#- because he most likely has traditional values‚ and wants Oliver to follow through with them. like be and marry a (probably white) woman- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

raywritesthings · 4 years ago

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Bird in a Storm 11/17

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Tommy Merlyn, Quentin Lance, Ted Grant, Captain Stein, Athena Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel’s career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends. *Can be read on my AO3, link is in bio*

No matter what he seemed to do at night to counteract the problems plaguing Starling City, Oliver always seemed to end up with a whole host more of them the next day. The unexpected call he had received last night from Detective Lance was only the latest proof of that.

The man had a point. What was Oliver’s plan once he had deciphered the true purpose of the Undertaking and put a stop to it? He didn’t want to be doing this forever, not while it kept him away from the people he loved most or hurt them the ways it had done to Laurel or Tommy.

But Laurel and her father were both right that there was more than just the Undertaking troubling this city. Right now, the police couldn’t handle it, maybe because they were corrupted like Lance said. Maybe that was where he needed to direct his focus next.

Or perhaps it would better serve his time to go after this Woman that Lance had mentioned and Raisa had described. Contrary to what the police or the public might think, he did not wish for the city to be overrun with vigilantes like him. He did want the traditional institutions to be able to do their jobs on their own, and well, someday. Stopping others from following in his footsteps was therefore necessary.

But at this moment, the Woman did not pose the same sort of threat that the Savior had to law and order. She had no known body count, made very little noise and these murmured rumors were the first he was hearing of her. And in some ways, she only represented a symptom of the problem Lance was asking for help with regarding the corruption in law enforcement.

It wouldn’t be easy to back trace every single cop in this city. He would need to ask Felicity very nicely for help, assuming that she would be willing since this had little to nothing to do with finding Walter. Though perhaps he should use that as an angle; Walter had been captured and held this long, in part, because law enforcement wasn’t able to do their jobs. He’d run it by John first to see if he thought it might work.

The irony of Lance asking for his help wasn’t lost on him, especially when the detective showed up at the Verdant the next night to accuse his club of giving Vertigo to people. A young woman had been found dead after leaving it last night, and Lance thought, as usual, that he was onto something.

“Her last text was to your good pal Merlyn.”

“Tommy left the club earlier in the month to take over running his father’s company,” Oliver countered with a frown. “Even if he was still the manager, I can’t believe he would have given her anything. We both agreed to a strict no narcotics policy.”

“Then I guess I’ll go see how he still feels about that,” Lance said, marching back out the doors.

Oliver let out a breath. He was sure Lance would be back once he’d finished questioning Tommy and probably want a look around the place as well. He could tell the detective to go get a warrant, but he didn’t doubt Lance would do just that. So how did he let him look around without him discovering anything?

First thing first, however, Oliver needed to send Tommy a little heads up notice that Lance was on his way. He winced when looking back through his recent contacts and realizing just how long it had been since he’d spoken to his friend.

Tommy picked up after the third ring. “Hello?”

“Tommy, it’s me. Listen, I wanted to let you know that Detective Lance might be over your way soon.”

“What about?”

“They found a young woman dead from Vertigo after she visited the club last night. Did you get a text from her?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been blocking unfamiliar numbers. I’m thinking of changing my own,” Tommy said. His voice turned sardonic as he added, “I guess Lance thinks that’s a good enough reason to give us the third degree?”

“He’s doing his job,” Oliver replied. Even if Lance was wrong, it wasn’t like he could stop pursuing a possible lead based on Oliver’s word.

“He’s pushing his agenda is what he’s doing, against the both of us, and I’m sick of letting him get away with it. It doesn’t matter that he’s Laurel’s father — especially now.”

“I don’t think she meant to hurt you,” he couldn’t help saying, guilt churning in his gut. If he’d never come back, never involved Laurel in the Hood’s mission, would his friends be happy now?

“Yeah, well she didn’t mean to be with me, either. Look, I don’t really have the time to talk about this. I’m going to have to make a few calls before the boys in blue come sniffing around. I’ll take care of this, Ollie — but I’d get in touch with Jean just in case.”

Oliver hadn’t even been thinking of his family’s lawyer. If anything, he’d thought to call Laurel for her advice, but it was clear he shouldn’t mention that to Tommy. “Okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Oliver tried not to worry about Lance the next day, focused as he and Diggle needed to be on tracing this new supply of Vertigo. Therefore he was surprised and a little nervous to receive a call from none other than Captain Stein, the de facto leader of the SCPD since Nudocerdo’s ouster over the holidays.

“Mr. Queen, I’ll do my best to keep this brief,” the other man said. “I’ve received a complaint from Mr. Thomas Merlyn that one of my detectives has been harassing the pair of you.”

Oliver’s eyebrows raised. What was Tommy doing? “Harassing is a strong word, Captain. I understand that Detective Lance has a job to do.”

“Detective Lance always thinks he has a job to do, and frankly I happen to agree that he’s got blinders when it comes to certain issues.” Stein didn’t seem to mind making it perfectly clear just what his feelings on the man were. “Now, I value what you and Mr. Merlyn have done with the Verdant to gentrify the Glades neighborhood, and if there’s anything jeopardizing that, you just have to say the word.”

“I…” Oliver found himself unsure of what to say. It was clear what Stein was implying: disciplinary action, perhaps even termination, of the man who was leading the task force against the Hood. For one selfish moment, he could picture just how much easier it might make his mission.

But Lance was right. The SCPD was suffering from corruption, and if that was ever going to change so that the city didn’t need the Hood, he needed people like Lance to stay on the force. Not chased off because he was making those upstairs uncomfortable.

And if he lost his job because of Oliver? Not only would his own guilt eat at him, but he couldn’t imagine what Laurel would say. How betrayed she would feel after everything she’d willingly given up for his cause. After everything he had done wrong by the Lance family, how could he even entertain the idea?

“Thank you, Captain,” he finally managed. “But I’m sure that’s not necessary. I’m confident the SCPD will be able to track down the real distributor of this terrible drug that’s caused so much suffering to so many.”

“I’m hopeful they will now that this case has been transferred to narcotics. I’m also barring Detective Lance from any police matters involving you or Mr. Merlyn from now on.”

“I see,” was all Oliver could come up with. “Thank you, Captain Stein.”

“Just making sure we’re taking care of our citizens, Mr. Queen. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting to other matters.”

“Of course.” Oliver hung up, his mouth twisting into a frown as he digested this latest development. Just as Lance had reached out to the Hood for help in fighting corruption in law enforcement, his own influence and latitude to act was curtailed. It seemed a coincidence, but it also seemed to him a bad omen.

He didn’t know much about Captain Stein, though his overly-eager tone on the phone made him suspicious. He would need to start with looking in to him, and the best place to start would be with the person Oliver knew had talked to him last: Tommy.

He found his friend still in the CEO’s office at Merlyn Global. It was strange being here in light of what had happened the last time.

“Just got a call from Captain Stein,” he said in greeting. Tommy looked up and nodded once, hardly seeming surprised. Instead, his friend walked over to a small mini bar tucked in one corner of the office and got out two glasses and a bottle. “What exactly did you say to him to get him to go after Lance like that?”

“The truth. He’s had it out for us ever since you tangled with his daughters, but we’re not a couple of bad boys anymore, Ollie. We have businesses, employees who count on us. We can’t let him throw his weight around.”

“So we throw our own? What’s Stein getting out of all this?”

“Nothing.” Tommy narrowed his eyes. “You think I bribed him?”

“No,” Oliver said immediately. It sounded weak even to his own ears.

Tommy scoffed and shook his head as he finished pouring. “I didn’t need to bribe him. The special election to replace Nudocerdo is coming up in late spring.”

“So you offered your support,” he guessed.

“Hey, the guy’s clean from everything I know. Why shouldn’t he be commissioner?” Tommy crossed the room with both glasses in hand, holding one out that Oliver took out of social nicety more than wanting it. “And if he feels inclined to keep annoyances like Lance off our backs, what’s the harm?”

“The harm is if it doesn’t stop with voluntarily warding off ‘annoyances’,” Oliver answered. “The problem is that once the favors start rolling in, guys like Stein might find it hard to stay clean.”

Tommy sipped at his drink. “I didn’t hear you complaining when your mom and Walter had Nudocerdo over for their dinners.”

“That wasn’t really my choice.” Oliver set his drink aside, looking his friend squarely in the eye. “Come on, Tommy. I thought we weren’t trying to be our parents. I mean, you always said you never wanted to be your dad.”

“Well, I was wrong. My dad might have had trouble being there for me after mom died, but he understood how the world worked. I should have made better use of the time we had.”

The use of past tense alarmed him. “He’s not—”

“His condition’s the same. But even if they revive him, can he really be the same?” Tommy knocked the rest of his drink back, though Oliver doubted it was the sting of alcohol causing his eyes to brighten with a wet sheen. “He’s all I really have.”

“That’s not true.” Oliver stepped forward, but the hand he’d intended to lay on Tommy’s shoulder was brushed off.

“You’re not the same, Oliver. We both know it. And dating Laurel… it was a mistake. I thought I’d be happy without you as a friend if I had her, but I never did, did I?” His gaze seemed to rest heavier on Oliver for just a moment. “And now I have neither.”

His friend turned and walked towards the large windows, the same windows Deadshot had fired through to strike Tommy’s father and leave him fighting for his life in Starling General.

“You can decide how to deal with Lance in the future if you really want. I just thought I could help my friend.”

“Tommy…” How did he explain that he appreciated it, but that it just wasn’t the right way?

Breakup or no, it troubled him that Tommy would do something like this. He had very nearly ended Detective Lance’s career with a single phone call. Yet he couldn’t explain why it was so vital that Lance remain on the force without revealing his interest in helping the city and possibly tying himself to the Hood. Something he could never let Tommy know.

So Oliver swallowed down the words and left, hating himself for it. No matter what he did, he just ended up with more problems at the end of the day.

He didn’t know how much damage had been caused to Lance’s position in the precinct. He didn’t know how to fix things with Tommy, or how to make things okay for them to be friends again the way they’d once been. He didn’t know how to restore the balance between the two of them and Laurel. Maybe there had never been a balance; maybe he’d only been fooling himself trying to keep them all happy.

He wanted so badly to see her whether it was against the cover or not, but as he exited the lobby of Merlyn Global his phone buzzed. Diggle had the answers they’d been looking for about the location of the Vertigo. After heading to the psychiatric facility and being force-fed an overdose only his own injected antidote saved him from, Oliver decided that the cover could go to hell.

The only problem was, when he reached Laurel’s apartment and slipped in through the back door, no one was home. In the middle of the night.

The exhaustion from the fight with Dr. Webb and his orderly assistant left him instantly upon realizing this. Where was she? What could have happened?

---

Laurel frowned as she drew up to the front doors of the Wildcat Gym that afternoon only to find a sign taped to the front that read Closed Till Next Week. When she tried the handle, it was unlocked, so she let herself in.

“Ted?”

She spotted him gathering some kind of supplies in a couple duffle bags. He glanced up at her once in acknowledgement “I’m pretty sure you can read.”

“Is everything okay? You kind of look like you’re packing there,” she remarked, walking further into the space.

“It’s not for me.”

“Then what?”

“Some girl OD’d last night while she was out partying.” Ted shrugged. “When a white girl dies, people wanna look like they’re doing something. And then it’s the less fortunate who suffer.”

Of course. The more she learned about the ways their systems kept cutting the residents here down, the more ridiculous her ideals about justice in the courtrooms seemed. “Because she was out in the Glades, they’re going to crack down on the people who live here,” Laurel summarized. When her teacher nodded, she asked, “How can I help?”

He straightened up and looked her over as if assessing her for a moment. “We’re going into the crackhouses, getting the people out before the cops can round them up. I’ll be keeping some of them here, some friends that run a shelter are gonna take more. By the end of the week, everything should be calmed down.”

Laurel nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

Ted drove them around to different rundown tenements in the neighborhood. She’d seen one or two like this on her visits to clients in the past, though never set foot inside. That was changing today.

The smell was what hit most strongly. Sweat, piss, bile. The very air seemed stale, trapped as it was behind windows covered in dust and grime.

There were a few people slumped around on couches with broken springs or up against walls. Most of them were young, she was dismayed to see. Laurel supposed this wasn’t the kind of life that allowed a person to grow old.

“Come on,” Ted said gently, gripping the shoulder of a boy around Thea’s age. His dreads were practically plastered to one side of his face where he leaned on his friend. Or maybe they were strangers. “You’ve gotta get up. Cops are coming.”

“Man…” the kid groaned and blindly reached out. Ted helped him to stand.

“You have anyone to take you in?”

“Nah.”

“Alright, come on.”

Laurel watched Ted help him outside, then approached one of the girls on the couch. “Hey.”

“Mmph.”

“I know moving is probably the last thing you want to do right now, but I promise it’s better than jail. Do you need somewhere to stay?”

That got a head turning in her direction and eyes blinking at her blearily. “I stay here.”

“Not anymore. Come on.”

Calling on the approach she’d sometimes used with her father, Laurel lifted the young woman’s arm around her shoulder and helped her to shakily stand. The girl was barely supporting any of her own weight as she marched her out to the van.

Some of them were barely conscious. Some of them couldn’t move until they had water or food from the bags Ted had brought. Some of them were missing shoes or couldn’t remember where they’d left their own belongings.

It was slow work, especially since they could only take so many people at a time. They briefly crossed paths with Ted’s friends who ran the shelter in one of the other houses. They passed off some more supplies, food and blankets and the like.

It was dark by the time they called it quits, and Laurel stood with Ted looking at the people lying or sitting around on the gym floor. They looked just as lost here as where they’d brought them from.

“Do you think we got everyone?”

Ted shrugged. “No way to know. But probably not.”

“Where will they go after the gym reopens?”

“Right back where we found them.” He sighed when she turned to him with crossed arms. “Not like that. I couldn’t keep them here if I tried. Those houses are where they’ve found their escape, and they’re the only ones who can choose to stay away for themselves.” Ted took a number of cards for Narcotics Anonymous out of his pocket. “I make them take one when they leave. Sometimes it works. Sometimes only for a little. But what can you do?”

“It’s hard when people have lost hope,” Laurel agreed softly.

Only several weeks ago, Thea had been refusing to listen to any of her brother’s pleas or demands to stop using. Only once it had nearly cost her her life had she gotten herself off the drugs. And not everyone found it so easy to go cold turkey like that. She’d have to let Thea know how strong she was, even if she had certain advantages and privileges these people certainly didn’t.

“Thanks for helping out,” Ted remarked.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Does it feel better than dressing up and beating on people in the middle of the night?”

Laurel froze and stared at him. “How—”

“Let’s just say you remind me of someone.” Her teacher looked her square in the eyes. “I know what you’re thinking because I’ve had those thoughts, too. That someone ought to do something about all the crap going on in this world. That that someone might as well be me.”

“You’ve… you were a vigilante?” She wondered how she had never heard — but then, she was mostly flying under the radar so far herself, wasn’t she? Not all of them could afford the high-budget theatrics of the Hood.

“They called me Wildcat. But I was a thug,” Ted said. “Beating up on other thugs. It didn’t change anything in this town. Things just kept getting worse. That’s why I’m asking you to hang this up now, before you really get going, Laurel. It’s only going to end with you getting hurt.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t fail because of what you were doing, Ted. And you weren’t fighting a losing battle. You just didn’t know who you were fighting.”

Laurel walked around to keep him facing her when he turned away. “I’ve spoken to the Hood. He has evidence that a group of the wealthiest people in this city and their associates conspired to make the Glades worse off than ever over the last five years. He doesn’t know why yet. But that’s why things have become so bad. It’s not some statement on the people living here or some failure on your part. It was planned.”

She could see that this hit him somewhere inside. For a moment, his eyes widened, a dozen different emotions passing across his face. But at last, he settled on resignation. “All that means is I was never going to make a difference at all.”

“But we can now,” she insisted. “With the Hood taking on people at the top, it’s up to us to change things on the ground.”

“Maybe. But I’m doing what I can here, Laurel.” A frown creased his brow as he admitted, “I’m not in the shape I was, and I have things to lose. Maybe not a family, but this place.”

Ted walked to the nearest heavyweight bag and took it down off the hook. “You keep practicing, keep fighting. But it can’t be here. I’m sorry, but if they trace you back here and shut me down, that’s a lot of people back out on the street with nowhere to let out their hurt and their anger.”

Laurel nodded in hopes of disguising the lump that rose in her throat, especially as she didn’t trust her voice at the moment. She knew intellectually she hadn’t known Ted or the gym all that long, but it felt like yet another door being shut in her face. Another person walking out. Even if he explained, even if he had a good reason.

“Okay.”

“You take care of yourself, alright? And if you need me, I’ll do my best to be there,” he told her. “I hope you do make a difference. I hope you’re right. But I’ve found where I need to be.”

“Good.” She hauled the bag up from the ground by its straps. “Cause I’ve found the same thing. And I’ll be there, too.” Laurel turned and left the gym, her heart hurting more than the strain on her shoulders.

The more time went on, the more people she seemed to lose. Sara, her mother, her father, Tommy, Oliver more than once and now Ted. Was this just the way things ended for people on this kind of path, or was this just her?

She dropped the bag on her front stoop in order to get out her keys. Laurel froze as she placed the key in the lock. Was that the creaking of floorboards inside?

Drawing in a breath, she turned the knob and threw the door open, launching forward with her key pointing straight out of her clenched fist. An arm in dark leather took the brunt of it, and someone else’s hand grabbed towards her. She dropped and kicked one leg out, catching him in the shin.

There was a grunt, though he didn’t fall, and then he called out, “Laurel, stop!”

“Ollie?”

Laurel scrambled back up and their fingers tangled as they both reached for the light switch. Oliver’s face looked pale and drawn, though he still smiled weakly at her.

“Guess I should call ahead.”

“Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She reached for his arm. The leather of his jacket now bore a scratch, but it had protected him.

“Believe me, I’ve had much worse. That was a hard kick, though. Where’d you learn that one?”

“Uh… my neighbor.” It was strange; she hadn’t thought about what to tell Oliver or when in more than the abstract. Their limited ability to see each other meant that she hadn’t necessarily felt obligated to disclose her nighttime activities. But now that he was here, what should she say?

As she looked at him, how worn and tired he seemed, would he even want to know?

“What was that thud I heard outside?”

“What? Oh, my punching bag.” Laurel stepped backwards out into the night to grab the straps again, but felt Oliver’s warmth and presence behind her as he reached around her to take hold. She could admit with some chagrin that he had an easier time carrying it inside. “My trainer is using his gym for something else for a week or so, so he lent it to me.”

“Is that why you were out so late?”

“Yes and no.” She could at least open up a little, right? “I was helping him get some people help. With the latest Vertigo scare, the police are going to be renewing the war on drugs, and that means a lot of people would suffer.”

Oliver opened his mouth for a moment, stopped, then said, “They’d only find the victims and not the ones dealing.”

She nodded. “Ted was the one who pointed it out to me. He’s a good guy.” She was really going to miss him, even if he was doing what he felt he needed to protect the gym.

“Well, the scrutiny over Vertigo should end soon. I took care of the new distributor tonight.” The way he said it, the slump of his shoulders, she thought she knew what must have happened to the distributor.

“Thank you.” Laurel crossed to the couch, gesturing to the open space on the other end. Oliver sat, and though he looked better for no longer having to hold himself up, he still wore a troubled frown. “What really brought you over this way?”

“I don’t know.” He sat forward, staring at his hands in his lap. “It feels like lately I can’t find the answers to the problems I’m facing. Or this city’s facing. I’m no closer to figuring out what my father was trying to stop except that his list has a map of the old subway tunnel system on it, which has nothing to do with the names. I don’t know what happens once the mission is complete. And Tommy… he’s lost, and I don’t know how to help him.”

Laurel bit her lip and looked down. “Is he still hurting over his father?” She hoped it wasn’t still the breakup.

“It’s more than that. Some of the things he’s saying, how he’s been acting since he took over Merlyn Global. And I think he knows I’m hiding things from him.” Oliver’s eyes searched hers. “I can’t be the friend he needs when I’m keeping all of this from him.”

She looked down. Just how good of a friend was she being to Oliver when she was keeping things from him?

“I wish we could all just go back sometimes,” he said wistfully.

“So do I. But we can’t go back, Ollie.” She looked up then. “We can’t change the past. We just move forward and hope that we’re acting for the best now.” Laurel leaned across the space towards him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever comes of your friendship with Tommy, I think most of the people of this city would agree that you have been doing your best by them. I know that doesn’t make it any easier to let go.”

“No, but it helped me realize what I can and can’t let go of,” he said. Oliver turned his head toward her. “I need you in my life, Laurel. Whatever story we have to make up, whatever excuse. Friends have differences of opinion all the time, and whatever else people have to believe of me as Oliver Queen, I want them to know that I am someone that sticks by my friends. No matter what. I miss you. Please.”

She had never been good at resisting those begging eyes. Laurel leaned across the couch space, her arms circling around him. He held her, his face turned into her neck, breath washing over her skin without her hair to act as a curtain between them. She wished they could simply stay like this forever, but they couldn’t cause time to stop any more than they could turn it back. And there was something he needed to know.

“Ollie—”

A sharp rapping on her front door caused them both to tense up and pull back. It repeated, and Laurel stood. Oliver grabbed for her hand but she pulled free, going to the door and checking through the peephole.

“Dad,” she said aloud out of surprise. She thought she heard Oliver scramble to stand up as she pulled open the door. “Dad?”

“Hey, uh. I wasn’t gonna stop if it looked like you were sleeping, but I saw your light on. I guess I just needed someone to talk to, cause of—” He froze upon spotting Oliver, who Laurel noticed looked stricken as he watched them. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“We were just talking,” she began.

“Detective, I’m so sorry,” Oliver spoke at the same time, throwing her completely. “I never meant to cause you trouble at work.”

“Never meant to, huh? So you gave your buddy Merlyn a call so he’d, what, cooperate with the law?”

“I didn’t know that he’d go to Stein, I only—”

“Okay, hang on, both of you,” Laurel said, holding her hands up like stop signs. “Before you keep arguing in my home, I need to know just what is going on.”

“There was a girl who died of an overdose after visiting his club,” her dad said, throwing a glare in Oliver’s direction. “Had a text on her phone to Merlyn asking for a fix. I was following the lead.”

“I called Tommy to tell him the situation,” Oliver admitted. “He’s been out of the club management for weeks. I just didn’t want him caught off guard. I didn’t ask him to call your boss, I swear.”

Laurel believed him, but she had her father to worry about. “Daddy, what did Stein say? Did he suspend you, did he—?”

“I still have my job,” he clarified, then scowled in Oliver’s direction. “No thanks to him.”

“Detective, if there’s anything I can do—”

“Yeah, there is something. You stay the hell away from my daughter. You and Merlyn.”

“Dad!”

Oliver bowed his head. “I understand that you’re angry with me, Detective Lance, but Laurel is my friend.”

“Really? You have a funny way of showing it!”

“That’s enough,” Laurel snapped. “Oliver was not intending to hurt you, and whatever strings Tommy pulled with Stein doesn’t change that Oliver is my friend. I know you’re upset, but you cannot keep blaming him for every single thing that goes wrong in your life.”

Her father was breathing harshly through his nose but remained silent.

“I should let you two talk,” Oliver said quietly. He made his way to the door, skirting around her father. “I’ll see you…?”

Laurel nodded. “Yeah.” Even if she didn’t know when. Between her work — both the kind she was paid for and the kind she wasn’t — and needing to pull her father out of this latest funk, it wasn’t going to be easy.

He glowered at Oliver until the door was closed behind him. Then, predictably, he rounded on her. “What are you doing, letting him back in your life? Where exactly was he when you lost everything this winter?”

“He offered to help me find work, actually,” Laurel revealed, perhaps rashly, but she was getting tired of remembering which conversations were a public or private matter. “But after the Hood visited Mrs. Queen to question her, I told him he shouldn’t have to choose between him and his family. I was keeping my distance from him, not the other way around.”

Her father opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned as she watched the wind deflate from his metaphorical sails. “I still think it was a bad idea for you to get mixed up with these billionaires.”

“I will agree that it got complicated,” she replied. Especially with Tommy. That really hadn’t been one of her better decisions. But then, she wasn’t the only Lance who had made bad decisions in the wake of the Queen’s Gambit sinking.

Was her past decision part of why her father was having such trouble at work? Was Tommy taking his anger out on her father? Maybe she should confront him — or would that only make everything worse? It was hard to know. She felt like she’d taken Tommy’s snark and devil may care approach to life for granted, not realizing the deep anger and hurt that lurked underneath. Could she have done more to be there for him? Would he have even let her?

“What’s this?” Her father was prodding the heavy bag with his toe.

“Gift from Ted. Uh, he’s a trainer at the local gym. I started going,” she told him. It was hard to remember what he did and didn’t know thanks to the time they had spent not talking. “I know you worry about me taking care of myself out here.”

“I do, yeah.” He glanced around. “How are you gonna hang it?”

“I’ll probably ask Jerome for some help. He’s next door with Anita.”

“You’ve really made a home for yourself out of this place, huh?” Her dad shook his head. “I didn’t used to believe you, but… I think you were right.”

It was rare enough that he said so that she sorely wished she knew what he thought she was right about. Laurel crossed her arms and raised both brows. “Oh?”

“What I was trying to make you do. Stay safe, keep your head down, all that. It wasn’t living.” He took a step towards her. “I was too hands off with Sara, so I doubled down on you and it wasn’t fair. You needed to find your own way.”

Laurel bit her lip. It was the last thing she’d been expecting to hear, and she had no idea what to say to it.

He waved a hand, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I just needed to tell you that. Now I think we both could do with some sleep.” He saw himself to the door, but paused as he opened it. “Look, about Queen.”

Laurel watched her father as he stared at the ground, obviously warring with himself.

“You do whatever you think is best. I trust you to know what that is. Just want you safe and happy, okay?”

“Okay,” Laurel agreed quietly. “Goodnight, daddy.”

“Goodnight sweetheart.”

Laurel slowly sank back down onto her couch when she heard the door of his cruiser shut outside and the motor start. She hoped he really was going home and not back to work, especially if he was on thin ice with his superiors at the moment. That didn’t lend well to his temper.

Laurel placed her face in her hands. What she thought was best. There were just so many moving parts in her life, it was hard to know what that was anymore. Was she really doing right by the people in her life and in her city?

She thought of a gym full of people sleeping and safe from being thrown in prison. She thought of the things she had achieved so far out in the streets.

Maybe she couldn’t know for sure, but she was the daughter of a cop, and her gut was saying that in at least one regard she was right on the money.

---

Tommy didn’t used to like drinking alone. In a way, it felt like admitting that he was alone. But it really was time to stop pretending.

He left Oliver’s untouched drink on the table for the janitors to clean up and locked up for the night. It made him uncomfortable staying here too late; too easy to recall the night his father had been shot and poisoned. So he made the long drive home, out of the city and into the peace and quiet of the surrounding countryside with its rolling hills and family homes.

He’d regrettably had to cancel the lease on his new bachelor pad so that someone was living in the Manor to give the staff reason to be paid. Being here made him feel closer not just to his father, but also his mother. If he closed his eyes and thought hard, he thought he could still picture the better times. The times they were a family, before the violence in this city had taken his parents away from him.

His footsteps carried him towards his father’s study. He hadn’t entered it since before the attack that had left him comatose, but Tommy did so now.

Papers sat on his father’s desk, correspondence and notes forever paused with no way of knowing when they would be picked up again. Tommy circled around the desk, standing where his father might have stood. His hands rested palms flat on the wood as he drew in a breath and closed his eyes.

He missed his dad. But Oliver’s question did make him wonder, was this truly what he wanted to be?

There was so much he felt he didn’t know. How had his father been able to fight those men that had attacked them? And what was behind that sliding wall his father had started to open in the panic room that night? A part of him was afraid to find out.

The other part of him, that part that truly did sound like his father, told him to stop being such a coward about it. Without his father’s unexpected skills, they would have both died that night, rather than him living and his father being in hospice. Strength was something good, something people respected. If Tommy had been strong, maybe Laurel wouldn’t have left him for the Hood.

His hands curled into fists against the cool surface of the wood. The Hood was an example of strength gone too far, strength that took what it wanted and bullied everyone else into submission. He was a product of the very neighborhood he seemed to slink out of every night to conduct his one-man crusade against the wealthy and successful in this city. And he needed to be stopped before more families were ripped apart.

“I’m beginning to see the resemblance.”

Tommy straightened up and turned towards the door. An unfamiliar woman stood there. She was beautiful in an exotic way, and not just because of the scar on her face.

“Who let you in here?” He would need to know which member of the staff to have words with.

“No one. You are the only one who knows I’m here.” She stepped forward, and Tommy took in the strange clothes she wore and the quiver of black arrows strapped to her back.

“If you’re some new girlfriend of the Hood’s—”

“I have no association with him. I belong to a much older order. A higher calling than this Hood aspires to in a vain attempt to salvage the ruin your city has become.” She reached a hand out, fingertips brushing a photo of his mother that sat on the desk. “A calling your father dedicated himself to in service of the one you both lost.”

He removes the photograph from her reach. “What do you know about my father?”

“Everything.” Her gaze was hypnotic in some ways. He didn’t doubt she was dangerous, lethal even. But did she really hold the answers to all the questions he had? “And I can heal him. With your help.”

After so many weeks of despairing, this stranger offered him hope. “What’s your name?”

She smiled, though like his father’s own smile, it held little warmth. “Athena.”

#lauriver #laurel x oliver #laurel lance #oliver queen #arrow #green arrow #black canary #my writing #bird in a storm

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angrylizardjacket · 5 years ago

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let us cling together {Roger Taylor}

aka: we only see each other at weddings and funerals

A/N: aydtd 'verse. my grandfather died on Friday and yesterday was his funeral, and this came to me. I just want to appreciate the concept of family, not all family, because sometimes family is shitty and terrible, but sometimes they're pretty alright. Anyways. death and funeral tw !!

1. Douglas Clarke

Ash isn't invited to her father's second wedding, not that he would know where to send the invite. Her parents had split in the early 80s, polarised by the fight between Minnie and Ellie, their youngest twin daughters. What followed was a messy divorce, both parents sinking deeper into their alcoholism, and, according to a disgusted Minnie, their father dating a slue of co-eds from the college where he taught. By the time he has one stick around long enough to marry, the only family member Ash is speaking to is Minnie, and Minnie's close to not even going herself.

"Mum's right furious Oscar was invited, but she's also right furious she wasn't," Minnie tells Ash over coffee. Ash, thirty-two and secretly high, nods, before taking a long sip of her hot chocolate, "honestly the woman plays jump rope with her indignance, she'd be insufferable either way." Minnie sighs dramatically, swirling her own mostly finished drink.

Their father's new fiance is the same age as Minnie, only twenty-four, and it's one thing on the considerable laundry list of reasons most of the family is considering boycotting the wedding. Minnie has her own personal reasons, mostly relating to her twin sister marrying her ex and bringing him, and their children, to the wedding, but Ash just nods sympathetically, and tries not to act as out of it as she feels. She hasn't been legally disowned, but for all intents and purposes, she was no longer a Clarke.

Minnie rants and rambles about the family Ash has forsaken, and Ash finds herself grateful that she doesn't have to deal with any of the drama anymore.

A few weeks after the wedding, Ash and Minnie go for coffee, and Minnie brings a photo of the wedding party.

Ellie's had twins. Their older brother, Oz, is clearly going through a divorce. August was their father's best man, and the new bride looks smug.

Ash is glad she dodged that bullet of an event.

The marriage doesn't last long in the grand scheme of things, but it doesn't end how Ash had expected it to. At thirty-five, she's touring with Queen again, with Roger again, and the last thing she expects is a call from her sister to say her father died in his sleep.

It's not as if she's celebrating, she's not heartless, she's just... not sure where she fits into the picture. Minnie invites her to the funeral.

She doesn't give an address. She watches, blank faced, as his wife chokes on her eulogy, and Ellie, there to support her, reads for her despite her own tears. They read off the names of his family, his relatives, and Ash's name at the end sounds almost begrudging as it leaves Ellie's lips. It's here that Ash finally learns his wife's name, Lynn, and she contemplates how strange it is that she'd never learnt it before.

It's here Ash learns a lot of things. Unsure of her emotions as she sits alone at the wake, not crying, not doing... anything. She's not even high but everything feels like static in her mind.

"Ashley?" Everyone calls her Ashley here, it makes her skin crawl. Her only goal is to not get in a shouting match, and so far she's managed to avoid her mother, and August, so she's doing pretty well.

It's Lynn, who hugs her like she's family, and introduces Ash to the little brother she didn't know she had.

Douglas Jr is two. He doesn't have Lynn's eyes, but Ash can't remember what her father's looked like.

"I bet that pissed Oz off to no end." Ash says without thinking, and Lynn's face reflexively scrunches. Ash hasn't even spoken to Oz, she's barely spoken to anyone apart from Minnie, who still wasn't speaking to Ellie or their mother.

Lynn doesn't know what to say, and leaves before Ash can say anything to the kid with Lynn's blonde hair and painfully familiar bright green eyes.

The next person to sit with her is a ginger teen trying to hide the fact that he's eating a brownie.

"Hi," Ash, frowning a little, greets the boy with flat confusion. He looks familiar, but so does everyone, Ash is just as likely to be related to any of the gingers present as she isn't.

"Huh?" Mouth full of brownie, the kid looks surprised that she even acknowledged him.

"Who are you related to?" Ash asks, because is Ash knew anything, it was that her father barely tolerated his own children as children, and no child would come to a wake of their own accord. Maybe Ash should pay more attention. She doesn't want to be here.

"Os-" the kid swallows his food before starting again, "Oscar Clarke; Doug was my grandad." He explains, and Ash can feel her voice freeze in her throat. She looks at the kid, really looks at him, and sees her brother in his eyes, his cheekbones, his lanky frame.

"You're," she hesitates, frowns, tries to remember what Minnie told her, "you're Allen?"

"Who are you?" The kid scowls, and quickly takes another bite of his obviously stolen snack.

"I'm Ash... ley. I'm Ashley." She says, and it sounds strange, it's the first time she's used that name in over a decade.

"Oh." Allen seems a little confused, and he shoves the rest of the cake just as a young girl hollers his name.

"Allen you're a thief and a rotten feckin' -"

"Jackie!"

Ash, even after all this time, knows that voice. It's been sixteen years since she'd seen her brother in person, and he's changed so much overall, but the longer she looks, the more she recognises him.

And he's coming towards her.

"Mind your language Jacks," Oscar tells the girl who yelled, and who was now, sulkily accompanying him to where Ash and Allen were sitting, "we'll get you more brownie, biscuit." He assures, before fixing Allen with an exasperated look. "You could've just asked Nan for another-"

"Nan would rather feed me Pop's rotting left foot-"

"You're so gross," Jackie wrinkles her nose, and Ash actually laughs. Oscar finally, finally looks at her.

"Hi, sorry, I'm -" he offers his hand, but falters, brow creasing in a frown.

"It's been a while, Oz," Ash swallows hard, and Oscar, gentle, tall Oscar, who had already spent a considerable amount of time with his eyes tear stained, notices his vision clouding at the sight of his little sister.

"Ashley."

He looks at her like he can't believe she's real, and for the first time all day, Ash cries. He's different, now almost forty, with wrinkles, crows feet and laugh lines, and so many freckles. His hair is shorter than she remember it, but he still keeps his beard to stubble.

It still feels the same when he hugs her.

She's stiff, conflicted, in her mind there's a disconnect; she's missed him so much, but she still hears him, all those years ago, calling her a homewrecking who're. She doesn't hug him back.

"Who's she?" Jackie whispers loudly to Allen, who shrugs. Oscar's smiling gently as he pulls back, and he wipes at his eyes.

"Jackie, Allen, this is your Aunt, Ashley." He explains, and something catches in Ash's throat.

"Auntie 'Ashley-Who-We-Don't-Talk-About'?" Jackie asks, matter-of-factly, and Ash actually laughs a little at that, though Oscar looks a little guilty.

"Ashl-" he chokes on her name, "Ace, these are my kids, Allen and Jaquelyn."

Ash greets the children, smiles and shakes their hands, and a strange little silence falls over them. No-one knows quite what to say.

"So," Ash finally breaks the silence with a sly smile, "Douglas Junior is a thing." Oscar laughs, loud and bright and so familiar.

"I'm just glad I dodged that bullet."

2. Mikayla McGreggor [nee. Clarke]

Minnie marries a highschool history teacher named Oliver, and Ellie's not invited.

Ash knows from being on the peripheries of Minnie's planning that the family is being a pain to organise, between Ellie being banned, Lynn not wanting to come if their mother was coming, and their mother kicking up a stink about everything and nothing every five minutes. Ash, for her part, is easy comparatively, and just works diligently away where she agreed to alter the wedding dress.

The most stressful part of the situation is that Ash is heavily pregnant, and most of her family don't even know. Though she exchanges letters with Oscar now, and he knows she's engaged, she won't give up her connection to Queen for the lingering fear that it might be used against her somehow. Old habits die hard, after all.

Ash isn't part of the wedding party, not out of malice, but of consideration; neither Minnie nor Oliver wanted go put her under any sort of stress. So Ash happily sits in one of the back rows of the church, Roger by her side, watching proudly as her sister gets married.

The wedding itself was fairly dry, though the reception was quite the party. Oscar's the first to find Ash after everyone had finished eating and the band had begun playing. He's halfway through introducing himself to Roger before he finally looks at him, looks at Roger's charming smile and how he'd extended his hand to meet Oscar's, and his voice dies in his throat, eyes going wide.

"Roger," he introduces himself easily, "a pleasure to meet you."

Oscar regains his composure easily, though Ash still thinks she should have warned him. Or Roger, maybe. Though Roger knew what he was getting into, he actually thought it was rather funny.

The reception is a ridiculous family affair; Ash's mother corners her in the bathroom to slur her way through calling Ash a whore for being pregnant and unmarried. It appears their family's painfully traditional values did not die with their father. Much to both Ash and her mother's surprise, Ash isn't actually bothered. Ellie crashes the party about an hour and a half in, in the middle of the maid of honor's speech, to give a tearful apology, to which Minnie bursts into tears and accepts on the spot.

"I like your family," Roger says with the barest amusement.

"That makes one of us," Ash grimaces, taking another sip of soda, though it is sweet to see Ellie and Minnie spinning around the dance floor like they did when they were kids. Minnie's new husband looks so damn endeared by the sight. Roger's smile only widens.

"Your nephew has my poster on his wall," He actually sounds proud, and Ash can't help but press a smile to his shoulder.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he got them off of Oz," Ash snickers, leaning into Roger who had his arm around her. "Thank you for coming to this with me, Rog," Ash's voice turns gentle, as does her smile when his gaze meets hers. He kisses her softly instead of answering, his hand coming to rest on her round belly, and Ash, for the first time in her memory, feels content while surrounded by family.

3. Ash Taylor [nee. Clarke Mercury]

Ash doesn't invite her mother to her own wedding. She doesn't invite Lynn either. All her siblings (and their spouses and their children) are invited, and her mum's right furious, even moreso when she learns that Freddie's mother is going to be giving Ash away.

Freddie himself is gaunt and sickly, but he stands proudly as Ash's best man, tears welling in his eyes as he smiles brightly at his surrogate sister as she walks down the aisle. Minnie is Ash's only bridesmaid, while Brian and John stand, beaming, behind Roger.

Astrid, Ash and Roger's first daughter, all of four years old, chaotically and haphazardly throws her flower petals like grenades where she leads the procession down the aisle, and wears her empty basket like a helmet for the duration of the ceremony. Meanwhile, the newborn Cate was carried by John's eldest, who also took responsibility.

The wedding, as well as the reception, is a star studded affair, and Ash's little and painfully Scottish family is more than a little overwhelmed. They all know in a roundabout way that Ash is well connected, but they'd never really realised the extent.

She's midway through a conversation with Oscar when Bernie Taupman kisses both of her cheeks and thanks her wryly for keeping John Reid off the guest list.

"That was for Freddie's benefit as much as it was Elton's," she answers, and Bernie snorts a laugh, while Oscar's gone starry-eyed. Oscar had recently come out to the family, which almost made Ash cry. He'd been so worried that she was angry or disappointed, until she quickly blurted that she was bisexual. She knows the look in her brother's eyes all too well, and he apparently had the same taste in men as Ash. Even if Bernie wasn't interested in men like that, it was still polite to introduce the two of them.

"Bern, this is my older brother, Oscar." She introduces fondly, and Oscar's expression fades to a grin as he holds out his hand.

When Doc McGhee passes on best wishes from Tommy Lee 'well, all of Motley Crue, but especially Tommy', Ash laughs lightly, thanking him, while Minnie and Jackie take a moment to fangirl once he leaves.

"I didn't take either of you for Motley fans," Ash admitted. Minnie shrugs, says she likes all sorts of music, and Jackie explains that Allen's going through a metal phase, and so she was to, by virtue of him always blasts his music loud enough for the whole house to hear. Ash had noticed that; he'd recently shaved his head, pierced his nose, and put a safety pin through his ear, though Ash quite liked the look on him.

Speaking of Allen, he was deep in conversation with Rob Reiner, just as starry-eyed as his father as he picked the director's brains.

"So how did you meet Ash and Roger?" The kid finally asks, and the renowned director smiles a little.

"I asked Ash to work on Spinal Tap with me-"

"No way! Ash worked on Spinal Tap?" Allen almost gasped, and Reiner nodded, endeared by the excitable teen.

It's here that the family comes to realise that for all they have gotten to know her since she'd allowed them back into her life, they don't know what she does beyond a vague mention of 'costumes'.

Ash doesn't notice her family's growing respect the more they integrate themselves with the other guests, she's too wrapped up in enjoying the night with Roger.

4. Oscar Clarke

Like almost all deaths in Ash's life, her brother's comes as a shock. Freddie passed almost a year and a half ago, and her son was born barely a month ago, and at three in the morning on a Sunday, she receives a distraught call from Ellie.

She'd known Oscar was sick, but he never liked talking about that sort of thing. Perhaps he was trying to protect her, but she hadn't even known he was in hospital.

Jackie bawls at the funeral, and won't let go of Allen. Their mother, Oscar's ex-wife, was kind-faced and gentle as she hugged each of Oscar's sisters in turn. Their mother was nowhere to be seen, a bigot to the last.

Ash and Roger sit in the front row, reserved for family, and Minnie is holding Ash's and Ellie's hands so tight it's painful, weeping silently. It doesn't feel real, it feels like she's moving in suspended animation, like moving through honey, nothing makes sense. Jackie is audibly sobbing where she clings to her brother's arm while he delivers a choked up speech about his father's life. Allen looks so much like Oscar.

Astrid and Cate don't quite know what's going on, but they know to be quiet, and baby Barney, barely a month old, starts screaming halfway through the eulogy, and Ash feels it deep in her bones. Roger offers to take him outside, but Ash shakes her head, standing and walking him outside. Ash holds Barney close as she rocks him. And that's how her sisters find her, crying quietly, clutching her son as his own cries subside.

The three women sit in the grass and take quiet solace in each other, their family having gotten just that bit smaller.

#bohemian rhapsody #roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x oc #queen #queen imagine #ash x roger #the angry lizard writes #death tw #funeral tw #borhap

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twentyone50-blog · 5 years ago

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How to dress well: the 15 rules all men need to learn

There are sufficient regulations in life because it is. Some, however, are there to help. Like the guidelines that govern how to dress nicely.

Of course, every person that has an opinion on such things speaks from non-public experience – and absolute confidence what works for one doesn’t constantly paintings for another; or what works for one is considered too pedestrian or too avant-garde by means of another. So, on the subject of dressing, they continually need to be taken at face value. They’re solid pointers in place of the last word on fashion.

But right advice is never to be sniffed at, and, as menswear becomes ever greater rich and varied, ever greater experimental and abundant, ever extra trend-aware, in moments of bewilderment and self-doubt, it is able to assist to have a valuable fall-back position that cuts via the clutter.

These ‘policies’ tend to be founded in history – they’ve labored for generations, so might properly be assumed to paintings properly nowadays too. And they have a tendency to be founded in the obvious, so obvious they’re often overlooked: a choice for right suit, high quality, versatility, true value, lack of extremes and keeping it sober.

There are without a doubt many other regulations out there than are supplied here. Some of these you may have already found for yourself. That, after all, is a part of the pride of clothing, which no rule must hamper: attempting new package out, seeing if it fits you, seeing the way it makes you feel. But, these regulations have stood the test of time and, when utilized in conjunction, act as a failsafe manual on how to dress properly these days.

1. Wear A Suit Well

The key to a fit looking suitable is in shape. If you’re buying off-the-peg, focus on the healthy across the shoulders due to the fact getting the chest and waist altered is a relatively easy job consistent with Davide Taub, head of bespoke suits at Savile Row tailor Gieves & Hawkes. “Be careful about sporting a period match until you’re pursuing a total period look due to the fact in isolation the match begins to look like a novelty,” he adds. Classic is satisfactory and most useful – dark, two-button, single-breasted, mild in details. “It’s now not boring. A suit is a uniform. The idea is to think about this fit as a canvas to build different thoughts of individuality around. It’s the way you put on it, not the label inside, that impresses.”

2. Invest Wisely In A Watch

“A watch is like a piece of art,” argues Don Cochrane, dealing with director of British watch emblem Vertex. “Choose it due to the fact you adore it, no longer due to the fact you think it would make money. Watches are private, it marks your passage via time. But you additionally have to be practical.” Aesthetic, functional, rugged sports activities models go along with whatever and may take the hard knocks of normal put on. Yet, a watch nevertheless has to suit you. It should feel snug and be right in phrases of length and depth relative to your wrist as well – 40mm is considered the ‘Goldilocks’ length.

3. Don’t Shy Away From Colour

Whether it’s on casualwear or formalwear, indulge in a bit of colour. “Most men are unjustly frightened of it – they’re intimidated by means of some thing that isn’t military or grey,” says menswear fashion designer Oliver Spencer. “But colour may be undying too.” A green healthy, for example, can look particularly rakish, whilst Spencer also recommends pinks, greens, mustard and brighter sun shades of blue as specifically flexible year-round sunglasses so as to raise your complete outfit. But he adds that, on the subject of colour, much less is still more: “You just need a piece of it, in a single garment.”

4. Wear In Your Jeans Until They Are Yours

The all-time most useful reduce of the world’s most famous garment, according to Alex Mir, co-owner of Sheffield-based totally label Forge Denim, is ‘slim-tapered’. “It’s wider within the thigh, so it’s cushty, but narrows, so it really works with either clever footwear or sneakers,” he advises. “It’s the high-quality year-round, wear-with-some thing, get dressed up or down fashion.” The sensible will wear dark, uncooked denim too and give the pre-distressed a wide berth. “The whole satisfaction of denim is that it a while with the way you put on it. Why pass over out on that?”

There are enough regulations in life because it is. Some, however, are there to assist. Like the guidelines that govern the way to get dressed nicely.

Of course, every individual that has an opinion on such matters speaks from personal experience – and absolute confidence what works for one doesn’t constantly paintings for another; or what works for one is considered too pedestrian or too avant-garde via another. So, in terms of dressing, they usually should be taken at face value. They’re solid suggestions as opposed to the last word on fashion.

But right recommendation is in no way to be sniffed at, and, as menswear turns into ever greater rich and varied, ever extra experimental and abundant, ever extra trend-aware, in moments of misunderstanding and self-doubt, it could assist to have a treasured fall-back function that cuts through the clutter.

5. Look After Your Appearance

It’s the type of advice your mother would possibly offer, but if you’ve invested money and idea in your clothing, appearance after it. Use wooden hangers for shirts and shoe timber for your nice shoes; have your in shape dry-cleaned and pressed; wash your garments regularly and, ideally, don’t tumble dry them (it could degrade the fabric); and varnish your shoes. Equally, it’s no longer simply the pores and skin of your leather jacket that you need to care for, the equal is going for the one you put on each day. Establish a easy, but no much less solid, grooming regime, brush your hair and cut your nails. After all, the devil resides inside the details.

6. Keep Your Underwear Simple

Style isn’t simplest what anyone else can see. When it involves men’s underwear, there are two policies to follow. One, novelty prints are not for grown men – “your undies isn't always the location to specific your ‘personality’,” as blouse and undies-maker Emma Willis notes. And, two, heavily-branded underclothes lacks sophistication. “Of all places where you would possibly have the self assurance no longer to have branding, your underclothes should be it,” provides Willis. The fashion that has first-rate stood the check of time, of course, is the cotton boxer short, probably because (as is the case with linen) they take repeated washing, breathe nicely and are snug towards your skin.

7. Spend Money On Shoes

“Timelessness is approximately simple layout and all the extra so with shoes,” argues Tim Little, proprietor of historical past shoe logo Grenson. “The shade, the pattern, the sole – you don’t want it fussy. Anything fussy may additionally appearance accurate now however will look abnormal very quickly.” Quality shoes — the gold general being re-soleable Goodyear welted examples — are the sort of funding that have to remaining 15 years or more. Opt for traditional patterns together with brogues, loafers, or a plain, dark, five-eyelet Derby on a round-toe remaining. “It’s the shape of the toe that actually counts – and round never is going out of style,” says Little. “It’s pointy feet or square toes that look glaringly impractical. Nobody has feet formed like that.”

8. Keep Accessorising To A Minimum

Accessories like ties and pocket squares carry individuality to classic clothing, but be cautious how you operate them. “It’s fine to harmonise them with what you’re wearing by choosing out a coloration or two. Or even to juxtapose them entirely,” says Michael Hill, creative director of men’s accessories emblem Drake’s. “What you don’t want is to in shape them up.” When it comes to curating shirt and tie combinations, wear your tie or pocket square in a darker coloration than your jacket. And don’t overdo the accessories either – if in doubt, think much less is more and take one detail away. “You’re aiming for an air of nonchalance,” adds Hill. “You simply want one factor of interest.”

9. Know Thyself

There’s are few things much less fashionable than a man dressed as he thinks he must dress as opposed to in what he genuinely feels suits who he is. There are caveats to that, of course: there are no prizes for dressing like a rodeo clown unless indeed you're one. But some thing you’re wearing, you need to own it. Genuine fashion icons are those who go their own manner with a self-self assurance that comes from their clothes being a second skin, not a costume.

10. Dress For The Setting

Style is not merely approximately self-expression; it’s also about being dressed appropriately to your environment. Think of clothes as being codes: you need the proper aggregate to work with the placing you’re in – and that’s whether or not it’s a proper dinner or a lazy Sunday in the pub. The worst style is one that is out of location. Is this a sort of conformity? No, as one in every of Tom Ford’s oft trotted out style rates explains, it’s a mark of admire for others. And about feeling snug in yourself. When in doubt, overdress.

11. Don’t Skimp On Glasses

Invest time into finding the proper spectacles for you. “People spend a mean of seven minutes selecting a pair a good way to define them for the next 3 or extra years,” notes eyewear fashion designer Tom Davies. “Poor preference and poor in shape are why so many people learn how to hate their glasses.” Buy what you sense good in, taking into consideration your face shape however considering the top line of the frames’ relation for your eyebrow form – group straight with straight, curved with curved – and your hairstyle. Buy accurately too, says Davies: there’s no point buying cheap frames and being up-sold on luxurious lenses because the frames will appearance tatty soon enough anyway.

12. Choose Versatile Outerwear

The temptation may be to put on a traditional style, however present day technical fabrics in darker sun shades and clean cuts are making coats what they should be – light-weight and breathable but also nicely protective. “Changes in seasonality, the climate and buying behavior are making heavy wool coats appear out of maintaining now,” shows Adam Cameron, proprietor of outerwear professional The Workers’ Club. “Think of a coat rather as being your final layer – one you could put on as a good deal or as little under as required.” A area or bomber jacket jacket is a superb all-rounder but if you want to get dressed up, pass for a quick mac.

13. Buy A Dinner Suit, Never Hire

Occasions for the peak of formal dressing can be rare, but they’re all of the more exacting for that. So, even as it appears like an extravagance, proudly owning a dinner in shape that fits you in place of hiring one makes more feel after years of use. “With hiring, there’s continually the threat of the wearer looking almost childlike even as dressed in a few oversized, boxy ensemble,” warns Toby Lamb, layout director of cutting-edge tailoring label Richard James. Own as classic a dinner in shape as possible: in nighttime blue, single-breasted, with satin lapels and trousers seams. And it goes without saying you must learn how to tie a bow-tie yourself.

14. With Shirts, Stick To The Classics

“It sounds silly,” says James Cook, head of bespoke shirtmaking for Turnbull & Asser, “but any men’s shirt can be made to look steeply-priced if it’s well-pressed.” All the same, Cook is precise approximately the details. Strike a middle line, he recommends: avoid bold patterns except you think you could carry it off, and, for a collar that works without or with a tie, and that always sits properly beneath a jacket, choose a semi-cutaway.

15. Know When To Break The Rules

Know when to stick to get dressed codes which includes black tie and recognise when to break them. Some are there for a great reason, commonly due to the fact the event needs it or some higher authority – your boss, perhaps – expects it. But, likewise, as Drakes’ Hill notes, “we can get too hung up about guidelines as well, and there’s always a case for ripping them up”. That, after all, is how fashion advances, little by means of little. “Enjoy the freedom there's now to make mistakes.”

#menswear #mens dress shoes #mens watches

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terravilla · 5 years ago

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New Home Owners- Mini Renos

When I first divulged to my boyfriend that I was painting the kitchen black, he gave a very distinctive look like he smelled something fowl or was chewing on a lemon. It is a bold statement to pick dark/deep colors for walls and if done wrong, can make a space look cheap and dirty. If done correctly, can make a space look classy and striking. It can also be very difficult to repaint so using a matte finish makes it much easier to redo the walls if down the road, you decide to lighten them.

As you can see from the above photo, the kitchen was redone by the previous owners with very busy black, grey, white, and dark blue granite countertop. It draws so much attention to the eye that it washes out the rest of the room and almost seems like it isn’t properly integrated into the space.

The backsplash is a solid grey that has a slightly olive tone which severely clashes with the countertops much to my dismay. My boyfriend wants to keep the backsplash so with the constraints of the existing tile and countertops, the next step would be the cabinets, walls and window treatments.

The hardware is silver which matches the stainless steel appliances and the light fixtures installed by the prior owners. To save money we are leaving those as is. The white cabinets are a nice contemporary style so I decided to leave those white which will also save us some money.

Since black is such a striking color, I plan on doing a flat black paint to give it a cozy and natural feel. The peninsula wall and waterfall counters are a defining piece in the kitchen so I will be installing wood shelving with leather straps to compliment to silver and leather bar stools we purchase for the counter. (Bar stools and concept color photos below)

The inlay detailed backing on the counter facing the dining area is currently white but for posterity, I will be painting that black. Since the peninsula wall is a standalone wall, to create drama, I will follow the black paint into the dining space on the small half wall. This will compliment and create flow from the counter which waterfalls in the opposite direction.

The switch plates will be subbed out with silver or nickel plats to match the rest of the fixtures.

The window treatment is going to be the next big item in the kitchen in order to define the space. We had blinds custom made to our old apartment which were wooden slat blinds. The brown tones of the blinds will incorporate well with the bar stools and shelving. I think they would be a perfect addition if they should actually fit! We will know more when we get situated in the house.

The prior owner seemed to have slopped together a bunch of remnant items to make this house sellable. The walls were painting a light robins egg blue and the trim a darker robins egg blue which it looks intuitional. The doors and door handles are industrial grade like a hospital and the floors are a lower grade vinyl wood which can warp and scratch easily with furniture and liquids. Not a very pet friendly service but it will do in the interim until we decide to either replace them or at least get area rugs to protect them to some extent.

If you are going to install a floor in your house, make sure that it is installed by a well known professional flooring company and to purchase midrange to upper range quality because over time, you will get the best bang for your buck! Otherwise you’ll end up paying double within 5 to 10 years just to have decent looking floors again.

There are a lot of things that need to be redone soon with the home to make it a more valued asset than the basic renovation that was done to get the house sold. Our purchase of the home was not based on the quality of its’ interior but more on how clean it was, its’ location, and the potential return on investment 5 years down the line. This is not our forever home but I intend of bringing this bilevel mid-century home back to its’ former glory!

That being said, the house was built in the early 1960′s and it structurally appeals to a mid-century vibe so instead of fighting that to keep up with current trends in the design market, I am going to appeal to its natural lines and use accent pieces that are removable to define the personality of the interior spaces. I will be changing the front of the house to reflect this as well. The garage doors will be exchanged with horizontal wood doors with windows, the shutter will be changed to match the garage doors, and the front door will be removed and replaced to reflect a sleeker less traditional look.

Since Mid-Century Danish style architecture and design seems to have a timeless appeal, its not much of an effort to move forward with it. The real struggle is going to be staging the house to appeal to a wide range of home buyers.

We have a moving target of budget to do these renovations and more. Having priced out most of them so far, we suspect total cost in renovations will be around $6,000.

The house was valued at 315K and we purchased at $309K. Total break even if sold at 315K. We are hoping that we will be able to list the house at 350k 5 yrs from now. Profit is important when doing a long time flip on a house. For me, creating a space and making it better than I found it is also important. Sometimes those things go hand and hand and sometimes they don't. Once the project is up and running, I will do a play by play on cost and time it took to complete. The kitchen redesign will take the least amount of time. The front elevation will likely take the longest and in-between many other smaller project will hopefully be completed to make the house really what it needs to be.

With a little help, I know my boyfriend and I can do most of the work ourselves cutting down substantial labor costs. For me, it will be worth it. I love projects. For him, he’ll gripe at first but eventually see the fruits if his labor and feel pretty good about it. A good test to a strong relationship is renovating a house together. If you can live through that, you got something special!

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kiruuuuu · 6 years ago

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Smoke/Mute oneshot in which, as usual, utter chaos happens and I attempt an explanation as to where these pink Siege skins came from. (Rating M, crack + some sexiness going on, ~2.7k words) - written for @glockchen who asked me to write anything about these skins and I could never say no to you ♥♥♥

It starts with a simple drawing.

As it’s a perfectly normal morning in Hereford, the canteen, including the kitchen, is in complete and utter chaos: Caveira has followed through with her threat of disgustedly pouring what she calls bleached bullshit (also known as refined sugar) into Dokkaebi’s collar because the Korean woman forgot to buy ‘proper’ sugar, sparking a small war in their corner of the room, Blitz is currently burning the third batch of eggs and looking to his boyfriend for approval (and Rook reacts with a pained smile), and Bandit is surreptitiously trying to trip everyone walking past while pretending to be an angel in Montagne’s direction.

Mute and Smoke are sitting somewhere in the middle of all this, only half listening to Sledge’s tired mantra of they’re all adults they can clean up after themselves don’t get up let them make their own mistakes and learn.

“Gargle is such a typical, ugly English word”, Maestro muses and feeds the Scotsman a bite of his cheesecake because who needs breakfast food when there’s cake. “It’s onomatopoeic, agreed, but if the love of my life told me ‘I just gargled with maple syrup’ I wouldn’t care how sweet the kisses were because it’d be the same as if I proclaimed myself to be moist. Ugh.”

“I dunno, it can be pretty romantic”, Smoke shrugs and surreptitiously rolls his eyes at Mute – it’s clear why, the two lovebirds next to them are once again wholly lost in each other. “I sometimes gargle with Mark’s come and he never complains.”

Sledge chokes on the cheesecake and looks like he’s about to protest the mention of bodily fluids while he’s eating (and Mute gets ready to retaliate by pointing out the bright purple lovebites peeking over the Scot’s collar as well as the faint bruises on Maestro’s neck), when there’s a sudden, dramatic entrance. The door flies open and in strides Tachanka, head held high, stance proud and a fond smile on his lips.

Most of the ruckus dies down over the abrupt change in mood as the Russian makes a beeline for the fridge, carefully stepping over Bandit’s outstretched foot, avoiding the two flailing women and ignoring the sharp smell emanating from the stove. Now Mute notices the piece of paper in Tachanka's hand which he unfolds and then pins to the fridge door with a few magnets. From this distance, all Mute can see is a whole lot of pink.

Seeing as most pairs of eyes are glued to the old man by now, Tachanka grins and addresses the room with his booming voice: “If you ever ask yourself why the hell you’re still here – this is why.”

Curious, Mute leaves the quiet argument of what constitutes as revolting behind and joins the small crowd gathering around Tachanka, catching a better look of what seems to be a child’s drawing. It’s hard to make out at first as more than half of it is just a mix of different shades of pink, but eventually he identifies it as Tachanka himself holding what looks like a little girl, only his uniform has been recoloured from his usual olive and he’s displaying a horn as well as a mane and even a tail.

If he’s honest, it’s adorable. He knows the story, Glaz told it with a sheepish Tachanka modestly brushing him off but smiling appreciatively anyway: on their last mission, the old man heroically rescued a girl and made sure to carry her to safety and even reunite her with her parents. Judging by Tachanka's expression, it’s one of the most touching fan letters he’s received and he’s immensely proud, as he should be.

At least until Blackbeard steps up and snorts at the display. “Not at all your colour, I’m sorry to say, this looks like the gayest version of you”, he points out. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Says the guy with the man bun”, Pulse shoots back immediately.

“Is that bold-faced envy I hear? At least I have hair, Jack.”

“Yes. Too much of it. I’m just waiting for you to start stealing Sébastien’s plaid shirts.”

“I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to experiment with non-traditional looks, thank you very much. When’s the last time you changed anything about your appearance? I’ve seen your driver’s license. The only new thing about you are your wrinkles.”

Mute considers texting Smoke to stop demonstrating his ability to shove an entire piece of cake into his mouth and instead witness this rare American-on-American smackdown but forgets all about it when Tachanka, who’s been listening with a decidedly unimpressed scowl, chimes in: “You call yourself confident but mock this gift I got? Just because it’s pink?”

Belatedly, Blackbeard realises his mistake of potentially angering Tachanka of all people and tries to backtrack. “Well, I mean – only because you’d look silly wearing it. The picture is cute, but you in a pink uniform -”

“What’s wrong with a pink uniform?”

“It’s not really – it’s too visible, and you in pink is just laughable.”

“What’s wrong with me in a pink uniform?”

Mute is failing to suppress a grin by now. While Tachanka sounds perfectly calm and pleasant, Blackbeard is getting more and more flustered by the second. “It’s not a manly colour. You agree with me on that, right? You’d look stupid.”

“Pink used to be a boy’s colour, you know. A softer red, in a way. I think it’d suit you, it’d go with your hair.”

“I’d rather drop dead than be caught wearing something like this”, Blackbeard mutters and then wisely retreats before Tachanka's good mood dissolves into something else.

Amused, the Russian turns to Mute and mirrors his grin. “Confident in his masculinity, hm?”, he repeats doubtfully.

“We can actually make a pink uniform for you”, Mute suggests, causing Tachanka to perk up. “James has dyed clothes before.”

“Would you? I’m beginning to like the idea more and more. I can wear it during training and dazzle everyone.”

“I’ll even do you one better. Just wait a few days.” The two of them nod at each other and Mute returns to his table where Maestro is currently praising the soothing quality of green tea for an upset stomach. “James, I know what we’re going to do today”, he announces with a glint in his eye.

“Are you sure these are the correct measurements?”, Smoke complains for the nth time around the needles between his lips. Doubtfully, he holds up the patterned trousers and frowns at them, visibly dissatisfied. “They look too short, babe. They look like they’d fit me.”

Odd, isn’t it?, Mute thinks and bites his cheek until he trusts himself to reply without sounding highly entertained. “Those are definitely the correct measurements, I’m sure.”

“I bet you’re bloody grateful I can sew or else you’d still be watching Youtube tutorials.”

“I’m glad your mum made you fix the clothes you ripped on the daily, yes. Teaches you about the value of your time.”

“Teaches me not to buy expensive garb, more like. How’s your unicorn coming along?”

Mute takes a moment to inspect his work. After airbrushing one of Tachanka's helmets a lovely shade of pink, he started to add a few more personal touches he expects the Russian to enjoy: a pair of bear ears which Bandit owned – and no, Mute didn’t ask for details –, an actual unicorn horn he improvised out of a few available materials plus a mane made from faux fur which Frost generously donated once she caught wind of their project. He’s currently gluing letters onto the monstrosity since the rainbow he added for good measure has dried already. All in all, it’s solid work and he’s happy with it. If this doesn’t make Tachanka's teammates question some of what they thought they knew about him, then nothing will.

“See, I get why we’re making two of these abominations, babe, even if you haven’t told me the reason outright”, Smoke murmurs more to himself than directed at Mute, “but why three? Did anyone else want one? Are we gifting one to Dom? You know he’d wear it, especially with this sexy leopard print. Christ, we’re not giving the old man the leopard, are we? Because I’m sure he’d say something like ‘I have the underwear to match it’ and thank you, now we’ll need some brain bleach.”

“He’s not the only one I know who’d have matching knickers”, Mute states drily. “And Dom isn’t the only one I know who’d wear this.”

Smoke stops messing with the hem and throws him a deeply distrustful look. “Babe. Are you serious?”

“I have the perfect ears to go with it too.”

His quiet statement makes his lover’s brows rise. “They’re for me, aren’t they.” It’s not a question and so Mute doesn’t answer. “Really though – are you taking the piss or does the thought of me wearing this stuff actually turn you on?” Mute steadfastly refuses to respond and instead focuses on lining up the letters playfully. Maybe he could add glitter, yes, in any case he needs to not think about Smoke in a leopard print uniform, absolutely not squirming on his lap, the rappel harness flattering his thighs and soft mewls -

The rustling of clothes catches his attention and when he looks up, Smoke is half naked already. “What are you doing?”

“Trying it on, what does it look like? You want me to wear this, so I will.” He pulls on the finished pieces of his uniform and poses only partly jokingly. His arse looks amazing and Mute forgets how breathing works for a moment, resisting the urge to reach out and cop a feel because then they’ll never get it all done. ��Bloody hell, this is tight.”

“Yeah”, Mute agrees distractedly and openly disregards the concept of eye contact entirely in favour of ogling other body parts, “like I said: definitely the correct measurements.”

Grinning, Smoke walks over to where he’s sitting and buries a hand in Mute’s hair to drag his head forward and smush his face into his exceedingly prominent bulge, ignoring the slight resistance and massaging Mute’s scalp once he’s started mouthing at the growing erection rubbing against his cheek. “Why don’t you get the ears, babe?”, Smoke hums and seems not at all perturbed by his unusual attire.

A few days later, Mute stands outside of Blackbeard's room, taking a deep breath and checking the time again. The American’s daily schedule is rigid and thus he’s been asleep for more than an hour at this point, not at all disturbed by the commotion outside of the base. They invited everyone interested, distributed beverages and promised a show, meaning there’s a sizeable crowd outside waiting for the main event to happen – whatever it’s supposed to entail.

Tachanka's uniform garnered a lot of approval, and Mute was especially proud to hear almost everyone complimenting his admittedly fabulous helmet, but the real treat hasn’t even surfaced yet.

Once he deems himself ready, he barges into the room and starts shaking Blackbeard awake rudely. “Get up, Jenson, come on, we need you, there’s a situation.” He does his best to appear urgent, and to his credit, Blackbeard is up on his feet before he’s even processed anything that’s going on. “Hostage taken in London, we need to fly out ASAP, get dressed and let’s go!”

He left the door open to let just enough light in for the American to not crash into his furniture as he stumbles about the room, getting dressed and mumbling something incoherent. Mute leaves him no time to think, talking rapidly out of his arse and ushering him out of the room and down the corridor. Blearily, Blackbeard allows himself to be manhandled and merely responds with a few grunts, but once they’re outside and in the middle of the sizeable gathering, he realises that something is off.

Being greeted with cheers, Blackbeard looks around in confusion until his gaze lands on Tachanka toasting him with a can of beer. “The fuck are you wearing?”, he asks and eyes the unicorn helmet in disbelief.

“The fuck are you wearing?”, Tachanka shoots back good-naturedly.

Finally, Blackbeard looks down at himself. He’s clad entirely in pink, mirroring the Russian perfectly. “What”, he says helplessly.

“I told you it’d go with your hair.”

And while the two start bickering immediately, with Blackbeard pompously proclaiming his intent to undress this instant and Tachanka amusedly egging him on, much to the audience’s delight, Mute feels a tug on his sleeve, turns around and mutters a curse under his breath. “I told you not to wear this outside”, he hisses and tries his best not to glance down at Smoke’s dangerously tight trousers.

He’s wearing the full outfit sans mask, and the cat ears which allegedly pick up on brain activity and move accordingly are perked up in excitement. Smoke was amazed by them the first time he put them on and refused to take them off for an entire evening – and admittedly, Mute’s heart melted a little every time Smoke looked over at him and the ears shot up instantly.

Right now, however, his heart isn’t the body part most touched by Smoke’s appearance.

“I’ve been a naughty kitty”, Smoke purrs and begins wrapping himself around the taller man, “you should punish me.”

And while the whole thing in itself has nothing erotic about it, it achieves the desired effect nonetheless as Mute is overcome by the sudden urge to stuff Smoke’s mouth.

Before he can act on it though, Bandit appears by their side, ignoring Blackbeard's repeated insistences that while pink is apparently a feminine colour, there’s nothing wrong with femininity, it’s just not for him (and Tachanka merely lets him talk with a partly disbelieving, partly entertained smile). “Have you seen Gilles? I don’t know where he is.”

“He said something like ‘I have one of these’ when he saw Chanka and then disappeared”, Smoke informs him helpfully and receives a concerned frown. “No idea what he was on about but he seemed excited.”

“Well, he better not be -”

Bandit trails off in horror and neglects to shut his mouth, so Mute and Smoke follow his line of sight while most of the noise around them dies down as well. It quickly becomes clear why: Montagne’s standing in the doorway to the base, wearing – well. What is he wearing?

Only on the second glance does Mute discern the butterfly pattern, noticing that it even continues over his balaclava, harmonises well with the hot pink helmet and – are those feelers?

Montagne catches sight of Smoke’s attire and nods approvingly. “That’s… a choice”, he states. “Maybe a little too racy but I don’t dislike it.”

“What do you think is going on here?”, Bandit addresses him weakly and looks torn between wanting the ground to swallow him whole and wanting the ground to swallow Montagne.

Now the Frenchman seems to be questioning himself, expression turning sheepish. “Isn’t this… these aren’t designs for breast cancer awareness? I thought -”

“See! That would be the only acceptable occasion for a man to ever wear pink!”, Blackbeard tells Tachanka triumphantly while pointing almost accusingly at Montagne, sparking yet another discussion now involving most of the people present.

“Does it look bad?”, Montagne wants to know sadly and only cheers up once Bandit has walked over to reassure him and started to play with his antennae – Mute can only imagine the amount of willpower it takes for Bandit not to make a thousand inappropriate and/or sarcastic jokes at once.

Not that he’s in a much better situation, seeing as Smoke is attempting to seductively meow in his direction. Sighing, he grabs Smoke’s wrist and drags him along. “You look hot but please never pretend to be a cat again. Promise me, James.”

“If I do, am I allowed to wear this on a mission?”

Smoke’s bright smile is going to be his doom one day, he knows this. He predicts quite a lot of arguing about the use of this particular outfit but can’t really say that he minds, not when they do most of their fighting in bed.

And maybe he’ll tell Smoke to put the mask on this time as well.

#rainbow six siege #smoke #mute #smoke/mute #tachanka #blackbeard #fanfic #oneshot #okay look I don't genuinely think mute has a thing for animals #don't @ me please #also these ears exist and they're adorable

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cactuscanyonceramics · 7 years ago

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This is a real problem. There is a large population of artisans in Spain that produce beautiful, top quality ceramics. There are no regulations in the Spain that require a product to carry a label on where it is made. For example, in the U.S., you can pick up a piece of tableware, turn it over and it will carry a label or stamp saying “Made in China”. Not so in Spain, and this is a huge danger to the future of artisan production in Spain. You can imagine the backlash of “American Made” factories, if merchants did not have to put “Made in China” on products. Most people are inclined to purchase the cheapest item available, even if clearly sacrificing quality. Cheap wins hands down most times. If US merchants did not have to declare where items were made, it would kill most local manufacturing in the States.

Jesus Gonfer throwing a pot

The photos above showsJesus Gonfer throwing a bowl on the potting wheel and also a pitcher that he produces in the 100s. Jesus lives in El Puente del Arzobispo and he produces the pitchers and bowls that are given as gifts for patrons to the “oldest restaurant in the world” – Restaurante Botín in Madrid, which is especially famous for their roast suckling pig.

Chinese Ceramics in Seville Gift Stores

I am very familiar with the pottery landscape in Spain and I know which factories sell the Chinese ceramics in Andalusia. Once in a while I pass through gift stores in Seville or the surrounding pueblos/cities. I always make a practice of picking up the pieces that are made in China, and I say “Estos son hecho en China” (these are made in China). Four out of 5 times, the shop keeper will adamantly tell me that “NO, … the pottery is made and hand painted in Spain”. Most really don’t know, and I get the idea that they don’t ask questions of their suppliers. Gift store merchants are all about margins (as most merchants are). They have tons of other Chinese made trinkets in their stores. If they can buy a very cheap piece of pottery, put a larger markup on it, that is what they will do of course. If the shop owner is told by the factory sales person that the pottery is “Spanish” (wink, wink), they don’t ask questions. Plausible deniability – the less they know the better. If it is cheap they can sell it at regular Spanish pottery prices and make even a larger margin.

Business is Business

Hey, I fully respect a product hand painted in China. I believe there is market place for all levels of quality and value. Let the customer decide. But, a typical customer in a gift shop in Spain needs to be informed. There is a vibrant artisan culture in Spain which is reflected in the plazas, restaurants and stores. Many times a tourist wants to take something authentic from Spain back to their home. I believe that a tourist should know if they are purchasing authentic Spanish pottery, or Chinese pottery made with Spanish designs. I think this is also really important for local artisans also. If more and more Spanish factories send their designs to China for mass production, it will annihilate the Spanish pottery economy. Third generation potters and painters will have to move to cities and … I don’t know … drive taxis? …clean buildings? …fish, ….pick olives? Already the unemployment rate in Spain is above 20%. The rate is higher for young people and underemployment and two or three part time jobs are the norm.

I think that the pottery should be labeled clearly if it is “Made in China”, just as it is in the States. The customer can then decide if they want to buy a $6 dollar Chinese bowl, or spend the extra $2 and get an authentic Spanish made bowl.

Full Disclosure

When I first arrived to Spain in 2010 and started visiting Spanish tile and pottery factories/workshops, I did not know the difference between Chinese produced pottery and Spanish made. I began working with one of the larger Andalusian factories as a US sales agent. I did not know that a portion of what they offered was made in China. As I clued in, I had several discussions with one of the owner/operators of the dangers involved with passing off Chinese stuff as made in Spain. The owners/operators of the factory never admitted out loud, that the stuff was made in China. If people were savvy enough to ask where pieces were produced, pat answers were given such as “we get other factories to produce this, some is made Portugal”. They stayed away from the whole concept of “China”. It was all hush, hush, wink, wink. I learned that even the annual trip to China to fine tune the designs in the Chinese factories was hush, hush, – almost top secret.

There is nothing wrong with getting things made in China. Heck, everybody does it and China is getting better and better at providing a range of quality, not just cheap crap. I enjoy listening to podcasts about selling online, creating brands and the challenges of e-commerce. Two of my favorites are EcommerceFuel (Andrew Youderian) and My Wife Quit Her Job (Steve Chou). Much of the discourse is about how to develop products and then source them in China. The US market place is stuffed full of Chinese products. It is a good thing. But,… again, the customer should always know where the product is made.

I no longer work with the Spanish factory that sells the Chinese knock-offs. I worked really hard for them for several years, but many problems arose with them which lead to hard lessons learned by this “Gringo living in Spain”. Thank God I moved on rapidly. I shook the dust from my heels and hit the road and will never look back.

I should clarify that both the factories that I know are selling Chinese knock offs, also have their own workshops where they have an outstanding teams of painters. So they also sell “Spanish made”, which creates a convenient smokescreen for the Chinese stuff. One factory sells beautiful pieces with unique designs and the other produces top notch “cuerda seca“, which is a technique for making brightly colored pottery with colored glazes. As an aside, the cuerda seca is a technique very specific to Seville. And I believe the early Spanish colonists in Mexico implemented this technique, which has since evolved into the very well know line of “Mexican Talavera“.

All Right Big Stuff, Put Up or Shut Up – What’s the Difference?

How do you tell Chinese stuff from the real deal? I recommend 4 methods for identifying knock off, Chinese made Spanish pottery.

1. Examine the Fired Markings, Seals or Signatures

Look for a fired in the kiln seal or mark on the bottom that says “Handmade in Spain”, “Hand painted in Spain” or a signature. Something that does not peel off or look like it was printed on with ink. Sometimes the Chinese distributing factories will place a clear plastic seal or label on the bottom of the piece with their factory name or even stamp their name on the piece with ink. These factories have not gotten to the point where they will stamp the Chinese products “Made in Spain”. That would be against the law. So they blow smoke and make it confusing but don’t actually say “Made in Spain”. By looking closely at the bottom of the piece, you should get a pretty good idea whether or not the piece is authentic.

2. Look for “Drip Marks” in the glaze application

Another way to identify authentic Spanish ceramics is to look for a drip mark or an uneven application on the bottom of the piece.

Applying glaze by dipping the piece with a pliers and twisting it as the piece is withdrawn, so that the glaze swirls around the piece and settles (without drip marks).

Grip marks of the pliers used for dipping in glaze

You should be able to see an uneven finish of the glaze, usually on the bottom. You might even see a drip mark. It is more difficult to see with clear glaze. You can see it very clearly with a “honey” glaze.

To date, the Chinese “Spanish pottery” has not had this tell tale sign. I believe the Chinese glaze their pieces with high pressure pistols or glaze application machines, similar to what is used for standard, machine made dishes made in China.

3. Examine the Weight and Shape

The Chinese stuff is much more uniform. If it looks like it was made by a machine, chances are it was. To date, the Chinese stuff has always been white clay (bisque), with very bright colors. Usually a shop will offer 4 or 5 designs, and if the pieces have exactly the same shape (I mean exactly) every time, then it is probably Chinese. I don’t know for sure, but I believe the Chinese stuff is mass, machine made because it is so uniform.

Spanish potters use machine presses and forms (in addition to hand throwing), and in every case, there will be “hands on” in Spain. The final touch, smoothing, scraping, reforming is done by hand. Not so with the Chinese pottery, it is all machine made.

Also, to date the Chinese stuff is lighter and chips easier than the traditional bisque of Andalusia. If one piece looks more authentic and you are not sure about another, pick them up. The Chinese pottery is usually lighter in weight (different clay).

If it look looks like it was made by a machine, it probably was. The Chinese do hand paint the designs, and there are differences in the painting usually regarding the weight of the “slip trailing” design, but that is a little more technical.

4. Ask the Shop Keeper

I have found Spaniards to be honest and helpful. Walk straight up to them and ask if the pottery you are interested in was made in China. They are always helpful regarding straight questions. If they huff and puff and don’t answer, weight their reaction and listen to what they say. If they don’t say “no it isn’t” straight up, then chances it is Chinese and they know it. Follow your gut and buy what you want.

Conclusion

There is nothing wrong with buying Chinese “Spanish pottery” if that is what you will be satisfied with. It is usually cheaper and the colors are beautiful, the same as the colors of authentic pieces. But you should be aware of what you are purchasing.

I think identifying Spanish pottery made in China with a “Made in China” sticker is important for the future of the Spanish potting communities in Spain, and for the health and continued confidence of customers looking for “Made in Spain”.

For authentic, handcrafted and hand painted Spanish dishes – shop GringoCool.com

Thanks for reading. I welcome comments or questions. – Steve

How to recognize authentic Spanish pottery - and not be fooled by Chinese knock-offs. This is a real problem. There is a large population of artisans in Spain that produce beautiful, top quality ceramics.

#authentic pottery #Chinese pottery #labeling #Made in China #Made in Spain #spanish ceramics #spanish pottery

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ourkenflood · 7 years ago

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Render unto Caesar

Sermon for Proper 24a / Matthew 22: 15-22

I am reading a book at the moment called “The Joy of ..... Tax”.

That’s T.A.X. – in case anyone misheard and thought I said some other three letter word ending in “X.” (Don’t pretend you didn't think it).

The first record we have a tax is from the ancient Babylonians. Even before there was money, as we understand it, people paid tax in goods – sheep and cows – and even in labour – a day’s work. It even looks like there were tariffs on imports – there is a record from around 1900BC of a person being imprisoned for smuggling. So, not only have we had tax for a long time, we’ve also had tax evaders.

One of the points made in the book is that tax is not just about money, but it is also a government and its values. And in liberal western democracies, where we elect governments on the basis of their tax promises; tax says a lot about society.

It is similar to a story that the former Bishop of Manchester, Bishop Nigel, told when he last visited here. He spoke a keen young man who goes to visit an old, wise Spiritual Director for the first time for guidance. They have a productive time together and mutually agree that it would be good to meet up again. And as the young man is leaving the Spiritual Director asks that him bring his last three bank statements with them next time. He is a bit taken a back. “Why should I bring my bank statements” he asks, after all he is there to talk of spiritual matters, of prayer, of inner discovery, and the stuff of heaven. So the Spiritual Director simply explains, “if you want to know the true values of a person, look at how they spend their money.”

I wonder what my bank statement says about me? How do I get my money and how do I spent it? I wonder what your bank statement says about you? What does it say of your priorities and what you truly consider to be important?

The reason I’ve started talking about tax is, of course, because today’s gospel is about a tax.

In particular, the tax concerned is not income tax or V.A.T. but a poll tax. You may remember the hatred of this tax, in some quarters, when it was temporarily introduced into Britain. But the riots in London were as nothing when compared with the rebellion that broke out in Palestine when the Roman governors began it there. Every man and women had to pay one denarius (that is the equivalent of one day’s pay) each year on top of all the other taxes.

One of the racist stereotypes that persists through the ages is of the money grabbing Jew. We can easily picture a character like Fagin from Oliver Twist, rubbing his hands together while gazing lovingly at a pile of coins. And like most racist images it breaks down when put against the facts.

The Jews of Jesus’ time were not opposed to this tax because they didn’t want to part with their money (or at least not to any greater extent than any of us want to part with money). The devout Jews of Jesus time were already paying a 10% tithe to the Temple, as many do to this day.

When we had a stewardship campaign a few years ago, the Diocesan Stewardship Officer told us that the average church goer in the Diocese of Manchester is donating about 3.5% of their income to the church. And yet we don’t keep promoting the stereotype of the money-grapping Anglican. But the simple fact is that, on average, a devout Jew is giving three times more than the devout member of the C of E.

The reason this tax was hated was because of who it was paid to – it went to the Romans, the foreign oppressor. This tax began the year Jesus was born. In fact the census that forced Mary and Joseph to travel Bethlehem was taken in order to begin this tax. In the 30 odd years it had been collected it was still despised.

In today’s gospel reading, the Pharisees and the Herodians are out to get Jesus. The previous day to this encounter, Jesus has cleansed the temple throwing out the money changers and stall holders. He was becoming a serious nuisance. They needed to either get rid of him or, at the very least, take him down a peg or two.

So they turn to the old problem of Roman tax. They much have thought they could really catch him out with this problem of the poll tax. They had a sure fire way of trapping him. So they begin by trying to lull Jesus into a false sense of security, they flatter him.

“Teacher,” they said ” we know that you are sincere, and teach the way of God in accordance with truth,” (Have you ever heard anything so grovelling?)

Then they put to him the supposedly innocent question, “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor or not”. This question was supposed to be one which would get Jesus into trouble no matter what he said.

First Jesus could have replied “Yes, it is lawful”. This would have meant he lost the support of many ordinary people.

Many people still thought the Messiah was to be a political figure, a warrior, who would drive out the Romans and that Jesus was this person. But if Jesus said they should pay their taxes, these people would desert him. This Jesus of Nazareth was clearly not a warrior King sent by God if he went round telling everyone to pay their taxes to the foreign oppressor.

He would also lose the support of any devout Jews who followed him. The roman coin, which had to be used to pay the tax, was a piece of idolatry and blasphemy. Not only did it have a picture of the roman emperor on it, but it also proclaimed that this emperor was divine. No self-respecting religious Jew would even touch such a graven image. So Jesus clearly could not say pay the tax.

But Jesus could not say do not pay the tax either. If he said this, the Herodians, who only had power because of Roman support, could have reported Jesus to the Romans on charges of treason and got rid of him that way.

It was supposed to be a no win situation.

So what does Jesus do?

First, he asks to see the coin. It is such a simple act, but it turns the conflict on its head. Those out to trap Jesus are suddenly themselves trapped by Jesus’ request that he see the coin. For what are these righteous and respectful Pharisees, the pillars of their community, doing with such a blasphemous object on their person? Suddenly the accusers (for that is what they really are) become the accused. Such an apparently innocent request, to see the coin, exposes their hypocrisy for all to see.

Jesus seems to have had a particular hatred of the hypocrisy of religious people:

“Woe to you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!”, Jesus says elsewhere in the gospels. I always feel a little guilty when I read of Jesus gunning for the hypocrites, for if we are honest, who has not fallen into hypocrisy? We all fail to live up to the standards of goodness and honesty that we proclaim in our worship.

But then I remember the story of the Tax Collector and the Pharisee who go to the Temple to pray. The Pharisee stands in the middle of the Temple, thanking God loudly, that he is not like other people and a sinner, listing his acts of righteousness. The tax collector stands in the corner and simply says, “God be merciful to me, a sinner”. And it is the tax collector who goes home justified.

It is the Tax collectors utterly honest act of self-recognition before God that saves him from being one of the hypocrites. The problem with the opponents of Jesus was not so much that they failed to live up to their religious ideals, we all do that, but that they never acknowledged this before God. It was their lack of humility and honesty.

After asking to see the coin Jesus says his famous reply of “Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” Jesus’ double-edged command throws back the question of taxes to the accusers and issues a strong challenge.

Some people, reading this passage have proposed that Jesus was saying that the Church and the State should be kept separate. The affairs of religion and the affairs of politics are separate realms, or kingdoms, which should never meet. These are the emperor’s things over here, and these are God’s concerns, and they must be kept distinct and distant from each other. But the saying is too brief and specific to mean this.

There is a long tradition in the old testament of the prophets intervening in the political discourse of their day. If this phrase says anything to me, “Give to the Emperor the things that are the Emperor’s” it says that we should be good citizens of our societies. And being a good citizen in a liberal democracy means being informed and being involved.

In Jesus’ day there was an Emperor – a supreme ruler, a dictator. And in that society there was little choice but to pay your tax and do as you were told.

In our day we don’t have an Emperor. In a liberal democracy “giving to the Emperor” means giving our tax, but it also means giving our opinion, our intelligence, and our values. We have a Christian duty to stand up for God’s values in our society and we do this through the ballot box, and by making clear to our elected officials what our societies priorities and values should be.

If our bank statement says something about our values, then our government’s bank statement also reveals our society’s values. On the income side, what does it say about our society that poor and average earners pay a much greater percentage of income in tax than the wealthy. Yes, we told the rich pay more because income tax levels go up, but when you factor in things like, V.A.T., national Insurance, petrol duty, road tax etc etc, the rich pay proportionately less in tax. What is that saying?

On the other side of the balance sheet - where we spend our money as a society - what does it say about our society that our government is still pressing ahead with the roll out of Universal Credit when virtual every agency and expert is saying that it has already, and will, cause thousands of people to fall into debt and increase even more the number of homeless people our streets.

“Give to the Emperor the things that are the Emperors”, Jesus said, What are those “things”? Sometimes those things are our duty to give our society and government our loyalty. But sometimes it is our Christian duty to make clear our contempt and disgust at what is happening.

The second half of Jesus saying is, of course, “and to God the things that are God’s.”

This part of the saying was a challenge to Jerusalem, the Temple, the rulers and all the hypocritical underlings: give God back, what belongs to him. Jesus’ consistent accusation is that the religious leaders have failed to worship their true and living God. They have failed to live as God’s people as a witness to the world.

Only the day before, Jesus has caused a small riot in the Temple because the very place where Israel was supposed to come and give God the things of God, in worship, prayer and sacrifice, has become a den of robbers. So concerned with the small details of religion, status and power, the letter of the law, they have ceased to live out the spirit of their faith and give God the worship he deserves.

And this is a trap that not only the leaders of first century Judaism fall into. We all fall into it.

It happens easily when we turn inwards and stop looking outwards.

It happens all too easily when we start to think we have all the answers.

It happens most easily of all, when we forget our dependence on God, and think we don’t need God anymore.

Today’s gospel reading is not about Jesus delivering a theory on the division of Church from State or Politics and Christianity. The bible elsewhere, teaches us clearly that our faith clearly has political consequences. Neither is it about Jesus showing off how clever and intelligent he is in avoiding the trap of the Pharisees. Although, no doubt, this was one of the reasons why this particular story was remembered amongst the early Christians.

Today’s gospel is about exposing the religious hypocrisy which comes when we abandon being honest with ourselves and humble before our God and our neighbour. And it is about the ordering of our priorities and the promotion of God’s values - in our own personal lives and decisions, and also in our society and government. Amen.

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ink-consequential · 7 years ago

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Ink Consequential: Autumn 2017

Home

Jana A

When you ask me what it’s like where you’re from, my tongue stumbles against the words. I’m unable to understand the question.

Do you mean, what it’s like in my childhood bedroom where my walls are painted pink and yellow and my stuffed animals have been discarded to the top shelves? It was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and I miss my bed dearly. No one in my family would remember to knock before opening the door to tell me that it’s time to eat or to check if I have enough blankets or to ask me about my day.

Do you mean, what it’s like in the house I was raised in where the stones are colored with age and my grandmother’s garden spreads like the gardens of Eden? Full of life, full of noise, full of love, full of family. Each apartment is a foreign country, but my grandmother and uncle and aunt and cousins were frequent travellers. There was always food to be shared; there were always loud arguments to be had, blaring in my mother tongue.

Do you mean, what it’s like in the city I loved and hated? The traffic is always awful and obnoxious men throw “compliments” like grenades, but it has the prettiest sunsets I have ever seen. The dusk makes everything golden: the old white stone buildings, the cracked pavements, even your own skin will glow with the day’s last remaining rays of sunshine. Downtown, people sell used books on the sidewalk. They sell brightly colored spices in glass jars, and the doorways of those little shops always smell like a feast. I miss the call to prayer, taking over everything for just a minute, five times a day. I miss the music they play in coffee shops, violins and heartbroken sighs that are somehow always full of hope. I think the children in my city all have the world’s brightest eyes and most mischievous smiles. Sometimes they will try to sell you roses or gum or bitter chocolate and you should always refuse. Sometimes old men or women in my city will invite you in for a cup of tea, and you should always accept. The deep wrinkles in their brown skin seem as though they might gather dust, as though they have been forgotten for hundreds of years. You could live to be a thousand and you would not have know half of the long lives they have lead. They have seen the world pause its rotation and turn the other way. If you start to smell smoke, you should pause and turn the other way.

Do you mean, what’s it like to have this passport? What’s it like to live in this country with its imaginary borders drawn on our behalf with an invader’s pen? What’s it like to see the barren deserts and urban crawling cities and little villages around the olive tree fields and know that it’s all home? Well, I always complain about the weather, but I wouldn’t prefer any other climate. We are millions and millions of people, some of us who have nothing, but we collectively chose to open our doors for people in need.

It’s a lot like a warm embrace. It’s a lot like you.

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Keep reading for poetry, short fiction, and more!

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Our Goodbye

Elise Alarpy

I cannot hold onto you, You are footprints on the sand. Fleeting and washed away, I hope you understand.

I loved you so fiercely, More than you could know. But I must give you up now, It's time to let you go.

You are nothing but a memory, A wound that cannot heal. Time took you too soon from me, But what we had was real.

I feel your loss so keenly, My heart is a phantom limb. The world has lost its colour, And now everything is dim.

But I know I must move on, There are battles to be won. I am a wilting flower, Slowly blooming in the sun.

Despite how much I miss you, It is time to say goodbye. Just know that you are in my thoughts, And no one loved you more than I.

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A Salesman’s Game

Esther C

The tornado sirens were blaring across the parking lot, but she wasn't afraid; it was Wednesday. The last sounds echoed against the storefront in time with the twinkling fairy lights in the window. The door dinged when an elderly woman walked in, supporting herself with a cane.

She greeted the customer with a plastered-on smile, adding just enough crinkle to her eyes to make it seem genuine to older eyes. They exchanged pleasantries, and she left the woman to shop.

The game had begun.

She offered assistance in any way that she could. Some things were easy to convince the woman to buy, especially when she whisked things away to the checkout counter before the lady had a chance to second-guess herself.

The game was about fear.

Fortunately for her paycheck, the elderly were often easy marks. Buy the candles, she'd suggest. You'd hate to be caught without light in a power outage like the one that happened last year. Some took more convincing, but most were happy to follow the suggestion.

The game was about doubt.

Winter's coming up here pretty soon; are you sure you have enough blankets? You know how heaters like to go out at the worst possible moment, and fireplaces can only do so much.

The game was about influence.

Now this, this was the fun part of the game: it was where all of the pieces landed on the same square and affected the other decisions. This was the element that changed with every mark. Once the fear and doubt are planted, then the player knows that they have influence. There's a sale going on if you get just half a pound more of sugar; it'll only cost a few more cents overall. Reaching out for the canister, obeying the command to wait to dish it out, but not moving to put it back.

The game was about patience.

A beat or two pass, and the player stands a little straighter. She mentally urges the lady to get the half pound more, gently shaking the scoop to level it out, the sound of the sugar filling the silence.

You'd better make it an extra pound while it's on sale, the woman says.

She smiles and acquiesces.

The game had been won.

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On Divorcing My Father

Katherine Sorensen

Do you see my father over there? He is the man his daughter mourns, the memory of a superhero, the man she loves in vain.

His pride is too loud, he can’t hear the sound of his daughter telling him that he broke her heart.

But his daughter glued her heart with the help of her mother, the wisdom to know that women don’t need men to make them strong.

My father ended the conversation, forcing a girl too young and polite to say things she didn’t mean, because a man’s ego is too fragile.

Do you see my father over there? He is the one talking to the girl who is smart enough to know she no longer needs him.

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Haunting

Danielle Jeanne

Despite what many believe, it is not in the middle of the night when the supernatural roam the streets. The supernatural, being what they are, are not constricted to time or circumstance like the mere mortals they live with seem to think that they are. Ghosts are especially terrible at doing what humans expect of them.

It was reading three fifty-five in the afternoon on the clocks around the city on a sunny Saturday when the street lights on 23rd Street began to flicker on and off. A baby begins to cry across the street as it feels a rush of energy flow through them, making the child’s father confused by the sudden outburst from the once happy child. The little nightlight in the corner of the room turns on.

The apartment below doesn’t appear to fare any better from the curious little spirit. Maxwell begins to bark at the lamp in the corner of the room, giving away his owner’s secret of harboring an unregistered pit bull in her home. She gets up from her bed to calm down her dog (god? Her dog god? The spirit isn’t sure) down enough for her to go back to sleep so she can worry about the consequences in minute detail later.

The couple on the first floor, however, is not amused. Simon huffs out a breath, muttering mild profanities while Irena finishes loading the laundry. Upon inspection of one of Simon’s shirts, Irena notices a few specks of crusted, rusty powder on the left sleeve. Heaving a sigh, she liberally applied the peroxide she kept near the washing machine just for cases such as these. She knew Simon was out with the boys this morning, but he had sworn to go meatless until the witch hunt had gone down.

“Hon, why is there blood on this shirt that I know I saw you wear this morning?” Irena asked him.

“Blood? What bloo—Oh! Blood! Well you see, today’s Henri’s birthday, and he wanted to celebrate the traditional way, and we, we—I mean he—he got a little out of control, you see. He might be on the news tonight, just so you know! He has gained so much weight, I doubt you will even recognize him, sweetheart. Going pig’s blood has really done a number on his metabolism,” Simon answered honestly. There was no point in lying to someone who had been able to hear his pulse for the past 50 years.

As Simon explained himself, Irena heard the cackling in the wires. Mimi was laughing at Simon through the lights in the building. As she chuckled to herself, the lights began to flair again causing the dog-god-dog to start barking and child to throw another short fit. Irena groaned, placing her head in her hands as she counted backwards from ten. If Mimi was here, then Simon and Henri had really messed up this morning. “I told you that the witch hunt had picked up! Why did you even try, huh? Why put yourself out there for the cops to get a hold of? You know what they did to Oskar last weekend! It was a total horror show!”

“Hey, what they did to Oskar was no one’s fault but Oskar’s! Oskar was a literal witch who was doing literal blood magic to get that girl in his human ethics class. I kinda think the irony was lost on him with that one, but hey it ain’t anyone’s problem now. What Henri and I did was fair game. She was homeless—”

“She? She?! Oh, no sir! That is almost asking to be drawn and quartered by the cops. You know the high value they put on their women here—”

“Their women’s bodies is more like it.”

“All the same to them! Mind, body, the whole package! Serious jail time for you if we’re caught, mister! And don’t forget that I know you’re still here, Mimi! I got some words for you! If you were there to see them do it, then you were there to tell them to back off! ”

“Wait, how come I would be the only one in the apartment to get jail time? You’re an accessory and an actual witch! You’ll be facing twenty to life with me, babe!”

“Oh, don’t you call me ‘babe,’ you son of a…” The conversation faded out as Mimi left the building the way she came, through the wires and back to the light post across the street. Mimi began to make her way to the station to laugh at Henri some more before Irena found a way to summon her back to the apartment. The clocks in the city read four fifteen in the afternoon as Mimi continued to live her death as she’d died in her life—hanging from a wire as she waited to see her friend’s reaction to the chaos that they themselves had caused.

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I Dated A Girl

Adrianna Nine

I dated a girl once who was a real peach. She just about smelled like one, too. And even on bad days or ones filled with rain Her smile lit up the room.

I dated a girl once who said she was haunted. Where she went, a ghost also came. She was so cute that if it weren’t creepy I’d honestly do just the same.

I dated a girl once who loved to paint. On her canvas she’d copy the sky. And when she asked if next she could paint me I blushed so hard I thought I might die.

I dated a girl once who traveled the world. She practically lived on a plane. I would’ve asked her to live with me But she needed a spur, not a chain.

I dated a girl once who dressed in all black Even when it was a hundred degrees. My cats left fur all over her dress And unfortunately oft made her sneeze.

I dated a girl once who was a barista. She tasted like sugar and cream. The first time I saw her was at her café And the whole day then felt like a dream.

I dated a girl once who loved to write. She said it made her feel free. I came to her once with a poem I’d written her And it turned out she’d made one for me.

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Editorial

Esther C

Those of you who follow Ink Consequential closely know that I finally gave up the ghost on my pseudonym with our last issue, which is equal parts terrifying and freeing. Sure, I’m still a person on the internet, but isn’t everybody reading this? I must admit that I do like clinging to my anonymity, to that name I’d chosen for myself. Amelia has twice the syllables that Esther does, but it rolls off the tongue a little better without any plosives and doesn’t have any silent letters lending itself to misspellings.

Amelia means industrious or hardworking, and that’s an image I like to portray. I mean, I’m definitely at work enough to give off that particular vibe, but it’s not just about work. I run a litmag for fun, for goodness’ sake, and it’s been an enjoyable adventure thus far. Speaking of adventure, it was Amelia Earhart who said, “Adventure is worthwhile in itself,” and it’s one of my favorite quotes that isn’t from the Bible (but is anybody shocked by that?). I must admit that I admire her life. Amelia was truly adventurous, pushing and stretching the limits of what it meant to be a pilot and a woman. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she never gave up on anything. She disappeared living her dream, and, while it’s tragic, it’s also very cool. But then we come to Esther.

Queen Esther, a woman formerly admired for her beauty, became a woman admired for her courage. Haman, one of the king’s highest officials, set out to wipe the Jewish people from existence. (In my opinion, he often sounds like a petulant child whenever I read the story, but that’s up for different interpretations.) Anyway, Haman successfully convinces the king to allow the annihilation of the Jewish people through some underhanded means. Chosen queen by the king himself, Esther was in a unique position of power for a Jewish woman: it becomes her duty to beseech her husband to revoke the order. Mordecai (Esther’s cousin who raised her after her parents died and the discoverer of a plot to murder the king) has to convince her to speak before she’s willing to go to the king (something that can bear the penalty of death if done unbidden) and reminds her of something that I often hold close to my heart: “Maybe you were chosen queen for just such a time as this.” So, Esther goes to the king, and (skipping over some events) Haman ends up executed, Mordecai takes over his position and issues a new edict to counteract the old one, and the Jewish people are saved.

With those stories in mind, what do I want people to think of when they think of me? Do I want people to think of Amelia, a woman who dared to dream and was willing to give her life to fulfill it? Do I want people to think of Esther, a woman who dared to stand up for what was right and was willing to give her life to live it out accordingly? I think the answer is both and neither. I want to be a woman who dares to dream, who dares to stand up for what is right. I want to be a woman who lives life boldly, letting faith dictate her steps, relying on compassion to guide her words. I want to be ardent and considerate, someone known for her ideas and the follow-through as well as kindness.

Am I any of those things right now? I couldn’t tell you with certainty. I think I already am a dreamer in that I have hopes for the future. I stand up for what I believe is right by preaching peace and love to those around me, by speaking when I feel called to speak. I don’t know how boldly I live life right now, but I definitely see that the path of faith will take me to that place of boldness. I looked up the definition of ardent to make sure I had the word I was thinking of, and it seems to fit me already—having intense feeling, passionate, devoted, eager—though I have plenty of room to grow into it further. I feel like my kindness can only be judged by the people around me, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t strive for it in my life (usually; I am only human, after all).

I started writing this by asking myself the question, What’s in a name? Just as Amelia means hardworking, Esther means star. Sometimes, I overthink it and feel as though it gives me a deeper connection to the cosmos, to the universe that I believe God created. Sometimes, I think it means that I should be willing to shine in the darkest of times even if my light is only minuscule. Sometimes, I hope it means I’m destined for notoriety and fame—but that’s a little far-fetched even for me. Sometimes, it means that I may never learn everything about the world around me, but that feeling of excitement and wonder is definitely still there. Maybe it means all of these things; maybe it means none of them. But maybe, just maybe, it means that I should be myself, whoever that woman is.

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#ink consequential #autumn 2017 #writing #poetry #microfiction #editorial #poem #litmag #literary magazine

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onelongdrive · 7 years ago

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let me tell you a few things about peter beach.

their heart is too big and their heart is too soft.

they will offer help before ever asking for it.

they love you, they love you, they love you.

they loved me, too, but they never got the chance to tell me.

that probably sounds narcissistic, and you know what? that’s fair. because, like, i totally am. i don’t mean to be, but whatever. if the dead girl’s boot fits, or whatever.

but it’s not supposed to be. it’s just the truth. because when you die, you kind of get to tap into that sort of shit. you get to learn that kind of stuff. and i learned that. i learned that they loved me. i learned that they were going to tell me, and they never got to. because everything was over, and the chance was ripped away from them.

they were always so fucking happy, you know? they were the one that always greeted you with a smile, with a hug, with a bouquet of flowers that they probably weren’t supposed to swipe out of their mother’s garden but did anyway.

and they’re still that person. even now. even after everything. but it’s wearing on them. the wear and tear of what happened is starting to rip through the cracks, seep through them and pour out. they don’t want to look like they’re not okay, because they want to be okay for everyone.

it’s just not that easy.

learn more about peter below

All You Need Is Love! Peter Beach will happily belt the words to that infamous Beatles song if ever given the opportunity. Peter loves love. It’s what makes the world go round, as the cliche says. Love has been what has defined him for as long as he could possibly remember. In his youth, this was best exemplified in the love shared between him and his parents. Patterson and Victoria Beach were a typical eccentric couple typical to Shadow Creek. Patterson managed to the town library and Victoria was a teacher at the local junior high. They were a happy, settled couple who lived a quaint and peaceful life in their small two bedroom house. They were the ones to show Peter what it meant to live positive.

His dad was goofy, and silly and liked to take silly pictures of his wife and son. His mother was giggly and fun and she liked to fill their house with her paintings. They doted on their son Peter and showered him with kindness and affection, while also stressing the importance that he do the same. His childhood was filled with fun and games and family traditions. Each Halloween, he dressed up and went trick-or-treating. On Thanksgiving, he rode with his parents to his grandparent’s house for a lively dinner followed by an even rowdier watch of the football game happening. When Christmas rolled around, he dutifully put out the cookies and milk for Santa, even after he had long stopped believing.

This wholesome upbringing plays a great part in why Peter is the way that he is. His most core values are heavily influenced on who his parents are. If you ask him, there is nothing more important than kindness and acceptance. These beliefs paved the way for his time in school and allowed him to collect a bunch of close friends. To those he went to school with, Peter was considered a fairly quiet, but sweet boy. He could be seen around campus using pencils as drumsticks on whatever surface was nearest to him. It was also no secret that he was musically inclined, especially when he became old enough to be invited to high school parties. As cliche and stereotypical as it sounds, he was the guy in the corner that would ask if you wanted to hear him play Wonderwall.

It was at one of these parties that he first realized that he might be falling for Olive Graff. She was beautiful and enticing and he wanted nothing more than to know her. He didn’t know what it was exactly that caused his feelings for her to change. It was like one day she was just his friend, and then suddenly she was the girl of his dreams. He was always too scared to approach her. What if she thought he was ridiculous? What if she told everyone that Peter Beach made an absolute fool of himself by asking her out. Of course, he knew that she was kind and nice and probably wouldn’t, he still couldn’t get his brain to stop scaring him with the possibility. This was a downside of Peter. He cared far too much about what people thought of him. He wanted to be liked by all and loved by many. He was terrified to do something if he thought it would cause him social strife, which meant he often stayed silent about things concerning him, to the detriment of himself.

He never had been the type to rock the boat.

Still, even though Olive had no clue about his feelings, he was still a happy person. She was his friend, as was everyone else, and that was all he really needed. Or so he thought, anyways.

He’d been at the party immediately following graduation. As if the universe were giving him a sign, the day had been exceptionally bad. He’d argued with his mother about college, or more specifically, his lack of. She wanted him to do something with school following graduation, even if it was at the community college. All Peter wanted to do, however, was play music. Obviously, his mother did not quite share his confidence. He broke his phone later that night too, which was why he had been more reserved than usual at the party on that fateful night. Ironically, he had been the closest he’d ever been to telling Olive about his feelings. That is, until he caught sight of her arguing with Bryson. He’d quickly dipped away, not wanting to get involved in something like this and went back to his usual state of being far too cowardly to say what he felt.

It was only a few hours later when he’d heard what happened.

Like everyone else, this absolutely crushed him. Olive, the love of his young life, was dead. As a result of drunk driving too. It took everything in his being to not lash out at the boy who did it. They were friends, but none of that mattered now that Olive was dead. It was only when his mother reminded him to think of all sides and how everyone must be feeling, that he calmed down.

Sort of. It was hard to fit the exact definition of “calm” in a situation like this.

Olive’s death had a tremendous impact on their small town. Peter watched from a distance as all of his friends scattered across the world. He chose to stay. He worked at the Dairy Queen across from his old high school for six months following that night. He felt directionless and lost. He didn’t feel like he could make it on his own but he drowning by staying. Olive was all that he could think about. He couldn’t stop beating himself up for not telling her how he felt. He felt like a coward, less of man. He needed to grow a spine. It became clear to those closest to him that Peter needed a change.

One morning, just like any other, Peter had headed downstairs for breakfast. He was in his Dairy Queen uniform and was preparing to go and work a double shift. His father and mother were waiting for him and it was clear from the look on their faces that they wanted to talk. So they did. They talked long and hard about Peter’s place in life and expressed their concerns that he wasn’t growing. They told him that he needed to do something, anything.

So he did.

After his shift, he sat down and pooled together every penny that he had. Once he did that, he asked his parents if they would match him. They did.

Scared, confused, but slightly hopeful was how Peter felt as he boarded the greyhound bus that was heading from South Carolina to Alabama. When he arrived, he immediately boarded another bus that took him to Louisiana. One crazy night in New Orleans, and he was on his way to Texas. He arrived in Houston, spent another two nights there, before boarding one last bus to Austin. This is where he would stay for years to come. It was the live music capital of the world, and he planned to take advantage of it.

Before long, he fell into the city’s culture. He started smoking cigarettes, found himself dabbling in different psychedelic drugs, and ended up in a two bedroom apartment with five other people. A few months later, he started a band with some friends. They named it Indoor Creature. This was Peter’s life. For the next six years, he lived in peace and happiness. Olive was still on his mind. He never had found anybody else to make him feel the way that she did. But he had healed, for the most part.

Now, he’s on his way back to Georgia to embark on some insane cross country road trip with everyone Olive cared about. He can’t believe that he somehow made the list. He’s excited, maybe this will be finally what he needs to be completely happy and whole again.

#new rp #oc rp #bio rp #literate rp #road trip rp #characters #t

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spearcast · 8 years ago

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Yo bro tell me about your new ocs

oof, there are quite a few so bear with me

johanna quick & jesse talbot // setting: the wild west // u: the wild hunt

johanna’s birth name is johanna rae dearborn, but seeing as she’s on the run from her uncle and her dad and their plans for her, she goes by johanna quick. (her mother’s dead, named clementine dearborn. she was a witch of sorts and taught jo a lot about that sort of thing.) jo hates hand guns and prefers blunt objects or her mother’s old rifle she still carries around.

jesse oliver talbot doesn’t remember his birth parents but was adopted by a saloon owner named shirley talbot. shirley already had two kids, retta and alcee, but all three of them welcomed jesse with open arms. (i haven’t drawn jes yet but his inspiration draws from booboo stewart.)(also don’t look at me like that, i couldn’t get myself to let go of the name jesse. it’s grown on me.) he and johanna grew up together and after shirley’s saloon is burned down by folks who think she ought’ve left jesse to the desert, he flees with johanna to hunt them down.

their story also incorporates a western version of “the wild hunt”, a european folk myth.

rhiannon majors & ida gust // setting: pacific northwest // u: from the fog

yet another pair of ocs interacting with the unknown and paranormal! rhiannon is mostly based off of the song rhiannon by fleetwood mac. she’s essentially a demigod, child of the goddess hecate and a human woman. her main ability is to disappear and travel through shadow as well as being able to teleport via crossroads. she’s very free-floating and a ridiculously carefree spirit. she’s hard to pin down and even harder to get to cooperate, unless it’s something she wants to do/get/etc. trouble also follows her around like nobody’s business and most who do know her can’t really blame whatever that trouble is- she’s very bright and inviting even when not intending to be. there’s a natural draw or glamour around her.

ida gust is one of the few people not unnaturally drawn to her, and is therefore rhiannon’s best friend. ida has always been scientifically minded about the things unknown to most of mankind, and has a collective knowledge of mythologies and religions from across the world. at first she’s really just along for the ride with rhiannon whenever trouble hits. but then there’s a prophecy involved, as is the case with most demifolk, and ida is essentially connected by that fabled red string to rhiannon.

(ps. they’re Gay and fall in love ft. mutual pining)

circe & soraya // setting: misc // u: to be determined

presumed antagonists that are actually antihero side characters within nellie cain’s story! (which, yes, cain’s tale has not only assumed angels but also sirens, sphinxes, manticores, chimera, and much much more!)(well. the angel idea was cool but i may be playing around with other ideas too.)

circe is your standard sphinx who will riddle or question anyone who crosses her path, and if incorrect, she’ll eat said person or creature. she much prefers men (often of the cis and/or straight variety) but will follow tradition and eat anyone. she’s ridiculously clever and there are rumors that she was the sphinx in the oedipus tale- making her not only clever, but ancient. however she values honor and morality and rights and such, and won’t go out of her way to purposefully trick someone unless she senses true wickedness. she also shows her humility and vulnerability around nellie, who stumps the sphinx, and therefore earns circe’s trust and companionship whenever she is called upon.

soraya is a manticore and essentially circe’s girlfriend. most manticore tend to be male- soraya was the same, but transitioned after becoming solitary and leaving her old pride. she still has her mane (much like maned lionesses) and refuses to let it be cut. initially from persia (and what is now iran), she travels through portals with circe allowing the duo anywhere in the world. soraya much prefers livestock to human as far as eating goes but won’t hesitate if threatened. she’s quieter than circe (because circe treats most things like a performance- most things except when she and soraya are alone together) and essentially the baze to circe’s chirrut. soraya is protective of rikki, nellie’s companion and friend, and takes rikki as her charge by the end of their story.

#oc stuff #long post #u: the wild hunt #u: from the fog #u: to be determined #kalamitis

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inadequatematerials-blog · 8 years ago

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Kissing Cassandra Pentaghast ||| Chapter 7: Surprises

\\ Archive Of Our Own \\

Summary: She was searching for the perfect man, but instead, found the perfect woman.

Cassandra is a single, straight, successful newspaper editor who finds herself questioning just how straight she is when she meets the grounded but scintillating Amala Lavellan.

“You don’t believe in the Maker?”

Cassandra had received two differing opinions on bringing up religion on first dates. Her friends told her it was inappropriate. While her parents adamantly felt that no date should even be set without a full detailing on one’s interactions with the church.

She could almost hear her parent’s anxious questioning. Where were they baptized? What denomination? Does he follow the white divine or the black divine? How often do they attend service?

Lavellan, the one who started the conversation in the first place, innocently shrugged. “I don’t NOT believe in the Maker.”

Cassandra grabbed an olive to pop it in her mouth while narrowing her eyes.

Lavellan put a hand up in defeat. “I’ll stop toying with you. If I must give myself a label then I identify as spiritual with values heavily informed by Dalish heritage and culture.”

“What does that mean exactly? I am not trying to be superfluous.”

Lavellan smirked. “You like things to be clear...I can get that. I grew up on a Dalish reservation, and had a Keeper, observed Dalish holidays, and was surrounded by our Gods, stories, and everything everywhere. But, not everyone in a clan is a hundred percent ‘I believe in all the old ways.’ It’s not too different from how folks here can grow up in an Andrastian society, and may not be devout or even following, but they still have all those messages and holidays that shape their life.”

Cassandra’s face reflected understanding. “What was your family like?”

“My Grandmother was our Keeper most of my life,” she said, sounding wistful. “My family was more serious about upholding tradition, but it made sense, we’ve lost so much and my family has always been a strong pillar of the community. They let me decide for myself though, freedom of thought is big for my clan.”

“I can appreciate that,” Cassandra began, snickering lightly. “Freedom of thought is not a phrase my parents entertained about most things.”

Lavellan laughed softly but her eyes turned serious. “I love and cherish traditional elhven religion, but I just don’t believe in one religion over the other. I believe there is a life force, something bigger than us all, where we all come from and go back to. It’s complicated. I might need more time and less wine to explain.”

“I understand, it makes sense to me,” Cassandra replied quickly to assure Lavellan.

Lavellan snorted. “You don’t have to lie! That was rambling.”

She put her hands up in defense. “It does! The confusion on my face comes from how different my household was.”

“You did mention that. How did that play out? You don’t come off as someone who would be subservient to their parents.” Lavellan asked, eyebrows raised mischievously.

Cassandra smiled knowingly. “Yes, that must be obvious. I had many a disagreement with my parents. They wanted to raise me as a traditional Nevarran woman of a higher station. That kind of woman is demure, dependent, and a symbol of tradition. My parents have little left of their homeland but memories and tradition...I try to tread lightly where I can.”

Lavellan’s voice softened, “Did you parents come after the war?”

Cassandra did not typically talk with anyone abot her family’s escape from Nevarran, but Lavellan made it easier to speak about. “They actually fled during the war. They thought the President would peacefully concede power. It was a shock to them when he didn’t; they realized quickly anyone who had supported the opposing candidate would be in danger.”

Lavellan’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry, I know that phrase is empty sometimes, but I do mean it.”

Cassandra shook her head, she was not ready to go deep into her family history. “Thank you. I understand, but we had more than most. We had a Nevarran community to embrace us here. My father was back practicing law in two years’ time. We had privileges of class that many others did not.”

Lavellan nodded. “That is amazing perspective; good looks and wisdom, why do you have trouble finding a good date again?”

Cassandra shook her dismissively. “Because I bring up religion and civil war in polite dinner conversations”

“No, that was all me. Thank you for not playing by the rules of social etiquette,” Lavellan said. She grabbed the bill on the table and put down cash.

She passed the bill to Cassandra who put down her half of the bill. “I have never been one for them. It drives my mother mad.”

Lavellan rubbed her hands together excitedly. “You’ve got the momma drama! I usually have the rows with my father. And by rows, I mean heated discussions with no hurtful language but plenty of hurt feelings.”

“But,” Lavellan continued, finishing the wine in her glass with a flourish of her hand. “that is enough talk of family.”

Cassandra got up from her seat. “Thank you for taking me here. I have heard such good things but always forget to come. Would you like to go to the park down the street? Get some ice-cream?” She wasn’t ready for the night to end.

Lavellan looked surprised but pleased at the invitation. “I can never say no to ice cream on a nice night like this. But, the ultimate question, Toscanini’s or Mr. Freezies?”

Lavellan handed Cassandra a strawberry cone. She was surprised that Cassandra even ate ice-cream, her body was so toned and the woman had somehow resisted the second helping of bread on their table at dinner. She had assumed no unnecessary carbs or sugar entered that body.

They had playfully argued during the ten-minute walk over where to go. There was Toscanini’s, the fancy micro-creamery, or the neighborhood relic known as Mr. Freezy’s ice-cream truck. Toscanini’s was good, there was no denying it, but soft serve out of an old timey truck was a magic all its own.

Cassandra argued that her newspaper had covered several health violations at Mr. Freezy’s. She had countered that these food inspectors likely had their pockets lined with urban developer cash bribes. Cassandra had easily conceded after seeing the line out the door for Toscanini’s. Lavellan deduced Cassandra was more opposed to gentrification and long lines than food poisoning.

“I would not have initially taken you for a strawberry fan,” Lavellan said, slowly licking where the ice cream dripped on her hand. She noted that Cassandra somehow kept her ice-cream from dripping on herself. She felt a complete mess beside her.

“I tend to surprise people with my tastes.”

“Oh, really,” Lavellan sang, eyeing Cassandra impishly. “This sounds interesting, please tell me more.”

Lavellan could feel Cassandra’s hand brushing next to her own as they walked. This would be the perfect moment to hold her hand. They were in the third part of their outing and walking around a park with ice-cream. Could it get more picturesque?

She let her hand stop in Cassandra’s palm to give her the opportunity. Cassandra’s fingers flitted on her palm, but they pulled back after a second.

Lavellan noted the redness on Cassandra’s neck, sighing inwardly.

Cassandra pressed forward with their conversation. “Where do I begin, alright, I have a deep love for romance novels. The good, the bad, and the very very terrible.”

Lavellan dog whistled and motioned to a bench they could sit on. “Oh, trashy romance novels? How did that start?” She could swear a twinkle appeared in Cassandra’s eye as she sat next to her.

“I found my mother’s collection when I was ten and it was right around when I was starting to have my own romantic yearnings. My family was very conservative, so these novels, they were my escape. It was the beginning of me being a romantic through and through.”

“A romantic? I figured.” Lavellan replied, taking a quick bit of her cone as she spoke. “I don’t think you’re like a gumdrops and glitter romantic. You’re like...boldness, passion, emotional rawness...that kind, right?”

“You’ve figured that out after a couple hours,” Cassandra asked softly, not looking directly at her.

Lavellan leaned forward to catch her eye. “It’s been more than couple hours. I would say we’ve spent three hours together. And to think you tried to ditch me.”

Cassandra finally looked her in the eye. “I don’t know why you came after me, but thank you. I haven’t had this much fun with someone in a long time.”

A stillness came between them, the first since they had started their evening. Lavellan leaned a bit closer. Cassandra’s eyes closed and Lavellan could feel her heart about to burst from her throat. She closed her own eyes and waited.

She heard Cassandra clear her throat, puzzled, she opened her eyes. Cassandra was sitting back against the bench staring at the park’s marble fountain. The heat of embarrassment flooded Lavellan’s face and she sat back up.

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra said. She groaned and put her head in her hand.

Lavellan stopped herself from putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. You said you weren’t sure. I understand. Do you feel more sure about, well, whether you might like women? Or a woman ever?”

Cassandra took her face from her hands. “I just don’t know and it’s not fair to you. If you were a man I would have...gone for it. That must mean something, right?”

“I think only you can know that,” Lavellan said, barely above a whisper. She felt her tear ducts activating. She was such an idiot getting emotional over a woman she just met. Why did this hurt so much?

Lavellan got up from the bench and extended her hand to Cassandra. Cassandra put her in hers and she gave it a firm shake.

“It was fantastic to meet you, really. I wish you the best.” She turned on her heel and started speed walking to the next subway entrance. She could hear Cassandra following her.

“Wait,” Cassandra called to her, catching up as they exited the park. “That’s it? We can’t be friends?”

Lavellan stopped suddenly and held the straps of her purse in a nervous death grip. “We could, but it would be terrible, because I could really fall for you. I know I am already starting to. It would only lead to me pining for you like an idiot.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to speak but Lavellan put her hand up. “I’ve been here before, waiting around for someone to feel about me the way I feel about them. I can’t do that again to myself. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to punish you.”

Cassandra ran a hand through her hair, clearly embarrassed by Lavellan’s honesty. “No, I know you’re not. I just wish we could be friends. Please call me if you change your mind.”

Lavellan walked backwards a couple steps and nodded her head. “Likewise.”

She continued briskly away from Cassandra without a second glance. The rock she carried in her stomach grew to her throat. Was she a complete fool? She could have stayed friends with Cassandra and maybe she would have changed her mind! But Lavellan only had to spend a couple moments ruminating to realize how tragic that would be. She couldn’t be someone’s second fiddle again. She couldn’t.

As she descended the subway stairs she felt the buzz of her phone. She grabbed it from her purse to see a txt from Dorian.

D: How did it go? Is the voice as alluring in person?

She let her head rest against the subway sweat and began texting him back.

L: Better. She was amazing. Best date I ever had. And now I will likely never see her again.

It took only a second for Dorian to respond, and in her romance gloom, she felt grateful for friendship.

D: This calls for brunch tomorrow. You bring the OJ. I have the champagne.

Friendship and champagne.

#dragon age fanfic #draon age #cassandra x lavellan #cassandra x female inquisitor #cassandra x flavellan #dragon age au

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stephenmccull · 5 years ago

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Using Stories To Mentally Survive As A COVID-19 Clinician

Dr. Christopher Travis, an intern in obstetrics-gynecology, has cared for patients with COVID-19 and performed surgery on women suspected of having the coronavirus. But the patient who arrived for a routine prenatal visit in two masks and gloves had a problem that wasn’t physiological.

“She told me, ‘I’m terrified I’m going to get this virus that’s spreading all over the world,'” and worried it would hurt her baby, he said of the March encounter.

Travis, who practices at the Los Angeles County + University of Southern California Medical Center, told the woman he knew she was scared and tried to assure her she was safe and could trust him.

Asking many questions and carefully listening to the answers, Travis was exercising the craft of narrative medicine, a discipline in which clinicians use the principles of art and literature to better understand and incorporate patients’ stories into their practices.

“How do we do that really difficult work during the pandemic without it consuming us so we can come out ‘whole’ on the other end?” Travis said. Narrative medicine, which he studied at Columbia University, has helped him be aware of his own feelings, reflect more before reacting, and view challenging situations calmly, he said.

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The first graduate program in narrative medicine was created at Columbia University in 2009 by Dr. Rita Charon, and the practice has gained wide influence since, as evidenced by the dozens of narrative medicine essays published in the Journal of the American Medical Association and its sister journals.

Learning to be storytellers also helps clinicians communicate better with non-professionals, said writer and geriatrician Dr. Louise Aronson, who directs the medical humanities program at the University of California-San Francisco. It may be useful to reassure patients — or to motivate them to follow public health recommendations. “Tell them a story about having to intubate a previously healthy 22-year-old who’s going to die and leave behind his first child and new wife, and then you have their attention.”

“At the same time, telling that story can help the health professional process their own trauma and get the support they need to keep going,” she said.

Teaching Storytelling To Doctors

This fall, Keck School of Medicine of USC will offer the country’s second master’s program in narrative medicine, and the subject also will be part of the curriculum in the new Kaiser Permanente Bernard J. Tyson School of Medicine in Pasadena, which opens its doors July 27 with its first class of 48 students. (KHN, which produces California Healthline, is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.)

Narrative medicine trains physicians to care about patients’ singular, lived experiences — how illness is really affecting them, said Dr. Deepthiman Gowda, assistant dean for medical education at the new Kaiser Permanente school. The training may entail a close group reading of creative works such as poetry or literature, or watching dance or a film, or listening to music.

He said there’s also “real, intrinsic value” for patients because a doctor isn’t only being trained to care about the body and medications.

“Literature in its nature is a dive into the experience of living — the triumphs, the joys, the suffering, the anxieties, the tragedies, the confusions, the guilt, the ecstasies of being human, of being alive,” Gowda said. “This is the training our students need if they wish to care for persons and not diseases.”

Dr. Andre Lijoi, a geriatrician at WellSpan York Hospital in Pennsylvania, recently led a virtual session for 20 front-line nurse practitioners who work in nursing homes. Two volunteers recited Mary Oliver’s 1986 poem “Wild Geese,” which reads, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on.”

Sharing the poet’s words helped the nurses relieve their pent-up tensions, enabling them to express their feelings about life and work under COVID-19, Lijoi said.

One participant wrote, “As the world goes on around me I mourn seeing my aging parents, planning my daughter’s wedding, and missing my great niece’s baptism. I wonder, when will life be ‘normal’ again?”

Processing Fear To Provide Better Care

Dr. Naomi Rosenberg, an emergency room physician at Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia, studied narrative medicine at Columbia and teaches it at Temple’s Lewis Katz School of Medicine. The discipline helps her “metabolize” what she takes in while caring for COVID-19 patients, including the fear that comes with having to enter patients’ rooms alone in protective gear, she said.

The training helped her counsel a worried woman who couldn’t visit her sister because the hospital, like others around the country, wasn’t allowing relatives to visit COVID-19-infected patients.

“I’d read stories of Baldwin, Hemingway and Steinbeck about what it feels like to be afraid for someone you love, and recalling those helped me communicate with her with more clarity and compassion,” Rosenberg said. (After a four-day crisis, the sister recovered.)

Dr. Pamela Schaff (right) discusses narrative medicine in the Hoyt Gallery at the Keck School of Medicine of the University of Southern California, as Chioma Moneme, a student in the class of 2020, looks on. (Credit: Chris Shinn)

Close readings can also help students understand the various ways metaphor is used in the medical profession, for good or ill, said Dr. Pamela Schaff, who directs the Keck School’s new master’s program in narrative medicine.

Recently, Schaff led third-year medical students through a critical examination of a journal article that described medicine as a battlefield. The analysis helped student Andrew Tran understand that describing physicians as “warriors” could “promote unrealistic expectations and even depersonalization of us as human beings,” he said.

Something similar happens in the militarized language used to describe cancer, he added: “We say, ‘You’ve got to fight,’ which implies that if you die, you’re somehow a failure.”

In the real world, doctors are often focused narrowly, devoting most of their attention to a patient’s chief complaint. They listen to patients on average for only 11 seconds before interrupting them, according to a 2018 study in the Journal of General Internal Medicine. Narrative medicine seeks to change that.

While listening more carefully may add one more item to a physician’s lengthy “to-do” list, it could also save time in the end, Schaff said.

“If we train physicians to listen well, for metaphor, subtext and more, they can absorb and act on their patients’ stories even if they have limited time,” she said. “Also, we physicians must harness our narrative competence to demand changes in the health care system. Health systems should not mandate 10-minute encounters.”

Telling The Patient’s Whole Story

In practice, narrative medicine has diverse applications. Modern electronic health records, with their templates and prefilled sections, can hamper a doctor’s ability to create meaningful notes, Gowda said. But doctors can counter that by writing notes in language that makes the patient’s struggles come alive, he said.

The school’s curriculum will incorporate a different patient story each week to frame students’ learning. “Instead of, ‘This week, you will learn about stomach cancer,’ we say, ‘This week, we want you to meet Mr. Cardenas,'” Gowda said. “We learn about who he is, his family, his situation, his symptoms, his concerns. We want students to connect medical knowledge with the complexity and sometimes messiness of people’s stories and contexts.”

In preparation for the school’s opening, Gowda and a colleague have been running Friday lunchtime mindfulness and narrative medicine sessions for faculty and staff.

The meetings might include a collective, silent examination of a piece of art, followed by a discussion and shared feelings, said Dr. Marla Law Abrolat, a Permanente Medicine pediatrician in San Bernardino, California, and a faculty director at the new school.

“Young people come to medicine with bright eyes and want to help, then a traditional medical education beats that out of them,” Abrolat said. “We want them to remember patients’ stories that will always be a part of who they are when they leave here.”

This KHN story first published on California Healthline, a service of the California Health Care Foundation.

Using Stories To Mentally Survive As A COVID-19 Clinician published first on https://smartdrinkingweb.weebly.com/

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gordonwilliamsweb · 5 years ago

Text

Using Stories To Mentally Survive As A COVID-19 Clinician

“She told me, ‘I’m terrified I’m going to get this virus that’s spreading all over the world,'” and worried it would hurt her baby, he said of the March encounter.

Travis, who practices at the Los Angeles County + University of Southern California Medical Center, told the woman he knew she was scared and tried to assure her she was safe and could trust him.

Email Sign-Up

Subscribe to KHN’s free Morning Briefing.

Please confirm your email address below:

“At the same time, telling that story can help the health professional process their own trauma and get the support they need to keep going,” she said.

Teaching Storytelling To Doctors

He said there’s also “real, intrinsic value” for patients because a doctor isn’t only being trained to care about the body and medications.

Sharing the poet’s words helped the nurses relieve their pent-up tensions, enabling them to express their feelings about life and work under COVID-19, Lijoi said.

Processing Fear To Provide Better Care

The training helped her counsel a worried woman who couldn’t visit her sister because the hospital, like others around the country, wasn’t allowing relatives to visit COVID-19-infected patients.

��I’d read stories of Baldwin, Hemingway and Steinbeck about what it feels like to be afraid for someone you love, and recalling those helped me communicate with her with more clarity and compassion,” Rosenberg said. (After a four-day crisis, the sister recovered.)

Something similar happens in the militarized language used to describe cancer, he added: “We say, ‘You’ve got to fight,’ which implies that if you die, you’re somehow a failure.”

While listening more carefully may add one more item to a physician’s lengthy “to-do” list, it could also save time in the end, Schaff said.

Telling The Patient’s Whole Story

In preparation for the school’s opening, Gowda and a colleague have been running Friday lunchtime mindfulness and narrative medicine sessions for faculty and staff.

This KHN story first published on California Healthline, a service of the California Health Care Foundation.

Using Stories To Mentally Survive As A COVID-19 Clinician published first on https://nootropicspowdersupplier.tumblr.com/

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dinafbrownil · 5 years ago

Text

Using Stories To Mentally Survive As A COVID-19 Clinician

“She told me, ‘I’m terrified I’m going to get this virus that’s spreading all over the world,'” and worried it would hurt her baby, he said of the March encounter.

Travis, who practices at the Los Angeles County + University of Southern California Medical Center, told the woman he knew she was scared and tried to assure her she was safe and could trust him.

Email Sign-Up

Subscribe to KHN’s free Morning Briefing.

Please confirm your email address below:

“At the same time, telling that story can help the health professional process their own trauma and get the support they need to keep going,” she said.

Teaching Storytelling To Doctors

He said there’s also “real, intrinsic value” for patients because a doctor isn’t only being trained to care about the body and medications.

Sharing the poet’s words helped the nurses relieve their pent-up tensions, enabling them to express their feelings about life and work under COVID-19, Lijoi said.

Processing Fear To Provide Better Care

The training helped her counsel a worried woman who couldn’t visit her sister because the hospital, like others around the country, wasn’t allowing relatives to visit COVID-19-infected patients.

Something similar happens in the militarized language used to describe cancer, he added: “We say, ‘You’ve got to fight,’ which implies that if you die, you’re somehow a failure.”

While listening more carefully may add one more item to a physician’s lengthy “to-do” list, it could also save time in the end, Schaff said.

Telling The Patient’s Whole Story

In preparation for the school’s opening, Gowda and a colleague have been running Friday lunchtime mindfulness and narrative medicine sessions for faculty and staff.

This KHN story first published on California Healthline, a service of the California Health Care Foundation.

from Updates By Dina https://khn.org/news/using-stories-to-mentally-survive-as-a-covid-19-clinician/

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theherblifeblog · 5 years ago

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The Case for Slow Cannabis

Kelly Coulter

At the entrance to the farm in the Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island there is a sign which reads SLOW DOWN. It shows a picture of horses and children playing but it is the words that really grab you. The drive is long, surrounded by pastures and majestic trees with the sparkle of a lake in the distance. By the time you reach the sign telling you to “slow down” your mind has already done it. Your shoulders have relaxed and you are smiling as you breathe in the fresh country air. The horses greet you with flicks of their tails and life seems suddenly simple. As you lean against the fence, taking in the beauty of your surroundings and with it your first blissful toke you wonder if this is what it really all about.

Cannabis wants you to slow down. It/she wants to make you think and question and ultimately answer those questions. But she also wants you to relax and laugh and share her with others in the enjoyments of life; food, music, nature, love, friendship and healing.

Plants Have So Much to Teach Us

As we enter into the new paradigm of legal cannabis in Canada and around the world (hallelujah) now is the time to re-examine what this “perfect plant” is really trying to teach us. In The Botany of Desire, Michael Pollan writes about the genius of plant life and how humans have much to learn from them, including cannabis. I believe cannabis will eventually lead us back to a more natural way of living in harmony with the seasons, not only as farmers but also as consumers.

THE FARMERS

In 1975 Masanobu Fukuoka wrote The One-Straw Revolution, a treatise on how food could and should be grown. It was a manifesto about farming, eating and how the limits of human knowledge will require a radical change to preserve our planet and the systems we rely on for our food. Fukuoka was a rice farmer who chose a less labor-intensive farming style because he wanted his life to be a happy, healthy and fulfilling one.

He believed and proved that farmers could grow to sustain themselves without breaking their backs, their minds, and their spirits. Cannabis farmers of the future who share these values are gathering now in the United States and Canada to embrace these same principles of permaculture which serves not only the natural environment but produces what some might argue the “highest-end” cannabis; seasonal, regenerative, organic, and fair.

Brittny Anderson, the co-founder of The Cannabis Conservancy, is currently working with others to help develop more sustainable criteria for cannabis growers. Her commitment to the regenerative movement was solidified during her time as an intern at Bija Vidyappeeth, Vandana Shiva’s farm in India.

“Regenerative agriculture is the path we must take if we want to renew our communities and reverse climate change. I believe this is a critical moment in time and we must build the world we envision. Regenerative cannabis cultivation is going to be a big part creating a sustainable future and inspiring other agricultural sectors to do the same. Together we will change the world. The Cannabis Conservancy’s certification allows farmers to differentiate themselves in the marketplace so consumers can choose products aligned with their values.”

Cannabis was not always grown indoors, which is surprisingly a radical notion to many. It was grown covertly, because it was illegal, on forest floors, in swamps and amongst rows of other crops. It was hidden and untended for the most part, which is probably/definitely why outdoor cannabis has gotten a bit of a bad rap. The good farmers of Northern California who have been growing legal medical cannabis for the rest of the state for decades were able to hone their techniques, strains, and philosophies around cannabis cultivation and have proven that sun-grown is not only friendlier to the planet and less costly to grow but also deliciously effective.

Casey O’Neil of HappyDay Farm is one of those “good farmers” who believes his farm is meant for a higher purpose. "As a diversified cannabis and vegetable farmer, it is important to me to see thriving small farms that build soil and community. I look forward to learning and sharing with other farmers as we move towards a more regenerative form of agriculture."

Amanda Reiman is the Communications Director for Flow Kana, a distribution company in California known for its’ support of small farms. “We work with sun-grown farmers in Mendocino and Humboldt counties who go beyond organic by using regenerative farming practices, literally improving the quality of the soil with every harvest. Flow Kana was the first company to connect the public with this small community of farmers, who, because of prohibition, have existed in the shadows until now. Flow Kana is proud to give them a platform to tell their stories, and an opportunity to brand themselves, their region and their cannabis for a whole new group of consumers. With offices in southern CA, the Bay Area and Mendocino County, Flow Kana brings the farm to the dispensary along with opportunities to meet the farmers who produce the world's best cannabis. The Flow Cannabis Institute also provides an opportunity for the public to visit, tour the facility and interact with farmers on their farms. The institute is a source of education, not only about cannabis but about prohibition and its associated harms. Additionally, Flow Kana advocates on the local, state and national level, for policies that support small, traditional, sun-grown farmers and lessen barriers for their success in the new marketplace.”

The work of these visionaries and others will be critical for small, sustainable cannabis farmers throughout North America and beyond. The good news is the world is getting woke to the harms of the industrialization of agriculture, and the “Slow Food Movement” has been gaining momentous speed. This is partly due to the incredible work of Carlo Petrini who wrote “The Slow Food Movement” but also the support of the worlds’ greatest chefs including Jamie Oliver and Dan Barber, who are major proponents of more sustainable food consumption. Two short years ago, Netflix might have had one documentary devoted to the food culture. Today there are more than twenty - and the list grows longer every day. The idea that people are more in tune with where their food comes from and how it is grown will naturally converge with the consumer values of the future cannabis consumer. They will have a choice, transparency, and above all else more education. These same types of farming documentaries which reveal some of the harms of monocultures, pesticide use as well as the importance of supporting local food producers could be soon focusing on cannabis farms in the not too distant future.

YOUR ROLE IN THE SLOW CANNABIS MOVEMENT

However it is not just lofty ideals about the industrialization of agriculture and the importance of preserving our soils that will help restore the old ways of growing cannabis….it will be You. Going to farmers markets is fun. Meeting and getting to know the farmers who produce your food is rewarding in many ways. You are supporting other humans and not big, multi-national corporations. You are eating fresh and healthier food. You are helping communities. You are being kind to the environment by purchasing food with less/zero packaging. You are learning about farming and educating yourself about where your food comes from. You are supporting a slower pace in life that is reflective of life. You are sticking it to the machine.

Cannabis is at the very root of this ethos because it has endured a legacy of demonization. In its’ future incarnation as a legal plant (feels odd even writing this…) the values of radical self-sufficiency; true futurism, could and should be embraced and supported. Ideally, we should all be consuming our cannabis as we should be consuming our food, which is to grow our own. The next best thing is to vote with your wallet. If the trends we are seeing in other sectors including food, wine, beer, and alcohol are any indication, the future looks very promising for small cannabis farms committed to quality, craftsmanship, and community.

There are regions throughout Europe with very small, sought-after and profitable vineyards. The farms are typically hundreds of years old and have been passed down through generations. These farms have not only survived but have thrived, and the lessons are infinitely valuable. First of all – they remained small, less than 5 acres in most cases, which lends itself to a more manageable infrastructure. Secondly, they had a loyal following, winemakers who knew that the grapes grown were of the finest quality, intimately tended to and expertly harvested. Those same winemakers, in turn, have loyal followings, and so every vintage is spoken for pre-harvest. Finally, the craftsmanship of the farmer. This applies to not only stewardship of the land but also to the methodology of the harvest and translates to the principles of slow cannabis farming. Is the soil healthy? Is the cannabis hang dried and properly cured? Will it be hand-trimmed? Are the workers paid a fair living wage? Does the farm aim to benefit the environment and the community?

Cannabis can teach us so many things about how we interact with our natural world, and I truly believe that is where we are heading. Friedrich Nietzsche alludes to a similar idea in The Birth of Tragedy and Michael Pollan expands on it in “The Botany of Desire”.

In The Birth of Tragedy, Friedrich Nietzsche described intoxication as “nature over power and mind, nature having her way with us.” The Greeks understood that this was not something to be undertaken lightly or too often. Intoxication for them was a carefully circumscribed ritual, never a way to live, because they understood that Dionysus can make angels of us or animals, it all depends. Even so, letting nature have her way with us now and again still seems like a useful thing to do, if only as a check on our hubris, if only to bring our abstracted upward gaze back down to earth for a time. What a re-enchantment of the world that would be, to look around us and see that the plant and the trees of knowledge grow in the garden still.”

Good Farmers know this. Slow cannabis, like slow food, is about working with the natural rhythms of life. In the spring we plant, in the summer we tend, in the fall we harvest and share and in the winter we rest. We live sustainably and re-generatively so that generations who come after us will also be able to do the same. We are going slow.

#kelly coulter #slow cannabis #craft cannabis #farmers markets #farm gate #artisanal #small batch cannabis #sustainable growing #environmental concerns

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