#east lawn building

[rabbitcruiser]

Civic Center Park, Denver

Civic Center Park is part of the City and County of Denver park system, located at the intersection of Colfax Avenue and Broadway, perhaps the best-known and most important streets in Denver. The park is bordered by Bannock Street on the west, Broadway on the east, Colfax Avenue on the north, and 14th Avenue on the south. The park is home to a fountain, several statues, and formal gardens, and includes a Greek amphitheater, a war memorial, and the Voorhies Memorial Seal Pond. It is well known for its symmetrical Neoclassical design. Lincoln Park, immediately east of Civic Center Park, is operated by the State of Colorado. It holds a replica of the Liberty Bell and several memorials.

Source: Wikipedia      

Denver's City and County Building is a historic building in the Denver Civic Center, in the Civic Center Historic District, built to house Denver government bureaus.

It was built in 1932, facing the Colorado State Capitol, at the west end of Civic Center Park, at 1437 Bannock Street, on land that had been home to the La Veta Place apartments, home to some of Denver's early high society members, including Louise Sneed Hill. It is Greek Revival in style. It was kept low in height to preserve the Capitol building's view of mountains.

Source: Wikipedia      

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability. 

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning. 

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations. 

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays. 

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret. 

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards. 

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival. 

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains. 

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter? 

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet. 

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation. 

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship. 

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup. 

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. ���I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear. 

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device. 

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.” 

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine. 

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned. 

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age. 

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs. 

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn. 

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally. 

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter. 

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind. 

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life. 

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown. 

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care. 

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst. 

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts. 

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall. 

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries. 

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him. 

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess. 

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system. 

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important. 

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock. 

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart. 

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions. 

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame. 

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness. 

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it. 

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once. 

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left. 

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react? 

How did she react? 

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?! 

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

<< ✿ Previous ✿ << ✽ >> ✿ Next ✿ >>

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Aw, maaaannn, another one of my dream houses is back on the market, but this time, instead of the $3.5M price tag it had in 2018, it's now listed for $9.75M + $1,967mo. common charge. The 1910 building is located in the East Village, a desirable trendy part of New York City. It's a large duplex with 5bds, 4.5ba.

The entrance is thru an iron gate and a forest green door.

The property consists of a penthouse with a cottage on the roof.

In the living room is a lovely fireplace and a mezzanine on the 2nd level opens the space, giving it some architectural interest.

The home was renovated and has a renewed staircase, yet retains an original niche. A ceiling-high glass block window lets in light.

Open concept dining room lined with windows for lots of natural light.

The open space ends with the kitchen.

Love the vintage look flooring. The kitchen island is unique- it looks like a mid-century modern sideboard.

The mezzanine is basically just a walkway, but it has a wall of shelving and enough room for a chair or two.

There's also a nook for a small desk or writing table.

The primary bedroom is a nice size, gets good natural light, and has a small nook for a chair, plus a lovely fireplace. It also has a view of the patio. And, it's located in the rooftop cottage.

Very nicely remodeled vintage style bath.

Hallway with a built-in closet and a bedroom used as a TV room.

This bedroom is designed the same as the primary, but on a smaller scale.

Lively turquoise subway tile bath and bedroom #3.

And, another lovely tiled bath with bedroom #4.

The rooftop cottage and brick patio looks like a beautiful home you'd find on the ground.

It's like the best of both worlds, living in the city and the country.

There're even trees, lawn & gardens.

View of the city.

[paingoes]

Crash Out

Superstition 

hi. this is personally my favorite part so far. hope u enjoy it too :)

(Content: drugs, bad trip, paranoia, psychosis, discussion of institutionalized child abuse and death, discussion of past abuse, blood, burns, guilt)

“Okay so we have to take it at the same time so our trips sync up.”

“I know. I’ve done it before.”

“How much are you gonna take?”

“We can just split it.”

“That seems like a lot.” 

Lorelai rotated the froot in her hand. She stabbed along the ring with the scout’s knife, revealing the soft green flesh within. The juice dripped down onto her arm. She resisted the urge to lick it up before they could agree on the dosage. 

“I think we split half. We can take more later if it’s not strong enough.” She worked the knife carefully through the half of it. She gave the quarter piece to Paris and took the other for herself. She stashed the unused half back into the cooler bag. 

“It’ll feel weird if you take more while you’re already tripping. Not pleasant.” He ate the piece he’d been given anyway. She took her own into her mouth. The texture was surprisingly gritty. Little seeds got caught in her teeth. It tasted salty and earthen. She set her timer.

“Okay, onset is an hour or so?” She glanced up at the orange sky. “We’ll be inside by then, probably. It’ll kick in just as it’s getting dark out. Spooky!”

=========

It was an entire hike just to reach the site. The main road was swarming with cop cars. Every other path was carved through the thick wood. In the darkening light, the edges of the dirt road blended in with the foliage. They saw several people passing through, just as lost as they were. Lorelai jumped as the bear trap caught on the raised heel of her boot, just missing her foot.

“Aaaaa?” She yelled softly, mostly in confusion. Paris bent down to undo it. 

“How did that miss you?” He squinted. The mechanism jammed shut again with a loud clanging noise. It was rusted in places, visibly worn down by the elements. He was surprised it still worked.

“Fast reflexes.” She unhappily examined the new dent in her shoes. 

The venue came into sight as the tree line withered. It was a large stone building — or it used to be. The walls were jagged and uneven at the top, the same shape as torn paper. The second story was gone, along with the ceiling.  Thick vines and lichen grew along the stone perimeter. Lorelai said they were fighting for dominance. It looked like the lichen was winning.

The inner walls weren’t faring any better. It seemed like there might have been plaster once, but all that remained now was stone. There were marks on the ground where other walls had been. Someone had long ago removed them to make more space to party. The only real structures inside were the DJ booth by the north wall and the bar on the east one. Where the ceiling had been before, there were now just rails that lights could hang from. 

It was dark when they approached — and the music had already started. People poured out onto the lawn and into the woods, drifting in and out of the fortress as they pleased. Security was lax and the walls were porous enough to facilitate the exchange.

His teeth hurt. The two of them did their traditional act, drifting in and out of each other’s spaces as the night progressed. Crowd anonymity was a wondrous thing. It made him tolerate the presence of other bodies in the space and the indignity of motion. The drugs helped with that too. Then they didn’t. 

He felt something slip away, some invisible measure of protection he could not name. Eyes, again. Of course there were. People were everywhere. Under the strobe, they all looked pale and corpselike. He remembered a story he had read a long time ago about the girl who only danced with the dead. He’d had his fair share of ghost stories; sailors loved shit like that, soldiers even more. 

He had not expected it to crawl. When he’d eaten the froot before, it had hit him all at once, and receded not too long after. It was fun, if a bit underwhelming. This high had creeped up so slowly that for the first two hours he did not even realize it had arrived. He imagined his own thoughts to be normal and uncontaminated. All it was was just unease and unease and the dead left there too. He thought he felt something shift just beneath his feet, but all that was there now was dirt. He was surer than anything that he was being watched, him specifically. He pulled off from the crowd and out through one of the jagged holes in the wall. Grass grew there. He walked without aim. 

There were enough people on the outskirts that he didn’t really feel like he was leaving the party, even as he drifted further and further from the building. He saw them all looking at him strangely as he passed; he would not learn until later he had been talking to himself the entire time. He would never learn what it was he had said. He ended up by the woods, still certain of something creeping and stalking and watching endlessly. Something was wrong. The dirt slipped out from beneath him and on purpose.

Something long and thin stuck out of the ground. He had thought it was a leg until he saw what it was attached to. It was top heavy, two legged, nearly furry with moss. The sign post was as overgrown as the building it described, but the letters were still readable beneath it. He stared up at it from where he was collapsed on the ground, reading it over and over and over again.

Beldam Institute. B-E-L-D-A-M I-N-S-T-I-T-U-T-E. He read it again, just to be sure. Beldam Institute.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered to himself, unknowingly interrupting the string of words he had already been muttering to himself.

He’d had his fair share of ghost stories; sailors loved shit like that, soldiers even more. Soldiers liked to think there was a life after death. They liked to think the people they killed would stay stuck there in the place where they had killed them, forever, their souls tethered to the earth and stood on display for all eternity. Tales of weeping ghosts and the undead children that searched endlessly for their murderers, reading to rend them limb from limb. Trapped together in the place where they had killed them, forever, their souls tethered to the earth and stood on display for all eternity. History couldn’t end, not really. History ate them all whole. The ground was heavy with bodies. 

“They buried them in the lawn the first few years,” Delta had admitted quietly, at the end of a long night, after Paris had spent hours prodding. It was the most he would ever say about it and the last time Paris would ever ask. “They had to stop, though. They ran out of space.”

His hand brushed up against something dry and brittle and thin like finger bones.

=========

“Whoa, whoa, buddy.” There were hands on his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to stop him from flailing. Some douche with a tie wrapped around his forehead was trying to be helpful. He heard his own voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. His throat was hoarse and painful. 

“Here. Smell.” The dude held up a small piece of chalky material.

“Getthefuckoffme-“ Paris rasped. His hands were bloodied, somehow.

“You’re okay,” He pressed the chalk up to his own nose, taking a deep inhale, showing it was safe. Paris crawled back a few inches, breathing still irregular, fingers still twitching. The dude offered the chemical back up. Paris reluctantly hit it. The headrush was immediate, overpowering.

“Fuck.” He fell back onto the dirt. There was soil under his nails and furrows in the ground. 

“What’d he take?” A girl’s voice asked. He didn’t realize she’d been standing there. She was leaning back again the sign, totally oblivious to its meaning.

“This is a fucking mass grave,” Paris yelled, or tried to. His voice broke. “The bones are pushing up. Look!”

“That’s a stick.”

Paris collapsed flat on his back again, covering his eyes.

Only then did the two of them seem to notice the sign. The girl pushed off of it, clearing the view, studying the lettering.

“Hang on, I gotta look something up,” the dude said. The clearing was briefly lit in ghostly blue as he pulled out his phone. He typed slowly and methodically. Paris knew from experience that he was having trouble seeing the screen just a few inches from his face.

“Oh. Huh. Yeah, that’s what it is.” He nodded, looking perturbed. “I’d probably trip out if I saw some shit like that too, man. That’s wacky.”

Another set of footsteps approached without rhythm.

“I’m tripping balls,” Lorelai said. She had the gait of a baby deer. “Lol, is this where the party is?”

“Is this your man?” The girl asked.

“We’re all working through our feelings about institutionalization together,” the dude explained, “Your friend is having what we call a hard time.”

“What?” Lorelai collapsed down onto the mound just beside him. She pulled his head into her lap, combing her fingers through his hair. He wrapped his arms around her waist, totally helpless to do anything else.

“Beldam Institute. Where Delta went. It’s where they make them,” he muttered.

“Are you serious?”

They showed her the e-ncyclopedia page. Her jaw dropped.

“Wow. Oh my god, what are the odds? And they throw parties here? That’s…in very poor taste? Wow. What the hell. Wow.” She shook her head. He worried for a second she was getting caught in a thought loop. He made a silent vow to never taste froot again.

Yet another set of footsteps approached. 

“You guys good over here?” A wavering voice asked. Keys jingled loudly. For an awful moment, he thought it was the cops.

“Are you two the organizers?” Lorelai asked, “Why did you throw a rave where a bunch of children got tortured?”

“You’re talking about the Institute? I’m so glad you asked,” The other’s voice was slick, “We did a whole thesis on it. It’s a transformative project. We’re revitalize the space and making a statement on its history. All our proceeds go to our mutual aid fund for marginalized groups. We do it in the spirit of resisting imperial order.”

“Their bodies are still buried in the yard,” Paris muttered.

“What did he say?”

“He said their bodies are still buried in the yard,” the dude responded.

“That seems really fucked up,” the girl chimed in.

“We’ve been very conscientious about the whole thing,” the slick one responded, “I know it’s a lot to process, especially if one is, uh, open to the influences. Not exactly a pleasant trip environment. But that’s history for you.”

“Is he gonna be okay?” The girl asked.

“Yeah, he’s just sensitive.” Lorelai twirled his hair between her fingers. “I wonder if there was a basement?”

“There was,” the wavering one confirmed, “It was mostly cleared out by the time we got here. Very hush-hush. But we salvaged some stuff for the archive.”

Far away, the music changed. Lorelai shook his shoulder gently.

“Get up. I wanna dance.” Her voice was all swimmy. He can’t tell if the interference was on her part or his. She dragged him out of the woods and back onto the floor.

Despite how awkwardly she had stumbled, how failing her walk seemed to be, she danced with a surprisingly fluidity even in her drugged state. The air itself was fluid, heady, warm. He danced with her, quite sure she had never once looked like this before, that she never would again. The shaking in his own body stopped and the headache replaced it. All of it was dull and distant. There were whispers at the edge of it. Maenad, they warned.

Very abruptly, she dropped to her knees.

“Oh fuck,” she clutched her head, “I can see it.”

Paris half led, half carried her outside of the walls. She collapsed down on the dirt, looking all around her. Paris pulled the fur hat off her head. It was slick with sweat.

“Oh my god, I felt it. I think I saw the face of it. It was everywhere I looked. I could feel all the misery trapped inside of the walls.”

For a minute, he swore he could make out a skull and crossbones inside of her pupils. He hated froot. She looked terrifying.

He twisted the bottle open and held out both of her arms. The water poured over her exposed skin, bringing her temperature back down. She closed her eyes.

“More,” she said.

He poured the water over her forehead, letting it run down her face, smudging her makeup. She pulled her hair back in a bun. He poured the water down her neck. She gave a ticklish giggle.

“Oh, god,” she said, totally lost. He pushed the bottle into her hands. She poured the rest of it all down her throat.

===========

In spite of everything, the afterglow was incredible. They’d made it back to the room in one piece. He understood what the guides had meant about the aura. Everything felt soft and glowing. It wasn’t euphoric, nor to the point of mania. Just pleasant and calm. 

He could tell Lorelai felt it too, all smiles in the ship, even more after she showered. They both needed it badly, even without the time spent in the woods. The smell of smoke and alcohol had clung heavily to both of them. He washed the dirt out of his hair, his own blood from beneath his fingernails. The motel’s soap was scented lavender; he was sure he wouldn’t have noticed it before, but in the moment everything felt novel.

She’d crawled onto his chest when he laid down again, angling the phone so they both could watch. Some animated thing he couldn’t pay attention to. The colors were more vivid than they were probably meant to be. All he could focus on was her hair, the way the curls sprung back into place when he played with them. She nuzzled her face into his shoulder.

“Are you upset about Delta?”

Her voice was sleepy and entirely innocent. It was such a fucked up thing to ask when his walls are down. He’d been trying so hard to avoid it. She was a surgeon sometimes.

“I…feel bad that he died,” Paris admitted, “I don’t think it was my fault the way it happened. I didn’t know. But he was my responsibility. And I-” 

He cut himself off. It took him a while to find the words.

“…I don’t know. I hope it was quick. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

The image of Delta chained up and alone while that ship was going down flooded his mind. He squeezed her hand tighter.

Lorelai hummed, “You said it was a rebel attack? Did they say which one?”

“Their guess was Galatea.”

“Hm. Do you think he was the target? It seems a little terroristic for their taste otherwise.”

“They shouldn’t have known about him. All the intelligence just listed him as machinery for a reason. There was nothing in writing to indicate that he was alive.” He’d never had to write any of it himself, but he did read over the field reports. The opacity they achieved was impressive. Critical temperature reached. Damage to internals. Improvised shutdown. There was no good way to talk about it.

“You really didn’t have a file on him?” She clearly found this difficult to believe.

“His doctor did. It was carryover from the institute. It didn’t make it into imperial record. Not mine, anyway.”

“…It just seems like an odd thing for them to do.” There was nothing short of reverence in her voice when she spoke of the resistance. She was struggling reconcile the two thoughts. She had liked Delta a lot. He could see her there, trying to reconcile a lot of things.

==========

She’d had to track them down the next morning — and after that, she’d had to bribe — but she secured one of the large albums they had rescued from the basement. She flipped through the pages as she sat in the passenger seat. Most of it was typed, but a lot of it was written, and all of it was in thick and outdated Latin that she struggled to decipher even as a native speaker. It was the pictures she was really focused on, though.

In some of the photos, it just looked like a normal boarding school. The kids were lined up in rows or going about their day. There were photos of the classrooms and the yard. The next page over, there were photos of the laboratory and the operating room. There were straps visible on the table and along the chairs. 

In the training section, the pictures of the students were spliced indiscriminately with the pictures of their victims. Violence marked the both of them. On their victims, burns covered every inch of their skin. Their bodies were twisted at odd angles like they were toys bent out of shape. They wore bags over their head and chains around their ankles. 

On the students, the injuries were more subtle. Schoolyard incidents. Short circuits. Disciplinary infractions. Some of the worst ones showed scars tracing up and down their limbs, disappearing beneath the fabric of their uniform. In some, the scars were in the shape of flames. Some were shaped like vines. Most commonly, they were shape of electric discharge. Eyes and fingers were missing, even in the otherwise calm shots. 

“Oh.” Lorelai let out a soft sigh. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

She plucked the photo out from the plastic lining, bringing it up into the light. She held it so that Paris could see. 

The picture was taken on the side of a hill. The terrain was marked by large scorch marks. A giant dead thing laid in the center of it, the arc of its long neck spiraling out of sight behind the mass of its body. Several kids surrounded it, some crawling over it, others bent down and poking at it. They were all dressed for safari. One of them stood off to the side of the corpse’s thick tree-trunk legs. His hair hung in a long braid down his back, nearly sweeping the ground. His hand was wrapped tight with gauze. Delta couldn’t have been more than ten years old. There was the same frightful intensity behind his eyes, even back then. He was staring straight into the camera.

“Yeah.” Paris looked away from it. “That’s him.”

There were no other photos of him in the album.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[scotianostra]

On February 3rd 1700, a fire broke out on the north side of Cowgate in Edinburgh's Old Town.

From there the flames spread and burnt down the close and its close surroundings, including the merchant’s Exchange building, where the Three Sister bar now is.

The fire extended rapidly up hill to involve the tall tenements on the south and east sides of Parliament Square. One, fifteen storeys high, the tallest building in Edinburgh, was reduced to a heap of ashes and ‘made a prodigious blaze"

The buildings were densely occupied and about three or four hundred families lost their homes, including many notables such as the President of Parliament, the President of the Court of Session and other Lords, lawyers, clerks and poorer families. Several lives were lost and a great number seriously injured.

Offices of businesses were destroyed including the recently opened Bank of Scotland – the only bank in Scotland at that time. Mercifully the Parliament Hall and St Giles escaped major damage. The Advocates, who lost their library in the fire, were given space in the Laigh Hall below Parliament House.

Although it escaped major damage the fire allowed the council to rebuild the Parliament “in a uniform style of architecture” regulating the buildings appearance to prevent fire. The rest of the close was given a grand entry and the courtyard was rebuilt uniformly with a continuous arcade along the front.

Cassells Old & New wrote this short account bout the Parliament building:

This magnificent hall and the buildings connected with it had a narrow escape in the “Great Fire” of 1700. It broke out in Lord Crossrig’s lodging, at Mr. John Buchan’s, near the meal-market, on a night in February; and Duncan Forbes of Culloden asserts in a letter to his brother the colonel, that he never beheld a more vehement fire; that 400 families were burned out, and that from the Cowgate upwards to the High Street scarcely one stone was left upon another.

A broadsheet entitled Fire! Fire! stated that the fire had been started by someone throwing a bottle of whisky into an open hearth.. The fire engines were of little or no use, water being scarce and the old closes so narrow that they could not gain access. As mentoned in Cassells. Duncan Forbes wrote to his brother that it was the greatest fire he ever saw ‘notwithstanding I saw London burne’, It reads;

All the pryde of Edenr. is sunk; from the Cowgate to the High Street all is burnt, and hardly one stone left upon another…the Parliament House very hardly escapt; all Registers confounded; Clerks Chambers, and processes, in such confusion, that the Lords and Officers of State are just now mett at Rosse’s Taverne, in order to adjourneing the Sessione by reason of the disorder…twenty thousand hands flitting ther trash they know not wher…These babells, of ten and fourteen story high, are down to the Ground, and their fall’s very terrible….This Epitome of dissolution I send you, without saying any more, but that the Lord is angry with us, and I see no intercessor.

Of course the clergy couldn't let this go without blaming someone, preaching sermons in which they attributed the fire to God’s punishment for the wickedness of the populace. The Town Council also took to preaching and on 4th December 1702 introduced an ‘Act anent suppressing Immoralities,’ which contained the following:-

…considering the great growth of immoralities within the City and Suburbs, and the fearful rebukes of God, by a dreadful Fire in Parliament Close….which happened about midnight upon 3rd February 1700….also, remembering the terrible Fire….on the north side of the Lawn market….28 October 1701 with several lives lost. Likewise reflecting upon other Tokens of God’s wrath lately come upon us… We…being moved with the zeal of God….do in the Lord’s strength resolve to be more watchful over our hearts and ways than formerly; And each of us in our several capacities, to reprove vice with due zeal and prudence as we shall have occasion…. under penalty of Twenty Merks Scots.

The height of the new tenements was restricted to eleven storeys rather than the fifteen storeys of their predecessors but even so Tobias Smollett writing in 1770 observed that ‘I cannot view it without horror; that is, the dreadful situation of all the families above, in case the common stair-case should be rendered impassable by a fire in the lower stories’.

The council's supposed "fireproofing" of the Parliament meant little as 124 years later a large section of the High Street went up in flames in "The Great Fire"

[hillbillyoracle]

Facebook reminded me that today is the anniversary of the largest earthquake I've ever felt (eastern US).

I was in my dorm room and thought my legs were twitching but it got stronger and I realized it was an earthquake. I'd never been in one before so I stood in a doorframe - which in retrospect is not the move. I could hear everyone in my dorm shrieking to each other about it.

It wasn't much. There were a bunch of memes with the lawn chair knocked over and we all laughed about how us east coasters don't know shit about earthquakes and moved on quickly.

About 5 years later, I wound up spending a few months living on the commune that was basically on the epicenter of the earthquake. You could still see the cracks in some of the buildings and everyone who was there had their earthquake stories. There were several injuries. Recovery took literal weeks and it set them back in their production schedules for ages.

One woman told me that it took her months to stop thinking she was hearing aftershocks - there were 400+ in the year after - and it wrecked her sleep. Another told me she spent months sleeping outside in a tent and it took her a while to feel okay sleeping indoors again.

I remember them telling me that when the surveyors came out to check out the previously unknown fault line, they wanted to name the fault line after the commune and the community was like "please, please don't". This was a bad time for us and we do not want that fault line named for us.

Despite the Japanese nuclear disaster happening earlier that same year, I never see people talk about how that earthquake was only a few miles from a nuclear plant.

This is all to say, whether an event was bad is often a matter of where you were in relation to it. And it's something I often think about when I see memes joking about how insignificant an event was.

[nicklloydnow]

““From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free!” chant the useful idiots at elite institutions and parades in the West. Who are these people? Atheists who support theocratic lunatics, democrats who endorse medieval tyrants, feminists who defend misogynists who parade with the desecrated corpses of women, gays who defend maniacs who would joyfully hang them or toss them off the roof of a tall building. They talk of a secular, democratic and socialist Palestine. As George Orwell observed: “One has to belong to the intelligentsia to believe things like that: no ordinary man could be such a fool.” But the world has now seen what “from the river to the sea” actually means. It is nothing less than a remake of the Nazi Einsatzgruppen.

Israel expelled its own population from Gaza in 2005 so that Palestinian Arabs could begin building their own state. They instead chose Hamas. The enemies of Israel aren’t in favor of a Palestinian state. They aren’t in favor of anything positive, but only of a negative: the denial of life, especially of Jewish life. The goal is genocide. The method is mass murder of the type Jews haven’t experienced since the Holocaust.

Hence, the West needs to understand that to defend human life and dignity, it isn’t enough to claim to side with Israel. It needs to understand what this means: total, unrestrictive support. That is nothing less than allowing this beleaguered country to defend itself fully. To recognize that Hamas needs to be destroyed for the same reason and by the same method that the Nazis were. Israel is entitled to do whatever it takes to uproot this evil residing next to it. And, more important, that once it begins to proceed in that direction, it won’t be demonized for defending that which is the core of Western civilization and which its enemies hate the most: the love of everyone’s right to human life, dignity and happiness.

In other words, it needs to support a complete, total and decisive Israeli victory. If this implies an overwhelming, unprecedented use of military force, so be it. Hamas is and will be responsible for any civilian casualties. Cause and effect. They created their own destruction, and its consequences.

Mere victory isn’t enough. Israel has won every war it has ever fought. This time, the triumph must be so thorough and conclusive that there will never be any other war for this country. Israel has a moral right to finish the job, and the West has a moral duty to support it. Let Israel do what it must to finish this war in the fastest way possible, with the minimum civilian and military casualties on its side. The consequences of this lie on the group that initiated the causal sequence—the one that must be completely destroyed, Hamas.”

“If “peace” breaks out right now (we are writing on 10/23/23), or, better yet, if it had done so a few days ago, Hamas would have literally gotten away with murder (and torture, and other unspeakable evils too). They would have suffered from no IDF reaction at all.

Is this what the Middle Eastern “peace-niks” really want? If so, they are aiding and abetting sickening attacks on innocent Jews. If that is not their goal, they should cease and desist from their cries for “peace.” That would be the peace of the grave for Israel.

(…)

If Israel disarmed, there would no longer be any such country, and all of its Jewish citizens would be murdered. If Hamas and other such groups, including Hezbollah and their ultimate masters in Iran, deactivated their weaponry there would be peace, real peace, with no scare quotes surrounding that word.

Given that this scenario is extremely unlikely to occur, what is the path to peace in the Middle East, to real peace, to long run peace?

It is at present, paradoxically, war. And not just “lawn-mowing,” a superficial battle as the New York Times recommends. But, rather, precisely what they inveigh against: “Once and for All” war. War to end the need for any further war. War of the sort conducted by the Allies vis a vis Nazi Germany in 1945. Only then will real peace be achieved.

(…)

Yes, the way forward toward peace, real peace, permanent peace, long run peace is to demonstrate that Israel will no longer tolerate the abominations dished out to it with glee by theocratic murderers.

Its motto henceforth ought not to be “Peace”, but “Peace through strength.” Or: “Never Again.” (Where have we heard that before?) But this time, really mean it and act on it. No peace without justice. Without it, the massacre is guaranteed to occur once again. Israel must not let it happen and the West must support it. Otherwise, Israel will be in an existential danger of which what we saw on October 7 is only a prelude. And make no mistake, if such catastrophic scenario occurs, the rest of the West are next.

No justice, no peace!”

[lierrelearns]

皇居東御苑 The East Gardens of the Imperial (HIgashi-Gyoen) 所要時間 大手本 → 本丸、二の丸ーー大手門 およそ60分 →二の丸、ーーー平川門 およそ30分 →本丸ーーーー北桔橋門 およそ30分

乾門　Inui-mon Gate 至千鳥ヶ淵　For Chidorigafuchi 科学技術館　Science Museum 国立公文書館　National Archives of Japan 東京国立近代武術間　The National Museum of MODERN ART, Tokyo 乾濠　Inui-bori Moat 発券所　Ticket office 北桔橋門　Kita-hanebashi-mon Gate 平川濠　Hirakawa-bori Moat 1a出口 (Exit) 地下鉄　竹橋駅　Takebashi Sta. 清水濠　Shimizu-bori Moat 平川門　Hirakawa-mon Gate 天守台　Tenshudai (Tenshukaku Dunjon Base) 宮内庁書陵部庁舎　Shoryobu (Archives and Mausolea Department Bldg.) 桃華楽堂　Gakubu (Music Department Bldg.) 梅林坂　Bairin-zaka Slope 都道府県の木　Symbolic Prefectural Tree Emblems 天神濠　Tenjin-bori Moat 発券所　Ticket office 大手濠　Ote-bori Moat 内堀通り　Uchibori-street 諏訪の茶屋　Suwano-chaya Tea House 竹林　Bamboo Garden 石室　Ishimuro (Stone Cellar) 桜の島　Sakura Blossom Island 富士見多門　Fujimi-tamon Defence-house バラ園　Rose Garden 茶畑　Tea Garden ユーロッパアカマツ　Scots Pine 本丸　Honmaru 本丸大芝生　Honmaru Oshibafu (Lawn) 本丸休憩所　Honmaru Rest House 汐見坂　Shiomizaka Slope 白鳥濠　Hakucho-bori Moat 展望台　Observatory 二の丸休憩所　Ninomaru Rest House 二の丸雑木林　Ninomaru Grove 秋の七草　The Seven Flowers of Autumn 新雑木林　Renewed Grove 菖蒲田　Iris Garden 二の丸庭園　Ninomaru Garden 蓮池濠　Hausike-bori Moat 松の大廊下跡　Site of Matsuno-o-roka Corridor 果樹古品種園　Orchard (Old Species of Japanese Fruits) 野草の島　Wild Grass Island 緑の泉　Green Fountain 中雀門跡　Site of Chujaku-mon Gate 大番所　O-bansho Guardhouse 中之門跡　Site of Nakano-mon Gate 百人番所　Hyakunin-bansho Guardhouse 同心番所　Doshin-bansho Guardhouse 大手休憩所　Ote Rest House 三の丸尚蔵館　Sannomaru Shozokan　The museum of the Imperial Collections 皇居東御苑管理事務所　Office of the East Gardens of the Imperial Palace 発券所　Ticket Office 大手門　Ote-mon Gate 現在地　You are Here C13b出口 (Exit)　Otemachi Sta. 坂下門　Sakashita-mon Gate 富士見櫓　Fujimi-yagura (Mt. Fuji View Keep 蛤濠　Hamaguri-bori Moat 桔梗門　Kikyo-mon Gate 桔梗濠　Kikyo-bori Moat ←至　二重橋　For Nijubashi Bridge 皇居外苑　Kokyi gaien National garden 至 JR東京駅　For Tokyo Sta. 和田倉噴水公園　Wadakura Fountain Park 日比谷通り　Hibiya-street

皇居東御苑は、旧江戸城本丸、二の丸及び三の丸の一部を皇居付属庭園として、宮中行事に支障のない限り次のように公開(無量)しています。（Free of charge）

１．出入門 大手門、平川門、北桔橋門の３つの門から出入り出来ます。 ２．休園日 （１）月曜日及び金曜日 ただし、天皇誕生日以外の「国民の祝日等の休日」は公開します。なお、月曜日が休日で公開する場合は、火曜日（休日を除く）を休園します。 （２）12月28日から翌年1月3日までの日 ３．入園手続き 入園するは、各門内の発券所で入園票を受け取り、退園の際にはいずれかの発券所にお返し下さい。 宮内庁

１．The Gardens are open on the following days. However the Gardens are closed in the period between 28 December and 3 January and may be closed due to Court functions and other reasons. ① Wednesdays ② Thursdays ③ Saturdays ④ Sundays ⑤ National Holidays (excluding the Emperor’s Birthday, 23 December) ⑥ Mondays immediately following the National Holiday which falls on Sunday ⑦ Tuesdays (excluding Tuesday immediately following ⑤ and ⑥) ２．While you are in the Gardens, please keep the plastic ticket which you will receive at the gate. Please return the ticket to the officer at the exit gate. IMPERIAL HOUSEHOLD AGENCY

公益財団法人菊葉文化協会 寄贈 財団法人日本宝くじ協会

Vocab 皇居（こうきょ）imperial 御苑（ぎょえん）imperial garden 所要時間（しょようじかん）time required, time taken 至（し）to 科学時術（かがくじじゅつ）science and technology 近代美術館（きんだいびじゅつかん）museum of modern art 濠（ほり）moat, canal 発券（はっけん）issuing (a ticket, etc.) 宮内庁（くないちょう）Imperial Household Agency 書陵部（しょりょうぶ）agency that takes care of records and the tombs 庁舎（ちょうしゃ）government office building 梅林（ばいりん）plum grove 都道府県（とどうふけん）prefectures of Japan 竹林（ちくりん）bamboo grove 茶畑（ちゃばたけ）tea field ユーロッパアカマツ Scots/Scotch pine, Pinus slyvestris 芝生（しばふ）lawn, grass 休憩所（きゅうけいしょ）rest area, rest stop 展望台（てんぼうだい）observation deck 雑木林（ぞうきばやし）thicket; grove of miscellaneous trees 秋の七草（あきのななくさ）seven flowers of autumn: bush clover, Chinese silvergrass, kudzu, fringed pink, golden lace, thoroughwort, and balloon flower 菖蒲（しょうぶ）Japanese iris (Iris ensata var. ensata) [coll.] 果樹（かじゅ）fruit tree 品種（ひんしゅ）breed variety, cultivar 野草（のぐさ）wild grasses 泉（いずみ）fountain 番所（ばんしょ）guardhouse 桔梗（ききょう）Chinese bellflower (Platycodon grandiflorus) 外苑（がいえん）outer garden 噴水（ふんすい）water fountain 付属（ふぞく）being attached (to), belonging (to) 宮中（きゅうちゅう）imperial court 行事（ぎょうじ）event, function 支障（ししょう）obstacle, hindrance 休園日（きゅうえんび）day on which a park (or kindergarten or zoo) is closed 祝日（しゅくじつ）national holiday なお　furthermore 除く（のぞく）to exclude, except 手続き（てつづき）procedure, process 票（ひょう）ticket, stub (suffix) 公益財団法人（こうえきざいだんほうじん）public interest incorporated foundation 文化協会（ぶんかきょうかい）cultural association 公益財団法人菊葉文化協会（こうえきざいだんほうじんきくようぶんかきょうかい）a cultural association that focuses its research on making artifacts of the imperial household available to the public. 寄贈（きぞう）donation, gift 宝くじ（たからくじ）lottery ticket

[power-chords]

My dad was in the city today so he very kindly drove me home on his way back to East Haven and I repaid his kindness by doing a Spiel in the car. ("All you do is bitch!" he tells me, which is true but also from him an expression of affection.) In this case it was about how the American suburbs are enclaves of misanthropy and spiritual maladjustment and only high density urban living equips you to behave like a real person in the world. And he said, "Yes, but you have to understand how people's outlook changes when they have kids." Which got me going even worse! And I said this to him, and I really do believe it, that the best thing he and Mom did for me and my brother was raise us in a two-bedroom co-op on East 70th Street and send us to P.S. 158 and stick it out in the city. Because I remember when all our friends in the building started packing up and buying houses in Westchester (for him a source of insecurity, naturally!) and he did not pollute our developing minds and souls with horizontal desires, lawns and square footage.

[jadorupabosblog]

I am not cold,my words, not an attempt to build a fire ...

a page like this one,is it a monument

to tell otherwise... remember

the ice age,

and Pangaea...is the sun a father

that travels from east to west

from north to south

like one seeking

like one unable to unite

what has separated into continents

into races, into nations, into industries

into empire, of multi-national.... monopolies

I am not cold

my words ...not to build a fire

But much as we see prosperity

as conversion without conservation

there's tinder in our hands

that may ignite in the sun...

the beachfront will be the preferred place for most people

sun lotion will cool the flesh, make it gleam and soften in the eyes like a succulent flower...tan like angelwings

on the lawns of the garden.

The sky is blue and whiffs of white cirrus sail lazily in a gentle breeze

The water will be aquamarine...and froths as it flows in and back ... memories of palmwine from the grooms family float about your mind

And love says it all...as the eyes feast

on the happiness of the young and the old

galaxies collide within me like a silent song

love resolves all things with the outcome of gravidity... into new creations, continue to remain alive, and

beautiful.

[bizarrequazar]

GJ and ZZH Updates — January 14-20

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This is part of a weekly series collecting updates from and relating to Gong Jun and Zhang Zhehan.

This post is not wholly comprehensive and is intended as an overview, links provided lead to further details. Dates are in accordance with China Standard Time, the organization is chronological. My own biases on some things are reflected here. Anything I include that is not concretely known is indicated as such, and you’re welcome to do your own research and draw your own conclusions as you see fit. Please let me know if you have any questions, comments, concerns, or additions. :)

[Glossary of names and terms] [Masterlist of my posts about the situation with Zhang Zhehan]

01-14 → Possible hexagon ring sighting.

01-15 → Net-A-Porter posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

→ 361° posted a commercial featuring Gong Jun. (1129 kadian, 51129 with the date.)

→ GXG posted six photos ads featuring Gong Jun.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a behind the scenes video of the GXG photoshoot. Caption: "Freeze and relax, feel the leisurely spring in advance. @ Gong Jun Simon enjoys every moment of the rhythm~"

→ Elle magazine posted a teaser of their photoshoot with Gong Jun that would be released the following day. Caption: "The New Year brings the 'dragon', and the new year brings the 'beauty'. The cover of the new issue is about to be revealed."

01-16 → Elle posted their photoshoot of Gong Jun. Caption: "The shooting location is in a building decorated in artistic style. The porch has been decorated early with the festive atmosphere of the New Year. The lawn in front of the door is still green and full of the vitality that is rare in winter. At 6 o'clock in the evening the night before, @ Gong Jun Simon was still working on set. After finishing work, he rushed to Shanghai. After getting up early, he had to rush to attend a New Year's Eve party after filming. He won’t have a holiday tomorrow for New Year’s Day, but will go back to the set and continue filming. Looking back further, last year at this time he was also preparing for a New Year's Eve performance and joined the group the next day. 'It's good not to have a holiday,' he said. There was a sense of urgency in his words, as well as a sense of eagerness to try. 'I just hope that every project will be filmed smoothly and new projects will start filming as soon as possible.' Why is he so serious about pursuing a career. 'I have to do it well this year and try to use my time as much as possible.'"

→ Gong Jun posted six photos from the Elle shoot. Caption: "In the first year of the new era, let's have fun together." He also posted nine to his Xiao Hong Shu, caption: "Send 30 million red packets 🧧🧧🧧 Be healthy, be happy, be rich" and nine to his Instagram, caption: "Spring festival is coming!!! 🏮🧧🐲!"

→ Elle posted a video of their photoshoot featuring Gong Jun. Caption: "This year @ Gong Jun Simon has launched a 'World Favourites' section, where he publishes travel p-logs from time to time. On the one hand, he wants to record the scenery he has seen, the food he has eaten, and the interesting things he has seen. On the other hand, he wants to share what he has seen and heard with everyone, so that they can see the world he has seen through his records. In these travel p-logs, the photos and layout are all his own ideas. Gong Jun is a person with a strong desire to share. He hopes to pass on the happiness in life to others so that everyone can feel this happiness together. Of course, this is also a process in which he magnifies the happiness he feels."

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a behind the scenes video of the Elle shoot. Caption: "Have a far-reaching inner rhyme and bring auspiciousness to the East. @ Gong Jun Simon is enjoying the fun of the New Year."

→ Gong Jun's studio posted fifteen photos from the Elle shoot. Caption: "The fiery national colours outline the oriental charm, and @ Gong Jun Simon writes the warmth of the New Year."

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a douyin of footage from the Elle photoshoot. Caption: "Gong Jun inherits the past and traces the present, and absorbs the meaning of Chinese style. @ Gong Jun Simon interprets the modern style of the New Year with a pioneering attitude."

→ PRSR posted a promotional video spoken by Gong Jun.

01-17 → Gong Jun posted a promotional video he did for Deeyeo.

→ Kinokuniya Tokyo responded to whalers' injuries about stocking the Zhang Sanjian photobook, saying that they have been unable to contact the suppliers. They later posted an update that they have no plans to pursue this further.

→ PRSR posted a video (flashing lights cw) of their photoshoot with Gong Jun.

→ Fresh posted a photo ad announcing that Gong Jun would be appearing in a livestream the following day.

01-18 (Candy shower!!! 🍬) → Gong Jun posted a screenshot of the song 南京恋爱通告 (Nanjing Love Announcement) by Galaxy Express to his Instagram. Caption: "Good morning!" Fan Observations: - For the significance of Nanjing, see [here]. - This is only the second time that Gong Jun has posted a song to his Instagram since 813, and the first time that he has done so with it being the only thing in the post. Prior to 813, he posted songs quite often. - The song lyrics include the line "Sunrise on top of the purple-gold mountain," reminiscent of the golden mountain photos Gong Jun posted on 2022-12-17 which many people believe showed Zhang Zhehan from behind.

→ Gong Jun appeared on a livestream for Fresh, hosted in Nanjing. [full recording] Fan Observations: - He wore a jacket with a gold hexagon pattern. - One activity involved drawing images associated with words. For Nanjing, he drew a heart. 🥺 - He mentioned the song he had posted earlier, saying that he had found it a while ago and had been wanting to share it.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted eight photos from the Fresh livestream. Caption: "The carved jade dragon glows with vitality, and the veil and gold layer create the beauty of the new year. @ Gong Jun Simon feels pure in the momentum of soaring. I wish everyone a happy Laba Festival and prosperity with the dragon in 2024!"

→ Gong Jun posted four selfies. Caption: "Today is Laba, so it's time to post selfies!" Fan Observation: The hoodie and pose that he's doing in them is very reminiscent of photos he posted on 10-31-2022, the anniversary of the One Night in Nanjing, which are in turn reminiscent of selfies Zhang Zhehan had once posted. [comparison]

→ PRSR posted a commercial featuring Gong Jun. The later also posted a photo ad.

→ Fresh posted five photos of Gong Jun from the livestream.

→ Yang Yang posted two photos of himself and Gong Jun from the livestream.

01-19 → Net-A-Porter posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

→ PRSR posted two behind the scenes videos [1] [2] (flashing lights cw for both) of their photoshoot with Gong Jun.

01-20 → The Instagram posted a video of "Zhang Zhehan".

Additional Reading: → N/A

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[andromeda4004]

Share it Sunday - Rebecca AU

I'm planning to start publishing this in about a month, and since I made great progress on it yesterday, here's a taste of the opening soliloquy. If you're familiar with du Maurier's Rebecca, I am changing a few major points of the plot, but still drawing heavily on some of the key points of the novel, including the first person perspective from an unidentified female narrator...

Last night I dreamt (more under the cut)

Last night I dreamt I went to Sanderley again.  It has been many years since I left that place – I shall not call it home – and yet at times my mind does drift back there upon a sleeping tide and wash me ashore where I used to dwell.  In my dream I come, as it seems, from nowhere, upon the night-time gatehouse and that long, disorienting drive, with not a thought but the pull to move onwards, inwards, through.  I part the gates, their white paint flaking, though they are caught up in vines and drag across undergrowth, and the gravel beyond is narrowed from a driveway to a meandering path through the woods, the route obscured here and there by a sprawl of shrubbery or the sudden upstart of a sapling, sprouting where once the car would run.  The woods go on and on, and I go with them, first walking, then running, then flying, as one does in dreams, along what remains of the path, dark ahead and enclosed above, until finally the trees give way to the opalescence of the rhododendrons, blooming at the height of their powers, despite all else having gone to ruin.  They rise steep to either side of me, the sweet domesticated perennials grown monstrous, twenty feet, thirty feet, forty feet high, and covered every inch in flowers, ghostly white in the moonlight of my imagining.  I remember the scent even now, something spicy-sweet and indefinable; indefatigable.  The inescapable scent of Sanderley in springtime.

It lingers even as I break free, finally, of the plants which choke the driveway and I spill out onto the lawns above the house.  That view, it always challenged me, should I admire first the gardens, or the sea or Sanderley itself?  Even in my dream, I cannot focus, cannot choose; after the homogeneity of dark trees then pale flowers, there is suddenly too much variety to see.  But of course it is Sanderley, always, that demands my attention, though the moonlight skitters beautifully across the wavecrests beyond.  The broad north-east face of the house stares back towards me, two unbroken rows of perfect matched windows that reminded me always of a set of teeth, locked in a gritted grin.  And bordering each window-frame that ostentatious golden finish which caught the light so prettily in the dawn, but stands out brassy now in my moonlit dream, the only point of colour in my sight.  There is something awful – in the sense of awe-filled – in its great mass of stone, and glass, and glorious history.  Sanderley is undeniable.  Sanderley simply is.

And as I come upon the house itself, I feel again that hope, that same, strange hope that dogged my footsteps always in those days; boundless, groundless hope that a wisdom greater than my own would guide me to a purpose.  When first I saw Sanderley with my waking eyes, I had thought I’d found it, that purpose; when last I saw Sanderley, I knew myself better, and I had no longer any need for hope.  I had certainty.

My dreaming eyes, however, they look across the years and miles and see Sanderley as it must be by now.  The ivy beginning to clog the stonework, the windows cracked and broken here and there, the soot stains where the fire broke free.  I move, without any sense of effort, around the building, to the terrace which faces the sloping gardens and the distant cliffs, where the driveway ends in a white portico and wide steps, now grubby and forgotten, and the perfect formal gardens overflow their box hedges.  Such a shame.  Someone ought to care for this place, I think in my dream.  Although it shall not be me.

____

I would love to hear thoughts and speculations, since many of you voted for me to spend time on this. I'm planning to post the story through October and November.

[greatwesternway]

How much interaction with visitors do the engines have? Pioneer seems very social—is he the exception or the rule?

Pioneer is an exception in general, but the MSI curates in such a way that he is the rule there. Many of the MSI's exhibits have experience showing off and selling themselves as interesting and exciting to crowds of new people every day. Pioneer, 999, Jenny, and Texaco all had background in this before coming to the museum. The MSI, which is housed in the only building remaining from the Columbian Exposition's White City and founded in time to take advantage (and possession of much) of the Century of Progress, largely selects for exhibits like this.

Stuka also had prior exhibition experience, though his context is obviously different. He's not especially talkative to guests unless they speak German and to him directly, but he's got a winning attitude about staying in character as a losing but formidable opponent to Spitfire so he gets on fine.

Pioneer and 999 are obviously the masterclass on courting a crowd, both being speed record breakers and Worlds Fair alumni. 999 has been displayed at several Worlds Fairs, in fact. Pioneer only edges 999 out on this in terms of the MSI because he debuted at the Century of Progress same as his museum did and he came up during the dawn of modern advertising so he's got a bit of salesmen to him that 999 lacks. That's why he makes for the ideal first exhibit. If you somehow weren't planning to pay to see the rest of the museum, Pioneer can convince you it'd be a good investment.

Like Stuka, U-505 will also answer questions posed directly to him, but given his context, he prefers to let his guides speak for him. Makes everyone's lives easier that way.

2903 is also a bit reserved with guests, but this is because he is a regular working engine. He was not brought up to sell himself the way Pioneer and 999 were and unlike U-505, he doesn't have any work stories to relate either. There's not a lot for him to really say for himself beyond what his placard already states.

Which is why eventual his move to the IRM is good for him. There, there's not any expectation of being notable (nevertheless, he does become notable there for being the largest engine in their collection). IRM stock comes from a wide variety of backgrounds, but very few of them are show ponies in the way that the MSI seeks out.

Pilot probably interacts more with guests than anyone else at the IRM does, but even if he's not a famous engine, he is a passenger engine and Burlington besides and that gives him an immediate leg up on everyone else. Obviously a passenger engine is going to have more experience and innate talent at talking to people. 727 similarly has this advantage in her exhibit.

There is the thing too, that not all people can or want to talk to engines. It's not difficult to become the sort of person who knows how to talk to engines; all of their guides do and pretty much everyone who works at the IRM is this sort of person. But a working engine is generally preferred to be seen and not heard. Engines therefore do not usually speak to people unless spoken to first. Pioneer's good enough at gauging this that he can take the liberty to initiate (especially since many of the people he'd talk to these days are shy children), but most engines wouldn't want to risk seeming impertinent. The vast majority of IRM engines are like this, but they also see more specific train enthusiasts who are seeking them out so they still have some facetime to serve.

However, the IRM closes over the winter and when the MSI still had its east lawn exhibits outside, they were also closed for winter (save for U-505's interior tours which were accessed from inside the building). So interaction with people outside of their guides/volunteers would drop significantly along with the temperature.

[nocturnofshadow]

Question for all you green and kitchen witches (and other disciplines, if you're so inclined!)

If you have the space/resources to do so, how did y'all go about getting your gardens or planters started for supplying your own plants?

Asking mainly those who rent or are not in a permanent space.

I have a place with a small lawn in upstate NY, but my soil quality is definitely not ideal, so I plan on using planter pots with drainage to get myself started. My concern is that, in getting pot planters and not building a raised bed, I may run into drainage issues.

Barring advice from plant nurseries, which I will also be seeking, anyone in the upper east coast/New England area got any tips for plant care? And what's been your personal journey with it?

Research is telling me the basics are a good spot to start: rosemary, garden sage, dill, dandelions, lavender

Thank you for your time in advance!

[mariacallous]

On an island in the Singapore Strait, a thicket of apartment blocks peers mournfully over the sea. A corps of green-shirted gardeners dutifully tends the lawns and herbaceous borders along the roadside. A few cars slip along smooth roads to a commercial center with gleaming marble floors. Amidst the hundreds of closed shopfronts three restaurants are open—a fried chicken chain, a small café, and a gleaming and empty hot pot restaurant. Five duty-free shops are doing better business; some young men are stocking up on beer and Copper Dog whiskey at 11 a.m.

Welcome to Forest City: planned residents, 700,000; current residents, roughly 9,000. Launched in 2014 as part of China’s Belt and Road Initiative, the mega-project is headed by once-real estate giant Country Garden, a behemoth that now sits on the edge of bankruptcy.

At first glance, the project seems yet another tale of a ghost-city built on the back of a Chinese real estate bubble—and then doomed by the COVID-19 pandemic and economic slowdown. Yet Forest City’s story is also a deeply Malaysian tale, involving property-speculating sultans, nationalist politicians, and the country’s complex relationship with Beijing and its own ethnically Chinese minority.

Building a new city to lodge hundreds of thousands of residents on four new artificial islands in the Singapore Strait was always an ambitious venture. But the main market was not locals, but rather speculative buyers from the People’s Republic of China. When sales opened in December 2015, buyers flooded in, many of them buying “pre-sales” of uncompleted apartments. “You’d have buses coming over from Singapore every day filled with people who just landed,” said Tan Wee Tiam, head of research at KGV International Property Consultants. “There were over 1,000 agents in the sales hall, and it still wasn’t enough. … You felt like you were in China.”

Buyers were often looking for not a permanent residence but an investment that could also be a potential holiday home, or accommodation for children who were headed to study in Singapore. Some were reportedly even offered the opportunity to buy a flat in China and get one free in Forest City, said Christine Li, head of research in the Asia-Pacific for Knight Frank.

Yet this reliance on the Chinese buyers also left the project brutally exposed to changes in Chinese policy. The first blow came in 2017, when the Chinese government suddenly imposed capital controls preventing individuals from moving more than $50,000 out of the country annually. The minimum price of a Forest City apartment sits at around $75,000 and can be as much as $3.5 million. Then came the pandemic years which froze international travel—and stamped hard on Chinese real estate and growth.

Yet, Forest City’s staff seem to be holding out hope. Shane Lim, a hire from Singapore, showed me around and assured me that the place is working to attract buyers from across the world, including the Middle East, Indonesia, and Thailand. Still, he estimated that about 70 percent of his colleagues in the sales team are from China.

Halfway through my tour, a Malaysian man calling himself Ozzy introduced himself and his two wives. Now living in the United States, he’s searching for a place to buy in Malaysia that he can use to visit his daughter in Singapore and rent out when he’s away. Looking around, though, he’s unconvinced.

“Look at how empty this place is,” he said. “I’d only be able to rent it out for one or two months a year. … When I visited in 2018 this place was packed. Now there’s no one here. It’s like it’s haunted.” Lim stared at his shoes until Ozzy moved off. He then firmly assured me that the sales hall is busier on weekends.

A wet Wednesday afternoon might not be a peak sales period, but it is hard to escape the reality that the putative new city is barely lived in. Surveying one of the towers I descend from the 34th floor to the first, looking for signs of occupancy—a pair of shoes at the door, furniture seen through the windows that face the corridor, or even just curtains drawn over said windows. The place is eerily well maintained but empty. Just 25 of the 390 flats show any signs of current occupancy.

I met a single resident, a Malaysian Indian woman who said she lived in Forest City with her husband. Declining to give her name, she informed me a neighboring tower is busier. That would not be hard to believe. Some floors in this tower were completely empty with flats whose doors open to the touch, revealing light-filled marble interiors into which dead leaves have blown. Others had notices of a residents’ meeting dated October 2022 still taped to the door.

According to Li, there are signs that buyers may be slowly coming back. But she also suggested that Country Garden might have aimed too high, used to China’s experience of breakneck speed urbanization, supported by strong government support for infrastructure development. That policy created plenty of “ghost cities” in China itself—but until the recent real estate crisis, also huge profits.

Forest City has also suffered from being a political football since its launch, something Country Garden may well not have anticipated. “I did notice Chinese developers tend not to focus on the political climate,” Li said. “They are not used to the idea of general elections, change of government, and change of policies overnight.”

Despite its vast scale, the first time locals heard about Forest City was in 2014, when fisherman woke up one day to find barges dumping sand off the coast. Newspapers dug into the story, revealing that Country Garden’s main partner was none other than the sultan of Johor state, Ibrahim Ismail.

The tie made sense. Many businesses take on Johor royals as partners, benefiting from the influence they wield in the state. The Malaysian government is also bent on transforming southern Johor into a new economic hub, the Shenzhen to Singapore’s Hong Kong. The city was made a duty-free zone. When further investigations also revealed rushed environmental reviews, it took diplomatic protests from Singapore for the central government to intervene and ensure the proper process was followed.

However, things began to shift when the Malaysian government’s grip on power loosened. Rocked by the world’s largest corruption scandal, the China-linked 1Malaysia Development Berhad, voters turned against it. And at 93 years old, former Malaysian Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad exited retirement to lead an opposition filled with former opponents, previously imprisoned under his watch, against a government coalition he once led for 22 years.

Forest City became one of Mahathir’s favorite targets. Inveighing against government corruption and waste, he accused the government of planning to sell out Malaysia to foreigners. Most provocatively, he claimed that the thousands of mainly Chinese buyers of Forest City apartments would be allowed to settle, become Malaysian citizens, and vote in its elections. In a country where ethnically Chinese make up 23 percent of the citizenry—and are often stereotyped as wielding undue political influence due to their wealth—the claim was explosive.

After his shock triumph in the 2018 elections, then-Prime Minister Mahathir followed through on his threats declaring that foreigners would not be allowed to buy property in Forest City. Despite legal challenges, the announcement apparently hit Forest City sales hard.

Five years and a series of dizzyingly complex political maneuvers later, the current Malaysian government is led by Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim. His support is mainly built by ethnic minority-backed parties that triumphed in 2018. To secure his grip on power he needs two things. The first is economic growth. The second is increased support from Malay voters, to which end he has courted the sultans who act as power brokers in their states and take turns acting as Malaysia’s head of state. Perhaps none is more influential than the sultan of Johor, who started his five-year tenure in February this year.

In this context, Anwar seems to have rediscovered the charm of Chinese investment, and Forest City. He has repeatedly praised the Belt and Road Initiative, and in August last year he announced Forest City would be designated a special financial zone with residents offered multiple-entry visas, fast-track entry for those working in Singapore, and a flat income tax rate of 15 percent.

The sultan of Johor has also suggested reviving a proposed high-speed rail link between Malaysia’s capital of Kuala Lumpur and Singapore, with an extra stop at Forest City. And who knows what will happen. After, all the $10.5 billion Melaka Gateway project—launched under the Belt and Road Initiative and apparently scrapped in 2020—is also back underway, after finding new support from the state and federal governments. The developer behind the project recently acquired a major new shareholder, the sultan of Johor.

But the heyday of Chinese investment in Malaysia may well not be coming back. Ten years since China launched the Belt and Road Initiative, it has begun to pull back sharply on its overseas investments. China’s own economic slowdown and business wariness about the increasingly capricious regulatory environment is part of the story. But, the large number of projects gone sour also appears to have made Chinese investors more wary.

Meanwhile, Malaysia is struggling not to get left holding the bag. Should Country Garden go bankrupt, it’s uncertain what will happen to Forest City. At that point the Malaysian government could face the unpalatable option of a potential bailout by the Chinese government, leaving a chunk of Malaysian land in Beijing’s hands. Alternatively, it could step in itself—becoming the proud proprietor of what the developers still proclaim to be “A Prime Model for Future Cities.”

[freelancearsonist]

Start from the beginning.

“Oh.” He casts a glance at the tiny loveseat, then looks back at you. If you weren’t smarter, you’d almost say there’s disappointment in those chocolate brown irises. “Are you sure? It looks small.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

You move around each other easily in the little bathroom as you get ready for bed, like you’ve been doing this together for years. That’s the scariest thing about Dieter Bravo: how easy it is to be around him. He seems like an abrasive personality, and yet he complements you perfectly.

For a moment as you curl up under a spare blanket on the little loveseat, you almost reconsider his offer of sharing the bed. You feel like you could trust him not to pull any funny business.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs before flicking off the bedside lamp, and your internal debate leaves with the light.

The smell of coffee pulls you out of your light slumber; Dieter’s hunched over the little machine on the desktop, mumbling to himself about hating technology.

“Good morning,” you murmur as you try to rub the kink out of your neck.

He turns to you with a sleepy smile, eyes a little droopy and hair mussed up–presumably from a night spent tossing and turning. The tangled-up mess of sheets on the bed corroborate his hair’s story.

“How do you take your coffee?” He asks before smacking the little machine with the heel of his palm. It doesn’t sound good–the coffee coming out makes a goop-like noise as it drops into the paper cup he’s placed underneath the spout.

“I’ll skip it,” you say with a little apprehension, “thank you though.”

He shrugs, then sets to work pouring four or five little packets of creamer into his cup. “I wanna be on the road in an hour so it’s not too late when we get there.”

“Okay.” You claim the bathroom for twenty minutes so you can take a quick shower, change your clothes, and brush your teeth. Dieter shuffles by with a kind smile once you’re done so he can complete his own morning routine. An hour later, you’re on the road again.

Kansas is horribly boring to drive through when you’re not in one of the cities. It’s flat and there’s nothing but fields for miles. You’re thankful you have Dieter to talk to or you’re not sure you would get through this. But you do–after ten perilous hours (closer to twelve, really, with all the pit stops) you reach your destination: a little town called Flint City, population 2,465 according to the sign at the edge of town.

Dieter’s the first to mention it. For a town with that many people, it’s eerily quiet. No cars on the roads, no people out and about. He explains that the tip came in anonymously. He was looped in on something about crop circles on the east side of town, but upon further research he found something even more concerning and almost definitely related. Apparently there hasn’t been a single missing person report in this little hamlet for nearly twenty years, but in the past month there have been ten. Ten people, all of whom vanished without a trace.

As you drive down the main street through town, you’re suddenly sure that the number is a lot more than ten. There are cars abandoned everywhere, even in the midst of the streets. It’s like a modern day Roanoke, and it makes your skin prickle with apprehension.

“Are you sure it’s safe to be here?” You ask as you pull up to a little building with a “Flint City Police Department” sign out front. 

“No,” he answers honestly, “actually, it’s probably not safe at all.”

You appreciate his candor, at the very least. It does nothing to make you feel better, though.

He jogs up to the door, and it’s unlocked. You’re stuck motionless as you stand outside your driver’s side door, though. There are signs of life everywhere. Business doors stand propped open, toys litter the front lawns of neat little two-story houses. This isn’t a town where everyone decided unanimously to pick up and leave. It seems like a rapture-level event has happened here, only isolated to this town. You feel quite like you’ve walked into a new chapter of Children of the Corn, and it makes you shudder involuntarily.

“There’s no one here,” Dieter shouts to you from the doorway. You’ve already gathered as much, but you let him state the obvious anyway. 

It’s already approaching dusk and you’re both tired from the long day of travel. Dieter looks at you, a mix of apprehension and exhaustion on his face–and you can tell he’s holding something back; you’re just not sure what.

“We should find somewhere to set up base,” he tells you, “but I don’t think there’s a hotel in town.”

You look around and feel a strange sense of irony. “Thank god all the houses are vacant then.”

Dieter decides on a modest little two-bedroom with bare-minimum amenities and hardly any decoration. It’s easier to work somewhere that doesn’t feel lived in, he says, and you have to agree. It’s easier to forget that you’re intruding in someone’s home when it doesn’t feel like a home.

The hardest part of this whole ordeal is that you don’t have even remotely a clue what’s happened here. The crop circles are a stereotypical alien calling card, but you’ve never heard of a town-wide abduction before. You’re brand-spanking-new to all this and you don’t know how to make heads or tails of any of it.

Dieter seems to have some sort of idea, but he’s not letting you in on his plan–if he even has one.

“We need to start with the crop circle,” he proclaims, and you don’t have any argument against that. He’s the expert–you’re just his humble assistant.

It’s getting dark and a little chilly, but you drive out to the fields together anyway. The entire population of Flint City has disappeared and there’s no telling what kind of danger they’re in; you agree full-heartedly with Dieter that it’s important to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible.

Every one of your senses is on high alert as you emerge from your car. You can’t see anything out of order at the edge of the field, but you guess crop circles are typically in the middle. There’s electricity in the humid air that surrounds you–a sense of foreboding, but also a sense of excitement. You’re terrified, yet intrigued.

“I want to go check it out,” Dieter tells you, grabbing a camera from the backseat. “Stay here.”

“Dieter–”

“I’ll be five minutes, sweetheart,” he assures you in his best soothing voice, “I just want to take a quick look. I’ll call for you if I need anything.”

There’s no further argument–he trudges forward into the tall rows of corn without a second look.

You keep your phone in hand so you can watch anxiously as the minutes tick past. Seven come and go before you start to get worried. You dial Dieter’s contact on your phone and hear his ringtone coming from the center console in your car. 

Your anxiety doubles at minute ten. He should be back by now, for sure. This field isn’t that big. What if something has happened and he needs help? He doesn’t have his phone to call you.

Minute twelve is when you hear it: the most blood-curdling scream you’ve ever heard in your life. It makes every hair on your body stand up on end. That was Dieter, there’s no doubt in your mind. He’s in trouble, and you’re the only person around for miles.

Choose your card carefully.

The Death - Go into the field and find Dieter.

The Hanged Man - Stay out of the field and wait.