#Air Conditioning Companies Tweed Heads

[dawniight]

feeling active today so here’s a snippet of my dead poets society 1920s Hollywood au that I’ve been working on:

Todd Anderson, with his grey wide trousers and tweed jacket too hot for the California sun, strolls with his small leather suitcase down Sunset Boulevard. He picks up yesterday’s paper along the way, and skims the front cover story - an interview with the breakthrough actor Neil Perry - and chuckles to himself at the bitter tone set by the sub-heading.

“The never nostalgic Neil Perry perplexes the simple American mind,” Todd reads aloud in a murmur, shaking his head and folding the paper underneath his armpit.

Emboldened in big, square letters on an equally big and square building are the words ‘Keating Motion Picture Company’. Todd, after running his hand through his hair as he passes a coffee shop window, strides into this building, grateful for the wave of air conditioning that greets his shaky hands. He’s all too aware of everyone and everything, from the way a man’s squeaky shoes scuffle across the floor to the wide-eyed blond guy by the door, adjusting his glasses as he gazes at a clipboard. It’s busier than he thought it would be.

It takes him a few seconds to register the front desk, where a lady with glasses sits scribbling on a notepad. Her robin red nail polish - painted on each finger in between the tip of the nail and the semi-circle at its base - is stark against the black telephone, and she sighs into it, frustrated, as she crosses out her writing harshly. Todd decides to wait in front of her, trying to seem nonchalant as he nods in her direction. Instead, he gets a concerned look, and the phone is put down.

“The toilets are on the second door to your left.”

“Oh, no,” Todd wonders if he really does look that nervous, “I mean, yes they are there but I wasn’t asking for the toilets.”

“Oh,” the lady stares at him passively for a moment. Todd thinks he gets this cue.

“I’m here to see Mr John Keating,” he pauses, then realises, “my name— name is Todd Anderson.”

[spfairandelectricalau]

Significance of Periodic Air Conditioning Service Tweed heads

Cooling is an innovation that modifies air properties into a condition that is ideal and agreeable. It is subsequently vital in regular living and without it, personal satisfaction can be diminished to extraordinary levels. Today, cooling units have become extremely well known and vital in all families. They are utilized in all environments and, as a rule, period Air Conditioning Service Tweed Heads of such units is required to ensure that they stay in the best working request consistently.

Thus, let us understand first why cooling is fundamental?

1. Desirable Productivity: As indicated by research, cooling has been displayed to expand an individual's proficiency. At the point when one is working inside a temperature that is ordinary, there is a cutoff to the nature of work conveyed. At the point when conditions improve, proficiency goes up unimaginably. An individual can work quickly accordingly convey more.

2. Great Well being: In places where it is introduced, the air is sifted and cleaned. There are numerous sorts of particles and residue that fall into place easily noticeable all around and they can hurt human well being contrarily. It deals with these adequately. There are ACs that have been planned to channel a wide range of microorganisms, smoke, and microscopic organisms. This implies that it can add to the worth of life and keep infections under control.

3. Low Commotion: In regions without ACs, individuals like to utilize fans. Ceiling/Wall/Table fans can make a commotion and they can upset the typical working conditions. This makes AC units more famous than the fans. In regions with cooling, the entryways and windows stay shut, and thusly the external commotion is kept low. But, a routine-wise Air Conditioning Service Tweed Heads for perfect cleaning is quite unquestionable.  It isn't boisterous either, so work or rest can't be upset superfluously.

Note: The cooling fix has become as fundamental as the actual units. There are many assistance places inside towns and urban areas also. There are even those that have exceeded everyone's expectations to set up sites that can be utilized to reach them when the need emerges. Pick an organization with prepared experts to get the best quality administrations.

Conclusion:

Air Conditioners are inevitable equipment and perform brilliantly that help us lead a comfortable and peaceful life. However, periodic Air Conditioning Service Tweed Heads or other cities is quite significant as it help the unit keep running smoothly without any mechanical complication. But, for this purpose you have to employ only expert technicians.  

[queenbirbs]

distracted art appreciation | Ethan Ramsey x MC

Summary: It takes him fifty-six days in the jungle to get over her. Or, well, so he thought.

WC: 3k+

Warnings: N*FW

She’s been staring at the same painting for the past fourteen minutes.

Though, she uses the term ‘painting’ loosely -- whatever she’s looking at is made of twisted straw wrappers and crumbled pages of an IKEA manual. The placard next to the work features phrases like ‘a work of action’ and ‘an introspection into rampant consumerism.’ To her (admittedly untrained) eye, it looks like someone dumped a trashcan over a canvas and spray-painted it with viscera and glitter. Taking another sip of her wine, she glances down at her phone to see that only another minute has passed.

“Two more hours,” Sloane mutters to herself, hopelessly wishing again for time to speed up.

It’s not that she isn’t happy for Kyra, who started out with painting tutorials on YouTube and worked up to a modest following in Boston’s art community, which led her here to her first gallery show. She was excited for the first hour, sticking close to her friend as Kyra chatted with fellow artists about mediums and superatism and juxtaposition and a hundred other terms Sloane didn’t understand. But as conversations flowed, Kyra’s nerves settled down, and she waved Sloane off to go get some air and peruse the other artwork.

Which is how she came to standing in front of The Shopper’s Sediment, waiting for the event to end so she can help Kyra haul her paintings back down the block to her car.

The pleas for company that Sloane sent to the group chat have gone unanswered; they’re probably all still out at the new fantasy-themed bar that she skipped on to be a good friend who keeps her promises.

She’s so concentrated on the ugly artwork that she doesn’t realize there’s a person standing beside her. In fact, she only realizes they’re even there when she lifts her wine glass and ends up whacking them in the side with her elbow.

“Oh, my god! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, I--” she swallows back the rest of her panicked apology.

Ethan smirks down at her. His hand is clasped around her offending elbow.

“It’s all right. I won’t be pressing charges.”

“Thanks,” she says around the dumb grin on her face.

She admires the cut of the jacket he’s wearing; it’s some sort of tweed fabric with patches on the elbows, as if he’s just stepped down from behind a podium at Boston U. For a long moment, they stare at each other, and then down at his hand, still wrapped around her arm. He yanks his hand back as if he’s been burned; the dumb grin falls from her face.

“Um,” she hides the wince that wants to form, “why are… sorry, what are you doing here?”

“I missed out on a few First Fridays while I was away,” he explains. “Besides, Les Mis is running through the fourteenth, and I’ve seen enough of it for a lifetime. I thought I’d peruse the galleries tonight instead.” Taking a drink from the glass in his other hand, he glances about the room. “And you?”

Sloane tips her head in Kyra’s direction, explaining her role as both a social crutch and moving help. An awkward silence follows her words; she switches her glass from one hand to the other, mentally cursing at herself for fidgeting.

She’s a grown-ass woman! There’s no need for her to fold like a goddamn lawn chair around the man next to her. They’re both adults. They can interact in a public place without acting like idiots.

“Well,” Ethan starts, and then pauses to clear his throat. “You heard all about what I was doing down in Colombia, but I’m… curious. What did you do for the two months I was gone? Besides breaking up bar fights for Reggie.”

“Worked,” she answers with a smile. “And worried, of course.”

He quirks an eyebrow up at her response. “About you,” she clarifies.

“You didn’t need to.”

“I know. But I did anyway.” A smile flickers across his face at her admission. “I kept a close eye on the weather conditions down there. You were there during one of the wettest seasons on record. And now I find out that you were wearing a leather jacket the entire time for protection? Something about that just doesn’t add up. And you know what I think? I think you bought it in Bogota before your return flight, so you could come back with some new… down-to-earth vibe.”

That small smile of his grows; the sight of it makes something flutter in her throat.

“You’re not considering the bigger picture,” he says.

“Which is?”

“How I look in it.”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“Only when they’re yours.”  

Sloane makes a show of taking a drink, if only to hide the blush that’s likely (most definitely) coloring her cheeks. She’s bedded the man twice, yet he can turn her into a mess with a minute of flirting. If hope is the thing with feathers, as Dickinson wrote, it’s flown well beyond her reach now.

“In the interest of continuing our, for a lack of a better term, in vino veritas,” he says, “I… worried about you, too.”

The admission causes her to perk up.

“What for?”

“I chose a poor time to leave. Everything was in an upheaval, with Naveen and Harper and I moving positions, and you having won your trial, and then you were awarded the position on the team, and…” he trails off, brow furrowing as he attempts to corral his rambling. “Naveen told me about Doctor Olsen, about how he tried to sabotage your standing.” At his side, his hand clenches into a fist. “And if you let that slide by, what else were you holding back from me?”

“I’ve dealt with bigger snakes than him. You don’t need to worry about--”

“But I did,” he cuts her off. “The entire time I was gone. All fifty-six days.” His eyes drop from hers, going instead to his glass and feigning interest in it. “Some reset, hmm?”

She should walk away; bid her goodbyes and return to Kyra’s side, let him walk out the door and move onto the next gallery. Let him have his reset. But, then again, she’s never been able to leave well enough alone.  

So, instead, she tucks her arm up into his. Her offending elbow nudges his side.

“Come on. I’m tired of staring at this.”

Ethan gives the piece a look over his shoulder as they continue into the space. “It is a rather… visually-challenging take on mixed media.”

“See? I’ve circled this place four times and don’t understand what I’m supposed to be looking at. You’re just the man I need.”

“Then, by all means, lead on.”  

+

By the near-end of their excursion through the gallery, Sloane learns more art terms than she did in the one art history class she mistakenly took in undergrad. The one that she barely passed, though she doesn’t mention that particular detail when Ethan asks.

Art is something she appreciates as one would appreciate good food -- she doesn’t have to know every ingredient in it to enjoy the taste. Ethan, as he is inclined to do, argues against her logic, claiming that knowledge behind every brush stroke (and, thus, every pinch of minced garlic, if we’re using food as a comparison, he added with a sigh) makes the artwork that much more meaningful (and, thus, tastier).  

“It’s a moving piece that calls back to the Impressionist period,” he tells her, as if the third time’s the charm, and suddenly she’ll be awestruck by the boring landscape before them.

“It looks like something that would be bolted above the bed at a Best Western.”

He barks out a laugh at her comment, quickly smothering it when it draws attention from the other art patrons. They move away from the Monet copycat and down a long hallway, where a selection of lackluster acrylic paintings hang in a row. Sloane can feel her eyes glaze over as she examines them.

It’s no wonder that there’s no one near this end of the gallery. The conversations that reach them are muffled, just the droning buzz of voices. Not even the contemporary jazz music is piped down this far, leaving only the creaking floorboards and their own footsteps to accompany them. They reach the end of the hall, where a little table holds a handful of empty plates and glasses, abandoned by those that came before them.

Above the table is a painting of a woman. Draped around her shoulders is a red robe, patterned with messy strokes of amber-colored flowers. Her short, dark curls are pinned back, showing off the strong line of her jaw and the soft contour of her lips. Her right hand is raised, her fingers curled towards herself, as if beckoning to someone out of frame. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted up as she waits for her kiss.    

“She’s hot,” Sloane blurts out.

Ethan raises an eyebrow at her blunt summary of the artwork, though he concedes with a nod. “She is rather lovely.”

“It’s kind of weird, though,” she steps closer and scans the woman’s face. “She reminds me of a woman I went on a date with.”

“Oh. When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Oh,” he repeats, but his tone is different this time.

Sloane looks him over, unable to suppress her grin. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” he says, then grimaces. “Maybe. Yes. Of course I am.”

“You shouldn’t be. Her name is Reese -- she’s a pediatric surgeon over at Children’s. Very attractive, great work ethic, good kisser, cute dog.”

“I fail to see how you reciting all of her best qualities is preventing me from feeling jeal--”

“Simple,” she interrupts. “No spark.”

“Not one?”

Sloane tips her head from side to side, pursing her lips as she considers. “Okay, maybe a little one. Not enough for a fire, though.”

The quiet of the hallway hovers between them as they gaze up at the painting. The placard hanging next to it lists the artist and the artwork’s title: la voglia.

“Is that Italian?”  

“It means ‘the wanting.’” He tips back his glass and swallows the last of his wine. Liquid courage, and all that. “What about… us?”

“Hmm?” The question pulls her from her study of the painting.  

“What was our ‘spark’ level?”

“Oh, we were a bonfire.”

“I see,” he says, his eyes blazing as he watches her. Sloane bites down on her bottom lip. His gaze flickers down to watch the movement; the flame that’s been simmering in her stomach all evening ignites under the attention.    

“Did you want to kiss me?” she asks. “The other night at Donahue’s?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you would.”

The loud clink of his glass meeting the table is lost under the sound of his footsteps crossing the few feet between them. His hands come up to frame her face and his lips crash against hers. Her glass smacks against the table from where she hastily drops it; wine sloshes and drips down onto the floor. Sloane ignores the mess in favor of grabbing any part of him she can reach and pulling him close. Ethan breaks the kiss to surface for air, moving his hands to her waist; she adjusts her grip to his tie and yanks him down for another kiss, tilting her head to deepen it. Pleasure hums through her as she teases his lips to open for her, sweeping her tongue against his own.

Her back hits the wall; funny, because she doesn’t recall moving at all. The rough brick catches at her blouse and hair as she tilts her head up and arches her back, offering more of herself for him to explore.    

“Sloane,” he hisses, trailing Syrah-soaked kisses along her throat and up behind her ear. He nips at the soft skin there, the marks hidden behind the curtain of her hair that he wraps around his hand and tugs. The moan tumbles out of her before she can swallow it down. “I can’t decide what I missed more,” he says with a smirk. “Your touch, or those sweet noises you make for me.”

“Can I tell you what I missed most?”

He pulls back to look down at her, blue eyes alight with arousal. “I’m all ears.”

Flashing a smug grin, she shifts to put her leg between both of his and brings it up as high as her skirt will allow. She rubs her knee against his thigh, and then higher, smirking when he growls out her name.

“That,” she tells him.

Ethan shakes his head at her as he grabs the offending leg and wraps it around his hip. She retaliates by hauling him closer and rolling her hips up to tease him.

“Sloane--”

“Yes?”

“We can’t… not here. Someone could come down the hallway any moment.”

“I know,” she purrs, running her nails through his beard, pleased at his sharp inhale. “We should go somewhere more private.”

“We… my apartment, it’s not too--”

“I’m not sitting through that forty-minute taxi ride you call a commute. I can’t wait.” She brings her hand down and presses it against the swell of his visible arousal. He emits a helpless groan at her touch. “And neither can you.”

“What do you have in mind, then?”

Her only response is another grin that he meets with a look of worried confusion. She decides that she likes the look, especially when she gets to watch the understanding dawn on his face as she guides him to the open door of a nearby stockroom.

Sloane kicks the door closed and locks it behind them, smacking Ethan’s hand away from the lightswitch. Warm light from the street lamps outside pours down out of a high window, diffused with the multicolored strobes of the nightclub across the alley. Shelves of cleaning supplies crowd in next to a pile of stanchions and a stack of easels. The bass from next door thrums along the brick walls, rattling the glassware that’s tucked away in the cabinets. The countertop underneath them glows red from the club lights.      

Ethan picks her up easily and sets her on the counter. The laminate is cool under her heated skin, causing a shiver to course through her. His hand curves around her throat, his thumb brushing along her bottom lip. His breath turns ragged when Sloane turns her head in his hold and takes his thumb into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the digit before releasing him with a wet pop.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Let me see more of you.”

She reaches down and untucks her blouse while he attacks the pearl buttons, popping them open and pushing the cloth from her shoulders, chuckling at her threat of injury should he ruin her shirt. The cool air of the stockroom is soon replaced by his warm breath as he drags kisses down her chest; unhurried and uncaring of her complaints as he takes his sweet time.

“Ethan--” the rest of her complaint is lost to time as his mouth closes over the lacey fabric of her bra. His tongue traces the peak of her nipple, over one breast and then the other. She drags her nails through his hair and grips the strands tight, begging him to never stop kissing her.

In true fashion, he does stop and flashes her a self-satisfied smirk before dropping to his knees. Hauling her closer, he shoves her skirt up, the fabric bunching around her waist. She waits with bated breath, trembling slightly with anticipation, so sure that he won’t bother to tease her now, not when she’s--

“You bastard,” she croaks out when he starts further south than she wants.

That smarmy chuckle of his is somehow deeper than the nightclub’s bass; he ignores her insult and continues tracing wet kisses along the curve of her leg. His beard scratches at her knee as he makes his way up, higher and higher, until he’s so close that the puff of his breath is nearly enough to set her off.  

“You’re one to talk,” he says, tilting his chin to let his beard scrape at the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “If I’d known you weren’t wearing anything under this skirt, we would have been here hours ago.”

She opens her mouth to serve him something snarky right back, but he chooses then to press the flat of his tongue against her and lick a long stripe up her sex. The noise that escapes her isn’t anything close to the English language. With one hand holding her leg up to keep them spread, he uses his other to slide two fingers into her wet heat. The pace he sets is punishing; Sloane barely manages to reach up and grab at the cabinet handles behind her head, holding on for dear life. The warm heat in her belly flows outward into her limbs, burning through her veins; her hips make aborted little thrusts into his mouth as his tongue works her open.

“Oh, god, oh -- god, Ethan!” she cries out. Then his thumb finds her clit and she’s a goner. Her legs snap closed, holding him there as she rides out the wave of her orgasm. Escaping from her hold, he gets to his feet and steps between her splayed legs. He cups her chin and coaxes her up to meet him for a kiss.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

Sloane works at his belt buckle, the leather creaking under her grip as she yanks it from the loops and throws it to the ground.

“I don’t think you needed to--”

“Shut up,” she orders, covering her mouth with his. For once, he listens, kissing the fuck out of her while she pops the button on his pants and dips her hand inside his underwear. His breath catches and his head drops to her bare shoulder, his hips thrusting up into her touch. Heady pants sound against her ear, spurring her on.

The hand not splayed against the cabinet above her head disappears between her legs and palms her sex, rubbing circles against her there. “Yes,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, “god, touch me.”

“Do I…” he starts, then stops, choking back a groan as her wrist gives a little twist. “Do we need…?”

Through the thick fog of oxytocin clouding her brain, Sloane catches on to his fumbling attempts. To give him the chance to form a coherent thought, she lets go of his cock, busying her hands by skimming them up his body and underneath the button-down he still wears.  

“I presume you got every test in the book before being let back into the country,” she says. “And my IUD is still in working order. And, besides that, I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

He shifts to look down into her eyes. By the primal glaze covering his own, it’s obvious to her that the notion pleases him.

“Not even with the surgeon with the great work ethic and the cute dog?”

Stretching up, she captures his lips with her own -- mostly to shut him up again, having found the technique rather effective.

“Like I told you: no spark. Now, if you can get over your jealous streak and--”

“I’m not jealous,” he protests while still grabbing her knees and tugging her that much closer.

“You so totally are,” she laughs as she wraps her legs around his hips. Her knuckles scrape against the cabinet when he forces her hands up beside her head; she links her fingers through his, holding him there.

“Not anymore.” A wolfish grin spreads across his face before he drives into her.

Any chance of continuing their banter is lost to the heat between them. His hips crash down into hers; her legs quake around his. Their chests heave with every breath, their kisses little more than frenzied brushes as the flare of pleasure grows and grows, burning white-hot under their skin.

Ethan drops one hand to where they’re joined and passes once, then twice over her sensitive bundle of nerves. Her body arches as the delicious, surprising heat of her orgasm courses through her. Unable to withstand the rhythmic clenching of her, he follows, muffling his shout by burying his face against her throat.  

“How was that?” he asks once the ability of speech returns. Despite the sweaty mess of each other they’ve made, he nuzzles close, sighing when she wraps her arms around him.

“A house fire.”

Though it defies all laws of medicine and the universe, she can somehow hear the frown of consideration he wears.

“I was thinking forest.”

“Okay,” she concedes. “That works too.”

From somewhere in the dark room comes a buzzing sound. Before she can seriously consider whether or not her orgasm did knock her hearing out-of-whack, Ethan scoops her phone up from the floor.

A stack of missed texts from Kyra fills up her screen:

6:28 pm: come back there’s a hot girl I want you to see

6:28 pm: she’s a sculptor and welds and has tattoos please i’m weak

6:43 pm: where did you gooo

7:02 pm: if you left because of the creepo photographer let me know and I’ll kick his ass

7:04 pm: creepo says he never saw you which i DO NOT believe considering how hot you look tonight

7:39 pm: Lmao nvm

7:39 pm: you are the least subtle person i know but no worries i’ve got your back

7:40 pm: I trust that doctor ramsey can take care of your front ;)

8:24 pm: Devon the hot welder you missed out on meeting is going to help me w paintings and then take me out for a drink. make good choices!! text if you need anything love you  

“What are those little pictographs next to her name?”

Sloane glances down at the tiny flexing bicep and pink heart next to Kyra’s name and rolls her eyes.

“This grumpy, outdated persona of yours can only go on for so long, you know. You did grow up during the birth of AOL and AIM. You’re not a Luddite.” She hops down from the counter and taps out a reply to her friend before buttoning up her blouse. “Besides, you know it’s rude to look at people’s messages, right?”

A red flush returns to his cheeks, though he tries to hide it by crossing the room to switch on the light and searching for his belt.

“Well, I had to make sure it wasn’t the pediatric surgeon, offering to take you out again.”

Sloane lets out a snort, her attention on her reflection in the mirror propped up against the back wall. “We both know by now that there’s only one persistent, albeit indecisive and general pain-in-the-ass doctor that has my attention.”

Ethan, having finished putting himself together, approaches her from behind. His hands slip in underneath her hair to fix her collar. She catches his eye in their reflection; he drops a kiss against her temple.

“Come home with me.”

“That would go against all of those parameters you set up,” she reminds him.

“I know. So did this.” If his tone is a little lost, a little unsure, she doesn’t mention it. “Come home with me,” he repeats.

“Okay.”

+

Author’s notes and what-have-yous:  

Hello, and welcome back to the sin bin.

Please no art lectures. Everything in this was either prior knowledge, googled to the best of my ability, or from recalling friends who were art majors in college bitch about said major. The painting of the woman they discuss is based off of Albert von Keller’s Anticipation. (Sloane’s right; she’s hot.)

Also, if anyone can tell me if I used the correct ‘desire’ in Italian, please let me know. I couldn’t find anything that said I should use la brama instead of la voglia, so I used the latter. (special thank you to @uncagedwings for the vocab assist!)

[sunlitangles]

Prose and Cons

I had the pleasure of also writing a fic for the @grishaversebigbang! Please go check out the other wonderful fics written by my fellow Etherealki. 💙

Thank you to my Corporalki @jdobrski and my sensitivity readers @niecity, @nekonamicosplay, and @wybiegowritey

And my talented Materialki (please check their pieces out and show them some love):

@ninaaswaffles x

@artzy-lia-art x

@dingy-doodles​  x

@protec-kuwei-yul-bo x

Summary: When his father kicks him out of America in disgrace, Wylan leaves for London looking for opportunity. He loves telling stories and sharing knowledge, so when the publishing company Crows Publishing accepts his application as a writer, he is overjoyed. There’s only one problem- Wylan can’t physically write. The solution to this stumbles into his life as Jesper Fahey, the anonymous author of popular war-time novels and coworker. They quickly enter a co-writer relationship, but maybe Wylan wants it to be more. The pair starts to get closer, but it isn’t long before Wylan gets caught up in the secret goings of the Crows Publishing company.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316439/chapters/64080943

Keep reading after the cut for chapter one! 

“Mister Van Eck, I simply must inform you that you are not qualified for this job,” said the man. Wylan sighed and glared at the stout man sitting before him. “Mr. Rollins, I really need this job. I don’t have anywhere to go, and I-” Wylan started but was quickly cut off. “Van Eck, I couldn’t give a damn. Now, please see yourself out of my office,” Mr. Rollins said, spit flying out of his mouth. He didn’t give Wylan another look, proceeding to make a ‘shooing’ gesture and turned back to his records. Wylan grimaced and wiped his face with his sleeve.

Wylan stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tweed blazer. He grabbed the strap of his leather bag as Mr. Rollins lit a cigar. The beady gaze of the older man followed Wylan out of the office, and as Wylan stepped outside into the cool autumn breeze, the noisy bustle of London streets overwhelmed him. Wylan resisted the urge to plug his ears, which were not accustomed to the din. The countryside was never this loud. He missed the scent of the rolling fields, the clean autumn breezes, and the subtle hints of life on the farms nearby. He sighed disdainfully and stepped into the chaotic streets of London.

The intricately built buildings arched high above Wylan, seemingly watching his every move. What am I supposed to do now? His bag thumped against his side as he strolled the uneven cobblestone, dodging other pedestrians in long coats and large skirts. He was alone in this damn city with no steady source of income. If only my dad could see me now, Wylan thought, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. He walked down Fleet Street, a sour expression stuck on his pale face. He strolled past the brightly lit shops of 36th street, the warm smells of the bakery wafting towards him. He stopped in front of the shop, observing the buttery pastries and golden rolls in the shop window. The soft light emanating from the bakery illuminated workers bustling around inside, putting more dough in the oven and piping thick jam on top of fluffy cakes. His mouth watered at the sight of flakey scones and he longed to taste at least one warm confectionery but tore himself away from the shop, turning back to the crowded streets. He certainly didn’t have the money for those types of luxuries yet.

He continued down the street, avoiding the large skirt of a beautiful fair-skinned brunette who strutted as if she owned the town. Her red dress flaunted her generous, soft body. She was fairly plump, and Wylan could tell her corset was laced far larger than customary. He stared as she bounced down the street, entering the bakery with a wide grin on her face. The other patrons stared after her, their expressions a mix of disgust and confusion. Wylan grinned to himself.

Loose pebbles skittered down the path as Wylan continued to make his way down to the run-down hotel that he called home for the time being. He’d managed to make enough money doing odd jobs between university classes to keep himself out of the streets, but if Wylan didn’t find steady work soon, he’d surely be down on his luck. He hurried down the cobblestone streets until he reached the hotel. The front needed a new paint job and windows were in a serious need of cleaning, but the rooms were in good enough condition. He stepped inside the lobby, which was empty save for a Suli family who waited on the moth-eaten couch and a tall, well-dressed man speaking quietly with the concierge. Trudging up the stairs, Wylan searched for his room number, turning right and then forward. He slid his key into the lock, taking off his jacket as he stepped into his hotel room.

He examined his belongings, anxiously making sure nothing was missing. Earlier in the week, he had experienced a run-in with a maid who had taken a liking to rifle through his belongings, looking through his music notebooks and pockets for spare change. He sighed in relief as he realized none of his belongings were swiped. Wylan could hear horses trotting along the street below him, barkers shouting at passerby and the mumble of conversations over watered-down tea and lumpy rice pudding. He still couldn’t believe he was in London. It felt a lot bigger, even though it was barely big enough to fit a fraction of America. He sat down at the tiny desk in the corner of the room, lit by the setting sun. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window, illuminating his fiery copper-red hair. Setting his head in his hands, he rubbed his temples, willing the stress of the day to disappear.

He had no idea how he was going to sustain himself for much longer. The funds that his dad had sent him off with were running low, and it would only be a few more weeks until he would be kicked to the streets with only the clothes off his back and a university scholarship, forced to feed himself and fend off the rats and pests that lurked in the dark alleys. According to his calculations, he would be able to afford his room for three weeks if he cut back on his food budget and skipped meals. He groaned as he pushed himself out of the creaky wood chair, the moth-eaten upholstered cushion leaving dust on his nice black pants. Brushing himself off, he collected his school work from his leather bag. Thick leather-bound books and spare pieces of paper stared up at mockingly, the neat font gleaming under the setting sun. Rubbing his eyes, Wylan attempted to make out the words written on the crisp pieces of parchment but gave up after a few tedious moments.

Mind still preoccupied, Wylan grabbed his flute. The cool metal was familiar to his smooth hands, the brass instantly calming his nerves. Grabbing a few sets of sheet music that he had already memorized, he brought his flute to his mouth and began to play.

As the stars twinkled in the midnight blue sky outside his window, Wylan fought to ignore the rumble of his stomach. He had played for hours, taking breaks to try to read the work he was assigned but he quickly gave up; the frustration consumed him as simple words mocked him. He craved a flakey pastry from the bakery he’d passed earlier, but the almost non-existent weight of the money in his pocket reminded him that indulging in such luxuries would not suit him well. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, wondering if he could afford to buy potatoes at the grocer. Deciding to go food shopping tomorrow, Wylan got himself ready for bed, humming under his breath as the crows chirped in the distance.

*** The streets of London were never quiet at night, Wylan had soon realized after his first night at the hotel. The drunken steps of men stumbling out of bars and their loud, slurred voices filled the streets night after night near the gambling halls and pubs while the sound of horses trotting through the cobblestone alleys mixed with quiet sighs of private theatricals. Tonight, Wylan caught wind of a few conversations, most of them noisy neighbors complaining about the prices of tea and whatever was in the paper that morning. Curling up on the window sill, he felt the cool London air blow into his room.

“Brekker said he would be here by now,” mumbled a gruff voice. The voice was coming from a stocky man, leaning against a building with a few companions by his side. The man to his right drawled in a kaelish accent, “Damn that kid. I can’t stand him.” “Did you hear what happened to Thomas today?” a blond man asked, rolling his neck. Fiddling with the pistols at his hips, a Zemini man replied, “Did Brekker con him?” The blond man nodded and replied, “Got ‘em good, too. I heard he got all of Thomas’ inheritance. Didn’t even see it coming.” The group of men continued to converse, loudly complaining about “Brekker”.

Wylan tuned out the rest of the conversation, opting to watch the early morning carriages drive across the roads. He watched rats scour the streets below, rotten apple cores littering the darkest corners of the alleyway. A young couple took a stroll along the other side of the street, speaking to each other in earnest. Wylan wondered what that was like. To have someone to tell everything to. Try as he might, Wylan’s father never could seem to get Wylan interested in the town girls. He just didn’t fancy any old girl, right? That had to have been the explanation for his blunt taste in women. They were just so peculiar. He often felt as if he never really liked any of them.

“Damn Brekker, can’t seem to keep his nose outta people’s business,” complained the man with the kaelish accent, snapping Wylan out of his daydreaming, “Do you reckon The Dregs will write something about Thomas?” Wylan knew that The Dregs was a popular newspaper in London, published by Crows Publishing. The Zemini man snorted and replied, “It’s a newspaper and publishing company.” “So? They can’t possibly know everything.” “You would be surprised, and I don’t read their shit. You’re the one reading penny bloods from Crows Publishing.”

Wylan knew about the penny bloods that were taking the country up by a storm. His neighbors often gossiped about them with their friends and family, and his classmates read them at school. They formed clubs where they would read them aloud and catch up on the latest episode. Wylan joined a few of those clubs, enjoying the way the writing sounded and taking note of the masterful ways they were written. The most popular penny bloods were written by a man named Kit Young starring a plot of war- novels and by the sounds of it, they were almost the most popular penny bloods in London, second only to a series of detective penny bloods published by the Dime Lions publishing company. Wylan heard that they told tales of crime and detection in America, but he didn’t find the descriptions as intriguing as the bloods written by Kit Young. Wylan participated in one of the clubs for Mr. Young’s stories and he latched on to every one of his words, but he had to stop going to the clubs as he needed to find work more than participate in leisure. He laughed bitterly as he thought about the war bloods and continued to ponder the on-goings of Crows Publishing.

Wylan had dared to hope that he could potentially be hired at the publishing company. He imagined conversing with his coworkers, and hopefully friends, about the latest stories and articles looking to be published. He imagined laughter spilling out of him and his coworkers and them sharing a mutual love for stories, him hopefully writing successful penny bloods that took the country by a storm. He wondered what he would do if he met Kit Young, and how he would praise the man for writing the stories that kept almost all of London intrigued. He let his imagination roam free until the sun rose over the gray city.

***

Though he was drowsy from his lack of sleep, Wylan tried to pay attention to the lesson his English professor was droning on about. He had yet to read the book assigned and he tried to understand what Professor Williams was saying about the metaphors in the book, but the encounter he witnessed from last night had been playing on repeat. The name “Crows Publishing” stuck out to him and kept nagging in the back of his mind. Wylan got chills down his spine each time he thought about how “Brekker” worked the gang and how disturbingly good he was at getting what he wanted. Doodling on the piece of paper in front of him, Wylan continued to ponder the mystery of Crows Publishing. Professor Williams announced that he would be calling on students, effectively breaking Wylan out of his stupor. Wylan silently prayed that he wouldn’t be called on as his professor scanned the room for participants. Though of course, Professor Williams decided it would be the perfect time to call on him.

Locking eyes with Wylan, his professor said, “Mr. Van Eck, what did you think about the relationship between Victor and his monster?” Wylan gulped nervously, the room feeling awfully hot and stuffy. “I found their relationship, uh, quite intriguing.” Professor Williams raised his eyebrow in expectation, “Anything else, Mr. Van Eck?” “Uh, I thought that Victor treated the monster unfairly and that maybe the author was commenting on the times,” Wylan said, balling his hands into fists. He thanked the lord that Mary Shelley’s work was popular enough for him to have known the plot. His breathing began to get shallow, and he focused on simply breathing in and out to avoid getting too worked up.

Professor Williams sighed, nodded, and called on another student. Wylan felt the eyes of his classmates burning holes into the back of his head. Wylan shifted uncomfortably, digging his fingernails into his sweaty palms. He focused intently on the paper in front of him, fighting the blush creeping up his neck and heating his ears. He silently wished for the floor to open up and devour him; anything would be better than sitting here embarrassed.

As the class ended and students were packing up their belongings, Wylan felt a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him from exiting the classroom. “Van Eck. Hold on,” said Professor Williams. A few moments after all the students had sifted through the door, he leaned against his oak desk, crossing his ankles and watching Wylan intently. Wylan gulped and settled his hands on the strap of his leather bag. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” Wylan said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “In fact, yes, Mr. Van Eck. Your performance in my class has been… less than satisfactory. I am quite aware of your, ahem,” Professor Williams cleared his throat, “difficulties with reading and writing, and I would like to help you.” Wylan looked towards the ground, “I’m sorry, Professor.” “I have a tutor willing to help you. I hope you accept this offer, as I truly think it would help you.” Wylan nodded, “I accept. Thanks.” Professor Williams smiled slightly. “Let me know when you’re available and I will let your tutor know. Don’t worry about the finances, I have it handled.” Wylan walked out the classroom, cheeks hot. His professor was paying for his tutoring sessions, and Wylan couldn’t help feeling useless. He wanted to think that the tutor could help him, but he was too overwhelmed by the fact that another human being had to know about his inability to read and write. Wylan silently decided to somehow find a way to pay his professor back; his search for a job becoming his top priority.

***

Professor Williams had found Wylan a tutor, all right. He was a 19-year-old boy with hints of patchy peach fuzz along his upper lip. His blonde hair was gelled back and he wrote a purple bowtie, rather than the standard university’s blue. Wylan sat down at the library table his tutor, Joost, had found. Joost pulled out an intimidating stack of books and Wylan eyed the stack nervously. “I think we should start with the book Professor Williams assigned to us. Do you have a copy?” Joost asked with a pretentious air in his voice. Wylan smiled, narrowing his eyes. He already disliked Joost.

“I do. It’s required, you know,” he said, the fake smile slathered on his face. If his jab affected Joost in any way, he didn’t show it. Joost eyed Wylan up and down, waiting for him to pull out his book. Wylan gritted his teeth and grabbed it out of his bag. Joost smiled and opened his heavily- dog eared copy. “Let’s start with chapter one. Do you know what happens?” Wylan bit his tongue to stop himself from lashing out at the blonde boy. “I don’t remember.” Joost cleared his throat arrogantly. “Then open your book to chapter one.” Wylan groaned internally as he began his slow descent into hell. He tried to read the words printed on the smooth sheets of paper, attempting to keep up with Joost’s monotone droning. After ‘reading’ the first chapter, Joost looked at Wylan expectantly. “Now, can you finally tell me what happens in this chapter?” Joost looked at Wylan intently, and Wylan dropped his head into his hands, pulling on the strands of his hair. This was clearly not going to work.

*** No matter how well-intending Joost was, he was not the tutor for Wylan. Wylan endured two grueling weeks of his pretentious personality and he couldn’t stand how Joost treated him like the scum under his shoe. Wylan sagged in his seat, pretending to read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as Professor Williams directed them to a certain part of the book. He glanced at the pages, scanning the words printed on the cream pages. As the rest of the class went on, Wylan avoided eye-contact with Professor Williams and Joost. He couldn’t stand the way Joost kept glancing at him. Wylan silently hoped that the class would be dismissed quickly.

Professor Williams held Wylan back at the end of class, grabbing his shoulder as he tried walking out of the door. “I take that tutoring with Mr. Van Poel didn’t go well,” his professor said after the students cleared out of the room. Wylan internally rolled his eyes, heat crawling up the back of his neck, “Joost was… fine.” Professor Williams pursed his lips. “I’ll find you another tutor, Wylan.” Wylan nodded, embarrassed of his additional request, and quickly thanked him and sprinted out of the room. As he rushed down the hallway, he felt his spirits deflate. Wylan couldn’t believe he’d already needed a new tutor. He already felt bad enough that his professor was paying for it, and now he’d complained about his old one? In times like these, he thought that maybe it was a good thing he could no longer disgrace the family name.

***

The library he’d agreed to meet up at was on campus, and it stretched a sizable distance. It had a big, arching front doorway and, once inside, beautiful oak shelves lining up the tall ceilings all the way to the back. Wylan held down a shaky breath thinking about the words lining those pages, words that he couldn’t read. It was almost suffocating. There were about fifteen people spread around the library’s common area, including a plump, whiskery little man sitting at the front desk. Wylan shuffled his way over. “Hi, sorry, I’m looking for a- um,” he glanced at the slip with the address and his tutor’s name, a name that he already memorized but he looked at the slip nonetheless, “Jesper Fahey?” “Always great to meet a fan,” called a rich, deep voice behind Wylan. He spun on his heel, coming face to face with a tall man with a rich-umber complexion. The confident expression on his handsome face made Wylan’s heartbeat quicken. “Hi, I’m uh- Wylan Eck Van. Uh- sorry, Wylan Van Eck. I’m assuming you’re Jesper Fahey?” Wylan said, stumbling over his words. “That’s my name,” the stranger said, raising his eyebrows in amusement, “And nice to meet you, Wylan.” Wylan reached his hand out for a handshake, but Jesper started down the hallway, looking for a table to sit at. The whiskery man stared at Jesper and went back to reading, smoking his cigarette when Wylan turned back to him. “Uh- wait up!” Wylan called, dashing to catch up with Jesper. Finding an unoccupied desk in the middle of the library, Jesper sat down, pulling out various books from his worn messenger bag. Wylan sat down, mimicking Jesper’s actions. “So…” Wylan started, glancing around the musty library, “What subject should we start with today?” Jesper looked up from his bag, pulling a textbook out. “I was thinking we could do English. Professor Williams told me you were struggling with the reading assignment?” Jesper confirmed, and Wylan glanced down at his hands, heat flushing his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Wylan replied, “Yeah. Something like that.” Jesper gave him a wide smile and said, “It’s fine, Mr. Van Eck. So, how far are you into the book?” “I haven’t- um, I haven’t started it,” Wylan clenched his fists tight, “I can’t read… it. I can’t read.” Jesper’s playful smile dropped just enough for Wylan to feel embarrassment flood over him. “Oh,” Jesper simply said, scrunching his eyebrows, “Well, we can either read it together or I could give you a brief summary. Williams said that we should be at chapter four by now so I highly recommend the summary.” Jesper winked. Wylan took a deep breath and felt the tension leave his body. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

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International Award Winning Mucus Clearance Device To Boost Production With Crowdfunding Campaign

After recently winning the "Best Product" award at the Yiwu International Commodities Fair in China, Australian-made OPEP breathing device, AirPhysio, has created enormous interest amongst respiratory health professionals and distributors worldwide. To help satisfy demand, the company is to launch a crowdfunding campaign to increase production.

TWEED HEADS, Australia, Sept. 21, 2017 /PRNewswire/ -- AirPhysio is a mucus clearance device based on Oscillating Positive Airway Pressure (OPEP). Very simply, a person blows into the device and the OPEP causes the lungs to vibrate and shake out mucus and contaminants through coughing. What appealed to the Chinese market was the ability to use the device in its polluted cities, minimising the effects of smog-laden air entering the lungs. This generated a lot of interest at the Yiwu Fair, one of the largest in China. Managing Director, Paul O'Brien, attended and met with distributors and wholesalers during the four-day event, visited by over 500,000 people and showcasing products by 3,500 exhibitors.

AirPhysio

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Steve Owen Business Manager AirPhysio Pty Ltd +61 0413-692-529 steve@airphysio.com Photo - http://ift.tt/2xx66Ao  

Read this news on PR Newswire Asia website: International Award Winning Mucus Clearance Device To Boost Production With Crowdfunding Campaign

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