#pierre blot

[sashiavi]

I know Sam isn't that mean, but a germophobic kitty hybrid farmer getting absolutely bullied by a Golden retriever hybrid Sam and Chocolate Lab hybrid Alex.

A kitty hybrid farmer who doesn't shake hands with anyone and always puts on hand sanitizer after visiting Pierre's. The kind of person to wear vinyl gloves when browsing the library, not for the sake of the books themselves, but rather for her own peace of mind.

One who can always be seen grooming her tail to be a perfectly kempt white, never a blot of dirt to be found despite her occupation

One who always hangs out with the "Cleaner" hybrids, like Chinchilla Abigail or rabbit Maru, but never once considers engaging with the two dogs, considering their lack of spatial awareness and hygiene in her humble opinion. Although I can't help but think that they might not appreciate her cleanliness as much as she does...

(smut ensues)

Omggg.. Something about those messy and clumsy puppies </3

warnings for sweat, body odor, threesomes and hybrids - 0.5k words

Both boys helping out on the farm for their strength and eagerness, chopping down trees, tilling the rich soil, dirty and muddy, sweat dripping down their bodies, staining the fabric of their shirts. Alex wipes his forehead with his arm, biceps raising to reveal the stain of sweat on his underarm, shirt riding up enough to reveal the brush of a happy trail disappearing into the waist of his pants, accentuated by the muscle of his abdomen.

Sam was in a similar predicament, skin tacky, laying his arm hairs flat to his forearms, sticky and uncomfortable, his brushy blonde tail tucked and wagging tentatively to reflect his mood. Both men pant, huffed as if they were dogs- Ears twitching to avoid the wrath of the sun, tails trying to cool off their bodies, a shirt discarded and thrown over Alex's shoulder.

Dirty and grubby mutts.

Messy and sloppy- Especially when they slobber all over your cunt, fighting each other with their tongues just to get a taste of your sweetness. So pretty and pristine, put together and seemingly untouchable! That's why it's all the more special to ruin your pussy with their tongues.

They whimper and growl, vibrations buzzing at your clit, lips suckling before the pop off and a tongue is fucking past the ring of your creamy hole, all while another sweaty mutt latches on to your sensitive kitty cunt.

You want to squirm- scold them for being so dirty in your home, want to tug painfully at their ears and have them yelp away. But Yoba, you can't stop the purrs that trill up your throat, mewly calls bordering on a meow as a set of pointed canines sink into the mound of your cunt, tongue thrashing abuse on your clit.

Their deep musky scents overwhelm your senses, two male hybrids falling victim to the pheromones twinging in the air.

You shouldn't be surprised when one of them mounts on your kitty cunt, Alex's fat and veiny puppy cock kissing against your hole, his thick knot already daring to show itself with his eagerness. You card your fingers through Sam's messy hair, cool and damp with sweat and Yoba knows what else. Your mind screams to let go, scrub away the stain on your fingers but you can't! Not when the pudgy tip of Alex's cock plugs up your pussy, making them kiss. Your hand tightens, threading through Sam's hair with a squeeze, the poor puppy whimpers, nose nuzzling into your tummy, lips kissing against the bulge of Alex's cock daring to bud below your belly button.

Plap, plap, plap goes Alex's hips against yours, throat letting out excited whimpery howls while he takes to your cunt. Sam's ears twitch against your tightening hand as his tongue laps at the sticky wet mess between you, sweet cream and sweat, hot musk of pre and spit dribbled from Alex and himself, making himself useful and cleaning up the gooey mess they were causing.

Rare pair that I need to think about more </3 tysm for sharing your yummy thoughts~

[fdelopera]

Welcome to the 63rd installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 115 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part II of Chapter 27, “Faut-il tourner le scorpion ? Faut-il tourner la sauterelle ?” (Shall You Turn the Scorpion? Or Shall You Turn the Grasshopper?).

This section was first printed on Sunday, 2 January, 1910.

For anyone following along in David Coward's translation of the First Edition of Phantom of the Opera (either in paperback, or Kindle, or from another vendor -- the ISBN-13 is: 978-0199694570), the text starts in Chapter 27, “The discovery we had just made plunged us into a state of total shock which blotted out our past troubles and present sufferings,” and goes to the Persian’s line, “Don’t touch it!”

There are some differences between the Gaulois text and the First Edition. In this section, these include:

1) Chapter XXVII was printed as Chapter XXVIII. This numbering error was made in Chapter VII, and was not corrected, so it was propagated throughout the Gaulois publication.

2) Each chapter in the Gaulois publication is one number ahead of the chapters in the First Edition, due to the inclusion of “The Magic Envelope” chapter in the Gaulois.

3) Minor differences in punctuation.

NOTE: Leroux and the editors at Pierre Lafitte & Cie. must have been satisfied with this section, because there are no other textual changes that appear in the First Edition.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 2 January, 1910. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.

[petermorwood]

“E” or “O”...?

A comment in the “It Was Sugar!” post wondered if "castor" with an "O" was the American spelling for caster sugar, or a typo.

It’s a typo, but one with an interesting history.

*****

“CastOr” is the spelling when referring to castor oil (pressed from castor beans) and, even older, a hat made from felted beaver fur (Castor canadiensis).

Fans of historical fiction might occasionally read that a character “doffed their castor” - meaning, raised or removed their hat in a token of good manners to ladies or respect to superiors.

"CastEr" is the spelling for a container (or its contents) for strewing, sprinkling or throwing, as in "cast aside" or “cast a shadow”.

In homophones (same-sounding words) such as sow / sew, rein / rain, peal / peel, breach / breech etc., just one letter gives the different meaning.

Words like “cast”, however, depend on context - cast a spell, cast a bell, cast a role, arm in a cast, cast in an eye, cast of the show...

English is like that.

*****

Besides sugar casters for sprinkling sugar, there were “sand casters” of wood, ceramic or metal, which contained the powder used to blot ink before or instead of blotting-paper.

This powder might be fine sand or ground sandarac resin (two reasons for “sand caster”) but also ground cuttlefish bone, or ground pumice which was called “pounce” - the French for pumice stone is “pierre ponce” - in which case the container was called a “pounce pot”.

Blotting a letter with sand or pounce may even be the origin of the phrase “done and dusted”, meaning “job all done”, though that might just derive from a room or house completely cleaned, so YMMV.

Its use is often seen in historical films, though they often get the end of the action wrong by showing writers blowing or shaking the powder off onto the floor.

In fact blotting powder was re-usable, and was poured off the paper back into the pot, whose top was often funnel-shaped to make that easier.

Using sand or pounce continued until fairly recently: here’s a silver writing set - inkstand with matching inkwell and pounce pot / sander - hallmarked 1908.

Fountain-pens were already in use (mass-produced since 1880) though prone to leakage until that problem was fixed in, surprise,1908, so it’s not surprising that this handsome set relied on dip pens. Also, it was probably on the desk of An Important Person who had to write little more than signatures.

The pounce pot is a curious anachronism; I’ve read one source suggesting pounce and sand continued in use because they was cheap, but penny-pinching doesn’t seem an issue here.

Maybe used blotting-paper was considered unsightly, whether as a sheet or mounted on one of those rocker-blotters still used occasionally when signing treaties.

Or maybe pounce was considered more secure; if blotting-paper picks up a good reverse impression of the writing, it can be mirror-read; there’s no way to mirror-read anything from powder.

Writer Note; a fantasy story could mention a spell which makes the pounce or sand reassemble itself as the words it blotted, so re-use is done for more than mere economy. Each time pounce is poured back into the pot it gets a thorough shaking, that world’s version of a micro-cut paper shredder or multi-pass disc wipe.

This was originally about spelling variations, so yet again I seem to have wandered a bit off-topic

I do like the silver desk-set, though.

[liviavanrouge]

"Why are you so protective...of her?"

Lilia: ....because she still doesn't know her worth...

---

Livia: *Sets up her Mianko doll by her Epel doll* What am I really? I still haven't found a proper role...I have so many titles, yet none feels right...

Livia: *Sits up and hugs her Leona doll* I envy everyone else..they're all cool and they shine bright

Livia: *Looks down, tears threatening to fall* Would things have turned out differently, if I tried to be more like everyone else?

Livia: *Sets Leona down beside a doll of Pierre, resting her head on her arms* Can I change things if I put more effort into being normal, would everyone.....would I...finally truly have a place...

Livia: *Sits up and grabs Carrots, tears falling down her cheeks* I'm so loved..and I get spoiled with gifts and affection....but I still feel so alone right now...

Livia: *Hugs Carrots, her tears turning into blot* It's lonely...

@anxious-twisted-vampire @yukii0nna @writing-heiress

[bylagunabay]

Devotion to the Holy Face of Jesus

BY MY HOLY FACE YOU SHALL WORK MIRACLES …

Promises of Our Lord Jesus Christ to Sister Marie de Saint-Pierre to those who honour His Holy Face:

1. “By My Holy Face you shall work miracles.”

2. “By My Holy Face you will obtain the conversion of many sinners.”

3. “Nothing that you ask in making this offering will be refused to you.”

4. “If you knew how pleasing the sight of My Face is to My Father.”

5. “As in a kingdom you can procure all you wish for with coin marked with the King’s effigy, so in the Kingdom of Heaven you will obtain all you desire with the Precious coin of My Holy Face.”

6. “Our Lord has promised me that He will imprint His divine likeness on the souls of those who honour his most holy Countenance.”

7. “All those who honour My Holy Face in a spirit of reparation, will be so doing perform the office of the pious Veronica.”

8. According to the care you take in making reparation to My Face disfigured by blasphemies, so will I take care of yours which has been disfigured by sin. I will reprint therein My image and render it as beautiful as it was on leaving the Baptismal font.”

9. “Our Lord has promised me, that all those who defend His cause in this work of reparation, by words, by prayers, or in writing. He will defend them before His Father; at their death He will purify their souls by effacing all the blots of sin and will restore to them their primitive beauty.”

[lady-grace-pens]

FOAD Excerpt [9]

Holy shit it’s been 3 months since I shared a raw excerpt. I just hit 70k and it’s my birthday so here y’all go. Where I’m at right now is spoiler station so it was rather challenging deciphering what to post, but luckily my current scene provides for excellent material!

Emily and the gang travel to her childhood home for Secret Plot Reasons, which stirs up a ton of conflicting emotions and leads her to talk with her terrible mother.

Enjoy!

Taglist: @isabellebissonrouthier @wordwizards @flowerprose @serafyyn

I stand before the mausoleum of my childhood: a quaint, unassuming Victorian mano more humble on the outside than in. Hell, the guts may as well be decked out in a string of pearls.

Cal and the rest skip up the stairs with a merry gaiety I can’t understand. My eyes strain themselves at the base of this skyscraper. What little sun we’ve been given is blotted out by the roof. The severity of the task I’ve asked myself to do robs something of my spirit that I can’t identify, let alone pray for a chance of getting it back.

The porch groans from the weight of my first step. The floorboards stick to my feet. As punishment, as I breathe in that familiar scent of potting soil and paint, my first dose of memories is injected into my bloodstream. Cal and sweating glasses of fresh lemonade, MawMaw, hot biscuits dripping with butter and honey. Midnight longings. Fear, heartache, failed efforts, rage both misguided and justified.

I haven’t been here since college. Not even to visit. If we require something here, Cal is our faithful carrier pigeon. Frankly, I believe Mother is able to stand her more. It’s just a theory, but I’d understand if it’s true. Her face, her presence, her voice, Cal is nothing short of round edges. That being said, Mother is distant to us both. It’s no wonder why I was so eager to escape into university the summer following my graduation.

Cal’s hand melts off my back. Ilya’s well-meaning smile is blurred in my vision. Pierre stops at my side. He steals my hand with his own weighty grasp. Only he refuses to budge until I step through the threshold before us: an imposing black portal teeming with ghosts of events I can’t exercise.

Holy intent or not, his expectant eyes grate my shoulder. My legs are porcelain as are my lungs. If Matthieu wants a doll, he’s earned one. Pierre must force me through.

From there, they settle into the living room. Cal fetches iced tea, Ilya analyzes each detail of the decor, and Pierre flings himself onto the emerald loveseat, channeling the blasé sophistication of Amory Blane.

Cal returns sooner than she left. One could count it as a blessing, but it means so little to me. I’ve been stricken dumb. I don’t know what to do with myself. The glass she hands me slips from my fingers yet somehow ends up on the coffee table flawlessly intact. Their muttering conversation evidently sparks an agreement, for Cal and Ilya scatter upstairs, leaving Pierre and I to fend for ourselves.

He contents himself on the loveseat, his feet thumping softly against the wooden frame. It’s a vintage reproduction, following the style of the rest of the house. Dark wood, blackened hallways, soulless false grandeur hindering the value of each object.

Potted plants somehow thrive in the cheap yellow lighting of dingy chandeliers. Ravenna handles this aspect infinitely greater. Hideous carpet whispers secrets from the bedrooms and the wallpaper glistens. It seems absolutely everything has some sprawling floral pattern, no matter how subtle.

I skim the edge of a dresser that never housed anything save for untouched sewing supplies, bills, and crayons. Family portraits—mostly distant relatives—leer in their tacky golden frames. Chipping paint and a cocktail of judgment. The funny thing is, I can’t recall having a single conversation with any of these people. Still, their portraits hang…

A hand touches my shoulder. I turn. Pierre’s grin glitters through the shade of his rich brown curls and beard. His presence is a tether to my consciousness, drawing me out of whatever daze I was plagued with. The warmth of his presence bleeds through his laughter.

“Hey. There you are. I’m gonna go raid the pantry for snacks, do you want any?”

“No, just—um… Mother always kept these chocolate oranges in the door of the fridge—”

“Up up up,” Pierre brings a finger to my lips. “Say no more.”

With this, he waltzes into the other room.

The air in this house has always been stale, but without Pierre, I recognize it for what it truly is. Loneliness. The sort that groans and becomes indistinguishable from a twice broken limb. Thumps and creaks beyond those made by Cal and Ilya are simple extensions of that. Houses are built to become homes. This one has failed in its purpose.

As I ascend the stairs to the second floor hallway, I question whether or not this is true. The deep plum walls are barely visible due to the massive array of photographs spanning across four generations, stopping at my great grandparents. Goofy spells, birthdays, weddings, obituaries stashed in corners. Clear evidence of the love that once held these floorboards together.

Is it possible to feel such a strange connection to a place? A mixture so rich with nostalgia, yet equal parts loathing?

I stop by one in particular. My mother in the 60s, posing with her first car. My grandmother narrates the tale associated with that picture, as she told it many times before.

Momma never wanted to be a farmer’s daughter, but she was one anyway. She tried to escape to Vegas after high school, but it wasn’t too long before some bum from Arkansas dragged her back home on his way to Mississippi. Her hair and clothes were a ragged mess. To this day, the thought of her trying something that desperate is… obscene.

The light to her bedroom is a beacon at the end of the hallway. Think not of a sailor’s homecoming, but a Lovcradftian divinity indifferent to her power.

Suppose I should say hello. She is my mother. It’s been a while since either of us shared a glance, god forbid a conversation.

This idea directs my every step. It strings me further and further along until I’m breathing in the rotten grains of the door.

“Come in, Emily,” she calls, expectant. “That is you, isn’t it?

“Yes Mother.”

My acknowledgement came out closer to a raspy breath than a firm declaration. This will likely bite me in the ass later.

I open the door. Stepping beyond the entrance feels like an invasion, so I glue myself to the paneling at my hip. As our eyes connect, I’m reduced to a husk awaiting the slightest hint of an impression. Mother, with her silver curls, sharp features, and eyes of bullets, spares me a laconic glance over the brim of her latest bodice-ripper novel. That's more than enough time for her to formulate an opinion.

“God, you look like me.”

The simplest of sentences, yet it casts my gaze down to the floor in burning shame. I wrap my arms around my torso.

[byneddiedingo]

François Leterrier in A Man Escaped (Robert Bresson, 1956) Cast: François Leterrier, Charles LeClainche, Jacque Ertaud, Maurice Beerbeck, Roland Monod. Screenplay: Robert Bresson, Bbased on a memoir by André Devigny. Cinematography: Léonce-Henri Burel. Production design: Pierre Charbonnier. Film editing: Raymond Lamy.  "I don't laugh," Fontaine (François Leterrier) says. No, he doesn't. In fact, throughout A Man Escaped, Leterrier's expression rarely changes. But we always know the determination, the doubt, the calculation, the suspicion that's going through his head, thanks to Leterrier's use of his eyes.* But as Eisenstein taught us so long ago, montage is responsible for so much of what we feel and witness in movies, and we also have to credit Raymond Lamy's editing as well as Léonce-Henri Burel's cinematography and of course Robert Bresson's direction for making A Man Escaped, based on the memoirs of André Devigny, a member of the French Resistance who was imprisoned by the Nazis, one of the most powerful excursions into a man's soul ever put on film. The word "minimalism" was not so much in use when A Man Escaped was made as it is today, but if ever a film was minimalist in avoiding conventional movie tricks like background music or flashy camerawork, it's this one. Bresson's restraint as a filmmaker serves to keep us in Fontaine's head, blotting out all but his grim determination to escape. When Fontaine murders the prison guard, we don't see it. We barely even hear it. We are watching a blank wall when it happens. But we hold our breaths while it does. Today we think of the prison-break movie genre in terms of films like Stalag 17 (Billy Wilder, 1953), The Great Escape (John Sturges, 1963), Escape From Alcatraz (Don Siegel, 1979), and The Shawshank Redemption (Frank Darabont, 1994), with stars like William Holden, Steve McQueen, Clint Eastwood, Tim Robbins, and Morgan Freeman, with action leavened by comic relief and made more tense by grotesque and sadistic guards, and underscored by mood music. What Bresson gives us is a film with no stars that concentrates largely on the face of the man planning his breakout and whose only music is the occasional underscoring with the "Kyrie" from Mozart's C-minor mass. And it works far better than those more famous and conventional movies. *Leterrier went on to become a film director and writer. He made only one more film appearance as an actor, in the small role of André Malraux in Alain Resnais's Stavisky... (1974).

[gogmstuff]

Some post Louis XIV fashion -

1715 Jeanne-Cecil Le Guay de Montgermon, three quarter length in a white satin robe with gold trimming and a ruby and pearl brooch by Nicolas de Largillière (Robilant & Voena, specific location ?). From their Web site; From their Web site; fixed spots in background with Photoshop and increased color saturation. 2721X3532.

1716 Mary Josephine Drummond, condesa de Castelblanco by Jean Baptiste Oudry (Museo del Prado - Madrid, Spain). From their Web site;fixed spots w Pshop 2045X2717.

ca. 1715 Louise Adélaïde de Bourbon by Pierre Gobert (Châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon - Versailles, Île-de-France, France) photo - Gérard Blot. From Réunion des Musées nationaux; enlarged by half 726X956.

ca. 1715 Sarah Lascelles (1656/1659–1743), Mrs Joshua Iremonger II, then Mrs Christopher Lethieullier by Michael Dahl I (Uppark House and Garden - South Harting, Petersfield, West Sussex, UK). From bbc.co (now artuk.org) 652X800.

ca. 1716 Friedrich Ludwig of Württemberg and his wife Henriette Marie of Brandenburg-Schwedt by Antoine Pesne (Staatliches Museum Schwerin - Schwerin, Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, Germany). From Wikimedia; removed spots and linear and splotch flaws with. Photoshop 2078X2763.

ca. 1716 Marie Louise Adélaïde d'Orléans the future Abbess of Chelles, daughter of the Regent of France by Pierre Gobert (Domaine de Sceaux - Sceaux, Hauts-de-Seine, Île-de-France, France). From Wikimedia; fixed spots w Pshop 1069X1235.

ca. 1717 Madame de Ventadour by Pierre Mignard (Châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon - Versailles, Île-de-France, France). From Wikimedia 1516X2000.The abundant lace ruffles on her sleeves point to the future while the headdress looks back to Fontanges and cleft coiffures.

Lady, said to be Marie-Elisabeth Le Fèvre de Caumartin (d. 1717) by Nicolas de Largillière (Sotheby's - 13Jun07 auction Lot 56). From their Web site; fixed obvious spots & cracks w Pshop 2396X2866.

[strytells]

CHARACTER PROFILE- NOAH GRINGOIRE (OC)

Name: Noah Gringoire Age: 19 (5/2) Height: 5'6" Affiliations: Noble Bell College (3rd year) Allusion: Esmeralda (Hunchback)

Unique Magic: God Help the Outcasts - Noah is able to sacrifice part of her lifespan to heal those around her. - How much she sacrifices is dependent on the severity of the wound (Minor: Seconds/minutes, Medium: Hours/days, Major: Weeks/months, Death: Years) - She never gets anything in return, mostly taking blot from her patients as well as healing them. - Her blot accumulation is unknown, but using her UM to fix a death will result in an overblot. (It's very taxing on her mind to use her UM as well, physical wounds can heal but mental ones can't.) - Incantation: God help the outcasts or nobody will.

FAMILY: Pierre Gringoire (Father; Estranged/Alive) Agnès Coppenole (Mother; Estranged/Alive)

OTHER: - She was abandoned by her parents at the steps of a church in Passione, raised there ever since. And while she attends Noble Bell, Noah will sometimes abscond from classes to go home and relax for a bit before returning.

[azlovesem]

Yeah they sent me to get checked out at the psychologists. Why Pierre? I mean i know youre crazy but do am i and i like crazy Pete. But youre not that bad come in now. Yeah well since Diane went off her rocker they wanted to check me out. Plus i burn tripstone do everyone thonks ur crazy. One day theyre gonna legalize it and ill call them crazy instead. Fuckn bullshit. Anyway theyd showed me ink blots like fuckn losers would. I told them i dont see shit on any pattern that isnt numerical. And they can stuff the catds dont bother. They pay you to fdo this ro people but yheyre mad i grow tripstone. I dont gibe a fuxk you better tell my larents im ok because i am i told the fucker. Then i had Tinker call this foctor and explain shit to him. Hevwas pissed when i told him it might effect the operation. He told that doctor ge betyer my parents im fine. You sre fine Pete. Domt fuckn listen. Thevworld is populated by worriers. Worry abputbthos about that but never what really matters.

Emily Feld

[thetwilightrepublic]

The Twilight Republic: 1

1. Twilight

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ancient ventilation system struggling against a December chill. Pierre Duval, chief aide to the President, stared at the electronic map of France projected onto the wall. The blue, white, and red of the Republic’s regions were pockmarked with dark voids—areas where government control had ceased to exist. Corsica was already marked as “autonomous,” its own tricolor defaced with a crude emblem of independence. In the north, a coalition of far-right militias patrolled the streets of Lille, declaring their loyalty to an ultranationalist shadow regime. The south, meanwhile, had descended into chaos, with secessionist flags of Occitania and armed protests in Marseille blotting out Paris’s authority.

The Fifth Republic, forged in the crises of 1958 and weathered through decades of upheaval, had finally begun to crumble. This was no accident. Pierre knew because he had seen the fractures forming long before anyone else dared to speak of them.

It had started innocuously enough—if the fall of democracies could ever be called innocuous. The 2024 summer elections produced a parliament so divided it made governance impossible. President Matón, entering his twilight years of leadership, had appointed Micah Bernárd a compromise prime minister, but Pierre had suspected it was only a stopgap. The government’s use of Article 49.3 to push through austerity measures was not an act of strength but one of desperation, a gamble that detonated in December with Bernárd’s historic no-confidence vote.

What followed was chaos, more rapid than anyone had anticipated. First, the financial markets faltered, stripping the state of its ability to pay pensions and wages. Then, police strikes spread from Paris to Lyon. By March 2025, the military had been deployed to secure nuclear power plants from opportunistic saboteurs, but cracks were showing in the chain of command itself. “Loyalty to France,” Pierre muttered bitterly under his breath as he rubbed his temples, “means something very different depending on where you stand.”

Pierre adjusted his tie, though he had no intention of appearing before the press today. No, his war was fought in the Elysee’s labyrinthine corridors, amidst a skeleton crew of aides and technocrats who had not yet abandoned their posts. The President had locked himself in his study, delivering vague proclamations to an increasingly disillusioned population, while Pierre fielded calls from foreign ambassadors.

“Sir,” one aide interrupted, holding a tablet displaying grainy footage of an unruly crowd storming a prefecture in Bordeaux. The official seal of the Republic had been replaced with a haphazard flag, its center bearing the heraldry of a fictional “Southwestern Republic.” For a moment, Pierre could do nothing but stare.

He thought of the French Revolution, of the blood and fervor that had birthed the first Republic centuries ago. Now, history was not repeating itself—it was mutating. Where once citizens had risen for liberty and fraternity, now they fractured into tribes of grievance and ideology. Europe watched nervously as the fracturing of France cast shadows over its fragile unity.

As the aide left, Pierre reached for a dossier marked “Classified: International Options.” Contained within were pleas from NATO for clarity, from Brussels for restraint, and from Beijing offering “economic support” in exchange for a foothold in Europe. These were vultures circling a wounded beast. But the most chilling document, one he had refused to shred despite the temptation, was an intelligence report: whispers of mercenary forces en route to Brittany to “aid” its regional leaders in a bid for independence.

For all its theater of stability, the Republic was dying from within. The old France—centralized, defiant, and indivisible—was being carved into fiefdoms of ideology and desperation. Sitting at the heart of it, Pierre realized that he was not a savior but a witness. His fingers hovered over his phone. Somewhere, he needed to find a message of unity or fire a final salvo to stop the collapse.

And yet, deep down, he already knew. France would not fall with a bang, nor a single catastrophic moment. It would simply dissolve—region by region, law by law, institution by institution. All that would remain of its centuries-old nationhood would be memories, and Pierre wasn’t even sure those would last much longer.

[Any similarities to places or persons (both living or dead) is purely coincidental]

[photoklatsch]

Les Rencontres de la photographie documentaire, le programme 2024

En continuité avec ses engagements en faveur de l’éducation aux images, le Centre Le Lierre accueille du 25 septembre au 6 octobre 2024 la 3ème édition de ses Rencontres de la Photographie documentaire. Cette manifestation imaginée par le collectif Photoklatsch, Le Centre « Le Lierre » et son festival « Le Réel En Vue » fait la part belle à la photographie contemporaine qui ouvre de nouveaux chemins de créations et de réflexions.

Au menu, une exposition qui réunit les travaux de plus d’une dizaine de photographes qui ont choisi sous la houlette du photographe et historien Arnaud Pagnier de « documenter le territoire ». Une masterclass exceptionnelle avec la présence de Guillaume Blot qui viendra nous parler de ses Rades, son merveilleux hommage à ces lieux mythiques en voie de disparition. Claire Jolin nous parlera de son métier d’éditrice de livre photo et les photographes Alix Haefner, Amandine Turri Hoelken et Guillaume Chauvin seront invités à échanger à propos de la photographie documentaire. L’événement sera ponctué de projections du dernier film de Pierre Villemin « Comme une araignée » , une discussion avec le photographe Patrick Kuhn et le travail de la ville à la campagne d’Aymeric Swiatoka. Sans oublier des ateliers photographique pour petits et grands avec Victoria Kieffer, et pour la première fois cette année, une lecture de portfolio et un salon du livre photo.

Les Rencontres de la photographie documentaire ne se sont pas cantonnées au bel écrin que représente l’espace jeunesse et multimédia du Centre Le Lierre au sein. La manifestation est aussi présente dans les autres espaces du Centre social, (le secteur adultes et familles et sur la Place Roland) et d’autres lieux de la ville comme à Puzzle. Vous êtes les bienvenus dans tous les espaces et tous les moments de ce rendez-vous photographique à Thionville.

[ulkaralakbarova]

In the second episode of the trilogy Fantômas kidnaps distinguished scientist professor Marchand with the aim to develop a super weapon that will enable him to menace the world. Fantômas is also planning to abduct a second scientist, professor Lefebvre. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Fantômas / Fandor / Professeur Lefèvre / Marquis de Rostelli: Jean Marais Commissaire Juve: Louis de Funès Hélène: Mylène Demongeot Inspecteur Bertrand: Jacques Dynam Directeur du journal: Robert Dalban Professeur Marchard: Albert Dagnant Inspecteur Pierre: Christian Toma Inspecteur Léon: Michel Duplaix Michou: Olivier de Funès La dame: Florence Blot Le ministre: Robert le Béal Président de l’assemblée: Pietro Tordi Homme de main de Fantômas: Henri Attal Homme de main de Fantômas: Dominique Zardi Agent de police ferroviaire: Jacques Marin Surveillant de l’institut: Max Montavon Directeur de la clinique psychiatrique: Jean Michaud Professeur suisse: Mino Doro Homme de main de Fantômas: Yvan Chiffre Faux huissier: Eric Vasberg Homme de main de Fantômas: Antoine Baud Homme de main de Fantômas: André Cagnard Professeur canadien: Arturo Dominici L’homme hypnotisé: Bob Morel Un inspecteur: Antoine Marin Un inspecteur: Bob Lerick Homme de main de Fantômas: Pierre Palfray Serveur du wagon-restaurant: Albert Daumergue …: Gérard Moisan Un inspecteur (uncredited): Philippe Castelli Un inspecteur (uncredited): Roger Lumont Fantômas (voix) (uncredited): Raymond Pellegrin Film Crew: Producer: Alain Poiré Director of Photography: Marcel Grignon Stunts: Jean Marais Set Decoration: Max Douy Makeup Artist: Anatole Paris Director: André Hunebelle Original Music Composer: Michel Magne Dialogue: Jean Halain Screenplay: Pierre Foucaud Novel: Marcel Allain Special Effects: Gil Delamare Special Effects: Gérard Cogan Assistant Art Director: Jacques Douy Second Unit Director: Jacques Besnard Novel: Pierre Souvestre Assistant Director: Michel Lang Sound: René-Christian Forget First Assistant Director: Jean-Pierre Desagnat Producer: Paul Cadéac First Assistant Director: Renzo Cerrato Production Manager: Cyril Grize Cinematography: Raymond Lemoigne Co-Director: Haroun Tazieff Assistant Editor: Colette Lambert Editor: Jean Feyte Assistant Director: Patrick Saglio Script Supervisor: Marie-Thérèse Cabon Makeup Artist: René Daudin Hairstylist: Denise Lemoigne Set Dresser: André Labussière Costume Design: Mireille Leydet Special Effects: François Suné Production Manager: Giorgio Riganti Assistant Art Director: Jean Forestier Unit Manager: Paule Pastier Sound Assistant: Jean Jak Script Supervisor: Charlotte Lefèvre Location Manager: Gille Schneider Production Manager: Luciano Pesciaroli Movie Reviews:

[writer59january13]

Daylight savings time more'n minute effect on me

In 2024, daylight savings time will begin at two o'clock ante meridiem on Sunday, March tenth. That will mean losing an hour of precious sleep and moving the clocks (around your house, and sundry frequented places) forward one hour, though your cell phone, computer, and television plus other electronic devices will likely automatically adjust. The sun will appear to rise and set an hour later.

Father time evinces spectacular robustness despite weathering setback of countless finagling representation viz Chronos (/ˈkroʊnɒs, -oʊs/; Greek: Χρόνος, [kʰrónos], "time"), also spelled Khronos or Chronus, is a personification of time in pre-Socratic philosophy and later literature. Chronos. Personification of time. Time Clipping Cupid's Wings (1694), by Pierre Mignard. Symbol.

Though crafted a few years back jet lag effect affects yours truly twice each year when schedules

within body electric

such as circadian rhythm

dislocate psyche

analogous to seismic shift

NOT attributed to global warming, nor aeronautically bound sky high,

but linkedin to hour hand

on analog clock set ahead or behind one hour.

Just about a bajillion moments ago

(from date/time

I wrote these words), a dawning realization

arose within this sol son begat

from ma late mother

and (initial commencement of this poem) while then octogenarian widower father, lived at Normandy Farms Senior Community

in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania

(he since passed away

October 7th, 2020)

oh... no nothing cat

tuss strophic, boot

merely the revelation,

how fist bumping dee clocks an hour hand ahead

remembered by dat

dog gone refrain spring ahead, and fall back,

this unemployed chap doth down play eclat attests that his quotidian rising schedule minimally affected

holed up here

in Highland Manor named flat

roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,

and buzzfeed ding fruit flies

each approximately the size of a gnat

a minor nuisance, though tolerable

within this appealing habitat,

where minor inconvenience experienced

by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident cuz as a recipient

of social security disability

(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent, which fixed (unearned) income budgeted

and predominantly costs of living money spent hence no need to arise

bright tailed and bushy black eyed,

pea yon sought freedom akin

to folks camped out in a tent, which exemption immunizes

this doodle ling middle aged

muddle brained chap subjected to ranting

courtesy early morning drivers,

who angrily, frenetically,

and splenetically rant and vent

thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy

to twitter (for the Yardbirds), and keep company

with night owls, who went

a hooting for all the world wide web

to hear, whence dawgs Bach

the exact number of hours, yet oblivious

to the tight rigorous tenon mortised schedule

manned by Mister Clock,

essentially foisting on Bread Winners,

an abstract artificial construct spurring

madcap commuters

to scurry in the rat race,

lest tardiness could cost

more than paycheck

(to ap pier with permanent dock

hue ment aye shun),

an unwonted blot add hoc king worry about getting canned -

i.e. on permanent furlough,

perhaps forced into a life of crime,

yet if caught... wasting away in a jail cell

as warden turns the lock

one redeeming factor,

would offer opportunity to mock management, and more pertinently

mandate to rock and roll to the incessant muted, rhyme without reasonable schlock yet devastatingly loud tick tock

analogous to stir fries noisily prepared in wok.

[lukevburns]

I’m very excited to announce that a book I translated for NYRB’s comics imprint is hitting stores on March 12th, and is available to pre-order now!

It’s Masters of the Nefarious, a cult classic absurd comedy, and a satire of adventure and mystery stories, about twin paranormal investigators (and their best friend, Fongor).

The writer and artist, who goes by the pseudonym Pierre La Police, is a very cool guy. His real name is unknown, no pictures of him are publicly available, and in addition to his comics, he also does a lot of work for galleries and art exhibitions.

If you pick up a copy, drop me a line and let me know!

[maverickflyer1948]

The National Republican Movement (Mouvement national républicain or MNR) is a French nationalist political party, created by Bruno Mégret with former Club de l'Horloge members Yvan Blot (also a member of GRECE) and Jean-Yves Le Gallou, as a split from Jean-Marie Le Pen's National Front on 24 January 1999.

Initially, Bruno Mégret was the chairman, with Serge Martinez vice-chairman, Jean-Yves Le Gallou, executive director and Franck Timmermans secretary-general. Other notable members of the party included Jean Haudry, Pierre Vial, Jean-Claude Bardet, Xavier Guillemot, Christian Bouchet and Maxime Brunerie. In 2000, the party had fewer than 5000 members, while its youth movement, the Movement National de la Jeunesse, headed by Philippe Schleiter, nephew of Robert Faurisson, had 1500 members. The student union Renouveau Etudiant had close ties with the MNR thanks to Pierre Vial. The party was initially known as the Front National-Mouvement National, but was forced to change its name to Mouvement National Républicain on 2 October 1999 after being sued by Le Pen for trademark infringement.