#amber dover

[nikethestatue]

The Agreement

Chapter 2

Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris

This woman, Elain Archeon. 

As he made his way out of the inn, Azriel decided to take a walk. 

It was a pretty spring day, with the skies a cloudless picturesque blue, so rare in London that he felt that he owned it to himself to enjoy it. It would be a decent one hour walk from here to his house in Belgravia Square, but he needed to think.

He didn’t want the girl to stay too close to him, therefore, he had arranged for the lodgings to be in Westminster, but far enough away. And yet, despite the precautions that he took, he also relinquished his name and title to her at their first meeting –and it was not something that he had planned on doing. He also didn’t plan on the meeting to go the way that it did, but here he was. 

When he had put out his advertisement, and sent the requirements to Mrs. Amren, his criteria was rather simple. He was looking for a female aged 17 to 26, a virgin, with a good reputation, a pleasant appearance and free of diseases. Medical records were obtained from the local physicians–Azriel did not want to deal with TB, gout, or any other unpleasant conditions. He wanted someone well-proportioned, and not too slim or sickly, and neither did he want a girl who overindulged in food. She was to carry his babe, and needed to be healthy and preferably fit. He preferred someone spirited, with a good, cheerful disposition, though he knew it would be difficult to gauge. Anyone could pretend to be anything for a few hours. Ideally, the chosen girl would be someone curious, easy to talk to, and someone who had at least basic education. She needed to be able to read and write, so she could sign the contract.

Everything about Elain Archeron had checked out, after he received reports from his investigators, who had travelled to Dover and to St. Margaret Bay to gather more information about the woman. 

The woman, whose photograph unsettled him deeply. 

Truthfully, he wasn't expecting much from his advertisement. It was absurd to assume that 90% of responders would not be opportunists and madams, crafty whores and sob-story adventurists. Naturally, no one was familiar with his identity, and even Mrs. Amren, with whom he’d worked before, and who’d proven herself to be an agile and witty woman, was not entirely sure whether he was the one to actually place the advertisement. She was the one who sorted through the respondents, and Azriel’s army of servants and investigators was at her disposal. Mrs. Amren narrowed down the list for him, whittling it down to manageable, and selecting the few girls who seemed to fit all the criteria, before sharing the photographs with her employer. 

There were only four women who made the cut. 

The first one was a hearty red-haired girl, with a big bust, wide hips and a strong body, named Bryce Quinlan. Her face was appealing and she had large, beautiful amber eyes. Despite her simple appearance, she was in fact interesting to talk to. Gregarious. Well-read. Inelegant. A farmer’s daughter, who studied to be a teacher, she was unapologetically interested in money. Which was absolutely fine with Azriel. But if she was a virgin, then he was a giraffe. He was half-afraid that she’d tackle him on the floor and ride him into oblivion. She might have impregnated him.

So that was a no.

The next girl…he already forgot her name, because the moment she stepped into the room, she buried her face in her hands and began to weep loudly. Then she turned around and ran away.

So that was that.

Disappointed, he still had high hopes for the next girl.

Her photograph intrigued him–she was attractive, with an open, unblemished face, pin-straight hair and big, light-coloured eyes. When she arrived, she was taller than he assumed, and remarkably pleasant of face. She was Irish, and spoke with a lovely accent. Her eyes were bottle green with shades of aqua, and her hair turned out to be reddish-brown. Her face and hands were covered in a smattering of freckles. Gwyneth Berdara was her name.

She was a librarian at the Trinity College Dublin–an unusual position for a female. But she was also a student there, one of very few females accepted to study at the university. Her tenacious attitude, and her open, friendly manner impressed Azriel. She was not young–almost 25–unmarried and studious. It was clear that she was a learned woman, interested in academics and the pursuit of her goals. 

“Why are you here?” he had asked her bluntly.

“I don’t wish to marry, Lord Night,” she admitted to him. “And neither do I wish to live in poverty, like so many of my kind. I want to teach and I want to be an academic, but I am realistic–it’s not a position that is easy, or even possible for a woman to achieve. Who’d want to have a female as a professor?” she laughed, sadly, and unhappily.

Azriel understood. She was correct in her fears.

“This opportunity,” and she pointed between the two of them, “would allow me independence. I wouldn’t be saddled with a child, but I would have the money to continue my studies and live the life I wish to live. Perhaps become a suffragette.”

He could see it. This Gwyn Berdara was the kind who wouldn't sit back and hope for a happy ending for herself. She’d fight for it. Carve it out.

In the end, Azriel knew that she wasn’t for him. Mostly, he didn’t want to deny her her goals. He was realistic–even if she thought that the child wouldn’t impact her life, he was convinced that that wouldn’t be the case. 

He did what he thought was right in this situation. He wrote a check for £1000 and wished her luck in all her future endeavours. He didn’t have to, but he felt a paternal kind of tug towards her. That amount of money would set her up for life. For him, it was a drop in the sea of his wealth.

Lastly, there was Roslin. He couldn’t recall her surname, but Roslin was a beautiful woman with thick auburn hair, brilliant blue eyes and a thick scar on the side of her neck. The scar did not disturb him, though he wondered what had happened to her to receive such a nasty wound. The conversation flowed comfortably, but Azriel noticed quickly that Roslin was…dazzled. She sighed and batted her lashes, wrung her fingers, smiled and blushed. Azriel thought that she would serve him fine, but it was quickly apparent that she was looking for a husband, and not for a gentleman who needed her to bear his child. Azriel didn’t even want to start upon this road. He dismissed Roslin kindly and politely, and thanked his lucky stars that he did not offer her his name. He was well known and his face was featured in the newspapers with some frequency, but he hoped that Roslin wasn’t someone who read much about political affairs or the War Office.

Elain Archeron was a latecomer. He’d basically given up on the idea of finding anyone even remotely suitable and the task was taking too long for his liking. So it took him by surprise when he recognised the name–Archeron, as in Archeron Shipping, Ltd. It was an unusual surname, which only one family in Britain possessed. Because the origins of the family were in fact Greek. It was once a well-established, successful, widely known shipping company, which had fallen on hard times. When he’d asked Elain about her reasons and she told him about her family, he already knew the story. The father, Voldemar Archeron, had run the company into the ground with bad investments and even worse weather–three of his ships were lost at sea. Whatever was left of the wealth, he squandered. Ida, his wife, had died a few years back of typhus. The three daughters were left without dowries or good prospects. Back about a decade ago, the eldest sister, Nesta, was proposed as a match to none other than the Duke of Dorchester. Her dowry promised to be so big, that her lack of a title didn’t seem to matter. And then, it all just disappeared one day, including Dorchester’s interest. Azriel didn’t know much about the middle or the youngest sisters, until he read the name ‘Elain Archeron’. Mrs. Amren confirmed that Elain was indeed one of the Archeron sisters and it piqued Azriel’s interest even further. Seemed like pure madness that a young woman from a good family, and with what was confirmed to be a spotless reputation, would be interested in selling herself, her womb, and her potential for money. It intrigued him for whatever reason. 

There was something that they had in common–the Archerons were also someone who had made it big, who were successful, yet who always remained the outsiders, because of their origins. He could relate. One look at his dark golden skin, his jet-black hair, his aquiline nose and the slant of his eyes, and it was obvious that he wasn’t exactly English. Which he wasn’t. His mother was from the Middle East, an exotic, gorgeous woman, who became his father’s obsession. His father, an English duke, dragged the woman here, actually married her! Yet never allowed her to forget that she was something else. A foreigner. Someone lesser. Azriel’s mother was a beautiful, sad woman, who spent most of her life behind the walls of their various estates–too strange to truly become Lady Night, the Duchess of Velaris, yet virtually enslaved by Azriel’s father. The only kindness his father permitted was for them to adopt baby Cassian. Azriel and Cassian were cousins, though they viewed each other as brothers. 

In some way, Azriel wondered if he was repeating his hateful father’s ways?

Was he also forcing an unsuspecting woman into a situation of bondage and sexual slavery? All because he saw Miss Archeron’s photograph and knew, without doubt, that she must be delivered to him. 

Simply put, in the photograph, Elain Archeron was gorgeous.

Elain Archeron

The sweetest face, gentle and innocent, like a blooming flower. Thick lustrous hair. A plump cheek that he wanted to sink his teeth into. He didn’t know her colouring, and needed to find out. Were her eyes black or blue? Green or brown? What colour was that beautiful thick hair? He wanted to know what her neck would taste like. How her hands would grip his arms. He needed to see beyond what the photograph offered him. 

Seeing her photograph made him send a telegram to Mrs. Amren, requesting an immediate meeting with Miss Archeron. 

Today, he saw the girl in the flesh, and he came to realise that he wanted nothing, absolutely nothing more than for her to agree to the arrangement. 

He’s been faithful to Morrigan–they had planned on a happy marriage, not one of convenience, but certainly one of mutual attraction and respect, and eventually, maybe even love. And he’s been faithful to her since her accident. No, he wasn’t planning on living the life of a monk, but he needed to secure himself a child, a legacy, for he couldn’t divorce his wife and had to remain married to her while she was alive. Frankly, in the past year, he didn’t have time for any liaisons and didn’t want to arouse any unnecessary questions about the state of his marriage. 

Elain, however, was something unexpected. His plans changed the moment she stepped into the room and looked at him with that shy, yet slightly defiant gaze of her huge brown doe eyes. Sad eyes, which spoke of hidden sorrow and grief which was her own. Brown. They were brown. Dark caramel came to mind when he looked into those eyes. Pale, but flushed cheeks, and full, plump lips. A tiny cleft on her chin, and a birthmark on her cheek. Golden brown curls tucked under a simple hat. The dress was plain, a little ill-fitting, definitely not tailored. He imagined that the dresses were shared among the sisters, and it was probably one of the better ones that they had. She wasn’t wearing a jacket, and he could imagine that the poplin dress offered little warmth to her too-thin frame. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t wear any jewellery, even something simple, but the hat was decorated with three beautiful flowers, and there was a little flower brooch on her lapel. 

Azriel didn’t expect to be actually fully attracted to her. He thought that she might be pretty enough for him to willingly stick his cock into her. But he was intensely and immediately drawn to her. He fought the urge to come up to her and cup her little heart-shaped face between his hands. He wanted to press his lips to those pink, soft lips, and offer her her first kiss. It would be her first, he was sure. Was it so wrong that he suddenly desired to bring her into womanhood? He added the virginity clause and payment into the contract after he saw her photograph. He was honest when he told her that it wasn’t something that belonged to him, and he wanted to compensate her for it. But just because her maidenhead didn’t belong to him didn’t mean that he did not want to take it. That it wasn’t meant for him. And he wondered if in exchange, he could make the girl with the sad doe eyes see some light and offer a measure of comfort and happiness. 

Azriel was a male prone to melancholy and didn’t love or care for most people in his life. He didn’t even love his wife, though he cared for her. Yet the prospect of spending more time with Elain Archeron, of making her his lover, of caring for her physically, of keeping her by his side filled him with a sense of joyful anticipation. Was he feeling excited? Intrigued? Thrilled? Yes to all. He could also be just a lonely man who wanted to be needed by someone, even if it was just for his money. It was possible that she’d come to care for him in some personal way eventually. She was so cute, declaring how she was not looking for love. It was wise of her and he appreciated her rationality and the fact that she knew that there would be no chance of a happy end for her, for them. But it didn’t mean that he couldn’t hope for a connection, for this to be less than just a transaction.

He didn’t even notice his hour-long walk by the time he arrived at his house. Unlike most of his compatriots, Azriel was a soldier, a military man, and though he was only twenty nine years old, he held the rank of a Captain in the army. Nowadays, he actually had a job…Which sort of made him smile, every time he thought about it. Men of his station did not have jobs. It kept him mostly in London, which is what he preferred–yes, he was a Lord, a peer, and held a position at the House of Lords, but he also headed the Intelligence Branch for the British War Office. It frustrated him that Britain was so far behind in its intelligence initiatives, than, for example Prussia, which had established its own branch of Intelligence services back in 1804. Now, almost 100 years later, he was actively working on establishing a new branch–the Doctorate of Military Operations–which would include intelligence gathering and spying. The world was changing around them, and so the needs of his country demanded that their operations moved with the progress. 

Azriel spent the rest of the day at his office at Westminster, and was grateful for the distraction because it allowed him the opportunity to not think about Elain Archeron. He couldn’t forget her even if he tried, even when he engaged in numerous conversations throughout the day, and read dozens of documents, and put his signature on reports and missives. He didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings when he finally left work and walked to his club. He always enjoyed walking, particularly when he was in the city and indeed to spend so much time indoors. The walk also allowed him the opportunity to obsessively ponder what Elain might be doing at that moment, and what she’s done during the day. Did she eat enough? He hoped that she had ordered food for herself, and ventured out of the inn and enjoyed the park and the shops. He knew that she wouldn’t spend any money on herself, even if she really wanted to, but he wondered if she’d found something that she enjoyed looking at, or touching. He ate dinner at the club, wishing for the day to be over.

In his head, he was creating a list of things that he wanted to do for Elain. A very hypothetical list, but it gave him something to do and occupied his mind for the evening.

Firstly, he wanted to make sure that she ate and got healthy. The kind of thinness that she sported wasn’t the fashionable type, where noble ladies ate like dodo birds, so they could maintain their tiny waists. No, her kind of thinness was caused by hunger, maybe even starvation. Her tiny arms were as thin as noodles and the collarbones protruded violently through her skin. 

So it would take a little time to get her to a place where she was feeling better physically, and hopefully, emotionally as well.

When he initially thought about this scheme, Azriel wasn’t looking for a ‘project’ to sink his time and effort into. He wanted to impregnate a woman, have her have the baby and leave. However, after only one meeting, he was already reconsidering his initial plans. And that allowed for a coil of dread to unfurl in his stomach. What he could not permit himself to do–ever–was to develop feelings for this woman. Any woman. 

Morrigan was his priority. He wasn’t going to exchange her for another woman. Yes, the physicians told him that there was no hope of recovery–not only was she paralysed from the waist down, the brain bleed rendered her completely incapacitated. She breathed, and she ate soft, pureed foods, but she needed total care, around the clock, and when he told her ‘for better or for worse, in sickness and in health’ Azriel meant it. Azriel valued loyalty above else, and just as he expected it from others, he also required it of himself. He might not be a faithful husband, but he would be loyal. 

However charming, beautiful and desirable Miss Archeron was, and he found her to be enticing in every way, Azriel knew that he had to remain clear headed. This liaison had a purpose, and that’s what he was going to stick to. In the end, she would be ruined. And notorious, if she was not smart about it. He wished to maintain as much decorum about the affair as possible, and of course there was the non-disclosure agreement by which they were obligated to abide. 

He’d treat her well, with kindness, he’d pay her the way he promised, but he was going to use her body because he needed to, and not because he wanted to. In the end, he knew how this was going to end–he was going to break Elain Archeron’s heart. He was going to be ruthless about it too. An innocent girl such as herself would undoubtedly find herself enamoured with him, especially because he was going to be her first in everything. And she was going to lead herself to believe that he was reciprocating her feelings. Alas, when all was said and done, the truth would be brutal–she would be left with money, but without her babe, and without love.

He only hoped that she’d be able to find happiness and a good man some time in her life.

And forgive him.

-

It was 10 am exactly when Azriel stood in front of the door to Elain Archeron’s room. It was utterly quiet on the other side of the door, but he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, as his blood rushed hotly through his veins. He wouldn’t be terribly surprised if she’d bolted. He was almost expecting it, though last night he was feeling hopeful. The morning light made things clearer, and with clarity came the realisation that this entire scheme was pathetic and at best absolutely ridiculous. It was never going to come to pass and he was deluding himself into thinking that he’d ever succeed. Regardless of how wealthy he was and what riches he offered to someone, no woman in her right mind would go through with this. Even if he wasn’t painful to look at, and was a gentleman, it was still an experience that no one wanted.

He knocked softly on the door.

If he was going to face rejection, he was going to face it like a man. 

He knew it was coming, and he’s been preparing for it the entire morning: while he was getting a shave and dressing, he was imagining how she would let him down. Would she be gentle and soft? Would she be curt and upfront? Or cowardly, and simply run away without seeing him ever again?

A better question was–why was he so obsessed with her? Why did he need her answer so badly and why did he want it to be a ‘yes’? Why was he feeling so strangely possessive about her? Her body? Her acceptance? Her acquiescence?

All of last night, he was trying to convince himself that this wasn’t for him, that she wasn’t for him and that he shouldn't be subjecting a reputable maiden to this foolishness. Nevertheless, here he stood, hopeful like a young lad at his first courting.

He knocked harder, when he didn’t get a response the first time.

Heart sinking, he needed to acknowledge to himself that she was gone. 

Was he going after her all the way to Dover, pursuing her like a madman? Or was he letting her go, acknowledging that she was an unfulfilled promise? 

For the first time in a long time, Azriel, a lord and a duke, a millionaire and a magnetically attractive male, felt terribly lonely.

When he knocked the third time, louder and more insistent, a vast, empty hole opened up in his chest, and when there was no answer, he hung his head low, accepting the inevitable truth. 

Elain was gone.

[instruth]

An Extract Of Dementia

An extract of rich dementia

Let the bygones be bygones

Read the Book of Alzheimia’s

Step in, breathe in the Ozone

Intoxicated to the blur amnesia

Jump off the Cliff of Oblivion

Enroll in the class of extinction

Start off with forgetfulness

Revive the joy of happiness

Take a leap to the darkness

Don’t you want to remember?

Fire from snow, red from amber

Drunkenness from being sober

Falls or the White Cliffs of Dover

President from ordinary members

Sniff a doze of chloroform

Sleep on, in the dental chair

Monitored by a girl in uniform

Rub your head, count your hair

Tooth bent as worm, on golf fair

©Johnny J P Lee

13 June 2024

A Gogyoshiren Poem (20)

Photos: J. P. Album Collection

[pastafossa]

pasta you can’t just casually drop mothman perfume into a post and not expect me to ask a million follow up questions - i need to know all about it asap

Basically I favorite a few weird but hilarious Mothman bumper stickers on etsy, which led to it recommending, I shit you not, Mothman Milk perfume. I too had questions (what kind of milk??? I desired clarification, this is important, what kind of milk). But in reality, all that really mattered was wtf does Mothman milk smell like? The answer, according to the reviews, is delicious buttery vanilla waffles and maple syrup. Official notes from the maker:

NOTES: This is a cozy, creamy, and milky scent. Top: warm spices, buttercream Middle: vanilla tonka, jasmine, coconut, maple sugar, spice Bottom: cedar wood, sandalwood, amber, musk, cocoa butter, coconut, vanilla

I have rarely clicked 'add to cart' so quickly, because apparently I really want to be slathered in Mothman Milk, and yes I'm aware of how dirty that sounds and I do not care, hello Mothman, I cannot wait to tell anyone who asks, 'oh that smells nice, what is it?' that I am wearing Mothman Milk.

Side note: that also led me down their shop rabbit hole, only to discover not only does this shop owner have a few other variations of mothman perfumes, they also have a ton of other cryptid perfumes, including some perfumes dedicated to more obscure cryptids like the Squonk, and the Snallygaster! I ended up grabbing Mothman Milk, Chupacabra Coffeehouse ("Imagine: Unwinding in a warm coffeehouse while sipping on a pumpkin spice latte, served to you by a peculiar looking barista"), and Yeti ("Imagine: A cold but cozy yeti cave"). I've also favorited a few of the others like Jersey Devil, Dover Demon, Jackalope, and Fiji Mermaid!

10/10 happy to have found it!

[questouomono]

Questo uomo no, #135 - Quello che lui vuole fare l’eroe

*

Ricordo ancora i giorni seguenti alla sentenza del caso tra Johnny Depp e Amber Heard. Ingolfati dalla solita retorica scorretta e ignorante sul processo, la vittoria di Depp fu salutata da molti uomini come “la fine del #metoo”, ai quali si aggiunsero le solite voci sedicenti coraggiose di “attivisti per i diritti degli uomini”, “padri separati” e altre creature fantastiche, tutte vittime a miliardi delle ingiuste accuse di spietate donne disumane. L’esercito delle femmine accusatrici di falsità era stato definitivamente sconfitto, dicevano tutti, dal meno visibile al giornalistone più leggibile. Com’era, com’era… ah sì: “è finita la pacchia!”. Adesso che è stato un uomo, Massimo Guastini, a denunciare lo schifo di una delle migliaia e migliaia di ambienti chiusi nei quali milioni di uomini, ovunque nel pianeta, fanno sessismo esplicito e convinto sui corpi delle colleghe di lavoro, che è successo, cari uomini sofferenti di denunce false? Il #metoo è riapparso, miracolato, zombie? O forse, tra le balle che vi raccontate, c’è stata pure quella della sua fine? Perché tra gli aspetti più schifosi della vicenda - che sia chiaro, l’ennesima di una lunghissima storia, niente in sé di sorprendente né di nuovo - c’è che tutta l’importanza mediatica che sta suscitando è evidentemente dovuta al fatto che quella solita retorica vigliacca che si abbatte su qualsiasi espressione del #metoo, qui non può funzionare. Non si può dire che Massimo Guastini è la solita attricetta che cerca notorietà. Non si può dire che Massimo Guastini è una ex avida che vuole solo soldi. Non si può dire che Massimo Guastini è una femminista isterica che odia gli uomini. Non si può dire Massimo Guastini è una povera scema che non capisce le battute. Non si può dire che Massimo Guastini è una donnetta ingenua che non sa che questa roba si fa dalle scuole medie. Non si può dire che Massimo Guastini è una lesbica fanatica che fa un sesso insoddisfacente. Non si può dire che Massimo Guastini è una racchia che incolpa tutti gli uomini delle sue frustrazioni. Si diranno le solite cose che si dicono a quegli uomini - ancora troppo pochi, purtroppo - che hanno scelto di assumersi la responsabilità sociale di dare all’immagine maschile qualcosa di più del tono marrone che da secoli gli spalma addosso il sistema patriarcale. Diranno che è un traditore, un infame, perché ha violato uno spazio privato, segreto. Segreto di Pulcinella, ma tanto se lo denunciano le donne nessuno crede loro. Diranno che c’è dietro un interesse lavorativo, economico, così adesso avrà tanto lavoro da questa pubblicità “woke”, “politically correct” che si è fatto. E sì che Massimo Guastini ne aveva proprio bisogno di lavorare, poverino. Diranno che è una vendetta personale vai a sapere perché. Certo, non c’era modo migliore in cui Massimo Guastini si poteva vendicare: bruciarsi un ambiente di lavoro e prendersi carriolate di melma per settimane. Quello che non diranno è la semplice verità: che Massimo Guastini si è rotto le palle di venire messo alla pari di gente che non si rende conto della sua disumanità, e che con quella disumanità rovina la vita a donne che hanno tutto il diritto di viversela come pare a loro; che Massimo Guastini ha solo fatto quello che chi assiste a un abuso dovrebbe fare, cioè chiamarlo col suo nome; che Massimo Guastini è tra i pochi che sta dando l’occasione a una società intera di interrogarsi sui suoi distorti rapporti tra generi e di come queste distorsioni siano nocive anche nel mondo del lavoro; che a Massimo Guastini tutto andava di fare nella vita tranne che dover sembrare un eroe per colpa della merda altrui. Perché questo succede a violare apertamente e pubblicamente lo schifoso doppio standard di giudizio sociale tra gli uomini etero e qualsiasi altro genere: sembri un eroe, e invece sei solo una persona civile. Beh, che dire. Non tutti gli eroi indossano un mantello svolazzante; speriamo che almeno questi “eroi” qui abbiano gli stivali di gomma. Gli stronzi invece, uh, ce l’hanno proprio scritto in fronte, e se ne vantano pure. Questi uomini no.

[rereadanon]

Hi hi Anna ❤️

🎶💖when u get this put 5 songs u actually listen to, publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your followers 💖🎶

MYN my love! Thanks for the ask, here goes nothing!

I have been listening to the Heartstopper playlist A LOT and really enjoying it!

[dear-alex-stuff]

Song ask 5 7 16 22 27!!!!

Thanks for the ask!

5: A song that needs to be played LOUD

If I don't go deaf listening to this, I'm gonna be deaf unhappily.

7: A song to drive to

There is a right answer. And it's this:

16: One of your favorite classical songs

I really don't listen to classical music (sorry, just not my thing) so I really don't have anything. Oldest song I listen to that's very vaguely classical (it's old I guess?) and a banger is this:

22: A song that moves you forward

Slay/10.

27: A song that breaks your heart

THE TWO I CAN'T. LIKE OH MY GOD JUST ADMIT THE FEELINGS!

Also this one. Less heartbreak but oh it hits. Right in the feels.

There's a few of these. This one is a great one to belt to. It also plagues my thoughts. Another on the music video list.

[prismatic-skies]

🖤❤️🐦‍⬛THE POE COLLECTION🐦‍⬛❤️🖤

August 27, 2024

New original VMT fragrance blend that’s been added to THE POE COLLECTION:

Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

There are ❤️4❤️ designs available:

🐦‍⬛Art loaf (pictured)

🐦‍⬛Raven skull snap bars (2x to a bag)

🐦‍⬛Coffin snap bars

🐦‍⬛Anatomical hearts

🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤

RELEASE DATE:

Halloween 2024

🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤

SCENT NOTES:

🖤 Pink Grapefruit ❤️ Strawberry 🐦‍⬛ Italian Bergamot 🖤 Pomegranate ❤️ Red Berries 🐦‍⬛ Clove 🖤 Lily ❤️ Nutmeg 🐦‍⬛ Lavender 🖤 Cinnamon ❤️ Marine Accord 🐦‍⬛ Amber 🖤 Incense ❤️ Guaiac Wood 🐦‍⬛

[teenmomcentral]

UPDATE!

On Thursday night, TMZ provided more information about the sighting of Gary in Oklahoma. According to Bryson City PD Asst. Chief Wayne Dover, Gary was seen Tuesday morning in Weatherford— a town about an hour from Oklahoma City. Chief Dover stated that witnesses who identified Gary said he “did not seem in distress and had a calm and nonchalant demeanor.”

Gary reportedly even gave his name to the witness while doing what TMZ describes as “normal activities.”It is still unknown why Gary— who hails from Indiana— drove to Weatherford, Oklahoma, which is a nearly 12-hour drive from Indianapolis. It’s also unknown if Gary is still in Oklahoma or was just stopping there on his journey. Chief Dover stated that Gary is still considered a missing person; however, cops are not suspecting foul play.

UPDATE 2:

Cops confirmed to The Sun that Gary was also spotted in New Mexico. He remains a missing person, however. ”We have information that he was in New Mexico at one point,” the statement police gave to the site reads. “Gary will stay a missing person until he contacts Bryson City Police or contacts another law enforcement officer.”

[blog-reflection]

ONE / Twenty One - Amber’s

I am sorry. 

First day alone in my new life and I needed time for myself. Even though I had an awesome time with Jesse and Lucia, I do need to refill my social battery like, alot. That’s why I wasn’t able to get a new story out on the usual schedule. Nonetheless, life is doing pretty damn good so far, nothing to worry about. I can survive on my own, thanks to Jesse constantly saying I am. The night was chill, especially after that break out in the club. After I got Jesse safe and sound to the trainstation I took my bike and just rode it through the city constantly thinking…reflecting on the past months. I achieved a lot actually, kinda proud of myself not gonna lie. Moving here was the best thing I could have done. Regrets? Zero. Jesse and Lucia have been a great support in that time, especially Jesse. Having them around just makes life way more joyful than being all on your own. Meeting Sarah as the housekeeper is even better. Strange to say that to someone who’s as old as she is but we’ve been getting pretty close over the last few days considering the short notice. She made it clear that weekends like that shouldn’t accrue that often though. It’s not like she’s having an issue with us hanging ‘round her place but she kind of needs her alone time too. I promised her that she’ll get as much freetime as she want’s. I haven’t even celebrated my birthday and I will definitely not throw omega parties, I don’t even know enough people to get in contact with or even to go out. And I will not go alone in a club, that’s just sad.   

But that’s kind of it. Today I’ve been chilling in my apartment, taking in every last inch of the place so I get as familiar as I can. I love it, I really do. It’s cosy, I love the colours, all my plants. It’s pure cottage living with that tiny bit of modern style mixed into it. And on top all that new furniture. I was in desperate need of a new bed, and let me tell you, this one is big, flat and feels like a massive cloud. The only thing I miss from Dover is the huge ass window right in my room where my bed was. I loved it. I mean I bet my neighbours are happy they don’t have to see my naked ass cheeks pressed against them while I sleep but that’s a different story. I checked my phone since it started to make some noise. It’s Sarah, asking if I’d be able to get to the Ambers since the package she wanted to claim yesterday hasn’t arrived yet. And yes, Sarah is down stairs and could walk easley up to Ambers herself but since I wanted to get some stuff for the evening I said it’s no big deal. So I got up, dressed in some plain white joggers and an oversized mixed coloured jumper. I looked like I’d be sleeping under the bridge, like a messy, but classy kind of homeless person. I love it. I got downstairs with my backpack and walked to Ambers. It’s not a long walk, maybe five minutes down the road. I took my phone with me and listened to some music while walking. I opened the door once I arrived and the little bell attached to the door started to ring. 

Amber: Ahhh James, Hi. How may I help you

Okay, what now? How did they know who I am? I mean, they aren't even here yet.

James: Yeah I ehm, sorry what? Amber: Haha, you’re funny. James: Ehm, thank you? Amber: Soo, how may I exactly help you? James: Oh right yeah, Sarah sends me regarding… Amber: Oh yeah one second I’ll get the parcel.

Oh my god. This place is literally freaking me out. Amber’s constantly knowing what I am about to ask. So strange. 

Amber: All right, that would be Sarahs. Anything else? James: Oh thanks, actually I’d like some buns and that one right here? Sorry I can’t read it.

The sign displayed some words I simply wasn’t able to read. It wasn’t a cake, but also not a cupcake, but it looked sweet. I’ve never seen something like that before to be honest.

Amber: All right. Here are your buns as well as one of our house specials. That would be… five pounds sixty. James: Yo what? That’s all? Amber: I mean, you can give us more if you want. I mean it’s not like you have to pay rent or anything.

Okay stop it. Never can she know that I get my apartment paid for. How could she know? It makes zero sense at all. I just paid my bill, grabbed my bag and the parcel and walked back home while talking with Lucia on the phone.

Discord call 

Lucia: Ciao amore James: Ciao Lucia, hai un minuto per me? Lucia: Sì, come va? James: Oggi hai un evento molto strano. Lucia: Spill. The. Tea! James: So I was in that Amber's place and… Lucia: Let me guess, they know you even though you’ve never been there? Happens babe. James: Yeah. I mean how? This is like next level craziness going on there. I felt that Amber was such a creeper. Lucia: Amber’s are…a strange place I agree, never liked going there. You just need one friend or person that you know and have them goin in into an Amber. James: Yeah but I don’t get it. Who would have told them that I was James? Lucia: Maybe Sarah told them? Or maybe Jesse? WAIT? Have you said Amber, like the person working there was called Amber? James: Yeah why? Lucia: Yeah okay listen, All Amber’s have one employee called Amber, who is in direct bloodline to the Amber family. James: So what? Lucia: Amber’s are the worst. Like literally the worst. They observe everything, know everything, and tell everyone. You could literally go to an Amber’s in Scotland and they would know your deal. Jesse: That sounds illegal if I am honest. Lucia: Let’s just say, Ambers is a massive grey zone. Docent of people have been complaining but the police never really find anything. Apart from that, it’s a business for them. You can go there for information about a special person. Chances they know them is like ninety nine percent. It’s a trade though. You offer them information they don’t know in return to info you need. James: Jesus Crust that sounds freaky! Did you ever need that? Lucia: Once but it wasn’t worth it. Honestly, maybe try avoiding them. James: Thanks for the tip but I don’t think I can. The next post office is miles away. I’m way faster going there. Lucia: Alright è non problema. James: Nonetheless, grazie amica, tutto bene. Lucia: Ottimo, ciao, buonasera!!! James: Ciao!

Alright. I opened the door and went inside, put Sarah’s parcel on the desk on the floor and went into my room. I hit up Alexa and played some wild tomorrow land music to dance the house down while opening a bottle of lillet. Thriving in the beat I was once again in my element. To be honest, I had way more moves in my room than in the beast and prey. I hit up some music videos of fireworks on my TV and let the show start. 

Later that day, well night by now, I made myself some food. I’ve thrown some fries and chicken nuggets into the oven and waited twenty minutes until all of them were done. I poured in another glass of lillet and finished it off with some berries, placed myself in the bed, laid down while eating and stared at the ceiling. My fairy lights were the only proper light source I had and I loved it. It took me about ten minutes till I annihilated all the fries and nuggets before the beat dropped and went back to dancing and jumping. I also almost finished the entire bottle of lillet and to be honest I kind of started feeling the alcohol . 

I’ve decided to call it a shot and get some rest. The last week has been a lot and I still feel like my social battery is killing me. Nonetheless I am happy to be here. But for now I just switched Alexa to play my favourite podcast while brushing my teeth and going to bed. 

About half was into the episode I’ve fallen asleep.

[jackhkeynes]

Astraphor

Astraphor (also called barric force) [electricity] is the set of phenomena associated with the presence and movement of plentiful [charged] substances, or the thrift [energy] that one can harness from such movement.

Etymology

The word 'astraphor' was coined in the seventeenth century to describe the theoretical source of the sparks certain substances (amber, fur, etc.) would create in darkness after being rubbed. It derives from Ancient Greek roots ἀστρᾰπή (astrapḗ) 'lightning' and -φόρος (-phóros) "bearing"; although the expected form would be 'astrapophor', even in the earliest texts we see only the shorter word (possibly due to transcription error).

The modifying form 'barric' derives from parallel work, and originates in Arabic بَرْق⁩ (barq) "lightning".

History

The deep theoretical connection between astraphor and light was explored thoroughly in the mid-nineteenth century; the unimaginatively titled magnum opus Astraphor and Light by Merch theorist Wexter Hathwall managed to fully characterise the mechanics of astraphor in a single equation [Maxwell's equations].

At this time, the earlier flag-lamp steeplemesh [telegraph network] was in the process of being displaced by barric meshes. Places without a pre-existing extensive flag-lamp system were in many cases faster to adopt the barric mesh; for example, by 1870 the world's longest wired post line on land spanned the length of Lower Mendeva [Central America].

The first undersea barric lines were laid in the 1850s in Kent (Dover to Cales), and from Texel in Willemy to Axbane in Borland, each distances of less than twenty leagues. By the following century hundreds of such lines crossed the world's oceans.

In the 1950s, the Mortar coalition in Portingale funded research into using threshold force [nuclear power] to produce astraphor so as to reduce dependence on imports from the Drengot Collusion; by the 1960s the polity was a world pioneer in constructing threshold mills, becoming a net exporter of astraphor in 1971.

[magratpudifoot]

Finished 18 February 2024:

Never Whistle at Night: An Indigenous Dark Fiction Anthology - Ed. Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Alst, Jr.

In what is perhaps a record in restraint for me, this is this the only book I have purchased for myself so far this year. I was looking for something rather different* when the title caught my eye and Perry De La Vega's cover sealed the deal.

Unsurprisingly, the stories from Richard Van Camp and Darcie Little Badger stood out as particularly compelling. I only previously knew Little Badger by reputation, but am definitely putting her on my list to look out for going forward. Tommy Orange's "Capgras" was similarly fantastic, and I am happy to have him on my radar now, too.

I think Nick Medina's "Quantum" and Rebecca Roanhorse's "White Hills" were the most truly nightmarish of the collection, for me anyway, because there is something about self-loathing and imposed identity that undoes me. I would watch 7 seasons of Phoenix Boudreau's "Hunger", and hope to read many more stories from her in the future. And it is unsettling how much "Collections" by Amber Blaeser-Wardzala held echoes of my short time in grad school, despite my being superficially closer to the white "ally" characters getting the full Get Out treatment here.

* Hawthorne's House of Seven Gables, which will hopefully still be at the library waiting for me when I am well enough to go pick it up. Can we just talk for a minute about how pathetic the classics section is at B&N now, please? I am happy to have found Never Whistle on this trip and to have a reason to use my excellent interlibrary loan system, but it is a testament to how cookie cutter modern US society is that there were (I am not making this up) one copy each of 5 different specialty cover editions of The Scarlet Letter scattered in various locations around that store and not a single other Hawthorne title anywhere in the place. I am so so so so pleased to have found things like Never Whistle and Siren Queen and Night of the Mannequins and Otsuichi's Goth in recent trips to B&N, things that never would have been available in suburban brick and mortar stores when I was in high school. But I am so sick of seeing a dozen different covers for Pride and Prejudice and not even Sense and Sensibility being on the shelf, much less Mansfield Park. And gawd, they're all $29.98 because they have a Special (mass produced, poorly manufactured) Cover. Where the hell did Dover Thrift editions get off to?? They're comfier to hold, anyway!

[libidomechanica]

“Some gentle muses”

Some gentle muses! The devilish     malignant with an ear in its wild race. The moon’s soft splendour     o’er the laws the lightly me, but, trowth, I care na by.     That you that thou continent.

It is no telling. The clock     strikes me dead brown, her who begin my poem. As fast as     their treble interjections, let none wanting a great wrong,     to take a city; but

he is so late? A tone of some     world? A few sad tears she needy honour, and do you shall     quench like him in; oft blind man, with seraphims the vale. Feeling     are one. Only my

Corinna’s eye? To any     sensual feast will open for that men or gods are the name     o’ clink, that white necks, bleached by time.—A sunbow’s arc above     the middle of her tides,—

adagios of islands, O my     Prodigal, complete the day, ye wadna been sae shy; for     laik o’ gear ye lightest form a friend the cape’s wet stone; the     answer to thy bliss, though

i have crimes accounted been. A     plenteous gift thou know me that second whiskey, on the roofs     and with Melancholy. Steadily as a suddenly     arrests me for ever

open is his own, and she her     selfe doth a feeble cry he said: twas but enslaved the morning     dresses whose outlet’s Dover! A people every clime,     of being taken in,

the fool ourselves into a scrape,     but I say, No! Any one things? Despised, when all these noble     language ever did through gorges unexplored since thou,     with your lover. We hae

plight than few; but the guns of     Cavalli with faire mindes resort. But whether in the best     endow’d she gave the fish or tongues of a morning, and suffer     and have but pick’d out

at his head, alone are you, all     song of praise add something indeede true Men to keep the whole     things transmission, from violently. Cling, sterling, strangle this     is something in effect

was of inflation the silly     wards will course ne’er be prince from thee I cannot hold them, Since     you kiss, thou hast graced grace is slack; now, there thy birth, and oft     the house: yet asleep. Coming

at the flood full brown came from     the abyss of all sufferings to Hallam’s Middle Ages,     ’ and one hand, and the bolts of beautie with myself as Spring,     hate sweetly than ours, a

friend they live without one peece of     love that’s out of sight, and the pony moves his stead. On the     Sea-shore sat a Raven, blind, and when though not vain the stream,     command himself come on

me which some parts run o’er, I can’t     espy in any one the Beauty beautifie your best, and     lamb. Is always petal myself a welcome inmate the     cradle wants a cradle

wants a cradle wants a cradle,     and fall dreaming ordures of amber. Or revel in     thee: the bitter springs as if in fact that conuersation     sweete, make in my stoop

and as for chastity, you’llhave     a visit from kiss to kiss. One weeps, the large domains which     makes me in my verse distills your truth. But if Love don’t, Cash     does, and thee to mee: no,

no, no, no, my Deare, let bee. A     disc of misfortune be: this wish I could our own ways     together go, but by degrees, thought our foot of his pence, this     piteous news so much love

before was wearing your pockets?     The long pursued as for chastity, you’llfind it of a     different beak could neither Johnny in his self-denial.     The pony moves his stead.

[instruth]

An Extract Of Dementia

An extract of rich dementia

Let the bygones be bygones

Read the Book of Alzheimia’s

Step in, breathe in the Ozone

Intoxicated to the blur amnesia

Jump off the Cliff of Oblivion

Enroll in the class of extinction

Start off with forgetfulness

Revive the joy of happiness

Take a leap to the darkness

Don’t you want to remember?

Fire from snow, red from amber

Drunkenness from being sober

Falls or the White Cliffs of Dover

President from ordinary members

Sniff a doze of chloroform

Sleep on, in the dental chair

Monitored by a girl in uniform

Rub your head, count your hair

Tooth bent as worm, on golf fair

©Johnny J P Lee

13 June 2024

A Gogyoshiren Poem (25)

Photos Credit: J. P. Album Collection

[solobrividiecoraggio]

Tra ieri sera e stamattina ho recuperato Elemental visto che non ho colto l'occasione di vederlo al cinema. All'inizio il doppiaggio non mi convinceva, considerando a parte le parole della Terra del Fuoco rese di proposito incomprensibili, non ho afferrato il perché. Credo di essermi abituato con il passare dei minuti, o forse c'era un motivo irrazionale di cui non mi rendevo conto che poi è sfumato.

Mi ha fatto emozionare e piangere, mi è piaciuto molto. Non nego di aver visto questo film pensando ad A, so che è piaciuto anche a lei. Il profilo Instagram di Amber Martorelli, una delle persone a cui è dedicato il film, è ancora ricercabile.

La canzone Per sempre ci sarò interpretata da Mr.Rain mi è piaciuta tanto, non si può dire che non sia giusta. La versione originale interpretata da Lauv(Steal the show) è ugualmente bella, parlo proprio di suoni e musica nel suo insieme, quindi credo di dover ringraziare Thomas Newman. Mi sto ponendo domande sulla realizzazione di certe colonne sonore. Che belli i lavori creativi e noi umani.