#Its not the most impressive thing because this place is comprised of six people and a piece of string

[lpsgirl109]

Need another godsend to acknowledge me as a beloved author in the mfa fandom so it can boost me into writing for that show again

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet. 

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy's or the girl's. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake's venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

[arteriplussprice]

Arteris Plus Reviews is a supplement that was made for high blood pressure. This disease is dubbed the “silent killer” as it hits individuals with lightning-fast speeds without a single warning. High blood pressure is indeed a really nasty thing to meet. This is the reason why it is always advised to do regular check-ups of your current health condition. If you detect and take precautions regarding the matter, it would not escalate to a life-threatening condition that may leave you blind or mumbled in speech for the rest of your days.

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Composition – Natural

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Availability – Online

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Arteris Plus Reviews presents itself as the solution to all of this. It is an anti-high blood pressure supplement that deals with the problem at its core with 100% all-natural ingredients that are proven to have no side effects, unlike their synthetic counterparts. However, that sounds too good to be true, which is why we’ll be doing a full-length review regarding this matter. We’ll assess whether this supplement works or not and observe both the benefits and downsides of this product from an unbiased scientific point of view. As an added bonus, I also tried Arteris Plus to provide an accurate review! I also have high blood pressure, so I decided to give it a try.

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What is Arteris Plus?

    Arteris Plus is a supplement that aims to lower the blood pressure of individuals experiencing hypertension. This cardiovascular problem is usually caused by the lifestyle choices that we make throughout our life. So in that sense, we can either use the Arteris Plus supplement as a form of treatment or preventive measure to stop high blood pressure from even taking place.

Arteris Plus comprises five ingredients that provide substantial relief from hypertension caused by multiple sources, including external and internal ones. This is one of the most glaring traits of this supplement. Why? It is because supplements with five ingredients or less are rare in the industry. If the creator, hidden under a pen name John Mayers, chose these five ingredients, they must work exponentially against hypertension. On the other hand, this type of line-up doesn’t cover all bases at once. Arteries Plus ingredients are all-natural and have been sourced from the purest locations on the planet.

Arteris Plus comes in bottles of 60 capsules each. These bottles are suitable for 30 days, which is the average period that each supplement bottle lasts. This supplement is made for individuals 18 years old and above. It should not be taken by minors and children. In addition, upon initial observation, you mustn’t take this supplement if you have milk, soy, wheat, egg, peanut, tree nut, fish, and crustacean allergies since Arteris Pro is made in a facility that also processes such substances.

Arteris Plus at First Glance

Our first impression with Arteris Plus certainly comes in positive. Since it has fewer ingredients than usual, you can say that the creators of this product are more than sure that this combination would work. Furthermore, their honesty regarding allergic interactions is more than welcome. This certainly puts this supplement at a more credible stance. The only thing not credible is their privacy of the creator’s name and office location. According to their official website’s disclaimer, the name John Mayers is a pen name. Furthermore, the location of their distribution office is the same as most of the dietary supplements currently for sale.

Moving on, let’s take a look at the ingredient roster of Arteris Plus to assess whether this supplement really works or not.

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What are the ingredients of Arteris Plus?

Arteris Plus has an impressive list of ingredients for a dietary supplement. Often, nutritional supplements have ten or more components on their list. However, Arteris Plus only has five. Being this sure about the ingredients meant that Arteris Plus was made to work with precision. I bet this has stimulated your curiosity by now. So, let’s take a look at these five well-esteemed ingredients of Arteris Plus from a factual scientific point of view.

    Arteris Plus ingredients are as follows:

Passionflower

Marshmallow Root

Corydalis Lutea

Prickly Pear

California Poppy Seed

Passionflower

Passionflower is mainly used as a calming agent for anxious people about multiple things in their lifetime. According to studies, passionflower can be taken by mouth to reduce such negative emotional behavior symptoms. Furthermore, individuals also take passionflower at least one to two hours before surgery to minimize their anxious thoughts before going “on the table.” While it is not yet sure if passionflower can also lower our blood pressure, its calming effect may be more than enough to drop our blood pressure to manageable stats.

Marshmallow Root

This ingredient is commonly used for a wide variety of things. Primarily, it can provide temporary relief to coughs and other upper respiratory issues that you may come across during your day. It can also help your wounds in healing faster than usual, thanks to its antioxidative properties. In addition, since it’s an antioxidant, it can reliably make your skin better by protecting the cellular integrity of the said organ. Sometimes, marshmallow root can also lessen your pain, even though it is not a reliable painkiller at most times. Also, some people use marshmallow root as a digestive remedy for their usual tummy pains. However, marshmallow root is in Arteris Plus because it has been found that this substance can lower a person’s cholesterol levels if taken for a month.

Corydalis Lutea

Also known as the yellow corydalis, this flowering herb can relieve pain to a certain extent. In particular, Corydalis Lutea can provide numbing effects for inflammatory types of pain such as toothaches and lessen the overall discomfort that one feels in an injury. Better yet, yellow corydalis can stimulate the production of serotonin, which can combat anything from mild depression, emotional disturbances, and stressful occurrences – all of which can heighten our overall blood pressure.

Prickly Pear

Also known by their alternative name nopal, prickly pears are actually excellent natural remedies for high blood sugar and cholesterol levels. It can also help people overcome their sense of being hungover after a long night of celebration. However, the primary purpose of prickly pears lies in their antiviral and anti-inflammatory effects. With these benefits in mind, prickly pears are excellent choices for a dietary supplement that focuses on blood pressure, such as Arteris Plus. If we lessen our blood’s cholesterol and glucose levels, it becomes less “syrupy,” leading to diminished overall blood pressure. The anti-inflammatory trait really helps as well. As for prickly pears being antiviral, studies have shown that our blood pressure can rise if our bodies are exposed to viral threats from the inside.

California Poppy Seed

This ingredient is perhaps the most unsure among them all. California poppy seeds have been heavily used in supplements for their hints at being effective, but research shows insufficient evidence to push this substance towards public use. Still, what’s written on paper is different when played out in real life. According to testimonies (I included), California poppy seeds have effectively diminished their anxiety, leading to their more relaxed state. With relaxation comes the remedy for insomnia. California poppy seeds are also known to act as a pain reliever and quell episodes of nocturia, which is another term for excessive peeing in the middle of the night. Again, these claims still have insufficient evidence, but it would seem that we’re closer to finding out the truth soon enough as more studies about the substance emerge.

Arteris Plus Ingredients Review

The five ingredients of Arteris Plus all have their perks, but they seem to work as intended in lowering our blood pressure in general. To address the elephant in the room, most of the ingredients in this product lower our overall anxiety levels. With that said, it works best as a “hormone balancing” supplement rather than an anti-hypertension type of supplement. However, a calmer person has less of a high blood pressure problem, which can make this move legal in terms of dietary supplements in general.

Furthermore, several Arteris Plus ingredients can relieve pain. Ranging from mild to average types of pain, it would seem that Arteris Plus likes to take away the negative influences of our life to manipulate the pressure that we’re getting from the constantly aging bloodstream that we have right now. Indeed, a peaceful life can produce fewer episodes of hypertension since there’s nothing to make us mad.

Lastly, Arteris Plus has an ingredient that does the traditional way. The prickly pear can lower your blood cholesterol level, which in turn can reduce the instances of fat blocking your arteries and veins. With fewer narrowed blood vessels, you get relatively normal blood pressure levels throughout your whole body.

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What does Arteris Plus do?

Judging from what we have learned above about the Arteris Plus ingredients, we can conclude that this supplement deals with calming down our emotions to mitigate the chance of having episodes of hypertension in the long run. There’s also the added benefit that the prickly pear can reduce your overall cholesterol and glucose levels, so chances are, your blood pressure will really go down to normal levels after using this supplement constantly for at least six months.

That is from a scientific point of view. However, the manufacturers of Arteris Plus have another purpose that they expressed in the promotional video found on their official website. According to their side of the story, Arteris Plus lowers our blood pressure by ensuring that our carotid body, which is a clump of receptor cells found on our carotid artery, functions well according to plan. Now, this carotid body can detect changes in the oxygen saturation of an individual. If the amount of oxygen in the bloodstream is low, it speeds up the flow of oxygen towards our brain in an attempt to save it from oxygen starvation. Naturally, this leads to higher blood pressure. With that said, Arteris Plus attempts to calm our carotid body so that it wouldn’t overreact, so to speak.

These two explanations actually match up to each other. The scientific one took a more direct approach, while the promotional explanation dealt with something that isn’t really the case. Still, it can happen to people with abnormal carotid body receptors. Unfortunately, as of the moment, there is no way of knowing if your carotid body is functioning well or not. For all we know, it might be damaged. In that case, we’ll have to depend on the antioxidants of Arteris Plus to protect the receptor cells and do their job.

How does Arteris Plus work?

  Arteris Plus is one of those supplements that just works from the start. It doesn’t require explanation; it just does. Arteris Plus can revolutionize how people manage their high blood pressure levels. However, some individuals may experience no effects from the supplement because each individual has different tolerances to different substances. Even though that is the case, there is still a high chance of Arteris Plus working on people like you and me.

Arteris Plus works by:

Giving enough calming ingredients to alleviate certain hormonal feelings

Reducing the level of blood sugar and cholesterol in our body

Switching our blood pressure back from high to normal levels

Giving enough calming ingredients to alleviate certain hormonal feelings

Arteris Plus is chockful of anxiety-reducing ingredients that it’s enough to make you calm throughout your day. In some cases, ingredients found in each capsule of Arteris Plus can reduce symptoms of stress and depression. But, while that’s happening, Arteris Plus can also pump and stimulate you with serotonin, which is the happiness hormone, to numb your pain and motivate you to do the things you love.

Reducing the level of blood sugar and cholesterol in our body

Once that’s all and done, your blood glucose and cholesterol levels are reduced by some ingredients found in Arteris Plus. This is mainly done by the prickly pear and the antioxidants found within the supplement in general. With reduced blood sugar and cholesterol levels present in our bloodstream, it becomes easier for blood to flow to where it’s needed, lessening the burden on the arteries and lowering the chance of high blood pressure in the long run.

Switching our blood pressure back from high to normal levels

With the two-pronged approach of fixing our blood parameters and balancing our hormones to normal, our blood pressure should improve over time. With better blood pressure levels, you can enjoy life to the fullest without getting scared that you might experience a stroke very soon.

How long does it take for Arteris Plus to work?

Arteris Plus is a supplement that takes time to work. Therefore, it does not work immediately but rest assured, it would work as long as you take it religiously without stopping. At best, you’ll feel and see the effects of Arteris Plus after one to two weeks of use. Once you go back to borderline normal blood pressure levels, you’re already on your road to recovery. The telltale sign that Arteris Plus is working for your body is that you’re experiencing relaxing sensations that you’ve never felt before. Think of the time when you have stressed just a few days ago, and then think of the present. Is the difference startingly vast? Then, the supplement may be already taking hold inside your body!

For best results, you need to take Arteris Plus for around three to six months to see the maximum possible effects. While this may seem to be a very long time, supplements that have something to do with our hormones and blood pressure levels sometimes take a while to work to their fullest extent. If we up the dosage of this supplement, something terrible may happen to you. Therefore, taking the right amounts of this supplement is crucial for it to work to the maximum potential that it could bring from the start.

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What is the recommended dosage of Arteris Plus?

The recommended dosage of Arteris Plus is two capsules per day. Therefore, a bottle containing 60 capsules each translates to a solid 30-day supply of the said supplement at hand. It doesn’t dictate when you should take the supplement, but it is advised to be taken with your first meal of the day. After that, drink the capsules with a full glass of water, and you should be fine.

One thing, though, you can take only one capsule of Arteris Plus daily if you want to take it slow. However, you’ll get to your end goal much slower than usual if you happen to do that. While taking one capsule a day is undoubtedly acceptable, taking three or more capsules of Arteris Plus is not. Side effects may occur if you overdose with Arteris Plus, so great care is needed to prevent yourself from succumbing to such unfortunate events.

What are the benefits of Arteris Plus?

Arteris Plus is a supplement that contains few ingredients yet has many benefits packed in one bundle. It can be compared to a work of art. The simplicity it bestows translates to the complexity that focuses on lowering our blood pressure levels in general.

In particular, Arteris Plus benefits are as follows:

Lower blood pressure levels

Better hormonal balance

Relief from mild pains

Better blood parameters

Lesser incidence of nocturia and insomnia

Lower blood pressure levels

Arteris Plus wouldn’t be made without this primary goal in mind. With lower blood pressure levels, you can achieve a perfectly safe life full of security from a stroke that may take away your life at any minute. Lower blood pressure levels can also mean that your blood can supply your whole body with the right amounts of oxygen to function properly throughout your entire day. Lower blood pressure levels can also mitigate headaches from setting in, causing you to think clearer and better about what you need to do in the following hours.

Better hormonal balance

With several anxiety-reducing, stress-reducing, and depression-reducing properties found in each capsule of Arteris Plus, you are made sure that you won’t succumb to these increasingly common problems that are arising each passing day of your lives. In addition, the ingredients of Arteris Plus can also promote the production of serotonin, which in turn can make us happier and more energetic in our outlook in life. As you can imagine, a better hormonal balance can make the quality of your life much better than usual.

Relief from mild pains

Sometimes, our body is pained to the point that our blood pressure rises rapidly. This is particularly true if we have an injury of some sort or if we have mild pains such as headaches and such. In that matter, Arteris Plus has the right ingredients suitable for mitigating pain for individuals who are suffering from such. With less pain, your blood pressure shouldn’t shoot up so uncontrollably than usual.

Better blood parameters

Arteris Plus lowers blood pressure and lowers your blood glucose and cholesterol levels in general. This is because of the antioxidative effects that are found in most ingredients listed in Arteris Plus. With lower blood sugar levels, our blood will become less syrupy, therefore considerably lessening the blood pressure in the process. The same can be said for lower cholesterol levels, whereas only this time, less cholesterol that blocks the lining of the arteries will mean less blood pressure in general. In short, Arteris Plus is the perfect cardiovascular solution for your everyday needs.

Lesser incidence of nocturia and insomnia

Last but not least, Arteris Plus also has its own benefits when it comes to nocturia and insomnia. Nocturia, as was explained before, is the uncontrollable urge to pee during the night. No, this is not the same as benign prostatic hyperplasia or enlarged prostate. To clarify, nocturia is just urinary incontinence during the middle of the night. Meanwhile, insomnia is the inability of one person to sleep right at night. Research has shown that having fewer amounts of sleep can lead to higher blood pressure, and so it’s nice that this supplement actually has this perk to go along with its blood pressure stabilizing benefits at once.

What are the side effects of Arteris Plus?

Arteris Plus ingredient side effects are clearly out of the question. If one is following the product’s proper dosages, they wouldn’t have any side effects whatsoever. However, if one tries to overdose with Arteris Plus (e.g., go three or more capsules a day), they might be exposed to life-threatening side effects that may damage their overall state of life.

With that said, possible Arteris Plus side effects that may arise through overdosage include:

Hypotension

Loss of coordination

Drowsiness

Upset stomach

Excessive happiness

Hypotension

Too many ingredients that can lower blood pressure levels can put you on the opposite side of the spectrum. Hypotension refers to the condition where you have low blood pressure. This can lead to oxygen starvation in different parts of your body that may cause internal damage if left unchecked.

Loss of coordination

Since this supplement primarily deals with kickstarting your body’s internal systems to make sure your blood pressure’s back to normal, having too much of the supplement can make you lose coordination. This, in turn, can make it hard for you to move since you’re overloaded with nerve signals.

Drowsiness

Yes, this supplement can lessen anxiety, but too much Arteris Plus can make you extremely sleepy and tired at any given time. This drowsiness can translate to lower production times and severely impact how you do things at work, home, or school.

Upset stomach

Sometimes, an overdosage of these ingredients can lead to an upset stomach. Just imagine your stomach getting shocked by all these capsules getting into its system. It will try to get rid of what the body does not need. This is the reason why your stomach becomes “angry” if you overeat something. The same way happens for supplement overdose. Your body knows what’s right and wrong and tries to expel the latter in a bid to save your body.

Excessive happiness

Too much happiness can also become a hindrance. In the event of overdose, Arteris Plus can provide insane amounts of stimulation in creating serotonin to make a person go wildly happy in the long run. While that sounds like a benefit, that is actually a bad thing to have. In particular, excessive joy can make you blind to the reality of things as they indeed are. Therefore, happiness should also be regulated through the intake of proper dosages of Arteris Plus.

Allergy Information

While not really a side effect, it is also advised not to take this supplement if you have milk, soy, wheat, egg, peanut, tree nut, fish, and crustacean allergies. This is because this supplement was made in a facility that also creates these kinds of products.

Related Scientific Studies to Arteris Plus

Arteris Plus bases the supplement on 13 scientific studies that mostly came from the British Heart Foundation and the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. These studies pinpoint the effects of our hormones on our high blood pressure and give us valuable insight into the ingredients found in Arteris Plus. You can check the complete list of their scientific references by clicking this link here

Where is Arteris Plus manufactured?

Arteris Plus is manufactured in the United States of America under strict and quality-controlled GMP-certified conditions. However, it was manufactured in a facility where several allergens are present (see side effects for more info).

How much does Arteris Plus cost?

Arteris Plus costs only $69 for each bottle. That’s the expected price range for supplements across America. However, two more bundles can net you additional savings along the way. Also, shipping is free across the board, so grab your bottles while you still can (if you really want to try out the product at hand).

Arteris Plus bundles are:

90 Days Supply (3x Bottles) – $59 each, $177 in total ($30 in savings!)

180 Days Supply (6x Bottles) – $49 each, $294 in total ($120 in savings!)

As we can see from the price list above, the best price for Arteris Plus sits upon its 180 Days Supply. Since it is recommended that you take Arteris Plus for six months, it is advised to take this bundle if you really want to try out the product.

Where can you buy Arteris Plus?

You can only buy Arteris Plus from the Arteris Plus official website. Buying from elsewhere can expose you to fake and fraudulent copies of the said supplement.

    Arteris Plus Reviews

Arteris Plus Customer Reviews

After rummaging through internet reviews, I have found that Arteris Plus reviews are generally positive, with some people claiming that their lives changed for the better.

Here is one of those Arteris Plus reviews:

    “Imagine going through your day with a second heartbeat pumping in your head. Having a constant 150/110 for blood pressure is no joke. I feel dizzy all the time and can’t do things the right way most of the time. Life as I know it is extra hard. I tried everything but to no avail. However, when I tried one of these babies, my blood pressure dropped significantly. Now, I’m at a normal 110/80, back to what it once was. I can now live my life again.” – Davie, 62 years old, Mono, CA

[Watch] Control Your Blood Pressure With This Hidden South Korean Breathing Method

Arteris Plus Self Review

Of course, I couldn’t let this review go past without telling the side of my whole story. I’m hypertensive, mostly at 140, so I tried Arteris Plus for 30 days to see its results. My initial observations were this – I became calmer the moment I took the supplement. Then, after a few days, my blood pressure became stabilized. Soon after, I felt more energy than I had ever felt before. From that moment I knew, Arteris Plus works after a few weeks, at least.

Arteris Plus Summary and Verdict

To recap, Arteris Plus is an anti-hypertension dietary supplement that uses five calming, antioxidative ingredients that are well-suited in keeping our blood pressure low. By calming our mind, we potentially get lower blood pressure, on top of better blood health. As we can see, it works for people like you and me. This supplement is highly recommendable for those who want to lower their blood pressure through an alternative yet simple approach.

  Read More:

https://promosimple.com/giveaways/arteris-plus-customer-reviews-what-they-dont-tell/ https://promosimple.com/giveaways/arteris-plus-customer-reviews-scam-or-legit/ https://promosimple.com/giveaways/arteris-plus-customer-reviews-60-days-money-back-gaurantee-or-scam/ https://promosimple.com/giveaways/enter-to-winarteris-plus-customer-reviews-scam-or-legit-pure-supplement/ https://promosimple.com/giveaways/arteris-plus-customer-reviews-price-side-effects-official-website-huge-discount/ https://promosimple.com/giveaways/arteris-plus-customer-reviews-where-to-buy-my-honest-reviews-on-this-supplement/

https://arterisplusreviews.gumroad.com/ https://www.kemovebbs.com/Thread-Arteris-Plus-Customer-Reviews-Scam-Or-Legit https://www.kemovebbs.com/Thread-Arteris-Plus-Review-Shocking-Truth-Revealed-Is-It-Legit-Supplement https://youtu.be/YrOw85-OMoo

[ellaofoakhill]

My Thoughts on Stakes...

I’m thinking this’ll probably be shorter than my usual posts on writing and storytelling, but we’ll see. Anyway, this is just my personal take on stakes.

Which is that *drum roll* you don’t actually need stakes to tell a story that people will read. Crazy, right? But I mean, the slice-of-life genre exists for a reason. Is it an outrageously popular genre? Maybe not, at least not in the West; Japan has s-o-l and a related genre, iyashikei (I’ve previously reblogged a definition of the latter if you’re interested), and both are more popular over there. Why? I dunno, but I suspect there’s less of a stigma against escapism in Eastern cultures; Miyazaki talks about the concept of ma in an interview, and how he works that space for breath into his movies, and it makes me think that there’s a relation between the two. I could talk about how Western culture, from our schedules to our media, encourage a constant state of doing without stopping to rest and simply be, but that’s a subject in and of itself, and I’m already off-topic.

The purpose of stakes is to introduce tension to your story, or to escalate tension. Your character(s) want x, or want to prevent x from happening; the greater the impact of not getting or preventing x on your characters, the higher your stakes. And the higher your stakes, the more invested your audience will be, so the logic goes.

Popular media of a more adventurous persuasion often takes this very literally, and puts the entire world/galaxy/universe in jeopardy, because what will affect your characters more than the entire world blowing up, amiright?

...

... No, actually, you’re not.

Red from Overly Sarcastic Productions (yes, I know, I reference her a lot, her stuff is just SO GOOD you should watch it) has a video on Youtube talking about the end of the world, and if I may summarize/paraphrase her, stakes don’t work like that; chances are, few things will affect your characters more than the blowing up of their personal, subjective world. In Andy Weir’s Artemis (spoilers ahead), the highest stakes throughout the book are whether or not the protagonist can save the inhabitant’s of humanity’s first lunar colony, comprising at most a few thousand people. According to the above logic, that should be a “Yeah, sure, kinda interesting”, but it was pretty suspenseful because the lives of people we knew and liked were at stake, not the whole world.

Humanity is growing more interconnected than ever before, but most of us have a few hundred people whom we perceive as having impact on our lives; everyone else is mostly treated with indifference. Not because we’re a cold, apathetic species, but our conscious minds aren’t capable of making deep emotional connections beyond that point.

Another part of this is that the audience is taking something of a gamble with every story they pick up. Does it end happily, or sadly? Marriage or death? And while there is certainly some satisfaction derived from a well-written tragedy, that’s really hard to pull off when the story’s entire world is destroyed and stays destroyed, to the point that I can think of precisely one example that did make it work: The Cabin in the Woods (and there are a few asterisks there, like it being a horror movie). So unless you can pull off one of the most difficult tasks any writer has ever attempted, you probably won’t write the end of the world, or even the end of your characters’ world, though that’s a more realistic goal. Remember that gamble the audience is taking? If you put forward the End of the World in a full-length novel (short-stories have more leeway because the audience investment is usually in the low tens of pages, and not in the mid to high hundreds), the odds of you writing it and satisfying your audience are so astronomically tiny that most authors aren’t going to actually write it. So the audience bets that your protagonists will prevail in preventing it. And they’re almost certainly right.

Let’s say you pick up a book, regardless of genre, set in a small town. There are good people, and decent people, and a few creeps. Most of the book takes place in this small town, and the author really writes characters well, to the point that there are a few characters you adore despite deep, nuanced faults, and some you hate with a fiery passion, even if they have redeeming qualities. This small town feels real to you, and while the story alludes to a wider world, grounds itself in this wider world, the meat of the story is here, wherever here is. We grow with our characters along this journey, and love this beautiful tapestry the author’s woven for us.

And then we find out that one character we love is going to die.

The world will keep on turning. This town will keep on living. In that literal, objective sense, the stakes are pretty low. But this light that’s kept us reading for five, six, seven hundred pages, will soon be snuffed out. And if the author has written this story half so well as I’ve described, the ending could be good even if, or perhaps because this character dies. In short, this character’s death is a very realistic outcome.

I’d bet the farm you’re more invested in this one character than in any number of worlds. In fact, a lot of those stories know the audience knows the EotW won’t happen, and so the suspense and shock, and plot twisting, if they’re written well, comes from which of our beloved characters will die.

And they don’t even have to die, really; even a protagonist not getting what they want can devastate your audience.

I once heard (and I wish I could remember the source of this) that in poetry, anyone can write of grand and noble ideas and objects, and sound wise, even profound, but it takes a true master of the art to appreciate and bring forth profundity in the mundane, the small, the innocuous. I think the same can be said of fiction; not that we all need to write literary fiction (good luck prising the dragons from my cold dead hands), but that maybe rather than writing grand sweeping vistas and great armies, we could write all the little happenings in a single tree. Travelling the length and breadth of an entire fantasy world can be a fun time, don’t get me wrong (Paolini was one of my favourite authors growing up), but if writing grand adventures ever gets stale for you... maybe try writing about that tree. Its breadth might not impress, but them roots might grow deeper than you ever imagined.

[virtutiae]

⌠ RUDY PANKOW, 23, CISMALE, HE/HIM⌡ welcome back to gallagher academy, ALEXANDER MUELLER! according to their records, they’re a THIRD year, specializing in “MACGYVER” SURVIVAL SKILLS & NAVIGATION + COVERT OPERATIONS; and they DID NOT go to a spy prep high school. when i see them walking around in the halls, i usually see a flash of ( chunky gold rings adorning their fingers, mess of blond hair, confident steps and fake smiles ). when it’s the (leo)’s birthday on 7/27/1997, they always request their BACON CHEESEBURGER & FRIES from the school’s chefs. looks like they’re well on their way to graduation.

hello everyone! i’m yadira, i used to play a bunch of characters but i sucked at time management so i had to leave, but i’m back! this is alex, he is a character i thought about one night when i couldn’t sleep. it’ll be obvious what my main inspo was, but i hope y’all like him. feel free to message me on discord or im me for plots, i will try my best.

STATISTICS

FULL NAME: ALEXANDER ‘ALEX’ MUELLER

AGE: Twenty-Three

DATE OF BIRTH: July 27,1997

PLACE OF BIRTH: Las Vegas, Nevada

GENDER: Cisgender Male

PRONOUNS: He/him

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Doesn’t know / anything that breathes

RELIGION: Agnostic

ATTRIBUTES

HEIGHT: 5'11

WEIGHT: 165 lbs

HAIR COLOUR: Blond

EYE COLOUR: Blue

TATTOOS: None

PIERCINGS: None

SCARS: Small scar on his knee from being a child

BODY TYPE: Athletic

PHYSICAL HEALTH: Healthy

             alexander mueller was born to two loving parents , who just so happened to be con artists. he was born in las vegas where his parents made most of their cons to gamblers , but moved around various states when he was born evading the authorities. however, without his father’s knowledge his mother got into trouble with the authorities where she attempted to evade them but was killed when alex was only about one. his father had made alex and himself passports and moved permanently to belgium where he began to construct ‘ the big plan ‘. his father never actually told him what the big plan was , until much later. 

                 their life in belgium wasn’t anything extra ordinary , his dad was pulling in money by conning and began to teach alex how to fake cashier’s checks and other things at a very young age. after all , no one suspects a child of forgery. alex went to regular public school , but was a very fast learner , but was kind of lazy.  when he was about six he could remember weird people coming and going from their small home , they were always nice to him but he got curious.  he was pretty handy with a bobby pin ( you would think that a con artist would be handier ) but alex finally got to see the beginnings of the big plan and he was all in , but his dad didn’t know.

               alex was well liked in the city he lived in , he fit right in as a child , but as he started to grow up and began to get more involved with his father’s plan he began to rebel more. his father would play the honorable father who would pretend to discipline alex but pretty much let him roam free. alex even formed a band with a couple of people from his school when he was about fourteen , they were pretty well known around belgium and had a few international listeners. ( their best hit was a cover was baby one more time by bowling for soup , if you know you know ) 

                 the big plan was to rob the federal reserve of belgium ( can you tell where i got my inspo ? ). this plan was to take place when alex was 20 , alex was to attend college for about two years , get an internship at the reserve to see its inner workings. which he accomplished , his father made sure to finally include alex in the inner workings as young as 14 so he could keep his grades up but not drive too much attention to his name --- despite his growing ‘ fame ‘ because of his band which he named something angsty like cool strife or something like that. 

                  the heist started on a wednesday morning , his father didn’t want to deal with a large number of people.  his father also didn’t let anyone know alex was his father --- for his safety and assigned everyone roman gods and goddess names his own being jupiter and alex’s being mercury. things went smoothly and not so smoothly , but they all managed to get out relatively safely with millions of dollars split between the six of them and they left to different parts of the world. alex and his father ended up in argentina and they were there for a couple of months before alex got cocky and interpol began to track him having comprised a timeline of the happenings , too many coinsedences. as soon as alex began to feel watched , he hid the money in the dark of night and was arrested that night and much to his surprise his father had already escaped.

                   alex was ‘ questioned ‘ for several days straight , but the united states wanted to take him to trial in the states because he is a us citizen.  he was tried and found guilty of too many charges to count. before being taken to folsom state prison he was approached by an agent , a recruiter for blackthorne heavily impressed with his skills --- they had been watching the heist from his father’s monitors.  alex called bullshit and literally spit in their face enraged at the offer from any form of authority.  however , folsom was not kind to him and he only lasted a month before using his one call a month to contact the agent once more and he finally went to blackthorne --- and hated it. 

quick facts:

he’s a leo --- do i need to say more? he’s actually really chill , but is also a little shit raised by a con artist so he knows how to please people.

loves to sing a little too loudly in the shower and play air guitar.

has new found respect for johnny cash since his stint in folsom.

he has major hoe vibez, i feel it

has a very quick mind, almost has eidetic memory but also forgets to take his daily vitamins do i don’t know how that would work

he’s not mad at his dad, he loves him with all his heart, has no problems with loving people --- he just doesn’t want to, he thinks he’s too young

but also has commitment issues and an identity crisis almost every month.

the heist he was involved in and his capture was really big internationally and only relatively big in the u.s so someone is bound to recognize him

connections:

someone who knows him from the germany area or outide , he did travel a lot before he hit 20

someone ( an encryption major ) who he is using to try and find his dad

fwb

someone’s parent / alumni who helped in his capture

someone who befriends him trying to get some of the money he hid

someone who listened to his music / went to one of his shows

blackthorne best bud

gallagher best bud

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations HAILEY! You’ve been accepted as JANUS.

Hailey, you took Jacksons skeleton and delivered it to us on a silver platter. I’m truly speechless at how you captured their ability to never be the same person twice. “He has never been content with one face, even before his abilities developed.” Who is Jackson deep down, does he even know that? Having them figure out who their are on a personally level and within the grand scheme of things. I also can’t believe you made me choose between two of my fave white boys.

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Hailey 

PRONOUNS: she / her

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST: I would say around a 5 activity wise. I usually work five days of the week now (but sometimes more) so although my hours are funky I usually have time to reply to dms after or before work, and get replies up during at least two days of the week!

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Jackson Raemers / Janus

GENDER/PRONOUNS: he / they

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

They are the wind beneath your sails, the bandage over your wound, and the realization that it never meant anything to them.

Jackson may never covet your gilded spotlight but you would be a fool to underestimate him for it. Though he works best from the shadows, obscured by the weight of faces and names that are not his own, it’s his fingerprints that stain the success of all who wield him. He slips effortlessly through cracks others would be constrained by, both unnoticed and undetected, though the impact of his presence are neither of those things. Though you may be unable to place your overlooked hero on the streets, you will never forget how effortlessly he stanched the troubles that bleed from your veins before slipping from your grasp, another unknown stranger in the crowd. Jackson’s someone you’d want on your side, both capable and necessary, but is it because his heart blooms for your cause, or simply because it’s expected of him? So quickly shifting, so carefully adapting, if you were to blink, you might miss him, but is that not his charm? His name will never spill from your lips in adoration, yet it does nothing to still the parts of him that jump to prove himself worthy of such. Both the optimism that manifests when you most need it and the invisible force that gently urges you onward when you’ve lost hope; Jackson prioritizes that which beckons his assistance most urgently with greedy delight, perhaps, in a desperate attempt to fill the void of not knowing yet what it is that they need themselves.

The cut you get on your finger from opening a letter and the blood that stains the white carpet when it drips down.

Jackson, like most others, is a product of their past, though it’s with great strides that they aren’t entirely felled by the memory of their own. Enough has been taken from him that he resents every fragment of himself still coerced into something bitter and unfamiliar; the scars of wounds that will never heal correctly. Though he’s convinced that his purpose in the Jem Family is to spare future mutants from suffering the same fate as him, and his companions, he knows there’s a more sinister, albeit spurned, intent that resides deep within his heart. Is it truly for the betterment of all mutants? Or is there a part of them that selfishly yearns for the violent demise of the humans that hurt him? Jackson battles with his morality, determined not to become the very monster he feared as a child, though he worries what’s left of his purity may already be touched crimson by this bitterness. There are thoughts even Jackson shies away from, scared to grapple with the stranger that resides in the dark crevices of his mind. They’re already fighting one monster, what’s another?

They are the fake label that is stitched onto a shirt then sold for hundreds of dollars, the flake that comes off of a gold bar to reveal that it’s copper, and the cheap paint that washes away when an itchy suspicion turns out to be true.

They are intimately familiar with disappointment. Watching the glimmer in your eye fade after the fraudulence of their fantasies surface. That pang of realization that he is nothing more than a cheap imitation of the person you most want; someone that Jackson, himself, could never be. At times, they too wish to be the greater, more gilded thing, punished by the reminder that it’s just an act, and underneath it all, he still remains himself. His ability is but a taste of more, followed by the wrenching of such from greedy fingers as the curtain falls. With the gift to be anyone in the world, why would you ever want to be yourself? He hardly ever is, the details of his forgotten identity swept under the rug in favor of better, more appealing, traits he’s adopted. Though his ability is mighty, Jackson often wonders what would be left of him without it. Would he ever be enough, if not for the weight of power at his restless fingertips? Years of his life were overshadowed by those abilities, and how deftly he could demonstrate them. But would he carry any value, at all, when stripped of them?

They are your wildest dreams come true, willing to do what it takes to get you to believe in their lies.

Jackson dons a separate mask for every one person; figuratively, though at times, literally. He has never been content with one face, even before his abilities developed. Jackson has been abandoned and overlooked too often not to revel in the warm light of adoration, no matter the cost. He can feel your ease when he seemingly leans in the very direction you hoped he’d go, or the spark of elation when he fulfills muted desires. It’s a drug, that praise, and he longs for its buzz. Perhaps he bends the truth at times to sell the vision; that he’s exactly who you want him to be. But is it such a crime when you’re both getting what you long for most? Even when wearing the face he was born with, Jackson will tug at the details of himself until they smooth to your liking; until you weaken for the portrait he’s painted. His tongue may be as gifted as his mutant abilities, able to angle the truth that lay right in front of your very eyes. But when his pretty lies fail, there is always another identity lying in wait, convincing you to love him, no matter what it takes, no matter how little you truly know the illusion that desperately beckons your worship.

BIO:  TW (ABUSE, STOCKHOLM SYNDROME)

Jackson had often wondered if it was his mother’s eyes, or his father’s, reflected back at him in the mirror. If the chilling sensation that zipped up their vertebrae in the dark was inherited, or simply a product of their own cowardice. How much of him was comprised of people he was not given the chance to remember, and how much had begun with him, and him alone? Having been given up for adoption at birth, Jackson willed his own conclusions. The first foster family he can recall were the Wilsons, and he had just turned six. Even then, he was enthralled with the parents that had abandoned him, devising make believe anecdotes about each that were far more charming and warmhearted than the inferior truth. But Jackson grew, and so did his stories. Childish fibs about how he was the spitting image of his father, or how his mother used to be read him stories every night blossomed into tales of ship crashes and war stories. He longed for the startled admiration of the other children he roomed with; the closest thing to family the boy had ever known. Jackson was lucky, his time in the foster care system had been undeniably better than that of most.

In fact, it was only after his removal that life began its downslide.

He lived in his fourth home, with the Jefferson family, in the two story brick at the end of the street. Jackson was eleven at the time. Then, he was only vaguely familiar with mutants, and of the whispers they elicited among the streets. He had no reason to think he could be one, of course, so it came as quite a shock when a foster sister attempted to tattle on Jackson and they were able to perfectly mimic the girlish whine of her voice in jest. Their flawless recitation had been no parlor trick, nor mundane talent. But the incident slipped away with little interest, having been confined to Jackson and their adolescent witness. Still, the memory of its inhumane nature simmered within him, and he longed to see if he could repeat it; a child experimenting with a new toy. After the others had gone to bed, and the house was blanketed in eerie silence, Jackson pulled the covers over his head with a mirror in one hand and a flashlight in the other. It began with impressions of voices he was familiar with; Allison Jefferon’s shrill, demanding pitch, Peter Jefferson’s gravely grumbling. It was astonishing, how his tongue so effortlessly disguised itself as one right after the other. The boy spent nights grinning ear to ear beneath his sheets, delighted with the newfound ability.

But just as quickly delight bled into panic. One afternoon, in an argument with the same rambunctious sister, Jackson thought it funny to mock her insults. But, rather than the unfamiliar tone they had practiced, they were met with their own voice. Still, shock and fear contorted the girl’s expression, sending her sprinting into the next room despite their nervous pleas for an explanation. Instead they were met with Peter Jefferson, who demanded to know how this was possible while blocking the exit of Jackson’s room. It was only with a side glance at the closet mirror that the boy saw themselves for what they had become; a direct copy of the girl whose reactions they so enjoyed. Though it was their own voice that yelled out in panic, and their own fingers that tore at the skin that did not belong to them, they instead appeared as the same sister that now cowered from them. Try as he might to reverse the sight, Jackson remained a prisoner in his own body, terrified he would be buried as this strange and unusual anomaly.

Many distressed phone calls later and Jackson was removed from the foster home by men he did not recognize, shut into a stranger’s car with no goodbyes or answers. It was with terror that they were confined to a windowless van, their heart frantically galloping in their chest. He choked on questions, and begged for help, but his captors remained silent. When he finally arrived at his destination it mirrored a hospital; sterile, cold, disarming. Jackson thought, briefly, he had been taken somewhere that could right this mistake, and return him to the person he had been before, with those fearful eyes of his lost mother or father. But he would never again be that child, and he quickly discovered the truth of his unwanted fifth home, undeniably less a home than it was a punishment.

There were various testing facilities surrounding the city of Chicago, though at the time Jackson was ignorant to their existence. Now, he was ensnared by one; a child called by a monster’s name. Mutant. He could remember the kids at school, how they had sneered the word. How Allison Jefferson had once called them abominations when the title was mentioned on the six o’clock news. It must be a mistake, he’d assured himself, shaking fingers grasping at the fabric of their allocated uniform. But quickly, and without mercy, what remained of his humanity was stripped. The boy who longed to be more human than all of the others reduced to a guinea pig. They couldn’t find one more cooperative than Jackson though, who would rather suffer through bouts of exhaustion after the abuse of their abilities than deny the facility what they demanded of him. Perhaps it was fear, or the lingering hope that his entrapment served a larger, more benevolent purpose, that pushed him past his hard limits time and time again. There were occasions when he was returned to his room so badly shaken and weary that all he could do was lay on the cold linoleum and consider the people and places from his childhood stories; the heroes he wanted to be, and the exotic lands he longed for.

There were times even Jackson’s impeccable behavior was not enough. Moments when he had proudly displayed a perfect recreation of the photograph they provided only to be struck by someone or jolted with electricity in response. At times the abuse grew so detrimental to their health they wondered what could possibly remain of them when it was all over, if it was ever to be over. Eventually the hope for escape dwindled, and they grew accustomed to the constant beep of monitors, and the purging of all freedom or individuality. Jackson’s childhood had been brutally ripped from him and because of it he expected far more of himself than any normal teenager would. If his abilities were what they wanted most, what stifled the pain, if for only a moment, he would give it to them. He would harness and sharpen his shifting skins until there was nothing left for them to want from him; until he reached the peak of his power and they were, at last, forced to accept his limit.

Jackson’s abilities were his lifeline. From the ashes of his optimism grew determination, and though he focused on his power for the wrong reasons, it was this concentration that spared him long nights of agony. The unrelenting practice redirected his mind, and maintained its sharpness, pinning it instead to a goal that Jackson desperately grasped for. Relief. It was his only outlet behind the guarded walls of the facility, and even with shaking hands he would muster its presence, as much for himself as for the scientists that watched on in scrutiny.  What else did he have? No family, no friends, and no future if this torture was to continue. Only himself, and the identities he nurtured for his own feeble sanity.  

It was by sheer luck his fellow mutants were less easily appeased than Jackson. He can still remember the vivid blare of warning sirens, a red haze painting the nauseating white of the walls. A fire maybe, or a raid. One could only guess what had become of the real world while Jackson withered away behind bars. But it was not flames that licked his cage, or the rumblings of a distant bomb, but another subject. A group, rather, of others like Jackson who had tired of their binds and created a key where there was not one to be found. In a flurry, the door to his confine was opened, and the various boys and girls, both adult and child, fled toward liberation. They were escaping. A plan so harrowing and disillusioned that it had not occurred to Jackson to consider. Had they gotten help? Who had organized it? How had they known he was there, waiting, clueless? He was left to his thoughts, the hall clearing as quickly as it had filled with terrified mutants, bound for freedom. At any moment the guards would surely return, tightening the leashes upon their throats to reel them back to their chambers.

Time had blurred together, minutes languidly blended into one exhausting eternity as Jackson remained curled in a ball against the clinical white of his room. So many unfamiliar faces had passed, restless, wild, in their search for sanctuary, but Jackson was rooted to the floor. His knees trembling against his chest in panic. If the punishment for existing scarred their skin and bruised their bone, what would become of those mutants that greedily chased more? The temptation was so great Jackson vibrated with it, the need aching in his heavy chest, but they had been bitten too many times among these corridors. Maybe it was a test. Perhaps, he would lie in wait, cooperative and meek, and the guards would have mercy on him in the wake of his pristine behavior. He could not fathom the alternative. A life somehow worse than the one that already clung to his weary bones like shackles. Jackson couldn’t, in good conscience, betray himself that carelessly. Ultimately, it was not that fearful boy who made the decision. But rather a fellow mutant, who beckoned him. Who encircled his wrist in their grasp and pulled him loose from his submission. It was the turning point of his world, that day, and yet it crashes on his conscious like roaring waves. A blink of relieved mutants there, a glimpse of determined hands pulling him through the wreckage of the facility, a glance at the gentle expressions that lulled him into a car, much the same as the van he arrived in. The day returned in fragments, then his chest had heaved too rapidly, his head split with far too much tension, to place every minute detail. But since, every relocated shard has surfaced with gratitude.

Jackson had never heard of the Jem Family before his escape. Until they had dusted the ash from him, like a forgotten phoenix who not yet had the strength to rise themselves. In a sense, they were his sixth foster home. The one that finally stuck, resolute and steadfast. In their embrace he found acceptance, unlike that he’d ever known before them. When his fingers shook and his gaze flickered away from contact, they were there. When he resented himself, and the abilities that had slipped the cruel noose around his throat for many years, they were there. The same power that had worked as a desperate distraction now served as a wicked reminder of his time spent in captivity. They felt less like his, as if he had robbed the facility of their cherished work. For a time, Jackson imagined that being ordinary would be easier. Better. He abandoned his talents for those more socially accepted, and after years of grappling with the sickly feeling that blossomed at his mutant traits, enrolled in college. He would find a new talent, one that even the humans that ostracized him could appreciate.

He had been robbed of so much normalcy. He finally had a real family, and still, it was not enough. Selfishly, he wanted more. The job, the house, the wife. The future that had been dangled in front of his eyes, and subsequently, severed while imprisoned. If Jackson could blend in, and escape the mutant brand, perhaps it was not yet lost. The aspirations he had once daydreamed about could be fulfilled, if only he could swallow the half of himself that stood in the way. The half of himself that had already unraveled his hopes once before. But he had far better control now; never again would he look in the mirror and be startled by what he saw. His abilities could only rear their ugly head if he allowed them to, if he summoned them, and then, just entering adulthood, he planned not to. They would suffocate alongside all of the memories he carried of being abnormal.

Perhaps, in a sense, that was Jackson’s teen rebellion. It could have lasted, possibly, had the local news not carried such concerning developments on mutants around the country. Every day they were confronted with horror stories, some far worse than what Jackson himself had endured. The Jem family made it a point not to shield him from every horrific detail, instead swaddling him in positive reinforcement. The trick was not to comply to the country’s social norms, but to demand equal treatment for those who could not meet the impossible standards. They hammered it into his brain. The cause had saved him. Did he not want to do the same for others? Did he not want to be the salvation for some other trembling child, starved of freedom?

The more the surrounding abuse escalated, the more inclined Jackson was to entertain his once banished abilities. It took no shortage of support, and encouragement from the Jem Family. Especially as his eyes glazed over, and his heart squeezed beneath his ribcage; the torment Jackson endured present in every celebrated advancement of his powers. It, at times, hurt. In the same way it might have to break through the steel of unwanted chains. Repression was no light weight, and Jackson, like Atlas, had shouldered far too much for far too long. But in time, he could feel how it sloughed off his shoulders. How he breathed a little easier with the gentle coaxing from those that could truly understand him, and the pain of a past he longed to forget. He was no longer that scared child, fending for itself. He was not alone anymore, a solitary sacrifice to science. He was part of something. Something with claws and razor sharp teeth that could seize back all that had been stolen from Jackson.

He only hopes he was not rescued from one monster, and fated to become another. At times, Jackson carries more humanity than those entirely so. Living with the burden of remaining soft in a world that so often yearned to splinter his edges into something deadly. But how can he shy away from its violence without hiding from those that plead for his help? How can he betray those that are what he, at his core, is himself? A mutant.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

LUCA MENDOZA: Many would never gravitate to Jackson without his illusions and honeyed words, yet when Luca caught him on a bad day they were all ears and, under their willful gaze, he found plenty to say. He knows he’s skirting sharpened edges with Luca, but when they look at Jackson they give him nothing; no hint to mold himself around. All that remains is himself, and the words that fall unbidden at Luca’s presence. Maybe he’s a fool to trust them as he does, baring his heart to someone that would just as surely carve him of it, yet he does in spite of the warnings. Perhaps because Luca’s strength, no matter how off-putting to some, ensnares him like an unsuspecting moth to a flame that fails to find its own. I would love to see as the two develop whether there will come a day where there’s something they can’t agree on or look past and it grows to cause fissures in the wall they’ve built around their relationship. Or if, oppositely, one is driven to do something out of character in order to protect/appease the other and it changes them as a person, and ultimately the dynamic the two share.

NEVE KAPLAN: The first person to ever truly know Jackson, and the first to love him in spite of it. Because it was, no matter how she shies from the emotion, love. How freeing it was to meet someone who could liberate them from their net of lies and niceties, and embrace the less glamorous parts of him. In Neve’s presence they never felt the urge to bite their tongue, or swallow thoughts for her to deem them worthy. During the course of their relationship, he’d tasted the normalcy he so craved as a teenager. The bliss of routine he never thought could belong to someone like himself. Slowly, his veil of shame lifted as Neve demanded to see the presence beyond. Who was he to deny her anything when she’d given him everything? A family, a love, a confidante. But while the girl had filled Jackson’s wanting hands, he had failed to return the favor. More than he, she yearned for retribution. The very desire he often wrestled and longed to suffocate bloomed within Neve effortlessly. As time wore on, it became clear which of the two she held dearer to her heart, despite Jackson’s efforts. She will always be the one that got away, though he fears she will become a stranger to even herself as obsession needles at the parts of her he most adored. Pain festering within her until the person he once loved becomes swallowed whole in its mutiny.

As a child, Jackson’s mind was plagued with selfless heroes and hedonistic adventures. In Neve he sees the bones of those imagined villains, and he fears she will meet the same fate should he not intervene. I can’t wait to see these two interact! Jackson will always carry this unique bond with her and I’d love to see what he’d do to protect it. How will her motivations intersect with his own and those of the Jem Family? Will it one day cause problems for the others he considers family, and will he be forced to decide between the two? Could Neve eventually cross a line even Jackson can’t defend, or will he submerge himself in the same depravity in hopes of pulling her free from it? I think he is hopelessly attached to Neve and I’d love to see the depths he’d go and the sacrifices he’d make to salvage what remains of her.

CAIN DOUGLAS: Jackson is someone who aches to be liked, and Cain seems to enjoy pressing their thumb against the wound. Sure, he may be far too careless or distracted at times but the doctor’s rage is unmatched. He’s not sure of the exact moment he fingered the wrong button on Douglas, but how he yearns to undo it. No matter how he tries to joke and soften their demeanor he’s met with unparalleled annoyance. Still, if Jackson is anything, it’s persistent, and in the wake of Cain’s rejection he finds himself searching for common ground. Usually, he finds more give in the walls he prods, but with the doctor they’ve found disappointingly little. In an attempt to ease their dislike and garner their help, Jackson’s even resorted to offering them bits of information. A secret here, a weighted question there, waiting eagerly for that flicker of interest in their glare. But should it not manifest, Jackson is relieved for the input, no matter how hostile or unhelpful. Though Cain might simmer at the sight of him, Jackson can’t deny the way he lingers on their words and reactions, in careful observation. There’s a lot to learn from someone so seemingly opposite to himself, and if the two are fated to spend so many hours together, he just might take advantage of it. I’m really interested to see how this could progress! Jackson garners respect for Cain despite their differences, and I’d like to see if eventually he could pique their interest, perhaps with something serious or dire that he meant to keep quiet from the others. Or if it’s as simple as Jackson finally proving himself with some unexpected act that meets Cain’s standards. Otherwise, I do love enemies and it’d, oppositely, be super fun to see how Cain’s annoyance could blossom and what it would create within Jackson to be met with such growing aggression when they ache for the opposite.

EXTRA: a pinterest board here (x)

HEADCANONS

Began to collect a lot of house plants aftering dating Neve but her green thumb never rubbed off. It took days of research just to learn how to keep a succulent alive for longer than a week at a time.

Really enjoys reading and, in particular, immersing themselves in stories/poems with heros and travel tales.

Outside of his mutant abilities, Jackson grew to be quite an actor due to his careful observation of those around him. It mainly stemmed from self defense reasons: foster care, and entrapment, but stuck over time. He has no desire to pursue it, but it’s a good party trick for telling stories (that are not always factual) and jokes at parties. It’s only when those pesky feelings interfere that their body betrays them, and their gift falls to the wayside.

Jackson is bisexual/biromantic and awful at dating.

A documentary junkie. Whether it’s something he’s interested in or not, Jackson breezed through the Netflix selections in a week, trying to expand their horizons. They would blame it on general research for facts and details that might be of use while masquerading as someone else, but he really just wants to collect hobbies and knowledge in search of fulfillment.

Very simplistic/minimal taste in both clothes and interior decorating (which means, in so many words, they’re too lazy to venture outside their comfort zone.)

A dog person with no dogs. 10/10 will pet your dog.

Likes being outdoors and feels like he’s suffocating if he doesn’t get out often enough. Outside of needing company and hating to be alone for extended periods, he starts to feel trapped if he doesn’t get fresh air and room to roam after long intervals stuck between four walls.

ANYTHING ELSE: If possible I might prefer an alt fc of Richard Madden but if you’re attached to Jack Lowden no worries!

[rionsanura]

oh, y’all. last night I saw the King’s Singers.

There is never really a good way to explain what this means. Ensemble singing may be the closest thing to spirituality I comprise. It’s definitely a kind of communion to sing with other people, and it can even be communion to watch and listen to other people, who are very good at it, sing together. It’s surprisingly literally visceral, too, gut-borne and not only philosophical or musical. You have to breathe together in basically the same way you do when someone’s life depends on it, feel each other breathing, feel the same thing move you together. When an ensemble is very good, both very careful and very free at the same time, they can make you feel like you are with them even if you’re not singing.

These guys are very good.

Of course that’s not news to me; the group as an institution was founded in 1968 and my mom first saw them a few years before I was born, ensuring I was raised in the knowledge of their whole-group-before-individuals philosophy of singing. It’s not something that gets a lot of play in the vocal world, even in college or graduate music school; most everyone is trained as a soloist. There’s a children’s choral background underneath most advanced singers, though, especially in Britain. That’s where this particular urgent vocal communism comes from, and the technique and chops of the individual singers that make up the group have increased over the decades like pretty much any musical discipline does.

So the myriad of albums I grew up with (as a less-than-three-year-old I literally learned all the Beatles songs that were on the KS Beatles album from that album before I ever heard the originals) may not have the same exact parameters of perfection that some of the newer ones do, but they certainly exemplify the same togetherness that was the whole point in the first place. I drank that down very early on, and internalized it good.

I’m not really that interested in much group participation except in this particular way, with which I am life-alteringly obsessed. So when the ensemble who set off this slowbomb is within a 5-hour drive of where I live, I’m going to see it. Especially if it’s free.

There was some significant turnover in membership since the last time I saw them, and of course it’s unreasonable to be worried about the new kids, because 1) they got picked for a reason and 2) it’s their job, but it’s hard to help it. Luckily, worries were completely murdered and buried. Boy did they work it out. Maybe even more seamlessly integrated than their predecessors. I’ve rhapsodized about the shine of colors through the bands of light before, or the complementary textures, or other sensory analogies that have more or less relevance to the literal experience, but there is no accurate way to describe the kind of satisfaction you get from when the voices lock in and you can’t even tell they come from separate bodies. It’s one instrument, played transcendently by six people, which requires a kind of trained and practiced telepathy and enough physical compatibility that it has its own genre of relationship definition in my psyche.

The new kids have their own gleaming and faceted prisms through which to split, bend or focus the whole, and their telepathy reception is already better than that on a lot of the old recordings. So the fact that a lot of the repertoire was stuff I’ve fixated on and analyzed in minute detail only added to how overwhelmingly good it was, how impressed I was. Impressed: it is to be pressed into by something to make a mark. Yes. It’s a physical process. They were all shaping me.

The fact that they’re all also exemplary human beings adds another layer of magic to the proceedings; you meet them afterwards, and they are the nicest dudes you’ll ever encounter, but they’re clearly just dudes. This unreasonable concord, this aural sacrament, was practiced by six nice boys. For all my canonical ensemble-related introspection tag, it’s impossible to idol-worship them. Meet your heroes. They’re just people. They’re doing what you’re doing, later in the process. You can do it.

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: 

I've actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry's age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn't have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn't write it because I was afraid I'd bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn't finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I'd just go for it. I'm still afraid I won't finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven't finished any of my other, shorter, long fics...) but I didn't want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don't finish it, at least I'll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue...please please please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Writing fics like this is a lot of effort, and while I do write them for my own enjoyment...it is still very difficult for me to find the motivation to continue them. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me gaining the motivation to continue, and leaving the fic behind.

Also, if there are any artists who are interested in drawing cover art for this fic don't hesitate to say so!! You can comment so below, or message me!!

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a bearded man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled more than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was Tom’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was Tom’s, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snakes venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): Tom killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic— like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

Tom stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself. He was just a kid, did he/this harry potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys? Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young. Why did he hate him so much? It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

Tom backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch gross enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yup, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

[karingudino]

Eight cool (and uniquely local) souvenirs from across Canada

For a heat contact

Calgary-made Milk Jar Candle Co. focuses on hand-poured coconut soy candles that use wooden wicks, that are a cleaner-burning different to the extra widespread cotton selection. This particular providing, Aurora, is impressed by the otherworldly Northern Lights, and the dreamy mix of teak wooden, mahogany and aspen swirled collectively creates a heat, pure perfume.

Milk Jar Candle Co. Aurora candle, $33, milkjar.ca

For East Coast type

From sketch to seams, this boutique Halifax style model creates their prints with silkscreen, makes use of natural materials and manufactures their whimsical designs regionally. This flattering swimsuit’s distinctive print, referred to as “Wandering Floral,” is evocative of East Coast wildflowers and appears notably placing in Moroccan blue. Additionally notable is the model’s inclusive sizing, starting from XS to 4X.

Thief & Bandit Wandering Floral tie swimsuit, $198, thiefandbandit.com

For West Coast suds

A traditional gift-shop purchase is a recent bar of cleaning soap, which leaves you with memorable scents of place each time you lather. Contemplate this Saltspring Soapworks bar, made by hand on the namesake island, prioritizing native, pure substances with minimal eco influence. The star of the bar is detoxifying gray clay, identified for its purifying and dirt-absorbing properties, mixed with fir, spruce and cypress important oils.

Saltspring Soapworks cypress clay cleaning soap bar, $7, saltspringsoapworks.com

For the handmade accent

Beaded earrings abound in most Canadian memento retailers, however they gained’t look something like these ones from Emma-Love Cabana. In case you love handcrafted, one-of-a-kind jewellery, take a look at the Saskatoon-born (now Vancouver-based) Métis designer’s label, Three Sisters by Emma. Impressed by the place she’s lived, these vibrant and daring shoulder dusters incorporate conventional Indigenous design with fashionable influences, like style and structure.

Three Sisters by Emma Ocean Cedar danglers, $120, threesistersbyemma.com

For the cosy throw

It doesn’t matter what the season, each Canadian wants one thing to snuggle as much as — and there’s nothing higher than a high quality wool blanket. Why wool? It’s the warmest, most sturdy, longest-lasting blanket you’ll personal. This decide is a weighty six-pound blanket, comprised of 100 per cent eco-ethical wool, harvested from sheep at Topsy Farms on Amherst Island in Lake Ontario. It’s particularly idyllic for campers and cottage people.

Topsy Farms pink tweed with white stripes wool blanket, $225, topsyfarms.com

For travel-inspired artwork

Present-shop art work might be kitschy, however when you discover the precise print it may be a each day reminder of your travels. As a substitute of shopping for artwork on her personal journeys, Kate Golding makes it based mostly on the memorable locations she visits. On this print, the Kingston, Ont.-based artist honours the Bonavista Peninsula in Newfoundland — her intention is to deliver the essence of her magical expertise on “The Rock” into your own home.

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Kate Golding “Bonavista Homes” artwork print, 16×20, $50, shop.kategolding.ca

For the standard sole

Iconic Winnipeg-based firm Manitobah Mukluks has been bringing conventional Indigenous footwear into the highlight since 1997 — and alongside the best way, it’s picked up well-known followers, together with Cindy Crawford, Megan Fox and Jessica Biel. Slip into consolation with these regionally made comfortable moccasins, that includes Canadian deerskin leather-based soles. They’ll solely get higher with age (and put on), because of a patina that develops over time.

Manitobah Mukluks deerskin moccasin, $130, manitobah.ca

For the one-of-a-kind objet

Take off your baubles earlier than mattress and relaxation them on this lovely dish from Mary Ratcliffe Studio. The heirloom furnishings craftsperson hand-makes her objects, together with her in style, one-of-a-kind catch-alls, from her Toronto studio. This iteration takes inspiration from the wealthy pink shale of the Queenston Formation, the geological characteristic that offers Ontario’s Cheltenham Badlands their distinctive panorama.

Mary Ratcliffe Studio massive catch-all in darkish oxide shale, $118, maryratcliffe.studio

The Star understands the restrictions on journey throughout the coronavirus pandemic. However such as you, we dream of travelling once more, and we’re publishing this story with future journeys in thoughts.

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source https://fikiss.net/eight-cool-and-uniquely-local-souvenirs-from-across-canada/ Eight cool (and uniquely local) souvenirs from across Canada published first on https://fikiss.net/ from Karin Gudino https://karingudino.blogspot.com/2021/07/eight-cool-and-uniquely-local-souvenirs.html

[lifeonashelf]

COBAIN, KURT

Dying was definitely the worst thing that ever happened to Kurt Cobain.

That may not read like a particularly brilliant statement. You’re saying: “Taylor, I’m sure if you solicited any random sampling of people to compile a list of the worst things they could imagine happening to them, dying would end up at the top of most of those lists” (although, it would land below “being married to Courtney Love” on mine). However, the reasons I’m positing this in regards to Cobain are only tangentially related to the most common side effect of death being an immediate cessation of one’s mortal presence on this earth. Explanation: Cobain’s too-short life was characterized by profound and abiding existential pain, so in his specific instance I presume ending that life at least came with the not-unwelcome corollary of providing a respite from his suffering. Besides, the manner of his death left ample evidence that he sincerely did not want to be alive anymore, so it’s unlikely he was overly concerned with side effects. In case there’s any misconception that I’m somehow endorsing Kurt Cobain’s suicide, please feel free to text me and I’ll gladly forward you a selfie so you can see the tears that are filling my eyes right now as I revisit the devastating final chapter of a man whose music means the world to me. Yet, somehow, the strip-mining of his memory that began the very day his body was found strikes me as a tragedy which nearly equals what was done to that body.

Tucked away on one of my shelves, you will find a bootleg box set entitled Into the Black (I mean that figuratively; you will not find it—if you really want to see it, I will get it down for you; seriously, don’t start touching my shit). I procured this anthology upon its release in 1994, and back then it had the distinction of being the richest available source of previously-unreleased Nirvana live performances and songs that were never included on any of their albums. Such a find would be largely meaningless today, when a quick internet search can immediately unearth all of those tracks within seconds. But for a distraught fan to whom the prospect of facing a world where there would never be any new Nirvana music again seemed unbearable, Into the Black was an immensely cathartic salve for me at a time when I desperately needed it. The scope of the compendium remains impressive—I think it’s a way better collection than the official With the Lights Out box set that came out 10 years later—and by presenting the included material in chronological order, all the way from Nirvana’s first demo cassette to a complete recording of their final North American concert, the seven hours of tunes on Into the Black provide about the most fitting and comprehensive Kurt Cobain encomium ever delivered.

Which is part of what makes the final track on the anthology arrive like a dagger to the soul and the ears. There really isn’t a name for this closing selection—after all, it isn’t even a song. But the creators of Into the Black had to call it something in the track listing. So they called it exactly what it is: “Courtney Love’s Complete Eulogy For Kurt Cobain.”

This recording was played for a crowd of several thousand despondent fans who gathered in Seattle for a public memorial on April 10, 1994, two days after Cobain’s body was found. Its manifestation occupies a limbo unique to itself, half significant historical document, half ghoulish tabloid spectacle. Though the song “Miss World” was released on March 28, in a very real sense, it was this Courtney Love recital that served as the first proper single from Hole’s Live Through This, which would be released forty-eight hours later and subsequently propel her music career to previously unthinkable heights—a result that arguably stemmed as much from Love’s deft public navigation of her grief process as it did from the fact that Live Through This is a fucking incredible record.

Reactions to “Eulogy” (for lack of a better title) will inevitably vary by listener. If you view Courtney Love as an unfortunate casualty of Kurt Cobain’s war against himself, you will probably hear a shell-shocked widow valiantly facing her worst nightmare. If you view Courtney Love as one of the likely reasons Cobain loaded his shotgun on April 5, 1994, you will probably hear an unhinged harpy using the most intimate words her late husband ever wrote against him in a monstrously demeaning fashion. Over time, I’ve come to rest somewhere in the middle of those two poles, so I don’t quite know what to make of the recording now. What I do know is that I never want to listen to it again, and don’t really need to since it’s still vividly burned into my brain from past spins—I couldn’t bring myself to revisit it while authoring this segment about it. Because even in 1994 when I was playing Into the Black endlessly, even when I was struggling to make sense of something that seemed utterly senseless, and even when the message Love was delivering was allegedly intended for anguished fans just like me, my reaction to that audio was exactly the same as I assume it would be today: I shouldn’t be hearing this.

“Eulogy” essentially features Courtney Love narrating Cobain’s suicide note in its entirety. Since photographs of the document have subsequently surfaced in numerous places, a cursory review plainly reveals that despite Love’s proclamation on the tape that she elected to omit parts of the letter about herself and their daughter Frances “because they’re none of your fucking business”, she does in fact share nearly everything that appears on the page. Irrespective of that, her rationalization is a bizarre one—after all, it can be sensibly argued that nothing in that epistle was really the “fucking business” of anyone outside Cobain’s immediate circle. The mere reading itself denotes a sort of indecent invasion, but it is the peculiar spin the author’s self-appointed spokeswoman put on the broadcast that truly makes it astonishing. Love didn’t simply orate Cobain’s note, she annotated it, interjecting frequently to pose her own biting counterpoints to his words, sometimes leveling these ripostes directly at him, sometimes addressing her running commentary to the royal listening we. Her delivery veers between naked tear-choked agony that will move you no matter how you feel about her, and primal hissing vitriol—at one point on the recording she instructs the entire crowd to call the man they came to mourn “asshole.” It is the sound of a woman purging an entire spectrum of very private emotions in a very public way, it is an unseemly peek under the mortuary drape of a man who had just shot a gaping hole in the hearts of millions, and it is extremely uncomfortable to listen to.

I do not know Courtney Love. I have no desire to know Courtney Love. Only she could tell you how actively she calculated the channeling of her deceased husband’s musical legacy into the birth of her own. I cannot definitively state that Courtney Love exploited Kurt Cobain’s death to make herself famous; it’s not nearly that simple. I can state this again, because it’s true: Live Through This is a fucking amazing record, and it probably would have been a next-level hit even without the supernatural timing of its arrival and the uncanny way several of its key tracks seemed to capture what all of us who were shattered by Cobain’s suicide were feeling at that moment in time. But regardless of her intentions, the transmission she delivered at the Seattle Center on April 10, 1994 was undeniably indecorous. The very circumstance of it feels wrong, and witnessing it via that recording feels even worse. I didn’t want to know what that note said. I wish I didn’t know what that note said. And I wish I could listen to Live Through This—which is, to reiterate, SUCH A FUCKING GREAT RECORD—without inescapably pinpointing it as the moment Courtney Love became the first person to strike gold at Kurt Cobain’s gravesite.

Unfortunately, that was only the beginning of the excavation.

Elsewhere in my apartment, on the bookcase directly to the right of the desk at which I’m sitting, you will also find no fewer than six biographies about Nirvana. In relation to the sum of available material, my library isn’t even close to complete; after a while, I stopped buying every associated text as they were published (once you read a half-dozen volumes about a band that only existed for a half-dozen years, redundancy becomes an issue—also, reading about Nirvana is always a dispiriting experience because no matter how good the book is, you’re inevitably going to reach THAT chapter eventually). Filed next to those is Cobain, a coffee table book which assembles almost every Nirvana-related article that appeared in Rolling Stone during their career. And directly beside that rests an even larger coffee table book entitled Journals. Kurt Cobain is the credited author, which I suppose makes sense, since nearly every word therein is in his handwriting. Nevertheless, that attribution becomes difficult to digest when you consider that the tome was released in 2002—given that Cobain had been dead for 8 years when Journals came out, I’m naturally skeptical about the scope of his involvement in the project.

I have a hard time accepting that this book exists. On one hand, the drawings, correspondence, and scribbled musings which comprise its pages offer a rare and informal glimpse into the mind of one of my favorite songwriters of all time. Yet a much larger part of me can’t discount my impression that by glimpsing these things I have in essence sneaked into Kurt Cobain’s room and picked the lock on his diary. It seems highly improbable he would have ever published this material in this form of his own volition; actually, I suspect he would have been mortified if these logs were leaked while he was alive. The justification, one would suppose, is that Cobain is a singularly iconic figure and remains an object of fascination, therefore any piece of himself he took the time to immortalize in writing has intrinsic value (even a dip recipe he got from his mom, evidently). Except the absence of his agency over this particular venture indicates that the significance of the content showcased in Journals was determined solely by outside agents. Cobain was actually fairly prolific given the brevity of his career—it would take a book roughly the same size as Journals to assemble all of the lyrics he wrote for Nirvana’s catalog. Yet, like any artist, he put most of his work through rigorous internal scrutiny and editorial refinement before he unveiled it to an audience; he was the only person who decided if and when it had value. A lot of the poetry featured in Journals was eventually funneled into Nirvana compositions; those are the pieces we can presume he was ready to share with the world—because he, you know, did share them. But when it comes to the numerous drafts of personal letters that appear throughout the tome, it seems innately obvious he did not want those to be read; if he did, he would have fucking sent them to the people they were addressed to and they wouldn’t still be present in his notebooks to be pilfered.

When the release of this relic was announced, the rabid fan in me was of course curious, and I knew this was an item I wanted in my library. But the altruistic side of me always grappled with that desire; I could never quite concur that Cobain’s inability to object constituted a license for me to read work that he chose to keep to himself. Obviously, Journals was a guaranteed best-seller, which is precisely why it was published (oh, I was never snowed by that “a way for his fans to better understand him” bullshit; I have no doubt “a way for his fans to spend money” was the primary purpose this tome was meant to serve). It certainly has intriguing bits, particularly the sections that show sketches Cobain made for early Nirvana t-shirt designs that were never produced and the numerous mixtape track-listings he itemized (sadly, due to his fondness for bands so deeply obscure they are outside the scope of even a collection as large as mine, I don’t have all the listed tunes to faithfully reproduce any of them for my own listening pleasure).

Other articles such as a grossly-gushy sweethearts note to Courtney Love and a childish screed addressed to MTV are far less interesting to me, since the only parts of Cobain they help me “better understand” are parts I already know far more about than I care to. Good and bad are basically negligible designations here anyway, since the revelatory bits and the patently trivial snippets are all culled from the same invasive pedigree. It certainly didn’t assuage my conflicted feelings about reading Journals when I opened the book and saw that the very first sentence printed in it is, “Don’t read my diary when I’m gone”… a request that becomes somewhat clouded by what Cobain wrote two lines later: “please read my diary… look through my things, and figure me out.” I did look—I looked cover to cover—but since I listened to all of Nirvana’s records long before that, I already had Kurt Cobain figured out about as much as I imagine he wanted myself or any of his fans to. A photocopy that confirms he did ordinary things like pay his phone bill doesn’t do much to augment my appreciation of all the extraordinary things he did.

By exhibiting monumental developments like Cobain’s first stab at the lyrics to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” alongside snippets of humdrum humanity like his jotting down of the 1-800 number for NordikTrack, a chronicle like Journals is ostensibly meant to show that even a man who was exalted as a demigod used to put on his Daniel Johnston shirts one sleeve at a time just like the rest of us. If so, the very existence of Journals negates its own premise, since none of its content would be considered even remotely noteworthy if said content wasn’t scribed by Kurt Cobain—which only advances the misguided hero-worship that plagued his quintessence and encumbered a future suicide victim with spiritual baggage he never welcomed nor desired. Even with my limited understanding of what Kurt Cobain’s art meant to him, I am certain he would never have wanted a book like Journals to happen. Just as I am equally certain that the inflation of his esteem to such excessive heights that his admirers would be itching to read the undisclosed documents he kept in his underwear drawer played a large part in the events of April 5, 1994.

I guess this is as good a time as any to explain why a songwriter who was never a solo artist is the subject of his own entry here—especially since I just chastised the publishers of Journals for giving him special treatment. It’s true that nearly every piece of music Cobain had his hand in was issued under the Nirvana masthead (except for that collaboration with William Burroughs I wrote about a long time ago… but I’m trying to forget that ever came out since it’s not much more enjoyable to listen to than “Eulogy”). Yet, thanks to the same vulturous machinations I’ve been recapping throughout this piece, the Kurt Cobain discography does indeed include one solo album to date. There is an itty-bitty asterisk next to that item, though:

* Kurt Cobain’s solo album came out twenty-one years after Kurt Cobain died.

Oh, and * Kurt Cobain did not participate in the making of Kurt Cobain’s solo album.

Oh, and * Kurt Cobain’s solo album is not technically an album.

Oh, also * Most of the songs on Kurt Cobain’s solo album are not actually songs.

Oh, and lastly * When Kurt Cobain recorded this solo not-album of mostly not-songs, he had no idea that anyone was ever going to hear it.

The sort-of record I’m referring to was assigned the title Montage of Heck, which is needlessly confusing for anyone familiar with Nirvana’s history, since Montage of Heck was originally the title Cobain bestowed upon one of his earliest demo cassettes. The Montage I’m examining in this essay bears no relation to that one; rather, Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings is an ill-considered compilation that was released in conjunction with a congruently-monikered and congruently ill-considered 2015 documentary. Licentiously-hyped as one of the most profound musical portraits ever unveiled, Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck was directed by filmmaker Brett Morgen, who was granted unprecedented access to Cobain’s personal archives and shaped that material into an allegedly insightful study of the artist’s epigrammatic life and shocking death. Since she had already exhausted the potential for monetizing her late husband’s sketchpads, Courtney Love upped the ante for this project by allowing Morgen to use the family’s personal home videos as the film’s major selling point—evidently, neither party gave a shit that two decades earlier Cobain expressed how violated he felt when strangers invaded his private life in a song bluntly entitled “Rape Me”.

I’ll keep my review of the biopic Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck brief—mostly because I didn’t enjoy it at all and the overriding emotion I was left with after watching it was anger. But it is worth mentioning here, since it was similarly levied with the purported intention of making its viewers “better understand” its subject. Strange, then, that the two most memorable moments in the movie are unabashedly salacious, and both are focused on candid glimpses of Courtney Love’s behind-the-scenes comportment rather than her husband’s. If you’re wondering what Love’s breasts looked like in the early-‘90s, or if you relish the notion of watching her toddle around the couple’s apartment in a state of opiated incoherence in the presence of their baby daughter… then, brothers and sisters, this film is the Casablanca of that specific genre. But anyone seeking a meaningful exploration of what kind of person Cobain was outside the limelight is bound for disappointment since Montage mostly underscores his least appealing traits, the unpleasant facets of his humanity that we as fans have trained ourselves to banish from our thoughts as we continue applauding his inimitable artistic contributions. Aspects which, of course, Courtney Love is central to. Her odious presence throughout the documentary, and indeed in Cobain’s orbit, serves as a manifest reminder that a man we lionize for writing some of the most exquisite songs of all time was also deeply in love with a vulgar, revolting succubus. And perhaps this is a key reason why revisiting him via panegyrics like Montage of Heck and Journals always leaves a sour aftertaste—as long as Courtney Love has stewardship over his legacy, the worst thing Kurt Cobain ever did will be always be a principal figure in each new celebration of the best things he did.

In addition to her boobie videos, Love also turned over a box of cassette tapes to Brett Morgen (if memory serves, this batch of recordings was dutifully referred to as a “treasure trove” in every press release about the project I read). Morgen cherry-picked a few bits of music from this lot for usage in his movie, which were naturally cobbled into a soundtrack that was touted to fans as a cache of “previously-unheard music by Kurt Cobain.” Since the filmmaker was ostensibly the one who decided what portions of the tapes to appropriate, he is recognized in Montage of Heck’s liner notes as its “Executive Producer”—a dubious acknowledgement that gives Brett Morgen the distinction of being the only person in the history of audio engineering credited with producing an album whose recording he wasn’t actually present for, by an artist he never even met.    

Morgen’s pastiche job doesn’t merely form the basis of Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings, it is the disc’s entirety. Stripped of any historical provenance generous listeners may feel obligated to apply, what the proffered material basically amounts to is a half-hour of Kurt Cobain getting stoned in his living room and fucking around on a series of out-of-tune guitars. I wasn’t present for Morgen’s listening party, so I can only speculate on how much music was available for him to sift through, or what the stuff he rejected as inadequate sounded like. But this much is clear: the pieces he chose to disseminate on Montage of Heck range from drearily frivolous to blatantly insulting. The disc offers no real insights (unless you didn’t already know Kurt Cobain got high or played guitar, I suppose), and fans searching the conclave for Nirvana songs that might-have-been will merely discover that Cobain was sensible enough not to pursue an inane number called “Burn My Britches” any further than the two-minute segment he toyed with on his couch here.

Perhaps fittingly, the disc opens with the unmistakable bubbling of a bong, which effectively sets the tone for what follows: Cobain yodeling to warm his pipes up before launching into a rudimentary power chord sequence and yodeling over that for a little while for no apparent purpose (at least Morgen gave the cut a suitable title—it’s called “The Yodel Song”). Elsewhere, attempts are made to tie this cycle of doodles into the songwriter’s established canon, such as the inclusion of the promisingly-dubbed “Scoff (Early Demo)”. Yet, while the prospect of hearing a preliminary version of the 7th-best number on Bleach may seem like cause for celebration, the actual track lands like a slap to the face once you hear that this extract which Morgen judged as precious enough for commercial immortality merely consists of Cobain scat-growling gibberish lyrics over the tune’s main riff until the tape unceremoniously cuts off 38-seconds later; identifying this nothing-morsel as a rough draft of the song “Scoff” is akin to calling a piece of paper with the word “It” typed on it a rough draft of A Tale of Two Cities. Such is the caliber of material spotlighted on Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings, a “treasure trove” that would have been better left buried.    

One of the few genuine items of interest among the detritus is “Reverb Experiment”, which consists of three minutes of droning throwaway instrumental noodling, but still sounds kind of cool since a lot of it sounds like the refrain of Slayer’s “Dead Skin Mask”. There’s also a fairly well-formed idea called “Desire” that might have been turned into something striking if its author had chosen to develop it, and the closing number “She Only Lies” is noteworthy since it features Cobain working out an idea on bass guitar instead. Regardless, nothing on Montage of Heck justifies the ballyhoo that accompanied its release, and even the marginally decent pieces are unworthy of mention on their composer’s resume—although, Brett Morgen certainly got a great resume item out of the deal; now he can call himself a “filmmaker / record producer.”

However, this was Kurt Cobain who documented these scraps on the battery-operated boombox in his apartment. And he’s an icon, remember? So—said Brett Morgen and Courtney Love and everyone at Universal Music who had their dollar-bill-mounted fishhooks in the water of this endeavor—Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings shouldn’t be treated like some gratuitous cash-grab collation of idle time-killers which Cobain thought so little of he didn’t bother revisiting most of them again. No, no, no. This is an Event. Try this: Montage captures a peerlessly illustrious artist as his fans have never heard him before, in his rawest, most intimate form, no studio, no audience, just a man and his guitar seizing inspiration out of the ether and channeling it into his instrument as he explores new incarnations of the sound that made Nirvana the band that launched a revolution. Well, hey, that sounds pretty good; we can really shift some units with an idea like that. The only problem is, if we’re going to treat this thing like a legitimate album, it has to have a legitimate hit single we can sell it with. And how do you dig a unicorn out of a pile of lo-fi cassette tapes that live in a shoebox?

Luckily, Brett Morgen found just the solution for this quandary inside that shoebox.

“And I Love Her” was issued with all the buzz of an actual lost Nirvana song—it was even pressed on 7” vinyl like a proper single. It didn’t really matter that the sound quality was wispy, nor that the performance wasn’t particularly polished. This was a recording of Kurt Cobain playing a fucking Beatles tune, dude, and not only was it previously-unavailable, no one even knew it fucking existed. And the internet went apeshit. The cosmic synchronicity of this find couldn’t have been scripted any better: the architect of the band who electrified the zeitgeist in the 1990’s covering the band who electrified the zeitgeist 30 years earlier, arguably the only other rock group in history whose rapid ascension to immortality Nirvana’s was comparable to. The concept alone was glorious, and it wasn’t merely some music nerd’s wetdream—this Moment in musical mythology Actually Happened.

Here’s the thing, though: Kurt Cobain’s rendition of “And I Love Her” only has significance because people desperately wanted it to, NEEDED it to. It was still just a lark the dude recorded in his living room one lazy night, and it still sounds just as slapdash as every other fragmentary living room lark featured on Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings. There isn’t anything especially revelatory about Cobain esteeming The Beatles so highly that he learned to play one of their songs—both his backstory and his discography are liberally sprinkled with evidence he appreciated the Fab Four’s work, and in case you missed the homages there, nearly every piece of literature ever written about Kurt Cobain has helpfully cited the “Beatle-esque hooks” in songs like “About A Girl” and “In Bloom” to underline his unambiguous approbation. Even casual Nirvana fans were surely already well aware that Cobain enjoyed playing songs by musicians he admired—the dozen-or-so covers in the band’s repertoire and the fact that nearly half the tunes which comprised their legendary MTV Unplugged performance weren’t written by Nirvana provided some telling clues on that front.

The level of hype which heralded the arrival of “And I Love Her” (and Montage of Heck as a whole) intimated that a vital missing piece of the Kurt Cobain puzzle had finally been unearthed. Yet the disc supplies nothing more than a disenchanting anticlimax once you actually listen to it and ascertain that the venerated songwriter’s busy-work wasn’t all that impressive. Perhaps this is more a result of a faulty selection process—I’m willing to imagine there is some truly fantastic material on those tapes which Brett Morgen overlooked for whatever reason—but whether or not Cobain’s archives are ripe with undiscovered gems, the resounding impact of The Home Recordings is much the same as that of Journals: nearly everything in that time capsule would be appraised as inconsequential nonsense if it wasn’t Kurt Cobain’s nonsense. Which takes us right back to the pitfalls of deifying any musician to such a degree that every note they ever played is assigned an implied indispensability, even the botched ones that actually make them sound like a less gifted musician than they were.

Besides, we Nirvana fans already got our missing piece. That happened in 2002, with the release of the band’s self-titled greatest hits package. The one I bought despite owning every record which sourced that compilation, solely because there were three minutes and thirty-eight seconds of music on there I had never heard—the one and only known completed and previously-unreleased Nirvana song: “You Know You’re Right”. (Although, Courtney Love had the audacity to debut that tune way back in 1995 when she performed it as part of Hole’s MTV Unplugged set—seriously, sometimes I wonder if every single thing she’s done in the past 25 years has been predicated on a willful and concerted effort to make everyone who loves Nirvana hate her; although, her campaign of terror has made it nearly impossible to even mention Nirvana without also mentioning her, so maybe she’s a fucking genius).

In stark contrast with the nebulous scribbles on Montage of Heck or the interesting but inessential rehearsal tracks which dominated With the Lights Out, “You Know You’re Right” is indeed a revelation of almost religious proportions, a roaring burst of dynamism that is as powerful as anything else in Nirvana’s catalog—the lone tantalizing taste of a fourth record the band would never get to make, a frozen moment of fragile optimism captured just before the world as we knew it ended. “You Know You’re Right” is fucking AWESOME, and its explosive potency is all the more impressive considering that the lone recording of it which exists was essentially the group’s first stab at it. It is one of my absolute favorite songs in a catalog bursting with favorites. And I cried the first time I heard it. And I cried the second time I heard it. And the third… And, 17 years onward, I cried when I listened to it moments ago.

Plenty of Cobain’s tunes have this effect on me. Still, “You Know You’re Right” is a singular case. And I know exactly why that song, above all others, devastates me the most. It’s not because the lyrics are especially poignant, even though they are. It’s not because the track’s intoxicating promise reminds me of precisely how much all of us lost on April 5, 1994, even though it does. The reason “You Know You’re Right” tears my fucking guts out every time I hear it… is because that was it. That was the final song Nirvana recorded. And after it came out, there would never be any more. “You Know You’re Right” was the moment I had to say goodbye to Kurt Cobain forever.

I did that. And I think it’s time for the rest of the world to let him sleep, too.

Over the years, I have accumulated bootlegs of more than 200 Nirvana concerts. Roughly 150 of those shows are phenomenal, and plenty of them are of strong enough audio quality to warrant an official disclosure. That is the true “treasure trove,” a nearly limitless stockpile of unreleased Kurt Cobain recordings that could fuel a supplementary Nirvana release every single year for the rest of human history. And we already know he wanted an audience to hear that music, because he stepped onto the stage and played it for them. Since the continued fracking of his legacy is inevitable, by all means, the Cobain estate should absolutely tap into that wellspring whenever the marketplace is clamoring for fresh product or Courtney Love is clamoring for further cosmetic augmentation. I’ll buy every goddamn disc they put out, and I’ll probably buy them all on vinyl, too. And if you, personally, feel the need to explore the more obscure corners of Cobain’s discography, there are already plenty of places you can look—start with the single for “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, where you’ll find the tremendous B-side “Even In His Youth” and a killer alternate recording of “Aneurysm” that blows the version on Incesticide out of the water.

Hey, I’m a fan first and a snarky asshole second; I get it. I can surely identify with the sustained hysteria enveloping his heritage. Cobain’s suicide was the single most traumatic event of my teen-hood, and all these years later I can still tell you where I was, what I was wearing, and even what I was eating when I first heard the horrifying news of his departure (my family’s comic book store in Anaheim Hills, a Groo the Wanderer t-shirt, and a foot-long tuna on white from Subway). Still, even then, I had a firm pragmatic grasp on my grief. Kurt Cobain wasn’t my mentor, my hero, someone who embodied the man I hoped to eventually be when I reached his epoch of then-unimaginable elder statesmanship (hey, when you’re fifteen, 27 seems like an eternity away—at the time I assumed when I was Cobain’s age I’d probably be doing all sorts of old-people shit like buying a house and raising babies… or at least finally having sex). He wasn’t deity to me, he was simply someone responsible for some of the most imperative music in my life; unfortunately, since music has always been a lot more imperative in my life than deities, his abrupt absence was crushing nonetheless.

But the nature of Cobain’s subsequent beatification seems to suggest that many of his fans choose to remember him as something more, a shooting star that painted a tapestry of light across the heavens before inexorably crashing down to earth, “the grunge-poet voice of a generation” and all that. Hell, to many people, he was. But despite his canonization by the masses, Kurt Cobain was not a messiah and never strived to be. He was flawed and beautiful and complex, and a mystery even to himself—in other words: he was just as fucked-up and human as any of us. Kurt Cobain is not some riddle to be solved; we will never decode him because he didn’t stay the course of his journey long enough to find out who “him” really was or would become. And his awful conclusion will never make sense, because there’s ultimately nothing sensible about putting a shotgun in your mouth and ending a life that meant so much to so many when it had barely just begun.

As we near the 25th anniversary of Cobain’s death, let’s resolve to (finally) allow him his humanity again, and to allow the still-buried pieces of his spirit he chose to keep solely for himself to remain interred with him. Because we’re only paying disservice to the topsoil of his legacy by continuing to dig. And besides, we have Bleach, we have Nevermind, we have In Utero, we have Unplugged, we have a few-dozen additional non-album tracks, and we have “You Know You’re Right”—Kurt Cobain already gave far more of himself to the world than any of us were entitled to ask for.

So if you want to “better understand” him, you won’t achieve that by reading his diary, or seeing his widow’s areolae, or hearing him offhandedly strum some ditty from his childhood to amuse himself. The best avenue available for those of us who never met Cobain to look through his things and figure him out is lighting a candle, putting on a set of headphones, and letting the breathtaking majesty of “All Apologies” surge out of those speakers and into our souls. There is no more intimate way to honor him than that. Nor should there be. Understanding Kurt Cobain isn’t necessary. As long as we understand his music, and we understand what it means to us.

We don’t need his secrets. We have his songs. And for anyone who truly holds the memory of Kurt Cobain in their heart, that’s enough.

 March 25, 2019

[burntt00thbrush]

MoMaVISITz

Six Colorful Inside Jobs. John Baldessari. 1977

The way Katie put it when commenting on this piece, is that Baldessari was making a comedy of what contemporary artists were executing and calling art in the seventies. I think the entire body of work by Baldessari is based upon the notion of making art out of ‘nothing’ in spite of all the ‘nothing’ he might have seen in the corpus of American painting at the time.

Much of Baldessari’s work incorporates repetition; he paints an entire room over six days in primary and secondary colors. The film is 33 minutes and is not necessarily enthralling, but I find that the simplicity of this execution, measured in days of the week successfully questions the act of art-making. Looking at it, it reminds me of an embellished isolation - the colors pose a pleasant aesthetic and yet this lonely and monotonous task does not match this attractiveness. In the light of questions we have confronted in class about the creation of meaning I think this piece successfully confronts the definition of the artist in an elegant yet cynical manner. Even though he executed it in the seventies, I think its message is timeless.

The End. Edward Ruscha. 1991.

I was not familiar with Ruscha prior to this museum visit and in terms of aesthetics I am not particularly fond of this painting. Yet, when I first saw it, I did not immediately understand that it was a painting.

Appropriation of media elements was super hot in the fifties, what with Warhol and the rest of Pop art, but a lot of these pieces tend to be unapologetic in their display as iconic artifacts- they’re loud. The End is subtle. Ruscha didn’t simply re-appropriate a print of the The End- he went out of his way to reproduce an image so familiar and re-contextualized it using the medium and site-specificity of the work. In this way the illusion is disclosed literally as well as metaphorically... What does The End mean now that it has been been stripped of its original function as a moving image ? While pondering it for some time, for me this piece foreshadows the grim and superficial reality of media texts in our age- as placed in this specific location at this time in history.

3 Standard Stoppages. Marcel Duchamp. 1913-14.

Out of all the pieces that Duchamp has made, I find this to be his most inventive ready-made. Kate talked about it at length, because t

I recognize the relevance of this artist’s ready mades, particularly because they mark the beginning of the conceptual journey that artists make in the 20th century; they subvert the concept and meaning of what is original and what is beautiful. Whereas Fountain boldly subverts these notions, 3 Standard Stoppages “creates new units of measure” - in this way challenging rationality and power structures embedded within the structural frameworks that we abide to... It is somewhat empowering, and for me personally, controversial for this to be sitting in an institution such as the MoMa.

Controversial because as this piece sits in the MoMa with a small signage next to it recounting the concept, in a room full of other pieces by the same artist- how many will actually stop to read it? Who is this piece for? Will this concept reach the people it needs to reach and question the people it needs to question?

Do The Dance. Elizabeth Murray. 2005

As opposed to the other pieces I have talked about thus far which are fleshed out in their conceptual investment; I find the craft in Murray’s piece to be refreshing in contrast to the rest of the work in this section of the Moma. I am attracted to its form and size- unconfined by a canvas and lacking flatness- it has a playful and forward presence in the room.

The composition of curvatures, colors and patterns reminded me of stomach intestines, New York City on a late summer afternoon, various animals, vaginas, my grandma and cars among many other things. Rather than representing nothing, I feel like it could potentially represent everything. Are those synonymous at this point, considering what we’ve talked about in class? Pieces like these remind me of the significance of abstract form and making.

Untitled (73/14).  Gego. 1973.

I have now realized that much of the work that left an impression on me at the MoMa on this specific day was either subtle or bold. Gego’s pieces are both... subtle and bold. The sculptures on display were made of thin copper wire and cast shadows on floor and walls, delicate and yet expanding their being-ness.

I chose this 2-D piece because I thought it was characterised by an unlikely depth I haven’t normally found in abstract geometric pieces. Gego’s body of work is aesthetically beautiful even though it’s comprised of grids and lines. As this frail X invades the foreground of the canvas, I think the same conceptual notions about subversion of order and power in Duchamp’s piece are insinuated clearly in this abstraction.

As Kate mentioned herself about different pieces- who knows if I am reading too much into these works- who knows what the artist intended unless s(h)e explicitly announced it- but isn’t that what conceptual art is all about? Isn’t the conversation that modern art exudes an echo-chamber of speculation?

[internetandnetwork]

E-Commerce Web Design: 6 Best Practices for a Positive Customer Experience

People can form an opinion about your website in a fraction of a second, which means first impressions do matter.

A vast majority of customers have agreed that businesses should have a good quality website, as per a recent survey. And even more so, if your target market comprises millennials and Gen Z.

You can make sure that your existing, as well as potential customers, have a positive experience with your brand by implementing these best practices. Here are six eCommerce website design factors that can significantly influence what prospects think about your site and brand.

Consistent Branding

A person familiar with your company will naturally anticipate your website to reflect your brand’s style and personality. Plus, you wouldn’t want them to land on your site and ask themselves whether they are in the right place or not. Therefore, the first and foremost step you should take while designing your website is to consider an omnichannel strategy with your branding in order to offer a persistent customer experience across all your digital channels and physical location.

Ensure that your brand logo is clearly visible on your homepage and other primary pages. If you are using a template for your web design, then tailor-make it to match your branding by picking the same font styles and colors that you deploy on things such as your shopping bags, business cards, etc.

Besides these, your omnichannel approach should also incorporate your brand messaging and voice. For instance, your website promotional copy should be similar to what is in your brand stores or social media channels. Moreover, spread out your brand messaging through your interactions with online customers using video tools or chat.

Less Is More

According to reports, almost two-thirds of customers said they prefer interacting with visually appealing websites. No matter how enticing it is to include loads of text, images, and other beautiful elements when it comes to your website’s homepage design, remember to keep it simple. Adding too many items can be a bit overwhelming for your site visitors; therefore, remember here, less is more.

Consider your site’s homepage as your shopfront. You don’t place every single item you sell on the front window itself, right, do you? Rather, you should focus your efforts on engaging and attracting prospects using some words or phrases that communicate your key message along with a few compelling graphics.

Leaving an appropriate amount of white space (also known as the negative space) provides balance and breathing space for other elements in your website. It reduces disturbances and helps the customers digest and discern your content and offerings. Moreover, using bullet points in your product or service pages can help make the content easier to digest.

High-Quality Images

You must have heard that an image tells a story just as perfectly as, if not way better than, a set of words. However, this is especially true when it comes to your website. Human beings tend to understand things a lot better and easier when presented in the form of graphics instead of text. According to a recent study, a vast majority of customers admitted that great images greatly influenced their purchase decisions.

With people increasingly turning to websites to shop for products, images are now playing a more prominent role than ever. Research suggests that multiple camera angles, close-ups, and distance shots greatly influence whether or not the shoppers purchase a particular product.

If you are adept at photography and have a good camera and lighting available, you can capture images yourself. If not, you can always hire a professional photographer. Ensure that you have good but realistic images of your products to minimize the number of returns or exchanges. Around a quarter of total products bought online are returned because they look different in reality than in images.

However, capitalizing on images isn’t just meant for brands selling products. Lifestyle images portraying your services can help brands engage and connect with their prospects too.

Intuitive Navigation

A good majority of the customers think that the most crucial factor in a website’s design is that it makes it easier for them to find what they are looking for, and that’s the way it should be. This means placing elements where the visitors expect them to be so that they can move through the buyer’s journey without any disturbances. If this isn’t how things work on your website, you may lose a lot of potential customers and conversions.

Ensure that your navbar is present at an easy-to-find and predictable position, like in the header, sidebar, or top left or right corner. Try using a color combination that helps it stand out, improving its visibility and allowing visitors to locate it more easily. Most website templates have navigation bars in place, considering the best practices. Sticky navigation menus are also a great option as they stay fixed in one position as a visitor browses your site, eliminating the need for them to scroll all the way up to locate the menu on lengthy pages.

Also, avoid getting too creative here. An attempt to use clever or catchy titles at the cost of clarity might backfire. Therefore use simple and easily understandable navigation titles. For instance, you may think that using “Ring Us Up” as a title for your Contact page is more creative and stylish, but using the title “Contact Us” is clear-cut. Don’t waste your energy here. In addition to all this, be sure to add the site search feature to allow the visitors to instantly search and find what they want without having to look for it everywhere by themselves. Almost half of the buyers don’t purchase because they could not find what they wanted in the first place.

Clear Call-to-Action

Good site navigation also includes providing a crystal-clear CTA button for the visitors. This guides the prospects about their next action, whether they should buy, sign up, or subscribe. Your call-to-action needs to stand out, be smooth and natural in order to boost your conversion rates.

There is no definite color choice for your CTA buttons, but red and orange are preferred colors that have shown to increase conversions. Whatever color you pick, the bottom line is that your CTA button should pop out from the page and grab the visitors’ attention, meaning you should use a highly visible color against your background color.

Last but not least, your call-to-action should use trigger words or phrases that easily tell the visitors what they should do next, i.e., guide them towards the desired action. For example, your CTAs can include “add to cart,” “subscribe now,” or “sign up today,” etc.

Responsive Design

Customers are increasingly using mobile devices to surf the internet or for online shopping. In fact, today, mobile traffic constitutes half of the total internet traffic. Therefore, having a mobile-friendly website designed to load seamlessly across all types of devices eliminates the need for the visitors to adjust the display themselves by pinching their screen. As per data, the number of eCommerce transactions taking place via mobile devices will only increase in the coming years.

Although today most website templates have responsive design keeping mobile-friendliness in mind, it is necessary to evaluate their load time too. Customers today have a very short attention span, and they expect the site to load within a second or two, and even a delay of a couple of seconds is highly likely to drive most users away.

As mentioned above, optimize your images before uploading them on the website to speed up your page load times. Be sure to take the necessary measures to increase your site’s loading speed and have a responsive design, as even a few seconds of delay can heavily distract the users.

Conclusion

Today’s customers tend to develop an instant liking for brands that value their time, money, and emotions. It takes them less than a second to form an image of your brand based on your website, it’s loading speed, content, and most importantly, design.

To make sure your first impression is right, you can deploy these six best practices to build an engaging, responsive, and persuasive eCommerce website design. With these practices, you will be able to create a positive customer experience, influence the way people perceive your brand, and foster a long-term relationship with them.

In essence, it benefits your customers as well as your bottom line simultaneously. It is a win-win situation!

Hariom Balhara is an inventive person who has been doing intensive research in particular topics and writing blogs and articles for Tireless IT Services. Tireless IT Services is a digital marketing, SEO, SMO, PPC, and web development company that comes with massive experiences.  We specialize in digital marketing, web designing and development, graphic design, and a lot more.

SOURCE : E-Commerce Web Design: 6 Best Practices for a Positive Customer Experience

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Buy Research Papers ⇒ No Plagiarism ≡ Low Prices ≡ Discounts Create a profile to get full entry to our articles and stories, together with these by McKinsey Quarterly and the McKinsey Global Institute, and to subscribe to our newsletters and e mail alerts. Gen Z shoppers are mostly nicely educated about brands and the realities behind them. When they don't seem to be, they know how to entry information and develop a point of view quickly. If a model advertises range however lacks variety within its own ranks, for example, that contradiction might be seen. For instance, 20 % of them don't consider themselves exclusively heterosexual, as opposed to 10 p.c for other generations. Sixty p.c of Gen Zers suppose that same-sex couples should be able to adopt kids—ten proportion factors greater than people in different generations do. Using superior ethnographic methods , researchers carried out one hundred twenty qualitative interviews in Recife, Rio de Janeiro, and São Paulo with influential people from this era. Besides the field analysis, 90 Gen Zers participated in focus groups in these three cities, in addition to in Florianópolis and Goiânia. From October three to 11, we also carried out a web-based survey with 2,321 men and women from 14 to sixty four years of age and numerous socioeconomic brackets in Brazil. Companies also can use a survey strategy to estimate the impression of particular artistic decisions. Let’s say that your product category is espresso, and you need to select between two inventive pitches that both scored 4.0, each with a €four hundred,000 weekly airtime finances. What’s extra, Gen Z was raised at a time of world financial stress—actually, the best financial downturn in Brazil’s historical past. These challenges made Gen Zers less idealistic than the millennials we surveyed . Many Gen Zers are keenly conscious of the necessity to save for the future and see job stability as more important than a excessive salary. Under the TAF, the Fed auctioned 28-day and, later, eighty four-day loans to U.S. and overseas banks in usually sound situation. “The TAF enabled the Federal Reserve to offer time period funds to a broader vary of counterparties and against a broader vary of collateral than it could via open market operations. As a result, the TAF helped promote the distribution of liquidity when unsecured bank funding markets were beneath stress. Campaign C emphasizes elaboration and originality, and Campaign D emphasizes creative worth and synthesis. Ads with a high level of inventive creativity comprise aesthetically appealing verbal, visual, or sound elements. Their production quality is high, their dialogue is clever, their color palette is unique, or their music is memorable. As a outcome, consumers often view the ads as virtually a piece of art quite than a blatant gross sales pitch. One advert we studied, which scored among the highest in artistic worth, was an animated industrial for Danone’s Fantasia yogurt that aired at the end of 2009. In truth, members of the other generations we surveyed share this mind-set. Seventy % of our respondents say they attempt to buy merchandise from companies they contemplate moral. Eighty p.c say they remember at least one scandal or controversy involving a company. About sixty five p.c try to study the origins of anything they buy—the place it's made, what it's created from, and how it is made. About eighty percent refuse to buy items from companies involved in scandals. It confirmed a girl floating on a flower petal by way of a sea of Fantasia yogurt, surrounded by flowers laden with fruits. Elaboration refers to the amount of element given in a response, and abstractness measures the diploma to which a slogan or a word strikes past being a label for one thing concrete. Seventy-six p.c of Gen Zers say they're non secular. At the same time, they are also the era most open to quite a lot of themes not necessarily aligned with the broader beliefs of their declared religions. They already present a high desire for normal employment rather than freelance or part-time work, which may come as a shock compared to the attitude of millennials, for instance. They don’t distinguish between associates they meet online and friends within the bodily world. They continually circulate between communities that promote their causes by exploiting the excessive level of mobilization expertise makes possible. Gen Zers value online communities because they allow individuals of various economic circumstances to attach and mobilize around causes and pursuits.