#shop made bent plywood

[lumosinlove]

Relic Keel

Previously on Relic Keel:

Lily and James sneak out to the Lacrosse fields together. Lily learns about the treasure hunt and Luke’s father’s connection with Pascal Dumais. Her and James decide to, if not be together, than have togetherness for as long as they can.

Finn wakes up in Grimmauld and is reunited with Logan. The crew learn that a hurricane is approaching and Dorcas tries to convince Saint and Sirius to go somewhere else other than Grimmauld, which will get dangerous in the storm. Logan is looking forward to Finn meeting Leo, although he’s confused about his feelings for the blonde boy.

Luke and Saint meet in Rowena where Saint reveals he’s been staying up reading Luke’s notes in the books he’s stolen from his room. Luke wants to know more about Pascal Dumais, and learns that he helped raise Saint and Sirius after they both ran away from their homes. They agree to meet at The Lion later to confront Pascal. Saint apparently likes Luke because he hates surprises and Luke is exactly what he expects him to be—mean. He also steals Luke’s sunglasses.

Dorcas goes to Kasey Winter’s ice cream shop—he also is a safer dealer of Crucio, and she tells him she wants out. He was hoping she would go into business with himself and his girlfriend Natalie. They want to create a medicinal, therapy program for Crucio, where people who are struggling can safely use to to deal with past traumas or grief. They want it to be used correctly, not as a quick fix. Dorcas isn’t hesitant about leaving, she wants to follow Marlene, but she likes that idea.

Remus and Sirius run into each other on their way to the meeting at The Lion, and Remus invites Sirius to stay at his house for the duration of the hurricane. Sirius gets proud and angry and declines. They argue.

Pascal reveals to Sirius, Leo, Remus, Luke, and Saint that Luke’s dad, Victor, and Leo’s dad, Wyatt, were hunting the treasure together—Dumo played a smaller role, had less of an interest other than an interesting discussion about history. They figured out that the Voldemort lay off of the Cradle, a ring of rocks and tiny islands off of Hogwarts Island. They learn that there is a current called the Horcrux that escalates during a storm, revealing the bottom of the sea—or a shipwreck. Leo’s dad was killed by the current, Luke’s father was taken away years after, and the map showed up on Pascal’s doorstep a few days after that. Pascal tries to warn them off of going, but Saint and Luke seem bent on it.

Finn and Logan go to Leo’s house, only to find him crying about the truth of his father’s death. Finn learns of the treasure.

***cw: identity issues, not sure how to tag this but wanting to be alive? briefly implied (and happily concluded) past struggles with that, almost death, past death of a father, mention of blood and wounds***

part ix

Saint felt sweat snake down his bare back as he filled sandbags and shoved them up against the far side of the house. The wind already felt bad tempered. Maybe it was just him. Just Saint, the wind, and the ocean that had gone the graying blue that meant a storm. Saint thought the world should catch up already. His storm had been brewing for a long time. The promise of rain brought goosebumps over his bare back, the sun hidden by clouds, and he shoved another sand bag up against the boards, like some sort of parapet. As if they were preparing for a war.

He looked up when the noise of Sirius hammering plywood across the windows stopped. He rolled his eyes.

“Stop staring out at the ocean like a sailor’s widow.”

“Oh, we’re speaking now?” was all Sirius said.

“No,” Saint jammed his shovel into the bag of sand again.

He faintly heard Sirius sigh. “I don’t know what I did.”

Frankly, Saint wasn’t sure what Sirius had done, either. All he knew was that there was rain thrashing inside him, and wind howling in his ears, and there was gold to be had and death to be avoided.

And Luke.

He had let Luke catch him the night of Pascal’s confessions. Or maybe Luke had just caught up. He’d found Saint at the Howler Cliffs. Saint knew he was there, but kept his eyes closed, letting the wind whistle in his ears. Still, the sound of Pascal calling him his son roared louder.

“If I had known that’s all it took to rattle you, I could have saved myself a lot of time,” Luke had said, coming to stand beside him.

Saint had smiled and it felt like it had stretched his cheeks all wrong. “I didn’t know you were trying so hard.”

“You said it yourself,” Luke had replied. “Dumo took care of you.”

“It’s one thing for me to know it,” Saint snapped. “It’s—“ another thing for him to say it.

“Dumo could know more about my father,” Luke said. “Maybe—maybe the treasure can help me find out what happened to him somehow. Why no one will tell me anything. Why I can’t see him.”

“Sure, Deveaux,” Saint had kept his eyes ahead. “Tell me all about your father.”

“I need my father.”

Saint had whipped his head towards him, only to find Luke looking right back.

Luke’s eyes had been more open than Saint had ever seen them. His pain was like the sun coming through a tiny gap in drawn curtains. He didn’t let much of it show, but the mere hint became blinding. Saint felt it push against his own chest. He kept his blinds shut tight.

Luke’s voice was fainter when he repeated his words. “I need my father.”

Saint swallowed. It was nice, somehow, that Luke was self-aware enough to admit it. “What do you expect me to do about that?”

“I can’t—maybe I can’t figure this out alone.”

“I’m sure your Godlings will help with that.”

Luke shook his head. “James doesn’t understand. He’s too…happy.” Luke winced a little, the wind ruffling his tawny hair. “He’s had it too easy.”

“Lupin?”

“Remus only thinks he’s unhappy. Maybe because I am. It’s…abstract for him.”

Saint raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little rich.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Luke nodded.

“So, what?” Saint sighed. “Misery helps misery?”

Luke’s smile, so rare, was sad. “If it has nothing better to do.”

“Well?” Sirius said, flipping his hammer in his hand. “Feel like telling me?”

“Is it weird?” Saint asked. “That we aren’t in love?”

Sirius tilted his head at the age old question that they asked each other. It was half a joke. It was half a plea.

“I do love you,” Sirius said. “And I’d be in love with you if I could.”

“I’d be in love with you if I could,” Saint repeated, then sighed.

“We suck,” Sirius said.

“Yeah,” Saint squinted back out at the ocean, where they could see Remus’ boat.

“I do love you, though,” Sirius said, and walked down to sit on the steps, his gray eyes looking at Saint through the splintered, wooden railing. “Don’t do something stupid. I can’t lose you to the ocean. Or to anything at all.”

“And I love you, which is why we need that gold.”

“We don’t,” Sirius shook his head. “The rest of the world isn’t Gods and Hollows. You aren’t nothing or kings.”

“I have nothing better to do. And we have plain nothing—financially speaking.” Saint gestured towards the house. “Dorcas will leave for the states, and then we’ll really have nothing. We both know she’s paying—”

“We’ll go somewhere else—”

Saint tied off a sandbag with a yank. “I’m not leaving.”

“Saint.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not.”

Sirius stood, eyes cloudy. “You’re not talking to me again.”

“Huh.”

“We don’t do that!” Sirius said, voice raising. “Stop shutting me out.”

“I’m not doors and windows.”

“Saint,” Sirius’ voice held a note of begging. “What is here for us?” He motioned towards the cross that hung around Saint’s neck. “That?”

Saint grit his teeth and began to fill another bag.

“Just,” Sirius took a breath. “Just tell me why—”

Saint hurled the small spade at the side of the house, and it made a satisfying crack. “This is the only place anyone would ever know to look for me.”

The waiting storm seemed to crackle in the air around them at Saint’s words, as though he himself had struck the match to trigger it. Thunder rolled mutedly in the distance. Sirius’ eyes matched the sky.

Sirius walked forward, and Saint let him. He let him press a hand to his face, then their cheeks together as he wrapped him up in his familiar arms.

“Stop waiting for her,” Sirius’ voice was gentle in his ear. “She doesn’t deserve you.”

“We need the gold.”

“We’ll find another way.”

“I don’t want another way. I want a hunt.”

Sirius pulled back just enough to look at him. “One that has killed a man?”

Saint pulled away to retrieve the spade. “Careful is my middle name.”

~

Leo was embarrassed, but Finn didn’t seem to know the meaning of that word.

He watched him and Logan work wires into loops to hold together shards of found lost things that his mother had scooped up from the beach, while he sat at a workbench, repairing an old ship clock that he could hopefully paint to get rid of the wooden chips and then sell. Finn, as he had regained his strength, was laughter in a bottle. He was as fiery as the color of his hair, with lean fingers that Leo found himself watching as they handled materials, or helped him in the kitchen, or turned the pages of one of Leo’s many books. He went through them like a forest on fire.

And all Leo seemed to be able to do was cry in front of him, as he had the first night, or stare at the way him and Logan were together. Logan had opened up, his eyes lighter, his grins broader. Only his laughs remained as they had been, a soft sound, almost private. They made Leo feel as though he were being let in on a secret.

Leo blinked and Finn was standing in front of him.

“We’re making you dinner tonight,” Finn said, those same nimble fingers spread out over Leo’s work space on either side of the clock.

Leo couldn’t help his laugh. “Oh?”

“What do you feel like?” Logan asked, standing a little ways back, arms crossed over his chest. He looked like some hot gardener out of Leo’s daydreams in his tight white t-shirt and his borrowed pair of work gloves.

Leo leaned back, taking a breath. “What are my options?”

Finn looked back at Logan with a grin. “Ah…peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” He raised an eyebrow at Logan.

“Or take-out,” Logan finished with a shrug.

Finn’s smile was teasing. “Aren’t we the best house guests you could ask for?”

Most tormenting, maybe.

Leo laughed. “Better idea—I make dinner and you two stick to clean up.”

Logan put his hands up and walked closer to the work table. “Fine by me. What are you doing again?”

Leo looked back down at the clock. “Trying to fix this. I think it's missing a gear, though.”

Finn just hummed and sat half on the table, knee propped up. It made his cross swing against his neck for a moment, and Leo looked between his and Logan’s. He wondered, not for the first time, why they didn't take them off. They didn’t have a clasp or a tie that he could see, just a thicker area where the two parts of the string had been fused together with heat. They were too short to be pulled over the head.

“Do you want me to cut those for you?” Leo asked.

Finn looked up. “Cut what?”

Leo hesitantly gestured to the spot where the crosses would have rested on his own chest, and then pointed to Finn’s.

It was like cloud cover. Logan actually gripped his protectively in a fist.

“Ah, no,” Finn said slowly. He stood straight again and ran a hand through his hair. It came to rest on the back of his neck. “No, that’s okay.”

Leo watched Finn glance at the wire clippers resting near them, and reached out to put them back in the tool box. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

Logan turned away and Finn watched him, too. He swallowed. “Thanks, Leo.”

Leo flushed. It didn’t feel like a thank you. More like an appeasement. “Yeah…”

“Oh,” came a voice from the shop’s open garage door. Leo jumped a little, and looked to see Saint leaning against the side, and Luke, with his arms crossed, a little behind him, looking like a very grumpy sort of bodyguard.

Saint feigned a shiver. “The room just got colder.”

“Saint,” Finn still said the name like he was tasting something knew, but Saint looked almost pleased each time he heard it. “And…”

“Tweedle, meet Finn. Finn, meet Tweedle.”

“Luke,” Luke snapped.

Finn snorted. “Okay?”

Leo was still stuck on the necklaces, eyeing Saint’s still intact one now. He figured the numbers were a way of keeping track of the kids—but burning the string seemed like a bit much.

“What do you want?” Leo sighed. Seeing Saint made him feel raw about the news of his father’s death all over again.

“Well, you ran a little quickly from Dumo’s,” Saint replied, picking up an old lobster trap that they used for spare wire now. “Should’ve stayed. Missed some good stuff.”

“Don’t act like he’s the only one who ran,” Luke mumbled. He and Logan were eyeing each other suspiciously, no doubt remembering the night in Luke’s father’s study when Logan had nearly burned his father’s letter.

“The first wave will come tonight,” Saint said, ignoring Luke. “But if we really want our shot at the Horcrux current, we’ll need the full throttle. Boom, crack, all that.”

“Full storm hits tomorrow,” Finn said from his place beside Leo. Leo looked over at him. He was still torn between embarrassment about crying and something else. Relief? Thankfulness?

Leo tapped his fingers against the clock. “We should figure out what we need for a trip like that. The shops will be boarding up by this afternoon.”

“Kris will have what we need,” Saint replied. “A boat.”

“Kris?” Luke asked.

“He runs the marina,” Leo said.

“What I was going to say,” Saint cut in. “Was that we should run a test trip. Tonight. Before the storm is at its worst.”

“See what we’re dealing with,” Logan nodded.

“I don’t see why we need this treasure, or whatever,” Finn said. He was still fingering his necklace. “I mean…if the trip is as dangerous as it sounds…why risk it?”

Saint laughed a single note, and looked at Logan. “Oh, Lolo. You haven’t told him?”

Logan stiffened, and Finn blinked. “Told me what?”

Saint made a tisking sound. “Logan. All that trouble to get him out and you’re keeping secrets.”

“Fuck off,” Logan growled.

“Oh, you sound like Luke.”

Finn took a step forward. “Lo?”

Logan sent him a pained look, but turned away. Leo glanced at where Logan’s backpack was resting in the corner of the workshop. It had been there for days, he hadn’t been dealing, but that didn’t mean any of the problems it had caused had gone away.

“I think you’re right as far as boats go,” Leo said carefully, trying to draw the attention away from Saint’s jabs. "But he doesn’t have any equipment. Visual or otherwise. If we need that.”

Saint grinned and clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder, having to reach up a bit to do it. “That’s where this one comes in.”

Luke scoffed. “This one?”

“We’re going to visit your too-happy friend, Tweedle.”

~

James was staring at his computer, trying to will himself into college, when the sliding glass kitchen door, leading in from the pool, flew open. Saint was there, along with Luke, and three boys James didn’t recognize—or no, he knew the brunette and the blond from the restaurant in The Hollow.

“You have two hundred of my dollars,” he said, pointing his pencil at the brunette. The redhead beside him narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“That you offered,” the brown haired boy crossed his arms.

“Yeah, as part of a bargain,” James looked at Luke over his glasses. “Was the other end held up? Don’t think so.”

Luke just rolled his eyes.

“Well you’re going to have to pay up again, Potter,” Saint said, sliding onto the kitchen island stool across from James.

“Excuse me?”

“Not in money this time.”

James looked around at them all warily for a moment before sighing and knocking his computer shut. “Well, you’re already in my kitchen. And I’m already miserable.”

Luke coughed out a laugh and Saint seemed to bite back a smile, too.

“You need what exactly?” James asked.

“Lights Diving equipment. Don’t go running to Sirius, though.”

James raised an eyebrow. “I’d drive.”

“Ha, ha,” Saint rolled his eyes. “Now, can we borrow it?”

“Is this about that treasure?” James asked. “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the ocean is fucking deep. Deeper than my summer of sophomore year scuba pastime will get you.”

“Deeper than you?” Logan mumbled, and James glared.

Luke let out a laugh and Saint paused in whatever he had been about to say and turned to look at him. It was almost—awkward.

“What?” Luke snapped, rubbing a hand over some stubble on his cheek. “That was a very Potter statement.”

James had never seen Saint stutter before, or fidget, but that’s what he did when he turned back around to face James.

“Can you get it?” Saint sighed.

James snorted and gestured to the TV mounted above the microwave playing the news. “I’m sorry, am I the only one who knows about the quickly approaching hurricane?”

“Details,” the brunette mumbled.

“It’s for later,” Saint said.

“Then I’ll give it to you later.”

Saint scowled.

James sighed and pushed himself from his stool. “You’re not actually going out into that storm with my help.”

“For Luke,” Saint said. “For his father. This might be our only lead, and our only chance. Until the next storm, at least, at which point you won’t be able to stop us because we won’t come to you for help.”

James yanked the refrigerator open. “Don’t guilt me.”

“James,” Luke said and James didn’t look at him. “Please. I—”

“And this will fix what, exactly?” James sighed. He closed the refrigerator harder than necessary, and the sound of rattling bottles from within filled the silence as he turned on Luke. Luke, who he’d known forever. Luke, who he’d tried to help. Luke, who had done everything except try recently. It frustrated James more than he knew it should.

“It could,” Luke bit out haltingly. “Fix something.”

“What?”

He could practically feel the anger in Luke’s next breath. “My dad was all but—stolen away in the night. No explanation. No goodbye. And now this? A letter, a name, a treasure hunt that turns out to be something more than the fucking bedtime story? J, come on, please.”

James cracked the seal on his drink. “Once again. Hurricane.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Luke said. “We need a storm.”

“You need to get a fucking grip,” James felt heat building behind his words. “Luke, this isn’t—you’re just trying to…distract yourself, or something, and I get it, I do, but—”

“You don’t,” Luke snapped, voice raising.” You don't know what it’s like. You’ve been wrapped in fucking silk and fleece for your entire life. Your parents love you more than anything. You don’t understand what it’s like. You don’t understand anything beyond your own fucking front porch.”

Luke’s words sapped the air from the room like lightning and a dead fuse. His brown eyes widened, just a little, the green dark today. His chest moved rapidly, his cheeks flushed. The three other boys glanced at each other from Luke’s shoulder.

James cleared his throat. He set his drink on the counter.

“How long have you been holding that in, huh?” he said.

“I…” Luke began. He pushed his hair off of his forehead, but it feathered back into place. “I haven’t, I…J, I’m—”

“And the Crucio?” James asked.

“I’m,” Luke’s eyes shifted away. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

Saint seemed to be holding himself very still. They all were.

“J,” Luke had a pleading note to his voice now.

“They’re in the basement,” James cut him off, sliding back on his stool and opening his laptop. “My mom labels everything down there. But I don’t think it’ll help you.”

“Great,” Saint knocked his knuckles on the countertop and was off, the other three following.

James could feel Luke standing there, frozen and hesitant. He kept his eyes trained on his screen, and his blank page, the cursor blinking.

“Just go,” James mumbled, and Luke did.

James didn’t look up when they left.

He didn’t look up as evening turned into night, or when the sky opened up for the winds and rain to begin their thrashing on the island.

~

Kris Lavolie had his boats and his daughter. The marina was shut tight when they got there, Logan running behind the others as they dashed through the rain to the door. Logan expected Saint to pound on the glass, but instead they only used the slight shard of roof the ran along the edge of the building as protection, the five of them racing in a line around the property until they got to the marina. All of the boats were dry-docked and covered tightly with pinned tarps. Saint surveyed them with steely eyes for a moment. His hair looked like molten gold in its drenched state.

Logan shivered and felt Finn press him against his side. He glanced at Leo, who had his arms wrapped around himself.

“This one,” Luke said. “It’s like my dad’s. I can drive it.”

Saint gave a nod and the two of them didn’t wait to see if Logan and the others would follow before they were walking down the swaying dock. They didn’t have to worry about making noise and drawing Kris out. The storm hid them.

Logan eyed the waves as he stood between Finn and Leo. They were rolling and white-capped. He looked up at Leo to see him staring, too.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Logan asked. He tried to think of a way to tell Leo that, if he did, he was with him. He also tried to think of a kind way to tell him he thought they were insane, now that he was face-to-face with the raging winds. He needed the money, sure, but he wanted his life, too. He didn’t think the Carrows would kill him, but he didn’t know. The wind stung his eyes and whipped his hair off his forehead. He’d lost his hat somewhere, he didn’t know when. He reached up to his temple, his shirt sticking to his skin. He hadn’t even felt it blow away.

Leo shook his head as they approached the boat where Saint and Luke were efficiently untying the tarp.

“No.” Leo took a shaky breath. “He died out there. He wouldn’t want me to—”

Saint looked up, blinking hard against the lashing rain, from where he was shoving the tarp into a storage compartment. “You cannot back out now.”

Leo’s blue eyes matched the dark waves. He put a hand on Logan’s shoulder, a slight pressure to turn him around. “Yes, we can. This is insane, the winds are too strong.”

“Your dad—” Saint began, both of them yelling over the howling wind.

“Didn’t raise me to be stupid,” Leo said. “Or to get my friends killed. I’m sorry, I know you’re doing this for me.”

Saint scoffed. “For you? This isn’t for you. We all do things for ourselves. Bail-outs,” he gestured to Logan, and then to Luke. “Answers. I thought you wanted a few of those yourself.”

“And what would my mom think? Both of us, my dad and me, drowned?”

Saint’s jaw muscles jumped from where he stood beside Luke in the boat. “You wouldn’t be there to know what she thought, would you? What does it matter?”

Logan thought he saw Luke flinch a little, but he kept his head down, fishing the keys from the glovebox.

Logan followed Leo another step back, looking frantically for Finn, only to find him already at his side.

“We shouldn’t,” Finn whispered right in Logan’s ear, breath warm. “Lo…”

“Saint,” Logan yelled. “Leo’s right.”

“Come on,” Finn shook his head. “Let’s go. This is insane.”

“We’re going,” Luke said, eyes on Saint. “We got this far.”

Logan hesitated. He didn’t know Luke. He certainly didn’t like him.

“Don’t be stupid,” he still found himself saying, then swallowed beneath the weight of his next words. “You’re selfish, to risk your friend’s life.”

Logan couldn’t hear Saint’s laugh beneath the wind, but he could see the smile. “Bold words, coming form you, Logan.”

Logan felt Finn’s cold fingers slip into his own and squeeze.

“Come back with us,” Leo shouted over the storm. “Come—”

But Luke pressed the button that would lower them into the water. Logan only just could hear the hum of the machine. Logan watched as Luke jammed the keys into the ignition and lowered the motor. The second the bottom hit water the engine roared to life. Finn took a halting step forward, and Logan had the brief thought of doing the same, prying them from the boat. Leo’s father’s story flooded through him. He felt like he was watching someone die. He gripped Finn’s hand tighter, his other raising on its own to fist the back of Leo’s t-shirt. He didn’t want either of them getting stuck on that boat if they couldn’t get to the keys. The boat rocked dangerously as it tried to get a crest over the violent waves. With one last dark look from Saint, they took off over the wild water.

“They made their choice,” Logan said. “God, they’re going to get themselves killed, I…”

“We need to get the coast guard,” Leo said, and then turned down the dock and ran.

Logan looked up at Finn, whose wild expression matched his own.

“I’m glad we’re not…” Finn said. “I didn’t understand…I don’t understand this.”

Logan pressed a hand to his cheek. “I’m not risking you. Not again.”

Finn pressed his palm over Logan’s. “What aren’t you telling me, Lo?”

Logan closed his eyes. “I will. I will tell you.”

And then they turned after Leo.

It was like the wind was trying to rip the Hollow free of the island. The coast guard boats had been out, and Leo had figured they’d be by the point and so they’d ran half across the islands to The Hollow, where it would be the most dangerous. Sure enough, trees were down, and wires lay in dangerous puddles. Sandbags lay soaked and spilled across the ground.

Logan’s eye caught on the red of the police cars’ lights flashing across Finn’s face, made fragmented and liquid by the heavy rain. He couldn’t help but feel the surreality of having Finn beside him all over again. There had been a time where he had been positive that he would get caught, that he would be sent back to St. Clair in a heartbeat. He had spent so long avoiding any sight of the police. It felt strange to be seeking them now, but Leo was on a mission. His tall frame looked above heads, but the guards weren’t anywhere near their cars. Logan spied Sirius’ familiar dark hair only seconds before Leo did.

“Sirius!” Leo shouted, and Logan and Finn ran after him. Sirius was in the street with so many of the other Hollows, watching the storm try to rip at their homes.

“What are you guys doing out?” Sirius yelled, trying to see them through the rain.

“It’s Saint,” Logan said. “It’s Saint and Luke. Where are the police, where—”

But Logan didn’t think Sirius was listening anymore. Sirius’ face dropped to an expression Logan recognized, one he had felt on his own face when he realized that he had escaped St. Clair, and Finn had sacrificed himself and stayed.

Sirius pushed through them and took off towards Godric at a run.

~

Luke knew they were insane. He could barely keep his footing the closer they got to the Cradle. The wind was skewing the rain so much that it seemed like they were driving through water, too, the headlights making the steam and pellets seem like a solid wall to be breached.

“Third rock from the left point,” Saint shouted over the roar. “Closest to the Salazar coast!”

“We can’t get caught up in it,” Luke shouted back, wrists aching with the effort of keeping the boat on course.

Saint shook his head, hair plastered down and falling in his eyes. “We won’t be able to see any other way. If it can carry us, we’ll be safer from the rocks.”

They hit a particularly brutal wave and Saint was jolted forward, without the stability that the driver’s seat provided Luke, and right into Luke’s side.

Luke caught him with one arm. Saint’s hand shot out to replace Luke’s, now around his waist, on the wheel, and they steadied the craft together.

“We’re fucking insane,” Luke shouted.

“Insanity likes company.”

Luke looked at him, risking taking his eyes away from the approaching rocks for a moment. “That’s misery.”

Saint glanced up at him. “We’re that, too.” Then his eyes widened as he looked out over the dark waves.

“The Horcrux,” Saint breathed, and Luke could barely speak.

“The middle,” he managed. “Look.”

There was bare sand in the middle of the circle of rocks, the wet grains being whipped into a frenzy as if by magic, the water pulling outwards. He didn’t know how that was possible. It was bizarre. It was too strange.

“There,” Saint pointed as they inched closer. Luke’s neck hurt from the jerk of being lifted up by the waves and crashed back down again. Luke squinted, trying to see through the rain and the small sand storm alike. They were right at the rocks now. “Do you see it? Are they planks? That looks like—”

Luke jolted as he felt the steering wheel stutter and then go loose in his hands. He turned it once, twice, but it was as though the mechanism had snapped. The boat lurched forward.

“We’re being pulled!” Luke said, panic clawing up his throat. “I can’t—”

Luke slipped from the wet leather seats, landing hard on his back on the deck of the boat, Saint beside him.

The steering wheel was useless. They were being carried now. By the waves. By the current. Maybe by chance. It was almost like floating, had it not been for the wind and rain. That made it feel like a free-fall.

Luke had his arms around Saint’s waist, Saint’s around his. It felt like they were pinned to the deck.

“Either the storm will pass,” Luke breathed. He couldn’t keep his mouth from brushing Saint’s temple, with the motion and the way they clutched each other. “And the current will slow, and we’ll be dashed against the rocks from momentum.”

“Or?” Saint’s breath brushed his jaw.

Salt sprayed as the boat jostled and knocked them together. “I didn’t think that far.”

“That Greek myth,” Saint said. Luke could feel his fingers digging into his back. “The whirlpool.”

“Maybe a monster would be a quicker death.”

Saint’s laugh sounded strained. “Quicker than rocks?”

“A better story, then,” Luke replied. “No one to tell, though.” 

“We’ll know.”

Luke gripped him tighter as the wind seemed to pick up, howling. His breathing came fast. “You told Leo the dead know nothing.”

Saint picked his head up, looking at Luke through the rain. Their foreheads pressed together. Luke’s eyes burned.

“I don’t want to know nothing,” Luke choked out.

Saint didn’t say anything. Luke had never known him to be silent, but he just stared as the boat lurched beneath them. Then, Saint tilted his chin forward, only a few centimeters, but it brought their mouths together in a firm kiss. It was warm, against the chilling rage above. Luke closed his eyes, and let the feeling of lightning brush through him. Warm heat.

They didn’t pull away so much as were pulled apart then knocked back together, Luke’s lips pressing to the corner of Saint’s mouth, then his cheek. Saint brought his hand up to Luke’s jaw to steady him. For a moment, it had felt like they had stopped spinning round and round.

“Why did you do that?” Luke breathed. He didn’t know how Saint heard him over the roar, but he did.

“What do you mean?” Saint said. His eyes were molten and—afraid, Luke realized. The rain on his face looked like tears, and he traced his thumb over Luke’s lip. “I steal things from you all the time.”

There was a horrible, jagged wrenching sound, and Luke found himself plunged into the water, Saint ripped from his arms.

~

The rain lashed against the windows of Remus’ bedroom, and Remus looked out into the falling dark.

“What a dick,” he mumbled aloud to himself.

He couldn’t figure Sirius out. He didn’t seem unkind—until someone was kind to him, at least.

It made Remus want to kill him with kindness and just kill him period. He’d been so happy on the Wolfsbane. He’d been horrible at The Lion. Proud.

Remus rubbed his eyes, closing his laptop. It was the storm. That was all. He looked towards the direction of the docks. He hoped the planks survived. He’d kept his boat as safe as he could, cranked up the tracks onto the grass, sails down, tarped up.

He smirked. Luke would laugh at him if he could see him worrying like a mother. Sirius, on the other hand…Remus thought Sirius might have worried, too. Remus sighed. There Sirius was again. Popping up.

It was why he thought he must be imagining it when he looked down and saw Sirius standing at the door he had named to him, in the side of Bane Tower, soaking wet and staring behind him, out at the ocean.

“Shit,” Remus threw his computer to the side, and his bedroom door open.

The old wooden tower stairs groaned beneath his quick feet, and he winced as a splinter ripped at his palm as he threw himself around the bend at the bottom and pulled open the door.

Rain hit him immediately. Sirius jolted around. His eyes were like gray moonlight.

“I…” Sirius began, but didn’t seem able to say any more, just blinked at Remus through the heavy wind and rain. Remus didn’t hesitate, just pulled Sirius inside and slammed the door shut again.

“Are you okay?” Remus asked.

Sirius was just staring at the door. Maybe thinking of the rough ocean still.

“Sirius,” Remus pressed, taking Sirius’ broad shoulders in his hands and giving him a shake. He was hot, even feverish, despite the frigid rain. “Are you hurt?”

Sirius just looked at him with wild eyes and shook his head. His dark hair clung to his forehead, his gray eyes cat-like and afraid.

“Is anyone else at your house? In the Hollow?”

Sirius shook his head again—his entire body was shaking, Remus realized. “No, Dorcas went to Marlene’s. The—everyone’s in the street—Saint—”

“Saint?”

“Saint is out there,” Sirius’ words practically tore out of his throat. He pushed his soaked hair out of his face. “He went out there and—and—the treasure. The—”

“The current,” Remus repeated, and Sirius pressed a hand over his eyes.

“I should have know. I should have known he’d never listen. He’d never—”

Remus didn’t pause to listen to more. He swore and snatched two windbreakers from the hooks by the door, plus a fleece. He shoved the fleece and jacket into Sirius’ chest.

“Put those on.”

“We can’t,” Sirius’ words choked off to catch his breath. “How will we follow them? I didn’t think you would—”

“Why else would you be here?” Remus said. He shoved gloves over his hands. The rope would be wet, slippery, and he didn’t want to deal with blisters and ripped up palms for weeks to come. He handed Sirius a pair, too. “I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. We should call the police.”

“Leo is trying to find them.”

Remus shoved a sweatshirt over his head. “Is that how you found out?”

Sirius nodded, zipping the breaker up. “Leo, Logan, and Finn. They came running up, and said Saint and Luke—”

“Luke?” Remus froze. His stomach dropped. “Luke is out there.”

Sirius’ eyes flickered, but he nodded after a moment.

Remus didn’t have the time to try and figure him out. Not now. He reached for the door. “Come on—”

“Remus?”

Remus froze all over again, his hand on the handle. He felt Sirius shift uncomfortably beside him, and then Remus turned to see his little brother standing there on the bottom step, in his pajamas.

“Jules,” Remus breathed. “What are you doing awake?”

Julian’s eyes flicked from Sirius and back. “I heard you. There’s a storm.” He looked at their outfits. “Where are you going?”

“We have…” Remus trailed off. “We have to pick up a friend. I’ll be right back.”

Julian stepped down the last stair. “I want to come with you. Your gloves. Are you going—on the water?”

“No,” Remus said. “No, no, we’re—It’s…”

“I want to go with you. Can I?” Julian looked at the door. “I never get to. Mom says—“

“Jules,” Remus said, bending down and pressed his hand through Julian’s sleep mussed hair. “Julian. You have to stay. You have to stay here, okay? It’s really, really dangerous outside.”

“But you’re going outside.”

“I know,” Remus let his eyes fall shut for a moment. “I know I am.”

“I’ll tell mom.”

“No,” Remus pleaded. ��Jules, please. We have to go and you have—you need to stay. Please. I’ll take you out on the Wolfsbane. I’ll do whatever you want, just—Please.”

Julian didn’t look convinced. 

“We have to go,” Sirius’ rough voice came. “Remus.”

Remus rose. “Julian, do not follow us. Wolfsbane, super early, mom never has to know. I’ll teach you. You know I’ve always wanted to teach you.”

Remus ruffled Julian’s hair, and then rose, turning to Sirius.

“Now,” he nodded towards the door.

It was a struggle, getting the tarp off while the wind whipped it back in their faces. Getting the sails straightened, but loose enough so that the mast wouldn’t swing right around once they cranked it back into the water. He kept them low.

Remus peered at Sirius, swiping a hand over his eyes. “We’ll have to use the motor. There’s no way I can control too much of this wind.”

Sirius nodded, but he looked panicked. “They could be—anywhere, already in the water.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Remus snapped. Sirius was all nerves, and they couldn’t afford that. “At least they won’t freeze to death. They’re not far from the coast.”

Remus was breathing hard by the time they swung themselves into the boat and were jetting haltingly away from the dock. The nose bowed this way and that, and Remus risked raising the sails, just a little. It seemed to straighten them out enough. His fingers already ached from the tight, adrenaline-filled grip he held on the lines. He didn’t dare tie it off, the might need to drop them quickly.

“The Cradle,” Sirius shouted against the wind.

“I know,” Remus yelled back. “We can’t go in the Horcrux. We’ll just get stuck. The boat won’t survive it, we’ll tip.”

“Fine,” Sirius said. He was just sitting there, water splashing over the sides and soaking their shoes.

Remus tossed him a bucket. “Bail.”

Sirius did, and pretty quickly, too, but the waves were high.

“This was fucking stupid,” Remus muttered to himself.

The Cradle rose up as if out of mist, and Remus could see its ring of water, swirling within. It was practically a tide-pool, vicious and smooth. It almost looked inviting, like some water-park ride. Remus eyed the sands swirling in the middle with half a mind going to the bedtime stories his grandfather had told him.

“A desert storm in the sea,” he breathed.

The rocks looked like jagged death sentences, and that was when he spied the two shapes, one on the rock closest to them, and the other all the way on the other side of the ring.

“There!” he shouted, and Sirius jolted up. “On the rocks, can you see them?”

Sirius nodded and tossed the bucket down in favor of catching up a rope. He began to fashion it into a sort of hook, a circle that could be slipped around the waist.

Remus wondered where he’d learned that, and Sirius seemed to read it on his face.

“Dumo,” he said, and wiped his sleeve over his face, trying to clear the rain. “How close can we get?”

“I don’t know,” Remus shouted, turning the boat into the next wave and letting it crest more safely over the nose. “Let’s go around, the rocks could wreck us.”

They came to Luke first.

Remus shouted his name twice before Luke looked up. He was clinging to one of the rocks, soaked to the bone and bleeding from a cut to his head. Remus looked to the water. There was no sign of their boat.

“Luke!” Remus shouted.

“Remus,” Luke’s voice sounded far away, though he was just feet from them. “Saint—I—I don’t see—”

“He’s there!” Sirius shouted, eyes trained on Saint’s figure on the other side of the ring. It was perfectly still. Sirius seemed to shake himself and held the rope high, feet spread wide to keep his balance as Remus kept having to turn the boat this way and that to keep their place in the waves. “Can you grab this if I throw it?”

Luke nodded, and his eyes slipped shut. Remus felt panic seize him.

“Yes,” Luke shouted. “Yes.”

“Hurry!” Remus urged. His arms were shaking already, and he still needed to get them over to Saint.

Sirius tossed the rope out. It was a good throw, but he nearly lost his balance doing it. Remus nearly let go of the sails going to catch him, the rope slipping dangerously through his fingers as he lunged to grab the back of Sirius’ jacket.

Sirius shook him off. “The sails!”

Remus leaned back on his heels to get the rope to stop pulling, his teeth clenched. “Just saved your life, your welcome,” he mumbled.

Sirius didn’t hear him.

“Around your waist!” he was shouting, and kept the rope free of the tiller as Remus brought them about again.

Luke followed his instructions shakily, slipping into the water on the outside of the rocks, where the pull would be straight instead of sideways. Sirius hauled him through the waves, and Luke pulled himself up onto the deck coughing.

“Luke,” Remus’ voice broke. He wanted to go to him, but he couldn’t let go. “Luke, Luke—”

“I’m okay,” Luke coughed out.

“Your head,” Remus couldn’t look to long as he let the changing wind guide them out farther towards the horizon, trying to find a calmer path.

Luke touched his fingers to his temple and looked down at the red that came away with them. “Oh.”

“Saint!” Sirius was shouting, but the moonlit silhouette on the rock wasn’t so much as stirring.

Remus had to weave them out four more times before they got close enough to the rock to see Saint’s face. He had a nasty slice that ran from his forehead to his cheek, the red dripping down his jaw and mouth in jagged, rain-washed lines.

“Saint!”

It was Sirius and Luke’s voice in unison this time.

Sirius cursed and tore off his jackets and gloves, then took the looped rope from around Luke, securing it tightly around his own waist instead. He looked at Luke. “You have to—”

“Pull him in,” Luke said, eyes on Saint. “I know.”

“And me,” Sirius snapped, then shouted Saint’s name again. There was still no response.

Remus was struck with the thought that Saint looked like something out of a myth. Odysseus, washed ashore, or a deadly Siren, luring them in, the passing sailors, for his next meal.

Sirius looked back at Remus, who could only stare back, horrified, as he dove into the water.

He surfaced farther away than Remus expected, carried towards the rocks by the powerful current. Luke cursed as the rope slid quickly through his hands.

“The gloves!” Remus shouted, and Luke tied the rope off for a moment, to shove them onto his hands. He kept it hooked around one of the boat railings, letting the boat bear some of Sirius and the sea’s weight.

There was a terrifying moment where Sirius nearly slipped right past the rock, but he held on, hauling himself up beside Saint’s body.

Remus brought the boat about again and whipped his head back to see if they were in the water yet. Sirius was touching Saint’s cheek, his mouth, and then he was wrapping him up in his arms. He slipped messily back into the water and Luke pulled hard. Remus could see his muscles shaking, his wound bleeding. Remus squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of all the times they’d played pirate. This wasn’t any sort of make-believe.

It was harder, getting Saint into the boat. Sirius had to cling to the side with one hand and try to lift him from the water with the other. Luke reached down and hauled Saint up by his arms, knocking Saint’s head against the rails in the process.

“Fuck,” Luke’s wind-snatched voice came.

Sirius tumbled over a moment later, spitting salt water and crawling on his hands and knees towards Saint. Luke was already there, listening for breath. Remus had never seen him look so scared. Not even when his father was taken away.

“Get us out of here!” Sirius shouted at him, and Remus didn’t waste energy being angry at him.

The closer they got to shore, the more scared Remus felt. Without the wildness of the storm would come the stillness of land. And if Saint—if he was—

“Breathe,” Luke was shouting as he pressed in even strokes on Saint’s chest. He plugged Saint’s nose and blew air into his lungs. “Breathe you fucking thief.”

Remus couldn’t watch. His eyes stung but he looked into the full-mooned dark—and he saw a shape. There was a silhouette of a boat, a rowboat, moving back and forth dangerously with the waves. Its sides were so low that it had to be filled with inches in water. They got closer, and Remus heard someone crying.

His heart gave a painful squeeze.

He knew that cry. He knew that boat.

“Julian!” the shout all but shredded his throat.

Julian’s small figure was barely keeping the oars in their nooks. The sailboat’s weak light lit his face in red. His hair was plastered against his forehead and his face was screwed up in fear.

“Remus!” his voice barely carried. “I—”

Remus didn’t even have time to see the wave before it threw Julian dangerously to the side. He screamed, and Remus thought he heard himself scream, too.

The rope slid along his palms as the sails swung around. He ducked beneath the metal bar and drove for the rowboat.

“Julian! Don’t move! Try to stay in the center!”

Sirius was at his side, rope in his hands.

Julian had his eyes squeezed shut as he felt his way through the water, up to his knees now, in the boat.

“Julian look at me! Look at me!” Remus shouted. “You have to catch this. Sirius is going to throw this to you, and you’re going to slip it around your waist—”

Julian’s eyes were wide and golden. “The sharks—”

Remus shook his head, a sob ripping from his throat. “There aren’t sharks now. There aren’t, now listen. You’re—“ The sails swung and he felt Sirius’ palm cover his head and push him down as the boat came around again. “You’re going to put this around your waist and make sure it’s tight, okay?” Then you’re going to jump in and we’re going to pull you up.”

Remus’ throat ached from shouting, but thin tendrils of relief shot through him when Julian nodded.

Sirius’ aim was true, and Julian almost lost it over the side, but he grabbed it quickly. He put it over his head, and pulled it tight, but look over the side of the boat timidly, then up at Remus.

“I can’t see the bottom,” Julian cried. “I don’t like not being able to—”

“Julian, you jump right now,” Remus said. “Right now, come to me, Jules.”

Julian closed his eyes and leapt.

He disappeared beneath the surface for a terrifying second, and then his head broke through again, gasping and spluttering when a wave hit him right away.

Remus distinctly heard coughing from behind him—Saint—and Luke cursing him out in a broken voice.

Sirius leaned over the side and pulled Julian up and into his arms.

“The sails,” Remus shouted at him, and Sirius took the ropes from his hands wordlessly. Remus dropped to his knees and pulled Julian, larger with his life-jacket on, against his chest.

“The row—” Julian began.

“Let it go,” Remus held onto him, maybe too tightly. “Let it go.”

~

Remus shut the door to Bane Tower too hard. It was blissfully warm inside. Julian was wrapped in every blanket that Remus had been able to find and clutching a cup of hot chocolate from the electric kettle they kept down here. Sirius was crouched beside him, having been holding Remus’ place until he returned from securing the Wolfsbane. Saint and Luke were standing by the stairs, still dripping, with more blankets around their shoulders. There were clusters of bloody paper towels where Luke had been taping up Saint’s gash when Remus had left for the boat after letting them in. Luke’s own wound looked clean now, and more like a bruise.

Remus didn’t look at any of them, just stared at Julian, sitting there with a tear stained face, safe. He’d never known relief and guilt could feel so similar.

“Lupin,” Saint broke the silence softly, then cleared his throat. It was still rough from the salt water that had been in his lungs. He stepped forward “Remus—”

“I almost lost my little brother,” Remus said lowly, and then it was like he really realized it, and he crossed the room to shove Saint backwards. “And you would not have been worth it. You never would have been worth it.”

“Re—“ Luke stepped forward.

“No,” Remus shouted. “No.”

Saint’s lips pressed into a thin line. He swallowed. “I know. I’m sorry, Remus.”

Remus turned his back, trying to catch his breath. Sirius stepped out of his way as he went to Julian, clutching his shivering body close to him. He couldn’t look at them, at Luke. Not now.

“I won’t tell mom,” Julian mumbled through his chattering teeth.

“Shh,” Remus whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head. He smelled like he had always smelled, even when Remus had first held him as a baby. Even through the salt of the sea. He felt his own lip tremble. “It’s okay.”

The walls creaked dangerously in the winds. At least it was dry. They were all silent, the only sound their panting breaths, until Remus looked up when Sirius rose. He walked straight at Saint and shoved him hard in the chest, too. Saint stumbled backwards like he had expected it. His eyes looked gold in the dim light, and understanding.

“I know,” Saint said.

“What were you thinking?” Sirius’ voice was uneven. Luke looked down.

“Sometimes I don’t,” Saint replied with his familiar evenness.

Sirius just let out a shuddering sound, pushed Saint again, but caught his blanket hem at the last minute and pulled him against his chest. He cupped a hand against Saint’s cheek and kissed him with a bruising pressure. Remus let his eyes trail over the way Saint’s fingers knotted in the back of Sirius’ shirt. Luke turned away. Remus wished he could, but instead he watched Sirius pull away slowly, then brush their lips together once more, with a pain in his chest.

Remus was so angry with himself for feeling any of that at all right now that he almost didn’t stop them from leaving when it was time. But this was just the beginning, the first wave.

“There’s going to be more and it’s only going to get worse,” he sighed instead. Sirius looked up at him. He was at Saint’s shoulder like he couldn’t move away. “You can’t stay in the Hollow.”

~

Sirius couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in a room with AC, and, as if reading his mind, Saint suddenly threw their covers back and cracked both of the windows open, just enough to let the humid night air in without the rain. Thunder rolled. Sirius watched his silhouette squint at the thermostat in the dark, and heard the faint beep as he turned it off. He hadn’t realized how loud the machine had been until all was quiet save for the storm, and Saint was slipping back beneath the covers.

They lay there beside each other, a feeling that was as familiar to Sirius as breathing. So, why did it feel so strange?

“You could have died,” Sirius said into the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

Sirius looked over at him. Saint didn’t often apologize. That was twice in one night.

“I don’t even know…” Sirius shook his head up at the ceiling, trying to get the image of Saint’s lifeless body out of his head. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“I kissed him,” Saint said, and Sirius turned his head. Saint was staring at him already. “I kissed him.”

“You kiss me all the time.”

“You kissed me in front of him.”

“And you wish I hadn’t?” Sirius asked.

Saint seemed to be trying to play it all out in his head, eyes far away. He looked back at the ceiling.

“No. I love being with you. Touching you. Laughing or fucking or surfing. I was just scared. You were just scared, though. Maybe I’m always just scared.”

“Being scared isn’t really a just feeling. It’s important.”

“Maybe he’ll get the wrong impression. Go all—soft on me.” Saint flicked his eyes towards Sirius. “You never do that. You just treat me like I’m me. Not a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a best friend or a lover just…two people.” Saint closed his eyes. “Just two people who are doing what makes them happy. What feels good or right.”

“This is what you’re thinking about right now?” Sirius scoffed. “You almost died.”

Saint took a slow breath in. “I didn’t want to. I wanted live so badly. But for what?” Saint looked at Sirius again, and this time, there was fear there. “I don’t even know who I am. Why should I want things if I don’t even know that?”

Sirius let that sink in. He wanted everything for Saint, but, most of all, he wanted to see that cross ripped from around his neck.

“Maybe living is about finding out who you are. You’re allowed to change, Saint. Your name…anything.” Sirius reached for Saint’s hands beneath the covers and Saint held on tight. “And I’m going to love you through it all. In whatever way, in all the ways, we do love.”

Saint stayed quiet for a moment, and then he turned onto his side and Sirius mirrored him. They rested their foreheads together. Saint’s free hand clutched his cross.

“I’m so tired of being number seven,” Saint whispered.

“You were never number seven,” Sirius whispered back, stroking a hand through Saint’s hair. “You’re you.”

~

Remus and Luke lay in Remus’ bed. Remus had Julian tucked against his outer side, sound asleep, and Luke may not have been as close, but Remus could feel his body heat as they stared up at the ceiling in silence.

“Thanks for not making me go home,” Luke broke the quiet.

Remus nodded. “Yeah.”

“Saint’s probably going to steal something from your guest bedroom,” Luke mumbled.

“Hasn’t he taken enough?” Remus replied quietly.

He could see that Luke looked at him from the corner of his eye.

“It wasn’t just his fault,” he said insistently. “I went out there, too.”

“And the others?”

“Leo wouldn’t let them go. He said it was too dangerous. Which,” Luke sighed. “Which of course only made Saint want to go more.”

“And you went with him?” Remus turned to look at him, too. They were so close that their noses nearly brushed. “Luke.”

“I need answers, Re,” Luke whispered urgently. His brown-green eyes were pleading. “I can’t stay in that house, not with the way it is. I need…”

“We need to get off of this island.”

“Leaving won’t help my dad.”

“Neither will getting yourself killed,” Remus snapped, then closed his eyes. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

Luke shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re right.”

Remus swallowed, focusing on the green in Luke’s eye. He reached up with the hand resting between them, and brushed his finger just below it. “Captain Green-Sea.”

Luke blinked, and the faintest of smiles crossed his face. It had been his pirate name, when they were younger, named after the sliver of green that shone out of the brown in his right iris.

“Captain Wolfsbane,” Luke whispered back. “We loved that game.”

“I’m worried you thought it was a game tonight.”

Luke’s brows drew together. “No. It’s the opposite. I feel—like I’m missing something he left me, Re. Like my dad is trying to…Saint helped me.” Luke swallowed and brought his hand up to Remus’ cheek. “You helped me. Thank you.”

Remus didn’t dare move when he felt Luke’s thumb brush his lower lip.

“You know,” Luke whispered. “Sometimes I wish we…”

Remus nodded gently. “I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine,” Remus replied, then smiled, just a little. “That means more to me than anything else.”

Luke smiled, too, and tapped his thumb twice on Remus’ chin before slipping their hands together and squeezing tight. Remus closed his eyes, feeling more settled than he expected to tonight.

“My head fucking hurts,” Luke said after a while.

Remus snorted and held Julian closer. “That’s your own fault.”

“I do love you, you know,” Luke added after another moment.

Remus squeezed his hand again. “I love you, too.”

“Captain Wolfsbane,” Luke’s voice sounded more asleep now.

Remus just smiled.

[soniabigcheese]

7th December - How Much is That Doggie in the Window?

A big thank you to @mrseviltedi for suggesting this fic title. It is sooo much better than the one I originally came up with.

If you didn't already know, this is a puppy!Alan fic. And so you probably already know what is about to happen.

****

So booooooooored ... and so tiiiiiiiired.

Plus, it was cold and flu season, so he had a runny nose and hung onto the crumpled, soggy tissue for as long as he could.

The great thing about having the sniffles is ... that people tended to give you a wide berth. But that was a bad thing too, because he couldn't chat to anyone, now that he had this huge contagious bubble surrounding him.

It was the run up to Christmas, and he'd been dragged out to do some last minute shopping.

The old fashioned way.

Getting elbowed and shoved as many other shoppers had exactly the same idea.

Blowing his nose .. again ... he grunted and groaned and wished he could just ... sit in a corner, out of the way ...

... and just die.

He dragged his feet, getting slower and slower until the shoulders of his big brother Scott vanished into the milling crowds.

Any other time, he would have been panicking and pushing his way through everyone.

Today?

Nah.

He wanted somewhere nice and quiet where he could ...

... hello there!

He hadn't been looking where he was going and almost tripped over a big fluffy pile of thick blankets.

Perfect.

He bent down to stroke one and sneezed.

Now, to anyone else, this wouldn't have been a big deal. But to Alan ... a sneeze could ... and did ... mean disaster.

Still learning to control his transformation, he instantly turned into his puppy form. And at this height, the many legs rushing to and fro, was a scary experience indeed.

If he stayed where he was, he could be trampled on or taken to the pound, as he had no I.D. on him.

So he whimpered, looking frantically for a means of escape.

And as if by magic ... a small door came into sight. It was slightly ajar, with enough room for him to squeeze past.

Bracing himself, he made a mad dash, his little feet and claws skidding over the fancy polished floor and bumped into the plywood partition.

It didn't hurt because of his thick fur, but still ...

At least he got past that hurdle. But then he heard loud voices, arguing as they approached. So he nudged the tiny door open and clambered over the frame.

WHOA!

He blinked, shook his head again, then dropped his butt firmly on the floor.

He'd died and gone to heaven!

Before him, was the most magical Christmassy theme he had even dreamed of. Several prettily decorated trees, dotted strategically here and there. Fairy lights carefully strewn around.

And presents!

Lots and lots of presents!!

He bounced towards one of the smallest ones and sniffed it. He paused, realising that his runny nose had vanished! He now had a normal wet doggy nose. Which meant he was in good health.

He sniffed the gift again and gently nipped the wrapping between his teeth ... and pulled.

The paper tore .. to reveal a cardboard box.

Humph ... that sucks.

Holding the box flat with one paw, he went to work, gnawing the corner off. He was so engrossed in chewing, that he didn't see the crowds gathering to watch him in the window display. Because that's where he had ended up.

Blergh .... yuck!

He spat out the vile tasting cardboard, only to discover that the box was totally empty.

Undeterred, he targeted a bigger box, this time it had a shiny bow on it, the ribbons dangling just out of reach. But if he stood on his back legs, he could ...

... just ...

... about ...

... manage ...

... to ...

Whoops!

Ah ... damn.

It came tumbling down ... and the tree too.

Aw shit .... he was in so much trouble

"Alan? Alan!"

Aw crap. Here comes Scott, ready to chew him out for wandering off. Could this day get any worse?

Apparently it can, as the latch on that tiny door, clicked shut and he was trapped with nowhere to go.

So he sat down and howled pitifully before burying himself under one of the trees.

And desperately wanted his family!

A tap on the window, caught his attention, so he crawled out from under his temporary refuge, to see Gordon's face pressed against the glass.

Alan almost bounced with joy as he stood on his hind legs, tail wagging furiously and slavering all over the glass.

As soon as he heard Scott's voice, he paused and slowly turned around. The latch clicked and the door opened to reveal the head and shoulders of his big brother, a nice juicy treat in his hand.

"Come here you little scamp."

Behind his big brother, he could hear the shrill protests from the store manager, telling him off for letting his dog loose in her store.

Scott apologised profusely telling her that he was getting a collar and leash for his 'little rascal', as he managed to grab Alan by the scruff of the neck.

Alan had a good mind to change back, just to see the look on that stuck up woman's face but decided that wasn't a good idea.

Instead, he growled a little at her, she glared back with her beady eyes. Then turned to lick Scotts nose and wag his tail furiously.

He did NOT want a repeat performance.

They were joined by the rest of the family, with Gordon waving his clothes around.

"Think we're all done here," Scott announced, still carrying Alan, who was now feeling sleepy and yawned widely.

Gordon grinned mischievously as he ruffled the soft fur on the puppy's head.

"You did a great job Allie," he exclaimed, "kinda proud of you."

"There's no need to encourage him further Gordon," Scott chided.

"Aw man," Gordon whined, "at least let us pass the window just to see the extent of his work ..... please?"

By now, Alan was fast asleep and snoring softly, completely oblivious to the world around him.

Thankfully.

As he was getting a lot of attention from many of the shoppers who'd been watching his antics.

Some of them wanted to take him home and were offering ridiculous amounts of money for him.

Scott just smiled and refused politely, telling them that he couldn't bear to part with such a very important member of the family.

Behind him, Gordon snorted and earned a jab in the ribs.

[luxurypetsorg]

The Lloyd is a larger model for small breed dogs, but of course, cats are welcome. The bent plywood frame is formed in my studio and is an 11-layer lamination. Finished in real walnut veneer and 4 coats of lacquer. The legs are solid walnut and are made in my shop. The top of the cushion is 7" off the floor, while the top of the pillow is 10” off the floor. The pillow attaches to the main cushion via Velcro and is removable. The bed covers are removable for cleaning. Each cushion attaches to the frame with fabric tabs that slide through slots in the frame then connect with Velcro. The cushion and the pillow are made of commercial grade foam, wrapped in Dacron then a cotton cover.

[post-itpenny]

"Love became an act of defiance."

3am walks and wanting to buy a house in the Mafia AU.

Darkness save so a small sliver of light. The smell of dust and texture of wood. She was crammed in with her knees to her chest and head bent down, her neck aching from staying like this for so long.

But she could still hear the screaming.

She could still hear sounds of gore that made her want to vomit.

They kept calling and calling for her to come out of hiding.

Maggie woke up in a cold sweat. Curled up tight in her small bed. She sat up and ran a hand over her face before untying the braid she kept her long hair in.

Maggie quietly got dressed, grabbing the boa that was hung around her bedpost and quietly opening the window.

Maggie lived in the tiny apartment above Magpie’s shop with the older woman herself. The floors creaked quite a bit and Maggie had learned a long time ago that sneaking out meant creative solutions.

Maggie swung out onto the small ledge, clinging to the edge before launching herself to the side and onto the fire escape just below her.

She had long ago lined it with plywood to muffle the sound.

Maggie climbed up and up till she reached the roof and began running. Leaping off the roof of the apartment and onto the building next door.

For a time, Maggie spent her childhood on the streets. She hated every second of it but learned a thing or two. How to listen was one, how to never be caught was the other.

Maggie made it several blocks before her feet actually touched the sidewalk. It was 3am and the streets were deserted, a perfect time to wander.

It was an interesting in between, too late for even the city underbelly but far to early for the safe hours of morning light. A state of nonexistence as most of the world slept.

Maggie came to a stop in front of a place she had come to frequent often during her 3am walks. A small real estate office that liked to post flyers of homes for sale.

Under the dim glow of the street lights Maggie skimmed the flyers until one caught her eye. A small cottage that looked to be about an hour outside of the city. Not the most glamorous but quaint and farther away than any of the others.

Perfect.

She pulled the flyer down and checked the price. Not a terrible, not the cheapest but something she could work towards.

And anyways, all really needed was to save enough for the down payment and ensure loan repayments could be made for the first year at least. Just enough to get started, she could send money to help afterwards.

The idea began when she was a teenager, a promise to repay the debt Maggie felt she owed.

Maggie was turning to leave when she spotted a figure turn down an alleyway. She frowned and quietly shimmied up a drainpipe.

The man from the Jester gang quite frankly hated his job. Petty crime was not something a powerful gang liked to boast hence men like him out at 3am. The Jesters had a specialty of annoying the hell out of other gangs. This time his job was to smash up a few shop fronts on the Blackwood’s side of town. He pulled out a bat from the bag he had been carrying and looked up to the faint sound of swishing fabric.

He only caught a glimpse of something red before being knocked out cold.

Maggie was a little pissed, aside from the guy belonging to the Jackass he only had about twenty bucks in his pocket and a cheap wristwatch. Oh well, she did get a cool baseball bat out of it.

Magpie entered the tiny kitchen that morning to find Maggie with a cup of coffee already at the table. Magpie frowned but said nothing until she had fixed herself a cup of tea and sat down across from the redhead.

“You’re up rather early,” Magpie observed.

Maggie shrugged and drank her coffee as she pulled a folded flyer from her pocket. “Look at this one.”

Magpie sighed and took the flyer, examining the little cottage in its picture. “It’s a nice little place yes.”

“You could start a garden like you always wanted,” Maggie suggested. “There’s a little backyard for your dog-“

“Maggie sweetheart-“

“It’s out of town, far out of town. No one will bother you out there.”

“I admit that sounds rather nice but please listen.” Magpie asked as she took hold of Maggie’s hand. “My dear little robin please don’t worry about me, we’ve talked about this. I’m not asked of anything but to keep the bar hidden and I’m happy with that. I’m out of the game just like I want to be. But I can’t really leave and you know that. It’s terribly hard to get out for good when it’s your own blood.”

Maggie shook her head, “I had this thing the other day that got me a lot of money. If I save up just a little more I can cover the down payments for you and make sure you’re comfortable for a good while. I’ll send money every month and-“

“Maggie stop.” Magpie said through gritted teeth.

“Listen to me. I am here and so are you, and you need to calm down. Peregrine is not happy, goodness knows Vespers and Juno have held the brunt of his disappointment but he knows how reckless you are.”

“Look I don’t give a damn about-“

“Excuse me young lady I did not raise you to use that kind of language.” Magpie scolded.

“Maggie I am telling you that one day you are going to get into serious trouble and I promise my brother will be hesitant to bail you out. You do not want to be on your own in this world Maggie it’s not kind to people who are alone. You push and you push until someone is ready to point a gun at you and it’s not good.”

Magpie sighed and held her head in her hands, she looked so tired.

Maggie reached and took her hand, “has he been sending you letters again?”

Magpie nodded slowly, “I don’t bother to read him and I’ve told The Godfather, I’ve asked for additional protection around the shop. People like Jack push when they get too angry. In a job like this that will get you killed. Please Maggie, keep your money for yourself. Buy a new pair of shoes for starters because I know the left boot has a hole in it.” Magpie chuckled as she nudged Maggie’s boot with her own.

“Don’t worry about me, I am ok. You, you are going to get hurt if you’re not careful. You’re going to upset the wrong gang and no one will come to save you. I can’t stand the idea of that happening.”

Maggie trudged to her room for a quick nap and Magpie downstairs to her shop. In her room Maggie quietly took off her boots and boa and pulled the money she had robbed from the Jester thug from her pocket.

She reached under her bed and pulled out a battered suitcase, inside was piles of cash. Dollar bills, twenties and the occasional Fifty. An envelope from her modeling gig lovingly tucked into the corner.

Maggie kept whatever she could from her paycheck and added it to the funds. She was so close.

Love became an act of defiance when it came to Magpie. The redhead knew she hated the mob and wanted to get away. No more violence, no crazy ex, no more breaking the law.

Maggie was a lot like Jack and had long ago accepted that one day she was probably going to end up dead in a ditch. But Magpie was the first person since her parents death to care about Maggie and make her feel safe. To repay the last debt she owed, it was all worth it.

[markhengis90-blog]

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[asisindia]

5 ways to reduce your home interior cost – multi-functional furniture to laminate flooring, and a few things in between!

Whenever you plan to do the interior design of your house, cost cutting is always taken into consideration. There are different types of designs available in the market, but cost-cutting has to be kept in mind as well.  ASIS- one of the leading furnishing brands in the market provides a complete solution for your interior decorating needs. ASIS has a wide range of laminates like the ASIS Decorative laminates, ASIS Post forming laminates for your interior surfaces that can be bent without losing the grain or pattern; ASIS Compact laminates for the lab and kitchen furniture needs. Another exquisite range of laminates available are the ASIS marker grade laminates and ASIS cladding exterior grade compact laminates.

Medium Density Fiberboard has newly entered the panel industry. It is cheaper than real wood and therefore cost effective. It is made of wood and other lignocelluloses materials. It is later refined into fibers and reconstituted with a resin bender which is carried out at elevated temperature and pressure. These MDF boards are made with precision and best quality. MDF boards prove to be cost cutting because of its multi-purpose uses in various places like the kitchen, bathroom cabinets, dining table and the wardrobe too. One such product of ASIS is the High density board which is similar to medium density boards but much denser, stronger and harder. HDF boards are water resistant, environment friendly and economical.

Particle board is another cost effective variant of furnishing solution available to the people looking to cut costs in furniture and interior design overall. It is cheaper than MDF boards and applicable on almost all types of interior surfaces.  ASIS provides a highly versatile range of best quality pre-laminated and plain particle boards that fulfill all the furnishing requirements. Plywood at ASIS is emission free, high density and promises a lifetime guarantee. ASIS particle boards are economical and therefore superior in every way.

The vast range of quality products available at ASIS makes it a one stop shop for all your furnishing needs. There is nothing more impressive than a brand that provides quality, versatility and helps you cut costs at the same time. With a variety of laminates, designs, textures and color shades available at ASIS, it proves to be the ultimate solution for your furnishing needs. ASIS India is India’s leading manufacturer and supplier of Laminates, MDF Boards, Plywood and Particle Boards. We believe that sustainable consumption is the only way ahead to conserve nature for our future generations. Furniture made from moisture-resistant, termite-free, borer-proof, high quality, long-lasting ply, MDF boards, particle boards, and laminates from ASIS contributes handsomely to this goal!  

[slot006]

Choosing a Corner Base Kitchen Cabinet

Corner Base Cabinet - the foundation upon which all the kitchen work and storage takes place. It's important that it match and complement your kitchen theme, as this is what gives your kitchen character. A well chosen corner base cabinet can enhance the appearance of your kitchen. There are lots of different styles to choose from, including the basic built in style, to those with doors, to custom made units.

When shopping for your corner base cabinet there are several factors you should consider. The first is the size of your space. You will need to measure your space against the edges of the area you plan to fill. Your next consideration is the width of your kitchen, including any existing doorways.

One of the most popular types of corner base cabinets is the Lazy Susan. This design is called a lazy Susan because the legs are bent back along the wall. Most models have four doors, two doors in the front, and one door in the back. The rear doors can be opened, allowing more sunlight into the kitchen while allowing some fresh air to enter.

Read more info: https://residentusacabinets.com/product-category/kitchen-kabinets/wall-cabinets/wall-36-in/

If your kitchen has a lot of large open spaces, you may want to consider purchasing a lazy susan with a sliding door and enclosed shelves. These units allow you to keep items hidden or out of sight. Sliding doors on a corner base cabinet allows for easier access to items stored inside. Some models however, feature a center drawer that is not easily accessible. On a side by side cabinet, you can place a piece of plywood or particleboard between the two cabinets and slide the door towards the wall.

Another option in the range of corner kitchen cabinets is the Lazy Susan with a sloped opening in the back. This gives you storage space on the lower half of the cabinet and allows you to reach items stored on the top half without knocking items over. These units are popular with many people because they provide the best of all worlds. They offer the functionality of a cabinet, but have the visual appeal of a piece of furniture.

Once you have chosen from the available options you will be able to pick out the pieces that best suit your individual kitchen design. It is important to take the measurements of your kitchen corner space before you begin any cabinet project. While measuring your area may seem unnecessary, it is vital for getting the right fit and will help you make the best purchase. If you are having problems finding the perfect unit you can always go to your local home improvement store to search for matching pieces.

Most new cabinets come standard in one of two forms, either solid wood or particle board. If you choose to purchase the wood framed variety you will be able to choose from many different finishes including; painted, natural, or stain and clear coat. There are also many styles and colors to choose from that are sure to match the overall feel of your kitchen design. Particle board is much cheaper than solid wood and is often found in inexpensive corner kitchen cabinets as well. Particle board is not as durable as solid wood, but many people do not mind the price of these units because they offer an inexpensive alternative to hardwoods.

Read More : https://residentusacabinets.com/product-category/kitchen-kabinets/wall-cabinets/wall-42-in/

Many people are choosing to install floating shelves in their corner kitchen cabinets as well. Floating shelves are simply a long shelf that is suspended in the air. This allows you to use more than one shelf at a time without having to disturb the area that you are working in. There are several different types of floating shelves you can choose from and most are adjustable so you can move them as needed.

[stone-man-warrior]

January 7, 2021: 7:49 pm:

Cries for help remain unanswered.

Twenty-five years of trying to get help while in Oregon. and more time trying while in California more than 25 years ago, all unanswered.

There remains a vacuum of assistance.

The presence of lack of rescue remains persistent.

There are no helpful people anywhere around here.

Please send help.

Please send US Military to Oregon.

Please send medical services to Oregon.

Bring your own hospital, without your own, the terror army will kill you at the hospitals if you are injured while trying to help. There are no medical services for US Citizens in Oregon, only Canadian terror army is treated for health conditions, everyone else is killed at the medical facilities. Illusion of medical treatment facilities is present throughout the state.

======================

9:50 pm:

Donald Trump “Insult to Injury” terror:

The whole nation is in such financial distress that it was decided that every citizen should receive stimulus payments, twice.

That’s pretty bad financial conditions for that to have happened.

On the other hand, it appears that things are not so bad after all, in fact, it looks like everything is financially hunky dory, as the social security beneficiaries were only granted a 1.3% cost of living increase, it maxes out at 3% for a cost of living increase for elderly and disabled persons, and is calculated by some asshole this year, because clearly the cost of living has increased more than any other year of record, and that is well documented with the stimulus payments to tens of millions of citizens.

I am getting mixed messages from my government leaders here. One team says “Holy shit!, if we don’t hand out some coins, millions of people will starve because of Corona Virus.” while another team is saying: “Yeah, but we need to save some money somewhere, so, we’ll just fuck the old people and those gimpy fucks in the wheel chairs. canes, and crutches, they are all a bunch of leaches anyway, so, fuck ‘em... give ‘em a 13 just to let them know we mean business, and not to talk about the cut rate increase... they are all a bunch of Tiny Tim wanna bee’s... fuck Tiny Tim, and everyone who looks like him.”

Insult to injury, Christian style, from the top 1%.

It’s 1.7% light on the increase for cost of living.

Woodstock, 1998 Live Version of Edge of Seventeen by Fleetwood Mac.

The song is all fucked up in this version and the venue looks like three farmers took the barn apart to build the venue stage and fencing with a “Farm Pack” from the local lumber yard, for the “Jesus was a Carpenter” version of Edge of Seventeen in New York Catskill Mountains at Woodstock.

Google “Farm Pack” if you don’t understand what that is, or why the Farmer wants to be a Carpenter.

Mixed messages is a life-size thing, is giant blender where old and disabled people are tossed into along with some small children, for making a product that is sprayed onto the roadsides as a erosion abatement, keeps the mudslide from being noticed after the reigns come, for a prophet, and contracted by the state.

========

1-8-2021: 2:01 pm:

The Woodstock Version features Stevie wearing gold, she is famous for white and black, not gold.

It’s the “Sympathy for the Devil” version with a “Welcome to Jamaica, have a nice day” tattoo version, comes with a helicopter and alternate Harmonic Vocal Tuning, and, as noted, the screams of the crowd, were indeed heard.

=======

10:30 pm:

In the event that someone wants to do that math on “Jesus was a Carpenter” and why it’s associated to “Edge of Seventeen“ so heavily, need to have a look at 1985-ish United Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners of America Journeyman Wage Scale for Residential Carpenter Pay Rate.

There, you will find that the scale was about $17.50 per hour, while pay scale for Commercial Journeyman was about $22.10 per hour.

The $17.50 Residential Carpenters used to have a lot sayings, one is “I owe, I owe, so off to work I go” another was “Another day, another seventeen-fifty... and another oweee, damn, that hurt when I fell yesterday”

The Carpenters Union was hijacked back then, the story about is long and complex. It’s an important part of why the White House and Congress are all occupied by terrorists bent on ruling the world in league with Britain and the Vatican.

no one will speak to me to hear the story of Jesus worked as a Residential Union Carpenter who was making about $17.50 per hour when he was hit over he head and nailed to a cross on the jobsite.

Adam Schiff was there, part of the takeover of the carpenters union in the 1980′s. He worked for L & M Builders of Ventura County (Thousand Oaks and around there) and used the name “Cory” last name unknown, we used to have a Saturday night poker game together with some of the guys on the crew at the time.

I could be wrong... but I could be right... it was a long time ago, and “Cory” once told me he was an actor, just on the job to check things out, then one day, Cory said “I’m going to Montana”. He left, and that was the last I saw of him until I met him again here in Oregon at a dinner party at a friends house, Kurt Hill, the fork lift driver of Longboard Lumber in Merlin. There he was, “Carpenter Cory of Montana”, at the dinner party, some 25 years later on Jumpoff Joe Creek Road in Josephine county, where I was shot at by someone who ran into the forest after shooting, when Cory said “Can you go over there, and hand me that thing there...?” kind of way to put me in range. Paul Birch was owner of Longboard Lumber, turned out to be a hardcore Christian terror operative here in Merlin, and built hundreds of “Bomb Carts”... I never was able to learn more about the “Bombs” though, only that there was talk of tunnels, and a cabinet shop at Union Ave and Ringuette near the hospital. The carts were made of dimensional lumber and plywood, about four feet square, with a vertical back on one side, heavy duty castors, could haul about 1,000 lbs each, and there were hundreds made at Longboard Lumber by “Will”, an employee there at the Lumber yard, who also turned out to be a terror soldier who kept trying to kill me, for about 16 years so far, he used to stalk me to the Walgreen’s last year, often had a small boy with him. I think I killed Will at the Walgreen‘s in defense about one year ago. Paul Birch took his business dealings to Newport Oregon, to start a terror cell there when Longboard Lumber closed down about 10 years ago-ish.

Like I said, it’s a long story. is important, includes Fleetwood Mac, and Buckingham Palace.

============

1-8-2021: 3:17 pm: additional:

“Carpenter Cory Montana”: My memory is that his last name started with the letter n: neuman; newsome: neuter... something like that. “Cory Newsome” sounds hauntingly familiar.

There may be a connection to a US Postal Mail Carrier by the name of “Mo” who was the carrier for this route for many years when I first moved here to Oregon in 1996. Mo, used to always wear a beany, I have “Mo’s Beany”, but I do not know why, or how I obtained “Mo’s Beany”. The words “That’s Mo’s Beany” have been said my many a terror intruder into my home over a long period of time, as I keep “Mo’s Beany” clearly on display at a place in my home where terror intruders tend to hide when they enter. There are only very few places to hide inside my house these days, I have all of the rooms nailed shut to keep intruders from hiding in them. Had I not closed off all of the rooms in my house, I would have been killed a long time ago.

I advise US Citizens to reduce their living spaces to a bare minimum, as the intruders tend to hide, and wait quietly until the intended victims are asleep in their beds. That is the reason I have not slept in a bed in more than ten years... it’s far too dangerous to use a conventional bed. Sleep is a luxury I cannot afford, neither can you.

============

I think “Adam Cory Schiff” was stalking the L & M Builder’s owner’s son, Cory Reese, who was also part of the Saturday night poker game crew, back in the day when a card game was just a game of Dealers Choice, not global annihilation done by SAG Actors.

I considered Kurt Hill to be a friend until one day I saw him wrap a Pharmacist with cellophane shipping warehouse style plastic wrap, and drag the pharmacist out of the Service Drugs that used to be on 6th St. and toss him into a truck, and drive away from there. It was dusk, at the time. Kurt was a big giant of a man, very strong. I think I killed him in defense out by the mailboxes about ... a long time ago, in defense after some geese were seen running around with no heads on them, making horrible sounds out front on the road.

Seventeen-Fifty is the connection to “Edge of Seventeen“, Union Journeyman scale wages.

=================

11:28 pm:

Other Carpenter Union take over details:

There was a local union hall either on Ventura Blvd in Woodland Hills Ca, or near there, I belonged to that one for awhile, then moved my card to District Counsel 844. I learned that carpenters were being hired by the framing contractors, and they were being signed up as Journeyman, even when they had few skills, but I was not one of those, I did, however, join as a Journeyman having worked non-union for my whole life by the time I joined the union. There was a housing boom, carpenters were on short supply. (it turns out that the housing boom was a “manufactured housing arrangement”, so to speak, to create housing for the upcoming influx of Canadian terror soldiers. Tracts of houses, many thousands each tract, all in phased of one-hundred to four-hundred homes each phase, all around Southern California) Those Journeyman newcomers were paid union wage scale, worked forty hours per week, but were only actually paid for some other amount of hours, typically, about 20 hours were paid out at scale wage for a 40 hour week worked on the job. A carpenter and an employer came to agreement on the side, about hourly rate, about $10 was norm, so, the math was worked to pay $10 per hour, while reflecting full scale on the pay check, with reduced hours showing for the full week of work, making illusion that they only worked part time, about 20 hours or so.

Those carpenters were robbed of the necessary accumulation of hours to become vested for pension.

I demanded one dollar over scale, I was paid one dollar over scale, always, after I learned of that weird arrangement of hours. I was hurt before I became vested.

L & M Builders had a jobsite I worked on where a police officer was shot, and hand cuffed to his steering wheel, I heard him, used his radio to call for help, he died though right there in the car after I got his cuffs unlocked. That jobsite in Thousand Oaks, north side somewhere, at the edge of the city limits, was the weirdest place ever... they built the model homes, five or six different layouts, in a culdesac, to demonstrate what would be for sale later. We built those, then, some other crew of special people came and took the model houses apart piece by piece, then, we built the same floor plans again, on the same slabs. The houses were about 4,000 sq. ft. two story homes, all taken apart after completion of all trades... roofs were on, drywall was all done, plumbers had finished, electrician ran the wire, the HVAC was done... all done. Then, they took them apart, so we could build them again.

Same thing happened here in Grants Pass. The place that just is being completed now called Cascade Public Storage, was all built, completed, done... about ten of maybe twenty years ago... they took the whole thing apart, made it look as if the place was never there, and now, decades later, the exact same structures are there again. The place is weird. The construction techniques include every kind of method there is, block, iron, wood frame, metal frame, concrete... every kind of tradesman on earth was needed to build that thing, twice.

My guess is that the terror army is advertising for help wanted at that site in far away places to draw craftsmen to come to Oregon where they are captured and used as slaves, or are killed and replaced. It’s visible from I-5 at the exit 58 near Club Northwest, where the terror leadership is at, and CNW is the same as Grants Pass Chamber of Commerce as far as membership goes at the Club Northwest terror HQ. There used to be a National Security Administration Field Office next door to Club Northwest, but that seems to have been taken apart a different way, one NSA officer at a time, and was put back somewhere else as Department of Homeland Security, while they put a Department of Health Services where the NSA used to be, for confusion service. and to fulfill “insult to injury” terror protocols required by the Christian Church.

I am pretty sure that the leading Church components to the terror army are at the 9th St. Seventh Day Adventist Church, it’s next door to the Oregon State Police Field Office that’s on 7th St., but you have to hop over a block wall to get from one place to the other, last time I looked over there.

There is a fire station on Park St at the Grants Pass Pkwy intersection that is remarkable for having been built with that multi-faceted construction techniques that Cascade Storage is built with. The place is stunning to look at, is awesome building, is extreme expense for a fire station, way over the top, in my opinion.

These subjects of buildings are in the realm of a place called “Options of Southern Oregon” across from the Walgreen‘s, and another place called “Crisis Resolution Center” between where Walgreen’s and the Hospital are at, which might be the source of some of the most wicked of all of the killing contraptions used around here in Josephine County... very scary places are CRC and Options.

There are no shortages of impostors around here, so, in the event that someone who claiams to be the author of  this account has found some helpful people to talk to, that’s not the author of this account. Be advised that I think it was the Sparacino terror cell that stole all of my old pay stubs from back in the day, and has stolen much personal items, to use to impersonate the author of this information. Clyde Baum at 333 Jackpine is famous for the lengths he has gone to impersonate the author of this information also. Both Sparacino of 545 and Baum of 333 are supported in their efforts to impersonate by the local Oregon authorities.

(account is hijacked again)

[raystart]

From Berlin with Love

Feel free to take your time, but make sure you stamp your ticket or beware the ticket collector’s unsympathetic wrath, representing just one side of the many sided Berlin. Berlin has a special, peculiar, and particular history, and although it’s described by countless guides as the design city of today, it’s always been a design conscious city. In the early 20th Century, it was the first place in Europe to slice ornaments from building facades in a committed embrace of streamlined modernism.

Much has changed across the city’s façade since, but underground on the U-bahn you can clearly observe the blended traces of Berlin’s design history: some stations are Art Nouveau and German Jugenstil in style, others Bauhaus, 70s futurism, or contemporary, pastel-colored minimalism. It’s been nearly 30 years since the fall of the wall and above ground any signs are mostly gone, but the Cold War era’s clash of opposites remains on the U-Bahn: austere Soviet designs adorn former Eastern stations, and elaborate floral motifs carved in stone are preserved in the former Western ones. The only period not present along the platforms is the Nazi era, when stations were used for bomb shelters. Then again, as you pass through the morose platform of Mohrenstraße, you might feel a little chill learning that the red marble encasing the platform is recycled from Hitler’s former Reich Chancellor Building.

Finding your way—way finding—in this design conscious city, with its design conscious subway, is no simple task, but the U-bahn’s network system, organized by the renowned German typographer Erik Spiekermann and his agency MetaDesgin since 1992, attempts to ease your way and get you to where you want to go. It’s a riot of colors, and a brew of squares, circles and pictograms: This noisy system inherits the chaos of 19 different S-Bahn and U-bahn lines. Berlin is not so much a city formed around a central core but a constellation of separate planets each with its own peculiar forms of life, abstractly linked together by the network of subway tracks.

Because it’s Spiekermann that first guides us through Berlin’s underground, our first stop will be Bhf Bülowstrasse, to take a stroll up Potsdamer Strasse to Spiekermann’s p98a gallery and letterpress workshop. The street was once the locus for the edgy ambiguities of 1920s Weimar cabaret culture and Marlene Dietrich androgyny; today, it houses galleries, non-descript office blocks, and one euro bargain stores, as well as a conspicuously slick Acne shop, and the workplaces of local design studios like the modern, sophisticated HelloMe and the riotous, ramshackle illustration duo 44Flavours. World’s apart in style, but neighbors here in Berlin, which loves to mix things up.

Spiekermann’s p98a is the area’s most popular destination for visiting designers, and plenty of agencies book master-classes in letterpress with this master designer. Glimpse through the window, and you might spy Spiekermann himself high fiving and punching the air with his fist: his old school “no-bullshit” attitude makes him the champion of many, and an irritation—the dad rock of design—to others.

A short walk away from this letterpress haven—or at U-Bahn station Nollendorfplatz—is the great Bauhaus Archive, perched above the canal like an impassive white wave rising from the water. Erected in the 70s, the museum’s architecture draws is loosely inspired by an archive conceived by Bauhaus founder and architect Walter Gropius in the 1960s. Inside, a study in patience and precision, hushed art historians and design researchers sit bent over books, and the permanent collection displays iconic relics from Germany’s early modern years: great weaves by textile artist Anni Albers, paintings by Paul Klee, steel armchairs by Marcel Breuer, and other objects of design from the 20s and 30s produced by the famed and influential Bauhaus school.

The Bauhaus Archive. Image by BBB3viz.

Close by, on the other side of the sprawling Tiergarten Park with its dense cluster of pine trees, sits Berlin’s Hansaviertel. If German’s cool modernism emerged from the Bauhaus in the 20s, then this neighborhood was one of modernism’s climaxes: the housing development was built after World War II in a derelict area, constructed as part of the International Building Exhibition of 1957. Along the leafy, quiet streets are batteries of tower blocks, ribbon buildings, two modernist churches, and a glass library, designed by the period’s most significant architects.

After a morning at Spiekermann’s p98a, it makes sense to visit the Hansalviertel not only to see this plastic clad “city of tomorrow” but to seek out the Buchstabenmusum (called the “Alphabet Museum” in English) situated quietly under the tracks of the over-ground station Bellevue. The first museum in the world to preserve and display letters from public spaces and provide information about their origin and construction, the Alphabet Museum was founded 11 years ago by graphic designer Barbara Dechant, who began collecting after she first rescued from a dumpster a car radio sign reading “A U T O R A D I O”. Hundreds of letters destined for scrap heaps have been salvaged and preserved in a dusty storage unit; there’s neon, metal, and wooden characters in a variety of styles and colors— amidst the letters and dirt, you can construct a story of Berlin and sense a few ghosts.

Back on the U-Bahn, following the many symbols devised by Spiekermann, head to the station Kottbusser Tor, in the Kreuzberg district, for lunch. This bucolic, graffitied neighborhood teems with bars, co-working hubs, dentists, falafel shops, gambling houses, fruit markets, ice cream shacks, as well as concept stores like the stylish fashion destination VooStore, and the chaotic zine shop Motto books, but walking along the area’s wide pavements, you can easily ignore how packed together everything is. There is a kind of discreet harmony to it all, as though it was always meant to be this way; Berlin as energy, and disguise.

The Kottbusser Tor transit stop and the market hall. Photos by Ina Niehoff.

From here, head towards Markethalle Neun, a market place or “culinary epicentre” situated under a large, broken roof and crammed with international food vendors advertising their fair on home-made posters and handsomely scribed blackboards. Today’s signs framing another Berlin: Cheese platters & Olives. Veggie Wurst. Craft beer. Kimchi Burgers. Ginger Lemonade. Freshly Baked Ciabatta.

This is a lunch spot for co-workers busying themselves behind the glass windows of storefronts, or trickling out from former factory buildings that have been converted into spacious offices. Spot a group of women who whimsically but provocatively call themselves “Parallel Universe” sat together in the market hall drinking ginger lemonade on a wooden picnic bench: this group of six female illustrators have gathered to swap advice on art directors—who pays on time, who is best to work with—and to collaborate on illustrations for an upcoming Antifa march. Since 2012, Cynthia Kittler, Kiikka Laakso, Kati Szilágyi, Laura Breiling, Ji Hyun Yu, and Barbara Ott have banded together to form this important all-female collective, using their social media platforms to promote and highlight one another’s output. Better together, stronger side by side. Another Berlin in motion, up-to-date, but part of its historic momentum.

Nearby, after sipping organic lemonade and planning with Parallel Universe, the Museum of Things. A small curiosity tucked above an art bookstore on Orienenstrasse, this collection of glass cabinets features simple, everyday but also marvelous things from the past and near present: every blue Nivea jar since the company first began, biscuit tins, plastic at the back of the museum as if it were no big deal at all—an original Frankfurter Kitchen, a milestone in domestic architecture that’s considered the forerunner of the modern fitted kitchen. All of this finds its home in Berlin, where the elsewhere, the other, the uncanny and the new, whether practical or impractical, always belongs.

The Museum of Things will inspire you make your own things, and luckily, there’s a place close by to help you. Towering above a roundabout near the U-Bahn station Moritzplatz sits the great Modular—the ultimate art supply store, artistically stacked with pens, markers, pexiglass, plywood, stationary, pompoms, and anything else that you’ll ever need to make any thing you’ve ever wanted to make, even objects from your dreams. The German designer and illustrator Sarah Illenberger is in Modular today, intently collecting bright colored supplies that she’ll use for her next still-life cover commission for ZEITmagazin. She and her intern pick up yellow paint and blue and pink cardboard, before heading outside to the community garden on the other side of the road, where they cut great leafs from bushes. Illenberger will paint these with geometric patterns and then photograph them against the bright card later today. Yes, signs of another Berlin.

Wherever you’re staying in Berlin—the boutique design hotel 25hours Bikini Berlin near Tierpark, a colorful and energetic hostel near Schlesische Tor U-bahn, or a relatively cheap Airbnb in the Neukölln district with tall windows, wooden floors and a sunny balcony—on your walks to and from the U-Bahn, you’ll notice the posters. Berlin is a city where posters really mean something to a neighbourhood: where people stop in the street to carefully write down the information on prints as if they were hung on a community billboard. Posters communicate what’s happening around the corner, maybe a new club night, an exhibition, or a vegan burger pop-up event. Posters wrap around street lamps layered over all old ones, becoming dense, ghostly rolls that echo event’s and fashion’s long lost—in winter, these rolls get heavy and wet, sliding down towards the pavement like pulp, only to get propped up again by kids on bicycles in the summer, who use glue trays slung over their shoulders and large brooms to slap up each month’s new run of prints. In 1855, the city began erecting rounded advertising columns on the street corners to house the continuous flux of new poster designs. If the U-bahn is Berlin’s design history, then these advertising columns—although built long ago—are home to the design of today. New Berlin constantly appears through its posters.

The Berlin poster is naturally an especially beloved medium for the city’s designers— it’s not simply a mundane advert that people indifferently stroll past but a vital activating communication tool necessary for navigating nightlife, the gallery scene, and local events. It’s why Berlin clubs, generating the city’s dancing heartbeat, invest so much in their creation: the fabled Berghain, which legend claims is the world’s best techno club with its weekly congregation of black clad regulars wearing BDSM studded collars and Adidas caps, plays careful attention to the design of its monthly fliers and listings. Each month’s new posters feature a dark and atmospheric slice of original artwork, articulating and amplifying the club’s mythical night-life pull. A call to action for the great Berlin night, where the city begins and ends.

Visiting Mitte, the central borough in Berlin. Photo by Ina Niehoff.

The walk back to the U-bahn, to start again after one of those nights, you’ll pass an advertising column featuring a particularly neat, eye-catching placard—the poised influence of Swiss design is unmistakable, and its gorgeous serif typography is paired with an elusive background image, hinting at yet another Berlin yet to come. It’s the work of graphic design studio NODE, based in Berlin and Oslo, Norway, an intellectual and meticulous studio whose considered and theoretical output is a hallmark of Berlin’s contemporary art world. On this modern poster, large letters read “HKW,” standing for the Haus der Kulturen der Welt, a conference hall and exhibition space that hosts art, culture, and design events. Depending on what month it is, perhaps the yearly Typo Berlin conference is taking place, or Transmediale, a cerebral technology and art festival. Berlin, where conferences never end.

HKW was constructed as part of the International Building Exhibition of 1957 project and resembles a bright orange oyster rising form the ground. An event titled Miss Read is typical of events held there; a busy art book and self-publishing fair that draws in book lovers from around the country. German publishers and independent magazine makers sit behind their make-shift stalls, showcasing intricately bound tomes, sleek poetry chapbooks, colorful manifestos, risograph comics, monographs with knitted covers, experimental type specimens, and endless other papery surprises. Berlin is made of paper as much as memory, metal, and concrete.

The magazines available at this crowded, popular event are similar to those you can purchase in a store in the Mitte district of the city, close to the Weinmeister U-bahn station, called Do You Read Me?! It’s niche assortment of magazines sit on minimal black shelving. There are magazines here for every mood and every taste: one for redheads, another for dog lovers, another for female soccer players, another that tells the history of a different street each issue, and also more enigmatic, challenging, consistently well-designed choices. Mitte is a tidy district, a place of cafes that serve impressive slabs of classic avocado toast and that’s home to ambitious start ups which dot the streets under the shadow of the TV tower’s vigilant orb. If there is a center to proudly centerless Berlin, then perhaps it’s Mitte, which literally means “center” and is, at least in the prosaic geographical sense, in the middle of the city. The tall office of Freunde von Freunden perches snuggly in one of the area’s clean streets; the ultimate go-to blog for motivated lifestyle dreamers, Freunde von Freunden records the energetic lives of Berlin’s creative scene with breezy, sophisticated photography. Berlin: always aware of itself, without giving too much away.

A swan chillaxing in Berlin. Photo by Ina Niehoff.

It’s while traversing the neat, methodical streets of Mitte (passing by the KW Institute of Contemporary Art, a four-story gallery with beautifully designed exhibition catalogues, and Viktor Leske, an avant-garde hair dressing salon where few leave without an undercut) that you stumble across the neat, methodical studio of international star illustrator Christoph Niemann. He works with his spectacles perched on his nose in his white and silver office behind a storefront’s glass window—a literal spectacle for passers-by; children press their faces up to the glass to watch him sketch. It’s so immaculately clean in his studio, a kind of comment on Berlin’s dirt, and he’s penning away on Post-It notes bought at Modular, devising a plan for his next New Yorker cover. From Berlin with love; design for the rest of the world.

After standing and watching, enthralled by process, by the materializing of yet more Berlin, you might then spot another poster, another message, and be directed somewhere else, somewhere new, the Berlin still being made, still being invented. Or you might dive back down into the U-bhan, taking refuge in the depths of history. Moving on, without rushing, because Berlin time takes its time, to another brunch, to a beer on the canal, to something crazy underground or enterprising on the streets—moving slowly, not quickly, surrounded by designs and designers, form and content, interpreting the language and style of Berlin, a city always becoming itself, where something new always seems to be starting.

[123designsrq]

DESIGN OF THIS MOUSE WILL ELEVATE EVERY GADGET LOVER’S DESKTOP!

We are accustomed to being continuously uncovered to stimulus…be it shopping, Netflix, Instagram, or the lots of other interest-stealing sports that rule our day, attention is the currency nowadays and we had been too busy searching and being lost in all these until we had been quarantined. Being restricted in our area and exposure, we have come to look and respect the gadgets we own. Everything on your fingertips with your Designer Mouse. Everyday common designs together with the standard mouse are such a part of our routine, we never sincerely see how we should differentiate in them! In come the designers who took it up as a challenge to make the excellent of this gadget. From environmentally aware design, a Charles Eames stimulated layout to a mouse layout that runs away from you whilst your working hours are over, there may be a mouse design you in no way knew you wanted but now that you see it, you certainly won’t be able to stay without it!

The Ice Mouse comes with a bamboo top that promotes breathability, making sure your hands don’t work up a sweat with hours of use. The bamboo issue is CNC machined from a layered block of bamboo plies, doing a pretty extraordinary job of showcasing the wood-grain while ultimate entirely specific in its grain pattern. Some may say it nearly displays the uniqueness of the palms and palm that rest on it! Sitting underneath it's miles the aluminum base, giving your hands a metallic surface to hug and sort of complementing the sensation of typing on an aluminum-constructed MacBook.

Taking notion from an iconic chapter in fixtures design, Shane Chen estimated the Lounge Mouse, a hat-tip to Ray and Charles Eames’ Lounge Chair. The Lounge Mouse follows the form and visual path of the ottoman footrest that comes at the side of the chair. The base of the mouse is crafting from bent plywood, while the top 1/2 is an extremely smooth leather-clad with a scroll-wheel in its higher center.   Logitech

Inspired by the formation the hand makes in the course of a natural handshake, Logitech’s MX Vertical desires to be the chunky mouse your hand falls in love with. Tilting at an perspective of 57° off the horizontal plane that is your table, the MX Vertical feels halfway between a mouse and a joystick. It can hold onto for hours. Being maneuvered with out strain, and is even smooth to your wrist too. Transferring the movement from aspect-side to up-down.   EXOvault

The EXOvault Mouse became evolved via the artist, engineer, designer, and basic maker Jonathan Schipper. Designed as an workout to visually reinvent some thing mundane, some thing we take for granted, the mouse became developed at EXOvault’s facility in Brooklyn and it doesn’t just look outstanding, but feels excellent too. It has weight, which lets in you to command the cursor with confidence, whilst the clickers and scroll wheels offer a wonderfully easy tactile feedback. With a PixArt 3000cpi sensor that works on glass and a 500mAh battery, the EXOvault mouse performs nicely too, giving you superior capability and aesthetic unconventionality in a singular bundle that ensures to make you instantly need to ditch your plastic mouse or trackpad!

The designers at BKID took the literal connotation of a computer ‘mouse’ and embodied its characterful persona into the Balance Mouse! During the day the mouse works like several other pc mouse, letting the person go about pursuing their tasks. However, while the clock strikes ‘domestic time’, the mouse exits the body and humourlessly rolls away. Not only is this a visual indicator that the workday is over, but its additionally pretty tough to apply a pc with out a mouse!    Manta Mouse by Alberto Aguado Baudil

The Manta Mouse with the aid of Alberto Aguado Baudil takes inspiration from the Manta Ray. With its wide, stingray-stimulated design. At the very center is a bulbous volume that forms the bulk of the mouse. The element your palm rests on, even as the rest of the mouse skirts around the side. This side-skirt essentially works as a cushion for the base of your palm, promising to give your hand a comfortable vicinity to rest as you operate the mouse.    Alienware AV610M

Admittedly, the call Alienware AV610M doesn’t roll off the tongue easily. However the device similar to the call looks as if an absolute beast. With a form that truely seems like a UFO. Whole with wings or even LED lights glowing ominously at the inside, the AV610M lets you dominate your digital battlefield. With 350-hours of battery time, no less. The rechargeable gaming mouse comes with 7 absolutely programmable buttons and a 16,000 DIP precision sensor to present you a strong facet over your competition.

Designing as a juxtaposition between conventional and modern. The N30 mouse create via Daniel Jansson for 8BitDo transforms a trademark of console gaming right into a neat. Practical mouse that’s a sheer tactile joyride! The mouse originated as a idea created via Janssen in 2009. Best becoming a truth this 12 months after 8BitDo absolutely saw promise in it. The wi-fi mouse comes with uncomplicated lines that you’d imagine wouldn’t be comfortable. But truely do feel familiar. It capabilities conventional NES controller-fashion red left and right-click on buttons. Resting on a black platform which is, in fact, a touch-sensitive scroller. To entire this whacky/cute mouse’s design, Janssen included a D-Pad at the side, that may be controlled thru your thumb. The D-Pad provides an extra layer of capability to the mouse. Permitting you to carry out PageUp, PageDown, Home, and End commands with a unmarried click.   Samsung Mouse

The Samsung Mouse with the aid of BKID comes with a compact, telescopic/collapsible layout. A matte plastic outer sleeve holds the small digital mouse module at the inside. This works just first-rate because plastic feels suitable to touch (honestly, the metal feel is high. I pick consolation over premium) and consequently comes right below your palm. While the electronic element slides outwards, manifesting itself beneath your fingers. The complete design is arc-shape. Giving it a definitive curve that lets in for clean gripping (bulky). However while the mouse collapses into itself. It will become 1/2 in curvature, nearly turning into a sleek, flat, surprisingly carry-able computer peripheral!   Tube

Made of a gentle Silica Gel, the body of Tube by using Tim Chen is soft and malleable. Making the gadget a ways greater adjustable than its hard-bodied competitors. This, mix with its symmetrical design guarantees that is can be using by both proper and left-surpass individuals. This is some thing that ergonomic computer mice often can not cater for. Packing into the squishy exterior is a light. Just like the night mild it was stimulating by using, lightly glows, giving Tube a second use! Logitech, Razer, Microsoft and Samsung are the world's best brands and Mouse makers. But this Designer Mouses have taken my heart. Read the full article

[reekierevelator]

A Case of What Suits

a very short story

An American road trip was something Belinda and I had dreamt of, even fantasised about, for many years. So there we were at last, enjoying driving down the eastern seaboard from Washington DC to Charleston, South Carolina, albeit in the rather cramped hire car which was all we could afford, when it dawned that the journey was taking much longer than we’d bargained for. Evening was coming and I wasn’t enthusiastic about driving on strange foreign roads in the dark.  Drawing into Fayetteville we spotted a small motel and Belinda agreed to call a halt to our travels for the day.

A small shack-like office tacked onto the end of a long two-storey block of peeling plasterwork and wooden outdoor balcony constituted the reception hall.  An unshaven man scruffily dressed in jeans and a grey t-shirt was sprawled over an ancient armchair reading a pulp novel behind a thick glass divide. No signing in, no ID requested. He barely looked at me as he said ‘Fifty dollars’ and took my money through the tiny cashier’s window space before throwing through a key. Then he immediately settled back down to his reading.

We climbed the mouldy wooden stairs to the grimy upstairs corridor, found our room and opened the door. The cleaner was obviously as fastidious as the receptionist.  Dumping our luggage we were met by a locker-room ambience of stale sweat rather than fresh pine. Black marks were visible where a mop had been quickly run over the grey vinyl floor covering.  While Belinda investigated the toilet with some trepidation I ran my eye over the room: the curtain hanging limply from a broken rail, a wall-mounted TV tilted at a curious angle, and the broken doors on brown varnished plywood cupboards, some relying on over-stressed bent hinges and hanging on for dear life.  

One of the closet doors fitted so badly that even without opening it I could see there was something inside.  I opened it.  A small suitcase lay on the bottom shelf. The case was slightly open and I could see a bundle of hundred dollar bills inside and, alongside it, the unmistakeable glinting blue metal handle of a revolver. 

‘Belinda,’ I shouted, ‘what do you make of this?’

She emerged from the toilet with that look on her face that she usually reserves for the pile of tripe in the butcher’s shop or people who revel in Blackpool holidays. ‘Bert, this place is disgusting,’ she confirmed. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there are bed bugs. Late as it may be, we need to find somewhere else. Surely there are other places. You’ll have to find somewhere better than this.’  Then she noticed that I stood transfixed, staring into the closet, and came over for a closer look.

Fascinated, I cautiously lifted the lid of the case a little further. Suddenly I wasn’t so tired. Apart from the gun the case was stuffed full with dozens of bundles of high denomination U.S. banknotes.  

           ‘I think I should close this suitcase again immediately and deliver it to the front desk,’ I stammered, aware of the quavering in my voice.

But Belinda’s no-nonsense voice was quickly beside me saying ‘We must be looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars there, maybe half a million. God, what fun we could have with it. No more scrimping and saving for holidays and staying in cheap hotels.’

‘But…’

‘A suitcase full of cash?  It’s obvious no-one’s going to report it to the police if it disappears.’

‘But…’

‘What’s stopping us Bert?  It’s a windfall isn’t it?  It’s our one lucky break. Let’s grab it and get out of this hell-hole.’

‘But…’

‘What on earth’s holding you back?’

           A nervous little voice in my head replied ‘But the money belongs to someone else Belinda. It’s theft. Bad guys will come looking for it.  They’ll come looking for us, checking the hotel register, tracking us down.  Do you want constantly live in fear?’

‘My father always said you were too much of a wimp.  In this world you have to look after number one.  Take advantage of any opportunities than come your way and don’t be too pernickety about it. He never could understand at all why I married you.’

‘But there might be a bad guy coming up the stairs this very minute, coming back to retrieve the suitcase he’s forgotten.’

           An assertive woman’s voice replied ‘For God’s sake Bert. That money doesn’t really belong to anyone.  It’s ours for the taking.  That cruising holiday you’ve always promised me.  That car you admired in the Masarati showroom window.  There’s no time like the present.  Act now or it might be too late.  Time to get off your knees and do something for once. And if there’s a bad guy coming up the stairs well, you’ve got the gun haven’t you.’

           Her words seared my soul.  ‘Fingers trembling, I picked up the revolver.  I felt its heft. It was a solid piece, loaded. Then I remembered about finger-prints and it dropped from my hands to the floor like a red hot coal.

‘It’s only a little pistol Bert.  For heaven’s sake, there’s no need to wet your pants.  I mean, we see them all the time don’t we, on the TV, at the cinema…’

‘But finger-prints – you know, evidence for the police to arrest me.  Or bad guys to frame me.’

‘Stop talking like an idiot Bert. ‘We’ve got the gun stupid, not them.’

‘But… ‘

‘And if it comes from robbery or blackmail we were somewhere else at the time anyway, weren’t we?  There’s no risk. No risk at all.’

‘But maybe I should take a towel and wipe the gun?’  My head was throbbing painfully.  We’d been married nine years. Belinda had always been a little headstrong and over-assertive but now I wasn’t sure I really knew her very well at all.  I’d always done my best to please her, but lately I’d been thinking that maybe wasn’t always the best thing to do. Maybe it encouraged her to treat me as a doormat.

She scooped the pistol up from where it had clattered on to the floor, and said ‘See, that’s how to take the catch off, the rest is just squeezing the trigger,’ and thrust it into the pocket of her slacks, before concluding ‘I’ll just got to finish in the toilet’ and strode away, closing the toilet door behind her.

There was a tap on the motel room door.

           Startled I jumped backwards, landing on the bed. I cringed, curled up against the dusty wall, and lay there for a moment breathing quickly.

           A tall man in a grey suit appeared in the doorway. From of his heavily lined face searching eyes darted immediately towards the closet.

           ‘Hi bub, sorry to bother you.  Had to leave for an urgent meeting with the Boss, my, er, employer. I come back they’ve already let the room.  Turnaround in this motel - pretty fast huh?  Left my luggage.  Thought I‘d be back, pick it up before the next occupant.  Seems I was wrong.  You don’t mind, do you?’

           He stepped over to the closet and turned to face me, nodding slowly as he registered that the lid of the case was wide open. ‘There wouldn’t be anything missing from this case, would there, chum?’

           ‘No, no, the money’s untouched, honest,’ I babbled.

           ‘Limey huh?  Not the dough, it was another little item I had in mind, cowboy.’

           My mind was blank.

           The toilet door flew open and Belinda stood there, feet apart, revolver in hand.

           ‘What’s this, another one huh?’ He chuckled darkly, bemused. ‘Your old lady? Bonnie and Clyde huh?’  He grinned malevolently as he stepped casually towards the pointed gun, nothing to fear.  He fell backwards before the explosion, a loud crack like a big vase shattering, assaulted my ears, and lay there not moving on the inadequately cleaned floor, blood spooling from a hole in his head on to the vinyl.

           But Belinda had already opened her own wheelie suitcase and was squashing the cash from the closet suitcase into its spare capacity with amazing speed and efficiency.

           ‘But…’ I whimpered from the bed.

           She pointed the gun at me.  ‘Are you coming?  I don’t want to leave any witnesses.’

           This woman was someone I really didn’t know. So I decided I was coming.  I got off the bed, stood up on wobbly legs, and grabbed the handle of my wheelie case for stability.

           ‘Let’s go. Now!’ she yelled.

           She flung open the door. We were along the corridor, down the stairs, and into the car with our luggage in a flash.  No-one emerged from a room or looked out of a window to watch us go.  Apparently the sound of gunfire does that to people in some parts of America.

           My hands were unsteady so Belinda grabbed the wheel.

‘We told people in Washington DC we were heading for Charleston. That’s where we’re going to be tonight. Tomorrow it’s Atlanta for a flight back to Heathrow.  This is fun isn’t it?’

It was a command not a request. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose it’s true, as they say, that you shouldn’t treat foreign holidays in a superficial way, you should really try to engage with the culture of the country.’

But in truth I’d seen a side of Belinda I never ever wanted to see again. And as they also say, there’s no honour amongst thieves.  The next day we were in the rural heat of Georgia, half-way to Atlanta, when I suggested we pull over to drink some water, cool down, and I could throw the gun far away into the fields.  

We got out the car. Belinda checked her handbag and passed me the gun. She was right about one thing, it was time to get off my knees and do something for once.  She didn’t criticize or say too much at all after I shot her through the heart.  Then I hurled the gun as far away as I could into the sweet smelling field of green tobacco. I left her in the ditch at the side of the road.  I stuffed the money into my own suitcase and then I made a small bonfire of the gangster’s suitcase and all her own belongings. I made sure there was nothing left to identify her. Then I got back in the hire car and drove to Atlanta.

The flight was on time.  I’ve always fancied a Maserati and a world cruise.  They’ll suit me fine. And with all that money surely some less domineering woman was bound to find me attractive wouldn’t you say?  

[cecilspeaks]

Bonus episode - an excerpt from the next Night Vale novel!

One. 

Not everyone believes in mountains. Yet, there they are, in plain sight. Scientists insist, rather halfheartedly, that mountains are the bulging results of tectonic shifts along massive rocky plates. Mountains develop naturally over the course of many millennia, scientists say under their breaths.

Most people believe that mountains aren’t there at all, even if mountains are visible, as they often are. Nonbelievers will explain that our minds create sensory illusions to help explain what we cannot understand. Like the shapes of gods and monsters in the stars, or messages in tea leaves, or government codes in cloud patterns.

Mountains, real or not, ring this desert like the rim of an empty dinner plate. Scattered sparsely along the flat middle are small towns with names like Red Mesa, Pine Cliff, and right in the center, Night Vale.

Above Night Vale are helicopters protecting citizens from themselves and others. Above the helicopters are stars, which are completely meaningless. Above the stars is the void, which is completely meaningful.

Through this crowded sky mysterious lights often pass. These are just alien space crafts, or the auras left by inter-dimensional travelers, but these simple explanations are boring. The people of Night Vale often come up with elaborate stories to explain the lights to themselves.

The sky once loved a certain rock, but millennia of erosion transformed the rock to dust. The sky, not understanding, still signals for its friend who abandoned it. The rock never knew about the sky. The rock only loved the wind that was slowly eroding it. Sometimes it’s OK to find something beautiful without correctly understanding it.

In the center of Night Vale, like in many cities, is its downtown with the usual things a downtown has. City Hall, community radio station, hooded figures, a library, a shimmering vortex blocked off with yellow police tape. Dangerous stray dogs, and propaganda loudspeakers on every corner.

Beyond downtown is Old Town Night Vale, a residential and shopping area planned and developed during the booming economy of the early 1930’s. After the war, the neighborhood fell into disrepair but in recent years, it has seen a regenesis of home owners, neighborhood shops, tall metal trees, and predatory cats.

Beyond Old Town Night Vale are the Sand Wastes, which are exactly what you think they are. And beyond the Sand Wastes are the Scrublands, which are sort of what you think they are. And beyond the Scrublands is the used car lot and Old Woman Josie’s house, and finally, out on the edge of town, the house of Larry Leroy.

Larry had lived by himself for as long as he could remember. He owned a phone which was broken and a car, which sat wheel-less atop four blocks of concrete out back. Hidden under the car, he had an underground shed full of canned goods and bottled water, and a year’s worth of pork sausage preserved in animal fat.

He used to have a shotgun, but he traded it for the car without wheels, figuring a car without wheels was safer than a shotgun. Despite the friendly reminders from the Night Vale chapter of the National Rifle Association: “guns don’t kill people, guns are the new kale, guns are healthy as all get-out”, Larry never felt safe around guns.

When he was in his early 30’s, Larry’s father took him hunting. He didn’t like his father. He didn’t hate him, either. Once when Larry reached into the back of his Dad’s pickup to grab the shotgun, a scorpion resting on the barrel had stung Larry’s hand. He had distrusted guns ever since.

These days, Larry actually liked scorpions. After all they eat squirrels, which he really hated. He rarely paid much attention to the illogical way in which the human mind develops certain phobias.

This evening, he bent over the shoebox on his desk. He was carefully pasting a tiny brown mustache he’d made from a sliver of tree bark, to a tiny W.E.B. Dubois’ face. He still needed to build the arm-mounted laser canon Dubois was known for. Larry heard what sounded like the small claws of squirrels running around in his basement, and he hoped the scorpions were hungry. He turned his attention to his miniature version of the five-headed dragon named Rachel McDaniels, that Dubois often rode when speaking. Dubois spoke from a place of moral and physical authority to the intellectuals and politicians, who stood in the way of equal rights for black Americans. He also spoke from the back of a flying dragon.

Larry was building a diorama celebrating Dubois’ famous defeat of the German army in 1915, depicting him and Rachel in their library, high-fiving upon a copy of the declaration of surrender.

Larry adored this war hero and great orator of civil rights. He enshrined Dubois in fine detail in the cardboard shoebox. Larry’s family never cared much for history, often telling him history didn’t exist, because it was no longer happening. The moment anything occurred, they would say every night at dinner, it was gone. Relegated to the fiction of memory. They would say that with their heads bowed, and then they would begin eating.

Perhaps he had been a rebellious youth. Or perhaps he’d just wanted to explore the often wondrous, often tragic myth of human history. Larry adored his heroes. W.E.B. Dubois. Helen Keller. Red Fox. Luis Valdes. Toni Morrison. He believed it was his responsibility to help carry on their legacy by enshrining their great stories and deeds so that they still felt present in the present.  

History is real, regardless of truth, Larry often said – not with words, but with his actions.

Tiny clothing, facial hair, painted set models, most pieces no bigger than any one of Larry’s fingers. They took a steady eye, a steady hand. Unlike most men, he had grown more steady as he aged, more dexterous in his lack of speed. He expertly placed Dubois’ mustache below the great intellectual’s nose and set the tweezers down to begin working on the diorama’s library backdrop.

Larry heard a whirring hum. He felt it throughout his body. There were undulations in the waves of the noise, smooth ups and downs, easily lulling the subconscious mind of a man hard at work. The troughs and crests of sounds accelerated, soon going from steady ululations to a bumpy roar. The metal plates and cups in his hand-built kitchen were the first to start rattling, followed by the creaking of the roof against the metal trusses. He glanced at the earthquake calendar tacked to his wall. Agents from a vague yet menacing government agency delivered these calendars each month, sliding a manila envelope under the door in the middle of the night. According to the calendar, there was no earthquake scheduled for today.

He looked down at W.E.B. Dubois and Rachel McDaniels in their vast academic library. A drop of Larry’s sweat the size of Dubois’ head landed on McDaniels’ back, smudging the paint and knocking off the freshly glued spines.

Larry wiped his brow. He didn’t sweat often even in the desert heat. “It’s a dry heat,” people from the desert often say to others, trying to disguise the fact that they’re kidding themselves. But the heat today was unusual. He felt it not from the air, but from below his boots, and not the heat of the sun, but a friction. The sun underneath his plywood floor burned, like two worlds rubbing together.

His sleeveless brown undershirt was drenched dark down its sides. He heard the crash of metal plates and cups falling out of the doorless cabinets. The ground, his house, his whole self, shook. It was not the soft wobbling slide of a government-run earthquake. This felt like being punched from below. The desert was being pounded by a giant subterranean fist.

As he stood and staggered into the living room, there was another hard thump and shake of his house. Larry tripped forward, face first, into the frame around his open front door. He wasn’t afraid put for his dioramas. He knew one day there would be an end to all of this, and long before that, there would be an end to Larry. He was not so arrogant as to refer to his own death as The End. Just one of billions of ends before The End. Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.

He knew one day he would be found deceased in his home out on the edge of town. He was unbothered by this. He may not have had children, but the legacy provided by children is limited. Few people know the details of their family past their great-grandparents, and many people don’t even remember that generation. Two generations of memory is all that children provide. And then, everyone is forgotten. But he would leave behind stacks of writing, dioramas, and patchwork quilts. He had a handmade history: his attempt to offer immortality to heroes and perhaps extend his own story as well. Instead of a brief obituary in the Night Vale Daily Journal, he wanted his death to be a story of the discovery of his great collections, the work of his then finished life. He had already written letters for Sarah Sultan, president of the Night Vale Community College; instructions to donate his dioramas to the school’s art department; Leann Hart, editor of the Daily Journal; and Cecil Palmer, host of the community radio station. An obituary he had written for himself, and also ones for Leann and Cecil. And Michelle Nguyen, owner of Dark Owl Records, who would no doubt be pleased to inherit Larry’s vast collection of polka music written, performed, and recorded himself using a concertina and a micro cassette recorder. Michelle loathed any music popular enough to have been heard by more than her and the Dark Owl staff, so Larry’s tunes would be welcome. According to his will, the letters were to be delivered and his belongings distributed accordingly. His artistic and academic endeavors were his children. A legacy that would hopefully last for much longer than two forgetful human generations.

He could feel the bruise beginning to form on his cheek from where he ran into the doorframe. He turned back into the house. The pounding from below was bringing down his kitchen and living room. He watched as the walls and ceiling collapsed and twisted into dust and scrap. Pages of his books and personal writing scattered up toward the helicopters and stars above and fluttered lazily in the wind like unmotivated pigeons.

Lurching forward, arms straight out, using the walls for balance, he rounded the corner back into his art studio. His Dubois and McDaniels diorama was slightly damaged, but recoverable. He picked it up. The wall of other dioramas was still there, decades of meticulous work and loving craftsmanship. His “Pride and Prejudice” diorama, which had been his first, still showed the inconsistencies of a neophyte, but also the bravery of a young artist. Elizabeth Bennett’s sword was soaked with blood; Larry had used his own. And for her eyes, he had used polished onyx. From wherever you stood in the room, Bennett appeared to be staring you down with the passion and vengefulness this dangerous literary villain was known for.

He set the Dubois box down on the work table and walked toward his wall of dioramas. The long plexiglass windows were secured and locked over the displays. The thumping floor jostled him violently. He tugged a bit on each shelf, seeing they were safe, but needing to touch them all to believe it.

Crack! The floorboard below Larry split. He lost his balance, but regained it against the support column next to the shelves. Another loud thump, and half the worktable buckled into a sinkhole growing in the floor. He saw Dubois’ box sliding down toward the opening. He jumped. He rarely jumped or did anything quickly, but now he did both. He grabbed the box, then stepping with his right foot onto the sinking table, he pushed off, hurling himself uncontrolled into the far wall, but managing to cradle the diorama of his favorite orator securely to his chest.

It was silent for a long moment, just Larry breathing. He heard a drop of sweat tap the floor below him. The earth was hot. His feet were beginning to cramp. His head was light. He took Dubois outside and set the box gently on the ground, safely away from the shaking building. He grabbed his wheelbarrow out of the ditch and raced back into the collapsing house. He tossed any important documents he could find, along with his letters to the people of Night Vale into the wheelbarrow. He grabbed the poems and plays he had written. He rushed back into his studio, his arms straining, wheelbarrow already half full. He set his dioramas carefully atop one another in the wheelbarrow, his life’s work, a delicate pyramid of paint, plastic, and paper. He heard the ceiling creak. He placed Jane Austen’s masterpiece on top of the others in the wheelbarrow. As he did, a loud pop and a harsh crunch. His ears were ringing immediately. He fell, or rather slid to his knees. The floor buckled. The empty shelves collapsed. He glanced down into the hole. He saw dirt and wood and plexiglass falling, falling and hitting – nothing. In that hole, he saw a deep endless nothing.

The floor tore away, the wood bending down into the hole below. He struggled to keep his boots’ grip on the steeply angled floor. He gave the wheelbarrow a strong push, knowing if he didn’t make it, he’d at least give the dioramas a fighting chance. The cart lurched a couple of feet and then began rolling back toward him. The pyramid of his life’s work quivered on the verge of tumbling. His boots were sliding. Larry gave one more great shove with his calves, his knees unbent, his body thrust upward. He pushed up the sloping floor, straining but eventually gaining traction and then momentum. He rolled his cart off the top edge of the pit, leaping as if from a ramp into the living room, away from the growing hole behind him. He turned the corner and ran out the front door.

As daylight dwindled slowly across the desert, Larry emerged onto the patio. Out toward the sunset, away from the collapsing home and toward a collapsing earth. The front lawn, mere pebble dirt and leafless shrubs, was gone. Everything up to the ditch was an empty pit. The earth before him was completely gone, and with it W.E.B. Dubois and Rachel McDaniels.

Larry barely had time to process what had happened when there came one more thump. He didn’t know it yet, but it would be the last and the most terrible. The front few steps gave way to an implosion of sand. His palms burned as the wood handles of the wheelbarrow were wrenched from his hands. Elizabeth Bennett’s eyes flashed an angry orange as she fell along with the other enshrined heroes into oblivion. He watched everything that proved he ever had existed fall into the nothing below.

Behind him, he heard the remainder of his house collapse into the pit as well. He stood on a patch of wood in an open doorframe surrounded by a growing, gaping nothing. He stared at the earth dropping away around him, he stared at the stars and the void, which were falling upward away from him. As the ground under his feet dropped away, as he started his fall toward the deep nothing below, Larry didn’t believe what he was seeing. Of course, he didn’t believe mountains were real either, yet there they were, in plain sight. If only for a few seconds more.

Joseph Fink: Hello again. That was an excerpt from the novel “It Devours!” which is out on October 17, and is available for preorder right now. Regular Welcome to Night Vale episodes resume on August 1, plus we have a very exciting new show that is joining the Night Vale Presents family around that same time, so keep an eye out for that. Thanks for listening, have a good summer, or winter if you’re in that part of the world.

[relaibledoor-blog]

Plywood Doors- Which Plywood Thickness is Right

 The absolute most regular inquiries we get posed incorporate 'What's the perfect thickness to use for plywood doors' and 'What's the greatest size door I can do utilizing plywood'?

 Actually, there is no right or a strong response to these inquiries!

Plywood is a designed item made from characteristic timber facade and thus responds and reacts to nature in which it gets itself. Varieties in dampness, temperature, and nature itself will all have impacts on a plywood board and these factors all add to how to level a pressed wood board or door is and will remain.

 How a pressed wood sheet is put away before establishment or being utilized is likewise another basic issue. Pressed wood sheets should dependably be put away level with full-width timber bearers at most extreme 1000mm separated (that is 3 timber bearers for a standard 2400 X 1200mm sheet) with spreadsheets top and base. The plywood must be out of direct daylight, covert and far from any wellspring of dampness or temperature varieties and MAXI Plywood suggests that they utilize is left for 48 hours to adjust to its present condition before being machined or cut. Never store plywood remaining on its side or closures.

 When cut and machined it is important that every single uncovered face and edges (front, back, and sides) are appropriately fixed with a reasonable Oil or Lacquer.

 These components above demonstrate that there are numerous factors which are outside of our control once we've made the conveyance to our customers or client. Pressed wood does respond and carry on diversely to man-made items like MDF and Particleboard and thus, Plywood at Reliable Doors does not prescribe that any plywood is utilized for doors or skimming racks in joinery extend and can't cover or supplant pressed wood on the off chance that it turns or quits sheets has been cut. Our guarantee covers the substitution of the sheet gave the sheet isn't cut or harmed – when the handle is cut however we can never again be in charge of its conduct.

 Thus it's important that the Joinery Shop or Cabinet Maker has adequate involvement with utilizing plywood so as to get the ideal outcomes. We have provided several Birch plywood sheets to many experienced shops in the course of recent years where doors have been made which demonstrates that it very well may be finished with the right methodology and care.

 Complete Guide to Plywood

 Pressed wood is made of various layers of wood (called handles or facade) stuck together. It has various uses in our everyday life and nearly all that we see around us is made of pressed wood. Pressed wood is slowly getting to be basic and will continue winding up increasingly valuable in all wood related structure and outfitting arrangements later on too. Therefore, it turns out to be much progressively critical to have data about various sorts of compressed wood and their application. There are seven principle kinds of compressed wood that are sorted based on the wood they are made of, the expected purposes, its maintainability, and so on.

 1. SOFTWOOD PLYWOOD:

 Softwood compressed wood is made from a since quite a while ago grained, homogenous timber with straight filaments. Its facade structure gives it impressive quality and unbending nature. They are light, simple to work with and can be introduced effectively. Other than being wonderfully light-hued and condition well disposed, they can likewise withstand harsh use.

 2. HARDWOOD PLYWOOD

:

 Basic flying machine grade compressed wood is all the more generally fabricated from African mahogany or American birch the facade that is fortified together in a hot press over hardwood centers of basswood or popular. It is flimsy yet has high quality alongside the warmth obstruction.

 3. DECORATIVE PLYWOOD:

 This pressed wood is for brightening purposes and is produced using oak, teak, mahogany, and so forth. It is frequently surfaced with hardwood and Formica, metal and tar impregnated paper or texture fortified included top of this sort of compressed wood on the two sides, preparing it for use in the adornment field. Enlivening pressed wood is anything but difficult to color and attract on when contrasted with different Plywoods.

 4. ADAPTABLE PLYWOOD:

 As the name proposes, this sort of pressed wood is adaptable and is additionally called by names, for example, 'Flexi-utilize', 'bending-handle' and 'hatter's-employ'. It is utilized for making bent parts and in certain nations, it isn't viewed as pressed wood.

 5. MARINE PLYWOODS:

 We should change this to a dim looking Ply Marine pressed wood is made from the sturdy face and centers facade that causes it to perform longer in moist and wet conditions and oppose delaminating and parasitic assault. Its development is with the end goal that it very well may be utilized in conditions where it is presented to dampness for extensive stretches. The facade has an unimportant center hole, constraining the opportunity of catching water in the pressed wood and henceforth giving a strong and stable paste bond. It utilizes an outside Water and Boils Proof (WBP) stick like most outside compressed wood. The greater part of the marine compressed wood makers is from the tropics. It is normally utilized in the assembling of pontoons and docks. The business is gradually turning towards more worth complex plywood. The buyer is searching for solid and strong answers for their home stylistic theme, henceforth moving towards marked item contributions.

[loislaneinvestigatesauthors]

The Girl from Copenhagen: Glenn Peterson’s memoir of his mother during WWII

What was daily life like in occupied Denmark? If you weren’t part of a group specifically targeted to be sent to a concentration camp, would you notice fascism? 

During the first few years of the Nazi occupation most Danes simply held their noses and put up with the armed soldiers stationed on the street corners of every major city. Before the 1940 invasion, Denmark had been in a recession. Jobs were hard to come by, and incomes were depressed. Almost immediately after the invasion, however, the economy picked up. The German occupiers were willing to pay top prices for manufactured goods and farm produce to supply the war effort. 

In 1943 my mother’s father, Lars Buus, was now able to afford a much larger farm. The four-story farmhouse, with servants' quarters in the attic, looked like some manor house you might see on Downton Abbey. My mother, living in Copenhagen, was able to get a high-paying job as a book keeper at the largest shipyard in Denmark.  Unlike Jews in other occupied countries, the Jews of Denmark were never forced to wear the Star of David. However, a German-issued identity card served a similar purpose, and any German soldier could stop you on the street and demand to see you’re I.D., which indicated your religion. (Ausweiss, bitte.”) 

The Nazi occupiers went too far when Hitler issued orders to have the Danish Jews rounded up and sent to concentration camps in Germany. The Danes got wind of the plan and succeeded in smuggling nearly all of Denmark’s 8,000 Jews across the ∅resund to neutral Sweden on a flotilla of small boats. Enraged by this act of defiance, Hitler began to crack down on the formerly docile Danes. In Copenhagen there were almost daily acts of sabotage, some committed by the Danish Resistance, others committed by the Germans in retaliation. Tivoli Gardens, the beloved amusement park in the heart of Copenhagen was vandalized and firebombed by Danish Nazis. 

On her way to work, Inge Buus would see bullet-scarred walls and bombed-out buildings on nearly every street. She got used to the sight of German tanks rumbling through the town square. But not to worry. The Yanks were coming.

Was the kind of quick romance that your parents had common in those days? 

After she came to the United States my mother’s best friend was Nicole, a Belgian woman who had met and married a GI in a similar whirlwind courtship. I imagine that there were many such courtships. I recall my father telling me how some Frenchmen resented GIs and British soldiers who were dating French women. My father’s commanding officer cautioned his men to always travel in pairs, and to stay away from doorways, where a resentful Frenchman might jump out and stab you in the back. GIs also had to be careful in a bar, lest they get a bottle of Calvados that had been laced with wood alcohol. And I thought we were allies.

Was your parents’ marriage a happy one? 

My mother and father had a good marriage. I have always been amazed how Inge Buus could have left her homeland to marry a man she had known for less than two weeks after meeting him at a dance in Copenhagen. It must have been love at first sight.  While living in an apartment in Jersey City, my parents would drive every weekend to a building lot in rural New Jersey, where they built their dream house with their own hands. I was too young to  participate in the construction, but I straightened out numerous bent nails for my father. We had no running water or electricity, and the work, all done with hand tools, was hard. 

But we were all happy, camping out overnight in a plywood shed my father had built. We lived in our dream house for only ten years before Bob felt the urge to move on to greener pastures. There would be frequent moves over the years. The repeated packing and unpacking upset me. (Once, I still had a final unpacked box in my closet when it was time to move again.) But Mother never complained. Having left behind a loving family and friends in Denmark, she no doubt shared the same spirit of wanderlust as her mate. I don’t recall ever hearing my parents argue, perhaps because my mother was good at compromising, which may be one of the secrets to a successful marriage.

After the war, or during it, did the fact that Inge had worked on a shipyard serving the German navy cause any issues for her?

When Inge moved to Copenhagen, she had her heart set on becoming a nurse. But after a year or so at nursing school she found that the long shifts and countless hours on her feet took a toll on her. Her ankles would swell up, making her as infirm as some of her patients, and she would have to lie down. So she was forced to give up the idea of becoming a nurse. With a solid background in math, she found employment in1944 as a book keeper at Burmeister and Wain. Her parents did not like her working at the shipyard, as its roll in making and repairing U-Boats for the German navy made it a target for RAF bombers and the Danish Resistance. In 1945, with the war heating up, Inge left the shipyard and found work keeping the books at a silversmith’s shop a safe distance away from Copenhagen Harbor. So her last place of employment had no connection with the German war effort.

What do you think about Inge’s life could be inspirational for younger readers? 

Though Inge grew up on her parents’ farm, she was not a typical farm girl. She never mastered the art of milking a cow, and she did not like gathering the eggs from the hens because the squawking birds would peck angrily at her hands. She did, however, learn many household skills from her mother that would serve her for the rest of her life. She learned cooking and baking. She learned to knit and sew, and was able to make her own clothes. An excellent student, she applied herself well in school, and learned to speak English without a trace of an accent.

Girl from Copenhagen by Glenn Peterson is available here from publisher The Writer Central. 

[vadabaldwinpuppetryperspectives]

online workshop

make puppets strong and light 

wood- basic timber and plywood is good to use

plywood- very thin sheets of timber together plywood is strong for large shapes but less so for long thin shapes

timber has a grain

 good wood for carving is lime wood

bench hook is useful

marks puppet with the arms attached to the head has really nice movement, a good way to get the secondary movement in the arms without havingg to puppeteer them as carefully- could be useful for one person puppets

good knots to learn - reef knot, bowline, sheep bend, figure of 8 knot head

mild steel- can't be bent without heat

bike spokes are useful

bolt croppers 

soft plastic tubing won't shatter and is good for joints

ball and socket joint- heat it up, press into the ball and add elastic

poly propene sheet- folder covers 

get a heat gun

hindleys - craft supply shop

correlated plastic- like wood it has a grain

dremil

latex

foam will degrade in the sunlight eventually

don't use memory foam its not as effective 

reticulated foam- less dense , normal foam is dense with lots of air bubbles

grind down a kitchen knife on a bench grinder to cut through foam as it blunts blades its like a microscopic bread knife

you can grate foam 

turn and til mechanism for control of the body and head

you can cover plasterzote with Covent Garden primer and paint it.

you can get evoskick. thinner to make it less gloopy.

dance costume fabric is goof for human puppets

upholstery thread- Knott it well because its shiny.

hand wheel sewing machine for more control on smaller areas.

copydex is a type of latex- an organic glue from trees. they thin it with ammonia which Is why it smells- really good on fabric less so on plastic

m4 hex and lock nuts

power mesh- fabric land bristol

springs add secondary movement

piano wire

plastic gears- engineering system

bradle- making holes pre drilling

triggers made from ply\

scroll saw

“I quite like puppets getting in a mess”

animatronics-more for film puppets

servos

angle tweezers

triangles are really strong- triangulation- they don't move a lot , brace things with as many triangles as possible. invisible forges of triangles in a brick wall. make things structurally sound, especially if you are handing it over to actors or other puppeteers.

piano wire to spring- u bend piano wire lash with upholstery thread and super glue. super glue is more watery than you think.

rod marionette- really good design- 2 strings for legs on a rod and another rod into the head.

Marcs one person puppet

hand- wood, bike spoke, string, super blue and papermache

other hand- fabric stuffed with toy material.

using a loop gives the arm a natural place to fall

shoulder- ball and socket joint

over drill the hip joint 

strap loop onto dowel to give more movement

using different joints in one puppet to give more movement options in a one person puppet

shlock- movement but not too much movement

stop position like the joints I made for the frog fingers

ask about the external ties and twist mech

2 way lock- use decent wood and drill 2 holes that don't cross, offset the bolt and the screw.bike spoke with bolts. the bike spoke dosnt need to be round, a triangle is enough

[dd20century]

Jean Prouvé: Master of Materials

“Never design anything that cannot be made.” – Jean Prouvé

Jean Prouvé, one of the Twentieth century’s most influential designers, combined his knowledge of steel and aluminum with his engineering skills to introduce the groundbreaking use of these materials in modern product design. While Prouvé  influenced the next generation of mid-century designers, like Harry Bertoia and Robin Day, his “main achievement was transferring manufacturing technology from industry to architecture, without losing aesthetic qualities”(1). Prouvé’s work in prefabricated housing blurs the line between architecture and industrial design.

Jean Prouvé’s Youth

Jean Prouvé was born on April 8, 1901 in Paris, France to artist Victor Prouvé and his wife musician Marie Duhamel. He was the couple’s second child; they would have five more children after Jean. The couple was always surrounded by other artists. Designers Emile Galle and Louis Marjorelle were close friends of the Prouvés. During Jean’s childhood the family returned to his father’s home of Nancy where Victor became one of the founders of the art collective, "l'École de Nancy" (1). The collective, whose goal was “to forge links between art and industry”(1) would greatly influence young Jean.

At the age of thirteen young Jean began three years of studies at “the school of fine arts in Nancy”(1,2). After that, he apprenticed as a blacksmith in Paris and then went to work in the studio of metalsmith Aldabert Szabo. (3)

Prouvé’s Early Career

1924 was an important year in Jean Prouvé’s life. He opened his own shop that year at the age of 23 (1) and married “Madeleine Schott, one of his father’s [art] students. The couple would have six children”(4). In his new shop Prouvé designed “lamps, chandeliers, and handrails”(3) of wrought iron and steel. The first piece of furniture Prouvé designed was a lounge chair made of flat metal tubes which allowed it to be folded and stacked. During this time architect Robert Mallet-Stevens commissioned Prouvé to design the gates for several of the houses Mallet-Stevens was building. (3)

“In 1930 Prouvé helped establish the Union of Modern Artists”(1) and with the great success his design business was gaining he renamed it “Ateliers Jean Prouvé"(3). Its mission was “to produce highly industrialized pieces for the building industry along with mass-produced furniture” (3).

Jean Prouvé, Standard Chair (1934).  Image source.

During the 1930s, Prouvé designed his “most notable furniture pieces, including the Cité set,”(3) along with furniture for offices, hospitals and universities. In 1934 Prouvé introduced the “First ‘standard’ type chair with a tubing and bent steel base”(4).  In 1936 Prouvé collaborated with architect LeCorbusier on bathroom fittings. (3) Designers who collaborated on furniture design projects with Prouvé during this time were Charlotte Perriand and Pierre Jeanneret. (1)  

Prouvé’s BLPS Prefabricated House

In 1936, Prouvé introduced the BLPS a standalone housing structure that could be mass-produced. (1) The house “could be put up or taken down by five workers”(3) in several hours. 

It would be the first of several pre-fabricated structures that Prouvé would design over the coming decades (5) that would establish Prouvé as an international expert in this field.

Jean Prouvé, Barracks for the French Army (1939). Image source.

Prouve’s Work During World War II

During World War II the Prouvé developed “portable barracks for the French army”(1) that were more durable than the BLPS. He also designed “emergency housing for refugees and the homeless from modular wooden panels, as metal was still scarce”(2).

Prouvé served in the French Resistance while he continued to design projects for portable, affordable housing until he was “compelled to make cooking stoves and bicycle frames under the German occupation”(2).

Post World War II Work

After the war, as materials like plywood, Formica, aluminum and steel became more available, designers turned their interest to “using new methods and materials for mass production of furniture”(1). In the post-war years there was “a boom in the need for new housing. To meet this need, Prouvé collaborated with Pierre Jeanneret, the cousin of architect Le Corbusier, to develop the first in the line of Demountable Houses”(3). This new line of structures combined the ease-of-assembly found in the BLPS with the stronger structural integrity of Prouvé  military housing. Many of these structures were shipped to France’s colonies in West Africa to address critical housing shortages there. (1)

Jean Prouvé, Maison Tropicale (1951), Brazzaville, Republic of Congo. Image source.

In 1947 Prouvé built the Maxéville factory for the production of the Demountable Houses and furniture; the complex also housed a materials research facility. (1)

Unfortunately Prouvé  was “forced out of the factory by his financial backer” (2) in 1952. Undaunted, Prouvé continued to design pre-fabricated structures, including “a temporary school in Villejuif (1956), the Métropole House (1949), ... a mass-producible rural school with classroom and teacher accommodation, and a filling station for energy company Total (1969)” (3).

Jean Prouvé, Pre-fabricated Gas Station, Baden, West Germany (1953). Image source.

In 1954 Prouvé, built a home for his family in Nancy which demonstrated his “constructive principles: simplicity of design, lightness of materials, speed of assembly”(6). During the 1950’s Prouvé “collaborated with architect Jean Dimitrijevic on the Musée des Beaux Arts du Havre”(1), and with sculptor “Alexander Calder to construct the steel base of La Spirale, a monumental mobile for the UNESCO site in Paris”(1).

Jean Prouvé, The Prouvé House (1954), Musée des Beaux-Arts de Nancy. Image source.

Jean Prouvé ’s Later Years

During the 1960s “Prouvé lectured at the Conservatoire des Arts et Métiers in Paris”(1). In 1964 he designed molded aluminum panels for the “facade of the French embassy in Warsaw, Poland”(4).

In the middle of the 1960s Prouvé established a consulting firm in Paris (4), but was spending most of his time in his hometown of Nancy (2).  His last significant commission was “the building for the Ministère de l’Éducation Nationale (1970), a metal skyscraper designed around a vast internal patio”; sadly, the project was never built. (1)

In 1981 Jean Prouvé  was awarded the Medal of Commandeur de la Légion d’honneur presented [to him] by President François Mitterrand at the Palais de l’Élysée. (4)  Prouvé died in 1984; (1) his home in Nancy is now part of the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Nancy and is open for public tours. The Center Pompidou and Museum of Modern Art have both held exhibitions of Prouvé’s work. (1) Many of Prouvé ’s furniture designs are available on the market today. (3) Perhaps Prouvé ’s greatest legacy is that contemporary architects, designers and engineers continue to look towards his work for inspiration in solving the challenges of providing sustainable affordable housing to the world’s homeless population.

References

Wikipedia.com, (1 July, 2020). Jean Prouvé, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Prouv%C3%A9

Rawsthorn, A. (17 August, 2012), Jean Prouvé: A Testimony to Ingenuity, https://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/20/arts/20iht-design20.html

Lynch, P., (11 April, 2020) Spotlight:Jean Prouvé, https://www.archdaily.com/tag/jean-prouve

Galerie Patrick Segiun, (n.d.). CV-Jean Prouvé, https://www.patrickseguin.com/en/cv-jean-prouve/

Sisson, P. (16 September, 2014). The Progressive Prefabs of Jean Prouvé, https://www.dwell.com/article/progressive-prefabs-of-jean-prouve-89981f92

Musée des Beaux-Arts de Nancy, (n.d.). Maison Jean Prouvé. https://musee-des-beaux-arts.nancy.fr/le-musee/maison-jean-prouve-2597.html