#chestnutteal

[evereverest2]

“No one quite mourned like Omega ghoul…”

[from my fic titled Mourning]

gotta be honest i hate how this turned out but ill be damned if my time spent drawing mindlessly in my Charles Chestnutt class went to waste

buy me a kofi <3

[pop-art-sixties-seventies]

David Chestnutt, Think Wild, 1970.

[pagan-stitches]

9/20/24 graphing/charting/pattern making soundtrack

[mangus-khan-blog]

Charles W. Chesnutt: Pioneering African American Literary Voice

ARTICLE – MINI BIOGRAPHY – WRITER Charles Waddell Chesnutt (1858–1932) was a trailblazing African American writer, essayist, and activist whose literary contributions were crucial in challenging racial stereotypes and advancing the cause of civil rights during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Chesnutt’s work is celebrated for exploring complex social issues and its keen insight into the…

[completeandrandommusic]

Old Country - Mark Chestnutt

[morbidology]

The last known instance of residents of Rhode Island exhuming a body to perform a bizarre ritual in an attempt to kill a vampire took place in 1892. Tuberculosis struck the family of George and Mary Brown from Exeter, Rhode Island. It was believed that this was caused by the undead so they, along with the townsfolk, decided to exhume the bodies of two family members who had already died from the disease. These family members showed regular decomposition and were then re-buried.

Next, they exhumed the body of their 19-year-old daughter, Mercy; she showed absolutely no signs of decomposition. The family took this as a sign that Mercy was undead and that she was a vampire. They removed her heart, burnt it, and then mixed the ashes with water for her brother, Edwin, who was sick, to drink. It was believed that if the sick victim were to consume the heart of a vampire then they would be cured. Non-surprisingly, Edwin died two months later. Mercy’s grave stands in Chestnutt Hill Cemetery.

[tame-the-lion-writes]

anything but worthy [pt.2]

This is reposted from my ao3!

[SFW Arthur Morgan] tags: omegaverse

Ever since you were a teenager, you've loved romance books. First you pretended to hate them, and still occasionally do, but for all the tropes that you’ve scorned, there’s something inherently addicting about them, too.

You shared this little obsession with Mary-Beth, and as such, occasionally shared each other’s novels. She was an aspiring writer, you knew, and as an avid consumer, she’d appreciate your tips and critiques. But if there was one thing you couldn’t share, it was how much more you fantasized compared to her.

Pride and Prejudice was lovely, really – a testament to the change people will go through because they love someone. Romeo and Juliet was more of a tragedy, and while you understood the political metaphor, as a story, it felt a little too juvenile. There were the non-romances, too – Robinson Crusoe, Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. Hell, you’d even read Charles C. Chestnutt, since you were so invested in the politics of the time. Equality for everyone, past the bare minimums of the Civil War! 

But, on some level, you didn’t want the sensical. You didn’t want things that made sense – you craved suspension of disbelief. You craved something more primal, something that could be set aside from the sociopolitics of everyday life – something private, and personal, and perhaps a little… perverted.

Ugh. Putting it like that made you sound like you needed church.

(And perhaps you did.)

– but that wasn’t the point!

The point was – that for the past year, you’d been miraculously saved by a big strong mountain man, and now, in a time when women only had the options of marriage, elementary schooling, or prostitution, you had been swept into the wild drama of a gang of outlaws. This in itself was perfect romance material!-- if not perfect – ugh – Victorian erotica material.

(Because yes, those existed – though you certainly wanted something better than a couple dozen pages written from the perspective of a fucking flea.)

Now Arthur Morgan, in particular, was perfect romance material. You and Mary-Beth – and even Tilly – yes, Tilly! – had agreed as such. John was taken, Sean and Bill both idiots – though Karen would probably settle for the former. Javier was a romantic with a lovely voice, but you didn’t know him all too well, and Charles was almost too quiet. (Again, almost – he was handsome and kind and patient.) Dutch was taken, Hosea was more of a father, but Arthur – Arthur – he was a perfect mix of rough and sentimental. A perfect mix of rugged and gentle.

Though you might have underestimated just exactly how rough he could be.

Not to mention that he was an alpha – the greatest one in the pack, even above Dutch, you’d decided.

Admittedly, you didn’t notice at first – notice how often he looked at you, at least. You noticed his strength right away of course, and how much of a leader he could be when necessary, but it took Mary-Beth and Tilly and Karen – all of them – to make you realize he had taken a liking to you.

“God, you’re oblivious as hell, ain’tcha?” Karen had said one evening, throwing her hands up in the air. “The man’s been eyeing you like a piece of meat!”

“Now, I wouldn’t say a piece of meat–” Mary-Beth countered with a nervous chuckle, shaking her head. “More like a… a male lead!”

“A male– a fuckin’ what now?”

Tilly giggled in the background, covering her smile with her hand. “You know, Karen, like the main love interests in Mary-Beth’s books.”

The blonde made a face, scrunching up her nose. “You know I don’t read that shit. Too sappy for me.”

“It’s not… ‘shit,’” you defended with a smile, albeit an understanding one, but seeing Mary-Beth pout, you had to say something. “They’re pretty good in my opinion.”

“Oh, don’t you dare change topics with me, girly,” Karen scolded, rolling her eyes. “Either way, you know what we mean!”

 Actually, you didn’t – not until then. It was hard to believe a man like that could like you. But ever since that conversation, you found yourself looking over your shoulder more, darting your eyes in Arthur’s direction to try and catch him in the act. For the longest time, however, he seemed normal – busy with something else, not even close to facing you. You had nearly given up when, one night, when the gang was celebrating a successful job with drinks, that you looked up to see blue eyes staring you down, laced with a certain expression halfway between affection and lust.

That day, you looked away, red face hidden in the darkness. But from then on, with his whatever toward you confirmed, a returned interest had started to grow. And boy, did you try to hook him.

It started with simpler gestures, really – an odd form of courtship since you were shy and he just felt so big compared to life. You’d do all his laundry, hand him coffee or stew, or leave him a newly repaired shirt on the table by his bedside. One time, you even managed to scourge together enough money to buy him a new ink pen. Your excuse?-- that if he kept writing in his journal with pencil, the graphite would rub the letters clean off one day. And you knew how much his writing and drawing meant to him, even if he denied any form of intelligence.

But it took another few months before you’d finally gathered the courage. The courage to ask him to stay with you, through the heat – during your heat. But–

“I am anythin’ but worthy of that honor, little girl.”

The response made your heart sink, and for a moment, you thought that was that.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” Your voice is shaky. “I just thought it would be nice – me and you.”

You felt like a little girl, trembling quietly in the night.  All that staring and time wasted – but it was just staring, not him actually planning to act on you. Well, now you just felt a little silly, too. Silly little omega. What kind of omega chases an alpha – not the other way around?

“I guess I’ll just ask Sadie or Miss Grimshaw to go with me again. Or maybe Karen, ‘cause she can handle a gun, too.”

But before you can disappear into the darkness, escape the vicinity and curl up – cry yourself to sleep – he speaks up again, explaining himself.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, omega. I don’t wanna hurt you. That’s all.”

“Oh, Arthur. I’d be okay if it were you.”

Something shifted that evening. And you parted ways with a better understanding.

The following day, the girls helped you pack – Miss Grimshaw being helpful in particular. She’d made sure some herbs for soothing tea was going with you, and had the others wrap up enough blankets for comfort. There was a tower, the older woman explained, back up north in the Grizzlies – nice and cool to keep your fever from being unbearable, yet not quite buried in layers of snow. Compared to the humid mists of Lemoyne, it sounded like sheer paradise. Arthur himself had scouted it out while on one of his trips, and after tidying up the place a bit, deemed it a safehouse for omegas like you, Mary-Beth, and Tilly. (And Kieren, too, but the boy didn’t like to admit it.) 

But when you expected Miss Grimshaw herself to hop onto the wagon with you, instead of a woman with makeup too gaudy for her features, you heard a rough groan as a man clad in brown leather pulled himself up to sit at your side.

“Er, Arthur, this is my wagon,” you said, dumbfounded, brain not quite working.

“Yup, I know.”

He cracked the reins, getting the horses to start their little trotting.

“It’s– it’s my wagon. I’m not going to town, you– you know that, right?”

“Yup. I know.”

You stare a few more seconds, stare hard, then sink into your seat, facing forward.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

You hear faint laughter from behind you and raise your head to look over your shoulder, where you see the girls waving – grinning – and Karen hooting and hollering, knowing how things were likely to go. 

“Why– why did you change your mind?” you ask, breathless, gripping your hands tight in your lap. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Just thought about it last night. Thought– hell– once thought no one would have me. Then some pretty girl shows up an’-- well– guess your words hit a chord last time we talked.”

“Arthur, nobody in their right mind wouldn’t have you.”

The rest of the trip is spent in relative quiet, your mind busy processing the fact that Arthur would be staying. The stop at Rhodes for food was brief, the pass through Emerald Ranch even briefer. Then it was up to O’Creagh’s Run, where Arthur stopped by an old man’s cabin. The man had spared you a knowing smile, clapped Arthur on the back, offered to take you both fishing later, then sent you your way.

After that, it was just a little roundabout trip to avoid the steep parts of the mountain range, and soon, you two were passing into a clearing where a log tower came into view. It was a sturdy, impossibly pristine place, likely recently abandoned. A nearby campfire was still smoldering, but Arthur noted that people rarely passed through. Ambarino was a scarce place after all, with few homesteads and little reason to visit. And – on the off chance some other alpha was too nosy for their own good – the top of the tower provided ample range for Arthur to threaten them off with a gun.

Settling in, you were starting to feel the haze of your heat, but luckily, Arthur had given you some privacy to prepare. He waited outside, by the campfire, scavenging through the leftovers of the former occupants to see if they’d abandoned any cans of food. In the meantime, you’d bundled up your extra blankets and pillows, 

Once overcome by the sweltering heat of Lemoyne, now the cold of the Grizzlies has drifted through the opening at the top of the tower, allowing the cool air to sink and settle around you, and paired with the blankets still lightly scented with the smell of fellow omegas, it begins to slowly you into a sense of security. The stove can be turned on later if needed, to warm both some food and you – but for now, the temperature is satisfactory, and in your chemise, the urge to sleep is instant. You don’t even fight it. Within minutes, you’re drifting off into peaceful nothingness.

And that’s when the sound of a gunshot awakens you.

“Arthur?”

You call out his name in the dead quiet, clutching the blankets close. Your heat is on the edge of full force, and you’re just barely lucid enough to stand. Which you do.

“Arthur?” you repeat, bare feet falling in succession on the wooden floor.

Then it hits you – the swarm of what felt like dozens of other scents. The disgusting mixture of chalk and rotten food, pungent chemicals, and more. But somewhere in the middle, there’s the familiar smell of leather – the warmth of whiskey, and the freshness of rain.

And you notice – it’s raining.

There’s no more gunshots, not that you can hear, but now there’s the sound of a struggle outside. Gasps and coughs and grunts, among the sound of fists landing hard on flesh and bone. You flinch repeatedly at each blow and finally decide to peek through the window, where in the dark of night, you can barely make out the silhouettes of several people.

Two bodies lie still in the grass, water gathering in the wrinkles of their shirts. Three more are standing – one, you make out to be Arthur, while the other two are clearly trying to beat him to a pulp.

Emphasis on trying.

With a well placed kick to the gut, Arthur sends another one flying, and now it’s just him and the seemingly equally large man left.

You can’t make out what they’re saying, but you can make a good guess. Why else would a group of alphas swarm to one spot when an omega’s in heat? The thought makes you sick, and you cover your mouth, slumping against the wall by the window and forcing the bile down. 

It takes seemingly forever, but after a while, the sound dies down. One more glance out the window confirms that Arthur is the only one left standing – because of course he is – and the sight of his outline, standing against the bright of far-off lightning strikes, shoulders rising and falling with every labored breath – it makes you want to crawl right into his arms.

But as you open the door and the full strength of your scent floods down the path towards him, his body goes rigid. There’s something wrong.

“Arthur?” you call out a third time. Then a pause.

“... Arthur?”

He turns, and you see the spots of red splattered across his face. There’s this wild look in his eye – not the mix of affection and lust that you’d seen so long ago, but the pure animalistic drive of alpha pheromones. In the rain, the scent hits you. Yes – leather. Whiskey. The smell of dust after rain.

The heat pools in your blood, but so, too, does your body call you to run.

And you do.

_

Oh, you want the third part? The lovely, lovely smut? Check out my ao3

[mamma-wolf]

me photographed by damien maloney styling: josh fargher, hair: lauren corden, makeup: sara chestnutt-fry

[lordrahlprotects]

@cloevr started this game

The rules are you pick one track per letter of your URL and you tag that many people or as many as you want/can.

Me being me I also made a playlist of the tracks too. Totally optional.

Lawnman - Gillaband

Orpheus - David Sylvian

Richie Sacramento - Mogwai

Debaser - Pixies

Roads - Portishead

Anemone - The Brian Jonestown Massacre

Hannah Sun - Lomelda

Let Them Die - The Smoking Popes

Poison Tree - Grouper

Rebel Girl - Bikini Kill

Oh! You Pretty Things - David Bowie

Tailwhip - Men I Trust

Everything I Do Gohn Be Funky - Lee Dorsey

Chinese New Year - SALES

Too Real - Fontaines D.C.

Serve This Royalty - Cody Chestnutt

Tagging @nervepain @reamed @elixir @pissmoon @wordpimp @wernerherzoghaircut @disease @valovita @geslotencirkel @serandori @nympho-brainiac @violetsoblue

Tried to tag folks with shorter URLs in the hope it's a bit more manageable. But a couple of you I'm curious to see your picks, I apologise.

[mosessumney]

On 10 Years of Mid-City Island

I was painstakingly self-conscious in the beginning of my career. I’d grown up accustomed to writing in a vacuum, in my childhood bedroom, in my dorm room, hiding my songbook inside my mattress or at the bottom of a drawer. I always thought I’d get to make my first recordings in total obscurity, clumsily clanging around.

But months before I began recording my first EP, things blew up.

After a few shows and 2 bedroom recordings, seemingly everyone from the Los Angeles music scene was suddenly peering into my window, waiting to see what my first offering would be, hoping for commodifiable gloss. I was wined and dined and unrefined.

But I didn’t want to record the “R&B record” that would make me famous. I wanted to make something experimental akin to the early recordings I loved – Linda Perhacs’ Parallelograms; Sufjan Stevens’s A Sun Came; the scratchy musings of Cody ChestnuTT and Milton Nascimento; the kitchen candor of Jessica Pratt. Instead I was often shipped to fancy producers’ and execs’ home studios and offices, forced to listen to them preach about how I was a star-in-waiting. I didn’t want to be a star. I wanted to be honest.

But secretly, I did feel like a star. Gaseous and infinite, distant and intangible, shining bright in the middle of a constellation, unable to touch the celestial bodies around me. I scribed “Man on the Moon” on a red guitar I bought on sale from a shuttering music store.

In one of these producer meetings, I journeyed to the top of a mountain to meet TV on the Radio’s Dave Sitek. He gave me a four-track recorder and told me to say “f*ck off” to everyone trying to sign or produce me. He told me to find my own voice or others would find it for me. He taught me how to record myself to tape, sparking an affinity for analogue processes. I “borrowed” the tape recorder, promising I would come back when I had found my sound. It sits now on the topmost shelf in my home studio. I guess I’m still searching.

Mid-City, Los Angeles was more of a concept than a place. Seemingly nobody had ever heard of it, and yet it was the geographic center of the city. Living there felt analogous to my disposition as a “rising” Angeleno – highly visible and invisible at the same time. It was an urban island and the sun beat its concrete ceaselessly. I sat on my bedroom floor and wrote “Plastic,” listening to Amy Winehouse demos and thinking about how we let our stars fall as long as they entertain us on the way down.

I recorded these misgivings straight to cassette on that Yamaha MT4X, feeling like a historian tracing my own origins. I loved that it sounded older than it was. I felt older than I was. I decided then that I would press it to vinyl in 10 years. I couldn’t afford to make vinyl records anyway. Instead, I backpacked little cassette tapes I would sign and sell at shows.

I realized early on that being visible (but not necessarily seen) was just gonna be a part of my story. How blessed I was to push through it with clear vision – and now I’m forced to stop and reflect. 10 years later, I’m still thinking 10 years ahead. Ask me about now in 10 years. Shoot, ask me in 20.

- M

______________________________________________________________

"Mid-City Island," our limited-edition 10 year anniversary black vinyl, is available to pre-order now: mosessumney.bandcamp.com/album/mid-city-island

[alookseeblog]

David Chestnutt

[holdoncallfailed]

so @yeats-infection said she wanted to hear my "take on the classic 'driving in the desert' playlist trope" so here is that :-) you can listen on spotify or youtube

avenging annie — andy pratt

lord of the manor — the everly brothers

middle america — stephen malkmus & the jicks

mark on you — the mountain goats

the ballad of john and yoko — the beatles

mustang sally — wilson pickett

changes — antonio williams & kerry mccoy

cool jerk — the creation

ana — los saicos

there is something in my heart — ghetto brothers

the big country — talking heads

made up in blue — the bats

border girl — young fathers

sore spores — BOBBY

i drove all night — cyndi lauper

gold trans am — kesha

kizza me — big star

lay my love — brian eno & john cale

doin' time — lana del rey

boylife in america — cody chestnutt

drivin' on 9 — the breeders

it takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry — bob dylan

dylan thomas — better oblivion community center

the turnpike down — the lemonheads

many roads to follow (demo) — the nerves

let's spend the night together — claudine longet

hannah hunt — vampire weekend

sleeping is the only love — silver jews

hold within — foley

my darling — wilco

[asgoodeasgold]

A double whammy of the Matthew Goode/Matthew Roydon swagger and the leather pants of sin. If anyone needs any oxygen, I have just ordered a big tanker.

Matthew Roydon is striding with purpose to the Tower where poor Master Cauldwell is having not so great a time at the hands of Lord Burleigh.

Here is the Reel from my Instagram where I have added music: 🎶 Look good in Leather by Cold ChestnuTT (from IG music library)

📷 Sky/Bad Wolf A Discovery of Witches (2021) s2:02 my edits

And the official pics have caught such a better angle for admiring that gorgeous stride I had to share

📷 Sky/Bad Wolf via farfarawaysite.com

Right, enough with the leather fest.

[neapaulatan]

Sis Becky’s Pickaninny Son

I was commissioned to do a series of illustrations for the 2019 North Carolina Literary Review based off an essay about William Chestnutt’s The Conjure Woman. This was the illustration for Sis Becky’s Pickaninny Son.

[completeandrandommusic]

Too Cold At Home - Mark Chestnutt

[morbidology]

The last known instance of residents of Rhode Island exhuming a body to perform a bizarre ritual in an attempt to kill a vampire took place in 1892. Tuberculosis struck the family of George and Mary Brown from Exeter, Rhode Island. It was believed that this was caused by the undead so they, along with the townsfolk, decided to exhume the bodies of two family members who had already died from the disease. 

These family members showed regular decomposition and were then re-buried. Next, they exhumed the body of their 19-year-old daughter, Mercy; she showed absolutely no signs of decomposition. The family took this as a sign that Mercy was undead and that she was a vampire. They removed her heart, burnt it, and then mixed the ashes with water for her brother, Edwin, who was sick, to drink. It was believed that if the sick victim were to consume the heart of a vampire then they would be cured. 

Unsurprisingly, Edwin died two months later. Mercy’s grave stands in Chestnutt Hill Cemetery.