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queensdivas · 5 years

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A Damned Soul Chapter 4 (A Vamp Gwil Fic)

I’M BACK FROM THE DEAD BITCHES! Yes I have a concussion but I gotta power through it because I love writing and missed writing this book. Also! 39 isn’t dead! I’m bringing it back bitches because I’ve missed writing Pat Murray so badly!

Here ya go ladies and gentlemen! If you’d like to request a certain bohrap or Queen dad let me know. If you would like to be tagged also let me know! Please enjoy because I’m back and more head issues than ever! WHOOP WHOOP!

Previous Chapter

Taglist:

@mexifangorl @i-live-for-queen @leah-halliwell92 @its-funny-til-its-not@bonafiderocketqueen @b-i-g-i-r-l-b-i @teathymewithben @mayofbrian@brianmydear @sprite-jh

The top was down as the warm summer night of warm July was wrapping itself around the car. It felt nice..and it being a very long time since I found myself in America. Not that I don’t mind the states at all, just enjoy a quick visit every once in a while for the kicks of it. Never imagined she would drag me over here..but somehow she managed to wound up over here.

Stopping at the red light as she began fumbling through the radio station till a familiar guitar riff was beginning to play. John Denver has swept the nation with his new song Country Roads, but Annie's song really hit it home for her that summer to turn out being the song that would play nonstop in the car.

A very loud Volkswagen van pulled up next to us, rolling down the window as all the smoke from the van came out. I’ve never been high in my life, but the amount of smoke that came from that van would’ve made anyone high. It was so damn strong that I think we got a context high from it.

“Hey brother. Do you know how to get to Shark Island? We heard that there’s some voodoo lady who can hit us up with more weed!” So how does Voodoo and weed connect? Now I’m curious on where to even find this voodoo. My entire life I’ve been dealing with witchcraft..but voodoo has been something interesting since it’s even older than most witchcraft.

“Yeah. Actually we’re on our way there to find her ourselves.” Robin told them as they nodded.

“Alright! Road trip!” They yelled as the light turned green for the van to start driving hard down the road.

“C’mon. I’m a witch and would enjoy learning about voodoo. If you don’t wanna go we don’t have to.” Shifting into the next gear then flooring the gas pedal. We caught up with the Volkswagen to keep up the same speed, the hippies were screaming at us through the window as Rolling Stones was blasting through their van.

“Let’s get there before the pot heads.” She encouraged as I let off the accelerator to change into the next gear. Pushing my foot all the way down on the peddle to zoom past the van. Robin cheered as she also turn up the radio.

“COME A LITTLE BIT CLOSER YOU'RE MY KIND OF MAN! SO BIG AND SO STRONG! COME A LITTLE BIT CLOSER! I’M ALL ALONE AND THE NIGHT IS SO LONG!” She sat up in the car to allow the wind to blow her hair all over the place and her body to be enticed by the music and wind.

Stopping the car on the roadway that was lit only by a long line of torches down to the large mansion. In the middle of swap island? Why exactly do I get myself thrown in these situations where we end up in the middle of somewhere like back in Transylvania.

“What do you think? Super spooky?” She giggled as we began going down the driveway slowly. Owls and cicadas were roaring all over the woods as we eventually stopped at the house. The large red doors opened as a very old women dressed in all blue came out of the doorway. She carried a gold cane that smacked onto the ground for the torches around us to become brighter.

“I presume you’re here for my services?” Her voice carried through the entire property as we climbed out of the car.

“You may come inside. Shoes off at the door.” It was like watching a ghost floating away, leaving a trail behind her. She grabbed my arm to guide me up the stairs as the humidity of the swamps fell on top of us like a wool blanket.

Before she started up the stairs to the house to wrap her arms around my neck as I put my hands on her waist. Placing those beautiful lips against mine as my hands gave her waist a little squeeze. Her beautiful brown skin was glowing by the vast amount of fire around us.

“Careful..or the voodoo that we do will tear our souls.” She giggled as she ran up the stairs to start taking off her sandals. Taking off my tennis shoes to see her already walking through the mansion, her fingers grazing over everything in the hallway. Her dark yellow skirt was flowing as we walked to the sitting room to which I was so damn enticed that I forgot to notice she stopped walking.

“My name is Wislande Janvier. You come seeking answers over a little situation you two are constantly in.” Pouring black pebbles into a tiny circle then a cluster of white feathers in the middle.

“Situation? What do you mean a situation?” Robin chuckled as the snap of her fingers the white feathers burned into a white smoke.

“She doesn’t know? Your story is as old as they come, though is slowly disappearing from the world.” Wislande began making the smoke dance in front of her as it danced its way over to Robin.

“Open your eyes.”

“How come you never changed her?” Hyacinth broke my train of thought from the living room. Fixing my jacket in the mirror as I took one last glance to make sure I looked somewhat decent. Each time I always try to look somewhat presentable even though over the years it's gone from tights...to suits..to now jeans. I very much prefer jeans instead of tights.

“Don’t think I haven’t tried in the beginning. Each time I even attempt to change her it would end up cause her body to immediately shut down. Like her body just flicks off whenever it hits her vessels. Tried it for the first few times, but it was just so much more painful.” Walking out into the living room to see Hyacinth was sitting on top of the couch licking himself. Oh god stop stop stop! He must’ve known what I was thinking because he looked up..smirked and continued to give himself a bath on my couch.

“Hyacinth. If you’re going to live in my home then..then we gotta lay some sort of guidelines.” Sighing as I stood above him. God just realizing how big he is sitting on the couch. Think they call him mainecoons or something but regardless of what cat he is! No bathing on my couch!

“But what about the rest of your homes? Because if I could have the house in Montreal or even the one in Aswan that would be quite exquisite. Wait how many places do you have now by this point? Eleven? Twelve? You wouldn’t happen to have one in Alaska or very far north Canada? Do tell so when we fix this sticky situation I can have a nice place to return.” Glad to know that my vast amount of properties across the world is more important than him showing some sort of house manners. Scoffing as I noticed an empty moving box was sitting right next to the table with the tape right on top of the table. Let me try this one more time before I pack his furry arse up.

“Just..no cleaning yourself up on my furniture..I have a bathroom and you’ve been around long enough to know that it's just weird to do that right in front of me or everyone in general. I imagine in your lifetime you’ve had a vast amount of owners who would let you do whatever you want in their house. But I’m different as you can see. Just no more bathing yourself on my furniture please.” His head came back up to stare directly at me. Raising his paw up to his mouth gradually with those eyes squinting at me. Oh I wish he would! OH I HOPE HE DOES! His tongue sliding against his fur as I nodded, getting up from the ground to nod at his actions.

“Fine. I’ll give you one of my places! Now..how would you like to be sent there?” Snatching him up by his stomach to keep a tight grip around him so he wouldn’t budge.

“Hey hey! Let me go you bloodsucker!!” Screaming as I tossed him into the box. Quickly closing the flaps to start taping up the box.

“You realize that I’m a cat! I love boxes!” He wasn’t moving or trying to jump out of the box. Shocking. Maybe when I’m done taping his arse up he'll start getting ancy. Don’t worry I don’t plan on sending him anywhere. He’ll just be going with me into town so he can start “fixing” my situation.

“If you were just a regular cat yes! But your human side can’t stand living in a box!” He went silent as I tossed the tape to the side of the room. A few seconds passed as he began scratching the box.

“Okay you had your fun! Let me out!” Time to go see her. Picking up the now heavy box since this guy is stupidly big for some reason. He began moving around to the box and it almost caused me to drop it.

“Okay okay! I promise I’ll stop the licking on the couch. Can’t exactly pop into the shower with you and diving into salt water won’t solve the problem! Now let me out!” He was so close to getting out till he screamed at me to let him out.

“If you’re so old and so wise..why on earth have your manners not developed.” Locking the cottage door to then begin walking towards the car. He was still screaming at me to let him out, but was being drowned up with my humming of some simple John Denver. Though American..he still has some very beautiful songs.

Throwing him into the passenger seat as I walked over to his side of the car to begin putting the top of the hood up. Yes the sun is going away, but it looks a little more cloudy than I like to have a top down. My playlist was already beginning to play as Hyacinth was hissing in the box.

“Please no John Denver!” Walking towards the other side of the car to put my side of the hood up.

“Why? Can’t stand good music?” He was quite till his eyes looked through the handle holes.

“I just don’t want to cry.” This is for cleaning yourself up on my couch. Turning the dial as he was beginning to meow obnoxiously in the box. Listen to it and wheat bitch! Climbing into the driver side of the car as John began singing through the radio.

“Screw you Gwil.” He was actually cry!? Glad to know that one thing he can do besides be a pest is to be an amusement by watching him sob to John Denver. Putting the car into reverse as I began turning us around, then beginning to drive down the dirt path to get on the main road.

“MEEOOOWWW!” Ignore him.

“MMMMMEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW!” He’s being a little attention seeker. Just ignore him.

“MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW!” Nope. Not giving him the stupid satisfaction of annoying me and him getting out of the box.

“Fine. Two can play at this game bloodsucker!” HE coughed a little then stuck his head out in one of the handle holes.

“BUT THE COLORADO ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH! I’VE SEEN IT RAININ FIRE IN THE SKY! SHADOWS FROM THE STARLIGHT IS SOFTER THAN A LULLABYE!”

“DON’T YOU DARE INSULT THE MUSIC OF JOHN DONVER!” He wouldn’t! He wouldn’t dare insult the signing of John Denver!

“ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH!” Turning the car sharply to the side of the road then parking it on the side. Ripping open the box to see him with big stupid eyes looking like regret.

“Fine. You can have the house in Alberta Canada if you stop meowing like alittle twat AND NEVER INSULT THE MUSIC OF JOHN DENVER!” He smiled as he climbed out of the box, kicking it to the floor then getting comfy in the seat.

“Glad we can come to an agreement. What part in Alberta?”

“Right on the shore of Eva Lake. Absolutely gorgeous since no one travels that far north. So the air is very refreshing.” He purred as he sunk into the chair as I got back onto the main road.

Pulling up to the curb as I climbed out of the car with Hyancith falling slowly behind. He kept purring as we got closer and closer to the shop as my fingers began feeling a little numb from the fact of this happening again.

“Oh my god are you really nervous?” Snapping at me before I could open the door. Is it wrong to be nervous.

“Well I can’t help it ya know.”

“Open the stupid door you bafone.” He tried jumping on top of my shoulder but I dodged his jump for him to fall on his feet. Shaking his head as he sat back down on his butt.

“That was rude of you. I was going to hide in your jacket so she wouldn’t notice me.” For someone who calls himself wise..he sure is a dumbass. Like she wouldn’t notice a large bump in my clothing.

Walking into the store with him poking his head out from the back of my jacket. This was so stupid! The door closed behind us as a woman came out of the back with a wooden crate filled with some sort of jars.

“What can I help you with?” She began unpacking the crate as I approached her.

“Ummm..I would like to have a scrying done by..umm..Miss Robin La Torneau? I was planning on getting it done when you were in Highbridge but you two left before I could even give it a shot.” Nervously laughing as I felt Hyacinth shaking his head behind me cause his whiskers were tickling my cheek.

“She went to buy some fish for dinner, should be back in a few minutes or so. Knowing her she got distracted by some kind of animal or some sort of attraction a person has on the side of the street. Please sit at the table behind the curtain till she gets back.” Nodding as I walked through the curtain to sit down at the table. Hyacinth climbed out of my jacket to walk all over the table trying not to knock over anything.

The room was egg white that had painted leafs and branches all over the walls and even the ceilings. The only light source in the room was a light that had vines with little lights acting as leafs. It felt so magical oh my god.

An old blue wardrobe had a bunch of herbs, a collection of different colored candles, a bunch of small knives, some kind of mixing bowl, and other witchy things were in the wardrobe. I’ve never seen her shop before so decked out in so many different spices, and everything else.

“Has she always been this witchy? I swear this place looks like something you would see on Pinterest. But an actual witch place. Do you know if she has skulls in a secret closest or even lambs in the back for sacrifices?” What a furry ass hole!

“A dog? Since when are you into dogs?” Shit! Hyancith looking at the curtain for his fur to start rising. Shit shit! Yanking him from the table to shove him back underneath my jacket.

“Let me out! I’m going to kill that dog!” He was muffling from my jacket till I zipped it up then smacking the back of it.

“Don’t say a word otherwise we’re screwed!” Yelling through my teeth as she was moving stuff around in the other room. He was still moving around in the back of my jacket till I leaned back into the chair for him to stop moving. Looking like a fucking hump on my back as she came into the room.

Her beautiful wild curly hair, her beautiful golden skin was shining with the dimmed lighting in the room. Those beautiful grass green eyes lost in her looking at me..and this dumbass cat on my back.

She wore a long high waisted red skirt with a black dress shirt that had a little bow tie around the collar. Small black heels were on her feet as she was tapping her foot. Every time we come into contact she gets all nervous and her foot always starts tapping.

“Good evening sir..ummm. May I ask what kind of reading were you wanting today?” She looked so beautiful so nervous in front of me.

“No real preference.” Come to think of it..would it be a good idea for her to read my future or anything? Would that cause another sort of body shut down?

“Figured I’d try something a little different and do some capnomancy..sound okay?” Nodding to her as my thumb as began moving in small circles. She was beginning to gather things from the wardrobe.

“So I heard that you came all the way from Highbridge to see little old me.” Little old you?

“Ummm yes.”

“You’re totally blowing it!” Smacking my back as she spun around to see what happened. Acting natural as if it was her imagination doing the voices. Stupid cat! Causing so many stupid troubles in my life!

#Gwilym #gwilym lee x oc #gwilym lee #bohrap boys #bohrap #joe mazzello #joe mazzello is a cat #cat joe #gwil #gwilym lee x reader #bohrap fan fic #rami malek #Lucy Boynton #ben hardy #vampire #vampire gwil #Gwil Vamp

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monteslola · 3 years

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« Love, Eli »

Histoire originale about growth, friendship, life and grief

Les aquarelles sont la fin et un wrap up, il y a des pages de BD et illustrations de la même histoire dans les images qui suivent

Janvier - mars 2022

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jasminekim · 4 years

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le 8 janvier, 2021

Work was so much more motivating and engaging once I stopped thinking so far into the future and started focusing more of my energy on the present. I believe this is essentially called commitment, and I wonder how much more productive we will all be as a society if we give it all in into whatever we choose to work on at the moment and totally own that piece end to end. I wonder how detached and individual our pieces of work can be from the parent company’s responsibility. But too much ownership can also pose a problem of sunk cost fallacies, especially when that piece of work needs to be removed or undone; the owner would strive to avoid any undoing of that work even if objectively that is the best next step.

Stepping off on a tangent, today was yet again marked with another event, a turning point in the net trend that I’ve been following closely since the beginning of the pandemic that wrapped up dramatically with Twitter suspending the President’s account in permanence. Like everyone else on Twitter, I struggled with a storm of thoughts on this, and one thought that lingered in my head was “is America becoming a scarier place to live?” keeping in mind that social networks are private companies with legal rights to do what they have done so far. But I have to ask; how is it acceptable when there are only about three social networks that Americans heavily use and depend on, that they can censor anyone who is “rightfully doing wrong”, and yes if they have the right to set those rules themselves without any consequences (Section 230 covers any liabilities for their “Good Samaritan acts” as long as they aren’t publishers), then the few tech executives with money will then have the power to tweak and control the narrative of America. If they decide on their own rules, they should probably be considered publishers and be properly liable for outcomes caused by those specific rules. I used to be supportive of Mark’s fight to keep Facebook as a pure platform, but I think we are collectively realizing that what the Internet needs most is decentralization - give power to the people instead. Produce more and smaller communities. This means I should have probably started this blog on my own server, oh well. Whether you’ve had any thought or feeling on this, I think today nevertheless marks the end of an Internet era.

#digital #decentralization

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farplane · 5 years

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hunter of hunters

janvier + mars 2020: sairsel, sihtric, and myths that once lived. 4,637 words.

“Are there more stars here than back home?” Sihtric asked.

“I don’t think so, no.”

They’d been silent for a long, deeply uncharacteristic while. Sihtric was a chatterbox on a normal day; after so long apart, he hadn’t been able to make himself stop talking since the dust had begun to settle, and even Sairsel had found himself to be far more verbose than he could usually stand. He hadn’t even taken the time to worry he’d forgotten to talk—to really talk—to someone. To Sihtric.

But the sky had made them fall quiet: the velvet black freckled with silver was a sight whose power Sairsel had been deeply underestimating when it came every night. With the bloated, too-bright, sickly yellow now chased away, the sky seemed even deeper. It embraced the stars, spread their hearts open.

Still, it came as no surprise that the silence shouldn’t last. Light or no light, Sihtric had never really known how to quiet his inquisitive mind.

“It just looks so…” he stopped and took a breath. “So endless, like.”

“I think it looks like more because it had been so long since anyone got to see it here. Water tastes that much better when you’re parched, and all that,” Sairsel said. He swiveled his head as far as it could go in every direction, taking it the vast sea of stars with the wonder of a child. “And you always see more stars in the woods, remember? Less light going into the sky.”

Sihtric nodded. “Yeah.”

The Greatwood smelled like home; her skies gave Sairsel the stars he had been born under. “Look,” he said, shimmying closer to Sihtric so that they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Safe and whole. It took him all his restraint not to wrap his arms around Sihtric again. Instead, he lifted a hand in Sihtric’s eyeline and pointed to the stars. “Those stars that are brighter, there—like four corners.”

“Wait.”

Sihtric shifted his shoulder so that it was below Sairsel’s arm, then lifted his chin to better follow the line of Sairsel’s finger. His eyes searched the sky, then stopped. “I think I see it.”

“It looks like an archer. Those are his shoulders, and his feet; you can see his bow. And those three, in the center? That’s his belt.”

Sihtric’s hand beat against Sairsel’s arm excitedly. “I see it!”

“Now that, lad, is the Hunter.”

“We have it back home?”

“In the winter months, aye.” Sairsel pointed below the Hunter’s belt. “And his sword, there, it always points south.”

“Here, too?” Sihtric asked. Sairsel could almost hear his mind working, like turning the pages in a heavy grimoire; asking questions about this world that Sairsel had given up on trying to answer.

Sairsel pulled out his compass and placed it in Sihtric’s hand. “Here, too.”

“Huh,” Sihtric said. Sairsel knew he would soon be finding him with his nose buried in books about astronomy and cosmogony—but for now, they had only the stars. After a moment, Sihtric tilted his head and said, “It kind of looks like he doesn’t have a head.”

“Oh, he doesn’t.”

Sairsel remembered his grandmother’s stories; he wished she were beside him to tell this one to Sihtric, with her voice that soared into the night and went quiet as a whisper and put colours into things that couldn’t be seen or touched. She was so far away. When he thought of what loomed over his home, something scraped against his ribcage. He cleared his throat to chase away the ghosts—as his grandmother did with her old memories.

“See, the story goes that he was shot by another hunter—right in his eye. He was becoming greedy, hunting too much; he was throwing the world off-balance, and they blinded him to stay his hand. But he couldn’t bear to live like that. So, on the last day of the world—that was before the first Calamity—he swam out as far as he could go, and he let himself drown.”

“What?” Sihtric said, with the shock that could only come of that deep and immediate investment in stories.

Sairsel smiled and went on.

“And the old god that lived under the sea, because all the old gods were waking up to die, took him in her arms as he died and went to meet the sky. And she said, ‘Horizon, my friend, take this hunter of hunters,’ and some more poetic babble.” He waved a hand dismissively. “And the sky put him in the stars to hunt the great serpent that was born of the end of the world so that it wouldn’t eat up all the sky while the gods were dead. Because he was blind, though, the sky-god cut off his head so that it would stay on the earth and not hinder him—so he hunts the serpent with the stars guiding him.”

Sihtric was frowning. Sairsel remembered that he was only a boy.

“Hells,” he said. “Was that too bloody?”

“No,” Sihtric said, firm in his stubbornness. He stared gravely at the Hunter. “It’s kind of sad, though, isn’t it?”

“Aye, I suppose it is. It’s always the sad stories that end up in the sky.”

Sihtric turned those serious eyes of his on Sairsel. “Why?”

He already didn’t like the answer, but he asked in the hopes that knowing more about the world might make him understand it. He still had that hope.

Sairsel hesitated, then laid his hand on Sihtric’s head, flattening the loose waves of his hair. It had grown out in the time they were apart.

“The happy ones don’t need to be put in the stars; they already live forever.”

Sairsel slept of the deepest, darkest sleep since the world around him had been twisted and turned inside-out—but Sihtric was restless. The Light whispered to him. It pulled and pinched at his mind and flowed up and down the staircase of his spine, jumping in front of his eyes only to retreat behind the veil. How could he sleep, when his mind wasn’t his own?

He didn’t know who or what it was that spoke to him. The voice sounded strangely like that man’s—the one who made Sairsel’s gaze wither and his skin crawl—but Sihtric knew it couldn’t be him because something inside that one recoiled at the Light. This voice slipped in between the spaces, flitting with the wings of a bird; it was the man’s knowledge and nothing more.

No. The voice was that of the one who stood at Sairsel’s shoulder, shrouded so brightly in the Light that the in-between ended up belonging to him. Sihtric wasn’t supposed to see him; the way he looked at Sairsel, and the way Sairsel didn’t look at him unless he thought no one would notice, said as much. The way the blessings and the curses wrapped around him—they were weaved from a terrible sadness that Sihtric didn’t know how to understand.

None of them understood. But the voice knew, and it whispered in Sihtric’s dreams until he was waking up with his heart trembling in his chest and his limbs weighed down like his was a body that had been left in the water to rot and bloat.

He pulled himself out of the water, out of the covers, and swam through the night until he was on solid ground, his hands anchored at the edge of Sairsel’s bed. For a moment, he hesitated: Sairsel’s brow was smooth, his mouth a peaceful curve; he didn’t want to disturb him. But then, urgency slammed through him, and the words were on his tongue and they needed to spill out. They needed to be heard.

He shook Sairsel awake. “I know his name. The Hunter’s,” he said, whispering for the sake of the night itself.

Sairsel looked at him, bleary-eyed and trying to pull himself free of sleep. For Sihtric’s sake. Beyond his confused frown, there was a tinge of worry.

“What?”

“The Hunter. In the stars. His name was Orion.”

He didn’t know what he saw in Sairsel’s eyes, then.

II.

Orion’s mouth smiled like a knife.

Even under the mask—when he so deigned to wear it—his smile had the sharp glint of metal, the cold and hungry brightness of it. The blade of him was a mirror, and it made you see, and it cut with calculated precision.

He reflected something in me that hurt my eyes, but I never quite could look away; how could I, when all the other smiles were the same? Blunt and faded and lacking—all of them but the hunters’.

In the last days, everything and everyone was soft around the edges, smudged away like the borders of a dream. Everything but Orion, whose sharp elbows had once bruised me when we would sleep side by side; whose mouth I let open me up like the belly of a prize animal without ever touching me. He never touched me, not the way he would reach into the beasts’ insides and pull out fresh viscera that stained his skin red, but I knew his hands were cold. I wanted to pour my light into them, let him hold it, warm his hands like fire from the heavens.

That was a foolish thing, and I was born to be everything but. And one day, we all found that our time had passed; it no longer mattered, then, that I had ever been a fool.

I no longer remember if I knew. I no longer remember, and I will never know again.

I dared her to loose an arrow towards the shape in the water, so far in the distance that we could not make out its nature. So far that no arrow should have reached it—but of course hers did. I knew it would. That is all I can remember.

The last days had not yet come when Orion still showed his face somewhere that was not Artemis’ woods. It would have been madness to equate his gradual retreat into the wild with the sickness that made the world wither and die, but the two were intrinsically tied, as moon to night and night to moon. As he was to Artemis herself, and she to him.

He would come so long as she came. They had not always been so inseparable, but something brought them together somehow, and his steel shone all the brighter for her silver light. They would wander into gatherings like two halves of something—and perhaps that was what stung most—with the tips of their hair wet from the river where they washed blood and sweat and dirt and the smell of their dogs from their skin and clothes. They would huddle in dark corners and laugh and drag each other into the light to dance to the sweet, familiar music.

And when the gatherings ended, Orion would drape himself over a daybed, smiling, and he would make Artemis laugh long after the wine had run out. With strangers dispersed, they would both let in their dogs—Artemis’ seven sweet bitches, each named with the precision of her arrows, and Orion’s pair of loyal hounds. He had not his friend’s attention to detail; when he wasn’t on the hunt, he was languid and unbothered. His dogs were the big one and the small one—nothing more, and nothing less.

But he loved them. Loved them like he only seemed to love Artemis, and perhaps himself.

More and more, the sun struggled to touch their world, like a corner of a wood so thick with trees that no light could break past the canopy. Nothing but tall, looming trunks that shone silver in the night.

If they were close to untouchable when they still deigned to be a part of the world, they were utterly so when they vanished into Artemis’ woods.

“Who are you?”

The hunter who did not belong in the woods tried to look past Orion’s shoulder. Behind him, the women laughed—Artemis’ women—unaware of the foreign hunter’s presence. His gaze made Orion’s blood boil. He pressed a hand to the man’s chest and walked forward, guiding him away.

“I asked you a question.”

“She is not yours,” said the foreign hunter. “Neither are these woods, and if one man may walk them, there is no reason why others should not.”

“There is every reason,” Orion said slowly. “Do not lump me in together with the likes of you.”

“Curse you for a greedful bastard!”

Orion took the curse without batting an eyelash; he did not know, then, what true powers curses might hold. He simply let the hunter dig into the earth with his words. “How many women must be yours, that no other man may look upon them? What hold have you upon the maiden?”

“I do not look,” said Orion, and then he pursed his lips and whistled. His dogs came close. “And I know that they are hers. As am I.”

Artemis knew the whistle, too—and perhaps it pulled at a part of her soul when Orion said that he was hers. She drifted out of the water and to his side, dripping wet with a knife in hand, and she regarded the hunter who did not belong in her woods with the gaze of a magistrate ready to hand down a sentence.

“Thank you, my friend,” she said. “Let me.”

They were, after all, her woods—and her grasp on magic had always been far beyond his.

Orion smiled and lifted his hand to the foreign hunter’s face, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb as though he were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen: prey. Then he turned, made his way to the edge of the river again with his dogs on his heels, and turned his back to Artemis’ girls.

“Do you lay with him?” he heard the foreign hunter sneer.

“Speak to me again and they will be your last words,” said Artemis.

The fool spoke again, spitting out an ugly, hateful word. Orion knew Artemis’ anger, even when the proud line of her back stayed tall and taut as a bowstring. He knew that it was not for the shape of the beast taking him alone that the foreign hunter would never speak again; he heard the dogs deep in the woods, dogs that were neither his nor Artemis’ seven.

The dogs feasted that night.

I was beginning to feel the world unravel. It was like being the sun and feeling pieces of the sky falling away all around me, one by one—stars and nebulae and the whole of the celestial crumbling to dust. I held steady, as I had always been meant to, and so did the moon. We were a comical tragedy of unchanging stillness.

And Orion ran through the woods. He ran from every convocation that called his name, that asked of him to still his feet that the world around him might come into focus—he fled attention and responsibility both, and he kept hunting. The truth was that he did not like being seen, and we were all being stripped bare with each passing day.

He thought he could escape it, the beautiful fool. In his wake, carcasses piled up faster through Artemis’ woods than they ever had, faster than the world could heal; his path of balance turned into an ungly competition against something that I do not think he even knew. Himself, perhaps, or simply time itself—trying to kill beasts faster than the sand fell through an hourglass.

That was his way of unraveling. And while he hunted, people died.

One of Artemis’ girls came to me on a morning thick with fog that barely parted with her passage to warn me of Orion slipping into a trail of blood. She showed herself as a tall, white-throated doe—for Artemis’ lovers never revealed their true forms to men—whose eyes seemed to reflect the mist itself, clouded grey until she stood in front of me. My reflection shone gold-flecked in those big, open eyes.

“I no longer know the soul that inhabits Orion’s body,” she said to me, bowing her head in grief. She sniffed at the wet grass under her hooves, but shied away from it. Blood was sinking into the earth. “He says he hunts to chase the moon. So that she does not fall out of the sky.”

A question pressed at my mind, but the doe was not the one who should answer it; I let her go. I told her to walk only paths that were dappled with sunlight if she must show herself as a beast to Orion. He would not wish to slay one of Artemis’ girls on accident—not the Orion I knew.

I found him, half-dazed in the thickest shade, staring up through the branches at a sky the boughs kept from his gaze. When I called his name, he did not even flinch.

“She’s there,” he said. “Even in the day.”

“Orion.”

“The moon’s faded.”

His voice broke my heart.

“She won’t fall out of the sky, Orion,” I said, and waited for a reply that didn’t come. “Look at me. You don’t need to chase her.”

Orion looked my way, and I wondered if the doe had been right—if some other soul had found his body. It was a hope, I realized, a damned hope for a man who was only losing his grip. He looked at me like I was as familiar as I’d ever been; he simply didn’t care.

“What of the sun?” I asked him, the question burning my lips.

Orion shrugged his shoulders. “He won’t fall,” he said simply. “He’s not mine to chase. It’s all for her.”

His own words pulled him back into movement; he looked away from the unseen sky, turned on his heel and grabbed his bow. To me, he said nothing else, but he glanced at me like he wanted to reassure me that everything was simply going to fall back into place.

I was angry.

“You must stop this,” I said, pushing past my loss. “This ceaseless hunt. Do not destroy Artemis’ gift to you.”

“These are her woods.” Orion walked past me. “I will stop when Artemis asks me to stop. That is when my chase will have come to its end.”

I called his name again, but my voice was lost. Perhaps I had already faded away, in his mind.

III.

Every night, Sihtric searched for the Hunter.

He had a strange fear in him, as though something might break or fall apart or leave him blinded if that one shape of stars went out of his sight. It wasn’t that he cared much for north or south; it was that the Hunter was more than a guide, or just a story in the sky.

“It’s just a grave,” Sairsel said to him one night, because he was sick and always on the verge of a fever. The words spilled down Sihtric’s spine in a chill.

“Don’t say scary things like that,” Sihtric retorted in a smaller voice than he wished.

Sairsel frowned, his expression shifting with understanding. Some small horror dawned on his face, and it scared Sihtric, too, that he only now seemed to realize what he’d just said.

“I mean they’re only stars,” Sairsel said. He rubbed his fingers over one eye, the motion curving up along the deep shadows drawn under it. “The story’s just a story.”

Sihtric set his jaw in that stubborn way that was becoming increasingly familiar the older he got. “You told me stories were always the soul of something, even if they were made up or they were true once but they changed because too many people told them. That’s what your grandmother said, and you said she knew stories better than anyone.”

“Aye, I did.”

It made him want to cry, seeing how tired Sairsel was in the firelight. The sun gave him some colour during the day, made his skin look a bit less sallow; the night he’d fought so hard for stripped him bare.

But Sihtric knew he shouldn’t cry. When he looked up at the sky and found the Hunter’s sword, he felt some kind of certainty—cold and heavy and uncomfortable, but it made sense, in its own way.

“He’s there, Sairsel. You believe me, don’t you?” Sihtric said, and Sairsel gave him a sorry look that didn’t make him feel warm at all.

He didn’t need to say it: I don’t, but I wish I did. Sihtric heard it well enough, and he didn’t need to hear or see it in the Light, either. Not that Sihtric wanted to pay attention to the Light, lately. Sairsel was sick with it, and that made Sihtric resentful.

“I can feel him,” he insisted. “Orion. The name isn’t a story.”

Sairsel breathed out a slow, soft sigh. After a moment, he gathered himself up, and relented. “What do you think it is, then?”

“I don’t— I don’t know,” Sihtric said, taken by surprise; the admission made him scowl at himself. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked into the fire. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to feel anything that was in the Light; it was there taking up a part of him whether or not he liked it. “He was whole once. The stars aren’t his shape.”

“No?” Sairsel asked cautiously. He was frowning, too.

Sihtric shook his head. “I think they’re the shards of him. I think he broke and no one can put him back together because he’s stuck in the sky.”

“He’s a story, lad,” Sairsel said, and he said it as gently as he could. Letting him down.

It was only a few days before the golden-white sickness bloated the sky bright enough to blind again, the way it shouldn’t. And when it did, Sihtric felt like he could almost hear Orion shatter, again and again, behind the veil.

IV.

That was now, and this is then.

Water laps at the lakeshore, grazing the tips of Artemis’ toes as she gazes up at the sky, bloated and grey with the ash that falls like snow. Before long, it will be thick enough in the water to turn it as heavy as mud. The current will cease to flow, and the animals will choke, and little by little—beast by beast, insect by insect, root by root—Artemis’ woods will die.

She knows it. She stares out at the water and makes herself smile at the beauty that is left, and the beauty that has begun to wither away. Death in the wood has always been beautiful, but this is not a death that belongs within the confines of the forest and its natural order. It is so far beyond what is natural that she recognizes none of it.

Sunrise upon sunrise have passed since she last killed a beast in her wood; her belly gnaws at her every day as the world dies. She does not hunt, but arrows still find the hearts of deer, of foxes, of birds too thin to feed even a child to satisfaction. They are not skinned or plucked or emptied of viscera. Their meat rots in the sun, their fur and feathers tinged with frost in the moonlight. Each is a great and terrible loss, but the horror that should have burrowed into Artemis never finds her.

They are all dead. For the first time, she sees the end of all things that would have come one day, and now comes too soon. She surrenders to their beauty.

Diamonds of sunlight gleam upon the ripples in the lake. A sweet song drifts with the wind through the trees, rustling leaves and needles and branches with a voiceless melody.

Her woods; his song.

Apollo embraces her from behind, his arm heavy around her shoulders as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. His light is tarnished; it has been for a while now. Her woods have stolen away the brightest parts of him, somehow, when the world began to fall apart. He does not speak of it, and neither does she; they understand their silences as they have since before their tongues could shape words.

On the day the world ends, they will be side by side as the day they came into it.

“Why are you alone?”

“I am not alone,” Artemis says, and smiles as she gives Apollo a familiar shove. He shoves her back.

“You know what I mean.”

Artemis runs a curled finger down the length of her bowstring—faded twists of threaded gold. She takes a breath and tastes the ash in the air.

“I felt that it no longer mattered,” she admits. “That, perhaps, I should let myself fade with these woods. What good is a hunter? I can save no one and nothing.”

“You are all the good that has ever been,” Apollo says. “You are my light and my joy. In times like these, that is all that matters.”

Artemis smiles her sad smile. She knows that Apollo has been wearing himself so thin there is almost nothing left, all to bring light and music and beauty to a world that needs it more than saving. If there is no joy, there is nothing to save; Apollo has seen it, and it is why he gives.

“Stay with me a while, then,” she says.

Apollo stays. He tries to push her into the water; she kicks his legs out from under him. When he scrapes his elbow on a rock, she presses the cool flesh of a thick leaf against his skin. He sits and raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and gazes out at the water; the melancholy smile finds his lips as well as Artemis’, but only for a time.

He smacks the back of his hand against her arm.

“Look,” he says, and points a finger towards a dark shape on the lake. Artemis takes hold of his arm and levels her gaze with his hand.

“There’s something out there,” she says, surprised.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Apollo crosses his arms and glances at her bow with a smug smile, tinged with nostalgia and a more recent hurt. “Whatever it is, I bet you couldn’t hit it at this distance.”

“Surely you know better than that,” Artemis says.

“I know you’re cocky.”

“You’re cocky. You always have been.”

Apollo shrugs. “Show me, then The world’s ending anyway; you won’t suffer your wounded pride too long.”

Artemis shoves him again as she bounces to her feet with her bow in hand. She keeps her gaze on the dark, distant shape and draws an arrow from her quiver. When she fits the nock to the bowstring, something inside her falls into place like a lock. Carefully, she lets the sun guide her; she listens to the song of the wind and raises her bow, tilting back her head to guide the anchor of her arrow, and she looses.

The arrow flies: a lone bird arcing towards the horizon. It finds its mark, and the water ripples as the shape flattens and disappears into the lake. Apollo smiles when Artemis turns towards him with a look so satisfied it may as well be that of a beast. She is a part of the wood, and the wood is hers; she is all that dwells inside it and she is the bosom itself. This place, this way—they are her joy.

Apollo does not ask her if she feels a little emptier now, and she does not wonder why she does.

On the day the world ends, the body of Orion washes up on the shore of the dying forest. There is no one to find him, but Artemis’ arrow pins his eye to the moon-empty sky, and Artemis’ woods keep him.

#from the heart #c:sairsel #c:sihtric

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coeur-d-artichaut · 6 years

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{ here is my Januray wrap up spread! I quite enjoyed it, and except for a few modifications, I think I'll be sticking to it for February! What do you think? How do you bookworms keep track of your reading? • • • Voilà mon résumé de mes lectures pour le mois de janvier! J'aime bien le design que j'ai choisi, et à part le faite d'arranger quelques coquilles, je pense rester avec le même format pour le mois de février! Qu'est-ce que vous en pensez? Comment est-ce vous vous y prenez pour mieux suivre vos lectures? • • • #bujo #bulletjournal #readingtracker #toberead #bookaholic #bookstagram #mybookfeatures #libros #librosmiadiccion #currentlyreading #librosymaslibros #bookworm #booknerd #bookobsessed #bookish #booklove #bookaddict #bookishcanadians #bibliophile #cequejelis #livreaddict #livre #lecturedumoment #yalit #bookhaul #library #librarylove } (à Rimouski, Quebec) https://www.instagram.com/p/BtiejSJHDWO/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1s6esi2ptlkdd

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mladyartist · 7 years

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“Canadian Inspiration: Alex Janvier”

I find inspiration from many different artists from around the world. There’s Salvador Dali from Spain, Vincent Van Gogh from the Netherlands and Henri Matisse from France. But of course I cannot exclude the artists from my own country of Canada, one of whom is Alex Janvier.

I got to see an exhibit of his work at the National Gallery of Canada recently. It’s been on for several months now and is wrapping up in a couple of weeks. I’m so glad I finally got to go because I was astounded by his paintings. They are so vibrant that they radiate with energy. As an indigenous artist Alex Janvier has incorporated imagery from his own culture as well as others from around the world. His style has a calligraphic nature reminiscent of Chinese paintings. I love the detail and soul he puts into each of his paintings. I hope he can inspire you as much as he has inspired me.

#Canadian artists #Alex Janvier #writing #article #inspiration #international artists #Dali #Van Gogh #Matisse #National Gallery of Canada #painter #artist #paintings #MLady Artist

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distributhor-of-happiness · 5 years

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2019 : le wrap-up ! C’est ici, c’est maintenant, c’est une fois par an ! Depuis 2014, ce blog existe et me permet de partager mes meilleurs moments de lecture ainsi que ceux de ma vie de lectrice. C’est une tradition pour moi que de faire ce petit bilan rempli de statistiques. 2019 fut une superbe année… j’espère de tout coeur que 2020 vous réserve plein de belles surprises. BONNE ANNEE à tous !

Comme c’est maintenant le cas depuis plusieurs années, je profite du passage à l’an neuf pour faire le point sur l’année écoulée. Livres et pages lu(e)s, statistiques de mes lectures, le point sur les livres qui se sont rajoutés à ma bibliothèque : vous saurez tout d’ici quelques lignes.

Voici quelques jalons qui ont marqué mon année 2019 et que je n’ai surtout pas envie d’oublier :

J’ai réussi à lire 94 romans (alors qu’initialement mon challenge goodreads était fixé à 55).

Mes deux nouveaux romans sont sortis chez Gloriana Editions en septembre et octobre 2019 : les tribulations d’une princesse hyperconnectée et Le jour où j’ai décidé de réaliser mon rêve.

J’ai été pour la première fois au salon Livre Paris… en tant qu’auteure pour signer mon premier roman: Bluestone Castle. Une belle expérience!

Nous avons adopté un nouveau compagnon à quatre pattes : Freddie (le petit roux qui se balade sur mon Instagram).

Je me suis mariée avec mon chéri d’amour et nous avons fait de beaux voyages en amoureux après avoir préparé notre journée de rêve pendant 6 mois. ❤

Une lectrice peut également être passionnée de chiffres. C’est mon cas et je ne peux donc pas résister à l’envie de raconter mon année littéraire via quelques statistiques:

Sur le blog, l’année 2019 se résume en :

49 414 vues

28 608 visiteurs

2550 « likes »

569 commentaires

216 articles publiés sur le blog (moins que l’année précédente mais ça reste un bon rythme)

En deux mots, 2019 c’est…

94 livres lus ! Un beau total en comptant le fait que j’ai passé beaucoup de temps à organiser mon mariage entre janvier et juin 🙂

pour un total de 32 590 pages lues (le total le plus bas depuis la création du blog… oulalaaaaaa j’ai vraiment moins lu que les autres années!)

Pour info, mon nombre total de pages lues s’élevait :

en 2014 à 36.380 pages

en 2015 à 35 682 pages

en 2016 à 39 302 pages

en 2017 à 45 916 pages

en 2018 à 45 844 pages

Nombre de lectures par mois

Mon mois le plus prolifique est, étonnamment cette année, le mois de septembre. J’ai lu pas mal de livres contemporains de taille raisonnable en profitant de la chaleur de l’été. En novembre, j’ai été bien occupée par le boulot et par un projet personnel #Nanowrimo. Quand aux premiers mois de l’année, on remarque que, malgré la préparation du mariage, j’ai quand même réussi à tenir un rythme assez soutenu.

Nombre de pages lues par mois

Ma moyenne de pages lues par mois est de 2715 (bien moins que l’année dernière…). J’ai eu un passage à vide en juin (mois du mariage quand même) et j’ai fait un beau pic de lecture en septembre avec plus de 3800 pages lues.

Aperçu global de l’origine (achat-cadeau-sp) de mes lectures

Que conclure de ce graphique ?

Les réceptions équivalent à 1/3 de mes lectures (mes partenaires principaux sont les éditions Charleston et Actes Sud Junior mais je reçois parfois aussi des livres de certains auteurs directement et aussi via les masses critiques auxquelles je participe dès qu’il y en a une).

Il y a tellement de provenances différentes que je n’y vois plus très clair moi-même. Preuve que je n’ai pas un “dealer” privilégié mais bien plusieurs : Amazon, c’est vrai car je suis impatiente et que certains livres ne se trouvent pas en librairie directement, la Fnac et le Furet du Nord qui sont les deux librairies localisées à 200m de mon lieu de travail.

Regroupons donc cela pour voir un peu mieux 🙂

En somme : j’adore acheter des livres neufs, ceux-ci constituent la moitié de mes lectures en 2019. Un tiers de mes lectures proviennent de maisons d’édition et d’auteurs qui m’envoient leur bouquin. Le reste de mes lectures = les livres que je reçois en cadeau, en prêt, que j’achète d’occasion et via des box livresques.

Passons maintenant aux livres qui ont franchis le seuil de ma bibliothèque en 2019. Je parle donc de tous les livres que j’ai acheté ou reçu cette année. A savoir que, en 2019, ce sont 104 livres qui sont arrivés à mon domicile. Parmi ces 104 bouquins, je suis assez fière de dire que j’en ai déjà lu 72 ! Cela équivaut donc à quasi 70% !!!

Les chiffres sont assez similaires à ceux de l’année dernière bien que j’ai été quand même un peu plus raisonnable… En 2018, ce sont plus de 170 livres qui avaient rejoint mes bibliothèques. Aïe ! Essayons de garder ce cap en 2020. 104 livres = seulement 2 nouveaux livres par semaine, en sachant que 36% d’entre eux proviennent d’envois (que je n’achète donc pas). Tiens, je vais noter ça dans mes bonnes résolutions. Ne pas dépasser 104 nouveaux livres en 2020 !

Sur GOODREADS maintenant

J’ai rajouté Aigre-Doux en dernière minute car je ne l’avais pas noté dans goodreads mais donc il y a bien un total de 94 livres pour 2019 🙂

Pour 2020, voici mon objectif : 100 livres

2019 est donc l’année où je n’ai pas terminé mon challenge goodreads de 100 (bien qu’à la base, je m’étais fixée 55 livres et que donc, officiellement, je l’ai réussi avec 94 lectures!).

En espérant que ce petit tour d’horizon livresque vous ait plu,

je vous souhaite à tous une très joyeuse année !

PS : vous pouvez retrouver toutes mes chroniques (enfin presque, il faut encore que je termine l’update de 2019) dans l’onglet qui se situe en en-tête.

Bilan de l’année 2019 : décompte, statistiques et souvenirs livresques ! 2019 : le wrap-up ! C'est ici, c'est maintenant, c'est une fois par an ! Depuis 2014, ce blog existe et me permet de partager mes meilleurs moments de lecture ainsi que ceux de ma vie de lectrice.

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dentalrecordsmusic · 5 years

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DRM Track by Track: “Retroactive Rock Record” with Daniel Janvier of Output 1:1:1

DRM Track by Track is a new series here at Dental Records Music News where we ask artists to break down their latest work in a more in-depth way. This series begins with Daniel Janvier of the experimental project Output 1:1:1.

Words by Daniel Janvier

My name is Daniel Janvier, I’m a Toronto-based musician, and songwriter. I have been writing music privately for the last 20 years, playing in bands at various points and occasionally composing pieces for web-series and student films. In 2016 I started having a series of panic attacks that influenced the direction I took my personal life, my work/life balance, sleep patterns, and how I wrote music. I’ve had panic attacks in different forms since childhood, and only recently sought help for them – you can learn more about that here.

I started working on what would become Retroactive Rock Record in the middle of Summer 2016, as they were starting to develop. For the next two years, I worked closely with my producer and longtime friend Séan Sutherland on music that was much more impressionistic, expressive, and visceral than anything I attempted in the past. It’s how I’ve started writing music as Output 1:1:1. Here, I’ll get into certain moments of the creative process, such as where a song started or a particular texture because the sonic qualities of those points or the places they came from mean a great deal to how these songs were formed. At least, that’s how I’ve come to understand them.

“Retroactive Rock Record” This one started out as a fairly lengthy improvised cajon recording. I'm not a very strong percussionist, but I managed to get 2 bars I liked for a backbeat and looped them. I recorded an overcomplicated, somewhat funky bassline - doing my worst Flea impression I guess - that I split into pieces for the guitars to add a distant tone. Those slight notes on the guitar helped guide the vocal line.

Lyrically, I was trying to distract myself from the 2016 election. Following Duterte and Brexit, I wasn't in a very hopeful place politically, and Ontario wasn't far behind that. I also had Anthony Hopkins giving a quietly maniacal speech in the background, which inspired some of the language of the song. I always intended "They'll love it when you start" to have sinister undertones. With the final line of the song, I wanted to undo any anthemic or uplifting notion that could be tied to the preceding part.

“Electrocution King” Weirdly enough, the earliest parts of this song were inspired by a mix of Kendrick Lamar's "These Walls" and the Stranger Things theme. It wasn't intended to be a punkish song, but Séan's djembe playing and my rattlesnake shakers helped push it in that direction. I think the original beat I laid for the song was more of a straight-eight beat, and Séan's work is significantly more exciting with the way the bass and shakers wrap around it. For the chorus, I held the input of a patch cable in my palm, and we ran it through multiple delay, reverb, overdrive, and pitch filters to create this dark enveloping tone that threatens to take over the song.

I think of the subject as an oil executive, a purveyor of misery, capitalizing on fracking, digging deep within the earth and painting the surrounding environment with leaked oil. He creates communities in need and he forces them into addiction, abandoning them when the well runs dry. I imagine him creating rivers of crude, and coating the earth in nothingness.

“Black Jacket” This is the oldest song of the bunch. I must have done 45 or so takes of this song. The cajon was a challenge - thankfully, Séan is a magnificent musician. He recorded the part on the record in about 2 takes. He created this mountainous cajon part for the end - it’s wild and I love it. With this song, I was partially responding to people who think "happiness is a choice" is good advice to people with depression. I have a lot of direct, one-sided experience with this kind of person. These are the people who think that there's a switch that can just be easily flipped to turn off all internalized self-loathing, external suffering, economic anxiety, or think avocados are what's preventing millennials from being able to afford the rapidly rising cost of living. Lyrical confusion and the loose guitar line tied these ideas together for me. The music needed to accentuate the meaning of the song, as opposed to just blatantly stating the themes in the lyrics.

“Issue at Track Level” I'm terrified of the subway platform at rush hour. It's overflowing with people. There are these heavy television sets suspended from the ceiling. It seems like a magnet for catastrophe. In this song, I imagined being pushed onto the subway tracks by people shoving their way to their next transfer. It was inspired by my own limited understanding of the bystander effect - do people just assume someone else will help or are they just indifferent?

This was the first song we recorded for the EP. It felt right to have it be our first single/video for it. It's the most narratively driven song. The mood and performance helped drive not only how the EP would eventually sound, but how I would write songs from that point. Pieces would get weirder and moodier from here, instead of trying to anticipate the audience of another band. There was something to identify with here. Michelle, who co-produced, challenged me to put every possible element of myself into his. My impulse is to hide or adapt to something else, essentially survive. Michelle and Séan really got an honest and vulnerable performance out of me. It was a powerful feeling to recognize that in something I made.

“The End Wave” I think this is the prettiest song on the EP, but it can be a challenge listening to it. It's the expression of exhaustion after a panic attack. The weighty sadness that makes moving impossible. There's a kind of logic involved in that perhaps I can still go to work, because I know that I have to, or because of the ritual, but basic helpful things, like exercise or cleaning the dishes, are daunting. I know that something has passed, maybe something terrible, but there’s still so much more that needs to be done.

The droning bass and background textures of reversed, slowed guitar were originally taken from a different, faster song idea that just wasn’t coming together. We used the bass part as part of that song’s chorus. When stripped of that song and its chord progression, it reminded me of those scenes in movies where the actors are in a flooded room, with less than a foot of breathing space, bobbing in and out of the water trying to breathe. Towards the end there’s a G struck 4 times, pitched rather low. It felt like sonar when we wrote it, or something that wasn’t necessarily the end, but signaling something yet to come.

Listen to Retroactive Rock Record on Spotify here. You can also keep up with Output 1:1:1 on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

If you’re an artist who wants to contribute to DRM Track by Track, send us an email here and tell us your story.

Photo courtesy of Emma Letki

Catherine Dempsey wants to listen to more music like this. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter.

Follow DRM on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

Subscribe to the DRM YouTube channel.

#output111 #daniel janvier #toronto #toronto canada #track by track #experimental

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emersonsallyjack · 5 years

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A mom holds onto hope as her brain

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juristique · 6 years

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Using WP Show Posts

New Post has been published on https://test.juristique.org/actualite/using-wp-show-posts

Using WP Show Posts

Sommaire

1 General ( and important ) information

1.1 Advanced Settings

1.2 Duplicating WP Show Posts List

2 List: Standard

3 Indice Syntec 2002 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

4 Indice Syntec 2003 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

5 Indice Syntec 2004 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

6 Indice Syntec 2005 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

6.1 Content Wrap (WPSP Only)

6.2 Featured Image

6.3 Meta above title

6.4 Entry Title forced to 2 lines

7 List: Align

8 Grille de carrière et salaire minimum professeur certifié catégorie A

9 Grille et salaire minimum d’architecture 2020 – Guadeloupe

10 Lists: Sidebar

11 List: Header

12 List: Simple

13 List: Simple Sidebar

Adding post lists and grids to your Site couldn’t be easier than with the WP Show Posts plugin. Dispatch uses the Free version to display posts on the Front page and in the Sidebars. Of course with a little Flint Skin CSS treatment.

Head off to Dashboard > WP Show Posts > All Lists. Within are six lists:

Align

Standard

Sidebar

Header

Simple

Simple Sidebar

Each of them have very particular settings required to match the demo content you see here. Changing those settings may affect the way the post is displayed, and not necessarily for the better. So please work on a duplicate or make a note before changing.

Note: the name of the List has no relevance to the different styles displayed.

General ( and important ) information

Before we go into the detail let’s cover some basic and very important information.

Advanced Settings

For the purpose of the demo content a couple of the Lists are using Advanced Settings. First off the Standard List is using Ascending Order (Default: Descending). Secondly the Simple List is using Offset, so it omits the first 4 posts. You may want to put these back to default if you’re not intending to replace them.

Duplicating WP Show Posts List

So we have four lists, and we want to make a new Standard list with a different category. The easiest way is to use one of the Duplicate Post plugins in the WordPress repository. Simple hey. And it works for all post types including GP Elements. Awesome. Note: When making a duplicate you are generally given two options. Clone and New Draft. I advise using the New Draft as some people have reported issues when using Clone.

List: Standard

This is the standard WP Show Post list that has the same custom styling applied to the GP Blog:

.wp-show-posts-columns#wpsp-1275 margin-left: -2em; .wp-show-posts-columns#wpsp-1275 .wp-show-posts-inner margin: 0 0 2em 2em;

Indice Syntec 2002 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

03/01/2002 at 15:1608/02/2020 at 12:07

Sommaire1 Indices Syntec pour l’année 20022 Comment utiliser l’indice SYNTEC ?2.1 1 – Règle :2.2 2 – Formule pour appliquer l’indice Syntec 2002 :2.3 3 – Astuce :…

Indices économiques

Indice Syntec 2003 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

03/01/2003 at 15:1808/02/2020 at 12:08

Sommaire1 Indices Syntec pour l’année 20032 Comment utiliser l’indice SYNTEC ?2.1 1 – Règle :2.2 2 – Formule pour appliquer l’indice Syntec 2003 :2.3 3 – Astuce :…

Indices économiques

Indice Syntec 2004 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

03/01/2004 at 15:2026/04/2020 at 19:46

Sommaire1 Indices Syntec pour l’année 20042 Comment utiliser l’indice SYNTEC ?2.1 1 – Règle :2.2 2 – Formule pour appliquer l’indice Syntec 2004 :2.3 3 – Astuce :…

Indices économiques

Indice Syntec 2005 – toutes les valeurs et les % d’évolution

03/01/2005 at 15:2026/04/2020 at 19:44

Sommaire1 Indices Syntec pour l’année 20052 Comment utiliser l’indice SYNTEC ?2.1 1 – Règle :2.2 2 – Formule pour appliquer l’indice Syntec 2005 :2.3 3 – Astuce :…

Indices économiques

This is how the list is displayed within the Content area just by adding the WP Show Post Shortcode. Here follows the basic styling changes that have been made.

Content Wrap (WPSP Only)

Using a custom Hook Element the Post article content is now wrapped within a DIV container. This container carries a class of wpsp-content-wrap for styling. This wrap is present on all WP Show Posts that are output inside Dispatch.

Featured Image

The featured image has a fixed height to match the layout. This is achieved using this CSS:

.generate-columns-container article .inside-article img, .wp-show-posts-image img height: 180px; width: 100%; -o-object-fit: cover !important; object-fit: cover !important;

You can edit the height property to suit, or remove the CSS it entirely if you want to use your own sizes.

Meta above title

This is achieved using a flex box on the Entry Header. Again this applied to the GP Blog:

.generate-columns-container article .entry-header, .wp-show-posts-entry-header display: -webkit-box; display: -ms-flexbox; display: flex; -webkit-box-orient: vertical; -webkit-box-direction: reverse; -ms-flex-direction: column-reverse; flex-direction: column-reverse;

Entry Title forced to 2 lines

The entry title always displays a minimum and maximum of 2 lines. This mantains the across row alignment. Again this is applied to GP Blog. The ex unit is used to define the number of lines visible. The lines are set by defining the line-height and setting the height to as many mutiples as you require lines. e.g up the height to 7.5ex will create three lines.

.generate-columns-container article .entry-header .entry-title, .wp-show-posts article .wp-show-posts-entry-title line-height: 2.5ex; height: 5ex; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis;

List: Align

Designed for a single column list this displays the content the image to the left and content to the right. This is subtly different to just resizing the image in the WP Show Posts list settings and aligning it left. Thanks to the Content Wrap we added (above) the content will never wrap around the image. On mobile it just stacks.

To add one of these your posts requires a little markup. And is done like so:

<div class="wpsp-align">shortcode_goes_here</div>

.wp-show-posts-columns#wpsp-1279 margin-left: -2em; .wp-show-posts-columns#wpsp-1279 .wp-show-posts-inner margin: 0 0 2em 2em;

Grille de carrière et salaire minimum professeur certifié catégorie A

26/12/2020 at 13:56

Les professeurs certifiés de la fonction publique, tout comme l’ensemble des fonctionnaires ont un cadre statutaire codifié en corps (A), un grade et un échelon. De plus, l’évolution du salaire d’un Professeur Certifié est déterminée à l’avance en fonction de son ancienneté dans le poste. Toutes les grilles de salaire sont revalorisées en fonction du…

Grille et salaire minimum d’architecture 2020 – Guadeloupe

26/12/2020 at 10:58

En application de l’accord du 27 février 2020 (BOCC 2020-42 TRA), ci-dessous les grilles des salaires minima du territoire de la Guadeloupe au 1er janvier 2020 de la convention collective nationale des entreprises d’architecture du 27 février 2003 (IDCC 2332 – Brochure JO N° 3062). La valeur du point est fixée à 8,02 € pour…

Lists: Sidebar

In the right had sidebar you can see the Sidebar list. This List is set to 1 column and only displays the Featured Image, Title and Category. This is designed for Widgets, a narrow column or as part of a grid (like in our next List).

To add this style the Widget requires a CSS Class of:

wpsp-card

Dispatch comes with Widget Classes Plugin installed. This provides this function.

List: Header

The Header list as seen on the Front Page requires a list containing only 5 posts. And can accomodate most of the content elements. Which are only displayed on the large leader post.

To add this style the Header Element requires the following element classes:

wpsp-grid wpsp-card

List: Simple

This is output using the wpsp-card inserted into a containing DIV like so:

<div class="wpsp-card">shortcode goes here</dib>

List: Simple Sidebar

Nothing fancy here, just a list being output using the a Widget in the sidebar.

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