#a staple in the ST community it seems

[gothixm00nz]

In other news, I was once told by some straight girl on tiktok to [GAME OVER] myself because I ship Will x Mike and Steve x Eddie... so uh, gotta love the homophobes...

Also this chick shipped Robin x Steve and I'm fucking SICK. I AM SICK. That's just blatant homophobia.... we can't let them keep getting away with this.

[kitsoa]

I just finished up my 3 days of teacher training today (and there's more work days and meetings next week) but while I'm putting some finishing touches on my classroom, taping up the floors, stapling posters and loading up supply bins, I got an email.

My choir. The chorus that's I've been the proud Principal Alto for going 10 years now... the choir is dissolving. There will be no 51st season. They voted on it yesterday at the board meeting... the member enrollment is down. Ticket sales are low next to all the expenses. It's the standard excuse. I don't see the check books. I can't know.

But to say this was unexpected is an understatement. It's always been a small but passionate organization. It serves the metro-east side of my area, missing out on the competition but also patronage of the greater St. Louis arts scene. We get a lot of older airforce families and young music graduates in the fold. I'm one of the few paid singers, poached for the role while I was still a baby in college, but I take a lot of pride in it. And since I'm one of the younger people they all kinda dote on me. I love these people so much. They are passionate and supportive and appreciative. I love making music with them. They are the kindest people to ever surround me.

The director is someone dear to me. He's taken me in as his protege. He's a model of professionalism and respect. He never let's the many years and familial relationship between us get in the way of holding firm boundaries. He always asks to consent to additional projects and was keen to make sure I understand my professional value. He'd never let me do things for free and made a point to make sure that was clear. He was very firm in fostering loyalty with his principals in the best way possible-- abundant respect and clear communication. I could never leave him for a competing chorus. Even now I moonlight at the church he plays for. He puts me on recording projects for his compositions. I get a bottle of wine from him for Christmas every year. I love that man and all he stands for.

But it seems all that love and loyalty is hemorrhaging out with nowhere to go. I feel so lost. All of those concerts and rehearsals and Gala dinners and beautiful songs and opportunities, just gone and over. I'm at a loss. I seriously thought I would be there forever. This was my singing home. My music family.

I couldn't finish out the 50th season with them because of my voice injury. I was devastated sitting in the audience for both of the spring performances-- wondering when I would sing with them again -- desperate to sing with them again. Yeah I have my church job and I love those people too but this group was the choir I wanted to return to. I wanted to get better to sing for that director again. I imagined my triumphant return and how happy that would make me.

And that's not going to happen again. I feel like a ship that's lost it's mooring. It's a cavity in my heart. Those people I want to see. The music I want to make. God. It's too much.

Of course the logical step is that I look for another chorus. There's a group that would take me, hopefully as a principal but there are a million and one drawbacks not to mention I can't join them midyear when I expect to be in proper singing condition so it's an automatic gap year. I won't be able to enjoy the company of most of those singers since I was technically a transplant outside their area in the first place. I don't really want to think about it. I miss everyone already. I never realized I could miss them forever.

I just feel the need to eulogize something vital to my identity. A group I gave my heart to. I'm so sorry.

[piizunn]

a personal reflection on decolonization

riel s. | 2022

Tansii kiiya (hello, how are you?) my name is riel starr and I am a Red River Michif artist and academic. my history on his land begins thousands of years ago among the peoples of the great plains, and my written history begins in the late 1600s with my first French ancestors and their unnamed first nations wives. my first First Nations ancestor is an unnamed woman referred to in my grandmother’s family tree as “Cree Woman”. I am Red River Métis on my mother’s side. Our historic Métis family names are Berthelet, Caron, St. Germaine, Dazé, Larivière and Dubois, and we come from the communities of Point à Grouette (now called St. Agathe), St. Norbert, and St. Vital (now modern-day Winnipeg) as well as the historic Batoche, Saskatchewan. My Berthelet ancestors were notable community leaders in Pointe à Grouette and my Caron ancestors including my fifth great uncle jean caron sr. fought in the North West resistance of 1885 at the battle of Duck Lake when he was fifty-two years old. Jean Caron Sr’s house is now a historic site in Batoche. As for myself my mother is a Métis educator and academic and my father is a settler archaeologist-turned-locksmith. I introduce myself in this way, the traditional way of Métis writers to contextualize my family, my knowledge and experiences, as well as my place on this land.

Natually, my native mother and my settler archaeologist father never married and split before I was old enough to form any memories. Museums and history have always been a fascination to me; the Royal Terrell Museum in Drumheller, which I dubbed “the dead dinosaur museum” and the Royal Alberta Museum which I called “the dead mouse museum” after my favourite display. The display was a larger-than-life diorama of a mouse, it’s intestines showing, the organisms that helped decompose the corpse were also displayed, massive daddy long legs, gigantic ants, worms thicker than my arm. The RAM is an interesting place. A few years ago, it was moved into a new building downtown and I could no longer spend hours finding fossils in the limestone exterior of the original museum. The place had changed drastically. As I reminisce on what I loved about the RAM I realize that all the things I disliked were their representations of Indigenous people; the uncanny wax figures with placid skin that did not resemble a single Native person’s skin that I had met. and the artwork they portrayed as artifacts. What makes a beaded bag so different from a Van Dyck if they’re the same age? And honoured the same amount by the people who made them?

Another place of importance growing up was Fort Edmonton Park. Like Heritage Park, Fort Edmonton has costumed interpreters, who teach visitors history as if the interpreters were of that time. In the summer of 2017, my lifelong dream came true, and I became a volunteer costumed interpreter with my mentor Sheldon Stockdale, another Métis person, and we were able to teach our history in the way we felt was right, something deeply important to the Métis people. An experience we had that stands out vividly is working on Fort Edmonton’s 1920 Street, and educating visitors on the history of pemmican, a sort of ancient protein bar made from berries, dried meat, and animal fat. Pemmican was a staple of survival for the Métis, and we were asking visitors to help us in redesigning the packaging for the bar. The historic package had a representation of an Indigenous person on it, a caricature of a race. We asked visitors if turning Indigenous people into mascots should be accepted, and sadly many people didn’t see the problem. Sheldon and I borderline argued with a man who seemed to see no problem in reducing us, the people speaking to him, to caricatures. In a similar vein, someone once gave me Chicago Blackhawk’s stickers when i was six, and not knowing a thing about hockey I asked my mother who the stickers were of. I’m guessing my mother did not want to explain the history of colonization and caricatures of Indigenous people, so she dismissed my question by telling me that the man in the tacky illustration was my ancestor.

Decolonizing art history seems like an impossible task, and perhaps it is. You cannot separate someone like Emily Carr from art history in Canada, however you can change the way you teach her work. Perhaps decolonizing art history means recognizing the ways in which “art history” as a field of study is deeply Euro-centric, and how the way of teaching this history is the same. I took my first semester at AUArts in the fall of 2020 after transferring from MacEwan after completing a two-year diploma at MacEwan University. I had a sculpture class a media arts class an art history class. The more I consider how to decolonize our history the more I understand that it is not the history that can be decolonized, it is the way we are teaching said history. It is the way that so much of our education is taught to us through a colonial lens, rather than a multifaceted history with a multitude of perspectives and peoples contributing until an entire picture is formed.

In the fall of 2020 in my media arts class my professor Kurtis Lesick was discussing an artist, a black artist who had him and others participate in a performance in which in that space the black artist allowed the participants to say the N-word. Rather than describing the piece in the way I just did removing the slur, Kurtis Lesick made the conscious decision to say the N- word twice. A person I had once thought to be an ally of mine, who knew the language of decolonization. Earlier this year a classmate in this class who was also in my sculpture class in the winter of 2022 told me that ‘knowing me has made her a better person’, this woman does not know me, and I do not know her, but I knew her in that moment. I knew that she wanted me to absolve her of her settler guilt. White settlers love referencing Tuck and Yang’s Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor but sometimes I wonder if they truly understand that it is simply not enough to know the language of decolonization, that you must be actively anti-colonial in a field that is built on colonization.

I spent a lot of time at Fort Calgary this semester for my FINA class, critiquing their exhibitions wondering how they can be improved if they can be improved, and I learned that given their budget that it is not possible. Fort Calgary, like other institutions cannot afford to replace their current exhibits and entirely redesign the way they teach history. What they can do is acknowledge the missing pieces, they can acknowledge the gaps they can acknowledge the fact that there’s more than one canon of history. Sometimes I wonder if the mosaic of history is too complex to decolonize; knowing that we will never return to a world like the one that existed pre-colonization. I think about my one classmate who tokenizes me, who knows how to use decolonial language to appear one way, but who never puts those concepts into practice. I think about the settlers who think that decolonization is re-colonizing the Americas but with “the Indians” in charge this time.

I now understand that decolonizing art history cannot happen without first decolonizing institutions. I have learned that we cannot forget that we once taught art history in an i way we cannot forget the way colonization has infiltrated every aspect of the education system down to the teaching styles of each professor. if we forget how colonial art history is in the first place, we will forget why we need to decolonize. Considering the hand that art history is hard in colonization around the world, I consider about the way southeast Asian women’s bodies are talked about in my textbooks versus European odalisque paintings. Brown people’s bodies were inherently sexualized and seen as dirty, while white people’s bodies were adored and deemed Classical.

Maybe colonization is another movement in the worldwide canon of art history. Another period in the bar graph of history- as google images seems to see art history. Perhaps Emily Carr and Paul Gauguin are the faces of this genre. Just as colonization cannot be forgotten among its victims, it cannot be forgotten by its perpetrators, who still believe they are a superior culture and race. Genres of literature such as post-colonial writing from India and Sri Lanka may suggest, there was a period of colonial art and literature, perhaps it is ongoing, possibly dying out, maybe here to stay. There will always be an antithesis, an attempt to view art and art history from a different perspective, and that is how we can decolonize art history.

[kokomeong]

The End of An Era - A Tribute to Milk! Records

How fast time passes us by, so why don’t you hold them - Remedy Waloni

I am writing this piece as I sip on a tall hot latte at a Starbucks inside a chain bookstore near my campus, a scene that I would have never imagined when my girlfriend took me to Seven Seeds in Carlton near her campus nine years ago. Her senpai took her there on her first week in Melbourne and she ordered hot chocolate, not convinced that the famous Melbourne coffee was different and would win her over. She used to not be able to stand the smell of second-wave coffee and coffee shops. In the early 2010’s, my brand new (and still alive) iPod video consisted of Alvvays, Bon Iver, Beirut, DCFC, Bombay Bicycle Club, and Wild Beasts. Teguh Wicaksono regularly made a super indie playlist for National Geographic Traveler. It was an exciting time. We went from spending our time going to Periplus Malioboro just to stare at Frankie to finding them at news kiosks everywhere in Australia. The third-wave was taking over in the peak of the hipster years, and we were relieved that the same trend had occupied Yogyakarta when we returned home a year later. Light roast direct trade coffee with manual brew and single origins were introduced perhaps not very successfully by snobbish male baristas as the market preferred cheap iced coffee with condensed milk as their go-to drink and young male smokers remained loyal to the dark roast americano with sugar added.   

I was reminded of all the buzz about the end of an era as Ronaldo and Messi left the European football scene when I heard that Milk! Records announced that they will close its doors in 2023. It was the heart of Melbourne independent music scene. I learned and took so many references from that music label and its community. It was the year Real Estate released Atlas, the year I was hooked by the brilliance of Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein’s Portlandia. Courtney Barnett released Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit, Methyl Ethel and Twerps completed their second album, and Dick Diver finished Melbourne, Florida, a staple of their distinctive Australiana sound.

Melbourne was a manifestation of an idea of how diverse the communities can be in a city. It could not be better: multiculturalism, the rising awareness of indigenous issues, Palestine, and animal rights debates, farm-to-table dining and direct trade sustainable produce, the tram lines, queer people kissing in front of old houses in Brunswick, the radical ideas of what a library is and can be, the New Year’s Eve fireworks in River Torrens, all the bookshops and empty wet streets, Papa Gino’s in Carlton, the A1 bakery in Sydney Road, Al-Alamy in Coburg, taking a book conservation training under the supervision of Karen Vidler, summertime bus ride along the majestic Adelaide coastlines, Adelaide Showground, the morning view from a room in Sturrock Street, a summer evening in St Kilda, my obsession with Steph Hughes’ illustrations, and the bitter smell of cheap morning to-go coffee in an unnamed stall in Adelaide station, introduced to me by a woman who worked in my apartment. They ground the beans and made the coffee in a proper espresso machine. There was always a long line of blue collar workers. The beans were dark roast, so bitter that you cannot drink it properly without sugar. I remained one of their regulars during those beautiful days in Adelaide because what is coffee even for if not to be romanticized.

That era in Australia changed (if not solidified) me, and I could not feel more fortunate to do my Master's there. I was a nobody, a 23 year-old working administrative-level job under a yearly contract dying to escape my routine and dysfunctional family dynamics. It was a small chance as the scholarship mainly goes to civil servants with a solid experience and career path. I didn’t have much to offer so I had to make it seem like I knew what I was doing somehow and they bought it. I spent all of my savings to give the best care to ten stray cats I rescued. My parents did not give me any money when I left for Australia, despite their ‘success’ in their respective career. I even gave mom my last 100,000 at the airport because I knew she needed the money.

When I rode my Tokyobike slowly for a morning commute to campus, I felt that it was surely the end of an era. The new young Indonesian bands I can no longer relate to, the fact that my hair is no longer perfectly straight and surrenders to my mom’s curly genetics, the way I managed to understand Japanese cashiers and their many questions before letting me pay for my order, reminiscing the Sefton Park suburb while indulging in the views of Zuibaiji river and the vast open rice fields everyday on the way to campus.

Australians enjoy a slow brunch, the Japanese eat a very effective breakfast. Australians spend a long summer holiday, the Japanese take a week-long summer break. Australians invented their perfectly balanced flat white, the Japanese preserved and perfected their simple drip coffee.

They are totally in contrast, yet from the life I have here and there I learn something in common: that you can be the kind of people who do not define yourself with your titles, job positions or external achievements. The kind of people who have a life outside their job. The people who are more interested in enriching their lives than pursuing the conventional idea of success. People who take seemingly trivial things seriously and deeply. They read, bike, walk, garden, bake, brew, ferment, cook, eat, drink, taste, feel, meet, see, write, watch, and listen consciously. They keep searching for something new and they are excited to learn.

Some people need to advance their career so much they are willing to do literally anything and sacrifice others when they realize they can’t do achieve anything just by relying on their skills and competence. They’re the type who might not appreciate walking to a green space, getting joy from looking at the ducks in the pond, being overly excited to see wild turtles in the river. But there’s no need to be so stressed out about going down if you can just choose to not go up.

Your titles and privileges can and will end, but ideas and knowledge go on. Rest in Peace, Milk! Records.

[rielstarr]

a personal reflection on decolonization

riel s. | december, 2022

Tansii kiiya (hello, how are you?) my name is riel starr and I am a Red River Michif artist and academic. my history on his land begins thousands of years ago among the peoples of the great plains, and my written history begins in the late 1600s with my first French ancestors and their unnamed first nations wives. my first First Nations ancestor is an unnamed woman referred to in my grandmother’s family tree as “Cree Woman”. I am Red River Métis on my mother’s side. Our historic Métis family names are Berthelet, Caron, St. Germaine, Dazé, Larivière and Dubois, and we come from the communities of Point à Grouette (now called St. Agathe), St. Norbert, and St. Vital (now modern-day Winnipeg) as well as the historic Batoche, Saskatchewan. My Berthelet ancestors were notable community leaders in Pointe à Grouette and my Caron ancestors including my fifth great uncle jean caron sr. fought in the North West resistance of 1885 at the battle of Duck Lake when he was fifty-two years old. Jean Caron Sr’s house is now a historic site in Batoche. As for myself my mother is a Métis educator and academic and my father is a settler archaeologist-turned-locksmith. I introduce myself in this way, the traditional way of Métis writers to contextualize my family, my knowledge and experiences, as well as my place on this land.

Natually, my native mother and my settler archaeologist father never married and split before I was old enough to form any memories. Museums and history have always been a fascination to me; the Royal Terrell Museum in Drumheller, which I dubbed “the dead dinosaur museum” and the Royal Alberta Museum which I called “the dead mouse museum” after my favourite display. The display was a larger-than-life diorama of a mouse, it’s intestines showing, the organisms that helped decompose the corpse were also displayed, massive daddy long legs, gigantic ants, worms thicker than my arm. The RAM is an interesting place. A few years ago, it was moved into a new building downtown and I could no longer spend hours finding fossils in the limestone exterior of the original museum. The place had changed drastically. As I reminisce on what I loved about the RAM I realize that all the things I disliked were their representations of Indigenous people; the uncanny wax figures with placid skin that did not resemble a single Native person’s skin that I had met. and the artwork they portrayed as artifacts. What makes a beaded bag so different from a Van Dyck if they’re the same age? And honoured the same amount by the people who made them?

Another place of importance growing up was Fort Edmonton Park. Like Heritage Park, Fort Edmonton has costumed interpreters, who teach visitors history as if the interpreters were of that time. In the summer of 2017, my lifelong dream came true, and I became a volunteer costumed interpreter with my mentor Sheldon Stockdale, another Métis person, and we were able to teach our history in the way we felt was right, something deeply important to the Métis people. An experience we had that stands out vividly is working on Fort Edmonton’s 1920 Street, and educating visitors on the history of pemmican, a sort of ancient protein bar made from berries, dried meat, and animal fat. Pemmican was a staple of survival for the Métis, and we were asking visitors to help us in redesigning the packaging for the bar. The historic package had a representation of an Indigenous person on it, a caricature of a race. We asked visitors if turning Indigenous people into mascots should be accepted, and sadly many people didn’t see the problem. Sheldon and I borderline argued with a man who seemed to see no problem in reducing us, the people speaking to him, to caricatures. In a similar vein, someone once gave me Chicago Blackhawk’s stickers when i was six, and not knowing a thing about hockey I asked my mother who the stickers were of. I’m guessing my mother did not want to explain the history of colonization and caricatures of Indigenous people, so she dismissed my question by telling me that the man in the tacky illustration was my ancestor.

Decolonizing art history seems like an impossible task, and perhaps it is. You cannot separate someone like Emily Carr from art history in Canada, however you can change the way you teach her work. Perhaps decolonizing art history means recognizing the ways in which “art history” as a field of study is deeply Euro-centric, and how the way of teaching this history is the same. I took my first semester at AUArts in the fall of 2020 after transferring from MacEwan after completing a two-year diploma at MacEwan University. I had a sculpture class a media arts class an art history class. The more I consider how to decolonize our history the more I understand that it is not the history that can be decolonized, it is the way we are teaching said history. It is the way that so much of our education is taught to us through a colonial lens, rather than a multifaceted history with a multitude of perspectives and peoples contributing until an entire picture is formed.

In the fall of 2020 in my media arts class my professor Kurtis Lesick was discussing an artist, a black artist who had him and others participate in a performance in which in that space the black artist allowed the participants to say the N-word. Rather than describing the piece in the way I just did removing the slur, Kurtis Lesick made the conscious decision to say the N- word twice. A person I had once thought to be an ally of mine, who knew the language of decolonization. Earlier this year a classmate in this class who was also in my sculpture class in the winter of 2022 told me that ‘knowing me has made her a better person’, this woman does not know me, and I do not know her, but I knew her in that moment. I knew that she wanted me to absolve her of her settler guilt. White settlers love referencing Tuck and Yang’s Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor but sometimes I wonder if they truly understand that it is simply not enough to know the language of decolonization, that you must be actively anti-colonial in a field that is built on colonization.

I spent a lot of time at Fort Calgary this semester for my FINA class, critiquing their exhibitions wondering how they can be improved if they can be improved, and I learned that given their budget that it is not possible. Fort Calgary, like other institutions cannot afford to replace their current exhibits and entirely redesign the way they teach history. What they can do is acknowledge the missing pieces, they can acknowledge the gaps they can acknowledge the fact that there’s more than one canon of history. Sometimes I wonder if the mosaic of history is too complex to decolonize; knowing that we will never return to a world like the one that existed pre-colonization. I think about my one classmate who tokenizes me, who knows how to use decolonial language to appear one way, but who never puts those concepts into practice. I think about the settlers who think that decolonization is re-colonizing the Americas but with “the Indians” in charge this time.

I now understand that decolonizing art history cannot happen without first decolonizing institutions. I have learned that we cannot forget that we once taught art history in an i way we cannot forget the way colonization has infiltrated every aspect of the education system down to the teaching styles of each professor. if we forget how colonial art history is in the first place, we will forget why we need to decolonize. Considering the hand that art history is hard in colonization around the world, I consider about the way southeast Asian women’s bodies are talked about in my textbooks versus European odalisque paintings. Brown people’s bodies were inherently sexualized and seen as dirty, while white people’s bodies were adored and deemed Classical.

Maybe colonization is another movement in the worldwide canon of art history. Another period in the bar graph of history- as google images seems to see art history. Perhaps Emily Carr and Paul Gauguin are the faces of this genre. Just as colonization cannot be forgotten among its victims, it cannot be forgotten by its perpetrators, who still believe they are a superior culture and race. Genres of literature such as post-colonial writing from India and Sri Lanka may suggest, there was a period of colonial art and literature, perhaps it is ongoing, possibly dying out, maybe here to stay. There will always be an antithesis, an attempt to view art and art history from a different perspective, and that is how we can decolonize art history.

[nwbeerguide]

Schlafly Beer announces the return of Raspberry Hefeweizen.

Press Release

ST. LOUIS, MO ... Schlafly Beer, the original, independent craft brewery in St. Louis, announces the return of the popular seasonal beer, Raspberry Hefeweizen, a hazy, beer fermented with real fruit. At 4.1% ABV, Raspberry Hefeweizen is a true fruit beer, not a fruit-flavored beer, that uses real raspberries during primary fermentation, which naturally yields a pink, hazy-color with citrus aromas from the wheat and a desirable flavor that is neat and tart. Low in bitterness and not overwhelmingly sweet, this is Schlafly brewers’ summer water. It also just so happens that this year’s Pantone Color of the Year, Viva Magenta, matches the beer’s branding. 

“Raspberry Hefeweizen is a seasonal favorite of both our fans and brewers," says Schlafly Beer CEO, Fran Caradonna. “It’s tart and refreshing so it’s the perfect beer to pull people out of their winter hibernation and celebrate warmer weather with friends. It also seems fitting that this year’s Pantone Color of the Year is Viva Magenta so we had fun playing off this for the marketing of Raspberry Hefeweizen. It encourages consumers to drink pink and seek out items in line with this year’s trending color.”

Raspberry Hefeweizen is available for purchase now across Schlafly’s distribution for $9.99 per 6-pack of 12oz Bottles or $17.99 per 12-pack of 16 oz cans. Raspberry Hefeweizen is also available at all four Schlafly brewpubs: Schlafly Tap Room in downtown St. Louis, Schlafly Bottleworks in the Maplewood neighborhood of St. Louis, Schlafly Bankside in St. Charles, MO and Schlafly Highland Square in Highland, IL.

About Schlafly Beer: Schlafly Beer, St. Louis’ original independent craft brewery, proudly brews a diverse collection of beers throughout the year. Our brewers use numerous hop varietals, malts, grains, fruits, natural ingredients and yeast strains from around the world to make every Schlafly beer unique. As part of our commitment to sustainability and our communities, we collaborate with local suppliers and neighborhood partners. Schlafly is a go-to across the Midwest and East Coast, and is a staple at countless fine establishments, backyards and basement bars. Join us at The Schlafly Tap Room, Schlafly Bottleworks, Schlafly Bankside and Schlafly Highland Square, as well as on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. For a full listing of Schlafly beers and the beer finder, visit Schlafly.com

[theartofsomething]

“Territorios" Sculpture

I chose to research “Territorios”, otherwise known as “Marking their Territory. This sculpture was created by Edgardo Carmona, from Cartagena, Colombia. It can be found on the corner of Main and Hendry St in downtown Fort Myers. The pieces were installed in January of 2016 and meant to be gone soon after but became a permanent part of our city and officially owned by FM City Council on August 6, 2018. Artist Edgardo’s career began in the construction of steel buildings, which likely contributed to his medium of choice- Corten steel. His sculptures can be found exhibited in Europe and South America, in addition to our hometown. They are in the round, as they stand alone and without a formal background and able to be observed from all angles. The size of the lamppost has realistic measures, as is the dog. However, the man’s size is slightly dramatized and enlarged. The collection in which Territorios is part of is “Likeable and familiar characters”. Carmona has been quoted saying he hoped his sculptures illustrated ““the commonality of real people”. While now a staple piece in downtown, the sculpture was a heavy topic of discussion given its subject matter. It shows a man leaning against a lamppost, beverage in hand, while relieving himself. Opposite of him, on the other side of the lamppost, is a dog doing the same with his leg raised. As Carmona said, the collection represents the “commonality of real people”. Daily, community members walk their dogs around the streets of downtown Fort Myers. Regularly, their dogs relieve themselves on the sidewalks, in patches of grass, and against lampposts. These actions are hardly ever of any concern to anyone. On the contrary, a man relieving himself- alone or alongside his canine companion- is less common. This is not a customary site when strolling in downtown Fort Myers. However, while not made as public as our pets, man also is required relieve themselves when necessary. When the occasion is appropriate, or when too many drinks were had, this can take place outside. I believe this sculpture captures the humility and commonality of real people, as Carmona intended. Willing to admit it or not, we all use the restroom, and it is likely we have all experienced being unable to “hold it”. And lastly, some of us have experienced having one too many- especially when downtown. The sculpture seems to communicate the community’s appreciation for everyday occurrences, as well as their tribute to a more humorous and lighthearted community, making it my favorite to pass by.

[planet4546b]

hello pls tell me about sam and emily and their relationship to each other <3

oh boy. oh boy alright then.

the thing that sucks is that, at the end of the day, samira and emily do not actually end up in a relationship at any point in the story. theyre this post

[id in alt]

its miserable. lets get into it.

a ton of sam's character in s/n is being completely, completely resistent to being a Part of this world - it's exemplified in her role as narrator, literally removing herself from the story in some way, but it persists to some of the smallest details of the way she interacts with the world around her. with the exception of the other three main characters, she doesn't attempt to get to know or make friends with anyone else in verge, she doesn't want to learn the history of stitch and staple no matter how much time she spends there, she treats the new things she interacts with with a sort of distant + scientific interest at best, if she doesn't completely dismiss them. it's this horrid sorta paradox where this is (according to her) the world she's doing everything to try to save, but she doesn't seem to care about it.

emily is the EXACT INVERSE OF THIS. of the rest of the cast, she is the MOST a PART of this world - even mel is so much more interested in her own weird set of motivations and her own personal flaws in a way that means she's a bit removed from the world, but emily? emily is a Person In This World. she loves her hometown and talks about it constantly, she cares deeply about her family, she's invested in the way that the city she lives in is constantly changing, she has a wide next of friends, she'll tell you myths and fairytales from her childhood, she's religious and involved in her religious community (it's a new religion thats still in the works, more details to come lol) (also not that these things are NOT true about mel, mel is just. uh. complicated. you get it). em is, in some ways, the only member of the cast that is more a real person than a character.

(maybe this is what happens when the narrator falls in love with you hmmmm maybe you get to be a fully realized person in their story hmmm)

because of this dynamic, samira is just kind of instantly enamored with em. emily is the single person that has the power to compel sam to care about this world and the things in it, and sam will just sort of watch starry eyed while em goes on and on about the history of st. elmos or loom or stitch and staple. em, meanwhile, sees just how much sam cares (albeit about her own world and history) underneath whatever weird heroic veneer she's projecting and is compelled by that, and by sort of the mystery around sam. emily does a lot of like asking questions to subtly try to find out more about sam's past. in a lot of ways, they're the trope of the endless optimist and the resolute cynic.

but also. sam is in NO WAY ready for a relationship at this point in her life, and she's also still incredibly focused on...whatever the fuck her end goal is (and also sam has Problems and and believes she doesnt deserves love or kindness, lol), so she plays this constant game of getting closer to em and then putting more distance between them. em is smart enough to see what's going on and also is trying to manage enough of her own shit that she's not going to push to be in a relationship with someone that, as far as emily can tell, is only going to be a part of this world until she's done saving it, after which she clearly has places to be (she doesn't, but this is the vibe she gives off). so they just kinda orbit each other and both are like a lot in love with the other and no one will act on it really.

sometime between act 2 and act 3, after the group splits up and has been apart for around a year, sam, who previously had literally dissapeared into the fog after The Jackie Incident, shows up completely at random at em's doorstep. she has CLEARLYYYY been up to something bonkers and done Some Shit but shes just like uhhm hi :) for no reason can i stay with you for a bit :) and em says yes. this is when they have an incredibly sweet and surprisingly domestic interlude - sam is still obviously keeping some big secrets, and emily has been up to her own stuff in the interim, but it's the absolute closest they get, despite the fact that staple, the city they're living in, is literally on the eve of war with it's neighbor (a war that mel is surprisngly involved in, btw). (this interlude is where this takes place btw. gotta plug my own art.)

i only mention this because it preludes the biggest betrayl between them, as we enter act 3. sam, after living with em for i thiiiiink close to a year, reveals that she is, again, going on a journey to try, again, to stop the end of the world, and needs em and mel to come with her. again. itll totally work this time! em is, understandably, mad, and also, as the journey goes on, can SEE that sam very very clearly believes herself doomed, and believes she's not making it out of this mission. emily refuses to get any closer to sam because she can see that heartbreak coming a mile off and is protecting herself in advance. she won't be in love with someone who's dooming herself. she won't do it.

so we end on this note, with all of this leftover love between them and with each of them knowing that they probably could have had something really good if not for each of their deep flaws and the specific ways they got in the way, with both of them knowing that the other is doomed, with the distance between them completely impossible to cross and yet. and yet.

its absolutely miserable!!! and the love was there and it didn't change anything!!! and sam is the narrator and tries and fails to give em a happy ending!!!! and em moves on but is also forever haunted!!!! UGH!!!!

anyways thank you as always these two are so fun to think about and are a relatively new addition to the story so its great to get to actually write out their dynamic!!!! here is a gift just for you and anyone else who made it this far: the official emira playlist. enjoy.

[creativeashproductions]

If I Stay Part One // Luke Patterson

Summary: A beautiful day Luke visits a record store to relive the times he would buy an album, but he finds more than memories. He meets you and a connection blossoms between you two and then Reggie and Alex as well. All is well until Julie discovers something.

Warning: Swearing, talk of death and car accident!

Words: 2.6k

A/N: This is based off the movie If I Stay and the movie Charlie St. Cloud. Sorry for not posting sooner, my sister in law along with my three nieces were in a car accident. Thankfully the kids are okay but my sister-in-law in currently in hospital due to minor injuries thus far.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX PLEASE!

Masterlist

So, Julie’s life changed dramatically in the lost year and few months, firstly her family lost their mother. Secondly, Julie’s love for music faded until the melody and lyrics were haunting memories. Thirdly, after losing her place in the music program, she had to question her sanity. For in her garage lived three teenage ghosts to her disbelief and horror quite frankly; the ghosts grew on her so much she was in a band with them.

In the hours that Julie was attending school, the boys tended to tour the entire city. They enjoyed seeing the changes that had happened for the two and a half decades. Reggie really enjoyed the western-themed stores, even scaring a little girl with a floating cowboy hat that disappeared once on his head. Alex adored learning about the drastic changes within in the LGBTQ+ community, he had plans for when 2021 LA Pride came in June. Luke, of course, would go anywhere that had music such as music stores, record stores, concert venues and even followed a rock legend once.

“Ooh.” A voice spoke in the record store, “This would be the perfect gift.”

Luke turned to see you gazing at the Rock N’ Roll records with a passion in your eyes and an adorable smile that melted his heart. He couldn’t help but walk closer even if he had no clue if you could see him or not.

“Def Leppard? Definitely one of my favourite bands.” Luke spoke anticipating the usual one-sided conversation. His speculation shattered when you turned to face him with big eyes, “You can see me.”

You nodded your head, pushing your hands into your faded blue jeans glancing around the store, hoping the owner didn’t notice. To your relief the man was oblivious, Luke glanced over before stepping closer.

 “You’re alive?”

“Mhm.” You spoke, removing a single hand to play with your burgundy jacket that cinched at the waist to give form. It was open to reveal a plain black shirt that left an inch of your midsection free, “I always wondered if ghosts were real. I got my answer.”

“This is so cool! My friend is the only person that can see my friends and me.” The grin was breathtaking on the teenage ghost. There was a connection between the two that was immediate and intense.

“At least you’re not alone.” You supplied turning to pick up the record, turning it around to read the tracklist. In the end, you decided you didn’t feel like buying it, replacing it you started for the front door.

A college-aged person walked in glued to the screen of the phone not replying as you mentioned a thank you before the door closed. Luke rushed to follow your steady pace in black hiking boots.

“Where are you going?” Luke questioned coming to the same stride as the girl that had taken his attention quickly. His interest had grown when he found he could hold a conversation with her.

“It’s a nice day. I thought I would go for a walk.” You replied, stopping to look around the street with curious eyes. Luke yearned for those eyes to look in his again because he swore he saw a galaxy in them, “Would you like to join me?”

Luke’s head was nodding in response with a new pep in his step as you walked down the street filled with all different kind of stores. Luke recognized Family Living Grocery store as the one that the Molina got their groceries, he and the guys had joined Julie on a trip once. It was one of his worst memories as a ghost, surrounded by snacks and food he couldn’t indulge in.

“So, what’s your story, Caspar?” You questioned stopping to look as at a beautiful dollhouse, “My cousin had one. We actually renovated it a while back for her unborn niece.”

“Caspar?” Luke teased, watching the nostalgia faded from your expression as you continued on the walk. His hazel eyes, greener at the moment, glittered at the different banter he had with you than the guys or Julie.

“Well, I don’t know your name!” You exclaimed turning the corner at a parlour with gorgeous stencilled artwork on the glass.

“Luke. My name is Luke. Hey! I know this shop!” Luke beamed, stepping back to take in the storefront. In the twenty-five years since he last saw it, the blue faded into a teal, but the door was still the same as it always was.

“You have a tattoo?” You asked, scanning his arms bare in the cut off shirt he wore. You couldn’t see any ink on his skin. Luke couldn’t help the smirk on his face at the blatant heated gaze.

“No. It was 1994. We just played our biggest gig at the time, and Bobby decided we should get tattoos.” Luke’s mouth twisted at the mention of his former friend, “Of course we were sixteen and Alex just about fainted in the shop. The guy took one look at Reggie and laughed at our fake IDs. Told us to come back in a few years.”

One of the few memories that weren’t tainted by the betrayal that Trevor Wilson had gone on to do a year after the tattoo fiasco. It was more than not being credited or his songs being stolen, but it was also that someone he wholeheartedly trusted turned his back on them. Luke frankly didn’t care how Bobby coped after that fateful night. Still, he changed his name and refused any mention of his previous music experience. That hurt a lot.

“So, you’re a ’90s kid.” You raised an eyebrow coming to a stop on the edge of the street, pressing the button to cross.

“Technically a ’70s kid. We died in ’95 a few hours before a life-changing gig.” The mood turned sombre as Luke thought back on that one night that life decided to raise both middle fingers at his dreams, “Death by a hot dog.”

The snicker fell from your mouth before you do anything about it but sobered up quickly in the view of his painful admittance.

“So, you’re seventeen?” You asked crossing when the crosswalk light flickered on. Your attention focused on crossing while listening to the teenager.

“Forever seventeen but I would eighteen physically, but if I had survived I would be forty-three.” Luke mused shoving his hands into his staple black jeans with the chains and his constant accessory of a blue rabbit’s foot.

“Oh, damn. I’ve seventeen as well.” You replied dodging pedestrians before humming a to a song you had heard recently but where you did was unknown. You didn’t want to bump into anyone.

Luke glanced down at his watch, somehow even in death it worked, noticing that it was around the time rehearsal would commence. The thought barely ended before a flash of light preceded Alex’s presence. You slightly jumped in response.

“Luke! Julie’s wondering where you are. We have rehearsal.” Alex was surprised that Luke wasn’t already at the studio. He was always the first one holding his guitar for the rest of them.

One glance at the girl beside Luke cemented a reason for his tardiness. Alex could see that you were the reason and a pretty reason too. Alex wished he had your jacket with such a beautiful colour, but the music was more important.

“Oh, man!” Luke panicked fearing that being late would cause Julie to leave the band after the whole school dance fiasco.

“So, Luke. I like your name by the way. I’m Y/N.” You greeted holding back from offering you a hand, your theory would have been proven correct. Ghosts can’t touch other people, all the movies portrayed that.

“Nice to meet you! I’ll find you soon!” Luke shouted seconds before Alex poofed them both away with a single hand on his bandmate’s shoulder.

A content smile appeared before you continued on your way, unaware of the lack of acknowledgement from people on the street.

The next few days, Luke would find you either in the record store or just out front during his free time. He hadn’t realized how lonely he was touring the music entertainment spots until he had your company. Soon you were joined by Alex and Reggie every once in a while.

The three were planning outings with their new lifer friend as Julie grabbed her songbook from her room. She was amused when the three wouldn’t shut up.

“What are you planning?” Julie questioned scanning their animated expressions, even taking in the slight change in Alex’s appearance.

Alex had a braided bracelet of the rainbow on his left wrist that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. He even seemed calmer and less anxious, as well.

“What happened to Alex?” Julie questioned with a small smirk, “Did you bump into Willie?”

Alex shook his head, “No, Luke met this girl at a record store and then Reggie and I met her. She’s cool! There’s this app she showed us, and it had videos of anything you could imagine!”

Julie’s teasing smile faltered at the mention of Luke meeting someone before it returned once more. She pushed the feeling away as this girl had brought peace to the drummer.

“What’s her name?” Julie asked, pushing the songbook away to listen intently to the new piece of the boys’ afterlife. The three burst into stories of the girl.

“She took me to this cool place nearby where people store their horses!” Reggie burst out, clapping his head, “I already have a country song started! This is so a hit single for our future country album!”

Alex only released an exasperated sigh at Reggie’s idea that he voiced every single day since the beginning of the band. Luke was just used to finding sheets of songs from Reggie around the studio and often his songbook too.

“She also brought me a bag of clothing she had in her house that she let me go through. Apparently, her house is the place where cousins take their old clothing.” Alex supplied striking a pose in his new white sweater with a rainbow logo on the front.

Julie grinned at the positivity radiating off the two boys.

“Is she a ghost?”

Luke shook his head, “No. She’s alive.”

A spark of happiness flits itself inside of Julie before it dissipated because Flynn had already gently let the girl down about Luke.

“What’s her name! I’m gonna find her Instagram!” Julie took out her phone waiting as Alex supplied her the name. Her thumbs froze before she could type staring down at the black screen.

The name was familiar.

Laying on a bed on San Pablo Street was a girl with her eyes closed and a serene expression. This bed wasn’t just any bed in a home. Instead, this bed was one no one wished to be in. A bed with machines surrounding and right in the middle of those machines was Y/N.

The very girl that had met Luke, Reggie and Alex were in fact in the ICU of a hospital recovering in a coma.

“Why do you look like that?” Luke demanded as the colour drained from the lead singer of their band.

“Are you sure it was Y/N Y/L/N?” Julie gulped dread filling her veins as each boy nodded their head and the girl slumped, “I go to school with her. The thing is she’s been in a coma for two weeks now.”

You were outside the record store once more as the three ghosts appeared in front of you each looking the worst you had ever seen them.

“Did you lie?” Luke questioned stepping closer to the teenage girl that furrowed her brows in confusion, “You said that you are alive. Why did you lie?”

“Lie?” You asked, taking a step back from the odd energy the boys had. A look of distraught on each face, “What are you talking about?”

“Why are you here every day at this exact time. Never late, never early.” Alex questioned sick to his stomach as your brows came together.

“I- walk…” You trailed off thinking of the last week in deep thought paling as you had no recollection of going home or getting to the store. It was like you blacked out each time.

Actually, the last time you remember not being with the guys or at the store was two weeks ago.

“I don’t re…member.” You whispered, “I haven’t seen my family since…oh my god.”

Luke stepped closer, terrified as he reached out, hoping with his entire being his hand would go through you. It didn’t. Luke’s hand rested on your arm, still wearing that burgundy jacket. Your eyes flickered between his solid hand and the same outfit you wore for weeks now. Why would you be wearing a jacket and hiking boots in Los Angeles?

“My cousin had been saving up for a trip for her eighteenth birthday. She wanted to go skiing, so we split the cost between our families.”

As if a wall broke, you realized with horror that the college boy that hadn’t held the for you like you first thought. He hadn’t seen or heard you because in his world you weren’t there. No one had acknowledged you because they couldn’t see you just like they couldn’t see Luke.

“What else do you remember?” Reggie spoke up next, noticing that Luke was getting more upset. His eyes going so light the green appeared to be blue and glittered with tears and his heart dropping.

“My parents, my cousin and I were driving up the mountain in the rented car. There-“

Two Weeks Ago

Your head leaned again Lou’s head sharing the headphones connected to your phone blasting the carefully curated playlist. Lou had been living with your parents and you the last six months as her parents were travelling for work. It was a dream because she was like a sister already and vice versa; Lou as a surprise baby with her older sister being ten years older.

“We haven’t been to the slopes since we first got married.” Dad said glancing over at your mother in the passenger seat, “Didn’t we conceive-“

“Dad! Gross!” You shouted, wrinkling your nose as he glanced in the rear-view mirror to smile at your antics. Your mother’s laugh was probably one of your most favourite sounds in the world, it was warm like hot chocolate on a cold day.

“Did you see that video of the hologram band?” Lou asked, not paying attention to your family’s antics, “It’s super cool.”

“We still have half of our playlist to go through. You should show me when we get to the cabin.” You replied, “We could put it on the projector with the others.”

The others being your extended family, including the surprise of Lou’s parents. Your mother pointed out the snow on the mountain gaining everyone’s attention. It was beautiful compared to sunny Los Angeles.

Lou’s thumb was just about to click the video of Julie and the Phantoms against your wishes. You felt the fear before the yell, snapping your head up you watched as a pickup truck hit ice swerving into your lane. The screech of tires preceded the crunch of the vehicles hitting each other. Throughout the surrounding area, the echoes of the crash bounced off the mountains scaring birds away. Miraculously Lou’s phone survived the crash and played the electric video of ‘Edge of Great’ by Julie and the Phantoms. A song you would hum under your breath during your walks meeting the guys.

The snow turned red under four of five bodies. You lay nonconscious a stark difference in the burgundy jacket and black shirt you had painstakingly chosen that morning.

If I Stay Part Two (Final)

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[thekatemarlowe]

Thoughts: JAMES ST. JAMES’ Party Monster

Being a child of the 90’s, I didn’t know about the club kid scene until it had already died out so finding out about these major players was a surprise to say the least. In Party Monster (originally published as Disco Bloodbath), stolen money, missing drugs and a gruesome murder highlight our story. With themed parties and petty competition peppered throughout, we get a colorful retelling of a decade full of K-holes and self-discovery. James St. James is our star and author, giving us a short history of the time, his rise and fall and the moment that changed everything for the 90’s New York party scene. Michael Alig, a staple in James’ life and another star in the Club Kid community, along with a drug dealer friend, commit a murder and then cover it up by throwing the body in a river and subsequently telling everyone they knew about it…you know, for clout. Delusions of Grandeur seem to be the name of the game and unfortunately the story goes on far too long because of the prejudice against these kids with too much time and money on their hands. I enjoyed every minute and while I don’t condone that much drug use, I certainly felt like I went on a K-hole of my own. 100% worth the read!

[noxtms]

SYBILL PATRICIA TRELAWNEY was laid to rest three weeks after her murder in the little cemetary that lays just beyond hogsmeade village, scotland. it was a solemn affair, attended by her surviving family - excluding muggle half sister - long term coworkers, and a rather impressive number of ex students who had been counted among her favorites over her hogwarts tenure, or who had a soft spot for their old professor. the recent curfew imposed by the ministry of magic wrecked havoc upon the initial plans arranged for after, but with help from madam rosmerta, something a little more in sybill’s spirit could be pulled together on short notice. everyone who knew her knew of her fondness for a tipple of sherry, and in all the time she called hogwarts home, the three broomsticks had always been her preferred bar. individuals who made the trek for the funeral were encouraged to move towards the bar, after, and share a drink with her family. it was intended to be a solemn, professional kind of event - destined to move beyond it after a few more drinks & the locking of the front doors for a good old fashioned lock in. 

if you can slip away, later in the evening - if you can spot the other people your age slipping out the back, giving themselves a little overhaul & trying to muffle their chatter - maybe you’ll find the REAL celebration of life itself. no one knows who exactly had the idea to use cover of three broomsticks event to sneak away and set up a number of bonfires on the hill where the shrieking shack lies, but the use of a muffling spell around the perimeter ensures sound won’t carry, and the place is off the radar enough that should an auror make the rounds to ensure the curfew is being kept, they won’t notice. there’s loud music being played, and beer being passed around / people are laughing & having fun, something in huge contrast to the day that’s really in it. whether they’re here to rebel and are unaware to the other event happening concurrently, or whether they simply want to leave the tragedy at the grave - the bonfire seems destined to rage all night. 

WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE :

THE THREE BROOMSTICKS : it certainly begins as an event for anyone who wishes to pay their respects in a more traditional way, but madam rosmerta is known for her hospitality, and her high standing within the community allows her to flout the rules in her own special way. there’s no worry that the memorial - or event, as it swiftly becomes, with free flowing drinks & soft music & youthful memories, shared amongst friends & strangers alike - will get cut short, given that the bolting of the front doors turns it into a lock in, and the three broomsticks sort is more likely to draw the aurors enforcing curfew in than it is force them to break up the gathering. the earlier hours keep the initial intent intact, but as the evening grows darker and everyone enjoys themselves a little bit more, the memorial shifts from somber to... well. enjoyable ! 

THE SHRIEKING SHACK : word of mouth & natural curiosity can be thanked for the crowd drawn this way, but someone had to come up with it, and no one really knows who did, and there’s plenty of people willing to take credit. leaving the three broomsticks, if you attended, or apparating directly onto the hill before the ten pm curfew is the smartest thing to do, there’s no denying, but if you run a little late you’ll probably get lucky - no one’s paying anyone leaving madam rosmerta’s bar much mind, and once you get there, you’re laughing. it’s not much of a MEMORIAL, certainly much more of a party, but sometimes... that’s what’s needed. 

OUT OF CHARACTER :

it seems only right that for our one year anniversary, our next event should be one that’s really very nox ! two in one events have become a bit of a staple for us over the last year, and sybill’s goodbye was another opportunity to give multiple options, and let you choose your own adventures. the official memorial is being hosted at the three broomsticks, and follows the more traditional approach. there’s probably been a speech or two, and there’s definitely a drink in memory of, and when it gets a little late, madam rosmerta will lock the doors & turn it into a proper little gathering, music change & all ! 

elsewhere, a very different sort of flouting the rules is taking place on the shriekign shack hill. no one knows who started this, but the heat from the bonfires is a welcome comfort, and the spell muffling the area was already well in place when most people made their way there by word of mouth. there’s beer going around, music blaring, and it’s not as much a memorial as it is the opportunity, taken, to party. given the fact that st patrick’s day was cancelled, who can blame ‘em ?  

these events will be two weeks long, beginning officially today, at 12:00am GMT -  click this sentence to see what that works out at for your timezone ! 

you do not have to pause any current threads for the duration, but you are welcome to, if that makes your workload any lighter ! please just ensure proper tagging, so that event threads are easily differentiated from regular ones. 

event specific starters ( private and otherwise ) can be posted into the appropriate tags : either nox.lockin or nox.bonfire. i know ! i’m super inventive ! the lock in location is the three broomsticks & the bonfires can be broadly called the shrieking shack, but if you tag location, hogsmeade is fine for both ! 

please keep in mind the galleon system with starters & everything, as most will earn you points ! 

if you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to message the main, and please comment anything you’d like on this post to let me know you’ve read it ! 

[citizensmth]

A Very Creole Christmas

Joyeux Noel, Y’all. 

After thinking about doing a Hazbin History segment over the holidays, I finally decided to jump on in. As New Year’s approaches and many around the world celebrate Christmas, I thought it would be fun to write on holiday traditions unique to the American South and some customs specific to Louisiana. Nothing says winter holidays quite like garlands of native pine and... magnolias? Stockings full of... oranges? The taste of ... oysters? I grew up in Memphis and my family has deep roots throughout the South so a lot of these customs I have personally experienced. 

This post is also not super planned out or edited. It’s a lightly researched thought dump. This is also not an exhaustive list. If I left something out, it is not intentional. 

Holiday Customs of the Southern United States:

Citrus:

Tropical fruit may not be the first thing that comes to mind when you imagine Christmas time in America. But in the South, it is a very old custom dating back to the earliest days of coastal colonial communities. In colonial times, fresh citrus was an extremely rare and expensive delicacy. In early winter, ships loaded with citrus and other delicacies from Florida and the West Indies would begin arriving in port cities along the Southern coast. Nothing showed off New World wealth and connections in the colonial South like displays of fresh fruits and garlands of dried citrus. Fresh fruit became the ultimate luxury gift. The prickly pineapple in particular has legendary status in the city of Charleston and is sometimes associated with Southern hospitality.  Placing oranges in stockings or giving gifts of gourmet fruit remain popular in many parts of the South today. Growing up, I often received at least one orange in my stocking for good luck and no scent says ‘holidays’ to me quite like the mix of orange and warm cinnamon. As an adult, I receive gourmet fruits at least once during the winter holiday season. Dried citrus is also popular in holiday potpourri and can still be seen in some contemporary holiday garlands. 

Pecans:

This delicious nut grows prolifically throughout the South. Pecans are harvested between September and December and pecan based treats are a staple of any fall or winter gathering. The exact origins of many pecan based treats remain a mystery but folklore suggests that French settlers in Louisiana first created the iconic pecan pie as well as pralines. Bowls of candied pecans are a common sight at holiday parties or winter get togethers and they have a habit of turning up in winter salads too. 

Magnolias:

A very fragrant, native plant synonymous with the South. It is also an evergreen. The use of pine for swags, wreath, and general decor has spread throughout the United States but the use of Magnolia in holiday decor remains mostly a Southern tradition. I was in Charleston and Savanna in December 2019 and saw a lot of Magnolia wreaths on houses. I don’t remember seeing it as much in my hometown of Memphis. It seems to be more common in coastal cities. The practice could also be on the decline due to the standardization of greenery sold at big box chain stores.  

Oysters:

Oysters are both extremely popular and extremely plentiful in the south. They are a staple of coastal cuisine and are popular on special occasions further inland. Oysters are a pretty common sight at holiday parties. Almost every holiday party I remember growing up featured raw oysters on the half shell during cocktails. It also frequently appears in various holiday stews and even in holiday stuffing. Some people are ardent believers in the superiority of oyster stuffing at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I think I have to agree on this one. Oyster stuffing is delicious. 

Rèveillon: A New Orleans tradition

Louisiana is unique in that it has French Catholic colonial roots, not Anglo-Protestant colonial roots. Much of early Louisiana celebrated Christmas as a predominantly religious holiday, reserving much of their more secular festivities for New Years. Over time, many New Years festivities would migrate to Christmas. One notable custom to come out of New Orleans was the practice of Rèveillon which was a late night feast to wake up the senses after the traditional Midnight Mass. Observant Catholics would attend holiday services on Christmas Eve and then indulge in decadent late night get togethers that lasted until dawn. French Creoles at the time were known for late night entertaining on special occasions. These meals could get unbelievably extravagant and naturally depended on quite a number servants, often slaves, to pull off. Servants and/or slaves would prepare the meal while the family was at church and clean up after the festivities were over. The practice gradually died because of the labor required, the incursion of ‘American” holiday culture, and a gradual shift towards a party culture focused on cocktails and nibbles instead of lavish multi-course meals. By the early 20th century only the most traditional families were still holding Rèveillon dinners and the practice went dormant for many decades in 20th century. Today, a modern updated form of Rèveillon is making a comeback in the New Orleans restaurant scene. To increase holiday dining and tourism, some New Orleans restaurants are now offering multi-course celebratory dinners in the spirit of Rèveillon. French speaking Creoles of the past would likely find at least some familiarity in the menus of restaurant Rèveillon feasts.  

Bonfires on the Mississippi:

The mighty Mississippi dominates life and culture in the Delta from New Orleans to Memphis. In parts of the lower Mississippi, giant earthen levees attempt to contain one of the world’s largest rivers. Along these levees between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, a curious tradition emerged. Every year on Christmas Eve, the levees burst into flames as locals in St. Johns and St. James parish forgo electric twinkle lights for colossal burning pyres. I have not seen the Christmas bonfires myself but boy oh boy is it on my bucket list. It’s not exactly clear how this annual tradition started. Bonfires were part of ancient Celtic customs long before the arrival of Christianity and the tradition of celebratory fires was still a widely practiced custom when settlers began arriving in the New World. Perhaps settlers from Alsace brought the tradition to Louisiana. It is also possible that French missionaries started the custom of lighting bonfires. Another origin I have heard is that the fires were meant to help travelers navigate winter-time fog on their way to Christmas mass. However it started, it is now an integral part of Christmas festivities along the lower Mississippi. Previously people just gathered scrap wood. Now people build elaborate scrap wood sculptures in the shape of boats, plantation homes, pick up trucks, etc to light ablaze on Christmas Eve. The festival exploded in popularity after WW2 when subdivisions began reaching into these formerly rural areas, bringing in an influx of young families. 

Well, that’s all I’m gonna write about tonight. Anything more and this will start looking like the beginnings of a hearty essay. Hope everyone is having a great holiday!

[justjessame]

Starting Over Chapter 17

Now I know most people would think that hearing their best friend dangling a carrot of temptation like “did you go through ANYTHING in the shed” would have them rushing out with a flashlight to their backyard and unlocking the damn thing to see what might be waiting for them.  Or at the very least, since it was starting to grow dark, a slightly less dramatic start might be the bedroom across the fucking hall from theirs?  

Yeah, well, I’ve never really checked the “normal” box on any fucking form and coming back from where the fuck ever Thanos the big purple peckerhead snapped me off to didn’t change that personality trait.  Sorry to disappoint.  

If Connie was coming over to force me to face whatever was in my dad’s workshop and whatever else my parents left me, with Bryn in tow, I should probably make sure that I had something to keep her mini me occupied.  After I grabbed a sandwich, some chips, and glass of tea I headed up to my room - where a stash of my childhood shit that I kept “just in case” lived and hoped I could find something that the three year old would find fascinating.

Morning dawned as they had since I returned.  Gasping, shivery, but now with the addition of the murmurs from the television that I left on thanks to Bucky Barnes.  My hand was reaching for my cell phone before I made the conscious decision to do it, and I sighed when I didn’t see a pineapple waiting for me.  It was still early, so I took a beat to run through my mental checklist of what I’d put in place downstairs for Bryn.

I’d taken my copies of the princess movies downstairs along with a few dolls and some picture books that I’d loved.  There was a tea set and a few stuffies and I hoped that she wouldn’t be too bored while her mommy was dealing with my bullshit.  

While I was considering what I should make for lunch, or if I should toss together something for breakfast too, my phone chirped.  It was still beside me on the bed, so I didn’t have to reach.  Thinking it would be Connie, I lifted it up - I had never seen a phone number like it before, but there it was - my pineapple.  I shook my head even as my smile grew.  At least I knew he was alive.  That was one good thing going for me today.

Connie called a few minutes later, telling me that she’d be over after she got Bryn cleaned up after breakfast - answering one of my questions right off the bat.  I told her I’d hop in the shower and be waiting for them. 

“Don’t make a fuss,” she warned me.  “Bryn’s three, the fact that she’s never been to your house makes it like Disneyworld automatically.”  I rolled my eyes.  “I mean it, Brooke.”  

“I know you do, Connie,” I agreed, sliding out of bed and moving to the closet to grab something to wear, but then I realized that I didn’t know what we were about to do.  “Um, are we going to be digging into something dusty and gross?”  

She snorted and when I didn’t react she went so silent I thought she hung up on me, but a check of the phone told me she was still there.  “You’re joking?” I assured her I wasn’t.  “What the fu -” she stopped and I waited while she apologized to Joey, apparently Bryn was picking up some “adult language” and sharing it with the other children at daycare and preschool - I snorted, like those kids didn’t already hear that shit at home.  “What would your dad have in his workshop that we’d need to DIG, Brooke?”  I could HEAR her eyes rolling.  “Wear what you normally do, you fu -” I heard her groan and mutter to herself about politically correct nonsense.  “Go shower, we’ll be there in about an hour.”  

I had ice tea, soda, juice, and water, along with some of Bucky’s beer in the fridge, but I highly doubted that Connie would consent to letting Bryn partake in that.  I was showered and dressed, and was taking stock of the kitchen while I waited for them to come.  I had sandwich stuff on hand, along with some staples, and if all that failed there were enough takeout menus in the drawer to keep us fed.

The knock came at around the hour mark, and when I opened the door Bryn was staring up at me like she was seeing me for the very first time - again.  She really did look around the house like it was an adventure, and I could see the “I told you so” building in Connie’s face.  

Showing them the living room, where I’d set up the “play area”, you’d have thought Christmas came early.  The tiny tot squealed and clapped her hands, then she was having a tea party with the dolls and stuffies after choosing the first princess movie to play while they partied.  I supplied the “tea” -water, Connie insisted - promising I’d thank her during the cleanup, while filling a sippy cup with some juice for the hostess.  

With Bryn occupied, I thought we’d get to work, but Connie shook her head and pulled me into the dining room, adjacent to the living room so we could keep an eye and ear on Bryn.  With glasses of tea in front of us, she sighed and I got worried.  

“When IT happened,” Connie was looking at her glass, finger tracing a drop of condensation as it dripped down the glass.  “I started calling you immediately.  As soon as the news hit, as soon as the first moment we knew SOMETHING was going on -” She looked up and I nodded, I figured she would have, along with Mom and Dad.  “Your dad came home, he ran to your room because he knew you’d planned on staying in and being lazy.” Connie smiled, the memory of Dad making her sad, but also nostalgically happy.  

I opened my mouth, but was at a loss for what to say.  What could I say?  It’s ok?  I was Snapped into non-existence, but I’m here now, so we’re cool?  I mean, we were, but clearly she wanted to tell me something.  

“He ran in, seeing a thousand texts and calls from me, but it was what he FELT that got him.”  I squinted at her, confused.  She reached out and took my hand.  “When I came over, since I couldn’t get in touch with you, he was with your mom and she was in pieces - falling apart because you weren’t here and everything that you’d take with you if you went out was still here, but he wasn’t.  He was adamant, Brooke, absolutely adamant that you were coming back.”  “He was hopeful, Connie, that’s all.”  She shook her head and I sighed, but her hand squeezed mine.  

“Your dad and mom were the MOST pragmatic people I’ve ever known, Brooke.  Hell, everyone in this neighborhood agrees.”  I knew what she meant, our family was the no nonsensical, straight to the point people.  We didn’t do sugarcoating.  “When Baxter got hit by the car when we were ten -” I rolled my eyes, her dog, a sweet darling of a mutt.  “Everyone, including my brothers were telling me that he was gonna be fine, that he was gonna pull through and live to play fetch another day, but your dad took me aside and -”

“Told you that sometimes dogs don’t pull through, that sometimes they’re not strong enough, but not to worry because you took Baxter to the Feast of St. Francis and he was blessed and that meant that he’d be safe on the other side and waiting for you.”  I remembered, vividly because I’d been just as sad and upset.  

“Exactly.  So when a man like your dad, Andrew Ashley, tells me that you and all the other people who disappeared into nothing are going to come back one day?  I believe him.”  She gave my hand another squeeze and I thought, ok now we can get to work, but she wasn’t done.  “Your mom, she didn’t get there as fast.”  She let my hand go and took a drink from her glass.  “She avoided your room like you’ve been avoiding the shed and their bedroom.”  She was smirking at the knowledge that she knew me so well.  “When I found out I was pregnant, I wanted something of yours with me, Brooke.”  

“That’s where it went,” I shook my head and she grinned at me.  “I wondered, it’s hung in my window since I came home from that nightmare.”  

“Since WE came home from that nightmare, you mean.”  Connie’s smile was firmly locked in place.  “I called up your mom and told her the news, asking for something to keep with me, and she finally went into your room.”  I waited, wondering why it took crossing a threshold into a damn room for something to click into place?  “And that was it, Alice Ashley came out just as convinced as your dad.  She looked so much more at peace, Brooke.  She went along with your dad, but knowing it for herself, it was like a weight came off of her.”  

“So they just knew?”  I didn’t get it, not even a little bit.  “How?”  

Connie shook her head.  “No idea, but I do know this - when two of the most stocic and staid people in the community tell you that people will come back, you believe them.  And I did.”  

“What’s in the shed?”  I wanted a head’s up.  Some kind of hint, something to go on.  “Why do you think it’s important for me to know now?”

“It’s important, dumbass,” she shot a look toward the living room and let out a relieved breath when she realized that Bryn hadn’t heard her slip.  “Because what’s in the shed has been there since BEFORE you got Snapped into wherever, but we’re not going there first.  We’re going upstairs.”  

“Upstairs?”  I was confused and only growing more so.  “Why?”

Connie sighed, like she was sick of my shit already.  “It’s time to show you that your parents knew you better than you know yourself, Brooke.”  

Bryn’s tea party became a portable one.  Upstairs to my room, where she got to play on the floor while the television played another princess movie.  She was having fun, which made one of us.  

My parents’ bedroom door loomed far larger than it really was - and it was firmly closed.  

“Open it, Brooke.”  Connie nudged me, and I bit my lip.  “For God’s sake, it’s a door.” 

“Yeah, it is.”  I agreed, a door that I wasn’t really excited to open.  What if Mom’s perfume lingered?  What if Dad’s cologne does?  What if nothing about them lingers?  I took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.

The room looked the same, but foreign.  A hint of both of them seemed to lurk just out of reach, as if I could almost grasp it if I could find it, but where was it?  

Their bed was still made up in the same sheets and bedding that Mom had picked months before I’d gone away.  Her cosmetics were still lining the vanity table that Dad had created in his workshop, craftsmanship that could only happen by hand.  A mirror she’d found and had re-done hung on the wall behind it.  My reflection stared back at me, a sad mimicry of the woman she’d been.  

Dad’s table still had his reading glasses, the pair he kept solely for reading before bed and the remote, the lamp tilted so he’d have the perfect lighting even if it would annoy Mom’s need for perfection.  I wondered what book he read last, if he had it tucked in the drawer, but Connie’s voice cut through my reverie.  

“See these?”  She was staring at a set of photographs that my parents had framed and hung on their wall.  They were black and white, and I knew them very well - I’d taken them.   I nodded.  “When you took that job that you were muddling through the commute every day?”  I started to say something, but she snorted and kept talking.  “Your dad had reprints of these made and did some research, he sent out feelers and found out that you have an eye.  A talent, something that we ALL knew, including your dumb ass, but instead of taking that scholarship that you were offered to do something with your artistic talent, you went and -” She sighed.  “He didn’t want you to settle, Brooke, neither of them did.”  

“We couldn’t afford for me to play artist, Connie,” I owed them more than to play at photography.  “Besides, these were just shots I took to -”

“To set up the cheap and old camera that our high school gave you to use for yearbook,” she nodded, “I know.  And yet,” she walked to my parents’ closet and pulled out a huge fucking box.  “This is ALL the presents for all the birthdays and holidays you missed, including the birthday that came right after the Snap.  Come on, Brooke, let’s go have a party with Bryne.” 

[wackywriterwhowriteswhenever]

For the salty ask, ST 13, 14 and 15 ?

So I'm gonna preface this by saying I don't know if these are "unpopular" opinions, but they are my opinions based on various things I've seen commented on and/or talked about on social media. 

 13: Unpopular opinion about XXX character? 

 I'm gonna choose Steve Harrington. Now, don't get me wrong, I love Steve's character, as he has had a lot of growth since season one. 

 That said, what pisses me off is the whole "he's the best mom/dad on the show!" The "he's now everyone's mom" thing especially pisses me off. Like, have you seen Joyce Byers? Do NOT erase that Mother of all Mothers! And do not erase the other parents on the show. 

 I really wish folks would simply refer to Steve as a great positive role model for the kids and not put him on some parental pedestal when the show already has positive parents. Now, if you wanna say he's a positive older sibling type for Dustin specifically (because Dustin doesn't have an older sibling and his father is not present), I've got no problem with that. And he can be a positive role model for the other kids, but he doesn't have to be their primary role model (though I will say he could definitely fill that role for Max, since her brother was shit). 

 14: Unpopular opinion about your fandom?

This goes out to all folks who repeatedly say "The Duffers are cowards" or some variation of that simply because something doesn't happen on their schedule (such as making Byeler canon, which I'm all about and it's gonna happen). The Duffers are master storytellers. And I have a bit of authority on that because I'm trained as a storyteller, having a degree in communications and ten years of journalism experience under my belt. I know what it takes to be a great storyteller and to tell stories in unique ways and the Duffers are masters at this. I've never known storytellers to use subtle hints, Easter eggs, throwbacks/references the way the Duffers do. They are masters at building plot and characters. 

 15: Unpopular opinion about the show?

Even though a good chunk of Stranger Things fans are teens, this show is really not geared toward them. What I mean is that they are not the target audience, like a lot of them seem to think (I base this on seeing A LOT of young kids at Stranger Con and not as many people around my age). Although The Party are certainly central characters on the show, they aren't the only main characters. In fact, when you look at the opening credits, both Winona and David are billed first and second. Part of that has to do with Winona and David already being established, but the order the cast is listed is often done in the importance of their characters. The show is relatively dark for children when you consider all of the elements to it. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with teens or young kids watching the show (in fact I encourage it because they can see great storytelling and can see themselves in the characters), but I just want people to remember that the show is mostly geared toward adults. The show is especially geared for adult fans who grew up either in the 80s or grew up watching 80s films as staples (hello, 90s babies) with all of the references to the 80s. And in case any of us have forgotten, the 1980s decade, starting this year, was 40 years ago. All that said, I totally welcome all of the younger fans into the fandom.

[shelbyfm]

sorry this is late babes ! i got busier than i thought i was going to so without further ado i’ll put the cliff notes version of sy shelby’s starling existence under the cut and you know what to do from there !  🖤  but  if  you’re  gonna  slide  into  my  dms  do  it  on  scarlet  bc  that’s  where  i  am  on  mobile  ! 

jack gilinsky. cismale. he/his.  ／  josiah shelby just pulled up blasting st tropez by post malone  — that song is so them ! you know, for a twenty - four year old center fielder for the los angeles dodgers, i’ve heard they’re really -abrasive, but that they make up for it by being so +audacious. if i had to choose three things to describe them, i’d probably say the creak of a well - worn leather glove, shotgunning another cheap beer just to feel alive, and the taste of copper on your tongue. here’s to hoping they don’t cause too much trouble !

. ⊹       ┈    ›     𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒    .

NAME  :  josiah  david  shelby  .

BREAKDOWN  :  josiah  (  god  supports  ,  heals  )   david  (  beloved  )  

NICKNAMES  :  sy  ,  jd  ,  josie  (  finn  only  tbh  )  ,  shelbz  ,  shel-bay  ,  bay  .

AGE  :  twenty - four  .

BIRTHDAY  :  november  twenty - third  .

ZODIAC  :  scorpio  &  sagittarius  cusp  .

GENDER  :  male  .

PRONOUNS  :  he  /  him  .

NATIONALITY  :  american  .

ETHNICITY  :  english  ,  french  ,  italian  .

HOGWARTS HOUSE  :  hufflepuff  .

MBTI  :  estp  (  the  persuader  )

INSPIRATIONS  :  lucas  scott  (  one  tree  hill  )  ,  adam  parrish  (  the  raven  cycle  )  ,  nick  miller  (  new  girl  )  ,  ron  swanson  and  andy  dwyer  (  parks  &  rec  )  ,  adam  groff  (  sex  education  )  .

HOBBIES / SPECIAL SKILLS  :  baseball  ,  procrastination  ,  midnight  snacks  ,  getting  the  last  word  ,  saucy  brow  lifts  ,  sleeping  in  ,  running  away  from  his  problems  ,  hitting  first  and  asking  questions  later  ,  developing  newer  and  more  creative  defense  mechanisms  .

VICES  ;   acerbic  ,  brash  ,  careless  ,  cataclysmic  ,  defiant  ,  duplicitous  ,  destructive  ,  greedy  ,  ignorant  ,  meddlesome  ,  narcissistic  ,  obnoxious  ,  provocative  ,  reckless  ,  selfish  ,  troublesome   ,  vain  ,  volatile  ,  wanton  .

VIRTUES  :   athletic  ,  challenging  ,  charismatic  ,  curious    ,  debonair  ,  forthright  ,  fun - loving  ,  intrepid  ,  invulnerable  ,  jocular  ,  loves  his  sister  so  much  he  could  die  ,  loyal  ,  passionate  ,  playful  ,  protective  ,  witty  .

PINTEREST  :  xx

˚  . ⊹       ┈    ›     𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃    .

sy  was  born  poorer  than  poor  and  spent  his  formative  years  watching  his  grandmother  do  her  very  best  to  keep  the  dust  from  coating  everything  in  their  ramshackle  little  trailer  in  oklahoma  .

his  mother  wasn’t  around  much  .  after  running  away  to  chase  after  one  band  or  another  and  coming  home  with  her  waistline  significantly  thickened  ,  she  didn’t  much  take  to  motherhood  ,  not  when  running  off  to  the  nearest  dive  bar  or  casino  to  spend  whatever  meager  paycheck  she  could  scrounge  up  was  just  so  tempting  .

in  fact  ,  sy’s  memories  of  her  are  often  fleeting  .  she  was  a  whirlwind  of  a  woman  ,  beautiful  despite  the  hard  life  she  led  ,  but  in  and  out  the  door  too  fast  for  him  to  ever  really  get  to  know  her  .  and  after  some  of  his  grandmother’s  jewelry  ended  up  in  the  pawn  shop  twenty  miles  up  the  road  she  didn’t  come  around  the  house  anymore  when  she  found  the  locks  changed  .

sy’s  grandmother  ,  affectionately  known  as  nan  ,  did  her  best  to  raise  her  grandson  better  than  she  had  raised  her  daughter  .  though  truth  be  told  ,  the  practice  wasn’t  much  different  ,  his   mother  had  just  been  a  bit  of  a  bad  seed  .

religion  and  discipline  were  a  staple  and  so  every  sunday  found  the  pair  walking  to  the  church  in  their  parish  to  give  thanks  and  receive  the  blessing  ,  a  tradition  that  sy  hasn’t  kept  up  with  since  her  death  but  i’m  getting  ahead  of  myself  .

his  nan  made  a  modest  living  for  where  they  lived  ,  she  wasn’t  spoiling  the  boy  but  it  was  enough  to  put  food  on  the  table  and  get  them  to  and  from  where  they  needed  to  go  .

he  had  a  few  close  friends  in  the  neighborhood  and  they  usually  got  together  in  the  evenings  to  play  whatever  games  they  could  ,  sometimes  soccer  with  a  ball  that  looked like  you  could  put  your  foot  through  it  ,  or  basketball  on  the  single  hoop  with  no  net  that  was  somehow  still  standing  in  the  local  “ park ”  .  summers  were  spent  walking  down  to  the  pond  that  passed  for  a  swimming  hole  to  get  some  sort  of  relief  from  the  heat  .

he  picked  up  a  job  at  one  of  the  local  motor  shops  to  help  with  the  bills  ,  though  his  nan  insisted  he  spend  his  time  working  on  his  schoolwork  first  .  he’d  still  slip  a  portion  of  what  he  came  home  with  into  her  purse  when  she  wasn’t  looking  .  

he  played  sports  in  school  ,  their  community  doing  what  they  could  to  scrounge  up  funds  for  a  ramshackle  team  for  each  sport  .  he  primarily  ran  track  and  cross  country  (  in  a  uniform  that  looked  like  it  was  straight  out  of  an  80′s  movie  and  felt  like  it  too  )  .  he  was  a  decent  hurdler  and  the  fact  that  he  usually  walked  everywhere  he  needed  to  get  gave  his  stamina  a  certain  edge  on  the  kids  who  were  better  off  .  but  his  true  passion  was  baseball  .  sy  could  write  poetry  about  the  diamond  ,  and  most  of  the  assignments  he  managed  to  turn  in  involved  the  sport  somehow  .  (  he  almost  got  caught  cheating  once  when  he  turned  in  a  paper  that  wasn’t  about  it  but  he’s  always  been  lucky  af  )

their  school  team  wasn’t  anything  special  .  they  played  with  heart  and  had  fun  doing  it  but  they  were  never  going  to  make  it  to  state  with  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  even  though  it  was  clear  sy  (  and  a  couple  of  his  buddies  )  had  the  potential  to  be  more  than  just  has - beens  who  got  stuck  living  in  their  hometown  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  .  during  sy’s  eighth  grade  year  ,  his  junior  high  team  made  a  pretty  valiant  push  and  made  it  to  the  regional  championship  but  they  were  simply  out - spent  by  some  of  the  other  teams  and  came  home  disappointed  .

someone  must  have  recognized  sy  though  ,  because  a  few  weeks  later  a  letter  arrived  from  one  of  the  elite  baseball  camps  in  the  country  stating  that  he  had  been  sponsored  to  attend  for  the  summer  .  his  friends  were  excited  for  him  and  it  was  probably  the  best  summer  of  his  life  ,  but  tensions  rapidly  grew  sour  when  he  returned  home  ,  after  all  ,  none  of  them  had  been  granted  such  an  opportunity  and  they  wondered  what  made  him  so  special  where  they  weren’t  .

it  certainly  didn’t  help  that  he  got  home  and  noticed  their  trailer  was  a  little  refurbished  ,  they  had  a  new (  ish  )  television  and  a  cable  antenna  on  the  roof  without  the  pieces  of  foil  sy  had  stuck  to  it  at  an  attempt  for  better  service  .  and  then  little  gifts  started  to  arrive  here  and  there  ,  new  cleats  ,  a  better  glove  ,  all  things  with  the  sheen  of  wealth  attached  to  them  and  all  in  the  name  of  this  new  sponsor  he  seemed  to  have  attracted  .  it  didn’t  go  over  well  with  his  friends  and  he  could  see  the  jealous  glint  in  their  eyes  which  led  sy  to  hide  away  the  new  treasures  ,  or  take  them  out  back  and  absolutely  destroy  that  gleam  that  came  with  new  gear  .  

high  school  was  not  a  time  he  wanted  to  spend  ostracized  ,  especially  when  everyone  in  town  always  looked  back  on  it  like  it  was  the  golden  time  of  their  youth  before  they  settled  down  into  the  daily  grind  of  adulthood  .  he  was  nothing  short  of  angry  and  miserable  ,  his  loneliness  that  festered  into  rage  finding  a  nice  outlet  in  smashing  his  fists  into  the  noses  of  whoever  crossed  his  path  or  looked  at  him  wrong  .

it  was  around  that  time  that  a  girl  showed  up  on  his  doorstep  ,  all  knees  and  elbows  and  with  a  big  smile  insisting  she  was  his  sister  .  judging  from  the  own  sparkly  state  of  her  attire  ,  sy   managed  to  put  two  and  two  together  as  to  just  who  his  new  sponsor  was  and  promptly  shut  the  door  in  her  face  .  (  the  fact  that  his  mother  had  suddenly  come  out  of  the  woodwork  and  ran  into  him  around  town  on  occasion  to  ask  for  money  was  another  clue  .  she  could  sniff  out  money  anywhere  )

finnley  buchanan  was  a  revelation  to  him  .  persistent  to  the  extent  of  climbing  in  through  his  window  to  press  her  point  home  until  sy  was  forced  to  accept  that  this  nonsense  story  she  was  spinning  about  his  father  and  her  mother  had  a  certain  ring  of  truth  to  it  .  he  didn’t  want  a  new  family  ,  he  was  content  in  his  small  town  with  his  nan  and  his  friends  and  everything  would  go  back  to  normal  just  as  soon  as  he  tossed  all  his  shiny  new  stuff  in  the  trash  .

his  nan  wasn’t  having  it  ,  plain  and  simple  .  she  wasn’t  going  to  force  him  to  reconcile  with  a  father  he  had  never  known  ,  but  she  certainly  wasn’t  going  to  allow  him  to  pass  up  an  opportunity  to  get  out  of  their  tiny  little  town  .  and  so  sy  kept  going  to  those  baseball  camps  every  year  ,  and  after  keeping�� in  touch  with  his  new  sister  to  a  point  where  he  was  forced  to  accept  the  unlimited  texting  plan  she  forced  upon  him  just  so  his  nan  would  stop  good  naturedly  grumbling  about  the  amount  of  time  he  spent  tying  up  their  landline  .

he’d  spend  a  few  weeks  a  year  with  her  family  ,  a  holiday  here  and  there  ,  his  eyes  almost  falling  out  of  his  eyes  the  first  time  he  walked  into  a  house  with  an  honest  to  god  foyer  .  he  didn’t  exactly  see  eye  to  eye  with  his  new - found  father  and  step  mother  and  they  didn’t  seem  to  want  to  get  to  know  him  much  beyond  tossing  money  at  a  problem  to  solve  it  (  not  that  he  allowed  them  to  really  know  him  )  

he  didn’t  even  accept  their  money  for  college  ,  stubbornly  insisting  on  getting  in  on  his  own  merit  .  and  thus  shipped  himself  of  to  north  carolina  upon  accepting  a  scholarship  .  the  guitar  skills  he’d  picked  up  in  his  lazy  weeks  spent  with  the  buchanans  and  his  classic  good  looks  made  him  immensely  popular  which  didn’t  bode  well  for  the  state  of  his  ego  as  we  know  it  .  between  classes  he  managed  to  further  perfect  the  art  of  binge  drinking  and  beer  pong  and  with  his  scholarship  only  covering  tuition  and  board  ,  he  found  himself  employing  his  fists  at  night  to  earn  some  cash  for  incidentals  .  something  that  very  nearly  got  him  kicked  out  of  school  when  he  showed  up  to  practice  with  a  split  lip  and  bruised  knuckles  a  few  times  too  many  .

but  luck  was  on  his  side  and  he  was  drafted  after  his  sophomore  year  before  they  could  start  a  more  thorough  investigation  into  his  extra - extra - curriculars  .

sy  spent  about  a  year  working  his  way  around  the  farm  system  of  the  minors  while  they  tried  to  refine  his  issues  before  getting  called  up  to  play  for  the  baltimore  orioles  .  he  played  for  them  for  about  a  year  but  after  a  run - in  with  one  of  the  batting  coaches  that  was  rather  hush  hush  he  was  unceremoniously  traded  to  the  los  angeles  dodgers  . 

˚  . ⊹       ┈    ›     𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘    .

being  a  cusp  baby,  he  kind  of  bounces  back  and  forth  between  his  moods  .  most  of  the  time  he’s  all  jokes  and  sarcasm  .  but  catch  him  at  the  right  time  and  he  can  be  broody  AF  .  

he  is  a  lot  smarter  than  he  looks  ,  but  that’s  an  incredibly  well  kept  secret  because  on  the  outside  he  is  a  Professional  Idiot.

makes  the  worst  decisions  i  have  ever  seen  anyone  make  ever  .  highly  impulsive  and  should  never  be  allowed  to  give  someone  any  sort  of  advice  .  

unless  you’re  asking  what  to  put  in  your  solo  cup  or  if  you’re  craving  a  midnight  snack  .  then  he  is  10 / 10  your  guy  .

he  is  incredibly  loyal  ,  so  long  as  it  serves  his  purpose  .  because  at  the  end  of  the  day  he’s  still  an  impulsive  idiot  and  that  devil  on  his  shoulder  made  the  angel  tap  out  years  ago  .

bought  his  nan  a  new  house  with  his  signing  bonus  and  sent  her  money  to  take  care  of  her  with  what  he  had  but  since  her  death  he’s  doing  his  best  to  spend  it  on  the  dumbest  shit  possible  and  acting  out  in  one  way  or  another  because  he’s  still a  child  .

tldr  :  he’s  a  piece  of  shit 

˚  . ⊹       ┈    ›     𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒    .

 just  going  to  add  a  little  disclaimer  that  i  am  the  biggest  hoe  for  anything  angsty  and  painful  .  i  also  love  love  love  when  people  slide  into  my  dms  with  a  hc  or  two  .  

𝐞𝐱 - 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬  ;  for  whatever  reason  there  was  a  huge  falling  out  and  now  things  are  just  super  awkward  .  half  the  time  at  parties  they’re  just  on  opposite  sides  of  the  room  mean  mugging  each  other  until  booze  and  tempers  flare  .

𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠   ;  these  two  were  never  supposed  to  be  a  thing  .  in  fact  ,  before  this  past  summer  they  hardly  ever  spoke  and  when  they  did  the  discourse  wasn’t  exactly  pleasant  .  but  there’s  a  fine  line  between  love  and  hate  and  all  it  took  was  a  couple  of  drinks  before  the  dynamic  took  a  turn  .  

𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐬   ;   i’d  sell  my  soul  for  something  that’s  just  angsty  and  messy  .  maybe  they  were  at  the  point  of  saying  the  l  word  .

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐬𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  ;   all  that  sneaking  around  ,  taking  the  back  doors  in  and  out  of  places  .  meeting  up  in  darkened  corners   👌 👌 👌  that’s  that  shit  i  do  like

𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞   ;   i’m  such  a  sucker  for  a  good  bromance  or  two  where  the  gc  is  just  filled  with  memes  and  dragging  each  other  up  and  down  the  wall  .  but  at  the  end  of  the  day  they’re  you’re  boys  and  no  one  else  can  talk  shit  about  them  but  you  

𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬   ;   a  fwb  here  and  there  ,  the  odd  one  night  stand  ,  someone  who  you  just  look  at  and  want  to  punch  them  in  the  face  for  some  inexplicable  reason  ,  an  unrequited  crush  (  on  either  side  )

[theaurorfileshq]

– Cursed Cassette Tapes in St. Louis

CASE LEVEL: One

POINTS REQUIRED: Ninety

OVERVIEW:

Townsend Trinkets and Tronkets has been a staple for the wixen community in St. Louis for decades. A family business passed down through the genrations, it has always been well respected within the community. The family who owns it is known for being fun loving, generous, and upstanding memebers of the cities wixen community. Townsend’s carries a wide range of items, nearly anything imaginable can be found within its twisting and poorly organised rooms, and they’re known to buy and sell a wide variety of items from anyone who walks in the door. In the last few years a lot of no-maj curiosities have been trickling in to stock, to delight of many of their customers. Townsend’s came into ownership of a large collection of cassette tapes over six months ago, though they were slow to sell from the store. No one had any reason to believe the cassette’s may be malicious, but after they started to sell, reports began to trickle in that the cassette tapes are cursed. Once played, they seem to leech away the victims ability to speak, their voices somehow being sucked in to the tape and residing there. Though the victims may try to speak, no sound will escape. Seven people, all half-bloods, have fallen victim to these tapes, and local aurors are still attempting to track down the other individuals who purchased a tape. They also know of one person who purchased a tape, and yet did not fall victim to the curse. They have struggled, up to now, to figure out a way to reverse the curses and restore the stolen voices to their owners.

PERSONS OF INTEREST:

Trish and Trevor Townsend: The newest generation of Townsend’s to run the family store. Trish is responsible for purchasing objects from those who wish to sell, while Trevor focuses more on the day to day running of the business. Emmet Davis: The first known victim of the tapes, and the first one to explain that the tape came from Townsend Trinkets and Tronkets. Davis is a half-blood who believes that the tapes are meant to act as a way to punish half-bloods for their mere existence. Anaya Preston: A pureblood who purchased one of the cursed tapes form Trinkets and Tronkets, yet did not fall victim to the voice-stealing curse. She gladly turned her cassette over to local aurors, who have confirmed that the cassette is indeed cursed, and are trying to find an explanation for why Anaya may have been immune to its effects.

CHIEF’S NOTES:

What’s a cassette tape? 

- Chief Ben Eames

The line between the no-maj and wixen world are continuing to blur, which isn’t a bad thing, but does mean we have to be very cautious when goods are exchanged from one community to the other. We are starting to see more and more incidents of cursed no-maj objects. What this means is that we have to be extremely diligent in dealing with these cases, both to prevent additional victims, and also to prevent a security issue. If you need any assistance please let me know, good luck. 

- Deputy Chief Langer

CASE STATUS: CLOSED

** This case has some specifics which will be told to players once it’s picked up. 

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