#prange hair

[jupiterdomain]

Alex Prange

[mycutelb]

Prang Pharisa

[cosmal]

hozier — send me an au + character and i’ll write you a blurb. i.e rockstar!remus, rugby!james, stoner!peter

rockstar!sirius coming home from a long trip all clingy and whiny about how much he missed you omg

order in

summary sirius is clingy when he gets home from tour.

content sirius black x fem!reader

note um mal i love this idea shut up!!!!!!!!!

"Jesus Christ," Sirius says at the sight of you. A tiny vest, a pair of boxers he's sure are his. He forgets he thought they were lost almost immediately. You've got a laundry basket held to your hip.

"Sirius," you say. Really gently. Soft and sickly sweet. You don't flinch like he'd thought you would. He likes that more than he should. "Baby, when did your flight land? You didn't Uber here did you? Have you been home?"

He doesn't answer a single one of your questions and you shift on your feet, soft socks twisting into the crush of your rug. The anklet on your left leg clinks.

He drops his neck pillow next to his forgotten suitcase and closes the space between the two of you. He almost knocks into your dining table. You drop the basket on your couch like you know what he's about to do.

He hugs you so hard he worries you might bruise. He trusts you'd let him know if it might be too much because he still feels like it's not hard enough. He wants to feel you against him. Your hip pressed to his, your chest against his shoulder, the way your chin falls into the pit between his shoulder and neck.

"Sirius," you say into his skin. Right behind his ear where you know he likes it. "I was supposed to pick you up. You were supposed to ring."

"Don't care," he says and means it. "I didn't want you to drive through the traffic, I know you hate it."

You do. Last time you picked him up at Heathrow you almost had a prang. He was just as upset as you were. He had to drive the two of you home.

"I would've been okay," you sigh. He knows what you mean. "I'm sure you're exhausted."

"I am," he says. He starts to walk backwards until the backs of his legs hit the edge of your sofa. He sits down and takes you with him. You gasp like you weren't expecting it. Silly. "I am, but Christ, baby, I missed you."

You tuck your knees into his sides where he's got your legs parted over his lap. Pressing your palms into his soft hoodie, right over his chest. "Missed you more," you say before kissing his cheek. You pull back and he's frowning.

He reaches his hands up to your neck to tug you back down to his face. "That's really not possible," he mumbles before kissing you. Properly, he thinks, warm and slow into your mouth to show how much he means it.

You pull back, and despite the slow nature of his kiss, you're breathless. A little gaspy as you blink slowly and try to tamp back your shy grin. "Sure," you say.

"Promise."

You tuck your hands into his hair and look as lovesick as he feels. Pushing flat locks of hair behind his ears. Kinked where he's had his headphones on for the past thirteen hours. If he's lucky, he thinks he might get you into the shower later on with him tonight while he washes it. If he's even luckier, he might not have time to wash it at all.

"You gonna let me make you some dinner?" you ask, twisting a strand of hair around your finger.

"No," he says and means it. You're not going anywhere if he can help it. "No, stay here, baby."

"You're not hungry?" you ask. Your hand stills and he doesn't have it in him to ask you to keep twisting his hair. He knows you would but he thinks he's being whiny enough.

"Not really," he lies. He’s starved. Plane food is awful. "Thanks, though, honey."

You smile at the nickname like he'd expected. "You don't want me to make that linguine? The one with the little shrimp? I think the market might still be open."

Sirius wants to kiss you again. He wants to kiss you and hug you. He wants to tuck his arms under your shirt and hide his face in your neck until he gets bored. He doesn't think there are enough days left in existence to achieve it.

"We could order in?" he suggests. "Not that I don't love your cooking, it's just, I can order from my phone and you can stay right here in my lap."

"Sirius," you mumble.

"Yeah, and then while we wait, you can tell me about everything you did while I was away." He's smiling so hard he can't help it. It's an amazing idea.

You pretend to think about it but then reach down to pull his phone from his pocket. You hand it to him, smiling, and say, "Two conditions."

"I'm listening."

"We order from the Indian place around the block. Girl and The Goat?" He knows you only suggest it because it's his favourite. He tosses up arguing with you over it. He knows you'll want Greek. You always do.

He doesn't. "Right."

"And," you add, "You have to tell me everything you haven't already about tour."

Sirius rolls his eyes like that's an inconvenience. He really did want to let you ramble away. He's been gone two months. "Okay."

You smile like you're actually excited. "Yay."

Sirius pulls out his phone and finds the right number in his favourited contacts. He holds the dialling phone to his ear. "Good, I can complain to you then. James is such a fu- Hello, could I please place an order?"

You laugh until he finishes the order.

-

fixing the readmore glitch <3

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

That's the day that Chad and I found out that the show wasn't coming back. Or the, that I'm sorry, I take it back. That the show was coming back just without us. -Hilarie 

Wait, the day you were shooting your flaming Amy's flashback. Tell us everything. -Sophia

Well, we'd shot everything else. Right? -Hilarie

Wait, wait, wait. So you were doing these flashbacks, these like this deep nostalgia episode, not knowing that it was teeing up the exit. -Sophia

I was put in the blonde wig again as punishment for having red hair. Right. And I noticed a conversation with like Brooke and Victoria where it was like, are you really gonna leave the company and ruin the careers of all the people that you've been?  Like such a pointed conversation for you to have to have 'cause we were all in contract negotiations at this point, except me. I had never gotten a phone call from anybody. And so they were making offers to everybody and everyone was trying to hold the line. And all they needed were a couple people to sign on in order for the show to come back. And Chad and I never even got phone calls. So we were seated in that diner booth and we're like, it's our last day of filming. We did all of the present day stuff, we did most of the flashback stuff. And all of a sudden our producer Greg Prange is like, all right, everybody like pause what you're doing, circle up. Just wanted to make the announcement. The show is coming back. We've been picked up for a seventh season. And Chad looks at me and he's like, have you even gotten an offer? And I was like, no. And he's like, I haven't gotten an offer. And so around us, everyone around us is like hugging and high fiving. I mean, it felt like balloons were dropping from the ceiling. Everybody was so fucking pumped. And he and I just kind of sat there and we knew it was coming. We had, you know, Peyton got hit by a car in the last episode. She's on her death bed, you know, and he and I were the highest paid actors on the show. And we knew we were on the chopping block. And so our bosses, Voldemort and other Dipshits were in town. And we said, can they come to set? They were at the production office and we were at Flaming Amy's. We like, can they come to set? It's only, it's two o'clock in the afternoon. Can they come here and just like explain to us what's going on? Is there something, can someone just talk to us? They refused. They would not come speak to us. And instead they took other actors out to dinner that night to celebrate. And so Chad and I wrap work and I gotta take that fucking wig off. and you know, there's a sense of betrayal 'cause you're like, huh, okay cool. We didn't hold the line and so we'll go be the expendable ones. Fuck it. And Chad and I decide for the first time ever in our time together in Wilmington, that we are gonna go out together and we are gonna tie one on. And so Chad and I ended up at the Whiskey, which was like a bar right on the corner of downtown. You know, and like metal bands played there. And Bibis, our friend would play there all the time until two o'clock in the morning. He and I are just like sweating and smoking and drinking and dancing. And Chad's a very good dancer and every college chick in the place is like, oh my God, it's Lucas and Peyton and they're really together and this is so crazy. And it was insane. And so then from two to three o'clock in the morning we sat on, on like a retaining wall downtown and just really discussed like, we're out. We've had this shit dangled over our heads. There's no one here who's fighting for us. You know, the friendships are fake. It's not real. And we're gonna go and we're just gonna do some other stuff and we'll always tell each other the truth. You know? And so he walked me home and I remember that also being kind of weird. It felt like a date. It's the one date that Chad and I went on and it was very platonic. And then I called him a cab. And even the cab driver was like, I'm picking up Lucas Scott from Peyton Sawyers house.  It was crazy. But from that moment on for the whole rest of this season, it was, it was hell. It was really bad. It was really bad. 'cause it was, it was so pointed, you know, I'd been the person to do every upfront, every TCA every advertiser dinner party. I hosted the launch party for the CW  I had been the company girl and it was the biggest fuck you. -Hilarie

But Chad and I had this magic night. We still laugh about it. I mean it was, it was probably the hardest I ever partied in Wilmington. And he didn't really drink, so I remember being shocked. Shocked, That he was drinking his like vodka cranberries or whatever he was drinking. We were both just so blindsided by it.  Like we, we knew it was coming, but until it happens. -Hilarie 

[mykneeshurt]

Date Night

Soap x AFAB!reader

Warnings - 18+, minors DNI, f oral receiving, p in v, unprotected sex, mentions of self-harm

A/N - this happened to me 🙃 my ex did this lmfao stupid prick, curb stomping him wouldn’t be enough. I can’t afford therapy right now so here we are. This ain’t my best work but I’m trying to get back into writing to battle this haze I’m in

———-

The sound of keys clanging in the door snapped you out of daydream. Blinking away the tears that had gathered you slipped the mask back on. The mask that protected your true self, vulnerable and hurt. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, your house mate was finally home from deployment.

‘Hi Johnny!’ You called out from the kitchen. He let out a sigh as he dropped his bags, the wooden floor creaked and strained beneath the weight. ‘God, good to be home’ he called out, the smile evident in his voice. He finally made his way into the living room, it was open planed, he saw your figure at the cooker. Stirring something that smelt good and had your undivided attention. ‘What is that divine smell?’ He asked as he took off his boots.

Taking a deep breath you made sure the mask was secure, ‘lasagne, I know it’s your favourite annnnd there’s a crate of irn bru in the fridge for you. Though I may have stolen some’ you laughed. Coming over to the cooker he dipped a spoon in and slurped up the beefy sauce. ‘You’re a fuckin angel. But I have a date tonight, so no lasagne for me’ he wiggled his eyebrows cheekily. A flash of disappointment flew through you, but instead you plastered on your fakest smile and hugged him instead. ‘Check you out lover boy, I’m still gonna have some, I’ll put yours in the fridge.’

He thanked you again before making his way to the bathroom to shower. You carried on making the food, your mind mulling over the conversation with your ex, if you could call it that. Pottering about in the kitchen you waited for the food to cook, the sound of Johnnys music filled the silence. Some EDM track that was clearly hyping him up for his date. You were happy for him, his last girlfriend was a bit of a bitch in all honesty. It was nice to see him excited for once.

You poked and prodded at your food in-front of you, your appetite suddenly disappearing. Your mind ruminating, spiralling further and further into an abyss of darkness. Tears began to well again, this time you were unable to contain them, they fell and ran down your cheeks. You sobbed quietly into your jumper, hoping the sleeves would muffle the tears. Your chest ached, as a prang of anguish stabbed at your heart. You weren’t even sure why you were sad, you should have been angry. But ultimately you were hurt.

You were so caught up in your mind you hadn’t heard him come down the stairs. He stopped dead in his tracks as he saw you hunched over the kitchen table. Seeing the movement out of the corner of your eye you quickly wiped away your tears. Forcing a smile you wiped your hair out of your face. ‘Johnny! You look so handsome, have a wonderful time’ you sniffed. Walking over to the table he sat next to you, ‘what’s wrong?’ Concern plastered over his face.

‘Nothing’ you shrugged, dropping your gaze away from his. ‘This don’t look like nothing. I’m not going till you tell me.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re clearly not. Tell me.’ You rolled your eyes pushing him slightly ‘I’m fine, you’re gonna be late.’ He sighed as he pulled out his phone. ‘What’re you doing?’ You asked craning your neck to see. ‘Rearranging.’ Eyes widening you begged him to go, ‘please go, I’ll feel so bad if you don’t. You don’t need to worry about me.’

‘Well I do and I’m not going.’ The sound of the text being sent filled the silence as he turned his full attention to you once more. He placed a hand on your back as you fell into his chest, he held you tight as he cradled the back of your head. Playing with the fabric of his shirt you took in a deep breath. ‘My ex text me..’ you began.

‘Get tae fuck? That piece of shit?! Fuck he want now?’ You groaned into his chest, knowing he was going to lose his shit. ‘He sent me a picture of a cut on his leg, with a knife next to him. Told me I made him do it.’

You felt him tense beneath you, ‘fuckin excuse me?! What the fuck?! What’s his number, no way am I standing for that.’ You gripped his wrist, ‘Johnny no. He ain’t worth it, it just caught me off guard which is why I’m upset.’ You could see his chest puff out slightly as the artery in his neck pulsated with fury. ‘I’ll kill him. Swear t’god.’ You chucked at his protectiveness ‘no you won’t, cause he ain’t worth it. You and the boys could always rough him up though.’

‘Don’t know whether we’d know when to stop’ he smirked.

You sat up from his chest and offered a pathetic smile. ‘There she is’ he smiled back his hand still cradling the back of your neck. Your hand rested on his thigh, it was firm and warm to the touch. Your eyes met as you felt your breath get caught in your throat, something shifted in that moment. ‘You can still make the date’ you whispered. His grasp became tighter on your neck as he dropped his gaze to your lips. ‘I don’t think I want to.’

Slowly your faces edged closer together until your noses touched slightly, ‘Johnny, please go on your date.’ It was a pathetic attempt to stop whatever was happening. ‘Do you really want me to?’ His voice was a breathless whisper. Your lips hovered just above his, his breath danced along your own. Sliding your hand further up his thigh you finally said the word you secretly both wanted to hear. ‘No.’

Giving in your lips met, it was slow, tender, gentle. A low groan rippled from his chest as his tongue swept at your bottom lip, as you granted him entry he slid his free hand around your waist. You cupped his face pulling him closer to you, deepening the kiss. Shifting from your chair you climbed onto his lap. He smiled into the kiss, you could taste it on your lips.

Pulling back you bit your lip, heat rising to your cheeks. Averting your gaze you felt the sting of embarrassment tease at your chest. You rested your hands on his broad chest turning your head. Heart thumping, mind racing, the surge of adrenaline coursed through you as he cupped your cheek pulling your gaze back to him. ‘You want this?’

You stomach churned with nerves, once this bridge was crossed there was no going back. Burnt forever.

But you wanted it.

Badly.

You always had.

‘Yes.’ It was barely above a whisper, but you meant it.

He gripped your thighs and lifted you with ease, squeaking into his neck as he hoisted you onto his hips. Walking over to the sofa he sat down with you still in his lap. A giggle fell from your mouth as you repositioned yourself. Splaying his hands over your hips he pressed you down into his crotch. ‘Always loved the sound of your laugh.’ Throwing your head back you exposed your neck to him, long and elegant. ‘Really?’

He pulled you back into him as he whispered against your neck, ‘really.’ Peppering kisses along your skin he nipped at your earlobe ‘wanted y’since I first led eyes on you.’ You moaned as you clawed at the back of his head, raking your nails along his Mohawk. ‘Yeah?’ You asked as you rolled your hips, gripping his hair in between your fingers. He hissed as he licked his bottom lip ‘fuck, yeah. Bad. Fucked my fist thinking of this for so long.’

Feeling your panties become wet you slammed your lips back onto his, this time the kiss was faster, sloppier. You rolled your hips again causing him to nip your bottom lip. He tugged at your jumper, pulling it off in a swift motion revealing your plump breasts. You worked his button until his shirt fell open, revealing his toned chest with a dusting of hair. Scrambling with it you finally managed to pull it off as he undid your bra. Placing kisses along your collar bone he squeezed a nipple in between his fingers eliciting a whimper from you.

Your nimble fingers undid his belt in record time, slapping your ass he moved you off him so you were now laying down on the sofa. You looked beautiful to him, hair tussled, face flushed and glowing as you panted. He pulled off your leggings and discarded them somewhere behind him. He knelt in front of you, lifting your leg over his shoulder he placed kisses along your thigh as he looked up at you. His piercing blue eyes full of desire and lust, pupils blown wide. He teased his tongue along your clothed cunt, already tasting how sweet you were.

Moving your panties to the side he groaned at how wet you were. He swiped his tongue along your slit gathering your arousal on the tip. Hissing through your teeth at the contact you bucked your hips, begging for more. Wrapping his arms around your hips he secured you onto his face as he methodically and lazily licked your clit. Burying your head in the sofa pillows you let your body float away into a cloud of pleasure. He ate your pussy like a man starved, savouring every morsel of your juices.

‘Fuck Johnny’ you panted twisting your fingers in his hair. When he finally removed himself from your dripping cunt he kissed his way back to your mouth. You tasted yourself in the kiss as you ground your hips into his. Pulling away he searched your eyes for any objection, for any doubt but all he saw was want. ‘Say yes’ he whispered ‘please.’ Cupping his face you placed a form kiss on his lips ‘yes, fuck, yes.’

A wide grin spread across his lips as he lined himself up at your entrance. Pushing himself in a shudder ran down his spine, you felt heavenly against him. Your mouth fell open as you adjusted to his stretch, he began to move his hips gently. He watched as your eyes fluttered and your features twisted from the new feeling. Leaning down to your ear he planted in your ear, ‘wanted this for so long, y’feel so good.’ Pulling closer into you, you rested your cheek against his as sounds of ecstasy filled the room.

‘Harder, please, shit’ you mewled. He picked up his pace slamming his hips further into you, his hard cock filled you perfectly. ‘Don’t stop Johnny.’ He stifled a laugh as he tried to regain some composure ‘keep talkin like that I won’t last much longer love.’

‘Fuck, I don’t care, I want you to cum for me. Want you to fill me.’ A shaky whimper fell from his lips at your statement as his eyes rolled. ‘Dirty fuckin mouth you got, doin so well love.’

The unexpected praise coughed you to clench around him, ‘wanna go on top’ you demanded. Pulling out he positioned you on top as you sank down on his hard cock once more. Rolling your hips back and forth have your clit the missing pressure it craved. He gripped your hips as you rode him, skin glistening in the dull light of the living room. Unable to pull his eyes from your face his mouth dropped open as guttural moans built up within his chest. He was close. So were you.

The pressure on your clit proved too much, your orgasm crashing around you out of nowhere. You placed your forehead on his as you inhaled each others moans, digging your nails into his neck as you rode out your climax. He threw his head back as he came, a tease of your name on his lips. You felt his cock pulsate inside you as he drenched your walls with his cum.

Collapsing onto his shoulder he rubbed your back, tracing small circles on your sensitive skin. He cupped your jaw again and pulled you into a passionate embrace. Breaking the kiss you offered him a warm smile, one that could melt even the coldest of hearts. ‘I’m not reducing your rent mind’ you teased, a wicked glint in your eye. ‘Wouldn’t dream of askin hen.’

Tracing your nails over his neck you suddenly looked embarrassed, Johnny worried he’d done something wrong furrows his brows. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Anything’ he replied a little confused. Pursing your lips you built up the courage to ask. ‘You wanna stay in my room tonight?’ His eyes lit up, full of mischievous sparkle.

‘Yeah, I’d like that.’

[thewritersaddictions]

Day Twenty-One: Leon S. Kennedy + Holly Jolly Christmas

Leon promised that he would be back before christmas; he really did try. He even promised you that he would be back before the end of the year, yet the goverment in their infinte wisdom always excepted to much of their wonder boy Leon. He was very much a slave in the system, so when he was told to go somewhere and do something he wasn't coming home till he was finished with the mission.

You had accepted it, accepted the fact that you might not always get to see Leon. That someone might call and he'd have to be running out of the door with a small packed bag on his back. Pecking your cheek and promising he'll be back as soon as possible.

It was starting to get draining, having him home for only just afew days and then he'd be gone right back out of the door. It was startting to hurt your heart the way you could see the smile break from his face when he'd pick up his phone.

The clock was ticking away, the the closer the clock got to 12 the sadder you got. The more the warmth from the fire place and the gifts still unwrapped under the tree brought a sharp pang to your chest. All you wanted was to make a nice home cooked meal for you and your boyfriend and watch as glee made his cheeks red when he unwrapped a certain gift under the tree.

You just wanted a normal life with Leon but that you would never get. It just wasn't going to happen either you had to just get used to it, or you would have to leave him and you really don't want to.

You wrapped up your lonely christmas dinner, and refold the couches blanket before drapping it over the back of the couch. Turning off the hallway, and living room lights you get a glimsps of the clock in the hallway. Reading 11:35, you can feel the prang in your heart, you shuffle to the bathroom connected to your bedroom.

You get the shower water turned on, and get out of your clothes leaving them in a lumpy pile on the floor. You wait for the water to heat up before stepping into the cascade of water. You're slow at first, hoping and waitin' for Leon to pop his head in through the bathroom door but nothing happens.

You wash your hair and your body leaving in the conditoner in a little longer then you normally do. You make sure to wash your body off so you're not soapy when you leave the shower.

There's no one home to tell you how beautiful you are when you get dressed in your chirstmas themed pj's, and there's no one there to hold you tight agasint their chest. So much that you can hear their heartbeat. No nimble fingers gliding through your hair to coax you to effortless sleep. You pull Leons pillow to your chest and squeeze it tightly as the sheets of your bed hold you in a shitty, but warm hug.

Leon is almost there, he had to make a few pits stops after his plane landed because he promised you and never breaks his promises especially to you. He knows that he's promised that he'd be home before the end of month, but he really meant that you would be home by christmas.

Leon has always been a quiet person, never managed to step on the creaky stairs, or close a door to hard. He was sneaky, but not tonight. He was trying but what was in his arms made it harder to be quiet. Harder to grab his keys and unlcok the door but he manages anyways.

The bedroom door is open a little, but all the lights are off in the apartment. He makes his way slowly to the bedroom door, and can hear your sniffles. His heart sinks but his watch says he's there before the end of Christmas day. He had made good on his promise he was sure of it.

He opens the door with ease, and slips in between the lights and darkness. "Honey?" he whispers into the dark, but you don't move instead your sniffles pause. "I know you're awake I could hear your sniffles baby." Leon's voice is filled with saddness. "I promised that I would be home before christmas ended." Leon adds. You shuffle in the bed pulling the pillow away from your face. Leon's heart aches at the sight of your teary eyes but mroe at the fact you were wrapped around his pillow.

"I have a gift for you, baby." Leon says, getting closer to the bed, sitting on his side of the bed. "You have a gift for me?" You question him your voice sounding small and broken. "Close your eyes and put your hands out." Leon says you follow his instruction. Whatever Leon puts in your hands is fluffy, and wiggling around. You figure it out quickly when you get a wet tongue lick up your face. Your eyes open quickly at the feeling and you look down to see a puppy.

A husky, with one blue eye and another brown eye. You bottom lip pouts out and your eyes are filled with tears for a much different reason. "I'm tired of being away from you baby. I want you to know that i love you and I care about you. I don't want something as simple as me being away to cause you heartbreak. I know the puppy doesn't make up for it." You're listening to Leons sweet words and they cause you squeeze the puppy between the two of you when you grab him for a deep and much needed hug.

"I won't leave you Leon, I just need to know that you're here with me even if you aren't really here." Leon nods and leans in to place a kiss on your temple. "Did you name the puppy?" You ask Leon, he shakes his head, "I wanted you to do that baby." You look between him and the husky licking your palm. "How about Apollo?" You ask Leon, he nods, "He's yours sweetheart, so whatever you pick is just perfect." He says gently. "Merry chirstmas my love." Leon says as he lays down, the husky laying onto of your chest. "I love you, we can do christmas in the morning." He says and kisses your lips softly.

Completed on: 11/27/23

Posted on: 12/21/23

Resident Evil 4 Tags-

Resident Evil Master List // Resident Evil 4 Master List // Christmas Stories Master List

[littlelyarts]

Acrylic paint pens are cool :)

ID/ A lineless bust painting of Ly (a hognose snake character with short prange hair with large bangs, black eyes with green slits for pupils and 3 black holes on their forehead and cheeks.) / END ID

[angelwithshotgn]

{prang kannarun; cisfemale; she/her} hey isn’t that CHARIYA LIN? the 30 year old HUMAN and a song that plays when you see them is GOD IS A WOMAN by ARIANA GRANDE. They are known to be PASSIONATE and GULLIBLE. They have been in VALDEZ for 28 years and   always remind me of decorated hearing aides, chair at hair salon teched up to help, art supplies and sweets littering apartment, violin playing filling the air. what secrets will they discover?

BASICS.

NAME.　chariya lin

ALSO KNOWN AS.　char

BIRTH DATE + AGE.　october 26 | 30

ZODIAC. scorpio sun, scorpio moon, sagittarius rising

GENDER.　cisfemale

PRONOUNS.　she/her

ORIENTATION.　

SPECIES.　human

OCCUPATION.　hair stylist at .studio 75 styles, basker.

BIRTHPLACE.　thani, thailand.

CURRENT LOCATION.　ashwick valley, washington, united states

FAMILY.　chaiya lin - father, mali lin - mother,  mateo lin - 1 year old son.

APPEARANCE

FACECLAIM.　prang kannarun

EYES. brown.

HAIR. brown.

DOMINANT HAND. left.

HEIGHT. five foot seven.

BUILD. petite & toned.

TATTOOS. none.

SCARS/BIRTH MARKS. none

PERSONALITY.

CHARACTER INSPO.   bonnie bennett (the vampire diaries). waverly earp (wynonna earp). katara (atla). rosalind walker (caos). rachel chu (crazy rich asians). kara danvers (supergirl). alice cullen (twilight). claire randall (outlander). belle (beauty and the beast). angela montenegro (bones). alina starkov (shadow and bone).  monica dutton (yellowstone). jane villanueva (jane the virgin).  

TIDBITS

chariya was born in thani thailand to chaiya and mali lin. she was two when her parents moved from thailand to valdez alaska. due to complications at birth chariya was born with 80% hearing loss and while she has hearing aids to amplify the sounds she could hear.

she learned to read english and learned asl alongside her parents. she also learned to write in english as well in hopes of helping her to be able to communicate.

chariya grew up having various ways to communicate and fell in love with playing the violin, feeling the music on her finger tips and her mother got her into ballet as well.

as she got older, she got into art, learning to draw, paint, and photograph becoming very good at it.

she went to school for cosmetology, becoming a hair stylist and a makeup artist. and then started working at Studio 75 Styles. while working there she begins a relationship and ends up pregnant with his child. but the guy disappears.

chariya becomes a single mom and with the help of her mother, she’s able to parent a hearing child, who she’s been teaching sign language to, and work full time and do things she loves.

[vinewoodvalleyhq]

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( TAYLOR ZAKHAR PEREZ, CIS MALE, HE/HIM ) GREY VARGA the THIRTY-ONE year old is said to remind people of DRIVING AT HIGH SPEEDS & BLACK COFFEES WITH A HANGOVER. they are known to be CHARMING and SELF CENTERED which makes sense when you think about how they were a HOOKUP of Violet. but with their darkest secret being HIM AND VIOLET HAD A BABY IN THEIR EARLY 20'S THAT THEY GAVE UP FOR ADOPTION, CLAIMING SHE WAS JUST IN REHAB DURING THE PREGNANCY who knows how much longer they'll last here. { MADDI, 25, EST, SHE/HER. }

( ALEXA DEMIE, CIS FEMALE, SHE/HER ) SAVANNA CRUZ the TWENTY-NINE year old is said to remind people of THE SMELL OF COCONUT AND VANILLA & FRESHLY MANICURED NAILS. they are known to be SOCIABLE and DIMWITTED which makes sense when you think about how they were a CHILDHOOD FRIEND of Violet. but with their darkest secret being SET FIRE TO HER EX-BOYFRIENDS HOUSE ON ACCIDENT, CAUSING HIS FAMILY TO LOSE EVERYTHING who knows how much longer they'll last here. { MADDI, 25, EST, SHE/HER. }

( PRANG KANNARUN, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER ) GOLDIE MEKHALA ADULYADEJ the THIRTY year old is said to remind people of A VENUS FLY TRAP CLOSING AROUND ITS PREY & NEIGBOURHOOD HOMES GLOWING IN THE NIGHT. they are known to be BENEVOLENT and CUNNING which makes sense when you think about how they were a FRIEND of violet. but with their darkest secret being SHE HAD AN AFFAIR WITH THE LEAD DETECTIVE ASSIGNED TO HER FATHER'S CASE, GETTING THE CHARGES DROPPED who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { SHELBY, 32, EST, SHE/HER. }

( PRISCILLA QUINTANA, CIS FEMALE, SHE/HER ) ELOISA RODRIGUEZ the THIRTY ONE year old is said to remind people of LONG HAIR FLOWING IN THE WIND & THE SOUND OF NAILS CLACKING AGAINST A PHONE SCREEN. they are known to be PLAYFUL and DISMISSIVE which makes sense when you think about how they were a EX BEST FRIENDS of Violet. but her darkest secret is BULLIED SOMEBODY IN SCHOOL TO THE POINT THEY WERE HOSPITALISED but i guess we’ll find out for ourselves. { DANI 28, GMT, SHE/HER. }

( JACOB ELORDI, CIS FEMALE, SHE/HER ) JOSHUA MORGAN the THIRTY year old is said to remind people of BRUISED AND BLOODY KNUCKLES & EXPENSIVE CARS LINED UP IN A GARAGE THAT ARE NEVER DRIVEN. they are known to be FLIRTATIOUS and IMPULSIVE which makes sense when you think about how they were an BOYFRIEND to Violet. their darkest secret is BOUGHT DRUGS THAT HE GAVE TO A FRIEND WHICH CAUSED AN OVERDOSE but i guess we’ll find out for ourselves. { DANI 28, GMT, SHE/HER. }

( CASEY DEIDRICK, CIS MALE, HE/HIM ) RYKER WISE the THIRTY FOUR year old is said to remind people of THE SOUND OF A MOTORBIKE ROARING DOWN THE STREET AND A BED THAT IS NEVER MADE. they are known to be ADVENTUROUS and CLOSED OFF which makes sense when you think about how they were a FRIEND of violet. but with their darkest secret being TOOK PART IN A PRANK THAT GOT SOMEBODY KILLED who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { RAE, 27, GMT, SHE/HER. }

( NICHOLAS GALITZINE, CIS MALE, HE/HIM ) CALEB HAWTHORNE the THIRTY ONE year old is said to remind people of HEART POUNDING UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF TONIGHT'S DRUG OF CHOICE, A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE FOR ONE. they are known to be GREGARIOUS and SELF-SABOTAGING which makes sense when you think about how they were the OLDER BROTHER of violet. but with their darkest secret being HE WAS SUPPOSED TO SPEND SUMMER IN REHAB, BUT VIOLET'S DEATH HAS DISTRACTED HIS FAMILY who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { BECCA, 27, GMT, SHE/HER. }

( ALISHA BOE, CIS FEMALE, SHE/HER ) DAHLIA HAYES the THIRTY year old is said to remind people of IMPULSIVE PROPOSITIONS THAT FLASH LIKE NEON SIGNS, GUITAR PICS USED AS BOOKMARKS. they are known to be CONFIDENT and DISTRUSTING which makes sense when you think about how they were an ENEMY of violet. but with their darkest secret being SHE 'ACCIDENTALLY' KILLED HER STEPFATHER, who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { BECCA, 27, GMT, SHE/HER. }

( GREGG SULKIN, CIS MALE, HE/HIM ) ETHAN WOOD the TWENTY-EIGHT  year old is said to remind people of OVERFLOWING SHOTS OF WHISKEY & GOLDEN CHAMPIONSHIP TROPHIES. they are known to be DETERMINED and RECKLESS which makes sense when you think about how they were a ONE NIGHT STAND of Violet. but with their darkest secret being DADDY’S MONEY & LEGACY BOUGHT HIM A SPOT ON THE TEAM  who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { ALLY, 31, EST, SHE/HER }

( jack falahee, cismale, he/him ) ATLAS STEELE the THIRTY ONE year old is said to remind people of immaculate designer suits and a signature smirk on his lips at all times. they are known to be charming and cold which makes sense when you think about how they were a FWB of violet. but with their darkest secret being HIS CLUBS HAVE A SECRET ILLEGAL SIDE who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { AMII, 28, GMT, SHE/HER. }

( MELISA PAMUK, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER ) MIRAY ASLAN the THIRTY year old is said to remind people of red bottoms with a little black dress and lip stick stains on wine glasses. they are known to be HARDWORKING and VAIN which makes sense when you think about how they were a EX of violet. but with their darkest secret being SHE KILLED A MAN IN SELF DEFENCE who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { AMII, 28, GMT, SHE/HER. }

( MADELYN CLINE, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER ) LAUREL "LO" MOSS the TWENTY NINE year old is said to remind people of FLOWING SILK DRESSES THAT HUG HER CURVES, A WARM SMILE THAT PUTS YOU AT EASE. they are known to be SWEET and CONFLICT-AVERSE which makes sense when you think about how they were a BEST FRIEND of violet. but with their darkest secret being DURING AN INTENSE ARGUMENT IN HIGH SCHOOL, LO ACCIDENTALLY PUSHED HER FRIEND OFF A BALCONY RESULTING IN HER DEATH who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { N, 25+, EST, SHE/HER. }

( DANIELLE CAMPBELL, CISWOMAN, SHE/HER ) COSETTE BLYTHE LAURENT  the TWENTY-NINE year old is said to remind people of SUNKISSED SKIN GLISTENING IN THE HEADLIGHTS & A PASSPORT FILLED TO THE BRIM WITH STAMPS. they are known to be DEBONAIR and QUIXOTIC which makes sense when you think about how they were a BEST FRIEND of Violet. but with their darkest secret being SHE TRAVELS THE WORLD ON THE FUNDS OF HER SUGARDADDIES who knows how much longer they’ll last here. { JINKS, 27, CEST, SHE/HER. }

[hoodoverhollywood]

Black Woman Owned Blowout Bar Specifically For Textured Hair Gets Backed By Naomi Osaka

MIAMI GARDENS, FLORIDA – MARCH 19: Naomi Osaka of Japan during Media Day on Day 4 of the Miami Open Presented by Itau at Hard Rock Stadium on March 19, 2024 in Miami Gardens, Florida(Photo by Robert Prange/Getty Images) It’s tough finding a good hairstylist—one Black founder is aiming to answer that call and Naomi Osaka is backing her mission. Harvard grad Piersten Gaines reportedly received…

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 5-6

CHAPTER V

I KNOW the Press only too well. Almost all editors hide away in spider-dens, men without thought of Family or Public Interest or the humble delights of jaunts out-of-doors, plotting how they can put over their lies, and advance their own positions and fill their greedy pocketbooks by calumniating Statesmen who have given their all for the common good and who are vulnerable because they stand out in the fierce Light that beats around the Throne.

Zero Hour, Berzelius Windrip.

THE June morning shone, the last petals of the wild-cherry blossoms lay dew-covered on the grass, robins were about their brisk business on the lawn. Doremus, by nature a late-lier and pilferer of naps after he had been called at eight, was stirred to spring up and stretch his arms out fully five or six times in Swedish exercises, in front of his window, looking out across the Beulah River Valley to dark masses of pine on the mountain slopes three miles away.

Doremus and Emma had had each their own bedroom, these fifteen years, not altogether to her pleasure. He asserted that he couldn't share a bedroom with any person living, because he was a night-mutterer, and liked to make a really good, uprearing, pillow-slapping job of turning over in bed without feeling that he was disturbing someone.

It was Saturday, the day of the Prang revelation, but on this crystal morning, after days of rain, he did not think of Prang at all, but of the fact that Philip, his son, with wife, had popped up from Worcester for the week-end, and that the whole crew of them, along with Lorinda Pike and Buck Titus, were going to have a "real, old-fashioned, family picnic."

They had all demanded it, even the fashionable Sissy, a woman who, at eighteen, had much concern with tennis-teas, golf, and mysterious, appallingly rapid motor trips with Malcolm Tasbrough (just graduating from high school), or with the Episcopal parson's grandson, Julian Falck (freshman in Amherst). Doremus had scolded that he couldn't go to any blame picnic; it was his job, as editor, to stay home and listen to Bishop Prang's broadcast at two; but they had laughed at him and rumpled his hair and miscalled him until he had promised.... They didn't know it, but he had slyly borrowed a portable radio from his friend, the local R. C. priest, Father Stephen Perefixe, and he was going to hear Prang whether or no.

He was glad they were going to have Lorinda Pike—he was fond of that sardonic saint—and Buck Titus, who was perhaps his closest intimate.

James Buck Titus, who was fifty but looked thirty-eight, straight, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, long-mustached, swarthy—Buck was the Dan'l Boone type of Old American, or, perhaps, an Indian-fighting cavalry captain, out of Charles King. He had graduated from Williams, with ten weeks in England and ten years in Montana, divided between cattle-raising, prospecting, and a horse-breeding ranch. His father, a richish railroad contractor, had left him the great farm near West Beulah, and Buck had come back home to grow apples, to breed Morgan stallions, and to read Voltaire, Anatole France, Nietzsche, and Dostoyefsky. He served in the war, as a private; detested his officers, refused a commission, and liked the Germans at Cologne. He was a useful polo player, but regarded riding to the hounds as childish. In politics, he did not so much yearn over the wrongs of Labor as feel scornful of the tight-fisted exploiters who denned in office and stinking factory. He was as near to the English country squire as one may find in America. He was a bachelor, with a big mid-Victorian house, well kept by a friendly Negro couple; a tidy place in which he sometimes entertained ladies who were not quite so tidy. He called himself an "agnostic" instead of an "atheist" only because he detested the street-bawling, tract-peddling evangelicism of the professional atheists. He was cynical, he rarely smiled, and he was unwaveringly loyal to all the Jessups. His coming to the picnic made Doremus as blithe as his grandson David.

"Perhaps, even under Fascism, the 'Church clock will stand at ten to three, and there will be honey still for tea,'" Doremus hoped, as he put on his rather dandified country tweeds.

"You ought to get rid of that fellow, Ledue," urged Doremus's son Philip, the lawyer.

The only stain on the preparations for the picnic was the grouchiness of the hired man, Shad Ledue. When he was asked to turn the ice-cream freezer he growled, "Why the heck don't you folks get an electric freezer? He grumbled, most audibly, at the weight of the picnic baskets, and when he was asked to clean up the basement during their absence, he retorted only with a glare of silent fury.

"Oh, I don't know," considered Doremus. "Probably just shiftlessness on my part. But I tell myself I'm doing a social experiment—trying to train him to be as gracious as the average Neanderthal man. Or perhaps I'm scared of him—he's the kind of vindictive peasant that sets fire to barns... . Did you know that he actually reads, Phil?"

"No!"

"Yep. Mostly movie magazines, with nekked ladies and Wild Western stories, but he also reads the papers. Told me he greatly admired Buzz Windrip; says Windrip will certainly be President, and then everybody—by which, I'm afraid, Shad means only himself—will have five thousand a year. Buzz certainly has a bunch of philanthropists for followers."

"Now listen, Dad. You don't understand Senator Windrip. Oh, he's something of a demagogue—he shoots off his mouth a lot about how he'll jack up the income tax and grab the banks, but he won't— that's just molasses for the cockroaches. What he will do, and maybe only he can do it, is to protect us from the murdering, thieving, lying Bolsheviks that would—why, they'd like to stick all of us that are going on this picnic, all the decent clean people that are accustomed to privacy, into hall bedrooms, and make us cook our cabbage soup on a Primus stuck on a bed! Yes, or maybe 'liquidate' us entirely! No sir, Berzelius Windrip is the fellow to balk the dirty sneaking Jew spies that pose as American Liberals!"

"The face is the face of my reasonably competent son, Philip, but the voice is the voice of the Jew-baiter, Julius Streicher," sighed Doremus.

Davy Greenhill and his hero, Buck Titus, wrestled in the hardy pasture grass. Philip and Dr. Fowler Greenhill, Doremus's son-in-law (Phil plump and half bald at thirty-two; Fowler belligerently red-headed and red-mustached) argued about the merits of the autogiro. Doremus lay with his head against a rock, his cap over his eyes, gazing down into the paradise of Beulah Valley—he could not have sworn to it, but he rather thought he saw an angel floating in the radiant upper air above the valley. The women, Emma and Mary Greenhill, Sissy and Philip's wife and Lorinda Pike, were setting out the picnic lunch—a pot of beans with crisp salt pork, fried chicken, potatoes warmed-over with croutons, tea biscuits, crab-apple jelly, salad, raisin pie—on a red-and-white tablecloth spread on a flat rock.

The picnic ground was among a Stonehenge of gray and lichen-painted rocks, fronting a birch grove high up on Mount Terror, on the upland farm of Doremus's cousin, Henry Veeder, a solid, reticent Vermonter of the old days. They looked through a distant mountain gap to the faint mercury of Lake Champlain and, across it, the bulwark of the Adirondacks.

But for the parked motorcars, the scene might have been New England in 1885, and you could see the women in chip hats and tight-bodiced, high-necked frocks with bustles; the men in straw boaters with dangling ribbons and adorned with side-whiskers—Doremus's beard not clipped, but flowing like a bridal veil. When Dr. Greenhill fetched down Cousin Henry Veeder, a bulky yet shy enough pre-Ford farmer in clean, faded overalls, then was Time again unbought, secure, serene.

And the conversation had a comfortable triviality, an affectionate Victorian dullness. However Doremus might fret about "conditions," however skittishly Sissy might long for the presence of her beaux, Julian Falck and Malcolm Tasbrough, there was nothing modern and neurotic, nothing savoring of Freud, Adler, Marx, Bertrand Russell, or any other divinity of the 1930's, when Mother Emma chattered to Mary and Merilla about her rose bushes that had "winter-killed," and the new young maples that the field mice had gnawed, and the difficulty of getting Shad Ledue to bring in enough fireplace wood, and how Shad gorged pork chops and fried potatoes and pie at lunch, which he ate at the Jessups'.

And the View. The women talked about the View as honeymooners once talked at Niagara Falls.

David and Buck Titus were playing ship, now, on a rearing rock—it was the bridge, and David was Captain Popeye, with Buck his bosun; and even Dr. Greenhill, that impetuous crusader who was constantly infuriating the county board of health by reporting the slovenly state of the poor farm and the stench in the county jail, was lazy in the sun and with the greatest of concentration kept an unfortunate little ant running back and forth on a twig. His wife Mary—the golfer, the runner-up in state tennis tournaments, the giver of smart but not too bibulous cocktail parties at the country club, the wearer of smart brown tweeds with a green scarf—seemed to have dropped gracefully back into the domesticity of her mother, and to consider as a very weighty thing a recipe for celery-and- roquefort sandwiches on toasted soda crackers. She was the handsome Older Jessup Girl again, back in the white house with the mansard roof.

And Foolish, lying on his back with his four paws idiotically flopping, was the most pastorally old-fashioned of them all.

The only serious flare of conversation was when Buck Titus snarled to Doremus: "Certainly a lot of Messiahs pottin' at you from the bushes these days—Buzz Windrip and Bishop Prang and Father Coughlin and Dr. Townsend (though he seems to have gone back to Nazareth) and Upton Sinclair and Rev. Frank Buchman and Bernarr Macfadden and Willum Randolph Hearst and Governor Talmadge and Floyd Olson and—Say, I swear the best Messiah in the whole show is this darky, Father Divine. He doesn't just promise he's going to feed the Under-privileged ten years from now—he hands out the fried drumsticks and gizzard right along with the Salvation. How about him for President?"

This young man, freshman in Amherst the past year, grandson of the Episcopal rector and living with the old man because his parents were dead, was in the eyes of Doremus the most nearly tolerable of Sissy's suitors. He was Swede-blond and wiry, with a neat, small face and canny eyes. He called Doremus "sir," and he had, unlike most of the radio-and-motor-hypnotized eighteen-year-olds in the Fort, read a book, and voluntarily—read Thomas Wolfe and William Rollins, John Strachey and Stuart Chase and Ortega. Whether Sissy preferred him to Malcolm Tasbrough, her father did not know. Malcolm was taller and thicker than Julian, and he drove his own streamline De Soto, while Julian could only borrow his grandfather's shocking old flivver.

Out of nowhere appeared Julian Falck.

Sissy and Julian bickered amiably about Alice Aylot's skill in backgammon, and Foolish scratched himself in the sun.

But Doremus was not being pastoral. He was being anxious and scientific. While the others jeered, "When does Dad take his audition?" and "What's he learning to be—a crooner or a hockey-announcer?" Doremus was adjusting the doubtful portable radio. Once he thought he was going to be with them in the Home Sweet Home atmosphere, for he tuned in on a program of old songs, and all of them, including Cousin Henry Veeder, who had a hidden passion for fiddlers and barn dances and parlor organs, hummed "Gaily the Troubadour" and "Maid of Athens" and "Darling Nelly Gray." But when the announcer informed them that these ditties were being sponsored by Toily Oily, the Natural Home Cathartic, and that they were being rendered by a sextette of young males horribly called "The Smoothies," Doremus abruptly shut them off.

"Why, what's the matter, Dad?" cried Sissy.

"'Smoothies'! God! This country deserves what it's going to get!" snapped Doremus. "Maybe we need a Buzz Windrip!"

The moment, then—it should have been announced by cathedral chimes—of the weekly address of Bishop Paul Peter Prang.

Coming from an airless closet, smelling of sacerdotal woolen union suits, in Persepolis, Indiana, it leapt to the farthest stars; it circled the world at 186,000 miles a second—a million miles while you stopped to scratch. It crashed into the cabin of a whaler on a dark polar sea; into an office, paneled with linen-fold oak looted from a Nottinghamshire castle, on the sixty-seventh story of a building on Wall Street; into the foreign office in Tokio; into the rocky hollow below the shining birches upon Mount Terror, in Vermont.

Bishop Prang spoke, as he usually did, with a grave kindliness, a virile resonance, which made his self, magically coming to them on the unseen aerial pathway, at once dominating and touched with charm; and whatever his purposes might be, his words were on the side of the Angels:

"My friends of the radio audience, I shall have but six more weekly petitions to make you before the national conventions, which will decide the fate of this distraught nation, and the time has come now to act—to act! Enough of words! Let me put together certain separated phrases out of the sixth chapter of Jeremiah, which seem to have been prophetically written for this hour of desperate crisis in America:

"'Oh ye children of Benjamin, gather yourselves together to flee out of the midst of Jerusalem.... Prepare ye war... arise and let us go up at noon. Woe unto us! for the day goeth away, for the shadows of the evening are stretched out. Arise, and let us go by night and let us destroy her palaces. ... I am full of the fury of the Lord; I am weary with holding it in; I will pour it out upon the children abroad, and upon the assembly of young men together; for even the husband with the wife shall be taken, the aged with him that is full of days.... I will stretch out my hand upon the inhabitants of this land, saith the Lord. For from the least of them even unto the greatest, every one is given to covetousness; and from the prophet even unto the priest, every one dealeth falsely... saying Peace, Peace, when there is no Peace!'

"So spake the Book, of old.... But it was spoken also to America, of 1936!

"There is no Peace! For more than a year now, the League of Forgotten Men has warned the politicians, the whole government, that we are sick unto death of being the Dispossessed—and that, at last, we are more than fifty million strong; no whimpering horde, but with the will, the voices, the votes to enforce our sovereignty! We have in no uncertain way informed every politician that we demand—that we demand—certain measures, and that we will brook no delay. Again and again we have demanded that both the control of credit and the power to issue money be unqualifiedly taken away from the private banks; that the soldiers not only receive the bonus they with their blood and anguish so richly earned in '17 and '18, but that the amount agreed upon be now doubled; that all swollen incomes be severely limited and inheritances cut to such small sums as may support the heirs only in youth and in old age; that labor and farmers' unions be not merely recognized as instruments for joint bargaining but be made, like the syndicates in Italy, official parts of the government, representing the toilers; and that International Jewish Finance and, equally, International Jewish Communism and Anarchism and Atheism be, with all the stern solemnity and rigid inflexibility this great nation can show, barred from all activity. Those of you who have listened to me before will understand that I—or rather that the League of Forgotten Men—has no quarrel with individual Jews; that we are proud to have Rabbis among our directors; but those subversive international organizations which, unfortunately, are so largely Jewish, must be driven with whips and scorpions from off the face of the earth.

"These demands we have made, and how long now, O Lord, how long, have the politicians and the smirking representatives of Big Business pretended to listen, to obey? 'Yes—yes—my masters of the League of Forgotten Men—yes, we understand—just give us time!'

"There is no more time! Their time is over and all their unholy power!

"The conservative Senators—the United States Chamber of Commerce— the giant bankers—the monarchs of steel and motors and electricity and coal—the brokers and the holding-companies—they are all of them like the Bourbon kings, of whom it was said that 'they forgot nothing and they learned nothing.'

"But they died upon the guillotine!

"Perhaps we can be more merciful to our Bourbons. Perhaps— perhaps—we can save them from the guillotine—the gallows—the swift firing-squad. Perhaps we shall, in our new régime, under our new Constitution, with our 'New Deal' that really will be a New Deal and not an arrogant experiment—perhaps we shall merely make these big bugs of finance and politics sit on hard chairs, in dingy offices, toiling unending hours with pen and typewriter as so many white-collar slaves for so many years have toiled for them!

"It is, as Senator Berzelius Windrip puts it, 'the zero hour,' now, this second. We have stopped bombarding the heedless ears of these false masters. We're 'going over the top.' At last, after months and months of taking counsel together, the directors of the League of Forgotten Men, and I myself, announce that in the coming Democratic national convention we shall, without one smallest reservation—"

"Listen! Listen! History being made!" Doremus cried at his heedless family.

"—use the tremendous strength of the millions of League members to secure the Democratic presidential nomination for Senator— Berzelius—Windrip—which means, flatly, that he will be elected— and that we of the League shall elect him—as President of these United States!

"His program and that of the League do not in all details agree. But he has implicitly pledged himself to take our advice, and, at least until election, we shall back him, absolutely—with our money, with our loyalty, with our votes... with our prayers. And may the Lord guide him and us across the desert of iniquitous politics and swinishly grasping finance into the golden glory of the Promised Land! God bless you!"

Mrs. Jessup said cheerily, "Why, Dormouse, that bishop isn't a Fascist at all—he's a regular Red Radical. But does this announcement of his mean anything, really?"

Oh, well, Doremus reflected, he had lived with Emma for thirty-four years, and not oftener than once or twice a year had he wanted to murder her. Blandly he said, "Why, nothing much except that in a couple of years now, on the ground of protecting us, the Buzz Windrip dictatorship will be regimenting everything, from where we may pray to what detective stories we may read."

"Sure he will! Sometimes I'm tempted to turn Communist! Funny—me with my fat-headed old Hudson-River-Valley Dutch ancestors!" marveled Julian Falck.

"Fine idea! Out of the frying pan of Windrip and Hitler into the fire of the New York Daily Worker and Stalin and automatics! And the Five-Year Plan—I suppose they'd tell me that it's been decided by the Commissar that each of my mares is to bear six colts a year now!" snorted Buck Titus; while Dr. Fowler Greenhill jeered:

"Aw, shoot, Dad—and you too, Julian, you young paranoiac—you're monomaniacs! Dictatorship? Better come into the office and let me examine your heads! Why, America's the only free nation on earth. Besides! Country's too big for a revolution. No, no! Couldn't happen here!"

CHAPTER VI

I'D rather follow a wild-eyed anarchist like Em Goldman, if they'd bring more johnnycake and beans and spuds into the humble cabin of the Common Man, than a twenty-four-carat, college-graduate, ex-cabinet-member statesman that was just interested in our turning out more limousines. Call me a socialist or any blame thing you want to, as long as you grab hold of the other end of the cross-cut saw with me and help slash the big logs of Poverty and Intolerance to pieces.

Zero Hour, Berzelius Windrip.

HIS family—at least his wife and the cook, Mrs. Candy, and Sissy and Mary, Mrs. Fowler Greenhill—believed that Doremus was of fickle health; that any cold would surely turn into pneumonia; that he must wear his rubbers, and eat his porridge, and smoke fewer cigarettes, and never "overdo." He raged at them; he knew that though he did get staggeringly tired after a crisis in the office, a night's sleep made him a little dynamo again, and he could "turn out copy" faster than his spryest young reporter.

He concealed his dissipations from them like any small boy from his elders; lied unscrupulously about how many cigarettes he smoked; kept concealed a flask of Bourbon from which he regularly had one nip, only one, before he padded to bed; and when he had promised to go to sleep early, he turned off his light till he was sure that Emma was slumbering, then turned it on and happily read till two, curled under the well-loved hand-woven blankets from a loom up on Mount Terror; his legs twitching like a dreaming setter's what time the Chief Inspector of the C.I.D., alone and unarmed, walked into the counterfeiters' hideout. And once a month or so he sneaked down to the kitchen at three in the morning and made himself coffee and washed up everything so that Emma and Mrs. Candy would never know.... He thought they never knew!

These small deceptions gave him the ripest satisfaction in a life otherwise devoted to public service, to trying to make Shad Ledue edge-up the flower beds, to feverishly writing editorials that would excite 3 per cent of his readers from breakfast time till noon and by 6 P.M. be eternally forgotten.

Sometimes when Emma came to loaf beside him in bed on a Sunday morning and put her comfortable arm about his thin shoulder-blades, she was sick with the realization that he was growing older and more frail. His shoulders, she thought, were pathetic as those of an anemic baby.... That sadness of hers Doremus never guessed.

The wise Emma was happy when he was snappish before breakfast. It meant that he was energetic and popping with satisfactory ideas.

Even just before the paper went to press, even when Shad Ledue took off two hours and charged an item of two dollars to have the lawnmower sharpened, instead of filing it himself, even when Sissy and her gang played the piano downstairs till two on nights when he did not want to lie awake, Doremus was never irritable—except, usually, between arising and the first life-saving cup of coffee.

After Bishop Prang had presented the crown to Senator Windrip, as the summer hobbled nervously toward the national political conventions, Emma was disturbed. For Doremus was silent before breakfast, and he had rheumy eyes, as though he was worried, as though he had slept badly. Never was he cranky. She missed hearing him croaking, "Isn't that confounded idiot, Mrs. Candy, ever going to bring in the coffee? I suppose she's sitting there reading her Testament! And will you be so kind as to tell me, my good woman, why Sissy never gets up for breakfast, even after the rare nights when she goes to bed at 1 A.M.? And—and will you look out at that walk! Covered with dead blossoms. That swine Shad hasn't swept it for a week. I swear, I am going to fire him, and right away, this morning!"

Emma would have been happy to hear these familiar animal sounds, and to cluck in answer, "Oh, why, that's terrible! I'll go tell Mrs. Candy to hustle in the coffee right away!"

But he sat unspeaking, pale, opening his Daily Informer as though he were afraid to see what news had come in since he had left the office at ten.

He, who understood himself abnormally well, knew that far from being a left-wing radical, he was at most a mild, rather indolent and somewhat sentimental Liberal, who disliked pomposity, the heavy humor of public men, and the itch for notoriety which made popular preachers and eloquent educators and amateur play-producers and rich lady reformers and rich lady sportswomen and almost every brand of rich lady come preeningly in to see newspaper editors, with photographs under their arms, and on their faces the simper of fake humility. But for all cruelty and intolerance, and for the contempt of the fortunate for the unfortunate, he had not mere dislike but testy hatred.

When Doremus, back in the 1920's, had advocated the recognition of Russia, Fort Beulah had fretted that he was turning out-and-out Communist.

He had alarmed all his fellow editors in northern New England by asserting the innocence of Tom Mooney, questioning the guilt of Sacco and Vanzetti, condemning our intrusion in Haiti and Nicaragua, advocating an increased income tax, writing, in the 1932 campaign, a friendly account of the Socialist candidate, Norman Thomas (and afterwards, to tell the truth, voting for Franklin Roosevelt), and stirring up a little local and ineffective hell regarding the serfdom of the Southern sharecroppers and the California fruit-pickers. He even suggested editorially that when Russia had her factories and railroads and giant farms really going—say, in 1945—she might conceivably be the pleasantest country in the world for the (mythical!) Average Man. When he wrote that editorial, after a lunch at which he had been irritated by the smug croaking of Frank Tasbrough and R. C. Crowley, he really did get into trouble. He got named Bolshevik, and in two days his paper lost a hundred and fifty out of its five thousand circulation.

Yet he was as little of a Bolshevik as Herbert Hoover.

He was, and he knew it, a small-town bourgeois Intellectual. Russia forbade everything that made his toil worth enduring: privacy, the right to think and to criticize as he freakishly pleased. To have his mind policed by peasants in uniform—rather than that he would live in an Alaska cabin, with beans and a hundred books and a new pair of pants every three years.

Once, on a motor trip with Emma, he stopped in at a summer camp of Communists. Most of them were City College Jews or neat Bronx dentists, spectacled, and smooth-shaven except for foppish small mustaches. They were hot to welcome these New England peasants and to explain the Marxian gospel (on which, however, they furiously differed). Over macaroni and cheese in an unpainted dining shack, they longed for the black bread of Moscow. Later, Doremus chuckled to find how much they resembled the Y.M.C.A. campers twenty miles down the highway—equally Puritanical, hortatory, and futile, and equally given to silly games with rubber balls.

Once only had he been dangerously active. He had supported the strike for union recognition against the quarry company of Francis Tasbrough. Men whom Doremus had known for years, solid cits like Superintendent of Schools Emil Staubmeyer, and Charley Betts of the furniture store, had muttered about "riding him out of town on a rail." Tasbrough reviled him—even now, eight years later. After all this, the strike had been lost, and the strike-leader, an avowed Communist named Karl Pascal, had gone to prison for "inciting to violence." When Pascal, best of mechanics, came out, he went to work in a littered little Fort Beulah garage owned by a friendly, loquacious, belligerent Polish Socialist named John Pollikop.

All day long Pascal and Pollikop yelpingly raided each other's trenches in the battle between Social Democracy and Communism, and Doremus often dropped in to stir them up. That was hard for Tasbrough, Staubmeyer, Banker Crowley, and Lawyer Kitterick to bear.

If Doremus had not come from three generations of debt-paying Vermonters, he would by now have been a penniless wandering printer... and possibly less detached about the Sorrows of the Dispossessed.

The conservative Emma complained: "How you can tease people this way, pretending you really like greasy mechanics like this Pascal (and I suspect you even have a sneaking fondness for Shad Ledue!) when you could just associate with decent, prosperous people like Frank—it's beyond me! What they must think of you, sometimes! They don't understand that you're really not a Socialist one bit, but really a nice, kind-hearted, responsible man. Oh, I ought to smack you, Dormouse!"

Not that he liked being called "Dormouse." But then, no one did so except Emma and, in rare slips of the tongue, Buck Titus. So it was endurable.

[subtlesolitude-tailoredtaste]

Art21 proudly presents an artist segment, featuring Theaster Gates, from the "Chicago" episode in the ninth season of the "Art in the Twenty-First Century" series.

"Chicago " premiered in September 2016 on PBS. Watch now on PBS and the PBS Video app: https://www.pbs.org/video/art-21-chic...

Theaster Gates first encountered creativity in the music of Black churches on his journey to becoming an urban planner, potter, and artist. Gates creates sculptures out of clay, tar, and renovated buildings, transforming the raw material of the South Side into radically reimagined vessels of opportunity for the community.

Establishing a virtuous circle between fine art and social progress, Gates strips dilapidated buildings of their components, transforming those elements into sculptures that act as bonds or investments, the proceeds of which are used to finance the rehabilitation of entire city blocks. Many of the artist’s works evoke his African-American identity and the broader struggle for civil rights, from sculptures incorporating fire hoses, to events organized around soul food, and choral performances by the experimental musical ensemble Black Monks of Mississippi, led by Gates himself.

Learn more about the artists at:

https://art21.org/artist/theaster-gates/

CREDITS | Executive Producer: Eve Moros Ortega. Host: Claire Danes. Director: Stanley Nelson. Producer & Production Manager: Nick Ravich. Editor: Aljernon Tunsil. Art21 Executive Director: Tina Kukielski. Curator: Wesley Miller. Associate Producer: Ian Forster. Structure Consultant: Véronique Bernard. Director of Photography: Keith Walker. Additional Photography: Don Argott, Brian Ashby, Steve Delahoyde, Jeremy Dulac, Damon Hennessey, Sam Henriques, Ben Kolak, Christoph Lerch, Stephan Mazurek, Andrew Miller, Christopher Morrison, Leslie Morrison, Murat Ötünç, Logan Siegel, Stephen Smith, & Jamin Townsley. Assistant Camera: Kyle Adcock, Joe Buhnerkempe, Alex Klein, Ian McAvoy, Sean Prange, & Liz Sung. Sound: Sean Demers, Alex Inglizian, Hayden Jackson, İlkin Kitapçı, Joe Leo, Matt Mayer, John Murphy, Richard K. Pooler, & Grant Tye. Production Assistant: Hamid Bendaas, Emmanuel Camacho, Chad Fisher, Elliot Rosen, Stanley Sievers, Chris Thurston, & Steven Walsh.

Title/Motion Design: Afternoon Inc. Composer: Joel Pickard. Online Editor: Don Wyllie. Re-Recording Mix: Tony Pipitone. Sound Edit: Neil Cedar & Jay Fisher. Artwork Animation: Anita H.M. Yu. Assistant Editor: Maria Habib, Leana Siochi, Christina Stiles, & Bahron Thomas.

Host Introduction | Creative Consultant: Tucker Gates. Director of Photography: Pete Konczal. Second Camera: Jon Cooper. Key Grip: Chris Wiesehahn. Gaffer: Jesse Newton. First Assistant Camera: Sara Boardman & Shane Duckworth. Sound: James Tate. Set Dresser: Jess Coles. Hair: Peter Butler. Makeup: Matin. Production Assistant: Agatha Lewandowski & Melanie McLean. Editor: Ilya Chaiken.

Artworks Courtesy of: Nick Cave; Theaster Gates; Barbara Kasten; Chris Ware; BAM Hamm Archives; Bortolami Gallery; Cranbrook Art Museum; Margaret Jenkins Dance Company; The New Yorker magazine and Condé Nast; James Prinz Photography; Jack Shainman Gallery; Sara Linnie Slocum; Chris Strong Photography; & White Cube. Acquired Photography: Sara Pooley; The Art Channel/Bobbin Productions; & University Art Museum, California State University Long Beach.

Special Thanks: The Art21 Board of Trustees; 900/910 Lake Shore Drive Condominium Association; Michael Aglion; Ellen Hartwell Alderman; Adam Baumgold Gallery; Naomi Beckwith; Biba Bell; Stefania Bortolami; Kate Bowen; Pat Casteel; Chicago Embassy Church; Coachman Antique Mall; Maria J. Coltharp; John Corbett; Department of Theatre & Dance, Wayne State University; Detroit School of Arts; Christina Faist; Bob Faust; Martina Feurstein; Julie Fracker; William Gill; Graham Foundation; Jen Grygiel; Sarah Herda; Jennon Bell Hoffmann; Sheree Hovsepian; Institute of Contemporary Art at the University of Pennsylvania; Istanbul Biennial; Nicola Jeffs; Jenette Kahn; Jill Katz; Alex Klein; Kunsthaus Bregenz; Jon Lowe; Sheila Lynch; Mana Contemporary Chicago; Christine Messineo; Laura Mott; Deborah Payne; Bishop Ed Peecher; Lisa Pooler; Rebuild Foundation; Diana Salier; Tim Samuelson; Amy Schachman; Zeynep Seyhun; Keith Shapiro; Alexandra Small; Jacqueline Stewart; Hamza Walker; Clara Ware; Marnie Ware; & Steve Wylie.

Additional Art21 Staff: Maggie Albert; Lindsey Davis; Joe Fusaro; Jessica Hamlin; Jonathan Munar; Bruno Nouril; Pauline Noyes; Kerri Schlottman; & Diane Vivona.

Public Relations: Cultural Counsel. Station Relations: De Shields Associates, Inc. Legal Counsel: Albert Gottesman.

Dedicated To: Susan Sollins, Art21 Founder.

Major support for Season 8 is provided by National Endowment for the Arts, PBS, Lambent Foundation, Agnes Gund, The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, and The Anna-Maria and Stephen Kellen Foundation.

©2016 Art21, Inc.

[adam-sawyer]

Marriage is overrated, though I like the sound of Ms so I shall keep that... though I think there may have actually been an impromtu Vegas wedding years ago, I may have to check that. I have seemed to hang up the hairdying tools for a while, I have natural hair at the moment, who would have thought!

Scandalous, Ms Richardson. You with natural hair? I never thought I'd see the day. I've done many stupid things in the name of love but I can't say I ever had a Vegas wedding. Who's the lucky guy or gal? Why wasn't I your man of honour? I won't take it too personally but I want you to know I felt a prang in my heart that I've not felt in years.

[valdezhqs]

welcome to valdez aramis ! please send in your account within 24 hours or the face claim prang kannarun   will be reopened. also please complete the checklist.  

{prang kannarun; cisfemale; she/her} hey isn’t that CHARIYA LIN? the 30 year old HUMAN and a song that plays when you see them is GOD IS A WOMAN by ARIANA GRANDE. They are known to be PASSIONATE and GULLIBLE. They have been in VALDEZ for 28 years and always remind me of decorated hearing aides, chair at hair salon teched up to help, art supplies and sweets littering apartment, violin playing filling the air. what secrets will they discover? [aramis, 30, cst, she/they, previously shared]

[l0cal-gh0ul]

Just a reminder on how cute I was tonight for my works holiday party 💁🏻‍♀️

[cutesmctoots]

meow