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passivenovember · 4 months

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thinking about the first time Billy has cherry pie and the lengths he'll travel to have it again.

Fresh Cherries (part one)

Because it's December, Neil makes concessions.

Billy isn't allowed to do whatever he wants, never that, but his leash isn't vice-like. There's some give as he tests his boundaries when there's snow on the ground. Billy isn't sure why, but he isn't about to ruin a good thing.

But. Steve calls on a Wednesday night and says, "Come over."

Billy has to chew and swallow the automated response he's used to giving. It's a school night, Neil'd kill me, and feels like he just got dusted with sugar and put in the oven. Says, "Sure. Let me ask my dad."

"Just sneak out," Steve tells him.

Billy checks the alarm clock on his bedside table. "It's seven thirty."

"So?"

"So, it's not sneaking out hours."

"You're such a stick in the mud," Steve says.

"I'm not, I just--" don't feel like getting my teeth knocked in. Billy picks at the threads in his duvet cover. Counts to three. "I want to be a good influence on you, Harrington."

Steve squaks. Some bright, quaffed bird. "I'm a year older than you!"

"Only 'cause you got held back in the third grade," Billy says. He flops over onto his belly, bringing the phone with him as he tries not to get wrapped up in the chord when Steve laughs.

"This is what I get for telling you all my deepest darkest shit," Steve rustles on the other end of the line and Billy imagines him in bed, or laying on the couch. Maybe flat on the carpet, near the fireplace, shirtless and eating chocolate covered strawberries--

"C'mon," Steve says gently, "Be a bad influence, come hang out with me."

"My dad--"

"Just sneak out, Malibu."

Billy grunts, not wanting to tell the truth, kind of into how Steve's growing more and more whiny as the scene presses on. "I dunno."

"C'mon, it's not hard. I sneak out all the time. Out of my house and into my car and in through your window--"

"--That's different. Your parents don't give a shit where you are."

"You're right. Who cares, though? I'd still sneak out to see you even if they had a bell permanently installed around my neck."

Billy's heart feels like raw cookie dough, sticking to the ribs around him as he bakes and proves under some bright, shining, plastic feeling. "Are they home this week?"

"Nope," Steve says, and the P explodes over the phone line. Wipes out half the city in his excitement. "Mom bought a ton of shit to get me through 'till the twenty-eighth, so we can--"

"You're spending Christmas alone?"

"I always spend Christmas alone," Steve says. Quiet sits heavy, like a filed of snow, between them. Stretching out in every direction. "It's not a big deal. We celebrate Christmas in November."

"With Thanksgiving?"

"Nah, right at the start of November."

"Alongside Halloween?" Billy spats, sitting upright on the mattress. It jostles underneath him. He feels like a raft lost in some huge, freezing, disorienting sea.

He tries to get his barring's, tries to sink his heel into Steve's answering laugh but its hollow like a dead tree, "One year Santa was my dad, dressed as the Cowardly Lion." Steve says.

Billy tries to imagine it. He puts the hard, chilled seed of Steve's childhood near his molars and chews on it for a while, trying to envision the light refracted from all the ways childhood has to bend and contort to suit a kid's parents.

"I never believed in Santa," He says. An offering. Sadness for sadness, or something, like I see you.

Steve hums, and that horrible field of ice and snow between them melts, just like it always does. "Come over," He says, not as hollow as before. Blooming.

Billy puts his shoes on.

The Harringtons live in some demented alternate reality where Christmas in December is all for show. Their house has been decorated since the last time Billy was here in Saturday.

He knocks and stares down at Santa, the looming silver-screen image from his childhood, dressed in a floral button down, board shorts and flip flops. Somehow feels colder. When Steve opens the door, he points at it.

"My mom's theme this year is Blue Hawaii." Steve says.

Billy stumbles over the threshold, teeth chattering to shards in his skull. "That's not a Christmas Movie."

"Yeah, but it turns out, Santa can be anything. He's kinda like a chameleon."

"Santa isn't Elvis."

"He could be," Steve says.

Billy shrugs out of his jacket, handing it off, like always. Steve holds it close to his chest, watching with amusement as Billy takes in the foyer. Toes out of his snow-covered boots. "It's like a tiki bar made of pine trees instead of sweet grass."

Steve nods, still clutching the jacket.

His eyes are red.

Billy squints at him, padding closer. "Are you high?"

Steve giggles, bright like a fresh log in the fire.

Billy scrubs a hand across his face, trying to hide the way it makes him go up in Steve's flame. "You're such a dork."

"What? I thought we could--"

"I only have a few hours," Billy tells him gently, trying not to get lost in the sleepy, apple-red flush across Steve's perfect nose. "My dad'll--"

"Just tell him I'm left on my own for Christmas. Maybe he'll feel sorry for me and let you stay the night."

"How do you think I got him to agree to an 11:30 curfew?"

Steve blinks at him and then explodes into glowing, glaring joy. "Are you shitting me?"

"Nope, I'm all yours 'till 11:30."

Steve flushes again, clutching Billy's jacket closer to his chest. "But it's a school night--"

"Guess my old man took pitty on you. Such a lonely boy in his Elvis-themed mansion on the hill, it's kinda pathetic," Billy says, "In a cute way."

"It's not Elvis," Steve says, still grinning, "It's Blue Hawaii."

"Still cute," Billy shrugs, feeling hot all over. Feeling proud of himself. He nearly combusts when Steve moves into his space, eyes nearly going cross to focus on the bridge of Steve's nose.

Billy holds his breath.

He waits for Steve to say something, feeling that huge filed stretch out between them, but it's not snow-covered now.

It's thawing. It's burning up.

Steve wets his lips.

"Uh," Billy says intelligently, looking down when the sleeve of his jacket tugs at him, still viced in Steve's hold. "You can put that in the closet," Billy tells him, caught on the strech of skin over Steve's knuckles. "If you want."

"I don't," Steve tells him.

Billy looks up, eyes crossing again.

Steve winks. "You're warm," He says but Billy feels it, more than anything else.

The smell of marijuana and pine is overwhelming, searing through the air after the first shared joint.

Billy rolls his neck and asks if they can crack a window. Steve blinks at him, sealing the second joint with spit. "You trying to get caught, or something?"

"Caught?" Billy asks, trying to force his shoulders to relax. "But. I thought--"

"--The neighbors are nosy 'round these parts." Steve says. He tucks his rolling tray under the coffee table, and Billy watches with droopy red eyes the way his lips close around the butt of the thing.

Steve's lips are perfect.

If Billy was an artist he'd fill sketchbooks with watercolor renditions of that cupid's bow. His fingers would permanently stain with lapping waves of purple-pink, etching the warmth of breath into his nail beds so that the faucet would never run clear of this boy.

He could get lost in those lips. That hair--

Steve hands him the joint and Billy takes it, focusing on the cherry so he won't get lost in Steve's eyes, too, because he's looking. Always.

Billy tries not to drown in it and fails when Steve says, "Y'know. Your eyes are kinda like Blue Hawaii."

"Again with Elvis?" Billy rolls them, handing the joint back. "You're the one who stole his wig."

"My hair is not a wig, fuck you."

"Coulda fooled me."

Steve holds smoke in his lungs, exhaling it toward the popcorn ceiling as he says, "Your eyes are blue."

Billy snorts, laying with his back on the carpet.

"They're the bluest things I've ever seen," Steve says, ashing the joint. "And I've tried to find something bluer. Around town. I even went to the library to look for something in an atlas when Indiana disappointed me, like maybe the ocean is bluer and clearer in the Caribbean, or something, but no."

Billy's heart thumps, nailing his ribs to the floor underneath.

He counts the joints in the popcorn overhead. He feels Steve looking at him, feels himself burning from the inside.

"You're just the most detailed asshole who's ever lived," Steve says, softly.

Billy could sink into it. "Thanks."

Silence falls, again. It's comfortable. Billy stretches, a little bit, twisting until his spine cracks, until he feels like he could pass out from how relaxed he is.

Steve hands him the joint.

Billy shakes his head.

"Why not?" Steve asks.

"I'm laying down," Billy tells the ceiling, "I feel like if I smoke anymore my lungs will give out, or maybe I'll float through the ceiling and disappear."

Steve exhales more smoke. "And right before Christmas, too."

Billy sits crisscross on the carpet, watching Steve puff, inhale, puff, inhale. "You're really not stressed about being home by yourself for six days?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"I like having the house to myself," Steve tells him, "Besides, I feel like if I have to spend any more time with my parents this year I'm going to sink right through the floor." Teasing. An echo of Billy's childhood fear of ascending into the ozone.

Billy pokes him with his foot, flushed.

Steve finishes the joint and slides closer. Their knees touch. "What kind of Christmases did you have when you were growing up?"

Billy shrugs. "I'm sill growing up."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, just. I dunno," Billy gets lost in Steve's eyes, a little. Classic beauty. "It was the Coca-Cola Santa kind?"

Steve laughs at him, and then his palms are warm on Billy's knee caps. "The kind with Bing Crosby and miniature towns on the dining room table?"

Billy's mom loved to collect those goddamn things. Neil smashed them all when she ran away and killed herself.

He nods, relishing the weight of Steve's fingertips.

Steve fiddles with the hole in Billy's jeans. "What kind of food did you have?"

"Pizza," Billy says.

Steve blinks at him, lost. "That's not very Coca-Cola of the Hargrove's."

"My mom didn't like to cook."

"Funny," Steve says, combing through the tussle of hair on Billy's kneecap, "Mine doesn't either."

Billy aches to knit their fingers together until they meld, forming the kind of sweater you dig out from the back of your closet year after year, echoing on the stiff frigid breeze until it's tattered and falling apart.

Steve looks at him, smiling. "Do you want some pie?"

Steve guts and skins the freezer until it's empty. A carcass picked clean.

Mrs. Harrington must have spent her entire bonus at Melvalds on Christmas dinner, enough to feed four Steve Harrington's and all the people who are desperately in love with him.

Billy tries not to think about them and watches from the counter face, his sock feet thumping gently against the cabinet as Steve pulls dish after dish from a cloud of white exhaust, plopping containers onto the island. "Green bean casserole," Steve says, "Pumpkin pie, pecan, apple, blueberry--"

"--You're supposed to eat all of this?"

"You're gonna help me."

"I don't like green bean casserole," Billy says, yelping when Steve feigns death and collapses into the counter. "Jesus Christ--"

"I'm midwestern, that's a cardinal sin to me."

"Dope makes you dramatic, pretty boy."

"You hate midwestern people."

"Yeah," Billy says, giggling.

"You hate me."

"Shut up," Billy slips off the counter and onto his feet, examining every frozen item while Steve repacks.

"Which pie sounds good?"

"I dunno," Billy says, eyeing the blueberry with suspicion, "Don't we have to wait for them to thaw before we throw them in the oven?"

"I don't think so," Steve says, "I've already tried the cherry and that baked fine."

"I've never had it before."

Steve blinks at him, shocked. "How have you never had cherry pie?"

"My dad doesn't like cherries," Billy admits.

"Just because your dad doesn't like cherries--"

"--Look, my mom wasn't on great terms with the oven, and nobody else is going to waste time cooking shit my dad won't eat," Billy snaps. Feeling red-hot all of a sudden. Angry in a way he hasn't been in a long time for being reminded that other people's dads are shitty in the normal way.

Not like Neil.

Steve either doesn't notice or chooses not to take it personally.

He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a half-eaten cherry pie, picking at its cling-wrap until Billy can see the cherries where the glitter between layers of perfectly brown crust. Bloody little eyes staring up at him like dead fish.

"You can have the rest."

"The rest?" Billy demands, "But what if I don't like it?"

"Not possible," Steve tells him. He opens the microwave and attempts to shove the pie tray in, yelping when Billy snatches it out of thin air. "What--"

"--Aluminum will catch fire in the microwave." Billy snaps. He tries to find it annoying, but Steve just blinks those big, soft eyes at him and the anger washes away. "Get me a plate, bambi boy," He says.

Steve watches Billy plate the pie, giggling as his nose wrinkles in disgust over its dripping red innards. "This is so gross," Billy says.

"You won't think so, once you try it."

Billy walks it to the microwave, carefully pinching the edges of the plate between his palms. "I can't think of a single other instance where that has been true."

He turns the dial. Forty seconds.

Steve's watching him, face illuminated in the golden hum of the microwave.

"What?" Billy demands.

"Nothing," Steve says, leaning against the counter top, "I just can't believe I'm gonna be here when your life is changed forever."

Billy snorts, stalking to the drawer where the Harringtons keep their silver. "Still dramatic, pretty boy."

"Why do you always say that?" Steve wonders.

Billy freezes in place. Two forks in hand. He peers across the island at Steve, heart thrumming loudly. "Why do I always say what?"

"Pretty boy," Steve clarifies.

It hangs between them. The microwave hums, the longest forty seconds of Billy's life. "I," He says intelligently, "It's just. True."

"What is?"

"You're. Pretty," Billy says. And it's like having teeth pulled.

The microwave beeps.

Steve turns away, yanking the pie from its incubation, "Shit," He says, wiggling his fingers. "Plate's hot as hell."

Billy stands there watching him. Breathing. Dying.

Steve looks at him. "Well, do you wanna try it?" Billy nods. Doesn't move. Steve laughs at him. "Come here."

Billy goes easily, like a lap dog being called to perch. He and his forks stare down at the pie with caution, stomach churning at the congealed mess before him.

Steve grabs one of the forks from Billy and cuts the point off, blowing on it until its warm enough to eat. Steve pops it into his mouth, brown eyes falling closed. "Mmmm," He says, like someone would with a spooked and disgusted baby, "It's good."

Billy shakes his head.

"You're so dramatic," Steve says, cutting another huge chunk for Billy. He holds it in the air between them, eyebrows raised. "Trust me."

Billy stares at it. "Why's mine so big?"

"I want you to get the full range of flavor."

"But--"

Steve shoves the fork into Billy's mouth, swiftly depositing the little cherry eyeballs onto Billy's tongue. He coughs and sputters, lips curling around the fork as Steve yanks it away. "Chew," Steve says.

Billy does.

Like it's the first time he's ever done it, clumsy and a little rushed and very, very distracted by the way Steve's watching him.

"Swallow," Steve says softly, barely there.

Billy does. There's something on his face. On his lips.

"What do you think?" Steve asks, staring at them.

Billy resists the urge to lick it away, "Sucked," He says, expecting Steve to laugh, but.

Something rests between them, not growing or stretching or changing shape, but it's there. It suffocates.

Steve looks at him, somehow closer than he was before. "Sorry, pretty boy," He says.

Billy's heart stops. "Why would you say that?"

"It's true. You're pretty," Steve says, watching the red on Billy's lips burn brighter. "You've got a little something on your face." Billy lifts a hand, mouth falling open when Steve grabs his wrist. "Can I," Steve says, soft as summer rain, "Can I kiss you, Billy?"

Billy doesn't move as Steve licks into his mouth, Cherry washing away under the rough, sweet drag of intention.

THIS IS PART ONE!!!! OF A TWO-PARTER!

Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I get around to part two <3

#harringrove #fluff #one shot #I'm not sure why this is set during christmas time since it's quite literally summer #but hey!#it be like that sometime #part one

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estrellami-1 · 1 year

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Steddie Week 2023

May 22nd Prompt: Hunger

Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7

@steddie-week

Steve wakes up slowly, rolls over to look at his alarm clock, then bursts out of bed in a rush of limbs and sheets and curses.

3:42 blinks back at him. Sometime during the night the power had gone out, and Steve knows it is well past 9, when he was supposed to be opening at Family Video. He pulls on his jeans and a clean shirt, stuffs his feet in his shoes, runs a brush through his hair, and grabs his vest on his way out the door, sparing half a glance at his kitchen, but not having time to eat.

If it comes down to it, he thinks, there’s always the candy.

He gets to Family Video in record time, breathing out a sigh of relief when he yanks on the door to find it still locked. That means he’s the first one there. Keith might notice when he goes back through times this week to figure out pay, but Steve’s hopeful he’s gotten away with it this time.

He clocks in, computer reading 10:01 (an entire hour late, whoops), and takes a breath as he looks around the store. Robin’s scheduled to come in at three, meaning he has five hours alone.

No one comes in for the first hour. Steve finishes logging returns and winding back the tapes.

Halfway through the second hour, the bell above the door jingles, and Steve raises his voice from where he’s putting away tapes. “Welcome to Family Video!”

“Either you’re hiding or you’ve officially started haunting this place,” a voice calls back, and Steve laughs as he walks out of the aisle.

“Hey, Eddie.”

“Hiya, Stevie.” He grins. “Tell me if this is too forward? But I noticed the power went out last night and figured if I know you as well as I do, you slept in and missed breakfast.” He hands Steve a brown paper bag, creased nicely at the top.

“Lifesaver,” Steve gasps, opening the bag. Three muffins. He sniffs them, then groans. “You’re perfect, holy shit, thank you.” Banana nut, his favorite. His heart skips an odd beat, then again when he realizes Eddie’s blushing, pulling a piece of hair across his face.

“You’re welcome,” Eddie says quietly, chuckling slightly. “I guess I was right?”

“Yeah, I woke up, like, half an hour after my shift had started, immediately panicked, and got here as fast as I could. I don’t need another write-up.”

Eddie nods, a smirk crawling onto his face. “How about waiving the fees for your favorite customer?”

Steve makes a show of looking around. “Dustin’s here?”

Eddie just laughs. “I can’t even be mad at that one.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, eyes wide, adorably serious. Steve tries to school his face accordingly, but he can’t really feel his face. “I’m hungry.”

Steve thinks about it. “I am too,” he decides, then thinks some more. “Is there pizza left over?”

Eddie shrugs, looks at the blunt in his hand, then shrugs again, taking another drag. “Chips?”

“I have chips,” Steve agrees, grabbing for the blunt. “C’mon, share.”

Eddie hands it over. “Steve,” he says again, “I’m a genius.”

“Yup,” Steve agrees.

“We should watch a movie.”

“Oh my god,” Steve breathes. “With snacks?”

“Yeah. Yeah, with snacks, c’mon, help me, help me!” He pulls Steve up, laughing when Steve does.

“Eddie,” Steve says. It’s his turn to be serious. “What if we call Argyle? And Jon?”

“And they can bring pizza,” Eddie breathes. “Stevie, I think you’re the genius.”

“Yup,” Steve agrees again. “I’ll call. You get snacks. And movie.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie laughs, resting his head against the wall. “There’s no way.”

“I swear! That’s exactly what she said! And then she tried to blame me, like it isn’t all automated.” Steve huffs a breath.

Eddie shakes his head. “You have way more patience than I do, man.”

“That’s not true. We have different types. I could never sit like you do, painting your figurines.”

Eddie snorts. “I zone out and wake up four hours later. I don’t think that counts as patience.” He sighs. “As fun as this has been, Steve, I’ve gotta go get ready for my shift. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. What time does your shift start?”

“Six.”

“That… Eds, that’s in twenty minutes.”

“No? I’m looking at a clock right here. It’s 4:40 right now. I’ve got an hour twenty.”

“Eds,” Steve says, sounding pained. “Daylight savings.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie breathes. “Shit, shit, shit, you’re right, shit, fuck, okay, I’ve gotta go, love you, bye!”

He hangs up before Steve can say anything else, stuffing his feet in his shoes and grabbing his keys before racing out.

He’s halfway to work before he realizes he’s hungry. He lays his head on his steering wheel at a red light, breathes. “Just five hours,” he tells himself. “I can make it five hours.”

Half an hour in, he’s not so sure. His hands aren’t as steady as they should be, but he hides it from his coworkers, takes another few deep breaths, and tries to trick himself by drinking more water.

Ten minutes later, a familiar maroon Beemer pulls up. Eddie’s heart thuds in his chest as he goes out to meet Steve.

“Sorry I’m late,” Steve grins. “I think I got caught by all the lights possible.” He grabs something from the passenger seat. A brown paper bag.

“You didn’t,” Eddie breathes.

“I did,” Steve admits. “I hope turkey’s okay.”

“Turkey’s fantastic,” Eddie promises. “Freakin’ food for the gods, when I’m this hungry.” He opens the bag. A sandwich, a small bag of chips, an apple. He laughs. “Jesus wept, Steve, I brought you three little muffins!”

“Yeah, and I meant it when I called you a lifesaver.” He tilts his head. “I’m curious about something, though. If you meant it.”

Eddie pauses with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Meant what?”

“Gotta go, love you, bye.”

“Oh.” Nausea makes its presence known. He brings the sandwich down. “Steve, I-”

Steve’s fingers land on his forearm. “The truth, Eds. Please.” He’s whispering, eyes big and hopeful, and Eddie feels some of that same hope filling him.

“Yeah,” he whispers back.

Steve grins again, steps back. “I’m picking you up tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

“Okay,” Eddie whispers, watches as Steve drives away.

“Hi,” Eddie says breathlessly, opening the door before Steve could knock.

“Hi.” Steve chuckles. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Where are you taking me?”

“Where do you wanna go?”

Eddie bites his lip, slides into the passenger seat. “Dinner? I’m starving.”

Steve grins at him as he puts the car in gear. “Me too.”

#steddieweek2023 #prompt: hunger #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #starambles

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liyawritesss · 7 months

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ᖴᒪOᗯEᖇᔕ Iᑎ ᗷᒪOOᗰ - ᐯᗩᒪEᑎTIᑎEᔕ ᗪᖇᗩᗷᗷᒪEᔕ

Ｄａｙ２０－Ｃｏｎｆｅｓｓｉｏｎｓ

－ Eastside - Insomniac!Miles Morales - Insomniac's Spiderman 2

－ In which Miles is usually the one to flake out on plans; so he's curious as to why all of a sudden it's so hard to get you on the phone.

－ Check out more prompts and other activities on the Flowers In Bloom Event Masterlist!

“We’re sorry, but the person you have called is unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone-”

Miles sucks his teeth after hearing the same automated message for the umpteenth time. Though he tried to keep the look of disappointment from gracing his face, the huff that left his lips was enough for Ganke to determine something was wrong.

“Did they answer?”

Miles shakes his head, “No dice.”

It’s been like that the past few weeks - plans would be made, but without warning, you’d go no contact with no prior reason as to why. At first, the gang just chalked it up to stress from school - it was very possible considering Visions wasn’t your average STEM highschool in Brooklyn. But the more it happened, the more Miles had begun to question that conclusion.

“What’s this, like, the third time in the past month?” Ganke sighs. “Should we, like, check up on them?”

Miles pockets his phone, nodding in response to Ganke’s suggestion. “Yeah, I’ll swing by.”

And swing by he did, after changing out of his red hoodie and green jacket and into his black and red Spider Suit. It didn’t take long for him to arrive at your apartment building on the Eastside, hanging just outside your window adjacent to the fire escape. He had made a move to knock on the glass, asking for entry, but he stopped mid-way when he saw what you were doing.

You sat at your desk, laptop open and phone propped up, apparently on a video call with Hailey. Though the window muffled your voice, he could make out what was being signed through the glass barrier.

“I wanted to go today, I really did, but I just couldn’t.”

‘Did you at least give them an excuse this time?’

“No, I wasn’t even thinking about that.”

‘Girl! When are you gonna tell him? This slow-burn is getting to be a bit agonizing over here!’

Slow-burn? What did Hailey mean by that? Your laugh breaks him from his thoughts, as he squints a bit harder to get a better look at the words your hands are formulating.

“What would I even say? ‘Hey Miles, sorry I’ve been bailing on you and the gang lately, I just have this massive crush on you that prevents me from even looking at you without feeling like I’ll die’?”

‘Well…that’s one way to say it.’

Crush. The word rang in his head like a loud bell, so harshly it almost made his head hurt. Miles’ body grew hot with an unknown emotion; was it anxiety? Embarrassment? Suddenly a lot of your actions made sense. Not answering calls, being exceptionally late to answering texts, the inability to make eye contact…

So caught up in his head, the young hero began to lose grip in his fingers that attached him to the brick building. Before he could reinstate the touch, Miles lost his handling and fell onto the metal fire escape, the loud thud ringing out with a loud hum for what felt like forever. A dull ache spread throughout back, a low groan leaving his lips in the process.

When he’d opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was you, surprised, with a hint of disbelief in your face; “Miles, what the hell?”

Shit, he thought. Despite his side-gig as Spiderman, he couldn’t seem to come up with a lie quick enough to cover up the fact that he had, in fact, been low-key spying on you.

“Are you okay?”

“I- uh-”

“How long have you been out here?”

“No! I- uh…was just swinging by…?”

Because what else do you say when you find out your good friend for years has a crush on you?

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

#flowersinbloom🏵#black reader #black tumblr #black marvel #marvel x reader #marvel x black!reader #marvel's spider man 2 #insomniac spider man #insomniac spiderman 2 #spiderman x reader #spiderman x black reader #miles morales #spiderman miles morales #miles morales spider man #insomniac miles morales #miles morales x reader #miles morales x black!reader

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kraviolis · 11 months

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someone liked one of my TOH headcanon posts from earlier this year and it reminded me about the specific headcanons i have for exactly what types of games the hexsquad plays and how they play them.

luz is obv an RPG fantasy fan. anything with a juicy story and a character creator and complex lore she’ll love. she definitely plays series like elder scrolls and baldur’s gate and final fantasy. she also plays final fantasy 14 and has her character as the good witch luzura and she isnt good at playing it like an mmo is supposed to be played but she loves the story. when endwalker came out luz couldnt stop sobbing to the point that camila was actually worried about her. also enjoys roguelikes such as hades or binding of isaac even if she can only play for so long before getting too frustrated. she also 100% plays genshin impact and gets into arguments online with other genshin fans.

amity is a fighting game girl. she is highly competitive and practices combos with her eyes shut. she prefers the tekken series but when luz wants to play with her they play guilty gear bcus luz likes it’s art style the most. she also likes fantasy RPGs but is way more picky about which ones she plays. she likes fire emblem. she also plays ff14 with luz and is actually good at the game (she carries luz sometimes) but isnt a huge fan of MMOs. she also is the one in the friend group with the NASA ass PC rig with a custom case and the most organized wiring you’ve ever seen with the lcd screen on the liquid cooled cpu and the azura figurine inside the case. she also does custom wraps for all her consoles.

hunter likes games that are very much like, micromanagement sims. like civ5 or cities skylines or factorio (i dont know anything about it but ive been assured by my sister that hunter plays modded factorio) but he’s also a fan of like, old school FPS games like doom and half life. i can see him doing speedruns of those games. (also he 100% once got addicted to some game like fuckin. galactic pinball or something to the point where he was staying up all night and not sleeping so he could play more pinball. in order to get him to stop playing so much and actually get some sleep, gus used illusions to make hunter think he was hallucinating about pinball and scared him into not looking at a single screen or monitor for like three weeks.)

gus is a very chill gamer but he likes games that he can sink hours and hours into. instead of playing a wide variety of games he has a select few that he dedicates his time into learning every last mechanic, but there’s also some games he just plays casually. like with pokemon games he’ll put hundreds of hours into them and carefully curate his team and does like nuzlocke runs but when he plays on his and willow’s shared-custody new horizons island he’ll just walk around and catch bugs and shit and not really worry about upgrading his house and make matching fits with his favorite villager.

willow prefers cozy games, like slime rancher or stardew valley or the aforementioned shared new horizons island, but she’s also a fucking menace about them. like she goes HARD on the min-maxing and automation and shit. while gus is wandering around their island catching fish, willow’s busy rearranging her fully upgraded mansion up in the hills and harassing any villagers she doesnt like with nets and deciding what hybrids to plant in front of her bell trees (she only has bell trees for the aesthetic. gus isnt allowed to harvest them) she would also be running the most high profit slime ranch ever but the way she treats her slimes makes hunter upset whenever he sees her just fuckin throwing them off a cliff the second they arent useful to her anymore. (meanwhile hunter names each one of his slimes and always feeds them their favorite foods and cried over casey & beatrix)

vee enjoys survival/strategic horror games, like DBD, resident evil, deadspace, or even FNAF. she’s the type of person to see the goriest most violent death in a video game ever and just go “ew yucky” then carry on. masha and her are often playing DBD together while in a call and are the most annoying pair of suvivors ever. she also likes games such as original katamari and pikmin 1 and chulip. she's also the undefeated DDR champion of the friend group.

and of COURSE they all play video games together. they all have a terraria world they play on together where they all are focused on their own little projects while still working together and are slowly building up their own village/mansion/castle/fort but luz keeps rushing ahead of everyone just bcus she's so excited and she definitely somehow ends up summoning the wall of flesh accidentally

they DID have a modded minecraft world for a few months with both tech mods and magic mods but while hunter, amity, and vee all focused on their factories and computers and technology, gus, willow, and luz fucked around with all the crazy magic and accidentally found out by blowing up a factory. this is where heightened tension between the the warlocks & the scientists began. this spark eventually turned into a full fledged war that lasted two months before it ended in mutually assured destruction to the point where no one could actually load into the server without their game crashing.

bonus: camila isnt much of a gamer with one exception-- when she was in college manny introduced her to WoW and got her hooked. it was Their Game that they played together all the time. they made cosplays of their characters together. they had several dates in game. they optimized their characters to perfect compliment one another when they ran dungeons with their guild. even since manny passed camila still plays every so often and keeps in touch with their guild members. for the longest time luz has 0 idea that camila plays WoW at all and only finds out after the whole secret nerd confession.

#krav talks #the owl house #toh #luz noceda #amity blight #hunter noceda #willow park #gus porter #camila noceda #vee noceda #lumity #toh headcanons #headcanons #eda plays candy crush. also she and lilith have a 1800 day words with friends streak going

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kusuokisser · 1 year

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kusuo doesnt often get scared, but you want to know one thing that rarely fails to get him?

anything automated on a timer. like sprinklers turning on at 6am, the school bell ringing, the ding of a microwave, etcetera.

that poor boy is so jumpy around them, many a time he has considered disabling the sprinkler system but alas he cannot bear to make his momma sad by killing her garden

#while i was writing this my sprinklers came on and scared me oh so bad my poor princess heart couldnt take it #that was the inspiration for this. i need kusuo to forget about automated things.#he needs to be like ME.#five thinks too much #saiki k #saiki no psi nan #kusuo saiki #saiki kusuo #disastrous life of saiki k #saiki #kusuo #saiki kusou no psi nan #the disastrous life of saiki k #saiki kusuo no ψ nan #the disaster of psi kusuo saiki #tdlosk

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corneliushickey · 1 month

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In “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” Feeding Your Family Comes First

By Jackson Arn for The New Yorker

It begins with not one, not two, but three prologues, each spiked with a different kind of horror. First, a scrolling text suggesting that this all really happened to the “five youths” we are about to meet, even though it didn’t. Second, glimpses of cadavers in oily Caravaggio light, culminating in a long, sociopathically calm shot of the ruined graveyard where they’ve been dug up. Third, footage of solar flares, combined with reports of nationwide disaster. What the sun has to do with anything on Earth will never be explained, though it seems significant that when we meet our five fatted calves they’re talking about astrology. (Seventies horror movies, from “Jaws” to “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” were full of chirpy, vaguely countercultural types.) We also learn that they are driving to the little town of Newt, Texas, out of concern for ancestors who were buried in that graveyard, because what could be more virtuous than caring for your family, in death as in life?

link to full article (full text under the cut)

Being such a decent bunch, the group stops to pick up a hitchhiker, who turns out to be twangy-voiced, obsessed with meat, and deranged. His family once worked at the local slaughterhouse, but their jobs have been automated into oblivion, leaving them with nothing but nostalgia for their old day-to-day. To turn a cow into food, he says, “they take the head and they boil it, except for the tongue, and scrape all the flesh away from the bone. They use everything—they don’t throw nothing away!” Explaining all this to a van full of permed, bell-bottomed city kids seems to excite him almost as much as it disgusts them, and it may disgust you, too. But in the world of “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre”—which may, even fifty years on, just be the world—killing and looking out for your family are so closely tied as to be almost the same.

Famous horror directors tend to get pestered for origin stories. Being polite people, for the most part, they usually oblige, which is how I know that an elementary-school bully named Fred Kruger beat up Wes Craven, the six-year-old Alfred Hitchcock was sent to an actual jail cell, and little Brian De Palma used to visit the hospital where his father worked to giggle at the gore. When Tobe Hooper died, in 2017, having directed several worthy films but only one “Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” various juicy-sounding bits made the rounds. Growing up in Austin, he met a doctor who mentioned a Halloween mask made from human flesh. An aunt in Wisconsin told him about Ed Gein, the killer who converted corpses into lampshades. Years later, he was on the U.T. Austin campus the day an ex-marine named Charles Whitman climbed to the top of the clock tower and murdered passersby with a hunting rifle. He was rattled by the image of his mother having a lung removed.

The implication of these kinds of stories, or, at least, of the media’s demand for them, is that horror requires some deep psychological wound, that you’d choose to spend your life scaring people only because something scary happened to you first. There may be a dribble of truth in this, though nobody seems to demand similar explanations from, say, action directors. It’s especially ironic in Hooper’s case; few modern horror films are less interested in psychological backstory than “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.” We’re told next to nothing about the victims’ relationships with one another, or their lives back home. No childhood trauma lurks behind the killers the way it does for Norman Bates or Michael Myers. If any -ology helps us understand these people, it’s sociology: assembly-line slaughter makes the underclasses deranged; technology makes them irrelevant; unemployment makes them hungry. Scarcity underlies almost everything the characters do, whether they’re killers or not—like that other stagflation classic, “Mad Max,” this is a story about precious fuel and the lengths some people will go to get it. The youths discover a household of cannibals because their van is low on gas and they hear a generator somewhere. Later, one of the cannibals takes care to switch off all the lights in his store—power bills being enough to “drive a man outta business”—before going off to feast on the alternative energy source he and his family have discovered.

Scarcity was an apt theme for Hooper’s film, which cost something like a hundred and forty thousand dollars to make, and features a community theatre’s worth of small-timers and first-timers. The shoot was probably illegal a dozen times over: the narrator who reads the scrolling prologue text had to be paid in weed, and the art director, unable to afford prop animal carcasses, drove around picking up actual skulls and roadkill. A graduate student named Gunnar Hansen was cast as the masked, lumbering Leatherface, the cannibal family’s designated executioner. Since there was no money for a backup costume, he wore the same clothes seven days a week, for up to sixteen hours a day, while the weather hovered around a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I get the sense, listening to interviews with some of the actors, that they consider the rest of their lives a vacation.

The film’s first half hour strides curtly forward, doling out the who and the where and the what, with occasional twitches of lyricism in between—a dead armadillo by the side of the highway, say, or a long, mournful shot of the van as it drives off to certain doom. You can’t learn about how this film was made without gagging, but you can’t watch the results without marvelling: not one frame or line or sound effect goes to waste, since Hooper couldn’t afford any, and this gives everything a tautness that you sense somewhere in the gut before the mind catches up. Throwaway lines about barbecue and cuddly animals and planets in retrograde are, naturally, not throwaway at all, a point the script makes comically obvious when Franklin, who uses a wheelchair, asks his sister Sally, the only youth who’ll survive, if she believes in astrology. She replies, “Everything means something, I guess.”

Decades of bickering about the violence in the film—some viewers insisting that it’s too bloody, others that most of the blood is in our imaginations—has distracted from its visual beauty. This seems important to stress, since beauty, along with sociology, is what Hooper gives us in lieu of direct answers. When one of the youths walks through the cannibals’ house, she finds a room full of remains, some animal and some human. It’s an astonishing sequence, only two minutes long but seemingly an hour, scored to the clucks of a caged chicken, and stuffed with closeups of skulls intercut with the woman’s face so as to suggest one about to become the other. What’s astonishing isn’t only the lushness that Hooper finds in this deathly place. (I’ve thought too much about a certain shot of sunlight shining through a translucent bone.) It’s the fact that we seem to be looking at decorations—that, somewhere between killing and eating, these people have spared the time to make their house look prettier, for no other reason than to make their lives a little less miserable.

So far, I haven’t really talked about why “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre” is frightening, but in scenes like this it becomes not only frightening but haunting. The usual things we’re invited to take comfort in during a horror movie—the stability of the household, the loved ones who live there—are here just another piece of the horror. Who, we might ask, is this film’s true villain? Does it even have one? Leatherface does most of the killing but takes no obvious pleasure in it, and in any case Hooper instructed Hansen to play the character as mentally disabled. The hitchhiker does seem to relish the cannibal life style, but notice, too, how well his attentiveness to his grandfather, who seems unable to walk, contrasts with the way the city kids tease Franklin for a similar condition. Toward the end of the film, it is the hitchhiker who drags Sally to his elder and invites him to kill her with a hammer, apparently because the frail old man enjoys this kind of thing and could use some excitement. In how many other films is the most frightening act one of the few compassionate ones?

Extinction seems likely for these cannibals, but, a half century later, “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre” has sired a vast brood of art-house and grind-house films. Stanley Kubrick, a superfan, must have been thinking of Hooper when he conceived of those moments in “The Shining” when the ghosts drink and dance. I sense more Hooper, by way of Kubrick, in Jordan Peele’s three films so far, with their knack for scattering little clues about racism and surveillance and consumerist apathy as though the monsters onscreen are representatives of much looser, deadlier forces. I also can’t help but wonder if Cormac McCarthy, decades away from “No Country for Old Men,” was paying attention when the hitchhiker explains that the slaughterhouse has switched to killing cattle with an air gun. (De Palma, at some pre-“Body Double” date, certainly was.)

On the grind-house end of things, Hooper is still celebrated, when he’s not being reviled, for inspiring an avalanche of hardware-store butchery and final girls. The second trope is a curious one, because in nearly every later film to make use of it the female lead is rewarded for being clever or kind or virginal or brave or, if she’s Jamie Lee Curtis in “Halloween,” all of the above. There is no obvious reason that Hooper chooses Sally to survive the carnage—her brother is the far more likable, fleshed-out character. She gets lucky, and that is all. When the cannibals are preparing to kill her, there is an unforgettable closeup of her wide, bloodshot eye, which is both the window to the soul and just another potential source of energy, like gasoline, itself just the remainder of million-year-old plants, which get their energy from the big, yellow fireball in the sky. Everything, in this grim astrology, means something, and that something is fuel. And, at that point, there is nothing to do but run, very fast, to the highway and hope that the pickup truck on the horizon brakes for hitchhikers.

#the texas chain saw massacre #the new yorker #jackson arn #i rly liked this lil essay!!#🪳#tcm #tcm 1974

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thebellearchives · 7 months

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Hello-hello Belle! I think I’ll be a nosy Jo instead… 🤭

So… 7, 19, 44? 💖

Sweet Joooo hiii 🥹🖤!! love to see you around again 🫶🏻!!

7. do i have any tattoos

i do! i have a big fearless rune (from the shadowhunters books) on my left arm! also have a small capricorn constellation on my back but i wanna get rid of it 😩

19. a fact about my personality

i’m a pro hater 💃🏻 discord girlies gave me a pro h8r badge, im always finding something to complain about 💀 the other day i went on a rant about how much i hate automated lights in public bathrooms, like hELLO?? IM STILL HERE I WAS JUST CHECKING MY PHONE HELP 😭

44. random fact

OMG AS AN INTP THIS IS MY TIME TO SHINE did you know Solomon is linked to a school of black magic in romanian folklore? It’s called the Scholomance and it’s even mentioned in Dracula! Bram Stoker wrote about Dracula attending the school at some point 💃🏻

also since i mentioned shadowhunters i think Cassandra Clare also mentions something about it in her newer books but i didn’t get to those 🥲

#; my belle friends #; belles answers #love youuuu 🖤

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cordeliawhohung · 1 year

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From My Corner of the Universe

Miguel x Fem!Reader

Chapter One: The Way it Is

Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, this first chapter is very chill but the second chapter goes 0 to 60 real quick.

wc: 5335

Despite growing up in a hostile world, you're one of the very few humans still made of warm flesh and blood. Working two jobs is taking a toll on your life, but you find your gaze lifting up to the sparkling heights of Olympus, where societies best live in luxury. However, your dream is disrupted when a certain superhero mistakes you for an anomaly. You find yourself in a strange new world with views you never imagined seeing, but you can't stay there forever. Eventually, you have to return back home, even if it kills you.

Earth-1717

In a world full of metal and wires and lights, you had grown to believe you were one of the only people still made of flesh and blood in Digi York. Everything in your life was synthetic. The plastic trees that sprouted out of the ground along your walk to the tram, the automated voice that greeted you as you boarded, the optic implants of the man attempting to stare up your skirt. And you? Well, you were this simple, soft creature; you always had been. That was one of the first things that hinted to you that you didn’t fully belong in that world.

The metal whirring and hum of the tram slowed as the magnets that powered the system came to a halt. A soft breeze blew through the doors as they opened, and the automated voice coming from the speaker above your head wished you a good day while the others around you pushed their way off the tram. Once the flood of bodies and creaking cybernetics ceased, you followed after them, stepping foot into the smoggy air around you.

Up at the top of the city, in the highest part of the skyline, was an area the people called Olympus, though it was about the furthest thing from heaven you could get. The richest of the rich ate, worked, and slept in Olympus, never daring to step foot in the lower levels of the city. And though you worked up there, with the people who would consider themselves gods, you were nowhere near their level in society.

You continued along your normal path as you made your way to a private elementary school shoved in some far corner on top of the Crystal High Rise. The bell had just rung the moment you stepped foot on the plastic turf that attempted to surround the schoolhouse in whatever false greenery it could manage. You looked around at all the other people standing around you, and you could feel your stomach sink.

A plain white blouse and a short black skirt or plain black pants was the mark all of Olympus’s nursemaids wore, including yourself. Apparently a majority of society’s high rollers could afford everything in the world but the time to give their children any sort of attention or care. And that’s where you came in.

Leto Onasis was a young ten year old girl you had been taking care of for the last five years. You didn’t exactly enjoy the child’s company; like most other citizens of Olympus, she was snobby, and inadvertently rude, but understandably was a byproduct of her surroundings. There was only so much kindness you could attempt to teach someone who had been raised to believe that you would always be a second class citizen compared to her.

“Hello, Leto,” you greeted the young girl.

She looked up at you, her lilac tipped hair swaying back and forth in her ponytail. Her eyes were an unnatural blue, much too bright for her to have been born with. Optics her father had outfitted her with when she was seven. Something that was rather unnecessary, in your opinion.

“I’m hungry,” the girl responded, brushing off your greeting as usual.

Holding out your hand, you mustered the brightest smile that you could. “Let’s get you home, then. Your father bought supplies to make katsu curry.”

Ignoring you, Leto took your hand and began to lead the way. It was the same answer she always gave you; silence. Had you cared a bit more about raising someone else’s child, you would have thought of a better greeting, something that would engage her more, but really, you couldn’t care less as long as you were getting paid.

And so the two of you traversed the high rise, walking past sculptures that had to be cleaned monthly due to the smog and smoke, and fountains full of water so pure you could drink from it. The place looked just as mystical as the historians described old Greece as, which you were sure was the intention. You felt a little bittersweet attempting to enjoy the scenery, though, and instead you focused your full attention to your task at hand.

Five minutes passed and Leto was using the implant in her wrist to automatically unlock the door to the Onasis’s impressive apartment. Crystal chandeliers, rugs so plush you could dive into, and couches so large to host night parties littered the lush area. The faint stench of expensive wine and other alcohol still lingered in the air from a party Leto’s father no doubt hosted the previous night. The girl didn’t seem that bothered by it at all.

Leto’s bored eyes glanced around the living room as she plopped herself onto the suede couch. She didn’t even bother to say anything as she turned the TV on and began to flicker through the channels one by one until she found something that interested her.

Monday to Friday, from three to nine, that was your life. Taking care of a young girl who saw you as nothing more than a tool, all for a man who basically undressed you with his eyes every time he saw you.

You would cooked the meals, wash her up, and put her to bed no later than eight thirty where you used your last half hour to clean up any messes you had made. When it would eventually strike nine at night, and Leto’s father still hadn’t arrived home yet, you’d waste your time staring out of the window. He would always promise to be home no later than nine, but out of your many years working there, that had only happened a handful of times. Still, the dining room housed large floor to ceiling windows that gave you a decent view of the area around you, or, at least whatever you could see through the smog, and you didn’t mind looking through them for a while.

Fires from Canada and the midwest had been choking the skies of Digi York long before you were born, which gave the sky an orange-gold tint, stained by a blood red sun and moon. And though it was the same sky that you had been looking up at since you were a child, it drew you in every evening as shades of purple attempted to shine through in the sunset.

“I told you, no later than five tomorrow,” a muffled voice grumbled from outside the door. A high pitched electronic ping sounded and the door to the apartment slid open, revealing Leto’s father, Cronus.

He was a rather abrasive man personality wise, but wasn’t half bad to look at if you could get past all his augmentations. Optics that glowed lime green, implants that created long, circular scars on the side of his head where his hair refused to grow anymore, lines that went up the back of his neck, hinting at the fact that he had a spinal implant. Then, of course, there was his terrible scowl.

“Why? Because if you deliver later than five, then the deal is off, and then I’m fucked. So you’re not going to mess this up,” Cronus continued as he began to take his coat off. He looked around the apartment and those glowing green eyes landed on you. He did his usual glance over your body before he sauntered over to you. “I gotta go. Don’t fuck this up.”

Despite the fact he had obviously been talking to someone, there was no phone in his hand, or button to be pressed to hang up. All of that was thanks to neural and audio implants in his head, the same kind that gave him those long scars on the side of his skull. It was a little off putting, watching someone talk to someone else using an implant, but you didn’t say anything about it.

“How was she?” he asked, his tone changing the moment it was directed at you.

“She was great,” you answered, knowing full well that even if she wasn’t, Cronus wouldn’t bother with any type of punishment anyway.

“Good, good,” Cronus hummed as his eyes flickered to the window. “Sorry for keeping you so late. Lost track of time.” He paused for a moment, his hand reached out to adjust the collar of your blouse. The cold metal of his fake hand carefully brushed the warm skin of your neck. “You know, if you need a place to stay for the night, you’re more than welcome to stay here. I know how dangerous it gets in The Blue.”

It wasn’t rare for Cronus to play games like that with you. The man never really lost track of time; hard to lose something you were never watching for in the first place. Between the way he would find any reason to touch you and the annoying, lustful look he sent your way, you knew he was being far from generous. You were certain there would be a price he’d expect you to pay.

No wonder his wife divorced him.

“Thank you for the offer Mr. On- er- Cronus, but my friends are waiting for me back home,” you excused. It was the same alibi you used every time he attempted to get you to stay, but you comforted yourself in at least trying to convince him someone was expecting you.

Smirking to himself, Cronus nodded his head slightly as he removed his hand from your shirt and motioned to the door. Taking your queue, you bid the man farewell as you walked through the exit, painfully aware of how he stared at your ass while you walked away.

But he wouldn’t be the last one to look at you like that for the night.

The Blue was the part of Digi York where a majority of the citizens lived, including yourself. Every middle class bastard was shoved into the lower parts of the city, far enough away from the towers that made up Olympus, yet close enough to yearn for that glory. You were one of those many middle class bastards, a grunt that trudged around the wards in an attempt to scrounge up as much extra cash as possible.

Your poison of choice was a club called The Koi, named after some breed of fish that had gone extinct a few centuries ago. It was a bustling strip club adorned with holo projections of the fish swimming around high into the air, well above everyone’s head. Girls with flashy clothes and swaying bodies danced on small platforms for everyone to view, and the dark, thumping music sent harsh thuds through your chest. And while you would have certainly made more money working as one of the strippers, dancing up on one of those platforms, you opted for the less taxing job of bartending for them instead.

Not to say that you still weren’t there for people to ogle at. You certainly weren’t afraid to flaunt your body off if it meant it brought in more tips. So you wore a crop top that was more akin to a bra than anything else, and shorts so small they were just thicker underwear. But you didn’t stop there; body glitter that made you sparkle under the neon lights, and a bubblegum pink wig that gave you a more interesting look without frying your hair.

That was your life. Taking care of a whiny kid during the day, and whiny men during the night.

“Hey, babe,” a smooth voice greeted at your side.

You turned to look on your left, and your eyes were met with a large woman. Her shoulders were about twice as broad as you were, and both her arms were a silvery white due to her augmentations. Her hair was very similar in color to your wig, but a bit more blue than it was fully pink, and it was so short it was spiky. She leaned towards you and gently nudged you with her shoulder.

“Trying to get a free drink out of me?” you grinned.

“I mean, if you’re offering…” the woman teased.

Lucia was someone you had grown close to since you started working at The Koi. She was what most people referred to as a Clank; someone who heavily modified their bodies with augmentations and implants. Normally they would be hired as bodyguards by some Olympian, but businesses would often hire them as bouncers or security, too. Any Clank too hot headed or unable to hold down a good job for long periods of time often turned to a life of darker crimes, as they often didn’t fit in anywhere else.

But not Lucia.

“If Dom finds out I’m giving you free drinks again, I think he’s going to kick my ass,” you said, leaning in to whisper the comment into her ear as best as you could over the blasting music.

“He’s not going to kick your ass. He’ll kick my ass. Or, he’ll try, anyway. If the fucker could even catch up to me,” Lucia chuckled, her eyes carefully scanning around at the patrons at the club.

Your conversation was briefly interrupted by a duo of men, both of who ordered a drink each. Out of all the things that survived from the previous centuries, it wasn’t the trees that filtered the air, or the produce that filled your stomach; it was the alcohol. The one true thing people couldn’t live without. Something to numb the pain.

At least they gave you a good tip.

“Have you seen the new vid?” Lucia spoke up after the men left to go watch the dancers. Her eyes were glued to a small, handheld device in her hands.

“Which one?” you ask, leaning against her shoulder to get a better view.

“Spider-Man, dumbass.”

It was a stupid question to ask, and you had sighed the very moment it left your lips. Of course it was a video of Spider-Man, Lucia had only been obsessed with the freak for the last few months. Spider-Man, some guy decked out in some of the most high tech cybernetics you had ever seen, had been around for at least two years. Well, maybe not around, but a rumor on the streets, a whisper in the back of the mind of anyone who even thought about doing something especially atrocious. Recently, he had seemed to gain more confidence in his actions, and had begun to do more of his crime fighting in the light, as proven by the shaky footage being shown to you via Lucia’s phone.

A mask covered half of Spider-Man’s face, revealing only his lips. His eyes were obscured by a metal covering that appeared to have eight eyes, just like a spider, which was the only part of him that was remotely comparable to the creature. The rest of his getup was sleek and black, which probably did him well in blending into the dark atmosphere that stained a majority of the city.

Spider-Man stood across the street from the cameraman, who was shaking in either fear or excitement as he recorded the events that unfolded in front of him. In front of the masked vigilante was some poor soul, attempting to run away with some sort of unfamiliar device in his hands. With about as much urgency as a bored child, Spider-Man strolled far behind the man.

In a swift motion, Spider-Man held out his hand, bending his wrist in an odd angle, and a cable shot out across the sidewalk, sticking to the perpetrator via magnet. The line went taut, and the man fell backwards, dropping his stolen goods.

“Ouch,” Lucia winced as she paused the video. “See, that’s why you always go with titanium implants. Poor bastard.”

“I suppose robbers or… whatever this guy is supposed to be, aren’t exactly the smartest,” you said, shaking your head.

“If you’re going to do something, do it right,” Lucia chuckled as she pocketed her phone. She stood there for a moment, leaning against the bar as she looked around the area, but you could tell that she wasn’t really taking any of it in. “But the specs on that guy, damn, I bet he’s burning to the touch with all that high tech shit he’s shoved in his body.”

You looked up at the woman and grinned. “You sound like you’re in love.”

“I might be.”

You had to admit, the idea of it made you laugh. Lucia was a very large woman, and though Spider-Man rivaled her height, he certainly didn’t have anything on how broad she was. You were convinced she probably had more muscles than he did too. In fact, Lucia often found any excuse possible to show off her toned stomach. Her physique was almost as important to her as her augmentations.

“So, how was it with the gods today?” Lucia asked sarcastically as she grabbed one of the many liquor bottles from behind you. “Cronus still trying to fuck you?”

Your mood was completely ruined the moment she brought that memory back up. His advances weren’t exactly surprising, as they had been going on for quite some time, but they were certainly exhausting.

“You know how dangerous it is in The Blue,” you said, mocking Cronus’s deep voice. “You can always stay here if you need. I’m beginning to wonder if I give in if he’ll start paying more than just the minimum.”

“Babe, don’t. Whatever extra money you’d make would just go towards treating whatever you’d catch from him.” Lucia shook her head as she poured herself a drink in a short glass, not even bothering to fill it with any ice. Neat, the way she got it every time. Just a glorified shot, in your opinion. “Such a rich fuck thing for him to say, too. Oh, I know your home is dangerous and disgusting because we stomp on the middle class for fun. I'm gonna use that as my advantage to try and sleep with you.”

Rolling her eyes, she took a quick sip of her drink before capping the bottle and placing it back on the glass shelf behind you. It seems that she was no longer worried about Dom catching her drinking on the job again.

“Hell, maybe he’s just curious about what organic pussy feels like,” Lucia suddenly added with a smirk.

It wasn’t her first time making that vulgar joke, really it was one that she made quite often. In fact, it was one of the first things she had said to you when you first started working at The Koi. Some asshole had decided to cop a feel with the excuse of how he needed to prove to himself you weren’t augmented. She cracked that joke after cracking the man's head over the side of the bar.

“Trust me, I’ve been told it’s not as interesting as it sounds,” you grumbled, adjusting the edge of your wig. “No built in vibrator for him.”

Lucia’s laugh came out roaring like an engine, loud and stuttering and shaking her whole body. Laughter was one of the only forces of nature you knew of that ever moved her.

Four o’clock rolled around, and Dom and Lucia had fought off any remaining drunks out of the club. Before you were able to start cleaning up, each of the strippers dropped by to have their routine farewell shot before returning home for the night. Even though they got free drinks, they were probably some of the best tippers you received on most nights. And after convincing you to take a shot with them, you were finally free to go home.

The air felt heavier outside, the thick weight of the smoke and smog held your shoulders down as if you would float away from the earth at any given moment without them. You wrapped a coat around your body, not because you were cold, things were never cold in Digi York, but because you weren’t exactly keen on gaining any more attention on the streets than you already would with the outfit you were wearing.

It wasn’t often that you felt unsafe when walking home. Despite the high crime rate that surrounded not only your area of work, but your home neighborhood, no one ever bothered you. Stared, sure, stalked you like prey until they realized you weren’t as interesting as you seemed, sure; but through it all, you remained one of the very few citizens to have no hands cause you harm. There were no augmentations anyone wanted to rip out of your skull, or anything of real value on your person; you were nothing more than just another pretty face.

Despite it all, true fear was sparked in your stomach the moment the alarms went off.

Loud and ear piercing, the alarms that sounded were haunting, echoing endlessly around the skyscrapers and high rises around you. The alarms were almost more terrifying than the events they warned against. Still, it gave you a sense of urgency, and you quickly began to cut your way across the skyway that connected the high rise that housed your work, and the one that housed your home.

You ducked into the apartment complex just as the first drops of rain began to splatter against the ground. A part of you wanted to stand in the doorway and watch every single droplet fall. There was something enchanting about the way the water would turn to mist against the asphalt and metal around you. It refracted the neon lights that littered the entirety of the city, giving your vision a blue haze. Maybe in some other lifetime you would reach out and touch it, feel the wetness from the sky sprinkle your body as if you were in a shower.

Instead, you shut the door behind you and began to jog down the stairs to your apartment.

Four months. That’s how long the elevator had been broken. And in a building that was nearing two hundred stories, you had gotten in the best shape of your life. Fortunately, there was one skyway every twenty stories or so, allowing people to exit without climbing the full height of the building. You hadn’t touched the actual ground, the real ground since you were a child, anyway. Still, your calves burned every afternoon when going to take care of Leto.

Luckily, your return home always had you walking down the stairs rather than up, and before you knew it, you were standing in front of your apartment door. You fumbled with your coat pockets for a short moment before pulling out a thin, white card. It was a proxy card one of your roommates had set up for you since you had no augmentations to open it automatically. Placing the card next to the receiver, a green light flashed on the lock of the door, and you were allowed to enter your apartment.

Usually things were quiet when you returned home from work, as your roommates would be settled in for the night. However, both of the girls were up and about, sitting on the couch next to each other with tired eyes as they flipped through channels on the television. The light from the screen reflected brightly on their faces in the dark room, but the moment you opened the door, their attention turned to you.

“Oh, thank god,” one of the girls spoke up, rubbing her eyes with her hands. “We were worried you had gotten caught out in the storm.”

Sighing, you allowed your coat to slip off of your shoulders, revealing your rather skimpy outfit as you sauntered over to sit on the sofa with them. The alarms continued to blare, though the sound of it was muffled with the door closing behind you and the sound of the rain pounding against the windows.

“I take it the alarm woke you up?” you asked, your eyes flickering to the television to find that they were watching some corny reality show.

“Scared the shit outta me,” the girl responded.

Smiling, you turned your attention back to the two girls on your left. The one you had been speaking the most with was Avi, your long time roommate and best friend. The two of you grew up in the same orphanage as children. Very few people who lived in The Blue had the luxury of being able to raise any kid they got stuck with, so stories like yours and Avi’s weren’t exactly rare or sad. Most people were too poor to afford to properly raise a child. But you had been roommates in childhood because of it, and it was the same in adulthood.

She was a beautiful girl with unnaturally pale-white skin and bleached hair. The color of her optics changed fairly often as her girlfriend would do her augmentations for free, but as of recently she seemed to be sporting a soft lilac purple. She had just about as many piercings as she did augmentations; her ears, nose, lips, bellybutton; anything that could be pierced on her was pierced.

Then there was your other roommate, and Avi’s girlfriend, Nova. She was an alluring dark skinned girl decorated with golden tattoos and just as many piercings as her lover, whose head was laying in her lap. She looked back and forth between the two of you as you spoke, a quiet smile on her stained lips.

“God, and I still have work tomorrow,” Avi groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “Is it even worth going back to bed? I get up in a few hours to teach those little shits. Maybe I should just stay up…”

“You and I both know that’s a terrible idea,” Nova said with a hum, her eyes focused on the strands of Avi’s hair she was stroking.

Avi suddenly let out a terrible groan as she sat herself up, leaning her elbows on her knees. She bounced for a short moment before craning her head around to look at you.

“I shoulda been a stripper. Do you think they’re hiring at The Koi?” she asked.

You raised an eyebrow as you shook your head. “You do not want to work there, trust me.”

“What, because men will harass me?” she asked sarcastically. She paused for a moment as she leaned forward towards the coffee table that sat in front of the sofa, where she grabbed the remote sitting there. “I’m changing this stupid channel.”

“I was watching that!” Nova said in a quiet protest.

“Men already harass me,” Avi continued, violently pressing the buttons on the remote with her forefinger. “I might as well get tipped for it, right?”

You shook your head as you glanced at the TV. The alarms had finally ceased, making things a bit more quiet, allowing you to somewhat pay attention to the science channel Avi had flipped the channel over to. But the rain continued to pound against the building, creating an eerie drone.

“You’re a teacher. Out of the three of us, you’re probably the only one with a job that has a chance of getting you out of here,” you defended.

“Oh please,” Avi said in a sour tone. She leaned back against the couch, satisfied with the change in channels. Her arm reached up as she wrapped it around Nova, pulling herself closer to the woman. “Everyone knows the only way anyone gets out of The Blue is if some Olympian wants to fuck them bad enough they ask to get married.”

Really, you had no retort, because there wasn’t one. It was the truth, and also some fairytale story people tried to hold onto; that someone would love them enough to save them from the deepest levels of Digi York. As kids, you and Avi always dreamed of getting out of that city. Of going someplace cleaner, and living a better life. Eating fresh produce that wasn’t just near rotten scraps tossed down from Olympus, and drinking water that wasn’t just purified runoff from the acid rain that plagued your city.

No one spoke for a long while after that. The three of you stared forward at the screen that showcased some astrophysics, or a rocket launching, or what the world looked like back in the year 1969 before the Earth started to choke. There were blue skies, and even bluer oceans, and luscious forests that blanketed entire continents. Then, the screen would flash to the painful reminders of what your current earth looked like. The Infinity Fires raging in the north, choking the sky with smoke. Acid rain that made it impossible to grow anything in the barren soil. Pictures of species that used to roam the Earth among humans, now long gone and rotting in the ground.

The program ended a good twenty minutes later, and as it cut to a commercial of the latest muscle enhancement augmentations, Avi let out a soft sigh.

“I think I’m ready to go back to bed,” she admitted. “I think I’ll dream of going to the moon tonight.”

The two lovers bid you goodnight before wandering off down the hallway into their shared bedroom, and though you were rather tired from your day, you stayed out on the sofa. You found it difficult to fall asleep after getting off of work, no matter how exhausted you were from the day, so you did your best to bore yourself to sleep. The screen in front of you continued to flash with pictures of the past and present, and getting annoyed with the depressing reminder, you reached forward and began to flick through the channels.

“But… I love you!”

“...another case gone cold…”

“...Spider-Man apprehended…”

“...to me, young lady! You…”

You stopped. Something had caught your attention, and you had flipped too far through the channels. Pressing back, you found yourself watching one of the several local news outlets. An Olympian woman with unnaturally orange skin smiled on screen with teeth that were too white to be real. She continued with her segment on Spider-Man, the vigilante that Lucia had found herself obsessed with recently.

“...local gang in The Hitsugi, and left them on the doorsteps of the police station in the 23rd ward. These members were abducting young children and were selling them to bidders in a trafficking ring. Though police suspect the operation is much larger than the handful of members Spider-Man caught, they believe they have a strong lead. They hope to have the gang fully apprehended by the end of the week.”

Video after video flashed of several men, all tied to one another, stumbling around as police officers looked at them almost as if they didn’t know what to do with them. Then, of course, there were videos of Spider-Man himself. He never seemed to stick around long enough to give any useful information to law enforcement, not that they were particularly useful in the first place. He did enough work to get most of the job done and dropped the trash off and let someone else clean up the remainder of the mess.

Spider-Man had almost become a beacon of hope for many people in The Blue. You almost considered him as such, anyway. Almost. The man was doing good work, and taking out the trash bag by bag, but really, you couldn’t help but feel bad for him. One lone sanitary worker attempting to clean a city creating trash faster than he could carry it. He was bound to drown, eventually.

Sighing, you turned the TV off, and a terrible quietness spread over the apartment. The rain had stopped; how long ago, you weren’t sure, but the silence was enough to form a pit of dread in your stomach. That haunting stillness of your apartment forced you to remember that no matter where you were in Digi York, you were bound to drown. Not even the tallest towers of Olympus could save you from a city swallowing itself from the ground up.

Find more here on my AO3

Masterlist

#miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel x you #miguel fanfic #there's a lot of world building in this sorry #this man has been rotting my brain #spiderman 2099 #miguel o hara #into the spiderverse #across the spiderverse #fanfiction

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vivencyglobal · 1 year

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Interactive Displays - Interactive Flat Panels | Vivency Global in Dubai.

Vivency Global interactive flat panels that revolutionize collaboration and engagement. Vivency interactive flat panels combine high-definition displays with touch technology,

Interactive flat panels (IFPs) have emerged as game-changers in modern education and corporate environments, revolutionizing the way we collaborate, teach, and present information. These large, touch-enabled displays combine the benefits of traditional whiteboards, projectors, and interactive technology into a single, versatile solution. In this blog, we will delve into the features, advantages, and applications of interactive flat panels, and how they are transforming communication and learning experiences.

Interactive Features:

Interactive flat panels offer a range of interactive features that enhance engagement and collaboration:

a) Touch Capability: IFPs feature touch-sensitive screens, allowing users to interact directly with the display using gestures, touch, or stylus pens. This enables writing, drawing, annotating, and manipulating content with ease.

b) Multi-Touch Functionality: IFPs support multi-touch input, allowing multiple users to interact simultaneously. This promotes collaboration, group activities, and interactive learning experiences.

c) Digital Ink and Annotation: IFPs enable users to write, draw, and annotate directly on the display using digital ink. This feature enhances interactivity, facilitates real-time feedback, and encourages dynamic content creation.

d) Multimedia Integration: IFPs seamlessly integrate with multimedia resources, including videos, images, and interactive educational software. This enables multimedia-rich lessons, engaging presentations, and immersive learning experiences.

Advantages of Interactive Flat Panels:

a) Enhanced Engagement: The interactive nature of IFPs captures attention and encourages active participation, making lessons, presentations, and meetings more engaging. Users can manipulate content, solve problems, and collaborate effectively.

b) Versatility and Ease of Use: IFPs offer a versatile and user-friendly interface, eliminating the need for complex setup or additional equipment. They can be easily integrated into existing workflows and environments, making them accessible to users of all skill levels.

c) Visual and Multimedia Learning: IFPs facilitate visual and multimedia learning experiences. Teachers and presenters can incorporate interactive diagrams, graphs, and multimedia content, enabling students and audiences to visualize complex concepts effectively.

d) Seamless Collaboration: IFPs support real-time collaboration and group work. Multiple users can interact simultaneously, contributing ideas, annotating content, and collaborating on projects, fostering teamwork and creativity.

Applications in Education and Business:

a) Education: Interactive flat panels have transformed classrooms, making lessons more interactive and dynamic. They facilitate collaborative learning, interactive assessments, virtual field trips, and remote education through video conferencing capabilities.

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loneberry · 2 years

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The praise singers: poets George Mackay Brown and Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gerard Manley Hopkins and George Mackay Brown were both Catholic converts, shy and tormented by depression, whose poems are filled with delight in Creation. A recently discovered cache of Brown’s notebooks shows how deeply he empathised with Hopkins’ inner struggles

[Pasting the entirety of this beautiful article here because I’ve been in a Hopkins hole and enjoy contemplating how poets befriend dead poets, how the poet feels the presence of the dead poet at the church of St Aloysius during evening Mass. If it’s tl;dr at least let me leave you with George’s extraordinary final vision before dying: Just before he lost consciousness, he said to the doctor and nurses attending him, “I see hundreds and hundreds of ships sailing out of the harbour.”]

By Maggie Fergusson

A poet’s hope, W.H. Auden believed, is “to be like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere”. No twentieth-century poet was more local than George Mackay Brown. He was born in the Orcadian seaport Stromness in 1921, and there, pretty much, he stayed – not even venturing the 15 miles to Orkney’s capital, Kirkwall, until he was in his mid-twenties.

In an age of Concorde and inter-city travel, he was as rooted in his landscape as John Clare or William Barnes. But, by drawing his boundaries so closely around him, he allowed his imagination to range freely through time and space. As Seamus Heaney put it, “George Mackay Brown transformed everything by drawing it through the eye of the needle of Orkney.”

So there was consternation among his friends when, in June 1989, Brown announced that he planned to make his first (and only) trip to England. The centenary of the death of Gerard Manley Hopkins was approaching, and the Bodleian Library in Oxford was putting on an exhibition of his manuscripts. The similarities between Hopkins and Brown were striking: both were converts to Catholicism, shy, spiritual, passionate, tormented, but also filled with euphoric gladness by the wonders of Creation.

“No English poet ever fell upon the language with such skill, sweetness and boisterous daring,” Brown wrote of Hopkins. Seeing the work of the Jesuit poet “in the ink” might help him to understand how Hopkins “forged and hammered and welded those resounding marvels”.

Brown travelled south with a friend, but the journey, by sleeper, was fraught. He was terrified by the semi-automated, fast-folding lavatory doors. At bedtime, he took a sleeping pill but, as he could find no water, it lodged in his throat. He didn’t realise that his compartment had a blind, so all through the night station lights flashed across his face.

By the time his editor, Hugo Brunner, met him at King’s Cross, he was shaken and weary. After a brisk tour of London, during which Brown was photographed in front of Buckingham Palace, clinging to a carrier bag from Argo’s baker in Stromness, in which he’d packed his pyjamas and toothbrush, Brunner drove him to his home in north Oxford. A friend who met him there soon after his arrival said he looked so frail, sitting in the garden, it was as if some dry leaves had blown themselves into the vague semblance of a man.

But, once he’d had time to rest, things looked up. Hopkins’s beloved Oxford –

Towery city and branchy between towers:

Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd,

lark-charmèd, rook-racked,

river-rounded

– began to work its magic.

Brown’s visit happened to coincide with the election for a new Professor of Poetry, and he walked through the city in the June sun to watch the voting.

The retiring professor, Peter Levi, spotted him standing in shadows. “He was a formidably craggy, elderly hairpin of a man,” Levi wrote. “Of everything I saw that day, his face is the only unforgettable experience.”

Brown talked to the pupils at St Edward’s School. He allowed himself to be interviewed by Sue MacGregor. He was driven out to Littlemore, and was deeply affected to visit the tiny chapel where Newman was received in 1845. But what moved him most was the welcome he received from Hopkins himself. Almost everywhere he turned in Oxford, Brown later wrote in The Orcadian, he sensed Hopkins’ spirit – “sweet” and “eager”. On the centenary itself, he visited the church of St Aloysius, where Hopkins had been curate, and sensed him “especially there in that little church … at evening Mass”. He travelled home to Orkney relieved, but elated.

It was three years after this that I first met Brown, sent to Orkney by The Times to interview him on the publication of his novel Vinland. I was in Stromness for four days, and we forged an unlikely friendship. “I hope you will come back often, Maggie,” he wrote after I left. “I feel you belong here in Orkney.” So I did go back, often, and the summer before he died Brown – who I now called George – gave me his blessing to write his biography, after he was gone.

It was a daunting task: how to make a book about a man whose life had been so interior and apparently uneventful? But as soon as I set to work, material flooded in – most wonderfully George’s correspondence with Stella Cartwright, “Muse of Rose Street”, the beautiful, tragic woman, possessed of “a kind of radiance, a rich essence on which poets and artists feed to sustain themselves”, whom he nearly married.

George had told me that his work on Hopkins – preliminary notes for a thesis he never completed – was in his attic, and I very much looked forward to reading it. But it couldn’t be found, and it wasn’t until recently that it turned up in a sale, and was bought by the National Library of Scotland. So last July, Edinburgh steeped in a summer haar, I slipped into the manuscripts room to look through rough jottings made by George in a handful of buff-covered exercise books in the 1960s. Here are just a few of the nuggets I found.

Winifred Maynard, the tutor who oversaw George’s work, and whom I tracked down in researching my book, found him a frustrating student. She had hoped he might produce some original work on Hopkins’ theories of prosody: sprung rhythm, outriders, instress, inscape. But what he loved to do instead was just to read Hopkins’ poems “in my own way, often aloud”, and to respond to them simply. And what his response lacked in sophistication, it made up for in feeling.

Hopkins, he writes, “was not a poet of fairgrounds and inn-yards, like Chaucer or Burns; he was a lonelier poet even than Wordsworth on his lonely hills”. So George is fascinated by the handful of real people “who live and move in Hopkins’ art”. Some of these are not much more than “metaphysical diving boards”, but a few come alive – none more so than Felix Randal – “caught in the tension between his life of elemental labour and the peace of a good death”.

Felix Randal the farrier, O is he dead

then? my duty all ended,

Who have watched his mould of man,

big-boned and hardy-handsome

Pining, pining …

There is “intimacy” in this poem, George writes, not just because Hopkins had come to love Randal, but because “the image that comes closest to Hopkins himself is that of a blacksmith … fettling ‘for the great gray dray-horse his bright and battering sandal’”. Through poems like these, George writes, Hopkins was making “a heroic lonely attempt to put song back into a language grown thin and washed out”.

Seamus Heaney called George Mackay Brown “the praise singer”, and he might have shared this epithet with Hopkins, many of whose poems express an exuberant love of Creation that no English poet has equalled –

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –

When weeds, in wheels, shoot long

and lovely and lush …

But then there is the Hopkins of the dark sonnets. “The melancholy of Victorian poetry,” George writes, “is all pale grey shadows compared to the black pit Hopkins went to at a certain late period of his life.” What “haunted him cruelly”, George feels, “was the loss of Eden in every individual, which needs must be (none knew it more than Hopkins himself, the priest: the Confession box is a kind of sewer where all the world’s filth runs away), and yet the great rift between innocence and sin wrung protest after protest from him against the seeming heartlessness of God –

No worst, there is none. Pitched past

pitch of grief,

More pangs will, schooled at forepangs,

wilder wring.

Comforter, where, where is your

comforting?

Mary, mother of us, where is your

relief?

“Such abandonment is all the more terrible for a man who is a priest,” George writes, “who holds in his hands every morning at Mass the Bread of Heaven.”

Is this a dark night of the soul? Not quite. In the dark night, George writes, people doubt the existence of God. Hopkins never does. “The dark night is next to incommunicable, but these sonnets express only too vividly the misery of all men who try to live simultaneously in two worlds. That is why they are so impressive, whereas (for example) St Teresa of Avila’s attempts to convey the ‘dark night’ to ordinary people leaves them cold and puzzled.”

George, like Hopkins, lived with blackness, though he never allowed it into his poetry. From adolescence, he was plagued by depression – “so severe it can be that one longs for oblivion”. And depression was bound inextricably with guilt. “The sun is flashing off the snow on to the back of my head as I sit writing in the kitchen,” he wrote to a friend one winter’s morning, “and all that brightness makes me feel what a filthy creature I am.”

No wonder, then, that George felt profound empathy for Hopkins’ moral scruples. Both poets were conflicted, for example, about fame. “There is a point with me,” Hopkins wrote to Robert Bridges, “when I must absolutely have encouragement as much as crops rain.”

And yet fame was, he believed, “one of the most dangerous things to man”. The only “just judge, the only just literary critic, is Christ, who prizes, is proud of, and admires, more than any man … the gifts of his own making”.

Hopkins was, George writes, “a divided man”, whose poetry bears witness to “the naked encounter of the sensualist and the ascetic”. He responds to Creation with “outbursts of pure pagan joy”, and then tacks  on to them “God-invocations”. It doesn’t always work: “One can see the marks of the stitching.”

And yet Hopkins’ strivings were the opposite of futile. “No poet”, George writes, “ever indulged himself more, sought more passionately by all means – sensuous, intellectual, spiritual – for the fullest and truest flowering of his being.”

And for both these extraordinary poets, bleakness and bewilderment yielded, in the end, to bliss. The members of Hopkins’ Dublin community who sat at his deathbed heard him murmur “I am so happy, I am so happy”. George died in the Balfour Hospital in Kirkwall in April 1996. Just before he lost consciousness, he said to the doctor and nurses attending him, “I see hundreds and hundreds of ships sailing out of the harbour.”

#poetry #literature #gerard manley hopkins #george mackay brown #depression #Maggie Fergusson

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tccicomputercoaching · 8 days

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sandman-sound · 3 months

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Everything You Need to Know About Bell Timers

When managing an environment where time regulation is crucial, such as schools, factories, or offices, bell timers play an indispensable role. These devices ensure that scheduled activities happen punctually and without confusion. In this comprehensive guide, we’ll explore everything you need to know about bell timers, their benefits, types, and applications, with a particular focus on the offerings from Sandman Sound.

What Are Bell Timers?

Bell timers are automated devices designed to trigger a bell or alarm at pre-set intervals. They are essential tools for environments that require strict adherence to schedules, such as educational institutions, industrial settings, and commercial establishments.

Key Features of Bell Timers

Automated Scheduling: Bell timers can be programmed to ring at specific times, ensuring consistency and punctuality.

Versatility: They can be used in various settings, including schools, factories, and offices.

Energy Efficiency: Modern bell timers are designed to consume minimal power, making them an economical choice.

Durability: High-quality bell timers, like those from Sandman Sound, are built to withstand daily use in demanding environments.

Why Bell Timers Are Essential

Enhancing Time Management

Bell timers help manage time efficiently by providing audible reminders for transitions between different tasks or periods. This is particularly beneficial in schools where students and teachers need to adhere to a strict schedule.

Improving Productivity

In workplaces, especially in manufacturing and industrial settings, bell timers signal the start and end of shifts, breaks, and work periods, helping to maintain a steady workflow and improve overall productivity.

Ensuring Safety

In environments where safety is paramount, such as construction sites or factories, bell timers can alert workers to start or stop dangerous tasks, contributing to a safer work environment.

Types of Bell Timers

There are various types of bell timers available, each suited to different needs and applications. Here are the main categories:

Mechanical Bell Timers

Mechanical bell timers are the traditional type, operating without the need for electricity. They rely on a clockwork mechanism that winds up and triggers the bell at set intervals. These are often used in simpler setups where electrical connections might not be feasible.

Electrical Bell Timers

Electrical bell timers are more sophisticated and versatile. They can be programmed with precise timing schedules and are ideal for environments requiring accurate and reliable time signalling. They often feature digital interfaces and can be integrated with other systems.

Wireless Bell Timers

Wireless bell timers provide flexibility in installation and use. They can be controlled remotely and are perfect for environments where cabling is difficult or impractical. They are often used in larger facilities where centralised control is beneficial.

Smart Bell Timers

Smart bell timers represent the latest in timing technology. They can be controlled via smartphone apps or computer software, allowing for easy scheduling and adjustments. They also often include features such as battery backups and advanced scheduling options.

Applications of Bell Timers

Bell timers have a wide range of applications across different industries. Here’s a closer look at how they can be utilised in various settings:

Educational Institutions

In schools and universities, bell timers are essential for managing class schedules, breaks, and transition periods. They help maintain order and ensure that students and staff follow the timetable accurately.

Industrial Settings

In factories and industrial sites, bell timers are used to signal shift changes, breaks, and other critical times. This helps in maintaining productivity and ensuring that all employees are aware of their schedule.

Offices

In office environments, bell timers can be used to remind employees of important meetings, breaks, or end-of-day signals. This can improve time management and help maintain a productive work environment.

Public Places

In places like parks, recreational centres, or transportation hubs, bell timers can be used to signal the start and end of activities or to provide time reminders for visitors.

Benefits of Using Bell Timers

Increased Efficiency

By automating time signals, bell timers help ensure that activities start and stop on time, reducing downtime and increasing overall efficiency.

Cost Savings

Using bell timers reduces the need for manual time management, saving labour costs and reducing the risk of errors that could lead to downtime or scheduling conflicts.

Improved Organisation

Bell timers help maintain a structured and organised environment, whether in a school, factory, or office. This organisation can lead to better productivity and a more harmonious workplace.

Enhanced Safety

In industrial settings, bell timers can enhance safety by signalling critical times for starting or stopping potentially dangerous tasks, ensuring that all employees are aware and prepared.

Why Choose Sandman Sound for Bell Timers?

Sandman Sound is a leading provider of high-quality bell timers in Australia. Here’s why you should consider their products for your timing needs:

High-Quality Products

Sandman Sound offers a range of durable and reliable bell timers designed to meet the needs of various environments. Their products are built to last and provide consistent performance.

Customisation Options

Sandman Sound understands that different settings have different needs. They offer customisation options to ensure that their bell timers fit perfectly with your specific requirements.

Expert Support

With years of experience in the industry, Sandman Sound provides expert support to help you choose the right bell timer for your needs and to assist with installation and maintenance.

Competitive Pricing

Sandman Sound offers competitive pricing on all their products, ensuring that you get the best value for your investment.

Conclusion

Bell timers are an invaluable tool for managing time and maintaining order in various settings, from educational institutions to industrial environments. With the right bell timer, you can improve efficiency, productivity, and safety in your organisation.

If you’re looking for high-quality bell timers, Sandman Sound offers a range of products designed to meet the needs of different environments. Their commitment to quality and customer satisfaction makes them a top choice for bell timers in Australia. For more information, visit their website here.

By investing in a reliable bell timer from Sandman Sound, you’re not just getting a product; you’re gaining a tool that will help streamline your operations and improve your time management for years to come.

#sound installation #bell timers #musician

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jcmarchi · 5 months

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Dr. Pandurang Kamat, Chief Technology Officer, Persistent Systems – Interview Series

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/dr-pandurang-kamat-chief-technology-officer-persistent-systems-interview-series/

Dr. Pandurang Kamat, Chief Technology Officer, Persistent Systems – Interview Series

Dr. Pandurang Kamat is Chief Technology Officer at Persistent Systems, he is responsible for advanced technology research focused on unlocking business value through innovation at scale. He is a seasoned technology leader who helps customers improve user experience, optimize business processes, and create new digital products. His vision for Persistent is to be an innovation powerhouse that anchors a global and diverse innovation ecosystem, comprising of academia and start-ups.

Pandurang joined Persistent in 2012. Prior to Persistent, he was the Director of Analytics for Ask.com’s search and content businesses, where he led a global team to manage Ask’s analytics platform. Before that he helped build secure communications and digital media products at Bell Labs and HP Labs and an award winning wireless research platform at Rutgers University.

Persistent Systems is a trusted Digital Engineering and Enterprise Modernization partner for global market leaders across Industries.

What initially attracted you to computer science and computer engineering?

My interest in computer science and engineering was sparked during a summer course in school. Learning programming constructs and creating computer games introduced me to the structured logic that supports these fields. I was captivated by the ability to break down complex problems and solve them systematically. What truly drew me in was the immense leverage that well-designed programs offer. They can automate tasks, optimize processes, and empower individuals or small teams to achieve remarkable feats. This blend of creativity, problem-solving, and transformative potential continues to inspire me. From those initial experiences to my ongoing journey, I remain passionate about the endless possibilities that technology presents. Computer science and engineering not only shape the future but also offer avenues for innovation and progress that drive me forward.

The bulk of Persistent Systems business comes from building software for enterprises, how has the advent of generative AI transformed how your team operates?

The advent of generative AI (GenAI) has transformed how our team operates at Persistent, particularly in enterprise software development. This disruption within the IT industry not only presents challenges but also significant opportunities to reimagine business operations holistically.

As an AI-powered Digital Engineering enterprise, Persistent has embraced GenAI to revolutionize various aspects of the software engineering lifecycle. Over the past year, we have developed tools and suites that completely redefine processes such as code generation, test case generation, and report migration. In legacy modernization projects, our approach has evolved significantly. We now leverage tools to streamline code takeover processes, mitigate project risks, and expedite the onboarding of new team members by providing them with a deeper understanding of complex codebases. Furthermore, our collaboration with industry domains enables us to deliver tailored solutions leveraging enterprise data. By developing digital assistants capable of understanding business language and providing relevant references, we enhance operational efficiency and decision-making within enterprises. These assistants adhere to Responsible AI principles, ensuring transparency, accountability, security, and privacy while continuously improving their accuracy and performance through automated evaluation of model output.

What are some of the challenges of completely modernizing legacy systems using generative AI?

GenAI is a powerful tool, but it’s not a silver bullet for complete legacy system modernization. Organizations across industries must adopt a combined approach, harnessing human expertise and AI capabilities. While GenAI offers substantial potential for modernization, it has its limitations. Key challenges include:

Limited Understanding of Legacy Systems: GenAI models require a thorough understanding of existing systems to function effectively. Legacy systems often lack comprehensive documentation, hindering the ability of AI to grasp their interdependencies effectively.

Data Quality and Bias: The quality and representativeness of data used to train the AI model have a significant impact on its output. Limitations of the training data can be reflected in the generated code, potentially introducing new problems.

Ensuring Quality and Security: While GenAI can automate code generation, the output needs rigorous testing and verification to meet quality, functional requirements, and security standards.

Limited Scope of Modernization: GenAI may be unsuitable for complete system overhauls. It can excel at specific tasks like code refactoring or test-case generation, but complex architectural changes still require manual intervention.

Change Management and Stakeholder Alignment: Managing organizational change and gaining stakeholder buy-in are critical factors in determining the success of modernizing legacy systems with GenAI. Clear communication, training programs, and stakeholder engagement initiatives can help address resistance to change and facilitate smooth transitions.

One of the challenges of Generative AI is consistency, how does Persistent Systems assist with building a consistent user experience?

Consistency is one element of providing an overall enterprise-grade, enterprise-safe GenAI-powered user experience and outcomes. We look at the process holistically.

We provide end-to-end support across all stages of GenAI adoption. Our strategic guidance and meticulous use case analyses aid organizations in selecting the most suitable foundation models (FMs) tailored to their specific requirements. Through a detailed examination and consultatn, we assist clients in defining clear use cases and making informed FM selections.

Then, we focus on multiple approaches, such as few-shot prompting or even fine-tuning, to ensure that the models used in the applications are attuned to the use case and enterprise data.

Our solutions not only employ standard RAG techniques but also go deeper into multiple prompting and data chunking strategies to ensure the most relevant data is retrieved and given to the FM during inference. We further enhance the accuracy and relevance of this context by using advanced Knowledge Graphs to capture hidden relationships within the enterprise data.

We also employ multiple grounding techniques and guardrails to limit and focus the purview of inference.

Finally, we put the application through a rigorous and automated evaluation framework that ensures consistency of inference and experience, release after release.

Could you provide real-world examples where GenAI-powered solutions have successfully revolutionized customer interactions?

Persistent has transformed customer interactions for a leading software solutions provider through GenAI-powered solutions. Facing scalability challenges during peak operational periods, the company implemented a Central Knowledge Repository and Conversational AI Teams BOT. It streamlined access to information, leading to 80% reduction in customer query resolution time. The quality of responses also improved significantly, resulting in enhanced customer satisfaction.

We also assisted a private equity firm by leveraging GenAI to automate the creation of detailed investment reports. With the GenAI-powered system, the time required to generate reports was reduced by 90%. This streamlined approach revolutionized the firm’s operations, facilitating rapid and effective decision-making. The efficiency not only saved valuable time but also fostered increased collaboration among stakeholders and ensured a personalized touch in each memo, enhancing overall effectiveness.

How do you approach Responsible GenAI innovation?

Our approach to Responsible GenAI innovation prioritizes ethical practices and regulatory compliance throughout the development and implementation processes. We emphasize transparency, accountability, and fairness in AI-driven decision-making.

We establish robust ethical guidelines governing the development, deployment, and use of GenAI systems. In our pursuit of Responsible GenAI innovation, we rigorously test and validate our systems to mitigate potential risks such as biases, misinformation, and privacy issues.

Furthermore, we prioritize transparency and accountability in AI-driven decision-making processes by providing users with clear insights into system operations. Ultimately, our approach aims to develop and deploy GenAI systems that drive innovation and efficiency while positively contributing to society.

What is your vision for the future of AI?

My vision for the future of AI is multifaceted. Firstly, in digital engineering, I envision AI not only as a coding assistant but also as a collaborative partner, similar to a “pair programmer.” This involves AI assisting in coding tasks and actively participating in problem-solving by mapping out complex tasks and executing sub-tasks.

Secondly, I foresee an era of personalized AI agents and assistants offering tailored experiences to individuals – a “personalization of 1” approach. These agents will understand users’ unique preferences, behaviors, and needs, providing highly customized support and services.

Lastly, I believe in the evolution of compound AI systems, where various AI models coexist to address different needs. There won’t be a single “one-size-fits-all” model, but rather a combination of large and small, general, and purpose-built models working together in AI services. This approach allows for greater flexibility, efficiency, and effectiveness in solving a wide range of problems across different domains.

Thank you for the great interview, readers who wish to learn more should visit Persistent Systems.

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