#bronze box gutters

[welovedoll]

Tampa Mediterranean Exterior An illustration of a sizable, two-story, stucco house with a hip roof and a tile roof.

[honourablejester]

PF2e Alkenstar Character Concepts

Not the AP necessarily, just characters knocking around the city and its environs. I’ve been watching a youtube channel called Mythkeeper who goes into the lore of Golarion, and he recently had a regional deep dive on Alkenstar and the Mana Wastes. I’m loving the simultaneous noir, western, steampunk and fantasy vibes here. So. Some Alkenstari concepts:

Elda Willwright, dwarven gutter press journalist (printer background, investigator class, might also take the archaeologist archetype, in the sense of ‘digging up dirt’). Strongly built around the Society and Thievery skills, she has her fingers in a lot of pies and a lot of post boxes, and keeps particular tabs on gruesome murders around the city. For her readership, of course.

Ingra Darkrend, tiefling/dwarven back alley doctor and gunslinger. Re-using one of my first PF2e character concepts, but she fits really well, with just a little tweaking of her background to fit better into Alkenstar specifically. She works a lot in the Ironside Quarter and the Undercity, defiantly providing medical help to mutants and other undesirables. Will likely take the medic archetype along the way.

Lydie Low, fleshwarp back alley teacher (teacher background, rogue class). One of the aforementioned undesirables, Lydie was a respected instructor back in the day, but a mana storm mishap put an end to that. Now a resident of the Undercity, she knows she’ll never regain the respect her education once brought her, but other people might. She runs hidden classes to try to give urchins, street toughs and whoever else wants them their basics of reading, writing and mathematics.

Thoughtful Claw, gnoll inventor with the saved by clockwork background. Mostly I wanted a bespectacled gnoll, but ‘work smarter not harder’ is a listed gnoll ideal, so inventor actually fits quite nicely. I feel like she got dragged in out of the desert missing a limb, and got herself a shiny clockwork replacement, and just got enchanted by the idea. Clockwork. Just fell head over heels. I’m also curious how that works with gnoll ancestor worship and bone recycling. Would your grandmother’s bronze clockwork prosthetic punching arm be a suitable vehicle of ancestor veneration?

Jessie Screwlark, human street urchin swashbuckler. Specifically the braggart swashbuckler. One of the many urchins from Hellside who spent their lives scrambling around the cliffside shanty town, Jessie is a scrappy, pugnacious little teenage hellion who’s bound and determined that she’s gonna be an Observer one day and fly dirigibles for the city. She’s got big dreams, and she talks to match.

Essaru/’Essi’, Iruxi wandering snake oil saleswoman and thaumaturge (charlatan background). A tough and breezily practical wanderer of the Spellscar desert who drifts into town every so often, Essi deals in little magics, both real and entirely false. There’s a fool born ever minute, and she sure can pick ‘em. And hey, sometimes the tinctures and talismans she sells are the real deal. Just for a change of pace on occasion. Or if she likes you.

I’m trying really hard not to make them all dwarves. But. I also love both gnolls and lizardfolk, and I adore fleshwarps, so the Mana Wastes and their small mutation problem is a fantastic excuse to make some. And I’ll throw in a human too, just because they’re a lot of the population of the city. Class-wise, because of the whole ‘unstable magic’ thing, I have largely erred away from spellcasters, which is fine, because I’m liking the western vibe. This is such a fun setting!

[nitewrighter]

Jury-Rig

This is the sort of "Sajaf Recruitment" fic--mostly it came from a setting and dialogue that was bouncing in my head and refused to let me write anything else.

----

Even with his head lowered under its hood, Ramattra towered over virtually everyone else in the street. It was pouring rain in the late afternoon, the early summer day turned dark and muggy. He was glad to get out of Shimla's main streets and into the twisting alleyways, fewer eyes on him. Big omnics weren't that unusual, in fact he was impressed to see some major agricultural labor units around the city and in his travels, but a Ravager unit elicited more... polarizing reactions.

He was heading uphill. Fire escapes forced the already heavy rain to coagulate into even fatter drops, and gutters on both sides of the alley were turned into miniature rushing rivers roaring into storm drains or flooding against dams of litter, leaves, and other debris. Shimla had been more fortunate than most during the Crisis, for better or worse--it still had many of the buildings from colonial era. A couple rushed past him, human and omnic, the male human holding up his jacket as a sort of umbrella for them both as they giggled and jog-walked down the alley together, nearly slipping in all the rain. So, he was getting close.

A few turns later he found himself in front of a little shop crammed between two much-larger buildings. The front of the shop was in Hindi, and translated to 'The Body Divine.' and featured a yellow neon representation of an Omnic posing like Botticelli's Venus, flanked by neon pink lotus flowers. Another omnic, this one alone, wearing a long coat quickly paced out of the front of the shop and nearly bumped into him, not even making eye contact as he quickly paced around Ramattra. Ramattra watched as the omnic hurried down the street, stiff and quick, as if it was carrying some kind of contraband. A disapproving "hm," escaped him before he finally stepped into the shop and out of the rain.

He heard the chime of tingsha as he opened the door and he looked around. The setup of the shop was very similar to a human tattoo parlor, with a waiting area up front and multiple reclining chairs and operating tables behind a counter towards the back. The wall was covered in various omnic and human prosthetic limbs, as well as posters in multiple languages including Omnicode that displayed messages like 'Tac-Mods: At Home Care and Maintenance,' and varying complex diagrams. Ramattra's eyes fell on a small brochure display presenting a bunch of pamphlets in multiple languages. The brochures were bright yellow, featured the human safety warning symbol of a human hand caught in mechanical gears, and were titled 'Human-Omnic Intimacy and You' in Hindi, English, Chinese, and Omnicode.

"Did you have an appointment?" a voice spoke up in clumsy Hindi and Ramattra's head jerked up. Well, it didn't have to jerk up too far. They weren't looking at him, just moving around the back of the shop, apparently busying themselves with moving some boxes of supplies around, clearly cleaning up and getting ready to close up for the day.

Sajaf's face was completely covered by a goggled face mask and respirator, cutting off their peripheral vision. They were wearing baggy olive green bib cargo overalls over a paisley halter wrap top. Their lean, goldish-tan arms and their bronze plating were supporting a large box as they ambled about the operating area, not looking at him. Their shaved head was growing out--between the stages of peach fuzz and those short feathery strands like a few-weeks-old bird chick. Ramattra loomed a bit awkwardly in the shop's waiting area, saying nothing. In truth, so much of his mind had been occupied by the losses in London and how he was going to proceed with so many of his willing allies gone, that he hadn't thought of what he was going to say at all.

"I don't take walk-ins," they continued in that same clumsy Hindi, grabbing a few things from the operating tables and putting them in their box, "And we're closing up for the day. If you have a referral I can--" They finally looked at him and the box dropped from their hands with a loud clatter and the sound of more than one thing breaking. "R-Rinpoche?"

Ramattra attempted to assume as commanding a posture as possible while tamping down the embarrassment that he was the one coming to them. "Wan," he said flatly.

They hustled forward, practically vaulting over the counter that served to divide the waiting area from the operating area, yanking off their goggled mask in the process to stare up at him. Their face had gotten thinner, and Ramattra noted the new lines of prosthetics in their arms. Here is walking proof that Mondatta doesn't have nearly the influence he thinks he has, Ramattra thought, looking at their jointed fingers.

"I hadn't heard anything of the movement since London--I was scared--" Sajaf started, still moving towards him.

"You didn't hear anything of the movement because you are not in the movement," Ramattra said crisply.

They stopped short as if there was an invisible wall several feet in front of him. Their hands were still tensed in front of them. "Right..." they said, "...of course."

A long pause passed between the two of them.

"I'm sorry," they said at last, "About Lanet."

Ramattra's hand clenched in a fist at his side. "They showed her mangled body in the newspapers--they don't recognize our bodies as bodies. We are merely wreckage and parts to them, to you."

"Not to me--" Sajaf glanced up and trailed their fingers along the palm of an omnic arm hanging from the wall, "Never to me."

"What is all this?" Ramattra meant to ask the question as mocking derision, but Sajaf just smiled a little.

"There's more than one avenue to peace between humans and omnics," they said smugly.

"Selling narcotics that double as a pathetic imitation of human intimacy isn't a lasting plan for change," muttered Ramattra, looking at the poster.

"Tac mods aren't narcotics."

"They hijack omnic systems to create a pleasure or pain response. How is that different from human narcotics?"

"Oh Iris forbid an Omnic see their body as anything beyond a central processing unit!"

"Why don't you just make breasts and genitalia for us while you're at it?"

"Oh I don't make the tits," said Sajaf with a laugh in their voice, "You want tits? I can call up my contact in Kolkata. A dick though, you'll have better luck in Toronto."

"Ridiculous..." muttered Ramattra.

"Hey, I don't know how to tell you this, but not every Omnic decided to steer their sentience towards enlightenment," Sajaf shrugged, "Besides, it's decent money. Keeps me up to date on what's happening on a community level. Discreet enough that I have time for more research..."

Ramattra glanced around the shop. "So... this is what you have been doing since Mondatta dismissed you?"

"He didn't dismiss me, I left," said Sajaf, folding their arms.

"He requested you leave, and you assented," said Ramattra.

"Rinpoche, I know you're in a lot of pain right now, but I imagine you have better things to do than to track down and argue semantics with someone you haven't spoken to in two years, and didn't want in the Shambali, let alone your movement."

"It's not semantics if you--!" Ramattra started and then dragged his hand down his faceplate with an exhausted sound, "You... are correct. That is not the purpose of my visit."

"How can I help you?" they pocketed their hands.

A prickle of frustration rippled through Ramattra. They were really going to force him to say it, weren't they?

"In light of... London, I realize I have to reassess my approach. It would seem... Omnics... have been too conditioned to a human-centric existence. They don't realize that so long as they comply with a human idea of peace, they are doomed to exist only at humanity's whim, and will inevitably be wiped out."

"...who left?" Sajaf was staring at him steadily.

Oh this was worse than forcing him to say it.

"Nameless," he said "And Zera."

"Kace?"

"Still in London."

"He's a liability."

"Do you think I'm in a position to make this circle smaller?" Ramattra snapped.

Sajaf's lips thinned. "I'm sorry. It... must have been very difficult. Especially after Lanet."

"What's difficult is the fact that Mondatta is using London to leverage his own position with the humans," he said, not looking at them.

"I saw," said Sajaf. They did not remark further.

You still have to say it, Ramattra thought miserably.

"Lanet... warned me that the drones I was using in London were obsolete," he said, "That they weren't ready. She knew, even before the attack was launched. I should have listened to her. I understand that before your dismissal--"

"Before I left," Sajaf corrected.

"Before you left the Shambali," said Ramattra with a head movement that indicated a hard eye-roll, "In your research of Aurora you gained... a very strong understanding in inter-omnic unit automated communication. You... believed that our being a network was a major key to our sentience."

"It's not just belief," Sajaf muttered.

"I still intend to use drones to protect my people, but much of the technology I'm working with has been dormant for over 30 years. And in that time our enemies have had plenty of time to evolve. If I'm to make it any match for the threat my people face, then I..." he trailed off. He attempted to regain footing in his sentence, "It would seem I--" he cut himself off again.

Sajaf tilted their head expectantly. Rain was pattering on the window outside.

"I--I require..." Ramattra attempted to start again and his voice dropped back into that pit of embarrassment and shame. He suddenly switched gears. "If you have any of the devotion to my people and the Iris that you ranted about in your acolyte days, you would---!" They were still looking at him with that tranquil obstinacy. He drew himself up to his full height and attempted to re-center himself. "I am... very tired," he said at last, "I fear for my people. I fear for my cause. And what few resources I have are in need of significant overhauls which I... cannot do alone. And I realize, if I am going to do what is required of me to save my people, I will have need of both... perspective and loyalty."

They raised their eyebrows.

"...your... perspective. And loyalty," The words were at last drawn out of Ramattra like poison being sucked from a wound and spat off to the side, "If... you understand what the cause asks of you."

They stared at him for a few long seconds, studying him. Their mouth had an odd hitch to it, not quite a smile, not quite contemptuous. He simply returned the stare. Finally their shoulders slumped a little, they closed their eyes and drew in a long, quiet breath through the nostrils before flicking their eyes open and focusing them back up at him once more.

"You have my loyalty, Ramattra Rinpoche. You always did," Sajaf pressed their hands together in front of themselves and gave a slight bow of their head. How the gesture seemed so natural to them after all that impertinence was just as annoying as everything else about this exchange had been. "Perspective... I guess we'll have to take that one slow, won't we?"

"Hm," Ramattra glanced around the shop dubiously.

Sajaf paced past him and turned the sign of the shop from 'open' to 'closed.'

"So," they walked past him once more and pushed themselves up onto their counter, those doll-joined fingers rolling on the counter's edge as their eyes met his, "Where do we start?"

[bler234-blog]

Front door ideas for a perfect entrance

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You Can Try automatic door installation Orlando Services.

FRONT DOOR IDEAS

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Investigate your front entryway and give it a little lift with a late spring makeover. Attempt another lick of shading for a more sensational look, or maybe a grower or pots of blossoms on your means to add regular tone. 2. PAINT THE DOOR Start by investigating the general shade of your property – what material is it produced using and do you need it to coordinate with the window outlines? Attempt to pick a shade that suits the house – it can in any case be a solid decision however it needs to supplement instead of neutralize the dividers.

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A fundamental edge or Yale lock isn't sufficient, you will likewise require a 5 or even 7 switch mortice stop. The most grounded locks are made to British Standard 3621/80. These locks are frequently found on some front and secondary passages in the home. Some insurance agencies will require entryway locks to be fitted to this norm. 'Search for the Secured by Design logo,' says Amanda Garett. 'It shows security items satisfy the high guidelines of the police and protection industry.'

HOW CAN I MAKE MY FRONT DOOR LOOK NICE? Prudent lighting adds to the demeanor of temptation. Instead of glaring floodlights, architects presently layer customary sources like lamps with discrete downlights or little covered advance lights for a delicate shine.

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BEST COLOR FOR A FRONT DOOR The steadily growing range of outer paint tones and completes permits you to make boggling visual connections between the entryway and veneer. For customary country properties, delicate grays or greens can be repeated on window outlines or splashed on to guttering for across the board stylish; another ploy is to utilize quietly unique paint tones to connect entryways, grower or patios. Around, window edges and metalwork look pin-sharp when selected in profound dark to repeat entryways and joinery.

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Scale matters: one bigger part will have more punch than fiddlier fittings. While picking the complete the process of, lighting and entryway fittings expert Charles Edwards guides: 'The age of your home needn't direct the style of ironmongery: on the off chance that your inside is contemporary, a nickel or chrome finish will function admirably with period joinery. Similarly, a smooth country outside will be better supplemented by gentler antique tones like bronze or metal.

[writeanapocalae]

And the Door Opens

204860 | 204861 | 204862 | 204863

Warnings for body horror, demonic terminology, animal death, and insects

He woke up to a whispering murmur, something that he couldn’t quite understand, close to his ear yet sounding like it was in another room. He pulled away from the box and the sound went quieter. He looked at it, seeing how wet and collapsed it had become, the cardboard soaking in red.

The chair scraped against the cement floor and he stood, staring at the box. His hand was shaking as he reached for it, not wanting to know what was inside, needing to know what was inside now. But there was something already in his hand.

Black ooze had caked onto his hand and dried but it was, at least, dry now. It had turned into a sticky icky paste, having peeled off of whatever it had been hiding in the toilet drain. The item in his hand was now bronze, still a bit darkened by patches of the muck, but it was a familiar weight.

It was the mask of some old deity, with two spokes on either side of the back. It was the one from his childhood, the one that belonged on the door, two rods sticking out on the sides for the knocker to be inserted into.

He slipped it into his pocket. While it made him want to rush forward, attach it to the door, and see what it would do for him.

The box lurched towards him.

He reached for it again and this time, he peeled the top of it open. Inside of it, there was hair, so much hair, and it was plastered to the sides of the box, was tangled and sticking to the lid. In the middle of it, like a fat spider, was a mouth, which was repeating something, ad nauseum. The hair shifted, slipping down and away from a face. Flies and maggots were dancing in sunken eye sockets, the skin gray and putrid, both dried and tight and bloated in spacing, cheeks cracked and teeth yellowed.

“Zebraxis hillar jifranduos, se serjh ifenali, Hactus Berindus Maxillion. Finfodet alberis hillar Hactus.”

The room went cold, or perhaps, it was just him. The head kept speaking, kept repeating, the strange words twisting and blurring as they left the box. He took a step back, took another. He didn’t know what to do, what he was supposed to do with that information. The head looked so familiar not just as someone that he knew but someone that he knew well.

He backed up until he hit the door and then his hand was scrambling, feeling and finding the knob. He twisted it and pushed himself through but before the door swung closed behind him the voice changed, not in tone but in language and intensity. Now she was sobbing and rushing her words, trying to get to him, trying to warn him.

“Get out of here, my darling! Just run. I’ll be right behind you.”

The door was closed though, there was no going back, even though now he had a reason to turn, wanted to know what she was warning him of, who she was to him. There was another voice though, this one coming from the radio.

That wasn’t the first thing that he noticed though. On the table in the reading nook, visible from the door, was the clock and it read 00:00. It had never read anything other than 11:59 before.

“Alan himself was found dead in the garage, having carved the words of Xebrexis into his arms and bleeding out while locked in his car, a hose filling it with carbon monoxide,” the radio recited. “It took him almost ten minutes to die, giving him enough time to recite the words ‘Hactus Berindus Maxillion’ which have yet to be translated by our occult specialists.”

“Alan himself was found standing in the middle of the highway, burning the carcass of a deer which he’d carved the words of Xebrexis into it, closing off the road,” echoed the radio voice. “While the deer was burning he started to eat the remains, all of the while reciting the words ‘Hactus Berindus Maxillion’ which has been translated to the name of some demon.”

He turned the corner into the hall with the radio. At the end of it he saw her, the woman from before, swaying slightly in place. She was just beyond the door, between him and the way to the basement. He didn’t know if she would move or not, if she would allow him to get the knocker in place.

He didn’t know what the knocker would do.

The radio changed stations, a large record scratch going through it. For a moment it played the evangelical station but it was too staticky for the words to be understood before it went to the music station. It was playing some rock song he’d never heard before.

“Baby boy, baby brother, we’re losing you to the gutter.”

He dashed forward, slamming the knocker against the door, the spokes finding their slots and easing into it. The woman glitched and shuffled forward, dragging her feet as if she was standing on her tiptoes, chunks of her dripping out of the split in her stomach. She shook her head, as if to move the hair out of her face.

He slid the small curvature of metal into the holes on either side of the knocker and he picked up the hammer, swinging and hitting the wood of the door three times, precisely, the sound louder than the music, louder than the chewing of teeth coming from the woman, louder than his heartbeat.

The knob turned when he tried it, the door, finally unlocked, and he pushed his way out, through it, and into the world.

The door slammed behind him and everything was dark. For a moment. Then the world lit up in yellows and reds and there was smoke everywhere. The city was on fire, too much so for the rain to handle. It looked like the end.

@halfbloodlycan​

[dormouse-iii]

Organs of the Circus

Calliope is a very old name that would later belong to an instrument that wouldn’t exist for centuries after its creation. It was a beautifully crafted tool often used in entertainment mainly the Traveling Circus although originally meant to replace church bells. 

It’s very light and up beat sounding and is usually played on those speakers at either Disneyland, or the fair, or other huge theme parks. It was invented in the U.S in 1850 by A.S. Denny and later patented in 1855 by Joshua C. Stoddard. An article on Mechanical Music Digest quotes the Player Piano Treasury has a description of the instrument by Harvey Roehl.

“…The first instrument consisted of 15 whistles, of graduated sizes, attached in a row to the top of a small steam boiler. A long cylinder with pins of different shapes driven into it ran the length of the boiler. The pins were so arranged that when the cylinder revolved, they pressed the valves and blew the whistles in proper sequence. The different shapes enabled the operator to play notes of varying length. Later, Stoddard replaced the cylinder with a keyboard. Wires running from the keys to the valves enabled the operator to play the instrument like a piano.”

It was a large cylinder “clockwork music box” with large and usually bronze whistles coming from the top and upper panel into the lower panel where the boiler is. The first design used pins to push steam through the pipes to play different notes and keys; they were later replaced with a piano keyboard and wires instead with the frame becoming a more modern looking upright piano instead of a cylinder for playability. Some people called it the Steam Organ as some were often mounted to steam boats and looked like smaller organs that operated on steam. 

Some might confuse Calliopes with Fairground Organs (Sometimes called Band Organs) which are entirely separate. The main difference being that Fairground Organs never used steam and were always more mechanical and automatic. Those used in dance halls and ballrooms were dubbed “Dance Organs” which were quitter que to being played inside.

The Fairground Organ used either a crank similar to a music box or strips of data called music rolls in a music book. They were designed to be played without an actual performer and are keyboard less. For the most part electronic nowadays or completely replaced with standard speaker sound systems were a grand addition to the Fairgrounds themselves with their own Fair Organ Preservation Society. 

They were essentially large elegantly designed jukeboxes that sometimes came with animatronic puppet bands and other instruments like wooden whistles and xylophones for further entertainment making them rather large, the world’s largest being the Wurlitzer Model 164 Band Organ according to organ historian Stephen Bicknell. 

One of the most popular and decorative being The Moriter aka The Emperor which was almost as big as a pipe organ.

“The Mortier is a fascinating beast: where the fairground organ is tarty like a can-can girl the Mortier takes you straight into the world of Maigret and Edith Piaf.”

There are a few odd exceptions of the Fairground Organ’s punch card reading ability mixed with the keys and design of the Calliope. Although they are rare, some Calliopes used rolls too such as the CA-43 Tangley Calliaphone Calliope one of the last calliopes to be manufactured in the modern age that is even equipped with SD midi compatibility.

Named after the ancient Greek goddess of music and poetry, it was often held on a pedestal just as high as a tribute to her. The Chief of Muses, Calliope, (also spelled Kalliope) goddesses of music, song, and dance whose name means “beautiful voice”. 

She is the daughter of Zeus and the Titan goddess Mnemosyne being the oldest of the younger muses as well as the wisest and most assertive sister making her the leader. She is often referred to as The Muse of Epic Poetry, normally depicted with a tablet or scroll in hand. 

Calliope was also the goddess of eloquence and would appear before mortal kings as they were infants to glaze their lips in honey. This was so that whenever they spoke, their voice and words would be almost as beautiful as hers. 

Greek myths tell stories of her marriage Thracian king Oeagrus and their wedding in Pimpleia given them their children; Orpheus and Linus. Orpheus was and heroic bard in most Greek mythology, and his brother Linus the creator of rhythm and melody.

Of course no beauty comes without flaws. You see, the ancient Greeks would spell Calliope’s name two ways; C-A-L-L-I-O-P-E and K-A-L-I-O-P-E (sometimes spelled with two l’s) this created a split in musical communities about how it should be spelled and pronounced.

·         Kal-e-ohp

·         Kal-e-ohp-ee

·         K-all-e-ohp

·         K-all-e-ohp-ee

           Or even the Calliaphone as suggested by Norman Baker, one of the world’s last Calliope builders.

“Reedy's Mirror” a magazine or paper company that’s name was later changed to “The Mirror” in its revival in the 1920s tried to settle the pronunciation debate with a section from poem that spelled it in a very rare fashion and pronounced them both ways. 

It was called “The Kallyope Yell” (Spelled K-A-L-L-Y-O-P-E) and is a poem written by Vachel Lindsay in November of 1913. Vachel was a very famous poet for his time with his first book ‘Where Is Aladdin’s Lamp’ in 1904. Despite his parents hostility towards his work he still made many a classic poem.

I am the Gutter Dream,

Tune-maker, born of steam,

Tooting joy, tooting hope.

I am the Kallyope,

Car called the Kallyope.

Willy willy willy wah hoo!

Although it was an almost magically constructed machine it was often difficult to maintain. The older generation of Calliopes, widely known as steam organs, were very difficult to maintain due to the issues with moisture and travel. A Calliope player would have to clean and polish each part before and after a performance, god forbid it rains. 

Eventually a newer generation of Calliopes were made to accommodate the nomad lifestyle of the instrument. First, the new age were called Air Calliopes as the name suggests these Calliopes used compressed air as opposed to steam. These were more portable as well as easier to maintain and durable however, no new technology is flawless.

While yes, the Air Calliope was far easier to set up, move, and fix; they were far quieter. Older generation Calliopes and Fairground Organs could be heard miles away all around the midway, from the boardwalk to the forest. These newer ones were not only quieter but also mostly run on either helium or gas both of which were more costly than the old boiler was; both were very costly at the time and even more so now. The few Fairground Organs and Calliopes that survived years of war, transport, tear, and wear are both expensive and delicate.

What used to be a staple of entertainment and fun is as ghostly as the wail the organ pipes themselves, fading into the memories and sounds of the great Carnival its self.

+o+

[jordan102791]

Velvet Lace part 8

"Mr. Wells?"

Josh stood from his seat tucked in the corner of the lobby.

"We're ready for you. If you'll just follow me back, Dr. Milton will be right with you."

She cat rustled in her back pack as he settled in onto the counter top in the small office. The walls blushing with color, diagrams pinning the walls apart, haloing each open surface. The sharp tang of disinfectant biting at her nose. Moans, whimpers and blatant wails chasing down the hallways. Fear coloring the scents, leaking under each doorway, searching for an open escape.

A slip of a woman tentatively slides in the crack in the door, prepared for a furry dart. "Hi, Mr. Wells?" she asks holding out a hand to him. "I'm Dr. Milton. What can I do for you today?"

"Well I found this cat, some kids were throwing rocks at her. She was really dirty and pretty thin, so she's probably been out for a while. She's a sweet girl and been staying with me the last few days. I wanted to get her checked over, see if maybe she's chipped. Get her back to her owner."

"Ok. Well let's take a look." She reaches for the backpack, gentling the shadow from her stronghold. "Oh, she certainly is a pretty one. A real shame someone lost her, but you're right- still a bit thin. What are you feeding her?"

"Free feeding some dry food, hoping she'll pack on some weight. And some wet food for dinner."

"Ok that's good for now. Just watch the free feeding to make sure onve she's up to weight she doesn't eat too much. Let's go ahead and scan her first to see if we have a home." A little box pulled from the drawer beside her, moving over the cat's back. "Nope, nothing. Ok, so here's the deal. The shelter currently is packed and really doesn't have room for another animal. We've taken a lot of their overflow and are out of room also. So, you've been taking such good care of her so far, would you mind fostering her until we find her owner or room opens up?"

"Ummm... Yea I guess so, but how will you find her owner?"

"Well we can take down all the info and some pictures of her and post it on our bulletin board and over at the shelter. Hopefully, someone will recognize her."

"Ok. Yea, she can stay with me. She's been nice to have around," a smile whispering across his face.

"All right. Since that's settled let's take a look at her." Her warm, soft hands firmly grasped under the cat's front legs, lifting to look at her belly. "Looks like you've lead a rough life so far, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?" Concern steeps Josh's tone.

"So, I was checking that we are dealing with a girl which it appears we are, and she been unaltered. There would be a little tattoo if she'd been spayed, but there's nothing here. But if you take a look here," she says pointing to the space where the hair was sparse. "It's a smattering of scar tissue. I don't usually see a mess like this, even with strays."

"Is she ok?"

"Oh yes, she's fine. They're all healed. She's just had a hard life at some point. She's probably lucky you found her. Especially, since those kids tried abusing her. Just take good care of her and she'll do fine. Actually, I'm surprised she's this loving. A lot of strays are skittish, and rightfully so, but she seems to have taken a liking to you and trusts you. Keep up the good work."

An oil slick marred the cat's vision, bussing her back in time. Hands and claws ripping at her body. No escape. Paying for the lies of another. Someone else's sins raking across her skin. Fileting her. Rage and fury. Spitting in her face. She tried to fight back, but the restraints were just too tight. Drowning in cement that filled her throat and lungs. Flashes of gold and bronze filling her vision. Laughter chilling her to her core. The warmth sucked away up the fireplace flue. Mutilation at it's finest. Taking pleasure in the ways her body could be wrought. Screams, burning her throat, pleading, begging for an ounce of mercy. Her body broken and twisted, dumped in the gutter. Cursed, if she wasn't lucky enough to die. Ripples of blood wringing from each orifice, the old and new. Yes, death would've been a blessing, but the Gods often declined to shine a ray of mercy on her. She'd given up on herself, but they'd left her behind far before that.

"What name do you have for her?" The women's voices pulls her back from the edge of the nightmare. A name? When had she last had one of those? When they'd stripped her body bare of even its flesh, they'd stripped her name as well.

"She's not my cat. I don't have a name."

"Well just come up with something. It doesn't matter if it's not her real name; we just need something for our records to keep track."

"Diana."

"Interesting."

"Roman Goddess of the wild and the hunt and the moon. Fitting for a black stray cat I'd think."

"I'd be inclined to agree."

Diana? The cat pondered the name. It was a beautiful name, but had it been hers? She had no idea, but supposed it wouldn't matter if it was or not. She only needed to hang around a few days and be on her way. To the next adventure, the next freedom, the next evasion. Diana. It would work for now.

[fridays--child]

Skin

Deacon helps Gene relive a past life on her birthday.

Prompt: Sole and Companion(s) take their first photo together. 

Rating: 18+

Also on AO3

It had been a long time since Deacon had gone to a birthday party. Not some little shindig under the old church, shotgunning cheap swill before passing out in the catacombs. An actual party, with music, and dancing, and people dressed up to congratulate the guest of honour on another rotation around the sun. The excitable, rowdy crowd was already three sheets to the wind, bestowing both a blessing and a curse for Deacon as he tried to navigate, undetected, through them. 

The Third Rail was in full swing, heavy smoke and jet haze filling the old subway, softening the near-fluorescent garlands hanging around the joint. With the stampeding crowd already three sheets to the wind, it was easy to camouflage. Deacon mingled, dodging and weaving towards old Whitechapel Charlie, keeping his face down in case anyone sought to recognise him. Galatea’s impressive social reach meant most of the room had met him under one disguise or another. Joe, the trader, seeking out Daisy to trade… stuff. Mike, the DC security guard, all brawn and no brain. Or Morgan, the sad old widower in the Memory Den, whacking off to the memories of his long dead wife. Ouch, that one was a little too.... method. It was awkward trying to keep track of personas.

 Despite the ever present complication of being eternally undercover, it wasn’t a bad show out. Magnolia was serenading the crowd with bright little pre-war ditties, beckoning the crowd to move in time with the music and the swing of her hips. Leaning against the bar, Deacon watched as Hancock spun the birthday girl around, before hoisting her up onto his bony shoulder to the cheer of the crowd. From her heightened position, Galatea scanned the room, twinkling her fingers in a delighted wave which Deacon reciprocated. On the last blaring note, Hancock unceremoniously dumped her on her feet, and she slapped his hand from her waist, giggling as she threw her arms around his neck before making her way to the bar.

 Deacon whistled as his favourite agent approached, motioning for her to twirl in her party dress. She obliged with a roll of her eyes, holding out her hands. Ta-fucking-da.

“Finally, a party you actually have an invite to.”

He laughed, motioning for Charlie. “Oof, icy. Whiskey?” 

“Sunset Sarsaparilla please, Charlie.” Widening her eyes, she lowered her voice, drawling in mock shock. “I’m a teetotaler now Deaks. Was getting a little sloppy in my old age.” 

“And just how old are you now, spinster? Should I call the nursing home?” 

Rolling her eyes, Galatea cheered her drink at Charlie. “Practically geriatric. Twenty-five.” Deacon choked slightly on his own. “Give or take a few centuries.”

 Jesus Christ, she was just a kid. Where was he at twenty-five? Fresh off the bigot train and trying to recreate himself, his first experience in shedding his skin. Shameful heat tainted Deacons cheeks. Galatea tapped on his arm, blissfully unaware, before jumping behind the bar’s counter.

“I have something for you.” Chipped nails push a box across the counter, badly wrapped in copies of the Boston Bugle. Deacon eyed it suspiciously, raising it to his ear with a slight rattle.

“Well jeez. I dunno birthday worked in ye olde times, but aren’t the guests supposed to give the birthday gal presents? Though,” he held out his hand in mock surrender, “totally not complaining if the roles were reversed.” 

Galatea growled in the voice she usually saved for raiders, or the Diamond City security. “Just open it.”

 Inside the box lay a leatherbound camera, small and square with a simple lightbulb attached to the top. Probably old, even before the bombs fell. A thin layer of grease and dirt clung to the crevices in the leather, accumulating over the centuries it had probably lay buried. Some of it clings to his fingers as he traced the words around the lens. Kodak Brownie Flash Six-20.

“Where in the Great Green Jewel did you find this?”

“Preston managed to find some of my old stuff buried in a bunker in Sanctuary. Piper brought a suitcase of it here.”

“Huh.”

 He had lost his last one when the Switchboard went bust. How did she know? Deacon turned the camera over in his hands, flicking the shutter open, before holding it up and snapping a photo of the birthday girl. The flash blows a little too brightly. Galatea blinked rapidly, delicately wiping her watering eyes.

“Jesus Deak, not sure if my retinas are still intact. Remember, not everyone wears sunglasses constantly.”

He grinnned at her sheepishly. “My bad.” She waved away the apology.

“Still don’t know why you’re spoilin’ me, Galatea.”

Her small hands gripped his wrist, vice-like, as she pulled him closer to whisper in his ear. 

“Because, for my birthday, you’re going to help me relive a past life. Deny it all you want, but I’m sure you probably have photos of me from when you were tailing me as Joe the trader, or whatever.” That familiar nervous frequency, sent hertzs of vibration from her fingers on his pulse. The same pulsing energy that radiated from his partner whenever someone suggested something equally stupid and dangerous. “Let’s get some I actually consent to, you voyeur perve. You might even like these more.” 

 Deacon was grateful for the glasses to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks, but his spatial awareness pricked up the eyes on the back of his neck. Galatea’s bronze eyes narrowed just past his shoulders, and she nudged her chin a fraction towards them. “Friends of yours?”

Deacon turned around, casually, as if to watch Magnolia as she took a sip of wine, the band launching into the opening bars of another song. “Brotherhood.” He muttered back to her. “Didn’t know they had legs outside of those metal spacesuits.”

The corner of Galatea’s dark lips twitched. “You should go.” She slipped him her keys, rusty on a Nuka-Girl keyring. “Third floor, remember? I’ll be there later.”

~~~

With most of the old warehouse-turned-apartments’ tenants either at The Third Rail, or passed out in the gutter around it, Deacon was able to make his way to Galatea’s apartment relatively unscathed.  There was one guy, a synth he had helped  liberate eighteen months ago, who eyed him off with hazy recognition. He pointed at him in greeting, feigned excitement as he quickened his pace. “Yo Steve, my man! I’m dyin’ for a piss, I’ll catcha back inside, yeah?” Before he answered, he had darted around the corner, pretending to pull at his jean zipper to take the backstreet.

 Entering the apartment with keys was much easier than the first time he was there, recalling with a twinge of guilt breaking in through her third floor window. All part of the job, of course, scouting out the frozen woman fresh from the vault. He still hadn’t gotten the balls to ask her if she had noticed. He suspected she did.

 Forty-five minutes later, Deacon had managed to get the kettle on, settling into the tatty arm chair when sharp heels clicked up the outside stairs. Galatea pushed once, twice, three times against the sticky door before getting it open and heading into the kitchen.

“Still up? Thanks for the tea.”

Back to her, Deacon held up a book. In Search of Lost Time. “You weren’t kidding about the Proust, huh?”

Galatea plopped a small tray of tea and stale Fancy Lads on the rickety coffee table, stretching out on the adjacent lounge.  “Again, not everyone lies Deacon. Why would I fib about what books I own?”

Deacon wrinkled his nose at her. “Wasn’t he kinda anti-semitic? Kinda strange, I thought you were Jewish.”

“I guess, if I wanted to be.” She shrugged. “I’m half. Papa was a good Irish Catholic boy.”

“Which means…”

“Which means December was always very confusing.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Opening a pack of smokes, Deacon fumbled in his pockets for his lighter. “So.”

Galatea wriggled her eyebrows at him, reaching for the cigarette he'd just lit. “So…?”

“Why are you home so early? Gonna turn into a pumpkin now you’re all old?”

“Mhm, no.” Stretching her small body as long as she can, Galatea popped her heeled feet on the top of the couch, cracking the bones in her neck. Nearly upside down, she looked up at him through dark eyelashes. “It turns out parties aren’t as fun when you’re not off your tits.”

 Taking another lungful of nicotine, she waved the cherry in his general direction.

“Did you like your present?”

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Deacon pulled the camera from his back under the couch, before shaking it gently at her.

“‘Course, who doesn’t like presents?” The corners of his mouth twist as he peered at her through the viewfinder. She ran her hands down the front of her dress with a laugh.

“Are you going to take my photo before I lose my looks? I’ve already looked like this for nearly two hundred years longer than expected, it probably won’t last much longer.”

Shaking his head at her, he snapped a photo.

 Gravity pulled at the hem of her dress, slipping down to hint at the tops of her stockings. Heading over to her, he borrowed the fabric of her skirt to clear the lens, letting the back of his hands brush against her thigh. Smirking, she leered up at him.

“Are you going to tell me I look nice?” 

Deacon snorted back at her. “What, you fishing? You already know that, braggart.”

His fingers hit cool metal against her skin, hooking around a garter belt ribbon.

“Sheesh, you did dress up. What else have you got hiding under there?”

 The heel of Galatea’s shoe pushed mean against his chest as she pushed him off her, and he captured her nylon covered legs through the frame. Moving him to sit on the couch, Galatea turned her back to him, unwrapping herself as she tugged on the zipper of her dress, sliding it slowly off her shoulders to reveal the sheer, high-necked blouse underneath. Her hands followed the trail of her dress as she pushed it down to her ankle with her legs kept straight, before kicking it to the side as the flash went off again. Deacon wolf whistled, slightly shaky with a laugh, reaching out to run his hands down the mesh and satin are pulled taut and clinging to her body, accentuating the dip of her waist. A strangled sound escaped his throat when he felt the boning underneath.

“Jesus, what’s all this for, baby? You’re more metal and plastic than a Gen 2.”

Rolling her eyes at him, she peaked over her shoulder.

“Structural integrity.”

 Deacon’s freckled hand moved on its own, lower, following the straps of her garter belt up and under her little slip skirt. His breath nearly whistled as it hitched against her neck, feeling the heat radiating from her body. 

“You’re full of surprises. No panties?”

She bit her cheek as he ghosted over the soft hair against her slightly wet folds.

“Didn’t want lines showing through the dress.”

 The familiar feeling of control, of power, rushed through Deacon, and he gathered her wrists behind her back, moving her firmly until Galatea was bent over the couch. Slightly clumsy with one hand, he took a photo of her exposed to him. Dropping the camera to the couch, he shoved her skirt slip up around her ribs, smacking her ass harshly until she hissed at him. He took another fast shot, desperately wishing the flash would encapsulate the shape of his hand print. Still holding her wrists, Deacon discarded the camera, using his spare hand to palm at himself through the tightening denim of his jeans.

 “Shit baby, you look like something outta a pre-war nudey mag. What was it called, uh… Dick’s Brazzers?”

Galatea barked her filthy laugh at him, wiggling beneath her held wrists.

“John Willie’s Bizarre, as if I haven’t seen the copies lying around HQ. Not that I ever was good enough to be featured.”

Her comment woke something equally aroused and confused within him, and he pulled her back to look at him.

“Wait - there’s photos of you, like this, out there?”

She shrugged, laughing at his expression.

“A girl’s got bills. It was fun and a quick way to make a buck.” Adding to his incredulous expression, “Men feel powerful thinking the women in the photos were vulnerable. We had the power of making them believe that.”

Shaking his head at her, brain still not processing the images she’d injected into his mind, he bit her shoulder playfully.

“I’m searching for them. Next time we’re in the Common.”

He ground against her, hand grabbing at her thigh. The other released her hands to gather the slick growing between them. Galatea smirked at him.

“What, between the super mutants and raiders? You’ll be dead before you read the Freedom Trail?”

“Worth it.”

 She must’ve been able to feel how hard he is for her, how he’s always surprised how much she gets him going each time they get it on. He kissed up her pulse, hands guiding her to move against him as he alternated between dipping into her shallowly and running circles around her clit. Her raspy voice vibrated against his mouth.

“Never had a partner, want to get a photo with me?”

Deacon groaned against her neck, shaking his head against her dark hair.

“Galatea, you know that’s not a good idea. I’d have to get a face change after, there’s the whole bruising and recovery thing...”

She pushed her back against him, using a hand on his shoulder to seat him on the couch with a wicked smile.

“Who said anything about your face?”

 Dropping to her knees, she pulled roughly at his jeans, tapping his hip impatiently until he lifte his hips enough to slide them down his thighs.

“Shouldn’t I be doing this to you, birthday girl.” He joked, slightly breathless.

She pulled a face at him, licking her dark lips until a slight shine appeared.

“Only you would make a comment when a girl is about to suck you off. Shut up and let me indulge.”

 Galatea moved slowly, teasingly, as she always did. Putting more effort into her performance than he ever did into his disguises. Barely opening her mouth, she dragged her mouth up and down his shaft, the tip of her tongue tasting the precum he’s already spilt. Letting her breath tickle against the wet her mouth has left, she smirked up at him. He took another photo as she licks at his head, giving him a few shallow bobs of her head before taking him deep in her throat. Swearing, he tangled his hands in the curls of her hair, pricking himself on the pins holding it up. She continued working on him methodically, using her hands on the parts her mouth and throat can’t reach. She pulled away with a shuddering breath, wiping the makeup from her eyes to kiss the tiny, freckle sized B on his hip. 

 Deacon’s breath hitches as images flood his mind. He’s barely older than she is now, hopped up on beer and herb cigarettes, pissing himself laughing as his wife tattoos him with a needle and pen ink. It’s a wonder it didn’t get infected, spending those days drunk in love and cheap alcohol, ekeing out a humble farmer's life. If he forced himself to remember, he was pretty sure the night of the tattoo was also the night they decided to try for kids. To be stupid and optimistic enough to believe creating a human culmination of their love was the logical best choice for their life. A few months and a sea of spilled blood later, it was all that remained of them, of her. The only part of him that remained untouched, a dozen face changes later.

 It unleashed something angry, untamed in him, and he wasn’t sure if he wants to fuck away the memory or lose himself in it. Knotting her hair in his fist, he reached under her armpit, pulling her roughly up against him before bending her back over the threadbare couch. Gripping the flesh of her heart-shaped ass, he pushed into Galatea roughly. She scrambled against him, nails scratching against his stomach through his thin shirt, as he snapped a photo of her stretched around him. He’s already so close, impossibly, balls pulling in tight as his stomach pulls in taught. It’s too soon to have made it good for her, her breathing still a steady rhythm, and he’s nearly apologetic as he pulls ekeingher by the neck to bite at her ear.

“Fuck baby, shit. I-ah- I’m going to cum.”

He pulls out a second too late, the first wave of his orgasm filling her before he paints her thighs with his cum. Sweating against her, he tugs her face against his in an exhausted, shaky kiss.

 Galatea froze against him as his tongue pushed against the seam of her lips, her whole body flinching away from him as he panted against her lips. One of her hands blindly reaches back for him, shoving him away from her.

“Deacon, don’t.”

 Stumbling back two steps, Deacon ran a tired hand over his face, two fingers putting pressure on the inner corner of his eyes. When he opened them again, Galatea was still braced against the couch. Looking over her shoulder at him, she tugged the hem of her slip down. Deacon let out an uneasy laugh.

“Woo, Galatea. Shit. You’re too good. Give me a second baby, to catch my breath. Then I’ll make it up to you.”

She stretched out her back, hands on her hips, as she shook her head at him.

“No, it’s okay.”

 There was an unease between them, not uncommon but surprising. Tentatively, he reached out to her back.

“Gene, I- uh,” Shit. “You okay?”

She nodded, picking up her dress from the floor. 

“How do you want me to…”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve uh, we’ve been drinking.”

Frowning, Deacon ran a hand down her back. His stomach dropped a few inches as she leaned away.

“I thought you said you weren’t drinking?”

Not looking at him, she pulled her shirt tighter against her neck.

“We’ve got an early morning. Des wanted us back at HQ by midday, right?”

Swallowing, he nods.

“And I’ll have to duck in to see Amari, now.” Heading towards the partition that separates her room from the living space, she dumps the dress into the cardboard box acting as a laundry hamper.

“You remember where the spare blankets are, right? It shouldn’t be too cold if you just want to sleep on the couch as is.”

He waved her comment away. “Yeah, sure.”

 He watched as she threw her clothes over the partition, presumably to wrap herself up in the ratty yellow robe she wore whenever she was at home. He clears his throat, awkwardly.

“We good?”

She laughed dryly.

“Yeah, we’re fine Deak. Goodnight.”

“‘Kay. Happy birthday.”

She snorted, and he could nearly imagine the disgusted face she’d pull at him.

“Yeah, sure.”

------

Look, I've been staring at this for nearly a week and it's not getting any better haha. Please accept this humble offering so I can move onto more exciting projects.

Also, John Willie's Bizarre was an actual fetish magazine in the late 40's. There's some gorgeous photos and pictures from it floating around the internet if you're into that. The images he took of his wife, Holly Faram, are particularly stunning. He was also part of a fetish club in my small hometown in the 1920's, which is cool.

[fleesmarket]

"From the Gutter to the Stars" Handmade Locket Necklace, Limited Edition of 20 https://ift.tt/2Fiq47i

Vendor: The Asylum Emporium Type: Accessories Price: 100.00

A Note From EA:

Dearest Plague Rats,

I wanted to offer you something very special this holiday season, and so I have made a very limited edition of 20 handcrafted locket necklaces featuring the hand-written lyrics from my song "From the Gutter to the Stars," both on the front of the locket as well as on the inside, safely encased beneath textured glaze within a sturdy antique-style locket, and strung on a bronzed chain.

Inside the locket, you will find a small pyrite stone. Hold the stone tightly in your hand when you need to call upon the strength to transform your present reality into the one you dream of and make that dream REAL just like Inmate Veronica does in the Asylum.

A very popular stone in the Victorian era, pyrite is sometimes called "Fool's Gold" as it glitters like true gold, and thus is symbolic of the different ways people have of viewing a single object. In the "Gutter..." song, Veronica sees a stage to perform on where Inmate Emily sees only a cage; Veronica sees a playbill advertising a vaudeville show where Emily sees only a scrap of paper; Veronica sees the wide world of London with all its romance and possibilities where Emily sees only her cell and the bars that imprison them both. Veronica would look at this pyrite and see pure, sparkling gold, where Emily might see only a rock. But, through her love, Veronica teaches Emily how to dream even in the darkest of times, and soon the cage is truly no longer a cage, and pyrite is indeed the priceless gold that Veronica would believe it to be.

No two necklaces are the same—each is a unique artwork, just like you who will wear it as you march onwards, empowered, with all the strength and wildness you possess.

I put my deepest magic into these pieces as I made them—I know you will feel it when you wear them over your heart.

~EA, Inmate W14A

THE DETAILS:

• Handcrafted by EA  • Limited Edition of only 20 • Hand-drawn and painted design (allow for slight differences from the item pictured as no two are exactly alike) • Packaged in an autographed gift box

*Please Note: This item ships separately from other items. If you order additional items, they will arrive in different shipments. In this case, you will receive multiple tracking numbers by email.

[tiderider1]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄  𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒  .

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐃𝐎  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐋  𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄  ?

harry  smells  like  the  ocean.  sea  salt  and  dry  sand.  he  smells  like  water  on  wood,  like  melted  candle  wax  and  the  air  before  a  storm  hits.  harry  smells  like  rolling  waves,  like  falling  rain,  like  damp  nights  standing  on  the  wharf.  harry  carries  the  scent  of  the  sea  in  his  hair,  against  his  skin  and  on  his  clothes  wherever  he  goes.  he  smells  of  wet  steel,  like  tanned  leather  and  the  metallic  scent  of  blood.  harry  smells  like  danger  and  thrills  all  wrapped  in  one.

𝐇𝐎𝐖  𝐃𝐎  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏  ?

when  alone,  harry  sleeps  on  his  right  side  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  his  arm  pillowing  his  head  and  will  usuall  have  his  other  arm  wrapped  around  a  pillow.  when  with  a  partner,  he'll  sleep  with  his  arms  wrapped  around  them,  sometimes  he'll  sleep  right  on  top  of  them.  harry  is  a  light  sleeper  and  is  still  very  much  aware  of  his  surroundings  even  when  resting,  any  sound  or  movement  that  is  out  of  place  will  inevitably  wake  him.  harry  has  a  tendency  to  wake  up  periodically  throughout  the  night,  very  rarely  does  he  ever  sleep  deeply.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂  𝐃𝐎  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘  ?

harry  likes  metal.  loud,  crashing,  clashing,  screaming,  gutteral  lyrics  that  to  most  people  just  sounds  like  noise.  it's  primal,  aggressive,  and  disorientating  to  others.  other  than  metal,  he  likes  any  kind  of  music  with  a  slow  but  prominent  bass.  anything  that  he  can  feel  thrumming  right  through  his  body,  that  clouds  his  mind  and  makes  him  feel  on  the  edge  of  something  either  dangerous  or  sexy  or  both.

𝐇𝐎𝐖  𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄  𝐃𝐎  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃  𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘  𝐈𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆?

harry  doesn't  spend  too  much  time  getting  ready  in  the  mornings.  he'll  wash  his  face,  run  wet  fingers  through  his  hair  and  shave  his  face.  he'll  spend  a  half  hour  running  circuit  training,  then  another  half  hour  on  strength  training  before  taking  a  cold  bucket  bath  and  spend  a  few  minutes  deciding  on  what  he's  going  to  wear.  not  including  his  work  out  routines,  it  only  takes  harry  ten  minutes  max  to  get  ready  in  the  mornings.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐓𝐎  𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓  ?

jewelry.  mostly  rings,  but  he  also  likes  necklaces  and  bracelets.  he  sticks  mostly  to  steel  or  silver,  but  he  has  a  few  bronze  and  gold  pieces  as  well.  harry  will  go  as  far  as  to  collect  broken  or  damaged  jewelry  and  fix  them  or  recycle  them  into  something  else.  he's  made  most  of  his  own  leather  bracelets  and  necklaces  himself.  he'll  also  collect  random  items,  beads,  stones,  metals  or  gems  that  he  comes  across  so  he  can  make  them  into  a  piece  of  jewelry  later.

𝐀𝐑𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓  𝐎𝐑  𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓  𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃  ?

harry  is  ambidextrous  and  does  not  feel  that  he  has  a  dominant  hand  but  that  he  delegates  specific  skills  or  actions  to  one  hand  or  the  other.  for  example,  his  left  had  is  predominantly  used  for  defense,  to  guard  or  protect  himself  and  others  while  his  right  hand  is  predominantly  used  for  offense,  to  attack  and  harm  those  who  deserve  it.  harry  will  eat,  draw  point  or  touch  with  both  hands.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐍  ?

harry  has  no  religion  and  is  not  interested  in  finding  one.  while  he  likes  listening  to  the  stories,  especially  those  about  sea  gods  or  goddesses,  he  doesn't  particularly  worship  anyone  or  anything  other  than  himself  and  those  he  cares  for.  even  if  he  has  some  superstitious  beliefs,  these  come  from  years  of  experience  that  have  created  certain  patterns  in  his  personal  life  rather  than  from  other  peoples  stories.  harry  is  devoted  primarily  to  himself  and  his  crew.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄  ��𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓  ?

competitive  combat.  bare-knuckle  boxing  is  his  favourite  and  the  sport  that  harry  has  taken  part  in  and  trained  in  for  most  of  his  life  but  he  also  enjoys  wrestling,  swordfighting,  and  sparring  against  different  fighting  styles.  any  kind  of  sparring,  from  hand-to-hand,  to  melee,  though  he  prefers  high  stakes  and  has  a  tendency  to  look  down  on  "kids  sports"  like  tourney  due  to  too  many  rules  and  restrictions.  as  far  as  team  sport,  he's  partial  to  isle  rugby.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄  𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐘  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐓𝐎  𝐃𝐎  𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍  𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆  ?

harry  goes  out  of  his  way  to  go  off  the  beaten  paths  when  exploring  new  places.  he  likes  to  take  back  roads,  find  hidden  gems  in  any  new  places  that  he  visits  and  likes  finding  small,  local  businesses  to  visit  as  opposed  to  the  main  tourist  attractions.  he  likes  to  get  the  feel  of  a  place  from  the  locals,  that  means  engrossing  himselves  in  the  parts  of  their  cities  that  outsiders  don't  see.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄  𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑  ?

cloudy  with  a  strong  wind.  he  doesn't  hate  the  cold  or  wet  weather  but  he  doesn't  enjoy  it  either.  he  likes  a  bit  of  sun,  but  only  so  long  as  there  is  a  breeze  or  a  strong  wind  to  take  some  of  the  heat  off  of  him.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐀  𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐃  /  𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐄  𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄  ?

the  sound  of  chains  scraping  across  hard  wood  or  stone.  it  makes  him  incredibly  uneasy  and  uncomfortable.  he  gets  tense  without  realizing  it  and  inevitably  gets  into  a  foul  mood  because  of  it.  he  has  an  intense  fear  of  rejection  and  abandonment,  though  these  are  not  weird  or  obscure  as  much  as  his  reaction  to  them  is.  harry  tends  to  expect  rejection  and  abandonment  and  sometimes  even  welcomes  it  as  almost  something  inevitable.

tagged  by :  reposted  from  my  old  blog tagging :  if  you  haven’t  done  it  already,  please  do.

[arplis]

Arplis - News: Quick Curb Appeal Projects You Can Do in an Hour

Give the front of your home the boost it needs!  Are you feeling a little jealous of your neighbor’s yard these days? If yours looks a little worn and weathered, it may be time to up your curb appeal game. Whether you hope to impress potential buyers, or you want a freshened up front view you can be proud of, there are some great low-cost and easy ways to add a little pizzazz to your home — even if you’re not super crafty. Gather your supplies and let’s get started! Curb appeal ideas for any budget While you could spend lots of time and money on improving the front of your home, you’ll often find that small updates can make a big impact. Here are some inexpensive, low-effort things you can do to make a great first impression:  Clean A dingy house doesn’t dazzle anyone. Cleaning the exterior is one of the easiest (and cheapest) ways to improve curb appeal.   Power up the pressure washer It’s amazing what just spraying off the dirt and grime from your house, porch, and sidewalks can do! If you don’t own a pressure washer, borrow from a neighbor, rent one from a home improvement store, purchase one, or hire a service. If you’re going DIY, scrub off stubborn areas first, then spray the house top to bottom. If you add cleaning concentrate to the water, be sure to rinse with a clean spray after. Expect to spend an hour or two spraying a mid-size home, and another hour for walkways or driveways.  Clear gutters Gutters full of leaves and twigs look messy. Grab a ladder, some gloves and a trash bag, and scoop out the debris. If you want to avoid doing this over and over, consider installing gutter guards to keep them clean year-round.  Tidy up outdoor spaces Pick up and organize kid’s toys, tools or other clutter. If you normally keep things like your trash bins in the front, find a place to stash them to the side or back of the house. Or you may even consider building an easy storage area. This tutorial uses just 10 boards, lattice and stain.  Make the windows sparkle Exterior windows get a lot of built-up dirt and grime. Clean them in two steps — first the screens, then the windows.  Remove the screens, then use a soft scrub brush and soapy water to clear them. When you’re finished, rinse them well with clean water. For the windows, use a cloth or soft sponge to remove debris, like bugs and leaves, then spray with a 1:1 mixture of vinegar and water, and squeegee them dry, wiping the squeegee with a towel after each pass. Then replace the cleaned, rinsed screens.  Scrub the fence With age, wood fencing gets discolored from weather, mildew and algae. A good scrub can help make it look new. You can do this by hand or with a power washer. Follow these tips to get it looking good again.  A Fresh Coat of Paint Don’t worry! We aren’t talking about painting the whole house (though you surely can)! Instead, put a fresh coat of paint on some key areas, like the porch or front door — it can really transform your overall curb appeal. Freshen up light fixtures Are your exterior lights looking dingy? Not so happy with the brass-colored finish anymore? Remove the light fixtures, and clean and dry them. Then spray them with a new color using metal spray paint — matte black, antiqued bronze or a fun hue. Once they dry, hang them back up — you’ll be amazed at how something so small can make such a big difference.  Make the door pop Some say different front door colors have meanings for your home: green for prosperity and black symbolizing control. Whether you believe that and want to bring a certain energy to your house, or just want to change things up, a new door color can change the whole look. Paint it in place or remove it from the hinges — whichever you prefer. Start with a clean, dry door (sand any imperfections before cleaning), and use a roller or brush to paint. Many people prefer a glossy paint for this since it highlights architectural features and holds up better against nicks. For most doors you’ll just need one quart of paint.  Upgrade the mailbox If your mailbox factors into your curb appeal, give it a fresh look. Same thing here: clean it and spray it whatever color you want. Add some decorative stickers for your address, and boom! Instant upgrade.  Give outdoor furniture a fresh coat Outdoor furniture often takes a beating after sitting out in the weather. Spruce up any peeling, flaking and fading by scrubbing off loose particles and dirt, then either use spray paint (specific to the furniture type: metal, plastic, wood) or a paintbrush for a fresh look.  Install New Features Time to break out the tool kit and add some simple, decorative features to your home.  Add decorative shutters They’re great for adding character and charm to the front of a home. Your local home improvement store carries a variety of shutter options — from wood-stained to eye-catching colors. This tutorial covers easy steps for installation. Put in exterior lights It’s not just the daytime that matters. Create curb appeal at dusk and dark! You can pick up solar garden lights at a local home improvement store that easily stick in the ground. Consider lining pathways with these lights to help guide guests to the front door or highlight architectural or landscaping features.  Hang window boxes Depending on how DIY you want to get, you can buy or build window boxes to add flowers or greenery to the exterior of your home. Talk with a local garden center to find out which plants are best for your climate and setting. Place house numbers There are unlimited options for decorative address markers — things like vinyl stickers you can place on the door, a metal sign that sits in the yard, DIY tiles and license plates. Use this Pinterest board for inspiration to showcase your personal style. Bonus: having your home number more prominent is better for first responders, and it also allows potential buyers to easily identify your home.  Put up a wreath Grab a hook (over-the-door, suction cup or hook and loop), and place a beautiful wreath on your front door. You can make your own using just about anything, or you can buy one. Go seasonal, or choose one with greenery, like eucalyptus or boxwood, for year-round use. Spruce up the garage door Add appeal to this part of your home by adding some simple hardware. It’s an easy way to turn a boring garage into something that looks upscale and modern! Decorative pieces are super easy to fasten to the existing door with a drill, and kits cost around $40. Landscape Think of your yard sort of like accessories to your home. The right pieces can really set it apart! You don’t have to go crazy at the garden center, but a few simple steps can make a big difference. Set out potted plants They bring color and texture. Use big urns to add oversized topiaries to your entryway or add color with hanging plants. Make sure to use plants that will survive in your climate and sunlight setting. Put down new mulch If your mulch is looking faded, it’s time for a flower bed makeover! Start by pulling out the weeds and adding new mulch. This is easier than you may think since you can add the new right over the old. As old mulch breaks down, it adds nutrients and organic matter to the soil.  Add layers in your flowerbeds When adding fresh plants, it’s important to think about how they will look once grown and flowered. Add varying heights, with taller plants in the back. Think about creating a tall base layer, then do a couple of rows of smaller flowering plants. Mix up the texture with some thicker bushes in the back, wispy grasses and individual buds.  Manicure the lawn Maintaining a well-manicured lawn and neatly trimmed hedges is the easiest way to add curb appeal. Cut overgrown bushes, remove low-hanging branches, and mow the lawn frequently. You’ll be surprised at how inviting your home looks by simply spending some extra time on the yard. Share your curb appeal projects with us! Everyone loves a good before and after photo! After you shared yours with your friends, we’d love to see them, too! Post them on our Facebook page or tag us on Instagram (@upackmoving).  Category:  Home DIY Blog Newsletter

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/quick-curb-appeal-projects-you-can-do-in-an-hour-1

[bookloversreviewer]

“Combining sweet nostalgia with the important issues Kennedy never shies away from, Queen Move is nothing less than wonderful.

I couldn’t put it down and never wanted it to end!”

-- Alexa Martin, Author of Intercepted

Queen Move, an all-new powerful second chance standalone from Wall Street Journal bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author Kennedy Ryan, is coming May 26th and we have your FIRST LOOK!

Make sure to enter on Kennedy’s site to win a QUEEN BOX, stuffed with a signed paperback and all the things you’ll need to

treat yourself like a queen!

Prologue

Kimba

Two Years Before Present

Is there anything sadder than a daddy’s girl at her father’s funeral?

My mother’s quiet sniffs a few seats down give me the answer.

A grieving widow.

“He was a good man,” someone in the long line of mourners offering condolences whispers to her.

Mama’s head bobs with a tearful nod. In this day and age, she still wears a pillbox hat and veil. It’s black and chic like Mama, channeling tragic Jackie Kennedy or Coretta Scott King. My father was not just a good man. He was a great man, and everyone should know he leaves behind a widow, grieving deeply, but ever-fly. I squeeze the funeral program between my fingers, glaring at the printed words.

Joseph Allen leaves behind a wife, Janetta, three children, Kayla, Keith and Kimba, and six grandchildren.

He leaves behind.

Daddy’s gone, and I don’t know how to live in a world my father does not inhabit. The casket is draped with sweet-smelling flowers in the center of the funeral tent. When we leave the cemetery, it…he will be lowered into the ground with unfathomable finality, separated from us by white satin lining, six feet of dirt and eternity.

Kayla, my older sister, sobs softly at the end of our family’s row. Her four children watch her carefully, probably unused to seeing their unshakeable mother shaken and reduced to tears. Even I’d forgotten how she looks when she cries—like she’s mad at the wetness streaking her cheeks, resentful of any sign of weakness.

It’s not weak to cry, Daddy used to say. It’s human.

“But doesn’t the Bible say even the rocks will cry out?” I’d challenged him when I was young, loving that something from Sunday school took. “So maybe tears aren’t just for humans.”

“You’re getting too smart for your britches, little girl,” he’d said, but the deep affection in his eyes when he kissed me told me he was pleased. He liked that I asked questions and taught me to never accept bullshit at face value.

I miss you, Daddy.

Not even a week since his heart attack, and I already miss him so much.

Humanity blurs my vision, wet and hot and stinging my eyes. I want this to be over. The flowers, the well-dressed mourners, the news cameras stationed at a distance they probably deem respectful. I just want to go to the house where my parents raised us, retreat to Daddy’s study and find the stash of cigars that only he and I knew about.

Don’t tell your mother, he used to whisper conspiratorially. This will be our little secret.

Mama hated the smell of cigars in the house.

“Tru.”

Who would call me by that name? Now, when the only people who use it, my family, are all preoccupied with their own pain? A tall man stands in front of me, his thick, dark brows bunched with sympathy. I don’t know him. I would remember a man like this, who stands strong like an oak tree. A well-tailored suit molds his powerful shoulders. Dark brown, not quite black, hair is cut ruthlessly short, but hints at waves if given the chance to grow. His prominent nose makes itself known above the full, finely sculpted lips below. His eyes are shockingly vivid—so deep a blue they’re almost the color of African violets against skin like bronze bathed in sunlight. No, a man like him you’d never forget. Something niggles at my memory, tugs at my senses. I’d never forget a man who looked like this, a man with eyes like that…but what about a boy?

“Ezra?” I croak, disbelief and uncertainty mingling in the name I haven’t uttered in years.

It can’t be.

But it is.

Keep Going!

Read the REST of the prologue and enter the QUEEN BOX giveaway on Kennedy’s website:→ https://bit.ly/35U65FL

**QUEEN MOVE will have the special pre-order and release week price of $3.99. After that, the price will increase.**

Pre-order your copy today!

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Synopsis

The boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can't have…

Dig a little and you'll find photos of me in the bathtub with Ezra Stern.

Get your mind out of the gutter. We were six months old.

Pry and one of us might confess we saved our first kiss for each other.

The most clumsy, wet, sloppy . . . spectacular thirty seconds of my adolescence.

Get into our business and you'll see two families, closer than blood, torn apart in an instant.

Twenty years later, my "awkward duckling" best friend from childhood,

the boy no one noticed, is a man no one can ignore.

Finer. Fiercer. Smarter.

Taken.

Tell me it's wrong.

Tell me the boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can’t have.

When we find each other again, everything stands in our way--secrets, lies, promises.

But we didn't come this far to give up now.

And I know just the move to make if I want to make him mine.

About Kennedy Ryan

A RITA® Award Winner, Wall Street Journal and USA Today Bestselling Author, Kennedy Ryan writes for women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts.

Kennedy and her writings have been featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour and many others. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but has a special passion for raising Autism awareness.The co-founder of LIFT 4 Autism, an annual charitable book auction, she has appeared on Headline News, The Montel Williams Show, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for ASD families. She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son.

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Connect with

Blue Box Press

https://theblueboxpress.com/

[anitabyars]

“Combining sweet nostalgia with the important issues Kennedy never shies away from, Queen Move is nothing less than wonderful.

I couldn’t put it down and never wanted it to end!”

-- Alexa Martin, Author of Intercepted

Queen Move, an all-new powerful second chance standalone from Wall Street Journal bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author Kennedy Ryan, is coming May 26th and we have your FIRST LOOK!

Make sure to enter on Kennedy’s site to win a QUEEN BOX, stuffed with a signed paperback and all the things you’ll need to

treat yourself like a queen!

Prologue

Kimba

Two Years Before Present

Is there anything sadder than a daddy’s girl at her father’s funeral?

My mother’s quiet sniffs a few seats down give me the answer.

A grieving widow.

“He was a good man,” someone in the long line of mourners offering condolences whispers to her.

Mama’s head bobs with a tearful nod. In this day and age, she still wears a pillbox hat and veil. It’s black and chic like Mama, channeling tragic Jackie Kennedy or Coretta Scott King. My father was not just a good man. He was a great man, and everyone should know he leaves behind a widow, grieving deeply, but ever-fly. I squeeze the funeral program between my fingers, glaring at the printed words.

Joseph Allen leaves behind a wife, Janetta, three children, Kayla, Keith and Kimba, and six grandchildren.

He leaves behind.

Daddy’s gone, and I don’t know how to live in a world my father does not inhabit. The casket is draped with sweet-smelling flowers in the center of the funeral tent. When we leave the cemetery, it…he will be lowered into the ground with unfathomable finality, separated from us by white satin lining, six feet of dirt and eternity.

Kayla, my older sister, sobs softly at the end of our family’s row. Her four children watch her carefully, probably unused to seeing their unshakeable mother shaken and reduced to tears. Even I’d forgotten how she looks when she cries—like she’s mad at the wetness streaking her cheeks, resentful of any sign of weakness.

It’s not weak to cry, Daddy used to say. It’s human.

“But doesn’t the Bible say even the rocks will cry out?” I’d challenged him when I was young, loving that something from Sunday school took. “So maybe tears aren’t just for humans.”

“You’re getting too smart for your britches, little girl,” he’d said, but the deep affection in his eyes when he kissed me told me he was pleased. He liked that I asked questions and taught me to never accept bullshit at face value.

I miss you, Daddy.

Not even a week since his heart attack, and I already miss him so much.

Humanity blurs my vision, wet and hot and stinging my eyes. I want this to be over. The flowers, the well-dressed mourners, the news cameras stationed at a distance they probably deem respectful. I just want to go to the house where my parents raised us, retreat to Daddy’s study and find the stash of cigars that only he and I knew about.

Don’t tell your mother, he used to whisper conspiratorially. This will be our little secret.

Mama hated the smell of cigars in the house.

“Tru.”

Who would call me by that name? Now, when the only people who use it, my family, are all preoccupied with their own pain? A tall man stands in front of me, his thick, dark brows bunched with sympathy. I don’t know him. I would remember a man like this, who stands strong like an oak tree. A well-tailored suit molds his powerful shoulders. Dark brown, not quite black, hair is cut ruthlessly short, but hints at waves if given the chance to grow. His prominent nose makes itself known above the full, finely sculpted lips below. His eyes are shockingly vivid—so deep a blue they’re almost the color of African violets against skin like bronze bathed in sunlight. No, a man like him you’d never forget. Something niggles at my memory, tugs at my senses. I’d never forget a man who looked like this, a man with eyes like that…but what about a boy?

“Ezra?” I croak, disbelief and uncertainty mingling in the name I haven’t uttered in years.

It can’t be.

But it is.

Keep Going!

Read the REST of the prologue and enter the QUEEN BOX giveaway on Kennedy’s website:→ https://bit.ly/35U65FL

**QUEEN MOVE will have the special pre-order and release week price of $3.99. After that, the price will increase.**

Pre-order your copy today!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2V4HLvZ

Apple Books: https://apple.co/2JGiqD7

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/queenmove

Nook: https://bit.ly/2UIueeE

Kobo: https://bit.ly/2JFJ7YM

Google Play: https://bit.ly/2yrPZ9E

Add QUEEN MOVE to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3apG1E1

Be notified FIRST when Queen Move is live: http://bit.ly/2oRuDhf

Synopsis

The boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can't have…

Dig a little and you'll find photos of me in the bathtub with Ezra Stern.

Get your mind out of the gutter. We were six months old.

Pry and one of us might confess we saved our first kiss for each other.

The most clumsy, wet, sloppy . . . spectacular thirty seconds of my adolescence.

Get into our business and you'll see two families, closer than blood, torn apart in an instant.

Twenty years later, my "awkward duckling" best friend from childhood,

the boy no one noticed, is a man no one can ignore.

Finer. Fiercer. Smarter.

Taken.

Tell me it's wrong.

Tell me the boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can’t have.

When we find each other again, everything stands in our way--secrets, lies, promises.

But we didn't come this far to give up now.

And I know just the move to make if I want to make him mine.

About Kennedy Ryan

A RITA® Award Winner, Wall Street Journal and USA Today Bestselling Author, Kennedy Ryan writes for women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts.

Kennedy and her writings have been featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour and many others. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but has a special passion for raising Autism awareness.The co-founder of LIFT 4 Autism, an annual charitable book auction, she has appeared on Headline News, The Montel Williams Show, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for ASD families. She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son.

Connect with Kennedy

Instagram: http://bit.ly/2TaYiAi

Facebook: http://bit.ly/2GUq0uF

Facebook Reader Group: http://bit.ly/2GY6eyb

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2Fvhqiz

Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2NE0cU0

Book+Main: http://bit.ly/2GVByO7

Website: http://kennedyryanwrites.com

Never Miss A New Release!

Follow Kennedy on BookBub: http://bit.ly/2HcRuee

New Release Alerts: Text Kennedy Ryan 797979

Subscribe to Mailing List: https://bit.ly/KennedySubscribe

Connect with

Blue Box Press

https://theblueboxpress.com/

[multiverseofentertainment]

First Look: QUEEN MOVE by Kennedy Ryan

“Combining sweet nostalgia with the important issues Kennedy never shies away from, Queen Move is nothing less than wonderful. I couldn’t put it down and never wanted it to end!”

-- Alexa Martin, Author of Intercepted

Queen Move, an all-new powerful second chance standalone from Wall Street Journal bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author Kennedy Ryan, is coming May 26th and we have your FIRST LOOK!

Make sure to enter on Kennedy’s site to win a QUEEN BOX, stuffed with a signed paperback and all the things you’ll need to treat yourself like a queen!

Prologue

Kimba

Two Years Before Present

Is there anything sadder than a daddy’s girl at her father’s funeral? My mother’s quiet sniffs a few seats down give me the answer. A grieving widow. “He was a good man,” someone in the long line of mourners offering condolences whispers to her. Mama’s head bobs with a tearful nod. In this day and age, she still wears a pillbox hat and veil. It’s black and chic like Mama, channeling tragic Jackie Kennedy or Coretta Scott King. My father was not just a good man. He was a great man, and everyone should know he leaves behind a widow, grieving deeply, but ever-fly. I squeeze the funeral program between my fingers, glaring at the printed words. Joseph Allen leaves behind a wife, Janetta, three children, Kayla, Keith and Kimba, and six grandchildren. He leaves behind. Daddy’s gone, and I don’t know how to live in a world my father does not inhabit. The casket is draped with sweet-smelling flowers in the center of the funeral tent. When we leave the cemetery, it…he will be lowered into the ground with unfathomable finality, separated from us by white satin lining, six feet of dirt and eternity. Kayla, my older sister, sobs softly at the end of our family’s row. Her four children watch her carefully, probably unused to seeing their unshakeable mother shaken and reduced to tears. Even I’d forgotten how she looks when she cries—like she’s mad at the wetness streaking her cheeks, resentful of any sign of weakness. It’s not weak to cry, Daddy used to say. It’s human. “But doesn’t the Bible say even the rocks will cry out?” I’d challenged him when I was young, loving that something from Sunday school took. “So maybe tears aren’t just for humans.” “You’re getting too smart for your britches, little girl,” he’d said, but the deep affection in his eyes when he kissed me told me he was pleased. He liked that I asked questions and taught me to never accept bullshit at face value. I miss you, Daddy. Not even a week since his heart attack, and I already miss him so much. Humanity blurs my vision, wet and hot and stinging my eyes. I want this to be over. The flowers, the well-dressed mourners, the news cameras stationed at a distance they probably deem respectful. I just want to go to the house where my parents raised us, retreat to Daddy’s study and find the stash of cigars that only he and I knew about. Don’t tell your mother, he used to whisper conspiratorially. This will be our little secret. Mama hated the smell of cigars in the house. “Tru.” Who would call me by that name? Now, when the only people who use it, my family, are all preoccupied with their own pain? A tall man stands in front of me, his thick, dark brows bunched with sympathy. I don’t know him. I would remember a man like this, who stands strong like an oak tree. A well-tailored suit molds his powerful shoulders. Dark brown, not quite black, hair is cut ruthlessly short, but hints at waves if given the chance to grow. His prominent nose makes itself known above the full, finely sculpted lips below. His eyes are shockingly vivid—so deep a blue they’re almost the color of African violets against skin like bronze bathed in sunlight. No, a man like him you’d never forget. Something niggles at my memory, tugs at my senses. I’d never forget a man who looked like this, a man with eyes like that…but what about a boy? “Ezra?” I croak, disbelief and uncertainty mingling in the name I haven’t uttered in years. It can’t be. But it is.

Keep Going!

Read the REST of the prologue and enter the QUEEN BOX giveaway on Kennedy’s website:→ https://bit.ly/35U65FL

**QUEEN MOVE will have the special pre-order and release week price of $3.99. After that, the price will increase.**

Pre-order your copy today! Amazon: https://amzn.to/2V4HLvZ

Apple Books: https://apple.co/2JGiqD7

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/queenmove

Nook: https://bit.ly/2UIueeE

Kobo: https://bit.ly/2JFJ7YM

Google Play: https://bit.ly/2yrPZ9E

Add QUEEN MOVE to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3apG1E1

Be notified FIRST when Queen Move is live: http://bit.ly/2oRuDhf

Synopsis

The boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can't have… Dig a little and you'll find photos of me in the bathtub with Ezra Stern. Get your mind out of the gutter. We were six months old. Pry and one of us might confess we saved our first kiss for each other. The most clumsy, wet, sloppy . . . spectacular thirty seconds of my adolescence. Get into our business and you'll see two families, closer than blood, torn apart in an instant. Twenty years later, my "awkward duckling" best friend from childhood, the boy no one noticed, is a man no one can ignore. Finer. Fiercer. Smarter. Taken. Tell me it's wrong. Tell me the boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can’t have. When we find each other again, everything stands in our way--secrets, lies, promises. But we didn't come this far to give up now. And I know just the move to make if I want to make him mine.

About Kennedy Ryan A RITA® Award Winner, Wall Street Journal and USA Today Bestselling Author, Kennedy Ryan writes for women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts. Kennedy and her writings have been featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour and many others. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but has a special passion for raising Autism awareness.The co-founder of LIFT 4 Autism, an annual charitable book auction, she has appeared on Headline News, The Montel Williams Show, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for ASD families. She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son.

Connect with Kennedy

Instagram: http://bit.ly/2TaYiAi

Facebook: http://bit.ly/2GUq0uF

Facebook Reader Group: http://bit.ly/2GY6eyb

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2Fvhqiz

Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2NE0cU0

Book+Main: http://bit.ly/2GVByO7

Website: http://kennedyryanwrites.com

Never Miss A New Release!

Follow Kennedy on BookBub: http://bit.ly/2HcRuee

New Release Alerts: Text Kennedy Ryan 797979

Subscribe to Mailing List: https://bit.ly/KennedySubscribe

Connect with

Blue Box Press

https://theblueboxpress.com/

[dargeereads]

“Combining sweet nostalgia with the important issues Kennedy never shies away from, Queen Move is nothing less than wonderful. I couldn’t put it down and never wanted it to end!”

-- Alexa Martin, Author of Intercepted

Queen Move, an all-new powerful second chance standalone from Wall Street Journal bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author Kennedy Ryan, is coming May 26th and we have your FIRST LOOK!

Make sure to enter on Kennedy’s site to win a QUEEN BOX, stuffed with a signed paperback and all the things you’ll need to treat yourself like a queen!

Prologue

Kimba

Two Years Before Present

Is there anything sadder than a daddy’s girl at her father’s funeral? My mother’s quiet sniffs a few seats down give me the answer. A grieving widow. “He was a good man,” someone in the long line of mourners offering condolences whispers to her. Mama’s head bobs with a tearful nod. In this day and age, she still wears a pillbox hat and veil. It’s black and chic like Mama, channeling tragic Jackie Kennedy or Coretta Scott King. My father was not just a good man. He was a great man, and everyone should know he leaves behind a widow, grieving deeply, but ever-fly. I squeeze the funeral program between my fingers, glaring at the printed words. Joseph Allen leaves behind a wife, Janetta, three children, Kayla, Keith and Kimba, and six grandchildren. He leaves behind. Daddy’s gone, and I don’t know how to live in a world my father does not inhabit. The casket is draped with sweet-smelling flowers in the center of the funeral tent. When we leave the cemetery, it…he will be lowered into the ground with unfathomable finality, separated from us by white satin lining, six feet of dirt and eternity. Kayla, my older sister, sobs softly at the end of our family’s row. Her four children watch her carefully, probably unused to seeing their unshakeable mother shaken and reduced to tears. Even I’d forgotten how she looks when she cries—like she’s mad at the wetness streaking her cheeks, resentful of any sign of weakness. It’s not weak to cry, Daddy used to say. It’s human. “But doesn’t the Bible say even the rocks will cry out?” I’d challenged him when I was young, loving that something from Sunday school took. “So maybe tears aren’t just for humans.” “You’re getting too smart for your britches, little girl,” he’d said, but the deep affection in his eyes when he kissed me told me he was pleased. He liked that I asked questions and taught me to never accept bullshit at face value. I miss you, Daddy. Not even a week since his heart attack, and I already miss him so much. Humanity blurs my vision, wet and hot and stinging my eyes. I want this to be over. The flowers, the well-dressed mourners, the news cameras stationed at a distance they probably deem respectful. I just want to go to the house where my parents raised us, retreat to Daddy’s study and find the stash of cigars that only he and I knew about. Don’t tell your mother, he used to whisper conspiratorially. This will be our little secret. Mama hated the smell of cigars in the house. “Tru.” Who would call me by that name? Now, when the only people who use it, my family, are all preoccupied with their own pain? A tall man stands in front of me, his thick, dark brows bunched with sympathy. I don’t know him. I would remember a man like this, who stands strong like an oak tree. A well-tailored suit molds his powerful shoulders. Dark brown, not quite black, hair is cut ruthlessly short, but hints at waves if given the chance to grow. His prominent nose makes itself known above the full, finely sculpted lips below. His eyes are shockingly vivid—so deep a blue they’re almost the color of African violets against skin like bronze bathed in sunlight. No, a man like him you’d never forget. Something niggles at my memory, tugs at my senses. I’d never forget a man who looked like this, a man with eyes like that…but what about a boy? “Ezra?” I croak, disbelief and uncertainty mingling in the name I haven’t uttered in years. It can’t be. But it is.

Keep Going!

Read the REST of the prologue and enter the QUEEN BOX giveaway on Kennedy’s website:→ https://bit.ly/35U65FL

**QUEEN MOVE will have the special pre-order and release week price of $3.99. After that, the price will increase.**

Pre-order your copy today! Amazon: https://amzn.to/2V4HLvZ

Apple Books: https://apple.co/2JGiqD7

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/queenmove

Nook: https://bit.ly/2UIueeE

Kobo: https://bit.ly/2JFJ7YM

Google Play: https://bit.ly/2yrPZ9E

Add QUEEN MOVE to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3apG1E1

Be notified FIRST when Queen Move is live: http://bit.ly/2oRuDhf

Synopsis

The boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can't have… Dig a little and you'll find photos of me in the bathtub with Ezra Stern. Get your mind out of the gutter. We were six months old. Pry and one of us might confess we saved our first kiss for each other. The most clumsy, wet, sloppy . . . spectacular thirty seconds of my adolescence. Get into our business and you'll see two families, closer than blood, torn apart in an instant. Twenty years later, my "awkward duckling" best friend from childhood, the boy no one noticed, is a man no one can ignore. Finer. Fiercer. Smarter. Taken. Tell me it's wrong. Tell me the boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can’t have. When we find each other again, everything stands in our way--secrets, lies, promises. But we didn't come this far to give up now. And I know just the move to make if I want to make him mine.

About Kennedy Ryan A RITA® Award Winner, Wall Street Journal and USA Today Bestselling Author, Kennedy Ryan writes for women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts. Kennedy and her writings have been featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour and many others. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but has a special passion for raising Autism awareness.The co-founder of LIFT 4 Autism, an annual charitable book auction, she has appeared on Headline News, The Montel Williams Show, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for ASD families. She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son.

Connect with Kennedy

Instagram: http://bit.ly/2TaYiAi

Facebook: http://bit.ly/2GUq0uF

Facebook Reader Group: http://bit.ly/2GY6eyb

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2Fvhqiz

Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2NE0cU0

Book+Main: http://bit.ly/2GVByO7

Website: http://kennedyryanwrites.com

Never Miss A New Release!

Follow Kennedy on BookBub: http://bit.ly/2HcRuee

New Release Alerts: Text Kennedy Ryan 797979

Subscribe to Mailing List: https://bit.ly/KennedySubscribe

Connect with

Blue Box Press

https://theblueboxpress.com/

[angelinatoms]

Parker Boats has built shallow-draft boats for inshore guides for years. Now the Parker team has poured that experience into a sophisticated, versatile new offering—the 26SH (Sport Hybrid). At 26 feet, 6 inches length overall with a 9-foot-6-inch beam and 17-degree transom deadrise, the new boat matches very well with a jack-plate-mounted Yamaha F300 to produce a classy-looking shallow-water fishing machine that can also take a family to the sandbar.

LOA: 26’6″ | Beam: 9’6″ | Draft: 1’3″ | Displacement: 5,073 lb. | Transom Deadrise: 17 degrees | Bridge Clearance: 9’2″ | Fuel Capacity: 97 gal. | Water Capacity: N/A | Max Horsepower: 400 | Available Power: Single Yamaha F300 XCA (Courtesy Parker Boats/)

No, the 26SH is probably not the best choice to run offshore, but it’s plenty able to jig on nearshore wrecks and reefs. Add Taco Grand Slam outriggers to the T-top, and single or dual power poles for the flats.

The helm easily accommodates a Garmin 8612 or 8616 and Fusion stereo. (Courtesy Parker Boats/)

We liked the way this roomy hull rose onto plane and ran with its sharp forward sections just kissing the water to carve what swell we could find. It throws spray straight out to the sides. There’s plenty of speed when needed, but we also found that the 26SH could slow down to the teens and stay on plane if needed for truly nasty conditions. It comes standard with 10-by-14-inch Lenco trim tabs for fine-tuning the ride. On the drift, it exhibited great stability.

The large casting platform at the bow can be converted to lounges with the Comfort Package. (Courtesy Parker Boats/)

Hatches are finished on both sides and bolted to stainless-steel friction hinges over properly gasketed gutters. Hardware throughout is fastened with bolts, washers, and locknuts. I found fantastic access to wiring, plumbing and the through-hull transducer (Garmin B60 or B150), as well as easy-to-reach bronze seacocks and electronics (Garmin 8612 or 8616 with VHF and Fusion stereo). There is plenty of room inside for a full-size human to sit comfortably on the portable toilet, and dedicated space for up to five batteries. Placing them in the console helps keep the hull well-balanced.

Twin livewells keep bait fresh. (Courtesy Parker Boats/)

Parker’s new 26SH enters a growing field of high-quality 26- to 27-foot bay boats built to both fish and entertain families. Its stability, interior space and spirited performance will certainly satisfy the latter mission, but true to its heritage, its forte is fishing.

Single or dual power poles can be easily outfitted. (Courtesy Parker Boats/)

High Points

Huge casting platforms bow and stern, plus twin livewells.

Tilt-out tackle boxes under the gunwales.

Large, cushioned seat with fold-down back under the stern platform.

Good access to neatly arranged wiring, plumbing and pumps.

Low Points

Rod stowage maxes out at 7 feet, 6 inches. Want fly rods? Hang them under the T-top.

Only head option is a portable toilet without pump-out.

Forward platform Comfort Package lounges are not secure if the boat is underway.

Toughest Competitors

Regulator’s 26XO ($139,995 with Yamaha F300) is similar in dimensions but about 1,000 pounds heavier, with similar fishing features, more seating, and forward lounges available for the bow platform. Pathfinder’s 2600 TRS (about $125,000 comparably equipped with a Yamaha F300) is narrower (8 feet, 10 inches) and about 800 pounds lighter, with a stepped hull, 18 degrees of transom deadrise, and lower fuel capacity (70 gallons).

Price: $125,751 (with test power)

Available Power: Outboard

Parker Boats 26SH Certified Test Results (Boating Magazine/)

How We Tested

Engine: 300 hp Yamaha

Drive/Prop: Outboard/15.5″ x 17″ Saltwater Series II SDS 3-blade

Gear Ratio: 1.75:1

Fuel Load: 40 gal.

Water on Board: 0 gal.

Crew Weight: 400 lb.

Parker Boats – Beaufort, North Carolina; 252-728-5621; parkerboats.com

#boating #boatingtips #boatingsupplies #boatingnews #boatingshop #wolfcreek