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deadpanwalking · 4 days ago

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“Seen from the street, the Onion Cellar looked like many of the newer night clubs which are distinguished from the older bars and cabarets by, among other things, their higher prices. The higher prices were justified by the outlandish decoration of these night spots, many of which termed themselves “Artists’ clubs” and also by their names. There was “The Ravioli Room” (discreet and refined), “The Taboo” (mysterious and existentialist), “The Paprika” (spicy and high-spirited). And of course there was “The Onion Cellar”.

The words “Onion Cellar” and a poignantly naive likeness of an onion had been painted with deliberate awkwardness on an enamel sign which hung in the old German manner from elaborate wrought-iron gallows in front of the house. The one and only window was glassed with bottle-green bull’s-eye panes. The iron door, painted with red lead, had no doubt seen service outside an air-raid shelter in the war years. Outside it stood the doorman in a rustic sheepskin. Not everyone was allowed in the Onion Cellar. Especially on Fridays, when wages turn to beer, it was the doorman’s business to turn away certain Old City characters, for whom the Onion Cellar was too expensive in the first place. Behind the red-lead door, those who were allowed in found five concrete steps. You went down, found yourself on a landing some three feet square, to which a poster for a Picasso show lent an original, artistic turn. Four more steps took you to the checkroom. “Please pay later,” said a little cardboard sign, and indeed, the young man at the counter, usually an art student with a beard, refused to take money in advance, because the Onion Cellar was not only expensive but also and nevertheless high class.

The owner in person welcomed every single guest with elaborate gestures and mobile, expressive eyebrows, as though initiating him into a secret rite. As we know, the owner’s name was Ferdinand Schmuh; he was a man who shot sparrows now and then, and had a keen eye for the society which had sprung up in Düsseldorf (and elsewhere, though not quite so quickly) since the currency reform.

The Onion Cellar—and here we see the note of authenticity essential to a successful night club—was a real cellar; in fact, it was quite damp and chilly under foot. Tubular in shape, it measured roughly thirteen by sixty, and was heated by two authentic cast-iron stoves. Yet in one respect the Cellar wasn’t a cellar after all. The ceiling had been taken off, so that the club actually included the former ground-floor apartment. The one and only window was not a real cellar window, but the former window of the ground-floor apartment. However, since one might have looked out of the window if not for its opaque bull’s-eye panes; since there was a gallery that one reached by a highly original and highly precipitous staircase, the Onion Cellar can reasonably be termed “authentic”, even if it was not a real cellar—and besides, why should it have been?

Oskar has forgotten to tell you that the staircase leading to the gallery was not a real staircase but more like a companionway, because on either side of its dangerously steep steps there were two extremely original clotheslines to hold on to; the staircase swayed a bit, making you think of an ocean voyage and adding to the price.

The Onion Cellar was lighted by acetylene lamps such as miners carry, which broadcast a smell of carbide—again adding to the price—and transported the customer unto the gallery of a mine, a potash mine for instance, three thousand feet below the surface of the earth: cutters bare to the waist hack away at the rock, opening up a vein; the scraper hauls out the salt, the windlass roars as it fills the cars; far behind, where the gallery turns off to Friedrichshall Two, a swaying light; that’s the head foreman and here he comes with a cheery hello, swinging a carbide lamp that looks exactly like the carbide lamps that hung from the unadorned, slapdashly whitewashed walls of the Onion Cellar, casting their light and smell, adding to the prices, and creating an original atmosphere.

The customers were uncomfortably seated on common crates covered with onion sacks, yet the plank tables, scrubbed and spotless, recalled the guests from the mine to a peaceful peasant inn such as we sometimes see in the movies.

That was all! But what about the bar? No bar. Waiter, the menu please! Neither waiter nor menu. In fact, there was no one else but ourselves, the Rhine River Three. Klepp, Scholle, and Oskar sat beneath the staircase that was really a companionway. We arrived at nine, unpacked our instruments, and began to play at about ten. But for the present it is only a quarter past nine and I won’t be able to speak about us until later. Right now let us keep an eye on Schmuh, who occasionally shot sparrows with a small-caliber rifle. As soon as the Onion Cellar had filled up—half-full was regarded as full—Schmuh, the host, donned his shawl. This shawl had been specially made for him. It was cobalt-blue silk, printed with a golden-yellow pattern. I mention all this because the donning of the shawl was significant. The pattern printed on the shawl was made up of golden-yellow onions. The Onion Cellar was not really “open” until Schmuh had put on his shawl.

The customers—businessmen, doctors, lawyers, artists, journalists, theater and movie people, well-known figures from the sporting world, officials in the provincial and municipal government, in short, a cross section of the world which nowadays calls itself intellectual—came with wives, mistresses, secretaries, interior decorators, and occasional male mistresses, to sit on crates covered with burlap. Until Schmuh put on his golden-yellow onions, the conversation was subdued, forced, dispirited. These people wanted to talk, to unburden themselves, but they couldn’t seem to get started; despite all their efforts, they left the essential unsaid, talked around it. Yet how eager they were to spill their guts, to talk from their hearts, their bowels, their entrails, to forget about their brains just this once, to lay bare the raw, unvarnished truth, the man within. Here and there a stifled remark about a botched career, a broken marriage. One gathers that the gentleman over there with the massive head, the intelligent face and soft, almost delicate hands, is having trouble with his son, who is displeased about his father’s past. Those two ladies in mink, who still look quite attractive in the light of the carbide lamp, claim to have lost their faith, but they don’t say in what. So far we know nothing about the past of the gentleman with the massive head, nor have we the slightest idea what sort of trouble his son is making for him on account of this unknown past; if you’ll forgive Oskar a crude metaphor, it was like laying eggs; you push and push…

The pushing in the Onion Cellar brought meager results until Schmuh appeared in his special shawl. Having been welcomed with a joyful “Ah!” for which he thanked his kind guests, he vanished for a few minutes behind a curtain at the end of the Onion Cellar, where the toilets and storeroom were situated.

But why did a still more joyous “Ah”, an “Ah” of relief and release, welcome the host on his reappearance? The proprietor of a successful nightclub disappears behind a curtain, takes something from the storeroom, flings a choice selection of insults in an undertone at the washroom attendant who is sitting there reading an illustrated weekly, reappears in front of the curtain, and is welcomed like the Saviour, like the legendary uncle from Australia!

Schmuh came back with a little basket on his arm and moved among the guests. The basket was covered with a blue-and-yellow checkered napkin. On the cloth lay a considerable number of little wooden boards, shaped like pigs or fish. These he handed out to his guests with little bows and compliments which showed, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he had grown up in Budapest and Vienna; Schmuh’s smile was like the smile on a copy of a copy of the supposedly authentic Mona Lisa.

The guests, however, looked very serious as they took their little boards. Some exchanged boards with their neighbors, for some preferred the silhouette of a pig, while others preferred the more mysterious fish. They sniffed at the pieces of wood and moved them about. Schmuh, after serving the customers in the gallery, waited until all the little boards had come to rest.

Then—and every heart was waiting—he removed the napkin, very much in the manner of a magician: beneath it lay still another napkin, upon which, almost unrecognizable at first glance, lay the paring knives.

These too he proceeded to hand out. But this time he made his rounds more quickly, whipping up the tension that permitted him to raise his prices; he paid no more compliments, and left no time for any exchanges of knives; a calculated haste entered into his movements. “On your mark, get set,” he shouted. At “ Go” he tore the napkin off the basket, reached into the basket, and handed out, dispensed, distributed among the multitude onions—onions such as were represented, golden-yellow and slightly stylized, on his shawl, plain ordinary onions, not tulip bulbs, but onions such as women buy in the market, such as the vegetable woman sells, such as the peasant, the peasant’s wife, or the hired girl plants and harvests, onions such as may be seen, more or less faithfully portrayed in the still lifes of the lesser Dutch masters. Such onions, then, Schmuh dispensed among his guests until each had an onion and no sound could be heard but the purring of the stoves and the whistling of the carbide lamps. For the grand distribution of onions was followed by silence. Into which Ferdinand Schmuh cried: “Ladies and gentlemen, help yourselves.” And he tossed one end of his shawl over his left shoulder like a skier just before the start. This was the signal.

The guests peeled the onions. Onions are said to have seven skins. The ladies and gentlemen peeled the onions with the paring knives. They removed the first, third, blond, golden-yellow, rust-brown, or better still, onion-colored skin, they peeled until the onion became glassy, green, whitish, damp, and water-sticky, until it smelled, smelled like an onion. Then they cut it as one cuts onions, deftly or clumsily, on the little chopping boards shaped like pigs or fish; they cut in one direction and another until the juice spurted or turned to vapor—the older gentlemen were not very handy with paring knives and had to be careful not to cut their fingers; some cut themselves even so, but didn’t notice it—the ladies were more skillful, not all of them, but those at least who were housewives at home, who knew how one cuts up onions for hash-brown potatoes, or for liver with apples and onion rings; but in Schmuh’s onion cellar there was neither, there was nothing whatever to eat, and anyone who wanted to eat had to go elsewhere, to the “Fischl”, for instance, for at the Onion Cellar onions were only cut. Why all these onions? For one thing, because of the name. The Onion Cellar had its specialty: onions. And moreover, the onion, the cut onion, when you look at it closely… but enough of that, Schmuh’s guests had stopped looking, they could see nothing more, because their eyes were running over and not because their hearts were so full; for it is not true that when the heart is full the eyes necessarily overflow, some people can never manage it, especially in our century, which in spite of all the suffering and sorrow will surely be known to posterity as the tearless century. It was this drought, this tearlessness that brought those who could afford it to Schmuh’s Onion Cellar, where the host handed them a little chopping board—pig or fish—a paring knife for eighty pfennigs, and for twelve marks an ordinary field-, garden-, and kitchen-variety onion, and induced them to cut their onions smaller and smaller until the juice—what did the onion juice do? It did what the world and the sorrows of the world could not do: it brought forth a round, human tear. It made them cry. At last they were able to cry again. To cry properly, without restraint, to cry like mad. The tears flowed and washed everything away. The rain came. The dew. Oskar has a vision of floodgates opening. Of dams bursting in the spring floods. What is the name of that river that overflows every spring and the government does nothing to stop it? After this cataclysm at twelve marks eighty, human beings who have had a good cry open their mouths to speak. Still hesitant, startled by the nakedness of their own words, the weepers poured out their hearts to their neighbors on the uncomfortable, burlap-covered crates, submitted to questioning, let themselves be turned inside-out like overcoats. But Oskar, who with Klepp and Scholle sat tearless behind the staircase or companionway, will be discreet; from among all the disclosures, self-accusations, confessions that fell on his ears, he will relate only the story of Miss Pioch, who lost her Mr. Vollmer many times over, so acquiring a strong heart and a tearless eye, which necessitated frequent visits to Schmuh’s Onion Cellar.”

Günter Grass, The Tin Drum, (tr. Ralph Manheim)

#a place devoted to emotional pageantry and self-indulgent catharsis for spineless cowards #wow he literally predicted social media #günter grass #the tin drum #i read much of the night and go south in the winter #longpost

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thegoldensanctuary · 1 year ago

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Louis XV's royal clutter

Castles opened to the public tend to put a great emphasis on furnitures, paintings and panellings. This focus often occurs at the expense of smaller every day items, such as tools, services, boxes and so on.

Even as far back as the 18th century, inventories of the garde meuble- the administration in charge of the French royal furnitures and collections- often omitted those smaller items, in favour of a greater focus on the furnitures themselves.

Several exception that that rule do exist for instance : When King Louis XV died the 10th of May 1774 in Versailles, his Versailles private cabinets were opened and searched, all the cash and the precious items contained in his cupboards were listed and described in an inventory made 27 days after his death.

Said inventory isn't located in the documents of the House of King(O1 series of the french national archives) like it is usually the case, but in the King's papers, namely in the K series of the national archives, more specifically the K 153.

The document in question was never published nor translated to this date.

I decided to publish it for the first time and translate it entirely to give an idea of the of the kind of clutter that was present in the king's private cabinets in Versailles at the time of his death :

Here is the translation of the provided text into English:

1: Four gold snuffboxes, three enameled, one guilloché,

2: A black lacquer snuffbox mounted in gold,

3: A snuffbox of black tortoiseshell.

4: An ivory candy box.

5: Two watches encrusted with diamonds with their chains also adorned with diamonds

6: An enameled watch with diamond hands and button, a gold cord, and two seals encrusted with diamonds,

7: A garnet box watch adorned with diamonds, attached with a blue ribbon,

9: A large rock crystal flask with a gold stopper, and two seals encrusted with diamonds

10: A small crystal flask

11: A large enameled gold flask

12: Two plain gold flasks in a roussette box

13: A shell flask

14: A rock crystal flask in a roussette case

15: Seven math instrument cases, some in plain gold, others enameled, and some encrusted with diamonds

16: A side case with an enameled gold chain but with diamond buttons

17: Two pocket cases, one enameled gold adorned with diamonds and rubies, and one in jade

18: Four lorgnettes - two in gold, two in silver, and one in copper

19: Two pencil cases, one enameled gold adorned with diamonds, the other containing a compass

20: A Baradel in gold

21: A small portable silver barometer

22: Four tablets in gold, lacquer, or Burgos, one of tortoiseshell with diamond cyphers

23: Three souvenirs, one of enameled gold

24: A hunting knife with a gold handle

25: A dog collar with diamond initials.

26: A large lacquer tablet containing eight portraits of the royal family adorned in gold

27: A lacquer tablet with a portrait inside

28: Four portraits in three plain boxes

29: An ivory barrel adorned with gold

30: A piece of jade from the Amazon River

31: A Sèvres porcelain lorgnette

32: A gold and Magellan telescope

33: A porcelain Sèvres eyewash basin

34: A small red leather writing set adorned with gold, with a gold seal and pencil

35: A damask pruning knife

36: A double-bladed mother-of-pearl knife with a gold fleur-de-lys

37: Three glasses cases, one of tortoiseshell adorned with gold

38: An approaching eyeglass adorned with silver

39: A watch with its chain and seals, all in rubies and diamonds

41: A mathematics case in yellow lacquer with diamond buttons

42: Two almanacs mounted in silver and marcasites in their roussette cases

45: Three seals, two in gold, one in stone

47: Four rings, three with diamonds or coloured stones, one with an engraved stone

48: An English lorgnette

49: Four canes - one with a gold handle, one with a porcelain crutch, one with a gold apple adorned with diamonds, one with a golden apple-wood handle and parasol

50: Six watches - one in gold, enameled with a steel chain and chime, two other enameled, three other guilloché gold

51: A steel mirror

52: A gold egg cup in a roussette case

53: A gold writing set with Charlier paintings, in miniature in a roussette case

54: A very beautiful crystal vase, measuring 9 inches in height

55: A gold breakfast set consisting of a Sevres porcelain tray, two identical cups, a gold teapot and sugar pot, two spoons, a strainer, and a sugar tong made of the same metal

56: A gold-enameled punch pot with a pump, and a second pot of Saxony porcelain

57: A small enameled gold punch pot with a pump and a crystal basin

58: Two gold-enameled candlesticks with their bobeches

59: A crystal breakfast set surrounded by gold, consisting of three goblets

60: Another crystal breakfast set consisting of two carafes and a covered goblet, with the tray of enameled gold

61: A red leather box, edged with gold, containing 12 gold spoons and 12 gold forks, two roast oval plates, two appetizer plates, two dessert plates, and six dishes, all made of the same metal, with one missing, which is in the possession of Mr. de Fontanieu.

62: A set in a red leather box containing a lacquer box with a marabout, a teapot, a spirit lamp, six coffee spoons, all made of gold, three cups, a sugar pot, and a milk jug made of Sevres porcelain

63: A set in a walnut wood box containing 12 gold tableware, twelve knives with rosewood handles, gold cup and rosette, steel blades, twelve knives with Sevres porcelain handles adorned with cup rosette landau, plus four gold plates

64: A red lacquer box reinforced with gold, containing a Sevres porcelain bowl adorned with gold, two gold spoons, a covered crystal goblet adorned with gold, two porcelain pasta pots from Sevres

65: A wooden case enclosed in a black lacquer box containing a marabout made of gold with handles made of Sevres porcelain, two large sugar pots, two saucers, and two chocolate cups made of porcelain, a spirit lamp, adorned with gold, a square crystal flask adorned with gold, two coffee spoons, and a large gold spoon

66: A gold-plated copper microscope in its pyramid case

Dom Noël, Planche 19 Microscope tripode.

67: A writing set with 12 zodiac signs

68: A wooden box reinforced with silver containing a pharmacy adorned with silver

69: A yellow lacquer box enclosed in a red leather box

70: A graphometer in a red leather case

71: A gold compass with its stand and a level in a sharkskin case

72: A black lacquer box

73: A breakfast set consisting of a painted sheet metal tray and two porcelain cups

74: A writing set made of silver-reinforced roussette

75: Supplementary gold tableware, three coffee spoons, one tea spoon, a gold set in a roussette case

76: A small black lacquer box

77: A small oak chest, we weren't able to find the key

78: A box of tools with wooden handles and silver ferrules

79: A box of Kingswood,but the key wasn't found

80: A gold-braided telescope

81: A coffee pot for four gold cups with jasper handles and six gold coffee spoons, in a leather case made to contain 12.

#historical research #historical #history #rococo #18th century #Versailles #louis xv of france #Louis XV #palace of versailles

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anotherdayinbliss · 2 years ago

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Four cards from Ithell Colquhoun's Tarot as Colour deck, 1977

Drawing on the colour symbolism of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, an occult secret society, the Tarot as Colour deck was created using automatist techniques. It features luminous enamel paint poured onto paper and then swirled into spiralling liquid patterns: part marbled oil spill, part whirlpool. Colquhoun veers away from traditional symbolism to dwell in the marvellous and murky realms of spiritual abstraction. source

Colquhoun was perhaps the most committed and engaged female occultist of the twentieth century. […] She pursued the mysteries with every breath and used that passion to fuel an incredible output of art and writing. Throughout her life, she created thousands of pieces of visual art, wrote, published and performed hundreds of poems, wrote several novels and three travel guides, wrote a history of the Golden Dawn magical order, drafted radio dramas, produced philosophical commentaries and quite a large number of articles on thick occult theory. But her art was always in service to her magic. […] Like other Surrealists, Colquhoun used automatic techniques in her writing and painting, but she used automatism to go deeper, to make contact not only with her own subconscious, but also to open herself as a channel to other planes and entities who would reveal themselves through her art. source

#miscellaneous #Ithell Colquhoun

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santoshi01 · 3 months ago

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ninapedia · 7 months ago

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I saw your post 623829004122718209/hey-i-can-finally-post-this-heres-one-of-my through radar, i have a question I am an illustrator but so many say to sell their illustrations on etsy or gumroad or a trillion sites but I dont comprehend what is different between someone getting an illustration of mine on tumblr or deviantart and then one on etsy, what is the difference in yours?

Hihi! I'm answering this publicly because I think others could benefit from this as well.

So, full disclosure. Art is not currently my full time job. I have a day job doing marketing/graphic design for a medical device company (I'm on my lunch right now, hi!) and do art on the side because it makes me happy.

When it comes to the art I do sell, my primary business is not prints. It's other merchandise such as clothing, key chains, enamel pins, stickers, buttons, etc. Basically things most people cannot make on their own. Some examples below:

When I do sell a print of my work it's typically at an in person event like a convention or art show. Most of my online sales are not prints, though I do have an InPrint and a print listing on my webstore (and I used to have a RedBubble and Society6). Hell, most of my in person sales aren't prints. Usually it's my hats and shirts.

For selling illustration prints online the biggest difference between someone buying a print and someone just right-click-saving-print-themselves it quality.

Most of my work is uploaded as a 72 dpi png that is significantly scaled down from the digital canvas size I actually used to draw/paint it. Anyone who's saving and printing it out is going to get a pretty shitty quality print. Buying a print directly from me is getting a nice crisp 300dpi jpeg print that look GORGOUS, if I do say so myself.

The quality of the paper is important as well. The people who don't have the funds to purchase a print typically also don't have the funds to invest in fancy paper or specialty printing. I do sell a lot of 'gimic' prints (foil, holographic, pearl) and most people who attend conventions are willing to pay a premium for something like that, but even my standard matte prints are on nice heavy or textured linen paper. I use professional print services mostly (thank u CatPrint for my life) but even if I'm printing at home for a smaller con I have a very nice printer and very nice cardstock. A lot of convention artists who just do prints also sell fancier things like canvas prints.

Unrelated to the actual 'product', you should watermark your work and offer the unwatermarked version for sale if you want to do prints. I don't always do this out of laziness but, again, it's not my primary source of income. The Beloved illustration you linked was specifically for a larger DND 5e supplemental. It wasn't even designed to be sold as a print, so I didn't bother watermarking it. I honestly still should have but in my mind the value of that piece was contained around the book it was drawn for. The illustration is nice but it feels empty without all additional information included in Bardic Inspiration.

To circle back to something I said early, don't limit yourself to only selling prints. Make stickers of your illustrations, put it on tote bags and tshirts. If you don't want to source products yourself RedBubble and Society6 are fairly decent print on demand services. The only reason I left their platforms was because I didn't like the way they were changing their payment structure for artist, but it's not a bad place to upload things and make passive income. If you're flexible with your art and are willing to source products yourself, you can make other merch. The upfront cost is higher but the eventual return is MUCH bigger than any print on demand services. People wound up liking Beloved enough for me to make an enamel pin of her

Maybe it's the circles I travel, but most people do want to support the artist they like and the people who are right-click-save-print either can't support you financially or were never the type of people who were going to support you financially.

As long as no one is re-posting my art as their own or sharing it without credit, I really don't care if someone decides to save my illustration to admire it later. If you're broke and want to print one of my illustrations out at a library and slap it on your wall go for it.

#nina answers questions #long post #ARTIST ADVICE FOR ARTIST

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maxparkhurst · 11 months ago

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BLOOD. -What types of injuries has your muse sustained? What was the worst?

Injuries are not an uncommon occurrence. Either sibling has sustained superficial hurts incurred by their alchemical hijinx. More often than not, they are peppered with cuts and burns. Alchemy, after all, is quite hazardous to an individual’s health. If a cross-section were to be taken of a Parkhurst's lung, you’d be forgiven in thinking it was charred. Years of inhaling caustic chemicals have turned their insides a tad softer and a pinch blacker than they should appear. All of this is to say that the Parkhursts value their health as a gambler values their life’s savings. And while some injuries are worse than others, such as Max’s missing eye or Augustine’s disfigured hand, none of them are deemed the worst. No. That title is saved for a chilled evening deep in Drustvar’s taiga. There, the eldest sibling danced intimately with death itself.

Augustine fumbled with the clasps, hands shaking and head buzzing. He couldn’t understand why anyone decided to wear a coat with marble-enameled buttons. Wooden ones were just as serviceable and far easier to undo with blood-slick fingers. After so many failed attempts, he spat out a curse and yanked the dagger from the man’s sheath. Damn all this courtesy to the dead. He sawed away at the fabric with amateur precision and wretched the dismantled coat aside, revealing a bandoleer that housed a variety of vials. Relief warmed his chilled veins as he plucked three unscathed.

“You won’t be needing these,” he murmured, “Will you?”

The corpse once possessed a name- as all dead things do. In life, the man was callused and cold. His steel-sharp gaze haunted every corner and all of Augustine’s waking moments, plucking him from the shadows with predatory ease. Even with the light snuffed from them, that gaze still found him in his most guilty moment. Bulging and wide. Set in an unsettling amalgamation of horror, shock, and amusement. The man once named Abel Eloi died with a smile etched on his lips. Humored by the notion that prey had claimed predator; that this meek kit possessed fangs and claws of his own. Augustine rose to his feet and stumbled under a wave of vertigo. Whether the headiness was from disgust or elation, he had not decided. He wiped the blade clean on the shredded coat, shoved it between his belt and pant loop, and then kicked past the corpse and its revolver empty of the last bullet. Material items held no value to the dead, after all. Streaks of gold and maroon gorged the sky as dusk crept over the horizon. Night would fall soon. Pines and oaks, their leaves ethereally sanguine, scraped at the firmament of the Crimson Forest. Smaller plants like aspens and alders added a lush depth that filled the air with dense pockets of silence. In the distance, Augustine heard the yip and howl of hounds drunk on the hunt. He scanned the wilderness. There was no one besides them, the wind, the quiet brush, and the occasional spindle-limbed shade - remnant wraiths sewn by the hands of the Heartsbane Coven, unliving and forever burning- that shambled through the gloom. If there were men concealed in the boughs, they harbored no interest in showing themselves. His shadow, stretched long and dark, guided him to where his sister laid limp like a doll.

Augustine had read these kinds of scenes in novels. They described blood like it was a painting, idyllic in nature and otherworldly charming. Authors had the penchant for glossing over the fact that blood was messy. It so rarely pooled stagnant. Her blood had mixed with his blood, which had mixed with the dirt and mud and grass and whatever the hell else until he wasn’t even sure who or what was crusting under his finger nails. It all made his stomach churn with unrest. He swallowed hard, stealing a glance at the venous red that stained the undergrowth, and clawed at his sister’s shoulders.

Max gasped, ragged and wet, as she was rolled onto her back. She pressed a hand firm against her stomach. Between her fingers seeped crimson threads. A futile attempt to keep herself from unraveling. She bristled, overtaken by a coughing spasm, before spitting up crimson gruel onto her chest. A dark needle pierced his heart as she grew still and quiet.

“Max…?” Augustine whispered as he gathered her in his arms. Her skin felt as cold as glass. He tried to shake a bit of warmth into her, and to place a bit of strength in his voice. Though to his ears, he only sounded lost and small. “Maxinora?”

There was a long beat of silence that made Augustine question if she’d heard him or not. Then came her gossamer soft reply, “Auggie…”

Max’s eye fluttered open, her gaze slow to find her brother. She peered through him with a vacancy that belied uncertainty. She was unsure. Unsteady.

“I’m here.” Augustine forced a thread-bare smile despite the heat collecting in his throat and the sting threading his eyes.

Clarity warmed her gaze a beat later than he’d have hoped. Max wheezed a tired laugh as she lifted her hand and revealed her wounds. Her blouse bloomed red from where she’d been unseamed at the stomach. She cupped his chin, directing his eyes away from the gray stuffing that fell out of his rag doll sister.

He could barely hear her speak those last words. Such dense words that ushered a silence thick enough to smother the taiga’s timberland.

Her smile turned his insides cold.

“I’m sorry…”

And for a moment, the world shattered beneath Augustine as his sister grew still and quiet in his arms.

Thank you for the ask @nixalegos!

#the alchemists #timeskip events #| Fox Hollow |#asks and prompts

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sameeksha-4717 · 3 months ago

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pmrhousepaintingservices · 2 months ago

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Painting Services in Hyderabad

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firstdivisiongirl · 1 year ago

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Hello!

Sorry if this isn't where you post for matchups. I wrote alot and wanted to submit it as one post for you.

Can I have a One Piece Perfect Match Male please?

I'm a 24-year-old Hispanic straight female who uses she/her. My physical appearance is a short, fair-skinned, slightly chubby woman with brown eyes and curly dirty blonde hair. I mainly wear jeans, reading glasses, and a comfy top to go with my enamel-pinned cardigan. However, I always wear a CGM and insulin pump for my diabetes.

I’m an INFP Libra with a 9w1 enneagram. I’m a very spacey and forgetful individual who tends to stay more indoors but tries to welcome new experiences wherever I go. I’m a nice person, though, as I usually get on the good side of everyone I meet. I’m the kind of person who remains quiet until I become close with someone then I’m free to be a dork and swear alot. Building relationships with others isn’t something I pursue unless it occurs naturally.

When it comes to my health, sometimes I view myself as limited and weak, even when that is not true. I sometimes worry that I’m too much for people when it comes to my passions. I try to make jokes or sassy comebacks, but I'm not that clever when it comes to that, so it usually results in an awkward audience.

As a result, I get teased a lot which makes me feel stupid despite being relatively smart. I second-guess myself a lot too, but I usually push that aside and dive into whatever my choice was. I’ve also been described as generous, childish, excitable, playful, mischievous, stubborn, and imaginative. I may not know how bad situations can get but I always try to bring comfort to other people. Plus, I want to improve my health by getting physically fit. Currently, I'm working as a librarian. My love language is a tie between physical touch and quality time! I love the idea of cuddling in bed with my partner as we exchange kisses. I might also like words of affirmation, but I have a hard time accepting praise. As for my giving love language, I think it would be acts of service because I want to be both a strong partner for them and do little things to ease their mind.

Likes: Drawing, painting, designing costumes, walking, animals, soft blankets, notebooks, the smell of home-baked food and a campfire, going somewhere new, the supernatural, true crime, thrillers, animated movies, cosplay, anime/cartoons, sweets, working in archives, libraries, friends, and family.

Dislikes: Rude disrespectful people, loud noises like fireworks, my personal space being invaded, narcissists. People who don’t value others.

I hope this is enough information, and thank you for your time!

Hey! I will really take anywhere you post it/send it. Ask me anything is usually easier. But it doesn’t matter to me 😊. So let’s see the results!

You got…

Trafalgar D Water Law!!!

If you having health issues and wanting to get fit, he would make sure you are healthy because he loves you and doesn’t want to see you suffer like him

I feel like the boy likes true crime and the supernatural (though he won’t admit it), so ghost hunting dates are a definite!

He’s a cuddle lover (we see him with Bepo). So lots of cuddles for you!!!!! But I’m private, he has a reputation to uphold

He hates and loves all the same things as you

You and him could dork out together. We all know he’s a comic book nerd!

He may seem annoyed by your goofy, childish personality, but he loves it!

He’d love to exchange and read books together.

I hope you like it!

#submission #one piece #law trafalgar #trafalgar law #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar one piece #law one piece #trafalgar d law #trafalgar d vivi #one piece matchup #one piece matchups

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antiquesinvest · 2 years ago

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Rare Special Grade Waltham Antique Pocket Watch: A Timeless Treasure Imagine holding a piece of history in your hands. A rare find indeed, this Special Grade Waltham Antique Pocket Watch is a true masterpiece. With only 8 of this model type known to exist, this pocket watch is a true collector's item. Crafted in 18ct gold, this hunter pocket watch boasts a stunning gilt, diamond, and unusual red enamel cover. The exquisite design of the case features intricate diamond work and a beautifully painted enamel scene of a cherub holding a garland of flowers and a bow, within a scrolling diamond border around a set of cut diamonds. But the beauty doesn't stop there. The high-grade bridge movement features train wheels, 15 gold jewel settings, a lever escapement, and a micrometer regulator. The curved pattern on the movement is decorated with exquisite detail and is signed Waltham, Mass, Riverside, Adjusted” Serial No. 10004234. The white enamel dial with Roman numerals and subsidiary seconds is double sunk and signed "Waltham." With its complete set of spade hands, this pocket watch is a true work of art. In pristine condition, this antique watch has been fully serviced by our specialist horologist, an accredited member of the British Horological Institute established in 1858 to promote horology. This Rare Special Grade Waltham Antique Pocket Watch is truly a timeless treasure. It's a piece of history that deserves a place in any collector's showcase. Don't miss your chance to own this unique and rare find.

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lorbanery · 1 year ago

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Okay I need to say something here.

Yes, it's bad when people are forced to work shitty jobs.

But please disabuse yourselves of the notion that people who work in service and trade industries by choice aren't interested in or even knowledgeable in traditionally academic pursuits.

You know who knows a lot about historical fashion, garment-making techniques, cloth-making techniques, and the tools that people used to make them? Folks who make clothes.

You know who knows a lot about agricultural history and animal biology and plants and how they grow and soil science? Farmers.

You know who knows a lot about the history of cosmetics and the biochemical processes that affect your hair? Hairdressers, makeup artists, nail techs, estheticians.

I could go on and on here because this is true for every single trade industry. Even if you're not actively seeking out the history and the science you have to learn at least some of it just by virtue of learning to do the trade.

When I was in beauty school I had lessons in chemistry, anatomy, and history so I understood not only how to perform the skills of a hairdresser, but also how they worked, why they worked, why they're done this way, how they were done in the past and why we don't do them that way anymore. I learned about how ancient Egyptians are thought to have started the very first cosmetics factory because cosmetics were so important to them culturally, both in a decorative and practical sense. I learned about how the first nail polishes were developed from the enamel paint used on cars. I learned about how more recently in the '80s and '90s the cosmetics industry was one of the leaders in the pushback against the complete bans of red dye because the studies linking it to cancer were based on the dye being injected, and parts of the beauty industry only used it topically, like in hair dye.

If you watch any of the popular historical sewing youtubers, you'll find that they all have deep wells of knowledge of history encompassing all kinds of subjects around fashion. At least one of them used to work in the clothing industry making costumes for Broadway.

This is just how the human brain works, when you're interested in something, you want to learn more about it. And the people who are most interested in subjects about and around these kinds of practical human pursuits are the people who perform those practical skills.

In fact, it's incredibly important for folks with these modern practical skills to be respected by academics studying these things from a non-hands-on viewpoint, because they can illuminate things that academic historians were confused by or got completely wrong because they don't have the practical knowledge.

Case in point: This hairdresser who finally debunked the claim that elaborate, voluminous hairstyles could only be achieved through the use of wigs.

It has to be said over and over and over again: There will always be people who choose to work jobs in the trades, in service work, doing what society considers "menial labor". Just because you personally find the idea of doing it degrading and distasteful doesn't mean there aren't people who find the work interesting and fulfilling. And just as importantly, just because someone prefers a physical job doesn't mean that they're uneducated, that they lack the motivation or resources to be educated, or that they're not actively pursuing knowledge.

Unless you're talking about computer data, there is no such thing as a binary. And that includes trades vs academia.

Erase the idea that just because someone pursues one thing means that they can't or won't pursue something else. Stop looking at trade and service work as an industry that kidnaps poor hapless would-be-academics and holds them hostage in poverty and nothing more.

Stop writing off folks in trades and service jobs as mindless wage slaves with nothing to offer society but their physical health, and start treating them like the experts they are and respecting them as such.

This captures everything I love about being online

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