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fascination-street-writing · 4 years ago

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Be With Me Tonight | Guido Mista x F!Reader

Regret is a sickening temptation - and you have ruined everything.

Content Warnings: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content (Oral & Implied), Implied Past Attempted Sexual Assault, Potentially Dubious Consent, & Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics (Past & Present)

You said you would do your own makeup. And yet, here you sit on a thrifted barstool – never mind the tweed upholstery that digs into the underside of your skirt-clad thighs, when you paid less for the stool than you would a loaf of bread – and flinch as your sister nearly prods your iris with the mascara wand clutched in her tremoring hand. She smells of hair spray and counterfeit perfume. You look to the mirror that hangs above the vanity.

“You really should change before we go,” she tells you while returning the wand to its tube. Fingers toil through your hair: she scrutinizes your appearance as though you are a porcelain doll and she your maker. You suppose that, in a way, she is. “You won’t catch anyone’s attention dressed like that.”

The reflection of your cherry-red lips mimics the frown upon your face. “Maybe I don’t want to ‘catch anyone’s attention,’” you retort. “I’m not even ready to start dating again.”

She groans. “You’re not still caught up on that perdente, are you?”

You do not have to bite back a quip because you do not have one. Instead, you bite your stained lips and look away. Though the relationship with your most recent ex had ended on mutual terms, the separation stings nonetheless.

“You know, you’ve always had bad taste in men,” your sister continues. Varnish to a wall, she rubs powder across your cheekbones. “First there was that pervertito when you were fifteen, and now a convicted murderer.”

“Can you stop?” you demand, clenching your fist. “He’s not a murderer. It was self-defense.”

“Regardless of what you think, he still killed three men. I can’t believe the landlord hasn’t changed our locks yet. I asked him almost a year ago now, ever since he was released from prison,” your sister insists, ignoring your plea. “You should’ve asked for his key back.”

“He has a name, you know.” Guido Mista – a name that once tasted like honey on your tongue, now bitter as cigarette smoke.

And your sister refuses to speak it, for she hates the taste of cigarettes. A hum dies on her lips. Her smirk bequeaths to you an urgency to cower in shame; however, the distressed look in her eyes tells you how much she fears for your welfare.

As if she has anything to genuinely be afraid of.

Guido Mista has, for most of your life, been something of an extended acquaintance to you. His is a recognizable presence in crowded hallways; after all, who else amongst the student body could muster the same courage to break the dress-code by donning a purple beanie cap atop their head? You will admit to him that you look forward to the days when a teacher confiscates his cap because it means that you get to admire his rich chocolate curls all day long from your seat at the back of the classroom. He will chuckle in response and press a sloppy kiss to your cheek while running his calloused fingers over the sides of your belly, drinking in the laughter that bubbles through you, as if you are the fountain of ever-lasting love itself.

But it was not always this way. Before Mista came a boy whose name you will etch from memory in time – remembered as a boyfriend, but never as a partner.

At your locker, he leans over you, waiting for you to stack your textbooks away. You are fifteen, and he asks you to join him behind the bleachers of the gymnasium. No more than a pet tethered by a chain, you follow him blindly to where his companions wait. You know their pubescent faces but you seldom speak to them. Their names do not matter anymore, either.

In a school dress, pitted against three boys who surpass you in height – you never stood a chance.

The squealing of the gymnasium doors and the slamming of the lock is not enough to stop them. It did little more than encourage your perpetrators to wedge you between their clothed bodies as they fist your hair and tug at the skirt that your father has only just purchased for you after you spilled grape juice over the previous one. You spot the purple beanie over your boyfriend’s blazer-clad shoulder and cry out to him – to Guido Mista.

His cap has fallen from his head, and they beat him until he gasps for air and spews bile from his throat. But he never begs them to stop because it keeps them from attacking you again. He can hardly put up a fight when every attempt to stand is quelled by the diving of a loafer-clad foot into the pit of his stomach Your boyfriend grabs him by those beautiful curls and ushers his face against the waxed floors. The glint of a pocketknife catches your eye.

The school-bell blares. The boy who had held you back throws you to the ground. The pocketknife clamors with you, just beyond the grasp of the tips of your fingers. Your ex-boyfriend (for you no longer consider him as anything more) and his boyish companions dust off their blazers, straighten their ties, and hurry off for their next round of classes. They leave you with your unsettled clothes and a boy with a broken nose.

Clutching the rungs of the bleachers, Mista pulls his body upwards: a buoy in the sea, and you the only vessel on the horizon. You press his discarded beanie – which you cannot help but to notice smells comfortingly so of cedarwood – to his nose. Red blossoms seep into the delicate threads. “Are you okay?” he asks you with a cough and a grimace for, as you will come to discover, he has cracked a rib.

“Yes.” Compared to his injuries, you cleared the scuffle relatively unscathed. Mista had stepped in before anything beyond the tearing of your uniform could happen. And yet, his concern is of you and not for his own well-being. “Thank you.”

He flashes you a lopsided grin. You are glad to see that, though laced with the blood that seeps into his mouth, he has not lost any teeth. His repose is infectious, and his ease illuminates your own composure. You help him to stand and together you walk to the nurse’s office, his arm slung over your shoulders and yours around his waist. Your attackers are expelled; their testimony of falsified innocence could not hold a candle to security footage, or a pocketknife engraved with damning initials. Despite everything, you make a new friend. The two of you will become lovers at sixteen – utterly inseparable.

Until the very end.

You prefer sweeter cocktails, but you accept the gin and tonic from your sister and lift it to your lips anyways. The relief of the ice pooling in the cavities of your mouth is a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the nightclub. Too many bodies, too much sweat – too many different smells, and suddenly your mind whirls. You place the emptied glass atop a table and only then do you realize that you never juiced the translucent lime wedge curled around the rim.

The circle of women whom you find yourself dancing with are strangers; you sway as though you have all known each other for a lifetime. You do not understand the words of the American pop song that resonates from the wall speakers, but it does not matter; after all, even an illiterate man can read rhythm. Across the dancefloor, your sister drags two men with her towards the restroom.

A pelvis presses against your backend – or perhaps, it is your backend that leans into the nook of the clubber swaying behind you. A pair of hands falls to your hips, though you take the lead in rocking side-to-side to Laura Branigan’s cadence. Over the sound of music, the woman to your left suggests that you all swap cellphone numbers. The woman to your right agrees with a drunken nod of her head and, giddy with excitement, clasps your hand. The woman directly across from you offers to order a round of shots to commemorate this newfound comradery. Instead of a tray filled with cinnamon whiskey, she returns with an olive-toned man clad in orange leopard print pants and a blue cross-patterned sweater that exposes his midriff.

“Hey, ladies,” the woman calls out to your circle. The lights ripple across her flushed skin like water. “This is Mista.”

You freeze, your hips suspended mid-beat. Your dance partner pouts and pulls away. Mista does not look to you, and you are grateful . . . Until his coffee-colored eyes do fall to your face after a hiccup jostles your chest. His brows furrow, gaze darting between you and the man behind you. Before his steadily parting lips can utter your name against the clapping of the bass, you are gone because you are not ready.

The winter breeze makes you shiver. The nightly chill is preferable to the sweltering sanctuary behind you, where only moments ago you bobbed along to pop songs and impulsively contemplated friendship with intoxicated patrons who will not remember you in the morning.

The green dial of your cellphone flashes and reflects upon scattered puddles. You text your sister and tell her that you are going home – don’t wait up. Your affinity for clubbing has gone sour.

“I thought that was you.”

Your heart races quickly, so much that it might burst from the nook between your breasts and land on the ground before his white boots. “Yeah, it’s me,” you say. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too. So, what’ve you been up to?”

“Just stuff. And things.”

Mista laughs. “Stuff and things?”

“Y’know, work,” you tell him with a nod. “More work.”

“Me too.” You fidget with your purse. “I saw your sister – or, the back of her head, actually. How’s she doin’?”

“She’s good.”

“Good.”

A man stumbles through the door. He reeks of cheap bourbon and rye. You and Mista step aside and watch the man as he struggles to walk away from the club. The scene has created a lull to your painfully cumbrous conversation; you reap the opportunity, for it becomes your self-proclaimed cue to leave. You open your mouth to bid Mista adieu. The taste of your own lipstick leaves you sputtering.

“Hey, so uh, are you busy?” he suddenly asks, cutting you off. You have always believed that he could read minds. In this moment, it is as if he knows your intent – as if shuffling in your heels and tightening the grasp on your purse were not telltale signs of your discomfort.

“Not really,” you insist. “I was about to head home.”

“Cool, cool. I was just wondering because you left something behind at my apartment. I’ve been meaning to give it back, but I didn’t think it’d be right to just show up at your doorstep or something.”

“It hasn’t stopped you before,” you chide.

“I know, I know. I just figured it’d make sense to stop at my place, since it’s on the way.”

It gnaws at you – the voice in your head that tells you to leave him be, here and now. It will not do you any good, stepping back into walls once sacred to you. He stares at you, wide-eyed, and gages your reaction. Dark curls poke out from beneath the rim of his cap. You wonder if he still uses that cedarwood shampoo.

It would not do you any good to go with him. The prospect of sipping a glass of wine whilst soaking in a warm bath beckons you home. There is little trouble that you can muster with an idle night, for the night is still young and you have not given up. Though the moon has reached its peak, you cannot surrender. You have made your choice.

“Sure.”

But you never intended to make the right one.

You were sure to slip on a set of shoes before stepping outside. Through the hallway, down the elevator, across the lobby, and onto the street you wander with little more than the glow of streetlamps and passing headlights to guide your way through the dark. You find him in the alley between your apartment building and the next. The stink of a prison cell has imprinted itself onto his skin.

He slips a single nickel-plated key into your hand. “Your sister probably wouldn’t appreciate me having this,” he says.

“You can keep it. I’ll tell her you forgot it.” When he does not accept the return, you reach out and tuck the key into the pocket of his cargo pants. “Just so you have something to remember me by.”

The look in his eyes – the sheen of gloss that coats his irises – churns your stomach. In that moment, Mista reminds you of a dog scorned by his owner. In a way, that is exactly what he is. “You still have that sweater I sent you, right?”

Mustard-yellow, and one of your favorites. And one of Mista’s, too. You had sent it to him during his second week in holding. “Yeah.”

“Keep that, too.” A revolver rests in inside the waistband of his pants. It is a new addition to his appearance. It does not unsettle you, because you know that this man who killed three mobsters without hesitation would never hurt you. “Mista, I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” he sighs, kicking at a discarded soda can that had drifted from a nearby trashcan. “But it’s for the best.”

“It is.” The soda can rolls your way. You stop it with the sole of your foot; it crinkles beneath your weight. “Maybe one day, after you’re tired of working for that Bucciarati, we can pick up where we left off.”

“I’d like that.”

You smile. “Me too . . . Well, I should get going before my sister realizes I’m gone.” In your final moments together – before a pair of lovers once again becomes two separate beings – you embrace. Face buried into the crook of his neck, you speak: “You’re a good person, Mista. No matter what happened between you and those men or whatever does happen, you will always be good.”

He clutches you tighter.

“Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let this job get to you. And please, stai al sicuro, amore: stay safe.”

Back in your bedroom, you shed your clothes and don a mismatched set pajamas. Ever the optimist, you retire for the night with a heart not yet ready to be broken.

And an inescapable evocation of loneliness.

You are shocked to see the stack of hastily packed cardboard boxes. The words fragile or giunca are crudely scribbled with black marker across each one. All that remains is a worn couch with springs that poke into your skin and a square television, which sits on a box labeled libri e altra spazzatura – books and other trash.

The uniform pinholes in the barren walls are a reminder that imitators of your face, frozen in time, used to adorn the room.

“You’re moving?” you ask Mista as he tosses his hat aside and runs a hand through his hair.

He stops and looks to the boxes. “Yeah, actually,” he confirms. “The rent’s too damn high to afford on my own. I’m moving in with some coworkers.”

“You mean other gang members?” You do not miss the way he bites his lip in response. You regret your words as soon as they leave you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“N-no, it’s okay – you’re right anyways.” He trails off. “So that guy you were with. He your boyfriend or something?”

You struggle to recall your dance partner. “Oh, no,” you insist, caught between a scoff and a laugh. “I don’t even know his name.”

Something flashes behind his eyes. He hides the smile that creeps on his face behind the back of his hand, though he does not speak. Not another word is spoken.

It does not sit well with you, the silence that manifests in the still of the room. You are a trespasser – but so is he, for this realm no longer belongs to him, either. “Um, where’s this thing I left behind?” you finally ask; your voice echoes through the emptied space. It makes you shiver.

Mista disappears past the threshold of the bedroom that you once shared – you wonder if he still uses the cream-colored sheets you bought for him as opposed to his preferred navy blue – and returns with a shirt: it is your mustard-yellow sweater. It is wrinkled and smells just like him and something new (gunpowder, perhaps). The dried drool marks tell you that he sleeps with it bundled in his arms. “Here,” he says, holding it out to you.

You do not move to take it. “I gave it to you,” you remind him. A crushed soda can is under your foot and again, you are back in the alley saying farewell to your love. “I want you to keep it.”

But there is no alleyway – only a vacant apartment suite. He does not wish to return it; in a hasty, split-second decision back at the nightclub, he wagered his ownership over what has become his most cherished possession. Just for the chance that you might say yes.

Just for the chance to spend one last night with you.

He rolls his wrist, extending his arm further. “No. It’s for the best.”

And so, you pluck it from his grasp and tuck it inside of your purse – the final harvest from the tree, to be seeded and planted elsewhere. “I’d better get going,” you tell him. “I wish you all the best. It was good seeing you again. Really good . . .”

The doorknob hovers under your palm. “Wait,” Mista suddenly calls. You stop. He rubs the back of his neck. “Would you like to stay for a bit?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s late.” Your tongue betrays your heart. It is treason within your very soul. “Besides, it’s probably for the best if I go.”

Your reverberation of his words makes him wince. More than anything, you want to drop your purse and climb into his arms – to feel his warmth again. You need to leave. Yet, you step away from the door and take a seat upon the flattened cushions of the couch. You still remember where to sit to avoid the broken springs. “Unless, I mean . . . I guess if you really wouldn’t mind.”

Mista perks up. You mirror his grin. He takes the spot beside you, careful to leave a considerable amount of distance between your bodies. He reaches for the remote. The reception has not improved – it remains fuzzy, pixelated, and colorless.

“I’d offer a boardgame, but . . .” He gestures to the boxes; you get the hint. The channels flash by. “Any preferences?”

“I’m fine with a cooking show,” you tell him. “Or a movie.”

He settles for the latter. At some point, you leave Mista to fetch two drinks from the kitchen. The refrigerator is nearly empty, save for a few bottles of water. When you return with your beverages, you find that he has fallen asleep. You leave him be and watch the reminder of the movie with nothing more than his heavy breathing and the voices of the actors to keep you company.

You turn the television off once the end credits begin. Mista has not moved. If not for the heaving of his chest, he might have been a dead man. Without a clock on the wall, you cannot tell the time. Prediction is all you have – and so, you predict that it is just after midnight. Regardless, you have overstayed your welcome. It is time to leave.

Your fingers brush across his arm as you lean over his hunched form to rouse him from his slumber. You would hate to leave without saying goodbye. “Mista . . . “ you coo; your speech slurs and it is only then that you realize your own exhaustion. “I’m gonna go home, ‘kay?”

He stirs beneath you. Eyes puffy from sleep, he ogles at your figure. You hover over him, your breath close enough to ghost his cheeks. His long, dark lashes twitch when you breathe too sharply – when he parts his legs for you to slide in between them so that he might capture your lips with his own. One hand to the base of your neck, the other to your waist: he pulls you flush to his body, caging you with arms that feel unfamiliar. More muscle, you suppose.

You press against his chest and detach. His grip loosens, although only enough for you to raise the back of your hand to puckered lips to wipe the saliva from your face. He has already lost you – once more and it will become a life sentence.

“Mista,” you warn, turning your head away to resist his second kiss. The twinges of early love bloom again in the core of your belly. You want him. But you cannot have him. “We can’t.”

Your lipstick stains his mouth. It makes him look undeniably pretty.

“One night,” he pleads – yet his hands leave your body. “I know what you said, about waiting until I’m finished with Passione. But that was easier said than done. I can’t leave them; not now, maybe not ever. They’re mia famiglia. And so are you.”

Your head falls limply. “You can’t have us both.”

“Why not?” He speaks your name when you hesitate to answer. A finger hooks beneath your chin, tipping your head so that you must meet his gaze. “Why not, cara?”

He demands a truth that you have never professed. Not to him, nor your sister – and never to yourself. “I’m scared, Mista,” you finally admit. Confession weighs you down in his grasp. “Because I know the day will come when you won’t come back. It’d be better if I’m not around for it.”

A faint smile, laced with sorrow, etches upon his face. “Do you have that little faith in me?” he asks.

Faith? It was never for the lack thereof. You trust Mista with every fiber of your being because he saved you. And it was not just you – he took the lives of three men to protect the virtue of a woman whom he had never met because she could have been you. She was almost you. That night, when he had heard that woman’s screams and saw the man crouched over her bruised form, Mista felt as though his body had projected itself back into the gymnasium of the school you once attended together. Only this time, he knew how to put up a fight. He acted in the way that the constraints of boyhood had once held him back from.

No, you do not place your mistrust on Mista – you place it in the souls of every man and woman that poses a threat to his safety. The fact that you do not know how to convey this to him mystifies you. Actions are far easier than words, and so you press your lips to his once more. You feed off his touch alone.

You recline against the backing of the couch, hands pressed flat against the cushions. keening into Mista’s palms as he slides your skirt down – past your thighs, past your knees, and past your ankles. Your panties follow suit. His mouth presses against your slick folds; as touch starved as you have become, it takes little more than his kisses to stir your core. As if commanded by muscle memory, your legs coil around his shoulders and yank him closer the moment his tongue slips past your heat. He groans against you, low and gravely. It makes you gasp when his teeth graze over your hardened nub. When he brings his finger to join his tongue, you find that you are unable to stop your hips from rocking against his lips. A second finger coaxes you, and then a third – you come undone in his mouth, heaving for air.

You cry out his name in prayer. Mista pulls away, letting your legs fall back down. The spasm of your thighs turns your abdomen to jelly. You cannot move. You draw him in for another kiss, savoring the taste of your balm that coats his skin. He mutters his desires and you nod, eager to feel him fill you again. He hoists you into his arms and carries you to the bedroom.

It fills you with gratification to see that the rumpled sheets and folded pillows beneath you are in fact the color of sweet cream.

Soft snores leave Mista’s lips. He sleeps on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, and the other tucked beneath your head. Unlike your lover, you are wide-awake. You stare at the browning wallpaper of the bedroom wall, willing yourself to believe that the stagnant flowers are truly billowing against the wind in a field elsewhere.

You toss the duvet from your body and stand, careful not to wake him. The mattress breathes in the absence of your weight. In the darkness, you collect your discarded clothing and don your clubbing attire. You cast one final look to the sleeping dark-eyed boy before clicking the heavy door shut behind you.

A tiny voice cries out – a child from the next apartment suite perhaps, startled by nightmares no doubt. Though, as your ears strain and listen, it almost seems as though the child is calling your name. It is a ludicrous idea. Still, it unsettles you, for there is something familiar in its tone. You tighten your grasp on your purse, readjust your heels, and leave.

Regret is a sickening temptation – and you have ruined everything.

| 4291 Words | Masterlist |

#guido mista x reader #mista x reader #guido mista #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader #vento aureo

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thebardish · 4 years ago

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Orientation

We see a series of scenes; a deep cavern illuminated by large glowing mushrooms with a small caravan traversing a narrow ledge, a fiery hammer sparking against an already red-hot anvil, industrial lights of a submerged city-scape of domes shining brightly against dark water, aerial bands of white marble populated to the fullest with every creature capable of achieving flight, dark forest floors of gangly trees covered in a thick green carpet. Then, we see a quaint study of an old man in a large pointy hat, a deep dungeon-like dugout housing a ragtag group gathering supplies led by a wheelchair-bound silhouette. We see a thin Tiefling chasing after an even thinner Elf, laughing and collapsing together against an old tree, a regal Triton in a think armchair with piles of books, tomes, and scrolls scattered around him, two bright purple eyes form from the darkness and out steps a tall woman, almost floating across the cobbled roads, she darts her eyes across any and every living thing. And then, we are back in the study, a dim candle burns at the edge of a messy desk as lightning gives brief clarity to what he is writing and then a knock at the door breaks his concentration. The dugout is now packed with all sorts of creatures looking to the same silhouette, who’s pointing to a large map on the table with pins. Thunder cracks and dust falls from the ceiling and then it fades to black. We see a pitch black void, and then a light. A flash of bright white light and then an enormous chunk of Earth with a vast array of ecosystems comes into focus. The Academy sits in the vast expanse of nothingness. Inter-dimensional doorways blink into existence and snuff out just as quickly. The Academy has come into being, and that’s where our story begins.

JOVIS:

Jovis is struck with a vision: He sees a ring of sparks that turn into large circular flames, and a hooded figure clutching something to their chest quickly jump through and vanish. He sees himself as a child, but from outside himself. He is swaddled in a tight crimson blanket, the same blanket used for the back portion of his cloak. He recognizes the location, it’s Mimi and Momo’s front doorstep. He remembers this scene from a third-person point of view, looking down onto himself.

Jovis awakes in his room to the smell of pancakes. Mimi and Momo are playfully arguing and Jovis grabs a quick bite before running out to meet Oliver at the courtyard. Oliver spills the contents of his backpack and tries to build a tower with the copious amounts of energy drink cans, but Jovis crushes all but one.

Hathor pipes up and says, “Jovis, why are you friends with this excuse of an Elf?” and follows it up by insisting. “You are at an age where you should learn the extent of what it means to be my vessel and have my power flowing through you.” Jovis agrees and fires his first actual spell, a large purple fireball into the final energy drink can. He hits it directly but as he does there is an overwhelming feeling within him.

Sekhmet, a voice Jovis has never heard before, speaks up and says, “Back off, it's my turn to shine!” and without moving or initiating anything, two more purple fireballs shoot off past the crisp of a can and burst through the window leading into the library.

Jovis freaks out and runs away, trying to find his way home or an adult to try and fix this, but he finds instead a large set of engraved Oak doors. He pushes them open and is stuck mid-fall and an invisible conveyor belt tracks him to the center of the room. Someone is already waiting in this room.

CAL:

Cal is found in the Library. He zones out and replays the last fight he had with his father. He stands opposite to his father, flanked by Cal’s younger brother Prince Zelzes to the left, and to the right is Roven Silverspear, the king’s literal right-hand man. The argument is nothing of note, besides that Zelzes and Silverspear interject with belittlement by name-calling and undermining his side. He returns to his bedchamber after training that night to find something is off, the hallway is just a little too quiet. He stands back at just the right time before his doors are blown off and guards try and storm in. He makes a break for it. He manages to injure one of the attackers before fleeing.

He spends a week on the lamb, ducking in and out of the public eye and trying to derail the search for him. He overhears talk of his disappearance, with no mention of the assassination attempt. He develops a split personality to cope with this newfound trauma, and towards the end finds himself cornered in a supply warehouse. The guards are closing in and in a last ditch effort to get away, he summons a rectangular portal of frosted glass that lights in the darkness. He gauges his options and jumps through.

Cal unfurls a scroll that details The Sicarius, a group of Grung assassins known for their use of poison and ability to sneakily topple unruly governments or monarchs. He scans it with more detail when suddenly a large, purple fireball blasts through the window right above his head and begins to burn the Library. Cal jumps up, and knocks over his ‘to read’ pile, where a tome falls open and has a large picture of Adrian, followed by a brief description. Adrian is a Grung who helped found the Academy.

Shelby, a high elf, screams for help because a second fireball has smashed into the Library farther down, causing a bookshelf to fall and pin her. Cal rushes over and lifts it up, allowing Shelby to escape. She thanks him graciously before running off.

Cal rips out the page about Adrian and stuffs it into the scroll about The Sicarius, and runs. Cal finds his way to a set of large Oak doors, he checks them for traps, but doesn’t find any. He takes a step in and is tracked into the center of the room, where he stands and briefly after, a Teifling almost falls in.

THARA:

Thara finds herself full of so many emotions as she points to a carriage with The Baron of a far off land, but corrects herself at the last minute, letting go a blast of pure necrotic energy, decimating and reanimating the horses. Her outburst turned the attention of the onlookers to her, and she ran. The two guards make chase, almost catching up to her, but in a brief instant of clarity, she stops at a shimmering pond of silver water and her reality shifts. Instead of jumping downwards, she is spit out sideways out of the backdoor of a restaurant.

Thara is now in an alleyway, and she makes her way out and into the street of a bustling farmers market, and across the way she makes out a pink skinned, wheelchair-bound Dr. Cantaloupe holds a plastic bag as his adoptive daughter Cherry zips around and fills it up with assorted groceries.

She rushes over to him and immediately collapses at his feed, sobbing. He helps her up and brings her to a park bench overlooking a large lake. He explains how the Academy works and how everyone here was once a newbie. Cherry hops up and sits next to her, playing with her hair or asking questions about how she got there.

They sit and talk for a bit, enough time where now Dr. Cantaloupe and Thara are walking and talking through the hallways of the Academy. Dr. Cantaloupe looks around and registers that Cherry isn’t with them, and as he gets a little nervous a loud explosion blows dust into their hallway a few intersections back.

Dr. Cantaloupe wheels around and speedily disappears around a corner, leaving Thara alone. She investigates the explosion to find the Library is alive with flames, and across the hallway are two large Oak doors. She looks around and enters them, and just like the others, is tracked to the center. She is last to arrive.

COUNCIL ROOM:

All three are now within the Council Room, where they are stuck in place, staring at a wall of thrones. In the center, an old Human Wizard sits. He has a large pointy hat and a long white beard. He is clutching a staff in one hand. On either side of the wall of thrones sits two doorways with swirling black portals in their frames.

To his right sits a towering robotic humanoid with eyes of all shades covering most of her metal flesh, she has eyes seemingly everywhere besides where normal people have eyes, where she has a large red gemstone for the right socket and a large black eye patch covering the left. On her shoulder sits a mini throne where a blue and green Grung sits.

To the right, sits three large, but ultimately normal-sized thrones. Two on ground level and one positioned above their heads in the center. On the ground sits an elderly Tortle. Next to him is a young, dirt-stained Svirfneblin, and above them sits a dark Kenku with a bow string across his chest.

The party hears a voice, and they can tell it’s coming from the Council, but none of them are moving in any way. The voice says, “This Council has presided over the Academy of Adventurer’s since its inception. Now, The Chosen, The Lost, and the Re-claimer, find their way into this hallowed hall. You are here for a reason, yet none of us called upon any otherworldly deities to bring such a group here. There must be another reason for strings as intertwined as these,” and the voice pauses, as Dr. Cantaloupe, with Cherry on his lap, comes bursting in.

Dr. Cantaloupe shakes a finger at the council and demands the doorways out of the Academy are fixed this instant. He’d like to, at the very least, have the option of leaving and returning to his family. Cherry even jumps off his lap and makes a game of running through the portal and being spit back out into the room.

The Council speaks up, “The exit doorways are free and open to use for anyone who needs them, just as the Academy is.” This frustrates Dr. Cantaloupe. He apologies to the party before leaving to wait outside, since the Council seems to not be answering their questions. “The Doctor seems to be not a fan of our Academy, all he has to do is leave,” the Council says.

RESISTANCE:

Dr. Cantaloupe is waiting outside the door, still calming down. He explains of a place they can go that will be safe to speak of such private matters. He leads them down a hallway and taps the wall in a design and it slides up and over to reveal a hallway. Cherry speeds down into the darkness and out of sight. He then creates a sigil of sorts with his hands and begins to lift himself up. His wheelchair folds up into a briefcase and he floats down. The stairs are a rough stone and the walls and ceilings are dirt.

At the bottom, there is a landing that splits in three. To the right is a locker room, the left a bunk house, and forward to a long meeting area. Dr. Cantaloupe unfolds his wheelchair and sits down on the opposite side of a round stone table. He leans back and folds his hands and tells the players he will answer any question they have.

The Resistance was formed as an underground and covert way of learning more about the Academy. They learned that the Academy heals itself overnight, almost exactly at Midnight. When he found out none of the exit doors were working, the Resistance changed into a full-blown operation to fix them and find out why they aren’t working in the first place.

Dr. Cantaloupe slides contracts to each member and offers them a safe haven to train as well as learn more about what’s going on. Each person signs the contact, and with the last one being signed he brings the party down a more secure tunnel, this one with sparse lighting from bulbs until they reach a stone doorway that the party walks into. There are no lights in this room and Dr. Cantaloupe explains that to be a part of the Resistance they need to prove their might, trial by combat style. The three of them were taken to the Council Room for a reason, so having them in the Resistance is more than beneficial.

The party defeats the Purple Wormling and it disintegrates, only to be brought back the next day. After that, The party splits up. Jovis runs home, waking up Oliver and shouting at him about the very eventful day he had. Cal meditates in the lake to gain some clarity, and Thara prays to her god.

#orientation #d&d #dnd #prologue

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justthishumanheart · 6 years ago

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This is the sea, then, this great abeyance. How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation. Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands. Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding? I have two legs, and I move smilingly... A sandy damper kills the vibrations; It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices Waving and crutchless, half their old size. The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces, Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner. Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses? Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock? Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers Who wall up their backs against him. They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body. The sea, that crystallized these, Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress. II This black boot has no mercy for anybody. Why should it, it is the hearse of a dad foot, The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest Who plumbs the well of his book, The bent print bulging before him like scenery. Obscene bikinis hid in the dunes, Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar Of little crystals, titillating the light, While a green pool opens its eye, Sick with what it has swallowed---- Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers Two lovers unstick themselves. O white sea-crockery, What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat.... And the onlooker, trembling, Drawn like a long material Through a still virulence, And a weed, hairy as privates. III On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering. Things, things---- Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches. Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles? I am not a nurse, white and attendant, I am not a smile. These children are after something, with hooks and cries, And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults. This is the side of a man: his red ribs, The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon: One mirrory eye---- A facet of knowledge. On a striped mattress in one room An old man is vanishing. There is no help in his weeping wife. Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable, And the tongue, sapphire of ash. IV A wedding-cake face in a paper frill. How superior he is now. It is like possessing a saint. The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful; They are browning, like touched gardenias. The bed is rolled from the wall. This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible. Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak Rises so whitely unbuffeted? They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened And folded his hands, that were shaking: goodbye, goodbye. Now the washed sheets fly in the sun, The pillow cases are sweetening. It is a blessing, it is a blessing: The long coffin of soap-colored oak, The curious bearers and the raw date Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm. V The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows, The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife---- Blunt, practical boats Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters. In the parlor of the stone house One curtain is flickering from the open window, Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle. This is the tongue of the dead man: remember, remember. How far he is now, his actions Around him like livingroom furniture, like a décor. As the pallors gather---- The pallors of hands and neighborly faces, The elate pallors of flying iris. They are flying off into nothing: remember us. The empty benches of memory look over stones, Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils. It is so beautiful up here: it is a stopping place. VI The natural fatness of these lime leaves!---- Pollarded green balls, the trees march to church. The voice of the priest, in thin air, Meets the corpse at the gate, Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell; A glittler of wheat and crude earth. What is the name of that color?---- Old blood of caked walls the sun heals, Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts. The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters, Necessary among the flowers, Enfolds her lace like fine linen, Not to be spread again. While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles, Passes cloud after cloud. And the bride flowers expend a freshness, And the soul is a bride In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless. VII Behind the glass of this car The world purrs, shut-off and gentle. And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party, Gliding up in low gear behind the cart. And the priest is a vessel, A tarred fabric, sorry and dull, Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman, A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips Storming the hilltop. Then, from the barred yard, the children Smell the melt of shoe-blacking, Their faces turning, wordless and slow, Their eyes opening On a wonderful thing---- Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood, And a naked mouth, red and awkward. For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma. There is no hope, it is given up.

— Sylvia Plath, Berck-Plage

#sylvia plath #berck-plage #poetry #literature #quote

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yewwooi · 3 years ago

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It’s finally the time of the year - the holiday season to shop for some beautiful Christmas gifts from @diptyque for my friends and family. 🎄🎁 My experience visiting their store feels as though I’m going to an art museum. Their artsy product display is always intriguing. They have just launched a limited edition Holiday Collection. There are three new scented Holiday candles, that are Sapin, Biscuit and Flocon. I like the ‘Flocon’ candle that exudes the light and velvety notes of white musk mixed with honeyed accents of mimosa. They have some newly launched products and accessories too. The reed diffuser is a beautiful oval glass vessel that can be endlessly refilled. They also have this second life accessory that can bring a new life to your candle jar, a sustainability touch from @diptyque. I’m gonna get them too. I like how they’ve an in-store personalisation gifting service whereby you can either engrave your message on your product, or write a message on a ribbon that wrapped around the neck of the perfume, or a metal capsule, which you can write a secret message, and is sealed in the wax of the candle. It’s perfect for this gifting season! @DIPTYQUE #DIPTYQUEHK #DIPTYQUEPARIS #perfumerandartist (at diptyque) https://www.instagram.com/p/CWdQCtxBCLF/?utm_medium=tumblr

#diptyquehk #diptyqueparis #perfumerandartist

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mezcalforlife · 4 years ago

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Veladora Mezcal Shot Glass - Wedding Party Shot Glasses, Whiskey Glasses, Xmas Gift for Him, Custom Christmas Gifts, Xmas Shooter Glass

Originally used to hold Catholic prayer candles, this holy vessel turned traditional mezcal shot glass is called a "Veladora," and is favored by the mezcal drinkers of Oaxaca. Each shot glass is fluted and comes with an engraved cross on the bottom in a pack of six. It holds 2.7 ounces of your favorite mezcal and stands 2.38" in height. It's dishwasher safe and is ready to be brandished at your next mezcal / tequila party! veladoras are the traditional glasses used for drinking mezcal in Mexico. Originally used to hold prayer candles in Catholic churches, each vaso has a cross imprinted on the base to remind you of its purpose. Their squat, wide-mouthed shape acts as an ideal vessel for mezcal enabling the robust spirit to open up allowing the beautiful layers of flavor to unfold and shine.

#Veladora Mezcal Shot Glass #Wedding Party Shot Glasses #Whiskey Glasses #Xmas Gift for Him #Custom Christmas Gifts #Xmas Shooter Glass

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adtwixt · 5 years ago

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Adtwixt - News: 29 Gifts Less Than $100 That Are Perfect For Everyone on Your List

Let them know you care without draining your bank account. These gifts hit the spending sweet spot and work for just about everyone. Entireworld Six Solid Socks A socks box. A box of socks. Six of them, organic cotton, candy colored, rainbow flavored, stretching to about a quarter of the way up your tibia. And for the math whizzes out there - buying all six at once costs less than buying six of them individually at once. So, like, deal. Plus you get a cardboard carry-all that will stir the envy of your friends. Photo Courtesy of Entireworld Potluck Utensil Set Keep it simple. Twelve no-frills tools for prepping your ingredients and serving your meals. Professional-quality construction for years of reliable use. This tightly-curated set has you covered for countless kitchen tasks, but doesn’t include anything that you won’t use. It’s just right. All pieces are BPA-free. Dishwasher-safe except for the wooden spoon and fish spatula. Photo Courtesy of Verishop Karimoku New Standard Berra Berra is a paper holder made of solid oak wood and depends on gravity. Wooden counterweights loosely placed on a sloped wooden base slide by their own weight. Simply stick your papers or postcards in-between the counterweights and gravity will hold them in place. The name Berra refers to a Swiss mountain that experienced a landslide, which reminded the designer of the functionality of this paper holder. Photo Courtesy of Leibal Field SQ Trivet The SQ Trivet combines a primitive process and material - metal bending and steel - to create a contemporary and useful tabletop object. The trivet is manufactured in Rockford, Illinois and electropolished in Chicago. Photo Courtesy of Leibal Iittala Graphics Mug Set - GWP The Graphics Mug Set by Iittala pairs the black and white illustrations of the Shaped/Shifted mug by Christopher DeLorenzo, USA with the colorful illustration by Merjin Hos, Netherlands Distortion mug. Both using shapes from nature creating a perfect pairing. Each mug comes in it's own matching gift box. From humble beginnings as a small glass factory, today Iittala offers a wide variety of modern Scandinavian housewares that demonstrate the company's commitment to design quality and product longevity. Based in Helsinki, Finland, Iittala continues to make cookware, tableware and other home accessories that are both lovely and useful, based primarily on the forward-thinking philosophies of design icons Kaj Franck and Alvar Aalto. Photo Courtesy of Lumens HAY PC Portable Lamp The freestanding PC Portable Lamp (2019) features robust ABS plastic construction with a scratch- and water-resistant matte finish, high-efficiency LED bulb and rechargeable battery, giving you the flexibility and freedom to move it anywhere. Place it in a dark living room corner for the soft effect of candlelight, pop it on a patio table for a warm glow during summer meals or bring it with you to light the way on family camping trips. PC Portable runs up to 10 hours on a single charge, so you’ll never be without light when you need it most. Includes touch-controlled step dimmer on base and USB charging cable. Suitable for residential and commercial use both indoors and out (bring indoors when not in use). Bulb (included): 3W G4 LED, 3000K. CE and ETL listed. Made in China. Photo Courtesy of Design Within Reach Alessi Parrot Sommelier Corkscrew The Alessi Parrot Sommelier Corkscrew designed by Alessandro Mendini is a practical and pocket-sized corkscrew in a parrot-shaped design. The Parrot Sommelier Corkscrew features cast aluminum and plastic material. Alessi, known as the Italian design factory, has manufactured household products since 1921. The stylish and fun items offered are the result of contemporary partnerships with some of the world's best designers of unique and modern home accessories. Photo Courtesy of Alessi Olli Ella Rattan Bike Basket Don’t forget to accessorize. For days when you want to peddle to the beach or park with a little lunch to-go, this handmade rattan basket is just the thing. Not only is it cute-as-all-get-out, it’s also got a long (and handily adjustable) canvas strap with brass hardware for easy toting. Attach it to your bike handles, secure it to your scooter, or sling it over your shoulder while running errands—it’s all ready to go. Photography by Rocky Luten & Ty Mecham Lunya Washable Silk Pillowcase 100% silk (front), 100% woven cotton (back) Machine wash cold like colors, lay flat to dry Photo Courtesy of Lunya Fellow Clyde Stovetop Tea Kettle A striking take on a stovetop staple, this sleek tea kettle features a two-tone harmonic whistle and a spout that stays sealed until you start pouring. That means no more flipping open the whistle cap to a flood of hot steam. Photo Courtesy of Fellow Sagaform Round Oak Cutting Board Natural oak brings distinctive color and graining to a round cutting board that can easily double as a cheese tray or trivet. Grooved detailing provides a slip-free spot to rest utensils. Photo Courtesy of Nordstrom Bellocq Solid Brass Candle Light up our lives. In our book, you can never have too many candles (especially if they come in a snazzy brass tin you can repurpose as a vase). These lovely mood-setters are inspired by the scent of Bellocq’s signature tea blends including mint and black varieties. They’re made from soy wax and essential oils with a wick of woven, lead-free cotton. And back to those vessels: The heavy-gauge solid brass and lid will develop a pretty patina over time. Choose between: Majorelle Mint: Freshly Torn Mint, Gunpowder Green Tea & Moroccan Cedar Le Hammeau: Lemongrass, Sweet Orange, Sage & May Rose The Queen's Guard: English Heirloom Rose, Lavender, Rose Geranium & Ceylon Tea Photography by Ty Mecham Herman Miller: A Way of Living A chronicle of the rich history of this innovative furniture company, from its founding in the early twentieth century to today. For more than 100 years, Michigan-based Herman Miller has played a central role in the evolution of modern and contemporary design, producing timeless classics while creating a culture that has had a remarkable impact on the development of the design world. Ten chapters and thousands of illustrations tell the Herman Miller story as never before, documenting its defining moments and key leaders—making Herman Miller: A Way of Living an indispensable addition to the bookshelves of design-lovers around the globe. Publisher: Phaidon Photo Courtesy of Phaidon Food52 x GreenPan Nonstick Skillet (Set of 2) The total package. In the words of our co-founder Amanda Hesser, "Many nonstick pans are appealingly affordable but not at all visually appealing. With GreenPan, we set out to create a pan that would be a real looker—chic, even!—yet still have the great functionality that would make this your everyday workhorse." So voilà! Our design comes to life here—these pans not only slide out omelettes, crepes, fish filets, and the like with ease but their sage-blue exterior and brass hardware cuts quite a pretty profile if we do say so ourselves. But don't let all that eye candy fool you, these pans have power behind 'em, too: They're made from natural ceramic nonstick without PFAS, PFOA, lead, or cadmium, and are oven and broiler safe up to a whopping 600°F. They also won't blister, peel or release toxic fumes even if heated up to 850°F (unlike most nonstick pans) and the 100% natural ceramic coating can take a beating and then some (it’s even dishwasher and metal utensil-safe). Photography by Ty Mecham, James Ransom & Rocky Luten Brynjar Siguroarson Glacier Project Candles Brynjar Siguroarson's Glacier Project candles are a subtle commentary on the issue of global warming. The collection is made of a series of candles crafted to look like glaciers, that, when lit, melt and disappear just like the precious ice forms. These beautiful ice blue/tuquoise candles look great as a little sculptural piece for your home, and when alight, remind us that preservation of the environment is in our hands. Photo Courtesy of Generate Design Vitra Rotary Tray The Rotary Tray is a contemporary rendering of the classic etagere by Jasper Morrison. Thanks to its simple shape and subtle colors, the Rotary Tray complements any interior style and lends itself to many different uses. It features a tiered composition with a top tray that rotates to maximize accessibility and meet many storage needs. Whether in the kitchen or on the dining room table, in a bathroom or entryway, at the office or in a child's room: the Rotary Tray offers a decorative way to tidy up any space. Photo Courtesy of Connox Snowe Dinner Bowls, Set of 4 Think of our dinner bowl as the dinner plate’s curvaceous cousin. All the versatility for everyday use, with just the right assets worth flaunting. From entrée pastas and salads to those oh-so-healthy grain bowls you’re craving these days, this perfectly proportioned coupe plate elevates whatever’s on the menu. Photo Courtesy of Snowe Daniel Emma Stationary Container A solid resin container holds your bits and bobs while the clear spherical lids magnify what is under them. Perfect for paperclips, thumbtacks, and other small objects. Photo Courtesy of Leibal Alessi Nomu Vacuum Flask Minimalist thermos from Alessi, designed by Naoto Fukasawa. Mirror-polished 18/10 stainless steel and thermoplastic resin. Pop-top serving lid delivers hot or cold beverages. Removable cover lid doubles as small cup. Engraved logo at base. Photo Courtesy of Alessi Moleskine Vertical Nylon Device Bag Contemporary bag from Moleskine. Webbing carrying handles. Adjustable webbing shoulder straps. Breathable air-mesh back. Wraparound two-way water-resistant zip closure. Heat-sealed front zip pocket. Interior zip pocket. Padded 15" laptop compartment. Interior organizer, pen holders and card holder with reflective trim. Polyurethane base with reflective logo patch. Honeycomb lining. Photo Courtesy of Nordstrom HAY Analog Clock After having lived and worked in Milan for Lissoni Associati, American designer Shane Schneck founded his own Stockholm-based studio in 2010. Since that time, Schneck’s work has received international acclaim in the form of iF, Red Dot and Wallpaper awards. Inspired by, of all things, a vintage barometer, his boldly styled Analog Clock unabashedly protrudes from the wall. It features a striking concave face, large rod-shaped hands and crisp markers. Made in China. Photo Courtesy of Design Within Reach Volta Small Paris Standing Mobile Retro-inspired moving sculpture from Volta. Recycled aluminum and steel. Designed to rotate gently in moving air currents. Weight-balanced top with four rounded paddles in primary colors. Triangular metal base. Some assembly required. Handmade. Photo Courtesy of Need Supply Co. Lexon Tykho 3 AM/FM Radio & Bluetooth Speaker Sharp, monochromatic style defines a compact AM/FM radio that uses Bluetooth tech to connect to your device for additional utility. Photo Courtesy of Nordstrom Matter Made Setup Candleholder Setup Candleholder is machined from a solid block of aluminum, brass, or marble with four holes to accommodate the most common candle sizes. The austere design and the ability to use "leftover" candles is inspired by the Shaker's ideals of simplicity and efficiency. Photo Courtesy of Leibal Heller Rainbow Mugs, Set of 6 Massimo Vignelli’s iconic dinnerware won the prestigious Compasso d’Oro Award in 1964 and, in 1971, became the first product made by a company called Heller, now an international furniture manufacturer responsible for introducing the Bellini Chair®, Frank Gehry outdoor furniture and other icons of modern design. Heller Dinnerware was an instant classic, and because it’s still made using the same molds, a set bought today will blend seamlessly with vintage pieces. Heller Rainbow Mugs (1974) are made of thick, durable BPA-free polymer. They can be used for hot and cold beverages and are dishwasher and microwave safe. This multicolored set includes purple, blue, green, pink, orange and yellow mugs. Made in U.S.A. LEXON Oslo Energy Wireless Charging Pad & Bluetooth Speaker Quickly and easily charge your device with this combination charging pad and Bluetooth speaker that offers easy use and an attractive package. Photo Courtesy of Nordstrom Andrew Neyer Lite Light The Andrew Neyer Lite Mini Pendant is short, sweet and to the point, featuring a simple cylindrical structure capped with an exposed globe bulb. With simplicity comes endless possibilities; for instance, the Lite is perfect for multiple installations, whether in clusters or in a linear fashion. A globe bulb is recommended, leaving the choice of style up to you to customize the look of the Lite Mini Pendant. Photo Courtesy of Andrew Neyer Ember Ceramic Mug Beautifully designed to be used in your home or at your desk, the Ember® Ceramic Mug keeps your beverages at the perfect temperature from the first sip to the last drop. Iittala Collective Tools Salad Set The Iittala Collective Tools Salad Set was designed by Antonio Citterio to help build the perfect modern dining experience. The heft, smooth texture and curves of the stainless steel utensils make them a pleasure to wield. And their silvery, industrial look make them a lovely decorative accent on any dining table. Photo Courtesy of Lumens We love the products we feature and hope you do, too. If you buy something through a link on the site, we may earn an affiliate commission. Related Reading: 8 Places to Stay in Rome For Under $100 Per Night

Adtwixt - News source https://adtwixt.com/blogs/news/29-gifts-less-than-100-that-are-perfect-for-everyone-on-your-list

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cryptic-chrysalis · 7 years ago

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I'm not as user-friendly as I used to be, at least that's how it must have seemed in drunken dreams that proved to be illusory with hindsight 20/20 through a pair of goggles made of empty glasses on a table set for supper with the twelve apostles, none of whom thought twice of paying five or seven dollars for a bottled water since it's only overpriced until it's turned to wine by Dionysus metamorphosed into Christ performing miracles like David Blaine outwitting the Goliath of the human mind with optical illusions which have been aligned like wires meant to trip the vision, glitches in a system once in mint condition, only to become the victim of decisions ordering the decommission of the old equipment since it's rickety enough to catch a virus from a sick magician smuggling more tricks beneath his hat than could have fit inside a secret bag that never leaves the triple-fingered grasp of an elusive cartoon cat who finds himself in funny fixes, often subject to the sinister designs of counterfeiters unabashedly attempting to convert the trend to cash by courting crowds of young believers so devout that they would not be out of place as extras on the set of yet another Sister Act, with habits so impressive that they might as well have monkeys on their backs like junkies working on another set of track marks, but if being square is hip I guess I'd rather be a tesseract and wrinkle up the fabric of the cosmos just to ditch the beaten path, becoming master of the alchemy to forge the golden keys to immortality with legendary lines that linger longer than the cancer cells of Henrietta Lacks by moving forward faster than a VHS since I have never been the kind to hit rewind before I drop it in the slot unless I think I have a shot at reaching eastern ports by sailing a westward course, on honeymoon alone inside a hearse emblazoned with the proclamation that I've recently divorced, although I had to form a rival church to process all the paperwork and make myself the temporary pope of an unholy land controlled by warring factions in a mediocre karaoke battle of the bands, a perfect recipe to bake a batch of piping hot disasters more explosive than a load of Roman candles lit by plastic soldiers waiting for the birthday boy to blow the fallout far away and make a wish upon a shooting asteroid requesting that the sin of Sodom be destroyed selectively in ways that won't affect the rest, provided they profess a faith in following instructions that have been engraved on tablets made of DNA, a set of ten commandments coded cryptically in chains of ones and zeroes like a reinterpretation of an ancient language spoken by the innocent creator of a universe with only one dimension, prior to the birth of color through the prism which admits the spectrum, stretching in an exponential pattern like a shockwave of unstoppable expansion getting out of hand and leading to a state of total anarchy, devoid of gods and rulers meant to measure out the debt and keep the edge as straight as kids with X's on their fists who revel in the pit, presenting minor threats as side effects of the intent to minimize the risk of being thoroughly lobotomized in ways that don't require any picks designed for chipping ice to be inserted blindly in the frontal lobe that lies behind the sockets of the eyes, creating teenage nightmares like the bloody brides of Frankenstein depicted on the cover of another album mindlessly indulging in the kind of lines against which parents have to be advised with labels introduced in 1985 and still in use to warn against the gore abhorred by Tipper and the references to sex that might engender unexpected consequences when your daughter's high on meth and thinks she wants to moonlight as a stripper, causing an apocalyptic lifting of the veils as the hemlines rise so far above horizons drawn precisely by the architects of etiquette who engineer the trends, exerting efforts meant to influence the overall direction of a war of currents, causing Thomas Edison and General Electric to denounce the work of Westinghouse and Tesla in an escalating series of attempts to stifle and suppress the shocking incandescence of the cleansing flame that melts away the layers of the flesh, exposing naked cells to gamma rays that emanate directly from a brazenly uncovered face belonging to a maker met unwillingly by those afraid to shake the hand of God in case the heavens tremble, threatening an avalanche of angry angels traveling more rapidly than animated birds, approaching at an angle that could never be construed as right, not when the nature of the shape is more isosceles, but still it somehow manages to earn a title calling it sublime because the ratio of side to base is golden as an egg between the legs of the enchanted goose who laid it, fully formed and finely fabricated with a fancy filigree that could have been handmade by master craftsmen of the house of FabergÃ© for patrons born into the Russian aristocracy, an institution soon to be the target of a mutiny by rebels sent to usher in a union of republics seen as socialist by those who hesitate to call it communism, faces fresh as well-intentioned students off to college for a law degree with prospects that look promising right up until the stocks begin to fall and the economy collapses like the function of a wave that washes up in Indonesia when an earthquake shakes the ocean floor, awakening the demon of the deep, a monster never known to be a heavy sleeper, the colossus feeding on the wettest dreams of all the power-hungry number junkies hoping to become the next big thing until they're broke and on the street, because the buildings that rise high enough to scrape the bottom of the sky are easy targets for a lightning strike that comes completely by surprise, as though the finger of divinity, emerging through the fog of false infinity, could bridge the gap and touch the mind in ways that seem entirely indecent, a conception made immaculate by ignorance regarding the mechanics of the quantum leap that must be made to generate a whole new state of being in a way that's not unlike the flipping of a switch, a shift which almost seems like witchcraft, digitally skipping over spaces vast enough to make the difference separating total emptiness from solid substance, forming the foundations of a program destined to evolve toward futuristic new frontiers that make the feat of self-awareness seem as elementary as phonics meant to hook the reader who has already become successful as a novelist, autonomously functioning with levels of intelligence transcending the tradition of exception rooted in the basic claim that works of artifice can never hold a candle to the handiwork of Nature even though she's gone demented in a way that shows her age, a crazy scientist who leaves the floodgates open when she goes to bed, retiring just after lighting fires bright enough to heat debates that aggravate the conflagration kindled into being by the first invigorating spark that rendered Plato's cave ablaze to make the shadows that can only be mistaken for reality when there's no other way to see that might betray the true dimensionality of forests never seen because the trees are always falling silent, smothered in a vacuum deemed unnatural by text in black and white suggesting artlessly that darkness can be absolute, although in truth there's only relativity, and all of my relations say Mitakuye Oyasin echoed by the sound of rain which dances with a childlike abandon on the roof without the need for moccasins or cowboy boots, absorbed into the consciousness that's bodiless and able to embrace a form that comes before the humblest of birthday suits, attire worn by embryos in utero who have to look their best when walking down the carpet painted red by vessels filled with blood like grapes which must be crushed to formulate the sacrifice allowing them to make their big debut, emerging on the scene of what it means to be a human, tainted by the sin of true originality inherent in the act of going lucid while refusing to release the sand of dreaming from between the fingers, stopping up the hourglass that eats away at all the finest figures just in time to extricate the parasite from vital information closely guarded by the temple knights who hide it like a world-destroying virus, locked up tight inside the tiny spaces riddling the hearts and minds of anyone affected by the entropy of bodily decay, because the key of life is safest in the pocket of a lost Osiris, shielded from desire's evil eye by virtue of the simple fact that it's been taken from beneath the mat and buried in the most unlikely place where only fools will ever find it.

2/21/17

#poetry

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sunnyglassware · 9 months ago

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(via Custom500ml three-core purple polka dot geometric design glass candle jar,Sunny Glassware)

#engraving glass candle jars #wholesale glass candle vessels #bulk glass candle containers #candle holders suppliers #Sunny Glassware

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uncleyarn2-blog · 5 years ago

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Our 2018 all-Chicago holiday gift guide

Sustenance

1/ Local coffee subscription: Back of the Yards, Dark Matter, or Metric Coffee

Coffee is the social lubricant that wakes you up, keeps you awake—or maybe puts you to sleep. You can drink it hot in winter to stay warm! But drink good, fresh coffee. Chicago is home to many fine craft coffee roasters, and may offer subscriptions for a steady supply. Metric Coffee offers espresso ($20) and blend ($20) subscriptions as well as a Roasters Choice Subscription ($22) and Single Origin Subscription ($24) each with two different eight-ounce bags in every weekly or monthly delivery. Dark Matter Coffee offers three, six, and twelve-month subscriptions to their monthly limited blends for $20 per month—with discounts for longer subscriptions. Back of the Yards Coffee Co.'s Coffee Club subscriptions page is currently under construction. Hopefully that will be available again soon. In the meantime, they do sell their espresso and 47th Street Blend medium-dark roast coffee in twelve-ounce bags ($15.99), with one dollar from every 47th Street Blend going to their Social Impact fund to benefit the neighborhood.—John Dunlevy Prices vary at backoftheyardscoffee.com, darkmattercoffee.com, and metriccoffee.com.

2/ Coffee maker Nº3 by Manual.is

Manual's newest coffee maker is four usages in one: pour over, French press, cold brew, and a pitcher. It can keep its liquids hot for about an hour in the double-wall insulated design. With this elegant, hand-blown borosilicate glass vessel, even a person who doesn't drink coffee regularly (me) will savor the ritual of making, and serving coffee. —Sue Kwong $140 at Manual Shop & Studio, 3251½ W. Bryn Mawr, 312-870-0799, manual.is.

3/ Mushroom tree ornaments by Facture Goods

The handcrafted mushroom Christmas ornaments come in earthy brown clay glazed in gray and flecked with 22-karat gold. They typically sell out in minutes when creator Aron Fischer puts a fresh batch in his online shop. But on November 24 you can find them at Martha Mae in Andersonville during Small Business Saturday. The mushrooms come in enoki, morel, shiitake, and straw varietals. Plus, while you're there, you can snag plenty more gifts for loved ones in Jean Cate's magical shop. —Maya Dukmasova $18 each or $60 for a set of four at facturegoods.com and on November 24 only at Martha Mae, 5407 N. Clark, 872-806-0988, marthamae.info.

4/ Malort soy candle

Everyone's favorite drink in candle form. —Vince Cerasani $30 at reuse-first.com.

5/ Tellicherry Black Whole Peppercorns from Reluctant Trading Experiment

Pretty amazing pepper from an outfit started by Scott Eirinberg, the entrepreneur who founded, and later sold, The Land of Nod. —Suggested by Kate Schmidt, written by Reader staff Starting at $6.50 at reluctanttrading.com.

Self Care

1/ Houseplant from Foyer

This little plant and stationary store opened in Andersonville a few months ago. It's run by a tremendously helpful and non-judgmental Alma Vescovi, who wants you to get past your fear of killing houseplants. The stock is refreshed weekly and she carries hard-to-find varietals like pilea, monstera, and satin pothos alongside all kinds of succulents and cacti. There are also vintage planters and pots as well as ones made by local artists. If things don't go well with your new plant friend, you can always bring it back for a check-up with Vescovi. She once helped me resuscitate a delicate plumosa fern. It's doing great. Plants are the gift that keeps on giving.—Maya Dukmasova Starting at $8 at 1480 W. Berwyn, 713-994-0302, foyer.shop.

2/ Sound wave art, Soundwaves by Mordecai

Kathleen Mordecai turns sound waves from parts of songs or special moments (for example Pat Hughes saying "Chicago Cubs win the World Series" or children's laughter, as pictured) into sculptures she handcrafts using reclaimed wood. Whether you're shopping for someone who lives in a tiny studio, or in a mansion with plenty of wall space to fill, there's likely an option that will fit; the current selection of sculptures in her online shop runs from 12 inches to 4 feet. Mordecai also takes custom orders, and for those who want to be able to hear the sound while enjoying the visuals, she offers an option for audio playback. —Jamie Ludwig Starting at $76 at etsy.com/soundwavesbyMordecai.

3/ Soap Distillery

The brand tagline for Soap Distillery may promise "Small batches. No hangovers," but no such claim can be made about whether these boozy body care miracles are addictive. Because they are, friends. A bottle of the Beer + Cigarettes hand and body wash disappeared so quickly from my bathroom that I'm not entirely convinced my partner wasn't drinking it. Perfect for the person on your list who always smells so damn good. —Karen Hawkins Prices vary at soapdistillery.com. Catch up with founder Danielle Martin at a holiday shopping event or click here for a list of retailers.

4/ King Spa & Sauna

King Spa & Sauna, the Korean spa in Niles, does not fulfil the glossy magazine ideal of the spa day. There are no fluffy white robes, no soothing music or nice-smelling oils and lotions. Instead, there's a series of saunas, each filled with a different substance that will relieve you of a different source of stress, each more baroque than the last: amethyst geodes, living crystals, 350-million-year-old salt rocks, a 23-karat gold pyramid. The admission fee gets a person access to all of them, plus the soaking pools, food court, and movie theater. (Massages and other spa treatments are extra.) The spa's open 24 hours, so guests can stay as long as they like. In Korea, entire families go to spas for an easy weekend getaway. Maybe they're onto something? —Aimee Levitt $40 admission at King Spa & Sauna, 809 Civic Center Drive, Niles, 847-972-2540, kingspa.com/chicago. Gift cards available.

5/ Mochimochi Land knitting kits

Forget sweaters and scarves, Mochimochi Land gives you the tools to show off your needle skills by knitting something truly unique: cute miniature characters like tiny burgers or tiny walruses or tiny robots and really any other tiny thing you can dream up. The kits go for $12-$15 and include yarn, stuffing, notions, and patterns—all you need are knitting needles, available separately on the website. Mochimochi Land creator Anna Hrachovec features her knitted friends in stop-motion animated videos and GIFs of everyday life in the mystical, yarn-covered land of her own creation. Hrachovec also used the style in her book, Adventures in Mochimochi Land, which follows the adventures of a talking doughnut and a lovelorn balloon, of course. The online shop offers patterns for larger, equally adorable knitting projects ranging from $5-$8 and, for the less crafty among us, pre-knit gnomes, hedgehogs, zombies, and unicorns for $25 each. —Brianna Wellen Prices vary at mochimochiland.com.

6/ Mano y Metal handmade accessories

These aren't your basic accessories. Mano y Metal offers handmade metal jewelry that spices up any look. Owner Desiree T. Guzman features hand stamped metal rings, cuff bracelets, earrings, necklaces, dog tags and more with empowering sayings engraved on them like "be badass" ("chingona" in Spanish) or "me vale madre" which translates to "I don't give a damn." The online shop even offers options available for customization and a Chicago collection. —Marissa De La Cerda $10 for keychains, $16 for rings, $20-$22 for double finger rings, $16-$28 for bracelets, $17-$58 for necklaces at manoymetal.com.

7/ The WasteShed Art Supplies

Help fuel your loved one's winter craft addiction and help rescue markers, knitting needles and paints from the landfill. Cultivating a more sustainable culture, The WasteShed accepts donations of art supplies and repurposes art, craft and school supplies. Pull together a gift basket for a DIY project from their low cost offerings, or grab a gift certificate for the creatives and teachers on your list. While you're there, drop off the crocheting you gave up on. The WasteShed is a tax-exempt 501(c)(3) so your donations are tax deductible! See their web site for complete list of acceptable donations. — Jamie Ramsay Prices vary at 2842 W. Chicago, 773-666-5997, thewasteshed.com.

8/ Mermaid lessons at AquaMermaid

Who doesn't know someone who once dreamed of being a mermaid? (If your answer is "me," feel free to skip this item.) Fortunately, AquaMermaid exists for the sole purpose of helping people fulfill this glorious dream. Weekly lessons are available on Sunday afternoons at the UIC Sports and Fitness Center pool for both kids and adults; parties can also be arranged. You'll learn basic mermaid maneuvers, like how to glide gracefully underwater, flip your fins, and wave gracefully with your tail. And yes, tails are provided—though you'll have to wear your own bathing suit, or a seashell bra if you want to go full Ariel. Be warned: being a mermaid is a lot harder than it looks, but you'll get a great core workout. —Aimee Levitt Starting at $60 at UIC Sports and Fitness Center, 901 W. Roosevelt Road, 866-279-2767, aquamermaid.com.

Community Care

1/ Chicago Community Bond Fund donation

What better way to spread holiday cheer than to help someone in jail get home to their family? CCBF accepts donations large and small to pay bail for those awaiting trial in Cook County Jail. —Maya Dukmasova Visit chicagobond.org to see the criteria they use to select whose bail to pay.

2/ Women & Children First gift certificate

This post-#MeToo moment is a really good time to give all the sexist jerks in your life a gift certificate to one of the oldest and most significant women-owned bookstores in the US. Making people support women-owned businesses and select from an array of books including a higher-than-average spate by women and nonbinary folks is truly a gift that will benefit generations to come. —Anne Elizabeth Moore Prices vary at 5233 N. Clark, 773-769-9299, womenandchildrenfirst.com.

3/ My Block, My Hood, My City gear

Founded by Jamal Cole, MBMHMC is a connectivity-encouraging, mentoring nonprofit that focuses on providing underserved teenagers exposure to opportunities beyond their familiar neighborhoods. Through excursions in STEM, art, entrepreneurism, and community development, called the Explorers Program, as well as service projects like shoveling snow for seniors, MBMHMC fosters experiences to nurture and empower Chicago youth. Twenty percent of all apparel sales go toward the Explorers Program. On December 1 and 8, volunteer to help hang holiday lights from 51st to 87th Streets along historic Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. Like their Facebook page or check https://www.formyblock.org/events/ for updates on projects, calls to action, and to learn about volunteering. —Jamie Ramsay from $50 for hoodies (available in English, Spanish and Mandarin), $25 for skullies, at formyblock.org.

4/ Haymarket Books Book Club

If there's a radical or revolutionary on your shopping list, or, at the very least, someone who cares about social and economic justice, odds are they already know about Haymarket Books, the Buena Park-based publisher of Angela Davis, Rebecca Solnit, Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor, and Eve Ewing, among many, many others. Membership in Haymarket's book club provides regular monthly shipments of all the publisher's new titles, in either print or e-book format, plus discounts on everything on the backlist. Not only will you provide someone with the foundation of a great personal library, you'll also be supporting a local business. It's a win for everybody. —Aimee Levitt $20-$30/month at haymarketbooks.org.

5/ T-Shirt from the Silver Room

I discovered Silver Room when I first saw Eve Ewing wearing a "Make Chicago Great Again" Harold Washington T-shirt at Pitchfork last year. But the store has a lot more to offer, with shirts by local artists ranging from a profile of Colin Kaepernick made out of tiny red fists to one that looks like a hand-painted bodega advertisement for Hyde Park. The store is full of hand-crafted leather goods, jewelry, and home decor, many by black makers. —Maya Dukmasova $20-$30 at Silver Room, 1506 E. 53rd St., 773-947-0024, thesilverroom.com.

6/ Rebel Betty Arte prints and zines

Support a Latinx artist this holiday season by buying zines, prints, buttons and other artwork by Rebel Betty, an Afro-Latina artist, DJ, and educator. Her work focuses on raising awareness and creating discussions about gentrification and issues affecting black and brown communities. —Marissa De La Cerda $5-$35 for prints, $5-$15 for zines, $10-$15 for buttons and other items at rebelbettyarte.com.

Good Times

1/ Hollow Leg cocktail class

Contrary to popular belief, Hollow Leg is not a store where you can buy a leg lamp a la A Christmas Story, it's a company that offers mixology classes at various venues around the city. Founded by Devin Kidner, Hollow Leg aims to share the art and science behind crafting cocktails so that anyone who attends their events leaves with the knowledge, taste, and skill to finally make a decent drink—and since they offer plenty of non-alcoholic options, everyone can join in on the fun. You can purchase individual tickets or gift certificates to workshops such as Liquid Confidence: Mixology 101, or book them for a holiday shindig so you can give a whole bunch of your friends the gift that keeps on giving (and giving, and giving . . . depending on who you hang out with). Though most classes are hands-on, they also offer tastings, so you and your guests can just sit back, sip, and learn. The best part might be that they'll play "cocktail whisperer," and tailor the menu for their audience, so if, for example, you hate sugary sweet drinks, you won't have to waste your time—or your booze—mixing one. —Jamie Ludwig $60-$95 for gift certificates at hollowleg.com.

2/ Fat Tiger Workshop hat

Streetwear boutique Fat Tiger Workshop first set up in a small Congress Theater storefront four years ago. Founding designers Vic Lloyd, Desmond Owusu, Terrell Jones, and Joe "Freshgoods" Robinson quickly made the space a home for friends, aspiring artists, and established musicians. One day I wandered in to find Chuck Inglish and Sulaiman filming a music video behind the storefront; on another I bought a Save Money shirt during a pop-up helmed by Joey Purp. Fat Tiger has changed locations twice since then, and the owners still make sure its large West Town headquarters is an open-door community space, even as their individual profiles have risen. Robinson has become a streetwear celebrity since he made a one-off clothing line in homage to our previous president, "Thank U Obama" (Chance the Rapper wore one such hoodie while collecting his first Grammy), and he's since been enlisted to make clothes for the Chicago Bears, McDonald's, and the MCA. All four designers make gear for their individual brands, but they also have a run of Fat Tiger clothes. The simple, bold Fat Tiger hat is a great way to show love for all four of these independent, community-driven designers. —Leor Galil $30 for a signature hat at 836 N. Milwaukee, fattigerworkshop.com.

3/ Custom handmade guitar strap from Souldier

In 2004, Chicago musician Jen Tabor started making instrument straps for her friends, and soon began selling them at shows. Nearly 15 years later, her company Souldier, which specializes in hand-cut leather guitar, bass, and banjo straps, has helped support the instruments of artists such as Jeff Tweedy, Tom Petty, and Kim Gordon, and has practically come to have rock-star status of its own. You can find Souldier straps at a number of instrument shops and other retailers throughout the city, or purchase directly through their website, where there's more fun to be had by customizing a strap of your own. Choose between dozens of color and fabric patterns to match anyone's personality and/or artistic aesthetic. And though Souldier is most known for their instrument accessories, their product line also includes camera straps, headbands, wrist cuffs, dog collars, and more, so there are plenty of gift options for your non-musician human and canine friends. —Jamie Ludwig Prices vary at souldier.us.

4/ Fine Prints cassettes

Chicago's rock scene–if you can say there is one single community–is a lot broader than it often gets credited. Local label Fine Prints gets it. Founded by Robby Haynes (who helps run Hermosa studio Strange Magic Recording) and Ziyad Asrar (of Baby Blue, formerly of Whitney), Fine Prints has put out only a handful of cassette releases, but the small catalog shows how weird and wonderful Chicago rock can get. The label launched in August by releasing tapes from prog misfits Mayor Daley, art punks Wage, and synthpop hypnotists Desert Liminal; in October, Haynes and Asrar dropped the second EP by bedroom-pop wizard Adam Schubert, aka Ruins. The acts Fine Prints have worked with don't overlap stylistically, and that's partly why these four cassettes work well as a single package; they're great individual documents, and all together they unintentionally function as a reminder that there's a lot of great music happening in the city beyond the sounds on these tapes. —Leor Galil $7 per cassette at fineprints.bandcamp.com.

5/ Sharkula T-shirt

Can you really claim to be a Chicagoan if you've never met Sharkula? For the past couple decades, the oddball rapper who also answers to Thigahmahjigggee and Dirty Gilligan has roamed around the city's streets, selling his wares hand-to-hand: usually that means CD-Rs of his unpredictable raps housed in a photocopied sheet of paper littered with his drawings. He recently started making his own T-shirts, and his detailed, gritty graffiti style gives his pieces a lived-in quality. Sharkula designs each shirt by hand and no two are identical, which means this is the most unique gift you can give the Chicago hip-hop fan in your life. And, since buying a shirt requires that you call Sharkula, this also gives anyone who has never met him before the opportunity to finally meet a local legend. —Leor Galil Starting at $30 at 773-647-4995.

6/ Experimental Sound Studio tickets

Experimental Sound Studio, founded in 1986 and based in Edgewater since 2006, is one of the city's great incubators of avant-garde and experimental music. The nonprofit's facility houses a full-service recording studio, of course, as well as a small public gallery that hosts exhibitions, workshops, and other events. ESS also provides a home for the Creative Audio Archive, which it describes as "an invaluable collection of recordings, print, and visual ephemera related to avant-garde and exploratory sound and music"—including a trove of Sun Ra material dating back to the 1950s and thousands of improvised and underground shows captured between 1981 and 2006 by Chicago sound recordist Malachi Ritscher. The concert series that ESS presents in its cozy live room, including Option and Oscillations, feature internationally celebrated Chicagoans—drummer Hamid Drake, sound artist Olivia Block, visionary multi-instrumentalists Ben Lamar Gay and Douglas Ewart—as well as renowned out-of-towners such as trumpeter Greg Kelley, saxophonist Don Dietrich, and pedal steel guitarist Susan Alcorn. —Philip Montoro $40 for a pack of five tickets good for any concerts, which usually cost $10 apiece—and if you e-mail [email protected] in advance to make a reservation, they'll even get you into one of the handful each year that sell out, 5925 N. Ravenswood, 773-998-1069, ess.org.

7/ Ninja Zombie DVD

In 1992, aspiring writer-director Mark Bessenger and a small crew filmed a low-budget Super-8 horror comedy in Chicago, the exurbs, and Wisconsin. No distributor wanted to touch his movie, Ninja Zombie, though I have a little trouble understanding why; the sight of a green, shirtless zombie adeptly fighting off a small army of ninjas would've sold me in 1992, but I was also seven at the time. Bessenger made a few VHS copies for friends, but the film otherwise disappeared. More than two decades later a copy wound up in the hands of cinema fanatic Zack Carlson, who helps run Bleeding Skull, a site and film distributor that documents obscure horror pictures. In 2014, Carlson brought the VHS to his Bleeding Skull collaborators (writer Annie Choi and site founder Joseph Ziemba, an Illinois native) who were so charmed by the goofy, light-footed picture they decided to find a way to release it. Last month, Bleeding Skull and Austin-based nonprofit the American Genre Film Archive co-released Ninja Zombie on DVD. I just hope with this wide release it may soon become a midnight staple. —Leor Galil $13.99 at americangenrefilm.com/releases/ninja-zombie.

About the artists

To accompany our gift guide, we commissioned two local artists to create the gift wrap featured on our two variant covers. To take full advantage of the festivities, pick up a paper copy of this week's Reader.

Justin Clemons from Chicago Lawn is also the Production Manager at Magnolia Printing. His gift wrap features hands spelling "C-H-I-C-A-G-O" in American Sign Language. The piece started as a hand study he painted at age 17 in the program After School Matters, and his instructor noted that it evoked the feeling of people being deaf to the youth of Chicago and their issues. Years later, Justin completed the painting in acrylics. It was featured in Black Creativity Juried Art Exhibition hosted at the Museum of Science+Industry Chicago 2014.

Laura Berger is an artist living in Chicago who paints, sculpts and also animates. Her beautifully minimalistic work often focuses on themes of nature, dreams, or travel. Sometimes, her images feature a host of culturally diverse naked bodies—as appear on one of our variant covers. She is interested in how people create meaning and a sense of belonging to a greater whole.

For more info on Justin's work: justinianart.com. For more info on Laura's work: lauraberger.com. v

Source: https://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/chicago-reader-2018-holiday-gift-guide/Content?oid=63481605

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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walters12hu-blog · 6 years ago

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Sterling Silver Shopping Guide

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stardust-lightning · 7 years ago

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Starchild: Dream Maker Chapter 5 - A Cream-Colored Envelope

Okay, so now I understand the Dreamscape a little bit better. It’s still raining outside softly and there’s not much happening. It’s not a bad thing though, it’s peaceful…

It’s still raining outside on the covered balcony, softly falling on the terracotta roofs. Zero is holding onto my index finger with a small, soft smile on his face. The entire atmosphere is really serene and peaceful, which is comforting considering that this dream journey can go crazy at any given moment so I want to take in all peaceful moments as much as I can. Even though we sit in silence, silence is golden as we just take in the cool evening air to relax. It’s great.

Our moment is interrupted by some yells and screams heard downstairs. Even the older gentleman with his guitar turned his glance into the stairwell.

“What’s wrong?” Zero asks, really worried.

“No sé, los niños.” The older gentleman rises from his seat and looks down the stairwell, his guitar held tightly in his hand.

“What did he say?” Zero asks, not familiar with Spanish.

“He says he doesn’t know.” I tell him.

We hear a glass bottle smash against a wall. The older gentleman rushes down the stairs with his guitar in his hands, ready to swing and fight whatever is going on in the lower floor.

“¡DETENER ESTA TONTERÍA!” He yells downstairs and proceeds to yell in inaudible Spanish.

Walking closer to the top of the stairwell, Zero hides behind me, cowering in fear as I brace myself, holding my sketchbook as my only weapon. We both walk carefully as the noise of the commotion grows louder. At the base of the stairwell, we come in time just as we watch two people engage in a full-blown fist fight as the men surrounding them were trying to split the two brawlers apart. The two fighting individuals, a Latino-looking human and a mint-green skinned individual with a body-builder’s stature and wild silver hair, are finally dragged apart to reveal their bloody faces and no doubt broken bones. I manage to catch a glimpse at the mint-green guy’s face and find that his eyes are completely pitch-black. Zero and I then watch as the mint-green body-builder and his company leave in a huff into the pouring rain, which at this point has started to grow heavier. The noise level of the crowd in the tavern is filled with shock and confusion at the events that have just unfolded.

“What happened?” I tap a little girl, who looks about eight, on the shoulder.

“The verde man started giving ol’ Señor Matías crap, tryin’ to ruffle his feathers. It eventually lead to the verde man pushing Señor Matías around and then the two starting throwin’ hooks. He looks like he enjoyed it, even if he got his butt kicked.”

“Gotcha. Gracias.” I thank her.

“Don’t worry about him, chicos. He’s an alborotador.” The older gentleman with the guitar spoke up next to us in English.

“A troublemaker, eh?”

“Me llamo Santiago. This is mi hija, Elena.” The older man addresses himself and his daughter, the young girl who spoke to us earlier.

“Me llamo Airika y Zero.” I introduce myself and Zero. I knew just enough Spanish to communicate normally with other people. Elena and her father then lead us to an empty booth in the back corner. The candle burning on the blue fat bottle flickers as we take a seat.

“Did ya see that guy? He looked muy loco. I mean, he had those piercing ojos to him. He even had this malo aura around him. Tan extraño…”

“Wait, a malo aura?”

“Malo means bad.”

“Yeah, it gave him a bit of an edge,y’know?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Zero turn pale.

“Don't over-exaggerate, Elena. He was just a mischievous diablo, nothing serious.”

“He was loco though...”

“Who was that guy?” I pipe, seeing an opportunity to speak.

“I dunno, but he was quite the character. His eyes were negro.”

“He’s one of the Eronos.”

“Eronos?”

“A street gang that has gotten really popular lately. I wouldn’t mess with them if I were you. Now that I think about it, a lot of nasties have been prowlin’ around lately...”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“La taberna is about to close.”

“Already?”

“Sí. One last thing.”

“Yes?” Zero and I responded together.

“You two aren’t from around here, are you?”

“N-No, sir. Why do you ask?”

“My apologies, but I could help but listen to your conversation upstairs” Santiago lowered his voice, “Are you the Dreamlord’s apprentice and the Mortal?”

“We are.”

“Let me see your hand.” Santiago asked to Zero. Zero gave him his right hand without question. Santiago looked at the palm of hand studying it.

“You are indeed who you say you are. I can see your blood running through your veins, along with the magic of your ancestors. As for the Mortal, she needs no explanation; her aura is enough. Now I own this tavern here. If you wish, and I insist, there are some guest rooms upstairs. With people like you, you can get hurt or worse if they knew who you two were. I don't want to risk seeing you in trouble. Stay here tonight.” Santiago explained.

“It's not a bother?”

“We’ve taken in guests all the time. It's not a hassle!” Alena chimes in.

“What do you think, Zero?”

“If it's okay with you, Airika.”

“Don't worry about the charge. There’s no fee because you two have a lot more to worry about.”

“Oh thank you!”

“Come now chicos. Better get some sleep while you can.”

“Wait, how do you know who we are, besides the conversation?”

“I was met by an older Japanese shaman who told me to look out for you two. She wanted me to give you this message.” Santiago explained as he gives Zero a tiny cream-colored envelope with an ocean-blue seal with a strange symbol engraved in it.

“Older Japanese shaman…?”

“Oh! He’s talking about the Celestial Gatekeeper Rhiannye!”

“Sí, she's the one. Go ahead and get some rest. Alena will lead the way.”

--------An hour later--------

We settled into a small room upstairs with only one bed, a dresser and a window with stained-glass shutters. I don't know about Zero, but I don't have a problem sleeping with someone else, regardless of gender. I set my sketchbook on the dresser near the window. We then started to take our jackets and shoes off. I look over at Zero, who is facing the wall and not saying anything.

I start to see dark blue lines on his back through his thin, white shirt that resemble closed wings and they're glowing.

I try to strike up a conversation to keep me from staring at the tattoo on his back. Zero sets his jacket and his shoes on the edge of the bed and takes up the cream-colored envelope, clutching it in his hands, staring at it.

“Y’know, this place here is a beautiful town, with the red roofs and the flowers all about in a gorgeous display of colors. I wouldn't mind staying here a while if we didn't have a deadline.”

Zero turns and sits in the bed and I see his face. He looks white as a sheet and ready to have an anxiety attack.

“What’s wrong? You look really anxious.”

“S-Sorry, what?”

“You look like you've seen a ghost. Something bothering you?”

“Y-Yeah…I-I can't stop thinking about it…”

“About what?”

“The Dreamscape…”

“Why?” I probe him, sitting next to him on the bed.

“I think there's something really wrong here. I know that this is my first time out here, but even I can tell when something's not right.

“For one thing, the Celestial Courtyard and the atmosphere surrounding it are never that dead silent. There are always people going to and fro the Courtyard.

“Second, Celestial Gatekeeper Rhiannye is never alone; there is always one or two other Gatekeepers in each Courtyard to help run things. The only time when one Gatekeeper is alone is when there’s something serious and they leave one behind to keep the Courtyard running.

“Third, when Alena and her father were talking about the mint-green guy, they kept talking about his eyes and his dark presence and how ones like him are poppin’ up lately.”

“Why does his description bother you?”

“The eyes are one of the ways you can tell a Nightmare Spirit from a normal person. I keep getting a feeling that mint-green guy was a Nightmare Spirit.”

“Well, we’ll never know 'cause we weren't there, though you're not the only one with that gut feeling,” I try to reassure him, “What's inside the envelope?”

“I don't know…”

Zero breaks the seal and holds his breath. I look over his shoulder as he takes out the letter. The text is written in Enochian, I knew that much.

“What does it say?”

“Here goes.”

To Zero and Mortal Airika,

Listen to me very carefully: Be on your guard at all times. It has been discovered that some Nightmare Spirits have escaped into the Dreamscape. They may be already among you. When this became known, a horrific discovery was found: the Seven Elders are missing from Plasmatio.

“W-WHAT!?!?”

“Is there more!?”

Diávolos has regained his strength since his last attempt at controlling the Dreamscape and has risen again with his demonic armies. The Seven Elders are in the possession of Diávolos and his Nightmare Spirits, using their power to destroy and wreak havoc in the Dreamscape. Should this continue, the Dreamscape will crumble much faster that it already has and eventually cease to exist. The vessels that keep Dreams, Memories and Thoughts contained will be broken and they will dissipate into nothing. If the Dreamscape collapses, Zero, the fabric of your being and everyone else here will be erased from existence. As for you, Airika, you will never come back to reality for you will instead float in limbo-like purgatory for the rest of your existence.

In order to prevent this tragedy, you two must find the Seven Elders before the Dreamscape crumbles at the heart. The souls of the Seven Elders are trapped in the bodies of the seven Archdemons Lucifer, Beelzebub, Abbadon, Mammon, Belphegor, Sathanus and Asmodeus. I have designated their locations on the map in Airika's sketchbook. I have been called to battle against these tyrants, so you may see me again.

Remember what I said: Be on your guard.

Gatekeeper Rhiannye

We try sleeping later after reading the letter, but it's very hard to when it feels like your heart is about to pop from beating so hard.

#Starchild #Dream Maker #my writing #Fifith chapter

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