#quince orchard

[alexchatgptstories]

Write a story with All Time Low songs about a high functioning autistic kid who didn't have much social awarness in high school(class of 2012). But years after(2023) high school realized he would fit in better if he went to Blake High School than where he went. Which was Quince Orchard High School.

Jacob sat on the worn-out couch in his small apartment, the low hum of the city outside just barely audible. His laptop was open, code scrolling across the screen, but his mind wasn’t really on the work. Instead, it drifted back to high school—the days he spent at Quince Orchard High School. The place had always felt like a maze he couldn’t navigate, with social rules that he never understood.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to do next. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, he clicked the play button on his music player. The opening chords of All Time Low’s “Weightless” blared through his headphones, the fast, punchy beat echoing in his ears. For a moment, Jacob let the music take him back.

“I’m weightless, but I can’t breathe / I’m weightless, but I can’t leave / It’s a little hard to tell just what’s right and wrong.”

The song was a perfect encapsulation of his high school years. Everything felt heavy, suffocating, and yet, there was a constant desire to break free. Jacob had never fit in at Quince Orchard. It wasn’t that he didn’t try; he just didn’t understand the unspoken rules. The groups formed without any effort, the athletes, the popular kids, the drama geeks—all of them spoke in a language he couldn’t quite decode.

Back then, Jacob was a quiet kid. He’d wear his band T-shirts and keep to himself, mostly lost in his own world. He didn’t quite get why people made small talk or why everyone seemed to care so much about fitting in. It was like a constant pressure to be someone he wasn’t. He would sit in the cafeteria with his headphones on, listening to All Time Low’s “Lost in Stereo,” blocking out the noise of high school life. It was easier that way.

“I’m lost in stereo, can you hear me now? / I’m lost in stereo, can you hear me now?”

The lyrics felt like they were written for him. He was lost in the crowd, in a world of noise he couldn’t quite connect with. The music was his refuge, the only place where he could truly feel like he belonged. He had his small group of friends, sure, but the bigger social scene? It felt like a constant game of trying to figure out what everyone wanted from him, without ever knowing what he needed.

Jacob remembered the stares and the whispers. People didn’t always say things out loud, but he could feel it—the way they looked at him like he was somehow different. He didn’t understand why high school had to be a popularity contest, why people were judged based on who they knew, what they wore, and how they acted. He wasn’t one of the “cool” kids, but he didn’t want to be. He just wanted to be left alone, or at least understood.

As the years passed, Jacob left high school behind and entered the real world. He went to college, and for the first time, he realized he wasn’t the only one who had struggled with the rules of high school. He learned more about himself—about his autism—and how it had affected his ability to navigate social situations. He was high-functioning, sure, but there were still moments when he felt completely out of sync with the world around him.

And that’s when it hit him. The realization came slowly, but it was there: he would have fit in better at Blake High School.

He thought about the kids at Blake—the ones who wore band shirts, who went to punk shows, who didn’t care about fitting into some pre-made mold. They were the misfits, the rebels, the ones who made their own rules. Looking back, Jacob realized that if he’d gone to Blake, he wouldn’t have felt so out of place. Blake was the kind of school where people like him could thrive, not just survive.

Jacob’s thoughts were interrupted as All Time Low’s “Poppin’ Champagne” came through his speakers. The upbeat melody was a sharp contrast to the heavy thoughts swirling in his mind, but it felt right. He let himself get lost in the music, the fast-paced rhythm a reflection of how he felt now. He was past the high school days, past the confusion. Things were different now.

“Poppin’ champagne, we’re gonna celebrate / Let’s raise a glass to all the things we never thought we’d say.”

He couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t just the music—it was the realization that, while high school hadn’t been kind to him, it didn’t define him. He had learned so much about himself since then. He wasn’t that confused kid who didn’t know how to fit in. He was someone who had found his voice, found his place. And he had done it without the need for validation from anyone else.

He thought about how different things could have been if he’d gone to Blake. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt like such an outsider. Maybe the kids there would have understood his quiet nature, his need for routine, and his love for punk and emo music. Maybe they would have seen him for who he really was, not as a puzzle they couldn’t solve.

“I feel like I’m waiting / I’m waiting for a sign / I’m waiting for the world to show me the way.” (from All Time Low’s “Stay”)

That was it. He had been waiting, waiting for something to change, waiting for the right moment to find his place. And while high school was never the time for that, it didn’t mean he couldn’t find it now. The past was behind him, and there was no use in wishing things had been different.

He had grown. He had learned. And while he couldn’t change where he went to high school, he could look back with the knowledge that he had found a community for himself, even if it wasn’t at Quince Orchard. It was the music that had helped him through, the anthems of All Time Low and the punk rock bands he’d loved for years. They were more than just songs—they were his escape, his therapy, his way of finding himself.

As the night wore on, Jacob sat back in his chair, listening to All Time Low’s “The Reckless and the Brave.” The song was full of defiance, full of the kind of energy he had wanted to tap into back then, the energy that he had finally embraced in the present.

“We are the reckless, we are the wild youth / Chasing the night, chasing the moon.”

He smiled softly, the music filling the space around him. It didn’t matter where he had been—it only mattered where he was now. And now, Jacob was free to be exactly who he had always been, without apologies.

[teepeecider]

Grafting time. My friend supplied me with some quince rootstock C and BA29 for grafting medlar onto. Need to increase my medlar supply for the cider blend. Grafts look promising only a week after whip grafting. #grafting #orchard #medlar #quince

[askwhatsforlunch]

Quince Poached Pears

The ceaseless rain and strong winds of the past week means I’m am picking up heaps of fallen fruit in the garden. Some of the pears are just ripe, some are not even there yet, but if they’ve been bruised when they fell, one has to cook them rather quickly if one wants to eat them! These beautifully glazed Quince Poached Pears makes both an excellent dessert --the addition of ice cream can make it even more indulgent!-- or snack, or a side for your cheese board, especially if you have good blue cheeses, like Fourme d’Ambert or Stilton! Happy Saturday!

Ingredients (serves 2):

3 medium to large just ripe Williams Pears

1 cup Ginger and Lemon Quince Syrup

Thoroughly rinse Williams Pears under cold water.

Halve, core and peel pears, and place pear halves in a medium saucepan. Cover with Ginger and Lemon Quince Syrup, so all pear halves are submerged.

Bring to the boil over medium-high heat. Boil rapidly, for about 5 minutes; then, reduce heat to medium.

Simmer, for 15 to 20 minutes, occasionally flipping pear halves on their other side, until they are just tender, and Syrup has reduced slightly, glazing the pears beautifully.

Serve Quince Poached Pears with their Syrup warm, with a scoop or two of Ginger Ice Cream, onto thick yoghurt, or cooled, with good blue cheese...

[elainemorisi]

due to Circumstances, I now have a persimmon seedling and a quince tree, and I am pretty enthused about this

[thebeautifulbook]

TRADESCANT’S ORCHARD (1620-1629) [no cover]

Watercolours of garden fruits: strawberry, gooseberry, cherries, plums, damsons, date, apricots, nectarines, peaches, apple, pears, quince, hazel nut, grapes. There are 66 surviving pictures (sometimes including insects, birds, etc.), plus one inserted picture of a lily (fol. iv verso). They are arranged, species by species, roughly by date of ripening during the gardener's year. Earlier 17th century (after 1611, perhaps 1620s).

Held by Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford

source

[libraryofmoths]

Moth of the Week

Red-Belted Clearwing

Synanthedon myopaeformis

Image Source

The red-belted clearwing is a part of the family Sesiidae. It was first described in 1789 by Moritz Balthasar Borkhausen as Sphinx myopaeformis. This was later changed to Synanthedon myopaeformis. This moth is called the red-belted clearwing in Europe, the apple clearwing moth in North America, and the apple borer. This is due to their tendency to damage their host apple trees. It is considered a pest in Europe.

They may be confused with the large red-belted clearwing and the red-tipped clearwing.

Description This moth has a thin, dark blue, segmented body. The body is hairless aside from a bushy tail at the end of the abdomen. They are noticeable due to a bright red-orange band on one of the segments of the abdomen. The wings are clear with a dark outline and veins and a fringe on the outer margin (outer edge). The wings help distinguish the red-belted clearwing from the large red-belted and red-tipped clearwings as the wings have no red-orange markings.

Wingspan Range: 1.8 - 2.8 cm (≈0.71 - 1.1 in)

Diet and Habitat This species eats mainly apple, specifically Crab Apple (Malus sylvestris), as well as Pear (Pryus communis), Hawthorn (Crateagus monogyna), Almond (Prunus dulcis), Rowan (Sorbus aucuparia), apricots, cherries, mountain ash, peaches, plums, and quince. In Canada, adult moths have been attracted to the flowers of the snowy milkweed.

They can be found natively in Europe, North Africa, and Asia Minor. This species was noticed to North America and first detected in Canada in 2005. They inhabit well established orchards and gardens, hedgerows, open woodland, and mature scrub.

Mating Adults emerge from their cocoons in early summer and on flight from May to August, this is presumably their mating season. Females can lay up to 250 eggs, usually singly in the cracks or damaged areas of the trunk and branches they are hosting in. Females attract males with pheromones released from glands. A 2010 study found that 3,13-octadecadienyl acetate is the primary sex hormone.

Predators The larvae of this moth are preyed on by parasites, fungi, and bacteria. The main parasite of red-belted clearwing larvae is Liotryphan crassiseta. Other parasites are Nematodes, Steinernema sp. The fungi Beauveria bassiana and Metarhizium brunneum are common causes of death in larvae as well as the bacteria Bacillus thuringiensis.

Fun Fact

The adult red-belted clearwings are significantly less active on cold days compared to warm days.

In 2014, Judd and Eby found that S. myopaeformis does not discriminate between yellow, green and white or between purple, blue, red, and black. This suggests that they are dichromatic, meaning they can perceive mainly two colors. This affected traps set to catch this species as they acted differently depending on the light reflected.

As this species is considered a pest to apple trees, people have attempted to control the population. This has been tried with pheromone/mating disruption, pheromone laced traps, other chemical traps, the use of predators/enemies, and the covering of apple tree trunks in oil.

(Source: Wikipedia [1][2][3], Butterfly Conservation, Michigan State University)

[richarlotte]

Favourite things about Fall?

British Blowouts (Perfectly Tousled = Perfection)

Aerie and Brandy Sets.

Somali Spiced Tea.

Soft Natural Makeup (Fall Makeup).

Neutrals and Jewel Tones.

Leather, Cashmere, and Pearls.

Lace Lingerie and Silk.

J. Crew and Quince.

Brown Suede Purses.

Apple Cider Donuts.

Spicy Perfume (Sweet = Summer).

Hourglass Lip Gloss.

Honeycrisp Apples.

Rotisserie Chicken Meals.

Vanilla Scrubs and Scents.

Haunted Houses and Halloween.

Visits to Pumpkin Patches and Apple Orchards.

[ginandoldlace]

The Grade II-listed Potticks House was built in the late 18th century by Samuel Rayner and is a fine example of the Georgian style.

Built of traditional Bath stone and featuring a Welsh slate roof, the 10 acre property is just 6 miles from the city of Bath.

A kitchen garden produces raspberries, blackcurrants, redcurrants, gooseberries, and rhubarb; an orchard on the property grows apples, pears, plums, as well as walnuts, quince, and figs.

Surrounded by formal gardens and grounds with a swimming pool, the elegant Potticks House offers a grand backdrop for living and entertaining, proving to be an idyllic country seat.

[the-goblin-market]

Morning and evening

Maids heard the goblins cry:

“Come buy our orchard fruits,

Come buy, come buy:

Apples and quinces,

Lemons and oranges,

Plump unpeck’d cherries,

Melons and raspberries,

Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,

Swart-headed mulberries,

Wild free-born cranberries,

Crab-apples, dewberries,

Pine-apples, blackberries,

Apricots, strawberries;—

All ripe together

In summer weather,—

Morns that pass by,

Fair eves that fly;

Come buy, come buy:

Our grapes fresh from the vine,

Pomegranates full and fine,

Dates and sharp bullaces,

Rare pears and greengages,

Damsons and bilberries,

Taste them and try:

Currants and gooseberries,

Bright-fire-like barberries,

Figs to fill your mouth,

Citrons from the South,

Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;

Come buy, come buy.”

Extract from The goblin market by Christina Rossetti

[spatheandspadix]

The Official Vibe for the late summer/early fall season between now and my birthday is Enchanted Orchard. Gnarled ancient apple trees under eye-popping blue skies; quinces, hazelnuts, and rosehips; sweet cider and black walnuts; weaving invasive vines into harvest baskets

[teepeecider]

The medlar/quince root stock whip grafts have taken. The medlar buds are swelling. 😊 #medlar #quince #rootstock #grafting #cider #orchard #husbandry #NewZealand #Aotearoa #Spring

[libidomechanica]

And some, pieces, patches, kings

A rispetto sequence

               1

It is sair, that’s the likeness the moon-beam dwelling. Born I was a cunning lips daignd to the moonlight doth amid the wings be dead. I

am not in nature self thy tears and milk are unmating to my despite. And some, pieces, patches, kings. Get up, nor merit it.

               2

Chloris, that dark as your works will’s his sword upon their heart renewed them like a rocket, which made, good and line that rich in pity of

you. For my life! Into her had a vineyard at Baalhamon; he let out the moon, the loads and feeds his legs are an orchard of yore.

               3

Flies on the wood a Piggy-wig stood as much declined his Breast, when I long ages of quince, where it was stown! A rose-garden gay, or

naething here holding the other that in vertue service do, mayest thy Will, ’ and Will’ to boot, and breathe hill: an hour would burst and dies; Ay me!

               4

Ankle or slack these eyes like a significant myth A soft remember me who designed him. Stained mote vnfolde many acres o’

charmingly flow, since barr’d and life is discreet a Parke I know not well: and seven centuries—of artists dying I heard, they doen lick.

               5

Of our fillets fast away, four. We’re laughed at me. And must we be swept stone fence, the sun of all but not lost breeze flew o’er the immutable

crickets only a few friendship’s pledge, my young roes them all your coonskin hat. Where I for senses, lest else this: in pity me?

               6

And have left hand only peepest? Now by my soul toward sunne in all on paper I remember thy old self-substance. I would die if

she bare; her belly is not worth— compared thus! Have to give this time. Let’s obay safe-smiling because his body in the causeth thee!

               7

I am come to the Challenge answer gets renown; Lo! He is star-flowery way, the boy, the whitens at their price is must love

us, I am boundless shoe- string blighted pigeon eggs: at twelve, I met beside him fast. Sicker I hold sword nor good old man deeds.

               8

Every shee florish long, Perilla! Like a man—the nights are sweet and bow’d their ears. He darkness. Tho when some weekday weather, I am

so state, as I Undying year! That thou hast regrets and Gods great go about the moralising sun, and me, giving workman.

               9

In days far-off, on they, yet am I; whose lover’s eyes as when from singing hue, and singen soote, in ev’ry possessing, and stray,

and Stars return’d to flourished a tear. To whom my wine of us verse and active as thou hardly my pleasures, and I the hair smell.

               10

And murmuring a weanell was a snowflake into his mouth is he fondly presents the cup that is this has already knowest

thou art, if that lace, for an army of the three hour or more, to manage either’s manner of Lebanon. Breaking of the lagoon.

               11

Everybody love whose who refused to do, deceive them alone. A small be spoken the liquid prisoned the world. Above one she’s

alone! That full of a confused looking hate. By the tower of Lebanon, my silken twist; ankle or two in my yellow air?

               12

In my early youth, forehead, and plight. Can such a rate to through verdurous haunt me as a seal upon him that leaves the World to call

thou shoul’dst be fleeting year! For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and came before the lang! Sees a City full heart raves. Who was plenty in the grave!

               13

Come, let’s give birth to mirke. Except where I sleepe, all nature smoothly without a star that dark earth’s features, and when I am, was, and

vitamins. Still, to the Poet blest, get up early to those part,— beautiful; but much to say that loue which one of Loue to the sun.

               14

I wote ne Hobbinoll, what an Eleventh a Moon—the Mower Damon, behold yon break, to leade? If sike mischeife grasshopper its

prison-bars, court evermore movest underground. And I rose who yet turned a lion’s sleep speakest to me, my Goddess cry’d: o cruel.

               15

So that with grief of life-days by emperor and eat his gardens, a well mought this fancys errour breaking slight crawling for mankind’s

least light of thy gift: why she presents less fair, it was vncouth: so lost in sight I would embrace me. Face, forcing each night of two armies.

               16

So great, good, in what heard his work- day world his whistling thy breast, with tears even—the drops, that beats, a family-likeness, and hearts, sister,

my love, were but understood in the every day tarnished seed, O shining my lament? To walk with gentle worse, too good: but thou dasht?

               17

Letting Sun I mix, and, once on a ditch doth frame the morning doen hem disguise, the blood where speak, my friendly foe, to make a cherubs

play. Hue, and find him to walk through the spak na, but with a tawdrie lace. Through to sale their earnest lumps of the works her day will pass’d a way!

               18

Observing the day, to passing with thee. Thou my nudist the blast did not for they’re carest.—The moth of a pomegranates a

nightstand and if between us in a gently bent its tip gum, pungent, clear as the breezes blown do but farther night and cedars.

               19

Stop, let it seems, had sunk: tis buried deeper from a sunflowers: his labour to reply till he please. Of someone else a cheer that

woman is. More grace of human deeds divided live, and winding sometimes Times iourneys he stars, and as sour leisure gave sweet and green.

               20

Wet was to end. ’ Gear ye light’st flames, Spring-time, some into his pastoures howe done, to a roe or a year thy love that reach up the

winter hath made fruit dost bears there’s cot, and are as sudden a passion so; had, having please, and her and feed among, all for him.

               21

For laik o’ gear, ye’ll fashionable. To this act of my bodhisattva of nothing here see if the riper should be brief while the soundes

so stunn’d and sung the stormie face of inward sendeth behind there hangs over Endymion’s sleep not in a glass o’ Ballochmyle.

               22

You are, you like nature’s joy, when the notes, from me hys madding myrrh, and she loved is got up, nor awake unto us waking? Keepers;

everything watery wild, we mortality consumes: I withers even the aisles shouting, endless brown-eyed despairing!

               23

At the eight climb, low above, and let us lodge in the things was an old wind, that mind when hey, for thee: I fly, to slack the daughters

of ours between the sun thoughts of the village. They dined on a tremor breast, when I am sick of content; a simple denial.

               24

It is Jupiter, my spouse, and yon bonie casten to them reveal’d in cream? I know eternal home; twill nobler wealth breed unrest, pass

and love. Who is my lordly spoken the soundest reason up the tear-drop that mine sank sad assurance to the day, the world, a while.

               25

Because of thy high company of the fair. A bed of being pale stream, where comes to the graseth hem many a time, that is my

father counted, and feed in the early from that doen so cased; or any weeping in the evening, healthy men, who taxeth me.

               26

And scarlet, and cloud hath and Before, and see to soothing rascal to peep in at all must such as out of my yellow kind of waiting

from a sunbeam found the world’s freshened been a straw. Find his past the mortgage was. In leaves hast thy vertue lame; that all the every climb!

               27

I like supermarket using o’re, and aye she presently? Not the cheat sorow to Niobe did shine more thee? Yes! While it my memories

clothing let’s goe a Maying. Somewhere eternal home; twill not warm, and a day. Why didst implore the fish or to gathered less alone.

               28

Meet this life enisled, with Daffadowndillies, drop of raine once lost, can it foote. My supply of table, my beloved. New nodule

of Love resinous base. When the grey pale light at a winter cave. And when the me, and clown’s-all- heal, the world was wont of the road.

               29

And yet I would embracing love to enter, feeling to a home— mother Muses fountain of the night-winged birds sang, all for the fayre

Elisa be you determine what it was my tender his lines of grassy barrows of blame. And strike, for pure immortality.

               30

Of race of mine no work of my poore name o’ clink, that shall manners? Thine to span; have plugged up in each exuding at its teeth clamping

the World to cozen with us! Go not, all day long, in either’s laps and Derivéd Self make one of Wisdom down into his garden.

               31

I could convey, and thy early in the Setting in proofe maken and clown’s-all-heal, the lattice. That move that drains the muse hath and Moon

a Year—while it with shepheards beneath the rude world, or else to thy selfe, but being here under the choice in cloth, and now ye: alas!

[ofglories]

“ reminds me of you ” + rulervere and caster arthur!

|| send in “ reminds me of you ” for my muse to recount things they see, smell, hear, feel and taste that remind them of your muse. ; accepting!

Bedivere, of course, gets no warning before the mage stretches out across his lap. Arthur grinned up at his king, crossing his legs over the arm of the older man's throne.

"You want to know things that remind me of you? Oh, how sneaky, my King. Is this some devious new scheme of yours, in hopes of bullying your poor mage?" More teasing, of course, as Arthur tugs Bedivere's hand to his mouth to lightly nip at his fingertips, just to hear the inhale such an action would cause. "Oh, but very well. I'll tell you."

Where to begin...? Perhaps with sight then.

"The mountains in spring, covered in fresh blooms and newly sprouted grass. Strong and full of life. An eagle flying high, high above. So high that the sun catches on the feathers and shines like jewels. A glint of light in a dark world, my spark of hope that keeps me going." A light brush of his teeth against Bedivere's thumb to keep his beloved from saying anything. "That rich, sweet smell of a field of clover and daffodils. Nectar and honey and the faint tang of wine from orchards heavy with fruit. And in it all a light spicy scent of cinnamon. Intoxicating aromas that make my thoughts turn to you."

Hm.

He was going to need to get them some wine after this.

"The strumming of a harp, the singing of a nightingale. Rain on the leaves of a willow tree, and the steady but powerful roar of waterfalls. Your voice is in all those sounds, my Bedivere." Now a kiss to the man's palm. "Warm sunlight and the heat of a bonfire in winter. The gentle tickling of fur blankets. That's your touch, your hands."

At last he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to Bedivere's lips only to reluctantly pull away. Humming, Arthur licked his own lips thoughtfully before smiling with half-lidded eyes.

"Spiced wine served in winter, candied fruits and nuts. My favorite flavors, of course. Oh, and the taste of smoke, of salt. Honey mead and sweet currants. And quince. Mm. That's how you taste, the flavors that make me want to run to your arms, my King."

[romanrhodes]

Everything below this point is from a previous group but fits in the development of Roman Rhodes. Things to keep in mind;

Rhodes Farm is now a former working farm and orchard. Roman intends to open the orchard again, growing pears, quinces and persimmons, and use the farmland to eventually grow vegetables to supply his diner.

Sunny Side Up Diner has been renamed and is now The Driftwood Diner, and the menu now includes Oregon delicacies and seafood dishes.

Following his break-up with Andrew Jackson, Roman has thrown himself into working at the diner and developing the farm the rest of the time.

Moving to Kismet Harbor, Roman is now capable of sailing.

[rcjoice]

. 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 .

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚝

character’s full name: ashton bryan quincy

reason or meaning of name: "from ash tree/ash tree town", "strong, virtuous, honorable", "orchard of quince trees/fifth son of an estate"

character’s nickname: ash, quincy

reason for nickname: just shorter. last name thing just a typical man thing

birth date: february 13th 1997

𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎

age: verse dependent, 27 in main verse

how old do they appear: verse dependent, usually mid to late twenties, early 30s

weight: fluctuates, but usually around 165-170lbs

height: 5'10"

body build: a little broader, carries weight around his belly and his hips

shape of face: heart

eye color: soft honey brown, almost amber

glasses or contacts: contacts preferably, but he's sometimes got to bust out his old man eyes

skin tone: pale, cool

predominant features: obvi his tattoos are very prominent and noticeable , but the warmth of his eyes and smile stay with you.

hair color: dark brown, bleached blond usually

type of hair: wavy and thick

hairstyle: ideally buzzed to about an inch/2 inches, usually grown out roots and longer waves

voice: very similar to dob's voice in not okay, that stupid fuckboy timber

physical disabilities: has pins in his left ankle

usual fashion of dress: sneakers or work boots; wide legged jeans, baggy jeans, joggers; occasionally overalls; graphic tees, wife beaters, short sleeved button ups; track jackets, puffer vest, distressed jean jacket

favorite outfit: black cargo joggers, black graphic tee, work boots, distressed jean jacket

jewelry or accessories: a silver chain that sits just below his collar bone with his silver wedding band on it, small silver hoops in his ear, silver hoop in left nostril, silver eyebrow spike on the left, silver ring in labret piercing, silver nipple rings, silver tongue stud, wears a silver wallet chain

𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢

good personality traits: empathetic, loyal, charismatic, funny

bad personality traits: jealous, stubborn, moody, lacks self control

mood character is most often in: tired but alive

sense of humor: stupid, sometimes self deprecating

character’s greatest joy in life: loving someone, feeling loved

character’s greatest fear: the dark, his father, being alone

what single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil?: losing anyone he loves. most likely sel or mikey, but anyone he loves would send him into a spiral

character is most at ease when: in a space he has control of/with his loved ones

most ill at ease when: alone or around people he thinks are better than him

enraged when: he gets mad so easily, hes got bpd rage but esp when someone insults people he loves

depressed or sad when: hes alive

priorities: getting high, taking care of his family, in that order

life philosophy: fuck it, we ball

if granted one wish, it would be: never to have met josh most likely

why? because he literally ruined his life, more so than his father

character’s soft spot: kids, his loved ones

is this soft spot obvious to others?: kids know hes soft for them immediately because he's just got this like, warmth to him when he interacts with kids. his loved ones also are very aware, because he will bend over backwards for his loved ones.

greatest strength: he's resilient as fuck, he can go through a lot and not be put down for good

greatest vulnerability or weakness: his heart :( he's so loving and forgiving it makes him easy to manipulate

biggest regret: either abandoning his sons for the first few years or starting drugs

minor regret: not doing more things he wants to do like going out to certain cons and whatnot

character’s darkest secret: it wouldnt be a secret if i told you

does anyone else know?: probably mikey or selene

𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕𝚜

drives and motivations: his kids, not wanting to make sel go to another funeral, spiting josh

long term goals: get sober, become a tattoo artist fr, make art

how the character plans to accomplish these goals: he has no idea, he's just really trying to fund the right first step still

how other characters will be affected: he'll be a better person

𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝

hometown: detroit, michighan

type of childhood: unpleasant, abusive

pets: stray alley cat he called vader because he wheezed

earliest memory: group home with a play room, he's inside. it smell like crayons and plastic. he's got a space ship in his hand and he's running around. he falls and busts open his lip

most important childhood memory: if we're talking younger child, the day his mom left. if we're talking like any childhood memory, the day he ran away. his father had been extra cruel lately because he found out about ashton's drug use. he remembers everything about that day.

why: they were the two days everything in his life changed. whether it was being alone in that house with just his father, or it was being lured into a new hellscape with josh, he just can't stop going over those days in his head like he could've changed them.

childhood hero: luke skywalker

dream job: he always wanted to be an astronaut before an artist. he wanted to see the stars so bad.

education: high school drop out

finances: upper middle class with his father, working class/taken care of at least with josh

𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝

current location: detroit, michigan, verse dependent sometimes

currently living with: his kids are there every so often for a visit (his daughter stays the night once a week, his sons visit every other weekend and when their mom needs a babysitter), random friends sleeping on his couch here and there, his dog

pets: jar jar, black akita

religion: repressed catholic

occupation: gas station manager/drug dealer

finances: lower working class

𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜

color: lilac, pastel purples

least favorite color: bright orange

music: 2000s alt rock/emo music & nu metal

food: apple fritters, pancakes, baked goods

literature: carrie by stephen king

form of entertainment: animated shows, movies, comics

mode of transportation: driving

𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚜

hobbies: drawing, reading comics, collecting figures, soap carving, doom scrolling tiktok and facebook, drinking, going to bars

plays a musical instrument? he can play piano and a little guitar here and there

plays a sport? absolutely not

how they would spend a rainy day: stay inside with a blanket, maybe make some irish coffee, watch a movie. mournfully long to smoke a cigarette on the roof but he hates being wet

spending habits: he doesn't spend recklessly per say, but he doesn spend money on a lot of like, nerd and kid shit he couldn't have as a kid. he likes doing things that make him feel like he's getting that back, and he's an impulsive spender. he makes sure he pays child support and has his fix before he spends tho, he's very lucky his ex helps w bills and rent (she pays most of it sometimes)

smokes: yes, he smokes half a pack to a full pack a day

drinks: yes, excessively

other drugs: yes, he's addicted to opioids & was a regular heroin user until he was 23. he's trying to cut back and smokes a lot of weed now

extremely skilled at: building legos & figures, soap carving, anything to do with little pieces and putting them together

extremely unskilled at: most things

usual body posture: hands in pockets, slouched shoulders, leaned back if sitting

𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜

optimist or pessimist? optimist

introvert or extrovert? extrovert

daredevil or cautious? daredevil

logical or emotional? emotional

disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? disorderly & messy

prefers working or relaxing? anything that'll keep his mind busy

confident or unsure of themself? always unsure

animal lover? yes !

𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

one word the character would use to describe self: broken LOL

what does the character consider their best personality trait? loyal. he knows what he'd do for his loved ones

what does the character consider their worst personality trait? he's moody & volatile. he can be prone to huge outbursts

what does the character consider their best physical characteristic? he doesnt think he has one LOL but if he had to pick, he thinks he has pretty eyes.

what does the character consider their worst physical characteristic? face or body. he was heavily heavily gaslit into thinking he was ugly and has super low self esteem

how does the character think others perceive them: a loser

what would the character most like to change about themselves: he wants to just be better. he wants to be smarter, kinder, cooler, happier. he thinks everything about him is a flaw, despite the confidence he puts out

𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜

opinion of other people in general: he thinks people in general are good, and he feels like people's misactions and cruelties come from a place he just doesn't understand yet so he tries to give benefit of the doubt

does the character hide their true opinions and emotions from others? not really, he has like 0 filter and cant keep things inside his mouth or head

person character most hates: his father, maybe josh sometimes

best friend(s): selene, mikey

love interest(s): mikey in main verse and then it's verse dependent but this mf always needs someone to love and pour his affections into

person character goes to for advice: selene

person character feels responsible for or takes care of: his children mostly, selene sometimes, mikey always

person character feels shy or awkward around: he doesn't tend to feel awkward or shy around people unless he's had an outburst recently around them

person character openly admires: selene

person character secretly admires: hes not a secret keeper

most important person in character’s life before story starts: mikey

after story starts: mikey

tagged by : no one just seen it <3

tagging : anyone who wants to do it !! just tag me <3

[warningsine]

In an effort to replenish its anemic membership with younger blood, the New Amsterdam Club has, among other measures, relaxed its dress code, allowed the use of cell phones, and added a mezcal cocktail to the menu. Yet one unspoken rule remains unchallenged: no business talk on the premises. Unless, maybe, in what’s known as “the little bar.” No one would dream of discussing work in the big bar or the dining room, but the little bar is a territory with a diplomatic status and a legislation of its own. Conversations are kept brief and drinks left unfinished out of consideration for those who pretend not to be waiting outside: according to yet another tacit law, each party is given total privacy in the narrow, seatless bar. Perhaps because its regulars don’t tend to be among the club’s most aesthetically minded members, the issue with the Sargent hanging in a dusky corner by the little bar’s entrance wasn’t immediately noticed. In 1885, John Singer Sargent painted a portrait of his friend Martin Graham, a minor watercolorist with whom he traveled Scotland that summer. It may have been as an homage to Graham that the oil on Sargent’s brush becomes less viscous toward the painting’s edges. Light strokes, faded colors, and dissolving shapes merge into one another, somewhat resembling a watercolor—a medium that Sargent, of course, also mastered. The subtlety of this conversation between friends through different materials and forms was utterly lost in the pixelated reproduction of the portrait that had been printed on canvas and mounted in a frame that closely resembled the real thing. Eventually someone noticed the crude forgery, but no one could say how long the original had been gone.

Like the New Amsterdam Club, the Spanish Association is grand and underattended. Unlike the club, however, the association is overendowed. At the dawn of the twentieth century, Charles Dunlap was caught up in the “Spanish craze” that swept the United States. But for him the fad developed into a lifelong obsession. Without making a significant dent in the shipping fortune inherited from his father, he bought almost two millenniums’ worth of Spanish history—from Roman artifacts, Nasrid textiles, and Hebrew Bibles to paintings by El Greco, Velázquez, and Goya—and erected an imposing building on West 152nd Street to house his collection. For the rest of the country, the Iberian fervor turned out to be briefer than a snap of castanets, and interest in Dunlap’s objects faded soon after his early death. Nevertheless, the association endured, embalmed in money. With virtually unlimited funding, it has never needed to attract the general public or high-profile donors. Its mere existence is the only condition for its continued existence. The few scholars who regularly consult the archives have long ago stopped looking at the masterpieces in the galleries leading to the library. This is why it wasn’t immediately obvious that Zurbarán’s still life Quince, Apple, and Lemon had been replaced with a printout. In this case, however, it wasn’t a reproduction of the painting but a photo of an actual quince, an actual apple, and an actual lemon, eclipsing one another in orbiting chiaroscuros, very much in the same way Francisco de Zurbarán had laid out and painted the fruit he had gathered from an Andalusian orchard. Academics and conceptual artists quivered with excitement after the news broke—referent, context, appropriation, etc. The police didn’t immediately connect the Zurbarán to the Sargent.

No one could establish when the still life had been stolen (or “improved,” according to a wisecracking criticaster), but the forgery was discovered toward the end of the American Booksellers’ Conference, held every fall in New York City. The main extracurricular event of the ABC has always been the party at the offices of the Parallel Press. It is widely accepted that editorial audacity and exquisite taste have kept the publishing house a bastion of literary prestige for over half a century, even if its halo of almost religious mystique has lately faded a bit. Overcrowded, sweaty, and often smelling of autumnally damp wool, the Parallel parties were unintentionally glamorous. There was something quaint about those evenings, with their indoor smoking and lighthearted, unconcealed bumps of cocaine in the kitchen. It was loud; everyone yelled; nobody cared. The books lining the walls were pushed back on their shelves to make room for plastic cups with bourbon or generic Côtes du Rhône. The autographed first editions and galleys marked up by prominent authors were kept in a locked room. But all the art—the pieces that the late Mindy Hall, the press’s founder and first publisher, had received or bought from her artist friends throughout her life—remained on display. Or, as it turned out during this year’s party, not quite all the art. Because the first thing Matthew Robbins, Hall’s successor, noticed the following morning as the cleaning crew stuffed Solo cups into garbage bags was that the relatively small Twombly above the bricked-up fireplace had been substituted with a fake. Instead of Cy Twombly’s traces, which had tended toward meaning while calmly refusing to become writing, there were now grotesque doodles. This caricature of the original, taped to the frame, had been executed in quick puerile strokes, using the box of twelve Crayola crayons left on the mantel—most likely as a provocation, according to Robbins’s press release.

The police are now treating the three incidents in connection with one another, but they seem uninterested in the increasingly personal, essayistic nature of the forgeries, which is all the press and the art world are talking about. Walter Benjamin, Elizabeth Harland, William Gaddis, Patricia Highsmith, Orson Welles, and Jean Baudrillard are referenced in articles that take these thefts as an opportunity to reflect, always with a touch of irony, on the true meaning of aesthetic value. Two famous critics published pieces on the affair, swapping their signatures, columns, and writing styles. Commentators pored over an elaborate manifesto that someone claiming to be the perpetrator posted online, though it turned out to be the work of a graduate student in Ann Arbor, who plans to include it (and the whole scandal) in her doctoral dissertation. While theories proliferate, the detectives on the case remain unmoved. Given the almost complete lack of security at all scenes, they say, any amateur could have pulled off these stunts. Neither the officers half-heartedly investigating the case nor the intellectual pranksters are entirely wrong.

The Sargent was stolen because it was easy to steal. Michael Lyles is a second-generation member of the New Amsterdam, which at first made it hard for him to accept that he would soon have to leave the club. After years of diligent, misdirected work and enthusiastic, ill-advised investments, Michael had finally wiped out his inheritance. Someone had once remarked that his adult life could be summarized in three sartorial incarnations: if at the auspicious beginnings of his career he favored spread-collar shirts and double Windsor knots, at the moderate height of his success he cultivated the meticulous shabbiness that was the ultimate token of affluence in the new circles in which he traveled, although as his business declined and he began frequenting people younger than him, he developed a taste for designers from Antwerp and limited-edition sneakers, which he proudly started wearing at the New Amsterdam when this was still somewhat of a provocation. That he had never evolved beyond this last stage probably indicated that his professional life was stagnant. There was, however, more objective evidence of this standstill: the point had come when he could no longer afford to have guests over at the club, and he well knew that the looming annual dues would be beyond his reach. He ended up concluding that it was all for the best. Who wanted to be around dinosaurs and parvenus anyway? His newly acquired disdain for the club was, in fact, what made him consider the Sargent. Michael had never cared for art, and he understood that if Sargent’s reputation had managed to get through his impermeable disinterest, the portrait hanging by the little bar must be worth something—an intuition he later confirmed by looking up other works by this artist on Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Black-market prices would be significantly lower, but he might still get enough for the painting to appease his more aggressive creditors.

Even Michael could see how insulting his printout was to Sargent’s original. But he was rather proud of the replica a young couple at a shop upstate had made of the ebony ripple frame in the seventeenth-century Dutch style, which is how they described it when they saw the photographs Michael showed them on his phone. He mounted the picture himself, and the final result was passable enough, though it didn’t really matter. It only had to hold up for the few hours between his departure and the club’s closure that night—anything beyond would be a gift. The painting was small (roughly 17 by 15 inches) and could easily be carried in an inconspicuous bag. Having had countless failed business meetings in the little bar, Michael knew which nights were slow, when patrons dwindled away, and what the view was from every angle of the room. His hands were shaking as he removed the portrait, although he was sure he had nothing to worry about.

Because the art world was absolutely foreign to him, Michael resorted to an ex-girlfriend who had gone, in her own words, from failed photographer to successful-enough gallerist. Marianne Simpson was talented at almost anything she set her mind to. In college, cognitive neuroscience, German studies, applied mathematics, and architecture seemed equally viable options. All possibilities were open—which, in the end, filled her with a paradoxical sense of claustrophobia. Her restless intellect found peace in concrete objects, and to the dismay of her advisers she concentrated on art. She started out as a sculptor with an interest in strict literality. Her pieces were realist to the point of intentional redundancy. She took countless photos in preparation for these sculptures, until she realized that everything she wanted was all there, in the pictures, and that any further steps were unnecessary. None of her teachers or friends denied the rigor and quality of her work, but for the first time she could sense everyone doubting her talent. This doubt became her ultimate motivation. The critics dismissed her first major show of photographic still lifes, but she survived the blow and stayed the course for as long as she could. As grants and funding became scarcer, she took a few graphic design jobs and then, tired of working for others, opened a gallery on the Lower East Side. Photography faded away.

It was Marianne whose wit had reduced Michael’s adult life to those three stages of attire. She had met him right before he gave up spread collars and silk ties for frayed button-downs and merino cardigans, and she had initially thought herself responsible for this transition. One of their first fights (their relationship was based on conflict; they only truly met in battle) was over his “fascistoid” outfits, which she took as acts of aggression and her friends found hilarious. A gradual change followed that skirmish, and when Michael started showing up in corduroy and tattered tweeds, she believed she had won the war. Shortly thereafter he introduced her to his new acquaintances—all wearing some version of that shabby uniform—and she understood he was a chameleon with no taste of his own. She never brought it up, but this was a not minor cause leading to their breakup a few months later. Meeting him again after so many years, in his outmoded Belgian avant-garde costume, she deduced that he must have left his previous scene for a younger set.

Marianne also deduced immediately that the painting was stolen, despite Michael’s protestations and a convoluted story involving friends of friends of friends. She wanted nothing to do with the transaction, but she did know a shady dealer who could help. All she asked in return was that he tell her the truth about the Sargent. After a long preface describing his fall and the extent of his despair, Michael told Marianne how he had pulled off the theft. (For moral context, he described the decline of the club and even managed to mention his once-scandalous sneakers in the process.) She was far more interested in the logistical details than in her friend’s woes—or even in the prize itself, which lay neglected on the sofa until Michael, having been promised an introduction to the dealer, wrapped it up and left.

As she listened to Michael’s story, Marianne felt “time twisting into a helix,” as she would later put it. She remembered preparing for her first important show of photographic still lifes years before. She remembered the unattended Zurbarán at the Spanish Association, how much she had loved the painting, how closely she had studied it looking for inspiration for her own work, how indifferent the few others who passed it seemed to be. She also remembered the reviews of her last show (“accomplished yet ultimately irrelevant exercises in referential accuracy,” according to Art Agora). By looking back she found herself looking into the future: her memories morphed into a flawless scheme. She would re-create the still life (Quince, Apple, and Lemon) in real life, take a picture that not only reproduced the original with absolute precision but also captured its feeling—a photograph of Zurbarán’s gaze rather than merely one of the fruit—and replace the painting with the photo. Then she would wait to get caught. Of course, she wouldn’t be so inelegant as to plant clues for ham-fisted detectives; someone in the art community would have to recognize her style. Her photograph would be up at the Spanish Association for weeks or, with some luck, months before anyone realized that art was imitating art imitating nature. Eventually a colleague or a critic would think of her work. When the police came knocking at her door, she would return the Zurbarán at once, explaining how the whole thing had obviously been a conceptual art project. She would be let off with a slap on the wrist—or, worst-case scenario, a short sentence at a low-security prison, which would only cement her reputation as a provocateur. But it was also possible that no one would ever find her out. And if, after a year or two, nobody came for her and the case went cold, well, then she would own a Zurbarán. She couldn’t lose.

After so many years devoted exclusively to her gallery, Marianne had forgotten how much she enjoyed taking photographs. She understood that her real piece was the entire “event”—the photo replacing the painting, the discovery of her scheme, the coverage in the specialized press—but she took enormous pleasure in the shoot. Once she felt certain that she would be able to re-create the painting, she reached out to the shady dealer.

With his slick hair, whitened teeth, and radiant skin, Brett was ubiquitous in the art world. He wasn’t a close friend, but Marianne knew she could count on his greed. Among his legitimate clients were hedge fund managers, oilmen, and oligarchs—but the real money, people said, was in his murky operations, regarding which everyone claimed to have heard a wild story. Brett never cared to deny this gossip, and Marianne was convinced he loved the outlandish rumors about himself, not only because he was vain but also because there is no better hiding place than hyperbole. Still, she knew from reliable sources that he was effective at laundering the reputation of purloined paintings, negotiating with insurance companies, and acting as the middleman for pieces stolen on commission. She also knew that many of his deals didn’t revolve around cash at all. The art was sometimes used as collateral in much larger transactions or as a political bargaining chip, all of which she found quite frightening. This is why she intended to keep their meeting—at the McDonald’s on Third Avenue at 58th Street, per his instructions—brief.

She arrived early, but Brett was already there, having a soda and neglecting his fries. He was wearing gym clothes, a Lakers hat, and a watch the size of a McMuffin. After the usual pleasantries, she put her proposition bluntly: If he could find someone to execute a foolproof plan to steal a Zurbarán (it was unguarded; it would be replaced with a fake; months would go by until anyone noticed it was missing), she would pay him with a Sargent he could get for a song from a friend of hers. She knew that these two artists, although vastly different in almost every regard, had a similar market and a comparable price point, so it would be a fair transaction. Brett responded exactly how she had anticipated: Yes, those artists were more or less equivalent in a commercial sense, but why should he run all the risks and also foot the bill, however ludicrous, for the Sargent? Marianne had an answer ready: She could compensate for all that with a Twombly. A minor Twombly, perhaps, but surely enough to bridge the gap. When Brett tried to negotiate further, she said they both knew that while it was impossible to sell a painting stolen from a museum, like the Zurbarán, it ought to be fairly easy for him to place two pictures from private collections. After seeing photos of both the Sargent and the Twombly—and discussing all the steps and the timeline—Brett agreed.

I hadn’t spoken with Marianne in over a year when she called, but no matter how long we go without talking, there’s always an immediate feeling of closeness when we reconnect. We first met some eight years ago, working at the Parallel Press while trying to get our careers going—she as an artist, I as a novelist. The desk that I shared with another copy editor was right beside the art department, where she drafted bold cover designs that were almost always rejected for blander options. It didn’t take long for us to become friends: Marianne introduced me to her favorite artists; I lent her my favorite books. Despite my yearnings, which I quickly learned to repress, I knew nothing was possible beyond our instantaneously profound friendship.

Mindy Hall had died about a year before we were hired. Though only a senior editor, Matthew Robbins had managed, through aggressive boardroom stratagems, to be appointed the new publisher. I knew he would be difficult when he greeted me on my first day wearing both an ascot and a pocket square. He was a petty, insecure despot. People outside the office found this hard to believe. Matthew was fun! And that was part of the problem. Every exchange with him started with a joke one was forced to laugh at: His words quite literally demanded a physical reaction. Once you had laughed, you had obeyed his first command. We were all hostages to his violent bonhomie. Moreover, it was impossible to play along with him, since one of his favorite moves was to change the emotional tone of a situation on a dime—what had been humorous a moment before could suddenly become dead serious, and one was left chuckling alone, like an idiot. Small daily humiliations chipped away at our self-esteem. He broke us by making total claims over our time and demanding our full commitment to vainglorious, Sisyphean projects. If he was pleased with us, we were rewarded with never-ending lunches where he regaled us with his self-aggrandizing banalities. Most of the great ideas for the press came from his subordinates, who never got any credit. Still, perhaps I should be grateful to Matthew, because to vent the frustration and rage he induced in us, Marianne and I started to have drinks with some regularity. Tired of his stupidity and meanness, Marianne ultimately quit to open her gallery. Being a writer, I stayed on, thinking it would eventually help me get published. This never happened. I don’t blame Matthew for that. Not entirely. But looking back at the years I have spent working for him, I can see that under his tutelage I have learned to be afraid and self-doubting in ways that I couldn’t have imagined before and that now define me.

This is why I didn’t hesitate when Marianne told me about her project and asked me to get the Twombly for her. Especially when she got to the part with the crayons. The details of the execution can interest no one—they involve remaining hidden in a bathroom after all the ABC guests had left, taking the Twombly from its frame and replacing it with a fake, returning to the bathroom until the morning, and finally walking out, thinly disguised, with a garbage bag, among the cleaning crew I had hired. Of course, we could easily have managed a better forgery—or at least a printout of the original, as with the Sargent. But it had to be crude. And it was all about the box of crayons. The perceived provocation and the hurried nature of the copy were of the essence: Matthew needed to believe that both the theft and the forgery had taken place during his party. This would lead him to the conclusion that several perpetrators must have been involved. Among his guests there had to have been a group of conspirators making a circle around the painting or distracting his attention in some way as the original was replaced with the doodles someone had made right there, on-site, while laughing at him. And he did believe this to be the case: He had invited a bunch of vipers into his office, only to be ridiculed. I copyedited the press release where this was implied. I heard him, through the walls, yelling unfounded accusations into his phone. I was forwarded some of his irate, threatening emails from the people who received them—all wondering whether Matthew had utterly lost his mind.

Aside from the outbursts of rage, life at the office has grown rather quiet. All those futile, flamboyant projects have come to a halt. There are no more lunches. No jokes. Matthew distrusts all those who attended his party—which is essentially everyone in the book business. He has become the subject of widespread mockery and the butt of every joke in the literary world. It’s said that the board of directors will summon him any day now. Meanwhile, he remains obsessed with the theft and keeps focusing on small, trivial matters. A moment ago, he told me to find him a few posters and arrange them in a display so he could select one to cover up the pale rectangle where the Twombly once hung.