#putter smith

[sowhatifiliveinfukuoka]

James Bond Collection

Diamonds Are Forever (1971)

Sean Connery, Jill St. John, Charles Gray, Lana Wood, Putter Smith and Bruce Glover

[dogmatik]

575 words, more hungover rick, mortys trying to be more responsible.

"Fuck, my heads killing me. Why's, wuh-whats, all the fucking, noise about?" Ricks voice is rough with sleep, there's vomit on the collar of his shirt, stained a strange shade of purple. "Thunderstorm I guess. Are y-you hung over?" "I fucking wish. Must've got into that hendler's powder." "Uh, did you take all the, morphine last time? Y-you said that helps." Morty responds from atop one of the kitchen stools. he's rearranging the stuff on top of the fridge, throwing out the empty cereal boxes Rick always puts back. "Shit good idea, where the fuck, where'd I leave it Morty?" "Bathroom I think."

Rick stumbles into the bathroom, hissing when he has to turn on the too-blue light to see. He finds the morphine inside an old Tylenol box, starts to dig underneath the sink for his syringes. Rick can smell eggs cooking as he draws up, pretty sure he hears Morty curse as the liquid spreads cold and golden through his veins.

"Rick? Hey, there's b-breakfast." Rick cracks open an eye, sees Morty in the door way, pigeon toed and holding out a glass of orange juice. "I pass out?" He asks, takes the juice and drains the glass in four grateful gulps. "Uh I dunno, maybe? You, uh, weren't in here that long." "Yeah, fuck. I forget how good earth drugs can be." Morty holds out his hand, helps Rick up off the tile.

In the kitchen there are two plates set at the table. Scrambled eggs and burnt toast with way too much butter. There's a bowl of Cheerios sitting next to one plate, and Rick starts eating spoonfuls before he can sit. He's not hungry, but he can tell his blood sugars dropped. Morty pulls his chair up to the table and starts in on his eggs. They sit in companionable silence, the rain fills the quiet house up.

"Times-it?" "10, Dad'll be back n-noon. Uh, Summers at her f-friends house." "Wanna go somewhere?" Rick asks through a mouthful of eggs. "Uh, maybe later? Wanted to, get some laundry done before muh-mom gets back." "You kissing ass for s-something? She walk in on you finally?" "Gross! No! She obviously k-knows better. I-I'm just, sh-she works a lot! I-it's not l-like dad's gonna d-do it." Morty glares at his plate. "Damn, yeah. You f-finally on my side with the whole J-jerry is fucking useless and y-your mom deserves better t-thing?" "No, but. Rick i-it's not. It doesn't have to be a w-whole, whole thing okay? I just. Wanna help out more, you know, a-around the house." "Yeah, sure. Anyway. I'm gonna g-go see if Ball Fondlers is on."

Rick goes to the living room, reaches around in the couch cushions until he finds the remote. He starts to flick through channels, met with neons and fleshy reds and all sorts of colors that make his vision swim. He listens to Morty's little footsteps and the sink turning on while his world tilts, head meeting the soft but firm texture of the cushion beside him. It's easy, letting his eyes slip closed. It's been a long time since he's fallen asleep so quick.

[ultimate-007]

DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER 1971

Putter Smith, Sean Connery, Bruce Glover

[bristledthistled]

TSaMS DnD Character Classes

I’ve seen a lot of people posting their DnD headcanons and I wanted to give it a shot! It’s a mixture of things I think they would choose and classes that gives off the character’s vibe

Old Moon: Multiclass Wizard/Artificer  Subclass: Evocation (Wizard), Artillerist (Artificer) New Moon: Multiclass Artificer/Rogue Subclass: Artillerist  (Artificer), Mastermind (Rogue) Sun: Multiclass Warlock/Bard Subclass: Pact of the Celestial (Warlock), College of Tragedy (Bard) Lunar: Sorcerer Subclass: Storm Sorcerer  Earth: Monk Subclass: Way of Mercy Solar: Artificer Subclass: Battle Smith Steel Defender: Jack Blood Moon: Barbarion  Subclass: Path of the Beast Eclipse: Warlock Subclass: Pact of the Undying or Pact of the Undead

I'm still debating Monty, Foxy, Ruin, and KC’s Classes, but I’m leaning toward Rogue (Swashbuckler) for Foxy and a subclass of fighter for Monty-maybe a level or two of Artificer?

(Also I'm gonna try and add on to the post later explaining why I chose the class and subclass for each character, but my brain just kinda puttered out on me :'D )

[jokerislandgirl32]

Favorite books??

(I mean everyone in your little family + you) 😇😇

Helloooo! Thank you for this ask! We have decided to list favorite books by ages for everyone below the cut! So, all of our favorite books as children, our favorite books as tweens, and our favorite books teens and adults!

And yes, each family member is responding to this ask!

Please note there is mention of Harry Potter, I (JIG) know the author/books are triggering to some, so please do not take offense to this, I just feel like the books would have been some read by one family member in particular wayyyyy before all the unsavory details came out.

Also, a lot of these books are my personal favorites, or they are books I actually dislike immensely…so my selfship kids liking them makes me laugh 😂.

Zach: As a child I was always partial to The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams and the Peter Rabbit books by Beatrix Potter. I also loved How The Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss. As a tween/teenager, I liked the Harry Potter series by JK Rowling, the Lord of the Rings series by J.R.R. Tolkien, and the Ender’s Game Saga by Orson Scott Card. Now that I’m an adult, I’d have to say The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald and 1984 by George Orwell are probably my favorite novels. 

Violet/JIG: As a little girl my favorite book was The Foot Book by Dr. Seuss, there was just something about the “here comes pig feet” line that cracked me up, I also adored Thunder Cake by Patricia Polacco. As a tween I loved Grandpa’s Mountain by Carolyn Reeder and the American Girls Books. As a teen and adult I’d say my favorite books were/are Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls, The Education of Little Tree by Forrest Carter (the best nonfiction book I’ve ever read), Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, The Fear Street Series by RL Stine, and anything by Mary Downing Hahn.

Varina: As a child my favorite books were Winnie-the-Pooh stories, my mom had an entire collection her parents collected for her and she read them to me and all my siblings! I also loved A Bad Case of Stripes by David Shannon, the Mr. Putter and Tabby books by Cynthia Rylant, and the Amelia Bedelia books by Peggy Parish. As a tween I enjoyed The Tale of Despereaux and the American Girls books. As an adult/teen my favorite books were/are Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck, The Magic of Ordinary Days by Ann Howard Creel, and I adore any romance novel by Nicholas Sparks. 

Vera: When I was a little girl I loved the Fancy Nancy books by Jane O'Connor, any and all princess books, the Biscuit books by Alyssa Satin Capucilli, and the Junie B. Jones Books by Barbara Park. As a tween I read the American Girl books, but only I enjoyed a few of the series, Samantha was my absolute favorite! I also loved The Secret Garden and A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett, and The Wish by Gail Carsen Levine. My favorite books during my teenage years, and as an adult, are The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls, any of William Shakespeare’s plays (Romeo and Juliet is my favorite), and Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. 

Victor: When I was little my favorite book was Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss, my favorite book series was Curious George by Margret and H. A. Rey. During my tween years I read any Goosebumps book by RL Stein I could get my hands on, I also read all The Chronicles of Narnia books by C.S. Lewis, and A Series of Unfortunate Events books by Lemony Snicket.  My favorite book as a teenager was The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton, and my favorite book series as a teenager were Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs and the Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. My all time favorite book as an adult is Into The Wild by Jon Krakauer.

Vallen: The Wonky Donkey by Craig Smith was my favorite book as a kid, it was freaking hilarious, and the sequel was almost as good. I also loved the Clifford books by Norman Bridwell as a kid, and the No David books by David Shannon. As a tween I read a bunch of the Goosebumps books by RL Stine. Victor and I were in competition to see who could read the most, he won of course, the dedicated bookworm. In my teenage years and into adulthood my favorites have become The Lord of the Flies by William Golding, The Giver Quartet by Lois Lowry, and The Wayward Pines Trilogy by Blake Crouch.

Victoria: When I was a little girl I loved all of the Eric Carle books, The Very Hungry Caterpillar being my favorite! I also loved all the Little Golden Books, I think my favorite one was My Little Golden Book About God by Jane Werner Watson. Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, Each Little Bird that Sings by Deborah Wiles, and the Little House on the Prairie Series by Laura Ingalls Wilder were my favorite books during my tween years. As a teenager I enjoyed reading the Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children book series by Ransom Riggs and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. As an adult I’d say my favorite books are Wish You Well by David Baldacci or Go Down the Mountain by Meredith Battle. 

[vonnegutcunt]

thinking about putter smiths crazy cartoon infant front bangs

[rpgsandbox]

Swyvers is a light-weight set of rules married to a full set of tools and tables for running a game in the chaotic sprawl of The Smoke, its many districts and The Midden. What a city it is — corrupt officials, looming war, rogue sorcerors, monsters below and nobs above. Violence rests as thick as the smog, nothing is sacred and it’s always bloody raining. 

Swyvers is a game about bastards. You and your gang of criminals scarper through heists and sewers, stalk through the filth of The Smoke and, if you’re lucky, you’ll make it out with a few extra shillings. The whole of this city is your filthy, sickly oyster. 

Player characters are not heroes, they are not saving the world, they are trying to dodge the gallows in as much comfort as they can while giving the two fingered salute to the Crown. But hey, robbing the rich never hurt anyone, right?

This 'n That

Rules and lists of all the tools, weapons, lodgings, dodgy business investments, and hired goons any self-respecting Swyver should be familiar with.

Rules for dogs of all cut and calibre.

Death and dismemberment!

How to have a proper funeral for your mates.

'Orrible diseases.

Bloodsucking aristocrats.

Accurate time keeping records.

How to spend your spoils on carousing for XP.

Getting into deep trouble for your wild nights out, including gambling debts, dogfighting, and jealous lovers.

Take on apprentice Swyvers (Putterers), lead them on heists, and train them to take your place in the event of your inevitable sticky end.

Fences: who they are and how they'll profit from your terrible life choices.

Rules for bribes, leverage and blackmail!

A system for attracting the attention of Knotland Yard, who will, over many sessions, form a case against you and put a stop to your wicked ways.

A complete selection of terrible adversaries including agents of the church, ghouls, hussars, vampires, average humans, and bears.

... and complete rules on generating your own city of 'The Smoke'

The Smoke is the greatest city in the world, the beating heart of an empire. It is filthy and sprawling like a burst pustule left open to weep besides the iron-grey sea. It does have a name, but only the nobs and learned-readers know it. Beneath slumbers The Midden – the interconnected passages of built-over streets, basements, tombs and hidden lairs where criminals lurk, beasts squat and lost wealth resides. An enterprising fellow with a sledgehammer can traverse in any direction they please – not that they’ll like what they find. It is rife with corpse-thieves, cellar-breakers and enterprising businessmen shunned in sunlit places. The rich of The Smoke honour their dead with elaborate crypts, whose morose edifices encroach ever further into the slums – the trap-smiths of The Smoke do fine business from their craft, and the fences keep the money flowing thanks to enterprising tomb robbers.

Every group of Swyvers will have their very own Smoke. The GM starts a campaign by generating the city, starting from a core of districts: the Royal Gaol, the Palace, the Mayoral District and the Docks. From there they follow along Swyvers' generation tables to flesh out and, potentially, endlessly expand their rotten city. 

You will have a unique engine for running your own Swyvers games!

... and a unique and innovative magic system

Magic is not a known factor to the vast majority of the denizen of The Smoke. Rumours of witches abound, but specifics are thin on the ground. 

To cast a spell, put briefly — the caster plays blackjack. 

... and a starting adventure!

A starting adventure is included to get Swyvers moving and involved. Usually they’ll be planning their own heists and crimes, rather than having a justification like this one. Engaged players are happy players and great criminals.

In Blue Cheese, Left to Rot the party rob the Lindsore Estate, uncover their ivy-choked secrets, liberate their ancestral valuables, and maybe solve a few problems and make a few friends or enemies along the way.

Kickstarter campaign ends: Thu, March 7 2024 6:00 PM UTC +00:00

Website: [Melsonian Arts Council] [facebook] [twitter] [instagram]

[moonlightreal]

The Night World’s end of the world

A bit of pondering, with bonus picture of Sarah Strange.

The setup: animal attacks, natural disasters and strange diseases are on the rise! The end of the world is coming! Most of the Night World thinks it’ll be the end of the human world and they will be free to live their best vampire- and shapeshifter-lives, enslaving humans to feed from like they did back in prehistory. But Circle Daybreak is not down for mass human destruction and wants to try and stop what’s coming. Luckily there is a prophecy! There are four “Wild Powers,” four people with a special gift-- blue fire! Very cool. If they all work together they can stop the darkness. Circle Daybreak has a guide to help find them:

One from the land of kings long forgotten;

One from the hearth which still holds the spark;

One from the Day World where two eyes are watching;

One from the twilight to be one with the dark.

The first three we found in the books that have been published. A vampire prince, a ditzy but soulful lost witch, and a vampire hunter who is herself half vampire. The three of them are from the “royal families” of the Night World, the vampire Redferns and the witchy Harmans.

Information from Strange Fate indicates that the fourth Wild Power is Kierlan Drache, from the “royal family�� of the shapeshifters. His family name is linked to some very cool new shapeshifter lore that Ms. Smith added for the last four books. The Drache family are dragonborn, before Skyrim or Game of Thrones did it.

In ancient times the dragons were the most powerful and cruel of shapeshifters, ruling whole kingdoms and keeping humans as cattle. Ms. Smith’s dragons seem to be totally evil, drawing on all the darkest ancient serpent mythology. Being shapeshifters, they can be dragon or human, and have the unique power to take on any human or animal form they wish. Ordinary shapeshuifters are limited to one human form and one animal form, the descendants of the dragons are able to choose their animal form while true dragons can shapeshift into any animal or human.

The true dragons are the villains in the end of the world arc, rising from centuries of slumber to bring about the end of the world. Exactly how this will happen is a bit murky; despite the disasters Jez hears about in Huntress, by Witchlight the human world still seems to be puttering along with high school continuing as usual.

This made me wonder: was this “end of the world” arc Ms. Smith’s idea? Or did the publisher decide the series needed a dramatic wrapup? Because Ms. Smith doesn’t seem super invested in the apocalyptic worldbuilding of it all. She had great fun writing the post-apocalypse story that was originally part of Strange Fate then split off to become the standalone novel The Last Lullaby, and I know this because she told me. :-) I emailed her to say “post-apocalyptic is fun to write isn’t it?” and she sent a brief “it sure is!” reply. My only actual conversation with the woman of mystery. But she seems much less into the apocalyptic event itself. This is what made me wonder if Ms. Smith wasn’t the decider in the whole end of the world thing and just wanted to keep writing her supernatural high school stories.

Thinking about the spread of Wild Powers it occurs to me that we have an uneven spread. Witches, vampires and shapeshifters are represented, but humans only get a half-inclusion.

So… is Kierlan a confirmed Wild Power or just a likely Wild Power? ‘Cause Circle Daybreak agents tracked down Iliana through her ancestry long before she could use the blue fire. What I’m saying is, I wonder if Kierlan is a ringer and Sarah will turn out to be the real Wild Power.

On that subject, we have a picture of Sarah, made by Ms. Smith on a dollmaker. (Wherever you are now, Ms. Smith, I hope you’re having loads of fun making all your characters with AI art because it is a blast.)

I’ll have to paraphrase the description since I couldn’t find it again but in my memory Ms. Smith waxes eloquent about how Sarah “May be a bit clumsy and a bit of a crybaby…” which, uh, reminds me of somebody.

And Ms. Smith goes on to talk about Sarah’s bluegreen eyes, shimmering as if with unshed tears, as her most beautiful feature.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Solitary Cyclist pt 3

Last time, Watson did some legwork, but got it all wrong. Holmes did some legwork and you should have seen the other guy. Meanwhile, as they were puttering around, Violet Smith got into a trap, that turned out to be a trap, and was abducted by the grounds of an unscrupulous clergyman.

I sense a non-consensual marriage for the purposes of inheriting the fortune of her long lost uncle. But whether she's marrying red-moustachioed Woodley, the would-be rapist. Or Mr Carruthers her employer (who is clearly using the 'but I'm better than that guy' method of courtship), who knows?

(I should know, but I don't remember).

We were warned twice of oncoming tragedy, however. And getting a quickie divorce or annulment wasn't really a thing in Victorian Britain, as we've previously discussed, so circumstances are dire.

I hope she stabs them both (and the clergyman) with her hat pin.

I grasped Holmes's arm. “That's the man!” I gasped. A solitary cyclist was coming towards us.

Well observed, Watson, but I'm pretty sure that's the guy who's been shadowing her this whole time to try to prevent her from being abducted. Still... good try. I think it might be Carruthers...

“You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he said, in his quick, clear way. “That's what I am asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You ought to know where she is.”

Another little slapstick moment. This is also reminiscent of The Copper Beeches where they turn up and everyone demands to know what the other party has done to the daughter, not knowing her boyfriend smuggled her out.

“Good Lord! Good Lord! what shall I do?” cried the stranger, in an ecstasy of despair. “They've got her, that hellhound Woodley and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand by me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in Charlington Wood.”

What shall you do? What shall she do, more like. Seriously. Stalking her was not a good solution to this problem, you muppet-head. Why didn't you just tell her? OH YEAH, because you wanted her to keep working for you so you could marry her and get the fortune she didn't even know about. Right. You're such a great guy.

It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.

The groom is still alive, so that's one fewer people to worry about.

"We may save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman.”

Again, I say that the best way to have done this would have been to tell her what was going on in the first place.

Also, I'm pretty sure they're referring to 'being ruined' here rather than, y'know, trauma and pain and violation of her bodily autonomy and personhood. Ugh.

As he spoke a woman's shrill scream—a scream which vibrated with a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick green clump of bushes in front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle.

Not traditionally a good combination of sounds. Let's hope that Violet stabbed Mr Woodley in the balls with a hat pin and that was his scream and choke and gurgle. And not... y'know, Violet being strangled.

“This way! This way! They are in the bowling alley,” cried the stranger,

Sorry to disrupt the tension for this but...

And back to the abduction of a young woman by a rapist, shall we?

One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding-crop, his whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared and slapped the sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

Did you not need witnesses in the Victorian era? Also, there really should have been some way to negate a forced marriage. Just, seriously? I feel like outside of some very specific circles, the use of a riding crop at a wedding should automatically negate the wedding in question.

As we approached, the lady staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness.

Also, he's an ex-clergyman, so why does it even count? Don't they get their powers of matrimony stripped from them when they're defrocked? (Is it called defrocking for C of E? ...Wow, that just led me down a rabbithole. Huh, apparently they voted to bring back defrocking in C of E this month after 20 years of it being abolished, which honestly seems fair.)

Just, basically, my takeaway from this story is, now that I am not a child, mostly that the Victorian era was fucked up and that there is no way, legally, religiously, or morally, this "marriage" should never have been treated as such. And technically the only thing that happened here today was an abduction and an assault.

“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you right enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.” Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground[...] “Yes,” said our ally, “I am Bob Carruthers,

Literally everyone knew the beard was fake, Bob. Except maybe Watson, but even there I think he might have known.

Once again ACD does an excellent job of writing an odious human being that I want to hit repeatedly. That 'just in time... to introduce you to Mrs Woodley' is such a villain line. My skin, it crawls.

“You're too late. She's my wife!” “No, she's your widow.”

OK, I don't like Bob Carruthers. Never let it be said that I like the guy. He is definitely culpable in all of this for many reasons, and he's absolutely a creep. But this is great delivery. 10/10 for style in this one moment. 1/10 the rest of the time (and the 1 is only for not being a literal rapist), but right at this moment, good line.

His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor.

And he did shoot the guy, so he gets like... one point for that. 2/10. I really feel like Miss Smith should have been allowed to shoot him, as a treat, but sure, Bob can do it.

"We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!”

Come on, Holmes. Can't she just like... kick him in the balls?

I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before him. “He will live,” said I.

Ah, you fucker. Come on Carruthers, you can't even kill the guy right? Come on. Just do one competent or decent thing. I am literally begging you.

“There are two very good reasons why she should under no circumstances be his wife."

The first being: it was non-consensual. The second being... it was non-consensual. There you go, two very good reasons.

"In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson's right to solemnize a marriage.”

That, too, but I do feel like the lack of consent is the most important reason.

“I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal. “And also unfrocked.” “Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

I... I don't think you understand what the word 'unfrocked' means... That's literally the statement it disproves. Maybe Holmes needs to explain this to you in short words.

"How about the license?” “We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket.”

"But in any case a forced marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover before you have finished."

Oh, Victorian Legal system. You aren't quite as fucked up as it seemed. Good for you.

"As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your pistol in your pocket.”

No, I think he did a pretty good job, actually. Woodley deserved a bullet in him and Carruthers ends up in jail, too. Wins all round. I see no problems with this.

“I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes; but when I thought of all the precaution I had taken to shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr. Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was..."

I remembered like halfway through that he was going to pull the 'I started out just trying to get her fortune, but I actually fell in love with her along the way' line and I'm sad that memory was correct. Ugh. If you really loved her, you would have told her what the fuck was going on and told her to go marry Cyril as soon as she could and get another job. But you don't. You just wanted to feel like the good guy. Which you're not.

Fuck off, Bob.

"I kept my distance from her, and I wore a beard so that she should not recognise me, for she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was following her about the country roads.”

...no

...no, she wouldn't.

And that would have been a good thing.

“Why didn't you tell her of her danger?” “Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't bear to face that. Even if she couldn't love me it was a great deal to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of her voice.” “Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should call it selfishness.”

Watson. I take back everything negative I have ever said about you. You tell him! You took the words right out of my mouth.

“Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let her go. Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have someone near to look after her."

Bob... no. Stop believing your own hype. You're not the good guy here. You're not the white knight. You're the slightly less shitty guy. And it's not a high bar. The bar is subterranean.

The old man is dead.

RIP to Miss Smith's uncle in South Africa. We never knew you and were, in fact, informed that you were already dead. Sorry, my dude.

Williamson is terrible at being a criminal, btw. "Don't you tell him anything!" *proceeds to correct Holmes's facts*.

"For some reason Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was that?” “We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.”

I had forgotten this detail.

May I say once again, with feeling.

Fuck. These. Guys.

“When in your report you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all."

So Watson did see something important, Holmes just didn't notice it. Ha!

"As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help to you in your trial it shall be at your disposal.”

No, no he hasn't. He did bare minimum out of a sense of entitlement and selfishness. He knowingly put her in danger and refused to put an end to it just because he wanted her to stick around. Fuck him. Nope.

I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.

Good for them.

And the bad guys ended up in jail, although Carruthers mostly got away with being an odious human being, ugh.

Well, that was an enraging narrative. I had forgotten how absolutely terrible they all were. And I don't think I really gauged how horrible the situation might have been for Violet when I was a child. She's definitely one of the characters in these stories who has it worst (while still surviving), second only to the poor lady in The Greek Interpreter, I think.

I hope she and Cyril were very happy together.

Here, let's end with a picture of a better sort of Bob:

[puutterings]

a kind of running in place, doing my lengths; petty distractions

  The contemporary artist Michael Smith talks of his tendency for puttering ‘a kind of running in place’ as he describes it. ‘I embrace distraction’, he comments. Smith moves about the studio space touching things, walking, postponing starting the work in hand. This act of putting things off by using petty distractions may be a form of limbering up, mentally, creatively, and through seeing and touching, in readiness for conscious focus in the work (Jacob and Grabner 2010 : 28).       As proposed by Oppezzo, the notion of moving while thinking creatively is not bound to a specific environment. The British painter Katy Moran provides this example where thinking and moving while swimming has provided a creative solution for a problematic painting”         “I had made a painting, and there were interesting parts of it, but it wasn’t working as a whole. I was doing my lengths [swimming] and I thought, I could take the painting off the canvas and cut it up, cut it in half, and then start playing around with those two half bits of canvas . . . that just came to me when I was swimming. I don’t know if I would have thought of it if I’d been in the studio looking at the work.” (Amiersadeghi 2012 : 158)

—

ex Pip [Philippa Anne] Dickens, “A Choreography of the Senses — The Painter’s Studio,” in Ian Heywood, ed., Sensory Arts and Design (2017) : 239-253 google books preview (pp249-250) : link direct to publisher page (and abstract) : link

—

Pip Dickens, artist’s website : link  

[fat-rambo]

From 1986 to 2006

When’s the last time anyone heard anything about [JIM HOPPER]? Old friends remember them as [DRY + CARING] but also [CYNICAL + STUBBORN], no wonder they’re still known as [FAT RAMBO] around town. Today, in 2006, they are [65] and some people say they remind them of [A GREASY AMERICAN BREAKFAST WITH DRIP COFFEE, A WIDE-BRIMMED TAN HAT, MUSTY CABIN WOOD, AND THE DEAFENING CRACK OF A SMITH & WESTON 66].

Full name: James "Jim" Hopper

Nicknames: Hop, Hopper, Fat Rambo I guess (RIP Alexi!!!!)

Birthday: September 12th, 1949

Age: 65

Education: Ex Military Education, War Trauma etc.

Occupational Experience: Former Police Chief. Brawn for Watcher investigations.

TW: Alcoholism, death.

POST 1986

When life hurts you, because it will, remember the hurt – Oh, does Jim remember the hurt. There was no shortage of it after Eleven and Will’s funerals. As one would expect, he lived in a long fog after the loss of his second daughter. He struggled to reel himself into stability, spending many evenings by the side-by-tombstones. The man tried to keep himself busy and settled back into a workflow at Hawkins PD, but no amount of Whiskey or puttering helped him escape the ache of grief. He had to face it. Joyce was an incredible anchor for him during this time. To this day he’s not sure how she managed to be so strong – dealing with the aftermath of Will’s death, taking care of the community, and tending to his own rut. She was truly a light in the dark times. Consequently, the pair grew inseparable after their collective losses – mostly knowing that they weren’t alone in the pain. Rumours abounded about a potential romance between the pair, but a relationship never officialized for them between the years of 1986 to 2006. They were happy in friendship and that was simply enough for both.

Jim’s reluctant retirement from the Hawkins Police force came in the Spring of 1999. Most of the department was sad to see him go (others unified with a collective sigh of relief), but it was time to take a step back and slow down (according to Joyce). She tried looping him into activities around town, get him involved in community, help with some gardening in the backyard but it wasn’t long until the boredom set in. Thankfully Murray saved him from the misery of retired life with a proposition to take on some work with The Watcher. It renewed a needed sense of purpose in Jim’s life. He threw himself (and his fists) into whatever investigations required a little elbow grease. It was a good way to keep himself busy. Jim did what was needed of him without question, driving out of town to be the unassuming muscle behind whatever lead was being sleuthed on … Probably executed with a lot more force than he’d ever admit to either Murray or Nancy, but neither of them would ever have to know! This chunk of his life was packed with sleepless nights in questionable motel beds, bustling from gas station to gas station in true gritty americana fashion. The years and wrinkles piled on quicker this way. So did his grumpiness.

Jim managed to take Joyce out for one last dinner at Enzo’s before her final emergency surgery. That night was the last time either of them had a conversation outside the confines of her hospital room. The proposition was initially met with resistance by her medical team. It took some convincing but enough careful planning eventually swayed them all (specifically Jonathan) to let him roll Joyce and her oxygen tank out of the oncology unit without much fuss. Jim pulled out his finest button down and slacks for the occasion. It was an evening filled with greasy bread baskets and occasional tears as they reminisced over a candlelit dining table. Time slipped away from the pair that night. If either of them squinted hard enough, they were back in 1962 – both puffing on cigarettes in the Hawkins High parking lot, contemplating what the fuck their lives would look like after graduation. It certainly didn’t look anything like this …  and like all good things in Jim’s life, their flicker of joy at Enzo’s had to end too.

The drinking started to get out of hand after Joyce’s passing. As much as he’s been encouraged to remember the good times and work his way through the first foot stones of grief, the loss of his best (and community pillar) came with an emptiness that only cigars and Whiskey seemed to fill. Joyce had told him to keep it together, to try and live out his days happy & fulfilled – maybe even find a hobby besides beating people up for The Watcher. It simply wasn’t in the cards for poor old Jim. He found himself pulling away from those around him, fully shutting himself into his reclusive cabin on the edge of town. And while he’s managed to remain relatively stable for Jonathan and Murray, there’s no denying that a bottle or flask is never far from reach after the cabin door closes behind him. Jim’s only allowed his vulnerability to slip up on a handful of occasions. Jonathan himself has received a handful of 2am calls from bar owners asking him to pick up the washed-up police chief passed out on their bar. The little taxi rescue routine has been kept on the downlow between them – it’s become a quiet understanding of their mutual grief and, honestly, a sadness that neither of them are fully prepared to acknowledge.

These days Jim doesn’t leave the confines of his musty cabin often except to grab necessities and slide the pizza man a tip. There’s truly not much that can faze Jim Hopper these days. The sorrow itself manifests differently depending on the time of day – or whether you’ve caught him before or after his morning coffee (and bourbon). He’s generally more irritable and a true party pooper, though it isn’t new for anyone who knows a lick about him around town!

Time Capsule:

In 1986 Jim left an empty box of Eggo Waffles in the time capsule on behalf of El Hopper. There’s a note for the kiddo slipped inside.

Playlist

Pinterest

[vecnasrevengerp]

welcome home JIM HOPPER(harrison ford fc)

hope you brought your tissues with you! be sure to check in at home or to your hotel and don’t forget to always look over your shoulder. this is hawkins, after all.

[HARRISON FORD, CISMALE, HE/HIM] When’s the last time anyone heard anything about [JIM HOPPER]? Old friends remember them as [DRY + CARING] but also [CYNICAL + STUBBORN], no wonder they’re still known as [FAT RAMBO] around town. Today, in 2006, they are [65] and some people say they remind them of [A GREASY AMERICAN BREAKFAST WITH DRIP COFFEE, A WIDE-BRIMMED TAN HAT, MUSTY CABIN WOOD, AND THE DEAFENING CRACK OF A SMITH & WESTON 66].

POST 1986

[I will be adding to this with time. I simply need something in the void before I back out]

When life hurts you, because it will, remember the hurt – Oh, does Jim remember the hurt. There was no shortage of it after Eleven and Will’s funerals. As one would expect, he lived in a long fog after the loss of his second daughter. He struggled to reel himself into stability, spending many evenings talking up a half-sober storm with side-by-tombstones in Hawkins Cemetery. Jim tried his best to keep his days busy and settled back into a workflow at Hawkins PD soon after the deaths, but no amount of Whiskey or puttering helped him escape the ache of grief. He had to face it. Joyce was an incredible anchor for him during this time. To this day he’s not sure how she managed to be so strong – dealing with the aftermath of Will’s death, taking care of the others, and tending to his own pitiful rut. She was truly a light for him and the community. Consequently, the pair grew inseparable after their collective losses – mostly knowing that they weren’t alone in the pain. Rumours abounded about a potential romance between the pair, but a relationship never officialized for them between the years of 1986 to 2006. They were happy in friendship and that was simply enough for both.

Jim’s reluctant retirement from the Hawkins Police force came in the Spring of 1999. Most of the department was sad to see him go (others unified with a collective sigh of relief), but it was time to take a step back and slow down (according to Joyce). She tried looping him into activities around town, get him involved in community, help with some gardening in the backyard but it wasn’t long until the boredom set in. Thankfully Murray saved him from the misery of retired life with a proposition to take on some work with The Watcher. It renewed a needed sense of purpose in Jim’s life. He threw himself (and his fists) into whatever investigations required a little elbow grease. It was a good way to keep himself busy. Jim did what was needed of him without question, driving out of town to be the unassuming muscle behind whatever lead was being sleuthed on … Probably executed with a lot more force than he’d ever to admit to either Murray or Nancy, but neither of them would ever have to know! This chunk of his life was marked with sleepless nights in questionable motel beds, bustling from gas station to gas station in true gritty americana fashion. The years and wrinkles piled on quicker this way. So did his grumpiness.

Jim managed to take Joyce out for one last dinner at Enzo’s before her final emergency surgery. That night was the last time either of them had a conversation outside the confines of her hospital room. The proposition was initially met with resistance by her medical team. It took some convincing but enough careful planning eventually swayed them all (specifically Jonathan) to let him roll Joyce and her oxygen tank out of the oncology unit without much fuss. Jim pulled out his finest button down and slacks for the occasion. It was cheerful evening of greasy bread baskets and occasional tears as they reminisced over a candlelit dining table. Time slipped away from the pair that night. If either of them squinted hard enough, they were back in 1955 – both puffing on cigarettes in the Hawkins High parking lot, contemplating what the fuck their lives would look like after graduation. It certainly didn’t look anything close to this …  and like all good things in Jim’s life, their flicker of joy at Enzo’s had to end too.

The drinking started to get out of hand after Joyce’s passing. As much as he’s been encouraged to remember the good times and work his way through the first foot stones of grief, the loss of his best friend (and community pillar) came with an emptiness that only cigars and whiskey seemed to fill. Joyce had told him to keep it together, to try and live out his days happy & fulfilled – maybe even find a hobby besides beating people up for The Watcher. It simply wasn’t in the cards for poor old Jim. He found himself pulling away from those around him, fully shutting himself into his reclusive cabin on the edge of town. And while he’s managed to remain relatively stable for Jonathan and Murray, there’s no denying that a bottle or flask is never far from reach after the cabin door closes behind him. Jim’s vulnerability has only slipped up reluctantly on a few occasions. Jonathan himself has received a handful of 2am calls from bar owners asking him to pick up the washed-up police chief passed out on their bar. The little taxi rescue routine has been kept on the down low between them – it’s become a quiet understanding of their mutual grief and, honestly, a sadness that neither of them are fully prepared to acknowledge.

These days Jim doesn’t leave the confines of his musty cabin often except to grab necessities and slide the pizza man a tip. There’s truly not much that can faze Jim Hopper these days. The sorrow itself manifests differently depending on the time of day – or whether you’ve caught him before or after his morning coffee and bourbon. He’s generally more irritable and true party pooper, though it isn’t new for anyone who knows a lick about him around town!

Time Capsule:

In 1986 Jim left an empty box of Eggo Waffles in the time capsule on behalf of El Hopper. There’s a note for the kiddo slipped inside.

Pinterest:

https://pin.it/4oX7qwV

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3A3EAZAbaFi7WHPbmdSY7D?si=e669c696b6ef4818&pt=ff92880c2862d53d7d78fa52ddc664db

[ultimate-007]

DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER 1971

Bruce Glover, Putter Smith

[novumtimes]

US Open 2024 tee times: Full pairings and UK start times for third round at Pinehurst | Golf News

Overnight leader Ludvig Åberg has been paired with Bryson DeChambeau for the final Saturday tee time at the US Open of 8.35pm (BST). Sky Sports will show extended coverage from all four rounds of the third men’s major of the year, with all the action from the third round live on Saturday from 3pm on Sky Sports Golf. Please use Chrome browser for a more accessible video player Highlights from the second round of the US Open at Pinehurst No 2. That’s just in time to see world No 1 Scottie Scheffler begin his third round at 3.01pm after only just making the cut mark at five over par. Rory McIlroy, two shots off the lead at three under, is paired with Tony Finau and will tee off at 8.13pm, while Patrick Cantlay and Thomas Detry – both one stroke better off – are in the penultimate pairing at 8.24pm. Please use Chrome browser for a more accessible video player Rory McIlroy shot a two-over-par 72 at Pinehurst No 2 in the second round of the US Open as he slipped back after starting the day tied for the lead. Live US Open Golf Saturday 15th June 3:00pm Groupings and tee times for the third round of the 124th US Open, held Pinehurst Resort & Country Club’s Course No 2 in Pinehurst, North Carolina. All times BST; USA unless stated; (x) denotes amateurs 1344 Ryan Fox (Nzl), Sahith Theegala 1355 Brooks Koepka, Francesco Molinari (Ita) Please use Chrome browser for a more accessible video player Francesco Molinari makes a hole-in-one on the ninth at Pinehurst No 2 to move inside the projected cut in sensational fashion at the US Open! 1406 Matt Fitzpatrick (Eng), Max Greyserman 1417 Justin Lower, Dean Burmester (Rsa) 1428 Tom McKibbin (NIrl), Brandon Wu 1439 Luke Clanton (x), Brendon Todd 1450 Ben Kohles, Shane Lowry (Irl) 1501 Cameron Young, Scottie Scheffler Please use Chrome browser for a more accessible video player Scottie Scheffler showed his anger on the 15th green after missing a putt by throwing his putter on his way to making bogey. 1512 Tommy Fleetwood (Eng), Greyson Sigg 1523 Austin Eckroat, David Puig (Esp) 1539 Collin Morikawa, Keegan Bradley 1550 J.T Poston, Wyndham Clark 1601 Aaron Rai (Eng), Neal Shipley (x) 1612 Si Woo Kim (Kor), Daniel Berger 1623 Matt Kuchar, Cameron Smith (Aus) 1634 Gunnar Broin (x), Brian Campbell 1645 Martin Kaymer (Ger), Jordan Spieth 1656 Harris English, Christiaan Bezuidenhout (Rsa) 1707 Adam Svensson (Can), Mark Hubbard 1718 Isaiah Salinda, Davis Thompson 1729 Min Woo Lee (Aus), Emiliano Grillo (Arg) 1745 Denny McCarthy, Adam Scott (Aus) 1756 Chris Kirk, Jackson Suber 1807 Sepp Straka (Aut), Brian Harman Please use Chrome browser for a more accessible video player Ryder Cup star Sepp Straka made a hole-in-one at the US Open after earlier hitting the pin and making a triple bogey during the second round at Pinehurst No 2. 1818 Nico Echavarria (Col), Sam Bennett 1829 Nicolai Hojgaard (Den), SH Kim (Kor) 1840 Frankie Capan III, Taylor Pendrith (Can) 1851 Russell Henley, Sergio Garcia (Esp) 1902 Stephan Jaeger (Ger), Sam Burns 1913 Billy Horschel, Zac Blair 1924 Corey Conners (Can), Tim Widing (Swe) 1940 Akshay Bhatia, Xander Schauffele 1951 Tyrrell Hatton (Eng), Tom Kim (Kor) 2002 Hideki Matsuyama (Jpn), Matthieu Pavon (Fra) 2013 Tony Finau, Rory McIlroy (NIrl) 2024 Patrick Cantlay, Thomas Detry (Bel) Please use Chrome browser for a more accessible video player Bryson DeChambeau shot a one-under 69 at Pinehurst No 2 in the second round of the US Open. 2035 Bryson DeChambeau, Ludvig Åberg Who will win the third men’s major of the year? Watch the US Open live on Sky Sports. Live coverage of the third round begins on Saturday from 3pm on Sky Sports Golf. Stream the US Open and more with NOW. Get the best prices and book a round at one of 1,700 courses across the UK & Ireland Source link via The Novum Times

[mywifeleftme]

42: Aïcha Koné // Linda

Linda Aïcha Koné 1983, Shakara

Aïcha Koné has been a star in her native Côte d'Ivoire for over 40 years. Despite this, English-language info on her career is pretty sparse online—most of the top search results for her are from Ivorian columnists outraged in 2022 by her support for Assimi Goïta, who became president of neighbouring Mali following a series of coups d'état. If nothing else, she remains a significant enough local figure to get the Morrissey treatment. I can also tell you that she was the youngest of 15 (!) children born to a local aristocrat in Abidjan, the largest city in Côte d'Ivoire. Her father was Senufo, a West African ethnic group, and evidently Koné’s lyrics tend to be written in one of their languages. Online translators don’t have much support for Senufo, so my sense of what she’s singing about is minimal, but Senufo does borrow some words from Bambara, in which the word Linda translates to “wait for it,” so let’s go with that as the general vibe of this 1983 effort.

(As usual when reviewing African records, I end up reading a lot of sick ass lore that has very tenuous connections to the music, such as, “The Kulubele specialize as woodcarvers, the Fonombele specialize in blacksmith and basketry work, the Kpeembele specialize in brass casting, the Djelebele are renowned for leatherwork, the Tchedumbele are masters of gunsmith work, while Numu specialize in smithing and weaving,” or “Caryatid figures are seen as representations of the role of women as spiritual mediators and the Sandogo use them in ceremonies as symbols of this bilateral celestial discourse.” I’m so hungover right now I had to think about whether the ‘column’ in ‘newspaper column’ is spelled the same way as the architectural feature, so there’s no way I’ll retain any of this, and I’ve already played the album in full three times without getting to the music.)

Koné’s sound is an interesting one. Both sides of Linda open with joyous highlife-derived jams of the sort that swept northern and western Africa during the late-‘70s. “Djigui” (“hope” in Bambara) features some dazzling interplay between bassist Toure Aladji and guitarist N’Goran Jimmy Hyacinthe, and the sort of ebullient sax hits that would soon make Paul Simon and composers for cruise ship commercials an abominable amount of money. On the flip, the title track has a different flavour than the Ghanaian or Congolese highlife/soukous recordings I’ve heard thanks to the prominent sound of the kora, a stringed instrument that sounds like a harp played flamenco-style. In interviews, Koné has mentioned sensing a shared root between her own local Mandinka music and the mandolins of Greek dollar bin titan Nana Mouskouri, and those tastes show through particularly on “Linda” and the smooth tropical exotica of “Ile.”

Linda’s other ballads are sparse synth pop numbers not far off what American high school kids would’ve been slow dancing to at the time. ‘Pretty’ might be the best word for Koné’s voice—when she sings it’s easy to imagine the expression on her face. Most of the time that expression is the serene smile she flashes on the back cover of the LP, and it makes even the treacly “Mata” (the album’s dullest song and the only one Koné didn’t write) a perfectly soothing listen.

Linda’s an album I can happily flip over repeatedly as I putter around cooking or cleaning. The LP’s evidently scarce enough that until just recently Discogs only listed a 1990 cassette version (and only a couple of tracks are on YouTube), but it’s worth snagging if you’re into the style and come across it a fair price.

42/365

[sunspray-peak]

Ch. 11: The Flower Festival Pt. 1

WEDNESDAY - SPRING 24

Achilles had always been an early riser. Today, he had spent his sunrise hanging the last of the new shelves up in the greenhouse, when he once again acutely felt that invisible something watching him. 

“Hello?” He stepped off his footstool and exited the greenhouse. Robin had done a bang up job, it was spacious and the new, unmarred glass glimmered in the early sun. “Listen, I’m moving in a few days, if you want an autograph, just ask.” He turned back around from locking the door and jumped. 

There, waiting for him just outside, was a junimo. 

Or at least, that’s what he assumed it was. He wasn’t sure what the hell else it could be, he had never seen anything like it—Jas’ picture books hadn’t been consistent in their depictions, and he hadn’t found any record of them in the museum library either (though that wasn’t saying much, the library had about two books). 

But it was, without a doubt, the creature that had been stalking him over the past season. 

Round, the size of a basketball, but slightly more squat on the bottom, almost like a gumdrop. A small antenna poked out from the top like a single, thick strand of hair. Or perhaps like an apple stem—this particular junimo was as green as a Granny Smith. 

“Is it you who’s been watching me?” Achilles asked, not hesitating to get closer. He kneeled from about a foot away, reaching his hand out as if it were a cat. “Pspspspsps. Can you understand me?” 

The junimo seemed to shake its head, except that it was pretty much all head, so it may have just been swaying from side to side. It puttered forward, black eyes gazing rather sorrowfully at Achilles. 

“Perhaps not,” Achilles murmured, for he still felt as if something—something unseen—was watching them both. “Unless there are more of you out there lurking?” 

The junimo gave a bounce and then scurried away. 

“Come back—” He started to give chase, but then thought better of it. Leave spirits be, that’s what every student in Monstera was taught. But whether that was for the spirit’s benefit or humanity’s own, Achilles wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t quite in the mood today to take any chances. 

Well, he was done with the greenhouse now. He was, in fact, pretty much done with everything. He and Shane had finished painting the house days ago, and Robin had been quick with the renovations and had complimented their hard work. (“Looks better than it ever did when your grandpa lived here!”). 

The inside of the farm house was minimally staged. He had purchased new furniture, of course, but Achilles had never been one to keep much “stuff” (he saw most things as clutter), and he figured any prospective buyers wouldn’t be purchasing Strawberry Farms for the farmhouse anyway. No, it’d be for the land. 

Which reminded him… He still needed to paint that damn Strawberry Farms sign he had been procrastinating on. But hey… what was the rush, really? He still had four days before the realtor came, he needed to save something for tomorrow, right? 

All in all, he thought, as he returned the tools to a small storage shed he had repainted, there was nothing left to keep his hands busy. But he knew from previous experience the condition in which idleness left him, so he focused his mind on the latest task at hand: the Flower Festival. It was supposedly one of the bigger festivals in Stardew, and he had reasoned to himself that it’d be a great opportunity to get a better feel for the wider community—research for that elusive personal touch. He had already made a list in his notebook of Stardew Valley quirks to better enhance the inevitable advertisements.

Very BRLO of you… still can’t ever escape, can you?

He had overheard Penny discussing her dress with Maru the other day in Pierre’s. How excited they were! It must’ve been a Valley thing; he had actually never heard of the holiday in Hyacinthia, although there hadn’t been too many flowers there to celebrate anyway. 

After showering and changing into a favorite button down (tiny blue flowers embroidered across; it seemed appropriate, and he wanted to look good), he headed south to Cindersap Forest, restless and eager to get a feel for the festival before the crowds came. Maybe he’d ask Lewis to tell him a bit more about the history of the event. Something, anything. He’d take any excuse to do whatever now. 

“Look at you here!” Speak of the devil. Mayor Lewis sauntered towards him upon sight, arm raised in ready-to-clap position. There was that familiar thunk on his back; Achilles returned the gesture. “Well, well, well. Had to beg on my knees to get you to stop by the Egg Festival and now you’re here an hour early, you rascally boy!” 

Ew. 

“I thought perhaps I could assist with the set up or… something.” Eh. Actually, on second thought, he didn’t need a history lesson from this guy. 

Regardless, a quick glance indicated there didn’t seem to be too much left to set up. The forest floor was somehow bedecked with even more flowers than usual—magic, perhaps. Pastel garlands snaked the trees and roped around the temporary fence that had been erected around what Lewis told him would be the dance floor. The wild daffodils and dandelions had been allowed to grown unencumbered out here in Cindersap, but oak barrels containing blue jazz and tulips of every shade had been scattered along the clearing.

As was the case with the Egg Festival, long tables had been set up, this time clothed in blush with blue and cream floral embroidery. Gus was busy arranging little vases of matching flowers, for it was too early for any dishes to be brought out. 

Baby shower chic, Achilles thought to himself. At least there’s food.

The instruments for a string quartet were resting on chairs over on a small raised platform. 

“I think we’ve got everything pretty much handled,” Lewis said, rubbing his palms together. “Why don’t you head back and get ready?” 

“Hmm? Oh. I am ready.” 

Lewis eyed him up and down. “You’re not planning on wearing that are you?” 

Excuse me? 

“Oh. Well. Actually, I was.” 

“Oh. Oh, no. No, no… Absolutely not.” 

All right, when did you become the Mayor of fashion you old fart—

“Is there… something wrong with the way I’m dressed?” Achilles lingered a bit on the “I’m” as he returned Lewis’ treatment, eyeing the man’s suspenders and hideous, bright green dress shirt and clashing yellow paisley tie. 

“I’m gonna change, I’m gonna change,” Lewis grumbled. He glanced around and, spotting Haley who had been putting the finishing touches on an incredibly ornate flower arch, pointed his finger and said, “Haley, help this man with his clothing, please.” 

Haley tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and shot the mayor a dirty look, but strutted over (although only after taking her sweet time rearranging a stray fern). Lewis patted her shoulder. “This is how you should be dressing.” 

Despite the (maternal) family business, Achilles had never quite wrapped his head around the fashion world. He could tell his business casual from his black tie, his Art Deco from Art Nouveau, but everything beyond what would be taught in an intro level class, he just simply never had the eye for. Achilles himself had never had a “style” (unless one counted button downs with eclectic yet minimal patterns and prints). He had always just bought whatever he thought looked good. 

In looking at Haley, who was dressed in a flowing, corseted blush gown with periwinkle puffed sleeves and lace triim lined with embroidered blue and pink flowers, a slightly more in-tune person may have called the attire cottage core, or at the very least, rural. 

Achilles on the other hand, simply saw a nice dress. Maybe a little old fashioned. Beautiful, yes—though he believed Haley could likely elevate even the drabbest articles of clothing—but it didn’t help Achilles quite figure out what exactly was wrong with his own outfit. 

And thus, he couldn’t help but respond with some cheek.

“I’m not wearing a dress, Lewis.” 

The mayor scowled. “Just like your grandpa; watch the sass, young man, I’m simply trying to save your reputation. Not to mention our community’s reputation, because what are we all?”

He paused, hand cupped to his ear as he waited for a response neither Haley nor Achilles were ever going to give. 

Lewis scowled again. “Because we are all representatives of our community, come on now. Haley, just help Achilles out, will ya? You girls know clothes.” 

Haley sighed, but took Achilles arm in her own. “It’s really just Emily who ‘knows clothes,’ Lewis. But sure. I’ll help. Look at me, helping our community…” 

Lewis shot her a thumbs up. 

She led Achilles back onto the farm.  

“It’ll be faster than cutting through Pelican Town,” she explained with yet another patronizing little sigh. 

“Look, I can change, just tell me what I need to do to escape Lewis’ wrath.” Achilles attempted to maneuver his arm out of Haley’s, hands already reaching for his house keys, but she roped him back with a firm grip, the dangling bracelets on her wrist whipping his forearms as she wrenched him right off his own porch.

“I don’t think you of all people will have the sort of clothes Lewis is looking for.” 

“The hell does ‘me of all people’ mean?” Just back to back insults, put that on the real estate listing… community my ass… Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be dragged off the property. Shopping with Haley was sure to be an interesting enough distraction. A convenient task for his dwindling To-Do list.  

“Your button downs and that color blocked windbreaker you’re always wearing—”

“—my mother made that for me, you know, and I can’t help that you have very windy Springs out here—”

“Believe it or not, Achilles.” They had reached the bus stop, and here, Haley paused and turned, grasping Achilles’ shoulders. She was remarkably tall, he was only now realizing, just like her sister, perhaps only an inch shorter than him, and her grip was iron. “Your mom’s luxury fashion brand just isn’t going to cut it here. You’re in farm country now. ”

She released him, only to once again seize him by the arm and lead him down a tiny side road he had never noticed before. “And besides, what can I say. I love a project—”

“A project—”

“And I’m feeling an urge to go shopping.” 

Achilles glanced down the path—they were heading north, not east. “We aren’t taking the bus…?” 

Haley spared him a glance, her cold blue eyes burrowing deep into his own brown ones, before tossing her head back and laughing. “You’re hilarious.” 

*****

Who knew Pelican Townsfolk had cars? It felt… wrong—too shiny, too loud, too mechanical for the Valley. And yet, the parking lot tucked behind the railroad and above the only major highway was larger than he would have ever expected, though the vast majority of the spaces were empty. 

“Helps in the summer when tourists and all those other people come for the beach. And festival days—ugh, thank Yoba Marnie convinced Lewis to give us reserved spaces, or it’d be a pain in the ass to park when we get back…”

Haley led him to a sapphire convertible, the only car that was backed into a space. She unlocked the doors and slid smoothly in as Achilles followed on the passenger side. Leather seats. Not bad. 

“I wish Emily could’ve come, she’s better than me at this.” Haley glanced in the rearview mirror and briefly fixed her hair before starting the ignition. “But she’s got to help Gus with the catering. But don’t worry, we’ll have you ready for the Flower Festival in no time.” She shifted the car into drive, and rolled out of the gravel lot. 

“What even is the Flower Festival? What are we celebrating?” 

“Flowers, of course.” Haley glanced towards the right lane, catching Achilles’ scoff before merging onto the highway. “Yoba, I don’t know, Achilles, it’s just a fun festival we have every year with dancing and food. Don’t be so damn serious.” 

Don’t be so serious. Well who was taking this damn thing serious enough that he was being forced to buy a whole new outfit? But his retort was pummeled back down his throat by the wind as the convertible—rooftop now down—roared down the road. Way too fast for his liking, he had a tendency to get motion sickness, but there were barely any other cars. In fact, they made it to Zuzu in half the time it would have taken the bus. 

Haley nodded towards a boutique to their right. The large sheets of glass that made up the storefront revealed a rather minimal selection hanging off too-neat clothing racks inside. 

“Realignment—size inclusive, high quality, and sustainable, so you know it’s a family favorite.” She pulled up to a red sedan then rapidly rotated the wheel to back in against the curb. “I took the photos in the window, actually.” 

“Oh, very nice.” Achilles’ eyes lingered on the triptych covering the right-most pane of glass - a series of black and white portraits, slightly blurred, the models looking just off camera. Hauntingly mysterious, yet intriguingly approachable. 

Very effective advertising. 

“Alex said you were a great photographer, he suggested maybe I hire you to come out and shoot the farm for the listing.” 

Haley threw her head into the headrest and laughed as she removed the key from the ignition. “That’s very sweet of Alex, but,” she nodded once again at the store front. “No. I do people. Portraits, mostly.” 

With the car parked, Achilles hopped out and nearly had one foot in the door of the store before noticing Haley still sitting primly in the driver’s seat. She watched him expectantly. 

Grumbling silently to himself, he circled the convertible and opened her door. “All the guys do this for you?” 

“All the guys and all the girls, don’t be sexist.” She took the hand he had half-mockingly offered and stepped gingerly out, raising her skirts so that the pale pink cloth avoided the street. 

“Alex do this for you?” Achilles couldn’t help but add to his query as they entered the boutique. Over the past season, he had struggled to parse out the relationship between Alex and Haley—clearly they were very close, always linking arms… but also clearly (as he kept forcing himself to remember) it didn’t matter. He’d be gone soon. 

“Well, he’s a guy, isn’t he?” She gave a tight-lipped smile, but her eyes twinkled, just like her sister’s had, rather knowingly. 

The boutique seemed to be mostly women’s apparel; but after a whispered conversation with one of the sales associates (Realignment felt like a place one should whisper—with no music playing, the bright white lights and walls seemed to ask for sterility in sight and sound), the two were led to the second floor. 

“Would you like us to go ahead and start a room for you?” The sales associate offered to take the pants Achilles had just taken down from the rack.

“Yes, that’d be great, thank you.” 

“And your name?” 

“Achilles, it’s spelled like “Ah-kill-eeze.”

“Love it. Great, we’ll just get that started for you. Would you like us to also go ahead put some suggestions we think might be a great fit for the Flower Festival?”

“You know what, that’d actually be amazing, thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

 Whereas Haley circled the selections from afar like a hawk, not striking until she was 100% confident in the selection, Achilles, still not entirely sure what he was looking for, merely grabbed things off the racks without a second thought or even a first glance at either price or size tags. 

But after sorting through the vast assortment of clothes that had piled up, the two were able to put together a suitable outfit for the Flower Festival. 

“Ooo, boy, that looks so good on you!” A sales associated whistled as he did a final walk around for Haley. Achilles mostly brushed it off—that’s how they get you to spend money, mmhm—but still couldn’t help but blush. 

“Should I get a cowboy hat, too?” Catching Haley’s eye in the back of the full-length mirror, he pretended to tip an invisible cap before taking another minute to look at himself. It was all quite brown. Very brown, really, especially for someone used to usually wearing color. 

Tan high waisted pants. A brown belt. A dark brown, loose-fit, long sleeved button down of whose likeness he probably already owned. Haley had approved the brown oxfords he had already been wearing. His hair was mostly a dark brown, his eyes an even darker shade of brown. Fifty shades of brown. 

“It’s cottage core, not cowboy core.” Haley walked over and adjusted his already perfectly-adjusted collar. “You know, I think it looks good.” She patted his chest and smiled at him through the mirror. “We did good.” 

“I’m about to churn some butter.” 

Haley rolled her eyes and stalked off, block heels clattering on the wooden floors. “I can tell you think it looks good, too, Achilles, don’t try to play me.” 

Achilles laughed quietly to himself, turning again for the mirror. Yeah, he did look good. Would Alex think he looked good, too?

Stop that, it doesn’t matter.

*****

Ready this time, Achilles walked to the other side of the car to open the door for Haley, only to find her once again throwing her head back and laughing as she slid into the leather seat. 

“Honestly, Achilles, I just wanted to see if you’d do it. I don’t actually have people open my door for me. Can you imagine?” 

Achilles crossed his arms firmly from the sidewalk. 

“Now get in, it’s already noon, we’re running late.” 

“Only if you open my door for me.” 

With another roll of her eyes, Haley leaned over from the driver’s seat and unceremoniously yanked open the door handle “There, you pompous little porcupine of a man. Now let’s go.”