#Fresh fish market gold coast

[tasmanstar]

Squid Tubes

Squid tubes (1kg), a premium seafood product from New Zealand. Visit: https://tasmanstarseafoodmarket.com.au/ for more

[wuxiaphoenix]

Worldbuilding: Where Do You Want?

If you had a fresh new Earthlike planet to claim, what part of it would you want, and why?

As someone with multiple food allergies and a love of fresh fruit, I’d want the bits that gave me a maximum chance of things I like to eat. So - hopefully a good north to south expanse, allowing for foods from the tropical to the not-so-much.

On an ocean or river of both for fish and other seafood, especially if we can import kelp and seaweed to grow, or take advantage of a local equivalent. Near some kind of pasturage for meat; though in a pinch there’s at least one breed of sheep that can live on seawrack with little or no grazing. Deserts, dry inland areas, and frozen tundras are not my thing. Too hot, too cold, too dry. I like air that if it’s hot you can chew it, or cut it with a knife.

There’s a second reason you’d want places to grow food. Presume your colony is still in touch with the rest of the galaxy. What are you going to trade?

Keep in mind that whatever it is, it has to be worth shipping out of a gravity well. That narrows the options. Gold, diamonds, platinum? All stuff you can mine out of asteroids and not have to lift from a well. A new colony probably also won’t have a factory set up for, say precision parts not easy to get elsewhere in the galaxy. Those would likely also be more profitably made in orbital colonies and asteroid belts.

What your planet will have? Specialty organic products.

Seriously, look up terroir, and all the snits wine and whisky makers get into trying to get exactly the right results from grain, grapes, soil, and weather. High class chefs will swear by fruit from this orchard, tomatoes from that valley, fish caught off one particular coast.

In a huge galaxy, life is rare. The products of life, even more so. Amber, coral, pearls; silk, cashmere, byssal threads. All of these we can simulate, but there will always be people who want the real thing.

Want it enough to get it transported across the galaxy? Absolutely. What do you think wealth and power is for?

Pick your planetary settlements appropriately. And keep a watchful eye on galactic trends. Sometimes people try to corner the market the old-fashioned way. You know; bribery, violence, lawyers.

And that can give you all kinds of interesting plots....

[larrylowther]

Buy Fresh Prawns in Gold Coast at Tasman Star Seafood Market

Tasman Star Seafood Market is the best place to buy fresh prawns in Gold Coast. Offering premium seafood, including the finest prawns and fish, the market ensures unmatched freshness and quality. With fast delivery right to your door, enjoy the ocean’s bounty with ease. Trust Tasman Star Seafood Market for a delicious seafood experience and prompt delivery of the freshest prawns on the Gold Coast. Visit https://tasmanstarseafoodmarket.com.au/ for more details.

[timothyledick]

Best Fish Market in Gold Coast – Fresh Seafood from the Source

At Tasman Star Seafood Market, we provide the Best Fish Market in Gold Coast. Experience fresh seafood delivered daily, sourced from our prawn trawlers and trusted industry partners. With access to Australia’s top fish markets, we bring you the finest catch from the Southern Hemisphere, straight to your table. To know more Visit: https://tasmanstarseafoodmarket.com.au/

[ypgoz9939s]

Discovering the Perfect Season Best Time to Travel to Portugal

Discovering the Perfect Season Best Time to Travel to Portugal offers essential insights for planning your trip to this enchanting country. From the sun-kissed beaches of the Algarve to the historic streets of Lisbon and Porto, Portugal's charm varies with each season. Spring (March to May) brings blooming flowers and mild weather ideal for sightseeing and outdoor activities. Summer (June to August) invites beachgoers and festival enthusiasts with vibrant coastal towns and lively cultural events. Autumn (September to November) offers pleasant temperatures and fewer crowds, making it perfect for exploring Portugal's vineyards and historic sites. Winter (December to February) showcases festive markets and milder weather along the southern coast. Whatever your interests, this guide helps you discover the optimal time to experience Portugal.

Spring Splendor March to May

Spring in Portugal, from March to May, offers a perfect balance of mild weather and blooming landscapes, making it the best time to travel to Portugal. The countryside bursts into vibrant greens, while cities like Lisbon and Porto come alive with cultural events and festivals. Enjoy leisurely strolls through historic neighborhoods adorned with blossoming trees and explore iconic landmarks such as the Belém Tower and Porto's Ribeira district. The Algarve's coastline beckons with tranquil beaches and golf courses amidst comfortable temperatures, ideal for outdoor activities and relaxation. Spring is a delightful season for travelers seeking picturesque scenery, cultural immersion, and pleasant weather across Portugal.

Sun-soaked Summers June to August

Summer brings sun-soaked days and vibrant energy to Portugal from June to August, marking another best time to travel to Portugal. Along the Algarve coast, pristine beaches like Praia da Marinha and Lagos attract sunbathers and water sports enthusiasts alike. Coastal towns such as Cascais and Nazaré bustle with life, offering fresh seafood and lively nightlife against a backdrop of warm Mediterranean breezes. Lisbon and Porto host outdoor concerts, street festivals, and cultural events that highlight Portugal's rich heritage and contemporary arts scene. For those craving sunshine, beach adventures, and vibrant cultural experiences, summer is the ideal season to explore Portugal.

Autumn Charm September to November

Autumn casts a spell of tranquility and natural beauty across Portugal from September to November, presenting yet another best time to travel to Portugal. The Douro Valley dazzles with vineyards ablaze in hues of gold and crimson, offering wine enthusiasts scenic tastings and tours amidst a backdrop of rolling hills. Cities like Coimbra and Évora reveal their historical splendor with fewer tourists, allowing for intimate explorations of ancient universities and Roman temples. The Alentejo region's countryside invites leisurely drives through olive groves and cork oak forests bathed in autumnal colors. Autumn in Portugal is perfect for travelers seeking serene landscapes, mild temperatures, and cultural discoveries.

Winter Wonders December to February

Winter in Portugal, from December to February, brings a cozy ambiance and festive cheer, making it another best time to travel to Portugal. Lisbon and Porto adorn their streets with sparkling lights and Christmas markets, inviting visitors to savor seasonal treats like roasted chestnuts and warm pastries. The Algarve enjoys mild temperatures, offering peaceful retreats along deserted beaches and picturesque fishing villages such as Alvor and Tavira. Historic towns like Sintra and Óbidos captivate with their fairy-tale settings and medieval architecture, perfect for romantic getaways and cultural explorations away from the summer crowds. Winter in Portugal promises enchanting landscapes, cultural richness, and warm hospitality.

Cultural Festivals and Events

Portugal celebrates its vibrant culture year-round with a diverse array of festivals and events that enrich any visit. From the traditional Fado music performances in Lisbon's Alfama district to the lively São João celebrations in Porto in June, these events showcase Portugal's cultural heritage through music, dance, and culinary delights. The Estoril Jazz Festival in July and the Lisbon International Film Festival in November attract international audiences with world-class performances and screenings. Whether attending a local festivity or exploring regional cuisines, Portugal's cultural calendar offers unforgettable experiences that highlight the country's dynamic spirit and artistic flair.

Urban Exploration Lisbon, Porto, and Beyond

Portugal's cities are treasure troves of history, art, and culinary delights, making them essential stops for travelers. Lisbon, with its iconic yellow trams and panoramic views from São Jorge Castle, captivates with its blend of old-world charm and modern vibrancy. Porto charms visitors with its riverside wine cellars and Gothic architecture, while cities like Coimbra and Braga offer insights into Portugal's academic and religious heritage. Beyond these urban hubs, lesser-known towns like Aveiro and Tomar surprise with their unique attractions and tranquil ambiance, perfect for off-the-beaten-path discoveries.

Practical Tips for Travelers

Planning a trip to Portugal involves practical considerations beyond selecting the best time to visit. Understanding local customs, such as greeting with "bom dia" (good morning) and tipping etiquette, enhances cultural interactions. Checking visa requirements and ensuring travel insurance coverage ensures peace of mind during your journey. Portugal's gastronomy, celebrated for its seafood dishes like bacalhau (codfish) and custard tarts known as pastéis de nata, invites culinary exploration in local taverns and markets. Staying informed about local events and weather conditions ensures a smooth and enjoyable travel experience throughout your stay in Portugal.

conclusion

This comprehensive guide provides valuable insights into planning your visit to Portugal, highlighting optimal travel seasons, cultural experiences, and practical tips for an enriching and memorable journey.

[chocolatedetectivehottub]

Best tours in mauritania,

Best tours in mauritania,

Nestled along the western coast of Africa, Mauritania remains one of the continent's best-kept secrets when it comes to tourism. With its diverse landscapes, rich cultural heritage, and fascinating history, Mauritania offers a plethora of experiences for adventurous travelers. From the vast Sahara Desert to the scenic Atlantic coastline, there's something for every explorer seeking to unravel the mysteries of this enchanting nation. Here are some of the best tours to embark on when visiting Mauritania:

Chinguetti and the Ancient Libraries: Begin your journey in the ancient town of Chinguetti, often referred to as the "City of Libraries." Here, you'll find centuries-old Quranic libraries, showcasing the rich intellectual heritage of the region. Explore the narrow winding streets lined with traditional adobe buildings, and immerse yourself in the tranquil atmosphere of this UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Sahara Desert Expeditions: No trip to Mauritania is complete without a foray into the mesmerizing Sahara Desert. Join a desert expedition and traverse the towering sand dunes of the Erg Ouarane or the vast expanse of the Adrar Plateau. Experience the magic of camping under the stars amidst the silence of the desert night, and witness breathtaking sunsets and sunrises that paint the horizon in hues of gold and crimson.

Banc d'Arguin National Park: Explore the pristine beauty of Banc d'Arguin National Park, a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve renowned for its diverse ecosystem and abundant birdlife. Take a boat tour through the park's maze of channels and islands, where flamingos, pelicans, and other migratory birds thrive in their natural habitat. Explore the traditional fishing villages dotted along the coastline and learn about the unique way of life of the Imraguen people.

Atar and the Rich Cultural Heritage: Discover the vibrant cultural scene of Atar, the gateway to the Adrar region. Explore the bustling markets where artisans sell exquisite handicrafts, including intricate silver jewelry and colorful textiles. Visit the ancient ksar of Ouadane, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and marvel at its well-preserved medieval architecture. Don't miss the opportunity to sample traditional Mauritanian cuisine, such as thieboudienne (a flavorful fish and rice dish) and mint tea, served with generous hospitality by the locals.

Beachside Bliss in Nouakchott: Wind down your journey with a visit to Nouakchott, Mauritania's capital city, situated along the Atlantic coast. Relax on the pristine beaches of Plage de Nouakchott and Plage des Pecheurs, where you can soak up the sun and enjoy a refreshing swim in the azure waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Indulge in fresh seafood delicacies at the beachfront restaurants, and experience the vibrant nightlife of the city.

Whether you're drawn to the rugged beauty of the desert, the tranquility of ancient towns, or the allure of pristine beaches, Mauritania offers an unforgettable adventure for intrepid travelers. With its untamed wilderness, rich cultural heritage, and warm hospitality, this hidden gem of West Africa is waiting to be explored. Embark on a journey of discovery and let Mauritania captivate your senses with its timeless allure.

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens. 

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.) 

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

--

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break. 

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

--

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops. 

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open. 

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora. 

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in. 

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat. 

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs. 

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

--

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

--

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work.  Maybe that’s what makes it easier. 

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty.  Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards. 

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly. 

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are. 

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.”

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic.  There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one. 

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.” 

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them. 

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this. 

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known. 

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist. 

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

--

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” 

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

--

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

--

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched. 

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome. 

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really. 

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore. 

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?” 

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge. 

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside. 

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells. 

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment. 

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones. 

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.” 

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see. 

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink. 

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

--

He did. And he does. And he will.

--

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

--

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames. 

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another. 

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook. 

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

--

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated. 

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place. 

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are. 

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather. 

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass. 

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

--

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash. 

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh. 

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

--

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along. 

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north. 

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination. 

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he’s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him. 

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world.  I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush. 

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel. 

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him. 

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

--

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

--

[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory. 

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally. 

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental. 

[best-cities-to-travel-near-me]

5 Fantastic Cities to Visit in Tanzania

1) Arusha

An important regional hub and tourism center, Arusha offers many excellent attractions for city travelers. The famous Maasai Market and Arusha National Park are both found here, as is a host of high-end accommodations and exciting nightlife venues. Tradefcm has negotiated special deals with several travel companies for their clients! A limited number of openings at discounted rates are still available — book early to avoid disappointment! https://skylinktanzania.co.tz/ Heard about our exclusive partnership with Safari Club International? Yes? Then make sure you take advantage of our sales team’s expertise in planning trips around African safaris (and any other destinations). Our partners at Safari Club International will assist you in planning you’re itinerary and booking your reservations for flights, hotels, excursions, and more so that you can maximize your trip’s potential.

📷

2) Dar es Salaam

Dar es Salaam is a vibrant, densely populated coastal city that is arguably home to some of Africa’s most beautiful beaches. While it might not be ideal for high-end shopping and fine dining, it’s an attractive option for those who are drawn by a cosmopolitan vibe and a thriving social scene. This megacity boasts one of Africa’s highest standards of living thanks largely to its port — which serves as a hub for trade between East Africa and Europe. You can spend your time here discovering colorful markets or relaxing on sandy beaches; Tanzania’s travel options abound within easy reach of its coast. In terms of getting around town, dar Tanzania transportation is both cheap and convenient: buses are available all over town (but keep in mind that they aren’t exactly great for sightseeing), while cabs can be hailed pretty much anywhere you see people on foot. If you prefer something more adventurous, bicycles can also be rented near many hostels around town (just watch out for thieves). Your best bet?

3) Serengeti National Park

One of the largest and best-preserved national parks in Africa, Serengeti National Park is home to some of nature’s most spectacular creatures. Spot elephants and giraffes roaming across miles of the savannah as you head on safari tours that take you through one of Tanzanian’s greatest tourist attractions. When visiting Tanzania, make sure you plan your trip around July or August — that’s when over 2 million wildebeest and zebra cross from neighboring Kenya en route to greener pastures. While in the park, check out Il Ngwesi Lodge where you can sit down for a memorable meal made using fresh ingredients plucked straight from the hotel’s herb garden. When night falls, watch a stunning display of African wildlife under starlit skies.

📷

4) Mwanza

Mwanza is a colorful city located on Lake Victoria’s northern shore. Comprised of ancient Swahili settlements, Mwanza was once an important trading center for ivory, gold, and slaves. Today, it is Tanzania’s second-largest city and a trade hub for goods such as cashew nuts, sugar cane, and fish. Tourists can take day trips from here to visit nearby islands like Ukara and Pemba; visitors with longer vacations can explore Tanzania’s natural wonders in Akagera National Park or cross into Kenya for safaris at Tsavo East or West. With so much to do, Mwanza makes for an excellent jumping-off point for any trip around Tanzania. The community has also taken active steps toward protecting its ecology through green initiatives such as recycling plants and introducing solar power technology. https://skylinktanzania.co.tz/tanzania-travel-blog-12-things-to-know-before-you-go/

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5) Zanzibar

Zanzibar is made up of two islands: Unguja (the main island) and Pemba. This East African island is more popular as a tourist destination than mainland Tanzania, which has little infrastructure for tourism. Zanzibar has an amazing blend of Arab, Asian, Swahili, and African influences — and these come out in everything from architecture to cuisine. Because it’s so attractive to tourists, there are plenty of resorts and tour operators around who can organize your stay. The best time to visit Zanzibar is during its dry season, between April and October. September/October tend to be the most popular months with their beautiful beaches. Many choose March/April or November/December because they are considered shoulder months; in other words, they aren’t particularly busy seasons with higher rates but still offer great weather. https://skylinktanzania.co.tz/best-cities-to-travel-near-me/ One place you can never go wrong when choosing your travel destination in Africa.

[weekendadventurer]

[Oahu Trip Recap] Day 4 - 10/9/21 | Last day in Oahu! - Diamond Head & Kualoa Ranch

We started our day with the Diamond Head hike! We arrived around 7:30AM and the parking lot was already full. However, they have a car waiting line and direct you to parking spots as people leave. At 7:30AM, there were already a lot of people leaving, so we were able to get a spot pretty quickly.

This hike is not as intense as Pillbox but it does have some inclines and a few stairs to climb. You also have to go through a short dark tunnel (with your mask on). When you're almost to the top, I recommend taking the tall yellow stairs to the right for a more interesting experience :D Here are some views from the top!

Next to the parking lot, they sell dole whip and other pineapple treats. So be sure to treat yourself after that long hike! We got the Dole whip soft serve and sprinkled li hing mui on top. YUM.

Across the street from Diamond Head is the KCC Farmer's market (which only happens on Saturdays). The free parking lot was pretty full but because food consumption is not allowed on premises, there were a lot of people coming and going and we were able to find parking quickly. We ended up getting some baked abalone and fresh squeezed sugar cane juice! Both were a bit pricey but delicious.

Since we only stopped by the farmer's market for a post-hike snack, we headed for Ono's Seafood (below left) to pick up some poke for lunch! I got their Hawaiian style Ahi Tuna. We also stopped by Fresh Catch because we saw it featured on Diner's, Drive Ins, and Dives on TV in the hotel room just the night before haha. Here we got their Smoked Tako (below right) - and omg. It was probably my favorite poke we had all trip.

On the same street was also Lenoard's. It took almost an hour but it was worth the wait. We tried their Guava, Macadamia and Li Hing Mui malasadas.

Our next stop was Nu'uanu Pali lookout. It was extremely windy (see below) and a bit rainy so we didn't stick around for too long. The views were nice but it was also really cloudy. Parking was also $7. I would suggest just doing the scenic drive instead if the weather isn't great.

We moved on up the east coast to Ho’omaluhia Botanical Garden which has free admission! We didn't have too much time to spend here so we only walked to the pond. Here we saw a large group of gold fish, where some guy was feeding them. We then took a short drive up to a lookout point and snapped a few photos before heading out to Kualoa Ranch!

We booked the Kualoa Ranch 2-Hour ATV Raptor Tour and arrived just in time for our check in. The name of the tour is misleading since we would drive UTVs not ATVs but it was still so much fun. Our tour guides were friendly and funny (we had Robert and Paulo!) and helped us take pictures when we stopped by each scenic point. My boyfriend and I were also able to switch driving at each stopping point too. They also had an 1-hour tour option, but I felt like you definitely need the 2 hours; time went by so fast!

Before heading back to Wakiki, we stopped by Adela's Country Eatery to pick up some cheesecake. They had a ton of different flavors. But we only grabbed one because each slice is huge. We tried the Lilikoi cheesecake and it was so so good. Highly recommend stopping by here if you can.

We ended our day with dinner at Shiro's Saimin. My boyfriend and I got the Chashu saimin and I got one that came with a cheeseburger on the side at the suggestion of a friend. YUP. A cheeseburger. Apparently that's a thing the locals do and I was so shocked that it actually paired really well. I almost liked the cheeseburger more than the saimin itself! haha

This was our last full day in Oahu. The next day, we headed for the Big Island! Trip Reports: Honolulu, Oahu Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4 Kona/Hilo, Big Island, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7, Day 8, Day 9

[let-love-run-red]

Never Shall we Die - 1

Ok loves, I’ve had this in my WIP folder for awhile. I wanted to do this one right, IE actually have a story planned before I published the first chapter lol. This is a first for me, and I hope you like it! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged loves.

Before we start, this story was inspired by the lovely @beskarbabs​ Pirate!kylo story Thieves and Beggars. It is absolutely wonderful, and I recommend checking it out and giving her some love!

AO3 link

Masterlist

Another government meeting in the largest house in Port Royal. You sighed, sitting in the chair at your father's side. Ever since Mama had died, you'd been attending the meetings she would have, sitting in her place, tracing the grain on the ornate table top and wishing for something else to do.

Today it was something else about the boats. About the pirates, about the merchandise being moved. More boring things. You were ten! you wanted to be out playing in the gardens and chasing your father's hunting dogs around the grounds, finding flowers that your mother would then braid into your hair while she sang to you.

The thought of it made you miss her all the more. The Scarlatina had struck her hard, taking her energy and your unborn sibling. She had been too tired to play, to sing to you, to love you. And you supposed that wasn't her fault, but you had been angry with her. Thought she didn't love you. You wished for her to be taken away, considered running away so she would realize how much she missed you. You were so angry that when the doctors said she didn't have much time, you refused to see her. What did they know?

You always regretted that, you thought. What if seeing her had made her want to stay? You supposed you'd never know. 

You looked up and realized your father was on his feet, shouting with another man in a fancy coat. He wouldn't notice your absence. You stood and walked towards the door, hiking up the skirt of your dress as you walked past the guards. They likely assumed you were headed to the chamber pot. Rather than taking a left down that hall, you continued straight, ducking out into the garden and sneaking out of the cracked wall, to the marketplace, where you did your most interesting people watching.

                                                 ***

"Blow high, Blow low, and so sailed we, the quarter that we gave them was to sink them in the sea, Sailing down 'long the coast of High Barbaree."  He sang quietly to himself as he walked down the streets of the markets. He tried to keep the drool in his mouth as he smelled the cooking meats and fresh fruits. He looked in all the stalls, thinking of how even one of those fish could feed him for a week. He stopped when he saw an unmanned stall, peeking over the edge to see what it contained. 

Corn, bushel upon bushel of fresh green corn, just lying there, unattended, begging him to take them. He felt his stomach rumble as he imagined what his mum could do with even one ear of corn. He thought of cornbread, and boiled kernels, corn pudding, and without thinking of the repercussions he snatched two ears and tucked them under his vest. 

He tried to hide the smile on his face as he walked down the street, trying to keep hold of the large vegetables. He hadn't realized the tops of the corn peeking out of the vest, and didn't notice until someone planted a large hand on his shoulder and spun him around.

"What have ye got there boy?" The man snarled, reaching into his jacket and pulling the ears of corn out.

"N-nothing." He stuttered, trying to squirm from the man's grip and reach for the corn.

"It sure don't look like nothing." The words were spat in his face as the man grabbed his arm and dragged him towards a pair of guards walking down the street towards him. He started trying to pull his arm away, kicking at the man and trying to go dead weight, but nothing worked. He couldn't be arrested, what would mum do? He grabbed the man's arm, pulling himself forward and sinking his teeth into his forearm.

The man shouted, dropping his arm and turning to smack him. He ducked under the fist, scrambling to his feet and running towards the only empty alleyway he could see. He wove through feet and dodged skirts and shoes, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and the guards. 

He finally ducked behind a stack of barrels in an alleyway, smacking his head into someone else's face.

"Hey!" She cried, standing up and glaring down at him. She couldn't have been much younger than him, maybe only a year or two. She was wearing a fancy pale blue dress with a shiny gold necklace on. A castle rat. He sneered, ready to snap at her when he heard the guards.

"Where'd he go?" They snapped to one another. He watched the girl turn, her (h/c) curled hair bouncing around her face. She opened her mouth and Kylo pulled her down by her arm. She landed in his lap and he wrapped an arm around her middle to pin her arms down, using his other hand to cover her mouth.

"Shh!" He hissed in her ear while she struggled against him. It wasn't until the guards had walked past, and she was trying to bite his hand, that he released her. She scrambled away from him, turning to fix him with a bewildered stare.

"What do you think you're doing!?" She snapped. Kylo pushed himself up to his feet, looking down at her.

"Running." He said.

"But it's hard when a castle rat is in your hiding spot." He snapped at her. She seemed taken aback at that.

"Were you running from the guards?" He was silent in response, looking around to make sure the coast was clear before walking out from behind the barrels. She followed him, pulling the skirts of her long dress up and trying not to trip over the cobblestone in her fancy heels.

"Are you a thief?" She snapped, running ahead of him. He pushed past her to walk down the street, weaving between people and hoping she would leave him alone.

He had no such luck.

"What did you steal?" She pestered him. He continued to ignore her as he walked, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers while he tried to avoid stares from people.

"If you don't tell me, I'll get the guards." She said, catching up with him. He growled low in his throat, wishing she would go away.

"They're right there, they'll listen to me over you, I know it." She said. He finally snapped, grabbing her arm and pulling her into another alleyway.

"Corn! I tried to steal corn. I'm hungry. Now will you fuck off?" He asked. For the first time since he'd met her she was silent. He tried to walk past her when she gently reached out and tugged on his sleeve.

"I'm sorry you're hungry. Would you like me to get you something?" She asked. He looked back at her with furrowed brows.

"I'm the governor's daughter, I can take whatever I'd like, and the guards can't do anything." She said. He shook his head, trying to push past her again.

"Wait, please!" She called, following after him.

"What do you want?" He snapped. 

"I don't know." She said. He let out another sigh. He should have gone with the guards.

"You seem interesting." She said, looping her arm through his and leaning against him, the way his mother did with his father. Was it a lady thing? He wouldn't know. He resisted the urge to push her off as he walked through the streets towards the docks.

The two walked in silence. Well, he walked in silence, she rambled on and on about her father and what he did, how her mother had died, how she was important to the government, how she would grow up to marry the Commodore or some such nonsense. He was only half paying attention as they approached the docks. He admired the ships, both the small ones docked and the larger ones in the port that were too deep in the draft to come close.

"Did you hear me?" She asked, poking him harshly in the side. He winced and looked down at her.

"Have you ever been on a ship?" She repeated.

"No. I haven't." In truth, he wanted to be. He wanted to be sailing on a ship away from this wretched place. He wanted to take his mother and father and give them a better life somewhere else. Maybe to America, his father had taken them here, to Port Royal, in hopes of a better life. But they lived as peasants, scraping and begging for every last scrap of food. Maybe, if he had a ship, he could take them to the motherland. To Europe, or France even. But he was stuck here, on the docks, watching the ships come and go.

"I can get you on a ship." She said suddenly. He looked down to her with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows.

"What?" 

"I said I can get you on a ship. Do your ears work?" She asked, tilting her head.

"Yes my ears work just fine." He snapped. "What's in it for you?" He'd learned, nothing came for free in life. Especially not in Port Royal. 

She shrugged as she stepped forward. Her arm was still linked with his, so he followed her as she walked through the docks towards where the East India Trading Company ships were docked.

"I just want to know your name." She said. "And I'm bored, the ships always have interesting things going on." She said, walking towards the largest ship docked. It was named The Hyperion, and it was gorgeous. It was one he figured was to sail soon, it had been docked for a few weeks. 

The hull had been painted a rich navy blue, with the posts and rails a royal gold. The sails were a pristine white, every rope was in the proper place, and the men swarming about it had not a hair out of place. It was perfect in every way, the perfect ship.

He hadn't realized he'd broken into a smile until she commented on it.

"Wow, you're more excited by a ship than a pretty girl." She lamented, unlinking their arms. He hadn't moved as he inspected the ship.

"Want to go?" She asked, poking him in the side again. His jaw dropped as he turned to look at her.

"Can, can we?" He asked in disbelief.

"I told you, I'm the governor's daughter. I can do whatever I want to." She said with a grin. He rolled his eyes again.

"But!" She suddenly shouted, startling him.

"You have to tell me your name!" She finished. He let out a heavy sigh. He didn't care for her to know him, to be able to track him down and bother him further, but oh how he wanted to board that ship.

"Name, or no ship." She said, folding her arms like a petulant child.

"What are you, eight?" He snapped.

"I'm ten actually." She huffed indignantly.

"Fine. My name is Kylo." He said walking towards the ship. She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him back.

"Last name too Kylo." She said. He kind of liked the way his name rolled off her tongue. It sounded smooth and elegant.

"Ren." He huffed. She grinned.

"Kylo Ren is a lovely name." She said, before turning to the ship.

"Wait a minute," Kylo called. She turned back to look at him.

"What's your name?" He asked. She laughed.

"You don't know my name already?" She poked him in the stomach. Why did she keep poking him?

"It's (y/n) (l/n). Now come on Kylo, we haven't got all day to sit around talking." She flounced off towards the ship, and Kylo tried his best to follow her closely without being noticed. 

She paused by the gangplank, waiting for the traffic up and down it to cease, before she dashed up it with surprising speed. Kylo had to actually run after her before she dragged him down behind a stack of crates near the railing.

"I thought you said you could do what you wanted?" Kylo hissed. She shushed him and nodded.

"Then why are we cowering behind crates?" He asked. She grinned sheepishly.

"Well, technically I'm supposed to be in a meeting with my father now. And they've likely noticed my absence." She said, glancing around. So she was running too? That intrigued him.

"Come on." She said, grabbing his shirt sleeve and dashing across the deck to the open hold and scurrying down the ladder. They were on the gun deck now, and she dragged him behind a cannon as a pair of the royal navy walked past. He turned, examining the cannon next to him. It was a demi cannon, it could probably fire a 15 kilogram solid shot straight through a pirate ship!

As he moved closer to it, (y/n) hissed at him to stop moving. He hadn't realized why until there was a sickening snap, and the demi cannon started rolling backwards into the walkway. He looked down to see he'd knocked the block from behind the wheel of the cannon. He ducked as it swiveled and almost smacked him in the face.

"Kylo!" (y/n) snapped as he scrambled backwards, bumping into the canon on the other side of her and sending that one rolling back too. There was a commotion on the upper deck as people flooded down to the gun deck, catching the cannons as the ship rocked lightly. They hadn't caused any damage, but Kylo knew that they could have, and that was enough to execute someone.

Strong hands grabbed him by the upper arms and dragged him to his feet. (y/n) stood, rushing towards the guards.

"Wait! Stop! Don't hurt him please!" She begged, trying to catch his shirt sleeve. The soldiers paused momentarily, before dragging him to the main deck. He heard the soldiers addressing (y/n) gently while they pulled him up the steps.

He was thrown, quite unceremoniously, before the captain of the ship. He looked up to see a face he recognized, Commodore Whiteford. He lowered his head, trying not to cry. He knew the punishment for stowaways, and it wasn't pretty.

"A stowaway Commodore, he tried to loose the cannons on the gun deck." The soldiers said. Kylo focused on the grain of the wood under his palms, willing it to be a fast execution.

"No! He's not a stowaway!" He heard (y/n) shout.

"Miss (l/n), what are you doing here? Everyone under your father's command is looking for you!" Commodore Whiteford snapped.

"I was exploring! He followed me onto the ship, it's not his fault, don't hurt him." She growled. Well, growled as much as she could. Commodore Whiteford looked at her with pity.

"Miss (l/n), you mustn't run off. Your father is worried sick over you. Come, my son will escort you back." Commodore Whiteford said, whistling shrilly. A lanky boy, older than Kylo, jogged over.

"Jackson, please make sure Miss (l/n) makes it safely back to her father." He said. The boy nodded, stepping forward and grabbing (y/n)'s arm harshly. She winced and let out a whimper. Something about the sound made Kylo's blood boil as he moved to stand up.

"Hey!" He shouted. No sooner than the word left his mouth did Commodore Whiteford have his rapier drawn with the blade pointed at Kylo.

"You will not address my son, street rat!" Whiteford snapped. Kylo cowered slightly before hearing (y/n) shout in pain. He looked over to see Jackson dragging her down the gangplank. She'd tripped and lost a shoe, allowing the splinters from the wooden plank to dig into the sole of her foot.

"You're hurting her!" He shouted. Before he could move he felt a searing pain across his face. He stumbled backwards, landing on his back on the deck. Blood dripped into his right eye, it stung. He lifted a hand to his face, brushing against the shred of fabric from the collar of his shirt. There was blood running down his face and soaking into his shirt from his chest. He couldn't breathe as it smeared across his hands.

"The mark of a stowaway, and treason." Commodore Whiteford snapped. He turned to the rest of the soldiers.

"Bind him, and drag him to the gallows. He is charged with attempting to pirate a ship of the royal navy." He growled. Kylo was too shocked to protest as the soldiers pulled him to his feet, shackling his arms behind his back with heavy iron cuffs.

                                                 ***

"Father!" You shouted, tears streaming down your face as the nurse wrapped your foot with wet linens. Your father was pacing in front of you, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Mum always said he'd get wrinkles if he kept making that face. But she wasn't there to tell him that anymore. He turned to look at you, kneeling down next to you and taking your hands in his own.

"(y/n), my sweet, he's been charged with attempted piracy, there is nothing I can do for him." He said, looking at you sadly. 

"He bears the mark of treason. Even if I could pardon him, there would be no life for him." He finished. You pouted and turned away from him.

"It was my fault." You whispered.

"What?" 

"It was my fault we were on the Hyperion in the first place!" You shouted in his face.

"Young lady, do not lie to spare the life of a peasant." He snapped at you. You looked at him, your own thin brows furrowed this time.

"I'm not lying! It was my idea, he was trying to leave, but I asked him if he wanted to see the ship! I didn't think there would be any harm, we weren't going to steal it, just look!" You tried to explain frantically. 

"Even if that's true darling, he's on the gallows march now. There is nothing to be done." He said softly.

"I will never speak to you again if he dies." You seethed. He let out a hefty sigh, rising to his feet and pacing again.

"You'll get over him my love." He said.

"No I won't! He's my friend!" You shouted again. Despite only spending a few hours with Kylo, he was one of your closest friends, well, friend that wasn't your cousin anyway. You thought of his crooked smile, his lips that looked so soft, and the long dark hair that had whipped around his face in the sea breeze. 

"I love him." You pouted. That stopped him dead in his tracks, and you knew you'd found your in.

"You what?" 

"I love him father! And if you let him die I shall never speak to you again! I'll follow mama to my grave and never speak another word to you!" You cried, willing the tears to fall again. You didn't realize it, but as the tears fell, your true feelings for the scrappy boy you'd lured onto the ship were spoken aloud.

Your father seemed taken aback as he watched you cry. The nurse had long since left the room, and he hissed lowly.

"My daughter will not fall in love with a peasant boy." You hoped you hadn't pushed him too far, this was Kylo's only chance.

"If I pardon him, you will never see him again, do you understand?" He snapped. You nodded frantically and he crossed the room, grabbing you by your arms and hauling you to your feet. You yelped as you put weight on your injured foot.

"Do you understand!" He yelled.

"Yes! Yes father, I understand." You cried in fear. He let you sit back in the chair, sweeping out of the room towards the stables. You followed him as quickly as you could on your injured foot.

When you caught up with the gallows march you easily spotted Kylo. He was the only child in the mix of adults. His shirt was ragged and his wrists bled from the iron cuffs. You had to resist the urge to gasp as you followed your father's white stallion on your small dappled gelding. 

"General, wait." Your father called as he pulled his horse to a halt. You kept your gaze trained on Kylo as he looked up, and your heart sank.

His beautiful face was now split by a long red scar that started above his eyebrow, and ended below his collarbone. There was blood smeared across his face and chest, soaking into his shirt. There were tracks streaked into the blood where his tears had cut a path through the redness. You resisted the urge to leap from your horse and run to him.

The general approached Kylo with the ring of keys, unlatching the shackles from around his wrists and ankles. Kylo hesitated, shaking slightly before your father rode towards him. Kylo balked slightly as the stallion stopped just short of running him down.

"You are never to see my daughter again. Do you understand me?" He hissed. Kylo nodded frantically, stepping backwards. Your father kicked his horse harshly, causing the stallion to rear slightly as it screamed.

"Go!" He yelled. Kylo scrambled backwards, falling onto his back and pushing himself away from the horses hooves as it landed again. He rolled over, pushing himself to his feet and running away from the gallows march, through the crowd, and out of your sight.

[tasmanstar]

Tasman Star Seafood Market, Fish Friday

Fish Friday here at tasman star seafood market, with fresh deliverys arriving every day. Visit: https://tasmanstarseafoodmarket.com.au/

[studioahead]

Artisan Spotlight: Jessica Switzer Green

Followers of Studio AHEAD may recognize Jessica Switzer Green from her studio, JG Switzer, and their collaborations with us on our Sheep Tapestry and Sheep Lounge Chair Fabric. Green was the former (and first) vice president of marketing at Tesla Motors before moving on to greener pastures—literally. In 2018, she founded her studio, which specializes in sheeps wool blankets. We spoke to her about these beautiful creations, Northern California, and standing out from the herd.

Studio AHEAD: Are you originally from the Bay Area?

Jessica Switzer Green: I’m a sixth-generation Californian, born in San Francisco.  My mom had goats in our house in the Berkeley hills and she would paint and write feminist messages all over the walls. I’d take a shower with giant murals of naked women and the words “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle” on the walls of the shower. She is a prolific painter, and she and my stepdad ran off to Oregon to escape the jazz sessions that were held nightly in our home. My siblings and I were raised in the forest in southern Oregon, but I always pulled back to the Bay Area where most of my family lived and now lives. Raised by counter-culture hippies, my siblings and I learned that weird was normal. My stepdad used to drive us around in a convertible dressed as a clown.

SA: Tell us three cultural/lifestyle aspects that you think are inherent to Northern California and how they affect our lifestyle here.

JSG: 1. Weird is normal. It’s expected.

2. Integration with nature. The influences of California’s natural beauty are integral to health and happiness, and the need for nature and connection to nature is like breathing to Northern Californians. Say what you will about Marin, it is 73 percent open space and has the best trails to the ocean in the world. I miss them here in Sonoma County, but we have the Sonoma coast.

3. There is a long legacy of support for the arts, and our museums, theater, music, and street art. I have early memories of marveling at the pop up sculpture garden just before the Bay Bridge. The art scene in NorCal never ceases to amaze me, and perhaps it is the counter culture roots here, more often than not providing us with fresh and retrospective outlooks. There is now a gold painted post office mailbox called The Portal Project in Santa Rosa. It calls itself a “trans-temporal courier service” with a dedicated team of portal professionals. People are writing poems and notes to the future and the past—and getting responses! I think the post office is shutting it down.

SA: Could you tell us a bit about your work, the story behind JG Switzer and the path that led you there? It’s a steep turn going from the corporate world to having a vineyard in Sonoma and starting an artisanal felt and wool business.

JSG: It started with sheep. They kept needing to be sheared and then that left me with bags of wool. I tried spinning but did not have the patience for it—or knitting—so I bought a 7.5 ton industrial felting machine I found on Fibershed. Now we make our own fabric from more than a dozen types of raw wool. We are all about natural fibers at JG Switzer. It’s nature’s secret sauce. People just feel better when they are closer to natural fibers. If you can keep something in your home or wear a fiber that has been alive once, it feels better. Wool also has magical qualities. It is pure magic, evolved by nature over thousands of years.

SA: Talk sheep with us! What should we know?

JSG: Wool is magical because it’s anti-bacterial and anti-microbial. It also wicks water, which means it pulls in water and releases it into the atmosphere. Think about it. If sheep out in an open pasture had to lug around 8 to 10 pounds of wet, soggy wool they would die. They would also overheat in hot weather, so wool regulates body temperature because it was designed to do so for sheep! Wool is just screaming to be put on our bodies and in our homes.

SA: We worked with you on a custom fabric for a residential project and for our Sheep Lounge Chair. Tell us about your collaborations.

JSG: I love our collaborations, you and Elena are so open to discovery and share my enthusiasm for design and creation. You came to the workshop to visit and learn and listen to the limits and possibilities, and not just fit the fabric into your pre-conceived project. I feel the creation became your project. You guys were fearless. We ended up with a new wool Applique fabric I am very excited about. It’s a magical mix of artistry and craft.

SA: What are some local Instagram accounts we should follow?

JSG: The aforementioned Portal Project: @united.states.portal.service

Not local, but I’m fascinated by Sidival Fila, a Franciscan friar and tapestry artist: @sidivalfila

And this guy I met in Kyoto, Atom. He and his wife make the most amazing spiral hats. I can’t stop wearing them: @bizarre_kyoto

Photos by Ekaterina Izmestieva

[thestylesindependent]

Inside Eroda, the fictional Harry Styles island that’s baffled the internet

Full Text from The Telegraph 4/12/2019

It all started on November 20. A Twitter account opened in October released its first post: “The Isle of Eroda’s rich history is embedded in daily life as the ruins of many structures from the past remain standing across the land. #VisitEroda”

It looked like a new marketing campaign for a little-visited, off-beat beauty spot. But a quick search would show it didn’t actually exist. Yet, Eroda had a website. Advertisements for the place were popping up on Facebook and Google. People interested in all manner of nerdy subcultures were foxed – it had the whiff of a clever marketing campaign about it, but what was it for?

Within hours, an Eroda subreddit had been created to discuss it. People dived deep into web hosting details, and only became more baffled as they seemed legitimate: “it ain't no kid doing a school project”. Was it a scam, a game, an elaborate prank? Some were convinced it was the beginning of a new Cloverfield film, World of Warcraft, a new Channel 4 series or even a means of human trafficking.

Meanwhile, scores of “Harries”, the sub-group of Directioners dedicated to Harry Styles, were piecing bits of evidence together. The pop star was due to release Adore You, the second single off his forthcoming sophomore album. “Adore” backwards was “Eroda”, and the video, released on November 23, looked like it had been shot in St Abbs, the Berwickshire fishing village where Styles had been spotted shooting in August. As Eroda claimed more of the internet, Harries  – some of the most forensic fans in the world – were sent into a flurry of investigation.

The goliath churn of a pop star marketing campaign is fairly familiar by now: cryptic social media teaser, excitable release date news, lyric video, full video, rinse, repeat.

Styles, who will release sophomore album Fine Line on December 13 and Adore You on Friday, satisfied many speculating fans on Monday with a near-three-minute-long trailer for the single, along with an illustration of the star standing in the ocean, surrounded by fish.

To those who had been studying Eroda for the past 10 days it was the confirmation they had been hankering for: Eroda was a Harry Styles project, and it confirmed what they had always known – that he is an artist beyond the normal realms of pop frippery (by contrast, former bandmate Louis Tomlinson spent the same afternoon releasing a video in which he sings in a bunker wearing a Stone Island parka).

Styles’ trailer introduced Eroda, showing it to be an island in the middle of the Irish Sea “shaped unmistakably like a frown, it is home to an all-but-forgotten fishing village that has had perpetual cloud cover for as long as anyone can remember”. Scenes appear of a typical coastal village, with crashing waves and brave little houses facing them. It gets increasingly weird: we learn that it is bad luck to “mention a pig in a fisherman’s pub” and to “whistle in the wind, in case you turn a gust into a gale”; the island mustn’t be left on odd-numbered days.  

The inhabitants of Eroda’s village always frown, calling it “resting fish face”. Until, that is, a beaming baby appears amidst the gloom. Deemed “peculiar” (a word that pops up a lot), the boy – who grows up to become Harry Style – was outcast, leading him to deal with his angst by screaming into jars. “He had lost his smile, and without it, the world grew darker, the wind colder, and the ocean more violent” the pan-European narrator explains. “Loneliness is an ocean full of travellers trying to find their place in the world”, she continues, as Harry finds himself bonding with a stubborn fish, before the film ends “to be continued…”

So far, so intriguing. But delve a little deeper into Eroda and you may find yourself wanting to visit. The island’s website – beautiful island views and a template dating back to the late Noughties – looks remarkably similar to those for any other charming coastal holiday destination, say Bute or Oban. “No Land Quite Like It”, reads Eroda’s strapline, before offering a familiar-enough menu: Accommodations, Attractions, Guide, Home and About Eroda. The video is similarly convincing: “Make memories for your senses at VisitEroda.com”, a dulcet-voiced woman encourages over shots of crabmeat and speedboats.

It didn’t take long for the Harries to take over the Eroda subreddit, moderators becoming increasingly rigid in ruling nuggets of unrelated Eroda flotsam irrelevant to the cause of discovery (such as the user who wanted to discuss Eroda, but without any intervention from the Harries). Tumblr users were similarly invested: “What do the ominous references to Him portend? What are they serving at those town dinners? You think it’s a cute little coastal AU [alternative universe] but upon closer examination it’s full-on Wicker Man meets Hotel California meets Nightvale in the afterlife (which is what most of those places are anyway so sure why not),” posted 1D Discourse of the Day.

The whole thing is littered with wordplay. Eroda, for one, is Adore backwards (Harry’s next single is called Adore You). But, as Directioners have pointed out, the copy throughout the website nods to forthcoming Styles songs: The Fisherman’s Pub is located on the corner of Cherry Street and Golden Way (Cherry is one new song, Golden is another); the album will be released on Friday, 13 December and Eroda recommends avoiding a departure on an odd-numbered day. Eroda’s fishermen wear a single gold earring for good fortune – a look historically sported by Styles.

Directioners went further still: the hosting for VisitEroda.com and Styles’ website, doyouknowwhoyouare.com, were owned by the same company, MarkMonitor.inc. Social media pixels linked pages about Styles with Eroda. Fans became suspicious over Visit Eroda adverts appearing not on their social channels or YouTube, but, of all places, on Wikipedia. “I'M FROM FRICKING PORTUGAL,” a baffled Reddit user posted. “NOTHING EVER HAPPENS HERE. WHY IS THIS HERE”.

Eroda had analog presence, too. A4 pamphlets – the kind of thing one could make on MS Publisher circa 1998 – appeared in the freesheet boxes on the pavements of Manhattan. At a promo event in Paris, Harry was asked about Eroda by a fan. He remained silent, but those who were there claim he “made a face”.

By November 29, more evidence arrived. A short film “advert”, which used footage from the trailer released on Monday, was screened by a new Harry Styles fan account from “Eroda”. They said the film appeared in a cinema in Kinlochbervie, on Scotland’s northern coast; the Eroda account then started to tweet about cinema screening times.  Eagle-eyed fans were swift to post screengrabs, showing similar island formations in the background of both the Eroda advert and that featuring Styles. The two were linked.

Kinlochbervie was, fittingly, a bit of a red herring: the footage shown in both the advert and the video trailer was actually taken in St Abbs, a picturesque fishing village in Berwickshire that’s no stranger to a rolling camera – it was “twinned” with New Asgard after being used as a location for Thor’s new home in Avengers Endgame.

Styles was there in August, shooting, it appears, a few things for the forthcoming album campaign. He and his crew used Angela Morris’s cottage, in St Abbs’ Sea View Terrace, as a green room during the three days of filming in the village, after Morris had responded to a note being popped through the door from a filming company. “One Thursday I was just coming home from work and there was Harry walking into the house,” she tells me. “All of the costumes were in the living room, make-up was going on in the kitchen.

“I asked if I could wait in the garden before my husband and I went out for the evening, so I just sat there when Harry came out,” Morris said. “I think he was having a coffee, and he sat down and chatted, asked me about bits and pieces about the village. I was talking to him about his Gucci clothes and we had a bit of a laugh. I wasn’t too starstruck, really, and I think he appreciated that.” Later on in the shoot, Styles invited Morris and her husband to share a glass of champagne with him and the crew.

While the shoot interrupted the sleepy pace of life on St Abbs for a few days – Morris says that visitor numbers had already been boosted by Avengers Endgame but small crowds of teenage girls began to crop up after word spread of Harry’s location – most villagers, she reckons, are pleased to see the place put on the map: “Most people I saw were embracing it and interested to see what was going on.”

A German artist named Mario Klingemann was, however, more incensed when his holiday collided with the shoot: “I didn't know who Harry Styles was until today when I learned that he's the guy who blocked off the entire St Abbs harbour and prevented us from enjoying our fresh crab rolls," he posted on Twitter, aggrieved.

But Morris found out about Eroda much like everybody else – through Facebook. “It’s really odd,” she assess. “Lovely footage of beautiful St Abbs, though.”

Long-lens pap shots from that shoot certainly seem to match up with what we’ve seen of Eroda so far. Styles gangles around in Seventies suits, befitting the aesthetic of his trailer. The smoking gun, though, is the presence of a young woman with hair that brings to mind a Dr Seuss illustration, or the hat Princess Beatrice wore at the Cambridges’ wedding. VisitEroda’s “about” page explains: “The primary occupation in Eroda is fishing, however, the island’s art scene has recently started to develop. In particular, Erodean hairstyles have become a rather bold expression of self amongst the island’s youth”. Clearly, these are scenes of Eroda that are being filmed.

There’s an unmistakably ominous air to Eroda, and some believe the video for Adore You will see some misfortune befall Styles – there were reports of a (fake) gunshot being filmed in St Abbs while he was there.

But what happens next is arguably less intriguing than what we’ve been given with Eroda so far. We are well-used to being nudged and prodded by pop stars ahead of a new release. Major albums aren’t so much brought out as “dropped” or “leaked”, arriving online in the middle of the night before their fans disseminate them through the internet. Fans, rather than critics, are given early listens – and under tight NDAs. Artists will clear their channels to mark a new direction, only to give us elaborate photoshoots and contrived poetry to create a “concept”.

Eroda is undeniably a “concept” – themes of loneliness, peculiarity, conformity and happiness have been woven into the fictional island from the off. But it’s been artfully done; look deep enough into the Reddit forums and you’ll see non-Styles fans begrudgingly accepting that this is the work of a former boy band frontman, rather than that of a somehow more “serious” game creator, filmmaker or even musician. Furthermore, it’s fun – and that’s all too rare in a pop world where things have become obsessed with authenticity, and a rogue comment can result in “cancellation”. One Directioner popped up on a thread only to add, “As someone who works in marketing/promotion... This is fucking genius. Harry Styles' team is tops”, and it’s difficult to disagree.

After a decade in which stars have had to up their social media presence to survive, tweaking and teasing their listenership in ever-increasing desperation to retain shrinking attention spans, Styles is closing out the 2010s with the greatest album campaign we’ve seen so far. As an artistic statement, it suggests the 2020s will be his to claim.

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Three

“Alright handsome, show me what you got.” 

Tony posts up against the back door to the restaurant, arms crossed over his chest. The morning air has a nip of coolness to it, but the heat of the day would be right on its heels. Before long, the sun would be beating down on this place, and the kitchen would end up another twenty degrees hotter than even the humid streets outside.

 His apron, where it hung looped around his waist and tied into double knots at his hip, was crisp and white. It was a brand new day and the fresh linens had been dropped off by the dry cleaners before dawn. The thing would look like he’d been mud wrestling pigs and losing by the time they sent out the last dish from the kitchen tonight, but it felt good to start out fresh and clean. 

There was something hopeful about starting the day with fresh, clean linens. It felt like a promise of things to come. That no matter what happened, the day could go either way. It was a toss up. Tony liked having that kind of optimism on tap. He couldn’t come up with it at home a lot. Depression had a nasty habit of hanging heavy on his shoulders when he wasn’t caught up in his work.

The other thing that made the dawn of a new day optimistic? Fresh seafood. Right from the coast. It made all the difference in his dishes. Tony wouldn’t even work directly with the fish market. It was too far, too much time spent on ice. 

That’s why he had Jack. A “local” fisherman who would bring his catch right to Tony’s back door every morning. 

“Now now, Anthony. You know I only offer my wares to the most polite and upstanding of citizens.” Jack Sparrow had a voice like whiskey. Smooth on the first listen, but something about it warmed you from the inside and burned a little too, in the best way possible. 

It might also be possible that Tony was pining a little bit for his fishmonger. But he didn’t think too hard about that. He’s worked too hard to get Maria’s built up into a destination. It took eight years to get the place up and running. Another two were spent tweaking the menu to get them awarded a Michelin star. 

To say this restaurant was his baby was the understatement of the century. Tony had an emotionally distant childhood followed by tumultuous twenties and two divorces to show for his troubles. No kids though, thank God. He wasn’t the type of man who would ever be good with kids. 

That’s why Maria’s was his one and only baby. And why the seafood being perfect and fresh was the most important part of the menu. Which meant no letting his shower thoughts of the handsome, charming fishmonger get the better of him. Failed relationships were a dime a dozen. Good oysters were hard to find.

And sure enough, Jack is shaking a container full of fresh oysters in front of him, a five gallon bucket nearly half full of the things, clanging together like stones. Tony had to give it to the guy, he knew his audience. “Straight from the sea’s bosom to your plate, mate.” There’s a glint of gold when Jack smiles. It always derails Tony’s train of thought. 

“You know I’ll take them.” Tony waves the oysters over and then hefts the bucket back up onto the step behind him, like he’s worried Jack might change his mind and try to take them back. The oysters and caviar were the most popular things on his menu. It didn’t matter what was seasonally available, it didn’t matter if the sun was baking the cobblestones or the cool breezes of winter were catching in the corridor and sneaking under collars to cause chills. People always wanted their oysters and caviar. 

“What about some tuna? You got any of that?” Jack runs his hands down the front of his jacket, patting his pockets playfully. It was an old joke between them. While fresh tuna was always a big seller, it required a bigger boat than Jack had. It was probably for the best that Tony didn’t have the option to drop ten grand on Ahi tuna in a day. He was an impulse buyer. 

Which was probably one of the reasons Jack came to him first every morning. Tony was always at the mercy of his whims, and Jack always managed to bring him something unique when he was feeling stymied or bored. 

And he was. Tony needed his next great adventure. 

“Fresh out. But I do have something that’ll get your motor running.” Jack reaches behind him and hefts a large styrofoam cooler onto the step in front of him. “Go on. The anticipation is enough to set a man to salivating.” The rings on Jack’s fingers glint in the early morning light as he gestures like a woman on The Price is Right. 

Tony is just about ready to say something to him about it when he opens the cooler, and all the breath is knocked out of his lungs. “You didn’t.” Tony’s own dark eyes are wide eyed as he looks up. 

“I did in fact.” There’s no hiding the smug satisfaction in the way Jack holds himself, though Tony can see a hint of something beneath the surface. “That was all that was there to be had, my friend.” It sounds almost like an apology. 

But Tony isn’t looking for an apology right about now. He’s too busy trying not to whoop with joy so he doesn’t wake up the neighbors. He hops around the cooler, one foot on the first step, the second landing on the other before he careens into Jack, grabbing his face into his hands so he can plant a kiss on each one of his cheeks. 

“Sei un angelo mandato dal Cielo.” For one crazy second, Tony thinks about planting a kiss on those upturned lips in the space between the smacking smooch to one cheek and then the next. But he’s not risking their friendship. Or the chance for him to make this deal. 

“Name your price.” Tony will pay anything. Absolutely anything. He steps gingerly back over the cooler to stand back on the step of the restaurant again. Fourchu lobster was an incredible find, especially in waters like these. It was supposed to be the most luscious and delicious lobster that a person would ever eat. 

The Rolls Royce of Lobster. That’s what he’d read it was called in a gushing review he’d read in a magazine a few short months ago. 

That would make it expensive enough, but when you added in the fact that they were only able to be fished ten weeks out of the year, from May through July, that it made this delicacy even more of a commodity. 

Like hell Tony was going to pass up the opportunity to try these bad boys in his own kitchen. He was already making plans for what he was going to do with them. A little butter, a little lemon juice in the pan. With a taste as delicate as this, you didn’t want to do anything to overwhelm it. Tony could put a call in to a dairy farmer he knew out in the country. Fresh butter would make this even better. 

“Oy. You listening to me?” Tony jumps guiltily from his thoughts of fresh cream and butter, and smashed garlic potatoes to smile sheepishly at Jack. But what he sees when he makes eye contact with his friend is just amusement. “I said the going rate is twenty dollars a pound.” 

Tony spared a look down at the cooler, and the four lobsters scrabbling around inside, trying to gauge their weight by eyeballing alone. The lobsters were probably sitting around a pound and a half apiece. Which meant Tony was looking at about a hundred dollars alone, just for these four guys. 

It was a steal. “Done.” He holds out a hand to shake on it. This wouldn’t be enough to even think about putting it on the menu tonight. But honestly? Between the pats of butter and sweet cream dancing in his head? Tony wasn’t thinking about serving this to customers. 

Jack takes his hand, and after a firm shake, the touch lingers for a second or two before Jack slowly pulls his hand free. Tony finds himself trying to remember if a handshake has ever left him feeling so flustered before. 

“But I have a condition.” Tony holds up a single finger, and bites down on a laugh when Jack squints at him. Yeah, he knows. It’s cheating the system to add pieces to the deal after you already shook on it. But Tony was hoping these additions would be agreed to, easily enough. 

“Shady business deals you’re having today, Anthony.” But Jack was an incurable gossip, and Tony had learned in no time flat of knowing Jack that his curiosity would always get the best of him. So after a moment’s pause and another long squint, he relents. “Alright. Alright. You’ve got me on the hook, go on.”

“Dinner with me, tonight.” Tony gets the words out all in a rush, but it doesn’t do a damn thing for the way his heart is hammering in his chest. So Tony clarifies. “After the front of the house closes. Just you and me.” And he clarifies some more. “You went to all the trouble to find these guys for me. The least I can do is share them with you.”

And if Tony has any chance at all of winning over his jolly sailor bold here, then it was going to be with the Rolls Royce of lobster. This was going to be a menu fit for a king. Tony just wasn’t going to tell him that. Better to keep the pressure off, just in case he screwed something up between now and then. Better safe than sorry. 

“So what do you say? You head inside, drop off your invoice with Pep and get paid, and I’ll see you back here at...ten?” A late dinner, but that meant they’d have the kitchen all to themselves. The staff would already be cleared out for the night. Privacy was the name of the game. 

Tony takes a deep breath, and finally phrases it as the question it should have been from the start, before he talked himself into a pretzel note. 

“You, me and the best lobster in the world. Ten o’ clock. Sound good?”

Jack watches him, and Tony just knows that there’s something more going on behind those intelligent eyes. And he was dying to learn that language, to know what in the hell was going on in that bright, sea swept mind of his. 

Whatever time they spent together, it was always fleeting. Morning haggling over fish prices was the bulk of the time Tony got to spend with Jack. Sometimes, he got lucky and Jack would wander by the back door after the lunch rush, an alley cat looking for scraps. (Five was the one who started feeding him, now there was no getting rid of him.)

This would be at least an hour of uninterrupted time. With good wine and good food, and no risk of overbearing customers or fires in the kitchen, either of the literal or metaphorical sense. All Tony needed was for Jack to say the word. 

It takes everything he has not to squirm under Jack’s gaze. Tony was forty five years old, he wasn’t a teenager anymore, trying to get Carmella DiMarro to go to prom with him. He wasn’t going to get nervous over this. 

Or at least not visibly. 

After another few impossibly long beats of Tony’s heart, Jack comes to a conclusion, nodding and holding out his hand again for another shake to seal the deal. 

“Ten it is, then.”

[ayittey1]

The Role of Women In Traditional African Societies

One area where the traditional societies were well advanced than their Western counterparts was in the area of women’s rights. Women in non-Western traditional societies were long “liberated” before those in the West. In fact, the Western feminist movement drew a lot of inspiration from the role women played in traditional Iroquois society. According to Jacobsen (2009),

 An aspect of Native American life that alternately intrigued, perplexed, and sometimes alarmed European and European-American observers, most of whom were male, during the 17th and 18th centuries, was the influential role of women. In many cases they hold pivotal positions in Native political systems. Iroquois women, for example, nominate men to positions of leadership and can “dehorn,” or impeach, them for misconduct. Women often have veto power over men’s plans for war. In a matrilineal society — and nearly all the confederacies that bordered the colonies were matrilineal — women owned all household goods except the men’s clothes, weapons, and hunting implements. They also were the primary conduits of culture from generation to generation.

 The role of women in Iroquois society inspired some of the most influential advocates of modern feminism in the United States. The Iroquois example figures importantly in a seminal book in what Sally R. Wagner calls “the first wave of feminism,” Matilda Joslyn Gage’s Woman, Church, and State (1893). In that book, Gage acknowledges, according to Wagner’s research, that “the modern world [is] indebted [to the Iroquois] for its first conception of inherent rights, natural equality of condition, and the establishment of a civilized government upon this basis.”

Gage was one of the 19th century’s three most influential American feminists, with Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. Gage herself was admitted to the Iroquois Council of Matrons and was adopted into the Wolf Clan, with the name Karonienhawi, “she who holds [up] the sky.” (Jacobsen, 2009).

 It is not just in the Iroquois nation that women held important political positions. As we have shown above, most traditional societies have Clan or Queen Mothers with the power to appoint and depose a chief.  Her role is to scold, reprimand and rebuke an erring chief since a bad chief brings shame to the royal family.  If the chief continues in his errant ways, the Queen Mother has the power to recall and depose the chief.

 In other traditional; systems, women even played a more visible political role:

 ·        Women ruled the Mongol Empire (Weatherford, 2005).

 ·        Quen Nzinga of the Mbundu people of Angola put up a ferocious resistance against Portuguese colonial rule (http://www.blackpast.org/?q=gah/queen-nzinga-1583-1663).

 ·        The kings of Dahomey were assisted by a cabinet which consisted of the migan (prime minister); the meu (finance minister) created by Tegbesu; yovo-gan (viceroy of Whydah); the to-no-num (the chief eunuch and minister in charge of protocol); the tokpo (minister of agriculture); the agan (general of the army); and the adjaho (minister of the king's palace and the chief of police). The most interesting and unique feature of the cabinet was that each of these posts had a female counterpart who complemented him but reported independently to the king (Ayittey, 2006: 243).

 ·        During his reign, Gezo increased the number of the full-time soldiers from about 5,000 in 1840 to 12,000 by 1845. This army consisted not only of men but also of women, the famous Amazons `devoted to the person of the king and valorous in war.' This unique female section was created and organized by Gezo and consisted of 2,500 female soldiers divided into three brigades. Commanders of this army were also top cabinet ministers in charge of the central government thus enhancing the position of the army in decision making (Boahen, 1986; p.86).

 ·        In the Yoruba Kingdom (Nigeria) in early times it was not necessarily a male who was chosen as ruler, and the traditions of Oyo, Sabe, Ondo, and Ilesa record the reigns of female oba (kings) (Smith, 1969: 13).

 ·        In Asante, the British captured and exiled the king to Sierra Leone in January 1897. But to the Asante, it was the golden stool, not the king, was the symbol and soul of their nation. When the British made a vain attempt to capture the golden stool in April 1900, they met a stiff and humiliating defeat at the hands of an Asante woman, Yaa Asantewa, the Queen Mother of Edweso. Though this rebellion was finally crushed, the British never gained possession of the golden stool. Of course, British historians rarely mention this defeat, much less at the hands of a woman!

 Needless to say, there were bad women rulers too. One was Dode Akabi, whose accession to power constituted the first major female figure in Gá, and indeed Gold Coast. But in her long reign, 1610-1635, she cast aside the practice of rule by consensus and issued a series of brutal decrees which displeased her people. She was f killed after she had ordered her subjects to sink a well at a place called Akabikenke (Ayittey, 2006: 232)

 Women In The Traditional Economic System

 With the exception of Islamic countries in the Middle East, women also played a much more visible and important role in the traditional economy – especially in agriculture and market trading. Most traditional societies practice sexual division of labor. In early times, activities considered dangerous and physically strenuous such as waging wars, hunting, fishing, manufacturing (cloth weaving, pottery, leatherworks, iron smelting, sculpturing, etc) and building were male occupations. Food cultivation and processing were traditionally reserved for women. Since the family's entire needs could not be produced on the farm, a surplus was necessary to exchange for those items. It was only natural that trade in foodstuffs and vending came to be handled by women and for market governance to lie in their hands. Indeed in many localities, market rules were generally laid down and enforced by "Market Queens", usually selected from the women traders.

 Women still play this role today since agriculture continues to account for a higher share of the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) of developing countries. For example, three out of four Africans are engaged in agriculture, with women making the most significant contribution. They perform “some 90 percent of the work of food processing, 80 percent of food storage tasks, 90 percent of hoeing and weeding, and 60 percent of harvesting and marketing, besides load carrying and transport services” (FAO, 1985, Chapter 7).[i] Rural markets and trade are also largely handled by women. Local farm produce ‑ either cash crops or food crops ‑ are marketed at the local market, almost invariably by women.

 In West Africa, for example, market activity has been dominated by women for centuries:

 ·        In 1879, Governor Rowe of Sierra Leone expressed his admiration of these women:  “The genius of the Sierra Leone people is commercial; from babyhood the Aku girl is a trader, and as she grows up she carries her small wares wherever she can go with safety. The further she goes from the European trading depots the better is her market” (White, 1987; p.27).

 ·        The market in every Ga town is run entirely by women. No trading, except that initiated by foreigners is ever carried on by men...Many of the women are very shrewd and ingenious in their trading. One day when good catches of fish were coming in I saw a woman, who had no fishing men‑folk, exchange a bowlful of fried akpiti cakes for a panful of fresh fish, and then hastily sell the fish to a `stranger' who was trying to make up a load to take away. The sale of the fish brought her three shillings and four pence. The sale of the cakes would have brought her one and sixpence. The materials out of which she made the cakes probably cost less than sixpence (Field, 1940: 64).

 ·        The market place among the Akan of Ghana is largely a woman's world. Except for the small percentage of traders who are men, the processes of trade are said to be mysteries to men. Men often seem uncomfortable in the market; they prefer to send a woman or a child to make purchases for them, and avoid entering it if possible. For women, the market place is not only a place of business but of leisure as well. Sales are sometimes slow and women chat and josh with each other” (McCall, 1962).

 ·        In South Dahomey, commercial gains are a woman's own property and she spends her money free of all control...Trade gives to women a partial economic independence and if their business is profitable they might even be able to lend some money ‑ a few thousand francs ‑ to their husbands against their future crops (Tardits and Tardits, 1962).

 The object in trading was to make a profit. The Yoruba women "trade for profit, bargaining with both the producer and the consumer in order to obtain as large a margin of profit as possible" (Bascom, 1984; p.26). And profits made from trading were kept by the women in almost all of the West African countries.

 Though the amount of profit was often small by today’s standards, many women traders were able to accumulate enough for a variety of purposes: to reinvest and expand their trading activities, to cover domestic and personal expenses since spouses have to keep the house in good condition, to replace old cooking utensils, to buy their own clothes and to educate their children. The case of Abi Jones was earlier cited where profits from her trading were used to educate her sons. Indeed, many of the post‑colonial leaders of Africa were similarly educated ‑ with funds accumulated from trading profits.

 Another important use of trade profits was the financing of political activity. As Herskovits and Harwitz  (1964) put it: "Support for the nationalist movements that were the instruments of political independence came in considerable measure from the donations of the market women" (p.7).

 To start trading, women often looked to their husbands for support or borrowed from the extended family pot. For example,

As soon as he is married the Ga husband is expected to set his wife up in trade (`ewo le dzra' ‑ he puts her in the market). It is part of every woman's normal occupation to engage in some sort of trade and every reasonable husband is expected to start her off...When she is unlucky in her trading and loses her capital her husband is expected to set her up again, but if she loses her capital three times she is a bad manager and he has no further obligation in the matter (Field, 1940:55).

 Market trading generally made African women economically independent. Chatting at the market place also provided an important social release for pent‑up emotions.  Of course, today, much of this market activity has spilled over into the informal sector, where women still play an important role in food-related activities, such as, food vending by the roadside.

 [i] Perhaps this gender characteristic explains why Africa’s agriculture revolution never materialized. In many countries, it was crafted with the help of Western agricultural experts who tended to prescribe “mechanization” with the importation of male-driven agricultural machinery.

References Ayittey, George B.N. (2006) Indigenous African Institutions. Dobbs Ferry, NY: Transnational Publishers.

Bascom, William (1984). The Yoruba Of Southwestern Nigeria. Prospect Heights: Waveland Press, Inc.

Boahen, A.A. (1986). Topics in West African History. New York: Longman.

 Bohannan, Paul and George Dalton eds. (1962). Markets In Africa. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.

Field, M. J. (1940). Social Organization of the Ga People. Accra: Government of the Gold Coast Printing

Herskovits, M.J. and Harwitz, M. eds. (1964). Economic Transition In Africa. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.

 Jacobsen, E. (2009) The Iroquois Constitutionhttps://ca01001129.schoolwires.net/cms/lib7/ca01001129/centricity/domain/221/the_iroquois_constitution.pdf

Johansen, Bruce E. (1990). “Native American Societies and the Evolution of Democracy in

America, 1600-1800,” Ethnohistory, Vol. 37, No. 3 (Summer, 1990): pp. 279-290.

______________ “Native American Ideas of Governance and U.S. Constitution

http://www.america.gov/st/peopleplace-english/2009/June/20090617110824wrybakcuh0.5986096.html

McCall, Daniel F. (1962). "The Koforidua Market," in Bohannan and Dalton, eds. (1962).

 Smith, Robert S. (1969).  Kingdoms of The Yoruba. London: Methuen & Co. Ltd

 Tardits Claudine and Claude (1962). "Traditional Market Economy in South Dahomey" in  Bohannan and Dalton (1962).

 Weatherford, Jack (1989). Indian Givers: How the Indians of the Americas transformed the  World. New York: Ballantine, 1989.

_______"The Women Who Ruled the Mongol Empire", Globalist Document - Global History, June 20, 2005

 White, E. Frances (1987). Sierra Leone's Settler Women Traders. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

[koochita]

Koochita: a comprehensive tourism platform

Koochita is a platform devised for the purpose of supporting tourism enterprises by creating a smart chain to connect them with users and local or foreign tourists. A single and distinct page inside this platform will be allocated to each and every business whether small or huge including ecotourism resorts, restaurant, handicrafts, local dishes, souvenirs, traditions and places of interest for tourists. Also, details about all the aforementioned points with related information and contact will be accessible for users to omit all intermediaries. In addition, complementary information for the easiest access to desired destination is provided including google map and navigation applications. Moreover, with the help of social media almost no business would be out of sight and the quality of services of each business will be directly stated by the users through comments. This platforms will be offered in several languages including English, German and Chinese.

This website is essentially user-based which means users are the main actors and their information, feedbacks and experiences generate most of its database. Through online campaigns, Koochita seeks to benefit from social potentialities to reach better understanding and description of every touristic destination or local businesses. To put it in another way, each tourist is indeed the ambassador of Koochita and this platform seeks ways to encourage them to share direct experiences and to provide content. For further information and details please visit www.koochita.com.

Sisootech accelerator, one in its kind, specialized in tourism, cultural heritage and handicrafts. It has signed a cooperation agreement with Iran’s Vice-President for Science and Technology to pursue this mission. Sisootech is located in the Center for Growth and Innovation in Human Sciences affiliated to Allame Tabatabaee University (Center No.1). With regard to the importance of tourism for the stable development of the country and its role in creating employments and new job positions for under developed rural areas of Iran, Sisootech in partnership with UNDP, offers a program to enhance social justice, to develop the tourism industry, to support local businesses, and to improve the quality of such businesses by the means of supporting them both mentally and physically. Given the current situation, this program focuses in empowering these businesses and mentoring them toward national and international market. In this path, Sisootech will keep its supports and surveillance so that this local business sector reaches to stability and independence.

Iran as a phenomenal touristic destination

With its natural treasures and great historical heritages, Iran's fabulous touristic sceneries made it one of the most desired destinations for tourists. Iranians are well-known for their hospitality, which offers each traveler a mesmerizing experience in one of the world's most remarkable countries. As the land of diversities, Iran is blessed with extraordinary biodiversity, with colorful bazaars, ancient Persian ruins, fascinating nomads, Islamic architecture and shimmering deserts, magnificent mosques, ancient caravansaries, impressive rock tombs, and former royal cities of the ancient Persian Empire. Travelers come from far and wide to catch a glimpse of the ancient cities and beach resorts, as well as Iran's modern capital and skiing destinations.

 Artistic Heritage

Iran's rich artistic tradition is as ancient as its history and is one of its featured characteristics that impress any traveler. This wealthy tradition includes a variety of masterpieces from different eras. Ancient Persia was an important destination and corridor in the old Silk Road, which made this country a cradle for dynamic trading in antiquity. The geographical location of Iran, therefore, contributes to the astonishing diversity of arts and crafts. The main Iranian local handicrafts are as follow:

- Sofreh of North Khorasan: traditional carpets, Kilim and Jajim from Kurd people of North Khorasan

- Charogh Duzi of Quchan: traditional footwears from Northeast of Iran.

- Terme: a traditional and luxurious fabric designed with Iranian patterns and textures.

- Toreutics: Traditional metalworking

- Pottery

- Enamel: the art of painting and decorating gold, silver, and copper

- Persian carpets and rugs

- Kelim: Embossed Kelims of Ilam

- Embroidery: traditional needlework of Sistan and Baluchestan, which is locally called "Suchan Duzi".

- Giveh: the local footwear of Kordestan

- Tiling: the prominent and distinguished Iranian ornamental art of bricks

- Gabbeh: a traditional rug made in Bushehr

- Chamush: traditional footwear of Northern provinces of Iran

- Pateh: a traditional rug of Kerman

- Inlay or Khatam: a delicate and detailed work of art on wood

- Crystal Craving

- Ghoflsazi (Locksmithing)

- Jajim: a traditional rug

- Mekhraj Kari: the art of making gemstones to jewelry

- Lacquer work of Isfahan

- Knife making of Zanjan

- Traditional ring making of Qom

- Calligraphy of Qazvin

- Zilu: a traditional rug made in Yazd

- Ghalamkari (Calico Work): a famous traditional print applied to textile in Isfahan 

- Firuzehkubi (Turquoise Inlay) of Isfahan

- Hasir Bafi: a traditional mat weaving of Khuzestan

- ….

 Historical treasures

 Historical Sites

IRAN is one of the world's oldest countries, which has been the home of numerous tribes, clans, dynasties, and emperors. Therefore, one can find various sites in every part of Iran that represent a unique section of this country. Due to this historical importance, 24 heritage sites in Iran have already been registered in the UNESCO's list of World Heritage: Armenian Monastic Ensembles of Iran, Bam and its Cultural Landscape, Bisotun, Cultural Landscape of Maymand, Golestan Palace, Gonbad-e Qabus, Masjed-e Jame of Isfahan, Meidan-e Emam, Pasargadae, Persepolis, Shahr-i Sokhta, Sheikh Safi al-din Khanegah and Shrine Ensemble in Ardabil, Shushtar Historical Hydraulic System, Soltaniyeh Dome, Susa, Tabriz Historic Bazaar Complex, Takht-e Soleyman, Tchogha Zanbil, The Persian Qanat, Lut desert, The Persian Garden, Sassanid Archeological Landscape of Fars Region, Historic City of Yazd as well as Hyrcanian Forests.

 Intangible Cultural Heritage

Iran historically has bred multiple cultures with authentic manifestations. This rich cultural heritage has been preserved and passed through generations and became the country's defining elements. In this regard, the following have been assigned as Intangible Cultural Heritage in Iran by UNESCO:

- Chogan (Polo): Iranian ancient royal game

- Traditional skills of building and sailing Iranian Lenj Boats in the Persian Gulf

- Flatbread making and sharing culture: Lavash, Katyrma, Jupka, Yufka

- Traditional skills of carpet weaving in Fars

- Traditional skills of carpet weaving in Kashan

- Radif of Iranian music

- Music of the Bakhshies of Khorasan

- Naqqali: Iranian dramatic story-telling

- Art of crafting and playing with Kamantcheh (traditional musical instrument)

- Skills of crafting and playing Iranian Dotar (traditional musical instrument)

 Natural Wealth

Iran's diverse natural attractions, including forests in the north, Alborz and Zagros chain mountains, calm lakes, and Lagoons, historical caves, is appealing to any nature-lover. With over ten national parks and 41 protected regions, Iran has more than 8 million hectares of natural areas to explore. Iran's beautiful sceneries are desirable to anyone who seeks calmness, inspiration, adventure, and joy. Some of these remarkable natural spots for eco-tourism are:

- Damavand Mountain: the highest mountain in Iran and the Middle East and the highest volcanic peak in Asia

- The Persian Gulf

- Zayanderud River: one of the main rivers of Iran

- Alvares Village and Ski Resort in the northwest of Iran

- Badab Soort: a rare stairway spring

- Maranjab Desert: it is a magnificent landscape of sand runes and hills

- Sabalan Mountain: the third highest mountain in Iran

- Caspian Hyrcanian Forests: a unique forested massif remained from Cenozoic geology and Ice Age in the southern coast of the Caspian Sea

- Golestan National Park: one of the most important wildlife habitats and national parks of Iran

- Anzali Lagoon

- Urmia Lake: the biggest saltwater lake in Iran

- Chahkooh Canyon: it is a view of eroded rocks with a depth of 100 meters

- …

 Delicious Cuisines

Another attractive feature of Iranian culture that has always appealed to tourists is special cuisines for food lovers. Each province of this country offers its unique yet delicious recipe which can meet anyone's appetite. Some of the most well-known Iranian traditional recipes are as follow:

- Khoresh-e Fesenjan: one of the oldest original Iranian cuisines, basically made from walnut and lots of pomegranate sauce as its flavor.

- Khoresh-e Qormeh Sabzi (Fresh green herb stew): It is an authentic Iranian dish made for thousands of years in ancient Persia. The main ingredients are sautéed herbs, kidney beans, lamb chunks, dried limes.

- Khoresh-e Qeimeh (Yellow split peas stew): It is another classic Persian dish made of lamb, tomatoes, yellow split peas, and dried lime. It is usually accompanied by crispy potato fries or pan-fried long-cut eggplants.

- Tah Chin-e Morgh (Golden crusted Saffron rice cake): This dish includes elements mainly used in the Iranian diet: rice, yogurt, saffron, egg, and entire baby lamb or chicken fillets.

- Ash-e Reshteh (Noodle and bean soup): this richly textured soup includes noodles, beans, herbs, and leafy greens like spinach and beet leaves. So it is a complete meal.

- Ghalieh Mahi: Southerners have sophistication in making delicious meals and Ghalieh

Mahi is an example of this claim. This yummy dish is a kind of spicy nutrient Khoresh made of mackerel fish, coriander and fenugreek, onion, pepper, turmeric, garlic, oil, and tomato paste. Tamarind and lots of spices are also added to make it an irresistible tasty dish.

Theses and more can be found on our website: www.Koochita.com