#side bracket scaffolding

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Ringlock Scaffolding Bracket Manufacturing Video - Scaffold Side Bracket...

[anniekoh]

my mother tape-records my laugh to mail bubblewrapped back home my mother records me singing Ye shabe mahtab mah miad to khab I am singing the moon will come one night and take me away side street by side street sitting on a pilled suburban carpet or picking blue felt off the hand-me-down couch the displaced whatnots I practice the work of worms how much I can wear away with no one watching two generations ago my blood moved through borders according to grazing seasons then a lifeline of planes planes fly so close to my head filled with bomblets and disappeared men scaffolding sprouts nooses sagging with my dead I burn my finger on the broiler and smell trenches

Drone, by Solmaz Sharif, in the poetry collection Look. First published in Blackbird.

Her first poetry collection, Look

In her 2016 debut collection, Look, Sharif—who was born in Istanbul to Iranian parents and grew up in the United States—refused American civil rituals of polite consensus and exposed the ways state violence takes place in and through language. Reappropriating terms from the Department of Defense’s Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms, where ordinary English is redefined in service of statecraft, Sharif mapped empire’s brutal trespasses. These words appear in the poems in capital letters, simultaneously disrupting and constructing scenes—often intimate and domestic. In the title poem, for example, the DoD’s definition of “look” (“a period during which a mine circuit is receptive of an influence”) jostles the ordinary one: “Let me LOOK at you. // Let me LOOK at you in a light that takes years to get here.” As the eerie convergence between the militarized and the quotidian agitates the language, any pretense of neutral description falls away. Reading these poems, it is impossible to sustain the fiction of a relationship—including a readership—wholly bracketed from the world empire has made. 

Solmaz Sharif wrestles with the ways that acclaim can become an imperial enclosure; I once heard her say, “I try to write poems that make it impossible to applaud afterward.” Reaching toward forms of relation that are not fully apprehensible from life in the metropole, her work rejects the embrace of any we for whom sharing is an uncomplicated act.

[arbitrarygreay]

I was playing around with the idea that maybe Alder isn't actually even that powerful as a witch, but reviewing the evidence in the show does point more towards her being at least above average. First of all, we have to consider if "power" is a meaningful concept. Raelle's case seems to indicate that, yes, it's not just about producing wavelength patterns (as the Camarilla are able to reproduce technologically), there is a magical depth of capability that affects the reach of Work. Two people with the same vocal control will produce different scales of effect depending on their power. Jem Bellweather can create storms of a certain magnitude by herself, which would require collaboration by less powerful witches. (Although, there is a bit of the show playing coy about power levels due to budget constraints. Bridey mentions Razor Hail being thrown at them by enemy witches in the Andes, but by S3 Petra says that no Bellweather has been able to pull Razor Hail off. Maybe Razor Hail is normally only a collaborative Work? Ditto for the dual tornados seen in the pilot. ) Going back to Alder, we have a couple of points of comparison. First, both Alder and Petra affect the weather with their moods, causing storms to brew and thunder rumbles when angry. Second, we have Alder herself calling Khalida powerful, and the two of them share being First Song Stewards (as well as with Jem/Abigail). In 1x10, though, what we see is Alder mostly using the collaboration way of being powerful, utilizing the coordination of the Biddies to pull off highly complex Work. This is why I played with the idea that maybe Alder wasn't even that powerful by herself, but just rode off of the novelty value of revealing Work to the public at all, and then just having increasing experience advantage over time, and then the Biddies giving her further edge. But if she unleashed her piece of the First Song on the scaffold, then it probably was a truly powerful storm that she unleashed. Still, there is something to be said for the fact that power wouldn't really be the thing that carried her for 300+ years. I once compared Alder to a sports team coach already, and that would remain apt. In a basketball AU, Alder would have to be good enough to make it into the NBA and a regular, but that doesn't mean she had to be one of the headlining stars during that time before becoming a coach of a legendary roster afterwards. It would be more about her ability to direct. To see what the strategy and tactics should be, to make the troops under her understand that vision, and to cultivate those troops' potential in order to execute that vision to the best of their ability. To overcome cultural conventions around secrecy in favor of standardization and optimization of the Work with the most utility, developing the best training and educational programs to outfit the troops and officers. And more on the admin side of things, it would be about her ability to handle the politics, both within her own organization and with the external parties. Not just in fending off challengers for her position, but in ways that don't compromise the military operations. The 1700s were already beyond the time of generals leading as warriors from the front (although witch powers complicate that transition, of course), where a leader's resource management ability was the better indication of success than how they would do in a combat bracket. That's why I'm a bit sad that the show ultimately shoots down my idea of an Alder who isn't actually that powerful, but nonetheless becomes the greatest witch of all time because she was able to inspire the real heavy hitters to follow her command, to organize and maintain a large institution. (And then developing the power hacks she needed over time to stop bluffing in the field.)

[tmkutawrites]

A COMMON BOND - FREE SAMPLE!

This is a free sample of my debut lesbian romance novella, A Common Bond, which comes out November 7, 2023. Please enjoy :)

Note: There may/will be some typos in this sample. We like that, it confuses the Overlords of Zon so they don't strike me for contract infringement. I promise in the final, purchased version the typos have been fixed :)

Now, on with the sample!

RFI 1

To: Josie Basurto (May 3, 5:34PM)

From: Carneline Triana

Subject: Site Visit for Mobilization

Josie,

I will be on site with my management team most of Monday morning. I’m sure we will run into each other at some point.

Carneline

***

From: Josie Basurto (May 3, 5:39PM)

To: Carneline Triana

Subject: RE: Site Visit for Mobilization

Looking forward to it!

J

***

Carneline had known Clover Hill’s old town hall was in bad shape from the bid documents. On her walkthrough with Rio a few weeks ago, even more suspicions had been raised. But now, the disintegrating chunk of limestone that had fallen off the cornice and into her hand confirmed it: she was going to be spending a lot more time in Clover Hill than she had initially planned. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’ve never seen limestone this bad,” Bruno murmured. Oceanic’s chief masonry superintendent carefully set the piece of stone down on the scaffold. “This whole cornice is going to have to be checked.”

Checking the structural integrity of a city block’s worth of limestone was definitely not covered in their contract. Carneline chewed on the inside corner of her mouth as she ran a hand across the sugaring stone and watched millennia-old sand crumble into her palm. “Is this the only bad news?”

“Oh no,” Bruno said in a voice far too cheery for her liking as he pushed to his feet. “This mortar is definitely hot.”

Asbestos remediation was also definitely not in their contract.

She cast a desperate glance along the joints. “Are you sure?”

“Yup.” He pointed to an area where the mortar was exposed. “Look close. You can see the fibers.”

Carneline looked and, sure enough, there were the telltale threads amongst the cement, lime, and sand. Fuck. “Does Rio know?”

Bruno shook his head.

She snapped a couple of photos on her phone and turned for the scaffold stair. “Are xe still documenting in the lobby?”

“I think so.”

“Good. I’ll send xem up.”

The metal stairs squeaked as Carneline made her way down them, eyeing the brick and stone of the Romanesque Revival building with far more suspicion than before. The facade clearly hadn’t been washed in two decades. The window sills were covered in black atmospheric discoloration, and the blue-green haze of cupric staining streaked down major crevices. On the brick and stone walls, there were long stretches of jointing completely devoid of mortar and one of the brackets was missing entirely.

She stopped two decks down and took a moment to admire the town. This was Oceanic’s first project this far south. They mostly stuck to projects in Baymill, but her dad had wanted to expand into other markets, so here she was forty feet in the air above a town she could see the other side of from the scaffold. The five-story town hall towered over most of the rest of the buildings, but fit in perfectly amongst the clusters of various historic structures downtown. Its renovation was long overdue, but Carneline hoped Clover Hill would find it worth it in the end.

From her perch, she could see the expanse of the park, with its quaint little gazebo and beautifully kept grounds. A bit farther she spied the currently unlit marquee of an old movie theater and a neon sign belonging to local diner. It was a beautiful town, and as much as she could lean on the scaffold railing and look out over the little town covered in the fresh leaves of spring for hours, she had a job to do.

She tore herself away from the view and continued down the scaffold to the lobby. The first time she’d seen it, Carneline had been struck almost speechless by the beauty of its wrought iron doors, scagliola-clad pilasters, and massive crystal chandelier. Now it barely registered. She hurried through the plywood-covered lobby until she found her assistant project manager sprawled indelicately across the floor.

Rio was an acquired taste Carneline wasn’t quite sure she had acquired yet; mildly competent, incredibly anxious, and graced with the aggravating tendency to lose the plot at the slightest provocation. Still, xe tried, which was more than Carneline could say of half of Oceanic’s field staff.

“Good morning, Rio.”

Rio startled, and practically levitated off the floor in a cloud of dust almost definitely from the plaster demo. Xe was absolutely covered in the stuff, and Rio hurriedly stuffed xemself back into xyr gloves and sheepishly brushed down xyr front. “Good—good morning, Carneline. I—I didn’t know you were on site.”

“I was walking the cornice with Bruno.”

“Oh.”

“How is it going down here?”

Xe grimaced and gestured at the ground. “It’s—uh. The stone’s really cracked.”

Bits of torn painter’s tape crawled across the marble below them like blown blue cherry blossom petals. Carneline crouched, and Rio angled the beam of xyr flashlight so she could see the spidery lines coursing through. Great. “These are going to shatter the second Bruno tries to take them out.”

“That’s what he said, too.”

Another expensive change order for the growing pile, I suppose. She stood, dreading the prospect of the unending raft of paperwork in her future. “I’ll speak with the NCK team. Have you been up to the cornice yet?”

Rio shook xyr head.

“When you are done down here, I need you to go up and document everything before we touch it. Do you have your profile gauges with you?”

“They’re in my car.”

“Good. Bruno will be up there for a little bit. Find…” She hedged, thinking of the worn-down status of the cornice. “Find the least broken stone and take a profile.”

 Xe nodded. “Okay.”

“And wear an N95. The mortar is hot and everything up there is crumbling.”

Rio’s dark eyes got comically wide behind xyr safety glasses. “Oh shit.”

Her sentiments exactly. “Do you have any questions?” Xe shook xyr head again. “Alright. Call me if something comes up.”

“Will do!”

Carneline left Rio to xyr marble documentation and slipped out the west entrance to find the jobsite trailer. When she pulled the door open, she found Josie bent over the conference table—which was really just four folding tables pushed together in the center of the room—studying the reference drawings.

“Good morning,” she greeted as the door snapped shut behind her.

“Good morning,” Josie replied as she turned the page of the drawings. “Headed out? Help yourself to some coffee before you leave.”

Carneline startled at the kind, but unexpected offer. “Oh. Thank you.”

“To-go cups are on top of the fridge.”

“I actually don’t drink hot coffee,” she replied sheepishly.

“Don’t drink hot coffee?” Josie asked, looking up from her drawings with a grin that Carneline had discovered seemed permanently glued to her face. “Don’t tell me…you’re like Baylee and only drink cold brew.”

Carneline gave an awkward little laugh, not liking the familiarity with which Josie talked to her about her sister. People always did that, acted like they knew her because they knew her sister or father. Another one of the ‘perks’ of a family business. “Guilty as charged.”

 “Well, I’m one step ahead of you. There’s cold brew in the fridge.”

The offer was tempting. Carneline considered for a moment, but finally decided against it. If she got caught in traffic, which was likely considering the time, she would definitely have to stop and pee. “Not today. I have to drive back to Baymill after this, but thank you.”

“Any time.”

Josie finally straightened up fully and leaned casually on the white plastic folding table, hooking her thumbs into her jeans. She was an unreasonably attractive figure, taller than Carneline, with kind brown eyes and a sharp fade that put every short-haired worker on the site to shame. In some universe she might have been Carneline’s type—if Josie hadn’t worked for the general contractor paying them to fix Clover Hill’s historic town hall.

Carneline hedged. “I…actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

Josie’s voice remained impressively neutral. “Oh?”

“Yes…” She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “We have some problems.”

“Define ‘problems.’”

“That depends, do you want the least expensive issue or most expensive issue first?”

“Least expensive.” Josie flashed a luminous smile. “Warm me up.”

Carneline pulled up the photos she had taken of the floor and passed her phone over for her to see. “The marble in the foyer is full of cracks. It’s going to shatter when we try to take it out.”

“Architects were ridiculous to think we could salvage the whole floor,” Josie said with a disbelieving scoff. “A-hundred-and-twenty-year-old marble doesn’t come up like that.”

“No, it does not,” Carneline confirmed.

Josie handed her phone back, her face suddenly all business. The shift was jarring, to say the least. “How much is this going to cost?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it will be a decent amount.”

Josie sighed. “Great. You submitted replacement marble, right?”

“A few weeks ago.”

Josie ran a hand through her hair. “Submit an RFI and we’ll see what the architects have to say.”

“Was planning to.”

“Thanks.” She took a sip from a nearby thermos. “What’s the bigger, badder bill?”

Carneline gave Josie a significant look. “Have you been up to the cornice?”

“Recently?”

“Yes.”

“I walked it at the beginning,” she replied with a frown. “Is there something wrong with it?”

If only. “The mortar’s full of asbestos and the stone is crumbling. A piece fell off in my hand.”

Josie inhaled in shock. “Oh fuck.”

“I don’t want anyone from my crew touching it until the town knows.”

 “Understandable. Do you think it’s going to need to be replaced?”

Carneline glanced around the trailer to make sure they were alone. “Off the record, I think you might want to figure out where Clover Hill has a million dollars stashed for a rainy day.”

 “It’s that bad?”

“The building is a hundred and twenty years old,” she said with a shrug. “I’m surprised it lasted this long.”

Josie’s face went grim. “Got it. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Not a problem.” She hesitated, not sure if Josie could handle a third thing on her plate. “There is…one more thing?”

“If there’s a massive structural issue that means we need to evacuate the building, please turn around and leave now,” Josie joked weakly. “Let me die in the collapsed building in peaceful ignorance.”

Carneline gave a dismissive snort. “Nothing so drastic.”

Josie brightened considerably. “Great! What’s up?”

“You need to have someone go into the main hall and put down sweeping compound. Rio’s rolling around on the floor in there looking like the Ghost of Christmas Past. To say nothing of the silica hazard.”

Josie was already grabbing her hard hat off the table. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“See you then!” Josie trotted off out the door, Carneline close behind her.

She checked her watch: three-o’clock.  Plenty of time to make it back to the city without hitting traffic. She pulled her hard hat off the second she hit the parking lot, shaking her curly red hair out so she could tie it back up once in the car. She’d get out of town, update her dad on the way home, then spend a quiet night with her plants before she had to go to bed.

Her phone rang. The song barely got four notes in before she picked up. “You’re psychic. I was just about to call you.”

“Are you done at Clover Hill?” Warren Triana asked gruffly.

“About to head home now, just have to throw my stuff in the ba—” She stopped dead a few paces from her trunk, eyes taking in the noticeable sink to her right rear bumper. “Fuck.”

Her father’s business tone instantly switched to fatherly concern. “What? What is it?”

She scowled and threw her hard hat in the back a tad more aggressively than was necessary. “It’s nothing,” she sighed. “I just have a flat.”

[END RFI 1]

Did you like this sample? If yes please consider buying my novella? You can preorder A Common Bond HERE!

[nehainfos]

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[vanroofrack]

Elevating Trades: London’s Van Roof Solutions

London’s Trade Lifeline: Roof Racks Unleashed

London’s streets are a labyrinth of opportunity and chaos—narrow lanes, double-decker buses, and the ever-looming congestion charge shape a tradesperson’s world. Here, Van Roof Racks London emerge as unsung heroes, turning a van’s roof into a canvas of possibility. Crafted from lightweight yet sturdy aluminum, these racks hoist ladders, timber, and gear high above the fray, freeing up cabin space for the essentials that can’t weather the elements.

The beauty lies in their adaptability—whether it’s a carpenter hauling planks to a Camden loft or a roofer ferrying tiles to a Fulham terrace, the racks mold to the job. Installation is a breeze, with universal fittings clamping onto most van models, no drilling required. For London’s trades, where time is money and parking is a gamble, this means quick setups and more jobs squeezed into a day. It’s not just storage—it’s a statement of efficiency, soaring above the city’s relentless grind.

Pipe Carriers: The 3m Game-Changer

For those hauling lengths of copper pipe or plastic conduit, the Van Guard Standard Pipe Carrier 3m is a revelation. This sleek, anodized aluminum tube—stretching three meters—locks away up to 36 pipes of 15mm diameter, keeping them pristine and secure. Twin openings at either end make loading a cinch, whether you’re parked on a sloping Soho street or a cluttered Hackney site. Integrated locks on both caps, complete with keys, ensure no opportunistic hands swipe your stock mid-route.

What sets this carrier apart is its design—aerodynamic cones slice through London’s gusts, cutting wind noise and drag, a boon for fuel costs in a city where every penny counts. The anti-corrosive finish shrugs off the damp of a Thames-side morning, promising durability through seasons of rain and shine. For a plumber racing to fix a burst in Brixton or an electrician threading conduit in Islington, it’s a trusty sidekick—keeping materials safe while the van dodges cyclists and cabs.

Synergy Above the Streets

Pairing Van Roof Racks London with the Van Guard Standard Pipe Carrier 3m isn’t just practical—it’s a power move. The racks provide the broad platform, hoisting ladders and loose gear, while the carrier corrals those awkward, lengthy pipes into a neat, lockable cocoon. Together, they turn a van into a rolling fortress of organization, vital in a city where site access might mean a ten-minute trek from the nearest legal parking spot.

Imagine a Clapham renovation: the roof rack cradles scaffolding poles, while the pipe carrier secures the plumbing stock, leaving the van’s interior for tools and a thermos of tea. The setup slashes loading time, cuts clutter, and lets tradespeople focus on the craft—not the chaos. In London’s stop-start traffic, where a job in Ealing can bleed into a late finish in Greenwich, this duo keeps the day on track, merging rugged utility with a touch of urban finesse.

Navigating the London Hustle

Getting these systems in place is a craft of its own. For Van Roof Racks London, local fitters know the score—threading brackets around a van’s curves in a Tottenham workshop or a Peckham garage, they ensure a snug fit that won’t rattle loose on the A40. The pipe carrier’s install is even simpler—20 minutes with a wrench and a mate, and it’s clamped to the rack, ready for the haul. Tradespeople chime in, too, spotting wear or wobbles early to keep the setup roadworthy.

This is London’s pulse—grit meeting ingenuity. A fitter might tweak a rack’s load stops to suit a painter’s rollers, while a pipe carrier’s keys jangle on a keyring beside a Tube pass. It’s a collaboration that thrives in the city’s churn, turning vans into extensions of the trade itself—rugged, reliable, and ready for the next call-out, wherever the postcode lands.

Rooftop Resilience

In a city that never sleeps,Van Roof Racks London and the Van Guard Standard Pipe Carrier 3m are more than gear—they’re a lifeline. The racks lift the load, literally and figuratively, giving tradespeople room to breathe in a van packed with the day’s demands. The pipe carrier locks in the long haul, protecting profits and peace of mind amid London’s urban sprawl.

For the tradie dodging lorries on the M25 or unloading under a Camden drizzle, it’s a quiet victory—tools aloft, pipes secure, and a job well prepped. This rooftop resilience mirrors London itself: tough, resourceful, and built to endure. As the city hums below, these solutions rise above, ensuring every journey—be it to a Mayfair penthouse or a Leyton flat—starts with the upper hand.

[shree-safety-nets-chennai]

The Ultimate Guide to Installing Bird Nets in Duct Areas

Birds nesting in duct areas can lead to significant problems, including blocked airflow, damage to HVAC systems, and health hazards from droppings and feathers. Installing bird nets in these areas is an effective solution to prevent these issues. This guide provides a step-by-step process to help you install bird nets in duct areas, ensuring a bird-free and efficient duct system.

Why Install Bird Nets in Duct Areas?

1. Prevent Blockages

Bird nests and debris can block ducts, reducing airflow and efficiency. Bird nets prevent birds from entering and nesting in these areas, maintaining optimal airflow.

2. Protect HVAC Systems

Birds can damage HVAC components, leading to costly repairs. By installing bird nets, you safeguard your equipment from bird-related damage.

3. Health and Hygiene

Bird droppings and feathers can contaminate air quality, posing health risks. Bird nets keep ducts clean and hygienic.

4. Reduce Maintenance Costs

Preventing bird access reduces the need for frequent cleaning and maintenance, saving time and money.

Tools and Materials Needed

Bird netting (polyethylene or nylon)

Measuring tape

Scissors or a utility knife

Anchoring system (brackets, hooks, or clips)

Zip ties or nylon cord

Ladder or scaffolding (if required)

Protective gloves and eyewear

Step-by-Step Installation Guide

Step 1: Assess the Area

Identify the duct areas where birds are gaining access. Check for entry points, such as vents, openings, and gaps around the duct system. Measure these areas to determine the amount of netting required.

Step 2: Choose the Right Netting

Select high-quality bird netting made from durable materials like polyethylene or nylon. Ensure the netting has a fine mesh size suitable for excluding the bird species prevalent in your area.

Step 3: Cut the Netting to Size

Using the measurements taken, cut the bird netting to the appropriate size, allowing a few extra inches on all sides to ensure a secure fit. Wear protective gloves to avoid injury from the netting material.

Step 4: Install Anchoring System

Secure the anchoring system around the perimeter of the duct area. You can use brackets, hooks, or clips depending on the surface and structure. Ensure the anchors are evenly spaced and firmly attached to provide a stable framework for the netting.

Step 5: Attach the Netting

Begin attaching the netting to the anchoring system. Use zip ties or nylon cord to fasten the netting securely, starting from one corner and working your way around. Ensure the netting is taut and free of gaps where birds could squeeze through.

Step 6: Secure the Edges

Once the netting is in place, double-check all edges and corners. Secure any loose ends with additional zip ties or cord. Trim any excess netting to maintain a neat appearance.

Step 7: Inspect and Test

After installation, inspect the entire setup to ensure there are no gaps or weaknesses. Test the netting by gently pressing against it to ensure it remains taut and secure.

Step 8: Regular Maintenance

Periodically inspect the bird netting for signs of wear, tear, or damage. Perform regular maintenance to ensure the netting remains effective over time. Replace any damaged sections promptly to maintain optimal protection.

Tips for Effective Installation

Choose the Right Mesh Size: Ensure the mesh size is small enough to exclude even the smallest bird species in your area.

Use UV-Resistant Netting: Opt for UV-resistant netting to ensure durability and longevity, especially in outdoor installations.

Professional Help: For large or complex installations, consider hiring a professional to ensure proper setup and effectiveness.

Conclusion

Installing bird nets in duct areas is a proactive and effective measure to prevent bird-related issues. By following this ultimate guide, you can safeguard your duct systems from blockages, damage, and contamination. With the right tools, materials, and techniques, you can enjoy a bird-free and efficient duct system, enhancing the overall functionality and safety of your property.

[10moonymhrivertam]

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

💕 What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

😎 What fics do you prefer on a scale of canon compliant to wildly original?

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

Y'know what, I think I do actually have a standing answer to this! Although now I don't know whether to be concerned or not cuz it's an old line XD But I posted an unfinished (as in, bracketed author's notes still in the text kind of unfinished) fic specifically so as not to lose the line, so I shall slap it in here.

Ah. Turns out it works best as a set of lines, but it was still the first thing that popped into my head, so here goes:

CW: Non-Graphic Animal Death

Carlos was counting the lab mice, suspicious that the bonsai they lived next to may have picked up some carnivorous tendencies. [...] Carlos lost count of his mice. His hands hovered over the cage, frozen. What had Cecil just said? Miss Frizzle? Aunt Valerie ? It refused to process. Carlos turned away from the cage to grab his phone, missing as the bonsai unfurled a branch and snagged a mouse by its tail and dragged it, shrieking, into its thick leaves.

END CW

💕 What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Oh, gosh, there are a few contenders. I could say the first one I remembered making, because I got to hand it to Mary Pope Osbourne before I knew giving authors fic was Bad. And I really don't remember much about the contents of it, just that it was handwritten and I did a little cover for it.

Of my modern fic, I think I'll pick two, due to them being the fics I've shown the most commitment to.

Face to Unfamiliar Face, recursive fic of @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors's Love and Other Fairy Tales. I think about it a lot because I'd like to do more work on it. Alas, every time I go into it thinking that this time I will post it to AO3, I start sketching out major structural edits and get scared of the workload and let the poor thing keep languishing. I should just carry it over directly and then redux it later, just for the purpose of archiving it. Maybe I'll do that today. (Thank you in advance if so, Willow 💜)

And The Princess's Son (Ba, Ba), a Witcher fic where Jaskier is Renfri's kid. It haunts me constantly. I think as-posted, it's finished and satisfying from a reader's perspective, but from my Author's Vision it's unfinished, so the haunting continues. Alas, the redux keeps stalling out in the first few chapters. And then I don't want to just skip forward to get it started with because I feel like I can better build up the Lilit stuff so it's not such a Deus Ex Machina, even if I don't think I've changed all that much about the mechanics of her whole Thing. 😭

😎 What fics do you prefer on a scale of canon compliant to wildly original?

I think solidly in the middle as a reader? I know I lightly avoid 'modern AU' tags in AtLA and Witcher and stuff, but not strenuously. I like plenty of Sanders Sides fic where they're proper people and not just figments in the mindscape. But I think I also prefer to read when it's not super rooted in canon, either? Fleshed out side characters and Everybody Lives, Nobody Dies for the win, baby!!!

Now as a writer...

One of my provided filter-able tags is canon divergence XD I still like to keep things pretty rooted in canon, though. I like having a scaffolding to build around. Going too far into original territory tends to make everything feel a little too wobbly.

I think the most original I get is smashing together fandoms that don't necessarily make sense based on tiny details. (Or details that aren't there. Ben Wishaw and Colin Morgan are just. Connected in my brain for some reason and so I have Once And Future...Spy?!)

[best-movie-ever-tournament]

The Wind Rises was described as follow:

A Studio Ghibli film about a designer of war planes used by Japan during WWII and how he struggles with his pacifist beliefs while still being forced to design these machines made for death. The emotions ring true in every frame of this film and the flying sequences are truly unbelievably gorgeous.

La Grande Vadrouille was described as follow: (under read more because boy is it long. nothing triggering though)

1942. A Royal Air Force bomber is shot down over Paris (thinking they're over Calais because their navigator is bad at his job) and three aviators survive to meet out in the Turkish Baths of Paris. Their leader, nicknamed "Big Moustache" (coincidentally? he has a big moustache) lands in a zoo and has the help of a friendly zookeeper who gives him clothes in exchange for the parachute's fabrics, while the other two fall, one on the roof of the Opera Garnier, where he's helped by the whining, "i'm helping you out of moral and patriotic duty but boy do i wish I weren't" music conductor Stanislas Lefort, and the other on a house painter's scaffolding. Said house painter is at that moment repainting a wall belonging to a german military building and the british guy landing on his scaffolding makes a huge pot of paint fall onto a german parade just beneath, signaling his presence and forcing both to run away by the roofs. A woman helps the house painter (Bouvet) and the british guy n°3 escape a german search by pretending to be the wife of Bouvet and to be in the middle of an argument with him, making the germans leave early out of awkwardness, while the british guy is hidden in the elevator shaft. Lefort and Bouvet meet Big Moustache in the turkish bath, convene of a plan, all three run through different means to the station to take a train for the free zone but only british guy n°3 (Peter) and the girl get in it, the others narrowly miss it and steal a postal van. Peter is made a prisonner after reflexively saying "sorry" (in english) to a guy he accidentally walked into in the train, in ear reach of a german officer. However! the german officer takes Peter to Meursault for interrogation, but that's the city he was supposed to find the other two soldiers and the three french lads and girl! After again pretending to be married, Bouvet and the girl escape the vigilance of the nazis, Bouvet declares his love to the girl, Bouvet and Lefort are put in the same double bed because there aren't a lot of rooms left, two german officers are put in the same bed in the only other room, and because it's room 9 and 6 and one of the room's door's number fall, it looks like idk 6 and 6 or 9 and 9, and Bouvet and Lefort, after time in the kitchen, the bathroom, etc, go back to the wrong rooms and end up each sleeping in the same bed as a german officer. "There's only one bed but platonic and better" as someone summed it up. The next day, nuns help the british guys get to the free zone except OBVIOUSLY the nazis get them again after an accidental package swapping. The french guys get arrested too because some rabbits made their guiding dogs stray. All of them, all disguised in various stuff (german soldiers, wine barrels... long story) end up in the same building as Peter (british guy n°3) who notices them and makes a scene about being pushed around by a soldier to attract their attention and make them see each other (the french and british guys not the german ones, he's not a traitor or anything). The next step of action is obvious. Set fire to the building, confuse an interrogation officer to almost a panick attack by giving such contradictory and stupid statements that he can't stand it anymore, run away in a horse drawn carriage and put a plane with no propeller off a cliff in hopes to land on the right (free) side of the valley. And it works. Makes no sense. My favorite movie ever. If it makes it into the bracket I will try to find my favorites scenes in english on youtube to send them as propaganda and it IS a threat.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

In Jade’s beautiful, dark & romantic UK home, faux flowers are making a comeback.  When she first started selling faux flowers on eBay, on the side of her furniture restoration business (all while having a full-time job as a lawyer), she had no idea how they would eventually take over the business and become the main focus of her online shop.

The entrance foyer.

“Flowers play a huge part in my decorating—I swap them every season,” Jade says.

She takes inspiration from many places —hotels, restaurants, magazines, bars, shops, and Instagram.

“When we told our friends we were going to paint the living room dark, they thought we had lost our minds and were worried it would look like a dodgy nightclub!” Jade explained. 

The kitchen shelving is reclaimed scaffolding boards with floating brackets.

She took designer Abigail Ahern’s advice to paint the ceiling and skirting the same color as the walls. It was instrumental in making the dark walls work in a living space.

Jade said, "It was terrifying to do but she was absolutely right—it creates instant glamour and coziness."

The bedroom is a lovely light pink.

Her favorite creation is the hanging canopy in the dressing room, made from the frame of an antique bed coronet.

The bath was the grottiest room in the house when they bought it and it took two years to get around to renovating it—she can’t believe they lived with it for so long!

It’s now her sanctuary—the combination of the pink herringbone tiles, brass sinks, and gold swan taps bring her joy.

The backyard with DIY decking. 

Here’s a throwback pic of when she ran the faux flower business from the house!

https://www.instagram.com/heavenlyhomesandgardens/

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Scaffold Service Bracket - Work Platform Bracket - Scaffold Wall Bracke...

[olivewinterleaf]

TALES OF NONAGON

Chapter 4

(The Build)

The last of the unwanted galleries had been carted away in the form of rubble, leaving a skeleton museum. And so, the giant drills were already making their first mark in this new era of the Museum of Artefactual Objects.

The trench extended deep into the ground. There was excitement in the air as Pork-Rind jumped for joy from his specially commissioned observation podium. He had finally got his way and soon his creation would come into being in all its glory. And he would have a place in history, perhaps even a knighthood.

Humffrey Twink was miserable. Centuries of history had been reduced to rubble in a matter of weeks. He stood in his muddy boots and fleecy linings looking into the abyss of the first trench, wondering how deep Dr Hector Pork-Rind would dig for his place in history.

Meanwhile, a stream of bedungareed men had barged their way through the museum’s main entrance, unannounced. They appeared to be carrying metal poles and wooden planks and boards of assorted sizes and began to pile the said poles, planks and boards in the lobby right in front of the absurdly high desk.

Bulbous Bluster’s whiskers bristled at the sight of them and he demanded to know what was going on, as no one had bothered to inform the security department of their arrival. “Oi! You can’t put that ’ere. It’s against ’ealth and safety regulations!” He was most distressed, large whiskers quivering indignantly. He was after all in charge of such matters arising.

“A Mr - er - Filibuster-Fartalot told us to put these ’ere, sir,” spoke one of the men, waving a piece of official-looking paper he had just retrieved from the front pouch of his dungarees.

Bulbous’s whiskers bristled even more.

Then Plumbob, Hacksaw and Bracket arrived.

Plumbob peeled off his goggles. “We’ve been ordered by Filibuster-Fartlet to build some stuff in some galleries.”

“Well no one ’as informed security of this!” exclaimed Bulbous, up in arms at this effrontery.

Plumbob showed him a roughly drawn out plan that Filibuster-Fartlet had scrawled in a spidery sort of way. Bulbous was not impressed. However, there was very little that he could do about it. Filibuster-Fartlet was in charge and that was that.

The poles, planks and boards eventually found their way to their respective destinations.

Plumbob, Hacksaw and Bracket, stood in a circle examining Filibuster-Fartlet’s plan, nodding their collective heads and tutting to themselves for a while - for there was concern as to the purpose of these structures - before reluctantly constructing the framework that would be the foundation of the scaffolding tunnels.

Later that day... groan, grind, rattle... groan, grind, rattle... GROAN, GRIND, RATTLE... The lifting machine lumbered across the courtyard until it reached the front of the museum, grating against the entrance, while attempting to pass through rather urgently and finally, wedging itself in the doorway - which by now was in a bit of a crumbly mess and had startled a number of passers-by. Bulbous Bluster stood in front of the invading hulk with incredulity. A workman finally emerged, covered in dust, wiping his goggles.

It later transpired that the workman had been misdirected and that he should have been at another part of the building site. He couldn’t understand this. He could have sworn Mr Filibuster-Fartlet had said, ‘through the main entrance’. Indeed, he had even been assured that the entrance was wide enough.

Bulbous Bluster was somewhat intrigued. Why would Filibuster-Fartlet be ordering anything for the building work? Mr Twink was overseeing that side of things. In any case, the entrance would now have to be repaired and since the building was of special architectural and historical interest, it would be at great expense, no doubt. Inconveniently, everyone would have to use the side entrance in the meantime.

Apparently, all members of staff would eventually attend a branding initiation ceremony, where each member of staff was to be instilled with a sense of belonging to the new corporate aura.

It was the first that Seed had heard of this and he was now fretting that the attendants had been left out. This, he was sure, would turn out to have been an oversight. Our time would come, he thought.

In any case, a branding initiation was underway in the lecture theatre.

A number of staff had already been subjected to the corporate aura ceremony. They had been branded with the new, especially commissioned museum logo in order to instil a sense of belonging to the new corporate aura. But not before an elaborate ritual involving strange nine-pointed stars, while Retrench fidgeted with something in his hand, uttering what sounded like some kind of chant. No one seemed to think that this was in the slightest bit peculiar. This was due to the fact that anyone present would be well and truly under the influence of the ancient symbols of wickedness that now pervaded the building.

And then they had willingly borne their backsides for the branding process...

So far, the security officers had avoided what they referred to as the ‘branding nonsense’, along with some other like-minded members of staff.

Several days later, Mrs Foinnel, the cleaner, came up the stairs to the lobby looking flustered, declaring that someone had apparently moved it. However, she had neglected to say what ‘it’ was.

Nevertheless, she then proceeded to ask any member of staff who happened to be passing, whether they had moved ‘it’, but received only puzzled looks and vague head-shaking from them. This only made her more determined to find out who had moved ‘it’. Someone was clearly out to make a fool of her and had moved ‘it’ just to annoy her. She then stormed over to the absurdly high desk, ready to accuse Blabulous Balustrade, as he was almost certainly the culprit of this prank.

“Did you move it?!” she demanded, with her clenched fists firmly placed over her hips in an aggressive stance, her orange hair more aflame than usual.

“Move what?” he asked reasonably calmly, considering how rude she was being.

“Did you move it?! I need to know why it was moved?!”

“What are you talking about? No one ’as moved anythin’ round ’ere. And what is ‘it’ anyway?”

Mrs Foinnel stormed off again in the general direction of the teapot room. Perhaps ‘it’ had been moved there. Who knows?

When she arrived, there was no one there.

There were, however, copies of the Nonagon Scandal scattered about, with various pages on the floor, much to her annoyance. She was about to tidy up yet again when she heard a faint buzzing sound. It appeared to be emanating from one of the cupboards. The sound was louder there, and Mrs Foinnel opened it with trepidation.

A large hairy fly emerged, swiftly followed by many others. Mrs Foinnel ran screaming up the stairs back to the lobby and the absurdly high desk.

“Someone has brought flies into the teapot room! Someone has brought flies into the teapot room!” she flapped about, insisting that someone had in fact brought in flies deliberately, releasing them there individually, by hand.

Luckily, the museum happened to be closed to the public today, thought Balustrade. Otherwise all this would seem rather unprofessional.

It was a brilliant way to save money and Mr Retrench would be very pleased that he had taken the initiative. The next morning, Filibuster-Fartlet had invited Mrs Foinnel for a little chat.

Mrs Foinnel dusted down the green checked coverall she was wearing and made sure it was tucked into her boots, before sitting.

“Now, Mrs Foinnel, as you are aware, the museum is undergoing a great deal of change at the moment...”

Mrs Foinnel had a sense of foreboding.

He continued: “...And as you may also be aware the university has recently implemented the recommendations of the ACRID study. Along with this and with a special study I myself have made, I am reluctantly informing you that your cleaning services will no longer be required on certain days of the week. In practice this means that there will be no overtime for you and your remuneration will subsequently alter in line with the new hours.”

It was not Mrs Foinnel’s day. But she left the room wondering who was going to replenish the loo rolls now?

At exactly the same time, but two minutes behind, Madame Pluchette had emerged from one of the toilets and was floating serenely up the stairs towards the gallery she should have been in, in the first place. She had been having trouble arranging her dress. Such was her ever-growing responsibilities that the bunch of keys she was carrying upon her belt was quite substantial and was now making everything she wore, lopsided.

She finally reached the Gold Gallery where she set upon an unsuspecting visitor, urging them to purchase the book that accompanied the exhibition. Whether they were interested or not, did not matter to Madame Pluchette. It was her duty to promote the museum wherever possible. Plus she could show off her customer services skills.

Later, during a lull, Madame Pluchette was sitting at the small desk in her gallery, trying very hard to look important - despite the drooping eyelids - when a large royal-looking bronze statue summoned her to march forth and be conferred a Lady of the Realm. However, she was suddenly startled by haughty voices, which were the unmistakable sound of posh people approaching, and so she was compelled to seek them out.

That afternoon, while she sat underneath Too-Loose Le Truck’s ‘Woman Adjusting Her Knickers While Shaking One Leg Wildly’, Oleander’s breathing became laboured.

The sun had been penetrating through the glass roof most of the day and it was unbearably hot in the Pink Gallery.

It was the lunchtime lull and the gallery was quiet, except for an odd crackling noise that suddenly pierced the silence. She inspected the paintings, which alarmingly, appeared to be bubbling and sagging. The paint was slowly seeping from the canvases. She panicked and ran around the gallery in a desperate attempt to scoop up the paint before it made a mess on the floor, but to no avail. The frames and canvases too, began to sag down the walls. In desperation, she tried to catch the flow of art-related material. But by now it was on the floor, spreading until the floor was fully coated.

A curious blend of paint, frame and canvas had created an entirely new landscape within which she drew her last breath...

Gravel Retrench had just finished reading a costing report by Filibuster-Fartlet and had summoned him to his office.

“Ah, Fartlet. Do come in.” Retrench grinned, rather falsely, but Filibuster-Fartlet was too busy adjusting his rather garish tie and being full of himself to notice.

“Fartlet, I’ve read your report. I’m particularly impressed with your assessment of security costs. We are indeed wasting a fortune on costly security officers. And I agree we could dispose of one or two of the lesser staff. Anyway, I’ve decided to give you a little more responsibility. Do you think you’re up to it?”

Filibuster-Fartlet almost swooned with joy. Such an important opportunity being bestowed upon him by such an eminent man. He could hardly believe it.

“Well man? Do you think you’re up to it?”

Filibuster-Fartlet was descending into a mesmerised stupor and Retrench was ready to make him entirely responsible for everything. Including the installation of the new security gargoyles as well as overseeing the refurbishments.

Filibuster-Fartlet nodded his head muttering, “My liege,” with an inane grin on his face before genuflecting profusely, while retreating out of the office.

Filibuster-Fartlet, minced his way down the corridor and down passed the White Gallery, where there appeared to be an altercation in progress at the absurdly high desk. He would intercede: he was gallery facilitator manager after all.

It had not escaped the notice of Blabulous Balustrade that a certain internal key had gone missing that morning. Indeed, it had been noticed by all three of the security officers that several keys had gone missing over the past few months. After much investigation, they had still not been located. And although they were relatively unimportant keys, security wise, it was not a good situation to be in. Who knows whose hands they could fall into?

In any case, the key that had gone missing in the morning had clearly been identified as having somehow found its way into the possession of Madame Pluchette. But when Balustrade confronted her, a contentious row ensued.

“I am a lady and you will address me as such!”

Balustrade stood his ground. “Mrs Pluchette, only members of the Southern Artefacts Department are allowed access to that key!”

Filibuster-Fartlet briefly checked his quiff and smiled at Madame Pluchette, before interjecting, “Now, now, I am sure that it is quite all right for you to have this key if I authorise it.”

“But sir, several keys ’ave already gone missing. Security protocol must be followed. Only Dr Horsenffiffin, as head of Southern Artefacts has the authority-”

“-And now I have the authority,” Filibuster-Fartlet interrupted Balustrade cheerfully, while nodding knowingly to Madame Pluchette.

Madame Pluchette returned a cordial smile.

“But there are already several keys unaccounted for!” complained Balustrade.

“Never mind that, I’m in charge now!” Filibuster-Fartlet squeaked and offered his arm to Madame Pluchette to escort her to her destination. She did seem to be limping somewhat, as though she were carrying something quite heavy. She was also emitting a curiously metallic rattling sound with every alternate step.

It was Fiveday. For some reason there seemed to be fewer gallery attendants than was usual. It had therefore been necessary to place Scarletina temporarily in one of the ground floor galleries. Unfortunately, the normal route to this gallery had been partially scaffolded. Scarletina did her best to sashay up the inexplicably inclined scaffolding tunnel but in the end had to resort to removing her high heeled red shoes, revealing her painted red toenails.

Having reached the gallery and replaced her shoes, she sat down at the small desk and proceeded to closely examine her red fingernails and make slight modifications as necessary with a small nail file.

Unsurprisingly, most visitors were put off by the scaffolding tunnels. This was generally regarded as a good thing by Scarletina. Indeed, most attendants would agree that scaffolding discouraged everyone but the most serious visitor.

Anyway, she was happily reading the latest copy of Infamy, a popular celebrity tittle-tattle magazine she had concealed in the draw, when she was rudely interrupted by a female visitor.

“Ahem... Do you work here?”

Naturally, Scarletina thought this woman was being sarcastic and replied accordingly, “Just look at this uniform. Would anyone wear this as a fashion statement?”

The visitor was taken a little aback, but was also obliged to inform Scarletina of a more pressing problem. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are no toilet rolls in the ladies loo.”

Scarletina burst out laughing. “That’s a new one!” then whispered, “I don’t know if you know this, but the cleaning lady isn’t allowed to do overtime - cost cutting you see - so there’s no one available to do the toilets.” she resumed giggling while the visitor left, somewhat baffled.

Minutes later - as though Scarletina hadn’t been bothered enough - another visitor claimed there was a big leak in the men’s toilet. Was there no end to these inconveniences?

To truncate a long story, Bilious Bilberry was informed, who would have resolved the matter with the common sense that was customary for the officer on desk duty. However, Filibuster-Fartlet would have to be involved. It was his responsibility now. He was in charge. He had made that quite clear.

Meanwhile, Scarletina was once again quietly enjoying her magazine when she looked up to find Groin having sidled up to her, rather too closely.

“You wear red a lot don’t you? Are your knickers red?” he whispered, making what would normally just be an impertinent question sound luridly salacious. This was punctuated by the incessant fidgeting that was going on in his trouser pockets. And his attempts at bedroom eyes merely resulted in him looking like a dead shark.

“Is that a small pencil in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” she replied, in a very loud voice, startling a random visitor.

Filibuster-Fartlet finally arrived at the epicentre of the toilet crisis with a plumber in tow.

Hacksaw and Bracket were wading through the pool of water that had been stemmed by closure of the stopcock in some remote part of the building. The plumber was about to set to work when he was duly stopped by Hacksaw.

Filibuster-Fartlet became flustered; his face flushed with indignity “What is the problem now?!”

“Are you not aware that this being a building of historical importance you can’t use any old plumber. They have to be from the University Fixings Services. It’s the rules-”

Filibuster-Fartlet waved his arms about furiously. “But I’m in charge here!” he uttered petulantly.

Hacksaw and Bracket did their best to dispense with the pool of water and generally sort the mess out, until the University Fixings Services plumber arrived. Three to be exact; Plumbum, Copperpipe and Ubend. Ubend was actually pronounced ‘Ooband’, apparently. He was Continental, which was in different continent.

Far away, at the other end of the building, there were decisions to be made. Pork-Rind had decided that he wanted all the galleries to be repainted in a manner that would be appropriate for what he had now come to regard as the rebirth of the museum. Of course, they were to be painted in the most luxurious paint available. But what colour?

After weeks of agonising, it had been decided by the SSS Group to seek advice. Or rather, Pork-Rind had decided the SSS Group’s decision to seek advice. Therefore, expert paint consultants had been especially commissioned to help make the decision. At this very moment, the experts were carefully scraping decades of paint-layers off small patches in each of the remaining gallery walls, in order to discover what had been their original colour.

Meanwhile, a high tower of scaffolding was being built in order to reach the inside of the largest of the Renewsense domes in the grand entrance and establish its erstwhile colour. Pork-Rind’s idea being that the building should be returned to its former glory. This would also please the heritage people no end.

And while Pork-Rind and his SSS Group engaged in weeks of dithering, the decorators were being paid to sit around until they got bored and moved to another job, in exasperation.

Weeks later, Pork-Rind sat in his office with various colour samples on his desk. In the end, he had decided not to return to the original colour after all. He had deemed it far too austere. Instead, all the walls would be painted white with a golden or silvery lustre.

The largest dome would be painted in a ‘sunburst’ yellow, with of course, a golden lustre. This would complement the colour scheme in the rest the building and give the impression that the sun had somehow burst through the ceiling. Of course, later when the budget allowed, the dome could be painted with a fresco of some glorious heavenly scene of his choosing. Possibly featuring the likeness of great intellectuals of the past. Including himself, of course.

It was just as well. Bulbous Bluster was getting tired of hearing the scraping sounds echoing throughout the galleries and generally setting his teeth on edge. Not to say anything of his moustache.

Phut... phut... phut, phut, phut phut phutphutphutphutphutphutphutphut... A fine mist of gold-infused paint spurted out from a precision outlet that swept gracefully across the dome. The new-fangled spray-paint machine had been set in motion.

Bilious Bilberry looked up from his Sixday morning newspaper. He scratched the edge of his grey moustache. At that precise moment, it occurred to Bilberry that it was a bit odd that the artefacts in the immediate vicinity had not been covered. He wondered whether Professor Bucket was aware of this and took it upon himself to check.

Minutes later, Professor Bucket promptly appeared at the site, looking flustered, gnashing his teeth and jumping up and down shouting a string of expletives roughly translated as: ‘Stop that activity immediately, you imbeciles’.

The machine was duly stopped, and two men covered from head to toe in white papery boiler suits with rather sinister breathing apparatus attached, climbed down the scaffolding tower.

An incident followed, involving a lively discussion between Filibuster-Fartlet, the Department of Fixings and the decorators, which at some point resulted in an attempt by Professor Bucket to throttle Filibuster-Fartlet.

However, after all the necessary protection and authorisation the new-fangled spray-paint machine resumed its path across the dome and every wall, thereafter.

It was Moonday morning and the museum was open once more to the unsuspecting public. Well, most people wouldn’t suspect that on entering a museum of artefactual objects, it would in fact turn out to be a museum of scaffolding. But, at Pork-Rind’s insistence, the museum was to remain open for as long as possible - and at all costs - for what little was still on display to be enjoyed by the public.

At the end of one of the scaffolding tunnels, sat Groin in the Blue Gallery, almost slipping into a coma of sorts, were it not for the rather fascinating painting that unexpectedly caught his eye. His attention was immediately drawn to its subject matter. It was strange that he had not noticed it before. It was just his sort of art: some mythological representation obviously, featuring writhing nudes of every description, twisting and undulating in a seething mass of naughtiness. He gawped at the painting, unable to look away from the groping bodies. Their flesh was so voluptuous and shiny, as though covered in something slippery to enhance their pleasure and, of course, that of anyone who happened to be perusing the painting. It was almost sculptural in quality, such was the detail.

Groin surveyed this kingdom and without thinking, slowly undid his trousers. He looked more closely at the bodies of these gods and goddesses. On even closer inspection, they appeared to slip around each other in a seamless indulgence of the senses. Some appeared to be slipping into all manner of orifices in a perpetual search for more pleasure. He wondered what it might be like to indulge in such a titillating experience.

He finally released the contents of his trousers, compelled as he was to prod the painting.

Somehow, his clothes had withered away as he rubbed his blubbery middle-aged body against the quivering fleshpot on offer. Then, the painting opened up, revealing more writhing bodies and he felt the sculptured fleshiness slowly surrounding him, twisting and shuddering. The urge to indulge in a little frottage was overwhelming and he forged his way deeper into the confined spaces, the tightness of which was almost unbearably pleasurable. As he moved to reach further inward he found himself being manipulated, all manner of erotic delicacies perpetrated upon him. He began the slow and arduous penetration towards the inevitable conclusion, fusing anonymously into the painting for all time...

Later, Mrs Foinnel spotted a pile of clothes on the floor in the Blue Gallery and picked them up on her way to cleaning who knows what?

That afternoon, there was welcome relief for the attendants. A fire had been detected in one of the offices, which meant having to evacuate the building. This also meant a bit of fresh air.

Blabulous Balustrade, the duty security officer, was seeing that fire procedures were followed and checking that all members of staff and public were in the designated area outside. Much to his annoyance, Mr Filibuster-Fartlet had decided that this rule did not apply to him and he attempted to re-enter the building.

Balustrade’s whiskers twitched. “Sir! You cannot enter the building until the all-clear has been given by the combustion control officers.” He halted Filibuster-Fartlet in his tracks with a firm posture.

Filibuster-Fartlet’s face reddened. Rules were rules and he duly egressed, somewhat embarrassed.

Moments later, Mrs Foinnel casually emerged, having been too busy locking doors and retrieving her coat to evacuate the building. It was probably another false alarm anyway.

Balustrade’s whiskers twitched once more at this brazen flouting of the rules.

“Mrs Foinnel? Why have you not evacuated the building?”

“Isn’t it a false alarm then, Officer Balustrade?”

“That’s not the point. The cause of the alarm has yet to be established by the combustion control officers in attendance.”

“Oh well. I’ll be outside then. I’ve locked all the doors,” she said wryly, while thumbing behind her.

The alarm was eventually found to have been triggered by a smouldering fan heater with an electrical fault. Filibuster-Fartlet saw to it that the fan heater was repaired. There was no sense in draining the budget further with the unnecessary expense of a new one.

Balustrade carefully entered the details in his report:

The fire alarm sounded at approximately 15.45 hours. The museum evacuated apparently with no problems.

The alarm area was established as the administration offices. Combustion control officers reported from the alarm area that there was no fire and duly switched off their orange hat lights. However, a fan heater in Gravel Retrench’s office was found to be smouldering - triggering the smoke alarm. The offending heater was removed.

The police officers then arrived at reception. I reported the cause of the alarm and the alarm was cancelled.

However, sometime during the alarm sounding and after the evacuation of the rest of the personnel and public, a member of staff casually emerged in top-coat, apparently having stayed to lock or close the downstairs area before leaving. Also, a senior member of staff attempted to re-enter the building before the all-clear.

Fire procedures must be followed. During a fire alarm, ALL museum staff must stay outside of the building until both the fire alarm has been silenced AND the duty security officer has given the all-clear to return.

I understand that when the alarm sounded it could not be heard in the teapot room...

Blabulous speculated briefly if this might be a case of sabotage. There seemed to be quite a few attendants going missing of late. He chuckled to himself. It was a silly thought...

It was the following day, which happened to be a Twosday.

Unbeknownst to anyone, a small hole had been developing in the floor of the Green Gallery. This was thought to be as a result of investigations that had been carried out to determine the feasibility of replacing the old wooden floor with something more lavish.

By way of coincidence, this hole had revealed a slight disturbance in the space-time continuum, which had gone undiscovered. This was most unusual, as the only thing under the Green Gallery - as far as anyone was aware - was a dusty old storage room. However, that was less important than the fact that a visitor’s foot had become snarled up in this hole and was in danger of disappearing altogether. But thanks to Sneerpot’s quick thinking, this had been prevented by the strategic removal the foot from the shoe. The visitor - which for reason known only to himself - was wearing very long shoes along with a red curly wig, a false nose and a huge bow tie, was now threatening legal action, prompting the summoning of the gallery facilitator manager. Sneerpot was only too happy to oblige.

Filibuster-Fartlet arrived red-faced and waving his arms about, grovelling apologetically, hoping to prevent any embarrassing publicity and lawsuits vis-à-vis health and safety.

The men-in-white-coats arrived soon after, wearing the traditional white cap equipped with a small green flashing light as they entered the Green Gallery. The limping visitor was duly helped into their ambulatory hospital transport.

Filibuster-Fartlet wiped the sweat from his forehead and nervously prodded his collapsing purple quiff.

However, the hole in the Green Gallery was not the only health and safety issue.

The scaffolding tunnels were leading to splinters in bottoms, amongst other places. Due to unforeseen circumstances, some tunnels had even developed into a series of irregular boxes with the resulting trapezoidal mayhem ending in quite a different gallery from the one expected, thus inconveniencing everyone. Also, some staff began to express concern about the visitors’ ability to breathe. But such matters were routinely ignored, especially if such matters came to light via one of the attendant class.

That evening, dark clouds hung heavily in the sky.

Between patrols, Blabulous Balustrade was in the bowels of the museum tucked up in a makeshift bed, but only sleeping lightly as a result of the grim sense that an alarm might go off at any moment. Indeed, any aberrant noise was a potential break-in. He tossed and turned as the clouds began to offload their contents in a great torrent.

Far, far away in a distant gallery, water began to dribble down the wall and as the torrent outside progressed, so the dribble soon upgraded itself, quite without permission, to a trickle. And not long thereafter, to a deluge.

The torrent outside was now making a bit of a racket. Balustrade awoke with a start. He hurriedly buttoned his uniform and threw on his cap, for he was honour-bound to take the great metal torch to check all the galleries that had been prone to flooding in the past. It was not long before he came across a small lake with a waterfall flowing rather picturesquely over the shoulder of an ancient statue.

Balustrade was about to initiate the usual procedure for such events but remembered the words of the gallery facilitator manager - ‘I’m in charge’. So Balustrade decided to make a call.

The telephonical receiver kept on ringing but a recumbent Filibuster-Fartlet refused to hear it, such was the stupor that he was in. And so it continued to ring. Until eventually, he reached for the receiver, via knocking three empty wine bottles over. The ringing finally stopped and he fell back into his prior semi-comatose state, receiver firmly clamped between his right nostril and the pillow.

Balustrade couldn’t hear anything but heavy breathing. “Mr Filibuster-Fartlet! Are you there?! It’s Officer Balustrade! There is a flood in the Bronze Gallery! What should we do?!” he asked knowing full well what he was supposed to do.

There was no response. Unless you call a string of drunken mumblings a response.

Balustrade gave up and rang Humffrey Twink to organise a flood control. It was imperative that the artefacts should be saved from damage.

The whole floor was soon awash with water. Multiple rubbery boots splashed about, hither and thither, as several members of staff - who happened to live nearby - had now been commandeered. They were wading through lakes of water in their raincoats, while engaged in the art of covering everything that couldn’t be moved in waterproof sheets.

Meanwhile, Plumbob, Hacksaw and Bracket attempted to establish the origin of the gushing, for by now the flood had developed into several - as a result of the building work that had been progressing on the other side of the wall. They dragged any building material they could find to cover the offending conduit and deflect the flow elsewhere. The gallery was now a peaceful shallow lake.

Eventually the torrent outside, slowed and the clouds drew apart revealing the low, rising sun.

The next day (Threesday), Seed dragged himself to work even later than usual. This was more pronounced, now that he felt he no longer had to carry out the usual duties of a mere attendant. He was a member of a committee now. It was only a matter of time before he would be promoted. Until then, he sat in his allotted gallery doodling. In fact, Seed’s doodling had developed somewhat.

On a scrap of paper, he appeared to have drawn a muscular individual wearing a mask over his eyes. Also, a matching outfit that showed every muscle and sinew in a heroic pose. The figure was surrounded by flying pieces of paper. Standard office paper to be exact. Seed paused for a moment as he tried to develop the concept of this character, which bore a striking resemblance to himself. ‘The Maroon Manager’... ‘The Amaranth Administrator’... His mind wandered creatively while he furiously shaded this character in with his pencil, oblivious to his surroundings. He pondered, briefly, whether the colour ‘amaranth’ was too close to cerise.

Meanwhile, a group of men were installing something in his gallery. It had a curious silhouette that was difficult to make out while they struggled to place the object at the required angle. However, Seed remained oblivious to the disturbance and continued in his fantasy.

The first of the gargoyles had arrived. Soon their ominous winged profile would adorn every corner of every gallery.

Mrs Foinnel was mopping the floor by the men’s urinals.

“...And so I says, ‘You can’t keep moving it about, I’m the only one authorised to move it...’” she complained.

A man stood at the urinal somewhat astounded at having to endure a conversing cleaning woman while doing his business. And then revolted by the sickly yellowish strips of paper, hanging from the ceiling, dripping with sticky goo and dead flies.

Someone had decided to decorate the teapot room ceiling too, with these yellowish strips of curly sticky paper. Various flying insects from far and wide had become ensnared in the said strips and were now struggling to break free. Some had already perished and were in various stages of decomposition.

Scarletina arrived and immediately heaved at the revolting sight, running back up the stairs screaming in disgust.

It transpired later, that Mrs Foinnel had taken it upon herself, quite without authority, to deal with the fly situation.

Elsewhere, Madame Pluchette - in her endeavour to rise to greater things, as was natural for a lady - had been organising a recycling drive. This had led to ever increasing mix of unrelated items accumulating in incongruous places. Unfortunately, these places were largely in the domain of Mrs Foinnel. A commotion ensued.

“I am more important than you!” Madame Pluchette declared. Then she added something in Foreign, which roughly translated as: ‘A watermelon will not ripen in your armpits’. Or words to that effect.

Eventually the gallery facilitator manager was summoned, which didn’t exactly resolve the issue. But later in the day, Filibuster-Fartlet and Madame Pluchette were seen having a cosy tête-à-tête, which ended in a hug. It was a rather strange sight as at the time they were both wearing outfits of exactly the same shade of bright green. Madame Pluchette’s bright orange uniform waistcoat merely added to the strange visual effect of a two-headed monster with a purple quiff and a blonde bouffant.

Later, a strange woman wearing a bright green dress was rummaging through files and leafing through documents that were strewn all over the planning tables and large desk in the main construction office, when a couple of construction workers wandered in.

“Ah! I want to discuss with you your skedule,” said the women in an indeterminate Foreign accent, “because it seems to me that you are not on skedule. Firstly, are you on skedule? And if not, what is being done to correct this state of affairs?”

The two workers, who looked not unlike the Fixings Department technicians, removed their dusty hard hats and scratched their heads in the manner of the puzzled. Who was this woman anyway?

It was late in the day and the stink was almost unbearable. But Mrs Foinnel was used to such odours in her profession. She looked under the sinks and the toilet bowls, for the smelly water was seeping from some indeterminate source. Indeed, with every mopping up, more murky water appeared on the floor.

Mrs Foinnel’s mopping became increasingly frantic, until she herself was mopped up and drowned in the dirty water that had rapidly filled several buckets already.

It was early the next day (Foursday) and Bulbous Bluster had opened the museum and the attendants were now trickling in. Was it his imagination, or were there fewer attendants than usual? Certainly, the number of keys allotted to them seemed larger than the actual number of attendants now present. Yet other keys still remained unaccounted for. A worrying state of affairs. Bulbous sat down behind the absurdly high desk and began to count and sort all the keys once again.

Filibuster-Fartlet breezed in, his orange scarf flapping behind him.

“Is this what we pay you for? If you ask me, you’re paid far too much!” he mocked.

Bulbous stood aghast before pointing out that the security officers work double the hours he did. But Filibuster-Fartlet merely brushed that fact aside, arrogantly.

Moments later, Bilious Bilberry ambled across with his morning mug of tea, to take over from Bulbous for the day, spouting words of wisdom such as, “Tell Fartlet to knarling well knarle off,” and “effing well eff off,” in equal measures.

A few minutes later, Seed was not in his gallery. He was still in the teapot room. His eyes were glazed as he repeatedly shuffled papers about on the table, apparently in a mindless trance. Being in a trance of any kind, was not unusual for Seed. As far as he was concerned, he was juggling a whirlwind of papers in a vast central office somewhere. He defied gravity in his special pink suit, as he swept from one end of the office to the other, capturing errant sheets of paper. For he was The Amaranth Administrator! Sworn to protect and organise all museum offices...

Sneerpot poked his shiny pate around the doorway. “Seed! Get your arse upstairs!”

Pork-Rind had called an SSS Group meeting for that morning. All senior staff were to be present. Except Gravel Retrench, who was busy with more important things.

Pork-Rind wanted to know how things were progressing and therefore turned to the gallery facilitator manager, who after all, had been given responsibility under the aegis of the director of administrative interaction.

Filibuster-Fartlet mumbled something.

Pork-Rind shouted, “Speak up man! When will the installation of the gargoyles be completed?”

Filibuster-Fartlet mumbled something - again.

Pork-Rind fumed. “Damn it man!”

Filibuster-Fartlet finally replied in something mildly coherent.

But as far as Pork-Rind was concerned, unsatisfactorily. He grumbled loudly, his porcine features twitching wildly.

“When will the refurbishment finish? The trapezoidal effects are intolerable! As are the numerous complaints of splinters in bottoms. And why didn’t the hole in the Green Gallery have a warning sign?!”

Filibuster-Fartlet wriggled in his chair, muttering incomprehensibly, his incompetence becoming ever more apparent, so obviously out of his depth as he was.

The other members of the SSS Group sat in cringing silence.

Retrench smiled to himself as the moths revealed the chaos of the museum. He also laughed wickedly, rather in the manner of an evil genius intent on world domination, which was by coincidence not that far from the truth.

It would soon be possible to acquire the objects that he had waited for so long to possess. No one would notice them missing amid the disarray. As it was, they had remained in long-forgotten storage, gathering dust, their nature having escaped academics through the ages. He liked to call it the Enneagrammonicon: a device consisting of a set of objects whose mere touch could conjure disturbing visions and if not arranged precisely, could even induce psychosis. The depth of their power was as yet undiscovered, but it was thought that whoever possessed them could control the world. Some say, even the universe.

He prepared for his daily ritual within the ancient symbol of wickedness that had been used for centuries by the secret society to which Retrench belonged.

The pebble glowed as it responded to the murmur of its master and in turn, the pebble transfixed its master, each seemingly obtaining something from the other.

Soon the objects would reveal their location...

On the other side of the world that was the museum, another day ended in construction dirt for Humffrey Twink. His yellow hard hat had turned grey with fine dust particles. He stood admiring what had been achieved so far despite the many obstacles. True, they were behind schedule, but it could not be helped, given the vacillations of Pork-Rind.

The task in question had been divided amongst a number of posts around the boundaries left by the unwanted parts of the building. Each was about 90 footlings in length and with the initial trenches having been dug, the machines had dug even further downward. Of course, some trenches had been harder to dig as the drilling crews were faced with solid rock in parts, but Twink had been sure the machines, and the men operating them, would triumph.

And so it was not long before the first walls had been constructed. And the walls made into galleries. And the galleries plastered and painted...

In any case, it was the end of another working day. The construction crews emerged with their tools, encrusted in a mixture of dust and sweat that was the mark of a good working man. One of them removed his hard hat and wiped the sweat from his face as they all headed towards the large dusty metal boxes that were the construction offices, a few feetlings away.

Twink too, wiped the dust from his spectacles and onto his already filthy overalls and waded towards the main metal box. He had gone from being a museum administrator to being covered in thick layers of dirt, while overseeing the build. It was at that precise moment that he had had a wicked thought. He was severely tempted to sabotage the building in some way.

[merinnan]

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: 盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers’ Chronicles - Xu Lei

Relationship: Wu Xie/Zhang Qiling

Characters: Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Zhang Qiling

Additional Tags: First Time, Mistaken Identity, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Summary:  Wu Xie was having a bad day. A terrible day. The worst day. On top of disasters, traffic jams, and meetings, the last thing he needed was for Xiao Hua to ‘helpfully’ send him an escort. That is, until the handsome stranger matching Xiao Hua’s description saves him from an accident, so perhaps the day isn’t as bad as he thought, after all.

If he’d been less distracted, he would have done more than just look up stupidly when he heard the loud ‘crack’.

He barely had enough time to register the sight of part of the scaffolding over the courtyard falling right on top of him before something slammed into his side, knocking him to the ground a few feet from where the scaffolding crashed right where he’d been standing mere moments before, spraying him with mud and dirty water to go with the already soaked clothes and the mud he’d landed in.

Wu Xie blinked at the mass of broken beams and brackets owlishly as he pushed himself up, then looked at the now even more broken glasses in his hand and tossed them aside, before finally turning his attention to what - or, rather, who - had shoved him out of the way before he’d got squished.

The man was stunning, for lack of a better description. Long hair that might have been styled fancily before was now wet and plastered to his pale, chiseled face, the cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and the line of his jaw nearly magical. And his eyes - dark and framed by thick, long lashes - focused on Wu Xie but were inscrutable. He was dressed in a nice black suit and white shirt, with a narrow tie - all of which was already soaked through and muddied. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, still partially hovering over Wu Xie protectively, the soaked white shirt doing nothing to hide the stunning musculature of his chest.

He looked young, early twenties maybe, and was possibly the most beautiful man Wu Xie had ever seen in his life.

“Are you all right?” the man asked in a low, smooth voice that immediately sent shivers down his back.

He never got to answer, his people finally catching on to what happened and rushing over with umbrellas and worried exclamations. He waved them back as he went to get up, then there was a hand in front of him, a silent offer to help him up. He blinked up at the pretty young man, vaguely surprised that he’d managed to get to his feet so fast, and automatically took the offered hand. And was pulled up to his feet with an ease that made him frankly giddy, especially when paired with the sight of that easy flex of muscles beneath that sodden white shirt and black suit jacket. He blinked at the man, feeling how the raindrops on his eyelashes went rolling down his cheeks when the lashes brushed skin, absently noting the way the pretty man’s eyes followed the movement.

Wu Xie accepted an umbrella from one of the people crowding around him and handed it to the man, firmly telling himself that it wasn’t an excuse to feel the brush of those long fingers against his hand when the man took it from him.

“Um…,” Wu Xie said. “Thank you. And, uh, sorry about your clothes…” He gestured at the mud all over the man’s suit. The man just watched him steadily, eyes boring into his - they were about the same height, Wu Xie noted absently, something not that common. He was used to being one of the taller people around. “Uh…,” Wu Xie said again, trying to get words to actually come in the face of that intense regard. “I’m, um, Wu Xie. Did you need something? I mean, were you here for something?”

“You,” the man said simply, and the low, smooth notes were absolutely not the reason why Wu Xie had to suppress a shiver.

Read the rest on AO3

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[etirabys]

I read and enjoyed Ted Chiang’s Exhalation yesterday. His stories come off to me as being written by someone especially sane.

My favorite was Exhalation itself (online here), more for its beauty than its cleverness. The following part describes a scientist taking apart their own brain to learn how their consciousness is encoded – when I reached the bolded part, I had to set the book down and close my eyes to deal with the pleasure of having something novel described well.

I began by removing the deeply curved plate that formed the back and top of my head; then the two, more shallowly curved plates that formed the sides. Only my faceplate remained, but it was locked into a restraining bracket, and I could not see its inner surface from the vantage point of my periscope; what I saw exposed was my own brain. It consisted of a dozen or more subassemblies, whose exteriors were covered by intricately molded shells; by positioning the periscope near the fissures that separated them, I gained a tantalizing glimpse at the fabulous mechanisms within their interiors. Even with what little I could see, I could tell it was the most beautifully complex engine I had ever beheld ...

Laboriously, painstakingly, I repeated the procedure of substituting hoses for other subassemblies, repositioning another one farther back, two more higher up, and two others out to the sides, suspending all six from the scaffold above my head. When I was done, my brain looked like an explosion frozen an infinitesimal fraction of a second after the detonation, and again I felt dizzy when I thought about it. But at last the cognition engine itself was exposed, supported on a pillar of hoses and actuating rods leading down into my torso. I now also had room to rotate my microscope around a full three hundred and sixty degrees, and pass my gaze across the inner faces of the subassemblies I had moved. What I saw was a microcosm of auric machinery, a landscape of tiny spinning rotors and miniature reciprocating cylinders.

As I contemplated this vista, I wondered, where was my body? The conduits which displaced my vision and action around the room were in principle no different from those which connected my original eyes and hands to my brain. For the duration of this experiment, were these manipulators not essentially my hands? Were the magnifying lenses at the end of my periscope not essentially my eyes? I was an everted person, with my tiny, fragmented body situated at the center of my own distended brain. It was in this unlikely configuration that I began to explore myself.

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