibrant Hout Bay Market, where you can savor an array of delectable dishes from local vendors. From traditional South African cuisine like braai (barbecue) to international flavors like Thai and Italian, there's something to please every palate.

Grab a freshly squeezed fruit juice or gourmet coffee to sip as you stroll through the market stalls, sampling everything from savory pies to sweet treats. Don't miss out on trying some freshly caught seafood or handmade chocolates for a truly unforgettable tasting experience. With live music adding to the festive atmosphere, the Hout Bay Market is sure to be a highlight of your family day trip in Cape Town.

Private Group Day Trips in Cape Town

Experience the ultimate convenience and comfort with private group day trips in Cape Town. Our shuttle service offers a stress-free way to explore the city's top attractions with your family. Sit back, relax, and let us take care of all the transportation logistics for you.

With our private group day trips, you can customize your itinerary to suit your preferences. Whether you want to visit Table Mountain, Boulders Beach, or the Winelands, we've got you covered. Enjoy a hassle-free day out with your loved ones as you embark on an unforgettable adventure in beautiful Cape Town.

Why Choose Private Group Day Trips?

Personalized experience tailored to your group's interests.

Avoid the crowds and long lines at popular tourist spots.

A dedicated driver ensures safe and efficient transportation throughout the day.

The shuttle provides ample space for your family to unwind and relish the journey.

Stress-free planning with all transportation details taken care of for you.

Take the hassle out of planning your family day trip in Cape Town by booking a private group tour.

[jaegersolstice]

Death is sought in the form of a tree — it grows in forms of rough branches that grow into ready leaves that fall away. Each leaf, representative of a different method, a different mark on the world — a last goodbye. Overdose, heart attack, disease — gravel, dirt, pavement, all roads to the same destination, all choices to the same outcome.

To Dazai, death is nothing but a rite of passage; a political play, if you will. The system has had the the death of mankind configured since the beginning of time. To some, it is God who clutches their conviction and kicks at their heels, urging them to procure happiness. And then, there are those who believe life to be a series of serendipitous events.

Both lives believe death to be fate — that despite the argument of what creates a sin, passing is already known.

But Dazai has died many times.

Truly, he’s been counting. He avoided admitting it, though — not that dying is embarrassing, but wanting to die is (perhaps that’s the way it should be).

He separates the stages of his life into three parts: afterlife, alimentation, and nothingness. All of them, a continuous puzzle, distinctly marked yet none propitious enough for Dazai to remember, save one.

All of them ended in death.

“Penny for your thought?” A saccharine tone pulls him out of his thoughts, only to cause another wave of contemplation to crash through him. Dazai does not look up. He does not have to.

“Amounted to much? Of course not until you arrived, Fyodor.”

A small chuckle escapes the Russian presumptuously (a laugh of pity perhaps).

Wispy tendrils of smoke trail behind Fyodor, blending with the smoky air of the graveyard. Dazai is synonymous in his charcoal evening shift, buttoned to the top-most button. He sits in front of a gravestone, rocks marking on his calloused palms as he props himself up.

Even in the darkness of night, the man beside him stands out.

Fyodor Doetoesvky is starlight — present perpetually yet falling between the cracks of universes, evanescently existing before tumbling to the next — an inevitable pause without warning.

Make no mistake — he is far from a saint — one could spot him from his sins from afar; they drag behind him, as if he is a God and his wrongs must be glad to be tied to such a being (Dazai calls bullshit).

“If I had known you would be paying me a visit today, I would have dressed a bit nicer,” Dazai mock groans, casting the taller a soft glare.

“It is Sunday. Have you seemed to neglect me already? I’m quite hurt, Dazai.”

“I never was a stickler for punctuality and you know that Fyodor.”

Dazai’s tongue is one coated with poison — he’s a liar and Fyodor is well aware; but as a worshipper of the Devil himself, he need not to show his hypocrisy.

“With him you were, and besides, you have changed quite a bit, have you not? Your visits are brief, or non existent, you do not bring flowers,” Fyodor confirms, wary eyes fixed on the name etched on the gravestone.

“Habits change, appearance shifts, but human nature remains. Only in death does it cease. I have not changed, Fyodor. But perhaps you have just sinned a little less and thought of me a little better.”

“Perhaps.”

—

If love is life, then the loss of love is demise, and Dazai’s grip on life has always been a bit too weak. He likes to believe that on the day of his birth, he was born with years shaved off his life.

Perhaps he was a bit too frail, weak-minded, weak-hearted; he was not sure what it was but he knew he had been used before. As if he had been worn out, healthy for a while, then cast aside as another puppet, overused and unneeded — it was as if he had already lived before.

The stutter of his heart resounded hollowly and when the wintry skies would over take Yokohama, he feared the chatter of his teeth.

He was indebted to his weaknesses, however.

It gave him what mankind set out on a pursuit for: an excuse. He did not have to recount tales of picturesque infatuation to prove happiness. It was simple: Dazai was happy because he should have been satisfied that he was living at all.

[olympic-paris]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more …

August 4

1839 – Walter Pater, English scholar and intellectual (d.1894), reflected a homosexual sensibility among British prose writers of the Victorian era, and was once considered one of the greatest prose stylists in English literature, although he is little read today. William Butler Yeats called Pater's novel Marius the Epicurean (1885) "the only great prose in modern English." Tradition has it that he sought for the right word, the way Flaubert did for le mot juste. The result, to modern taste at any rate, is a prose so over-polished that it is hardly the art that conceals art. Pater's eyes were focused entirely on aesthetic subjects — particularly ancient Rome and the Renaissance — and his writings have been called "reconstructions of the past toward which he turned his eyes away from the present."

His greatest follower, among many, was Oscar Wilde, who has been called an unleashed version of Pater's repressed self. Wilde's favorite work by Pater was Studies in the History of the Renaissance: "It is my golden book; I never travel anywhere without it; but it is the very flower of decadence: the last trumpet should have sounded the moment it was written."

From the 1870s through the 1890s, he was regarded by the reading public as a major theorist and practitioner of Aestheticism and Decadence. (Pater himself regarded this identification with some perplexity, though his influence on Oscar Wilde, for instance, was clear). His stylistic elegance and his dangerous ideas about art's autonomy from morality, combined with rumors of homosexuality at Oxford, where he taught, made Pater's name virtually synonymous with homosexual society of the late nineteenth century. In 1876, speaking as a guardian of public morals, W. T. Courthope announced: "we repudiate the effeminate desires which Mr. Pater, the mouthpiece of our artistic 'culture,' would encourage in society."

Wilde used to tell the story (quoted in The Oxford Book of Literary Anecdotes) in which he delineated both Pater's repressed character and his fondness for picturesque words. One morning before beginning his lecture, Pater asked a young man named Sanctuary to remain behind at the end. The student felt uncomfortable, but when they were left alone together, it was the professor who looked nervous. After a period of embarrassment, the young man said: "You asked me to stay behind, sir, did you not?" Pater pulled himself together: "Oh yes, Mr. Sanctuary. I ... I wanted to say you ... what a very beautiful name you have got."

1904 – The Polish novelist and dramatist Witold Gombrowicz was born on this date (d.1969). His works are characterized by deep psychological analysis, a certain sense of paradox and an absurd, anti-nationalist flavor. In 1937 he published his first novel, Ferdydurke, which presented many of his usual themes: the problems of immaturity and youth, the creation of identity in interactions with others, and an ironic, critical examination of class roles in Polish society and culture. He gained fame only during the last years of his life but is now considered one of the foremost figures of Polish literature.

Just before the outbreak of the Second World War, Gombrowicz took part in the maiden voyage of the Polish cruise liner, Chrobry, to South America. When he found out about the outbreak of war in Europe, he decided to wait in Buenos Aires until the war was over, although he reported to the Polish legation in 1941 but was considered unfit for military duties. Gombrowicz was actually to stay in Argentina until 1963 — often, especially during the war, in great poverty.

At the end of the 1940s Gombrowicz was trying to gain a position among Argentine literary circles by publishing articles, giving lectures in Fray Mocho café, and finally, by publishing in 1947 a Spanish translation of Ferdydurke written with the help of his friends, among them Virgilio Piñera (see below).

In his serialized Diary (1953-68) Gombrowicz alluded to his homosexual experiences with 'lower class' young men; a theme which he picked up again when interviewed by Dominique de Roux in A Kind of Testament (1973).

1930 – Grand Ayatollah Sayyid Ali al-Husayni al-Sistani is the highest-ranking Twelver Shia marja in Iraq and the leader of the Hawza of Najaf.

In 2005 Sistani issued a fatwa on his website calling for the execution of gays in the "worst, most severe way". Following protests from UK-based Iraqi gay rights groups, Sistani agreed to remove the fatwa from his website except for the section calling for the punishment of lesbianism. Though the text of the fatwa has been removed its status has not been officially revoked. In January 2007, a United Nations report described the increased persecution, torture and extrajudicial killing of Iraqi lesbians and gay men by the Shia death squads of the Badr and Sadr militias (the armed wings of the two main Shia parties that control the government of Iraq).

Porn by Hoban (as Tom Hardy)

1941 – Gordon Hoban was an American writer, a dramatist who wrote porno and S&M works. His books include "Adventures of a High School Hunk," 1990, "The Marine Olaf," 1990, and "Runaway."

Gordon Hoban was an actor in the Mark Taper Forum's Los Angeles production of A Meeting by the River, written by Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, when he first thought of becoming a writer himself. He credits Isherwood's example as his impetus. Hoban moved into scriptwriting first, authoring a couple episodes of the television hit "The Paper Chase" and working later on Twentieth Century Fox development projects for the movies. On the sly he was writing pornography as Tom Hardy. As he saw his script work being more and more dictated by committee, he realized that the porn was the source of his greatest satisfaction and that much of that satisfaction came from his ability to control the writing.

He escaped to an isolated valley in Hawaii where he lived for the first several years under a tarp and walked for miles to a pay phone with a pocket full of change whenever he wanted to contact the rest of the world. The sacrifice enabled him to start Omnium Publishing, with which he's published his stage plays, as well as his erotic novels.

His story collections and novels were privately republished. "Runaway" is the best collection, "The Marine Olaf" probably the best novel. At his best, his work was definitely literature, not just stroke fiction.

He died of AIDS on April 10, 1993, in Kakuihaele, Hawaii.

Barnett (R) with Maniapoto

1958 –Tim Barnett has been a member of the New Zealand Parliament for Christchurch Central since 1996, and was the Senior Government Whip.

Born in Rugby, UK, Barnett co-founded (with Ian Mckellen and Michael Cashman) the gay activist organization Stonewall UK. Five years after emigrating in 1991, he became the first openly gay man to be elected to New Zealand’s parliament.

In his previous Parliamentary term he was the Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Associate Minister of Justice on human rights issues, the Minister for the Community and Voluntary Sector, and the Minister for Social Development. He was also chair of the Justice and Electoral Select Committee.

He has been active in many community-based organizations in New Zealand, including Rainbow Labour, which he helped to found in 1997, and he is a supporter of UniQ, the Queer Students Association at New Zealand universities. He was the Parliamentary promoter of the Prostitution Law Reform Bill, a bill in his name that became law in 2003, and an outspoken supporter of the Civil Union Bill, which became law in 2004.

At the 2005 general election, Barnett was re-elected with 52.35 percent of the vote and a majority of 6,694.

He currently resides with his partner since 2001, Ramon Maniapoto, an Air New Zealand service consultant, in Christchurch, Canterbury. They married at Waitetoko Marae at Lake Taupo in November 2007 during a relaxed ceremony attended by about 300 guests, including a Who's Who of the Labour Party. Barnett, who wore an ivory coloured shirt with black koru-shaped swirls on it, was escorted down the aisle to a smiling Maniapoto, dressed in a black suit and white shirt, by parliament's Speaker of the House Margaret Wilson.

1970 – John August, born John Meise, is an American screenwriter and film director. He writes and maintains the popular screenwriting blog johnaugust.com, and develops screenwriter-targeted software.

August's debut film was 1999's critically acclaimed Go,for which he also served as co-producer and second unit director. In 1998, August acquired the film rights to Daniel Wallace's Big Fish. His adaptation became the 2003 Tim Burton film of the same name and earned August a 2003 BAFTA Award nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay. Since 2003, August has written the screenplay for several Tim Burton films, including Corpse Bride, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (an adaptation of Roald Dahl's classic children's book), and Frankenweenie. August also shared story credit with Seth Grahame-Smith on Burton's Dark Shadows.

August is writing the book for the Broadway musical adaptation of Big Fish, with music and lyrics by Andrew Lippa, directed and choreographed by Susan Stroman.

He also runs his no-nonsense website for budding screenwriters, where he is forthright about the eleven finished scripts he can't get made, and, gratis, answers readers' random questions about their work.

August is openly gay. He married Michael August on June 28, 2008 during the four months same-sex marriage in California was recognized. Together they have a daughter.

The New York Times wrote, "Mr. August said his sexual orientation has helped him notice things others miss," and quoted him saying, "I suspect every gay screenwriter has a big gay-catharsis movie inside them. But then you go to a gay film festival and you see everyone else has done their movie, and there's not a pressing need for you to do yours."

1971 – Marcus Urban is a former German soccer player. He performed for the East German national youth soccer team and within the 2nd department membership of Rot-Weiß Erfurt in the 1980s and early 1990s

He was sent to a sports boarding school at the age of thirteen and played for the country's youth teams in the 1990s before joining Rot-Weiss Erfurt in the second division.

As he was exceptionally aggressive, he played centre midfield, turning into a playmaker like Rafael van der Vaart at Hamburg. He told journalists. "Once I left the region, I was no more the shy gray mouse. I used to be full of complexes."

Years later, he came out as a homosexual. He has spoken publicly about the difficulties that gay footballers suffer, and he's now a spokesperson and campaigner on diversity issues in the game and at his place of work.

1982 – In France, the age of consent for same-sex acts is lowered from 21 to 15, the same as for heterosexual acts.

1983 – The Eighth Annual National Reno Gay Rodeo opens under threats of snipers. Snipers do not appear, and 20,000 plus enjoy the festivities.

2007 – Rome marks the opening of its first "Gay Street" with flags, banners and protests amid a row over a male couple who claimed they were detained by police for kissing near the Colosseum. Campaigners welcomed a 325-yard zone in the center of the city, filled with shops and bars, as an area where gays can "feel at ease," after days of heated debate in predominantly Roman Catholic Italy over the kissing incident.

[cheerfullycatholic]

The Darkness That Lurks Beneath

Yellow and orange leaves blew across the busy street on a crisp, autumn breeze. It was late October in Hallow Creek, shown by the bare trees, chilly weather, and pumpkins sprinkled here and there around the town. La Vie est un Voyage, a homely inn,stood atop a small hill, overlooking the quaint town’s brick shops and cafes.

“There she is,” sighed Carl Hage, throwing the end of his deep red scarf over his shoulder, looking up at the picturesque building from the sidewalk. “The La Vie est un Voyage bed and breakfast, famous for their homemade pancakes and pure west Michigan maple syrup.” The man turned, facing his camera man. “However, that’s not why we’re here today, folks. There’s something less known about this smalltown inn, something, possibly, very sinister.” Carl paused, pursing his lips. “Cut.” he called, sighing loudly. The camera man, Dalton Silvio, groaned, pressing the pause button and lowering his camera. “What is it, Carl? You were doing great,” A gust of wind blew passed, causing them both to tense up. “It’s freezing, man, let’s just finish the take so we can check in.”

“No,” Carl said, turning towards their vehicle and opening the passenger door. “Care, do I really have to say that?”

Carolina Valentine, the third member of their team, took a sip from her pumpkin spice latte. “Say what?” She asked.

“That it’s sinister. What’s sinister about the underground railroad?”

Dalton groaned again behind him, muttering something the other two couldn’t hear.

The interior of the inn was even more beautiful than the exterior. Dark oak wood made up the first floor, with burgundy floral rugs leading the way through the house. The group checked in at the antique front desk, double checking to make sure they had permission to film during their stay, before taking the keys to their rooms and heading up the polished staircase that creaked with every step.

“Carl, the line is “possibly very sinister”. That’s what’s going to get and keep people interested. We already talked about all of the synonyms you could replace it with, but we agreed as a group that we weren’t changing the script. So just stick to it, alright?” Carolina smiled. Biting his lip, Carl nodded dejectedly, shutting the door and turning back towards the inn. “Alright, take two.”

-

“This would be a good place to get the next shot,” Dalton whispered, taking in all of the possible angles from the stairs. “Maybe I could start filming half way up, and you could walk up them as you explain a bit of the history?”

“What about the creaky floors?” Gina Falcone, the team’s editor, asked from the back of the group.

“The inn is said to have been connected to the famous underground railroad, working as a safe haven for those escaping slavery in the South in the 1830s,” Carl spoke, slowly making his way up the staircase. “Local legend claims that the tunnels trail under all of downtown Hallow Creek, connecting the inn to the other buildings around it, including the Sleeping Dragon bookstore across the street, the Riverside Café a few doors down, and the Hallow Creek Museum, which puts this town’s interesting history on full display for townsfolk and tourists alike to explore.”

“You could work your computer magic on them, easy-peasy.” Dalton shrugged, examining the antique art that decorated the tan walls of the hallway. “Easy for you to say…” Gina grumbled, readjusting the strap that hung off her shoulder.

-

Now at the top, Carl walked over to one of the paintings hung on the wall of a young girl picking wild berries near a river, before turning back towards the camera. “What happened here, all those years ago? Is the tunnel still functional? Who, or what, remains?” He turned to face the camera now, stepping under one of the light fixtures. “That’s what my team and I are here to find out. Join us as we discover the secrets of La Vie est un Voyage, on this episode of Haunted Historians.”

Smoke billowed from his chapped lips as Carl sat on a bench near the Riverside café, a cigarette in one hand and a disposable coffee cup in the other, and took in the sights and sounds of the small town. There was a brewery full of people across from him, a park to the side where people sat on picnic tables and chatted lively, as if it wasn’t freezing outside. Carl, bundled up in two jackets, a scarf, and a tattered beanie, hoped his attire wouldn’t give away his southern heritage. He blew out another puff of smoke, sighing to himself.

Dalton called cut and ended the recording. “That was great, man. I really feel like this is the episode that’s going to get us the viewership we need.” Carl nodded, “Yeah man, this’ll be the one for sure,” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “I’ll be back in a bit.” He left his friend on the second floor, not feeling any truth in his words.

-

“You’re not from around here, are you, boy?” A woman’s voice made Carl jump, spilling a bit of his coffee on his lap. The woman was shorter than him, wearing a simple brown dress with a frayed gray sweater over it. Her coiled hair, pulled back in a low bun, stood out against her warm, dark features. She wore a gentle smile on her worn down face. Carl laughed nervously, dabbing at the coffee stain on his jeans. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“I’m sorry to have scared you. What are you doing all the way up here? Just visiting?” Her accent was thick, Carl couldn’t quite place where from.

He nodded, putting out the cigarette on the bottom of his boot. “Here for work, actually. I don’t think much else could’ve made me come so far north. Definitely not in this weather.” The woman chuckled, nodding, as well. “Yes, it does get mighty cold here in the winter. But it beats the raging heat of southern summers!”

“You’re from the south, too?” Carl asked, scooting aside to give her a place to sit.

“I came here all the way from Alabama, used to work on a farm down there. Came here with my kids and some others for a better life.”

Carl hummed, taking a sip of coffee. “Why’d you choose Hallow Creek?”

“I felt welcomed here.” She replied. “The locals are kind.” They sat in silence for a moment, watching the traffic light turn from red to green, and the cars that were waiting there to turn towards a bridge that crossed the river Hallow Creek was known for. After another moment, the woman spoke again. “You’re staying at the Voyage?”

Carl squinted, turning towards her. “That’s right, ma’am. How’d you know that?” The woman had a different smile on her face this time, Carl almost thought he saw sorrow in her eyes.

“I’ve spent my fair share in that place.”

“Really?” Carl was interested now. He took another sip of his coffee, leaning forward. “Could you tell me anything about your stay there? Did something strange or unexplainable happen?” The woman stared ahead, eyes unfocused. “Ma’am? Did you hear me?” Carl placed his hand on her arm, drawing her attention.

“So, how long have you worked at the Voyage?” Carl asked, turning towards the young girl behind the front desk. Lynn Farrell glanced at the camera, picking at her fingers in her lap.

“Don’t be stupid, boy!” She drew her arm back, hastily standing. She was breathing heavy, walking away from him with her arms folded in front of her. “Wait!” Carl called after her, following her down the sidewalk. “It’s not safe, not safe!” She hollered, rounding the corner. He ran to catch up with her, about to apologize, but the woman was gone.

-

“I’ve been here for about a year.” She replied, sitting up straight in her swivel chair. Carl nodded, leaning against the desk. “When we were first corresponding with you, you had said you experienced some…unnatural things. Could you tell us about that?”

Lynn took a deep breath, laying her hands on the cool surface in front of her. “When I used to work the night shift, I’d always hear music coming from the basement. Old music, like…from a record or something kinda scratchy, ya know? Oh, and sometimes I see a young boy. He runs up and down the stairs sometimes.” Carl shared a look with his teammates, a small, excited smile on his face.

“You saw an apparition? Like a full bodied, clear person?”

Lynn nodded, “More than once. I see him often. A woman, too. Outside. She stares at the building from the sidewalk.”

“Have you ever tried talking to them?” Carolina asked from behind the camera. Lynn shook her head. “I was taught to pray for the dead, not talk to them.” Carl nodded again, standing upright. “Have they ever spoken to you?”

Lynn’s face paled, eyes looking off to the side. She mumbled something, Carl leaned in closer to hear her better. “What was that, Lynn?”

Carl sat on the bed in his room, trying to wrap his brain around what Lynn, and that mysterious woman he met outside, said. Dalton sat at the desk, reviewing the footage from the interview on his laptop.

Her eyes focused, she looked over at the group. “Not safe,” she straightened her shirt, hands fidgeting with the hem. “The old woman outside just says, “not safe” when I see her.”

-

It’s just a coincidence, isn’t it? He thought, the conversation running through his mind over and over again. Yes, it has to be. The woman I talked to was flesh and bone. Besides, Carl rolled his eyes. Ghosts don’t exist.

When his team first learned that he didn’t believe in the supernatural, they were dumbfounded. “You’re a paranormal investigator and you don’t even believe in the paranormal? Why’d you decide to take this job, then?” Carolina asked, eyes wide with shock.

“I thought it’d be a fun, easy job.” Carl shrugged, leaning back in his seat. The others made sounds of disbelief, all speaking at once.

“Hey!, Hey, guys, look; I just think there’s a rational explanation for everything, that’s all. I’m a good actor, it doesn’t affect my ability to do my job.”

“Hang on, wait,” Gina spoke, “So, everything that’s happened to us during our investigations. You don’t believe any of it was supernatural?”

Carl shook his head. “Disembodied voices can be explained as a trick of the mind, shadows can be explained as animals or cars outside windows, or our eyes playing tricks on us in the darkness. And come on, guys,” He smiled. “We fake so much stuff for the show, who’s to say the people who host us don’t do the same?”

“You can’t prove that,” Carolina said quietly.

The Haunted Historians team stood at the front desk of the Hallow Creek Museum, Gina leading the way, talking with the employee in front of them.

“And you can’t prove the opposite.”

-

“Do you have anything regarding La Vie est un Voyage? The inn just down the street?” She asked. The employee looked around the show room, “Um,” he stammered, “I’m not sure. I’m just a volunteer. I started a couple days ago. I can go ask the curator if you want?”

Dalton smiled, “That’d be great, thanks.”

“I doubt they’ll have anything on the inn if he isn’t aware of it.” Carl observed quietly as the employee walked out of sight.

“The guy doesn’t seem aware of anything…” Dalton whispered, leaning against the desk. Carolina elbowed him in the side, shushing him. “He just started a few days ago, you cretin. Be nice.”

Dalton rolled his eyes, rubbing his side. “I’m just saying, the person at the front desk should know what’s on display.”

Carl turned away from the two as they started arguing, walking over to a table full of pamphlets. Sleeping Dragon, Riverside, Irondale grill… He scooped up that one, taking a closer look at the coupon for one free drink on the back. The employee returned with a woman following behind him as Carl stuffed the pamphlet into his pocket, joining his team once again.

“Hello there, my name is Juiliana Morganach, I’m the curator here at the Hallow Creek History Museum. Matt told me you were looking for information on La Vie est un Voyage?”

Carolina nodded, smiling softly. “Yes ma’am. My team and I work for a show called Haunted Historians and we’re currently filming at the inn. We’d like to gather all the information we can about it and we were hoping for your permission to film in this lovely building, as well.” Carolina smiled again, gesturing to the show room.

Juliana Morganach laughed, brushing a strand of straight, ginger hair over her shoulder. “Well,” she grinned, clasping her hands together. “Never have I met a tourist who was so bold.”

“We’re not tourists,” Dalton stepped forward. “We’re here on business.”

“Business?” Ms. Morganach asked incredulously. “You’re asking to use my home’s history for your personal gain. People have worked and died to make Hallow Creek what it is, some in that very bed and breakfast.” She shook her head, “You may browse the gallery as any other paying costumer, but I do not give you my permission to film, nor to access the town’s records.” With a nod to the team and a hard look at the employee at the desk, the woman turned and exited the room through the door she came from.

“Wow,” Gina sighed, turning towards the others. “What do we do now?”

Carl walked up to the desk. “Uh, Matt, right?” The employee nodded, gulping nervously. “Could you tell us what she meant when she said that people died in the inn?”

Matt bit his lip, shrugging. “Not really…I’m not from Hallow Creek, I’m just here for community service. I’m sorry, if you won’t buy tickets, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Carl nodded, reaching for his wallet.

“What are you doing? I don’t want to give this place a dime.” Dalton hissed, grabbing him by the arm. Carl pulled it back as he asked Matt how much for four.

“Dalton,” Carl whispered, handing over the cash. “Just because we can’t see the records, doesn’t mean we can’t get anything. Let’s just look around.”

The team spread out around the room, each looking at a different display.

Carl was reading a plaque about the old trapping equipment when Gina called him over. The display she pointed to was labeled Freedom in Hallow Creek, and showcased articles of tattered clothing, photos, and newspaper clippings, one of which caught Carl’s eye.

“Look, this one mentions the Voyage,” Gina whispered excitedly.  “It says that before it was a bed and breakfast, the Voyage used to be home to the Shipley family. When the tunnels were being made, they volunteered their house to be a safe haven for people escaping slavery, but there was a massacre and the tunnels were closed.”

Carl pored over the clipping, writing down the information on his phone. “This is great, Gina. Good job spotting this.”

She smiled, leaning over the clipping to get another look. “I just wish they had more information on the massacre. This article doesn’t go into detail about everyone who died, or who killed them.”

Carl nodded. “I’m sure that is locked away in Ms. Morganach’s records.”

“I don’t entirely blame her for not wanting such a spotlight put on her town. This place is too beautiful to be run down by messy, inconsiderate tourists.” Gina mumbled, inspecting another part of the display. Carl hummed in agreement, catching sight of the photo on the clipping. It was titled Victims of the Massacre. Three people stared blankly ahead, clothes torn and dirty. Carl’s face drained of color as he recognized one to be the woman he spoke to earlier on the sidewalk.

That’s impossible, he thought, slipping his phone back into his pocket. She was real, she was alive. I touched her arm; I felt her warmth. He read farther down. Martha Marshall. Died two days after this photo was taken. She was fifty-two years old. Pictured with her are Marcel and Louis Marshall, her two sons.

The chairs beneath them felt frozen, the afternoon sun doing little to warm the back sitting area of the Voyage. Carl sat next to Carolina, trying to remember what he was supposed to say. His mind had been a whirlwind since he left the museum, Gina trailing behind him. She tried talking to him, but he didn’t know what to say. He was too ashamed to tell her about the woman he saw and how she looked disturbingly similar to the woman, Martha Marshall, in the old photo. And, he was scared. He said some things he wishes he hadn’t, and now she stood beside Dalton, holding the mic, not making eye contact with him. Carl cleared his throat, sitting up in his seat. “Alright, let’s do this.”

“Carl?” Gina grabbed his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. He looked at her, yanking his arm back. “Carl, what’s wrong?” Turning, he made his way to the door of the museum, letting himself out.

-

“My team and I have learned some very interesting things about La Vie est un Voyage at Hallow Creek’s very own museum. While we weren’t able to film in the museum, we were allowed to look around, and what we found was disturbing.”

Carl looked to Carolina as she continued, “The Voyage wasn’t always a well-loved and cherished bed and breakfast. It used to be home to Manfred and Wilma Shipley, staunch abolitionists who opened up their home to shelter those escaping slavery in the South.”

“The Shipley’s,” Carl began, “helped build the tunnel beneath their home, along with their three sons and two daughters. Once it was completed, they housed over fifteen people of all ages.”

“Unfortunately, only months after the tunnel was opened, tragedy struck,” Carolina paused. “One newspaper article that we found in the museum said there was a massacre at the Shipley estate, but the article didn’t go into much detail. So, we started digging through the Web, and you’ll never guess what we found.”

Carl gulped, picking at his fingers under the table. “No one knows what, but in the middle of the night on January 27th, 1837, everyone in the house was brutally murdered.”

“Cut,” Dalton called, pushing the pause button on his camera. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Carl sighed as he rubbed his temple.

“Why’d you say that like you were gonna cry, man? Where’s the excitement? Where’s the adventure in your voice? We’re not at a funeral, man, read your lines with wonder.”

Carl leaned back, glaring. “You think mass murder is exciting? You think talking about this stuff is easy or fun for me?”

Dalton shot a glare back at him, “It’s never seemed to bother you before.”

“You might think I don’t know you, but I do, Carl.” Gina mumbled as the two investigators made their way to the basement. “Gina, just let it go.” Carl signed in response, at they hit the first level of the inn.

“Alright,” Carolina stood up, folding her arms across her chest as a chill breeze blew passed, taking discolored, dead leaves with it. “Let’s take five. When we come back, we’ll switch scripts.”

-

“I know something’s bothering you about this place, and you’re not alone. We can talk about it; I want to talk about it.”

Carl grabbed the old brass knob on the door that Lynn Farrell said led to the basement and turned it, the hairs on his arms standing up as he gazed down the dark stairwell in front of him. “And I’ve told you that I don’t wanna talk, so just drop it!”

Gina grabbed his arm before he could descend. “When you decide to, if you decide to, I’ll be here for you. Just like always.” Carl’s shoulders dropped, and he almost gave in. “I know.”

The basement was cold and dim, the stench of mildew strong in the dank space. Carl’s heart was in his throat as he glanced around at the bottom of the stairs. The room was small, and packed with junk. Old furniture, broken mirrors, torn and tattered sheets, shelves full of long forgotten, moldy books, and tiles of boxes packed with who knows what else.

“Where do you think the door to the tunnel is?” Gina asked, waving her sleeve in front of her nose as she glanced around the room.

“Hell if I know,” Carl mumbled, stepping towards a bookshelf. “This would be a terrible place to film, though.” Gingerly taking a book off the shelf, he scanned the front as Gina went in the opposite direction, towards a stack of boxes that reached the low, slanted ceiling.

“How many diseases do you think we’ll get from touching this stuff?” Gina pondered after a moment of silence with a chuckle, holding a yellowed dress up to herself and twirling. Carl smiled, “I don’t know, but I found a book of natural remedies, so if I can find a readable page, we’ll be good.”

“That bad, huh?” Gina asked, setting down the dress. Half way to him, standing on top of a stained rug, the floor beneath her collapsed, and Gina disappeared below, a scream of terror following her.

Carl dashed to the hole in the floor, scraping his knees as he slid to a stop, peering down into blackness. “Gina! Gina are you okay!?” He yelled anxiously, fumbling with his phone, shaking it once to turn on the flashlight. He could barely make out the bottom of the hole, but she was there, lying unconscious on top of the old rug and a hidden trap door. Carl swore, unlocking his phone.

“Dalton, get the lady at the front desk and come down to the basement, Gina fell through the floor, and I think she’s hurt.” Carl didn’t give his colleague a chance to answer before he hung up, turning on the flashlight again. Swinging his legs over the side, he shined the light into the hole again, trying to get a better look at the bottom.

Okay, you can do this. For Gina. Carl pushed off the side, dropping into the tunnel.

The sound of bones cracking filled the dusty space around him as he landed hard, his foot going sideways. Carl swore again as he stumbled before crumbling to the ground in pain. Gina, in the pile of rubble next to him, stirred, lifting a shaky, grimy hand to her head.

“Gina,” Carl gasped, brushing pieces of wood from her body. “Are you okay? Let me see you.”

She groaned as he inspected her for injuries, his hand coming back warm with blood from a cut on the back of her skull. “Shit, Gina, stay still,” he pulled off his flannel, rolling it up and tucking it beneath her head, applying pressure to the wound. “You’re gonna be okay, Dalton and Carolina are getting help.”

Gina coughed, wincing. “How’d you get down here? You weren’t close enough to fall with me, right?” Her eyes went wide, “Did the whole floor collapse?” Carl shushed her, holding onto her hand. “No, I jumped in after you.”

“Why would you do that? Where are we, the tunnel?”

Carl shined his phone’s light around, but couldn’t see much beyond a few feet on either side. “I think so. I couldn’t leave you down here alone.” Tears poured from her eyes, leaving streaks down her face. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“I know,” Carl whispered, kissing the back of her hand, “we won’t be for long.”

From above, footsteps pounded down the stairwell. A moment later, Dalton and Carolina’s face appeared over the hole.

“Oh man, this is bad. Are you guys okay!?” Dalton yelled as Carolina turned towards Lynn Farrell, who in turn, ran back up the stairs.

“Lynn is going to call the police. We’ll have you out of there soon!” Carolina said, kneeling beside the opening.

“Gina’s hurt; her head is bleeding.” Carl yelled back, “I landed on my ankle wrong when I jumped in, I don’t know if it’s broken or not.”

Dalton fished around in his pocket briefly. “Here, take my penlight, it’s brighter than your phone.” Carl held out his hand to catch the little flashlight, pocketing his phone as he turned it on. Now with a proper light, Carl could get a better look around the dusty space. To the left, the tunnel stretched on out of sight. To the right, it took a sharp turn about five feet away.

“The tunnel over here turns ,” Carl yells, leaning to try and get a peak around the corner. A chill ran down his spine the more he looked, and eventually turned his gaze away. “I wanna get out of here. Have you heard anything from Lynn?”

Carolina shook her head. “I’ll go see what’s going on, just hang in there a little while longer.” She disappeared, leaving just the three of them.

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier, Carl.” Dalton spoke hesitantly. “I was a jerk, I guess I didn’t realize that this stuff can be heavy sometimes. I was…insensitive.”

Carl chuckled, “That sounds like something Care would say.”

“Heh, yeah…” Dalton rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “That was part of her lecture. But seriously, man, I was a jerk. People died. I should be more respectful.”

“Do you hear that?” Gina whispered, interrupting Carl’s response. Everyone held their breath, waiting, listening.

“There it was again!” Gina gasped, fumbling into a sitting position against the wall. “There’s someone else here.”

“G, I don’t hea-“ A roar, loud and rumbling and terrible, ripped through the silence, shaking the tunnel’s walls.

“Dalton! Get us out of here!” Carl yelled as footsteps approached, thumping quickly in their direction from the left. Dalton disappeared from sight, and with nothing else to do, Carl heaved himself onto his feet, wincing at the jolt of pain that ran up his leg. He put the flashlight in his mouth and grabbed Gina by her arms, dragging her around the corner.

“Sh. Shut up, shut up,” He whispered as Gina cried, turning off the flashlight. Back pressed against the wall, Carl held her against him, one hand over her mouth, as the thing in the tunnel got closer.

“Guys, guys! I found a ladder!” Dalton yelled. There was thump as he dropped it down the hole. A second roar ripped through the black space, and he screamed. Carl closed his eyes, hugging Gina tighter, as the beast, only feet away, clawed its way up the ladder and into the inn.

“Oh my gosh,” Gina breathed as Carl dropped his hand, swallowing the lump in his throat. “What was that?”

“I don’t know, but we have to get out of here.” Carl replied, turning the flashlight back on. From above, shrieks of horror echoed throughout the inn.

“We can’t go back up there,” Gina whispered, using the dirt wall to pull herself up. Carl did the same, minding his broken ankle.

“No,” he whispered back, shining the light down the tunnel. “But we can get out through a different building. These tunnels connect to the surrounding establishments, right?”

Holding onto each other for support, they made their way further into the darkness.

“Damn, why can’t they all have ladders?” Carl huffed as he leaned against the wall, looking up at the trap door above him, and the iron ladder that led to it.

“Do you think everyone in the inn is dead?” Gina whispered, flinching as she pressed her hand against the wound on her head.

Carl frowned, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know…Let’s get out of here and find someone to help.”

Gina went up the ladder first. After a few attempts, the door lifted, and light shined down on them.

“I think we’re in the bookstore!” Gina whispered as Carl followed after her. Once he reached the top, Gina pulled him the rest of way onto green dotted carpet. Like in the Voyage, the trap door was hidden underneath a tattered rug. He replaced it after shutting the door, looking around for the exit.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Ignoring the angry shopkeeper that followed them out of the store, Carl and Gina stepped onto the sidewalk, looking across the busy street at the inn. From the outside, in the darkness, it looked like the cozy bed and breakfast it was advertised to be.

“Where’s the police?” Gina gasped, looking around. Crossing the street, they approached the estate.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape appear. “Don’t go in there, not safe! Not safe!” The old woman from before raced up to Carl, grabbing him roughly by the arm. Though this time, she was covered in blood. “It killed my boys!” Then like dust in the wind, she was gone, disappearing on the autumn breeze.

“Did you see that!” Carl exclaimed, pulling Gina to a halt before the brick steps.

“See what?” She asked, “Come on, we have to find Dalton and Carolina!” Shaking his head, they ascended the steps, towards the dark red front door.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Carl paused, hand on the doorknob. Beyond it, he could hear crashing, and someone calling for help. Behind them stood Juliana Morganach, a gun in her hands.

“If we don’t help them, they’ll die.” Gina shot back, swaying on her feet, legs shaking.

“If you open that door, we’ll all die. It’s better this way.” Ms. Morganach frowned, motioning for them to step away from the door.

“How is this better? Those people, our friends, are being slaughtered.” Carl hissed.

Ms. Morganach nodded, lowering her weapon as the chaos inside grew quiet. “It must feed. That is a truth all of us agreed upon when we decided to become guardians of the tunnel and of Hallow Creek.” She replied, a somber look on her face. “It’s not an easy job, but since that thing showed up, following the slaves seeking freedom all those years ago, it’s been a necessary one. If we didn’t feed it every few years, it’d break out and kill us all.”

“So, what, the whole town is in on it?” Gina asked incredulously. Behind them, another howl ripped through the night. Behind Ms. Morganach, others gathered. The shopkeeper from the bookstore among them.

“No, just the few who chose to take on this burden.” Said the pudgy, wrinkled man who owned the Irondale Grill. “We don’t like doing this, but it must be done anyway.”

“You’re killing people! You won’t get away with this, I’ll tell everyone.” Carl threatened, “I have connections all over the country, I can have this story broadcasted on the national news within the hour.”

A few of the people that had gathered laughed.

“You finished it?” Gina asked, gazing over Carl’s shoulder at the manuscript in front of him. “The Darkness That Lurks Beneath Hallow Creek, And Those Who Protect It… I like it. Do you think anyone will believe us?”

“No one will believe you, Mr. Hage.” Ms. Morganach replied, “I have connections, too. Maybe not as many as yours, but much more powerful.” She walked passed them and opened the front door, peering in. “The coast is clear. Someone go seal the door before it returns.” She turned back towards the investigators, a dark look in her green eyes. “You can either walk away now and pretend this never happened. Or, I can have all of this pinned on you two and have you shipped off to federal prison by dawn.”

-

Carl sighed, resting his chin on folded hands in front of him. “I doubt it, but it needed to be told. Damn the consequences.”

“For Carolina and Dalton.” Gina whispered.

“And Martha Marshall.”

[newzeppelincity]

𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

TWENTY FOUR YEARS IN NEW ZEPPELIN, AND CURRENT PORT MANTEAU DWELLER.

♥️ WARM, KIND ✘ STUBBORN, IDEALISTIC

RILEY'S DEAL: in an increasingly insincere world, ocean javellana still believes that love conquers all. maybe it's the fact that he's a triple libra, or that has four (4) doting parents, or that he grew up on the picturesque streets of darling circle -- but, whatever the reason, he has always seen the world through rose colored glasses. he believes the best in people, that will never change. he also falls in love with a different stranger every time he rides public transportation. doesn't seem like that's changing either. day to day, he deals in dreamy keyboard melodies and scraps of love poetry tucked between the pages of his journals. as the recent graduate of a comp lit program at the local liberal arts college, he is still in the process of contemplating his next move. one thing he knows for sure, it's gotta leave him with enough time and mental space for synonym sugar!

JOB: cashier @ greenhouse books !

LIVES @ THE COMPANY STORE, #1E:

★ ROOMMATE: raymond feesago ! ★ ROOMMATE: open to synonym sugar members! ★ ROOMMATE: open to synonym sugar members! ★ ROOMMATE: open to synonym sugar members!

ON KEYS FOR SYNONYM SUGAR.