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vavuska · 4 years

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FRESH OFF THE BOAT, POSTERS AND ART

Season 1, 2015

In 2015, Randall Park, Constance Wu and Hudson Yang re-created the painting "American Gothic" (1930) by Grant Wood for a poster to promote the fist season of Fresh Off The Boat.

"American Gothic" is a 1930 painting by Grant Wood in the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago. He was inspired by the Dibble House, a small white house built in the Carpenter Gothic architectural style, in Eldon, Iowa. The painting is named for the house's architectural style.

Wood decided to paint the house along with, in his words, "the kind of people [he] fancied should live in that house". He recruited his sister, Nan (1899–1990), to be the model for the daughter, dressing her in a colonial print apron mimicking 20th-century rural Americana. The model for the father was the Wood family's dentist, Dr. Byron McKeeby (1867–1950) from Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

Nan told people that her brother had envisioned the pair as father and daughter, not husband and wife, which Wood himself confirmed in his letter to a Mrs. Nellie Sudduth in 1941: "The prim lady with him is his grown-up daughter."

Season 2, 2015

In 2015, the cast of Fresh Off The Boat re-created the painting "Nighthawks" (1942) by Edward Hopper for a poster to promote the show's second season.

"Nighthawks" is one of the most famous paintings in American Art. It was a 1942 oil on canvas painting by Edward Hopper that portrays people in a downtown diner late at night as viewed through the diner's large glass window. The light coming from the diner illuminates a darkened and deserted urban streetscape.

It has been suggested that Hopper was inspired by a short story of Ernest Hemingway's, either "The Killers", which Hopper greatly admired, or from the more philosophical "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place". In keeping with the title of his painting, Hopper later said, Nighthawks has more to do with the possibility of predators in the night than with loneliness.

The scene was supposedly inspired by a diner (since demolished) in Greenwich Village, Hopper's neighborhood in Manhattan. Hopper himself said the painting "was suggested by a restaurant on Greenwich Avenue where two streets meet". Additionally, he noted that "I simplified the scene a great deal and made the restaurant bigger".

Season 3, 2016

In 2016, the cast of Fresh Off The Boat re-created the cover of the 30 August 1942 edition of the magazine The Saturday Evening Post for a poster to promote the third season of the show: it was an illustration titled "Going and Coming" (1942) by Normal Rockwell.

To create many of his iconic, quintessentially American paintings, most of which served as magazine covers, norman rockwell worked from carefully staged study photographs that are on view for the first time, alongside his paintings, drawings, and related tear sheets.

Beginning in the late 1930s, norman rockwell (1894-1978) adopted photography as a tool to bring his illustration ideas to life in studio sessions. Working as a director, he carefully staged his photographs, selecting props, locations, and models and orchestrating every detail. He began by collecting authentic props and costumes, and what he did not have readily available he purchased, borrowed, or rented – from a dime-store hairbrush or coffee cup to a roomful of chairs and tables from a New York City Automat. He created numerous photographs for each new subject, sometimes capturing complete compositions and, in other instances, combining separate pictures of individual elements. Over the forty years that he used photographs as his painting guide, he worked with many skilled photographers, particularly Gene Pelham, Bill Scovill, and Louis Lamone.

Early in his career Norman Rockwell used professional models, but he eventually found that this method inhibited his evolving naturalistic style. When he turned to photography, he turned to friends and neighbours instead of professional models to create his many detailed study photographs, which he found liberating. Working from black-and-white study photographs also allowed Rockwell more freedom in developing his final work. "If a model has worn a red sweater, I have painted it red – I couldn’t possibly make it green… But when working with photographs I seem able to recompose in many ways: as to form, tone, and color," Rockwell once commented.

The photo used as a base for "Going and Coming" was taken by Gene Pelham (1909-2004).

CONTINUE...

Season 4, 5 and 6 HERE:

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lightsaroundyourvanity · 4 years

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3 Assumptions About Lights: 1. only child 2. serial monogamist 3. owns every single bbsc mystery and can recite the plots from memory

oh I definitely can.... faves are stacey and the haunted masquerade and dawn schafer, undercover babysitter (unless super mysteries count cause the third one where they go to salem for halloween and solve a diamond heist is like. dibbly fresh.)

1/3 is not bad 😘

#asks

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floridarevealed · 4 years

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“A Trip Over the Transit Railroad”

by Joanna Grey Talbot

In 1883 journalist A. L. W. took a trip on the Transit Railroad in Florida, which connected Fernandina on the Atlantic to Cedar Key on the Gulf. They shared their experiences in an article published on the front page of the May 15, 1883, issue of the The Weekly Floridian in Tallahassee.

Let’s follow along as they visit 10 towns along the route.

“The majority of persons living in Middle Florida, whose business or pleasure has not railed them to the Eastern part of the State, have very little idea of the material progress, the great influx of immigration, I lie important industries, or the rapid development of the country along the line of the Transit Railroad, which connect Fernandina, the best harbor on our Atlantic coast, with the important port of Cedar Key on the Gulf of Mexico; nor is it possible in the short scope of one letter to convey more than a general view of this very important portion of the State. The traveller from Middle Florida, after a night spent in the comfortable sleepers of the Florida Central and Western Railroad, which is under the efficient management of Major W. M. Davidson, a Middle Florida man, strikes the Transit road at…”

Hotel Oliver, Baldwin, Florida, courtesy of the State Library and Archives of Florida

Baldwin

“…long a very important transfer point for freights for the line of the Transit road. Cedar Key and the Gulf coast, which formerly came from the North and West via Savannah and Live Oak, but which, since the completion o! the Waycross “Short Line," is now delivered to the Transit system at Callahan, twenty miles north of Baldwin. […] The lumber industry along this road is immense, as is attested by the long trains of heavily loaded flat cars which were passed at various points; in fact, the monotony of the pine forest was almost constantly broken by a panorama of saw mills, young orange groves and handsome residences seen from the car windows as we sped along, till proving the existence of an industrious and thrifty population, each contributing his quota to the prosperity of the road and the material progress of the State. The towns of Highland, Lawty and Temples were passed when the brakeman called out…”

Call Street, Starke, Florida, courtesy of the State Library & Archives of Florida

Starke

“twenty minutes for dinner and alighting from the train we proceeded to the “Railroad House," kept by Mr. Kleinsmidt, an industrious German, who owns a farm and orange grove near town, while his estimable wile and charming daughters vie with each other in serving the tired traveller with all the good things which go to make up a first-class dinner. […] There are several groves in the vicinity, some bearing, while most of them are young.— In the town new houses are going up on all sides and the song of the saw and hammer is the music which greets one at every turn. […] Speeding along we soon reached…”

Seaboard Depot, Waldo, Florida, courtesy of the Matheson History Museum

Waldo

“…the junction of the Transit with the Peninsular Railroad. Here we switched off the through coach which is run daily from Jacksonville to Wildwood, thus obviating the necessity of a change of cars between these points. Waldo has a fine hotel, a cigar factory, several stores and churches, and is the terminal point of the Santa Fe Canal, which brings the fine orange country of the lake region within easy access of the railroad. […] Our next stopping place…”

Arlington House advertisement in the “Eden of the South,” 1883, courtesy of the State Library & Archives of Florida

Gainesville

“…the metropolis of East Florida, is a city of about four thousand inhabitants and the county site of Alachua, one of the richest agricultural counties in the State. […] Besides its numerous stores and other business places Gainesville has a bank, a cotton seed mill, three ginning establishments, three livery and sale stables, two depots (the Transit and Florida Southern), two first-class hotels, the Arlington and Varnum House, (the former about the size of our Leon) and quite a number of boarding houses. I have not space in this letter to devote to the above business enterprises the attention which each deserves. […] Six miles further on we come to…”

A Giant Crop of Irish Potatoes in Florida, courtesy of the Matheson History Museum

Arredondo

“…the boss vegetable station of the Transit road. I have not spoken of this industry heretofore because I was at a loss how to convey to the minds of your readers a just idea of the magnitude of this business on the line of the Transit and Peninsular roads. All along we had observed at the different stations large lots of vegetables in crates waiting shipment but here we saw the entire platform covered with piles on piles of crates filled with, beans, cucumbers, peas, Irish potatoes and cabbage […]. Some idea of the extent of the business may be gleaned front the fact that twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays, an extra train far vegetables only, is run from Bronson to Fernandina to connect with the steamships of the Mallory line, in addition to the daily freight train.

Church Street, Archer, Florida, courtesy of the Matheson History Museum

Archer

“…also in Alachua county, is a live little town with five or six stores, and contributes its quota to the vegetable business. Peach culture has here been brought into some imminence by the Rev. J. P DePass, well known to many in our section.”

A.H. Bateman and family in front of their home in Bronson, ca. 1910, courtesy of the State Library & Archives of Florida

Bronson

“…the county site of Levy County, is distant from Cedar Keys about thirty-five miles. It has four stores, and besides being the shipping point of a vast scope of country for miscellaneous exports such as cotton, hides, wax, etc., being situated in the midst of a fine grazing country, large numbers of beef cattle are annually shipped from here to the markets of Savannah and Charleston. After passing Otter Creek, a flag station, we next arrive at…”

Rosewood

“…the residence of C. B. Dibble, Esq., who, in addition to his orange grove, has developed an entirely new industry; you who are familiar with the lovely flower gardens of the Floral City, just think of eight or ten acres in Tube Roses. The flowers are sold in Gainesville, Cedar Keys and other places, while the bulbs are shipped North, and I am told the proprietor has found it profitable. Soon after leaving this station we pass through a spur of the far-famed…”

Gulf Hammock fiber factory, ca. 1890, courtesy of the State Library & Archives of Florida

Gulf Hammock

“…probably the largest and finest body of hammock land in the State, whose sylvan depths furnish alike wealth to the enterprising cedar cutter, and the fattest turkeys and juiciest venison which ever tickled the palates of tourist epicures at the Egmont and St. James. Swiftly skimming over the few remaining miles we soon alighted at…”

Bird’s Eye View of Cedar Key, 1884, courtesy of the University of Florida Digital Collections

Cedar Keys

“…the Venice of the Gulf, whose cool sea breeze, fresh from the “cradle of the deep," tanned our (very dusty) brows, and tossed the smoke-plumes of our locomotive in fantastic wreaths and curls, the same whose shrill whistle had in the early morn mingled with the hoarse roar of old ocean as he piled his white-capped waves high on the smooth beach at Fernandina. […] Cedar Keys has been so often written up, and is so well known by reason and its importance as a Gulf port, that any attempt of my weak pen to do it justice would be futile. […] The principal industries of Cedar Key are its lumber mills, of which there are four or five for the manufacture of pine lumber, and two cedar mills belonging respectively to the Faber and Eagle Pencil Companies. In addition to the above its export of fish and oysters is a source of great revenue, while its sponge trade is by no means an inconsiderable item of its business. […]

“I have already spun this letter out to more than double my original intention, and yet “the half remains untold,” for one could find material for many letters in the beautiful little city of Cedar Key, and its adjacent Islands, bays and rivers, which I left with regret, feeling that next to the breezy hills of Tallahassee I would rather live on the lovely Gulf Coast of Florida.”

The full article can be viewed here via the Library of Congress’s Chronicling America database: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn82015289/1883-05-15/ed-1/seq-1/.

#Florida #trains #travel #Cedar Key #Gainesville

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mr-dwight-dwicky · 5 years

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[ @leera-ozynite ]

Dwight stared out his window. How long had it been since he’d just...stared at the stars? There were so many of them from here, and a view of the large, purple planet below, smoky and glowing. He buried his hands in his pockets as he watched the little swirls of the atmosphere, the turret ships patrolling along the perimeter. Icy blue eyes scanned everything, drinking the scene in. It was a beautiful place, he had found himself in. It was a pity he’d never appreciated it until now.

He heard the door open behind him, feeling himself relax and tense all at once. He took a breath. “Thank you for coming, Leera.”

Leera stood at the door for a moment, shutting it quietly behind her. She was nervous. Dwight’s tone had sounded so serious when he had summoned her. “Of course, Mr. Dwicky,” she said, approaching him slowly. “May I ask what’s going on?”

“Dwight,” he corrected her, giving her a glance over his shoulder, his gaze following her as she drew closer. The way the glowing glimmer of space fell on her was extraordinary, making her eye appear almost iridescent, made her skin seem to sparkle. She was beautiful. He’d never deny that. Beautiful and so many many other things that he had been too foolish to see. “And you may ask any question you wish. But perhaps first I should answer yours.”

He didn’t look at her, gazing back at the starry, inky scene in front of him. Sometimes he wondered if they could see him from here. Mooshy. Spoopty. Their children. What would they see? What would they say?

They weren’t here for him to ask this. They weren’t here for him to speak what he was feeling. He couldn’t help but wonder how they would feel about this. About her. Dwight looked at Leera out of the corner of his eyes, knowing she was staring at him curiously. Would the mates he had before approve of her? Would they want him to take another?

He supposed it didn’t really matter. After tonight his life would no longer be in his hands.

“Leera,” he began, taking another breath, trying to keep his nerves under control. He would not back down and brush this under the rug. He would not do that this time. “I need you to tell me something.”

Leera’s heart jumped at Dwight’s tone, at being asked to call him by his first name in a...less intimate setting than usual. She struggled to compose herself and cleared her throat. If there had been more light in the room the color along her cheeks would betray her. “What do you need me to tell you...Dwight?”

Why did her simply saying his name send a thrill through him? Why did just having her in his presence make him feel calmer than he’d felt in years? Like the shattered pieces of his life were settled into a picture that made sense? Leera was a remarkable woman, strong and loyal to a fault. And he had been so blind. He’d been blind to so many things…

“I need you tell me every single thing you think I’ve done wrong.”

Leera froze, nearly choking on her breath. She hesitated and shuffled. “Sir I...I don’t think that is a wise idea.” Almost immediately she tried to back. “I...I mean-,”

“Leera,” Dwight said, turning to the Mefni fully. He stepped closer, gently cupping her chin and lifting it. He needed this. He needed to hear it from her. “Please tell me.”

Leera’s heart jumped again. His tone was so soft, his eyes intense and pleading. It made her weak. He made her weak. She very well could have collapsed in his arms in that moment, if she did not remember that he’d asked her something. Something extremely important. She gnawed on her bottom lip, gathering her thoughts. She was a fool. She’d always known she was. Blinded by the smallest moments of softness and kindness, ignoring the horror and destruction. She knew it wasn’t right or healthy. And yet she’d always hoped for...something. Something like this. Right here. Right now.

“You should not have hurt that little girl,” Leera told him. Her voice was quiet. But her tone was sure. “You could have very easily achieved your goal without her. Without...many things that happened that day.”

Dwight flinched. He had not expected her to mention that first of all things. But he was grateful. “What else?” He knew there was more.

Leera had to steady her breath. Calm and collected. “I never saw any reason for you to bring Harmonia in. We...we were fine on our own.” Okay perhaps that statement was a little selfish. “You also did not need to manipulate the Admiral in a way where she ended up on our side. Which lead to you losing the Galactic Alliance in the first place. And you most certainly didn’t need to…” She trailed off. She couldn’t even say it. “There was no reason for you kidnapped her and Dibbles when you took his hand. There was no rhyme or reason to it. I’m still confused as to what point you were even trying to make!” Her voice was rising, years and years of silenced feelings being brought to the surface, finally confronting all of these things. Finally forcing Dwight to confront his actions. “And do not even get me started on everything you did to Chance! How dare you! You had a sweet, wonderful boy and you nearly turned him into...into…” She shook her head, backtracking again. “I...I’m sorry…”

Dwight let Leera speak on and on, silently taking in every single one of her words. These were all things he already knew, that he’d come to terms with. But he knew for it to truly sink it he needed to hear it from someone who wouldn’t lie to him, but also someone who was ridiculously devoted to him. Because if she could see it, and could tell him, then perhaps it would be enough for him to truly know where to go from here. A final confirmation, of sorts. “You can say it,” Dwight told her. “I...tried to turn him into me…”

His eyes fell to the floor for a moment before he continued. “Strange how it took...meeting a kid so different from me, or perhaps more similar to the person I was before...for me to realize...I didn’t want anyone to be like me.” He snorted. “I don’t want to be like me.”

He looked back up, meeting Leera’s eye. His hand moved from her chin to her cheek, gently caressing. Her skin was soft, smooth like porcelain. She came off as so small and fragile sometimes and it always gave him pause. More often than not she had to remind him how capable she was. “And you don’t need to apologize, Everything you said is the truth.” His voice grew soft as he asked his next question. “Leera...why have you stayed this whole time?”

Leera’s face heated up exponentially, her gaze flitting everywhere but Dwight’s eyes. How was she supposed to answer such a loaded question? “I...where else would I go?” she asked in return.

Dwight shrugged. “Anywhere, really. I wouldn’t have stopped you. I’m sure Chance would have welcomed you with open arms at any time.” His brow furrowed. “I...may have erased a memory of yours or two, if you truly ever wanted to leave. Before now, I mean.”

Leera blinked. “You...wouldn’t have just killed me?” she asked. Not that erasing her memory was much better, nor did it make up for the absolutely abhorrent acts this man had committed. But...his next words… There was some weight there. “...You wouldn’t do that now?”

Dwight shook his head. “If you told me now that you wanted to go, I wouldn’t stop you. I would do nothing to alter your mind before you left. I’d...I’d let you go.” His gaze met hers once more. “I would understand.”

Leera held Dwight’s gaze, eye wide. She subconsciously stepped closer, having to crane her neck a bit to keep eye contact. Her hands reached up for the lapels of his blazer, clutching tightly. Suddenly she felt bold. “I...I belong here. I belong here with you.”

Dwight cupped her cheek gently, his body tingling as she came closer to him. His hand slid to the nape of her neck as he leaned down, his eyes going half lidded. “I’m glad.” He whispered, closing the distance between them. “I want you here with me.”

Leera’s eye widened as Dwight mouth on hers. He’d never kissed her before. And now that he had she immediately found herself pushing closer, her eye closing as she relished in the feeling. His lips were surprisingly and tantalizingly soft. She inhaled sharply as her arms slide up to wrap around his neck.

Dwight had intended to keep the kiss calm for a bit, but having Leera react so eagerly made him change his mind. His hand moved to tangle in her pinned up hair, the other pulling her even closer by the hip. He felt her mouth open against his, but still remained tentative, swiping cautiously along her lower lip with his tongue.

Leera didn’t care nearly as much about being careful right now. At feeling Dwight’s tongue her mouth opened even more eagerly, her own coming out to coax his further in. She felt like she’d been suffocating for years and Dwight was fresh air. All she wanted was him. Surrounding her. Consuming her. She wouldn’t waste a single second of this opportunity.

Dwight growled, deciding to finally concede. He kissed Leera more firmly, his arms holding her close to his body. He always desired her, but this felt different. He didn’t just want to fuck her. He wanted to show her everything she made him feel. How she reminded him of everything he’d thought was long gone and lost. How grateful he was that there was someone who, beyond all reason, believed that...he was something more than what he’d been for so many painful years.

In a swift movement he lifted Leera up, his hands under her thighs. She was so small compared to him. He knew she didn’t need protecting, but he knew he wanted to. He wanted to protect her from everything in the universe if he could.

He perhaps even wanted to protect her from himself.

Leera wrapped her legs around Dwight, a tiny moan escaping her muffled mouth. She pressed her body as close to Dwight’s as she could, fueled by her desire and devotion to this man, things that burned brighter than ever, kindled by pride that he finally seemed to see sense. That he finally wanted to change. Leera’s felt her chest ached at the notion that perhaps years of boundless, foolish hope had not been wasted.

Dwight hardly stumbled as he carried Leera to his bedroom, kicking the door open before slamming it shut behind him. There was no need to lock it. No one should disturb him in his quarters. They knew better. He gently placed Leera on the bed as he finally broke away from her mouth, panting. His forehead touched hers and their gazes met again. He swallowed. “I...are you okay with this?” Perhaps at this point it seemed stupid to ask, but he never had before. He had to know if she really wanted this. That this wasn’t just an obligation she felt to him.

Leera’s eye was half-lidded as she looked up at him, barely hearing what Dwight had asked her. When it processed she couldn’t help the warmth in her chest, the swell of her heart. She reached up to cup his cheeks, giving him several, soft pecks on the lips. “It’s more than okay,” she whispered. She rolled her hips up for emphasis. “Please take me, Dwight.”

Dwight melted into the kisses, each one making him inhale sharply through his nose. And then those pleading words. That was enough for him, for sure. He kissed her again with fervor, hands descending onto where her blouse was tucked into her skirt. He pulled out the hem and began to lift it up, taking a moment to admire Leera’s topless form beneath him. “You’re beautiful,” He murmured, moving his mouth to her neck and shoulder. “Brilliant. I don’t deserve you.”

Leera sighed at feeling Dwight’s mouth on her skin, taking the liberty of reaching up and removing his blazer. She then set to work on the buttons of his shirt. She blushed at his words, hips shuffling upward. “You…” She trailed off, unsure of what she had meant to say at first. Instead, she whispered. “I’m yours.” Always yours.

Dwight almost chuckled at Leera’s eagerness. It had been a while since they’d had sex, which had been intentional on Dwights part. However after seeing how excited his secretary was to get on with it, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to bring himself to deny her ever again. He helped her get his shirt off, his broad, scarred chest exposed. The part of his shoulder where his metal arm and skin met was also slightly marred.

Leera couldn’t help but stare, an almost hungry look in her eye. She loved Dwight’s scars, the slight hair on his chest. She reached up to touch, tracing every mark. Her hands moved down to his abdomen, before deftly setting to work on undoing the man’s belt.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been this forward before,” Dwight commented, an almost teasing tone to his voice.

Leera looked him dead in the eye, undoing Dwight’s button and zipper as she said, “You’ve never been this hesitant before.” There was a hint of a smirk on her face.

Oh. So that was how they were going to play, huh? “You think I’m being hesitant?”

“Very,” Leera replied without missing a beat. She sat up as she began to pull Dwight’s pants and boxers down. “I promise that you are allowed to be a good person and still fuck me. Sir.” She added the last word with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Dwight typically didn’t like when Leera called him ‘Mr. Dwicky’ and ‘Sir' while they were in bed together, but, hell, if that right there didn’t send a shiver down his spine and straight to his dick. He wasted no time pulling off the rest of his clothes, tossing them haphazardly off the bed. He then nearly tore the side zipper of Leera’s skirt open before pulling it off and throwing it somewhere as well. He couldn’t help but look her over again. He’d seen her naked so many times, but right now he wanted to appreciate it. Appreciate this moment with this woman who had dedicated so much to him.

He smirked down at her, rubbing his erection against her already wet and beckoning entrance. She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders. “Is that what you want, Miss Ozynite?” He leaned down, their faces merely centimeters apart. “Would you like me to fuck you?”

Leera rolled her hips against him, her moan coming out as almost a squeak. Her gaze met Dwight’s, their breaths mingling together. She dropped the little role-play they had started. “I want you, Dwight,” she whispered, her tone heavy with emotion. “I want...all of you.” Was it too much to ask? Maybe. But if her hope had gotten her this far…

Leera’s words tore through Dwight like a knife, but in a surprisingly good way. His chest ached with so many feelings, and his hand came up to caress her cheek again. He smiled genuinely as she leaned into his touch. His nose rubbed against hers. “You have...terrible tastes. But...I will give you everything I can. Everything I am.”

Even if it would just be for tonight.

He wasted no more time entering her, slowly and carefully. Leera gasped, clinging harder to Dwight, practically wrapping entirely around him. She was tight and hot and he had to steady himself for a moment before pulling out and pushing back in.

“Dwight,” Leera breathed, her nails digging into his shoulder, thighs already squeezing against his hips. She met his movements with her own, unable to help her impatient whimper when he wouldn’t speed up. “Dwight, please faster.”

Dwight complied, increasing his pace steadily. “Look at me,” he said, doing his best to keep it from sounding like a command. He held Leera’s gaze when she complied, his hands moving to her hips for leverage. He thrust faster for a few moments before pulling Leera close and switching their positions, pulling her on top of him.

Leera was dazed at this point, and it took a minute for her mind to catch up to what had just happened. She looked down at Dwight questioningly, her only answer a strong, upward thrust. She threw her head back and moaned, her hands finding their way to Dwight’s shoulders again. She pushed herself up and then back down, riding him in almost experimental movements. They’d never done it like this before, but like hell Leera was going to complain now.

Her nails dug more into Dwight shoulders as she felt that familiar hot coil in her belly, her movements becoming faster and harder. “Dwight…” she moaned loudly, holding on to him tightly. “Dwight!”

Dwight found himself completely mesmerized, wondering why he’d never had Leera ride him before. The Mefni was magnificent, her movements forcing him remember his breathing to keep from getting off too soon. Perhaps that was why they’d never done this in the past. Control had always been so important to him. But right now, in this moment with Leera, Dwight realized he could give up control over and over again for her. Just for her. His hands gripped her hips as he thrust upward to match her excited movements. He grunted when he felt her start to tighten around him. “F-fuck,” he gasped. “Leera...you’re amazing.”

Leera made a desperate keen, hips rolling almost erratically. She was so close. So fucking close. “Dwight, I…”

Dwight began to help her move, his thrusts deep and powerful. He could probably watch her like this forever. “You’re so good. So good to me.” Why you chose me of all people is still a mystery. “You feel...so fucking good.” He suddenly wished he’d known in the past that praise would affect Leera like this. Every word had her moving faster, made her wetter. The noises she was making were intoxicating.

“Ah!” Leera cried, the combination of Dwight’s deep thrusts and sweet words sending her closer and close to the edge. “Dwight, please!”

Dwight could take a few guesses what she was begging for, using Leera’s hips for leverage as he practically rammed inside her. He leaned up and began kissing and nipping at her neck. He bit at her ear before growling, “Come for me.”

Leera didn’t have to be told twice, her head falling back and her eye squeezing shut as she came hard with a loud, enthusiastic scream. She clung to Dwight the entire time, squeezing around his dick as she rode out her orgasm, never stopping her movements until it was over.

Dwight groaned, chasing his own release as Leera rode through hers. He came hard and deep inside her, with her name on his lips, holding her close as they both began to come down from their high. Dwight left more kisses along Leera’s jawline, struggling to catch his breath.

Leera panted, slowly but surely regaining some semblance of coherence. She hummed happily at the affection, leaning down to nuzzle Dwight’s face. There was some scruff there, she could feel. She was surprised he let it grow out. She then softly kissed the corner of his mouth before leaning her head on his shoulder.

Dwight leaned into the kiss, turning slightly to catch her mouth for a moment before letting her rest her head on his shoulder. He then carefully picked her up and shifted, pulling out of her and adjusting so that they were laying down side by side. He wrapped his arms around Leera’s body, almost protective, burying his face into her now disheveled hair before leaving a gently kiss on her forehead.

Leera ate up all the affection Dwight was giving her, snuggling into his arms and smiling at the kiss to her forehead, She closed her eyes as she got comfortable in his arms. This time had felt differently than all the other times. A new beginning of sorts, perhaps. It really felt like it was. She snuggled in more and gave another nuzzle before finding herself drifting off.

0000000000

When she woke up the next morning, she was alone in Dwight’s bed.

Her brow furrowed as she looked around, wondering where the man had gone off to. She pulled the covers over herself, jumping when a white robot cat appeared in front of her. “Hal, you scared me,” she said with a sigh. “Have...have you seen Dwight?”

Hal gave a quick chirrup, before his blue eyes glowed suddenly brighter. A projected hologram appeared in front of her.

It was Dwight.

“Leera,” he said, looking pained, like he’d just made the most difficult decision of his life. “If you are watching this, than I’m afraid this could be the last time I ever speak to you…

“You see, I know that I am not the one who can grant myself mercy and forgiveness. There are only a handful of people who can. But specifically there is one person at the top of that list, and I don’t believe I will be able to rest until I do what is right for once.

“If I know her, even if she doesn’t kill me...I don’t believe I will be seeing the light of day ever again…”

Leera lifted a hand to her mouth, realization dawning on her. Her chest felt like it was caving in. No. This wasn’t supposed to happen! This wasn’t what she had wanted!

“I...you are important to me. And I know if you ask, Chance will find a place for you. You deserve a life of happiness and comfort. One far away from the one I dragged you into. You deserve better than a monster like me…

“Take care of yourself. And Hal. I guess I did become pretty fond of the little brat.

...Farewell, Leera Ozynite.”

Once the recording was done, Leera couldn’t hold back anymore, bursting into loud, fitful sobs.

#**orange you glad**#smut #slight praise kink

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carebearbro · 5 years

Note

Was Dibble born for being a baby?

You know, it’s been 7 months since UtM came out and I STILL don’t know quite what to make of Dibble. I do agree with you that Dibble was created as kind of a change of pace for the Care Bears, a way to keep the new show different and fresh. Kind of like Hugs and Tugs in the Nelvana series, Dibble gives the writers an outlet for just going all out on innocent cutesy-ness. No matter what she does, there’s only so much you can hold it against her because she’s supposed to be so young and naive. I don’t really know how old she is, or how Whiffles’ ages relate to Care Bears or anyone else. She’s kind of like a baby, but really moreso like a really young kid. But, I do appreciate a few things about Dibble. I LOVE the cutesiness of Care Bears, but I also like them to be balanced...I want them to feel somewhat normal and relatable, and not OVERLY kiddie (though sometimes I really love those over the top cutesy and kiddie moments, like in the second movie). Having Dibble there allows the cutesy-ness to be all on her and away from the Care Bears, which allows them to be cooler and funnier. I also REALLY like the sweet, fatherly side of Grumpy that you see with Dibble. Yes, sometimes it’s overdone, but I’ve always loved seeing the sweet side of Grumpy, so having Dibble be his soft spot is a really nice way for them to bring that out. And finally, there are times that I truly enjoy the innocence of Dibble. I do like her as Daring Dibble and saying “B-ball” and shooting hoops, and I also enjoyed seeing her in her birthday episode. So tl:dr, I’d say yes to your question.

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mooneyedandglowing · 6 years

Text

The Comedian as the Letter C

BY WALLACE STEVENS i The World without Imagination Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil, The sovereign ghost. As such, the Socrates Of snails, musician of pears, principium And lex. Sed quaeritur: is this same wig Of things, this nincompated pedagogue, Preceptor to the sea? Crispin at sea Created, in his day, a touch of doubt. An eye most apt in gelatines and jupes, Berries of villages, a barber's eye, An eye of land, of simple salad-beds, Of honest quilts, the eye of Crispin, hung On porpoises, instead of apricots, And on silentious porpoises, whose snouts Dibbled in waves that were mustachios, Inscrutable hair in an inscrutable world. One eats one paté, even of salt, quotha. It was not so much the lost terrestrial, The snug hibernal from that sea and salt, That century of wind in a single puff. What counted was mythology of self, Blotched out beyond unblotching. Crispin, The lutanist of fleas, the knave, the thane, The ribboned stick, the bellowing breeches, cloak Of China, cap of Spain, imperative haw Of hum, inquisitorial botanist, And general lexicographer of mute And maidenly greenhorns, now beheld himself, A skinny sailor peering in the sea-glass. What word split up in clickering syllables And storming under multitudinous tones Was name for this short-shanks in all that brunt? Crispin was washed away by magnitude. The whole of life that still remained in him Dwindled to one sound strumming in his ear, Ubiquitous concussion, slap and sigh, Polyphony beyond his baton's thrust. Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea, The old age of a watery realist, Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanes Of blue and green? A wordy, watery age That whispered to the sun's compassion, made A convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars, And on the cropping foot-ways of the moon Lay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with that Which made him Triton, nothing left of him, Except in faint, memorial gesturings, That were like arms and shoulders in the waves, Here, something in the rise and fall of wind That seemed hallucinating horn, and here, A sunken voice, both of remembering And of forgetfulness, in alternate strain. Just so an ancient Crispin was dissolved. The valet in the tempest was annulled. Bordeaux to Yucatan, Havana next, And then to Carolina. Simple jaunt. Crispin, merest minuscule in the gates, Dejected his manner to the turbulence. The salt hung on his spirit like a frost, The dead brine melted in him like a dew Of winter, until nothing of himself Remained, except some starker, barer self In a starker, barer world, in which the sun Was not the sun because it never shone With bland complaisance on pale parasols, Beetled, in chapels, on the chaste bouquets. Against his pipping sounds a trumpet cried Celestial sneering boisterously. Crispin Became an introspective voyager. Here was the veritable ding an sich, at last, Crispin confronting it, a vocable thing, But with a speech belched out of hoary darks Noway resembling his, a visible thing, And excepting negligible Triton, free From the unavoidable shadow of himself That lay elsewhere around him. Severance Was clear. The last distortion of romance Forsook the insatiable egotist. The sea Severs not only lands but also selves. Here was no help before reality. Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new. The imagination, here, could not evade, In poems of plums, the strict austerity Of one vast, subjugating, final tone. The drenching of stale lives no more fell down. What was this gaudy, gusty panoply? Out of what swift destruction did it spring? It was caparison of mind and cloud And something given to make whole among The ruses that were shattered by the large. ii Concerning the Thunderstorms of Yucatan In Yucatan, the Maya sonneteers Of the Caribbean amphitheatre, In spite of hawk and falcon, green toucan And jay, still to the night-bird made their plea, As if raspberry tanagers in palms, High up in orange air, were barbarous. But Crispin was too destitute to find In any commonplace the sought-for aid. He was a man made vivid by the sea, A man come out of luminous traversing, Much trumpeted, made desperately clear, Fresh from discoveries of tidal skies, To whom oracular rockings gave no rest. Into a savage color he went on. How greatly had he grown in his demesne, This auditor of insects! He that saw The stride of vanishing autumn in a park By way of decorous melancholy; he That wrote his couplet yearly to the spring, As dissertation of profound delight, Stopping, on voyage, in a land of snakes, Found his vicissitudes had much enlarged His apprehension, made him intricate In moody rucks, and difficult and strange In all desires, his destitution's mark. He was in this as other freemen are, Sonorous nutshells rattling inwardly. His violence was for aggrandizement And not for stupor, such as music makes For sleepers halfway waking. He perceived That coolness for his heat came suddenly, And only, in the fables that he scrawled With his own quill, in its indigenous dew, Of an aesthetic tough, diverse, untamed, Incredible to prudes, the mint of dirt, Green barbarism turning paradigm. Crispin foresaw a curious promenade Or, nobler, sensed an elemental fate, And elemental potencies and pangs, And beautiful barenesses as yet unseen, Making the most of savagery of palms, Of moonlight on the thick, cadaverous bloom That yuccas breed, and of the panther's tread. The fabulous and its intrinsic verse Came like two spirits parlaying, adorned In radiance from the Atlantic coign, For Crispin and his quill to catechize. But they came parlaying of such an earth, So thick with sides and jagged lops of green, So intertwined with serpent-kin encoiled Among the purple tufts, the scarlet crowns, Scenting the jungle in their refuges, So streaked with yellow, blue and green and red In beak and bud and fruity gobbet-skins, That earth was like a jostling festival Of seeds grown fat, too juicily opulent, Expanding in the gold's maternal warmth. So much for that. The affectionate emigrant found A new reality in parrot-squawks. Yet let that trifle pass. Now, as this odd Discoverer walked through the harbor streets Inspecting the cabildo, the façade Of the cathedral, making notes, he heard A rumbling, west of Mexico, it seemed, Approaching like a gasconade of drums. The white cabildo darkened, the façade, As sullen as the sky, was swallowed up In swift, successive shadows, dolefully. The rumbling broadened as it fell. The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons. Gesticulating lightning, mystical, Made pallid flitter. Crispin, here, took flight. An annotator has his scruples, too. He knelt in the cathedral with the rest, This connoisseur of elemental fate, Aware of exquisite thought. The storm was one Of many proclamations of the kind, Proclaiming something harsher than he learned From hearing signboards whimper in cold nights Or seeing the midsummer artifice Of heat upon his pane. This was the span Of force, the quintessential fact, the note Of Vulcan, that a valet seeks to own, The thing that makes him envious in phrase. And while the torrent on the roof still droned He felt the Andean breath. His mind was free And more than free, elate, intent, profound And studious of a self possessing him, That was not in him in the crusty town From which he sailed. Beyond him, westward, lay The mountainous ridges, purple balustrades, In which the thunder, lapsing in its clap, Let down gigantic quavers of its voice, For Crispin to vociferate again. iii Approaching Carolina The book of moonlight is not written yet Nor half begun, but, when it is, leave room For Crispin, fagot in the lunar fire, Who, in the hubbub of his pilgrimage Through sweating changes, never could forget That wakefulness or meditating sleep, In which the sulky strophes willingly Bore up, in time, the somnolent, deep songs. Leave room, therefore, in that unwritten book For the legendary moonlight that once burned In Crispin's mind above a continent. America was always north to him, A northern west or western north, but north, And thereby polar, polar-purple, chilled And lank, rising and slumping from a sea Of hardy foam, receding flatly, spread In endless ledges, glittering, submerged And cold in a boreal mistiness of the moon. The spring came there in clinking pannicles Of half-dissolving frost, the summer came, If ever, whisked and wet, not ripening, Before the winter's vacancy returned. The myrtle, if the myrtle ever bloomed, Was like a glacial pink upon the air. The green palmettoes in crepuscular ice Clipped frigidly blue-black meridians, Morose chiaroscuro, gauntly drawn. How many poems he denied himself In his observant progress, lesser things Than the relentless contact he desired; How many sea-masks he ignored; what sounds He shut out from his tempering ear; what thoughts, Like jades affecting the sequestered bride; And what descants, he sent to banishment! Perhaps the Arctic moonlight really gave The liaison, the blissful liaison, Between himself and his environment, Which was, and is, chief motive, first delight, For him, and not for him alone. It seemed Elusive, faint, more mist than moon, perverse, Wrong as a divagation to Peking, To him that postulated as his theme The vulgar, as his theme and hymn and flight, A passionately niggling nightingale. Moonlight was an evasion, or, if not, A minor meeting, facile, delicate. Thus he conceived his voyaging to be An up and down between two elements, A fluctuating between sun and moon, A sally into gold and crimson forms, As on this voyage, out of goblinry, And then retirement like a turning back And sinking down to the indulgences That in the moonlight have their habitude. But let these backward lapses, if they would, Grind their seductions on him, Crispin knew It was a flourishing tropic he required For his refreshment, an abundant zone, Prickly and obdurate, dense, harmonious Yet with a harmony not rarefied Nor fined for the inhibited instruments Of over-civil stops. And thus he tossed Between a Carolina of old time, A little juvenile, an ancient whim, And the visible, circumspect presentment drawn From what he saw across his vessel's prow. He came. The poetic hero without palms Or jugglery, without regalia. And as he came he saw that it was spring, A time abhorrent to the nihilist Or searcher for the fecund minimum. The moonlight fiction disappeared. The spring, Although contending featly in its veils, Irised in dew and early fragrancies, Was gemmy marionette to him that sought A sinewy nakedness. A river bore The vessel inward. Tilting up his nose, He inhaled the rancid rosin, burly smells Of dampened lumber, emanations blown From warehouse doors, the gustiness of ropes, Decays of sacks, and all the arrant stinks That helped him round his rude aesthetic out. He savored rankness like a sensualist. He marked the marshy ground around the dock, The crawling railroad spur, the rotten fence, Curriculum for the marvellous sophomore. It purified. It made him see how much Of what he saw he never saw at all. He gripped more closely the essential prose As being, in a world so falsified, The one integrity for him, the one Discovery still possible to make, To which all poems were incident, unless That prose should wear a poem's guise at last. iv The Idea of a Colony Nota: his soil is man's intelligence. That's better. That's worth crossing seas to find. Crispin in one laconic phrase laid bare His cloudy drift and planned a colony. Exit the mental moonlight, exit lex, Rex and principium, exit the whole Shebang. Exeunt omnes. Here was prose More exquisite than any tumbling verse: A still new continent in which to dwell. What was the purpose of his pilgrimage, Whatever shape it took in Crispin's mind, If not, when all is said, to drive away The shadow of his fellows from the skies, And, from their stale intelligence released, To make a new intelligence prevail? Hence the reverberations in the words Of his first central hymns, the celebrants Of rankest trivia, tests of the strength Of his aesthetic, his philosophy, The more invidious, the more desired. The florist asking aid from cabbages, The rich man going bare, the paladin Afraid, the blind man as astronomer, The appointed power unwielded from disdain. His western voyage ended and began. The torment of fastidious thought grew slack, Another, still more bellicose, came on. He, therefore, wrote his prolegomena, And, being full of the caprice, inscribed Commingled souvenirs and prophecies. He made a singular collation. Thus: The natives of the rain are rainy men. Although they paint effulgent, azure lakes, And April hillsides wooded white and pink, Their azure has a cloudy edge, their white And pink, the water bright that dogwood bears. And in their music showering sounds intone. On what strange froth does the gross Indian dote, What Eden sapling gum, what honeyed gore, What pulpy dram distilled of innocence, That streaking gold should speak in him Or bask within his images and words? If these rude instances impeach themselves By force of rudeness, let the principle Be plain. For application Crispin strove, Abhorring Turk as Esquimau, the lute As the marimba, the magnolia as rose. Upon these premises propounding, he Projected a colony that should extend To the dusk of a whistling south below the south. A comprehensive island hemisphere. The man in Georgia waking among pines Should be pine-spokesman. The responsive man, Planting his pristine cores in Florida, Should prick thereof, not on the psaltery, But on the banjo's categorical gut, Tuck tuck, while the flamingos flapped his bays. Sepulchral señors, bibbing pale mescal, Oblivious to the Aztec almanacs, Should make the intricate Sierra scan. And dark Brazilians in their cafés, Musing immaculate, pampean dits, Should scrawl a vigilant anthology, To be their latest, lucent paramour. These are the broadest instances. Crispin, Progenitor of such extensive scope, Was not indifferent to smart detail. The melon should have apposite ritual, Performed in verd apparel, and the peach, When its black branches came to bud, belle day, Should have an incantation. And again, When piled on salvers its aroma steeped The summer, it should have a sacrament And celebration. Shrewd novitiates Should be the clerks of our experience. These bland excursions into time to come, Related in romance to backward flights, However prodigal, however proud, Contained in their afflatus the reproach That first drove Crispin to his wandering. He could not be content with counterfeit, With masquerade of thought, with hapless words That must belie the racking masquerade, With fictive flourishes that preordained His passion's permit, hang of coat, degree Of buttons, measure of his salt. Such trash Might help the blind, not him, serenely sly. It irked beyond his patience. Hence it was, Preferring text to gloss, he humbly served Grotesque apprenticeship to chance event, A clown, perhaps, but an aspiring clown. There is a monotonous babbling in our dreams That makes them our dependent heirs, the heirs Of dreamers buried in our sleep, and not The oncoming fantasies of better birth. The apprentice knew these dreamers. If he dreamed Their dreams, he did it in a gingerly way. All dreams are vexing. Let them be expunged. But let the rabbit run, the cock declaim. Trinket pasticcio, flaunting skyey sheets, With Crispin as the tiptoe cozener? No, no: veracious page on page, exact. v A Nice Shady Home Crispin as hermit, pure and capable, Dwelt in the land. Perhaps if discontent Had kept him still the pricking realist, Choosing his element from droll confect Of was and is and shall or ought to be, Beyond Bordeaux, beyond Havana, far Beyond carked Yucatan, he might have come To colonize his polar planterdom And jig his chits upon a cloudy knee. But his emprize to that idea soon sped. Crispin dwelt in the land and dwelling there Slid from his continent by slow recess To things within his actual eye, alert To the difficulty of rebellious thought When the sky is blue. The blue infected will. It may be that the yarrow in his fields Sealed pensive purple under its concern. But day by day, now this thing and now that Confined him, while it cosseted, condoned, Little by little, as if the suzerain soil Abashed him by carouse to humble yet Attach. It seemed haphazard denouement. He first, as realist, admitted that Whoever hunts a matinal continent May, after all, stop short before a plum And be content and still be realist. The words of things entangle and confuse. The plum survives its poems. It may hang In the sunshine placidly, colored by ground Obliquities of those who pass beneath, Harlequined and mazily dewed and mauved In bloom. Yet it survives in its own form, Beyond these changes, good, fat, guzzly fruit. So Crispin hasped on the surviving form, For him, of shall or ought to be in is. Was he to bray this in profoundest brass Arointing his dreams with fugal requiems? Was he to company vastest things defunct With a blubber of tom-toms harrowing the sky? Scrawl a tragedian's testament? Prolong His active force in an inactive dirge, Which, let the tall musicians call and call, Should merely call him dead? Pronounce amen Through choirs infolded to the outmost clouds? Because he built a cabin who once planned Loquacious columns by the ructive sea? Because he turned to salad-beds again? Jovial Crispin, in calamitous crape? Should he lay by the personal and make Of his own fate an instance of all fate? What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long? The very man despising honest quilts Lies quilted to his poll in his despite. For realists, what is is what should be. And so it came, his cabin shuffled up, His trees were planted, his duenna brought Her prismy blonde and clapped her in his hands, The curtains flittered and the door was closed. Crispin, magister of a single room, Latched up the night. So deep a sound fell down It was as if the solitude concealed And covered him and his congenial sleep. So deep a sound fell down it grew to be A long soothsaying silence down and down. The crickets beat their tambours in the wind, Marching a motionless march, custodians. In the presto of the morning, Crispin trod, Each day, still curious, but in a round Less prickly and much more condign than that He once thought necessary. Like Candide, Yeoman and grub, but with a fig in sight, And cream for the fig and silver for the cream, A blonde to tip the silver and to taste The rapey gouts. Good star, how that to be Annealed them in their cabin ribaldries! Yet the quotidian saps philosophers And men like Crispin like them in intent, If not in will, to track the knaves of thought. But the quotidian composed as his, Of breakfast ribands, fruits laid in their leaves, The tomtit and the cassia and the rose, Although the rose was not the noble thorn Of crinoline spread, but of a pining sweet, Composed of evenings like cracked shutters flung Upon the rumpling bottomness, and nights In which those frail custodians watched, Indifferent to the tepid summer cold, While he poured out upon the lips of her That lay beside him, the quotidian Like this, saps like the sun, true fortuner. For all it takes it gives a humped return Exchequering from piebald fiscs unkeyed. vi And Daughters with Curls Portentous enunciation, syllable To blessed syllable affined, and sound Bubbling felicity in cantilene, Prolific and tormenting tenderness Of music, as it comes to unison, Forgather and bell boldly Crispin's last Deduction. Thrum, with a proud douceur His grand pronunciamento and devise. The chits came for his jigging, bluet-eyed, Hands without touch yet touching poignantly, Leaving no room upon his cloudy knee, Prophetic joint, for its diviner young. The return to social nature, once begun, Anabasis or slump, ascent or chute, Involved him in midwifery so dense His cabin counted as phylactery, Then place of vexing palankeens, then haunt Of children nibbling at the sugared void, Infants yet eminently old, then dome And halidom for the unbraided femes, Green crammers of the green fruits of the world, Bidders and biders for its ecstasies, True daughters both of Crispin and his clay. All this with many mulctings of the man, Effective colonizer sharply stopped In the door-yard by his own capacious bloom. But that this bloom grown riper, showing nibs Of its eventual roundness, puerile tints Of spiced and weathery rouges, should complex The stopper to indulgent fatalist Was unforeseen. First Crispin smiled upon His goldenest demoiselle, inhabitant, She seemed, of a country of the capuchins, So delicately blushed, so humbly eyed, Attentive to a coronal of things Secret and singular. Second, upon A second similar counterpart, a maid Most sisterly to the first, not yet awake Excepting to the motherly footstep, but Marvelling sometimes at the shaken sleep. Then third, a thing still flaxen in the light, A creeper under jaunty leaves. And fourth, Mere blusteriness that gewgaws jollified, All din and gobble, blasphemously pink. A few years more and the vermeil capuchin Gave to the cabin, lordlier than it was, The dulcet omen fit for such a house. The second sister dallying was shy To fetch the one full-pinioned one himself Out of her botches, hot embosomer. The third one gaping at the orioles Lettered herself demurely as became A pearly poetess, peaked for rhapsody. The fourth, pent now, a digit curious. Four daughters in a world too intricate In the beginning, four blithe instruments Of differing struts, four voices several In couch, four more personæ, intimate As buffo, yet divers, four mirrors blue That should be silver, four accustomed seeds Hinting incredible hues, four self-same lights That spread chromatics in hilarious dark, Four questioners and four sure answerers. Crispin concocted doctrine from the rout. The world, a turnip once so readily plucked, Sacked up and carried overseas, daubed out Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main, And sown again by the stiffest realist, Came reproduced in purple, family font, The same insoluble lump. The fatalist Stepped in and dropped the chuckling down his craw, Without grace or grumble. Score this anecdote Invented for its pith, not doctrinal In form though in design, as Crispin willed, Disguised pronunciamento, summary, Autumn's compendium, strident in itself But muted, mused, and perfectly revolved In those portentous accents, syllables, And sounds of music coming to accord Upon his law, like their inherent sphere, Seraphic proclamations of the pure Delivered with a deluging onwardness. Or if the music sticks, if the anecdote Is false, if Crispin is a profitless Philosopher, beginning with green brag, Concluding fadedly, if as a man Prone to distemper he abates in taste, Fickle and fumbling, variable, obscure, Glozing his life with after-shining flicks, Illuminating, from a fancy gorged By apparition, plain and common things, Sequestering the fluster from the year, Making gulped potions from obstreperous drops, And so distorting, proving what he proves Is nothing, what can all this matter since The relation comes, benignly, to its end? So may the relation of each man be clipped.

#wallace stevens #lit #literature #poetry #poem

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alexkestavin · 6 years

Text

The Taking

Part 1 - Part 2

The Meeting

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

The Imprisoning

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Alex was left alone for a whole two days. The inmates not sure if the doctor would be back. When it became clear she wouldn’t be returning to work on anyone else they dragged Alex from his cell. The man still only getting water from the dibbles that ran down the wall of his cell. And he still hadn’t had any food other than what Alexandria had brought him.

But still, they dragged him from his cell. His wounds having healed a little bit due Alexandria’s doctoring. He tried his best to fight back against the men who were dragging him but he just couldn't. The man was too weak from his lack of food and the near-constant torture he'd been under.

The inmates just grinned and chuckled once they strung Alex back up. His shoulder clicking and a growl of pain escaping his throat. His eyes less swollen now as he'd peer through what slits there were to look the men over. His breathing was heavy and he'd speak slowly, "I...am going to kill each and every one of you once I get out of here. You got that? I will come back in here and murder each and every one of you." There was this intense anger sitting in his voice.

The largest of the three just smirked as he'd walk up to Alex before he'd slam his fist directly into the man's gut, "You know, Duke, I received word that a family member of yours had been taken. A child I think. Taken from right out under your brother's nose. Of course, they noticed the little boy missing. But where could it have -possibly- gone to? Who knows? I hear Sault either plans on killing the boy. Or maybe even taking him in and raising him as his own. Torture you for longer than you're actually in here." The inmate knew he was lying. But he was damn good at it. And he fooled even Alex based on the raven-haired man's reaction.

Alex almost got his legs wrapped around the inmate's head due to his legs not being shackled in yet. However, the other two had crept up and were quick to yank Alex's legs back against the pillar behind him.

The largest inmate just smirked as he'd slam his fist into Alex's liver hard, "That's it, Duke. Get angry. Know you've lost your son and he's gonna be raised to hate your guts. And know that you'll never be able to find him."

Alex immediately raged out. He struggled heavily against the men's arms around his legs. The lights in the room dimming harshly and the buzz in the room increasing rapidly. The room itself started to grow dim and the buzz increased continually until there was a large cacophonous boom. Alex's form immediately went limp and the inmates seemed entirely confused on what had happened. That was until the inmates from outside the room started to shout, "The guards! They're comin'! They're bringing the riot shields and they're coming down here!"

The guards very quickly made work of any resistance that the prisoners tried to put up. Mostly due to the fact that this prison didn't hold very many magic users. And if they did they were in the deepest depths of the prison that weren't connected to the rest.

The Head Guard on watch growled to the three inmates when he entered the room. The three men stepping back as the Head Guard ordered two men to take Alex away.

The smallest of the three inmates growled towards the Head Guard, "Why're you takin' him? He's just our plaything."

The Head Guard just smirked as he'd make his way over to the man. His right hand tapping its thumb upon the pommel of his sword. He just looked the man up and down before he'd unsheathe his sword and stabbed it within the man's gullet, "Because this one here just fried our damn wards. Whatever the fuck you fucks were doing to him caused him to overload our magic protection." He let go of the smallest man and watched as he slumped back against the wall before leaving the room.

Alex was dragged to a separate part of the prison. Deeper down and while slightly connected clearly a place for people that should not be with the general population. Compared to the uproarious shouts and bangs from the general population. These cells were dead quiet barring some scribbling or the sounds of men working out.

Alex was thrown into the last cell on the right. The only open cell left.

The man from across the way just chuckling, "Another one of us boys. Looks like this one fried the wards up top. You can see the burns around his arms and hands."

The other men made their way to the slots in their doors and looked out. Each of them grinning or chuckling, "Fresh meat, eh? Let's see how long this one lasts!"

The Head Guard slammed Alex's cell door shut and growled to the rest of them, "Shut the hell up or we turn on the -other- wards, fellas!" The immediate silence within this cell block would be deafening. Clearly, this block was for people who general population couldn't hold.

( @holtandthornetradingco, @house-kestavin, @alexandria-morrowgrove )

#IC #Story #Alex #Lorraine #Alexandria #Guild Story

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sambrooks-posts · 2 years

Text

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Whilst cannabidiol in perfect shape regarding the mind and the entire body, many businesses deliver fake cannabidiol products. These types of fake Cannabinoids often have quite a few harmful toxins, fumes, or maybe chemical substances which could hurt your body or maybe have an impact on your head, causing you experience inebriated. Consequently, you could possibly choose Pure Kana Gummies to relieve both mental and physical illnesses. They will assist in lessening ache as well as puffiness everywhere over the system. In addition, following these types of vitamin supplements, the mental point out may well strengthen.

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Numerous cannabidiol removes may be the principal element of  Purekana CBD Gummies top quality edibles. Their food occasionally includes place as well as fresh fruits removes as well as almond seeds. The parts already went through a examining inside medical researchers' labs. Consequently, there're free from dangerous elements or maybe man-made shades, styles, stabilizers, fumes, or maybe preservatives. Aside from, these types of food take absolutely no adverse reactions for it, which include nausea or vomiting, migraine headaches, or maybe headaches. Additionally, the particular 100 % natural ingredients allow Pure Kana Gummies being regularly ingested because they are manufactured in the safe and sound as well as sanitary atmosphere. Many people are produced soon after numerous years of analysis by simply pros while in the medical area. In addition, the particular THC elements usually are taken out of the particular element with a cutting-edge filtering process.

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The arms, palms, thighs and leg, arms, as well as neck of the guitar may go through fewer unpleasant soon after utilizing Purekana's CBD chews.

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This upper leg, palm, calf, as well as hand ache which some individuals knowledge could possibly be reduced by way of the complete cannabidiol removes inside  Purekana CBD Gummies CBD edibles. They will likewise assist in lessening burning up as well as irritation everywhere over the system. Immediately after the usage of these types of food in excess of a short time, a person can sound much more flexible. The target as well as efficiency stage at the job may well either enhance with the aid of this specific cannabidiol product. One time you make use of these types of food regarding about 6 weeks, you may want to produce greater thinking. If ingesting a day-to-day dosage regarding  Purekana CBD Gummies CBD food, some may aid you in earning supplemental intellectual strength.

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Aside from, you could possibly enhance your disposition by subtracting these types of food due to the fact some may assist in lessening be concerned as well as tension. Should you use these Pure Kana Gummies regarding 3 to 4 several weeks, you could find the asleep time frame convenient each one night. Also, they will assist in lessening get to sleep diseases, which include uneasiness, sleeping disorders, as well as lack of ability to autumn asleep.

Pros regarding 100 % pure Kana's CBD chews:

Critical signs and symptoms, which include migraine headaches as well as nausea or vomiting, usually are not likely being due to the particular pills.

After cannabidiol food day-to-day, the digestive function becomes healthy.

These types of candies' all-natural elements may well execute better compared to various other Cannabis products.

Cons regarding 100 % pure Kana's CBD chews:

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Once using these types of Purekana Quality CBD Gummies for extended time frame, you will need to steer clear of getting excess caffeine.

Additionally, do not eat cooked foodstuff, just like pastries, brownies, or maybe inflatable donuts, large quantities after ingesting your day-to-day amount regarding 100 % pure Kana's edibles.

Amount regarding 100 % pure Kana's CBD chews:

Cannabidiol goodies by simply Purekana usually are grouped together in the container using 40 chews. You'll be able to acquire just one gummy regarding 100 % pure Kana'utes products day-to-day, based on the indicated dosage. Contributing in excess of 2 food for you to your everyday intake. It might aid in the event you regularly ingested a strong empowered eating habits if you wish the highest comes from these types of vitamin supplements to improve your health, and your supper, which include preparing salads, exploit, ovum, veggies, some fruits, dried beans, as well as pulses.

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Immediately after getting 100 % pure Kana'utes food, you should maintain the nourishment sugars daily allowance into a minimum. These types of supplements might also work better after used along with precise physical exercises as well as frequent exercise. Additionally you can try routines whilst ingesting the particular food, just like riding a bicycle, working, jogging, exercising, as well as swimming. Yoga as well as yoga and fitness can also be alternatives for turning into tranquil as well as far healthier if using Purekana CBD Gummies. Also, it'd aid in the event you minimize drug abuse, smoking cigarettes, as well as drinking.

Bottom line:

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These types of chews potentially have to boost this enzymatic as well as natural defences quickly. Additionally, they usually are a wholesome technique for a few weeks to succeed physical and mental wellness. Consequently, buy Purekana CBD Gummies today for you to harvest the particular advantages.

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