#elizabeth stopper

[thewholekeg]

Lazarus isn't much for parties, but he does enjoy humouring Elizabeth.

[the-jewel-catalogue]

What are your favourite emeralds of the British Royal Family?

Jess- So mine would be this emerald necklace worn by Queen Elizabeth II for the Diplomatic Corps reception in 2019. It is such a wow necklace, the green of the emeralds is stunning and it was such a shock when it was worn!

CJ - I am sure there could be something else i like, with Princess Eugenie's wedding tiara being one of them but Catherine's emerald set is just stunning. The necklace is a show stopper and when she wore the earrings in the drop version, just chef kiss

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Essentialist

He threw out the baby, but kept the bathwater. That was Dom Afonso's method for creating miracles: to prepare the ingredient, to allow it to steep for a while, like a strong cup of red cha, and then to dispose of it, believing he had captured its most important part. The character, or flavour, of what he'd wanted to define. The essence. Having drained away that precious wheat, he felt that he could freely dispense with the chaff.

Of course, it fell to Margarida to do the actual dispensing. In this case, she returned the child to where it had been found, a park bench on Rua Luís António, not really any worse for wear, and certainly more fragrant than it had been this morning. Not that Dom Afonso had worried about its wellbeing. He lost all interest in his subjects once the process was complete, and might have happily allowed the child to perish, were it not for fear that the taint of death would ruin his vivified result.

An elixir of youth. It was the treasure that had captivated many a soul, from Alexander of Macedon to Juan Ponce to León, but they had always sought to discover it in some lagoon or cavern pool, rather than simply prepare it themselves. The infamous countess, Elizabeth Báthory, had allegedly bathed in the blood of a hundred maidens to hold back the march of time, but for Dom Afonso it had only taken the bathing of one, with not a pinprick on the baby's soft unspoiled skin.

When Margarida returned, the potion was stoppered, preserved in viscous amber, the process complete. That was another thing that never changed. She was enthralled by the magic that happened here, a spellbound audience as Dom Afonso distilled and decanted, boiling romance into stock and pickling courage in a vat of ocean brine, but she was never asked to truly be a part of it. Margarida mopped the floors and scoured the equipment, obtained ingredients and cleared them away again, but Dom Afonso performed the alchemy alone.

The month before, he had prepared a tincture of flight from fledgling feathers, plucked insect wings like delicate slips of lace, and even a measure of powdered pterodactyl bone, but she had never really seen how they combined, charged instead with sweeping up where he'd already been, cleaning the traces of what had already been done. She had come here to learn his method, but mostly saw just the beginning, and sometimes only the end result.

There were dozens of those in the workshop, sealed flasks arrayed in such a way to best catch the early light - and indeed those rays were captured in a flask labelled dawn, imbued with lark eyes and ocelot musk, a half-opened moss rose and east-facing sunflower, in beeswax and morning dew - and she had watched each from the outside, as if contained within her own glass bulb, tucked away and stoppered to keep her separate from the rest.

At first, she had simply blamed the demands of her job, having been hired to assist Dom Afonso, not to gawk as he performed miracles, thinking it only natural that she must be doing something else at the same time, and therefore always miss the moment of creation, as else he would not need another pair of hands. But she'd still been determined to catch a glance, here and there, to piece it all together over time - and perhaps, one day, be at hand to take the reins when he retired. Elixir of youth or not.

Now, though, she realised that it was impossible. Not because she lacked the capacity to learn - Margarida had always pictured her mind as a sort of empty flask, bound to be filled with the essence of his knowledge - but because Dom Afonso lacked the willingness to teach. At first, she had felt frustrated, seemingly always dismissed at a pivotal moment, but now she knew that was intentional - it was too regular, too well-timed, to be anything else. Her master was jealous of his secrets, and sent her away precisely as his work required their application.

Dom Afonso was a curious man. He was aloof, distant, no more attentive to her than he had been to the baby - he cared only for his work, and that which might aid it. Margarida had lived with him these past few months, and seen him show affection to just a handful of people, those who might serve as new ingredients: a woman with afflicted eyes, or a man with a luxurious head of hair. Having grown familiar with that cold, assessing gaze, it was almost a relief to be ignored.

He could only be described in absences, like a silhouette that blocked particular rays of light, the outline of a man but with lacunae in his heart. Margarida had once had a favourite uncle, Tio Gonçalo: her mother's older brother, the family comedian, the man who had first taught her to play bisca and bake custard tarts, as generous with his time as he was with his laughter, always with a boiled sweet in his pocket and a twinkle in his eye. Dom Afonso was the opposite of that. He was how she'd felt at Tio Gonçalo's funeral.

He seemed to lack any essence of his own, which perhaps made him more adept at finding them - although that made it hard for her to warm to him in turn. His face bore the deep red sheen of a Beira Alta apple, but held none of its sweetness inside. His only passion, his only saving grace, was his work. That was when he came to life, as far as Margarida could tell: she had sat through many a sermon on the theory, much though he deprived her of the practice.

Dom Afonso was a staunch believer in the cause of clarity: that everything could be distilled down to its essentials. A drop of youth today, a pinch of happiness next week. He'd taught Margarida that, if nothing else. His process was not limited to the extraction of senses, as a perfumier chasing delicate scents - here for a moment, the brevity of a breath, then gone in the breadth of a lingering breeze. Instead, his finds were the thing itself: the essential oils, or oleaginous essences, that made up everything that mattered in the world.

He might well be a sociopath, but he was also a homeopath, and she sometimes wondered which of the twain had come first. Perhaps his devotion to that religion had simply stripped him of all other cares, his other senses diluted so that he might focus on the piquancy of primal concepts - or perhaps this was all to fill that absence in himself, and he was still just searching for the vial marked empathy.

Sometimes he teased her with the prospect of discovery. There had been a time when she'd been allowed to stay after the water boiled, and attended closely as he crushed a wad of withered leaves, steeping them gentling in the pot, and felt brave enough to ask a question: "What is this one going to be?"

Dom Afonso's glance had been more withering still.

"Herbal tea," he'd replied.

On another occasion she'd been tasked with boiling the water herself, a quantity far in excess of any tea, coffee or cocoa requirements, and been thrilled to finally be included in the process. After diligently following his instructions for months, he had finally rewarded her with involvement, trusted to do something more important than scrubbing and scouring and sweeping up after him. It had turned out to be the water for his bath. He'd expected her to do it every three days after that.

That had sowed the essence of a plan. Deprived of any instruction to feed her ravenous mind, Margarida had whiled away those long hours thinking up her own ways to glean some of that forbidden knowledge: doubling back and hiding the next time he asked her to go out, leaving a cloth hung over a table so that she could crouch there just-so, breaking into his private rooms and searching for a notebook filled with golden secrets.

She resented all the tasks he had her do - drawing the bath, brewing the drinks, washing his clothes - but resented more the ones he didn't. Margarida wished that she could be the master for once, but she knew that Dom Afonso would never allow that to come to pass. It would mean his replacement, or at least her independence. That knowledge had been purposefully withheld: leaving her education incomplete, so that she, incomplete, could never leave.

The eureka moment had come in the bathroom. Margarida was filling the vast pewter tub, its clawed feet straining against the sudden weight, and reflected again upon that first misunderstanding: she had boiled the water expecting a cauldron, but been directed to haul the pot upstairs instead. It had been an easy mistake to make - she had witnessed many a concoction begun in a similar way, with a simmering pan of water prepared for its ingredients, and couldn't have known that her time would be different.

That was when she realised. She might not have seen much more of Dom Afonso's method, but she'd run plenty of his baths, and thus far the process was exactly the same. Oddly, even the temperature was similar. Her master always liked the water hot, one or two degrees short of scalding; just shy of the point where skin blisters and peels, as they knew well from their experiments. As a result, he was left with a perpetual sheen, the ruby countenance of a broiled lobster tail, glistening as if the water had been baked into his skin. He claimed that it kept him sanitised, boiling off his own essence so that it didn't leach into his work. Margarida wondered where that essence went.

She was charged with disposing of the water, too. With that in mind, she wondered if there was some other way of gaining his wisdom; to practice what he practiced, as he refused to preach, and see whether this first step in the process was enough - and, if not, even the slightest taste of his secrets might reveal the next. Margarida lacked the skill to separate the traces left behind, and the supernatant would no doubt also include his advanced age, his selfishness, his vanity. But that was no matter. Without the palate to discern, she would simply have to drink the lot.

If that didn't work... well, this was no time for half-measures, having hungered for months for what seemed rightfully hers. Margarida had often considered, watching the steam rise off of the water, that - were Dom Afonso to remain in the tub for too long, with the heat continually maintained - her mentor might eventually reduce into a particularly gamey stew. She wondered at its flavour, and its essence. The craft was everything to the man, and his body would surely be imbued with that lifelong vocation, one which she had coveted in vain for herself.

It might be kinder to kill him first, of course - but that might taint the result. That had been one of the few things he'd taught her, with the infant this morning being one example; live subjects were better, although it sometimes took the tongs to hold them steady for the course. He'd also shown her the virtue of ruthlessness: the insects, larks and hatchlings stripped for parts on his command, as her own soul grew calloused in the pursuit of his excellence. Two lessons, which would hold her in good stead for the experiments to come. It was just a shame he hadn't thought to teach her any more.

[norgbelulah]

This excerpt is not regulation length I’m so sorry

He’s thin, thinner than Raylan remembers him at nineteen. His skin is tanned and weathered, his clothes threadbare. His shirt is a ragged tee, once black, but now gray, sleeves torn off. It hangs on him, stretched at the neck and baggy at the bottom. His jeans are less worn, less baggy, but they are cuffed at the ankles and he’s wearing no shoes. The soles of his feet are black, like Ava’s were before.

His eyes are a muddy green, though Raylan remembers clearly they were once brown. They are twinkling, like he knows something good, and his grin is wide.

“Raylan Givens,” he says with the reverence of an oath, or a prayer, and the tired mirth of an old joke. “You’re come.” He pulls his arms up over his head to caress the stone at his back and he twists suddenly, pressing his ear up against it. He smiles and huffs a laugh, like it’s told him a secret, then looks back at Raylan and says, in a half-sing-song tone, “Prodigal son, your mo-ther wants to see-e you-u. She’s calling, Raylan, call-ing, call-ing.”

The thing, the stopper in Raylan’s chest loosens again, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s looking at the wreckage of a man he once knew, or if it’s... something else. He takes a slow step forward and raises his hands, though he’s certain Boyd doesn’t see him as a threat.

“Boyd,” he says quietly, slowly. “My mother is dead. She died fifteen years ago.”

Boyd smiles at him, curling his legs underneath himself, still clinging to that gravestone. “Isn’t. Didn’t,” he replies. “Frances is in the ground, son, and we’re sore for it, but She,” and he says the word with a capital “s,” “She is everywhere and she wants you to come see her, Raylan. You are come home, home for good and all--she told me so--and can you see the colors, Raylan?” His face has taken on a wondrous cast and he’s speaking almost too quickly to follow, “She shows them to me sometimes and they’re so bright you can’t see for them and the leaves in the trees and every blade of grass--”

He breaks off when he looks down at Raylan’s feet. He scrambles forward, on hands and knees to him, and says in almost agonized confusion, “But how can you feel her with those? You need the earth, Raylan--can’t you hear her calling you?”

I honestly don't remember if I wrote this first and then figured out what the hell was going on after, or if I had an idea of what had happened to Boyd and then wrote this. It definitely sets a tone and a pitch that I think I back off from almost immediately in the rest of the fic because it wouldn't have been sustainable. This is Boyd at his most unhinged because, now that Raylan is back, he can start to come back to himself. Even though neither of them realize it, Boyd's journey to healing starts happening almost immediately after this scene.

I definitely wrote this because I have always been fascinated by the idea of a person being touched by the fairies. I think this goes back to when I read The Perilous Guard by Elizabeth Marie Pope as a kid. There's a character who isn't all there because he hangs out with the fairies--or maybe he hangs out with them so much because he isn't all there? So, I love this idea of a human being so overwhelmed by whatever a fairy is or can do that they start to be unable to function either in or out of the fairy realm. It's just baller, honestly.

So this fascination eventually led me to write this whole fucking novel about very metaphorical mental illness and queerness and people's perceptions and how love can be transformative in both good and bad ways, how you can end up someone you never thought you would be before you realized you were even making a choice that would lead you there and how that same love that was once destructive can lead you back home...

[homenecromancer]

what i left the bookstore with:

The Year The Horses Came - Mary Mackey. Prehistoric adventure novel, appears to be similar to Clan of the Cave Bear etc.

Chanur’s Venture - C. J. Cherryh. Science fiction about lion people, book two of many. Read the first book and liked it.

The Fifth Head of Cerberus - Gene Wolfe. Early Wolfe — this was the only book by him they had, which is kind of fortunate because Book of the New Sun is a door stopper in omnibus form, and I already had an armful.

One on Me - Tim Huntley. Some kind of science fiction satire that seemed funny enough to spend three bucks on.

The Proud Tower - Barbara Tuchman. Nonfiction about Europe right before WWI. Is this the most up-to-date history you can get? No, but Tuchman is always engaging and worth a read.

books I did not buy:

(dishonorable mention) something by Larry Niven where a modern guy wakes up in the distant past, maybe with a little bit of amnesia, and on the second page he’s feeling himself up and makes a note about how weird dicks are, like they’re just hanging there, damn that’s crazy. Maybe the rest of the book is fine, but I don’t have a lot of patience for books by men that keep shoehorning wieners into the narrative. This is why I never finished Shaman by Kim Stanley Robinson, despite my lifelong interest in prehistoric fiction. If the amount of dick mentions in the first fifty pages outweigh my interest in the story (and don’t seem to have any actual relevance), I’m out.

(honorable mention) The Animal Wife by Elizabeth Marshall Thomas. I’ve already read this as an ebook, hence why I didn’t buy it today. But this is a classic of prehistoric fiction that’s a pleasure to read and respects the reader’s intelligence. Like, don’t skip this book if it sounds at all interesting to you.

[styleofdiamandis]

PHOTOSHOOT: MARINA FOR THE UNTITLED MAGAZINE

Marina Diamandis graced the cover of The Untitled Magazine's "#GirlPower" issue. This post marks the first of many "Froot" era editorials!

She was photographed and styled by Indira Cesarine, glammed-up by Roberto Morelli and coiffed by Anthony Joseph Hernandez.

The cover look displays the Greek-Welsh chanteuse in a midnight-blue satin dress with chiffon insert and eyelet details which belongs to Roberto Cavalli's Resort 2015 collection. Above you can see similar pieces with the same eyelet decorations!

For the second look, Marina opted to go all elegant in a black jumpsuit with scalloped detailing and semi-sheer chiffon from Charlotte Ronson's Fall/Winter 2014 lookbook.

Love the mix of different seasons used for this shoot!

She finished the look off with a bold black resin & gold metal cuff from Pluma Italia's "Colori" collection.

Of course we can't leave out a Greek designer when it comes to Marina! Inspired by old Hollywood glamour, she wore this Costarellos Fall/Winter 2014 white mermaid gown with strategically placed golden zippers.

A true show-stopper of a creation would be this black & cream silk cocktail dress with side peek-a-boo details and long mesh train from Bibhu Mohapatra's Spring/Summer 2015 runway show.

This look was completed with Erickson Beamon crystal jewelry and these Via Spiga metallic silver court heels.

This stunning look showcases M sporting a ZAC Zac Posen Resort 2015 turquoise stretch jersey mermaid gown with seductive V-neckline and figure-enhancing seams.

She also wears a pair of Via Spiga pumps and a Pluma Italia Gladiator gold cuff (similar pictured).

In the penultimate shot Marina flirts with the camera while wearing one of the finale numbers from Christian Siriano's Spring/Summer 2015 collection – long gown with plunging V-neckline and short sleeves rendered in dark blue glossy silk lamé.

On her hand we can spot a double open ring by New York City-based jewelry label Stanmore (similar pictured).

Last but definitely not least, Marina looks ethereal in a Georgine Spring/Summer 2015 "Cherchez La Femme" collection metallic gold liquid leather trench coat with matching belted wide-leg trousers and white scoop neck bodysuit.

As in jewelry, she wore a statement necklace in gold by Elizabeth Cole, the aforementioned Stanmore ring and another gold ring by Kenneth Jay Lane.

Read the full interview here!

[qnewsau]

Shock and sadness at assault death of Andrew 'Chewie' Truman

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/shock-and-sadness-at-assault-death-of-andrew-chewie-truman/

Shock and sadness at assault death of Andrew 'Chewie' Truman

Friends and family of Melbourne man Andrew ‘Chewie’ Truman remember the 44-year-old gay man following his death after an attack last week.

“Vibrant, independent and courageous”

These are just some of the words that family and friends have used to describe Andrew Truman following his death.

“He was a marvellous and fierce supporter of the LGBTQIAP+ community and a proud gay man,” his family said via social media.

“He didn’t hesitate to take the lead on the dance floor or in singing karaoke.”

“May we all have at least an ounce of his flavour.”

Truman died in hospital on the weekend following an assault last Wednesday.

His father Geoff Truman said his son had suffered an “unsurvivable brain injury”.

He was hit over the head while walking on Elizabeth Street from Flinders Street in the Melbourne CBD.

Truman sustained significant head injuries in the attack and died tragically from his injuries.

In their statement, Mr Truman’s family thanked anyone who had stopped where he was treated to help.

This included the police, paramedics and medical staff at the Royal Melbourne Hospital.

The police have provided a photo and name of his alleged attacker Todd Menegaldo.

Supplied

Police search for man of interest

On Saturday night, a Victoria Police spokesperson said officers were searching for a man named Todd Menegaldo.

Known by the nickname “Rooster”, Menegaldo has a black and white crossbreed Staffordshire terrier.

Homicide Squad detectives have conducted a significant search since the attack.

They have so far been unable to locate Mr Menegaldo.

He is described as being approximately 180-185cm tall and of thin build.

He was last seen wearing a zip-up purple jumper, dark jeans and a yellow beanie.

He is known to frequent the CBD area around Elizabeth Street and Flinders Street railway station.

He is also known to frequent Mildura and Bendigo.

Police are urging anyone who sees him not to approach him but to contact triple-0.

“unafraid to be himself in any context”

Truman was a passionate Western Bulldogs supporter and played AFL for the Wyndham All Abilities Football and Cricket Club.

A football-loving man who was “unafraid to be himself in any context”.

“His love for football was huge, when not playing he was always at Werribee VFL games or at Western Bulldogs games,” club president Paul Barrett said in a statement.

Known as “Chewie” at the club, he was a five-time premiership player and life member.

“He never let his disability get in the road of what he wanted to do.”

His former club, Williamstown Seagulls FIDA FC, paid tribute online.

“His enthusiasm for football, and especially the Western Bulldogs, was infectious,” the club said.

“He was always ready for a friendly chat.”

Williamstown Seagulls FIDA FC extended their deepest sympathy via social media to Chewie’s family and friends.

“Chewie was an original FIDA player with the Maribyrnong Bulldogs, and then the Wyndham Tigers, where he was a life member.

“His enthusiasm for football, and especially the Western Bulldogs, was infectious, and he was always ready for a friendly chat.”

“Go Long With The Wind.”

Anyone with further information can also contact Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000 or submit a confidential report online at www.crimestoppersvic.com.au.

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

[ontariocoldcasesthepodcast]

Where is Doris Fennell and Was She Murdered?

Ontario Cold Cases - The Podcast: Missing Person: Doris Fennell

Doris Fennell was last observed at the home of an acquaintance in Kitley-Elizabeth Township, near Addison, Ontario on February 1, 1978. Foul Play is strongly suspected in her disappearance.

Doris was 62 years old at the time of her disappearance. She had grey, short, permed hair and blue eyes Doris wore glass and had false teeth. She was 5’3” and weighed 110 pounds with a slender to thin build and a fair complexion.

If you have any information on this case, please contact any of the following:

Leeds County OPP at 1-877-934-6363

or

Crime Stoppers at 1-800-222-TIPS

Thank you, and please consider subscribing to Ontario Cold Cases – The Podcast on Patreon, Spotify, YouTube , Apple Podcasts, iHeartRadio or Amazon Music.

Patreon - https://patreon.com/user?u=22757519&utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=join_link

PayPal - https://www.paypal.me/OntarioColdCases?locale.x=en_CA

Fundraiser by John Nicoll : Ontario Cold Cases - The Podcast https://gofund.me/2de79e36

Buy Me A Coffee - https://www.buymeacoffee.com/jaynicollz

Nicoll Investigations - info@nicollinvestigations.ca

Ontario Cold Cases - The Podcast https://www.facebook.com/ontariocoldcases?mibextid=LQQJ4d

Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/show/6tlSP3Zkkql2wRzQP486Fy?si=fe51f3f2563946eb

YouTube - https://youtube.com/@OntarioColdCases?si=kzL7lN_x8U1oTDq7

Apple Podcasts - https://podcasts.apple.com/ca/podcast/ontario-cold-cases-the-podcast/id1714174047

iHeartRadio - https://iheart.com/podcast/175680950/

Amazon Music - https://music.amazon.ca/podcasts/febdda5b-c7d4-4812-8dbd-33dd9f6d7dfe/ontario-cold-cases---the-podcast

@PlayMorePods

Rumble - https://rumble.com/c/c-5672049

Ontario Cold Cases - Wordpress https://nicollinvestigations.wordpress.com/

Blogger https://ontariocoldcases.blogspot.com/

#OntarioColdCases, #NicollInvestigations , #CanadianTrueCrime , #ColdCasePodcast ,  #OntarioCrimes , #OntarioMysteries , #PodcastDetective , #PodcastMystery ,  #SerialKiller , #TrueCrimePodcast , #UnsolvedMysteries ,#Ontario, #TrueCrimeOntario, #TrueCrimeCanada, #CanadianMysteries, #Canada, #ColdCase, #Missing, #Murdered, #Homicide, #TrueCrime, #PodcastsOnAmazonMusic, #Addison, #DorisFennell

[unit3-fmp]

Cannon Hall

Artefacts

Dining Table in the Cumberland Style, 1790s-1800s

Side Table, Pedestals and Urns attributed to Thomas Chippendale, 1770s

Printed Plate with view of Cannon Hall by Rileys, early 19th century

Engraved Wine Glass, 1770s

Mahogany Wine Cooler, 1770s

Giltwood Mirror in Hepplewhite Style, 1780s-1790s

Centrepiece, 'L'Education de L'Amour' by Sevres, 1763

Claret Jug and Stopper, 1820s

Dead Birds by Franz Werner von Tamm, 1705-1715

William Wentworth, 2nd Earl of Strafford in Peer's Robes by Thomas Bardwell, 1750s

Portrait of Ben Johnson by British School, 17th-18th century

Portrait of a Lady in the style of Peter Lely, early 18th century

Henry Howard, 6th Duke of Norfolk by John Michael Wright, 1660s

Fruit and Insects after Abraham Mignon, mid-late 17th century

Lady Byron by William Hogarth, с. 1736

Portrait of Napoleon in Coronation Robes by François Pascal Simon, Baron Gérard, early 19th century

Mary Winifred Spencer Stanhope with her son, Walter by John Hoppner, 1787

Walter Spencer Stanhope by John Hoppner, 1790

Fruit and Lobster by Jacob Marrel, 1649

Copy of Gainsborough's 'The Blue Boy' by Henry Bone, 1780-1834

Sketch of One of the Artist's Daughters after Rubens, 18th century

John Spencer by Benjamin Wilson, mid 18th century

Family Portrait, previously thought to be Philip Stanhope, 3rd Earl of Chesterfield and Family with Servant by British School, c. 1720

Cocuswood Cabinet, 1670s

Armchairs in Hepplewhite style, 1790s

Pair of Giltwood Mirrors, 1770s

Cheveret (Writing Table) attributed to Thomas Sheraton, 1790s

Child's Chair, 1714

Pair of Candelabra in Neo-Classical style, 1780s-90s

Jane Dutton, Jane Elizabeth Coke and Anne Margaret Coke by Daniel Gardner, 1781

[wrongpublishing]

BOOK REVIEW: Jolie Toomajan & Carson Winter's Posthaste Manor

by Elizabeth Broadbent, Staff Writer.

Carson Winter (Soft Targets, also from Tenebrous) and Jolie Toomajan (recent editor of my favorite anthology this year, Aseptic and Faintly Sadistic, Cosmic Horror Monthly) bring their A game to Posthaste Manor (Tenebrous Press), a collection of one novella and several short stories—that are a continuation of the novella? Certainly an integral part; calling them “short stories” seems a misnomer.

While I loved both authors’ previous works, I’m sort of obsessed with Posthaste, and it’s cemented its spot in my top five new releases of 2023. Winter and Toomajan wrote the book together, the perfect combination for this dual-timeline novella. One wild ride of weird, it’s a haunted house story perhaps best compared to House of Leaves—but while House of Leaves emphasizes theme, this book’s prose is the show-stopper. It’s rare to find a book with such different voices that both serve up such precise, lyrical language. For that alone, it’s worth the cover price (and more).

Winter’s spare, brutal words have the space to shine, and Toomajan’s lyricism take center stage. I resisted sending both authors quotes with “WOW!!!!” next to them—no joke.  

Another House of Leaves comparison: if you want a light, brainless read, steer clear. This book demands attention for its literary merit in this most wonderful way. With its shifting, blurring timelines, it doesn’t quit. Pay attention, or it’ll snow plow you—and that’s the furthest from a bad thing. 

While it’s voice- and prose-driven, its rich, multifaceted characters also gleamed. For the record: Winter writes Otho and Toomajan Adira; both styles are distinctively, delightfully theirs—if “delightfully” is a word you can apply to Posthaste (Generally, I’d give that a hard no.) This book is strange, creepy, and weird as all hell.

You want a maze-like liminal space? They deliver. I’d love to see a StokerCon panel discussing it, especially one hosted by author and moderator extraordinaire Andrew Sullivan (did you miss his panels at the Dracula Concert 2023, dubbed so by the Swifties also invading our hotel? Too bad for you, and make sure to catch him next time.) 

This book cements both authors as two of the top voices in the genre. I’d rank it with The Marigold and Tell Me I’m Worthless. Posthaste Manor, somewhere in the sticks of Pennsylvania, will stay with you. It writes in both the grand tradition of horror’s haunted houses, from Hill House to the Navidson residence, and conversation with them. You can’t do better than that. 

Buckle up, buttercup: you’re in for a new weird take on the gothic. 

On Twitter: @ JolieToomajan, @ CarsonWinter3, @ TenebrousPress

On Instagram: @ JolieToomajan, @ WinterCarson, @ tenebrouspress

[thewholekeg]

I'm very much in the planning stages of a large project at the moment. While I initially designed Elizabeth with a certain amount of detail, I'm looking to find ways to simplify her design enough to draw rapidly and without killing my wrist. And since the Cat-Beller setting was very much inspired by Secret of NIMH, among others, I figured I would take a crack at Don Bluth's style.

... With varying degrees of success, of course. But if nothing else, leaning towards a more realistically 'mousey' body plan does help with selling the smaller scale the characters exist at.

[thechasefiles]

Police have identified the man shot and killed at Silver Sands, Christ Church this morning.

He is Jamal Clarke, 30, of Bournes Land, Sayers Court, Silver Sands, Christ Church.

A police statement said officers at the Oistins Police Station received a report around 8:20 a.m. from a male who said that his brother was shot about his body, whilst along the roadway at Silver Sands.

Clarke was transported to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in a private motor vehicle but was subsequently pronounced dead on arrival.

The Barbados Police Service is appealing to anyone who can provide any information about the incident to contact Police emergency at 211, Crime Stoppers at 1-800-TIPS (8477), the Oistins Police Station at 418-2612 or any Police Station.

Source: BARBADOS Today

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Balm for the Living by Angie Minkin

ADVANCE ORDER: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/balm-for-the-living-by-angie-minkin/

Balm for the Living offers poems of #hope and celebrates our very human urge to connect with each other. These poems lift us with kestrels and cedar waxwings, anchor us solidly to the earth, show us how to ebb and flow with life’s tides, and help us to consider profound loss. Reading these poems, we contemplate stars, tango in Havana, and celebrate #life in all its beauty and mystery.

Angie Minkin is a San Francisco-based poet who stands on her head for inspiration. Angie volunteers as a poetry editor of Vistas & Byways Literary Review. Her work has been published in that journal, as well as The MacGuffin, Rattle, The Poeming Pigeon, The Unbroken Journal, Persimmon Tree, Rise Up Review, and several others. Angie is a coauthor of Dreams and Blessings: Six Visionary Poets, published in 2020 by Blue Light Press. Her work has been included in Fog and Light, San Francisco through the Eyes of the Poets Who Live Here and Pandemic Puzzle Poems, also published by Blue Light Press. She has won awards in the Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition in the Prose Poem and Sonnet Categories, and in the Ina Coolbrith Circle Annual Contest. Angie is inspired by the political landscape and the voice of the wise woman. Some of her favorite authors include Elizabeth Alexander, Ellen Bass, and Jane Hirschfield. In addition to writing, Angie practices yoga, takes dance classes, and travels to Oaxaca, Mexico as often as possible.

PRAISE FOR Balm for the Living by Angie Minkin

Balm for the Living offers poems like stoppered jars that hold the essence of our humanness—generational memory, our urge to connect to one another and the natural world, the exultation of our creative play, our staunchness in facing war, pandemic, and even, especially, ordinary loss. The dying, too, are allowed their humanity in these poems, which pay unusual, careful attention to last words, last breath, and the “slide between worlds.” Throughout the collection, Angie Minkin’s verve and wit are evident in the variety of lyrical forms—abecedarian, cento, erasure, prose poem, sonnet, villanelle, and free-line—that she capably employs. Though these poems are permeated with lemon, eucalyptus, salt marsh, and cedar, San Francisco is less a setting than a confluence of energies—wind, waves, and, penetrating everything, the starlight at which we gaze to trace “the arc” of our mysterious lives.

–Erin Redfern, author of Spellbreaking and Other Life Skills

In this glorious collection, birds are cherished everywhere. The opening poem meditates on the healing magic of homemade chicken soup, and the closing poem sings the praises of cedar waxwings who “arrive/ to show us how to feast fully.” In between, in both formal and free verse

Angie Minkin celebrates sparrows, hawks, “an unseen thrush,” blue herons, finches, a kestrel that “lands in the hawthorn tree,” pelicans, snowy plovers. Among these marvelous birds, we also hear children dancing and “hollering wishes to heaven,” as well as old women “humming private melodies” and retracing steps “in this origami life.” Angie Minkin’s poems brim with wonder, vitality, and reverence. They lift us off the ground. They give us wings.

–Kathleen McClung, author of A Juror Must Fold in on Herself and Temporary Kin

Angie Minkin’s Balm for the Living is a joy to read – superb crafting of language, nicely sensual, woven with memories and tenderness. In these poems, you can conjure spells in a dented soup pot, follow the reverberations of a meditation bell, and tango in Havana. You can get drunk on wild cherries with the cedar waxwings, hear “whistles of an unseen thrush rise / on a collective sigh of cedars.” I love the wisdom and compassion in these poems, and everything speaks emotionally. Poems like these are elixirs of beauty in our deeply troubled world.

–Diane Frank, Chief Editor, Blue Light Press Author of While Listening to the Enigma Variations: New and Selected Poems

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry #hope #life

[strings2book]

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 : •• TITLE : Mask of Lies •• AUTHOR : Aleksandr jerid •• PUBLISHER : •• FORMAT : Ebook •• LANGUAGE : English 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : The book is a compilation of 5 short stories which are based on the theme to show / to pretend to be okay when we are in the deepest pain. .. So let's talk about the storylines. ~ENDLESS : It's the story of a father who is down in his memory lane remembering his conversations with his daughter. ~ ELIZABETH : It's the show stopper for me as the story is about the lady protagonist Elizabeth who don't have a place to live & she is working as a prostitute to earn. But with such kind of difficulties she always tries to help other poor women & children. ~ MASK : This story is about a man who is up to a place which makes him emotional & many things many feelings are connected to him with that place. ~ DANCE WITH ME : This story is the best one in the whole book in terms of emotions. Here the emotions are high so high that you just can't resist your tears to flow. It's the story of Amelia & her life. ~ THE WATCHER : It adds a thrilling crunch to the book. . To know more about the book grab it & give it a try. 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 : ✓ Cover of the book is okay as such a dark theme isn't required to such plotlines what I felt. ✓ The writing style of the book is quite good. The author nicely built up the story & there are a number of events that took place which keeps you hooked up. ✓ Language used in the book is simple & easily connected. ✓ Characterization of the book is not so good. I felt like the author somehow focused on the main protagonist most & sidelined other vital roles. ✓ The way the author executed this story is good but I feel like the bridge of emotional connection is somehow missing which is quite surprising for me. ✓ The plotline is nothing new. I already read many similar stories so uniqueness that reading kick is somehow missing. ✓ All these are supposed to be short stories but actually they are quite lengthy I personally felt. ✓ The book is quite fast paced but there are many frame drops which makes it less interactive. 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑: 🌟🌟🌟 (at Bhubaneswar, India) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoU8n_sJe6U/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[gildedlife]

for all of his wordiness on paper, james is without them in person. he’s dismayed by it, completely stoppered before francis, his breath leaving him in a shaky little huff after a shudder has rolled through his body like a wave. following a few seconds of staring at him like he may cry, like francis himself is the home port, james shakes back, strong and anchoring.

then he smiles, and before he knows it the smile has taken him over, the warmth of it spreading outward from the source like melted butter. sighting the space between francis’ teeth nearly sends him past a tipping point, into the abyss of who-knows-what: weeping? holding him until they die as such, limbs locked and faces happy?

‘ francis, ’ he says at last, his voice registering lower than he’d expected. he starts another word—some manner of proper greeting, surely—and loses it before anything but air escapes him, his brows fleetingly furrowed and his lips undecided between open and shut. he hasn’t forgotten, he comforts himself. it simply doesn’t matter.

‘ my... my brother. ’ he can hear himself speaking, yet from an odd distance, as though he’s stood behind the person pulling his strings. he makes a half-turn and gestures toward the family of which he already considers francis a part. ‘ william. and— ’

james trails off, overwhelmed again, and william steps in to introduce himself, his wife, and their son. he’s every bit as bright as james needs him to be, though not overbearing, knowing from his stories that francis hadn’t got on with him when he was falsely buoyant. as mild as william is, he doesn't need telling on this subject. it's only helpful to frame his retellings as lessons so that he needn't pretend to want to talk of anything else.

‘ yes, perhaps never quite as well as it does presently, ’ james says half to himself, earning a gentle nudge from william. for james’ sake, he makes believe it's a personal slight—that brighton is a bore with only his brother to keep him company in it—when they both know that james means he has felt incomplete without francis by his side.

with elizabeth and the younger william departed toward the back of the house, only francis, james, and his brother remain in the foyer. william then insists on taking francis’ belongings up to the bedroom, which leaves them temporarily alone.

‘ was it a terrible journey? ’ his voice is thick with something unexpressed. he's so relieved to have him near he looks as though he may faint. ‘ christ, francis, you do look well. ’

Francis slipped his hand into his breast pocket and slid out the folded sheet of paper he had stored there. Settling back into his seat he reread the letter again, his body rocking slightly with the rhythmic movement of the train carriage. He was finally on his way to Brighton, his luggage safely stored above his head. Not that he had much of it to carry. He had returned to England at least a few stone or more lighter and the clothes he had left behind him were now much too big.

Ross had kindly had Francis’s belongings sent to his estate in Aston Abbotts and the captain was grateful as he had no other clothes beside those on his back and one other officer’s suit he had dragged home from the arctic. It felt odd to be wearing civilian clothing again; now several years out of fashion. The redhead had never cared much for clothes; honestly, he preferred his naval uniform.

He didn’t have to think about what he had to wear aboard ship and it gave him a sense of comfort to wear something that distinguished him by his rank. He knew what his role was aboard ship. He knew where he stood. No matter how bad things had gotten; through his alcoholism, his illnesses after abstinence, the trek over the ice and endless gravel, the mutiny, the starvation. Through all of it he still had his duty, his rank, his responsibility to his men. He had failed in so many ways during that final expedition; he had failed so many of the men, like he had already failed in many areas of his life, but he had tried to save them all, by God had he tried.

Now the captain had no longer a clear idea of what his duty was; he felt like a fish out of water and not just because he was on dry land. It always seemed like everyone else had clear instructions of their part to play in life and he was the only one without them. That was a big component of the appeal of the navy that drew him to it in the first place. Thinking it over presently, the locomotive speeding along as he did so, Francis realised that the only responsibility (apart from assuring that his crew receive their correct wages and that all of them would not go destitute) was James.

Francis had made a silent vow to himself on their return voyage that he would look after the younger captain and make sure he was taken care of if nothing else. It was the least he could do. As much as he had saved James from his physical illnesses (long enough to get rescued if not to prevent permanent damage), Francis was saved by him in return. He was certain that he wouldn’t have made it out alive without the other man’s tireless friendship and comradery. The redhead’s personality made him always walk on the precipice of a dark abyss, while James always managed to lighten the mood no matter Francis’s dark humours.

Your bodily presence may tame this need yet. Francis ignored the stirring in his stomach and refolded the letter, replacing it back into his coat pocket.

Several hours later he had arrived in Brighton before nightfall. After several attempts, he was able to take a hansom cab that would bring him to his final destination. Pulling up to the house, Francis stepped out, pulling up his coat against the cold wind at his neck. He took his suitcase down and paid the driver. Taking a deep breath as he faced the house, he began to walk up the few steps towards the front door. He didn’t know why he had a knot in his stomach; was he nervous? He had been excited earlier. He tapped his palm against his breast; there was something comforting about having his friend’s words pressed against his heart. With that he used the elaborate knocker to tap against the hard wood of the door.

Upon entering he was greeted by several people; chief among them James himself. Francis was slightly taken aback by how well the brunet looked. It has been little more than a week and the officer looked far fresher and healthier than he did when they had parted in Greenhithe. His hair was well groomed, there was colour in his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled as they observed the new arrival. Francis’s luggage was taken from him before he can even say a word and he stepped forward to greet his friend.

“James!” He reached out to shake the other’s hand, warmly. “You look very well!” He can’t help the toothy grin that plastered his face; the gap in his front teeth visible. It healed his heart to see his friend looking so well. “Brighton suits you!”

[rosie-tae]

literally nick had the exact same bisexual revelation as me

elizabeth or will in pirates of the caribbean?

why not both