#which was drab and consisted of a desk and chair

[pencilinteriors1]

[studiodb]

From Drab To Fab: How Office Interior Design Boosts Productivity

It's no secret that a modern office environment can boost productivity. But what you may not know is that it's also important for your employees to feel comfortable and inspired in their work spaces.

This is why interior design plays such an important role in creating the right environment for employees to enjoy their jobs.

In this post, we'll discuss how studiodb.co.nz's office interior design impacts different aspects of work life, like productivity and creativity, as well as ways you can create an attractive space that boosts these qualities while still being budget-friendly!

Ergonomic Furniture

Ergonomic furniture is a must for any office space. From ergonomic chairs to desks and tables, you can find something that suits your needs at an affordable price.

One of the most important pieces of office furniture is your chair. You should always opt for one with arms so that you can rest your forearms on them while typing or working on other tasks.

This helps prevent carpal tunnel syndrome, which causes numbness in hands due to repetitive motions like typing on a keyboard all day long!

Another thing to consider when choosing an office chair is its size--you want one that fits your body well so that it doesn't cause back pain after sitting down for long periods of time (which happens more often than we realise).

Your feet should be flat on flooring surface when sitting down properly; if not then adjust accordingly by raising or lowering height adjustment lever located underneath seat pan area until feet are flat against flooring surface during use time period.

Lighting

To ensure that your office space is well-lit, you need to consider the size of the room and whether it's natural or artificial light. The amount of lighting in a room should be consistent throughout the day: if one corner is brighter than another, then employees will feel like they're working in separate areas.

Lighting also affects employee moods; studies have shown that bright colours boost productivity because they stimulate positive emotions (and therefore reduce stress).

Space Planning

When you're designing your office interior, it's important to consider the layout of your space. How much open collaboration do you need? Are there areas where people will be able to hold private meetings? How much quiet work do you want them doing? What kind of storage do they need for their files and supplies?

These considerations are crucial in determining how many desks and chairs should be included in any given room or wing of your office building.

You'll also want to make sure that each employee has enough room on their desk surface so they can spread out their papers without knocking over anyone else's stuff (or tripping over other people).

Personalisation

Personalisation is a key component of office interior design. Research found that people were more productive when their surroundings made them feel comfortable, which is why adding pictures and plants are some of the simplest ways to boost productivity.

But there's more than just hanging up a picture on your wall: you can also add more complex personalisation elements, such as boardroom tables or even entire rooms dedicated to specific functions (like an IT room).

These will help make your employees feel at home in your office space so they can be as productive as possible!

Conclusion

We hope that you enjoyed reading about how office interior design can help boost productivity. As we mentioned at the start of this article, it's a topic that we are passionate about and have been studying for many years now.

We know firsthand how much difference small changes can make when it comes to improving employee engagement, which in turn leads to better overall performance within organisations.

If you want more information on how our services can help your business grow then please contact experts today!

[hogwarts-riddle]

Eternalism: Chapter III

It had just started to rain when Hermione reached the gates of Wool’s Orphanage. Her short-sleeved dress did little to protect her from the elements and her shoes were quickly filled with water. In a hurry, she pushed open the gate, closing it behind her and was about to rush to the door when she remembered McGonagall’s instructions.

“Before you do so, we must ask that you destroy the time turner. No one must know the truth of how you came to be in that time,” she could still hear her stern transfiguration professor’s voice in the back of her mind.

Lifting the silver chain from around her neck, she took a moment to stare at it before letting it slip through her fingers, falling to the pavement in front of her. Then, with a deep breath, she brought a foot up and crushed it to pieces, kicking the remaining pieces off to the side.

Even though she knew the time turner couldn’t take her back, the fact that it was now destroyed only made it so much more real.

She shook those thoughts out of her mind before they could go any farther. It was just like McGonagall said. From now on, she belonged to this timeline. The future she had come from was no more. There was no 1997, only 1937.

With that in mind, she crossed the remaining distance to the door, climbing the three steps and raising a tiny hand to knock on the door.

As she waited, she couldn’t help but instinctively glance behind her to make sure there were no shady looking figures within sight. She knew that it was probably just her own paranoia, seeing as there were no death eaters in existence yet.

Then again... Wasn’t there a different dark wizard by the name of Grindelwald active during this time?

That certainly didn’t make her feel any better...

She was just about to knock again, eager to get off the street and out of the rain, when the door swung open, revealing a thin woman with a stern face and short dirty blonde hair curled in the typical fashion.

“May I help you?” The woman asked, staring down her nose at her.

Hermione wasn’t sure if it was the rain drenching her from head to toe or the iciness of the woman’s gaze, but a sudden chill ran through her, causing her to shiver.

“A-Are you the matron?” her voice sounding unnaturally squeaky.

“Yes, I am Mrs. Cole,” the woman answered. “Why do you ask?”

With trembling hands, she held out the letter that Pomfrey had given her, which was, much like her, completely soaked.

Mrs. Cole snatched the letter from her and ripping it open, pulled out the soggy piece of parchment. She didn’t speak for several minutes as she read through the contents, leaving the poor girl to stand there, rubbing her arms to try and get warm.

Looking up from the letter, the matron scanned her eyes over the girl with intense scrutiny, as if searching for something on her person. Whatever it was, she must not have found it as her gaze softened, be it ever so slightly.

With a sigh, Mrs. Cole stepped aside, motioning for her to come in.

Hermione didn’t need to be asked twice. Rushing past the matron, she went straight towards the nearby gas heater, sitting down in front of it.

“Stay here while I find some dry clothes and a room to put you in,” Mrs. Cole instructed.

“Yes, ma’am,” she nodded her head.

With one final glare Mrs. Cole swept off out of the entry and out of sight.

As the shivering began to subside and her skin warmed before the heater, she could finally relax and let her mind wander. The first task her mind undertook was searching for any information she might know about the 1930’s.

World War II would be starting in a couple of years if she wasn’t mistaken. Though she supposed that it wouldn’t affect her too terribly as she would be at Hogwarts for most of it. But then again, she supposed that the wizarding world would be affected just as much by the war against Grindelwald. She wasn’t entirely sure the exact time in which it took place. For all she knew, it could be going on at that very moment.

She pushed that concern aside for the time being. Grindelwald was not of real concern to her. He wasn’t the one she had come to stop.

Somewhere in this dimly lit orphanage was the boy who would grow up to become a creature so wicked and repulsive that wizards all over the world feared to speak his name. It was her job to make sure that never happened.

Obviously the first thing she needed to do was find Tom, which she figured wouldn’t be too difficult as they were both living in the same building. He couldn’t hide from her forever. She knew that it was only a matter of time before they crossed paths.

By the time Mrs. Cole returned, Hermione was still dripping wet, but felt much warmer, and jumped to her feet immediately upon spotting her.

“Come with me, Miss Granger,” the matron called to her, a drab grey dress and matching stocking hanging from her arm. She started towards the stairs without so much as a glance her way.

Hermione supposed that it might be for the best if Mrs. Cole didn’t pay too much attention to her. The iciness of her glare nearly rivalled that of Professor Snape. Who knows, perhaps her old potions master was even related to the muggle orphanage matron. Though, a part of her highly doubted such a possibility. From what she had heard of Mrs. Cole from Harry, she was one of those muggles who hated any and all things magical.

She followed Mrs. Cole up two flights of stairs and down a long narrow corridor. As she walked, she couldn’t help but notice how each door had a number on it.

Room #44...

Room #45...

She quickly caught on to the pattern. There were approximately twenty rooms per floor, and judging from the height of the building, she would say that there were four floors, not including the ground floor or a possible basement or attic. If her calculations were correct, then that meant there were roughly eighty rooms in total.

Perhaps finding Tom wouldn’t be as easy as she thought.

They came to a halt in front of Room #50, right at the very end of the hall, which came as something of a blessing to her as she would only have one neighbour. Not only that, but it would be easy for her to remember.

Pushing open the door, she wasn’t too surprised to find that her room was basically a big box. It had one window, which didn’t provide much light as it’s view was the brick wall of the building next door. The furnishings consisted of nothing more than the bare minimum; a small rickety looking bed frame with a mattress no thicker than her hand, a wooden desk and chair, and a wardrobe next to the door.

It was a far cry from the comforts she had enjoyed in Hogwarts dorms, but she knew that she didn’t have any right to complain. It was better than being stuck out on the streets.

“There is a communal bathroom on each floor and meals are served twice a day at 8:00 AM and 7:00 PM,” the matron began to explain. “We offer lessons in reading and writing for those who wish to attend in the afternoon and we leave for Mass on Sundays at 9:00 AM. Curfew is at 10:00 PM.

“Any questions?”

She shook her head. It all sounded quite straightforward to her. The schedule was similar to that of Hogwarts, the only difference was that they served three meals a day and taught way more classes. Oh well, at least most of the other children wouldn’t be illiterate.

“In that case, I shall leave you to get settled in.”

Handing her the dress and stockings, Mrs. Cole turned and started to leave, but stopped as she reached the door next to hers. She glared at the door as if she had a personal grudge against it.

“You would do well to stay away from the boy in the room next to yours,” Mrs. Cole warned. “Terrible things tend to happen to those who disturb him.”

And with that, she went on her way.

Hermione felt her heart pick up speed as she let the matron’s words sink in. Could it be? Surely she wasn’t that lucky… She knew from Harry that Tom had been something of a troubled child, but could it be that his was the room next to hers?

She would have to investigate that, but not until she was dried off. Stepping into her new bedroom, she closed the door and began to strip out of her wet clothes, hanging them to dry on the end of the bed frame. The dress was admittedly quite pretty and had been a gift from McGonagall. She was hoping to keep it to at the very least remember her by.

Then there was the fact that the dress that Mrs. Cole was less than comfortable as it scratched against her skin. Sadly, it was the only other dress she had. At least it was warm and dry. With long sleeves and a pair of thick stockings, there wasn’t much bare skin sticking out, which was fine with her.

With that out of the way, she set her mind to the task before her. As much as her body felt like curling up for a nap, she knew that her mind would wander back to all she had left behind if she let it. No, it was better to focus elsewhere for as long as she could.

Opening her door again, she stepped back out into the corridor. A quick glance around reassured her that Mrs. Cole was not around to catch her as she crept towards the door next to hers. Could it be that Tom Riddle was actually behind this door?

There was only one way to find out.

She took a deep breath, trying to psych herself up before reaching up to knock on the door.

“Go away,” she heard a muffled voice from the other side.

Her mind was at war with itself. A part of it was screaming at her to run back to her room and stay as far away from Tom Riddle as possible, but the other part knew that she needed to do this. He’s not Voldemort yet, she thought to herself. He’s just a child, no different than you.

She knocked again.

“I said, go away!”

She heard footsteps approaching, and a moment later, the door swung open. Standing on the other side was a boy who stood a full head taller than her with neatly kept dark hair and stormy blue eyes. He was wearing a drab grey tunic that appeared to be of the same material as her dress and a pair of matching trousers.

Whoever he thought was knocking, he surely hadn’t been expecting her, at least that was based on the way his eyes widened when he saw her. Maybe he had been expecting Mrs. Cole instead?

“Who are you?” he asked, schooling his features in the blink of an eye.

Well, he certainly lacked some manners but she tried not to let that get to her.

“Oh, my name is Hermione Granger,” she said. “I just moved into the room next door and I heard that there was a boy my age in this room. I thought I would come and introduce myself.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Cole warned you to stay away from me.”

She nodded her head. “Yes, she mentioned something about that, but I like to form my own opinions.”

She extended her hand to him, but he did not take it. Instead, he eyed it suspiciously as if he suspected she was wearing one of those hand buzzers. After a few moments, she began to feel rather foolish and started to retract her hand.

“Bad things happen to those who annoy me,” he warned.

There was no doubt in her mind that he was indeed capable of making bad things happen to her, nor was there any doubt in her mind that this was Tom. He clearly didn’t trust her, and she supposed she could understand that. She knew all too well just how mean some kids could be if you were different.

That’s when an idea came to mind as to how she could get him to at least open up to her.

“And bad things happen to those who try to hurt me.”

He just blinked at her, a dark brow raised in question. Again, that was clearly not what he was expecting.

“What do you mean?”

“Watch.”

Glancing down the corridor once more to make sure no one was around, she held out her hand again and silently uttered an incantation, conjuring a bluebell flame into the palm of her hand. It stung a bit but she knew it wouldn’t burn her. She was just pleased to know that she could still conjure it without a wand.

A look of awe spread across his face, his eyes filling with excitement as they flicked from the flame to her face.

She couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction as she snuffed the flame out just as quickly, closing her hand and returning it to her side.

“How did you do that?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she shrugged, feigning ignorance.  “I’ve always been able to do weird things like that. I accidentally set my whole bed on fire once after a particularly nasty nightmare.”

Stepping out of the way, the boy ushered her into his room before closing the door behind them. When he turned back to face her, he opened his mouth and began to speak in a language that she couldn’t understand but recognized immediately. It was Parseltongue. She had heard Harry speak it enough times to know.

Soon enough, a common garden snake came slithering out from beneath his bed and over to him. Winding its way up his leg, the snake came up and wrapped itself around his neck, rubbing up against his cheek as if it was as harmless as a cat.

“You can speak to snakes?” she asked with a gasp.

He nodded, petting the snake’s spine. “Like you, I’ve always been able to do weird things. Not only can I speak to snakes, but I can make other animals do what I want them to. I can also do things like making people trip over thin air and knock them out when they bother me.”

It briefly flitted through her mind that he might have done that to her had she not managed to get his interest, but she put it from her mind. The less she thought about the possible outcomes, the better. There really was no way to predict how he would react.

“I’ve never met anyone who could do things like me,” she admitted. “Even my parents didn’t understand it… They were thinking about sending me away before… well, before they died.”

McGonagall had gone into any real detail about her backstory, so she figured that she was free to make it up as she went, though she did still want to stick as closely to the truth as she could. The part about her parents never understanding her abilities as a child was true. However, they had never been so cruel as to want to send her away.

“I haven’t either. You’re the first one. I understand what you mean, though. Mrs. Cole wants to send me away as well because she knows I’m different. I would try to keep your abilities a secret from her if you can.”

“I’ll take that into consideration… I’m sorry, but I never got your name.”

“I’m Tom Riddle,” he said, extending his hand to her.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Tom,” she took the offered hand and shook it. “I think the two of us are going to get along just fine after all.”

The corners of his lips tugged up into a slight smirk. “I agree.”

[jpat82]

Chosen

Chapter 13

You were lucky to find someone to give you a ride to the warehouse that Hydra owned. The only home you had known, the man at the door outside jaw dropped as you walked up. A steady drizzle had fallen since your harrowing escape from the wolves in the woods, the dress clinging tight to your skin, tattered and muddy. Your hair plastered to the side of your face, you probably looked like hell.

"Y/n! We thought we were dead!" He stated, pressing the number into the key pad that allowed you access in.

"No, quite alive." You smiled shakily as you entered, the cold seeped from the outside of the warehouse inside.

You walked down the corridor, your bare feet making a soft slapping sound as they touched the cold cement floor. Every thing was so dimly lit, and nothing but metal, making you almost wish to be back in James's home. But you didn't belong there, you weren't one of them, this was your home, and your team.

Once you came to the end of the corridor you turned and started down toward the main part, knowing Rumlow would want to see you. There was no doubt in your mind that when Fury sent a message about a missing persons report it would of been about you. It was something Hydra did when one of there own went on a mission and failed to return, that was if a body didn't come up. Most of the time though, the body would always turn up.

You tried to remember how many of your team members you had lost through the years, but there had been so many, you had lost count. Even as child, you never could keep track of how many people had come and gone, one day here and then never to be seen again. Odds are they were all dead, a fact you accepted as a preteen, it was then that your training began. They took you on a mission right off the bat, using you as lure for the vampires, not ones like James's family but others that still roamed the world that preyed on the living regardless.

Eventually you learned how to fight back, how to kill the ones 'created' as you had learned. Silver, stakes, beheading, there was various ways to take out your average vampire and you had learned them all by your sixteenth birthday and had well over a dozen kills under your belt. Even then though, you longed for a life in which you didn't face creatures of the night, and dreamed of a family, a family that had each other's back.

You stopped as you hit the main door that would lead you to the office, a chill ran down your spine and for once you almost wished that he was here.

——

"What do you mean she isn't here?" James responses harshly, throwing open the door to his room. His eyes scanned the room anger and panic began to take hold in his chest, he turned on his heel looking at Sam.

"I don't know, I came up here to check on her cause you were gone a while and I know humans need to eat but she was missing." Sam replied stepping out of the way as James brushed passed him, Steve taking a heavy breath and following the man.

"Did you check the library?" He demanded storming to the opposite side of the building toward the balcony that over saw the library. He threw open the doors, they squeaked in protest as his steps crossed the threshold. "Y/n!"

"Yes, this was the first place I checked cause Clint said he seen you and her come in here earlier this evening." Sam replied, watching as James rushed down the winding staircase to the main floor.

"Has anybody checked the garden shed?" He asked, looking around turning in one spot. His eyes landing on the window, the moon slowly starting to slip behind the trees as the sky started to lighten.

"Vision said he checked that place first." Steve spoke up at Sam's confusion.

"Wanda hasn't seen her since Tony's lab either, I asked her already." Sam added, watching as James ran his hands through his hair letting out a growl in frustration.

The door on the main floor of the library opened and Natasha waltzed in. Red brushed velvet dress hugging her curves as she walked over to James. She smiled at him, sliding her hand up his arm.

"James, you're tense, is everything okay?" She cooed.

"Have you seen y/n?" He asked turning to face her. Her body stiffened and the smile fell from her face as she stared up at him.

"No, can't say that I have." Her reply was short, and she took a deep breath. "Bucky, why are you focused on her? She doesn't want to be here, she made that very clear and how much she detests us."

"Natasha you wouldn't understand, I need to find her." He replied pulling away and heading to the door. "And she doesn't detest us, she's learning."

"She's still a hunter!" She yelled at him, eyes flicking red. James stopped at the door, his grip tightening on the frame. "And they need to be dealt with, not treated like some kind of queen."

"Nat.." he growled but Clint came barreling in, his chest heaving as his eyes landed on the red head before focusing on James.

"She's gone." Clint stated, taking a deep breath. "Through the woods, Thankfully Thor found her quiet cute and friendly and decided she needed wet sloppy kisses instead of being dinner like Loki thought."

"Why was she in the forest?" James's eyes began to brighten as anger slowly started to gain control through his body. Clint's eyes flicked from the man to the woman behind him. Slowly James turned his head looking over his shoulder to Natasha who stood straight, crossing her arm in front of her chest. He hissed out. "You!"

"She doesn't deserve you Bucky." She replied coolly. "You deserve someone who cares and understands you. Someone who doesn't hate our kind."

"Someone who cares and understands me?" James whispered in disbelief. "Someone who cares wouldn't of sent her out into the woods, because she matters to me. And you think you could possibly understand me Natasha? If you did you would never have turned her out, and let the wolves on her."

"Bucky." She started but was cut off by the look he gave her, one that he saved for the human who tried to destroy him.

"She better not get hurt or I will hold you responsible for this." He growled as he left the room.

——

You stood in the office, eyes focused on the grey wall before you as you waited for Rumlow. The room was drab, a dull grey covered all the walls and ceilings, no pictures. The desk in the center was a beat up black, edges chipped and missing, the stack of papers in the corner neatly placed. Behind the desk was an old worn leather chair, probably picked up after some building had closed down.

Growing up every thing was grey, and dull. Your toys consisted of repairing daggers, knives, gun, swords, even cross bows at one point. Long hours and days spent by yourself without anyone to talk to, that was till they took you out and used you as bait. You heard the door click open behind you, startling you of your thoughts, the soft sound it made as it shut behind you suddenly made you uncomfortable.

"Y/n, you made it back." Rumlow's deep voice came from behind you, sending a cold shiver through your spine. You found yourself missing the warmth of James's voice, something your commander never had.

"Yes sir." You responded staring at the same spot on the wall you always had.

"Beautiful dress, shame it was ruined." He said as he came into view and sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. "Where did you get it?"

"There was a family in the woods, they took me in after the explosion." You half lied, your eyes never leaving the spot on the wall.

"You want to try that with out the lie." He stated, your eyes shot down to him. He was leaned back in his chair, staring up at you. "Bucky doesn't just let anyone go, he didn't turn you did he?"

"No, he didn't." You told him, you paused a moment. "What do you know about ancients?"

"Oh, he told you what he was." Rumlow smirked sitting forward resting his elbows on the desk. "That up until four hundred years ago there were more, Hydra has wiped all but him out. Every hundred or so years we try and take down as much of his pack as possible. He goes on the rampage and cuts the population down in the area he lives, helps with resources. But he moves afterward so it becomes a bitch to find him."

"You kill his family because of population control?" You asked bewildered, blinking a couple of times.

"Well not exactly, we do it in time of war mostly. But since none are around population control it is, plus we like to remind him we still control this planet not his kind." Rumlow shrugged talking about the subject of murder like it was the weather. You felt the bile in your stomach start to raise, to even think you had been proud to be a hunter was making you sick.

"Do you know why we chose you?" He asked, standing from his desk and coming to you. He brought his hand up, grasping your shoulders making you want to recoil in disgust.

"Cause I'm an idiot and volunteered to be thrown to someone who is all but immortal without the proper knowledge of what he was?" You snapped back, pulling yourself free.

"Not for the mission, oh no, you were chosen because of what you are." He sneered, looking down at you. "It's all in your genetics."

Permanent tag-

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Chosen tag-

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Bucky Tag-

@ria132love

If I missed you just let me know or if wanted to be added as a tag!

[angelicallydevilish]

Human!AU High school!AU because I’m trash

    Crowley attends speech therapy, not by choice mind you but because several months ago his father cornered him in the car after school saying something along the lines of “Really, Anthony, a 15-year-old shouldn’t still have a speech impediment, this is humiliating” then, instead of driving them home, dropped him off to the dreadful office without even a magazine rack to peruse where he has to wait anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour and a half for the person ahead of him to finish up[1], only to then be subjected to more torture in the form of a series of exercises no doubt designed for 6-year-olds, and he has the honour of suffering through this twice a week for however long it takes pronounce S’s correctly[2].

    Having nothing to do while he waits[3] he’s taken to observing the waiting room, taking it all in. On this particular day there are 3 potted plants in desperate need of attention, 2 receptionists one is an older lady who refuses to look him in the eye or even acknowledge he’s there while the other, is a much younger girl not much older than himself[4], Mary he thought her name was,  always greets him with a very cheerful “Good day, Mr. Crowley!!”[5] Crowley isn’t quite sure which treatment makes him more uncomfortable, and 1 other person in the waiting room.

    This newcomer, who has been there for every session for at least a month, is there before Crowley arrives every time and he always has a book[6]. He appears quite proper with his fresh-pressed slacks and a pristine button-down with a sweater vest and some sort of winged emblem over the left breast,  perhaps he attends a private school? Regardless it's rather drab for someone who appears to be a high schooler himself.  His perfect blonde curls bounce as he nods his head whenever he agrees with the author and, on the rare occasion when he looked up from his book to check the time, Crowley gets to see his stunning blue eyes; somehow still radiant despite the dungeon-like lighting of the waiting room.

    The person whose appointment is before his own is always the same, a short girl black hair, my chemical romance vibes, never smiles. She storms past the receptionist desk ignoring Mary’s up-beat call of “see you next time, miss”. Occasionally she’ll bark a quick, “We’ll leave without you, Zira” at the boy reading, pushing through the doors without waiting for him. Zira, what an odd name odd but intriguing something he could get used to hearing. Crowley is torn between laughing at Zira scramble to gather his things, and feeling mildly annoyed by the aggression directed at the poor guy.

    After witnessing this many times now, Crowley has decided he hopes they aren't dating. Only because it’d be an unfair relationship, of course, and not because the boy is gorgeous and he wouldn't mind having a go himself. Maybe they were siblings? Crowley doesn’t care, really, but thinking about it does make the wait feel shorter, so on his next visit rather than re-count the number of scuff marks and dents in the ceramic flooring, he slides into the seat next to Zira instead of giving him the usual 3 chair gap to avoid conversation. “Zira, is it?, Crowley attempts to sound suave but the waiting room’s narrow chairs force his gangly limbs into an awkward position, and the ‘is’ gets far too drawn out making it sound more like “Zira, issss it?” Crowley curses his apparent serpentine ancestors.

    Aziraphale visibly jumps engrossed with his book and not expecting an interruptions so soon, stumbles over his reply, “Yes uh rather, Azriaphale actually, I don’t quite like my name shortened[7],” he pauses momentarily gently placing today's book[8] in his lap using his thumb as his makeshift bookmark his face now baring an adorable frown, “how did you know my name, good fellow?”

    ‘Good fellow’ Crowley can’t help but smirk a little, “Apologies, that’s what your sister calls you after her appointments so I just assumed, bit tetchy isn’t she?” he curses his speech impediment more and more as each word leaves his mouth; any microscopic hope that Aziraphale would find him cool enough to talk, maybe even exchange numbers, was completely dead.

    “Goodness no! She’s not my sister.” Aziraphale almost looks offended.

    Crowley’s heart buckles a little of course she’s his girlfriend and he even called her “tetchy”, what an idiot. He tries to swallow his grimace before speaking once more, “ah yes, girlfriend then? Sorry about the tetchy comment she-”

    Aziraphale nearly retches at the implication, “Dear boy, you really must stop assuming things.” He adjusts his tartan bow tie[9] and continues, “if you must know Beelz is my brother’s girlfriend and I am only here because he refuses to wait and promises to stop driving me home from school if I’m not here when she gets out.” He lets out a small sigh, indicating irritation, but from the look he gives the door, it's directed more at the girl behind it than his new companion.  

    "Right, she doesn't seem like the type who'd need a babysitter though" Aziraphale smiles at the babysitter comment, a truly angelic sight; something Crowley hopes to see more of in the future.

    "If left unattended she, well, doesn't attend, says it's far too childish for someone her age," Aziraphale grimaces[10],  "I don't mind though it gives me plenty of time to read." and there it is again; the beautiful smile.

    Before Crowley can even consider replying, the slam of the speech therapist's heavy door echos off the nearly empty waiting room and a mass of black is shifting quickly in then out of his line of sight, indicating the end of the girl Crowley now knows as Beelz's session. 

    "Come on, Zira, you can talk to your boyfriend on Friday," the girl shouts, already halfway through the door as eager as ever to leave.

    "Right, yes," Aziraphale is quickly but kindly shoving his book into his messenger bag, "I do suppose I will be seeing you on Friday then, Mr. Crowley, I quite enjoyed our talk." 

The tables are reversed for Crowley is now the one confused as to when the other acquired his name, Aziraphale catches on to this and quickly adds, "Miss Mary greets you every time you come, that's how I knew" blessing him with one final radiant smile, before making his usual quick exit.

    Crowley sinks deep in his chair[11]. Friday, he can't help but think how soon yet far away it is all at once. For the first time since starting Crowley is glad his father drops him off early; and is even a bit excited for his next session, despite the current one not even beginning yet.

     [1]His father couldn’t be bothered to drop him off at the time of his actual appointment he’s a busy man of course. [2]Or until his father stops being embarrassed by him which is far less likely to happen. [3]There is only so much you can do on your phone before it gets boring. [4]This is probably just an after school job for her. [5]She tried for several weeks to start conversations with him upon his arrival but eventually decided he mustn’t be the talkative type and now leaves it at the greeting. [6]A new one each visit, thick and old but well-loved; not a page out of place.

[7]His brother and everyone associated with him insist on calling Aziraphale various nicknames to annoy him. [8]The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. [9]An item of clothing Crowley has yet to see him wear before today and plans on teasing Aziraphale about his old-fashionedness should the other choose to continue speaking to him after making such a fool of himself. [10]Possibly recalling the incident which resulted in his new position of 'babysitter', which consisted of Beelz not going to her session at all and choosing to instead smoke a pack of cigarettes in the parking lot, and flick the butts at her therapist's car. [11]He refuses to get up until the therapist specifically asks for him.

[fireofmyloins19]

Chapter 6 - Him

Oh how unfortunate it should be to love an older man. Unless, he was to love you back. 

Prologue / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5

Thomas Shelby - Him.

The truth was, that hadn’t been Rose’s last Whisky. She’d sank another two only minutes after Tommy had left to get over the shock alone, then another two to send her to sleep. Now, in the first embers of morning light she found herself rushing about the box room, shielding her eyes from the sharp rays which darted through the inconvenient gaps in the curtains and stumbling over the mess which continued to be a problem she hadn’t got round to resolving. 

She slipped on a milky pink dress, hoping to add a fragment of colour to the constant shadow looming over Watery Lane, whilst embracing the fact Spring was soon to be upon them. The cotton felt soft against her skin, bringing her a little comfort as she perched in front of the mirror, greeted by her own dreary complexion. She knew she should have been happy, ecstatic even, yet the nerves of beginning her work at the Shelby company combined with her confusion of the events that had unfolded the night before outweighed her excitement for the time being.

Her mind was foggy and she remained unsure whether to put it down to the regrettable Whisky or her infatuation with Tommy Shelby, only now having been fuelled further by his advances. She leaned closer to the grainy image of herself, raising her finger and tracing her lips slowly where he had been, the memory of his visit playing through her mind like silent movie. If it wasn’t for the unwashed tumbler glasses, remnants of Whisky forming droplets at their bottom, she may have considered it to have been a dream. Although the giddy, girlish hopeless romantic within her wanted to scream with joy, she knew better. Refraining from asking herself too many questions that she doubted she would ever get the answers too, not wanting to think too much into his actions and although it deeply hurt to do so, simply putting it down to the Whisky and his idea of harmless fun.

She broke away from the mirror and held back a sigh, giving herself a few words of encouragement before actually beginning to get ready for the day, determined for her new job role at the company to be her main priority.

“And where would you be off round here at this time in the morning?”

It was just before 8:00 am, the time Tommy had insisted Rose arrive at the office and she was now storming her way down the cobbles in a bid to get there no later. Her head hung towards the floor as she watched her footing carefully, weaving through the dribs and drabs of men who shuffled towards the factories with muttered conversation. Her face helplessly scrunched into a grimace at the sound of Michael’s voice, not that the presence of her best friend wasn’t welcomed, but she hadn’t even considered his opinion of her new role within the company amongst her other burdening thoughts. She slowed her pace apprehensively before turning to him, buying herself some time as she considered what she would say.

“The same place as you.”

“My office? Should let me know before you decide to drop by you see, if I’d of been a few minutes later you’d of been there before me and stuck in a conversation with Arthur about bloody horses or worse, women. Now I don’t think you’d of liked to hear what he has to say about that subject.”

She stifled a laugh when he approached her and they began a steady walk towards the shop together, Rose increasingly aware of the wide birth the passing men gave her now she was accompanied by Michael.

“Uh no,” she began to correct him, fiddling with the handle of her bag which she clutched tightly by her lap, “I have a job.”

“Here?” Michael stopped beside her, the corners of his lips tugging into a smile as he looked from Rose’s porcelain features, radiating her usual innocence and purity, to the now very familiar door of the Shelby Company Limited establishment. Its physicality like any other door, on any other house lined along the street, yet the goings on behind it were a far cry from feet stretched out in front of a roaring fire and the evenings supper being brought to boil.

“Here.”

“With the company? You?” His smile grew wider, unable to hide the preconceptions he had of Rose’s capability within such an organisation.

“Yes” she spat, shoving past him and defiantly making her way towards the door alone, “Is that a problem?”

“Nope” he followed with a light jog which meant it didn’t take him long to catch up to her. “What happened to writing poems for the people ey? I didn’t think that consisted of fixing races and handling artillery, but, here you are”

On any other day Rose would have given him what for, rising to his purposeful teasing and biting his head off with a trail of reasons why he was wrong and how her now working for the company wasn’t how it seemed, but with a hazy mind being consumed by the thoughts of Tommy Shelby and her stomach squirming with nerves, she didn’t have the time or the energy to bother. Rather, turning with a small bitter smile and brushing him off.

“Well like my mother would always tell me, writing nonsense words on scraps of paper for delusional half wits to swoon over is not, and never will be, a real job”

Upon entering the shop Rose was surprised to see that the majority were yet to arrive, empty chairs were pushed in behind the tables where eager men were to lay their bets, and from what she could see through the purposely heavily patterned glass, most of the offices were empty. Though the shop was occupied by John whom balanced on a stool by the blackboard, scribbling down the days odds.

“Well well well, Tommy said you’d be coming in this morning. 8:00 bang on the dot well done, though don’t worry, I wouldn’t have told him if it weren’t.”

Rose giggled at his playful remarks, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the golden hooks beside the door before stepping into the room properly. She set her bag onto one of the tables and surveyed John’s work with a hand on each hip, a slither of excitement at the prospect of her new job washing over her for moment.

“Hasn’t he arrived yet?”

“No he’s been out all night, dealing with some business.” She couldn’t stop her cheeks flushing red, even though she knew there was no way in hell John could have known that calling to see her in the early hours had been a part of Tommy’s business. “He should be here soon.”

She nodded in response although she doubted he had seen, shifting her gaze to watch Michael unlock his office and disappear through the door, shuffling about at his desk. Her heart felt heavy then as she heard the door to the main entrance swing open behind her, turning only to be greeted by a flurry of Peaky men filing in for their days work, a chorus of greetings exchanged with John whilst they made their way to their chairs. The volume in the room began to increase dramatically when more men entered, Rose now looking very out of place as she hovered at the side of the room, deciding to collect her belonging and walk the outskirts towards John, focusing her attention on his work in the hope of making herself look busy. She watched the white of the chalk carefully as it flicked along the board, clouded remnants sprinkling to the floor and along John’s shirt sleeve as he went. It was only now that Rose considered the words John had used in their previous conversation and a confusion dawned on her, her brows settling into a frown.

“John, you say Tommy’s been out all night? When did he tell you I would be here, this morning at 8:00?” She stared at the back of John’s head as he continued to scribble, oblivious to her confusion.

“Uh like 2 days ago I think? Yeah I think it was Sunday cause he told us at Pols, after dinner. Why?”

Rose stayed quiet for a moment whilst she mulled over the information, the realisation that Tommy had informed his brothers of her new job role before she had even accepted it being slightly irritating due to his obvious arrogance, yet also rather amusing.

“No reason It’s fine, I was just wondering”

Before John had chance to reply, their attention was snapped away from the conversation and towards Michael, who now stood in the doorway to his office holding the mornings paper up in the air triumphantly, calling out Rose’s name.

“You never told me one of your poems was going to be in the paper!”

“What?” Rose shook her head slightly as though to deny any knowledge, not able to find the words. She hurried towards him, taking the paper from his hands and there it was. Right before her eyes in black and white, the print of a poem with her name in bold underneath. She looked from her name to Michael, her nose scrunched and eyes squinted at the paper as though she had managed to read it wrong. “But I…”

She stopped herself before having the chance to explain that she had no idea why her name would be printed underneath the poem once she actually began to allow herself to read it. The first few words were instantly recognisable and there was no mistaking when and where she had read them before. She began again, just like she had in the early hours, taking in those same words carefully. The words that had meant nothing to her, lost and forgotten.

“She asked

‘you are in love, what does love look like?’

to which I replied,

‘like everything I have ever lost come back to me.’”

“Tommy” she whispered under her breath, thankfully not loud enough for Michael to register, piecing together the events that had unfolded and confirming to herself that this was indeed her poem. Her poem which had found its way into Tommy’s hands in her room, after being pulled from a dishevelled pile. The poem he had liked best. The poem he had related to, the one which to him, the words had meaning.

Tommy had made sure the poem was put there in the mornings paper, with her name printed underneath, clear as day. She was sure he had done it as a further apology, his influence within Birmingham having made him capable of even managing such a thing, allowing people to read her work, know her name. Hopefully get her some kind of recognition which she had longed for. Yet it was only now when she looked up to see him stood across the room, having entered unbeknownst to her, that she realised there was another reason he had put that poem there. It was his way of explaining to her why he found it relatable, whom the words concerned to him.

The sheer softness and love in his once blood curdling eyes at that moment, stole away every dark thought and acute sense of self loaf she had ever had, and as she stood transfixed in his gaze the flowers grew in her soul and finally, the words had meaning.

[sexy-marius-zone]

Toying (Part One)

Title: Toying (Part One)

Pairing: Sexy Zone/Female OC

Rating: PG-13

Subtext: Her big mouth landed her a strange contract

Note: In this story, Sexy Zone are third year high school students. So they're all the same age. The OC is one year younger than them, being a second year student. This story is inspired by Hana Yori Dango and will bear MANY similarities. Warning: LONG 

My name is Ayano Mizuki. You’ve probably never heard of me before, but you’ve definitely heard of Kaisei Academy. Yes, the internationally renowned Kaisei academy. School for the heirs to large corporations or spoiled sons and daughters of rich assholes. All very famous, all admired. So why don’t you know me? Well that’s because I’m a commoner, as they would say. A poor girl living amongst people who wear Gucci as if it’s an everyday thing. 

In the midst of Kaisei academy there is the F5. F5 stands for founding five, which sounds terribly drab, which is probably why they abbreviated it. The F5 consists of the five heirs to the companies that founded Kaisei academy. They are given full reign to the school, and everyone worships them.  These five are: Sato Shori, Nakajima Kento, Kikuchi Fuma, Matsushima Sou, and Marius Yo. 

Sato Shori. No doubt the leader of the group. Blessed with wickedly good looks, he’s a serious person who rarely smiles, but when he does the whole world turns to look. He’s the heir to the largest technology corporation in the world, the Sato Tech group. They are the most advanced group in technology, and is praised for being efficient and flexible to all changes. Rumour has it that they’re also tied to the underworld.

Nakajima Kento. Playboy who can make every girl weak in the knees. His parents are no doubt big faces in the entertainment world. His father is a well renowned actor and his older sister is a model. Rumor has it that Nakajima Kento himself is skilled in almost all fields of the arts, from acting to modeling.  

Kikuchi Fuma. Father is a famous music composer and singer. He’s composed music for many popular artists of different genres, and was praised for having a voice that anyone could enjoy. Some say that his son has the same musical talents and can sing like an absolute angel. 

Matsushima Sou. His father was a photographer who anyone could hire for a large sum of money. He was talented in the photography field, and his photos were magical. A modeling corporation hired him to shoot one of their models for a magazine, and he fell in love with the model. This is how Matsushima Sou’s parents met, and the story is loved by so many in the world, that there have been so many movies and books based around the story. Matsushima Sou is never seen without a camera, and people say he is always smiling. 

Marius Yo. His parents own some of the most high class restaurants in the world. They also own popular restaurant chains. Renowned chefs known to be innovators of the culinary world, people already have high hopes for Marius Yo, and they say he may be even better than his parents. 

Don’t they sound nice? They sound perfect, maybe even too perfect. Remember how I said they have full reign over the school? Well that isn’t so much a good thing. 

“It’s the red notice! Kirishima Saki got the red notice!” a person yelled, running down the hall. Everyone in my classroom stood up, shit-eating smiles on their faces. The teachers dismissed all classes and everyone went out to chase down Kirishima Saki. Kirishima was doomed, and he knew it too. I sighed, following the crowd reluctantly. 

“There he is!” someone shouted. Everyone turned to see Kirishima Saki running up the stairwell, trying to escape the massive crowds that were hunting him down. He reached the top to come face-to-face with another group of people. He was surrounded. 

Two boys kicked him and dragged him to the front hall, in front of the five chairs that were reserved for the F5. They were not present at that moment, but I knew that they would be here very soon. As Kirishima cowered on the floor, the crowd jeered. A few people started egging the poor boy, who was defenseless. There was no way anyone would come and help him. After all, you’d get on the bad side of the F5 if you did, and no one wanted that. 

“Ahh! F5 is here!” shouted the girls, all batting their eyelashes in hopes of catching the attention of one of them. The crowd parted, letting them through. One guy held up Kirishima’s egg-soaked frame. “Sato, we caught him.” he announced proudly. Shori smiled, “Put him down.” The boy dropped him and faded back into the crowd.Shori bent down to look at the targeted boy. “You’re not coming to school again right?” he grinned wickedly. Kirishima shook his head. “Good.” Shori smiled, standing up, “Dispose of him.” Two boys took Kirishima outside, while the rest waited for F5′s next orders. 

With a wave of his hand, the crowd was dismissed, and everyone dispersed.  “What did Kirishima do anyway?” One girl asked.  “I heard he bought a limited edition watch that Sato wanted.” Her friend replied. “Wow, what an idiot.” She replied, laughing. 

I groaned. Why am I in this school? I don’t belong here. Sometimes I wish I could shut up the F5 once and for all, but my parents worked so hard to get me in this school, that I want to repay them by graduating safe and sound. Which means laying low and being unnoticed. I already stand out because I don’t bring any designer items to school, and I can’t afford the school lunches. Luckily I haven’t been bothered by anyone yet.

Or so I thought. 

“It’s so annoying! They act like complete narcissists and control the school through fear! They don’t understand what respect is either. Spoiled brats.” I huffed as you chatted away on your phone to your best friend, Nakamura Rika. I was in the park after school as usual, and was waiting for her to come. The two of you worked a shift at the ice cream shop across from the park, and we’d always meet at the same bench everyday after school. 

“So Kaisei isn’t as wonderful as people make it to be huh.” Rika sighed.  “Definitely not. The students are all spoiled brats and the F5 is an excuse for the five to not wear the uniform.” I complained.  “Mizuki, I’m almost there okay? I have to hang up because my battery is depleting fast.” Rika laughed. “Alright then, see you there.” I replied, smiling. 

“Narcissists huh?” a voice said from behind me. I turned around to find myself face-to-face with F5′s Matsushima Sou. “Is that so?” he smiled, his signature camera dangling around his neck. “Uhh.” I couldn’t answer. I was terrified that he heard what I had said. “I heard everything. Ayano Mizuki right?” he grinned. “I’ll remember that.” he nodded before walking away. I let out a big breath, quivering. I was so screwed tomorrow. 

“Mizuki!” Rika called as she ran up from behind me, “What’s wrong?” “F5′s Matsushima Sou heard our conversation.” you whispered in fear. “No way!” her eyes widened. “I’m going to get a red notice tomorrow.” You felt yourself tear up. “Mizuki... You’ll be fine! You’re Mizuki after all! The person who protected me all throughout my childhood from the countless bullies.” Rika smiled, trying to cheer me up. I took a deep breath and nodded.  “You’re right.” I said, though the pit in my stomach never left. 

I’ve never been so scared to open up my locker. I could already picture it. The red notice dangling from my locker. The shouts that filled the hall. The humiliation. I shook my head, clearing those thoughts. 

I can do this. So I opened the metal door with my eyes squeezed shut. As soon as I had opened it I opened my eyes to see- 

Nothing. There was no notice. I felt relieved but also couldn’t help but feel confused. Why wasn’t there a notice? Did I imagine the encounter with Matsushima Sou wrong? Yet despite that I was so happy I couldn’t hide the large grn the filled my face. My classmates looked at me with disgust as I sat down at my desk, smiling.  

It’s a good day. I thought to myself, giggling a little. “Ayano Mizuki?” a boy called from the doorframe. “Yes?” I responded, turning around to face him. “The F5 wants you.” he said. My smile vanished instantly.The people in my class laughed.

“What did you do, commoner?” someone jeered as I followed the boy out the class. “Did... Did they say why?” I asked quietly. “How should I know? All I did was follow orders. Plus it’ll be good riddance to have you gone.” He laughed. knocking on the large double doors marked with a golden plaque. The plaque read: F5. “Come in.” A voice called, and he swung the doors open.

“I have brought Ayano Mizuki.” he announced, bringing me forward. From the corner of my eye I could see Matsushima smile. “Good. Leave now, return to class.” Sato said, dismissing him. The boy bowed and left the room. And now I was alone. And probably screwed. 

“So, Ayano Mizuki, righ?” Sato said from his large desk. “Yes...” I nodded, nervous. “Sou told us about things you said outside of school.” He said, his smile getting more and more malicious by the second.  “What were they again Sou?” Shori asked.

“Narcissists, spoiled, don’t understand respect.” Matsushima listed. “She’s the commoner girl isn’t she?” Kikuchi said, focused on writing.  “Yes. The infamous commoner of Kaisei.” Nakajima nodded, looking up from his book to glance at me. “So commoner, you know why you’re here don’t you?” Sato crossed his arms and leaned back.

“You want me to leave the school?” I whispered. “That would be nice, but Matsushima here had a better idea. We got some intel on you and your current situation. We want to make a deal with you.” He said, holding out some papers.

It was a very official looking contract with my name on it.

I, Ayano Mizuki, agree to become the loyal servant of the F5 until they graduate. Conditions: In turn to the agreement the F5 will grant her immunity to all red notices, and her family will be pampered with luxuries.

If Ayano Mizuki chooses to decline, she will be given an immediate red notice and those in relation to her will be doomed. Bla bla bla bla.

The rest weren’t important, but I frowned. The contract was very unprofessional. “Your servant? What does that even mean?” I raised my voice a little, agitated. They were giving me no choice on the matter!

“We thought you may ask that, so we decided that you can have a one week trial of what it would be like to be our servant, before officially deciding.” Sato smirked.

Just then the door opened. “Hey!- Oh.” The energetic voice of Marius Yo dwindled into a low hum as he saw what he had interrupted. “Marius, bad timing as always.” Kikuchi remarked, laughing slightly.

“Whatever.” he huffed, sitting down on his desk. Sato cleared his throat. “Well, your decision please.” he remarked. 

I gritted my teeth.  “I’ll try it out for one week, but let me read ALL the details of this first.” I demanded. “As you wish. Sou?” Sato looked to the photographer, who pulled out more papers and handed it to him. Sato gave me the papers. “Go ahead and read these.” He pointed to the wooden chair sitting in a corner.  “Sit there and read. Be quick, we don’t have much time.”

I read and read and read and read. It didn’t seem to bad. The contract stated that it wouldn’t interfere with times outside of school, unless it was a huge emergency. I had 10 sick days I could use to be exempted from serving them for a day. If I ran out of sick days to excuse myself, any other misses will have to be made up outside of school.

I stood up again. “You’re done?” Sato said, smirking as he took the papers back from me. “Sign here.” Marius said, handing me the contract and a pen. “I haven’t agreed to it yet.” I frowned. “You will anyway!” He teased, laughing.

I sighed, taking the pen from him and signing my name. “Great! You start tomorrow!” Marius smiled widely. “Wait, what about the trial?” My eyes widened. “You already signed the contract! You should’ve asked for a trial first.” Matsushima laughed. I glared, upset at myself for getting fooled so easily by such shitty people. “Now you can leave. See you tomorrow, maid.” Matsushima smiled and Marius showed me to the door.

“Sou you’re insane.” Kikuchi muttered as I left the room. “Whatever! You all are thanking me for this.” He shrugged. “She is cute!” Marius gushed, sitting down at his desk. Sato sighed. “You guys always play around so easily.”

“Are you serious!?” Rika exclaimed as I relayed what had happened today. I nodded, my face mournful as I scooped some ice cream for the one lonely customer. He took the ice cream and left the shop, leaving the two of us in silence again. “With a contract and everything? That’s so-” She paused, trying to think of words to say. “It was a terribly written contract though. Completely unprofessional.” I laughed a little, sighing.

“Was it really?” someone asked as they opened the door, the bell tinkling. We both turned our heads to see F5′s Marius Yo there, smiling as usual. “Was the contract unprofessional?” he smiled, walking up to the counter to scan the ice cream. “Yes...” I replied subduedly, nodding my head.

“I knew it! Shori always does that.” He exclaimed, exasperated. “Would you like something sir?” Rika chirped, hoping to make another sale. He nods. “I’ll take the usual.” he said, smiling. “Usual...?” Rika looked perplexed.

I handed her the notepad where different workers had put down what customers’ “usual” was. “Oh, chocolate and butterscotch?” she read, looking to Marius for confirmation. He nodded. Rika proceeded to scoop his ice cream. “You come here often?” I asked, trying to make small talk. He just nodded in response. 

“Funny, I never see you.” I shrugged, “And I’m here almost everyday after school.” “I usually come during school lunchtime.” He finally responded. Ah, that’s why. Wait he can leave during lunch? Of course he can! He’s F5. I mentally groaned. “Here’s your ice cream sir.” Rika handed him the ice cream and rang up the bill. He paid and left the shop, but not before saying,  “See you tomorrow, maid!” To Be Continued (It was supposed to be one whole post but it’s too long, whoopsies)

[ecotone99]

[HM] The Ramblings of an Inept Alcoholic

I was always destined to be an alcoholic. My father drank, his brothers drank, and their father too: and when he lost the ability to swallow, he drank through an IV. He was a good drinker.

I was never sure if my mother was an alcoholic. She was the sort who just slumped in her chair and watched the telly. But she did that when she was sobre, if she ever was sobre, for all I knew she was perpetually inebriated: a far better position to be than in a perpetual state of level. I hesitate to contemplate such a thing. I do not think my father would have married her if such was the case. On second thought he most probably would have. From the lack of cohesion they share, it is reasonable to suppose that the wedding happened quite by accident, and that the whole exchange had been a mishap, that some other woman had been designated as my fathers wife, and that through a haze of drunk delirium, they had much to the misfortune of all, ended up together. To this day I believe that my father won her, or the woman she had replaced, in some drinking game.

My father is quite a drinker. Whether there is pride in my voice when I say this is up to further analysis. Pride is a thing that I have been taught to value only when it is there; and given that I lived my first, however many years, without it, I have quite forgotten its consistency. I recognize it in others, quite often: it is rather belittling. He always was a good drinker. Born to it. From the age of three he had learnt to swim, finding himself in vats of wine. First flask aged four, preferred it to my grandmothers tits: he says that it was less concentrated, less fiery down the gullet.

He was the sort of drinker, whose stories needed no exageration. This isn’t to say that there was no exaggeration, that were the case people’ld think him a lightweight. You have to be tall you see: every man, woman, child knows that your tales must be at minimum twice magnified: it shows discipline. See when he told of winning a town wide drinking contest, there was no lie told. So what does he do? He fabricates the elephant; his main contestant. A large one too. As he’d tell it: big as any building, and bigger still, greater than any tree of the forest, king of all elephants, it’s trunk larger than his wife: which was a trying task for any elephant: and involved a certain lack of proportion, but I garnered that my father’s knowledge of elephants stopped at its ability to drink.

My father was always supportive of me. I resented him for it. He would nod at me: a greeting that said “How do you do? Are you well?” He’d crack open a beer for me once or twice, perhaps by accident, but deeds over words as they say. And I hated him for it. His father beat him. His grandfather beat his father. And I was left, shame of the family, alone and unbeaten.

I suppose with the retrospect a clear mind can provide, that the blame lay on me. That I chose not to suck from my mother’s tit, that I chose not to earn my father’s belt. Born without nerves, into a world no longer tumultuous, into an era with nothing to protest. No oppressor, no pressure, no point to prove. I was given everything, and for that I received nothing.

Eight, the age at which I first tried drink. Brown, and smelling of disease. Pinched my nose and poured a small dosage down the back of my throat. I noticed two things, that it tasted as it smelled, and that I was about to die. I had taken far too large a dose, and there were no ice cubes to dilute it; and my throat was on fire, and I was going to asphyxiate. When I threw it up, my throat was burnt twice. Caught, red faced, so to speak, my father laughed. It was cheap. Neither his smile nor his eyes held disappointment, and I hated him for it. I didn’t touch the stuff again, until the age of twelve.

Smoking started, age ten. Even at that age I knew sobriety to be shameful. And I was teased at every interval by my uncles and their friends. The same ever repeating lines, a result of some alcohol induced brain damage, perhaps early onset dementia. I later strived to replicate such things. I never liked to smoke: it was an expense, it smelled bad, and I knew it to cause ulcerations of the stomach. But it hid the lack of alcohol on my breath, and that in itself was enough.

There were no kids my age, and by that I mean that there were two. One, a product of incest: so I was told, and so I believed; and had certain difficulties, but it may well have been foetal alcohol syndrome: and so I took a disliking to him. The other was female and fat, and that’s all I ever knew of her: Pregnant Penny her nickname. Our teacher, a television and the front cover of a graffitied textbook. Behind the desk and in a state of mellow high, a convicted sex offender. A fact, and the only words he ever spoke to us. I suppose that we were a disappointment. And in later years, when pubescent Penny made her attempt at seduction, she was returned to her seat with the raise of two eyebrows.

At twelve I discovered the older kids. And in return for cigarettes, I was allowed to remain, and to laugh at their jokes, which were implied to be humoristic. Their class was large, with five, and so I went unnoticed. Their teacher, a divorcee, slumped lifeless and dead. And through them I learnt much of the world. And I first tried beer, a bitter brown, resemblant of piss. It went down easy, but went up just as easy. There was neither disappointment nor disdain in their eyes. To support them, and to support myself, I found a job.

Too few people read for a paper route. The pub, a family business. The coffee shop, distasteful of my manners. And the church did not pay. It was in the rundown library that I found employment. The pay was poor, but the work paltry. A one person job, stretched to two, as to not stretch one's legs. The owner much resembled her cat, slumped at the checkout, her eyes beady, whiskers not so much as a twitch. The cat of course, was stuffed. I stacked, and stood, such that nothing was stolen. On occasion, my advice was sought, and with no experience of such things, the recognition of my opinion that is, I would simply recommend the most nuanced titles. Whether they were in search of classical literature, a light read, or a comic, a short walk to the pornographic section would ensure returning customers. From this too, I learnt much of the world. As with tobacco, you grow accustomed to the aroma. And when a man with round glasses, or a woman with a wrapped shawl, crossed our entrance, we would be shutting for lunch; and when they returned an hour later, we would be shutting for the day. On a Wednesday afternoon, a couple of years later, I would go in to find her dead at her desk. A coronary apparently. Two hours it took to notice, and only then from a build up in flatulence.

It was that same year in which my father caught me skipping class. At the park sharing a pack, brown paper bottle in hand, hearing of the excavation of a second cousin from Wisconsin in Canada. And out of a bush, a prickled bush, with thorns like knives, he emerged: distinguished in dishelvery. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust, several more for surroundings, several more still to observe my presence, and several more that I was his son. Faint and faded smile, and he was gone. The last time that I hung with the older kids.

Sixteen and faced with a decision, uncertain of expectations, I buckled under the pressure and remained in education. Fueled by an alcoholic bulimia, I sought professional aid. And through the writings of Hemingway and S. Thompson, found a certain peace. Only for it to be blown away with the setting sun. Life polarized to the neon saturates and the drab muddy monochrome. Like any opiate, addiction was to happen in several well defined stages. And in recovery there were recurring thoughts of ending it: myself and the pain that came with unrequiting aspirations. All of this and more, quickly forgot in encountering Becky. A sightly slap to the face, overshadowed by its all too physical manifestation. She was the kind of abuse I had yearned for. Young love I supposed. All things come to an end, this too I supposed, witnessing her take a long and shafted suppository, in the school parking lot. Aged eighteen school ended, an unceremonious affair. On Monday it was there, and Tuesday it wasn’t. No one seemed to notice, no one cared. An ashen debris, with arson suspected. And I left for the city.

I became a writer, for they knew how to drink, to smoke, to revel in the ravellings of their own ineptitude. And I did just that, though drinking limited. Insomnia came and went, its passing a side effect of the caffeine and sedatives. I became a writer and did not write: my take on modern literature. My time occupying itself with music and movies, and I learnt that taste was subjective, pubs and clubs and bathroom stalls, with women most often whiskeyed. And then there came a time, when my card was declined, and there became need for a real occupation. And so, two weeks into the life of a writer, I found myself an accountant, with expectations, responsibilities, a thin black tie and a station of free coffee. The money was good, and I became a whore to the constitutional stability. It was only as I mused over the monthly and annual gym membership rates, that my subliminal sufferings became sentient.

The doctors offered sanctuary. A place to list my concerns: that I was twenty and recycling, that I listened to pop music, that this winter I was to ski in Aspen, and that I ate fair-trade, free-range, organic. And he listened, eyes sagged, and asked what I wanted. I responded ‘to drink, to be depressed, to have direction’. And I was given a prescription of sugar pills, and told to get married. A liver transplant, simply would not have been enough.

It was while in pursuit of a wife, that my mother passed. Mistook the highway for the couch. No funeral, no coffin, no cremation, a hole in a field. And sat atop her, I wandered whether pissing or weeping was more appropriate. I supposed it unprecedented. And in any case, my bladder was barren, and there were no onions at hand.

My uncles at forty, were put in a home. Their minds bent and broken, unable to recall which twin they were, unable to finish their own sentences. All culminating in an altercation, in which one brother mistook the other for a mirror, eliciting two broken noses, and enough blood for several large scale transfusions.

We had neither the money nor the sentiment to pay. Instead, an exchange of prisoners. We took two men, ages unknown, providing them a bench in a park, a wholemeal loaf and the company of half fledged pigeons: the neighbouring ducks being an indecent bunch. A homeless shelter stood not half a mile away. A better life.

My uncles were left dry but miniatures: a sip a day. In a purgatory, self-made and self-deserved. Anticipating response, our contact numbers were left in sharpie, stamped upon their wrists. In hindsight, a tattoo might have lasted longer. This was the last we saw of our uncles.

My father's time would come decades later. He clung to life as a tick, yet to drink his fill. I would visit sporadically, mainly for demotivation; a reminder of wasted potential. At a certain point, he was moved, with great force, out of his residency. Henceforth his habitation of the local bar, became in perpetuity. Had a squatter maintained his rights, the pub would be under new management. But a squatter had no rights, my father neither, and he found himself a gravitational force for tourists, who would gawp in reticent inertia. During one such display of excessive drinking, he self-ignited, gaining for himself a sizeable applause. I thought it in poor taste, combustion being the leading cause of climate change and all.

His death hit national news, with a civil lawsuit being filed against the liquor distributor. International news came next, and through which I garnered an appearance on a talk show. The whole run-up being rather insidious, as I prepared to defile my father’s name. A publicist prepped me on dress and on what could be said: which was very little, and was most ninety percent made up by a would-be screenplay writer, assistant of hers. A publicist working for a group of lawyers, whose representation I never solicited, in a trial I never sought, to which end I struggled to discern; but the amenities were above par, and for that I went along supposing it a potential anecdote.

His name... I misremember, but was American and smooth, like coffee. His temperament too: coffee or cocaine, perhaps the two. And his laugh almost natural, and his hair shone as a Sub-Saharan sun, and was moulded in such a way that I was reminded of Marie Antoinette. My spiel was made less dry, by a tangential discussion on the legalisation of cannabis. My view being, it was detrimental to the youths of tomorrow: fewer laws to violate. They thought it British sarcasm, I thought them sheep to the hypocrisy of liberalisation.

I went from being an accountant to having an accountant, and an attempt at being sophisticated and civil. With wines red, not rough, conversations loaded in undertone, and orchestras and operas and an all female rendition of Othello. But sociability did not stick, it bore far too much resemblance to emphatic boredom. So I left it all behind.

And that was my life, at least that which was worth reading about, and which was not too explicit. That most moments were in relation to another, is either the defining characteristic of the human condition, or evidence of my position as a bystander to my own undefined life.

___________End___________

Authors comments/ what I think of it: 1) The beginning sucks, the first few paragraphs need work. 2) The structure is a little simplistic and could be improved. 3) There are a couple of sentences that feel out of place i.e. they are too poetic 4) There are some sentences that dont flow well together. I.e. it feels abrupt 5) The end is as abrupt as an end can be, and it seems to confuse people. 'that most moments were in relation to another': another means 'another person' instead of 'another moment'. Don't know how obvious that is. But adding person would ruin the flow of the sentence.

Wouldn't mind other opinions? This is the first thing I've written that I thought was (despite shortcomings). Is it actually good?

submitted by /u/blueycarter [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/35WLSPj

[personalcoachingcenter]

The Best Interior Planning Advice In The World

New Post has been published on http://mydecoradvice.com/decor_ideas_from_web/the-best-interior-planning-advice-in-the-world/

The Best Interior Planning Advice In The World

Many people want to increase their home’s value by having it stand out. Many, however, do not understand interior decorating. Read this article for some great interior planning tips!

When you are putting together a home office make the most use of the space you have. Lighting is a very important part of an office, and so is the chair and desk. To make a place that you want to spend time in while working, implement some design choices that have visual appeal.

Think of the purpose of the room before you design. For example, a colorful palette of primary colors is well-suited for a playroom or child’s bedroom. Use more subdued colors in a library where serenity is the goal.

TIP! Think of the purpose of the room before you design. A child’s room could be decorated with colors that are lively and vivid to coordinate with their personalities.

Keep your room’s lighting in mind. Consider the natural light available when choosing a paint color. Choose lighter colors for rooms with less natural light as darker colors may make the room feel cramped.

For the best way to display your art in any room, remember to hang the art at eye level. Hanging art in the wrong places can cause your guests to strain their necks.

If you are redesigning your kitchen, think outside the box when it comes to counter tops. Granite has always been popular, but interesting materials such as wood and cork can work well too. They can be less costly than other options and will give the kitchen a unique style of its very own.

Before you start any design work, decide what mood you are going for. Moods can extend from bold and exciting to tranquil and soothing. Selecting a mood prior to starting will help you map out your decisions for your space so that you are more likely to achieve the feel that you want when you finish.

TIP! Pick a mood or theme you want to have going on in your living space before beginning a design project. You can take your room in an exciting, vibrant direction or keep things calm and serene.

Try to be reasonable when redecorating your living space. While you may have some eclectic ideas, make sure that you do not add something that may be permanent if it is only be a passing interest. If you are going to put your home up for sale in the near future, then having crazy decor could prevent potential buyers from purchasing your home. If really want an unusual room, use items that can be removed easily.

If you have a very small space, you might want to consider adding a mirror or two to the walls. Mirrors make any room seem much larger, which helps to give the look and feel of your home a much bigger presence. Make the perfect mirror a part of your living space.

Do not neglect to think about the traffic your room gets when placing furniture. You should place furniture appropriately throughout the space in order to make it easier for people to maneuver. Although you want your home to look beautiful, it also needs to be functional.

Don’t buy a designer brand of anything unless you have to. Top of the line decor can cost an arm and a leg, but you may find cheaper alternatives without the designer name brands. Only buy designer brands if similar items cannot be found at a lower cost.

TIP! You can lower your design budget by opting for quality pieces from big-box merchants. When you find high-end decor that you like but doesn’t fit your budget, search for a similar piece of a different brand.

You may not even consider it, but a basement is a great place for interior planning. The basement is usually the darkest part of your home. Go ahead and give your basement a better look with brighter colors and by adding in a mirror or two.

Planning any type of interior decorating project requires a lot of work and preparation. You must consider the available space first. Seek out furniture and accessories that have more than one use. The right lighting can also make a room appear bigger.

If you want to hang artwork on the wall, make sure you do not hang it too high or too low. Try placing it around 8-10 inches from the back of your couch.

Getting rid of clutter is the first step towards interior design. Virtually every house needs a thorough cleanup from time to time. Empty your closets and get rid of anything you no longer need. You can donate your extra things to a charity or even have a garage sale!

TIP! De-cluttering is the best method of preparing for a home renovation project. Nearly ever home could benefit from having a good clean-up.

A great thing to remember when it comes to interior design is that consistency is key. Rustic furniture and a modern fire area, for example, are not looks that will gel well together in the same room. Settling on a single, cohesive theme ensures that the finished product achieves the desired look and feel.

If you only have a little bit of time and money to redesign you space then all you need to do is paint the walls. Walls often start becoming drab after a while and need a fresh coat of paint. Adding a new color to your walls can spruce up any room.

If your room is short on light sources choose a shiny, reflective flooring that will reflect what little light there is in the room. Hardwood and white tile are just two options for reflective floors that you can use. Any of these selections will brighten your room. Avoid dark matte wood finishes or carpets and rugs for they will absorb the light making the room even darker.

Only listen to some of what professionals say regarding interior design. Following the advice of others instead of listening to your own desires will leave you with a home the reflects the interests and tastes of someone else.

TIP! Many experts have advice when it comes to designing your home. You should consider what they are saying, but you shouldn’t completely rely on them.

A great addition you can make to your office or living room is a library or a simple book shelf. This is both sophisticated and practical. also, always ensure that any bookends and blankets match the overall color scheme of the room.

A suggestion for livening up older rooms is installing a skylight. Skylights will open up rooms and bring the light inside. Skylights are a great addition to any home, and this is why you want to add in something like this.

If you’ve got a small home, you can have multipurpose rooms where everything fits together. For example, some homes use one area for both the dining and living spaces. To fit such a set-up, the ideal dining room table would be one that matches the decor of the living room as well as the dining room. If you can, shop for items for both areas at one time, including matching accessories that will tie the two spaces together.

When re-designing a kitchen, try thinking outside the box in regard to counter tops. Granite has always been popular, but interesting materials such as wood and cork can work well too. You might save some money by going this route, and you will create a unique look in your home.

TIP! Step outside the norm when you consider the look of counter tops in your kitchen design plan. There is always the popular granite to consider, but also think about using non traditional materials such as cork, concrete or wood.

A valuable decorating tip is to avoid leaving large open wall space in your home. You should be hanging something on those bare walls. It will add interest and character to the space.

You want to eliminate clutter at all costs. Collect all of your clutter and place it in a rented storage unit. If there is plenty of space outside, you might consider purchasing a storage shed.

In some cases you may be able to remove ceilings in order for your rooms look bigger. Especially if there is an attic which isn’t getting much use. This can be removed and your ceilings can be raised. Your space will appear brighter when you raise the ceilings because you will have more room for light to fill up.

Follow the trends if you want to be a good interior designer. You wouldn’t want to be known to have a home that is out of date. Don’t be afraid to peruse interior design blogs, magazines and television programs for inspiration.

TIP! For quick and easy inspiration, it helps to stay abreast of interior design trends and themes. If you do not know what is considered normal in this age you can end up with a home from the eighties.

As the above article has demonstrated, adding a fresh, exciting look to your home’s interior doesn’t have to be hard. Use these steps to make your home a worthy pace to return to. You can make your dream home come into fruition once and for all with the tips laid out here.

[thedeadshotnetwork]

Cory Booker Loves Donald Trump One warm Saturday afternoon last month in a ballroom in the convention center in downtown Raleigh, North Carolina, a local business leader introduced Cory Booker as a man “who may be our next president.” Booker, the tall, solidly built former mayor of Newark, the current junior senator from New Jersey and somebody people have been pointing to as a potential occupant of the Oval Office for going on half his life by now, rose from the dais, enveloped the space behind the lectern and proceeded to unleash an hourlong stem-winder. The attendees at the state NAACP convention were a friendly, expectant audience, and Booker is good at this part of being a politician—voluble and excitable but compelling to the point of kinetic, gesturing with his hands, widening his eyes, planting and replanting his well-worn loafers and intermittently using a white handkerchief to wick the sweat from the top of his shiny bald head. The people in Raleigh were rapt. They laughed when he wanted them to laugh. They hushed when he wanted them to hush. They were near tears when he wanted them to be near tears. And they responded throughout with knowing nods and church-like murmurs of assent. Given the buoyant vibe, it was easy to lose sight of the fact that what Booker was saying was highly unusual. At this moment of extreme political discord, it was even quite radical. The crux of his message was the importance of love. “Patriotism—let’s get to the root of the word—means love of country. And you cannot love your country if you don’t love your country men and women ,” Booker told them. “Love says everybody has worth and has dignity. It’s about looking at someone and … understanding that my destiny is interwoven with your destiny,” he continued. “You can’t lead the people if you don’t love the people.” And toward the end of his speech, Booker arrived at the nub. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “I’ve given an entire speech, and I haven’t mentioned the name of the president of the United States.” He still didn’t. “And you know why? Because it’s not about him.” His voice rose. “It’s about us!” The people clapped and cheered. “We’ve got all the power we need!” “We do!” somebody shouted from the crowd. “Don’t be one of those people I catch calling our president nasty names,” Booker said. “I’m serious. How can you think that you’re going to beat darkness by stealing darkness? If Nelson Mandela can love his jailers, if Martin Luther King can love Bull Connor—we’ve got to be people of love!” They cheered again. Booker over the years has talked a lot about love. “Consistent, unyielding love .” “An unbelievable amount of love .” “Crazy love … unreasonable, irrational, impractical love .” And for the better part of this decade, Booker has landed frequently on a particular phrase—the “conspiracy of love.” It’s a phrase he employs with an almost religious fervor—a combination of a guiding-light mantra and a permanent political slogan. He uses it to tell his story, from the suburbs of New York City to Stanford to Oxford to Yale. He uses it to tell the story of his family, from the poor, segregated South to the upwardly mobile comfort of the business and intellectual elite. And Booker uses it to tell the story of a country that has overcome its anguished, divided past by nurturing the bonds between white and black instead of stoking the dissension. Since at least 2011, he has used the phrase on panels and podcasts, in talks to credit union executives and furniture bosses, in campus lectures and at college commencements. He used it last year as an energetic surrogate and short-listed vice presidential possibility for Hillary Clinton. In his recently published book, called United , it’s the title of the first chapter. For some, though—including some members of his own staff—the repetition can elicit snickers and sighs. “In some circles,” Patrick Murray, a pollster at New Jersey’s Monmouth University, told me, “he’s known as Senator Conspiracy of Love.” And to those less loyal, it can trigger the kind of criticism that has tracked Booker throughout his 20-year political career—that he’s too cute, too corny or too clever, that he seems polished to the point of performative, that he’s more interested in soaring oratory than the relative drudgery of governance and legislation. “Long on vision, short on granularity,” as the former head of the Newark Alliance once said . But as saccharine or contrived as it might sound to some, those who know Booker the best insist it is nevertheless him. “It’s something that is really genuine and authentic to who he is as a person and how he views the world,” said Mo Butler, a former chief of staff. “It’s in his DNA,” Booker’s pastor, the Rev. Dr. David Jefferson of Newark’s Metropolitan Baptist Church, added. And so, if Booker runs for president in 2020—and he told me, for the record, it would be “irresponsible” to say at this time whether he will or he won’t—it’s hard to imagine that it would happen without millions of people beyond New Jersey and Washington, D.C., hearing him talk about love, and about the “conspiracy of love.” What chance, some worry, would Booker’s “conspiracy of love” have against an opponent who wields as one of his most powerful weapons a schoolyard talent to demean? David Axelrod, the former strategist for Barack Obama, has theorized that voters seek in their next president not a replica of the predecessor but a remedy—and a Booker candidacy certainly would present a stark contrast, assuming President Donald Trump is the Republican incumbent. If Booker does vie for the highest office, he will encounter a number of obstacles. Conservatives think he’s too liberal, and liberals tend to think he’s too conservative. His coziness with Wall Street rankles his party’s left flank. He has championed school choice, atypical for a progressive. He has had one notable brush with scandal—an accusation, which he denies, that he took a salary from a law firm that did business with Newark. And he’s 48 and single, a teetotaler and a vegan , with a monkish, ascetic streak, all of which might strike many in Middle America as odd or unrelatable. But then there is this—the open question of whether the love-talking Booker is the right fit at a time when angry, rattled Democrats are hankering for combative, fight-fire-with-fire, anti-Trump rhetoric. And the Democratic gains in Tuesday’s elections in Virginia , New Jersey and elsewhere have only fueled that rage. What chance, some worry, would Booker’s “conspiracy of love” have against an opponent who wields as one of his most powerful weapons a schoolyard talent to demean? “ What conspiracy of love?” former Trump campaign adviser Sam Nunberg told me. “That won’t work,” he said. “You use the word ‘conspiracy’ when you’re trying to sell books or movie tickets, not a political candidacy.” As even an informal slogan, Nunberg said, it’s fatally flawed because it’s not sufficiently simple. “It’s no ‘Make America Great Again.’” Still, said Democratic consultant Joe Trippi, a veteran of presidential campaigns: “We tend to go to the opposite as a country, and so when you look at the antidote to Trump’s divisive rhetoric, then Cory Booker—who he is, the way he talks, including this phrase—does set up kind of an opposite instinct of Trumpism.” But what if voters want retribution, not forgiveness? Perhaps Booker’s focus on love is just too soft, or simply too religious for a party that prides itself on inclusiveness but gets uneasy when the message sounds like it’s plucked from the Gospels. But if Democrats are to find Booker appealing as a top-of-ticket candidate, they’re going to have to get used to his pacifist-in-a-bar-fight style. “FUCK YOU,” somebody on Twitter told Booker earlier this year. “LOVE YOU,” he responded . *** The Capitol Hill offices of most members of Congress are richly appointed, the desks, shelves and walls covered with personal mementos, certificates of achievement and grip-and-grins with presidents and celebrities. Not Booker’s. Along with drab chairs and a picture of his parents, there’s a small statuette of the abolitionist and humanitarian Harriet Tubman, a small drawing of Martin Luther King Jr. and a photograph of Mahatma Gandhi. Booker’s space on the third floor of the Dirksen Senate Office Building is (to use his word) “austere.” When I visited him there earlier this fall, I was reminded of working a number of years ago on a story for Men’s Health about Booker, who at that time was well into his second term as mayor. We met at his apartment . The mostly bare walls and sparse, thrift-store decor gave it an almost dorm-room feel. “I’m not a big stuff person,” he told me now in his office on the Hill. Booker is an ideas person, and the “conspiracy of love” is his biggest, most animating idea. It is, he said, “a family ethos.” And his family history in some sense has prepared him to make the argument that we’re all in this together whether we like it or not. According to genealogical research done in 2012 by Henry Louis Gates’ PBS show, “Finding Your Roots,” Booker is 45-percent European —white. On his mother’s side, his grandfather was a freckled, red-haired bastard born in 1916 to a woman Booker knew as “Big Mama,” who had been impregnated by one of the white doctors in her small town in Jim Crow Louisiana. Deeper into the family tree, Booker has a great-great-great grandmother who was owned by her own father. These, he told Gates, are “the complicated, painful, amazing, wondrous stories of America, how they all mix to produce us.” It went beyond blood, too: Booker’s father grew up poor in the black part of Hendersonville, North Carolina, the son of a single mother who became ill and overwhelmed—and so was taken in by the family that ran the town’s black funeral home. A church collection plate helped pay for his first semester of college at North Carolina Central University. Booker’s father in the ‘60s and ‘70s climbed the corporate ladder at IBM, as did his mother, among the first African-Americans to do so, aided by civil rights foot soldiers of the Urban League. They were able to purchase their house in almost entirely white Harrington Park, New Jersey, thanks to fair housing activists who outsmarted a realtor who didn’t want to sell to them on account of their skin color. For Booker’s parents, his mother, Carolyn, and especially his father, Cary, who died in 2013, all of this added up to a “conspiracy of love.” It’s a term Booker’s older brother, also named Cary, recalls hearing around the house in their teens, he told me. And so when Booker graduated from high school as an honor student and standout football prospect, and when he graduated from Stanford with a bachelor’s degree in political science and a master’s in sociology, and when he earned a Rhodes scholarship, and when he got his law degree from Yale, and when he started running for and then winning political offices—at every milepost of accomplishment—the message from his parents always was the same. “I grew up,” Booker told me, “with the understanding that, ‘Boy, you didn’t get here on your own—you got here through the collective love of millions and millions of people.’” Robin Kennedy, wife of former Stanford President Donald Kennedy, told me she heard these stories the year Booker lived with them as barely a 20-year-old undergrad. So did Jody Maxmin, a Stanford professor of art, art history and classics, and one of Booker’s mentors. Ditto Andra Gillespie, who met Booker at a lecture he gave at Yale in 2001, wrote a book about him and is now a political scientist at Emory University. “He saw in his father’s origin story,” Gillespie said, “a model for what could happen if communities came together.” “We are,” Booker wrote in United , “the result of a grand conspiracy of love.” The word conspiracy today evokes immediately nefarious connotations, but Booker likes the juxtaposition of conspiracy and love . In the context of 2017’s poisonous climate, it’s “subversive,” he told me. “Defiant.” It packs, reminiscent of Tubman, Gandhi and King, “a humble radicalism,” he said. This is a phrase powerful enough to topple even the most oppressive institutions—slavery, imperial England, federally enforced racism in this country—and therefore perfect for the test Booker confronts now in Trump. But to win, he must tap into what he calls this nation’s “reservoirs of love.” “Does any of your reservoir of love flow toward the White House?” I asked him in his office. “To President Trump?” “I am so determined to fight and stop Donald Trump,” he said, “whether it’s taking health care away from millions of people, whether it’s putting in place a Muslim ban that I just find discriminatory and bigoted, whether it’s doing what he’s doing with our EPA or our DOJ . I want to fight him. But he will not … I’m not going to let him turn me into that which I want to fight against.” “Meaning,” I responded, “you are going to fight him, but you are not going to hate him—therefore you love him?” “Yeah,” Booker said. “I readily admit that.” I want to fight him,” says Booker. “But … I’m not going to let him turn me into that which I want to fight against.” Is loving Donald Trump, for a Democrat, right now, or ever, for that matter, really a winning political strategy? Booker basically told me I was asking the wrong question. “What,” he said, “are you defining as a triumph?” Winning elections. Not moral victories. In other words, for Democrats, a one-term Trump presidency—maybe even shorter than that. “But I’m talking about the real end that we seek,” Booker said, “which is the raising of the quality of life, bringing about greater justice, a greater sense of liberty for all—what our ideals are.” *** Booker always has been an uncommon combination of undisguised ambition and unflagging idealism. And he often has expressed those two aspects of his life in roundly religious terms. “I’m the most ambitious person you’d ever meet,” he told a reporter for Newark’s Star-Ledger in 1998, during his first City Council bid. He felt, he said, like he was “part of a really righteous campaign.” He absorbed his religious precepts early and well. As a boy in Harrington Park, Booker went every week to the African Methodist Episcopal Church in Closter, New Jersey. “My mom taught Sunday school,” Booker’s brother told me. At Oxford, though, Booker served as a co-president of a Jewish organization, the L’Chaim Society. When he moved to Newark as he was finishing his course work at Yale Law, to be a public-interest attorney, representing and organizing tenants, while eyeing a spot on the City Council, he began attending Metropolitan Baptist. It’s where he still goes, every Sunday he’s not in Washington or traveling somewhere else, usually seated for the 9:30 service in a pew near the front behind the wife of the pastor. “Cory,” the Rev. Dr. David Jefferson told me, “is very, very, very, very faith-driven.” When he ran for mayor in 2002, challenging the shrewd Sharpe James, who had held the office since 1986, his professed righteousness seemed almost comically overmatched. James called Booker a carpetbagger. He called him an Uncle Tom. He called him “a faggot white boy.” He suggested Booker was both Jewish and funded by the Ku Klux Klan. “Cory Booker isn’t for real,” said James’ ads. The race was the subject of an Oscar-nominated documentary named Street Fight . For Booker, it was a jolting introduction to political attack tactics, which he told me he considered “despicable.” But he had a choice to make. He called his pastor. “A lot,” Jefferson told me. “A lot. A lot. I mean … a lot.” Jefferson, Booker said, “reminded me who I am, and reminded me of who I aspire to be.” “He and I would have conversations about the Bible,” Jefferson said, “the whole notion as to what Jesus did.” “Jesus,” Booker told me, “was somebody that took unrelenting abuse and criticism [from] powerful people using their position to try to destroy him reputationally and ultimately physically.” The reality, though, in 2002 was that Booker lost. James, twice Booker’s age, won 53 percent of the vote. Booker was subdued but undeterred, convinced his strategy of more or less turning the other cheek would win out in the end. “Let us show our dignity,” he told his supporters the night of the loss, “by being gracious in this minor defeat.” Booker was elected mayor in 2006, when James sensed an approaching loss and bowed out. Jefferson told me it’s still not about winning or losing elections for his most famous congregant, which is exactly the kind of a thing a campaign manager would never say. “Cory’s contribution to public service and wanting to serve is deeper than just being an elected official,” his pastor said. “He really has a calling, and he believes that.” And that is? “And that is to do basically what Dr. King spoke about,” Jefferson said. “To love humanity by serving individuals. To be great by being able to serve. And you can’t serve unless you love.” To love those he serves? “ And those enemies that he has … He believes, as I do, too,” Jefferson said, “you will never overcome that with the same mentality, the same attitude—that what overcomes that will be the conspiracy of love.” When I asked Booker about what his pastor said, he told me, “Frankly, you can say Jesus was crucified—and I can say Jesus transformed the planet Earth, that his gospel transformed planet Earth, and has inspired generations of justice advocates to make change, from Gandhi being inspired by the teachings of Christianity to activists like Martin Luther King. So I do think that is the right path to walk, regardless of what you encounter, regardless of what happens to you—is to not let someone’s hate turn you into a person of hate, but to let yourself endure, no matter what, to be a person of love.” Back in 2008, in a piece in which a writer for Esquire labeled him a “wannabe savior,” Booker said he always wanted to be “a part of a spiritual revolution” and that “we need a prophetic leader—who can raise us above our baser angels.” Last summer, in his speech at the Democratic National Convention, he said “we are called to be a nation of love.” It prompted Trump to take a swipe. “If Cory Booker is the future of the Democratic Party, they have no future!” tweeted the then-Republican nominee, days after he had said in his own convention speech that the legacy of Hillary Clinton was “death, destruction and weakness.” “I know more about Cory than he knows about himself,” Trump added. If Trump’s cryptic broadside left some scratching their heads, Booker’s comeback did the same, only more. “I love Donald Trump,” Booker said on CNN. One of the hosts spoke on behalf of probably most of the viewers with her soft, almost reflexive response. “ What ?” *** Dirty cars and trucks on Interstate 280 raced past the fenced-in children’s playground, creating a noisy, distracting, exhaust-choked backdrop for a news conference—which was the aim. Booker had come here to Newark’s McKinley Elementary School one morning last month to unveil a bill he was calling the Environmental Justice Act . One way to parse his policy priorities these days is of course through the lens of a potential presidential candidacy—his stand with Senator Bernie Sanders for Medicare for All, for instance, was viewed widely as a nod to those on the left who consider him too far to the right—but another way to see his activities is to consider what is in essence Booker’s unified field theory. Environmental justice reform , criminal justice reform , raising the minimum wage , even the legalization of marijuana —it’s all part of the “conspiracy of love.” And while Booker did not utter the actual phrase at the playground at McKinley, he did use the idea to frame his proposed legislation. “Really, I want to start with this understanding that we’re all in this together,” Booker said into a microphone to the small gathering of community business and political leaders scattered among the swings and slides. “If there’s anything that I’ve learned about this nation’s ideals, from the hallmark of our country, e pluribus unum , to the spiritual reality of our nation, of diversity, of many different communities, it’s that we’re all integrated into one common destiny, and that injustice anywhere is indeed a threat to justice everywhere.” When Booker was done talking, two local reporters had questions. They asked basically the same thing: Why did he think he could turn this bill into law? Booker, after all, is a junior senator in the minority party. But this skepticism felt rooted, too, in the recent history of this city. Booker was the mayor here from 2006 to 2013, when he won a special Senate election to replace the late Frank Lautenberg—after which he was re-elected in 2014 to his current six-year term. During his time as mayor, Booker worked to become one of the best-known mayors in America, hopscotching the country giving often lucrative talks, stockpiling Twitter followers, starring in the Brick City television show on the Sundance Channel and demonstrating an ongoing penchant for publicity stunts like bringing diapers to homebound citizens in snowstorms. His record on the ground was more complicated. Through his charisma and connections, he attracted to the city, and especially to the downtown core, a mixture of corporate headquarters, hotels, restaurants and grocery stores. But unemployment remained higher than the state and national rates. Under Booker’s leadership, crime in the city went down—then it went back up. There were budget cuts. There were tax hikes. Citizens groused. In 2006, he won his election with 72 percent of the vote. In 2010, that went down to 59. And one of the signatures of Booker and his administration, the education reform efforts with a $100-million infusion from Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg plus another $100 million in matching funds from other wealthy private donors and venture capitalists, in the end spurred only marginal improvements in student performance. “Two hundred million dollars and almost five years later,” Dale Russakoff wrote in her book about it, The Prize , “there was at least as much rancor as reform.” Newark, if nothing else, is a bright-lights lesson in how hard it is to make change. The question for Booker is now what it’s always been: How, exactly, does he turn this kind of lofty rhetoric into actual reality? Responding to the local reporters at McKinley, his first instinct is more rhetoric. He invoked American history and the bold improbability of civil rights legislation. Environmental justice, he said, was no different. “I believe that when this stuff starts to prick the moral imagination of the country, we’re going to get this legislation done.” The question for Booker is now what it’s always been: How, exactly, does he turn this kind of lofty rhetoric into actual reality? Now, in the back of his black SUV, pulling away from the school, he added to the thought. “I’m just telling you. I’ve heard people tell me things are impossible before,” he told me. “And I’m not saying that Newark doesn’t still have a lot of work to do. But my experience is that the impossible is possible.” He was talking, again, at base about faith. King, one of his go-to exemplars, “pricked” America by weaving scripture and secular ideals to craft a single moral imperative that couldn’t be dismissed. And so here I asked Booker: Would he be willing to run for office—whether in a Senate campaign or for president—in an even more explicitly religious way? “I’ve studied Judaism, Hinduism, Islam and obviously my own Christianity,” he said. “It’s the core of everything I do. And I don’t shy away from it. I think Democrats should get much more comfortable being conversant in issues of faith and calling to whatever your moral text is, be that just a secular text, like our Constitution, or be it the Quran.” But at this juncture when the mantle of religion in politics has been so scrambled by Trump, would Booker, I wondered, run as, say, a Baptist progressive? Here, though, he was “reticent,” he said. Why? “I don’t want to turn people off.” Booker’s idealism often arrives in great torrents of words. Reminders of the ambition that accompanies it can be more succinct. *** People have been talking about Booker being the president since he was in law school. “I am not prone to overstatement,” Doug Lasdon, the founder of the Urban Justice Center in New York, told me. Booker was a summer intern for Lasdon in the late ‘90s and stayed with him at his apartment. “And I visited my dad,” Lasdon said, “and he said, ‘You know what’s he like?’ And I said, ‘Dad, this guy could be president of the United States.’ And I’ve certainly never said that about anybody else, but it was obvious—his character, his intelligence, his sense of empathy.” In Newark, people talked about Booker being the president already when he merely was running for City Council out of the Central Ward. Former Councilman Anthony Carrino used to say, “‘Hey, watch this guy, watch this guy, watch this guy—he might be president one day,’” former councilman and mayor Luis Quintana told me. “I said, ‘What, are you kidding? He just got off his Hot Wheels!’ I said, ‘You want him to be president?’ He was running for City Council!” And in 2002, when Booker was running for mayor for the first time, Marshall Curry heard it all the time when he was making Street Fight . “I can’t tell you how many people told me, ‘Cory Booker’s going to be the first black president, Cory Booker’s going to be the first black president,’” he told me. Then, of course, Booker wasn’t. Barack Obama was. And then the first black president led to President Donald Trump. Trump has used the word love as well—“so much love in the room,” he said at charged rallies—but it isn’t quite the same thing. So Booker has an opening in 2020 he wouldn’t have had if Clinton had won. If Axelrod is right that Americans vote for polar opposites, then Booker—who is about as different from Trump as Trump was from Obama—might be the man for the moment. Maybe too polar, say many other veteran hands. No one wants to come out against decency, but the gears of experienced political minds—Booker’s colleagues and veteran campaign strategists—click audibly when you ask if they think you can craft a platform on love. There’s a "but" wedged into almost every answer. New Jersey Republican Rep. Tom MacArthur doesn’t doubt Booker’s talk of the “conspiracy of love” is “sincere,” he told me, but he added: “The object of government is not to sit around a campfire and sing Kumbaya . The object of government is to advance things that are really going to benefit people’s lives.” Is there appetite within this battle of ideas for tenets of love? “My heart tells me, ‘Yeah, we’re ready,’” said Rep. Donald Norcross, a New Jersey Democrat. “My head says, ‘Let’s see what happens.’” “I’ve got to think people are looking for some empathy and compassion,” said Sen. Joe Manchin, the moderate Democrat from West Virginia, who counts Booker as a friend. Strategists and consultants from both parties are wait-and-see about Booker’s approach. “Substantive change for the better cannot come from anger and resentment—they are fundamentally destructive impulses,” Reed Galen, a Trump critic who worked on the presidential campaigns of George W. Bush and also John McCain’s, told me. “But you can’t just be out there saying it’s all sunshine and rainbows.” “I don’t know that ‘conspiracy of love’ wouldn’t work … but it won’t work on its own,” added Bob Shrum, the longtime Democratic strategist. “It depends on what he says and whether he’s believable. And we won’t know that unless or until he gets out there.” Iowa and New Hampshire await should Booker choose to run. The politically wired in those two key states say he isn’t nearly as known there as he is in Washington and the Northeast. People know just enough to know they want to know more. “The conspiracy of love? It makes me smile,” Jerry Crawford, an attorney and a Democratic kingmaker in Des Moines, told me. “That’s going to play better in Iowa than in D.C. It’s positive when we need positive.” It makes Sean Bagniewski, the chair of the Polk County Democrats, think of Obama’s “audacity of hope,” he said. The conspiracy of love? “I think it would be more likely the activists here would say, ‘Huh?’” New Hampshire might be harder. “I think New Hampshire Democrats are like Democratic activists elsewhere,” UNH political scientist Dante Scala told me. “They’re in a fighting mood right now.” The conspiracy of love? “I think it would be more likely the activists here would say, ‘Huh?’” In Newark, back in Booker’s SUV, I asked him about all this. “I hear Democrats often say this, that Republicans are so mean … we’ve got to stop being so nice,” he said. “I’m, like, ‘That’s 100-percent opposite to what we need to be.’ We don’t need to take on the tactics that we find unacceptable in the Republican Party. That doesn’t mean we don’t need to fight hard and make sacrifices and struggle and battle—but we do not need to take on the dark arts.” What, though, if that’s what people want ? After all, he was praised by his party when he broke with Senate tradition to rebuke his colleague Jeff Sessions during his confirmation hearing. No one is going out of their way to praise him for being openhearted about Trump. “It’s a natural human inclination,” he said. But he added: “It’s not what we preach in churches on Sunday mornings, in synagogues on Friday nights, in mosques during the call of prayer.” He bemoaned the fact that he was “lambasted” for giving the cancer-stricken McCain a hug this past summer. “Do you think President Trump needs a hug,” I asked, “and are you the person to give it to him?” Booker laughed. “I think President Trump,” he said, “needs a lot more than a hug.” November 10, 2017 at 10:33AM

[kavrick-blog]

A Call to Magic - Chapter 1

A man steps off a shuttle; raising his finger he scratches the stubble on his narrow jaw. Peeking through tired grey eyes at his surroundings, he hums slightly to himself. Relaxing to a slouched posture as he buries his hands in his jacket pockets, the exhaust from the departing shuttle causing his tie to flutter away from his drab shirt. Running his hand through his shaggy gray hair his face paints a pained look on his pale face, clearly frustrated at the apparent attention his arrival brought, a surrounding murmur as alien eyes shot glances his way. He sighs as he breathes in the dry city air, checking the address written down on his phone before making his way through the crowds.

Traversing through the labyrinth of buildings was not an enjoyable task, although he silently thanked it for keeping his mind off the everlasting gazes given to him by the locals as he navigated past countless dusty abodes stacked upon one another. Finally reaching his destination he was greeted by a pair of figures in uniforms, clearly police uniforms, but the inhuman shape of their bodies painted an unfamiliar picture of what he was used to seeing.

The closest officer to him towers above him, the dull street light illuminating the blue mottled skin covering his bald scalp. His row of eyes extending his head widely past his jaw, giving him an appearance akin to a hammerhead, his strong jaw placed firmly behind his confident smirk. His pairs of arms complement his strong demeanour, with one pair folded across his broad chest and the other holding behind his back.

The second officer is huddled further away, his more inward appearance almost comedic in its contrast to the first, standing a lot lower. His face consists mostly of a large, short beak, beady eyes on either side frantically scanning its surroundings as it hovers a dark green claw over the firearm situated on it’s belt.

He outstretched his hand to the closest officer, before realising that this wasn’t exactly a common custom anymore, supported by the confused glance the officer gave to the other, he brought his hand back to his side, resting it on the tome clipped to his belt and giving it a few taps.

He clenches his fist at his side before addressing the pair, “Faelan Bright, uh, I’m here for the job,” he timidly announces.

The larger officer’s four eyes gives a glint of acknowledgement before he crosses his arms, “Ah yes, that’s right” he says sternly, his voice was strangely gruff and smooth at the same time, the words reverberating as he spoke. “We didn’t expect a man of your, how to say it, type. You folks aren’t exactly common this far out” he warily states, meeting eyes with the other officer once again.

Faelan gives out an awkward chuckle, “I’m pretty sure it was included in my details”.

“Hmm, yes, I must have glanced over it, anyway, just to remind you of the situation we have here; we have reports of illegal magic usage originating in this here apartment complex,” He explains, rapping his knuckles on the door besides him “Our standard procedures have failed to breach even the front door, and rather than levelling the whole block and creating a ruckus, we decided to bring on someone with the required…” He pauses for a moment “Skills. We assume according to your record that you’re familiar with this certain type of magic?” The officer folds his arms again, awaiting Faelan’s reply, in which Faelen hurriedly nods, desiring to get to the job at hand

“I’m familiar with most types, and if i can't do the job, I assure you that no one else will be able”, the officer re-assuredly nods, gesturing to the door. Faelan saunters over to the entrance, book in hand, the seal locking it shut clicking open as he raises it off his belt. He begins to hum and mutter to himself as he flips through the worn pages, “hmm, maybe this one?” he questions to himself, landing on a page. He moves his free hand over the book, causing the page to briefly flash in a dim blue light as smoke raises up and envelopes his hand. Quickly shaking the smoke off his hand, he continues skimming through the pages, all the while the officers stare at him with quizzical looks.

He finally pauses upon another page, giving himself a small nod and raising his hand again, the page emits the same flash as before, although this time a spark hops off the page to Faelen’s finger. Balancing the spark on the tip of his finger, faelan closes the book with one hand, clipping it back onto his belt. He lays his finger upon the handle, the spark disappearing into the mechanism shortly before a satisfying “click” sound rings out from the door. Faelan turns back to the officers, the larger one nodding in approval.

“So you’re one of them fancy sorcerers?” The cop ponders.

Faelan reacts coyly, rubbing the back of his head and bowing slightly, “Nothing as flashy as that; I don't think I could hold a flame to those guys.” He taps a couple of times on his tome, “I guess I’m more of an academic than any sort of mage”.

The officer nods back to Faelan “Well we appreciate the help, I wouldn’t think they’d send a sorcerer to a backwater planet like this anyway.” He raises his firearm off his belt, clasping it in a pair of hands before moving over to the door and waving over the second, who franticly draws his gun, mirroring himself to the other side of the door. The first officer tugs on the door handle with one of his free hands, swinging the door open and following it inside, shadowed by the second officer.

Faelan peaks over the smaller officer. The room is painted by a pale, flickering fluorescent light, revealing a dishevelled mess of an office. Filing cabinets had been strewn across the room and a single desk lay bare in the centre, the plaque sitting on it blank. The only door inside the room stood behind the desk, a bare, large wooden door, extremely out of place in the metallic dystopia.

Faelen pulled open the door, giving a nostalgic creaking sound as the door swung open. The following room was… exactly the same as the previous, a blank desk with a blank plaque, the filing cabinets lay in the same positions. The only exception was behind the desk. Sitting behind it was a large, dark leather chair, and more importantly, a man sitting in it.

He was vaguely humanoid, although lacking facial features aside from a single mouth, spread in a grin across his pale face. Faelen felt his eyes on him, although he didn't possess any, the man lay motionless, his digits interlocked sitting on the desk.

The man sprung up from the desk, revealing an immaculate black suit and tie. “Hello, hello hello!” He practically boomed, his voice was cheery and whimsical. The sudden movement draw the attention of the officers, who both levelled their guns at the figure, who did not seem pleased. His wide grin quickly fell to an exaggerated frown, nearly a perfect mirror of his previous grin. Slowly wagged his finger in front of him, followed a sickening crack, their screams were silent as their arms bent awkwardly, aiming their guns to the ground.

“Now now, we can't have any violence in my house, you are guests, and this is my abode” he warned the pair, his smile returning as quickly as it left. He settles down in the chair and gestures to Faelan, urging him over. “So I’m sure you can appreciate what i do here more than the two less magically inclined fellows over there.” Faelen somehow feels the man wink at him,” That tome on your hip is quite impressive i say, you just MUST let me have a read sometime. Now, before the pair of cops with the bulging eyes get impatient, I guess you’d want to know why I’m here, correct?” He pauses, although obviously not caring to give enough time for Faelan to respond. “Now the universe is full of such wonderful magic, magic that can bring joy to millions, no, billions!.” His face turns unfittingly blank, standing up from his desk he traces his finger along the edge as he moves to front, he spends a moment looking Faelan down.

“Now, before I was here, this place was a den of disgrace, magic being used for such nefarious reasons; drugs, kidnapping, murder, an assortment of abuse of the gift of magic.” He straightens his back and fixes his tie, “But being the upstanding citizen I am, I disposed of them, I cleaned the stain on the magic community.” He pauses, turning towards the officers, “And don't bother looking for the previous tenants, I disposed of them properly.” He swiftly returns to his seat, sinking in and kicking his feet upon the desk, his usual grin taking its rightful place upon his otherwise featureless face. “Now Faelan my boy, I've enjoyed this wonderful chat we've had, I've learnt an awful lot about you and I think we shall be meeting again, but ta ta for now!” He kicked his feet off the desk, spinning the chair and revealing an empty one as it swung back around.

The officers quickly regained their composure upon the man's sudden departure, finding their limbs to have returned to their supposed form. The larger cop firmly laid his hand on Faelans shoulder, “So it seems you're familiar with that man,” his grip tightening as his gaze fell upon him.

Faelan did a double take, suddenly realising that he had never uttered his name in front of the bizarre man. “N-no!” He stuttered, realising the implication behind it. “I’m as clueless as you are, I swear!”

The officer sighed, his grip returning to his side. “Honestly I'm sure you would have never come if you knew this happened, now if what he said was true, our job here is done.” The pair holstered their guns, and led Faelan back outside the premise. “We're thankful for your help, luckily we didn't need much and this went pretty well.” He paused for a second, bringing up the PDA tied to his belt, he quickly entered a few things before looking back up at Faelan. “Your paycheck should arrive in your account in the morning, the Joint Security Force thanks you for your work.” the sentiment seemed forced, but Faelen nodded to them in appreciation before they gave him a brief salute and sent him on his way, he looked back before heading into the labyrinth, the officers locking off the area and setting up tape.

Faelan thought to himself as he walked the roads of Plarintor. The same city, the same jobs and the same evenings every day, although today was different. Faelan began tapping his tome as he wracked his brain thinking of where he could have met that man before, sighing out of frustration shortly after, he obviously would have remembered such a strange fellow. He reached his shuttle, paying the same fare as he thanked the same pilot, flying back to the same station and arriving at the same apartment. He hung up his coat and slipped off his shoes, tossing them to the side in the empty hallway, he always wanted to make his home more welcoming, although his bank account forbade it.

He laid his tome on his desk and began his daily ritual, checking each page and circle for mistakes or improvements, he did this not only to keep it at his best, but to keep them fresh in his mind, each page a spell, an incantation or circle to cast magic. Ever since his rejection from becoming a sorcerer he stuck to this, each spell added lengthened the ritual and ironed out his conviction. The recent stagnation perplexed him, it had been years since he last had the chance to expand his repertoire, each day was spent doing jobs, earning just enough to get by, he had no time for research.

Faelan stretched, the day’s occurrence exhausting him, finally closing his tome he stood up, looking out at his tiny apartment, the walls bare and dull, showing signs of the beginning of rust. He sighed, disgruntled at what he had come to, he moved over to the window, taking in the sight as he always did, at least there was always a good view of the stars, he thought to himself. Faelan decided to turn in for the night, collapsing on his dishevelled bed, looking at the ceiling his consciousness muddied, he thought for a second he saw a figure, before being whisked away.

[mockingzelda]

♔ HEADCANONS (PT. II) — MISCELLANEOUS ♔

STYLE —

Has a tendency to adopt looks that some might consider “cliche” or “outdated”; instead she finds that those trends are classic and timeless. For example: her favorite flowers are red roses, her pearl necklace is her favorite piece of jewelry, and her little black dress is her go-to outfit. Others might find her tastes simple, but Zelda believes that there must be something special about them if they’re capable of withstanding the test of time.

Zelda channels classic Hollywood glamour in her day-to-day looks, making vintage looks effortlessly chic without using too many makeup products. Most days, she recreates Audrey Hepburn’s classic cat eye and wears no more than two coats of Dior’s Diorshow Mascara, which is also her mother’s go-to. Zelda isn’t one to follow makeup trends, and has never been a fan of the ultra matte liquid lipstick fad or muddy contours with blinding highlights. Instead, she sticks with satin lipsticks in nude colors during the day, and reaches for MAC’s Ruby Roo when she wants to amp up her look. Despite what Mary Greenwell says, Zelda thinks that royal blue eyeliner goes great with her blue eyes, and channels Princess Diana’s style whenever she wants to appear a little bit edgier. Her nails are always manicured short and usually painted a nudey pink.

Her daily skin care regime is intensive, composed of 14 steps (including triple-cleansing and layering serums) and all-natural French products. Zelda’s mother always emphasized the importance of taking care of her skin at a young age, in order to prevent any damage in the future. This has been drilled into Zelda’s mind since she was young enough to get her first zit, and she never dares to skip out on washing her face before bed or applying sunscreen before leaving the house. Taking a page out of Grace Kelly’s book, Zelda also constantly moisturizes her hands and has multiple mini lotion bottles in her purse.

Her hair routine is much more low-maintenance, though that’s mostly due to her good genes. With a weekly deep-conditioning, her hair remains sleek and frizz-free. She wears it long, but is conscious of getting it trimmed on the 4th of every other month. Heat protectant is a necessity; she refuses to blow dry her hair without some kind of guard. Zelda typically wears her hair down or in a ponytail, not one to be adventurous or try different styles.

Her signature scent is Chateau Krigler 12, an elegant concoction of rose, mimosa, and lily of the valley. Zelda wears it all the time, and actually possesses more than one bottle; there’s one in her college dorm, in her bedroom at her parents’ house, in her purse, and in her travel bag. That way, she always has one on hand and can spritz herself in any situation. Considering the steep price tag for each bottle ($365 for 3.4 oz.), there is a lot of love for this perfume. Before she discovered Chateau Krigler 12, Zelda used to sample her grandmother’s extensive perfume collection. When she was too little to know any better, she’d drench her skin in Chanel N°5, and other fragrances that were too overwhelming and mature for a young girl. When she entered her teens and started to develop her own personal sense of style, she began searching for the one perfect perfume that would compliment her in any situation. Turns out, she didn’t have to look any further than the The Plaza Hotel. Krigler has been creating fragrances for centuries, and for royals and celebrities alike. The minute Zelda caught a whiff of Grace Kelly’s favorite scent, she knew that nothing else would compare.

Though a life on the catwalk was never for her, Zelda inherited her mother’s love of upscale fashion. She’s a little too old to have her mother pick out her clothes, but Zelda trusts her judgement and usually loves whatever designer garb she’s gifted from trunk shows. She’s a fan of vintage couture, but her day-to-day school style is pretty modest, consisting of Oxfords and Burberry blazers. Dating PARIS has brought out a more provocative streak in her, and she often wears pricey, lacey lingerie underneath her seemingly drab frocks -- she loves the look on his face when he discovers exactly what’s hidden underneath her modest blouse.

FOOD — 

Blueberry pancakes are her favorite comfort food, and whenever she’s feeling down nothing gets her back up quicker than a stack from the Clinton St. Baking Company. 

Zelda also constantly drinks water throughout the day, a tip she picked up from her mother about maintaining healthy, glowy skin. She avoids soft drinks like the plague, and could never get on the “juicing” fad either. Gin martinis are her drink of choice.

Zelda and her mother have a yearly tradition that’s been going on since Zelda turned eight. Every year on her birthday they get up extra early, dress up in Givenchy, and have breakfast at the Tiffany’s store on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street in Manhattan. It’s the same store where Audrey Hepburn shot that iconic opening scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and the two of them always have Zelda’s birthday breakfast there there no matter what. They spend time eating in designer dregs while admiring the window displays, although the streets are rarely as empty and quiet in real life as they were in the movie. Even after she moved away to attend Harvard, Zelda still took the day off and even brought back a classic Boston breakfast: Dunkin’ Donuts. Every year, Zelda invites CLYTEMNESTRA to come with celebrate her birthday with them, and she tries not to get too disappointed at how her sister and her mother both brush off the invite.

ACADEMICS — 

As a result of all the traveling she did during her modeling career, Zelda’s mother speaks a handful of different languages. Even though Zelda spent most of her upbringing in New York, she inherited her mother’s talent of picking up languages quickly. Her maternal grandmother is French and made sure that she learned how to speak the language at a young age, and Zelda knows it just as well as she does English. She also aced every Spanish course she took in school, and is currently trying to learn Italian. Zelda hopes to be at an intermediate level before Milan Fashion Week in February.

As a freshman, Zelda currently resides on campus. She lives in a single at the Grays dormitory, which is located on Elm Yard. One would think that someone with such a Type A personality would live in a spotless room, but Zelda’s dorm is almost always a mess. Growing up, she never had to clean up after herself; there were maids who made her bed and nannies who put away all her toys. Though she likes to think that she’s more down-to-earth than some of her peers, Zelda truly didn’t realize just how spoiled she was until she started to live on her own. Although PARIS has offered her one of his freshman minions to do her chores, she’s become determined to prove to herself that she can do something as simple as cleaning her room. However, it’s not as easy as her parents’ hired help always made it seem. It’s hard to keep herself accountable on such a trivial matter, especially with her busy schedule. Her room is more often than not a mess of organized chaos, with designer clothes folded on her desk chair and chemistry textbooks occupying her bed. Very rarely will she invite anyone over without at least a day’s warning, too embarrassed to have anyone see what a slob she truly is.

The media has an annoying tendency of giving her parents’ traits to Zelda and her sister. She can’t count the number of times she read an article about how she’s the next fresh face in the fashion industry, or heard a rumor about how she might star in her father’s next blockbuster. The older Zelda’s gotten, the more she’s tried to establish herself as someone with her own goals and interests; while she is the perfect daughter, she’s not just a daughter. Anyone who got to took the time to speak to her would see that she has a wide array of interests and thoughts that aren’t just related to fashion or pop culture. Her phone is has alerts turned on for seven different news apps from multiple countries, and she votes in every election, not just the Presidential one. Her favorite films usually aren’t shown in theaters, and she’d much rather spend the day reading a scientific journal than watching a movie anyway. Her favorite musicians don’t walk this Earth anymore, and the only concert she’s ever been to was the New York Philharmonic’s (if that even counts). There’s a lot more to Zelda than meets the eye, but she’s grown used to the fact that most people simply view her as a pretty face with rich parents.

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