#remixable software

[kristy7788]

Remixable V3 is a versatile software platform designed to help users create, customize, and launch professional-quality websites and online marketing campaigns without any coding skills. It offers a wide range of templates, design tools, and features that enable users to build everything from e-commerce sites to affiliate marketing pages. With its user-friendly interface and drag-and-drop functionality, Remixable V3 aims to streamline the process of developing online businesses and enhance digital marketing efforts.

[beat-shobon]

rawdog (beat_shobon remix)

Original song by Flavor Foley (Jamie Paige, Vane Lily, ricedeity)

Soundcloud Link

[softchassis]

Re-breaking the Tumblr Ice with a "25 Games To Know Me" post!

Reasons why each game is important to me are under the cut.

Sonic The Hedgehog 2 -- I love Sonic in general. I think across the entire history of the franchise I can only really point to two games I dislike, or three if I'm feeling particularly uncharitable. But Sonic 2 was the first game I ever saw at a store and said "I want that one". As for how I feel about Sonic 2 itself, it's actually not my favorite Sonic game or even my favorite classic Sonic game--those distinctions go to Sonic Unleashed and Sonic CD--but without Sonic 2, I may never have given the blue hog a chance.

Spark The Electric Jester 3 -- The most recent game on this list certainly but it deserves to be there. It's so confident and unashamed of what it is. It *knows* it's a Sonic fan game underneath its yellow blorbo skin, but it never winks at the audience about it. You just get to do some really incredible, high speed 3D platforming and mix in some DMC-lite combos in there too. It's good, it's fun, it's sincere, it's beautiful. All the Spark games are.

Cave Story -- Before Cave Story I only had a vague idea of the concept of "single person makes game all by themself". I'd certainly played plenty before, from the Shareware era on DOS and Windows 95, but Cave Story made it feel approachable. Plus, on its own, it's just a great little game.

La Mulana -- Cave Story and La Mulana share the same space in my brain. It may be a little weird to say this, but I typically don't enjoy 2D Metroidvanias. The only ones I've beaten are Super Metroid and most recently Nine Sols. But something about La Mulana just tickles me. It feels like the entire map is one big Rubik's Cube I'm beating my head against, which is more satisfying to me than "I found the thing that lets me do the thing I couldn't do earlier."

DOOM (2016) -- I love the entire Doom franchise but DOOM 2016 is my favorite standalone experience. Otherwise I have played untold hours of classic Doom mods, my favorites being Reelism, Demonsteele, and Doom Infinite.

Sekiro -- A really great experience all around. I enjoy Dark Souls and appreciate its storytelling, but most everything in Dark Souls feels too distant for me to appreciate, whereas in Sekiro, the history both is recent and ongoing, and the Shinto and Buddhist mythology informs the story in real time. And It's just so fun to actually play. You never forget your first Lady Butterfly.

Dynamite Headdy -- Most everyone loves Treasure but to me no game is more Treasure than this one.

Moon: Remix RPG Adventure -- One of the earliest plays on the RPG genre. A typical RPG hero is going around slaying monsters to level up, but that person isn't you. Instead, you go around reuniting the souls of slain monsters to revive them, and learn a lot about the heartfelt and unique world they once inhabited. A really beautiful and important game.

Worms Armageddon -- Still the best 1999

Avernum: Escape From The Pit -- A remake of Spiderweb Software's first game in the "Exile" series. Avernum tells a great fantasy story about an underground cave society, where undesirables are exiled by the empire who scorns them. Instead of laying down and dying in the caves, its new residents name it Avernum and create their own society... and they don't intend to take their punishment laying down. A really fun and atmospheric CRPG with great, Vonnegut-esque writing and a lot of heart.

Legacy Of Kain: Soul Reaver -- I played this one pretty recently and was shocked at how forward thinking it was for 1999. I played the entire Legacy of Kain series back to back, but Soul Reaver stuck out to me as the best one. If you can't tell by some of the other games on this list, I adore games that feel lonely and isolating but still have a distinct goal and stakes. Soul Reaver is incredible and finally contextualized just why I saw Raziel all over Playstation magazines as a kid--it's because he's fucking cool!

Marathon Infinity -- play the entire marathon series right now stop reading this

Lemmings -- Huh. What's that doing here

Pikmin -- The first Pikmin is the best one in my opinion. I love the time limit, I love the simplicity of the scope compared to the rest of the series, it's a fun game to just pop in once in a while and just blitz through. I also just love microworld settings. And the creature design! And the puzzle design! Ohh Pikmin there's nothing like you.

Klonoa: The Door To Phantomile -- I have a lot of fond memories of this one, but specifically of playing the demo over and over on a Playstation Magazine demo disc with my sister. I wouldn't actually play the full game until much later, on an emulator. I did later rent Klonoa 2 and finish it before that though. Klonoa is good.

Rayman -- I love this game. I love how fucking mean it is while looking so bright and poppy and silly. I first played it when I was like 8 years old and it was a really humbling, eye-opening experience. But jokes aside it's just a really good game. But yeah, it's hard. If you've never played it before and don't want to tear your hair out, you should play Rayman Redemption, a fan remake of it that makes it a bit more approachable. If you ask me though, you should try the original first.

Ecco: The Tides of Time -- I also played this one when I was really young and it was also a humbling, eye-opening experience. I just liked dolphins, I wasn't expecting to have rented the hardest game in the entire fucking store. Having revisited the Ecco series many times since then, though, I think Tides of Time is the best one. It's just gorgeous and both versions of the soundtrack are amazing. I prefer the CD one though, except for Moray Abyss and Tubes of Medusa.

Splatterhouse -- Kids love horror and kids love forbidden things, so when I saw a Splatterhouse ROM on a romsite as a kid and was immediately told I wasn't allowed to download it, of course I fucking did when no one was looking. And my brain was altered forever

Earthbound -- I very briefly had a stepbrother who had a SNES and Earthbound and I wasn't able to play it myself (no open save slots) so I just watched, but I was fascinated by it. I would eventually play it myself later on good ol ZSNES. I have nice warm memories of watching the snow on the ZSNES menu while it snowed gently outside, in between bouts of playing Earthbound and Yoshi's Island.

Yakuza -- Okay the PS2 boxart is here as a stand in, I love the entire Yakuza series dearly. I did own Yakuza and Yakuza 2 when they were new, but lost them when our PS2 and all of its games got stolen.

Sonic Robo Blast 2 -- Another Sonic game? But this one's special. I've been playing SRB2 for over half of my life at this point. I've played countless mods for it and have watched it grow from a basic little Doom platformer into a great platform for expression. It's also just fun.

Bomberman 64 -- The 3D bomb-stacking and bouncing stuff in this game is so cool and is the exact kind of finicky, almost-accidental-seeming mechanical depth I love in video games. I can't believe they only made one of these.

Psychonauts -- Kind of a stand-in for Double Fine and LucasArts in general, but definitely the best game still out of both companies. I love 3D platformers and I love what this game does. There's still not much out there like it.

Rayman 2 -- Another Rayman game? Well yeah, I can't say I love 3D platformers and just not put the best 3D platformer ever made on this list. Not an exaggeration!

Final Fantasy XIV -- I get to play as a hot lion woman now. Have you seen her? Well, now you have

[piratewithvigor]

MILLION DOLLAR BABIE$

(This is what happens when you make me go feral over dudes @luxurysystems)

[buysells]

Remixable - Founder Edition Software

Remixable - Founder Edition is a comprehensive software platform designed to empower users to create and sell their own software, build professional websites, produce video sales letters (VSLs) and affiliate videos, and drive buyer traffic. It offers a modular and flexible design, allowing users to customize workflows and processes to suit their specific needs. REMIXABLE.NET

The platform provides several subscription options:

Founder Edition: $1 trial for the first month, then $27 per month. Gold Package: $1 trial for the first month, then $47 per month. Platinum Package: $1 trial for the first month, then $97 per month. Each package includes features such as unlimited website creation, the ability to remix any website, access to product niche templates, and tools for creating brand creatives. Higher-tier packages offer additional benefits like increased sales caps for software and Affiliate Bots white-label rights, as well as access to buyer traffic and enhanced support options. REMIXABLE.NET

Remixable's proprietary technology enables users to remix sites, blocks, content, and styles with a single click, streamlining the development workflow and fostering collaboration. The platform supports multiple programming languages and frameworks, providing flexibility for diverse development preferences. REMIXABLE.NET

Additional features include real-time collaboration, robust version control tools, built-in documentation capabilities, and seamless integration with popular development tools and platforms. These functionalities make Remixable - Founder Edition a valuable tool for developers and entrepreneurs aiming to innovate and efficiently bring their ideas to life. VOCAL

For a visual overview and more insights into Remixable - Founder Edition, you might find the following video helpful: Read More

[backsugarpendowndreams]

How To "Remix" Your Business...

IT WON'T HAPPEN UNLESS YOU WORK FOR IT ..THAT IS NOT NECESSARILY TRUE WITH REMIXABLE YOU DON'T HAVE TOO MUCH ... THIS SOFTWARE IS LITERALLY CREATED FOR PEOPLE WHO LIKE BOSS MOVES...THINGS DONE FOR THEM.. WITH REMIXABLE EVERYTHING IS UNDER YOUR FINGERTIPS... MAKE HD VIDEOS, AND CREATE NEW SOFTWARE WITH JUST 1 CLICK AWAY NO CODING NO NEEDED..EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO BUILD YOUR 1ST BUSINESS FASTER.

CHECK THEIR WEBSITE HERE FOR MORE

[suppermariobroth]

The GameCube Service Disc was a Nintendo-internal program used by customer support to diagnose problems with the GameCube hardware. On the disc, an unused sound file called "Spmario.adp" exists, which is actually the track "Super Mario Bros." from the official 1991 Super Mario World jazz remix album by Koji Kondo.

While the album has been used as part of audio accompaniment in a variety of Mario titles and broadcasts on the Japan-only Satellaview add-on for the Super Famicom, this is the only instance of a track from it actually being included in a piece of software.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Small Findings | Source

[yassbishimvintage]

Hearts On Deck (3)

A/N: We back baby

Masterlist

Cleo adjusted the angle of her phone as she snapped a quick shot of her screen, showing her editing software in action. The caption read: "Another day, another edit! Can’t wait for you all to see what’s coming 🖤", and she added a few cute emojis to lighten the mood. It was a casual post—nothing too over the top—but it gave her followers a peek into her daily grind.

As she hit ‘Post,’ the usual wave of likes started rolling in almost immediately. The little red hearts flooded the screen as her audience reacted.

A few minutes later, she got a direct message notification. It was from one of her followers—her DM inbox was always active, but this one caught her attention because it was from someone who rarely reached out.

“Hey, love the behind-the-scenes look! What’s the next video going to be about? 🥺”

Cleo smiled, typing out a quick response. “Thanks! It's a behind-the-scenes of my day-to-day—editing, meetings, you know, the usual. Stay tuned 😉” She hit send, then moved on to another message that asked for her favorite beauty brands.

As the story continued to rack up views, she started feeling that familiar sense of validation, the rush of connection with her followers. It was a good feeling, but as always, it was brief. She found herself scrolling through her own feed again, watching the numbers climb.

Then, as if fate had its own way of teasing her, she noticed Aaron had liked her post about editing.

Her thumb hesitated before she tapped his profile, her eyes lingering on his latest post. There was something magnetic about him, even through the screen. The subtle way he posted, never too loud or flashy, just genuine and thoughtful.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from him:

“Enjoying the behind-the-scenes peek! I see you working hard. Can’t wait to see the final cut. 😎”

Cleo felt a slight flutter in her chest. He was paying attention, in a way that felt personal, like he was truly interested in her work. She wasn’t used to that. Most of the time, guys were more focused on the image she presented than the things that mattered to her.

“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m excited for you to see it.” She sent back, casually, trying to keep things light but clearly smiling to herself.

Her phone buzzed once more, and before she even opened the message, she had an inkling it was from him again.

“We should hang out when you’re back in town. I think you’d appreciate the city a bit more when you’re not working all the time. 😊”

Her heart skipped a beat. The idea of spending more time with Aaron, outside of the whirlwind of work and the glitz of events, felt like a tempting proposition.

She typed a quick response: “I’m open to that idea. Maybe we can set something up soon.”

She put her phone down and returned to her editing, but her thoughts drifted back to Aaron. For a moment, the endless stream of likes and notifications didn’t matter. It was this connection, however subtle, that made everything feel more real.

-

The next day, Cleo woke up to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains of her hotel room. She stretched, feeling the quiet comfort of having a day off—a rare luxury in her hectic schedule. No events, no shoots, no meetings. Just time for herself.

She reached for her phone, checking the time and scanning through her messages. Nothing urgent. She let out a relieved sigh. She had planned to spend the day doing whatever she felt like—maybe a quiet brunch, some shopping, and definitely a little self-care.

After getting ready in a relaxed, comfy outfit—nothing too extravagant—Cleo decided to head out for some fresh air. As she stepped outside, the weather in London was perfect—mild, with a slight breeze. She smiled, feeling the city’s energy pulse around her.

She grabbed a coffee at a nearby café, enjoying the anonymity of just being one person in the crowd. No cameras, no expectations. Just her and the city. The brief break from her usual influencer persona was like a breath of fresh air.

Sitting at a corner table with her coffee, Cleo caught up on some personal reading. She found herself losing track of time, absorbed in the pages, when her phone buzzed again.

It was a text from Aaron:

“Hope you’re enjoying your day off. If you’re not too busy, how about a casual meet-up later? No cameras. Just us. 😊”

Cleo couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of his message. It wasn’t grand or showy—just an invitation to spend time together.

She replied quickly: “I’d like that. Where are you thinking?”

Aaron responded just as fast: “How about a low-key spot in Notting Hill? Some good food, good conversation. Let me know if that works for you.”

Cleo felt her pulse quicken slightly. Notting Hill was one of her favorite spots in London—charming, laid-back, and full of little hidden gems. She typed back: “Perfect. Let’s do it. What time?”

“How about 1 PM?” he replied.

She looked at the time—just enough for her to finish her coffee and wrap up the chapter she was reading. She smiled to herself. This felt like a nice change of pace.

By the time 1 PM rolled around, Cleo was dressed casually in a chic, minimalist outfit, with just the right touch of elegance. She wanted to look effortless but still put together. She left the hotel, heading for Notting Hill with the anticipation of seeing Aaron again, but this time, without the constraints of her influencer life.

She arrived at the café he’d mentioned and spotted him right away. He was leaning against a wall outside, dressed in a casual jacket, looking effortlessly cool. When their eyes met, he grinned.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, his voice low and warm.

Cleo returned his smile, feeling that flutter in her stomach again. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They walked inside together, finding a quiet corner, the soft hum of conversation around them. For the first time in a while, Cleo felt like she could just be herself—no pretense, no cameras, just two people getting to know each other.

“So why this place?” She asks him.

Aaron leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he glanced around the cozy café. The exposed brick walls, warm lighting, and soft hum of jazz playing in the background gave it an intimate charm.

“I come here when I want a bit of peace,” he admitted, fingers lightly tapping against the rim of his coffee cup. “It’s not flashy, not packed with people trying to be seen. Just good food, good coffee, and a quiet place to think.”

Cleo studied him for a moment, appreciating his simplicity. In her world, everything was about visibility—being at the right places, in the right outfits, with the right crowd. But Aaron? He seemed to move differently, like he wasn’t caught up in any of that. It was refreshing.

“So, this is where the reclusive actor comes to hide?” she teased, sipping her drink.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Something like that. I like being able to sit and just… exist, you know?”

She nodded, understanding the feeling more than she let on. “I can respect that. You don’t seem like the type who craves attention.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “Acting is what I love, but the whole fame thing? Not really my scene.”

She raised a brow, smirking. “And yet, here you are, having coffee with someone whose life revolves around social media and attention.”

Aaron tilted his head, his hazel eyes locking onto hers with quiet intensity. “That’s different,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” She leaned in slightly, intrigued. “How so?”

He shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee before answering. “You’re not just about the attention. You actually enjoy what you do. You put effort into your content, your brand. It’s not just for show. That’s why it doesn’t feel the same.”

Cleo blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Most people only saw the surface—her curated posts, her flawless images, the events, the luxury. But Aaron had taken the time to see past that.

She exhaled a soft laugh. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or suspicious of how observant you are.”

He smirked. “Maybe a bit of both.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You know, I didn’t expect to run into you again, let alone be here having this conversation.”

Aaron’s expression turned thoughtful. “Maybe it was supposed to happen.”

His words lingered between them, unspoken possibilities hanging in the air. Cleo wasn’t sure what to make of it yet, but she knew one thing—this was different. And she liked it.

He grabbed her hand and ran his thumb over the back of it.

Cleo felt a warmth spread through her at the gentle, almost absent-minded way Aaron traced his thumb over the back of her hand. It was such a simple touch, yet it sent a shiver up her spine. She glanced down at their hands, then back up at him, searching his face.

Aaron wasn’t trying to make a move—at least, not in the way most men did. He wasn’t trying to impress her with smooth lines or charm his way into something. He was just… there. Present. And the way his fingers lingered against her skin felt intentional, like he was memorizing the feel of her.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, eyes studying hers.

She let out a small breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Just… not used to this.”

He raised a brow. “This?”

She gestured vaguely between them. “A man who doesn’t rush things. Who just—” She paused, searching for the right words. “—who just lets things be what they are.”

Aaron’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, but his touch never wavered. “That’s because I don’t believe in forcing things.” His thumb moved in a slow, soothing motion. “What’s meant to happen will happen. No need to rush it.”

Cleo swallowed, realizing how much she liked that answer. In her world, everything was about control—curating, planning, making sure things looked effortless even when they weren’t. But with him? There was no pressure, no performance.

She turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with his just slightly, testing the waters. His grip tightened just a little, enough to let her know he was right there with her.

“And what do you think is meant to happen here?” she asked softly, tilting her head.

Aaron’s hazel eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he held her gaze, his thumb still tracing lazy circles against her skin. Then, with a small, knowing smile, he said,

“Guess we’ll have to find out.”

-

As they stepped out of the restaurant, the cool London air greeted them, crisp but not too harsh. The quiet hum of the city surrounded them, a few distant cars, the muffled chatter of people passing by. But in that moment, all Cleo could focus on was Aaron—his presence beside her, the way his hand hovered near hers, his fingers just barely brushing against her skin as they walked.

It wasn’t accidental. He wasn’t rushing to grab her hand, but he wasn’t pulling away either. It was that same unspoken energy between them, that slow, steady pull neither of them seemed to fight.

Cleo smirked, glancing up at him. “You always this smooth?”

Aaron chuckled, shoving his free hand into his pocket. “I’d like to think I’m just being myself.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Dangerous.”

His brow lifted. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said, watching him. “Because that means you’re not even trying.”

Aaron stopped walking for a second, turning to face her fully. The streetlights cast a warm glow on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the quiet intensity in his hazel eyes. He stepped a little closer, and for the first time, she felt the warmth of his palm completely envelop hers.

“I don’t have to try,” he said, his voice low. “Not with you.”

Cleo’s breath hitched.

The way he said it—so simple, so certain—made her pulse quicken. She was used to attention, used to men wanting her for what she could offer, for the image she curated. But Aaron? He wasn’t chasing anything. He wasn’t playing a game.

And that? That was more dangerous than anything.

She exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

Aaron smirked, giving her hand a small squeeze before letting it go. “I guess we’ll both have to find out.”

He nodded toward the street. “C’mon, I’ll walk you back.”

Cleo should’ve let go of the moment, played it off as just another night, another conversation. But as they strolled through the quiet streets of Notting Hill, his arm brushing against hers, she knew—something about this felt different.

And for the first time in a long time, she was okay with not knowing exactly where it was going.

As they approached the entrance of her hotel, Cleo felt a weight settle in her chest. She didn’t want the night to end, didn’t want to step away from the warmth of his presence. Aaron had this way about him—calm, unassuming, but completely captivating.

She glanced up at him, noting how effortlessly he fit into the moment. Hands in his pockets, that quiet confidence in his posture, the way his eyes softened when they met hers. It was rare for her to feel this at ease with someone, especially someone she hadn’t known for long.

“So,” she said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, stalling. “Guess this is goodnight?”

Aaron exhaled a small chuckle, nodding. “Looks that way.”

She hated how final that sounded.

He studied her for a second, as if he could read exactly what she was thinking. Then, with that same easy confidence, he took a small step closer.

“I had a good time,” he said, his voice low, warm.

Cleo let out a breathy laugh. “I did too.”

She expected him to make a move, to lean in, to test the waters with a kiss. But Aaron didn’t rush. Instead, he reached for her hand one more time, his fingers brushing against hers before he gave it a small squeeze.

“Get some rest,” he murmured.

Cleo felt a shiver run down her spine, not from the cold, but from the way his voice wrapped around her like a promise.

She smirked, tilting her head. “You always this much of a gentleman?”

Aaron smiled, stepping back. “Only when it’s worth it.”

Her stomach flipped.

He gave her one last lingering look before turning to leave. Cleo stood there for a moment, watching him disappear down the street, her heart pounding a little harder than she wanted to admit.

As she finally stepped inside, she let out a quiet sigh, shaking her head at herself.

She had no idea where this thing with Aaron was going.

But damn… she wanted to find out.

-

“Aaron.” She calls. Aaron stopped mid-step, turning back to face her. The way his name sounded coming from her lips—soft, almost hesitant—made something stir in his chest.

Cleo stood in the warm glow of the hotel entrance, her fingers gripping the strap of her purse. For a second, she seemed to weigh her words, her eyes flickering over his face like she was trying to memorize him in this moment.

He waited. Didn’t push. Didn’t speak.

Then, finally, she exhaled. “Stay.”

The word was simple, but the weight behind it was anything but.

Aaron’s brows lifted slightly, surprised. Not because he didn’t want to—he absolutely did—but because she was the one asking.

She bit her lip, shifting on her feet. “Not—” She shook her head. “I don’t mean like that. I just… I don’t want the night to end yet.”

Aaron’s lips curved into a slow smile.

“Okay,” he said simply.

Cleo let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then turned, motioning for him to follow her inside.

Aaron fell into step beside her, his hand grazing her lower back as they walked through the lobby. It was subtle, barely there, but enough to send warmth spreading through her.

Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe she was reading too much into this.

Or maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t the only one who didn’t want this moment to end.

As the night stretched on, their conversation drifted effortlessly between deep thoughts and lighthearted banter. They talked about everything and nothing—their favorite places to travel, the worst movies they’d ever seen, the little things that made them who they were.

Cleo felt herself relaxing in a way she hadn’t in a long time. With Aaron, there was no pressure to be “on,” no need to curate every word or moment for perfection. He just let things be.

And as she sat beside him, legs tucked under her on the couch, she became hyper-aware of how close they were. The space between them had shrunk without her even realizing it. His cologne—clean, warm, and subtly intoxicating—lingered in the air between them.

Her eyes flickered to his lips.

She wanted to kiss him.

The thought came suddenly, crashing into her with more force than she expected. She had been holding back all night, keeping things light, convincing herself that this was just a moment. But now?

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Aaron must have noticed the shift because he paused mid-sentence, tilting his head slightly. “What?” he asked, his voice softer now, more knowing.

Cleo hesitated, her pulse quickening. “Nothing.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Liar.”

She exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”

Aaron chuckled, but his eyes held something deeper, something unreadable. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. The simple gesture sent a shiver down her spine.

“You sure it’s nothing?” he asked, his voice lower now.

She swallowed, heart hammering.

Screw it.

Cleo leaned in, closing the distance between them.

The moment their lips met, it was soft—hesitant, almost like a question. But then Aaron responded, his hand coming up to cup the side of her face, his thumb grazing her cheek. He kissed her slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe, in this moment, they did.

As soon as they pulled back, Cleo’s mind went into overdrive.

What was she thinking?

She mentally kicked herself, her pulse still racing from the kiss. She had told herself she wouldn’t get attached, that this was just a fleeting thing—two people enjoying each other’s company while they were in the same place. But now?

Now, she had gone and kissed him.

Aaron, meanwhile, was watching her carefully, his hazel eyes searching her face like he could hear every thought running through her mind. He didn’t look smug, didn’t push for more. He just waited, giving her space to react.

Cleo swallowed hard, forcing out a small, awkward laugh. “Well… that happened.”

Aaron’s lips twitched, amusement dancing in his gaze. “Yeah,” he said, his voice even, unreadable. “It did.”

She exhaled sharply, looking away. “I don’t usually do this.”

“What? Kiss?” he teased, tilting his head.

She shot him a look. “You know what I mean.”

Aaron smirked but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out, tracing a slow circle on the back of her hand with his thumb. It was grounding—gentle, patient.

“Do you regret it?” he asked finally.

Cleo opened her mouth to respond but hesitated. Did she?

She knew she should. She should be pulling back, setting boundaries, reminding herself that he’d be heading back to London soon and she had her own life to return to.

But regret?

No. She didn’t regret it at all.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “I just… I don’t know where this is going.”

Aaron nodded, his gaze steady. “Neither do I.”

His honesty caught her off guard. No promises, no empty reassurances—just the truth.

And maybe that was why she couldn’t seem to walk away.

Aaron didn’t hesitate this time. As soon as he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the way she seemed caught between overthinking and letting go, he made the choice for both of them.

He leaned in again, capturing her lips with his.

This kiss was different—deeper, more certain. It wasn’t just a question; it was an answer.

Cleo melted into it before she could stop herself. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater as he pulled her closer, his hand resting at the small of her back. He was slow, deliberate, like he wanted her to feel every second of this, to know that this wasn’t just some impulsive moment to be brushed aside.

Her mind screamed at her to be careful, to guard herself, to remember that he wasn’t staying.

But the way he kissed her? The way he moved like he had no plans of letting go?

It made her wonder if maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t the only one afraid of what this was turning into.

-

She moaned softly into the kiss. That’s when she jolted away from him. Embarrassed.

The sound escaped before she could stop it—a soft, involuntary moan against his lips.

The moment she realized, her eyes flew open, and she jolted away from him, her entire body going rigid.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, pressing her fingers to her lips, embarrassment flooding through her.

Aaron blinked, clearly caught off guard, before a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Did you just—”

“Don’t.” She cut him off, holding up a hand, her face burning.

But Aaron? Oh, he was enjoying this. His smirk deepened as he leaned back against the couch, his gaze locked onto her. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know.”

She groaned, covering her face. “I am very embarrassed.”

He chuckled, running a hand over his jaw. “Why? It was kind of cute.”

She peeked at him through her fingers, shooting him a glare. “You would think that.”

Aaron just shrugged, his eyes still dancing with amusement. But there was something else in his expression too—something softer. He didn’t tease her beyond that, didn’t push. He just let her have her moment to recover.

Cleo took a deep breath, trying to regain some sense of composure. “I—maybe we should slow down.”

Aaron nodded, his expression turning more serious. “If that’s what you want.”

She searched his face, expecting disappointment or frustration. But there was none. Just patience. Understanding.

That, more than anything, made her chest tighten.

She sighed, finally lowering her hands. “I just… I don’t want to rush into something messy.”

Aaron studied her for a moment before nodding again. “Then we won’t rush.”

Simple. No arguments. No pressure.

And somehow, that made her want him even more.

She moved in closer to him. Impulse control and embarrassment be damned. If he thought it was cute, just maybe. She leaned in again.

Cleo didn’t think. Didn’t overanalyze.

Impulse control and embarrassment be damned.

If he thought it was cute—if he wasn’t running, wasn’t making her feel ridiculous for being vulnerable—then maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to hold back.

She leaned in again, closing the space between them, her hand resting lightly against his chest.

Aaron didn’t hesitate. His arms slid around her, pulling her in as their lips met again. This time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing.

His kiss was slow and deep, deliberate in a way that made her stomach flip. His hands stayed respectful but firm, anchoring her against him. And when she sighed softly against his lips, he answered with a low hum of approval that sent a shiver down her spine.

She was losing herself in him, in the way he kissed like he had nowhere else to be, like this moment was the only thing that mattered.

And maybe, for now, it was.

Once apart he smiles. “Was that so hard to let go?” He asks. “Plus don’t be embarrassed about those cute little moans.” He says.

Cleo rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips.

“You would bring that up again,” she muttered, lightly shoving his chest.

Aaron chuckled, catching her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. “I mean, was it so hard to let go?” he asked, his voice teasing but gentle.

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You don’t understand. I don’t do this—getting caught up, letting things just… happen.”

Aaron studied her, his hazel eyes warm. “Maybe you should,” he said simply. “Not everything has to be planned.”

She bit her lip, looking down at their intertwined fingers. He was making this feel too easy. Too natural.

Then he smirked. “And for the record,” he added, voice dipping lower, “don’t be embarrassed about those cute little moans.”

Her head snapped up. “Aaron.”

He laughed, squeezing her hand before bringing it to his lips for a quick, soft kiss. “What? Just saying I like them.”

She groaned, burying her face in his shoulder, but the warmth spreading through her told her she wasn’t really mad.

Not even a little.

-

Cleo’s thoughts raced as she rested against him, her heart still fluttering from the kiss, from his words, from him.

She wanted this. Wanted him.

But she knew better than to push.

Aaron was still finding his footing in all of this—his career, his privacy, his own comfort with letting someone in. She knew he wasn’t the type to rush things, and the last thing she wanted was to make him feel pressured.

Still, the way he held her, the way he looked at her—it made her wonder.

Was he thinking the same thing? Did he want this to be more than fleeting moments in different cities?

She exhaled against his shoulder, letting herself stay in the warmth of his embrace for just a little longer. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers right now.

But maybe she didn’t need them just yet.

Aaron noticed the slight shift in her body, the way she tensed just a little before exhaling like she was trying to steady herself.

He didn’t say anything at first, just let his hand trail soothingly up and down her back. But he wasn’t oblivious—he could feel her thoughts running a mile a minute.

“You’re overthinking,” he murmured, tilting his head to look at her.

Cleo huffed a soft laugh but didn’t deny it. “Can you blame me?”

Aaron studied her for a moment, then shook his head. “No. But you don’t have to.”

She pulled back slightly, searching his face. “I just…” She sighed, trying to find the right words. “I like you, Aaron. And I know you have your own pace, your own way of doing things. I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for.”

Aaron’s lips pressed together, his thumb still absently tracing patterns on her hand. “And what if I am ready?” he asked, voice low, thoughtful.

Cleo blinked. “You are?”

He let out a small chuckle. “I don’t do things halfway, Cleo. If I wasn’t serious about this… about you… I wouldn’t be here.”

Her heart skipped. She felt it—his sincerity, his quiet certainty.

“So what are you saying?” she asked, voice softer now.

Aaron met her gaze, his expression steady. “I’m saying… if you want me, I’m yours.”

Her breath caught.

No hesitation. No games.

Just him, laying it out as simply as that.

“Hell. These last six months have been amazing and if you know you know.” He says.

Cleo stared at him, her heart thudding a little harder. Six months. Had it really been that long?

Between their chance meeting in L.A., the quiet moments, the long conversations, the undeniable pull between them—it all blurred together in the best way.

“Hell,” Aaron continued, his voice steady. “These last six months have been amazing, and if you know, you know.”

She swallowed, her lips parting slightly. “And you know?” she asked, searching his face for any sign of doubt.

Aaron nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I do.”

His words settled deep inside her, warming something she didn’t even realize had been cold.

For so long, she had guarded herself, kept things light, casual. But here he was—this man who had slipped into her life with his quiet confidence and steady presence—telling her exactly what she had been too scared to admit to herself.

She exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Damn you, Aaron.”

His brows lifted. “What?”

“You’re making this way too easy.”

Aaron grinned, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Love isn’t supposed to be hard, Cleo.”

Love.

The word hung between them, unspoken yet fully understood.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and in that moment, she knew.

So she smiled, cupping his face in her hands. “Then I guess you’re mine, too.”

-

“We don’t have to put titles on anything yet. But I’m all in if you are.” He says.

Cleo felt a wave of relief wash over her. Aaron always had a way of making things feel right—no pressure, no expectations, just an understanding between them.

She nodded slowly, letting the moment settle. “I like that,” she admitted. “No titles, no rush. Just us.”

Aaron smiled, his fingers still tracing along the back of her hand. “Exactly.”

She studied him, memorizing the way his hazel eyes softened when he looked at her, the way he made her feel safe without even trying.

“You’re really all in?” she asked, needing to hear it one more time.

He squeezed her hand gently. “All in.”

Cleo let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Then, unable to stop herself, she leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—this one slower, deeper, like a silent agreement.

When she pulled back, Aaron’s smirk was undeniable. “See?” he murmured. “Letting go isn’t so hard.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight her smile. “Shut up.”

Aaron chuckled, pulling her close again. “Make me.”

And just like that, she knew she was done for.

Tags 🏷️

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @avoidthings @nayesworld @haechvn @writingsbytee @grlsbstshot @ovohanna24 @skvrpion @megamindsecretlair @kimuzostar @kenshisluvrgirl @planetblaque @bimbosnbutterflies2026 @chewingmy3xtragum @easybrezzy @blowmymbackout @melaninpov @todorokishoe24 @chaoticcoffeequeen @brattyfics @notapradagurl7 @gopaperless @jenlovey @nikkinik @novahreign @violetmuses

[cyberpunkonline]

THE AESTHETICS OF ABANDONWARE: WHY DEAD SOFTWARE FEELS HOLY

By R A Z, Queen of Glitches, Rat Prophet of the Post-Crash Pixel-Chapel

INTRO: Oi, you ever boot up a DOSBox emulator and feel your soul whisper "Amen"? No? Then saddle up, you absolute fetus, 'cause we’re going full pilgrimage through the haunted cathedrals of dead code, cursed shareware, and disc rot salvation. This is for the ones who dream in .BMPs, weep in MIDI, and hit “Yes to All” when copying cracked ZIPs from forgotten FTPs at 3AM. Abandonware ain’t just nostalgia—it’s digital necromancy. And some of us are bloody good at it.

DEAD SOFTWARE = HOLY SHRINE

Let’s be clear: abandonware is software that’s been, well, abandoned. The devs moved on. The publisher collapsed in a puff of VC smoke. The website's now a spammy shell selling beard oil or crack cocaine. The software? Unupdated. Unsupported. Gloriously obsolete.

So why does launching Hover! or Starship Titanic in 2025 feel like entering a chapel with weird lighting and a dial-up modem choir?

Because it’s sacred, mate.

We’re not talking about the games themselves being perfect. A lot of them were janky as hell. We’re talking vibe. These programs exist outside capitalism now. They’re post-market. Post-hype. They don’t want your money, your updates, your logins. They just want your attention—pure and simple. You’re not a user anymore. You’re a curator. A digital monk brushing dust off EXEs and praying to the Gods of IRQ Conflicts and SoundBlaster settings.

WHY IT HITS DIFFERENT

Dead software doesn’t update. It doesn’t push patches or ads. It won’t ask you to connect your Google account to play Math Blaster. It’s a sealed time capsule. Booting it up is like receiving an artifact from a parallel dimension where the internet still had webrings and every kid thought Quake mods would lead to a dream job at ID Software.

But it also represents a lost sincerity. These weren’t games made to hook you for eternity with algorithms. These were games made by six dudes in a shed with a caffeine problem and one working CD burner. And their README files were poetry. Half of them end with “Contact us on AOL or send a floppy to our PO Box.” What do you mean you don’t know what a PO Box is?

FOR THE ZOOMIES: YOU JUST MISSED THE GOLDEN ROT

Listen up, juniors. If you were born after 2005, you missed the age when the internet was held together with chewing gum, JPEG artifacts, and unspoken respect.

Back then, finding a rare game was an adventure. Not an algorithm. You didn’t scroll TikTok and get spoon-fed vibes. You climbed through broken Geocities links and begged on IRC channels. You learned to read. You learned to search. You learned that “No-CD crack” doesn’t mean what your mum thinks it means.

So here’s your initiation: go download something weird from a forgotten archive. No guides. No Discord server. Just the raw, terrifying joy of not knowing if you’ve just installed Robot Workshop Deluxe or a Russian trojan. Welcome to the cult.

THE TWO-YEAR RULE

Online communities? They’re mayflies with usernames. Peak lifespan? Two years.

Here’s the cycle:

A niche game/tool/art style gets revived.

People form a forum/Reddit/Discord.

A zine or remix scene emerges.

Drama. Mods quit. Someone forks the project.

Everyone vanishes.

This cycle has always existed. The only difference now is that it’s faster. But dead software bypasses this. It’s post-community. You don’t have to join a scene. You are the scene. Every time you open it up, you’re plugging into a ghost socket. You’re chatting with echoes. It’s beautiful.

CONCLUSION: THIS IS A RELIGION NOW. PRACTICE IT.

Abandonware isn’t about gaming. It’s about reclaiming reverence. About saying “This mattered” even if no one else remembers it did. It’s about surfing the ruins, not for loot, but for meaning. There’s holiness in opening a program that hasn’t been touched in decades and seeing it still works. Still waits for you. Still loads that same intro MIDI with the confidence of a god.

So light a candle. Install a CRT filter. Screenshot that low-res menu and print it on a t-shirt. You’re not just playing with the past. You’re preserving the bones of the digital age.

See you in the BIOS, kids.

—

RAZ out.

[sleekervae]

Solo Mode [1] jackson wang x fem!oc

Masterlist

A/N: I've had this idea knocking around in my brain for a while, never had the push to write it until Jackson started releasing music again. It's my little birthday gift for myself ☺️ Lemme know what you think!

Pairing: jackson wang/fem!oc

Summary: He's an international pop star trying to outrun burnout. She's a sharp-tongued software engineer who doesn't do feelings. What starts as a no-strings arrangement quickly unravels into something messier, softer, and realer than either of them planned. Between chaotic breakfasts, late-night confessions, and breaking every rule they set, Jackson and Heather find themselves in deep — and neither of them knows how to stop it.

Warnings: strong language, alcohol consumption

Word Count: 1.7k

Heather had been staring at her screen so long her eyes felt like they’d been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

A single red error message blinked in the corner of her code editor like a middle finger. She typed something, rewrote it, deleted it, then typed it again with more force—like that would make the compiler less of a bitch.

The fix was so close. She could feel it.

This patent meant everything. Years of development. Her own codebase. Her design. Her algorithm. Her name. She was going to stamp that shit into tech history if it killed her—and given the four hours of sleep she was running on, it might.

Her tea was cold. Again.

She shoved the cup aside and reached for her headphones, already resigned to another night of silence and circuits.

Then came the bass.

A low, rhythmic thump, like a heartbeat made of bad decisions, started pulsing through her wall.

Heather paused, jaw tightening.

She waited. Sometimes it was just a one-song thing—someone testing a speaker. A music cue for a home workout. A tragic attempt at a sex playlist. She could forgive that.

The song ended.

Another one started.

Louder.

This one had more bass. Thicker vocals. A synth loop that could drill straight into her skull.

Heather yanked off her headphones. Waited.

Male voices joined the music—shouting, laughing. Someone belted a high note and knocked straight into a wall. She heard the distinct clatter of something heavy hitting the floor.

Her eye twitched.

She stared at her code like she could will the function to solve itself. She counted to ten. Counted again. Then shoved her headphones back on and turned up her white noise generator until it hissed like static in her skull.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

The wall thumped again.

“Fuck me,” she muttered, slamming her laptop shut.

She marched to the wall and slapped it with her palm. “Shut the fuck up!”

A chorus of mocking laughter greeted her back. The music didn’t stop.

Heather turned in a slow, surgical circle, walked to her front door, yanked it open, and stalked barefoot into the hallway like a vengeance demon in a hoodie. The hallway bulb flickered overhead, as always, and the noise spilled clearer from the apartment next to hers.

5D.

Of course it was 5D. The asshole with the luxury vinyl door mat and people shuffling in and out at all hours of the morning. She’d hardly seen his face. She didn’t care to. Whoever he was, he partied too much, wore too much cologne, and had the kind of deep-pocket PR budget that covered noise complaints like napkins on spilled liquor.

She knocked once.

Nothing.

She banged again. Harder.

The music cut mid-drop.

Muffled voices argued. Something about “just open the fucking door, bro, she’s gonna call the super.”

It swung open.

And standing there—shirt undone, chain glinting, black silk clinging to smooth, a jaw line sharp enough to cut glass, inked skin and an expression too drunk to care—was him.

Heather froze. He smiled, lazy and stupid and pretty. One brow quirked like she’d shown up to amuse him.

“Hey,” he said, drawl thick with booze. “You lost?”

“No,” she snapped, arms crossing. “I’m working. Or I was. Until you and your frat house remix session decided 3 a.m. was prime time for a rave.”

He blinked. Then laughed, low and hoarse and a little off-balance.

“You’re the girl next door.”

“And you're my drunken idiot neighbour.”

He leaned against the doorframe like it might start spinning.

“You always this mean?”

“You always this fucking loud?”

“Only when I have a good time.” he shot back. “You should try working during the day like a normal person.”

Heather’s smile went razor-sharp.

“You should try choking on glass.”

He laughed again, like she was a feature not a bug. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“You’ve got ten seconds to shut the music off or I make this an HOA issue.”

“Ooh,” he teased, dragging the word. “Miss Murder Eyes wants to file a complaint.”

“Miss Murder Eyes wants to burn your speaker system to ash.”

He looked like he was about to say something else—something smug—but someone inside the apartment yelled his name and he turned halfway, distracted.

Heather didn’t wait.

She turned on her heel and walked back to her apartment, slamming her door so hard the frame shook.

The music didn’t come back on.

But she knew—knew—this wasn’t the last time she’d have to deal with that walking, talking, open-shirted migraine.

The elevator doors creaked open with all the enthusiasm of a Monday hangover. Heather stepped in, hoodie swallowed around her like a fabric shield, socked feet tucked into Adidas slides, legs bare and chilled under the fabric of worn athletic shorts. She looked like what she was: an exhausted, overcaffeinated, over-it woman one microsecond away from flaying the next person who so much as breathed too loudly.

Unfortunately, the next person was already inside the elevator.

Her fucking neighbour.

Slouched in one corner like a cover model for "Too Cool to Care," he wore a zip hoodie hanging open over a rumpled black tank, grey sweats slung too low on hips that had no business being that sculpted, and—of course—sunglasses. Indoors. At 8:07 a.m.

Her eye twitched. “Are you seriously wearing sunglasses inside?”

He tilted his head lazily toward her. “Heather, right? Good morning to you, too.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

He yawned. Loudly. “I’m hungover. Lights are loud. Your voice is louder.”

Heather jabbed the lobby button harder than necessary. “You're giving 'douchebag' all too well.”

He didn’t blink. Might’ve been the glasses. “That’s funny. Coming from the woman who looks like she woke up after an adderall bender.”

“Fuck you.”

"Not with that attitude."

"Then choke on glass."

He grinned, teeth too white for someone claiming to be that hungover. “Nice go-to. You serving it plain, or should I expect a cube or two for garnish?”

She side-eyed him, deadpan. “I’ll chill the whole damn shard for you.”

He chuckled, low and smug. “Spicy this early in the morning. Adorable.”

She didn’t answer, just crossed her arms tighter across her chest and stared at the floor numbers ticking down too slowly for her liking. The silence stretched thick with mutual annoyance.

“I gotta say though,” Jackson said, breaking it anyway, “you do grumpy better than anyone I’ve met.”

Heather’s jaw tensed. “You’re lucky I don’t code viruses for sport.”

He made a dramatic show of clutching his chest. “Be still, my tragic heart.”

The elevator dinged. Doors opened.

She stepped out first, refusing to look at him.

Behind her, he called out, “Hey, if you want to carve my death sentence into my door, just ask for my full name.”

Heather flipped him off without turning around.

The building lobby was quiet—thankfully. Heather stepped through the glass doors and into the biting morning air, tugging her oversized red hoodie tighter around her. She was barely awake, hair in a high, messy knot, hoodie half zipped over a sports bra, Adidas shorts just peeking beneath the hem, and black crew socks shoved into plastic slides. Not a look she’d ever choose to be perceived in. But caffeine was life or death.

Her phone buzzed. Order dropped off.

She spotted the delivery guy by the curb with a paper bag in one hand and a cardboard drink tray in the other. She moved to intercept, pulling her hoodie hood further over her head like she could disappear into it.

“Hey—Heather?” the delivery guy asked, glancing between the names on the receipt. ���And… Jackson?”

Before she could respond, the door behind her swung open with a gust of warm air and the smell of cologne and regret.

“Yo, that’s me,” came the voice she’d already spent too much of her brainpower hating this week.

She didn’t need to look to know.

Then his eyes—well, probably his eyes—shifted toward Heather. “We really gotta stop meeting like this.”

Heather gawked at him. “You order from Mildew?”

Jackson shrugged, plucking his own iced coffee. “Their cold brew's the only thing stronger than my regrets.”

"-- And a protein wrap." the delivery guy read his order receipt.

"Thank you."

Heather grimaced, “God, even your breakfast order is pretentious.”

The delivery guy awkwardly extended both drink trays. “Uh… you guys want to split this up?”

Heather grabbed hers, iced americano with two caramel shots and a tiny pastry bag. Jackson took his with one hand and tore open the bag like it owed him rent.

“You know,” he said, tearing a bite of rap, “you could’ve just told me you wanted to grab coffee together.”

She scoffed. “I’d rather snort sawdust.”

“Hmm.” He chewed slowly, sunglasses tilted as he clearly scanned her from hoodie to socks. “Is that your way of saying this is your morning look? ‘Unapproachable with a hint of homicide’?”

She took a sip of her drink and stared him down over the lid. “This is the look of someone who works. Unlike you, I’m guessing.”

He grinned. “Sweetheart, I work hard enough to afford the noise complaints.”

She turned on her heel. “Try that line again when you’re not dressed like a hungover gym rat.”

Jackson called after her, amused and unapologetic: “Hey! Want me to order you glass with extra ice next time?”

She didn’t bother flipping him off this time. She just hoped the coffee kicked in before she accidentally committed a felony.

Heather cut through the lobby, legs moving with purpose, sipping her coffee like it could save her soul. Her slides slapped the tile with quiet urgency as she beelined toward the elevator. Behind her, she heard Jackson exchange a few pleasantries with the delivery guy—of course he was charming when he wasn’t being a complete walking migraine.

She reached the elevator, thumb jamming the ‘up’ button with a vengeance. A second later, the doors slid open with a slow mechanical sigh.

She stepped inside.

From across the lobby, she heard, “Hold up!”

Nope.

She hit the ‘close door’ button with the kind of speed that could win arcade games. The doors began their slow, deliberate slide inward.

Jackson jogged up, protein wrap still half in his mouth, coffee in hand, sweats slung low on his hips like they were allergic to tension.

“Hey! Heather!” he said around the bite.

She didn’t even look up. Just muttered, “Work hours only, gym rat.”

The doors closed on his groan of disbelief—and, she hoped, his dumb, smug grin.

For the first time that morning, she smiled.

Just a little.

[rad-roche]

Pulp Covers And How To Paint Them

With the rise of cheap printing in the early twentieth century, mass-marked paperbacks swept the world, each offering lurid thrills for obscenely low prices. Sex, sadism, and incredible violence for as little as ten cents. An easy purchase to slot in between fifty cigarettes a day and enough bourbon slugs to kill a small garden.

Pulp fiction is where some of the greats of American literature cut their teeth, including the big three, Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald and Dashiell Hammett. The contents of these stories, both the dizzyingly good and astoundingly terrible, have been absorbed and digested and remixed and regurgitated in nearly every permutation imaginable, fuelling pop culture some one hundred years on. This isn't an essay on that. Nobody likes to open a tutorial and be greeted with a wall of text. The history is for another time.

But it is about how to paint it.

Don't let the pre-amble intimidate you, it's not as hard as it sounds. You will need:

Painting software with some image editing capabilities. You don't need all the bells and whistles of Photoshop, but I wouldn't recommend something like MSPaint, at least not to start with. I'm using Clip Studio Paint.

A really beat-up paper texture. The grungier, the better.

A lightly-textured brush. Here are the specific brushes I use, 99% of which is the well-named rough brush. Try and avoid anything with any impasto elements.

Go to your colour-picking tool and use the 'select from layer' option. Doing all the painting on a single layer is going to make your life easier.

A complete willingness to make mistakes and, instead of erasing, painting over them. It generates much more colour variation and interest! Keep your finger off the E key.

Good reference! That painting is a master copy of Mitchel Hooks' art for Day of the Ram. Find a style you really love and want to learn? Have no clue where to begin? Do direct studies!

Let's not worry about whatever is happening in the background. It's probably fine. Let's get started! Pulp magazine art is a lot more varied than you might first think, so don't agonize over having a style that 'fits' or not. I'm also specifically aiming for something you'd see on the cover after printing, not the initial painting they would use for printing. The stuff I'll show here is a pretty narrow band of it, but here are some general commonalities. This is a painting by Tom Lovell.

Let's dig into this.

The colours are very bright and saturated, but the actual values, the relative lightness and darkness of them, are actually grouped very simply! You can check this by filling a layer full of black, putting it on top and setting its mode to colour. If the value of a painting looks good, you actually get a lot of leeway with colour. But here's what I think is the most important thing to keep in mind.

The darks aren't that dark, and the lights aren't all that light! Covers are paintings reproduced on cheap paper. Anything you wouldn't want to happen in the printing process, you lean into. Value wash-outs, lower contrast, colours getting a weird wash to them, really gritty texturing. So let's get painting! Here's my typical setup.

That bottom folder is the painting itself. The screen layer is the grungy paper texture. To get the effect you want, put it down, invert its colour, then set it to screen. That washes out your painting far, far too much, so to compensate, I put a contrast layer up on top. Fiddle around with the settings, but this is where mine ended up sitting.

Note I'm saying this before even starting the painting: you want to do this as early as possible. This is where the 'select from layer' colour picker comes in handy. You can paint without worrying about the screen or contrast layer. Something not looking right? Enable your value check layer and keep painting. When you turn it off, it'll still be in colour. Here's a timelapse so you can see what that looks like.

And when you check the values...

They're pretty simple! This isn't a be all and end all, but I hope it serves as a decent primer. I want thirty dames on my desk by Monday!

[jaredthebc2]

Shoutout to Owl City for seeming like a normal dude, but you check his social media for like 2 seconds and you see stuff like him ranting about how much he loves mayonnaise and goofing off with his music software to remix him saying the word breakfast into a song. Honestly kinda criminal he doesn't have an account here cause he'd fit in perfectly like a stickbug on a stick

[postpunkindustrial]

Pink Noises: Women on Electronic Music and Sound by Tara Rodgers

Get it from my Google Drive HERE

Pink Noises brings together twenty-four interviews with women in electronic music and sound cultures, including club and radio DJs, remixers, composers, improvisers, instrument builders, and installation and performance artists. The collection is an extension of Pinknoises.com, the critically-acclaimed website founded by musician and scholar Tara Rodgers in 2000 to promote women in electronic music and make information about music production more accessible to women and girls. That site featured interviews that Rodgers conducted with women artists, exploring their personal histories, their creative methods, and the roles of gender in their work. This book offers new and lengthier interviews, a critical introduction, and resources for further research and technological engagement.

Contemporary electronic music practices are illuminated through the stories of women artists of different generations and cultural backgrounds. They include the creators of ambient soundscapes, “performance novels,” sound sculptures, and custom software, as well as the developer of the Deep Listening philosophy and the founders of the Liquid Sound Lounge radio show and the monthly Basement Bhangra parties in New York. These and many other artists open up about topics such as their conflicted relationships to formal music training and mainstream media representations of women in electronic music. They discuss using sound to work creatively with structures of time and space, and voice and language; challenge distinctions of nature and culture; question norms of technological practice; and balance their needs for productive solitude with collaboration and community. Whether designing and building modular synthesizers with analog circuits or performing with a wearable apparatus that translates muscle movements into electronic sound, these artists expand notions of who and what counts in matters of invention, production, and noisemaking. Pink Noises is a powerful testimony to the presence and vitality of women in electronic music cultures, and to the relevance of sound to feminist concerns.

Interviewees: Maria Chavez, Beth Coleman (M. Singe), Antye Greie (AGF), Jeannie Hopper, Bevin Kelley (Blevin Blectum), Christina Kubisch, Le Tigre, Annea Lockwood, Giulia Loli (DJ Mutamassik), Rekha Malhotra (DJ Rekha), Riz Maslen (Neotropic), Kaffe Matthews, Susan Morabito, Ikue Mori, Pauline Oliveros, Pamela Z, Chantal Passamonte (Mira Calix), Maggi Payne, Eliane Radigue, Jessica Rylan, Carla Scaletti, Laetitia Sonami, Bev Stanton (Arthur Loves Plastic), Keiko Uenishi (o.blaat)