#digital lith print

[zuikoplanet]

Зима в Павловске.

Winter in Pavlovsk

[idadart]

[ageae]

Hey - I’m not photoshop expert, but that looks like an alternative process darkroom print called a lith print (which is different from lithography). I’m sure there are tutorials online for creating digital lith prints from photoshop. Hope that helps!

Ah perfect! I’ve found a tutorial now, thank you!

[marcel-s]

From a 2022 portrait session with the amazing @antoniavqu at Studio Fugazi. Make up and hair @meiko_monteiro_muah, general assistance, support and driving @zoe.ak47. Scan of Selenium toned wet lith print. Printed on Foma Retrobrom 152 using ANSCO 79B developer. No digital post processing of any kind except some dust spotting and a minor global contrast adjustment to match the physical print.

[kagamiita]

her   companion's   comment   is   perceived   with   the   utmost   care   ,   treaded   alike   a   moss   -   covered   path   unable   to   shake   off   its   rain   drop   scattered   surface   .    crescent   brows   raise    ---    whether   her   statement   had   been   expressed   with   sincerity   or   one   of   questioning   is   left   aside    ---    for   the   rays   of   the   new   -   born   day   play   on   her   countenance   ;    engulfing   own   features   with   a   light   smile   .    to   her   joy    ---    is   it   reciprocated   almost   at   the   simultaneous   fragment   of   the   second   .    fate   is   a   funny   thing   .    an   opportunity   ,   an   elusive   illusion    ---    a   dream   within   a   dream   .   .   .    she   is   unable   to   tell   ,   to   decipher   the   chiffre    ---    a   mere   peak   through   the   door   ,   all   that   she   had   been   granted   .    did   her   soul   not   yearn   for   answers   ,   she   believes   she   cannot   give   herself   ?    to   reveal   themselves   between   the   branches   of   an   ancient   pine   tree   ?    to   perch   on   top    ---    to   descend   from   celestial   plains   into   her   sight   ?    reveal   the   ultimate   truth   to   her   ?    at   her   crossroads   ,   neither   signs   nor   coincidences   are   taken   lightly    ---    no   ,   they   are   inspected   very   carefully   .    picked   apart   ,   pondered   and   studied   upon   .    shizuka   realises   ,   her   playful   approaches   may   bloom   too   strongly       ---    may   burst   forth   in   a   riot   of   fleeting   hues   and   yet    ---    the   question   sparks   the   interest   in   her   own   glance   .    veiled   in   the   brocade   of   golden   rays   to   cast   themselves   across   the   dust   of   the   digital   device   ,   the   wooden   surface   of   the   table    ---    or   her   mere   hands   ,   fingertips   neatly   to   touch    ---    leaving   no   gaps   between   lithe   fingers   .

    a   nod   ,   as   if   to   accept   her   inquiry   with   pleasure   ,       "    yes   ,   miss   price   .   .    there   are   very   famous   plays   of   him   .    he   is   indeed   mostly   known   for   winning   very   important   battles   .   .    "    ,    she   cannot   hold   the   delicacy   of   a   strange   ,   gentle   sentiment   to   slip   into   her   words   ,       "   he   was   a   loyal   protector   and   guard   to   his   lord   .    shielded   him   and   his   family   against   treachery   and   potential   death   .    even   to   other   retainers   of   his   lord   ,   he   was   a   dutiful   and   thoughtful   warrior   ,   taking   care   of   them   in   their   most   vulnerable   states   .    "    ,   a   nod   accompanies   her   final   words    ---    and   for   a   moment   shizuka   wonders   indeed   ,   how   quickly   to   pick   up   the   subtle   intention   she   was   !    a   mental   note   of   caution   to   be   taken    ---    for   such   sharp   minds   have   well   -   trained   eyes   and   ears   .       "    kuniyoshi   has   done   other   woodblock   prints   of   moritsuna    ---    that   also   tell   the   tale   one   of   the   plays   does   ,    "    ,   fingers   extent   to   tap   lightly    ---    before   a   similar   artwork   pops   up    ---   overflowing   with   its   vibrancy   and   featuring   the   sea   once   more   .    "    it   is   said   in   order   to   find   his   enemies'   hiding   place   on   a   remote   island    ---    after   getting   the   piece   of   information   where   it   was   shallow   enough   to   cross   and   part   the   seas    ---    he   had   the   fisherman   ,   who   told   him   killed   .    of   course   ,   to   keep   him   silent   .    "    .

    these   ancient   times   ,   barely   have   they   changed   .    to   kill   ,   to   keep   quiet   ,   to   stuff   mouths   was   still   a   highly   valuable   skill    ---    with   barely   updated   methods   and   tools   to   make   use   of   .    a   coy   curl   of   lip's   corners   ,   a   blush   upon   the   tip   of   her   nose   however   reveals   naught   of   such   distant   thoughts   ;       "    thank   you   for   your   interest   and   attention   to   meaning   .    he   was   a   true   servant   and   an   admired   general   .    a   leading   hero    ---    as   kuniyoshi   called   him   .    statues   of   his   can   still   be   found   .    "    ,    in   an   attempt   to   summarise   her   knowledge   and   squeeze   it   into   a   sentence   .   .   .       palm   engulfs   the   cup   of   tea   as   the   other   supports   its   bottom   .    indeed   ,   her   true   heart   remained   guided    ---    buried   deeply   ,   only   to   be   unearthed   by   her   hands   solely   .    perhaps   ,   it   called   to   her    ---    fate   ---    to   return   this   painting   home   ,   where   it   belonged   ,   where   it   was   needed   .    perhaps    ---    if   she   only   looked   hard   enough   ,   at   the   aged   paper   ,   the   dried   paint    ---    the   gods   would   speak   through   it   to   her   ,   would   let   her   finally   see   what   she   has   been   missing   all   along   .    a   fine   way   to   deceive   oneself   ,   she   thinks   .    but   did   it   really   matter   ?    whether   it   is   a   mere   object   ,   that   is   given   the   significance   of   her   deciding   her   own   path   ?    for   a   brief   moment   ,   she   wonders   whether   her   curiosity   is   appropriate   .   .        "    is   your   chairman   a   collector   of   art   ?    "    ,    gaze   drifts   down    ---    veiling   the   importance   behind   casually   worded   question   .    "    woodblock   prints   are   delicate   .    especially   to   humidity   and   natural   light   .    but   all   is   treatable   with   patience   and   the   right   eye   .    "    ,    an   enthusiastic   nod    ---    a   warm   affirmation   .    her   company   was   pleasant   and   strangely   .   .       open   .    a   very   welcome   change   to   her   usual   environment   of   solitude    ---    and   a   very   wanted   one   . 

do   the   sun's   rays   seep   through   the   transparency   of   the   window   just   beside   them   ?   or   does   the   illumination   derived   from   the   other's   pleasure   at   the   piece's   description   pierce   athalia   so   ?   she   is   not   sure   which   is   the   explanation,   but   the   brilliance   that   shines   punctures   her   indifference   so   flagrantly   that   she   is   suddenly   unsure   of   herself.   or   rather,   she   has   always   been   unsure   but   has   made   a   commitment   to   rolling   with   the   unguided   and   unfaithful   punches   that   are   associated   with   personhood   on   this   planet.   interestingly,   it   was   not   art   that   she   expected   to   breathe   life   back   into   her   veering   sentiments   regarding   morals   and   values.   what   of   human   decency   ?   she   had   taken   great   care   to   make   the   guidelines   inconspicuous   for   the   sake   of   living   somewhat   peacefully   and   yet   —   warm   brown   eyes   to   gaze   back   at   the   ever   so   faded   painting   portrayed   digitally   before   them.   they   do   not   travel   immediately   upwards   to   meet   her   counterpart's,   but   rather   view   the   barely   bubbling   and   neutral   color   of   the   liquid   in   her   not-fragile-enough   teacup.   a   thoughtful   distraction   from   the   conundrum   at   hand.   at   last   their   eyes   meet   again,   a   fragile   line   between   athalia's   personal   apprehension   and   politeness   being   held   within   the   gaze.   ❝   no   need   to   apologize.   ❞   she   says   simply,   and   honestly   indeed.   ❝   i'm   elated   to   hear   that   you're   willing   to   work   with   us,   if   anything.   ❞

athalia   found   it   only   befitting   to   remove   the   veil   of   apathy   in   the   wake   of   the   other   woman's   obvious   ardor   towards   this   work.   it   was   not   something   that   she   often   engaged   in,   a   strict   and   calculated   approach   to   her   occupation,   as   required.   no   matter   interest,   nor   intrigue.   alas,   she   finds   herself   observing   the   image   once   more.   how   could   one   remain   blind   to   its   beauty   ?   a   powerful   and   decorated   warrior   scrutinizes   his   sapphire   sea;   it   is   his   because   stance   and   gaze   imply   as   such   —   the   ownership   of   a   warrior.   and   as   the   remnants   of   the   carefully   raging   waves   fade,   it   leads   way   to   what   seems   to   be   cerulean   horizon   —   barely   touched   by   a   tinge   of   gray.   and   perhaps   most   interesting:   how   the   still   visible   shades   of   his   surroundings   seem   to   be   reflected   in   the   pattern   of   his   attire.   if   such   detail   could   be   observed   by   an   untrained   eye   as   athalia's   on   a   piece   in   need   of   renewal,   the   perfected   version   must   be   a   sight   to   behold.   lia   nearly   sighs   —   both   wearily   and   dreamily   —   at   the   thought.   some   luck.   she   wonders   briefly   who   theo   had   been   in   conversation   with   to   gain   knowledge   on   such   a   painting.   

❝   i   suppose   we   might   call   him   lucky.   ❞   most   notably,   he   is   luckily   rich,   and   luckily   in   touch   with   and   at   other   times   inside   of   people   who   are   both   more   talented   and   more   cultured   than   he   would   likely   ever   be.   ignoring   the   thought,   athalia   smiles   at   the   young   woman,   sweeter   than   even   she   is   aware   of   (   which   would   likely   be   to   her   own   dismay   ).   ❝   this   uhm,   moritsuna,   was   it   ?   ❞   observation   of   the   figure's   side   countenance   in   the   photo   once   more,   ❝   do   historians   know   much   about   his   character   ?   accomplishments   are   respectively   enough,   of   course   but   …   ❞   but   she   is   aware   that   art   pieces   and   the   personalities   stroked   within   them   have   stories   that   stretch   beyond   ancient   titles.   and   perhaps   she   might   do   this   advert   a   minuscule   amount   of   artistic   justice   if   she   were   culturally   aware,   knew   where   to   look   —   where   to   research.   things   that   the   chairman   wouldn't   busy   himself   with.   most   usually,   she   would   not   either   but   there   was   always   a   hovering   and   bumbling   intern   in   the   shadows   with   the   willingness,   and   athalia   is   strict   with   checking   the   work   of   subordinates.   her   own   climb   to   success   was   not   as   simple   as   it   may   seem.   ❝      i   mean   hearing   that   this   is   such   a   significant   piece   and   all,   if   there's   anything   we   should   be   aware   of,   i   would   like   to   know.   ❞   and   perhaps,   she   might   see   to   it   that   it   went   a   place   that   was   not   the   boring   contemporary   walls   of   her   boss.   staring   at   her   cooled   tea,   she   wonders   fleetingly   who   she   is   making   these   adjustments   for.   

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #50

“I’m here to pick up a bot that my crew ordered?”

The bespectacled man behind the desk adjusted the top lense of several layers of glass, squinting his enormous green eyes at the protagonist before noticing the emblem emblazoned on their chest. He perked up immediately.

“Of course!” he chirped, plucking his clipboard off the desktop and waving for protagonist to follow him into the back.

Bots hung from the ceiling like so many limp marionettes, except with steel cord instead of thread for strings.

“Science bot, right?” the vendor said.

They stopped in front of a slender bodied bot with its arms strung over its head. It was disconcerting how human these things could look sometimes. If it weren’t for the near-invisible seams in its skin, protagonist might have been concerned.

“That’s right,” protagonist said.

The man stepped up on a stool, and bringing a chip strung around his neck to the bots bonds, the clamps on the ends of the cords slowly unlocked and the steel bonds retracted back toward the ceiling. The man caught the bot’s limp frame with a litheness that bespoke an action done every day.

“Do you want to activate it here or do you want it shipped over to the port?” he said as the situated the bot into a sitting position.

Protagonist thought about their departure schedule. “I will activate it here.”

The man nodded and lifted one of the bots rigid hands. “It’s quite simple, really. There is a scanner on the back of each bot’s right hand. To activate it you must give a heat signature and some sort of identifying print, hand, finger, whatever you like, the bot will then store that information in its databanks to differentiate your ownership from those who may try to steal it.”

Protagonist hesitated, curling the fingers in both synthetic hands. The limbs might have been bonded to their nervous system, but they still wouldn’t give a heat signature. Perhaps…

They took the bot’s hand from the vendor’s hold and pressed a warm kiss to its cold back.

“Oh,” the vendor said, “that works.”

The machine immediately whirred to life, rigid joints unlocking and shifting in their sockets.

The bot’s eyes flicked open, realistic but for the pale blue glow backlighting the silver irises. It’s head tipped toward where Protagonist stooped, lips still pressed against just warming metal.

“Oh.” Several digital blush lines lit the bot’s cheeks. “I am SciBot-2k50, but a new name may be uploaded to my databanks whenever you like. It’s a pleasure to make you’re acquaintance.”

[dojishu]

belphegor x afab! reader: having a bit of fun in lucifer’s study.

content warning: smut, oral, female anatomy, fingering.

anything else you need tagged? let me know!

it was rather rare for belphie to want to do something outside of his or your room. he preferred the familiarity both of your rooms provided and especially loved lying in your bed, surrounded by all the sheets and blankets that smelled like you.

so it came as a surprise when, in the middle of a lazy session of kissing, belphegor suggested that you two have a little fun risking your lives by moving to lucifer's study to continue.

you were adamant about not going though, quite unwilling to be walked in on by the eldest. unfortunately, belphegor was great at getting what he wanted, and convinced you to leave with him by pressing a few smothering kisses along your neck as he ran his lithe fingers down your sides.

"he won't be home 'til dinner. indulge me." he whispered by your ear, that lazy curl of his lips brushing against your skin as you squirmed beneath his playful touch.

he didn't need to do much coaxing to get you to agree, long fingers caressing your inner thigh the sole miracle worker in getting you to say yes so easily.

it started off slow when you both had snuck into lucifer's study, locking the door behind you as belphegor pressed you against the oak with a soft sigh. his hands had gone down to hold you by the hips once you turned around, and he led you towards lucifer's chair where he plopped down and brought you onto his awaiting lap.

the kisses you two shared were languid in pace, but grew with more purpose and weight as teeth began to nip and tongues began to prod. your breathing got heavier as belphie's hands ran up the length of your thighs and up your waist, the heat from his palms seeping through your clothes.

"belphie..." you whispered, hands framing his face as he urgently pulled at your shorts and had you pinned between his body and lucifer's desk.

and that's how you ended up with belphegor's head between your thighs, the silk dripping from your entrance ruining the wood that you sat upon.

his nose brushed against your clit as his tongue peeked from his lips to lave at where his fingers curled into you, breath coming out in lazy puffs. his eyes had fallen shut when your hands dragged through his hair, a soft purr rumbling through his chest.

the way you tugged and pulled at the strands of his hair made his lips curl upwards into a pleasured smile, and he printed open mouthed kisses around his fingers, keen on having you bring that dull ache to his skull.

lithe digits, soaked and shiny with slick, pumped inside of you slowly to prolong the pleasure that brought fire all the way down to your fingertips. your breathing, partially muffled by your teeth biting at your lip, was heavy, but weak.

it felt like your lungs were burning and your head was spinning, your subconscious telling you that doing this in lucifer's study, his desk, was a bad idea.

the way your silk dripped down belphegor's hand and spilled onto the oak would be enough evidence for lucifer to figure out what had transpired, but it felt like it gave you all the more reason to continue.

to continue having your lazy, devious little lover have you spread open on top of a desk that wasn't yours and dirty all the things that sat upon it with your arousal.

his fingers, drenched with you, squelched and clicked with each push and pull, reddened lips worshiping your throbbing clit with kisses and little drags of his tongue.

you cooed his name through a laboured breath and dragged your fingers along his scalp, silently urging him to give you more.

he purred then, a little noise. a soft vibration. he encouraged you to do that thing with your hands again and moaned when you did, eyelashes fluttering with a sharp hiss as your nails raked through his hair, tongue dragging a thick stripe along his fingers and your entrance.

"feels good..." he chuckled under his breath, his eyelids falling shut as he did that purr again, lips open mouthed against your little bud, the pink muscle sitting in his mouth giving it gentle licks.

he brought you to the peak of your pleasure once his fingers started curling upwards, rocking into that sweet spot of yours that had you breathless and light headed. your fingers pulled at his hair then, and he groaned lowly, breath hot as it fanned against your wet skin.

you came then, thighs trembling and body curving over him as he lapped at the silk that flooded from his fingers and spilled on lucifer's desk, the erotic noise of his lips slurping at the honey making your body flare with embarrassment.

"can't continue here." he murmured once he eased his fingers from your entrance and brought them to your lips. his hooded eyes stared as he smiled when you opened your mouth and sucked the moisture from his fingers, and he gave you an appreciative kiss to your hair.

"let's finish in the attic." belphie whispered in your ear, picking you up from the desk after you caught your breath and he dried his fingers on his shirt.

and like the brat he was (to his eldest brother, at least), belphegor chose not to clean up the mess you had made on lucifer's desk.

[taifunu]

* by Antonio Via Flickr: -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Duaflex IV (620) with Kodak Tri-X 400 developed in Acurol-N. Pictorico OHP digital negatives Contact printed on Kodak Ektalure (G) Two trays lith development Toned in Carbon / Gold --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[a-lluring]

｡･: * ◜ she stood in a dress that made her look like 𝖘𝖎𝖓  ❟  and it was fitting that her eyes drifted like 𝖘𝖒𝖔𝖐𝖊 above her red lips .  there is no 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑 that is more 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖓𝖌 than her  ❟  drag me beneath the 𝖋𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘  ◞

hello, there !! call me latte, twenty-one, and i go by they / them pronouns. activity will be sporadic as i have other characters but if i had to really pick, i’d say a seven out of ten. my timezone is est but - let’s not talk about my sleeping schedule - i’m probably online when i should be sleeping rip i’ve been writing for years but always finding ways to improve. i’m very chill and love love love plotting back in forth between characters, so feel free to message me if you’re interested !! sooo- let’s have some fun facts about me, ay ?? arctic monkeys is one of my favorite bands ( alex turner owns my entire soul ), i draw digitally but like once a year, and my favorite color is orange / tangerine !! i don’t have a preference between im or discord ( latte#8593 ) but i’d love to hear from you !! here’s my chaotic girlie !! 

✧･ﾟ( circe + ariana grande + cis female ) 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒂 !! have you seen ( willow forlani ) around ? ( she / her ) has been in kaos for ( three months ). the ( twenty-six year old ) is a ( professional hairdresser ) from ( edenton, north carolina, usa ). people say they can be ( domineering ) but maybe that’s not too bad ‘cause they can also be ( intrepid ). whenever i think of them, i can’t help but think of ( lithe fingers caressing sun kissed skin, boasting about a bouquet of vibrant flowers framed to look like it was sent by a secret admirer when it was actually the sendee and touching up mauve lipstick in a tastefully decorated restroom ). ･ﾟ✧ ( penned by latte, 21, est, they / them ).

I. BASICS

( full name ) willow evangeline forlani

( job ) hairdresser, social media influencer

( age ) twenty-six

( gender ) cis female

( sexuality ) bisexual

( status ) single?

( greek goddess ) circe a goddess of magic or sometimes a nymph, enchantress or sorceress

( zodiac ) cancer sun, aries moon, libra rising

( myers briggs ) entj

( alignment ) lawful evil

( body type ) short in stature, petite

( height ) 5ft 1in

( weight ) 108Ibs

( hair ) coffee bean, brown

( eyes ) dark chocolate, brown

II. ABOUT

ever since willow could remember, she knew she belonged somewhere extravagant; that she was amounted to greatness. she was born in edenton, north carolina in a dingy starter home with only a single mother to support her and her sisters. being the youngest of three girls, she had to face a lot of obstacles to get the acknowledgement she deserved and outshine any competition. this included her siblings. whenever they’d show any form of accomplishments, willow does everything in her power to one-up them - which, with enough drive, she eventually does. willow was known as little miss perfect in her small town. she’d bake cookies for her neighbors, helped fundraise for charities and made sure anyone caught in her radius recycled their wastes. she was pretty happy with her younger years until she got into her first relationship in high school where looks became a little bit more important than community service. ( tw : cheating ) her boyfriend was her everything. she loved everything about him. from that sexy strand of hair to those harley davidson boots he always wore. it was great, they were young and in love. but things got messy quick, as high school romances tend to do. when he was seen remotely close to any female figure, platonic or not, willow would imagine the worse. she’d always berate him every chance she got until he reached a boiling point where he angrily confessed he’s been sleeping with one of her best friends. her world after that shattered. willow became bitter and pushed away her remaining friends in high school. despite winning prom queen with honors to upstage her sisters, as she always does, she didn’t feel happy at all. she focused more on her looks, eventually finding satisfaction in social media. she gained a sort of comfort when they related to her posts in terms of heartbreak and made quite a following throughout the years with her style. one of her first followers, whom she eventually became close friends with, talked her into pursuing cosmetology. another got her into witchcraft. well, she was weary at first. regardless, she made a voodoo doll of her ex to test the waters but gave up midway when it didn’t look exactly like he did - or not nearly as beautiful as she remembered him - so she threw him out into a bin. a week later, the news reported found said ex in a dumpster, seconds away from being crushed by a garbage truck. it might’ve been a coincidence but she knew that power was something she needed to obtain. so she researched, practiced, and made use of it. willow, with her luck and witchcraft on her side, made otherworldly success. she became an ambassador for versace which popularized her social media and made her a socialite of sorts, had opportunities to style runaway models’ hair, and just recently opened her own professional hair salon located in kaos, greece. now she’s enjoying her time in the sun as much as she can before she moves on to the next thing - attempt to settle down with a lover. behind that well-spoken and mannered facade, willow is a force to reckon with. she may be childish at times, vain, and harsh; but she can be sweet when you least expect it, mainly for a purpose but who’s to know. she has little to no grip on reality, always living life as if it were a dream made in her creation. her arrogance proves it so.

what she lacks in self-awareness, she makes up for it in self-assurance. she’s driven in terms of her career and romance, always dancing between normalcy and obsession, so there’s little to expect from her. one thing’s for sure, she’s a luminous star above a night sky.

III. CONNECTIONS

( platonic ) willow knows a lot - i mean A LOT - of people. she just so chooses to have a close circle that she keeps near and dear. a tight pack that really knows the real her and sticks to her side despite how much of a mess she is behind the cameras

( romantic ) back on willow knowing a lot of people, a majority of them have probably been romantically involved with her. although magazines exaggerate a lot, her relationship count is more or less accurate to what they print

( antagonistic ) a handful of people can see past her mask and probably hate her for it. there may be things she's said in the past that rub people the wrong way - just her real personality showing through, funnily enough. anyway, she has a big following online, it’d be a miracle if there weren’t any haters in the mix.

( wanted ) wishlist muse tag here, i will give my left kidney for these !!

[zuikoplanet]

Dry reeds in the rays of the low winter sun

[river-mist]

Bright flashes and a rush of bubbles rose through dark green water. A little here, a little there, and it was almost done. Twisting around with a few kicks brought Caleb upside down. One more spot and the safe that had been carefully hidden in the depths of the tanker was freed of its framework. 

Checking his wrist readout, his O2 was optimal for ten more minutes. It would be close, but he knew he could get the harness in place in time. The idea of another night of instant soup, with its little vegetable shaped who-knows-whats, was ample motivation.

Dull clicks sounded muffled as he ratcheted each set of straps in place. Turning to leave, some of the iron he’d cut caught him across the upper arm. With a wince Caleb pressed a button at his wrist. “Alright it’s on, haul it up, I’m outta here.”

Static hissed through his headset in his helmet before a voice as sour as the goblin who owned it replied. “Yeah, yeah. Hurry your ass up, we been here too long. You better a’ gotten this right, Quinne.”

If he hadn’t already been dizzy from his air getting thin Caleb would have rolled his eyes. “Right, boss.”

The information had been from a reliable source. Just to be sure, he double checked everything. This tanker had gone down in a storm in neutral territory. It was confirmed to be black market, bound for Freehold, which meant whoever got to it first didn’t have to file any paperwork. Solid profit, in other words. Most of the cargo had been destroyed when the tanker split in two sliding down an undersea mountainside, but some of it had been retrievable.

The safe had been a delightful surprise – if there hadn’t been such a catastrophic accident no one would have found the wall panels that popped out once the hull tore apart. With some careful appraisal Caleb figured out it was possible to remove the entire safe. Extraction would be tricky but doing it this way wouldn’t risk the contents, and Naijax agreed with him in the end. Whatever the safe held had to be good to be hidden like it was.

Getting it open took the rest of the night. Not only was the lock professional grade, but also magical - the last digit would change after two failed attempts. A few hours of trying, and then drilling it, and a lot of yelling ended with hauling it to an empty cove and blowing it with explosives and a null scroll. Even then, Caleb was still called in to cut the door the rest of the way off when it got stuck.

Luck appeared to be on his side again. The glint of gold bars, their stamps scratched off, were the first things he saw. Rare looking potions, various artifacts, a few bundles of blood thistle and bricks of rain poppy resin, money printing plates…there was quite a lot with resale value. 

It was clear whoever owned the tanker had been serious about their business. No wonder they’d been put on a tight schedule. Before anyone else could get close, a small stone box caught Caleb’s eye. He quickly tucked it into his leather apron. A little extra something for his hard work, as it were.

Caleb’s irritable foreman was in a celebratory mood after taking stock of the entire salvage. A steady stream of good whiskey and ale paired well with the large pit-roasted hog and side dishes brought in for everyone’s efforts. Near evening Naijax returned from securing buyers for their illicit finds.

“Not bad kid, not bad. Our employer’s pleased as punch. Here’s your cut.” 

He tossed a heavy pouch that landed on the table next to Caleb’s hand. A coin rolled out and began to spin, glimmering in the lamplight.

The next week was a blur of boat rides, strong rum, sparkling green smoke and a tangle of laughing, moaning body parts in silk sheets. Cornflower blue eyes opened, watching a rickety wooden ceiling fan slowly rotate as it came into focus. Caleb uncurled himself from around a shapely leg, at the same time escaping the embrace of muscular arms around his waist. He slid to the edge of the bed. Faint stars danced at the corners of his vision as he rubbed his face.

Being sticky in a variety of fun places and in dire need of hydration he padded to the bathroom. Hot water fell in a soothing deluge, slicking coppery hair to a freckled complexion, a lithely wiry frame. He drank as he washed himself, the stream from this faucet just as good as any other in his mind. 

Drying off became a quick production when Caleb heard pounding. Towel wrapped around his hips, he went to answer the door. A greasy bleach blonde blood elf he recognized as crew cook stood there looking disapproving. He didn’t even let Caleb speak before ranting.

“You’ve gone and done it now, Quinne! He’s so pissed he’s throwing things. He told you this was your last shot. Took too long to figure out you went way the fuck out here.” He shook his head, continuing with nary a breath. 

“What were you thinking? You can take a vacation whenever you want? Come back when it suited you? Well then idiot, what do you have to say for yourself?”

With the barrage of questions, all Caleb could do was stare at him before gathering his wits. “Vacation…? What? It’s only Sunday-”

The elf cut him off. “Only Sunday?! What fucking planet are you on? It’s Friday! Naijax told me to tell you not to bother to come back, and he’s keeping your severance pay for shorting him a welder. So guess what? You’re fired, shithead. Have a nice damn day.”

[ladyseaheart1668]

Endless Summer Book 4 : Daughter of Vaanu (Chapter 38)

Description: Estela and Aleister return to Northbridge to identify their father’s body and make an unsettling discovery.

Content Warning: Talk of suicide this chapter.

Tagging: @endlesshero1122 @xo-endlessmayhem-xo @mysteli @whatmcsaid @feartheendlesssummer @tigerbryn11

Chapter 38: Right Hand

Alodia

I can't believe it.

That seems to be the general sentiment on the morning of my twenty-eighth birthday, as the news filters through our ranks. Everett Rourke is dead. They found him hanging in his room. They're calling it an “apparent suicide,” which I suppose makes sense. Now Estela and Aleister have to return to Northbridge to identify the body within 48 hours.

“...I don't believe it,” Estela growls. I look up from the glass of orange juice I'm nursing. Estela is seated across from me at the kitchen table. Her chair is pushed out a good distance from the table, and her lithe back is flat, even as she rests her chin on her fist on top of the smooth mahogany table. She glares down at the table, eyes narrow as if the fate of the world hinges on her memorizing every detail of the grain.

“I don't either,” Lila murmurs, staring out the window. “It doesn't make sense. Not now. Not now that he had hope. Not now that he believed he had the chance to...reclaim what he'd lost.”

“...Do you think he could really do it?” Quinn asks. “Restart Project Janus?”

“Not if he's dead,” Lila replies flatly. “He can't really do anything if he's dead.”

“There are ways of faking one's death,” Estela says.

“But to fake a suicide by hanging?” Grace ventures gently. “How exactly would he pull that off?”

“I don't know,” Estela admits. “But I can't put anything past him. Lila is right. It doesn't make sense that he would decide to kill himself now. Not when his white whale is back where he could potentially reach her.” She looks at me as she says this, and I snort slightly as I lift my juice off the table.

“You know, in my present condition, I could take that as an insult,” I quip without any genuine mirth.

“Suicide doesn't always make sense,” Aleister murmurs. He sighs heavily. “In any case, I requested an autopsy, so if Father is faking his death somehow, I'm sure they will figure it out soon enough. ...Or they'll kill him in an effort to determine what killed him.”

Over his shoulder, I see Jake appear in the kitchen entryway. He steps inside to lean against the wall, hands in his pockets.

“Bags are all loaded in the car, and there's a plane fueled and ready for us on the tarmac at SNA. Should be about a five-hour flight. Maybe less.”

“You're taking my car and Quinn's?” I ask. The morning has been so confused and harried that I'm not sure I have the plans straight in my head.

“Right. Raj and Lila'll drive Quinn's car back to Northbridge, and Mike and I'll drive yours back here when we get back to California tomorrow morning. ...You'll be okay overnight, right?”

“I'll be fine. Not like I'll be alone.”

“Yeah, I know. But you know I worry.”

“Varyyn and I will look after her,” Diego promises. I roll my eyes.

“Jeez, you'd think I was a baby instead of pregnant with one.”

“Z and I can stick around until you guys get back, too,” Craig offers.

“That really isn't necessary,” I assure him.

“Do you want us to stick around?” Zahra asks pointedly, sipping on her coffee.

“Of course I do.”

“Well then, we're staying. You got sweet digs here, Alodia. Of course we're gonna jump at the chance to hang around here awhile longer.”

“Well, I suppose I can't argue with that logic.”

“We ought to get going, then,” Jake sighs. “California traffic. It's gonna be shit even on New Year's Day. Where are Sean and Michelle?”

“Right here,” Sean says, coming up behind him.

“Oh, you guys are going with them?” I try not to sound too disappointed.

“We had to leave today anyway,” Michelle says apologetically. “I have to get back to work.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sean adds. “As long as the opportunity is here, might as well avoid going through security.”

I sigh, standing up slowly. “Okay, but everyone who's leaving needs to hug me right now, or you're not allowed out the door.”

Goodbyes obviously take awhile. It's lucky the plane won't leave without them. But, eventually, Diego manages to pry me off our friends and guide me back to the kitchen table. I sit down reluctantly. The weight of their absence makes the house feel very suddenly larger and emptier, like mild air that suddenly feels uncomfortably cold when you've been covered by a blanket. I sigh.

“I suppose I should start cleaning up,” I murmur.

“You mean Varyyn and I should start cleaning up,” Diego corrects me. I roll my eyes.

“Goddsake, Diego, I'm pregnant. Not an invalid.”

“Do you honestly feel up to bending down and picking up and carrying dishes and trash back and forth?”

“Well...honestly, no.”

“There you go.” Diego wraps his arms around me from the side and kisses my cheek. “Finish your breakfast, Allie. We'll clean up.”

“Let me help,” Craig says, pushing out his chair and standing up. Without waiting for a reply, he follows Diego and Varryn toward the front room, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Zahra. For a long moment, she sits absolutely still, long enough that I start to feel a little weirded out. But before I can ask her whether everything's okay, she brings her coffee mug to her lips and tips her head back to down the rest in two big gulps before bringing her hand down with a satisfied exhale.

“I needed that,” she grunts under her breath. Abruptly, she looks up and meets my eyes. “Alodia, we should move somewhere private. There's something I have to tell you.”

I immediately feel my stomach knotting with dread. “That...sounds serious.”

“It is serious. I don't know if it's bad, but it is serious. I brought you something.” I am not sure what her words up to this point have led me to expect, but I do know that I never could have predicted the next words out of her mouth. “...It's about your mom.”

* * *

I remember going to the pediatrician as a kid and poking through the plastic milkcrate full of toys in an attempt to distract myself from my anxiety. I have a clear memory of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle that stayed in that milkcrate until my last pediatric visit. I always tried to put it together before the receptionist called my name. Of course, I never succeeded. There was never enough time, someone had always taken it apart and cleaned it up by the time I left, and I'm pretty sure some of the pieces had gone missing over the years anyway.

I can still picture the beautiful image printed on the box: shimmering zodiac signs, accompanied by exquisitely drawn animals, people, and objects to represent them, all splayed out on a starscape backdrop. I can still remember kneeling on the worn carpet in the waiting room, pawing through the pile of cardboard pieces and slowly watching the image form in front of me as I pressed each piece into place. I remember the frustration and sense of loss as I was guided back into the exam room with the puzzle never more than half-completed, with partially assembled chunks missing connecting pieces.

Sitting in my room, looking at the information Zahra has presented me on my mother, I feel like I am looking at that half-completed puzzle. Except this time, there isn't a box cover with a complete image to guide me. I have to admit, I have no idea what to make of all of this. Everything that Zahra knows—and Grace, Aleister, Estela, and Craig, apparently—about the woman who gave birth to me is laid out in front of me, and I don't know what to make of any of it. Perhaps what baffles me the most is that the digital image of me, supposedly painted while I was in utero, doesn't baffle me more. It's actually less of a concern to me than the rest of it.

“So...she was studying something to do with time travel?”

“That's what it looks like. What exactly she was trying to do, I can't tell yet. But I'll keep looking into it if you want me to.”

“Yeah...I mean...if you have the time, it might be important to know some of this stuff...”

Zahra frowns thoughtfully at me. “...Your aunt didn't talk about your mom much, did she?”

“No,” I admit. “Not really. I mean, she came up ocassionally. So did my father. Or...at least...the man Vaanu was pretending to be came up sometimes. But I really only got either of them in bits and pieces ...I don't know if Aunt Molly ever really dealt with her grief. She would start to tell stories, and sometimes she got a decent ways into them, but at some point, she always just stopped herself and shut down.”

“Did you even know your mom's maiden name? I mean, did it ever occur to you that she had the same maiden name as the Vaanti Bride? Even just as a coincidence?”

“Officially, when we met Flora Sullivan, I had never had a human mother, remember? Technically, that was before I was retconned into existence. And once I was retconned into existence, any knowledge of my mom and aunt's maiden name was filed in the same memory bank as the fact that I wasn't born on U.S. soil. …Reading it right now was the first time I realized that I had known it all along.”

“Goddamn, your existence is crazy sometimes.”

“You're preaching to the choir,” I sigh ruefully. “...Thank you for showing this to me. I think I should try to ask Aunt Molly for more details on my mom. ...I won't show her the picture, though. Not unless I mean to tell her everything.”

Zahra frowns. “...Is she someone you could trust not to have you committed if you tell her you can remember an alternate timeline where you didn't exist?”

“To be perfectly honest...I don't know. Which is why I'm not going to tell her yet. Maybe not ever. ...But I do want to hear what else she has to say about my mom. If anything.”

“I gotta say, you're taking all this in stride.”

I shrug. “Well, some of it does concern me a little. But my mother did marry an alien. An alien who knew he was going to father a child who would grow up to be me. I don't know if he actually loved my mother, or if there was another reason he picked her. But it would kinda surprise me if there wasn't something special about her. Like being a descendant of Flora Sullivan. Or at least a descendant of one of her relatives.” I sigh. “...Honestly...if I could only have one question about my parents answered for me, it would be whether my father actually loved my mother. ...But right now, any answer I got would probably be overshadowed by the fact that I just heard Everett Rourke is dead.”

“Right. That bombshell.”

I look up and meet her eyes. “...Do you believe it? Do you believe he's really gone?”

“No way in hell.” The complete lack of hesitation startles me.

“So you don't believe it?”

“Not for a second. Not until I see the body with my own eyes. And possibly not even then.”

“Why not?”

Zahra leans back on the unmade bed, propping herself up on the pillows and draping her arms over the headboard behind her. She locks eyes with me, her gaze penetrating.

“You remember when I faked my death on the island?”

“And scared the crap out of everyone? I remember.”

“You remember why I said I did it?”

“...Because they couldn't kill you if they thought you were already dead.” An icy knot is settling in the pit of my stomach. River must sense my anxiety, because she's doing somersaults in my womb. Zahra nods grimly.

“It's not that complicated a concept. If Rourke means to try some shit, it'll be a lot easier if he's free. Since he was given a life sentence with no possibility of parole, the only way to escape is to be dead. There won't be a manhunt for a man everyone believes is dead.”

“Maybe, but...even if the concept is simple, the execution wouldn't be. He wasn't blown up or anything. They found him hanging. How could he fake that? Especially alone?”

“I don't trust that he was acting alone.”

“Even so, he couldn't just build a dummy corpse, hang it, and expect it to fool anyone. They'd figure it out well before autopsy.”

Zahra's eyes narrow just slightly. “...Who're you trying to convince here, Alodia? Me or yourself? ...'Cause I don't think you believe it, either.”

“Do I believe my very own Captain Ahab has taken himself out of the picture? Of course not. Sure, my head is telling me there's no way he could fake his own death by hanging. There's no way he could set up a body that would pass inspection, not with autopsies and identification and dental records and DNA tests. ...But my gut is screaming at me that he's not gone. He's not gone, but the world is going to believe he is, and he's going to come for me. He's going to come for me and my baby...”

I'm starting to panic. I know I am. But I can't quite fight it off until Zahra springs off the pillows and alights at my side to put a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. No one's gonna let him get anywhere near you. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know. I also know that the twelve of us have faced him and Arachnid before, and we did it when the whole world was dead and we didn't have any backup. But it's really hard not to feel a lot more vulnerable now that I don't have my link to the Endless and the Island's Heart and while I do have a helpless little person inside me. Even just physically, I am way more vulnerable than I was on the Island.”

“Are you though?”

“...What do you mean?”

“The Endless said that the powers passed on by the Prism Crystal are your birthright, too. That you might have powers that haven't manifested yet. Unless you destroyed them, you also have the Andromeda idol, the Endless' spacesuit, and the Andromeda armor.” She pauses, frowning. “You do still have them, right?”

“Yeah. They're in a trunk in the poolhouse.”

“Okay. So the odds seem pretty strong to me that you aren't actually powerless.”

Anything I might have responded with is cut off with a gasp as River gives me a particularly sharp kick.

“God Almighty, this child is fiesty!”

“Takes after her parents,” Zahra quips. “Good.”

“I hope that if I do have some untapped superpowers, they're enough to keep this kid from kicking through my uterus.” I lie down on the bed, stroking my belly. “Come on, sweetheart. Calm down for Ma-mama...” My words abruptly dissolve into a yawn. Now that I'm lying down, the exhausted fog that has hovered over my head since I got up is seeping fully into my brain. I feel like my memory-foam mattress is ready to swallow me whole. I hear Zahra snort.

“Falling asleep on me, Chandler? Not cool.”

“Oh, lay off. I'm too pregnant to function on less than five hours of sleep, and coffee isn't an option.”

“Eugh. Okay, fair enough. I'll let your caffeine-deprived ass rest then. I'll just go see if the guys need any help cleaning up.”

I think I respond appropriately, but sleep is already taking hold, turning my thoughts to mush.

… Vanuu's face hovers above me. He is not quite in human form, but he is also not the faceless apparition that I met on the island. He is frowning.

“Child,” he says, “where is your right hand?”

I am lying on my back, I realize. I strain to lift my head, puzzled by his question. I look down at my body, and find it clad in red. Oh...that explains it. He is asking the Endless. I let my head drop back.

“I lost it.” I roll my head to the right to assess the damage. My right arm ends in a ragged stump below my elbow, but there is no blood. No pain. In fact, I can still feel my severed limb. Only it's...cold. Too cold. And it won't move.

“...How?”

I roll my head back to look up at my father. “I...don't remember...”

He sighs. “You will, my child. In time. Just look for now. Look.”

I do as he tells me, turning my head to the right again, but the effort is starting to hurt. I raise my right hand, now a skeletal metal claw. I bring it in front of my face to examine the new appendage. A small flame flickers to life above my palm. I don't question it when it turns back to flesh and blood right before my eyes. I only start to feel alarmed when the heat of the flame starts to turn the flesh of my palm red. Before I can quite register what is happening, it has already begun to burn a hole through the center of my hand. The pain is unbearable, but I have no voice to scream.

I whip my gaze back to my father, to plead for help, but he's gone. Rourke is in his place, leering down at me. He brings his right hand down to press the palm flat against my swollen belly.

“Strong...” he murmurs gleefully. “She is strong.”

A pair of hands close around mine, and the pain seems to ease. Estela is holding my hand, kneeling beside me with Aleister at her shoulder. She seems to be examining my wound. Her expression is stoically grim, but I can see fear in her eyes.

“Aleister. Look.”

Aleister's eyes widen. He can't hide his fear like she can. “...So it's true.”

Estela nods. “Just as the Endless warned us.”

Through Estela's tender grip, I can see that my hand has begun to bleed. It trickles from the front and the back of my hand like stigmata, pooling between Estela's palms, but she doesn't seem to notice.

“...Estela...” I croak weakly. “Aleister...” Aleister puts a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“Don't worry, Alodia. We will protect you.”

Rourke has a knife in his left hand now. He holds out his right hand in front of him, raises the blade, and takes aim. As he drives the blade through his hand, he doesn't flinch, but I feel the pain as if his hand were mine, and I hear myself scream.

“Alodia!” Jake is beside me now, clutching my hand and desperately stroking my hair. His eyes are wild with fear, shimmering with tears. “Stay with me, Princess. Please...please don't leave me...”

I want to tell him I'm here. I want to tell him I'm all right. But I can't. The searing pain from my hand is spreading up my arm in waves, to my shoulder, flooding into my chest and my midsection. The smell of blood hits my nose in a sickeningly thick cloud. Rourke smiles viciously, raising his right hand to show me the dark hole that goes straight through.

“Do you remember, Andromeda, the truth of the Hydra?” He approaches me, and the pain intestifies. “...You know that we will meet again.”

I hear myself screaming, but the pain is fading. So is my voice. I can't hear Jake's voice anymore, I can't feel the pressure of his hand on mine. Oppressive heat surrounds me as I realize I am back at Hartfeld as it was the day we stepped through the Lernaean Gate.

“Allie!” Diego's voice cracks like a whip through the lava-scorched landscape.

“...Right hand...?” Vaanu's voice comes through crackling static. “...Right hand...”

“Allie! Allie!” …

… “Allie?”

There's a hand on my shoulder. I feel my heart spasm with alarm. My breath catches in my throat, my eyes flying open in a panic before I realize that it's Diego beside me. He pulls his hand back,d showing his palms with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.” His smile slips a little. “Are you okay? I came in to check on you and you were kind of...talking in your sleep.”

“What was I saying?”

“Um...I don't know. Couldn't really make out individual words.”

“I was dreaming...” I trail off as I ease myself upright, frowning. “...I need to talk to Estela and Aleister.”

Aleister

Naturally, Raj made sure we had a packed lunch for our flight back to Northbridge. Nothing fancy, at least not by his standards, just grilled sandwiches and an assortment of hand-made snacks to nibble on. But the effort is always appreciated. About two hours into the flight, after our collective efforts to calm my fussy son have finally born fruit, we lay the tables in the cabin and fetch ourselves drinks from the refridgerator. No one has said much in all this time, beyond what is polite and prefunctory. I think we are all rather in our own heads at the moment. But I have also been watching my sister, and what I see has me a bit concerned. Estela is not a woman prone to tears, or indeed any outward displays of emotion, but on and off, I have noticed her eyes glimmering. She has spent the better portion of these past two hours lying curled up with her head in Quinn's lap, just letting her girlfriend stroke her hair, looking for all the world like a forlorn puppy. Not something I am used to seeing from the San Trobidian rebel. Now that we are sitting at our tables, she is clearly struggling to eat, ocassionally placing a bite or two on her tongue, but very little has actually left the plate in front of her.

“Are you all right, Estela?” I finally can't help but ask.

Estela sighs, picking at a hangnail on her index finger. “Should I be? Considering my father just died?”

“I don't think there is a 'should' in this situation,” Quinn says gently. “You feel how you feel. It's okay.”

“I never cared about knowing who my father was. By the time I learned who he was, I hated him more than anyone else living. ...A part of me thinks I ought to be celebrating...”

Murphy, who had been dozing on the couch, seems to pick up on the general atmosphere. He rises and stretches before padding over to hop up on Estela's lap. She sighs, stroking his fur gently. Beside me, Grace puts a hand on my shoulder.

“How about you, sweetie? How are you holding up?”

“Right now? I am...fine. I do not know if it has entirely sunk in yet. But perhaps it has. Either way, the man is dead. Just a shell. And the world is better for it.”

“I would have expected your feelings to be more mixed than mine,” Estela remarks. I shrug.

“I was raised by the man...if you can call it that. The time was that I craved his affection. One could even say that I loved him, in that dutiful way a child always loves their parents. ...But any lingering love I had for him died back on the island. I won't say I am glad he is dead, but I am not sorry, either.”

“...I'm not sorry, either. Not really. ...But I guess I am...sad. I feel that this whole situation is just sad. New Year's Day, and my half-brother and I are going to identify the body of our father, who died in prison.”

“Yeah,” Sean sighs. “I think 'sad' describes that pretty accurately.”

On the table beside me, my phone trills with an incoming call. I glance at it, frowning when I see the name on the screen.

“It's Alodia.” I am immediately concerned that she may be trying to reach her husband. I look around at my companions and I know that the same thought has occurred to them. I thumb on the call. “Alodia? Are you all right?”

“Oh, Aleister. I wasn't actually expecting you to answer. I didn't think you'd have landed already.”

“We haven't. The ban on mobile phones during air travel has been rapidly dying out in the last few years. ...Are you trying to reach the pilot?”

“No. You're actually the one I wanted to reach. You and Estela. There's something I need you to do for me when you see the body.”

“...Hold on a moment. Let me put you on the speaker.” I tap the speaker and replace the phone on the table. “All right, say that again?”

“I took a little nap just now, and I had a weird dream that I'm not really inclined to ignore. When you see Rourke's body, I need you to check his right hand.”

“...Check it for what?” Estela asks.

“Honestly, I don't know. I'm hoping you will know when you see it.”

We are all silent for a moment. Michelle is the one who finally breaks the silence.

“It will be up to Aleister and Estela to actually check Rourke's right hand and recognize whatever it is they're supposed to be looking for. But if my opinion means anything, I don't think Alodia's instincts should ever be ignored when it comes to anything involving Rourke, La Huerta, the Vaanti, or Prism energy.”

“I would go so far as to say that is an incomplete list,” I agree. “There is nothing to be lost by looking at Father's right hand, and possibly there is something to be gained.”

I don't tell Alodia that her request has left me with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Until now, any doubts I had about my father's demise could have easily been dismissed as the denial stage of grief. Or the mind's unwillingness to let go of wariness after the fight is over. But now my doubts are growing. Now I am starting to wonder if my father is truly dead.

* * *

Grace, Quinn, Estela, and I part ways with Sean, Michelle, Jake, and Mike at the airport. Three Rourke International cars are waiting to take us to our various destinations. Mike and Jake to a hotel to rest up for the flight home in the morning, Sean and Michelle to their apartment, and the rest of us to the morgue. Sean and Michelle agree to watch Reginald for us until we're finished, for which I am grateful. He may be just shy of a year old and unlikely to remember any of this, but it still feels wrong to bring him along to identify the body of his criminal grandfather. Not that I imagine they would allow him in the room with the body anyway, but my point stands.

At the Northbridge city morgue, Grace and Quinn are shown to a plain, but surprisingly pleasant-looking waiting room while the morgue attendant leads me into the back with Estela to the temperature-controlled area where the bodies are kept.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the attendant says solemnly. He is a young man, a little bit awkward-looking, with rather large ears, glasses, a chin shadowed with stubble, and a narrow head capped with sandy-brown fuzz. But his manner is pleasant and professional.

“I imagine you say that a lot,” Estela mutters, echoing my thoughts.

“It comes with the territory,” he concedes ruefully. “But it's always true.”

“We're not exactly...in mourning,” Estela answers flatly.

“We're here out of filial obligation,” I add. “I suspect you know enough of who our father is to guess why we say that.”

“It's not my place to pass judgment on familial relationships. Just to make sure bodies get to the right people. ...Speaking of which, whatever your feelings on your father, it might be shocking to see his body.” His professional composure cracks just a little. “...In fact...we generally only ask family members to look at photographs...I know you have asked to physically see his body, but...” Estela and I exchange a glance, and the attendant trails off.

“It is necessary that we view his remains,” I say simply.

The attendant doesn't question any further. When we reach the coolers, he unlocks the correct cabinet and draws out the shrouded corpse. He warns us about what we will see, what marks his death by strangulation have left on him. When we both nod our understanding, he slowly draws back the sheet.

I must admit, I have to close my eyes, just for a moment. I understand the clinical process by which strangulation kills, and I have some prior understanding of how that process affects the appearance of the victim. But to see my father's face so distorted and discolored... I glance at my sister, who remains as solid and stoic as I have ever seen her.

“I would like to see his hands,” she declares. The attendant raises an eyebrow.

“His hands?”

“Yes. Show me his hands.”

“It is a custom from her homeland,” I explain when the attendant seems to hesitate. “Please be respectful of it.”

Estela shoots me a glare behind the attendant's back. I shrug helplessly and she rolls her eyes, muttering something in Spanish that sounds like an insult. Nevertheless, the attendant allows her to examine our father's hands, on the condition that she wear gloves. Estela doesn't waste time. She pulls on the vinyl exam gloves and removes our father's right hand from under the sheet. I shift awkwardly as she looks it over, wondering if I should help her find whatever it is we're supposed to be looking for. But then her eyes widen, and I realize she's found it. She looks up at the attendant, her dark eyes narrow.

“This is not our father.”

Naturally, the attendant looks shocked by the assertion. I feel rather startled myself. I know it is difficult to believe that our father could actually die, but that Estela should deny what is right in front of  her face...

“...Estela...what...?”

My sister pins me with her penetrating gaze. “The last time we saw our father alive, he had a bandage on his right hand. He told us he had been stabbed in the palm with a pencil. Do you remember?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“He told us that the mark left by the graphite would last years. Decades. The rest of his life.”

The truth is creeping over me as I slowly realize what she is getting at. “...It's true. A graphite mark just under the skin can last decades at least.”

She lifts our father's right hand to show me the smooth, unmarked palm. “...Then where is it?”

[marcel-s]

From a 2022 portrait session with the amazing <a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniavqu/">@antoniavqu</a> at Studio Fugazi. Make up and hair <a href="https://www.instagram.com/meiko_monteiro_muah/">@meiko_monteiro_muah</a>, general assistance, support and driving <a href="https://www.instagram.com/zoe.ak47/">@zoe.ak47</a>. Scan of untoned lith print. No digital post processing of any kind except some dust spotting and a minor global contrast adjustment to match the physical print. Taken on Silbersalz 50D 35mm ECN colour film and lith printed on Foma MG Classic 132 using ANSCO 79B developer with a splash of ANSCO 70 old brown.

[lachalaine]

@secrecykept submitted: in answer to this.

He’d noticed it the moment she’d emerged to make her way to the stage. With the way it glinted and caught the lights, it was hard to miss. And, as he’d guessed it would, the hair comb looked stunning on her. The beautiful piece however, paled in comparison to the smile the singer wore with it. She seemed to glow, and it had nothing to do with the lighting, he was sure.

He kept his distance from the stage and her view, despite how he would have quite liked to be closer to further admire her new look. While normally good at controlling himself and his reactions, he had the feeling he would betray himself if he got too close to the woman. The temptation to let her know he was the one that had sent the gift was fuelled by his pride and great curiosity. How would she react to the knowledge? Would she still be as happy as she appeared to be, or would it put a damper on her?

Well, it wasn’t worth the risk. With her in the dark, he was the winner.

And so…he was careful over the next few weeks. Careful to contain the pleased and knowing expression that wanted to form each time she was wearing the comb and was so close to him. She was calling herself his, said his instincts, by accepting the gift, she accepted him. 

But that wasn’t really the case, he had to remind himself. She had no idea who it was from, and…technically she was already someone else’s, she was ‘taken.’

But oh, the way the accessory held back her glorious hair gave him the urge to tug the silver adornment free. To see the mass of violet hues crash softly against her shoulders and chest. To let his fingers brush against and gently tunnel through those locks and hold her still, with her head tilted to expose her neck so that he might step closer to give her something more permanent than a hair comb to say that she was his…

He couldn’t do that of course. Could not give into such temptation.

So, with all this restraint and distance, he did need one small outlet…

Jackie would find a letter in her dressing room, in the very spot the box had been in weeks ago. Just like the card that had accompanied the box, this letter’s envelope had  her name written upon it in the exact same, flourishing print.

Inside, the contents flowed in inked elegance.

Miss Dulcet,

I just wanted to thank you for wearing it, you make it even more beautiful. You have me wondering lately if perhaps you’re actually a goddess. You’re radiant, talented, strong, and ethereally exquisite, I hope you know that.

I’m already looking forward to your next performance, and seeing how you choose to wear your hair next time.

Once again, thank you. Seeing you with it means more than you know.

Take care, and have a good night.

                                                    --------------------------------------------

Secrets.

Jackie knew ( and had her fair share ) of far too many --- secrets.

Secrets entrusted, overheard, those so severe that one would kill to keep them quiet.

Jackie knew secrets, yes. Dealt with, traded, even used towards her own means --- but oh, no… that wasn’t quite right, was it?

Towards his means, actually. Always, always, always ever – towards his, only.

And so did you know what it was like, these past few years, to be so overly draped in the weight of them? To have them adorned around neck, hands and legs? A restriction made as she was to keep a conscious comprehension of the effect of them on her life, constantly taking their weight into consideration before she was to do anything; that at a certain point, what was once meant to feel almost scandalous comes to perhaps be what feels the most --- normal.

She knew secrets. She knew about all of them, no matter the inconsequential nor the grave. But oh, my dears – this one – this one right here felt like a real secret.

Silver crafted hairpiece so fitted within the locks of crowning glory; a perfect adornment by far, so radiant and resplendent, exquisite and picturesque. What a vision it made her, when she’d swept through the club with it perched so flawlessly within the vibrant waves of amethyst hued hair. It’d certainly lent to her a certain serenity, one could say – an exceptional grace so striking in its supernal display, and yet so fluid in its doubtless elegance.

It’s a different look on her, and yet one that fits no matter the hairstyle she manages with it. It brings out a creative touch from her, a most feminine glee; and she’d liked it very, very much.

One would ask then, if it was in fact something that was so doubtlessly wonderful – why would anyone bother to consider it a secret then?

Perhaps --- for a reason. Perhaps just because.

Perhaps because he didn’t know.

And what he didn’t know, in many cases, would suit her greatly. Yet in many cases, she didn’t have such a privilege. She was his most loyal companion, no matter their apparent differences. The one that acquiesced to his rules and his requests and his most terrible, terrible needs ---

She was not the type to go against him. She was the type that shut down so she didn’t have to.

Yet despite all that she’d do for him, she knew that if he was ever to even catch a mere glimpse of it – to ascertain something of such value, so obviously precious and unique and to have even a hint of where it’d come from – she knew.

She would never see it again.

( and she was just meant to be okay with that )

She wasn’t. But she was supposed to be. And she was supposed to be whatever he wanted her to be.

So why was it then, she’d just had to ask herself as she sat alone perched upon rooftop ledge late that very evening, staring out into smoggy darkness whilst lithe digits traced the curve of precious metal once more – that she was taking every simple attempt possible to wear it?

Why was she so thoroughly intent on even showing it off in his absence, knowing that if word were to get to Garry, she would have no chance at a possible defense?

It couldn’t possibly have been because she wanted to get caught. In fact, that was the one thing she was absolutely adamant about, if she were to be adamant about anything!

But it was a good question. A very, very good one; though maybe one that came with no real answer she could provide. 

Perhaps honestly, it was merely just a spark of rebelliousness to a certain degree – a chance for someone that’d been taken so relentlessly under his control to have but a measure of her own desire for something that had nothing to do with him. Perhaps she was just being vain, and wanted to show off; wanted to show that she’d appreciated the gift and would wear it well – well enough that her admirer might be put at ease.

Maybe her reasoning for it is something even more.

Perhaps because it was her own secret – albeit small, albeit harmless, yet only shared with one other. And that feeling of maybe being around their presence somehow, of them seeing her wearing it and seeing how pleased and delighted and happy it’d made her –

Perhaps she did it because she wanted to make them proud, too.

To be worthy enough for their gift, that she could feel independent and beautiful and strong and meant to wear it. And to a certain degree – maybe it was so she could feel just a bit shameless. For that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

To wear another’s gift so brazenly, despite that she knew that they’d come from a place of admiration --- god, to think of how she’d genuinely wanted them to see her practically preen with pride ----

Oh, but the way she’d blushed at that. A bright tint so high up her cheeks that she couldn’t help but squeal! Embarrassed and shy, that even in the relative chill so provided by the course of the evening air, she was almost certain she’d burst into flames!

If he knew – if he knew, even though the gesture was almost nothing, to know she was almost entertaining another like this --- !

Oh, she was in some deep shit, honey.

and she doesn’t even know who she’s preening for.

( yet still, but oh how she had felt it. the way a certain pair of eyes had followed her every movement since that night she’d walked out with hair piled on her head, a certain intensity that’d jumped out at her whenever she wore it, so wildly different and distinct from that of which she was normally used to. a sensation she couldn’t ignore, yet nigh untraceable when she’d dare raise her eyes to search. in those swift moments of which curiosity begs at her is she still granted almost nothing of which she can use to pin down her admirer; a concept that she presumes is for the best, she thinks – even as hands shift back idly towards beautiful clip regardless – a fleeting touch really, yet a gesture somehow just as wistful as the sigh that resounds in her head - before she finds she must turn away )

She was already far too fascinated as it was.

There was no need to dig herself in deeper.

And it’s that thought that stays with her even as she eventually returns to her dressing room; thoroughly lost in the twists and turns of her mind and unsure of where exactly she was expecting them all to lead. A concept so confounding not even she could understand it all –

The door sifts closed, and she sighs. And she ambles to the table and sits in her chair, still thinking, thinking, thinking – a gentle twist of the clip from her hair, as vibrant locks tumble down, bringing her back to the very real reality of her situation – even if the gift remained so in her hand ---- but god.

What was she thinking?

She knew nothing about this stranger, and here she was – unable to get them off her mind.

Maybe it was the intention. To garner her intrigue, to keep the mystery. To keep her curious. Interested. Infatuated, almost. Endlessly wanting to know why they’ve chosen to do this for her, so completely out the blue.

For them to go so far in making sure she’d even had no way of tracking them down --- really, it’s particular. It’s different. It --- stirs her in a way not many other things do.

What kind of game were they playing with her, she would have liked to know.

( maybe she wouldn’t have minded playing back )

But oh, does she think too much. Too much and too little sometimes, one would presume. And yet all she does is talk herself into circles. And it’s with a sigh upon her lips that she recognizes that, raising her gaze towards the mirror in order to settle herself and get home –

Only for sharp eyes to zip back down in a snap!

She doesn’t even stop to think.

So quickly does her hand dart outwards in order to grab the letter, heartbeat a sudden but thunderous pounding within her ears, frame having run so terribly, horribly stiff – you’d think it was a good helping of some seriously crappy bad news.

But no. It was perhaps the farthest thing from it.

Yet she can’t quite bring herself to open it.

And so she stares, and she stares, and she stares. And she has to actively tell herself to fucking breathe.

A sharp breath, a bid for control as she’d stared down at the envelope as though it were due to bite her. A silly thought, though slowly do the trickling’s of awareness begin to creep in – the idea that this stranger had come inside again, even when she was so certain there was no one else to have entrance, the idea that they’d had decided to come back for her for one reason or another – that they would make such an attempt through a means that only they could somehow manage –

She should be scared.

She should be so. So. Terribly. Scared.

---- yet instead is it a most familiar thrill.

One she was starting to liken very much to them.

‘Please.’ She can’t help but plead, even as trembling hands gently ease open the envelope as gently as possible – ‘Please.’

‘Give me a name.’

---- but there is no name.

There is no clue. There is no hint.

Instead are there words – spilling forth from the pages, written in a hand so steady, and with a script so calligraphically smooth; as beautiful and as effortless as the response so read back to her.

For the first time in that moment – does what she read genuinely make her ---- hesitate.

--- a goddess, he’d said.

A goddess. Her.

---- she thinks she might be sick.

And the urge comes upon her so aggressively, and so quickly does she tear herself away from the desk in efforts to get away, sharply enough that her chair falls back with a loud clatter; handwritten note now left to fall back upon her table, a seamless drift upon the open air even as mahogany hues stared intensely downwards – suddenly and irrevocably in absolute pain.

A quivering hand placed against her lips, as the deluge of pain so seemed to swell within her in a way that’d made her very being tremble – so much so that she feared she might scream. For what she’d usually kept so terribly numb was leaking out in cracks; sharp edges aggravating in their severity, broken fragments a mere consequence of her severe heartache.

Eyes remain bright, and yet they shimmer not from glee, nor delight, nor happiness.

Rather, they are tears. An absolute volley of relentless, heartbroken, angry tears.

What was this…? How fucking dare – their fucking lies --- they’d had no right ---- !!

“Dulcet!”

A sharp rap against the locked door, an equally as loud voice that’d snapped at her from behind it.

A distraction that that breaks her out of her stupor, mahogany hues shifting quickly towards the door in fear that they might barge in – yet the handle shudders, and twists, and creaks, and then – nothing more.

Still, the echoing in her skull is relentless. “You okay in there? What’s happening? We heard some noise!”

------ stop.

“I’m fine!” She calls back, words terribly high pitched and yet trying to make herself calm herself down. There was nothing wrong, there was nothing wrong, just stop, stop, stop, stop, stop --- “I’m fine! Just. A spider, that’s all!”

The way her voice pitches makes it so terribly evident that she utters a lie, yet as she would expect – and come to thank – they do not bother to ask questions of it.

It makes things easier for her, she’d swear ---

“Geez, girls --- get changed then, and get home soon. Your boyfriend might be looking for you.”

The words resonate like something profoundly empty in the silence as he finally walks away, and she’s left feeling terribly, utterly out of place.  

She shudders, and she could spit.

Instead --- does she fall.

To her knees, a soundless thump even as she hits the ground hard, an absolutely listless lump so settled upon the hardwood floor.

It’s quiet now. All too quiet. And dark. And empty. And –

Breathe.

Just breathe.

But she’s not sure how.

Carefully, and only after a long moment, does female slowly raise her head – only to look upon the slip of paper still settled upon her desk – for what’d once felt so full of possibilities, yet now so fearful to even touch it. To stain it. To read it again only to so abruptly lose her wits ----

She swallows hard, and she can’t help but want to growl.

Absolutely angry, pissed enough that she might find this stranger and want to yell, punch, tell them they’d had the wrong fucking girl ---- !

Shit.

Shit!

Why? Why was she so affected by it?

The words – they read like nothing to her. The compliments. The flattery. They meant. Nothing. To her.

Or so she would insist, for if they truly meant nothing – then why did her being entire burn like this?

She should have been proud. Pleased. To know that everything she’d hoped to do to show her appreciation would be recognized; enough that they would take pains to actually tell her.

But it’s almost pointless, she thinks. To read something that is so undeniably false.

Radiant. Exquisite. Strong.

A goddess.

---- it was all overkill, wasn’t it? They might’ve just called her beautiful and that would have been enough.

No matter what she would have wanted to think of herself, no matter what she’d would’ve wanted to prove. Her peace of mind was not strong enough to listen to such beautiful things said when her mind offered her at all times the complete opposite of it. Her one and only boon was to be pretty.

She knew that.

And she was okay with that. She was --- comfortable --- with that.

( she was not )

And to be offered the mere concept that she was perhaps, potentially more – even if outside these walls, she was the image of something else – so crafted to be something so absolutely and purposely ethereal, because in the eyes of others, she was meant to be that way –

And yet to so severely hate herself at the idea that she was fooling her admirer in the same way ---

The contrast is disgusting.

“---- to thank you for wearing it, you make it even more beautiful ---“

“You have me wondering –--“

“--- I hope you know that.”

“--- looking forward to your next performance ---“

“Seeing you with it means more than you know.”

It is the first words she hears from this stranger, the first of his words resonating within her head, and even amidst her sorrow – she can’t help but laugh.

Good god.

If only they knew.

How much of a disappointment she would become.

[trustbritish]

Alien skin exposure x

#ALIEN SKIN EXPOSURE X SKIN#

#ALIEN SKIN EXPOSURE X PRO#

#ALIEN SKIN EXPOSURE X SOFTWARE#

Back to the left side, there is a tab for User presets, so you can save any variation you create. Even though the plugin comes with a few hundred presets, you can modify these to suit your own photographic style for an unlimited number of variations. There are tabs for Color, Tone, Focus, Grain, IR and Age. On the right side of the Exposure 4 screen, there is a tabbed interface for tweaking the settings. If you miss the days of grainy Tri-X 400 film pushed to 1600 ASA, you need not miss this distinctive look anymore. The presets are nicely grouped and organized by type with a plethora of old black and white film options.

#ALIEN SKIN EXPOSURE X PRO#

There is a whole subset of presets for various cross processing looks which are pretty popular with pro studio photographers right now. Sent MON, WED, and FRI with the latest gadget reviews and news! Subscribe to The Gadgeteer Daily Digest newsletter Left clicking on the large preview switches the image back to the original, so you can quickly and easily switch back and forth between the original image and the selected preset. When you click on a preset, the larger center preview quickly updates to show the result. The interface is clean and well designed with presets on the left side directly below a medium sized preview that dynamically updates as you mouse over the list of presets. There are presets for every kind of film that I have ever heard of and more. Exposure 4 allows you to add scratches, noise, and other methods to artificially age your photos. There are options to convert your contemporary images do Daguerrotype, Cyanotype, Calotype, Lith, and Wet Plate methods. It is a comprehensive color adjustment tool that allows you to digitally mimic different types of film going all the way back to the origins of photography. Snap Art and Blow Up won’t necessarily appeal to every user, but you can get a free trial of the bundle to see if they fit your photo editing needs.First of all, let me just say that if you are a photographer and can only purchase one plugin to use with Photoshop or Photoshop Elements, this would be an excellent candidate.

#ALIEN SKIN EXPOSURE X SKIN#

It’s also worth noting that, with the bundle, Alien Skin now allows for the Blow Up and Snap Art plugins to run right from the Exposure X platform, which means they no longer require another editor like Photoshop or Lightroom. Blow Up and Snap Art bothy typically cost $99 each, so if you were thinking about buying all three, the $199 bundle price is actually a solid savings. The bulk of the cost comes from Exposure X, which is $149 if you buy it as a stand-alone piece of software. The former allows you to apply artistic presets to images and then customize them, while the latter assists in upscaling photos so they can be printed or displayed at bigger sizes.

#ALIEN SKIN EXPOSURE X SOFTWARE#

The other two pieces of software are Snap Art and Blow Up. If you need an analog, think Adobe Lightroom. The core of the bundle is the Exposure X software, which is a non-destructive photo editing platform that handles raw files. Now, Alien Skin is rolling up its most popular software into a bundle that comes at a considerably discounted price. It offers a rather impressive and extensive collection of photo tools, including organizational elements for managing photo libraries. A screenshot from Alien Skin Exposure X Alien SkinĪlien Skin made a pretty big jump in functionality with its last release, Exposure X.

[everydreamhome]

Alexander Tkachev

City of ambitions (2003)

lith printed yesterday on Fomatone 132 8x10"

Easy Lith 1+25

From 2003 to 2012 I printed this image classic b&w from 2 different negatives on one sheet of paper under enlarger-as I was planning from very beginning.In 2012 I started to learn how to make digital negatives on Pictorico OHP. So,I used the last one now