#WESTON WOODS. got it

[squoobest]

FUUUCK SPACE MUTINY IS PLAYING on the mst3k turkey day marathon while im cooking . i can’t afford to miss big mclargehuge. rip steakface.

[kyseya]

How would the farm brothers react if reader was an artist or if they liked to sing and they caught them singing to themselves while they worked?

If reader enjoyed singing (feat. the dogs)

Lucas’ ears perked up. He’d picked up on a strange sound- number of sounds, if one wanted to be specific. The were muffled and he couldn’t hear them clearly but it was definitely human speech. Had someone managed to get into the farm? Why had the dogs not warned them? Godamnit, they would have to be trained again and should be prepared to lose their treat privileges.

The young man put down the hammer he was working with. Both him and Weston had agreed it would be best to reinforce the walls of the barn.

Despite there being little to no chance they’d get out or even get very far, the brothers couldn’t risk anyone getting lose.

If it was an ordinary citizen they would be easily driven away or..taken care of- if that’s what it takes. However, should it be an officer there were chances of real trouble. Before Lucas took another step in the direction of his brother, he cast the hammer a second glance. Thoughful for a moment, he picked it up again. It was sturdy in his calloused hands. It felt safe. It felt right. You can never be too careful, after all.

He quickly went to find his brother. Weston’s back was turned to him whilst he was chopping wood. He made it seem so easy; only one swing and the log fell into two distinct pieces. A small bead of sweat rolled down Weston’s forehead. One might say ‘oh, so he is human after all. See, he sweats!’ , but Lucas knew how long he’d been out there and it wasn’t until now a sign of exhaustion showed.

“Weston!” He said alarmingly. The older brother looked up from his work, a worried expression taking over his once neutral face. “I heard talking, I thinks someone’s at the farm- near the main house.”

Weston’s whole body tensed up. “Where is (Y/n)?”

Oh no. In the past he was always used to going directly to his brother if he suspected the slightest thing. It was so far drilled into his mind you could call it an instinct. He had done it so many times he didn’t think at all of the little woman they’d made part of their family. She was so fragile compared to them, how would she be able to fare on her own.

The two of them immediately rushed to where Lucas had heard the sounds(Weston also had the notion of bringing his working tool). The closer they got, the clearer the noise got. Eventually they realised it was song. Someone was singing. If they hadn’t been so focused on finding their beloved and ridding their home of the intruder, they would have stopped to consider how wonderful it sounded.

As they got near the source, both realised the voice was actually somewhat familiar. Very familiar, in fact. They slowed down and peeked around the corner.

On the porch of the main house sat you. You had this calm aura around you and a bright smile. You were the one singing. The song was light and happy, just like you. Clearly, the farm dogs were feeling it too because they were simply melting in your hands. You gently took one’s head in your palms and massaged its face. You chuckled and gave it a kiss. The dog happily wagged its tail at the gesture and licked you on the cheek in return.

So the pups were the ones you were singing for.

The Callaghan brothers instantly relaxed. Great, there were no danger. Weston gave Lucas a slight glare, who responded with a nervous laugh.

“Sorry. I-I haven’t heard her sing before and it was actually from a distance! You can’t fault me for making a mistake.” He quickly excused himself and went back to work. He felt a chill down his back and as he walked, he could stil feel his older brothers stink eye following him.

Weston sighed when lucas was out of sight. What an idiot. It seemed like they’d gotten worked up over nothing. He looked over at you once more before leaving to continue his labour. You were so beautiful as you sat there in the afternoon sun, playing with the dogs. Now you had started on a new song and some of the pups were becoming jealous with the amount of attention the other one was getting.

Weston smiled to himself. Perhaps he’d get you to sing in front of him live one day.

[elmleif]

It’s the last full day of the big Granite Falls trip, so after breakfast Weston asked Rowan to join him on a hike. And almost as if Mother Nature knew these two were about to enter the woods for a proposal, they were greeted by a group of monarch butterflies which happen to be their favorite. They hiked for a while, Weston anxiously following Rowan’s lead since he knows this forest well, until they finally reached a clearing where they could sit and watch the clouds roll by together. They eventually got back up to start their long hike back to the cabin, and when Rowan began walking off Weston politely held onto his arm to stop him from going further, looked him dead in the eye, and dropped down to one knee and popped the question. Rowan knew it was coming at some point this trip after accidentally finding the ring in their luggage, but that still didn’t make this moment any less exciting or perfect to him.

[mappingthemoon]

Books Read 2024

David Bowie (Little People, Big Dreams) / Ma Isabel Sánchez Vegara ; Ana Albero (ill.) (Francis Lincoln Children’s Books, 2019)

Angels and Insects / A. S. Byatt (Chatto & Windus, 1992)

How to Stay Alive in the Woods / Bradford Angier (Collier Books, 1962)

Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes / Edith Hamilton (Grand Central Publishing, 2011)

True Stories / Sophie Calle (Actes Sud, 2018)

The Lottery and Other Stories / Shirley Jackson (The Modern Library, 2000)

The Healthy Deviant: A Rule Breaker’s Guide to Being Healthy in an Unhealthy World / Pilar Gerasimo (North Atlantic Books, 2020)

The Ascent of Man / J. Bronowski (Little, Brown and Company, 1973)*

David Bowie: His Life on Earth, 1947-2016 / Allison Adato (ed.) (Time Inc. Books, 2016)

“The Paranoid Style in American Politics” / Richard Hofstadter, in: Anti-Intellectualism in American Life, The Paranoid Style in American Politics, Uncollected Essays 1956-1965 (The Library of America, 2020)

Underworld / Don DeLillo (Scribner, 1998)

The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child / Nancy Newton Verrier (Gateway Press, Inc., 1993)

Moon Shot: The Inside Story of America’s Race to the Moon / Alan Shepard & Deke Slayton (Turner Publishing, Inc., 1994)

Nevada / Imogen Binnie (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2022)

Collected Short Stories and the novel The Ballad of the Sad Café / Carson McCullers (The Riverside Press ; Houghton Mifflin Company, 1955)

The Discovery of the Titanic / Robert D. Ballard w/Rick Archbold ; Ken Marschall (ill.) (Warner/Maidon Press, 1987)

The J. Paul Getty Museum Handbook of the Photographs Collection / Weston Naef (The J. Paul Getty Museum, 1995)

Changing the Earth: Aerial Photographs / Emmet Gowin ; Jock Reynolds (Yale University Art Gallery in association with the Corcoran Gallery of Art and Yale University Press, 2002)

“There’s an Awful Lot of Weirdos in Our Neighborhood” & Other Wickedly Funny Verse / Colin McNaughton (Simon & Schuster, 1987)*

The Anatomical Tattoo / Emily Evans (Anatomy Boutique Books, 2017)

Artists Books / Dianne Perry Vanderlip (cur.) (Moore College of Art ; University Art Museum, Berkeley, 1973)

Risomania: The New Spirit of Printing / John Z. Komurki (Niggli, imprint of Braun Publishing AG, 2017)

American Music / Annie Leibovitz (Random House, 2004)

Atonement: A Novel / Ian McEwan (Anchor Books, A Division of Random House, Inc., 2003)

The Land Where the Blues Began / Alan Lomax (Pantheon Books, 1993)

Snoopy to the Moon! (Peanuts Space Adventures) / Jason Cooper ; Tom Brannon (ill.) (Peanuts Worldwide LLC ; Happy Meal Readers ; Reading Is Fundamental, 2019)

Just for Fun / Patricia Scarry ; Richard Scarry (ill.) (A Golden Book; Western Publishing Company, Inc., 1960)

The Emotionally Absent Mother: How to Recognize and Heal the Invisible Effects of Childhood Emotional Neglect / Jasmin Lee Cori (The Experiment, 2017)

A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing / Eimear McBride (Coffee House Press, 2014)

Bluets / Maggie Nelson (Wave Books, 2014)

The Secret History / Donna Tartt (Ballantine Books, 2002)

Touch Me I’m Sick / Charles Peterson (powerHouse Books, 2003)

Rose-Petal’s Big Decision (Rose-Petal Place) / Nancy Buss ; Pat Paris & Sharon Ross-Moore (ill.) (Parker Brothers, 1984)*

9½ Weeks: A Memoir of a Love Affair / Elizabeth McNeill (Berkley Books, 1979)

Keep Coming Back / Julia Clinker (Nexus Press, 2001)

Parable of the Sower (Earthseed #1) / Octavia Butler (Seven Stories Press, 2016)

Parable of the Talents (Earthseed #2) / Octavia Butler (Seven Stories Press, 2016)

Great Expectations / Charles Dickens (Cherish, [1994])

I’ve Got a Time Bomb: A Novel / Sibyl Lamb (Topside Press, [2014])

My Brilliant Friend: Book One: Childhood, Adolescence (The Neapolitan Novels #1) / Elena Ferrante ; Ann Goldstein (tr.) (Europa Editions, 2012)

Artists’ Books: A Cataloguers’ Manual / Maria White, Patrick Perratt, Liz Lawes on behalf of ARLIS/UK & Ireland Cataloguing and Classification Committee (ARLIS/UK & Ireland ; Art Libraries Society, 2006)

The Book as Art: Artists’ Books from the National Museum of Women in the Arts / Krystyna Wasserman (Princeton Architectural Press, 2007)

Alas, Babylon / Pat Frank (Perennial Classics, 1999)

To the Lighthouse / Virginia Woolf (The Hogarth Press, 1967)

The Photograph as Contemporary Art (World of Art), 3rd ed. / Charlotte Cotton (Thames & Hudson, 2014)

Swamp Water / Vereen Bell (Little, Brown and Company, 1941)

Ongoingness: The End of a Diary / Sarah Manguso (Graywolf Press, 2015)

Selected Poems / T. S. Eliot (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1964)

The New Way Things Work / David Macaulay ; Neil Ardley (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1998)

The Little Friend / Donna Tartt (Vintage Books, A Division of Random House, Inc., 2003)

At the Same Time: Essays and Speeches / Susan Sontag ; Paolo Dilonardo, Anne Jump (eds.) (Farrar Straus Giroux, 2007)

It’s All Absolutely Fine: Life Is Complicated So I’ve Drawn It Instead / Ruby Elliott (Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2017)

Things Fall Apart / Chinua Achebe (Penguin Books, 2017)

Beyond Katrina: A Meditation on the Mississippi Gulf Coast / Natasha Trethewey (University of Georgia Press, 2010)

A Humument: A Treated Victorian Novel (Final ed.) / Tom Phillips (Thames & Hudson, 2016)

Tree of Codes (2nd ed.) / Jonathan Safran Foer (Visual Editions, 2011)

Gutshot: Stories / Amelia Gray (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015)

Equus / Peter Shaffer (Scribner, 2005)

National Geographic, vol. 136, no. 6 (December 1969) “Space Record”

Sun Moon Earth: The History of Solar Eclipses from Omens of Doom to Einstein and Exoplanets / Tyler Nordren (Basic Books, 2016)

Pittsburgh’s South Side (Images of America) / Stuart P. Boehmig (Arcadia Publishing, 2006)

Books read in 2024; asterisks * denote rereads. Favorites this year were Ian McEwan & Donna Tartt, LOVE a good coming-of-age story with a perceptive & melodramatic protagonist set in that liminal period between childhood and adulthood!! Pretty sure the main reason I grabbed the Donna Tartt books while thrifting was just from seeing the occasional tumblr user obsess about them, and oh man I was not disappointed! It is rare that I speed through a 600-page novel but, ugh, the way she puts words together is so riveting. Dickensian levels of detail! Speaking of which, I did actually read a Dickens book this year, Great Expectations, which ended up on my list a few years ago after a stranger on the bus tried to initiate conversation with me by asking what I was reading. He said that Great Expectations was his favorite book, and I was like, “oh cool, I read that in high school, I liked it,” and he was like, super excited that I had also read his fave classic. Well, later on after I got off the bus, I realized I had gotten that title confused with The Great Gatsby (which I did read in high school along with millions of other Americans probably) and I felt bad for accidentally deceiving Random Guy on the Bus, so the next time I saw a copy of Great Expectations at the thrift store, I picked it up. Not bad!!

What else? I’m very late to the Elena Ferrante party, but I enjoyed My Brilliant Friend in text form wayyy better than my attempt to listen to the audiobook five years ago (I just could not follow the audio version and couldn’t get into the story). Charles Peterson’s Touch Me I’m Sick was a fave photo book of the year; it had been on my list since 2015, whoops (I had to interlibrary loan it). This year I read a pretty even mix of books from my to-read list (earliest titles added 2015), books from my to-read pile (items I have thrifted within the past few years), and random interruptions to those lists. Oh, I also read a TON of essays and articles about artists’ books (not listed above) for the class I took at Rare Book School in the summer. I read a couple painfully healing books about motherhood and adoption (The Primal Wound / Nancy Newton Verrier & The Emotionally Absent Mother / Jasmin Lee Cori) that I wish I could’ve encountered earlier in my life but also who knows, maybe this year was cosmically the perfect time for my brain to be receptive. I picked up Alas, Babylon because it was a title I remembered seeing my dad reading at the kitchen table one time when I was a kid. (It’s a 1959 novel about surviving in post-nuclear apocalypse small-town Florida; there is some light misogyny and racism of its era, but also the librarian plays an important role, which I thought was sweet. A couple paragraphs are devoted to the librarian’s perennial struggles [pre-apocalypse] to secure funding, to keep the populace’s attention in spite of modern distractions like tv and air conditioning!) Finally, I also really enjoyed Moon Shot (which I took with me to the eclipse on April 8); here's what I wrote about it in my reading spreadsheet: “The writing style wasn’t particularly phenomenal, yet I was still moved to tears several times while reading … about witnessing the beauty of space, the thrill of exploration, the astronauts’ successes and tragedies, and at the end, the simplicity and sentimentality and symbolism of the Apollo-Soyuz friendships. I can’t help but wonder what the fuck it is about billionaires … that they seemingly don’t become overwhelmed with the desire to save and protect our fragile planet after seeing it from space, a feeling many astronauts seem to have experienced.”

In general, I do most of my reading on the bus during my commutes to and from work, so I get in about 30-60 minutes per day of reading. But also this year I had several incidents of extensive sustained silent reading due to long waiting periods during travel – I read at least the first 100 pages of The Secret History while I was stuck overnight at Newark Airport in July; in August, I read almost all of Parable of the Talents on an Amtrak from Atlanta to Greensboro, then a chunk of Great Expectations on the way back. It was so nice to have that kind of IMMERSIVE, hours-long reading experience again! And especially with such richly detailed & descriptive stories! In 2025 I hope to be able to devote more time to slow, analog reading.

[theslackercorner55]

I was high and got scared shitless when I saw this and thought it was the max and ruby creepypasta, but no, it’s real and shockingly there’s another one made in 1991 and I think some that are lost. Who fucking knew, and also as creepy as they look I think that’s the most realistic designs for them I’ve ever seen. We need to talk about it, it’s perfect for autism awareness month!!

[mysticstarlightduck]

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 (𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕃𝕦𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕀𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨) - ℤ𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕋𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕠𝕣𝕤

Another character introduction post for What Lurks In The Hollow, this time for Zach Taylors - Amy's best friend and boyfriend.

If you like this, pls reblog! 💕

🎞️About/General Info🎞️

The first friend Amy made after returning to Vinethorn Grove, Zach Taylors is a goth teenager ran away from home to escape his abusive stepfather who lives in a neighbouring town, so now Zach secretly lives in an abandoned cabin he found near the woods - he may be homeless, but according to himself, he has never felt more free, or more safe. He and Amy were an instantly match made in chaos heaven, having been friends ever since they bumped into each other on the chilly autumn evening of the day she'd moved back into town. A certified troublemaker, Zach is still a gentleman and possibly the kindestkid in town, despite his kooky and eccentric personality. He loves alternative music, often ones matching with his improvised grunge/goth style, and can often be found either skateboarding around town or reading books - which he steals from the local library - on the outskirts of the woods, near the lake. Amy's brother, Dylan, is a bit wary of him, worried that he may be trouble and sometimes considering him 'too much', but also partially because Zach's sarcastic wit and rebellious tendencies clash with Dylan's more serious outlook, and so they don't always see eye to eye. As their paranormal investigation progresses, Zach slowly starts to become part of the Millihan's family, and finds that he may just not be quite as lonely as he once was anymore, much to his relief and confusion.

🎞️ More Info 🎞️

Pronouns - He/Him Age - 16 Appearance - Zach is average height and has pale skin without freckles, as well as messy short dark brown (almost black) hair that sticks out in a few directions and which he brushes up off his face. His eyes are brown and sharp, and he has a mischievous grin. For clothes, he usually wears cotton or flannel long-sleeve shirts usually in hues of grey, brown or black, under a long pitch black jaket, with black denim pants, black converse shoes studded with spikes and black fingerless gloves with ripped fishnetting. He also almost always uses black nail polish and eyeliner, which he takes great pride in.

Personality Types:

📸Enneagram: 7w8

📸MBTI: INTP/ENTP

Occupation: Homeless runaway, works part time jobs at a few local businesses that don't ask too many questions

Place of Birth: Criksdale (a town neighbouring Vinethorn Grove)

Orientation: Straight

🎞️ Personal Life 🎞️

Family:

Jenny Taylors (nèe Weston) - Mother

Status: Unknown Age: Presumably late 30s, early forties, if she's still alive somewhere Occupations: Convenience store clerk, busker (plays the guitar) Relationship: Complicated but not awful (she was troubled and developed a drug addiction/drinking problem after his father passed but wasn't a bad mother, wasn't a perfect one either)

David Taylors - Father

Status: Deceased Age: 29-30 Occupations: Ex-military, mechanic, musician Cause of Death: Accidental Electrocution (while at work) Relationship: Great (David was an awesome father and Zach's main role model, and also was the person from whom Zach got his love for unique things and a goth style)

Brendan Heddam - Step Father

Status: Alive Age: mid forties Occupations: Biker, Gang Leader Relationship: AWFUL (Brendam is a very violent and abusive man who hurt Zach emotionally and physically especially after Jenny hit the road/disappeared, and though Zach was able to run away the man is still hunting him down as he blames him for Jenny 'leaving him')

Best Friends/Allies:

Amy Millihan:

Status: Alive Age: 16 Occupation: Student (currently on school break), Paranormal Investigator & Enthusiast Relationship: Good (Amy is his best friend and girlfriend)

Liam Steele:

Status: Alive Occupations: Student (currently on school break), Rock 'n Roll Enthusiast, Local Troublemaker, Paranormal Investigator (begrudgingly) Relatioship: Good

Cody Piotrowitz

Status: Alive Occupations: Student (currently on school break), Animal Shelter Volunteer, Paranormal Investigator Relationship: Good

Tasha Strikehart

Status: Alive Occupations: Student (currently on school break), car wash assistant, barista and repair shop assistant Relationship: Good

🎞️ Likes & Dislikes 🎞️

Hobbies/Interests:

Listening to grunge rock and alternative pop, especially more gothic or spooky styles, on his old headphones, almost all the time

Skateboarding around town

Playing with his gecko, Mark, (which he stole from a parked pet store truck) and spending time taking care of it

Reading books, stolen from the local library, in the woods - his favorite genres are detective mysteries, philosophy, and obscure classics and books by unknown authors

Drinking milkshake at their favorite diner and eating hamburgers with curly fries

Investigating the paranormal activity of the woods with Amy and their friends, especially whenever their searches do wield results

Being a menace to society

Making passinate debates about sociopolitical topics or even very trivial or unknown facts

Playfully getting on Dylan's nerves on purpose

Spending quality time with Amy, watching movies, walking around, talking or just being in the same room

Sleeping

Eating big breakfasts with more food than one would consider possible

Making new, improvised props for his goth style and even sewing some new patches to his clothes or changing a shirt's shape all together

Pranking his friends

Additional Favorites: (Extra List Here)

Music: Grunge Rock/Alternative Pop

Person (his 'comfort people'): Amy

Candy: Caramel candies with peppermint

Place: 1. The Millhan's lakehouse, 2. his hideout

Fictional Creature: Banshee, Mothman

Scent: Petrichor, Vanilla Milkshakes and Burnt Wood

General Dislikes/Hates:

His step father (Brendan). Despite Zach's confidence and teenage swagger, he is absolutely terrified of his step father and with good reason: the man is dangerous, and would probably kill him if he had the chance. Whenever they have a close call with Brendan, Zach always has a panic attack later.

Being abandoned/discarded. Zach is a very loyal and kind person, but due to his early traumas - his dad's death, his mother leaving, his stepfather's abusive tendencies - he has developed an inherent fear that he might be 'worthless' or 'unlovable' and lives with a constant dread that his current friends may leave him ("just like everyone else does") once they """grow tired of him""".

Judgemental people, as well as controlling traditions which stifle the creativity of new generations

Corrupt or lazy politicians or public figures

Feeling like he's missing out on something, especially if he feels he isn't being included, though he usually hides the feeling

People who mistreat animals

Dylan not accepting him or treating him like he's just a troubled kid

Movies with cheesy plots or badly written character arcs

When townsfolk cling to misguided beliefs because its just easier that way

People who abuse of their power

Motorcycles and bikers, especially threatening ones

Repetitive conversations about meaningless topics

The smell of cleaning disinfectant

Squishy/sticky food

🎞️ Playlist: 🎞️

Boulevard of Broken Dreams - Green Day

Seventeen - Heathers

It's Alright - Mother Mother

Crossfire - Stephen

The Chain - Evanescence

Ride - Twenty-One Pilots

I'm Not Famous - AJR

What Lurks In The Hollow Taglist (-/+): @ray-writes-n-shit, @sarandipitywrites @smol-feralgremlin, @kaylinalexanderbooks,

@diabolical-blue @oh-no-another-idea

@cakeinthevoid, @clairelsonao3, @sleepy-night-child

@thepeculiarbird

@the-golden-comet, @urnumber1star, @ominous-feychild, @anyablackwood, @amaiguri, @finickyfelix

@lyutenw, @elshells, @thelovelymachinery,

@bookwormclover, @an-indecisive-nerd, @the-letterbox-archives

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[starstruckbyacomet]

There Is No Safe Word (Part 7 of 10)

(Source) (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Prewarning)

Neil Gaiman's house. Photo: The Neil Gaiman Visual Bibliography.

Editor’s note: This story contains content that readers may find disturbing, including graphic allegations of sexual assault & child abuse.

In 2014, the cracks in Gaiman and Palmer’s marriage began to show to those around them. While they were at Bard, they decided to buy a house upstate. Palmer would have preferred to live in New York City, but Gaiman liked the woods. Eventually, he picked a sprawling estate set on 80 acres in Woodstock. It was Gaiman’s money, a friend who accompanied them on the house hunt says, “and he was going to have the say.”

Later that year, Palmer got pregnant. She and Gaiman were spending more time at home together and talked about slowing down and devoting their attention to their marriage. She wanted to close the relationship, and he agreed. But when she was eight months pregnant, Gaiman came to her with a problem: He had slept with a fan in her early 20s, taking her virginity. Now, Gaiman told her, the girl was “going crazy.” He promised to change, and they met with a couples counselor. Gaiman was prone to panic attacks and had never been in treatment. “Amanda was shocked at how traumatized Neil was, given his public persona and the guy she thought she’d married,” a person close to them says.

Caroline Wallner in the kitchen of Hotel Tivoli where the handmade dishes and cups she custom designed and fabricated for the establishment are stored. Photo: The Daily Gazette.

One of the people in whom Palmer confided about her marital issues at the time was Caroline Wallner, a potter who, along with her builder husband, Phillip, had been living on the Woodstock property and working as a caretaker. Gaiman had made them an offer that seemed too good to be true. They would build an addition on one of the cabins on the land at Gaiman’s expense, and in exchange, Gaiman would sell them a five-acre parcel, allowing them to put up a barn-style home to share with their three daughters. They tended to the garden, ran errands for guests, and rehabilitated the buildings, which needed plumbing and electrical work.

At lunch one day, Palmer told Wallner she hated living in the woods and was disturbed by what she was learning about her husband. “‘You have no idea the twisted, dark things that go on in that man’s head,’” Wallner recalls Palmer saying. Palmer said she wished her marriage were more like Wallner and Phillip’s, but their marriage of 11 years was falling apart, too. In 2017, Phillip moved out of their house. Wallner, 54, spent her days in bed crying and drinking. She stopped eating and, for the most part, stopped working. It was then that Gaiman began paying attention to her. He would bring juices up to her cabin and fret that she was losing too much weight. The first time he touched her, in December 2018, she was sitting on his couch next to him, crying from exhaustion. Gaiman told her, “You need a hug.” She stood and he hugged her, then slid his hands down her pants and into her underwear and squeezed her butt. She does not recall saying or doing anything in response. “I was stunned,” she says.

Neil Gaiman in his office. Photo: Weston Wells for Variety.

Over the next two years, they had a series of sexual encounters, always when Palmer was away. When Gaiman wasn’t around, they occasionally engaged in phone sex. At first Wallner, who hadn’t been with anyone since Phillip left, went along willingly. But at the end of their second encounter, she remembers asking Gaiman what Palmer would think about their romance: “He said, ‘Caroline, there is no romance.’” After that, she tried to keep her distance from him, darting away when she saw him on the estate. He was difficult to avoid. He kept an egg incubator in Wallner’s cabin and would come down and check on it, entering without texting first. On one of these visits, he found her crying by the fireplace. He walked over to her, stuck his thumb in her mouth, and twisted her nipples. She told Gaiman the arrangement was making her “feel bad.” She recalls him replying, “I don’t want you to feel bad.” But nothing changed. Wallner had no income at the time and was borrowing money from her sister to get by. She worried that if she didn’t appease Gaiman, he’d kick her out of her house and then she and her three daughters would have nowhere to go. “‘I like our trade,’” she remembers him saying. “‘You take care of me, and I��ll take care of you.’”

Sometimes she would babysit. Once, Wallner and the boy, then 4, fell asleep reading stories in Gaiman and Palmer’s bed. Wallner woke up when Gaiman returned home. He got into bed with his son in the middle, then reached across the child to grab Wallner’s hand and put it on his penis. She says she jumped out of the bed. “He didn’t have boundaries,” Wallner says. “I remember thinking that there was something really wrong with him.”

Caroline Wallner. Photo: Basilica Hudson.

In April 2021, Gaiman informed Wallner that the land he’d promised her was no longer available. That summer, she stopped responding to his attempts to engage in phone sex and Gaiman increased the pressure on her to leave his property. One night in December 2021, Gaiman’s business manager, Terry Bird, called Wallner and offered her $5,000 to move immediately if she’d sign a 16-page NDA agreeing to never discuss anything about her experience with Gaiman or Palmer or to take legal action against Gaiman. Wallner recalls saying to Bird, “What am I going to do with $5,000? I need therapy. This is maybe $300,000.” Looking back, she says she didn’t know how she came up with that number, but Gaiman agreed to it, and she signed. (Gaiman’s representatives say Wallner initiated the sexual encounters and deny that he engaged in any sexual activity with her in the presence of his son.)

Back to: Part 6, next: Part 8

[jpbjazz]

LÉGENDES DU JAZZ

HORACE TAPSCOTT, UN INNOVATEUR D’EXCEPTION

“He saved Los Angeles when it comes to progressive music. Because if you were going to get involved in that, you had to come through Horace Tapscott.” 

- Dwight Trible

Né le 6 avril 1934 à Houston, au Texas, Horace Tapscott s’était installé à Los Angeles avec sa famille à l’âge de neuf ans. Issue d’une famille musicale, Tapscott était le fils de Mary Lou Malone, une tubiste et pianiste de stride.

C’est également à l’époque de son arrivée à que Tapscott avait commencé à apprendre le piano et le trombone. Durant son adolescence, Tapscott avait joué du trombone avec de futures sommités du jazz comme le saxophoniste Frank Morgan, le trompettiste Don Cherry et le batteur Billy Higgins.

DÉBUTS DE CARRIÈRE

Après avoir fait son service militaire avec la US Air Force au Wyoming, Tapscott était retourné à Los Angeles et avait joué du trombone avec différents groupes, dont ceux de Lionel Hampton de 1959 à 1961. Tapscott avait abandonné le trombone peu après pour se consacrer au piano.

Tapscott n’avait jamais tellement apprécié la vie de tournée. Lors d’une escale à Los Angeles en 1961, Tapscott était finalement sorti de l’autobus de tournée d’Hampton pour la dernière fois. Comme Tapscott l’avait expliqué au cours d’une entrevue qu’il avait accordée en 1982: “No one discovered I was gone until they got to Arizona.’’

Toujours en 1961, Tapscott avait formé son propre groupe appelé le Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra, une formation qui avait pour but de préserver, de développer et de faire la promotion de la musique afro-américaine tout en prêchant les vertus de l’unité (ujamaa en langue swahili). Le groupe était formé à l’origine de Lester Robertson au trombone, d’Arthur Blythe, de Jimmy Woods et de Guido Sinclair aux saxophones, de David Bryant à la contrebasse et de Bill Madison à la batterie. Caractérisé par une instrumentation inusitée rappelant ses influences africaines, le groupe était souvent composé de deux ou trois bassistes, de deux ou trois percussionnistes et d’au moins un batteur. Outre ses influences africaines, le groupe s’inscrivait directement dans la lignée de la musique de pionniers du jazz comme  Art Tatum, Duke Ellington et Thelonious Monk, aussi bien que d’innovateurs contemporains comme Andrew Hill et Randy Weston

En 1963, le groupe s’était joint à une organisation plus vaste appelée la Underground Musicians Association (UGMA) qui avait adopté plus tard le nom d’Union of God's Musicians and Artists Ascension (UGMAA). Mais l’implication de Tapscott dépassait largement la musique. Lors des émeutes de Watts en 1965, le groupe se produisait sur un camion plateforme situé au milieu de la route lorsqu’il avait été interpellé par des policiers armés.

Très impliqué dans une communauté particulièrement marquée par le racisme, le groupe se produisait régulièrement dans les églises, les centres communautaires, les prisons et les hôpitaux souvent pour une bouchée de pain et remettait ses rares revenus au mouvement des Black Panthers, ce qui avait lui avait valu d’être surveillé étroitement par le FBI.

Le groupe avait aussi permis à plusieurs musiciens de la relève de se produire sur scène pour la première fois. Il avait également regroupé les musiciens de rue et efait connaître les arts aux jeunes enfants du ghetto. Parmi les membres successifs du groupe de Tapscott, on remarquait de futurs grands noms du jazz comme  Arthur Blythe, Stanley Crouch, Butch Morris, Wilber Morris, David Murray, Jimmy Woods, Kamau Daaood, Adele Sebastian, Phil Ranelin,  Sabir Mateen, Nate Morgan et Guido Sinclair. Doté d’une remarquable longévité, le groupe était demeuré en activité jusqu’à la mort de Tapscott en 1999.

Même si le 50e anniversaire du groupe était passé pratiquement inaperçu, les membres de la formation étaient déterminés à ce que la célébration de ses soixante années d’existence ne connaîtraient pas le même sort. À l’occasion de son 60e anniversaire de fondation en 2021, le groupe avait fait l’objet d’une compilation intitulée “60 Years’’ qui comprenait essentiellement des enregistrements inédits étalés sur les six décennies d’existence du groupe. Le saxophoniste Michel Session avait expliqué: ‘’We were like, ‘We’re going to make a product that will introduce a bunch of people to this band in a way that’s comprehensive and concise. This is for us, by us. We wanted to present something to the people from the band that can directly pay the band and support the band, and then be turned into other projects. It’s the first time the Ark has been able to do that, really.” 

La pièce "The Golden Pearl’’, qui avait été écrite en hommage à la grand-mère de Tapscott, mettait en vedette le jeune Arthur Blythe ainsi que le tromboniste Lester Robertson (aussi connu sous le surnom de Lately) et le bassiste David Bryant, un vétéran qui était toujours avec le groupe après avoir joint ses rangs trente ans plus tôt. L’album était également un hommage à un ex-membre du groupe, Herbert Baker, qui était décédé dans un accident automobile à l’âge de seulement vingt ans.

Six décennies après sa fondation, Session croyait que la mission du groupe n’avait pas vraiment changé et qu’il devait continuer d’innover et d’aller de l’avant. Session avait précisé: “I want to get weirder. I want to get back to how Horace did shows at prisons and high schools and colleges for free. We could sell out Carnegie Hall and then come home and do the same set for 50, 60 cats. I want that balance. It sounds impossible, but we can do it.”

Lorsqu’il s’était joint au groupe, le chanteur Dwight Trible faisait partie d’une autre formation, mais il désirait absolument faire partie de l’Arkestra. Deux semaines après s’être produit avec le chanteur dans le cadre du même festival, Tapscott avait invité Trible à se joindre au groupe. Trible racontait: “He said, ‘I want you to come to my house tomorrow at 3 o’clock,’ and he hung up the phone. And just about every concert that Horace played from that time on, I sang with him in some capacity.” Le saxophoniste Michael Session s’était joint à l’Arkestra durant son adolescence. Il poursuivait: “I’m 13 and my first gig with the Ark is with Azar Lawrence. It’s actually a very humbling thing to be a medium, a conduit for the ancestors trying to spread this vibration as far and as hard as possible.” Session avait fait partie plus tard des groupes de Miles Davis, McCoy Tyner et Freddie Hubbard.

Même s’il avait enregistré un premier album intitulé “The Giant Is Awakened’’ avec un quintet en 1969, Tapscott il n’avait publié un premier album avec l’Arkestra qu’en 1978. Intitulé ‘’The Call’’, l’album était un mélange de bebop, de free jazz, de ballades très influencées par le blues et d’arrangements orchestraux. Comprenant le grand succès ‘’Flight 17’’, l’album mettait notamment en vedette le légendaire contrebassiste Red Callender.

DERNIÈRES ANNÉES

En 1995, l’Arkestra s’était produit dans le cadre du festival de Moers en Allemagne où il avait remporté un grand succès. Tapscott était sur le point s’obtenir enfin la reconnaissance qu’il méritait lorsqu’il était mort d’un double cancer du cerveau et des poumons le 27 février 1999 à l’âge de soixante-quatre ans.

Le lendemain de sa mort, Tapscott devait faire l’objet d’un concert en son honneur au parc Leimart de Los Angeles. Une plaque en hommage à Tapscott a d’ailleurs été érigée dans le parc sur laquelle on pouvait lire: "Horace Tapscott, the local pianist and organizer whose ensemble, the Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra, gave many musicians their first gigs and helped heal a community impacted by racism." Les archives, arrangements et enregistrements de Tapscott ont été légués en 2003 par sa veuve Cecilia Tapscott à la bibliothèque de l’Université de Californie à Los Angeles (UCLA) sous le nom de UCLA Horace Tapscott Jazz Collection. Les admirateurs de Tapscott avaient fondé deux compagnies de disques en son honneur dans les années 1970 et 1980, Interplay et Nimbus, avec lesquelles il avait enregistré.

Un an avant la mort de Tapscott en 1999, l’Arkestra avait enregistré un album live intitulé Why Don’t You Listen ? Enregistré au Los Angeles County Museum of Art, l’album comprenait en exergue le leitmotiv caractéristique: ‘’Notre musique est contributive plutôt que compétitive.’’ Sur la pièce ‘’Little Africa’’, on retrouvait également une citation du Black National Anthem qui stipulait: ‘’Que notre joie s’élève haut dans les cieux qui écoutent.’’

Le site Allmusic.com. décrivait ainsi le style de Tapscott: "His pianistic technique was hard and percussive, likened by some to that of Thelonious Monk and Herbie Nichols and every bit as distinctive. In contexts ranging from freely improvised duos to highly arranged big bands, Tapscott exhibited a solo and compositional voice that was his own." De son côté, le saxophoniste Michael Session avait commenté: “He was way more interested in feeling and sounding like himself with his friends, who were also really unique.’’

Très peu connu en dehors de Los Angeles, Tapscott avait fait très peu de tournées et n’avait pas enregistré avec des compagnies de disques majeures. Reconnaissant le rôle de pionnier de Tapscott, le chanteur Dwight Trible, qui se produisait avec le groupe depuis 1987, avait ajouté:  “He saved Los Angeles when it comes to progressive music. Because if you were going to get involved in that, you had to come through Horace Tapscott.” 

Au cours des dernières années, des musiciens comme le rappeur vedette Kendrick Lamar, le saxophoniste Kamasi Washington, le bassiste Thundercat et le producteur et multi-instrumentiste Terrace Martin avaient contribué à raviver l’intérêt pour la musique de Tapscott. À la même époque, plusieurs compagnies de disques avaient également réédité les albums de Tapscott. Comme Washington l’avait expliqué en 2015:  ’’J'aime sa musique, sa philosophie et tout ce qu'il a fait pour la communauté dans laquelle j'ai grandi’’. Quant à la clarinettiste de Chicago, Angel Bat Dawid, elle avait commenté: ’’Je suis bénie de pouvoir jouer la musique d'Horace Tapscott, l'un de mes héros.’’ Une dizaine d’années auparavant, le rappeur Madblib avait également rendu hommage à Tapscott dans le cadre de l’album Horace enregistré avec le Last Electro-Acoustic Space Jazz & Percussion Ensemble.

©-2024, tous droits réservés, Les Productions de l’Imaginaire historique

SOURCES:

DENIS, Jacques. ‘’Horace Tapscott, figure free jazz ressuscitée.’’ Libération, 15 août 2019.

‘’Horace Tapscott.’’ Wikipedia, 2024.

JOBE, Danen. ‘’ Horace Tapscott: 60 Years.’’ All About Jazz, 16 juillet 2023.

MOORE, Marcus J. ‘’Horace Tapscott Was a Force in L.A. Jazz. A New Set May Expand His Reach.’’ New York Times, 15 juin 2023.

[declanlikesmusic]

MusicDeclanLikes: Feb 2024

The second instalment of my monthly favourites playlist is here, with much more songs and much more time spent in preparation due to what the end of the month has booked for me!

Billie Eilish – !!!!!!!

Jean Grae & Quelle Chris – My Contribution to This Scam

Moor Mother & billy woods – The Blues Remembers Everything the Country Forgot (feat. Wolf Weston)

Frank Ocean – Pink + White

christtt – jimmy

Ana Frango Eléctrico – Saudade

Prince – Raspberry Beret

Open Mike Eagle – Qualifiers

Everything Everything – The End of the Contender

Rob Thomas – Ever the Same

Olivia Rodrigo – bad idea right?

Powderfinger – (Baby I've Got You) On My Mind

Against Me! – Transgender Dysphoria Blues

Klaxons – Totam on the Timeline

OCT – Don't Touch My Clogs

Venetian Snares – Hajnal

Chelsea Wolfe – House of Self-Undoing

Squid – Narrator (feat. Martha Skye Murphy)

Deerhoof – To Fly or Not to Fly

The Chemical Brothers – Setting Sun

Tapir! – On a Grassy Knoll (We'll Bow Together)

The Smile – Bending Hectic

Future Islands – Corner of My Eye

Black Country, New Road – Track X

clipping. – Dream

Doss – Strawberry

Sophie Ellis-Bextor – Murder on the Dancefloor

Alexis Jordan – Happiness

The Knife – We Share Our Mother's Health

Shohei Animori – Stab/Text

ev.exi – Impulse (feat. UniBe@t)

clust.r – us pretenders

RiTchie – RiTchie Valens

Tirzah – Reach Hi

JPEGMAFIA – TIRED, NERVOUS & BROKE!

Quadeca – TEXAS BLUE (feat. Kevin Abstract)

[lostsneeze]

The Garden of Weston House

The life of any photographer can take them strange places, but even moreso the life of one who works the occasional contract for a paranormal activity magazine. She had taken some fairly eerie assignments in her time, but this one to photograph the exterior (and, unofficially for a considerable bonus, interior) of the Weston House had particularly bad vibes that might’ve even discouraged her from taking the gig were she not a truly consummate professional who enjoyed her work more the stranger it got. There had never before been a time when she’d been sent into the ass-end of a rural nowhere in search of an urban legend, haunt, or ghost where the near majority of the people she asked about the location a) had heard of it, of course, it’s been out in those woods since my pappy’s time, b) sure, could say the way to get there or at least thereabouts, AND c) really don’t think it’s a good idea to go traipsin’ up there, lil’ miss. Everywhere she went people discussed the house with a tangible but mundane fear, as if she’d been asking for directions to the closest patch of quicksand. It was a strange attitude to have towards a mansion supposedly still inhabited by some of the most ornery ghosts of the US’ deep south, lacking in reverence if not respect.

For her part, the intrepid photographer proceeded along her journey more in dread of the locals than of any ghosts. While she knew her light skin and blond curls would ward away any of the absolute worst attitudes towards race the inhabitants of the south could infamously sometimes hold (with the right dress and makeup she could pull off a striking imitation of a model stereotypical 50s housewife), she’d reached her early 30s having learned most people picked up on her having mixed parentage one way or another pretty quickly. She was definitely…something, it just wasn’t clear exactly what, they’d think. And from traveling the States she was well aware that being perceived to be the wrong “something”, even by mistake, in the wrong neighborhood could mean serious trouble.

So she did not linger long even among the perfectly pleasant communities she stopped in along the way, and soon she had driven her only slightly beat-up and very dirty robin’s egg blue volkswagen to the end of a long dirt road in the woods that came to a run-down plantation house sitting in the middle of about a quarter-acre of brilliantly-colored flowers in full bloom.

It was an absolutely breathtaking sight, which might’ve stunned anyone into a pause of admiration and wonder, but as was noted, this photographer was a true professional. The first order of business was to turn around and park the car facing back down the road, just in case a quick departure was necessitated by anything both ornery AND corporeal inhabiting the supposedly abandoned house, such as a bear or axe-wielding vagrant. The next was to step out, in her flattering white top and jean shorts attractive to the attentions of otherwise tight-lipped locals but not so attractive as to be uncomfortable, and set up the tripod. She moved about, taking numerous pictures at different angles, slowly and deliberately, working to recapture that sense of astonishment when she’d first come on the strange and beautiful sight for the first time by trying to maintain the emotions for as long as possible.

By the end of this process, her nose had only started to itch pretty badly and run here and there. She’d taken her allergy medication that morning, but she didn’t have prescription-strength stuff and Ol’ Madame Weston’s legendary garden was an industrial-strength threat to her allergies. She pulled a fresh red and white polka-dot handkerchief from the car and stuffed it into her back pocket, grabbed her portable camera, steadied her breathing, and approached the property.

Walking on the overgrown dirt path through the garden felt like moving through a wonderland, despite the allergies. Snapdragons of what seemed like every color grew to her waist, while sunflowers towered over her. A rainbow of azaleas, chrysanthemums, daffodils, daisies, and plenty more grew wild all around the grassy ground, sharing the space without any apparent competition for light or water. Butterflies and bees lazily flew this way and that. She smiled with satisfaction as she snapped photo after photo; this part of the house’s legend would earn her commission by itself no matter how little of the rest of it turned out to be true. Plus, it was an incredible sight to see, even if walking through it did turn the back of her throat scratchy and set her eyes lightly stinging and start her little round nose’s broad nostrils flaring…

“Hhha’tshuuh!”

She did not have what anyone would call a feminine sneeze, and she squeezed her nose into her hands to prevent any more out of reflexive habit than of a genuine concern anyone might hear her. But there was in fact a startled rustling somewhere amidst the flowers, which made her jump and sent a small strand of snot flying off her face. Of course, she realized almost immediately it was probably just some rodent or other small animal, just as startled as she was and sent bounding away by the sudden noise.

After digging her handkerchief out of her pocket to blow and wipe her nose, she blinked away an itchy feeling growing in her eyes and continued her tour of the yard a little more hurriedly, approaching the front door in an eager prospect of getting inside and at least briefly away from the pollen-heavy air (though she wasn’t sure the inside would be much better, if it was as dusty as an abandoned haunted house should warrant).

The door was of course locked, but there was of course a spare key hidden nearby; a thorough search of the front porch revealed it cleverly tucked between the arm and seat of the old porch swing, the rusting chains of which had been forlornly creaking in the breeze through her entire visit so far. She gave a cursory knock and called out a forceful (if somewhat stuffy) “hello” before entering, just for the sake of some plausible deniability if she came across an ill-tempered host, and went inside.

Inside, the house was actually very unremarkable. The furnishings had largely been sold off by whatever former inhabitants were still sane, or stolen by other daring trespassers like herself, or turned into smoke, or whatever happens to the furniture of haunted houses in the rural countryside. There was enough dead plant debris scattered about to make her suspect a window must be open in the house somewhere, although she hadn’t seen one on the ground floor and didn’t feel any draft except from the front door that she’d left open (just in case). It was also certainly dusty, and there was an odor which the photographer couldn’t immediately place but was distinctly unpleasant and lit a tingly fire at the tip of her nose, and made her throat slightly constrict in protest.

As the sound of scurrying somewhere just out of view reached her ears, she realized what the smell was: cat. The house had probably become a home for at least one feral stray, which she would have to be careful of both for the sake of her dander allergies and to avoid needing the first aid kit in her car. She kept her ears alert as she moved throughout the house, treading carefully in an effort to avoid startling any more lurking animals.

However, the aggravating air of the house made it impossible for her to move with anything that could be considered stealth. Her nose had started constantly dripping, being equally overburdened in the musky, dusty air of the house’s interior as it was in the pollen-saturated exterior. She paused to sniff or wipe her nose after taking a picture more often than not,  frequently with a soft throat-clearing to try and quell the tickle that was growing in her throat. She was constantly blinking and breathing like a sneeze (or five) might be building, but she would quell the feeling by aggressively plowing a knuckle into the side of her nose and rubbing until the feeling became manageable. Despite being certain she wasn’t sharing the house with anyone else, she felt a distinct sensation of not only being watched but being leered at, and her cheeks flushed with misplaced embarrassment each time she snuffled or coughed particularly loudly or wetly, which was happening more and more frequently as she skulked through the house.

After finishing a cursory round of photographing all the empty and standard rooms of the ground floor, she blew her nose as quietly as she could manage, then a second time more quietly and less wetly, before moving with only a small amount of trepidation up the tall staircase to the second floor. Up here was the bedroom of Ol’ Madame Weston, where most of the sightings of hauntings had been reported. The air was stiflingly hot up here rather than merely unpleasantly warm, and she found herself starting to sweat from what she told herself was purely the heat, feeling silly that she was at all spooked by an old abandoned house in broad daylight. After briefing considering looking through the other rooms first, she decided there was little point in saving the main attraction for last and headed straight to the second door on the right after the landing where she knew the master bedroom to be. As she walked quickly to fling open the door with the enthusiasm of a child determined to prove to themselves they’re not afraid of anything in their closet, she vaguely noted that this door was the only one in the house fully closed.

Upon opening it, she was met with the sight of yet another room that appeared to be completely empty, until she blinked a single time and out of the corner of her vision (or maybe out of nowhere) there appeared one of the most luxurious-looking lounge chairs she’d ever seen, in which sat the hunched-over, hollow-eyed, partially see-through form of an absolutely menacing old woman in a long rumpled floral-patterned nightgown, with a wooly black cat sitting on her lap. The glare she gave the photographer was one that she was surprised to find she recognized; it was the look of someone who had immediately seen that she was…something, and something that was not welcome around here. 

In that moment of recognition, an unnaturally foul wind blew into the room from the open window behind this contemptuous visage and blasted the photographer full in the face. It was molten-hot, choking, and polluted, as if it had picked up all the filth of that room and had hurled it at her along with all the malice of that seated figure. In an instant the photographer felt the back of her throat become coated with pollen, her eyes caked over with dust, her nose plugged with cat hairs, and her soul stained by spite. She reeled backwards out of the room in shock, fright, and repulsion. As she did so she snapped a single picture with the camera still mostly held in the direction of the room (she was, after all, a professional) before turning and slamming into the hallway wall, placing one hand on it to steady herself as she stumblingly ran to the stairs. With one hand following the wall and then the railing, and the other gripping her camera like it was the only thing keeping her alive, she had no way of reaching her handkerchief and half-sneezed, half-choked freely, spraying her front as her nose flooded down her face and her burning eyes overflowed with tears.

“Ah-Huchh! Huhht’shuuh Ha’kshh Huh’kshh Huuhh’KSHH! Hhahk’shh! Haah-Utchh-shhh!

Half-blinded and barely able to keep her balance, she somehow made it down the house stairs and back out the front door without falling. However, she overreached for the railing of the porch, grabbing air where she’d hoped there’d be a support and sending herself careening forward down the porch stairs with all the momentum of her mad dash out of the house. As she tripped somewhere on the last few, she kept that one hand out in front of her while the other held out her camera tightly, ready to take the impact of the fall on her elbow and forearm if that’s what was needed to protect it. With one hand to brace her fall she was only barely scuffed from it, but she landed face-first into the massive flowerbed, and as the wind was knocked out of her she breathed in a massive whiff of their perfume followed by the irritating, vaguely phlegmy smell that accompanies a major allergic reaction.

Not wanting to slow her escape, the photographer crawled forward straight into the flowers as she scrambled to her feet, and continued her run through the garden in the vague direction of her car, sneezing thickly the whole way. “Ehh-Huchh! Huchh'shuh! Heeug’shuh!” Only when she no longer felt plantlife clinging to her calves did she slow to brush tears and snot from her face enough to see more clearly, knowing then that she was at the property line border. “Ahh-Huchh! Huhh’tschuuh!” Breathing heavily, she sprinted to her car and practically dove inside as she flung the door open. “Heeuh’tschuuh!” Then followed the natural priorities: lock the door, stow the camera safely in the glove compartment, start the engine, and finally splash the contents of her water bottle into her face.

After pulling out her messy handkerchief to hurriedly clear (or at least smear) her face free enough of tears to see, she stepped on the gas and began driving away from the house as fast as she dared. Even if she’d felt temptation to look back, her rapid tearful blinking and gasping as she strained to fight back her sneezing long enough to drive away would’ve prevented her from doing so. Only once she had struggled around a bend in the road did she dare pull over again and let her sneezing fit continue fully uninterrupted, hoping to get it all out of her system. Her handkerchief was already soaked to the point of uselessness, and in desperation as snot and tears poured down her chin she pulled her top up to her face to blow and wipe into, not realizing just how much pollen and dust was still clinging to it.

“Heeaug’shuhh! Ah-huchh! Huchh'tshuuh! Huchh'shuh Huh-huhhhHH’KSHH! Ehuhh…Huhh-etsch Ah’tschh-Ah’tschh-Ah’tschh-Ah’tschh Ahh’tschh Atshuuh! Hahhh…HAH’KSHH! Huh…uhh…Heeuh’tschuuh Heeuh’tshh Eeuhh-huchh Huhh’kshh Hahh-EH’Kshh Huhh’Kshuh! Eheh-heh…hehhhhh’tshuh! Ahh’Huchhshuh! Heeauh’TSHUUH!”

It went on like that, dying down at times but never truly stopping. The feeling of cat hairs tickling the tip of her nose simply refused to quite go away, as did the feeling of dust and pollen coating the inside of her throat and back of her sinuses, and all three pricking the undersides of her eyes. She rubbed viciously at the sides of her nose and beneath her eyes to try and drive out the itching without any noticeable impact whatsoever, and no matter how much she blew her nose into her top (or eventually her hands, wiping them on her shorts) it just clogged up full to bursting again in seconds.

Ultimately, she decided she wasn’t willing to wait here any longer. Even though she was already starting to misremember what she had seen in the Weston House (it was a trick of light, or a heat-induced hallucination, or some kind of side effect from her overstrained allergy medication, or some other rational explanation) the back of her mind was still screaming at her to get away from that place and not look back. She wouldn’t risk any further delay; the camera would have the final say about what she did or did not see in that room, and until she checked the film it was better safe than sorry. Still struggling to fight back her sneezes enough to keep her eyes at least half on the road, pollen clinging to her hair, clothes damp and sticky with snot and panic sweat, eyes bloodshot, and nose ruby-red and starting to chap, the photographer drove miserably away from the haunted Weston house and its luscious garden.

[theglizzardwizard]

Omarion arc one "fun" facts

Certified flower boy. He's a theurgist and he's really into the aesthetics of it. Being in Ravenwood is nice because nobody in his class makes fun of him for wearing flower crowns, ribbons, or the color pink.

Nervous wreck of a child, even before Malistare shows up to Golem Court. Omar flinches at hugs and apologizes too often for things that aren't his fault and cries at the drop of a hat. Sometimes for no reason at all. He's the savior of the spiral but he is sniffling and stuttering and fumbling his way through it all.

He really likes going to the pet pavilion, and he only has one pet. Well, more like three. They're charming stars, three of them, but they act more like one unit. He's named them Cosmo.

Related to that last thought, Omarion is deeply defensive about food. He won't take snacks from his classmates, he won't eat anything he didn't watch someone cook, and he doesn't eat in front of other people.

Sensitive hearing + light sleeper. The Ravenwood dorms have been terrible for his sleep schedule. Someone's always up working on a project or practicing an incantation. It keeps him up but he's too shy to confront his dorm neighbor about those loud, frequent get togethers. Trying to sleep on the road is a whole other beast. (Krokotopia was too hot to sleep comfortably. Marleybone was too loud and smelly. Mooshu and Dragonspyre made Omar too paranoid to sleep. Grizzleheim was too cold.)

Extremely self conscious about everything. Omar is really soft spoken but is always convinced that he's talking too loud. He doesn't eat in front of others because he's used to "eat fast or not at all", and he thinks he looks like a slob when he does. He jump scares other students a lot because he walks quiet on instinct (his mom's old place had some rickety ass old wood floors and he conditioned himself into moving silently to avoid her attention.)

He doesn't *get* Lenore, or just, the concept of being trans. But he doesn't need to. Omar understands that which many others who have known her did not. No matter what happens, not a stitch of clothing will come off. May she be burned, or soaked, or covered in Humungofrog vomit, it does not matter. She will rinse off in a river when they stop to, but she will be fully clothed. Omar observes this, doesn't understand why, but he respects it nonetheless. (When Weston explained it, Omar got the impression that Lenore's Thing is just something wizards do sometimes.)

His favorite place in Wizard City is unicorn way. He likes going to the arena to spectate with Weston and Lenore.

[selfshipping-shapeshifter]

so, my favourite trope - exchange student from Russia.

I very often use modern au for BB tho (just like Idia I'd die without my gadgets </3), since yk you can still see all these fancy shmancy private schools nowadays too.

but I'm not in the same college sadly, since it's an all-boys prestige school, but rather a student from a college not so far from Weston's - less fancy, less prestige but still a strong one.

I also have two OCs that migrated from TWST - a tgirl and her tboy-friend - Sarah and Rudolf. Sarah is czech and Rud is polish! so ye, we're the slavic trio. we basically study in one college but on different specialities: I'm a programmer (regarding my irl situation), Sarah is a psychologist and Rud is a wood carver (it's all "bober kurwa" untill you'll become a beaver yourself...)

so, since there are many strict rules in Weston's college, including ones regarding intruders, I'm acting a bit risky when visiting Gregory (in college timeline, there are events after he got dropped out), and other prefects and their henchmen - including Gregory's henchman Cheslock - just decided to play along, since they're all friends (at least the other prefects and Cheslock, and henchmen just have to play along since, well, senpais' decision) and they're happy their gloomy boy Gregory got a woman.

sorry it's kinda messy-

Ooo the exchange student trope is a fun one!! :O

Do you sneak into Gregory's dorm when you see him, or does he sneak into your dorm instead, or do you just sneak out together and go someplace else? :3

[squids-comics]

Expedition Log Three: The Knowing (Part Four)

Expedition log three, Chief Officer Gray speaking.

It has been almost four hours since Lieutenant Volkov took Dr. Weston into the cave in search of life. I have not had contact with either one since they entered. Dr. Magna was able to find a sizeable water table beneath the surface, showing that a settlement will be possible if Weston comes back with positive results. 

"Start the shuttle!"

Was that Volkov? It came from the cave... Magna! Get on the shuttle. Tell Mr. Winters to prepare for takeoff. 

"Right away Sir!"

If that was Volkov's voice, he's signaling an emergency extraction. They must have found some sort of hazard. Looks like this planet isn't habitable after all...

"We need to get back to the ship!"

(Volkov appears to be distressed. I still can't see him, but I can hear approaching footsteps. One set. Running.) We will Lieutenant! Mr. Winters is starting the shuttle engine now!

(Volkov has exited the cave. He is holding Dr. Weston in his arms. The Doctor is unresponsive.) What's wrong with Dr. Weston? What happened?

"We need to get him to sick bay! The sooner the better!"

What happened in there?

"We found life. He tried to investigate it and got attacked."

You let him investigate it before assessing risks? 

"I tried to stop him, but he ran off."

He ran off? He just... Ran off? And you couldn't stop him?

"Eugene's faster than he looks. He's hard to catch, like a deer in the woods."

This isn't a deer Lieutenant! This is a man! So help me, if another crewman died under your watch...

"Don't you dare bring Dr. Jones into this!"

Why not? You had a simple job to do, and you failed. What good is a security officer if they can't keep anyone safe? 

"We don't have time for this! The creature is inside him!"

What? 

"Some sort of worm jumped out of the flora. Burrowed it's way through his forehead."

Jesus... He doesn't have any wound on his forehead.

"No. It sealed itself shut while I was carrying him out."

It sealed itself shut? How does that happen?

"I don't know."

Of course you don't! And we can't ask our biologist because he's full of worms!

"You need to drop the attitude Sir. I may not have adequately performed my duties in your eyes today, but I am the most qualified security officer on the ship. I earned the rank of Lieutenant. I served-"

I don't care about your combat record Volkov. That's from Earth. The Earth is dead. And we'll all join it if you keep screwing up like this!

End of log.

[gullytine]

"Man, the woods are miles away from our place," Weston complains the next second. "You hunt all the way there? Can't say that'll taste any better than confidence—than congruent, condition—dammit, you know what I mean."

"The food store, yeah."

His pace subconsciously picks up, emptying his side of the shelves and digging straight into the vegetable crisper to take out some greens and carrots. Skimming over the ingredients at a glance, Weston decides on something simple.

"Whenever we've got too much crap like this, the easiest thing's to mix 'em together into a soup. Here," he picks up a packet of meat and waves it around. "We could do chicken. Or pork. You really don't mind whatever I put in there?"

He sets the meat down, and pushes the options closer towards his roommate.

"Cause Imma bout to make a full on stew. You gotta be able to stomach at least half or somethin', you know?"

          HIS BROW FURROWED GENTLY AT the flippant tone the other boy gave, like callum was making some kind of joke. it made his head tilt further, giving him the appearance of what one might call a particularly confused dog. he didn’t quite understand— he hadn’t made any kind of jest ( in fact, he never did ) and the term “plugged in” was just as unfamiliar to the tiefling. it seemed he kept getting pushed onto the back foot of this conversation, and callum felt a bit of a flustered feeling settle in his limbs.

     ❝ I can eat game that I’ve hunted. ❞ like that was a completely, very much not out of the ordinary thing to say when they lived in the middle of a city. ❝ And there are… ❞ he trailed off, trying to remember the word he’d heard others around the city use before, ❝ conference stores here that sell food. ❞ that was probably right.

     if he’d thought about it a little more, the warlock might have realized what the other was saying a bit more—but cooking, properly cooking beyond just camp rations, was a luxury callum had very rarely been allowed. and one he, quite frankly, didn’t know much about.

     so instead of elaborating more, he simply joined the other man in front of the fridge, carefully removing containers and placing them on the various countertops around the kitchen to sort through. ❝ It doesn’t matter to me. You can pick. ❞

[angelabryce]

May 11, 2023. The Bruce Trail reunion hike.

On a beautiful morning five of us gathered to revisit the Trail, reminisce and enjoy a day together again.

Mary Donnelly, Diana Barkly, Karen Weston, Karin Thomas and myself, Angela Boyd.

Starting at the charmingly named crossroads of Finnerty Sideroad and Innis Lake Road in the Albian Hills, we moved north along a minimalist road for about a kilometer and into the lush green spring woodland. Karin found trout lily, red and white trilliums, and she named a slew of probable emerging flowers. We have to take her word for it. A little stream crossing here--we all got soakers--a modest hill there, a cheerful group of five retired gentlemen fellow hikers and the freshness of the woods. It was lovely.

About four kilometers in all. That would have been a scant half day”s worth in our former outings. We finished six years ago. This time we were out for socializing and enjoying the moment.

Which also included a visit to a country restaurant. The Black Birch is a down home restaurant up a long country road with absolutely no pretensions except in the culinary field. The meal was beyond all expectations. A generouls delicate and light fish and chips served on a local pottery platter, meaty and moist pork hocks with crisp vegetables and a big hunk of country bread for the table. Gourmet can live in the country.

Speaking of pottery, we stopped by the local potter and found a quaint shop with lovely pottery run by people who obviously live for art. Not fancy but lovely.

We missed Marilyn on this hike very much. She was on all the previous ones. But we will do this again when she can come too. 

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"5 gunmen captured in shootout at Weston residence in Ireland," The Globe and Mail. August 8, 1983. Page 1 & 2. ---- [AL: That time Galen Weston, the father of Galen Weston, Jr., the current head of price-fixing grocery chain Loblaw's in Canada, was almost kidnapped by the Provos.] DUBLIN (Special AP) - Four gunmen were seriously wounded yesterday at the country home of Canadian supermarket tycoon Galen Weston when anti-terrorist police exchanged gunfire with a gang of masked guerrillas. Five men were captured but two escaped.

Police had received a tip on a possible kidnapping or robbery attempt and were lying in wait for the heavily armed gunmen at the secluded lakeside mansion in County Wicklow, about 45 kilometres south of Dublin.

Mr. Weston, 42, multi-millionaire chairman and president of George Weston Ltd. of Toronto, was at Windsor in England, where later in the day he played for the Maple Leafs in a polo match. The family also has a residence south of Windsor at Sunningdale and a home in Toronto.

Police sources said the outlawed Provisional Irish Republican Army was behind the apparent kidnap attempt. No group immediately claimed to have been involved in the shooting.

One of the wounded men was reported to be in critical condition in hospital, and three were described as "serious but stable." The fifth captured man was being interrogated in Dublin.

Last night the BBC said police had been expecting a kidnap attempt for two weeks and planted a decoy car at the estate "to make the gang believe the family was at home."

The terse police release said that "not less than five men" opened fire when surprised by members of the Special Task Force - the elite anti-terrorist squad that routinely provides bodyguards for politicians who returned the fire.

Police said the shootout occurred shortly after 8 a.m., but people camping nearby told reporters they were awakened by the crackle of machine-gun fire at about 4 a.m.

According to a senior officer there was a vicious hail of bullets involving at least 100 shots. The terrorists, wearing coveralls and balaclavas, "were well-prepared, that's for sure," one source said.

Two of the gang staked out the magnificent white mansion from neighboring fields, apparently ready to cover any escape attempt by the occupants, while the rest moved up to the house, the sources said.

In normal circumstances it would have been easy to do so undetected. The house lies at the end of a long tree-lined drive, and there are wooded areas all around the 200-acre estate at Roundwood, an isolated farming community deep in the Wicklow hills.

By the end of the battle the two men in the fields, one of whom may also have been wounded, had dumped their coveralls and balaclavas and fled. Last night police were combing the hills and woods nearby with tracker dogs.

Through his family company Mr. Weston has the controlling interest in one of the biggest supermarkets and clothing chain stores in Ireland, Quinnsworth and Penney's respectively.

Like most rich businessmen living in Irish country houses, he does not advertise his presence in the country. In the past few years scenic County Wicklow has attracted a number of best-selling writers, horsebreeders and trainers, and businessmen, some of whom have received "door knocks" from the IRA threatening reprisals unless they contribute to the "freedom fighters' fund."

In one case a dinner party of distinguished guests was tied up and robbed of money and jewels, the house ransacked for valuables and paintings. Rather than risk vengeance by filing charges or helping police, the guests agreed to say nothing.

It is not, however, usual for members of the Special Task Force, which is usually occupied in anti-terrorist duties on the border with Northern Ireland, to provide a guard for anyone but a politician. In the Weston case "they just got a tip off," one police source said.

The force has been on the alert for possible kidnappings since the October, 1981, abduction of Irish supermarket millionaire Ben Dunne, who was released unharmed after his family paid a ransom of about $1-million.

Mr. Weston is one of nine children of Garfield Weston, who parlayed his father's small baking business in Toronto, founded in 1882, into a multi-national conglomerate that includes the Loblaw supermarket chain and, among other subsidiaries, E. B. Eddy Forest Products Ltd. and William Neil. son Ltd. Galen Weston is a director of Associated British Foods Ltd. and the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.

His Irish-born wife, Hilary, founded the Ireland Fund of Canada in 1979 to support peace, culture and charity in Ireland and Northern Ireland. The fund makes donations to recognized Irish charities.

The Westons have two children.