#brazilian marbled paper

[wooahaeproductions]

Tracing Time (part one)

Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) x Female Reader

Summary: In order to cope with your mother’s death, you decide to study abroad in Rio for the summer just like she did. You come upon the diary she kept during that time, following all that she did 20 years ago. However, you didn't expect finding love would be part of that process.

Genre: fluff, angst, romance, comedy, smut (in part two), strangers to lovers au, neighbors au, college au

Word count: ~4.7k

Warnings: mentions of a family members death and mentions of ways to cope. Part two will have smut and will have it's own warnings.

Rating: 18+ for the completed fic

A/N: It's finally here! I struggled to write this for some reason but hopefully part two will come easier. This fic is for svthub's 2024 World Tour Collab and I am so happy to be apart of another collab. Please check out all the other amazing works as well! I also want to thank my beta readers Summer @beomcoups and Kiki @nonuify 🥰~Maren

You took a deep breath as you stopped in front of the student housing building and started at its gorgeous architecture before pulling an old photo from the front pocket of your bag. You held it out in front of you, confirming this was the building the smiling woman in the photo was standing in front of. You were here, standing in the same spot your mother had at your age when she studied at the very same summer exchange program in Brazil that you were going to.

You slipped the photo back into your bag and took one more big breath before bringing yourself and your luggage into the lobby of the building. You were supposed to meet the student liaison for the university exchange program there to get your dorm keys along with your class information. You looked around the large lobby in awe. It looked much more like a hotel with its grand marble floors and sophisticated ambiance than student accommodations. 

“You must be Y/N!” You heard a woman say in accented English and you spotted her walking across the lobby toward you. She was an older woman wearing a designer pantsuit, and her hair looked like she had just been at a salon. You certainly weren’t in Chicago anymore. Everything was different here, and you had only been at the airport and this place so far. 

“Hi, I am she,” you responded to the woman, feeling a little overwhelmed already. Which honestly wasn’t that unusual given the circumstances of the past year. 

“Welcome to PUC University and Rio de Janeiro. I’m Mrs. Delgado,” she said. She must have sensed how overwhelmed you were because she gave your arm a gentle pat before continuing. She pulls a packet of paper out of the bag she was carrying and hands it to you. “This is your class schedule and some information about the benefits available to you as an exchange student. There are only three classes since it is a summer program, one being the Portuguese class that all of our international students are required to take, Drawing 110, and Brazilian Art and Architecture.” 

After explaining your schedule, she then pulled out a set of keys that jingled on an ornate keychain, one that matched the building. “And these are the keys to your dorm,” she said, handing them to you. “I’ll let you get settled and ready for your first day tomorrow. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to contact me and boa sorte!” A second later, she was gone leaving you staring at your dorm number on the keychain. 

“203,” you murmured the number, looking around to see if there was any indication of where your room would be. You opted to ask the boy manning the front desk, whose English was actually great. He pointed to the staircase on the other end of the lobby and told you it was up those and to the right. Just as you were about to head up the stairs, wheeling your suitcase behind you, someone just about knocked you over. A guy to be exact, a handsome one at that. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m late. I’m so sorry, but I’m late!” He blurted, briskly brushing past you with a rushed apology. You stood at the bottom of the stairs, blinking while he ran out of the building. You didn’t have the energy to think about him right now despite his looks, not that you ever entertained the idea of a meet-cute this way or god forbid actually falling in love in this scenario.

You shook your head and put the handle down on your suitcase so you could carry it upstairs with you. You turned the key in the door to your room and walked in, your eyes taking in where you would live for the next few months. It was simple, much like a hotel room but you did have a tiny kitchenette that you didn’t expect to have and a window that looked out to the square that was in front of the building.

You brought your suitcase up on the twin bed so you could unpack a few things before thinking about finding dinner. You put a few clothes in the small dresser that was there before stumbling upon the whole reason you were here: your mom’s diary. You picked it up and sat on the edge of the bed with it, fingertips stroking the leather cover.

Six months earlier 

People were coming in and out of the house giving you and your family words of condolences, but everything was a blur to you. You sat on the couch in the living room when you had all come back from the funeral home, numb to everything. Tears had long since been exhausted, and now all you were was an empty shell, an empty shell without a mother. You were vaguely aware that your grandmother had sat down next to you, brushing your bangs out of your eyes before gently placing a book in your lap: your mother’s diary from when she was the same age as you.

You opened the leather book up, looking at the cover page that you had stared at so many times since your grandmother had given it to you. You recognized your mom’s loopy writing confirming that the diary belonged to her and Summer 1985 written underneath. You turned the page to the first entry, the one that had the photo of your mother outside this building stuck in right before it. It was dated June 15th of that year, when she arrived in Brazil and was in the same student housing. 

As you read your mother's account of her arriving at student housing, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were hearing her voice again. It was almost as if you were just on a trip and you were reading a letter she sent you. But of course, you weren’t just on any trip, and she was gone. 

Your stomach grumbled, interrupting your reading, and you closed the diary. You sighed, wondering if you should venture out to find something to eat. You pulled out your phone and laid down on the bed for a few minutes while you looked to see if there was someplace close that sounded decent. However, jet lag took over, and you fell asleep with your phone in your hand, it falling and smacking you on the forehead some time later.

Fourteen hours later, you awoke to your phone alarm going off. You panicked. Was that the first time your alarm went off? Were you late for your first class? You hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but that darn jet jag overcame you. Pressing your finger on the phone screen to silence the alarm, you were relieved to find that it really was just your first alarm. It was 7:30 am and you weren’t late, you had plenty of time. Which was a good thing because your stomach had upgraded from the light growling from last night to feeling like it was about to eat itself. 

You had done your research before enrolling in the summer program and knew that the university offered a student cafeteria for meals that was part of the tuition fee. You assumed it was in the packet of information you received yesterday as well, but you hadn’t had time to look over that yet. You got dressed in a simple sundress, one that was classy and suited to the warm weather in Rio. You grabbed the book bag with all your class materials from where you placed it at the small table by the door and headed out of your dorm.

The lobby was bustling with others probably also headed to their morning classes. The university’s campus was only a short distance away, so you opted to walk although it looked like the dorms had bikes outside the building that you could borrow if you wanted to. Your first class didn’t begin until 9 am and you would have plenty of time to get there as well as get breakfast at the cafeteria. 

You walked out of the dorm building and out to the cobbled stoned square. You paused to bring a map up on your phone, making sure you were about to head in the correct direction. You continued to walk on the brownish-gray stones as you passed by a few little shops before the cobblestones turned into a normal concrete street. You followed it up a small hill before you reached a large traffic circle with the main university building behind it. 

Luckily there was a campus map just outside the doors to the main entrance. You looked at it, finding where the cafeteria was and also noting where the international building was for your class afterward. The cafeteria was teeming with students getting food, mostly breakfast at this early hour. You got in line and grabbed some sliced fruit and scrambled eggs, as well as some coffee. They had some items that were also common for Brazilian culture, but you opted to try those later when you were less nervous and didn’t have a class to attend right after.

You scanned your meal card at the checkout which had been in the packet of information that Mrs. Delgado had given you yesterday. You chose an empty table near the windows and ate your food as leisurely as you could before class. Your stomach was no longer trying to eat itself and all that remained was an uncertain feeling in the pit of it. You didn’t even know why you felt all this turmoil, but nothing felt right or even normal since your mother passed.

You placed your empty tray at one of the receptacles by the door and walked out of the cafeteria. You followed the path you mapped out earlier, leading to the international building. You had about 15 minutes before the class started, so you didn’t need to hurry. You looked around at the buildings on your way. The campus looked much like a normal campus but all buildings were made from stucco material and the main roads had a wave-like pattern in them.

You reached the classroom after a few minutes. The door was on the outside of the building and you opened it. Still being a bit early, there were only a few people in the classroom. You chose a seat in the middle, not too far in the front but not too far in the back. You sat your bookbag on the floor next to you, took out the textbook with your notebook and a pen, and set them on the table in front of you. A couple of loud students entered the classroom and you couldn’t help but look up at the noise. 

You couldn’t believe your eyes. The same boy who nearly ran you over yesterday was among the group. You inwardly groaned. Worse yet, when he scanned the room for a seat, he spotted you. You looked down at the desk, trying to hide your face to no avail. “Oh! It’s you!” He exclaimed, coming to sit in the space next to you. You kept looking in every other direction but his, hoping he would think you were actually someone else.

He didn’t seem to be aware that you were trying to avoid eye contact and continued to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Soonyoung! I’m really sorry for almost running into you yesterday but I hope we can be friends since it looks like we are both exchange students!” Now you couldn’t help but stare at him. How could someone have so much energy and also be so clueless to your anti-social cues? Your brain was tired just listening to him ramble on. 

You weren’t sure what else he was saying but it sounded like he asked a question. “-your name?” Oh, great, he was asking for your name. You contemplated not telling him, but he would probably annoy it out of you anyway. “I’m Y/N,” you responded, your irritation slightly bleeding into your tone. Soonyoung didn’t get to say anything after that. Luckily, the teacher walked into the classroom at that moment, clapping his hands to gain everyone’s attention and effectively cutting off any conversations happening. 

The teacher, who introduced himself as Mr. Morales went over the class syllabus, and then you started in on the first chapter of the textbook which introduced the different sounds the Portuguese language had versus English. You avoided Soonyoung’s gaze the entire time but you could feel it on you. As soon as class was dismissed, you threw your belongings back in your bag and booked it out of the classroom before he had time to think about catching you. 

You didn’t have more classes today, your other two would happen tomorrow so you had planned to take the somewhat long trek to see the famous statue in Rio, Christ the Redeemer. It would take you about an hour and a half by bus, but your mother had visited it, so you wanted to as well. You pulled out the bus timetable and map (one of the many things in the packet that Mrs. Delgado had given you) from your bag as you walked back toward the front of campus where the bus stops were.

You found the stop for the correct bus number and sat down in a seat under the covered area to avoid the early afternoon sun. The timetable showed the bus you needed would be there in about five minutes and once you got off it, you would have to decide if you wanted to walk to the statue or if you were going to take a tram. 

You sat there watching students walk by as you waited, looking like they were having the best time being at school. You felt so out of place, questioning why you even decided to come here. Would this really make you feel closer to your mother, make you feel better about her being gone? You highly doubted you’d ever feel better about the latter. 

You stuck your hand inside your bookbag, finding your mother’s diary and brushing your hand over the smooth leather surface. Somehow feeling the front of the book, touching a physical item of hers always soothed your thoughts. You knew you would continue feeling like you didn’t belong in a place as amazing as Rio, but you wanted to keep seeing what she saw and hearing her voice through diary entries, even if it was something you could only hear in your head. 

The bus arrived, pulling you out of your thoughts and you got up to get on it. You tapped the bus pass on the pad at the front near the driver and scanned the bus. There were quite a few people on the bus but it wasn’t packed. You spotted a window seat near the middle and took it. The ride was kind of long but you had nice scenery to look at and the bus wasn’t too loud. You took some time to relax a little and soak it all in. 

About an hour later, the bus had reached its destination. You had arrived at the bottom of a somewhat large mountain near the entrance to a rainforest. You looked at how high it was and at the statue at the top. You definitely were not going to hike that today, and opted to take the tram that was available instead. There was a little kiosk nearby where you bought your tram ticket and a schedule posted on the side that said the tram came every 5 minutes at this time of day.

Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long at all since you bought your ticket just a minute or two before the next one arrived. You handed your ticket over to the driver and got on the tram. It reminded you of those trams they had when you went to the zoo or something. The sides were open so you could feel the breeze as the tram climbed the mountain and you could smell the different plants and trees.

The further the tram climbed, the closer the famous statue got, and soon you arrived at the bottom of it. The tram stopped at the park at the top of the mountain that contained Christ the Redeemer. You got off the tram, in awe of how big the statue really was. You knew it was big, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. 

Many people surrounded the bottom of the statue and there were no benches to be seen. You found an empty area on one side and decided to sit on the concrete floor of the platform. Looking up at the statue, you settled in your sitting spot and pulled your sketchbook and your mother’s diary from your bag. You opened the diary to the next unread page, dated a week later than the first. Another photo was stuck in the pages and you took it out, seeing another photo of your mother smiling, with Christ the Redeemer in the background.

June 21st, 1985

Rio has been amazing. I haven’t been here long but it sometimes feels like home to me. I feel like I belong here with all this incredible architecture. And guess what? I met a boy! I came to visit the famous Christ the Redeemer statue and he offered to take my photo with the statue. He was actually in the middle of drawing a caricature for another girl but dropped everything when he saw I was trying to take a photo of myself with the statue. I couldn’t help but swoon a little. I found out he studies drawing at the same university that I’m attending for the summer. And then he asked me out for dinner! I’m really excited to go on a date with him. Will this just be a summer fling or could it be more? 

You took in this entry. Did your mom meet someone here? Was it your dad? You couldn’t help but be curious about this man and you wondered how far their relationship had gotten. Was he the person from whom you got your talent for drawing? You had so many questions and knew that those questions might go unanswered. For now, you opted to try and feel connected by drawing something yourself.

You took your sketch pencils out of the small pocket at the front of your bag and opened your sketchbook up to a blank page. Setting it in your lap, you looked around, deciding what you wanted to sketch exactly. Just the statue or the people surrounding it too? You decided to just sketch the statue to start with and fill in surrounding areas as you saw fit. You drew, looking up every once in a while to look at the small details of the statue. 

One time you looked up and noticed someone busking close to the bottom of the statue a little bit in front of you. He looked cute from just a glance. He was dancing to a little boombox playing near him with a cup next to it, collecting any change people were willing to give. You looked closer and realized who the dancer was. Soonyoung. You sighed in annoyance. Was he everywhere? Was the universe messing with you?

You continued to draw, hoping he was too distracted by his busking to notice you. There were tons of people around, there was no way he could spot you among all of them. As you sketched your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn back to him like a magnet. His dance moves were sharp but smooth and you could see his routine completely consumed him. You kept taking glances while sketching.

You were finishing up the last few lines when you heard your name called. You thought he was too enthralled with his busking to notice you, but you were very wrong. He picked up his cup of change and his boombox and jogged over to where you were. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, stopping in front of where you were sitting and giving you a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Um, yeah. I decided to do some sightseeing and do some sketching,” you responded, a little meekly. You felt weird around him now for some reason. He was annoying in class earlier, but now he seemed different and you weren't sure what to think. He was still bright and energetic but not irritatingly so. 

“Oh, you draw?” he asked, a bit surprised.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m studying here this summer. Art,” you explained.

“Cool! I’m here for performance arts if the busking hadn’t given you a heads up already,” He offered with a small laugh.

He paused your small conversation for a minute to take a look at his change cup to see how much he had made today.

“Listen, if you are done with what you wanted to do today..there’s a nice cafe near the tram station and if you are hungry, I made more than enough money today so I’d like to treat you,” He rambled. It wasn’t exactly a question, but the way he said it was actually kind of cute.

You were hungry and you supposed it couldn’t hurt, right? “Alright,” you agreed and a smile stretched across his face again. You put your sketchbook, pencils, and mom’s diary back in your bag and stood up, brushing your pants off from any dirt that you picked up while sitting on the ground. Maybe you should take a page from your mom’s book and get to know Soonyoung a little more.

You both walked back down off the statue’s platform and down the stairs to where the tram would pick you up and take you back down the mountain and to where the cafe Soonyoung mentioned would be. Once again, you did not have to wait long for the tram to arrive and you both got on, Soonyoung sitting next to you.

You could feel the breeze again as the tram descended the mountain this time. You looked over to find Soonyoung looking out the other side quietly, the wind ruffling his hair lightly. He had the same smile on his face as earlier, making his face look strangely childlike compared to the manly confidence he had earlier while busking. You liked seeing the two different sides of him. It was cute. He could be quiet when he was by himself, a big difference from when he was with a crowd.

While you were busy staring at Soonyoung, the tram stopped back at the bottom of the mountain. “Y/N?” Soonyoung questioned, holding out a hand to pull you up from the seat.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, not realizing you had spaced out. You took his hand as he pulled you up, noticing how big it was. It felt nice, having your hand engulfed in his. You continued to hold on to it as you both got off the tram. When you both got off, you let go awkwardly, not wanting to give Soonyoung the wrong idea (even if you did really like holding his). You hadn’t even been on a date yet. He gave a nervous chuckle and just beckoned you to follow him. 

You followed him down a few streets from the park area where you guys were previously, to a little hole-in-the-wall cafe that was surrounded by other shops and small apartments. It was small and felt homey when you walked in the door with Soonyoung. You waited at the front for a minute or two before someone came by to seat you. “Oh? I see you brought a friend today!” The waitress said before grabbing some menus and guiding you to open-air seating at a back patio that featured a small garden to the side of it.

She sat you two at a table and sat the menus in front of you. “I’ll be back in a few to take your order,” she said before giving Soonyoung a knowing wink. 

“I take it you come here a lot,” you commented.

“You could say that,” he responded with a sheepish grin, “I usually make enough to come here each time I busk, so two to three times a week?” 

“Two to three times a week?!” You were surprised that he busked that often and that he chose to come here every time.

“Yeah, it’s the only way for me to make some extra cash. I’m here through a special program so they only pay for my tuition and dorm fees,” he explained. You nodded. You were similar, except that you had your grandmother sending you spending money when you needed it. 

You turned your attention to the menu, trying to decide what to eat. There were a lot of options but you decided to try a more traditional Brazilian stew called Feijoada. Something hearty sounded good after the busy day you’ve had so far. The waitress came by and took your order while Soonyoung ordered Moqueca, another type of stew but with seafood.

You made more small talk while waiting for your food to arrive such as where you were originally from (You: Chicago, Him: Seoul) and what types of foods you liked. You passed the time well enough that your food felt like it came out quickly. It looked amazing and your stomach confirmed how hungry you were by giving a small growl. Loud enough, however, to make Soonyoung let out a small giggle.

You start digging in when Soonyoung nervously broaches a topic. “So, when we were at Christ the Redeemer you mentioned doing some sightseeing. I don’t know if I’m reading too much into things, but it seems like it was more than just seeing the sights here.”

You put down your spoon and contemplate whether you want to open up to him or not. You sighed before starting your explanation. “You’re right, it’s not just general sightseeing. In fact, my mom is the whole reason I’m here.”

“Your mom?” He asked, prompting you to continue.

“Yeah…she um, died about 6 months ago,” you said, looking down at your stew like it was the most fascinating thing in the world at the moment.

“Oh, Y/N. I’m so sorry,” Soonyoung frowned, his voice turning sympathetic and you swore his eyes had a sheen to them.

“It’s…okay. Or at least it’s becoming okay,” you responded honestly and then continued. “Anyway, my grandma gave me my mom's diary. One she kept while she was here doing this program with the university. So I decided to do it too and see all the same sights she did hoping it might make me feel closer to her or something? I don’t know.” You were rambling a little now. 

“I think that’s neat,” Soonyoung said after a minute.

“You do?” You asked, a bit surprised.

“Yeah, I think it’s cool. You get to go stand where she stood and see the same things she saw with her own eyes. That’s definitely a good way to feel closer to someone,” He encouraged.

“It does,” you agreed.

“This might sound weird and I know we’ve only known each other a few days but would it be okay if we go to the places your mom did together?” Soonyoung asked. His eyes no longer had the sheen you saw a minute ago but instead held a mixture of empathy, excitement, and something else you couldn’t decipher. 

Before you knew it, you found yourself nodding. “I think I’d like that,” you said, a smile starting to tug at the edges of your lips. Then you leaned over the table to give him a small peck on the cheek. He looked a little stunned for a minute but then he smiled back, a wide smile that showed his teeth and you had to admit he was adorable. 

How could you go from being so annoyed by him to liking him a lot in just one day? You didn’t know but maybe your mom would have wanted this for you.

©️wooahaeproductions

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[starboardbowsbows]

My recent haul of Renato Crepaldi marbled paper. Absolutely gorgeous

[annaspoolstra]

For Further Study: Joseph Cornell 🎨 🔍

I had so much fun researching the life and artwork of Joseph Cornell! His work is fascinating and nothing like I'd ever seen! I was disappointed that I couldn't include more of his work in my presentation, but I've listed some of his art below if you want to know more! ⤵️

🎨 Untitled (Penny Arcade Portrait of Lauren Bacall) (ca. 1946)

Exhibition context: First exhibited in the Hugo Gallery in New York (Dec. 1946)

Date: 1945-46

Materials: Wood, glass, paint, tinted glass, mirror, foil paper, string, thread and printed paper collage

Dimensions: 20½ x 17 x 3½ in.

To see the careful details and fun interactive-ness of this piece, watch this little video!

🎨 Cockatoo and Corks (ca. 1948)

Exhibition context: Originally exhibited in 1949 at the Charles Egan Gallery, this piece was part of the 26 boxes that comprised Cornell’s Aviary series. It now resides in a private collection.

Date: 1948

Materials: Wood, paint, glass, metal and printed paper collage, with music box

Dimensions: 14 3/8 x 13 1/2 x 5 5/8 in.

🎨 Object (Roses des vents) (ca. 1953)

Exhibition context: Currently contained in the MoMA collection

Date: 1942-53

Materials: Wood, compasses, printed paper collage, shells, marbles

Dimensions: 2 5/8 x 21 1/4 x 10 3/8 in.

A note about this piece: “Roses des vents” means “compass dial” in French, and the title is a reference to a poem by Philippe Soupault, a friend of Cornell’s. The lid of this box is lined with maps, and mini compasses are set into a wood tray. Underneath, there are compartments with maps, diagrams of constellations, shells, marbles, a beetle and a paper fish. I just love how this box is constructed, and how it communicates the theme of travel.

🎬 Rose Hobart (ca. 1936)

Exhibition context: This film first premiered at the Julien Levy Gallery in New York

Date: 1936

Materials: Footage from East of Borneo (1931), other movie clips, Brazilian record from a thrift store

Dimensions: N/A

I wanted to also include one of Cornell’s experimental films, since I didn’t get to mention them in my presentation. This one, titled Rose Hobart after the main actress of the B-movie East of Borneo (1931), is the first film he made.

For more information about how Cornell made this video collage, and details about Salvador Dalí’s unexpected reaction to the film, visit this link from MoMA. And click here to watch the film on YouTube.

🔍 For more information on Joseph Cornell, check out these links:

1️⃣ This article from The Art Story provides a great synopsis of Joseph Cornell’s life, accomplishments, and key artworks. For anyone who just wants to dip their toes into Cornell’s background and work, this is a great resource!

2️⃣ This article from The Guardian was written during the Royal Academy of Art’s 2015 exhibition of Cornell’s work (called Joseph Cornell: Wanderlust). I found it to be a really comprehensive look at Cornell’s background, inspirations, and artwork. If you want to get to know Joseph Cornell more personally, this is a good read!

3️⃣ This 6-minute video details the Joseph Cornell pieces belonging to Ed and Lindy Bergman, who were enthusiastic collectors of Cornell’s work. The video provides a great introduction to some of his other artworks, so if you want a general overview of his art, check this one out!

[grovestep]

Skate Into My  Heart [LucioxJR Ch.1]

Author’s Notes: I have recently discovered the amazing ship that is BoomBox, and I can't get enough. They definitely don't have enough fics around. So I decided to remedy that in my own way. I introduce to you: Skate Into My Heart Setting: A modern AU. In which Junkrat and Roadhog run an auto repair shop, and Lucio is still a renowned musician and DJ.  Chapter Summary: A dashing young man skates into Jamison Fawkes' life. Jamison, eccentric, messy, and manic is a stark juxtaposition to Lucio's calm, cool demeanor. Jamie doesn't know how to deal with it. Chapter warnings: Language, mentions/hints at sex 

Chapter 1: The Mechanic and the Frog

Jamison Fawkes stared at the underbelly of an over-stylized '59 Cadillac, mulling over the inner workings of the vehicle as he wiped his hands with a dingy cloth. Footsteps broke his train of thought as someone approached the front of the vehicle, dropping something heavy on the concrete floor of the shop. Jamison finished messing with the oil pan before sliding out from the underbelly on his mechanic's creeper. "What do ya want now, ya big bloke?" Jamison asked, expecting to be greeted by the giant stomach of his boss, Mako Rutledge. Instead, Jamison stared up at the toned calves and dark thighs of a man in shorts. A style that Mako failed to pull off. The man above him let out an awkward laugh, stepping back so Jamison wasn't staring directly up at his crotch. Jamie played it cool, sliding back under the car only to appear on the other side. He walked around the Cadillac back to his original position in front of the stranger.

"Sorry, mate, though ya were m'boss," he said, holding out one hand for a shake. He looked down at his palm, which was covered in grease despite his efforts with the cloth, and gave a lopsided grin. "Er, maybe hold off on the shake for now, yea?" he wiped his hand down his bare chest before shoving it in his pocket. The man's eyes creased at the sides as he smiled, something that Jamie found subtly charming. He wrinkled his nose at the intrusive thought. "What can I do ya for?" The man picked up a pair of roller skates off the floor, "Think you can repair my skates? I had a bad wipe-out earlier playing street hockey," he said. Jamison paused. He stared at the man through squinted eyes, sizing him up. The man didn't look daft. A little posh, maybe, but that didn't always mean missing a few marbles. "Mate...you know you're at a car repair shop, right?" he asked and pointed to the sign that read "Rutledge Repair and Body". Skate-Man let out a laugh. It was melodic, almost like music. It echoed through the repair shop's garage, carrying on even after he was done. "I know very well where I'm at. These aren't just any skates. They're more car than anything," he said with a wink. Jamison blinked, his brow creasing. "Wot?" "They're motorized and have a special function that helps you keep your balance. Something about centrifugal force..." Jamison tuned out of his explanation of the car-skates. His short attention span resented lengthy explanations of things he could figure out himself by taking something apart. He stared at the man, his eyes flicking across his features. Something was familiar about him. He reeked of posh life, even if he was covered in sweat and slumming it in a repair shop. Jamie clicked his tongue as he tried to place him. "AH-HAH!" he exclaimed, interrupting the man's tirade and making his eyes widen in surprise. "You're that Brazilian froggy bloke who does the music!" "Oh, uh. That," the man said. Jamie watched him withdraw, seeming to fold in on himself. He gave Jamie a shrug. This was the opposite of the pumped up DJ he sometimes saw on TV. "Lucio. Um, none of the 'froggy bloke' thing, please." Jamie straightened his back, regaining a professional composure. At least, as professional as he could manage. "Well, Lucio, I'm not so sure--" "Rat!" Jamie jumped, whipping around as the hulking shape of his boss appeared out of the back office. Mako's piercing blue eyes leveled Jamie with a hardened stare over the gas mask he wore for paint jobs. Jamie looked at his boss with saucer-wide eyes. Mako motioned to Lucio before disappearing back into his office to do god knows what. Jamison gulped. "Right-o. What I meant to say was, we'd be happy to take a look at your, uhm, more-car-than-skates." Lucio seemed to perk up at that, handing the skates over to Jamie. Their fingers met for a moment, sending a jolt all the way from Jamie's fingertips, through his spine, and to the tips of his toes. He managed a smile, exposing one of the gold caps on his canines. If Lucio felt the same surge of electricity, he didn't let on. Jamie shrugged it off as nerves from having an actual celebrity in his shop, wanting his assistance. "When can I expect them done?" Lucio asked, shoving his hands in his pockets before leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his legs crossed at the ankle. It was then Jamison realized he was barefoot. Each toenail was panted a different color of the rainbow and, somehow, Jamie wasn't surprised. Lucio cleared his throat, startling the mechanic out of his trance. "Oi, sorry, mate. Got a lot on me mind today. Big order, this," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand as he jerked his chin toward the '59 Caddy. "If you come by tomorrow, though, I should have them fixed right up. Do you have a number I, er, we can contact when these are done?" Jamie expected Lucio to pull out a business card, but instead he pulled out a small pen from one of his many pants pockets. It was lime green and topped with a frog. Jamie snorted. "Do ya have a piece of paper?" he asked, twirling and weaving the pen through his fingers with ease. "'Fraid we're all out," Jamie said, "And me brain ain't the best at keepin' things like that in the ol' memory." "That's fine, uh, do you mind then?" Lucio asked, motioning to Jamie's bare arm and mimicking the act of writing with the pen. Jamie shook his head, extending his arm for the DJ to scrawl his number. Lucio looped his fingers around Jamie's wrist, keeping his arm still as he wrote. The mechanic had to stifle raucous giggles as the pen pressed and tickled at the flesh of his arm. He practically vibrated with the effort. Lucio's tongue poked out from between his lips as he wrote, a quirk that Jamie's brain didn't fail to commit to memory. When he was done, Lucio ran a finger over the carefully inked number, making sure it didn't smear. He was oblivious to the mechanic's elevated heartbeat, which was inevitably noticeable through the coursing of his veins and pulse point on his wrist. Jamie looked at the number on his arm, which was in handwriting that just embodied the DJ. He bit back the urge to tell him he wrote like a sheila. At the end of the number looked like a signature, but stylized into the shape of...a frog? "I didn't give ya permission to go drawin' amphibians on me arm now," Jamie said. Lucio stammered, starting to apologize before noticing the manic grin on the mechanics face. Ah, a joke. He returned the grin with his own easy smile. "Well, thanks for helpin' me out, ah..." Lucio said, leaving his mouth agape and brow knit together in thought as he fished for the man's name. His cheeks darkened a bit as he didn't come up with one. "Don't worry, I didn't tell ya m'name. It's Jamison. Was never one for a posh name like that, so you can call me Jamie," he said, "I'll contact you tomorrow 'bout your skates. Fix 'em right up, good as when ya bought 'em at the mart." "Thanks again, then, Jamie," Lucio said, turning on his heel to leave the auto shop. He looked over his shoulder at the mechanic, giving him an open-palmed wave goodbye and a smile. Jamie stood in place for a moment, listening to the gentle pap-pap-pap of Lucio's bare feet against the sidewalk as he disappeared. He collapsed against a wall, dropping the skates and running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. "Fuck, what is wrong with me?" he muttered, scrubbing both hands over his face. Acting like a damn sheila over a barefooted, posh, froggy bloke. He stared at the skates with distaste. They were probably just regular old skates the bastard was too lazy to take to a skate shop. Jamie decided he'd deal with them immediately. Maybe he'd "accidentally" drop a glob of his lunch into the skates and conveniently forget about it. He picked them back up and trudged to his office, slamming the door behind him. --Much to Jamison's distaste, the skates were more car than anything else. Taking the damn things apart without ruining the whole pair was exhausting and tedious work. He used his long and deft fingers to poke and prod at the various mechanisms, trying to figure out what each of them did. As much as he hated to admit it, he was enjoying tinkering with the skates. They were unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He sat back in his chair and stared at them as he stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders creaked and cracked like gravel. Jamie stifled a yawn, looking at the digital clock on the wall. 1:30AM. Shit, he was not pulling an all-nighter for this bloke. He'd have to continue the work tomorrow at home if he wanted to get it done in time. He grabbed a duffel from the corner, scooping the skates and his tools into the bag. He hauled the bag over his shoulder, hurrying out of the shop and locking up before hoofing it down to the block to his flat. Once he was inside the messy apartment, he cast the duffel-bag aside, collapsing on his bed and falling into a deep sleep. He awoke a few hours later refreshed and ready to work. He dumped the contents of the bag out onto his kitchen table, taking a seat on his dilapidated chair. He worked well into the afternoon, damn near taking the skates entirely apart and putting them back together again. His eyes happened to glance down at his arm where Lucio's number was smudged from sweat. He panicked for a moment, realizing that the man might show up at the shop looking for his finished skates. If Jamison wasn't there, he might complain to Mako, and if he complained to Mako... Jamie gulped, not wanting to think about that. He dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone. He dialed the number, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he continued to work on the skates. The phone rang once, twice... "Olá?" The man's melodic voice answered. Jamie paused for a moment. He had expected the number to route him to the celebrity's agent, butler, voicemail...anything but the man himself. "Uh, hello, mate, it's Jamie from the shop," he said, muttering a curse under his breath as he dropped his screwdriver. "Oh, yea! I've been waitin' for a call from you. How're my skates coming? They ready?" "Uh, not quite. They're givin' me a little trouble, nothin' too big. I wasn't 'suppose to work today, so when I didn't finish them yesterday I, uh, brought them home with me to finish the job. I hope ya don't mind," he said. There was a pause on the other end, and Jamie's heart raced. The bugger was probably racing over to tell his boss. "That's no problem! So long as they're getting fixed. Do you want me to pick them up at your place, then?" Lucio said, and Jamie's shoulders slouched in relief. Dodged a bullet there. And then he tensed again, his mind registering Lucio's question. "Oh, uh, I mean if you want to. I won't make you go outta yer way or anythin'. It's uh, not company policy," Jamie said as he prodded at what he assumed was the centrifugal whatsit Lucio was on about yesterday. "No, no, it's fine. I don't mind, really. You're fixin' up my babies, it's the least I can do in return besides, you know, pay you," Lucio said, and Jamie could hear the smile in his voice. The way he was about to laugh. He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his palm against the space between his brows. Actin' like a bloody sheila, again. "Right-o, I'll try to have 'em done by the time ya get here. M'flat is just down the block from the shop. Shimada Apartments. Just tell the bloke at the front desk you wanna see Junkrat, he'll know what you mean," Jamie said. He heard the man on the other end say the nickname under his breath. "Oh-kay, I'll be there soon," Lucio said. Jamie could hear the questioning tone in his voice, but knew he was too polite to ask about it. Jamie decided he wouldn't supply answers to unspoken questions. He exchanged goodbyes with Lucio before hanging up the phone. He stood up from his chair, looking around his apartment. It was...a mess. The embodiment of his nickname. Old food boxes were strewn across the counters. His vintage Playboy mags were stacked in one corner, leaning precariously to one side. He knew he shouldn't care, but apart of him was embarrassed to no end thinking that the pretty froggy bloke would see what a mess he lived in. Of course, he could just stick his head out and hand over the skates. But what if they weren't done? He couldn't make the lad stay out in the hallway. He didn't live with the best of people, and Lucio reeked of social status and money. It would be like making him hold a sign that said, "Mug me!" So, Jamie set to work cleaning to the best of his ability. He swept the trash off the counter and into the bin. He shoved as much laundry as he could into the washing machine, and kicked the rest into the hamper. The dishes in the sink that were growing alien colonies he threw in the trash, too embarrassed and disgusted with himself to clean them. His eyes landed on the Playboy magazines, and he thrummed his fingers against his chin in thought. He grabbed one of the blankets covering the couch and threw it over the stack. He stood back and looked at his handiwork. Now it looked like a disorganized person lived there, and not a lazy hoarder. It wasn't long after he sat back down to finish the skates that a knock came on the door. Jamie was startled out of his work trance, his head swinging up to the door. "Just a secoooond!" he said as he tightened one of the screws on the skates. He hurried over to the door before any potential muggers descended upon his guest. He opened the door was was greeted with a sweat drenched Lucio, bare chested and his dreads pulled back off his face by a bandanna. Jamie felt his breath catch in his throat. "Hey there," Lucio said, and Jamie damned his ever-cool attitude. Of course, he wasn't staring directly at a glistening set of abs and biceps. In fact, he was staring at a sleep deprived slob of an Australian. Jamie shuffled to the side, opening the door wider so Lucio could come in. The shorter man slipped into the doorway, and to Jamie's relief, didn't seem to pay attention to the surroundings. The man's eyes were trained on the skates. "Just about got 'em finished. Ya weren't lying when ya said they were more car than skates. Took me 'alf the night and most of the day jus' to put 'em back together," Jamie said as he closed to door and came up behind Lucio. He dwarfed the man in size, but Jamie had a feeling the shorter man could still kick his arse if he felt like it. He skirted around Lucio to reclaim his seat. "Sorry about that, I know it's probably not something you're used to," Lucio said, rubbing the back of his neck and offering Jamie an apologetic smile. "No sweat off my back. I like takin' things apart, seein' what makes 'em tick," Jamie said, using that fact to distract himself from Lucio's abs. He resumed prodding at the skates, set on fixing the centrifugal doo-dad once and for all. "You seem to be that sort of guy," Lucio said as he watched Jamie, "You have a...calculating gaze." "That so?" Jamie asked, quirking a brow but not looking up from the skates. His cheeks flushed a light pink. He hoped the shitty lighting in his apartment would cover it up. "Yea, it's like..." Lucio took a seat across from him at the table, splaying his hands on the wood, "When I came into the shop, your stare felt like you were picking me apart from the inside. It was kinda unnerving," he said. "Oh, sorry 'bout that, uh, I..." Jamie floundered for an answer, feeling like he was caught in the act of stealing. He didn't look up from the skates to see Lucio's expression. He could see it in his head. Accusatory. Angry. "Then when you opened the door, that look was there again. Picking me apart..." Was that a hitch in his voice that Jamie heard? He dared a glance up from the skates. Lucio was watching him, his eyes half-lidded and that damned easy smile on his face. The flush on Jamie's cheeks strengthened, and he averted his eyes again. "It's almost like you can see right into my soul. You know, not many people look at me like that. They only see DJ Lucio, the celebrity. I was afraid it was like that when you figured out who I was," Lucio said, letting out a chuckle. There was a creak as he leaned back in the chair, "But the way you looked at me. I knew that wasn't so." Jamie worked faster, and, dammit, why were his hands shaking? He reached for his screwdriver, but his palms were too sweaty and hands too shaky to keep a grip on it. It fell from the table, spiraling to the floor. He startled from his seat to catch it, and before he knew it, Lucio was right there, leaning down to catch it, too. The DJ's reflexes were faster than his own, and he caught it in his palm. They were so close it was driving Jamie mad. He could smell Lucio's citrus cologne and the tangy scent of his sweat. He could feel Lucio's breath by his ear, the heat radiating off his body. He stifled a whine, biting his lip. Lucio pressed the screwdriver into his open palm, clasping his hand to stop Jamie's shaking. "Easy, easy, lindo," he said, and a shiver ran through Jamie's spine at how close those words were breathed right up against his ear, and his head was swimming with too many racing thoughts to ask what lindo meant. Probably idiot, stupid, or a million other insults, but Jamie didn't care. This man could call him the worst names in the book and it would still sound like music. "Th-th-thank you," Jamie stammered, and when he looked at Lucio the man had already withdrawn, leaning back in his chair with that easy grin on those plump kissable lips, and, fuck, what was he thinking? Lucio just gave him a wink, acting as though nothing happened. Had anything happened? Had he imagined it? A droplet of sweat ran down his forehead, and he wiped it off with the back of his arm, leaving a smear of ink from the number Lucio had written on it. "Hey, now, you might need that later," Lucio said, motioning to the number. Jamie boggled at him with wide eyes. "You know, in case I have another skate emergency," he explained as though it were obvious, but there was something in his voice that made Jamie's stomach heavy and his pants tighten. This man was toying with him. "Oh, right. Well, I have it in me phone already. I'll keep in there, then, if ya like," Jamie said, finishing up the skates and trying with all his might to keep the quiver out of his voice. "Mm, yea, keep it there. You never know when I'll go flying ass over elbows and break a skate," Lucio said as he took the finished skates as Jamie pushed them across the table. Or head over heels, Jamie thought, mentally berating himself for being such a fuckin' sheila as of late. Reading into this man's actions like he meant something to him. "Well, thank you again. I really appreciate it. I'll head down to the shop to make the payment. I wish there were more I could do to show my gratitude," Lucio said as he got up from his seat. I'll tell you what you can do, you sexy piece of--, "Uh-ha, it's no problem. Don't worry about it, mate," Jamie said, following Lucio to the door. The man was almost out into the hallway when he turned around again. "Oh, and Jamie?" "Whazzat, mate?" "You have something on your forehead." Jamie had only time to blink before Lucio brushed his bangs off his forehead, rubbing the heel of his palm across the ink mark from earlier. Jamie's amber eyes stared into Lucio's chocolate brown ones, their noses brushing tips. Jamie swore he could feel Lucio's lips against his own, feather light, chaste. But just like that, Lucio was gone, walking down the hallway, his melodic chuckle trailing behind him. Jamie stared after him, his fingers going to brush against his lips. What the fuck just happened?

[fouldeernut]

Global Calcium Carbonate Market 2021 by Manufacturers, Regions, Type and Application, Forecast to 2026 Calcium Carbonate is a white insoluble mineral comprising more than 4% of the earth’s crust and occurring naturally as limestone, chalk, calcite, marble, and forming mollusk shells. It is commonly used in the manufacturing of lime and Portland cement and as a gastric antacid. The growth of the market is driven mainly by the growing consumption of calcium carbonate in various end-use industries, including paints and coatings, paper, and plastics. The demand is also supported owing to its wide availability and low cost.

COVID-19 Analysis

The majority of suppliers in this market had to shut down their operating facilities due to the outbreak of COVID-19. In response to combat the virus, the key suppliers shifted their focus toward offering relief in the pandemic.

However, these companies have begun operations again. For instance, Vale, one of the leading players in the global iron ore market, offered support to the Brazilian Government through its infrastructure, enabling the import of medical goods, such as test kits and ventilators, for the COVID-19 infected patients. In addition to this, the company is implementing several measures to support the prevention of COVID-19 globally and business continuity at its sites, such as the enforcement of washing hands, sanitizing, wearing masks, social distancing, and frequent clean down, temperature monitoring, and disinfection within facilities.

Construction, automotive and transportation, medical, and others are the key consumers of steel, which uses around 98% of iron ore. The restrictions on travel and transportation have resulted in decreased use of automobiles, maritime, as well as in construction activities. This is due to the reduced outings, closed working places, and lockdown Download the sample report here: Global Calcium Carbonate Market

[tachyonpub]

THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is a must-read for any fans of THE LAST UNICORN

SIX BLUE MARBLES loves Peter S. Beagle’s THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY.

My Rating: ⛤⛤⛤⛤⛤

THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is a look at the beginnings of Peter S. Beagle’s beloved novel The Last Unicorn and what paths the unicorn could have taken on her journey to find the other unicorns. Reader’s meet a cast of old and new characters as well as a new journey that is just as enticing as the one fans of The Last Unicorn are familiar with.

I’m really not surprised that I loved THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY, I love everything I’ve read of Beagle and this is no different. I loved seeing what parts of Beagle’s original story of the unicorn made it into the final novel, what changed, and what characters and aspects were given to others and which aspects were dropped all together. Probably the most interesting thing about THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is how different the journey of the unicorn is from the book we know and love, not in terms of the new characters we meet but in the setting.

I loved the new characters that were introduced as well as the old familiar butterfly. Though different in many ways from the final product, The Last Unicorn: The Lost Journey reminded me again of why I love this book so much, and it still held that charm and beauty despite all the differences.

And the illustrations! If the cover alone wasn’t enough to get you excited for this book then Stephanie Law’s illustrations will! They add a whole new kind of magic to the story and are absolutely stunning to look at.

<snip>

THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is a must-read for any fans of The Last Unicorn who want to see the bones of the story they love and a journey and experience like no other. The magic is still there, as is the love for this amazing story, only in a different way.

The German MEIN LESEZEICHEN BLOG praises IN CALABRIA.

The style of the author is sublime and magical. The way Beagle describes the unicorn is unique and breathtaking. Not effective or clichéd. The unicorn is not portrayed as something special, but as something that is one with the world. On the contrary to the unicorn, man seems to be something out of the ordinary, something peculiar. The magic is clearly in the descriptions of the unicorn.

Cover illustration: Velcro-Cotta

It's hard for me to connect the story with this word, but the story is romantic. By that I do not mean that she is cheesy or could be equated with romance novels. The romance goes deeper, is more complex, pure and sublime. The story covers many things: love and longing, criticism of people, of his dealings with nature, of society. There are elements of the uncanny and just as fantastic as supernatural elements. Again, the story seemed to me to be strongly based on the literary-scientific concept of Romanticism.

What also made me enthusiastic was that the author captured the mood of southern Italy very well and put it on paper. He draws an authentic picture with beautiful and ugly pages. What baffled me when I read was about to end as Claudio plunges into a daredevil fight.

With the help of the timeless and magical narrative style, I felt really comfortable and in good hands while reading.

<snip>

I love the stories of Peter S. Beagle. A reading recommendation goes out to all unicorn fans of the old school.

Translation from the German courtesy of Google

Iain Nicholas Mackenzie on THE GREEN MAN REVEW recounts an encounter with Peter S. Beagle.

Yeah that’s Peter Beagle — author of such delightful works as the above-quoted  SUMMERLONG along with IN CALABRIA, Tamsin and of course The Last Unicorn to name but three of his many works — over in the sitting area in the Kitchen here at Kinrowan Hall.

Reynard and he have been talking about ales and he says that ‘When I can get it — and I only know one pub in Berkeley that stocks it — I’ll take Blackened Voodoo, which is really a dark ale (as is the Brazilian Xingu, which is even harder to find). Blackened Voodoo is a Dixie Beer product; I think Katrina almost put them out of business — anyway, I couldn’t find it for quite a while. Sierra Nevada’s always a reliable bet, but BV’s worth the extra searching…’

He’s just been offered a particularly decadent chocolate bar and the Several Annie is asking him if he wants it: ‘Whatever you may have heard, it is not true that I have ever killed for really good chocolate. Trampled … well, sort of.  But only when the person was directly between the chocolate and me.  I mean, after all …’ and I see the chocolate is indeed to his liking.

DRAWING TUTORIALS offers Easy The Last Unicorn Drawing Tutorials for Beginners and advanced.

For more info about THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover by Thorsten Erdt

Illustration by Stephanie Law

Design by Elizabeth Story

For more info about IN CALABRIA, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover design by Elizabeth Story

For more info on SUMMERLONG, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover art by Magdalena Korzeniewska

Design by Elizabeth Story

[virmillion]

As Above, So Below - Part 4

Part 1 // Part 3 // Part 5 // Masterpost

It’s ya boi back at it with a second fic in the same day because they’re on vacation and time is an illusion - also sorry this one is twice as long as the last few, I apparently love writing from Logan’s perspective because descriptions are too fun

Ship(s): None yet

Warning(s): None, but let me know if you need something tagged

    Logan strolls calmly through the corridor of the palace, adjusting his blue tie to sit straight and unwrinkled. The sun rises with the dawn outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows casting sunbeams into the hall, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air and warming the space like summer. This is one of Logan’s favorite times of day—the silence at daybreak, a whole palace to himself as all of the other inhabitants doze peacefully for a few more hours. A close contender is late at night, when everyone else has retired to their rooms, or raided the kitchen already. The quietness and his own company are all Logan really needs, and just toss in a good book with some Crofter’s-jellied toast for a good day.

    He reaches the end of the windowed hall, immediately feeling colder in the next room, with its curtains drawn and doors tightly shut. The library. An ideal room, full of towering bookshelves overflowing with every genre imaginable, organized thousands of different ways every week—one of Logan’s favorite hobbies. But that’s a task for later. For now, he continues through the cold room, trailing a hand over the only cypress desk in the room—a dark slab of wood amidst a handful of pale brazilian cherry tops. Fond memories live within this desk, of late hours preparing for royal court visits, or burning eyes from straining to read with the shrinking light of the candle wick, of escaping the havoc of Exolas and its problems for more peaceful, distant worlds.

    In the hall and down the stairs, Logan runs his hand over the red mesquite banister, admiring the smooth finish—the palace staff finally replaced the offending old oak railing. It was like a stain overlooking the grand space before it, painted in a red and white pattern so unnatural it might well have been hundreds of candy canes lining the steps.

    Having thoroughly criticized the old decorations, Logan jumps from the third-to-last step to the floor, allowing himself a small smile at the pleasure of it. An old tradition from when he was younger, a little less of a daredevil now than he was then—sliding down the railing on his stomach, face-first and hands in the air, isn’t exactly the safest way to get down the stairs anymore. It probably wasn’t necessarily safe in the first place, anyway.

    On to the kitchen, just starting to see the beginnings of activity as the cooks prepare breakfast. Logan lifts a hand in greeting to the head chef, Grace, who waves back with a batter-covered spatula.

    “Hi Lo!” she calls out, “why haven’t I seen you lately?”

    “Busy with royal nonsense, you understand,” Logan replies, sidestepping someone carrying a platter larger than his head.

    “Definitely, but when are we gonna see you down here more often? You’re missing training,” Grace whines, looking back at her oven as Logan recalls the near misses of a knife to his head in their ‘training.’ Admittedly, not a displeasurable time.

    “Maybe so, but I would assume you’re missing it, too, if you’ve clawed your way to head of the kitchen staff. How long, precisely, has it taken you to get here?”

    “Couple weeks, but you know I’m gonna fight tooth and nail to keep it.” Grace expertly flips a giant rainbow chocolate chip pancake to prove her point. Undoubtedly a special request from one of the younger denizens of the palace.

    “I’m sure,” Logan grins. “I’ll look into coming back for training, as I do rather miss it.” He plucks an apple from a basket by the door and calls goodbyes as he slips out of the kitchen, wiping the apple on his shirt and heading for the stairs again. With the apple’s tart flavor spreading over his tongue, it’s time to traverse the endless hallways to find and wake Roman.

    As Logan lifts a fist to knock on the tall white door, adorned with red ribbons and rubies, it flies open, Roman’s beaming face behind it.

    “Since when do you wake up this early in a good mood?” Logan asks. “You’re the last creature alive I’d associate with being a morning person.”

    “Because I finally found one that’ll stump you!” Roman declares triumphantly. He holds up a book of logic puzzles, from which he gives Logan one the first time they see each other every day. Needless to say, most of those who live in the castle avoid going to the bathrooms frequented by the pair in the morning, since they likely don’t want to hear another riddle when they’re just trying to pee.

    “Alright, let me have it.” Logan smiles, biting into the apple again. Roman rarely gets this excited unless the puzzle is really hard.

    “Okay, so there’s this guy trying to get into a secret club, right? So he stakes out the club building and watches other people get in. The person guarding the door says a number, and the one trying to get in says a number in response. The guard says twelve, so the first member says six. For the next person, the guard says six, so the second member says three. When the guy trying to sneak in goes up, he’s given the number ten, so he says five, but they don’t let him in! Why not?” Roman summarizes all of this from the longer description in the book, snapping it shut with an air of confidence that Logan won’t be able to solve it.

    “Roman, I had high hopes for you! This one should have been far more difficult, given your excitement in its introduction,” Logan remarks.

    “Big words from someone who hasn’t solved the riddle yet,” Roman pouts. Logan swallows an apple chunk and gives his answer.

    “Not out loud, I haven’t. The guy sneaking in should have said three—three letters in the number ten, three letters in the number six, six letters in the number twelve.”

    “Way to kill my mood.” Roman sticks his tongue out, tosses the book into his messy room, and links an arm with Logan, stealing a bite from his half-eaten apple.

    “First of all, if you would give me a better riddle, I wouldn’t have to ruin your mood. Secondly, I’m about to make it even worse,” Logan reassures him, snatching the apple back.

    “How so?” A note of dread tints the edge of Roman’s words. Logan making a threat is never a good sign.

    “Today is AKI day.” Assessment of Kingdom Issues, otherwise known as sitting on a throne and doing nothing while citizens talk at Roman, letting Logan deliver the harsh blows before allowing Roman to comfort the people. What fun. “Come on, Princey, down to the throne room, where many great joys and adventures await you in the riveting political scheme of Exolas.”

    “I thought I said not to call me that,” Roman grumbles, pretending to be upset. Logan ignores him, carrying on through grand ballrooms, expansive hallways, and peaceful lounges to arrive at the second largest set of doors in the palace. Just ahead of them in size is the entry doors, which proudly guard the building at three stories tall. The doors now in front of the pair are backed with white birchwood, the towering gates looming over the hall. They consume all light and attention with their inlaid rubies and diamonds, spitting it back in glittering patterns across the walls. Even the pashmina carpet, embroidered with gold, dances in the light of the shining stones, all crawling up the door and intertwining with gold piping as it runs across silver lace. Breathtaking, to say the least, but too manufactured for Logan’s tastes.

    He throws the door open without a moment of hesitation to admire the shifting reflections of the jewels, exposing a room to rival the doors themselves. A long, vermillion carpet leads up to an elevated stage of hickory pine, polished to smooth perfection. Upon the stage rests one throne, cushioned with rose red and held up by a frame of gold inset with pearls. Only one throne, as the king never lowers himself to interacting with his subjects for AKIs. Dotting the walls of the room stand great marble columns, covered in reliefs of the king in stuff of legend, defeating every obstacle in his path. There’s but one column remaining incomplete, just to the right of the door; some servants hammer away at it, revealing a scene of Roman dueling a dragon.

    Having already become desensitized to the scene over their many years of entering the room, the two boys walk right past it all, hardly noticing the striking progress on Roman’s column, or the fervent bows of the workers they pass. Roman settles heavily into the throne, situating his sash to be unrumpled before resting his right ankle on his left knee. Logan takes up position to the left of the throne, holding his shoulders square and clasping his hands behind his back. Roman twiddles his thumbs impatiently as Logan looks on, watching the large doors swing shut to allow unhappy people to line up behind them before coming in to yell at a prince who has absolutely no control over their rotten lots in life.

    With a forceful clearing of his throat, Logan kicks the foot of the throne before holding out something very important that Roman somehow managed to forget—his crown. Honestly, it’s a downright miracle that Logan doesn’t just wear it himself at this point. He’s got half a mind to do so, but the other half is preoccupied with sorting out problems for those lucky enough to be able to vent their misdirected anger at Roman.

    As Roman finishes adjusting the crown on his head, the doors swing open like a gaping mouth, allowing a castle guard to escort in the first unhappy citizen. Haggard, with tattered clothes and filthy hair, but the shoes on their feet are just shy of being worn all the way through, indicating that while this person might be down on their luck, they haven’t yet reached the bottom of the barrel, typically shown by wearing paper bags for shoes.

    “That city of convicts is out of control!” they yell, prompting the guard to shift into a defensive stance. “Every day, they’re always out and about—”

    “Doing what?” Logan interrupts, already disinterested and a good deal irritated. “Being human? Trying to move past their soiled backgrounds? Avoiding airheads like you that refuse to accept that some people have it worse than others, and that leads them to make regrettable bad decisions?” The person below Logan and Roman opens and closes their mouth a few times, not unlike a fish gasping in air. With a scowl, Logan jerks his chin at the door, prompting the guard to show the person out. “You aren’t the first person to complain about them,” Logan calls, “and I’m certain you won’t be the last.” Roman gives a half-hearted apology, but the snobbish complainer is already gone. Embarrassment, anger, or something else has made them rush out in a huff, without waiting for the guard, but quite frankly, Logan doesn’t really care.

    The next person ushered in carries a basket of spoiled fruits and vegetables. Evidence, in Logan’s opinion, is always more useful in these situations than empty grievances aired for the express purpose of seeing the inside of the palace. This person has some issue about pesticides from a neighbor killing all of their crops, a real problem with an actual solution, finally.

    Logan leans down to murmur in Roman’s ear, “send them back with a cease and desist notice for the neighbor, and have the guard take them to the kitchens for some produce-friendly pesticides. Say to ask for Grace, and mention that Logan sent them.” Roman repeats as much to the basket-carrier and the guard, pleased when this citizen walks out in much higher spirits than the one before.

    AKIs aren’t so bad, truthfully. Just exhaustingly tedious. With few real problems and all too many complaints about the city of convicts, Logan and Roman are at their wits’ end, and it’s not even lunch yet.

    “It’s about the city of convicts,” the latest person says, barreling straight through Logan’s automatic ‘holier than thou’ speech. “Not the convicts themselves, but there are these two boys that are nowhere near as rough as the other people in that city.” Before Logan can attempt to interrupt the person again, Roman holds a hand up in a stop gesture. This might actually be worth listening to. “Both of them have purple hair, kind of like yours,” they bow to the prince and Logan in turn, “and I’m just not sure that it’s in their best interests to leave them out there. I don’t know the two personally, but I’m concerned for their safety.” The person bows low again before allowing the guard to lead them out. The door shuts behind the pair and remains so. AKIs over.

    “Now that’s an interesting one,” Logan remarks. Roman gives a noncommittal grunt of agreement, rising from his throne in search of food. Making a mental note of the latest complaint and carefully filing it away for later consideration, Logan follows.

Tag List:

@reality-isfor-muggles @artistictaurean @adfandertime @virgils-old-sweater @karaidemon @dudapoconeh @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @fallingamor @ghostdorkphil @tinysidestrashcaptain @punch-you-with-friendship @pattykrabbies @virgils-hoodie @twettypuff @justanotherpurplebutterfly @lizethemotherlycat @skyshade48 @tree4life25 @andromeda-galaxsander @sombraplayslazertag @lemonpepperpizza @erlenmeyertrash @raincloudverge @potatoes-and-depression @milomeepit @coffeestudylive @sakurahayasaki

[chroniclesofawkwardness]

Page 61

From the time I was very young, I had an obsession with leveling up. Somehow, someway, I had to be better, I was never quite good enough. There was always someone bigger, faster, smarter, or stronger than me.

In first grade, we got certificates based on how many rules we’d followed that week. More often than not, I had to settle for the Boss award instead of the top prize, the Superstar. I broke the same rule every week by talking without raising my hand. I can’t say if I was genuinely trying not to give a fuck as a seven-year-old, but it’s more likely I was genuinely disappointed since I’d come so close to perfection only to fail again and again. I wish I’d accepted long ago that Lucy only loves Charlie Brown when he’s trying to kick the football.

Even when I had more control of my destiny by engaging in my favorite childhood pastime, playing Nintendo (When did it become classic?) I still had to deal with the temptation of risk vs. reward. You start out small. If you manage not to run headlong into the first Goomba (Kuribo in Japan) you see, you have the option of giving your character an 8-bit concussion by voluntarily jumping up and smashing a mystery box (marked with (?)). One of the first rewards is a mushroom that, if you touch it, significantly increases the size of your character.

Maybe the intention of the game’s creators was to show that bigger is better or to simply give the player a reward almost immediately so he or she would keep playing. If only I’d known how much my early life would turn out like one of the side-scrolling video games I gave so much of my time to. I believed that if I played by all the rules, kept going straight ahead, and timed my jumps just right, I’d zip down the flagpole like Mario, and be rewarded with fireworks for my accomplishments. Yet even a video game from the 1980s, the decade of material excess and Reagan famously turning the bull loose, had ways of tempering one’s enthusiasm, of keeping you hooked. The princess was almost always in another castle.

In first grade it was certificates. In second grade it was learning to write in cursive. In third grade it was marbles in a jar, and so on. We were all Pavlov’s dogs, salivating at the ring of a bell. Nobody knew what was really going on. Nobody knew that we were being conditioned how to talk, act, and think. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating an achievement, but life gets messy when the celebration becomes the focus rather than the hard work that led up to it. I used to believe the validation of a “Good Job!” scratch-and-sniff sticker or the clink of another marble in our classroom jar was good enough, but I also once believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Jesus.

Why is it that when I think of the happiest moments of my life, they are all tied to some sort of achievement, some sort of validation that I was right?

In high school, I was convinced that I’d answered every question correctly on the 1998 National Latin Exam for Latin II. I’d just wanted Sister Dympna to be proud of me. My heart sank when the initial results came back, and I found out I’d answered only 39 of 40 questions correctly. Sister had been telling us for months that if someone got a perfect score, Latin II was usually when they did it. I was so taken aback by the initial return that I almost immediately began to insist someone recheck my exam by hand. I still remember the day they called me into the guidance office after what seemed like an emperor’s reign of anxious waiting. Mrs. Shields told me that my score was, in fact, perfect, and I was the first student in school history to accomplish such a feat. I wanted to run down the hallway screaming, “Fuck Yeah!” to anyone within earshot, but I didn’t. Instead, I remembered the story of Cincinnatus. Sister Dympna, one of the installers of my try-hard driver, once told me Cincinnatus was a simple Roman farmer who was twice offered a dictatorship, only to turn it down both times in favor of returning to his plow. Like Cincinnatus, I deferred my glory and returned to English class.

Chances are, the story of Cincinnatus isn’t true. It’s probably nothing more than a tale Roman parents told their children in the hope of turning them into humble, obedient, and dutiful citizens. These parents, of course, had no idea that the same tale would be passed down through the ages for more than 2,000 years. 

When I defended my master’s thesis nine years later, I thought I’d pulled out all the stops. Never one to skimp on Balkan hospitality, I put on a suit and lugged around a backpack with a coffee pot and Napolitanke wafers (thanks Croatian confectionary company, Kraš) for the members of my defense committee. I had to level up to the next sequential academic abbreviation behind my name if I wanted a chance to work for any number of alphabet agencies within the government. I had to find a way to atone for destroying my own section of Brazilian rainforest by printing out my thesis so many times. If I noticed an ill-timed comma, a misplaced dash, or an extra space at the end of a line, a war of attrition was on. Instead of not giving a fuck, I started giving too many.

After my defense, I had to sit out in the hallway for what seemed like another eternity while the committee deliberated my fate. Dr. H. (finally) telling me that I’d passed was one of the happiest moments of my life. When the second year of my two-year master’s program started, I wasn’t even sure if I’d get funding to pay for it. There were fifteen fellowships available that year. I’d gone from being one of the first ones out (no. 18) to one of the last ones in. And now, there I was, at the top of another flagpole. After picking up my diploma, I must have sat in the papasan chair that my mom’s now-ex-husband would later use for cumshot target practice holding that precious, validating piece of paper in my hands for fifteen minutes of contented silence. It’s the kind of silence only accomplishment can bring, before the panic of not knowing exactly what to do next sets in.

I can’t remember the first time I noticed an at on page 61 of my thesis where an at didn’t belong. I was crushed. I couldn’t believe I’d missed it while I was chopping away at the rainforest. My crowning achievement (there’s that A-word again) had been forever tarnished by a renegade preposition that had somehow managed to steal itself away from the obsessive, approval-seeking eyes of its creator. I had flashbacks to my freshman year of undergrad when I’d left a works cited page off the first paper I’d ever written for English class. Both oversights were poetic justice in works of academic prose. (Im)perfect bookends to six years of higher education. I had visions of becoming the laughingstock of the department, the butt of a sick joke by future generations of curious graduate students searching for scholarly works on the soundtrack to the demise of brotherhood and unity, the destruction of the failed idea of Yugoslavia.

I beat myself up for years over that at. Whenever someone would tell me it’s no big deal, I’d turn on my default, self-deprecating sense of humor and say things like, “But I know it’s there.” No one has ever called me a dumbass over a two-letter word that should have been deleted long before Dr. H. signed the title page of my thesis. I did it to myself. It took me a long time to not internalize my own imperfections, and simply learn from my mistakes rather than defining myself by them. First, it was certificates, then learning to write in cursive, then marbles in jars. I’d had enough. 

I’m not quite at the point where I can just laugh about the error in page 61, but I don’t beat myself up over it anymore. I know it’s there, but I don’t let it tarnish my A-word. It’s okay to strive for perfection, but obsessions make life messy. They say if you really want to know how you got to feel and think a certain way about things, you should write a book about them. I’ll keep going after the sixty-first page. There’s lots more to be said. If the devil’s in the details, I’ll side with Tom Waits, who pointed out in Heartattack And Vine: Don’t you know there ain’t no devil/That’s just God when he’s drunk. I’d been drunk on chasing perfection for too long. I’m still not sure about Jesus, so you won’t find me in church on Sundays. You might find me at a keyboard, pounding away at tales of imperfection rather than imperfection itself. Instead of trying to be perfect, I’ll just be. I can live, and write, with that.

[samuelmmarcus]

Small House with Dark Exterior

  Hello, my wonderful friends! How are you feeling today? I hope you’re healthy and feeling positive about life. If that’s not exactly how you are, I share this house tour today with the hope that it will not only bring you some inspiration but also a few minutes of stress-free vibes. Aren’t we all craving that? Being in a state of mind where we are only focusing on something good, on something we love, on something that brings us joy.

Talking about joy, this home makes me smile and I think you can’t help but love it, even if you are not a huge fan of dark exteriors, which is quite hard these days because dark siding is quite popular. Recently built by Grande Custom Builders, this Charlotte, NC, Modern Farmhouse shows that a dark exterior works beautifully on a small home as it does on the large ones. In fact, I think dark exteriors look even better on smaller homes. Huge houses with black siding can look overwhelming if not well balanced with contrasting architectural details and landscaping.

Now, find a quiet spot, dream away with this charming new home and have a relaxing time!

  See other VERY popular house tours by Grande Custom Builders:

 – Charlotte Custom Home.

– North Carolina Lake House Tour.

– Inspiring Charlotte Home Tour.

  Small House with Dark Exterior

“This stunning modern farmhouse, painted in Benjamin Moore Deep River, features a beautiful roofline, black windows, and black corbels. We love the contrast of the stone foundation as well as the addition of the statement front lighting. The front porch is open and large, perfect for lounging in the upcoming cooler months.” – Grande Custom Homes.

Home Details

Exterior Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Deep River.

Cedar Brackets & Posts: Benjamin Moore Twilight Zone.

Stone: Butternut Rustic Ledge.

Siding: James Hardie.

Windows: Black – Trim: Benjamin Moore Deep River.

Roof: Owens Corning Oakridge 32.8-sq ft Beachwood Sand.

Metal Roof: Black.

Gutters: Black.

Home Details: 5 beds, 4 baths, 3,317 sq ft – 8,320 sqft lot.

Front Door

Front Door Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Chelsea Gray HC-168.

Lighting: Rejuvenation.

Exterior Sconces

Exterior Barn Lights: Rejuvenation.

Open-concept

This house feels like home to me. You won’t find cold or bare spaces in here! Paint color is Benjamin Moore Moonshine.

Chandelier: Discontinued – similar here – Others: here, here, here & here.

Hardwood Flooring: Red Oak with 50/50% Minwax Classic Gray and Pickled Oak – Others: here, here & here.

Kitchen

What a timeless and uncomplicated kitchen. Refreshing, right?! The perimeter cabinets are Benjamin Moore Paper White and kitchen island is in Benjamin Moore Kendall Charcoal.

Kitchen Island Countertop: Antique White Quartzite, Leathered.

Perimeter Countertop: Brazilian Mist Granite, Honed.

Backsplash Tile: here – similar here.

Lighting: here – similar – Other Popular Options: here, here, here, here, here & here.

Hardware: Pulls & Knobs.

Range: KitchenAid.

Shelves: Rejuvenation.

Warm Hues

I am not sure about you but as the leaves start to change and chilly winds start to arrive, I crave deeper and warmer colors in my home. This can easily be changed from season to season with a warmer rug, textured pillows and cozier throws. This home features a color scheme that makes me think of a slice of pumpkin pie and that’s something that makes me feel happy!

“Fall-Winter” Color Scheme Decor:

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Staircase

The metal staircase balusters and newel posts are custom. Hand railing is painted in Benjamin Moore Twilight Zone.

Chandelier: RH – discontinued (Spiral Walnut chandelier) – Others: here, here, here, here & here.

Paint Color

Shiplap paint color is Benjamin Moore Paper White. Walls are in Moonshine by Benjamin Moore.

Window Grilles: Benjamin Moore Twilight Zone.

Master Bathroom

The Master Bathroom feels classic and it features a great layout. This is also very inspiring for bathroom renovations!

Cabinet Paint Color: Benjamin Moore 2131-20 Midnight.

Wall Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Moonshine.

Trim Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Paper White.

Countertop: White Carrara Marble.

Shower Tile: Polished Porcelain Statuario Tile, Alternate sizes – 12×24 & 4×12.

Tub: here & here – similar.

Flooring: Hardwood.

  Many thanks to the builder for sharing the details above.

Builder: Grande Custom Builders (Instagram)

Architecture: Frusterio Design, Inc.

Via QC Exclusive Magazine.

Photography: Dustin Peck.

  Click on items to shop:

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Best Sales of the Month:

Thank you for shopping through Home Bunch. For your shopping convenience, this post may contain AFFILIATE LINKS to retailers where you can purchase the products (or similar) featured. I make a small commission if you use these links to make your purchase, at no extra cost to you, so thank you for your support. I would be happy to assist you if you have any questions or are looking for something in particular. Feel free to contact me and always make sure to check dimensions before ordering. Happy shopping!

  Wayfair: Home Decor and Furniture Sale.

  Serena & Lily: Summer Tent Furniture and Decor Sale.

  Pottery Barn: Flash Sale Up to 70% off!

  Joss & Main: Large Rugs for under $200.

Popular Posts:

California Small Lot Modern Farmhouse.

2021 New-construction Home Trends.

  Wrap-around Porch Farmhouse Exterior Ideas.

Island Beach House.

Modern Farmhouse Design.

Modern Farmhouse Tour.

Charlotte Custom Home.

Modern Farmhouse Home Design.

Modern French-Country Farmhouse on a City Lot.

New-construction Modern Farmhouse.

Inspiring Charlotte Home Tour.

French Farmhouse.

White Home with Front Porch.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram.

Black Modern Farmhouse Tour.

California Beachfront House.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram: New-construction Home.

New England style Shingle Home.

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See more Inspiring Interior Design Ideas in my Archives.

“Dear God,

If I am wrong, right me. If I am lost, guide me. If I start to give-up, keep me going.

Lead me in Light and Love”.

Have a wonderful day, my friends and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

with Love,

Luciane from HomeBunch.com

from Home https://www.homebunch.com/small-house-with-dark-exterior/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[iqvts]

3080 PAPER MILL RD, HUNTINGDON VALLEY, PA 19006 from iQ Visual Tours on Vimeo.

For more information: cbhre.com/listing/181-1201884/3080-paper-mill-rd-huntingdon-valley-pa-19006

Welcome to this Spectacular Custom Built French Normandy Home in secluded location.This home was meticulously built by a local luxury home builder as his personal residence.No detail or expense was spared in building this beautiful One of a Kind Home.There is approx 14,000 SF of luxury living on 3 levels overlooking 5 acres of bucolic grounds backing to over 800 acres of preserved ground with the Pennypack Trust.Enter this magnificent home through the arched mahogany door into the grand central entry hall featuring limestone flooring,coffered ceiling & amazing high end lighting fixtures.The formal living room is situated on left side of entry hall & features a gas F/P French doors to a flagstone terrace overlooking the grounds.The formal dining room is on the right side of entry hall & features a double sided gas F/P which also faces the entry hall.Prepare to be amazed as you enter the thoughtfully designed kitchen featuring custom wood cabinetry,Brazilian cherry hardwood floors,6 burner Viking gas range w/double ovens,Subzero refrigeration,large island with seating & marble counters.Kitchen also features a breakfast room with verdant views of the rear grounds,a hearth room with gas F/P & butler's pantry with wine fridge.The 2 Story Great room features a floor to ceiling stone gas F/P,Brazilian cherry wood flooring & wall of glass windows offering magnificent views of the rear grounds. The main level also features a den/office with built-ins,main staircase from the entry hall & 3 level open staircase serving the upper&lower levels.Upper level features a huge master suite with sitting room,bedroom with gas F/P,4 walk in closets,master bath with soaking tub,large stall shower & double sinks.There is also french doors to a private terrace for morning coffee or evening relaxation.There are 3 additional bedrooms with en suites & walk in closets.The laundry room is conveniently located on this level.Follow the open staircase to the lower level and you will find an extension of the quality workmanship & design featuring a large entertainment area,massage room,wine tasting area,5th bedroom with full bath & large home gym with bar.There is a large elevated flagstone terrace in rear of home perfect for entertaining.There is a carriage home connected to main house via a walkway & features 22'ceilings & offers potential uses such as home office,in law suite,studio or au pair quarters.Below carriage home is a 3 car garage in addition to the 4 car attached garage.

Contact: Don Rowley (215) 272-8000 d.rowley@cbhearthside.com

[sungrittenhouse-blog]

Games to Obtain Through The Recession

Consumer solution the VGXPO is wide-ranging. I've heard responses from, "It's not too great," to, "I'm excited about it." In spite of the discrepant responses, the VGXPO has to do something true. At triple its 2007 size, this year's VGXPO is probably growing. Coleman Scott (60 kg/132 lbs.): For you to medaling modern day summer's Olympics, Scott was a four-time NCAA All-American for Oklahoma State, winning a national title at the 2008 NCAAs. Sound : The sound is really enjoyable too. They offer everything important to a soccer game here. The roar, the insane cheering, the sound of the soccer ball being hit, the foot steps. Means that very real sounding and also interactive and dynamic. A very titanic effort here, the bootcamp shows. The background music is very ambient my entire life engaging but that isn't too high of a negative anyway as sports games rarely have good music file. Ronaldo has retired however in the length of his Brazilian football career he was essentially probably the most prolific goal scorer of all time. He won the ecu footballer on the year twice, and the FIFA player of the year just passed three certain times. Ronaldo played for Brazil in 97 matches and scored an extraordinary 62 pursuits. He was an important part of this team that won the globe Cup in 1994 and 2002. Paul the Octopus had been legion of fans who had wanted a memorial set up for him. In response, the aquarium where he lived in Oberhausen, Germany, has made one for him well. It is 6-1/2 feet tall and is then made of plastic (some say bronze or marble might have been more fitting) and inside is an urn covered in gold leaf which has Paul's cremated remains, according to the Washington Person of polish lineage. Spain- Alternatives superstars to your squad along with the current involving the team it seems Spain would be the favorites to win the World Cup. Once Cesc Fabregas recovers from injury the squad will appear almost unbeatable on card. but Games are never won on conventional paper. The only drawback whenever watch free movies online at advertising and marketing can function as a somewhat limited selection, but that may affect families. If you find the selection to be too small, you should cough increase the small fee Hulu premium or Netflix Generatorsr charges, and watch movies online that approach! Not free; but darn cheap. A native of Edmonton, Ference won a Stanley Cup more than Boston Bruins in 2011. The Oilers were in will need a new captain after they traded Shawn Horcoff for the Dallas Stars for Philip Larsen which has a seventh round draft pick on July 4.

[yashendwirh]

The Vegas haul was full of baubles and sundry #nyxcosmetics #blick #blickartmaterials #lushcosmetics #basinwhite #ikea respectively: 4 color custom palette, matte liquid liner, stickers; acrylic paint, oil paint, #fabriano dot matrix notebook, 24x36" canvas, marble paper; massage bar, shampoo bar, #aquamarina face cleanser, rehab shampoo and queen bee samples, holiday soap, lavender soap; shampoo bar and bath bombs; black frames, ergonomic memory foam pillows, #renberget office chair, 6 outlet tap, reusable shopping bag; not seen was the delicious Swedish, Cornish, Indian and Brazilian food eaten along the way. http://ift.tt/2hyAgdk

[jmarksthespots]

[#ART #POETRY #FILM #DANCE] Target #FirstSaturday: Beyond the Blues with Queen GodIs, the Martha Redbone Roots Project, Chloë Bass, the Brooklyn Dance Festival, Pamela Sneed and Geko Jones and Chiquita Brujita Presented by the @brooklynmuseum x @targetstyle  *EVERY FIRST SATURDAY* | 5-11pm  Brooklyn Museum | 200 Eastern Parkway Brooklyn, NY  Admission: FREE 

Music: Martha Redbone Roots Project | 5:00–7:00 p.m. Martha Redbone Roots Project’s indie soul blends folk and Appalachian sounds, and pays tribute to Redbone’s Cherokee, Choctaw, Shawnee, and African American roots. Part of Carnegie Hall's Neighborhood Concert Series.

New York City Participatory Budgeting | 5:00–7:00 p.m. Propose and vote on community projects that affect your neighborhood. Council Members across the city are asking residents how to spend at least $34 million in capital funding for projects including improvements to schools, parks, libraries, and public housing. Voters should be at least 14 years old and live in a participating Council District.

Film: Eva Hesse | 5:30 p.m. Eva Hesse (Marcie Begleiter, 2016, 108 min.) captures New York’s 1960s downtown art scene through the short and extraordinary career of German-born American artist Eva Hesse. Followed by a talkback with the artist’s sister Helen Charash and the film’s producer, Karen Shapiro. 330 free tickets at the Admissions Desk at 5 pm.

Performance: Chloë Bass | 6:00 p.m. Conceptual artist Chloë Bass’s lecture performance #sky #nofilter interrogates a chronicle of everyday photographs taken during a year of racial trauma and critically questions what we all share when we look to the sky. 25 free tickets at the Admissions Desk at 5 pm.

Curator Tour: Infinite Blue | 6:00 p.m. Joan Cummins, Lisa and Bernard Selz Senior Curator of Asian Art, offers an inside look at Asian artworks showcased in the exhibition Infinite Blue. 

Emerging Leaders of New York Arts | 6:00–8:00 p.m. Take a stand for the NEA. Stop by the ELNYA table to get tips for contacting your representatives (and write postcards on the spot!), participate in a public art project about the impact of the arts, and join our #SaveTheNEA selfie campaign.

Hands-On Art | 6:00–8:00 p.m. Get inspired by the colors of Infinite Blue and create your own marbled paper using the Japanese suminagashi, or “floating ink,” technique. 330 free tickets at the Admissions Desk at 5 pm. 

Dance and Workshop: Brooklyn Dance Festival | 7:00–9:00 p.m.  Brooklyn Dance Festival is in residence for the second time this year to present performances by a variety of emerging dance companies. Participate in a dance workshop afterward.

Pop-Up Poetry: An Address of the Times | 7:00 p.m. To kick off National Poetry Month, writer and performer Pamela Sneed presents a series of readings by spoken word artists Heather Johnson, t’ai freedom ford, and Timothy Du White.

Music: Geko Jones and Chiquita Brujita | 8:00–10:00 p.m. Geko Jones and Chiquita Brujita host performances dedicated to the divine feminine and all things blue. Includes Jones’s DJ set highlighting female musicians of the Afro-Latin diaspora, all-female Brazilian drumline Fogo Azul, a pop-up installation of blue spiritual art, Aina Luz singing to the orishas in Yoruba, and dance by Brujita.

Concert: Queen GodIs with Special Guests | 8:30–10:00 p.m. This Brooklyn-born lyricist—think Maya Angelou meets hip-hop—performs excerpts of new and previous work, a collection of gender- and genre-bending verses in the key of Michelle Obama. Followed by a talkback with the artists. 330 free tickets at the Admissions Desk at 7 pm.

[there-willbeblood]

Chapter 2: A World Ruled by Men

Graphic descriptions of violence in this chapter.

STEVE'S POV 

Ave Maria Gratia plena

Maria Gratia plena

Maria Gratia plena

Ave, ave dominus

Dominus tecum

Benedicta tu in mulieribus

Et benedictus

Et benedictus fructus ventris

Ventris tui Jesus

Ave Maria

I tuned out the first verse of Franz Schubert's Ave Maria  because to tell you the truth, I hated this fucking song. I had sung it every Sunday for twenty-five motherfucking years but a Rogers never missed church.

I sat in the front pew of Holy Name Cathedral, formally the Cathedral of the Holy Name. It's the seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago, one of the largest Roman Catholic dioceses in the United States. It's also the parish church of the Archbishop of Chicago. I know that all sounds like religious mumbo jumbo but I was required to know it, being the "devout Catholic" that I was.

Total bullshit, if you ask me.

The whole church was a huge Gothic monstrosity, consisting of sparkling marble, strong granite, towering steeples and large stain glass windows. Among the sprawling high-rises of downtown Chicago, the church looked like a misplaced antique house, trying to compete against modernity.

To my left, were my parents Joseph and Sarah. I studied their regal statues and how they seemed to radiate joy. My father was on the verge of fifty but could pass for my age easily. With his short, golden blonde hair and piercing blue eyes along with his structured face and the body of an athlete, he could model for almost any suit company, making millions. My mother, with her honey colored locks and dark green eyes was the picture of perfection. Together, they were the best looking couple in church and everyone envied them.

Just by his outside appearance, you would never guess that my father was the hardest motherfucker on the planet. He was head of all Italian organized crime activity in Chicago and half of the country for that matter. Everyone was afraid of him. No matter who you were or what family you were from, the name 'Rogers' was synonymous with ruthlessness even though on the outside, we looked like the perfect blue-blooded American family.

In order to fully understand the dynamic of our group, you had to go way back.

According to the story, Great Grandpa Nicola Rossini stepped off of the boat in 1916. He was six and alone but he made it. I don't know how he got on that ship without the proper papers or documentation and he never told me the whole tale but I had a feeling that he had been doing illegal things all of his life. Stowing away on a boat heading for America was just another walk in the park for that badass. He was pushing one hundred now but still kicking, probably having the time of his life with some hot stewardess in France.

The second he stepped off the boat at Ellis Island, it was a fucking bloodbath.

He had no money, no family, and no damn clue what he was doing, but he was smart. He lived the streets for about a year and from his stories, got whatever he wanted just by giving his "scary eye", which he had mastered before he was five. No one else could pull it off quite like him but once you got the look, you knew you were in for a world of hurt. I had only gotten it once and my ass still hurt from the butt kicking he gave me, but I digress.

He was a motherfucking beast and still is.

One day, when he was seven I think, he was caught stealing from the most ruthless street boss in Brooklyn, Steve Rogers, who I just happened to be named after. Steve Sr., as he was called, threatened to cut off Nicola's hand, as per mob rules but like I said, he was smart.

They made a deal. A deal that started it all.

Nicola would work for Steve Sr., learning throughout the years and training to become somebody in this country. Steve needed someone to run the streets for him and Nicola was the perfect solution. Little did Steve know, he just made the worst decision of his life.

By the time Great Grandpa was eighteen; Nicola Rossini had become Nicola Rogers and he had taken over after Steve Sr. died in a "car accident". He later told me that he had planned the whole thing. That was the start of the Nicola Rogers reign and the beginning of our family's lucrative businesses.

Long story short, he married, had a butt-load of kids and the line went down to my father, Joseph.

It was strange to think of Joseph as the head of any crime family because of his gentle nature. That's not to say that he hasn't killed a motherfucker or two but he only likes using violence when it's necessary.

I was more like Great Grandpa Rogers. Ruthless. Menacing. Violent.

After Nicola conquered Brooklyn and half of New York, he packed up, moving to Chicago where he set up shop from there. This city was the place I thrived in. This was the place where my father was born, where I was born, where I learned everything I knew.

My father married my mother Sarah right out of college and they had been together ever since. After Nicola grew too old to run anything, he chose someone who could lead and someone who would do the family proud. Joseph's father, my grandfather was that person but he was murdered quickly after taking over. Thus, Joseph Rogers became the most feared man of the underworld with one wave of Great Grandpa's hand.

"Steve, pay attention." My mother leaned over and whispered to me, hitting my knee.

"I am." I shrugged and she gave me a steely glare.

"No you're not, I won't have you daydreaming in church."

"Is it a sin?" I asked with an eye roll.

"Yes as a matter of fact, it is." She snapped and leaned back in the pew.

I sat up straighter but let my thoughts drift more and more from church.

The OCD in me detected that something was off and I frantically searched for what it was. A small page from the Bible next to me was sticking out and I just couldn't have that. I quickly tucked it back in and re-straightened my tie.

I wasn't clinically diagnosed with anything but my habits and mannerisms were classic OCD related. No one really cared enough to fix it and with the work I did, it actually helped me stay organized.

I was the second biological son of my parents, but still the youngest after my bigger brother Thor and adoptive brother James.

Being Sicilian Italian, family came very important to the Rogers's.

As the second son of Joseph and Sarah, I would normally be in no position to take over but if you knew Thor, you would know why I was the favorite to rule our kind in twenty, thirty years. Whenever our father decided I was ready.

Thor was a huge guy, the size of a professional linebacker but under all the muscle and bulk, was a boy who never took life too seriously. That was part of the reason why Joseph was so willing to give second-in-command to me but don't let his teddy bear-like exterior fool you. Thor was soft yet powerful. He could take down a roomful of Feds with a ballpoint pen and a paperclip. I admired him for his strength but his brains weren't too much to praise.

My second brother, of sorts, was James. He wasn't actually related but you would never have been able to tell because he looked almost exactly like Sarah and he was just as much my brother as Thor was. My parents adopted him at the age of two, before I was born and the story was pretty twisted but we made it work.

James was originally the son of a rival crime family who was all but wiped out by Joseph's people. In any case, that left James without parents and Sarah refused to let him go into the foster care system so they adopted him on the spot. He wasn't given a chance to take over the reins since he wasn't technically family but he was happy to be a part of what we built.

The Rogers's were known as the toughest pieces of shit this side of Sicily and no one messed with us. Of course before we got to be top dogs, we had to beat everyone else down. The Irish, the blacks, the Japanese, Chinese, Colombians, Russians, Spanish, Brazilians. Basically we owned the Eastern seaboard and it crept into the Mid-West.

We had syndicates in London, New York, Miami, Tokyo, LA, Seattle, Hong Kong, Moscow and Puerto Rico but Chicago was home base.

We dealt in everything from drugs to illegal exports but the Rogers specialty was guns. I knew my way around a Colt .45 by the time I was four and could handle the kickback myself at the age of five. Although all three sons went to school for business, Joseph made sure we could handle any situation on the streets and taught us how to use a gun before we could walk.

Diamonds, cocaine and money were always going through our mafia connections, but the one thing we never touched was humans. Joseph wouldn't even entertain the idea of selling another person for money even though many of the other crime families dealt in it heavily.

Under him, my father probably had about two thousand people working all over the world. It was hard to keep track of them all and some say a mob family should be a small family or it will never work but no one stayed around very long if they weren't doing their jobs.

In the immediate family, there were about ten who made the decisions, starting with my father then moving to me, then Thor, then James.

We were a tight knit group that valued loyalty and secrecy above all else. If you didn't comply by the rules, well... use your imagination. We Rogers men were known for being creative.

"Steve, I mean it. Pay attention." My mother hit my knee again.

"I am." I groaned, but my thoughts couldn't have been further from the Lord.

Thor and James snickered from beside me.

"Pussies." I whispered under my breath.

"Dipshit." Thor shot back.

"Boys, I will not have that language in church. We're all going to confession before we leave." Sarah interrupted our fighting.

"Come on Ma, that priest is a fucking boy toucher. I can't even look at him." James shuddered.

"He doesn't do that kind of thing. Father O'Malley is well respected and you better be listening." She pointed at all three of us.

Joseph just shook his head with a smirk.

It was funny, actually laughable to see the Rogers's in church but it wasn't an option not to be, Nicola made sure of that. He said that the less inconspicuous you were, the less the Feds were on your tail so that was why we did "normal shit", as I called it. The weekdays were for the mob and the weekends were for the family.

Every Saturday, Sarah hosted a huge dinner at the house and we all ate with the entire family, which included about forty people. Some of them were blood related and others not but they were all considered family by Sarah. Sunday was church and then we would all get in the cars, headed towards the Rosehill Cemetery to change the flowers on Sarah's father's grave, no matter what the weather. After that, it was usually relaxing until we were back to hard drugs, money, and guns on Monday.

Of course, just because we were leaders of the mafia didn't mean that we didn't have legitimate businesses. Thor, James and I all went to Harvard for undergrad and Dartmouth for our MBAs, which our father insisted we have if we planned on going into his line of work. He never pushed us to join the family but it was common knowledge that we were all going to follow him.

In addition to our crime life, we all had a normal life as well.

I was in real estate, not for anyone but myself. I owned three high rises in Chicago and numerous other ones around the country. My brothers lived with me in one of them and we basically tore the place apart with our frat boy antics. I owned the penthouse obviously but Thor and James lived in the floors below.

James owned three clubs and some restaurants around the city that had basically become places of worship for young tourists and socialites. Thor and my father were the real businessmen. According to anyone not in the know, Joseph was a hedge fund manager.

"So congregation, I urge you to do something good for the week. Be nice to someone, do a good deed." Father ended his sermon, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

"Amen." The collective voice of over six hundred spoke.

"The Lord be with you."

"And also with you." We finally concluded.

I had never missed a Sunday of church but that was only because of Sarah. I would love to sleep in or go work out during the hour of eight o'clock mass but she wouldn't hear of it. Whatever my mother wanted, she got. She was the sweetest woman on this planet, living in a world ruled by men who dominated chaos. She was also the only woman I ever loved and probably the only woman I would ever love.

I didn't do love. That was for pussy whipped suckers who had nothing better to do. I didn't do relationships either. Never did, never will. The only one who had someone steady was Thor with his fuck hot girlfriend of a couple years, Jane Foster.

She used to work as Joseph's secretary and everyone knew that she and Thor liked each other but they beat around the bush for awhile. That was the difference between Thor and me. I took what I wanted, no matter what. If I wanted Jane, then I would have had her... and I did. Multiple times.

Of course that was before her and Thor got together and I didn't think he knew about all of that so we were going to keep it under wraps. It was just sex anyway, just like with every other girl I had met.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" James stretched from his seat.

"I wish you boys would take a day off." Sarah said and hooked her arm around my father's.

"No time, Ma. We have things to do." Thor cracked his knuckles. Jane flicked her long, blonde hair behind her shoulder and I saw some of the teenagers in the pews behind us sneak a peek. They immediately straightened out once Thor shot them a glare.

"Well, we have to put some flowers on your Grandfather's grave and then you're all free." She said, "Just make sure you're at the house for dinner."

Sarah tried to get to my hair but I stopped her, "Ma, really? I'm a twenty-five year old man."

"I was just trying to help you out with your hair. I know how you hate it when it's out of place."

"Sorry, I was rushing this morning." I said as I ran my hands through it, making sure that everything was perfect. The family began walking through the crowds that were leaving. We slowly strolled through the church, towards the exit.

"Yeah, he was out with me last night." James hit my shoulder and I cringed from the touch. I didn't like people having their hands on me.

If the people in this church knew what James and I were doing last night, the whole place would burn down. I crossed myself for good measure, just in case and then did it again because odd numbers were a no go in my book.

"I don't know why you boys can't just sit at home once and awhile. Read or take a nice walk." Sarah said sweetly.

"Really, with the way they act?" Jane laughed as we stepped into the sunlight of early September. The blistering Chicago heat was oppressive but nothing that would keep us indoors. We all put on our sunglasses.

"Feds, three o'clock." James nodded to a black town car that was waiting down the street from the church. There were two fat ass cops, sitting, waiting, trying to be stealthy.

"When are they going to give up?" Joseph shook his head and helped Sarah down the stone steps of the church, "It's really getting pathetic."

"Well, if you were a legitimate businessman, they wouldn't be there." Sarah whispered.

My mother knew the horrible things her family was capable of and what we did but she tried to stay out of it. She never liked talking about industry stuff and rarely gave any input on situations that weren't legal.

"I still don't understand why they don't go home. I'm sure they have families to go to." Jane actually waved to them sarcastically. She could be a bitch when she wanted to be and we were all kind of scared of her.

"Let's go before you invite them to dinner." Thor pulled her down State Street where our cars were waiting in a discrete parking lot.

"Uh...son, I need to speak with you." Joseph clapped my shoulder, "Why don't we take a walk." He suggested like it was an option.

"Sure." I replied, "Let me put my coat up." I unbuttoned the coat of my navy blue pin-striped suit and shrugged out of it.

I left them standing, talking while I ran over to my baby.

My matte black Lamborghini Aventador was my pride and joy, bought right after I graduated from Dartmouth. I would literally kill for this car. I unlocked the driver's side, butterfly door and put my coat behind it, folding it neatly like a delicate flower.

I didn't like creases and I didn't feel like dealing with the jacket later, tackling it with an iron.

I rolled up the sleeves to my white button down and made sure my hair was straight in the window before going back over to Joseph who was standing alone.

My mother was going with Thor and Jane while James was going to do God knows what with the rest of his day. I hoped they didn't forget that we had work to do later.

"What's this all about?" I asked and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

"Just keep walking." He said from beside me as we moved down State Street and over to Madison.

The heat was sweltering but I didn't sweat. I never sweat. I had trained myself to keep that under control.

There were a whole lot of people walking around us and even though they didn't' know my father and I, they felt to stay away. We gave off that kind of vibe.

Joseph and I had a weird relationship that was strained due to work but when we were relaxed, I got the old Joseph that I grew up with. He was loving and warm but there was little to no place for that in the crime world. When he was in business mode, you knew it.

He and I moved casually yet with a purpose. I didn't really know where we were going but at this point, I didn't question him. We walked to an ice cream vendor who was serving a group of kids.

"Two vanilla." Joseph pulled out his wallet. I cringed because I really didn't want to eat anything messy right now but if my father wanted me to shove ice cream up my ass, then I would have shoved ice cream up my ass. That's how everyone was with him.

"That will be five-fifty, sir." The man said with a thick accent that I detected was Polish.

"Wow, pretty steep for ice cream." Joseph chuckled heartily.

"I know but got to feed the family." The vendor said shyly, handing us our frozen treats.

"Keep the change." My father paid with a five hundred dollar bill.

We left while the ice cream man was staring, stunned at the money in his hand.

"That was nice." I said as I took a long lick of my cone, trying to get the moisture that was about to dribble onto my hand.

"I'll find out who he is, pay for his rent or something." My father replied.

"What's with all this? Am I in trouble?" I asked, slightly nervous but masking it well.

"Just keep eating. There's a big man, Thor's size, following us on the other side of the street. Don't look." My father snapped as I turned my head, "He's dark skinned, short black hair. You'll get a look once we sit up here on the bench."

I kept eating, per my father's command and didn't lift my head. The only thing that was taking my mind off of the man behind us was the glances of some pretty hot chicks who were eyeing me up and down a couple yards ahead.

I kept licking my ice cream, making sure they saw that I could use my tongue and was glad that they couldn't see my eyes behind my sunglasses because I would probably have been arrested for sexual harassment without even touching them.

"Steve, pay attention." My father brought my mind back, "Sit." He pointed to a bench in front of us, in a small park. There was a windy breeze that was flowing in the trees above and I enjoyed looking at the hustle of Chicago during this time of day.

This was my city.

We both sat down and I noticed precisely who Joseph was mentioning before.

"Derek Morgan?" I asked, knowing exactly who he was, an arch enemy of sorts.

"Keep eating. They can't read our lips." Joseph said, "He's a smart whippersnapper that's been on the force for a couple of years. He's been tracking us for a while but of course..."

"We're too good." I gloated.

"Don't get a big head, Steve. Being conceited never did anything positive for anyone."

"Sorry, sir." I shut my mouth, "Continue."

"He's going to be keeping a close eye on us for the next couple of months."

"Why? What's different now?" I already knew the answer to that. The truth was, I needed a challenge and Black provided that for me.

I knew something must have happened for us to be getting a more constant police detail though.

"Who did the Langer job? I told you to keep it quiet and only the husband." He got angry under his breath, "Then I find out that his wife was killed too and the evidence was everywhere. There was too much blood..."

"Uh...I handled that."

"Steve, get yourself together." Joseph said sternly, "We've been very lucky in the past but things won't be so easy if you keep messing up. I don't have time for mistakes."

"Sorry sir."

"How long?" He asked simply and to anyone else, they would have been so confused by our conversation but I knew his meaning well.

"One second." I replied and hung my head.

"It takes one second to say 'I'm sorry'." He repeated like he had since I was a child, "It takes that amount of time to cock a gun. You could be dead by the time you utter the words." He said calmly.

Since my childhood, he had always taught us that 'I'm sorry' was a phrase only to be used in the most dire of circumstances because I could be dead before I had the chance to say the words.

"Don't apologize to me." He crossed his right leg over his left, looking the picture perfect definition of calm.

"I wasn't thinking."

"It's no problem. I have everything under control but I just wanted to make you aware of our new tag-along." My father finished his ice cream.

"I know. Did you clean the mess up?"

"Yes, someone took the fall for a robbery. Apparently, a painting was stolen or something like that. The case is closed and was sealed off. Morgan is trying to get it back opened as a murder but the brass won't hear it. They're too busy trying to raise their arrest numbers to spend time working out a murder." He stalled, "The point of the matter is, I expected more from you. I can't keep cleaning up the mess you boys leave behind. I don't have time."

"I'll do better."

We stayed silent for a long minute as the breeze picked up. Just by smelling the air, I could predict a storm coming off of the Lakes and it would probably be here by nightfall.

I looked across the street and saw Morgan reading a magazine at a kiosk, plain as day. I couldn't help the crooked grin that was plastered on my face. Morgan and I had played cat and mouse for the past three years and he had yet to catch up to me.

The Langer's were just a small piece of the evil things that went down in the Rogers clan. By now, it wasn't an issue for me to walk into a roomful and just start unloading led into anyone who crossed me.

Martin was my target. He used to be my father's accountant or one of them at least and when I went over the books last month like I did every month, I found some discrepancies. There was about two million missing from an offshore account in Jamaica that my father kept as part of his drug running in the Caribbean. The money just vanished and that was something I wasn't putting up with.

I questioned Langer, he had nothing to say, and I let him go. Coincidentally, a very nice villa in Greece that cost two million dollars, sprung up in his name. I went over to punish him. I didn't get played, the money wasn't even a serious issue but no one made a fool of me.

His wife was just a casualty. She wasn't supposed to be home but since she was, she had to bear the burden of her husband's cross. I wasn't leaving any witnesses.

The blood was my own little touch.

It was a message. I knew that Morgan would be handling the case but wouldn't get anywhere with it... just like it always was with these things. I actually painted that shit over the room like I was Jackson fucking Pollock, flinging it over the walls, on the bed sheets, on the carpet. It was actually fun and I didn't usually do fun.

I was just trying to liven up the dry, boring affair that Morgan and I were having. He was so thick and stupid. He thought he was some hot shot over there at the Department but if he was really someone, he would have caught onto us years ago. No one ever did and no one ever would.

"He won't be a problem." I leaned back matter-of-factually.

"No. We're too smart for him."

I laughed, "I thought that being conceded was a negative trait."

"For you. I've earned it." My father grinned at me, "Let's get going. Sarah would kill me if we were late to the cemetery."

After an hour of driving and placing flowers on the grave of a grandfather I never met, I was free until I had to be home for dinner.

I decided to take a drive and let my Lamborghini stretch her legs.

I took Highway 61, past the University of Chicago and then the yuppies of Northwestern as I blasted out of the city. The tall trees surrounded me on all sides as I took the road at 150 mph. I had a proclivity for fast cars, hot women and dangerous situations.

That was who I was. Steve Rogers. No muss, no fuss.

Frankly, I was a monster, a vampire, a killer and I loved it. I was a torturer and a murderer, wrapped in two thousand dollar suits on top of five thousand dollar shoes. I lived off of cocaine and hard liquor although I wasn't addicted to any of the shit that I pumped through my body. I had limits when it came to drugs and mostly stuck to coke that came through our dealings but that wasn't to say I wasn't up for trying new things. I got pussy whenever I wanted and I didn't even try to act like I sought any kind of relationship with someone.

I had a few good qualities but they were mostly outshined by the bad.

I was possessive, jealousy ran through my veins, hatred lived behind my eyes, I had the temper of a bull and little patience for slow movers or people who didn't do what I told them. I had to be in control at all times and didn't take orders from anyone besides my mother or father.

I didn't have time to cultivate relationships or friendships because that was beneath me. Who cared if I didn't have friends? It was better to be feared than loved and that was the motto I lived by.

I wasn't even paying attention as I passed a fucking minivan on the highway and felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

"Rogers." I answered.

"Yo, yo bro!" Thor replied, " I just dropped Ma and Jane off at the house. When are we going to finish this thing? I don't have time after dinner."

I made a completely illegal and badass turn on the road, into the other lane, "I'm heading back into the city now. I'll meet you at the warehouse in half an hour?"

"Sure thing. I'll get Buck."

I ended the call without any sentimental conclusion and picked up speed as I headed back to Chicago.

I popped the bottom floor board of the Lamborghini in the passenger's seat and dug through until I found my second baby.

I pulled out the sterling silver, ivory handled, Desert Eagle that fit perfectly in my hands and had nearly molded itself to my body. This was my special gun, the one I used when I wanted to finish a job while showing off a little. It didn't have a silencer and wasn't a stylish assassin type gun although I used those as well, but my Desert Eagle was my go-to weapon. I had an identical one that was gold platted at home but I rarely used that. That one required a special occasion.

I set the gun in my lap and thumped my fingers on the steering wheel as I headed to the city and weaved through the early morning traffic.

I arrived at the south end of the city in no time. The wharf was huge and the place where all the big barges came into the city. There were warehouses and loading docks everywhere but the noise provided a great shield for the business that we were in. Joseph basically owned everything down here anyway so we could use this place to our advantage.

I kept up a constant speed as I pulled next to Thor's Mercedes SL65 that he and James were leaning against.

I stepped out of the car and my Italian loafers made a soft noise in the puddle at my feet.

"Shit." I muttered and tried to shake the dirty water off. I twisted my neck as the uneasiness of dirt seeped into my skin. I breathed deeply and didn't let the feeling overtake me.

"Can you slow down? My car is too precious to get damaged." Thor ran his hand along the slick, silver paint.

"Yeah, yeah." I huffed, "Let's get this over with. It's about to storm like a beast." I looked up to the sky where dark swirling clouds were rumbling above.

"What are we doing here again?" James muttered as we side-stepped puddles, going into the furthest warehouse on the left side near the edge of the water.

Thor pulled out his phone and scrolled through some information, "I think Dad wants us to question this dude about the dealings in Miami."

"He heads everything down there?" I opened the metal door.

"No, he's just a low level guy but he's shady as shit. Dad doesn't trust him. He thinks he's a cop or something."

"And what are we supposed to do?" James shrugged, "Let him stay undercover for all I care."

"We can't do that." Thor sighed, "He would know too much. We have to finish this."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the alarms were going off. 'You can't kill a cop, Steve!', but I pushed those thoughts out. I had done it before. Killing was like second nature to me. I already knew I was going to hell, no need to mention it again.

I shoved the Desert Eagle down my belt in the back after checking my bullet supply. I was good to go.

We silently walked into the warehouse that was practically empty except for a couple of crates pushed up against the far walls, some kind of plywood that was stacked high to the ceiling, a chair in the middle of the vacant space and a trembling man of about thirty sitting in it. There were no windows and only the front door. A soft light was on but didn't provide much to see with.

"Let's get dirty." I muttered and regretted my words but I knew I would be alright. Killing was the only thing I didn't mind getting dirty with. I loved blood as long as it was pouring from someone else.

We all approached the man casually, fanning out so that we looked incredibly scary.

Thor and James took off their jackets, flinging them over a crate before rolling up their sleeves.

I circled my prey like a vulture and took him in, assessing the situation.

He was a man with some meat on his bones who looked like he could be a challenge if I was someone weaker. His head was bowed and his hands were tied behind the chair in a thick rope. I saw the red marks on his wrists, signaling to me that he had tried on more than one occasion to get out of them. He was breathing heavily but I knew that was from his position in the chair, which was very painful.

He was shorter than I was, I could already see that even with him being seated and had nothing on but a pair of boxers. He was wet with sweat and water. I guess my father had already sent someone over to soften him up.

"What's your name?" I said from behind him, coolly and calmly.

"Markos." His accent was strong.

"Where are you from?" My tone was sharp and deadly.

"Croatia."

James, Thor and I silently looked at each other, our words went through our minds without leaving our mouths.

He's not a Fed. He's Eastern European mob shit.

"Who do you work for?"

"No one."

It happened so fast, I wouldn't have known anything was going on if Markos hadn't let out a yelp of pain that echoed off of the empty walls.

Thor slammed a piece of plywood across Markos' thighs, causing a loud sound to ricochet around us. The wood splintered down the middle from force but didn't crack completely.

"Damn, I wanted to see if I could break his femur." Thor pouted childishly, "I guess we need a stronger piece of wood." He went off to the stack near the door and spent a couple of seconds appraising the selection.

"I'll ask you again, who do you work for?" I circled until I was an arm's length in front of him, creating more dramatic effect.

That was all this job was about, drama. I could kill him right now if I wanted. No harm done.

"No one." Markos' teeth were gritted.

I swiftly removed the Eagle from behind me and blew a hole the size of a grapefruit in his left knee. With precision, the bullet ripped through the bone, causing blood and muscle matter to spray my shirt but I didn't flinch.

I retracted my arm, letting it fall gingerly at my side with the gun still in full view.

He let out a string of curse words and I could smell the salt from his tears as they left his eyes.

"Okay, okay." Marcos squirmed and I could see the tears falling from his face. His entire left leg would have to be amputated if he lived through this, "His name is Sergio. He's Russian and sent me to infiltrate."

I blew another hole through his left shin in two seconds. His screams were enough to almost deafen me but they were masked by the loud blow horns and sea birds outside. There was no need for a silencer. No one would hear us.

"You gave up too easily." I wiped some blood from the barrel, "If I was your mob boss, you would have already been dead for revealing that information. You didn't even put up a fight."

"I've been locked in here for a week. I haven't eaten and someone comes in every hour to beat the hell out of me until I talk. I don't have any fight left in me!"

"Pity." James said under his breath.

"There's no winning with you guys, is there?" Markos sobbed pathetically. I just rolled my eyes.

James united Markos from his bindings at my request and he fell to the ground in a pool of blood that was seeping from his leg.

"I want to know everything you took from us." James sat in the chair with his arms crossed.

"Nothing, I swear. I've only been in for a couple of months."

"You're stupid and lazy. You got caught because you were stealing the shipments out of Miami. Where were you sending them?" Thor asked coldly, all pretenses were gone from his voice. A business Thor could be very scary.

"Russia. Sergio wants to take you down. Everyone does." The accent was making it hard to understand him and along with the heavy panting, I knew we weren't going to get much more out of our good friend Markos.

"How much did you take?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Just a couple kilos of coke..." He didn't have time to finish his sentence before I put a bullet straight through his forehead. His neck jerked back violently from the force of the led that was ripping through his brain and came out the other end.

Blood flew like a gusher from the large wound out of the back and was now everywhere but somehow, Thor and James were clean.

"I have to change now before dinner." I chastised myself, not caring that a man was just obliterated by my own hand.

"You're always the messy one. It's embarrassing." James slapped his knee, "Look at me, pristine as can be." He held up his arms.

I flung some blood that was on my gun across his shirt, causing it to stain a deep red.

Thor was rolling with laughter so I got him too, which shut him up.

"Goddamn it, Steve. Jane can't get blood out of cotton and this was her favorite one on me."

"You are such a little bitch." I snickered.

He hit me in the shoulder with a piece of wood, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to leave a mark.

"I guess we've got to deal with this piece of shit." James sighed and pointed to Markos.

"We'll have the new guys dump him in the river." Thor patted his stomach, "Right now, I'm starving."

He grabbed his jacket before bounding out of the warehouse. James followed and I was the last one out.

I stuffed my gun back in my belt and shut the heavy metal door with a clang.

This was my life. Take it or leave it.