#sun painting is a reproduction i made of another painting because i liked it and wanted it in my house

[yellbug]

literally just bragging because we finally got this marble top early 20th century washstand up here and i set it up as a vanity last night

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Lend Me Your Ears By R. D. BOUCHETTE,” Vancouver Sun. March 2, 1931. Page 6. --- There's Still Hope - Artistry Re-born -  Sir Charles Chaplin - Trouble in Zion --- Those who fall to discern the tiniest gleam of hope for humanity, might pay a visit to the formidable grey fortress, which is the British Columbia penitentiary, on New Westminster's outskirts.

There, under the kindly but watchful eyes of Col. C. E. Edgett, the warden, is going on a process of human rehabilitation, of which we know very little. We, for the most part, are ignorant of it because we cease to interest ourselves in a man once he becomes a number. We forget that if the penitentiary fails to cure that man of his anti-social aliment we shall pay for it.

Warden Edgett's mission is not so much to punish the criminal, as to make him a law-abiding citizen. He does not, however, speak of it as his mission. He says it is the purpose of the Canadian penitentiary system.

***

Facts speak for them selves, and how well Warden Edgett is succeeding in his work is revealed in the figures. 

During his two years as "premier" of this limbo state, Col. Edgett has discharged 200 men from New Westminster. Two of them are again behind the highly-polished steel bars. Another two are in Oakalla. Four more are doing time in the United States. 

This means that more than 90 per cent have reformed their lives. We know that they have reformed, for if they still followed lives of violence, sooner or later they would be in the hands of the police.

***

Out at New Westminster penitentiary, last week, I saw George Paradise, serving a three-year term for selling narcotic drugs. 

I remember speaking to Paradise two years ago at police headquarters, just after he had "beaten the rap" on a drug-possession charge. 

"Why don't you quit taking dope?" someone asked him.

"Quit dope?" Paradise laughed bitterly. "You may take a child from its mother. but never will you take the love of that stuff from me."

Paradise was almost boasting. Less than a year later, in Assize Court, he asked the court to send him to the penitentiary so that he might be cured of his lust for drugs.

Paradise was a sign painter and artist. When I saw him at the prison last week he was in the church, paint brush in hand. He had completed a mural design, a background to the altar. He looked quite happy. He has gained about 20 pounds in weight. His eyes are clear.

He glanced proudly at his work. "I haven't done anything like that for 20 years," he said.

Then he showed me toys he had fashioned with his hands. There was a mechanical turtle, an elephant which raised and lowered its trunk when it was moved, several reproductions of Spanish galleons. Last Christmas Paradise made scores of children happy with the toys he constructed.

***

Paradise, now, does not feel that he wishes to retain the love of narcotics. He has never been more content in his life.

"How are things outside?" he asked me.

I said they were "not so good," there was a lot of unemployment.

"I guess I ain't missing much," said he.

In England they are talking about knighting Charlie Chaplin, the prince of pantomime. It strikes me as being a pretty good idea. Surely, if a man deserves a knighthood for brewing beer or distilling whisky or manufacturing soap, it is not unfitting to reward him for creating Iaughter. Compared to some knights I know, Chaplin could handle an earldom very nicely.

***

Mark Hellinger has story for those who "like their irony served piping hot." It is about a Jewish real estate man who, in boom years, built three very white apartment houses in New York.

Along came the depression and our real estate man found himself with three very large and very white elephants camped upon his bank account.

The sad part of it is that he cannot live in any of the apartments himself. They are restricted against Jews.

[adorethedistance]

Baby Fever - Owen Joyner x Reader

JATP masterlist

Warnings: swearing, discussion of reproduction, a child (no-)

Words: 2502

Summary: You and Owen spend a day at the zoo babysitting Baby Shada, and her presence sparks conversation about adding a new presence of your very own.

A/n: This was written in like three hours and I’m exhausted it’s skimmed at best but this is just something I’ve had in my mind and as y’all know by now, writing fics is how I retire my dreamland scenarios of romance. Enjoy my brain giving 82% of her all :)

“You ready, little one?” I bite back a laugh when I hear Owen’s voice coo from the back seat. Owen and I had been wanting to plan a zoo date for the longest time, but never had the opportunity to until now; when Jer and Carolynn needed a well-deserved day of rest, and Charlie was back in Dieppe for the next month, that left Owen and me as the next in line to take care of 10-month-old baby Shada. The two parents hadn’t decided on a name until after she was born, so the rest of our friends got comfortable with referring to her as ‘baby Shada’ or ‘CJ’ short for ‘Care and Jer’s’ kid.

Owen and I left the house at 8:45 sharp to get to the park in a timely manner. We weren’t too concerned with arriving when the park opened seeing as it was a Wednesday morning in the middle of February. Children should be in school, non-actors should be in the office, and surely other young babies and new moms should be attending mommy and me yoga classes or something.

“Do you have the bag?” I ask, surveying the car for any loose items.

“Yeah, it’s on the floor. Do you want me to carry the bag or the baby first?”

“You babysit first. I can handle tickets.” Owen nods and gingerly unbuckles the car seat to scoop up the currently calm child and slip her into the black baby carrier we opted for instead of a stroller. I put on the backpack with all her baby items and some of our essential possessions, and together we walk to enter the park. CJ is smiling brightly as she takes in all the different sights and sounds of the entrance. The image is just too adorable, I have to make Owen stop under the giant sign to take a picture of the two of them. I send it to both parents as the first update of the day, knowing they won’t treasure the photo as much as I will, because they aren’t in love with Owen in the way that I am.

Owen and I have talked about kids before. Once, on our first date when he asked me if I had any names picked out, which I didn’t. And second, when I informed him we would be entrusted with the care of CJ the following week; it was when we began brainstorming activities to do with her that Owen brought up having our own kids. It took me by surprise that he used the word ‘when’ instead of ‘if’. A small language thing to pick up on, but a huge life thing to process. He talked about making memories with CJ and being the first ones to take her to the zoo, with the consent of her parents. Truth be told, I don’t love kids or the idea of kids in the way that Owen does, so I was a little hesitant to speak my mind. But I didn’t miss the way he held his hand on my stomach as we fell asleep that night. And I didn’t miss the hopeful glint in his eyes when I’d asked his opinion on a few names I liked the next morning.

“What do you wanna do first, CJ?” Owen’s question elicits an excited squeal from her as a response which makes the two of us laugh. I quickly snag a map from the front stand and survey our route options before I feel Owen’s right hand come to rest on my lower back. I glance up to see him peering at the map over my shoulder. My movement prompts him to face me and give me a soft, comforting smile. I feel like spending forever looking into Owen’s breathtaking eyes, but the baby strapped to his chest has other plans. She begins flailing wildly to convey all the excitement coursing through her little body. We laugh once more and Owen presses a quick kiss to her head, which messes up her hat’s placement on her head. I shake my head, stepping in front of my fiance, completely ignoring him. My tunnel vision hyperfocus is set on adjusting the brim of the bucket hat to protect baby Shada from the sun.

“There we go.” When I look back up Owen is staring at me with the softest closed mouth smile I’ve ever seen, “What?”

“Nothing. Where to, Mamacita?”

“Mamacita? Whatever. I say we take this path that way we can start with the elephants and condors, and that’ll take us to the polar bear cove.”

“Lead the way.”

Owen slips his hand in mine, interlacing our fingers and giving me an affirming squeeze. As we’re walking to the elephant exhibit, CJ’s happy mood means she must wave her tiny hand at every person we pass. Other parents with babies her same age, being the majority of the crowd that’s free on a Wednesday morning, smile and wave back to her. Along the front street, the initial entrance crowd begins to dwindle and there are fewer people for her to wave at. Then, a woman who’s probably in her late forties, early fifties sees CJ wave to her. The woman is wearing black pants, a soft maroon top, and a name tag that reads ‘Linda’. Judging by the fact that she gets to wear red instead of the familiar forest green, I can conclude she’s a higher up when it comes to her position here at the zoo.

“You guys are such a beautiful family.”

“Oh, we’re n-”

“Thank you!” Owen speaks over my refutation. The woman then begins to approach us, and I look up at my serious boyfriend in confusion. He whispers, “Let’s pretend. It’ll be fun.” I mean, I’m not much of an actor but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

“How old is she?”

“10 months,” he answers seamlessly, using the back of his index finger to lovingly stroke CJ’s round cheek.

“She is just so darling, I’m sure you two must be very proud. They grow so fast, you know? I remember having little ones running around all the time and suddenly they’re off to college. Is she your first child?”

“Yeah, she’s the only one for now.” For now? Wow Owen, when you create a world you really live in it.

“Well, enjoy it while it lasts. They’re only babies for so long.” Linda smiles down and CJ once more before bidding me and Owen goodbye.

“For now?” I ask, incredulously when the woman is out of earshot.

“Yeah,” he shrugs playfully, “CJ’s so well behaved I’m sure we can manage another one.”

“Uh-huh. Are you aware she’s not actually our child?” Owen sighs out a smile and takes my hand as he begins on our trek to the elephant enclosure. When he speaks again, I nearly miss it from how quiet he’s talking,

“S’wishful thinking.”

“What did you just say?” I’m curious to see if he’ll repeat it to my face.

“I said it’s wishful thinking.”

“To have a second child to our nonexistent first child?”

“No,” he nudges my shoulder with his own as we walk, “To have a child period.”

“Nice try. Your baby fever isn’t gonna rub off on me so easily.” He scoffs out a laugh,

“It’s still early. We’ve got the whole day to fix that.” Seamlessly pulling Owen to a stop, I don’t pause our conversation as I step in front of him. My gaze doesn’t meet his eyes as I straighten CJ’s hat once more.

“Well, bear in mind we’re basically on the clock here, and CJ is a tiny person before she’s a persuasion tactic.” I lunge one foot back to make sure the hat is even, and that the baby can still see from under it. When I deem her hat positioning satisfactory, CJ smiles up at me at the same time that paints Owen’s flushed face. He holds his hand straight out in front of his body for me to take, and when I do, he pulls me in to clasp both hands together and rest them on my lower back. Minimal visitors in the zoo is definitely a perk as Owen’s far more physically affectionate without others around. I rest my hands on the portion of his chest that isn’t occupied by CJ’s happy demeanor.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out to be the mothering type. I’m just not… good with kids.”

“I understand your reluctance… but I’m gonna get you on board by the end of the day.”

“Yeah okay, Joyner. Whatever you say.”

Owen smiles down at me with a love as infinite as the number of stars in the universe. CJ squeals between us and I babble back at her in a higher pitch than my usual speaking voice. She squawks again and we go back and forth like this for a little while until she sticks her tongue out at me in between a smile. My jaw drops in a surprised, amused, and simultaneously offended manner, and I take her chubby little baby foot in my hand and squeeze gently, causing her to screech through fits of giggling.

“When did you learn how to do that? Owen, did you-” The words die on my tongue when I see the expression on Owen’s face. He’s wholly enamored and yet so smug at the same time. I feel my face heat up a little bit; I don’t even have to ask what he’s thinking.

“‘I’m just not good with kids’ my ass.”

“There are impressionable ears around. And I do not sound like that.”

“She’s not gonna remember any of this in a week, and yes. You do.” I glare at Owen with an expression of intolerance but my facade is crumbled as I can’t mask the growing smile he elicits by mimicking my expression.

“Let’s go you two.”

After what felt like an eternity we’ve finally made it to the elephant exhibit. The herd of African elephants are spread across the enclosure, some playing in water, some feeding from hay baskets, and a baby closely following it’s mother as she walks across the paddock. When Owen appears beside me

“Do you need a break? We can switch off and you carry the bag.”

“Sure.” I set the baby backpack on the bench behind us and unbuckle the fastenings of the carrier to prop CJ on the side of my hip. As we wait for Owen to take the carrier off his body, I walk her up to the wooden railing that surrounds the elephants’ enclosure. Of course, the sight ahead excites her and she begins bouncing on my side as a means of conveying her feelings. She makes a sound that I interpret as an interrogative before pointing to the animals.

“You see the elephants, CJ?”

“Uh-huh.” She lifts her tiny baby hand into the air and waves the best she can at the elephants, none of which are even looking our way.

“Are we waving? Say ‘hi elephants’!” I wave with her and gauge her smile to be even bigger than when she’d stuck her tongue out two minutes ago.

“Hi ephants!” I freeze mid wave in shock. Did she just-?

“Did you just? Owen!”

“Yeah?” he calls from behind us, still getting all our things in order.

“Did Carolynn or Jeremy say what her first words were?”

“Uhhhh, no. They said she hasn’t been speaking words yet, just consonant sounds,” Owen leaves the items unattended seeing as there’s no one else around,  “Why?”

“CJ. Say ‘hi elephants’!” I wave at the animals once more, praying that that wasn’t a fluke.

“Hi ephants.” Upon hearing her speak, Owen’s face holds the same expression as mine did just two seconds ago.

“Should we video it and send it to them or pretend it never happened so they can be the ones that hear her first words?”

“Take a video, or take a secret to our graves?” He pretends to weigh the options as if this is the most perilous decision we’ll ever make.

“You’re right, you’re right. Will you grab my phone for me?”

“Where is it?”

“My back pocket that the baby is currently sitting on.” I turn around to let Owen grab the device and unlock it for me.

“Should I just get you guys in the video or the elephants, too?”

“What are you talking about? Get in the video!” I scold him for trying to worm his way out of this memory. “Make yourself useful and revive your long lost vlogging skills.” Owen rolls his eyes but flips to the front facing camera and hits record all the same.

“Say ‘hi mom, hi dad’,” I direct CJ and she merely waves at me, not fully understanding the concept of vlogging at the ripe age of 10 months. “Update number 2: we’re at the elephant enclosure and CJ made some friends. Hey,” I speak quietly to capture her attention. “Can you say ‘hi elephants’?”

“Hi ephants!” She screams and then laughs, throwing her head back to make sure Owen is still present.

“A new word!” I cheer as Owen lowers my phone to stop the recording,

“New skill unlocked.” He hits stop and proceeds to trade me CJ for the phone for a quick second so I can send the video to the not exactly new parents.

“They’re gonna love this.” I click my phone off and tuck it back into my back pocket. Retrieving the baby carrier from the desolate bench, I slip it on to strap myself in before CJ. Once secured, I look up to take her from Owen but blink in surprise that they’re no longer standing in front of me. I turn slightly to my left to see CJ stumbling forward on wobbling legs whilst Owen keeps her standing. He removes his hands from her sides and allows her to grab a hold of both of his index fingers in either hand. Slowly, he walks her closer to where I’m standing one tiny step at a time.

The sight in front of me is so sweet there’s a strange feeling culminating in my chest. A micro trace of baby fever crosses my mind at the thought of Owen teaching our own baby to walk. The smile on his face is unlike anything I’ve seen before and the prospect of having kids suddenly becomes less dreary. I’ve always been afraid of being a bad parent, or messing up someone else’s life, but with Owen, all those fears disappear. Becoming a parent is no longer bleak; the thought of raising kids with someone as loving and enthusiastic as Owen, the world seems all that much brighter.

“Y/n,” he calls to get my attention, unaware I’ve been watching for the past few minutes. When he looks up from CJ’s tiny body, and recognizes the familiar ‘baby fever’ look in my eyes, he smiles and utters a simple, “I told you so.”

***

A/n: lawd help me I have been putting off so many requests to write self indulgent bs pls don’t hate me.

Taglist: @caitsymichelle13​ @kaitlyn2907​ @itz-jas @crybabyddl @kcd15 @kinda-really-lost @calamitykaty @morganayennefertyrell @n0wornever @dream-a-little-bigger-x @mrstodorooki @vicesvsvirturesfanfic @curlybrownhairedboys @amazinggracy @kaitieskidmore1 @asdfghjkl-fanfics @ghostlygreenbean @juliefromaustralia @merceret @jemimah-b99 @ifilwtmfc @thesweetestsinner @imsydneywalker @lovesanimals​ @thebloodthirstyvampress @bumbleberry-pie @losers-club6 @tefilovesreading @dmcfarland1 @joynerxmercer @kexrtiz @talk-on-the-street @phantompogues @konciousdreamer @sunsetcurvej @warmnesss0ul @celestialmolina @lilyjoyner

[pepperpills]

The Harvest - RE8 Fanfic

The Harvest

A Resident Evil 8 fan fiction by Joana

Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader

Notes: heey guys, thanks everyone who has been reading this series, it was fun writting this story, but as i said a couple of chapters ago, it has come to an end. I am currently writting a new Heis x Reader story, focusing more on wordbuilding and their relationship. I guess The Harvest, as my first try on this, has been a great experience and I hope the next one turns out better. That being said, please enjoy this piece and I will see you all later on a new begginning, thanks!

Warning: NSFW content

Part I - Destiny (1) Part I - Destiny (2) Part II - The Lord Part III - The Hunt Part IV - Soft Torture Part V - Cry Baby

Part VI - The Encounter

It wasn’t a particular sunny day, but the weather was cooler than usual. It was enough for Karl to decide to work outside, once the heat inside the factory was overwhelming his sweaty body. He was shirtless, but still had his hat and spectacles on to protect him from the sun and the light.

Heisenberg was in the middle of something. Ever since you two inaugurated the new wing, he has been working to the bone on a new project. You understood he was trying a new set of armour to make the Soldats tougher. Unfortunately, for you, this was a task you couldn’t help him with. It was still on project, but he was already trying to find the material and that was why he had been searching the factory’s yard all morning, coming and going, absolutely focused.

You were getting bored, though. Once you couldn’t adventure the factory by your own anymore – neither wanted to, having in mind what happened last time –, you chose to sunbath at the yard in the early hours. It was still kind of chilly, because no matter what, the Village was always like that, and you obviously didn’t have any bikinis, once you really didn’t need a set living where you lived. In that manner, you bathed in your panties, wearing no bra.

You gave Karl a major distraction, because of this. First, he was jealous of your boobs exposed like that, but you managed to convince him no one could see you, once the factory was only accessible by the bridge and it was a considerable walk from the allowed parts of the Village. He chilled, but something in his pants was feeling encaged.

Not long after, you got bored. Then an idea crossed your mind causing you to smile. You quickly went to the bedroom to change, grab a few things and then went to the kitchen. Karl had been so long under the sun that he might as well be thirsty. Considering that, you prepared a juice with lots of ice, leaving the building to meet him outside caring a glass of it.

“Hey, Karl.” You called him, his body half inside one of the tanks. “What about a quick break?” You offered, rising the glass once he looked at you.

His countenance showed interest. His mouth was indeed dry, almost causing him chapped lips. Heisenberg walked towards you, the scene glowing in your eyes. The man’s chest was shiny with the sweat. Without his shirt, you had a great view of his body, enjoying the sight of his strong arms. Karl was a Renascence painting for you and the thought of it made you smile, which only invited him nearer.

“Thank you, buttercup.” He said, taking the glass you offered him.

He drank it almost entirely at once, causing some drops to roll down his bearded chin. When he was done, you came closer, resting your hands on his shoulders, not being able to resist a stupid idea that came through your mind. Heisenberg was a bit confused, but accepted your approach, placing his free hand on your hips. Instead of kissing him, you licked his chin, retracing the juice line. He wasn’t expecting it. You finished with a kiss, looking for his tongue, willing to make yours dance with his inside your mouths.

“You’re full of tricks, aren’t you?” Karl laughed when you let his lips go.

“Just some.” You shrugged, smirking back at him. “But I will let you work for now, I know you’re busy.” Now he had a sorrow expression, your kiss had awakened something in him, but you were right, he needed to find at least one metal piece to try on the model.

“It is okay, I will meet you later.” You comforted him, playing with ones of his rebel hair locks.

“I will make it up to you, Y/N.” Karl promised, pressing you harder against his chest, not wanting to let you go.

“No need to, just be there.” You planted a soft kiss on his lips to which he couldn’t help but smile.

“Ok, I will be, kitten.” Heisenberg kissed you once more, eager to taste you, he was intense.

After a couple more kisses, you managed to soften his grip around your hips and he decided that if he could finish the work earlier, it meant more time with you. With that in mind, he returned to the tank. You excused yourself, telling him you were going out to hunt to try the improvements you made on your bow.

You started walking towards the forest behind the factory. As soon as you reached the firsts trees, you noticed a change in the lighting. Clouds were now hiding the sun, bringing in new winds. You puffed, your plans of a cooler hunt probably spoiled because of this change of weather. Neither way, you were already there.

You took your usual path, going down to the stream. Not long after you noticed the absence of Lycans in the surroundings. You use to listen to their roars and sometimes even footsteps, but this time the only sound heard was the birds chanting. An odd atmosphere took over the forest, making you a bit tense.

Maybe they were occupied somewhere else, you thought that they could be on a hunt of their own, chasing a poor villager. This didn’t relax you, though. You kept looking around, searching for Lycans and other animals.

This happened half way to the stream, so fast you weren’t able to process the entire thing. You got distracted with a noise coming from your right, you looked over a fallen trunk, but saw nothing but a mild movement on a bush. It could be the wind, but you wouldn’t take your chances on a silly thought.

The aura was so tense you were about to make up your mind on coming back to the factory, leaving the hunt for another day, scared again of the creatures of the forest. You didn’t have time to decide, though. On your left, a wet thud caused you to jump. Your attention rapidly turned to the source of it.

A body had just fallen from one of the tree’s highest branches. For all you knew, that was a Moroaica, judging by its clothes and grey skin. This wasn’t the work of a Lycan. They would only eat other creatures when they didn’t have a different flesh and, before opting for this alternative, they would feast on the Village’s cattle. This must be something difference.

Only to confirm your suspicions, the culprit land in front of you. It came out of nowhere. Well, from one of the branches above your body. You instinctively screamed, not even noticing it, even though it was pretty loud. This thing wasn’t like anything you have ever seen in your life, but it resembled a lost tale from the cabins.

The story was about a pale creature, one that inhabits the dark, but would go out of its hiding places to hunt when starving. It was described to have sharp fangs for teeth and a blood thirst. On the folk’s tale, the thing wouldn’t have much reason, it would only know two things: the hunger and the instinct of reproduction.

However, this one, standing in front of you, had a human malice written in its red injected eyes, a beauty in its traces. It smirked at your thunderstruck face, feasting on your fear before feasting on your blood. The creature, which resembled a woman, approached your form elegantly, not rushing, having everything under its control.

She extended a hand full of sharp claws to your cheekbone, putting away a hair lock. She dug one claw into your skin, causing the red liquid to flow. Then she licked the blood from her nail, moaning to your sweet taste.

“You are too pretty to spoil.” She made up her mind, giving you a Cheshire cat smile.

The next movement was a blur to your human perception. You believe the thing attacked you, because you remember feeling your back meeting the soil with a thud. She was on top of you, pressing fangs on your neck. You passed out, regaining a faint consciousness some time later when you were being cared on someone’s shoulder when, before passing out again, your sensitive nostrils perceived a scent of oil.

-x-

Karl was worried out of his mind when he found you. He thought he heard your scream, but it was really the Lycan’s roars responding to it that enlightened the situation to him. He had just found the perfect metal piece when it happened, leaving the factory in a rush, panting already, only thinking of bringing his hammer that flew to his hand as he passed through the grid.

He used the Lycan’s flair to find you. No sign of whatever made that to you, it was only your body lying cold on the dead grass. He almost panicked, imagining you were forever lost. The relief the man felt to feel a weak blow of air on his hand when he placed it close to your nose was indescribable.

Heisenberg didn’t think twice before putting you over his shoulder, his hammer being held by his other hand, and take you back to the factory, cursing himself he let your go earlier, thinking he should have joined you or, at least, sent an escort of dogs with you.

You didn’t wake up for a long time. He laid you on his bed, watching as your chest went up and down with your breathing, this being the only thing that calmed his nerves down a little. But not so much later, he had to leave for a while, afraid he would throw everything metallic on the room.

He put on a real tantrum on a room nearby, not knowing the noises came to you on dreams as much as his enraged screams. Karl almost lost it there, turning himself into a beast on the sight of you hurt. Managing to stop only so he could really analyse your situation.

It was bad, but how bad he wasn’t sure. After being somewhat calmer, Karl quickly noticed the marks on your neck. He wasn’t a moron, specially when being “raised” with Alcina, he knew it was a bloodsucker’s doing. However, Lady Dimitrescu would never do such a messy job and it was even less probable that she would adventure herself on his area. No, it had to be a foreign.

Heisenberg would gladly chase this beast, swearing to tear it apart with his own teeth if it pleased him, but he couldn’t just leave you on your own. He sat on a chair beside the bed, holding your hand on his, focusing on the warmth on your skin. He stood like that for ours, after cleaning your wounds, on the verge of tears. At some point, he rested his head on your shoulder, near your soon-to-be new scar.

“C’mon, buttercup, wake up.” Karl whispered in your ear.

His hot breath was gently calling you out of a paralysis state. Your eyes started to open, your lips unglued, but a fever was commanding your body, making you feel restless. Heisenberg noticed your minor movements, his heart beat accelerating at the sight of your awakening.

“Fuck, Y/N!” He cursed, but a smiled formed on his lips. “Fuck, doll, what a scare you gave me!” Karl held your hand tighter.

“Karl…” You started. “I don’t feel so well.” You told him, seeing that perfect smile faint.

“I know.” He agreed. “I guess I know what it is.” An unpleasant expression formed on his brow. “Wait here.”

Karl didn’t wait until you responded, knowing you wouldn’t let him leave the room, but he had to test something and he really believed it would make you feel better. For fucks sake! It was the only way to make you cure. He went down the factory, to a part of it you didn’t yet know, but was going to get used to soon enough. He grabbed a bag of liquid and left, heading to the kitchen.

He poured the liquid in a glass and came back to you. You were now sat, trembling like crazy, wrapped by the blanket, but even that wasn’t enough to stop the cold. Seeing this, he didn’t mind sitting down on the chair again, extending the glass to you.

“Here, drink it.” He told you.

“What is it?” You asked, but the strong scent didn’t leave any doubts, you were just playing dumb.

“I guess you know what it is, Y/N.” Karl raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you hungry?” In response your stomach rumbled, making the man smirk.

“I-I can’t.” You sounded disgusted.

“You have to, kitten. It will make you feel better.” He took your hand on his, passing you the glass and guiding it to your lips.

You opened up just a little, resisting your new instincts, but as soon as the smell got more intense being that close to your nostrils, you gave up and drank it voraciously. The iron flavour making you salivate as the liquid calmed you down, stopping the trembling, washing away your fever, more potent than any medicine. When you emptied the glass, you proceeded to lick every last drop of blood reminiscent.

“That is a wild kitten.” Karl mocked, relieved at your reaction.

“Karl, what happened to me?” You wondered, not sure if he could answer.

Before telling you, he got into bed, taking off the blanket that was hiding your form. His fingers reached your marks, the sore region aching with the contact, causing him to retreat his digits. He sighed.

“You are not human anymore, Y/N.” Heisenberg told you, heavily.

“What?” You voice was a lot lower than your expected. You looked down to your lap.

“You encountered a thing back in the forest, right?” You only nodded. “Well, that thing bit you and… Well, transformed you.” He clarified.

“I feel… Better.” You moved your hands, stretching the fingers. “I mean, it hurts, but somehow I am more disposed.”

“You know…” Karl started, setting himself against the headboard, pulling you to rest in between his legs, your head resting on his chest as he played with your hair. “It isn’t ideal, but at least, now we can be together for a long time.” He kissed the top of your head and glanced down at you, care written all over his grey abysms.

“Forever?” You softly asked.

“Forever, kitten, forever.” Karl answered.

THE END.

[stuck-in-hawkins]

When He Left: Chapter 1 October 28th, 1993

Stranger Things Fanfic: Byeler

Rated: Teen and Up

Summary: Will looked back to see Mike at the gate, his forced smile starting to crumble. Will had managed to get the chance of a lifetime: a scholarship to an arts college in California. He would be there among the monster makers of the movie industry. He was pursuing his dream, but what was he giving up in exchange?

It has been four years since Will left Hawkins. Everybody went in their own separate directions. But it has been 10 years since the Gate opened and Will's nightmares are getting worse. So, the party reunites and old feelings ignite.

link to read on ao3

October 28th, 1993

Will felt the sunlight across his face and opened his eyes. The covers were insulating the heat from him and the man laying beside him. That thick mop of black hair, the curvature of his tan back. Will reached out and traced the muscles beneath.

Ishaan stirred. Will thought, “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up.” He laid perfectly still. But alas, the man turned over and looked at Will, still groggy but the blanket of sleep quickly wearing off.

Will spoke softly, “Sorry I woke you. I was just gonna make breakfast.”

The man looked away and mumbled, “I have to get to work.”

There it was. The shame. Ishaan was a flame that Will seemed to keep flying back to. He was exactly his type. Tall, beautiful, and incapable of committing to a relationship. They were drawn to each other.

Ishaan was still very much in the closet. But he would come to clubs. He loved that Will had this quiet, inviting exterior. He’d actually told him this. That Will was safe. He wasn’t “that” gay. That he could pass as straight.

Ishaan had no idea about Will’s occasional drag nights.

Ishaan grabbed his clothes quickly with a speed Will had become familiar with. Will had hoped he could open Ishaan’s eyes, and help him learn to love and accept himself for who he was. But when the morning light came, so did the shame. Will embodied all the things Ishaan didn’t want to face and he would put as much distance between him as he could.

Will put on his pj bottoms and walked down the hallway in time to see Ishaan throw on his jacket.

“Ishaan.”

Eye contact.

“Someday, I’d love to have breakfast with you.”

Will could see him try to swallow a lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry, Will.” He opened the door and walked out.

Will padded his way to the kitchen, and opened the fridge, looking at the eggs and bacon sitting inside. He felt deflated. He could feel a familiar tug, trying to pull him back to bed so that he could curl under the covers. But he knew that if he did that, he’d lose the day. And it seemed like a beautiful one to waste. He turned to the window and cranked the handle, opening them. The air was fresh and warmed from the sun.

Will brought out the eggs, bacon, toast, and butter. He’d remembered feeling the same way Ishaan had. He remembered when he first came to the city in college and kept his identity confined to the night. He used to have a similar elitism, trying to separate himself from gay men that seemed especially feminine, doing anything he could to distance himself from the stereotypes that plagued his sexuality. But going to group helped with that. He opened his mind to become more accepting. He even experimented in his identity and found freedom in the exploration.

He cracked the egg into a bowl. Ishaan hadn’t wanted to go to any of the groups Will recommended. He was in denial. He picked up another egg. He thought, 'You're just something he craves.'

Crack.

“Damnit.” He’d gotten eggshells in the mix. He picked them out. Will was beginning to realize that it would take a lot of soul searching for Ishaan to accept himself. Something Will couldn’t help him with. How long would it take? How many more mornings did he have to watch him run out the door?

Will turned on the stove and let the butter simmer while he whisked the eggs together. Dustin’s words rang in his head.

‘You deserve to be more than someone’s secret.’ Dustin didn’t mince words but he was right. And it just seemed like Will was always drawn to the type that didn’t want to come out.

He heard a door open. Dustin groggily walked in from the hallway. “You are a Godsend. Is that eggs I smell?”

Will smiled. “And bacon will be next.”

“Screw all these other guys. Marry me.”

“Pretty sure there are some terms and conditions you wouldn’t be up for there.”

“Forget them. I’ll do all the butt stuff. Just make me eggs every day.”

Will threw the dish towel at him.

Dustin got the grounds out and started making coffee. “Your man-friend still here?”

Will shook his head.

“That’s too bad. He’s missing out on an awesome breakfast.” He smiled, “And some great company.”

Will smirked. He loved living with Dustin.

___________________________

After breakfast Will got ready for work. It was Sunday and he knew he didn’t have to go in, but he needed a reason to get out of the flat. He didn’t want to sit alone, pining for Ishaan. Will could feel that it was ending. It was a transition that he’d done before. It felt all too familiar but still hurt.

The worst part was seeing them months later, out, proud, and in a relationship. He’d be happy for them, but then he’d wonder. Why hadn’t it been with him? Why wasn’t he enough? Why did it seem like they only changed after he left?

But then, again, he knew that wasn’t always true. There were guys that never came out. Like Hartford, who had a wife and kids that were completely unaware of his Friday escapades. Dating him, being his side piece, was a low point for Will.

And then of course…. There had also been Mike.

‘Nope,’ Will thought. He shut down that train of thought and brought out his sketchbook. He needed to distract himself with a project. Studio time helped with that. After all this time, he still had a weakness with Mike. He’d made his peace with pretty much every guy after. But with him, there was a tenderness that had never faded. And if he thought about Mike when he was like this, in the throes of rejection, he’d fall to pieces.

He grabbed his headphones out of his bag as the Metro carried him across town to his stop. These days, his Walkman turned mostly Sonic Youth albums. Today it was Dreamnation. He got off and headed to The WereHouse.

It was a prop house popular among the independent filmmakers and even the occasional large studio. It was owned by two brothers. One ran the historical prop store, located in another part of town. That shop was mostly a gallery of antiques from all different periods, some originals, some reproductions. That had been where Will had gotten his start, running around thrift stores, estate sales, and antique shops trying to find period correct pieces for their inventory.

But when his boss saw Will’s sketchbook, he got transferred to The WereHouse. The other brother’s creative dungeon of fantasy, sci-fi, and horror props and prosthetics. Will was living his dream, getting to make monsters for movies. Though… most of his work consisted of prop dummies that ended up being burned, buried, or otherwise mutilated. Some weeks were spent meticulously painting disembodied limbs, fingers, and heads. Occasionally larger more creative opportunities arose, like the one he was working on now.

The whole project was very hush hush. When studios put out work like this, they were looking for more than monsters: they were looking for talent. Will was pouring in extra hours because getting this deal would mean he’d be part of something big. It wouldn’t just be low cost props for independent filmmakers. They’d have the backing of a studio. It meant potentially being a part of the next blockbuster.

He could be responsible for the next Xenomorph. The idea was both terrifying and elating. As a result, he spent most of his days either drawing or sculpting with the occasional break to eat and sleep. But it took his mind off of the trials and failures of his love life.

He opened the door and nodded to Anderson, who manned the reception desk. He was currently nose deep in the novel, Dune.

Will walked through the vestibule, where some of the past projects were displayed and made his way through the giant room with shelves scraping the ceiling. One row consisted of nothing but body parts: From whole limbs and torsos to severed fingers and toes. On another row, there was a treasure trove of cursed objects: elvish daggers, cauldrons of all different sizes, stitched leather books, crystals of every color.

Will remembered how awestruck he was the first time he came here… well, honestly for the few months. Now, it was just a part of his life. He’d still get these moments of “I can’t believe I’m working my dream job.” But it had become his new norm. He wished the whole party could see it. Dustin had completely lost his shit when he saw it. But they were the only two of the party in Burbank.

Not for long, though. Lucas was nearly finished his last year in the Navy, and Dustin had been pulling every string he could to make sure Lucas got a position as an engineer at the company he worked for, AECOM. Max has been living with her dad on the coast the past few years. Despite being in the same state, she was still about five hours away. Once Lucas was back on shore, there was a chance of them getting back together and her moving closer. But she had that software job and it was more likely Lucas would move up to her.

Over the years, Will had tried to convince Mike to come over to the coast, to get out of Hawkins. Maybe if the rest of them were together, that would be enough to change his mind.

Will walked into the studio, a large space lined with workbenches and cork boards. Mannequins, busts, and chairs for prosthetics and monster makeup were scattered around the room. And the whole space smelled of curing latex, acrylic paint, and plasticine clay. He sat down at the spot reserved for him, that had pictures tacked up as inspiration, along with a multitude of sketches. And there on the bench was a little model, about a foot high, that he had been carving out and tweaking all week. This was the 3rd version.

The studio was looking to create a new kind of monster. Normally, the producer or director would give some parameters of guidelines. But this one was an open book, which meant it was an audition of sorts. Will looked at his board.

In truth, it wasn’t the monster that was terrifying. It was the world the writer built, the atmosphere the director created. The actors, who made the audience care about the characters on the screen. Even the best monster design could be undone with poor timing, shoddy lighting, or terrible acting. They were all vital components of the final product. Once the audience cared about the world, about the characters, they would become invested. Will’s mind began to ponder.

The scariest parts about everything he experienced was the fear of losing it all. Of never seeing his mom, brother, or friends again. Of being alone at the end. Nothing had been more terrifying than losing himself to the mind flayer. To feel his words and body being driven by another. The most terrifying monsters were the ones that you didn’t see. The ones that transformed characters you loved from human to monster.

Will took pictures of his miniature model as it was. He always did before destroying it. Then, he squished the sculpted figure, wedged the clay back into a ball. From there he began the shaping of a human figure. But he arched the back, as if the body was fighting against itself. Where the spine was, legs that were like spiders but out of bone emerged. The muscle tearing at itself, reattaching to the new limbs. The most frightening monster was the one you watched yourself become.

Art was cathartic. It was how he processed everything. It was what got him through the worst parts of college. It gave him power and strength. He had control over his nightmares now. He could create them and destroy them with his own two hands.

In so many ways, coming to California saved him. He learned methods to cope with his identity, with his trauma. He was in a new place where there were less things to trigger flashbacks. The fear didn’t rule his life like it once had. There were days he questioned whether it was all even real. But, lately, he could feel himself backsliding. His nightmares were getting more vivid. They were trying to claw their way into his life here. They held on tighter so that it was harder to wake up. Sometimes, he forgot them as soon as he woke up. He'd be in a cold sweat, the fear shaking him, and he couldn't remember a thing. He was relieved that Ishaan had stayed the night. Having someone beside him seemed to keep the nightmares at bay. This week, he dreamt about the Mind Flayer, about being trapped inside his own head. He remembered sending his friends the code to close the gate. He knew what it meant. He had been resigned to it. It was a cost he had been willing to pay to ensure that the Shadow Monster would be dead for good. He woke up in tears at how willing he had been to accept his death. He cried at all the things he would have lost and felt relief to be alive.

It was because his family managed to pull it from him. His party refused to leave him behind.

He sculpted the man’s pained face. He hoped that if this movie got made, that they’d save the man. That the characters would be as heroic as his friends had been. _____________________________________

Will got off the metro, exhausted, both mentally and physically. Eight hours in a chair, bent over his desk and sculpting, did a number on his back.

He was still listening to Sonic Youth so he didn’t hear the chatter as he reached his floor. He didn’t hear the laughter when he put the keys in the lock. He didn’t hear the voice of the man that used to make his stomach flutter. If he had, he would have prepared himself. He would have made sure to tuck his heart in his chest, instead of on his sleeve.

But alas, he opened the door unsuspecting and the sound he made betrayed himself. It held in it all the love he felt in seeing him again.

“Mike.”

[putanauhere]

so me and @foxesmouth are writing an art forgery au eh, tentatively titled by me only (didn’t run it by amy - you’re probs good with it, right?): a portrait of the artist as a con man. here’s our first scene.

--

Theo slips out of Hobart and Blackwell, walking two doors down to his own studio, just minutes before his 3 pm appointment. He takes more private sector work these days than working with museums, partly because there aren’t too many new masterpieces popping up out of obscurity these days, but mostly because he always gets the feeling he’s flying too close to the sun. 

This is the last of his appointments before he ships off to Boston for a restoration residency on a few John Singer Sargents as a favor to Peggy at the Gardner, and he’s anxious to see it resolved quickly. That must be why the thought of the appointment buzzes uncomfortably in the back of Theo’s mind, the same frequency as the persistent worry that he forgot to turn off the oven before leaving the house.

His fingers pick through the code to disarm the alarm as he shrugs his coat off one shoulder, not at all elegant as he turns to the coat rack and shrugs the other arm off to hook it up quickly. As he sets the coffee pot in the corner brewing, Theo tries his name out a few times, trying to find the cadence of it so he doesn’t embarrass himself, and settles on something that sounds familiar, if not correct, just as the buzzer goes.

His 3 o’ clock is younger than Theo expects, shorter than Theo is, and dressed far warmer than Theo thinks is necessary. Theo is given a swift onceover, then a slower one, both immediately disarming, before Theo remembers himself and steps aside to let him in. “Mr. Pavliovsky, it’s good to meet you.”

He looks amused by this. “Sure.” He has the painting tucked under his arm, wrapped in what looks like a linen sheet, to Theo’s horror. He’s already seen what Mr. Pavlikovsky has in the way of provenance, and his hopes aren’t high, but in the off chance that’s a real Renoir he’s got in there - Theo is already sweating with the thought.

Theo hangs his thick winter coat and rests the Renoir - wrapped in a pillow case, he realizes - on the intake table, itching to yank it free from its cotton prison like a grand reveal, ta daaa, but he’s a professional and lets his showroom do its showing. 

Mr. Pavlikovsky’s dark, critical eyes carefully scan the studio, eyes lighting on Theo’s work bench with its array of lights and magnifiers clamped to every available edge of the desk, surrounding like a frame to the Pissarro reproduction he has lying in wait on an easel. He moves toward the work bench with interest, leaning over to survey the painting closely but keeping his hands tangled together behind his back. Another win for the showroom. “Is this restoration?”

“God, no, I have a separate temperature controlled studio upstairs. This is… practice.”

His eyes flick up from the painting to the shelves of paints and small buckets of brushes stored above the bench where Hobie would keep chisels, hammers, and pliers. “You practice your craft in foyer of business instead of fancy art studio upstairs?”

“I - ” Theo stutters, never having been challenged on that.

“Is okay, I understand. You don’t sell art, you sell skill. Can’t frame a restored or debunked Pissarro on the wall, but you can leave gentle suggestion of experience on display.”

Theo stops up, irritated at having his intentions read so quickly, so easily by a stranger, but he doesn’t like the way it sounds almost nefarious on Mr. Pavlikovsky’s lips. Theo’s clientele often work on blind faith and reputation, and no one is allowed in his studio. Gentle suggestion is the only ammunition Theo has access to.

He turns to Theo, misreading Theo’s surprise about the easel’s placement for the easel’s content. “Did I pass the test?”

Yes, technically, yes, because everyone else tends to guess Monet, which is frankly insulting. But instead of answering, Theo smiles his customer-facing smile and gestures to Mr. Pavlikovsky’s painting. “Let’s have a look?”

He liberates the frameless Renoir from its slumber once he dons a pristine pair of white gloves and all six of its sides a quick scan before placing it down on the intake table. He knows immediately it’s a fake - one made with a lot of heart but a less than acceptable amount of skill. Nonetheless, he pulls his stool forward, switches his glasses for a specialized pair, and switches on an overhead light.

He’s joined at the table by Mr. Pavlikovsky, which is rare these days - even if his typical intakes are ten minutes or less, his clients are still glued to their phones or important business papers or a copy of the New Yorker. Theo’s not wild about having someone sit over his shoulder, he finished with that once he graduated from a formal university and from Hobie’s crash course in furniture restoration, but Theo allows him to stay in the name of customer service.

“Do you enjoy Pissarro?”

“I have seen - they have many of his paintings at the Met, is local, have you seen?” Mr. Pavlikovsky asks, and Theo’s heart shudders like someone has just walked over his grave. Shaken, he blinks his eyes firmly a few times and refocuses on the task at hand. Nobody has cared enough yet to draw the connection, and Theo himself has had no interest to check if the New York Times has immortalized the article with his name on it on the internet finally now that all copies of the paper should have been disposed of over fifteen years ago.

Thankfully Pavlikovsky doesn’t wait for an answer - he doesn’t seem to need one. “Beautiful painting of Montmartre, looks exactly like the boulevard! Have you been to Montmartre? Incredible, some things, they never change, you could paint same paintings today, same views, but with cars and tourists on cell phones instead of horses and carriages.”

“I’m sure I have seen it at some point. I am a fan of his landscapes, as you can tell.”

“Yes, you have a way with them.”

Theo’s cheeks heat up and he can’t quite figure out why, so he disguises it by lifting the canvas and taking a careful inhale down the right side of the canvas. If Mr. Pavlikovsky is concerned by this behavior, he doesn’t say so.

Theo frowns as he sets the painting back down. It’s a shame he won’t even have to get his x-ray out to get a look at the layers, but maybe he should - he could charge more for this session, and the longer an investigation, the more legitimate he seems. But from the way this conversation has gone so far, Mr. Pavlikovsky doesn’t seem like he needs the whole song and dance.

As if on cue, Mr. Pavlikovsky says, “I should leave you to work - I will come back later, no?”

“No need, I have made my analysis.” He strips his gloves and switches his glasses back out before turning his focus back to Mr. Pavlikovsky.

“Already.” It’s not phrased like a question, but the way he sounds impressed sends a wild thrill through Theo’s chest for a reason he can’t name.

“I’m sorry to say, Mr. Pavlikovsky, but this is a fake,” Theo says and braces himself for an impact that doesn’t come. Ordinarily there’s screaming and spitting, the unchecked pride of rich men bubbling over at being duped, and because they likely won’t be able to find the dealer again, Theo is the unfortunate sole recipient of their ire.

Instead Mr. Pavlikovsky grins and says, “How could you tell?”

There’s a lecture’s worth of material in this canvas, but most don’t want to settle in to listen to Theo drone on and on like the worst of his professors. Theo taps to six different problem areas, each of them having lit up like a glowing red sore as soon as Theo had laid eyes on them - poor blending, wrong paints for the time period - is that acrylic? really? - thick careless strokes that indicated speed and not care, and more. “Here, staples here, this is wrong, no fraying on the canvas edges is immediately suspicious, this issue with the verso here. And Renoir typically signed his paintings with a signature tail at the end of his r - this, at its most charitable, is a smudge - and he almost never connected his o to his i.” He snags a piece of paper and fountain pen from his desk and works out a quick recreation, the bold r, the diamond-shaped o, then taps at it. “Reno-ir.”

Mr. Pavlikovsky leans in close to Theo’s shoulder, peering seriously at Theo’s scrawled signature. His proximity is enough to make Theo stifle a shudder. “Perhaps he was drunk this day.”

“No,” Theo says bluntly.

Mr. Pavlikovsky laughs, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb thoughtfully as he leans back. “It is fake,” he says, but in a way that almost sounds like he’s confirming what Theo has said to be true, instead of mulling over this new discovery.

“I don’t wish to presume, I’m sure the price is not an issue - if you would like me to perform the standard x-ray and microscopy to confirm, I am absolutely able to. But in the interest of preserving your time.”

He nods, like fair is far, and picks up the painting to stuff it back into the pillow case. 

“Sorry - I - my apologies, Mr. Pavlikovsky, would you mind? I know it’s not a real Renoir, but it is still. You know. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

He gestures an invitation. “Please.”

Theo quickly trims foam for the verso and wraps the whole thing in paper like a present. He presents the secure package back to Mr. Pavlikovsky, but neither of them move to complete the transaction. Something about the thing feels unfinished - yes, the money, Theo’s brain helpfully supplies - but Theo doesn’t think that’s it.

Mr. Pavlikovsky digs out a tight bundle of cash anyway, too many hundreds stuffed into a straining silver money clip that he peels their agreed upon fee from and slaps onto the table. It feels almost dirty transacting this way, Theo used to wires, money orders, checks, and the like - cash feels uncouth. One of Pavlikovsky’s hands repockets the money and the other doesn’t go for the painting like Theo expects, but rather squeezes at Theo’s shoulder. “Well, if I can’t reward your speedy expertise with more money. Do you want to join me for drinks?”

“I’m not - um.” Theo swallows his initial objection, the way his mind leapt to that conclusion feels too telling. “Sorry? Drinks?”

“It’s not fun to pretend anymore, let you talk talk talk, Mr. Pavlikovsky this, Mr. Pavlikovsky that.” He raises his eyebrows at Theo. “I will say it hurts my feelings you don’t remember me, Potter, though I know it was very long time ago.”

It’s the Potter that does it, the fuzzy sort of familiarity with the nickname born from a cultural phenomenon he’d missed almost entirely with the timing of it. The only way it had nudged itself into Theo’s brain was through some drunk coed at a party he was desperately trying to fuck at a houseparty holding him by the waist and telling him firmly that she thinks he’s a Ravenclaw, whatever the fuck that is. And, of course, also through Boris.

“Shit, Boris, sorry, man, sorry,” Theo says, his face widening with a grin. “God, it’s been forever since Vegas?”

“You look good.” Boris pulls him into a hug Theo isn’t expecting, but allows himself to be collected into. “It’s good to see you.”

He hadn’t exactly kept tabs on Boris at the time beyond the few classes they’d shared together, the rare times they’d found each other in the same places, nodding affably from where they’d each stood at opposite sides of the room. 

His last memory of Boris had been at this party at some girl’s house - Hadley, maybe - and the two of them had straddled their legs over either side of a diving board over the winter-emptied pool, and tried to lean forward and take lines off the laminate, giggling and knocking heads and clutching at the sides, at each other, every time the board would shiver and shake with their movements. Theo had already been fucked up on something he’d stolen out of Xandra’s purse just to give him enough motivation to leave the house, letting the world grow opaque in front of his eyes like it’d be easier to live in if he just couldn’t see it, but he remembers Boris at the time, clear as day, like his nearsightedness had transfigured into Borissightedness. 

He remembers Boris being taller than he was at the time in a way that burned jealousy into his skin - a non-contest he is too secretly pleased to have won out in the end now - and the way Boris would wear his hair in the style that his mom used to call Needs a Haircut and his dry, calloused hands that held onto Theo’s wrists when he risked toppling over into the pool and the urgent way he’d whisper I got you like it wasn’t anyone else’s business to know.

Looking at Boris now, things shift slightly until they click into place, it’s like the sensation of sliding on glasses for the first time and realizing the world was not an impression, not muted, but all sharpness and defined edges and tangibility. Of course it’s Boris. 

“Come get a drink with me,” he presses.

Yes, technically, yes, that’s what Theo wants, but. “I can’t - I fly to Boston tomorrow morning.”

Boris checks his watch in an outrageous flash of silver. “Is sixteen hour wait at the airport, or what? You can’t take night off your busy schedule and have a drink with an old friend?”

Theo would hesitate to call them old friends. He’d hesitate to call them anything, but there’s potential humming under the surface now that had always been there back in Vegas. He hadn’t known what it was, what it meant back then - it was just shared snorting at the dumb puns Mrs. Mullin would say to get everyone excited about earth science, sitting silently beside each other on the bus when there were no more empty seats left, and holding each other by the waist only when they were wasted at a pool party on the weekend and acting like it never happened on Monday morning. 

But Theo knows what the humming is now - the desperate desire to have a friend and the fierce inability to let himself have one. Boris leaves the painting on the desk and scoops up his coat. He holds the door open for Theo, his way of telling not asking again. So Theo grabs his coat as well and thinks maybe he can let himself have something now, maybe just this one thing. 

“It’s good to see you too,” Theo says, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

--

[nsfwviolets]

hello everyone !! my name is ally & i hail from the est timezone. i really should be studying for my exam tomorrow or at least trying to get some rest but here i am !! i don’t think anything has really changed about vi but everything you need to know about her is under the cut !! & like always, please like this post so i could bother you for plots !!

❛ new york’s very own violet lennox was spotted on broadway street in jimmy choo thigh high boots. your resemblance to taylor hill is unreal. according to tmz, you just had your twenty-third birthday bash. while living in new york, you’ve been labeled as being avaricious, but also enticing. i guess being a gemini explains that. three things that would paint a better picture of you would be elongated limbs tangled in pink silk sheets, the lingering smell of yves saint laurent mon paris, & oversized faux fur coats draping sun kissed shoulders  ( cisfemale & she/her ) + ( ally, 21, she/her, est )

basics ;;

full name:  violet ( soft & sweet ) faith ( unquestioning belief and complete trust in god ) lennox ( northern irish / scottish last name ).

nicknames: vi, v.

age: twenty-three.

birthday: 18 june 1996.

zodiac: gemini.

gender: cisfemale.

pronouns: she / her / hers.

sexual orientation: bisexual.

nationality: american.

hometown: aspen, colorado.

parents: diane galindo ( brooke shields ) & richard lennox ( rob lowe ).

siblings: older sister.

pet(s): one year old miniature labradoodle named tate.

religion: roman catholic.

height: 5′10.

occupation: victoria’s secret angel / instagram model / socialite.

positive traits: honest, loyal, passionate, responsible, authentic, affectionate, reliable, kindhearted, & courageous.

negative traits: loud, manipulative, stubborn, materialistic, selfish, abrasive, hypocritical, insecure, & dramatic.

hobbies: shopping, audrey hepburn movie marathons, traveling, being the center of attention, photography, spontaneous dance parties, working out, massages, doodling, pilates, online shopping, & journaling.

habits: interrupting someone mid sentence, excessive hair tucking, shoulder rolling, lip biting, & impatiently tapping her heels or acrylic nails when she is at a loss for words & or annoyed.

labels: the vixen & the babydoll.

aesthetics: silk dresses, lip gloss, the deafening sound of designer heels making contact with marble floors, lipstick stained coffee mugs, matte nail polish, glitter, diamonds, snow days, satin sheets, impulsive shopping sprees, romantic comedy binge watches, ocean waves, lolita, bright lights, day drinking, champagne for breakfast, iced matcha, lingerie as outerwear, yves saint laurent mon paris perfume sprayed on the nape of her neck & her decolletage, lavender oil, acrylic nails, snow blanketing trees, hardwood mahogany floors, hgtv reruns, vintage chanel, pretty in pink, rose gold accents, bubble baths after a long day, half naked pictures, & rose water.

style inspo: taylor hill, kylie jenner, candice swanepoel, josephine skriver, kendall jenner, blair waldorf, & cher horowitz. here are just a few examples of her wardrobe !! ( x x x x x ) muse inspo: brooke davis ( one tree hill ), cher horowitz ( clueless ), blair waldorf ( gossip girl ), gabrielle solis ( desperate housewives ), lydia martin ( teen wolf ), fallon carrington ( dynasty ), sadie saxton ( awkward ), lauren cooper ( faking it ), mini mcguinness ( skins ), holly golightly ( breakfast at tiffany’s ), maddy perez ( euphoria ), brooke maddox ( scream ), samantha jones ( sex & the city ), tahani al jamil ( the good place ), jackie burkhart ( that ‘70s show ), naomi clark ( 90210 ), cece parekh ( new girl ), cassie howard ( euphoria ), madison montgomery ( american horror story ), jenna maroney ( 30 rock ), kelly kapoor ( the office ), elle woods ( legally blonde ), rachel green ( friends ), paris hilton, & mona-lisa saperstein ( parks & recreation ).

background ;;

violet faith lennox is diane galindo’s & richard lennox’s youngest child. born three weeks early on 18 june 1996 at aspen valley hospital in aspen, colorado. the very moment they held their daughter ( who they lovingly referred to as a ‘ blessing ‘ ) in their open arms, they knew that their family was finally complete.

her mother ( diane ) is her parents’ pride & joy. as the eldest daughter of wealthy wall street executives, she has done nothing but make her family proud her entire life. growing up, her dream in life was to help her father’s business but her career quickly changed course when she decided to pursue a career in medicine. the new york native eventually ended up going to harvard medical school in boston, massachusetts where she would end up meeting her future husband. to this day, dr. galindo is one of the most recognizable names in medicine & is world renowned for her work as a reproductive endocrinologist ( fertility specialist ).

her father on the other hand ( richard ) was born to an influential family in los angeles, california. from an early age, he was exposed to the spotlight due to the fact that his own father was governor of california & hoped to become president one day. however, things seemed to go off course the day the former governor was caught in his own cheating scandal all while being married to a former pageant queen. scandal erupted when the politician not only cheated on his stunning wife with a young secretary but when his mistress announced to the world that she was pregnant. the entire news circuit covered this affair for months & the governor resigned from his position when news broke that he urged his mistress to get an abortion.

following the scandal, the family fell out of the public spotlight. they spent years trying to repaint their public image after it was tarnished for nothing but selfish desire. approximately ten years later, the family made news again but this time about their newly found faith in god joining the long list of religious right wing politicians. richard’s father felt as if the only way to redeem himself was to devote himself to god. after years of distancing themselves from the catholic church, the family dove right back in which became the start of their fundamental catholic values that ruled every aspect of their lives.

as the only son in the family, richard’s parents had high expectations for him. however, he seemed to have different plans for himself that didn’t involve making his family proud or practicing what they preached. as an undergraduate student at yale, his interests were far & few between. his days only seemed to consist of sleeping with random women & binge drinking to his heart’s content. he knew that he didn’t have to be an astounding student because he had a giant trust fund waiting for him at home. but after a drunk driving accident that resulted in a 40 year old woman’s hospitalization & his own arrest, richard knew he had to clean up his act.

he eventually followed his family’s lead & became an ultra religious catholic. he even managed to boost up his grades & get an academic scholarship to harvard law school where he met diane. diane didn’t come from a strong religious background. in fact, she liked to tell people that she only believed in science & didn’t have faith or trust in a superior figure. but when she met a young richard lennox, her entire world was turned upside down. she let him into her life, converted to catholicism, & the two got married after three years of dating. flash forward to 1992. the married couple is moving to aspen, colorado for diane’s new job at an upscale hospital. they even received a generous check from richard’s parents to buy a mansion in the mountains !!

life for the couple in colorado was serene. they eventually welcomed their first child into the world ( a daughter ) & a few months later, their families moved to help them raise their children. both diane & richard always wanted a big family due to their catholic faith. they both agreed they would stop after 6 kids, however, their minds were quickly changed when she became pregnant with violet.

her pregnancy was extremely difficult to say the least. between being on bed rest for months & frequent hospitalizations, she didn’t know if she could do this again. on top of her own health issues, she also had problems with her unborn child. there was even a night where they thought they would lose violet after diane experienced unexplainable bleeding & her fellow colleagues at the hospital couldn’t detect a heartbeat.

luckily, they were able to find a heartbeat after 6 minutes of deafening silence & hushed prayers for a miracle. after that night, they knew that their daughter was a blessing which is why they agreed to give her the middle name faith which symbolizes their unrequited devotion to god.

eventually, violet was born !! she was born three weeks early & spent a week in the icu but overall she was healthy. she was a bit underweight but she was miraculously healthy. but after everything the family had been through, they decided that violet would be their last child.

as a child, violet did every thing her parents had asked of her. their faith played a large role in her upbringing which is why she spent every sunday inside of church.

by the time she was 8 years old, her family decided to move to new york city due to the fact that her mom received a prestigious job on the upper east side. at the age of 8, violet was already a competitive gymnast who’s likes included spending time with her family, competing, & going to school. even then she knew she could do everything she loved in another state which is why she didn’t put up much of a fight when she was told that they would be moving across the country.

moving from snowy open colorado to the upper east side of manhattan was definitely a culture shock for violet even at an early age. nonetheless, she eventually got used to new york city life & to this day she doesn’t think she would survive a week in colorado.

even after she moved to a new part of the country, violet remained devoted to gymnastics & her family. she had dreams of one day going to the olympics for gymnastics & everyone who knew her saw her potential. she even competed in world events & became a household name !! although, her parents often emphasized that school & religion come first which is why they made her & her sister attend a private catholic school all the way through high school.

in high school, she was a classic goody two shoes church girl. she was a strong student who received perfect grades in order to please her parents. for the longest time, she didn’t have time for anything other than school & sports but that changed by the time she was 16.

despite attending an all girls school, violet met her first boyfriend through one of her mutual friends. & like all stereotypical teen romances, it was love at first site. she was so infatuated with him that she was willing to put everything in her life on the back burner in order to focus on him.

& by the time she was 18, she received numerous academic & sports scholarships to prestigious colleges. however, violet decided to take a gap year in order to spend more time with her boyfriend of two years. she knew that she would eventually go to college but she wanted to make some time for herself first. her parents weren’t exactly happy about her decision due to the fact that she has big shoes to fill but they eventually came around the idea & were even happy for their daughter & her wholesome catholic boyfriend.

during her gap year, they spent an entire year traveling the world. they went to bali, greece, peru, brazil, iceland, dubai, thailand, argentina, & morocco. throughout the course of the year, violet documented her travel on her instagram & other social media platforms which is when she started gaining a lot of followers who wanted to watch her travel the world with the love of her life. before her influx of instagram followers, not a lot of people outside the world of gymnastics knew who she was. people of course knew who her parents were ( a famous doctor & lawyer ) but the world did not really know who exactly violet lennox was.

by the end of her gap year violet already had over 1 million followers on instagram !! & she was already getting paid doing what she loves which is travel the world. & since all of this happened during her year off, violet ended up telling her parents that she didn’t want to go to college which damaged their relationship as a result.

since her parents were so unsupportive of her decision to not go to college & ultimately quit gymnastics, violet ended up moving out of her house & moved in with her boyfriend at only the age of 19. & because her parents were completely unsupportive of her decision not to attend college, they cut her off financially & she was forced to make a living for herself. by this point, her career as a social media influencer was booming so she was already making a lot of money just through promoting detox teas, teeth whitening kits, etc.

it may seem as if life for violet was perfect by this point despite her falling out with her parents. however, that was not the case. even though she fooled the entire world by thinking that she had a perfect relationship, her boyfriend was incredibly abusive towards her & had been ever since the two started dating. although he was never physically abusive, he was mentally, emotionally, & verbally abusive. for years violet made excuses for him & blamed herself for their problems which only made her feel more miserable than she already was. this was her first real relationship & she genuinely thought that they were destined to be together even though she was severely unhappy.

he would constantly cheat, manipulate her, make fun of her appearance & insecurities, & wouldn’t let her do anything without his permission. the two were together for three years & there even was a time where violet became pregnant but quickly had an abortion without him knowing as soon as she found out. just three months after living together, she finally found the courage to break up with him. although it wasn’t easy at first, she’s thankful that she finally got out of a dangerous relationship. she also understands the dangers of social media better than anyone else because she fooled the world into thinking that she was in a happy loving relationship when that was far from the truth.

when violet told the world about their breakup ( most likely in an instagram live or an instagram story ) she ended up losing millions of followers. the majority of her followers only followed her to watch her travel the world with her boyfriend so once they found out that they were no longer together ; they didn’t see the point in following her anymore.

for an entire year following her breakup, violet began to spiral out of control. she started using drugs, alcohol, & partying as coping mechanisms in order to help her move on & forget about everything she had endured. that of course didn’t work but that didn’t stop her from partying every single night of the week & ending up in a stranger’s bed. eventually, she even leaked her own sex tape & naked pictures to the press in hopes that the press coverage would help make up for the millions of followers she lost on instagram.

& as she expected, the world would not stop talking about her sex tape for months. she gained the most followers she has ever done & eventually she got real modeling jobs as a result of her popularity. she hasn’t exactly told the world that she was the one who leaked the 20 minute video but everyone in their immediate circle knows she did it & also knows that she has other videos lying around for ‘ emergency ’ situations.

however, her parents cut off all contact with her following her scandal & it is still something that cuts deep two years later. she tells herself & everyone around her that she doesn’t need a family but everyone knows that’s a lie. it’s just a lie she keeps on telling herself to feel better about herself.

violet managed to clean up her act & went from being a social media influencer to an actual model. many people don’t respect her name due to her troubling past with her sex tape & being an instagram model but that doesn’t seem to stop her. she has been featured in the love advent calendar, the victoria’s secret fashion show, & many fashion weeks since then.

she became the youngest victoria’s secret angel at the age of 20 !!

she is also the youngest global ambassador for lancôme & ralph lauren !!

although she has become more of an actual model rather an instagram model, she still stays loyal to her social media platforms which is why she has over 100 million followers.

she lives a happy life after being so unhappy for so long but she still seeks her parents approval even though they have no contact with her.

personality ;;

for someone who is incredibly smart, she pretends to be dumb sometimes. she doesn’t think that guys like smart girls so she dumbs herself down. but she could also be a ditz at times ( unintentionally ).

she likes to think of herself as approachable but she also knows that she can be intimidating. nonetheless, she tries to be nice to everyone who comes her way unless they say the wrong thing to her & then she switches on her mean girl switch that comes far too easy for her.

even though violet is a lot to deal with, she is a nice person !! although she does have a flair for the dramatics & denies being dramatic all the time. she also likes to think of herself as a ‘ good girl ’ even though she is far from one. she loves sex & isn’t afraid to shy away from that but she still tells people that she’s good or an angel because it makes herself feel better about herself.

she also goes to confession 1-2 times a week to pray for her sins in order to get into heaven. she thinks with the amount of adultery she commits on a daily basis she needs to pray for her sins otherwise she won’t go to heaven & she thinks she looks way better in white than in red.

if you do her wrong, she will go out of her way to make your life a living hell. she is incredibly protective over the people in her life so she will do just about anything for them including berating people. revenge might as well be her last name !!

she may be loud and unnecessary at times but she is kind hearted and does mean well. even if she does have a bad way of showing it at times.

miscellaneous ;;

since she comes from a strict traditional upbringing, she was taught that being anything other than straight is wrong. so when violet first started experimenting with girls & even developed feelings for one, she told herself that she was going to hell. this is one of the reasons why she has not come out of the closet or has even come to terms with her sexuality. she denies all past same sex encounters & relationships which isn’t healthy. but since her parents disowned her following her sex tape, she knows that they would hate her more than they already do. if they ever found out that their daughter was anything but straight they would lose their minds & she’s still hoping that one day they could repair their relationship. apparently being bisexual is worse than having a sex tape !!

when she was a competitive gymnast for the united states national team, she was often put on strict diets in order to keep up. as a result of the strict dieting & unrealistic body images, violet developed bulimia as early as 12 years old. so when she quit gymnastics after deciding not to attend college, she was happy. she loved the sport but hated the pressure. even to this day, the sport isn’t actually sure what happened to her because she was an olympic hopeful. they all thought that she could have been the next gold medalist but she values her own mental health & sanity over a couple of medals. & even though she sought help for her eating disorder that reared ugly heads at times, she did slip up a lot while she was with her boyfriend who would make fun of her appearance. even now she isn’t 100% but she is better than she has ever been.

is extremely flirty & alluring.

violet also believes that the world revolves around her. many people may find her confidence to be annoying or superficial but she takes pride in it because it took her so long to learn how to love herself after being with her first boyfriend.

speaking of relationships, she’s terrible at them. she often runs away when things become too serious, manipulates the people she’s with, or breaks up with them for no reason. her logic is that she wants to hurt someone before they have the chance to hurt her. she still has yet to understand that the rest of the world isn’t like her ex but her past still haunts her every time she catches feelings.

she likes to tell people that monogamy isn’t the life for her which is why she prefers casual sex. she is also a proud sugar baby & has many sugar daddies !! most of them are old & married but she is a sucker for anyone who buys her nice things.

also has an instagram account for her dog !!

her most used emojis in her phone are the halo, the suggestive face, & the pink glitter heart.

she’s a gemini which means that she is expressive, quick-witted, sociable, and affectionate.

her favorite tv show is gossip girl.

her favorite movie is the notebook.

has a passion for photography but hasn’t explored it seriously. she understands that she makes a living off of being another pretty face but she also wants to explore other aspects of her career like photography & maybe even acting.

she often considers going to college or even going back to gymnastics a lot but she not made up her mind yet. she is happy right now as a model but she does miss aspects of her old life.as an instagram model, she is like kendall jenner or gigi hadid. in other words, she has a large following & people book her for photo shoots & fashion shows in order to boost their own notoriety because it looks better on their part. her walk is average at best but she does have a beautiful face. people hate instagram models working in the real modeling business as it is so they despise an instagram model with a sex tape !!

she lives in a townhouse in chelsea that has been featured in architectural digest twice. her home is filled with hardwood floors, marble, gold accents, & constantly smells like lavender.

the last concert she went to was lana del rey.

the last song she listened to was everybody loves you by charlotte lawrence.

the last show she binge watched was you.

the last movie that made her cry was tangled.

loves wellness shots after dogpound workouts.

gets daily massages by her french masseuse.

all & all, she is a mess but she loves the people in her life !!

here’s her pinterest board if you want to take a look !! i also have a wc page here that will most likely be updated over the weekend. & my discord is علياء#4067

[kinfriday]

Wandering Hops: The Urban Runner

San Francisco, the city by the bay. This sprawling metropolis is purported to have it all, fine dining, upscale hotels, one of a kind experiences, history, and tourist traps aplenty.

But what about hiking? Can you even hike through an urban landscape, and find something that’s challenging, enjoyable, and memorable? 

That was the question rattling around in my mind as I descended upon Oakland last week, wondering how I was going to get a Wandering Hops in, while I visited with my family here. 

For most of the week, I’d be relegated to Mass Transit. Without a vehicle, my options narrowed as to where I could go, if not as a matter of access, then the time it might take to go anywhere. Even the local gym franchise proved to be a forty five minute bus ride away. 

To be certain, anything not within walking distance was going to prove a logistical challenge. 

Starting my research the evening of my arrival, I found many offerings at the periphery. Oakland’s Redwood Park, and Marin both boasted hikes that looked challenging and interesting, but were also far afield, with transit times one way peaking towards the two hour mark, which would reduce my options. 

Everything had to be planned around a transit schedule, but out of this challenge, I got an idea. What if I turned this on its head? Was it possible to find a hike in San Francisco proper that would offer distance, challenge, and beautiful scenery, all while proving easy to get to, right off the Bay Area Rapid Transit System (The BART).

Narrowing my search,  I came across the Golden Gate Park, Lands End, Presidio Loop. Clocking in at eleven miles, it came with an option to extend the hike by at least three if I hiked across the Golden Gate Bridge. 

Bingo. 

Starting off from Golden Gate Park, I ventured north, determined to get as much of the road walking portion of the hike out of the way, only to be pleasantly surprised when I found a wide green space welcoming me, framed in by trees, providing a forested, and direct path for me to follow as I ventured towards Presidio Park. 

The experience proved interesting. The roar of traffic was present on either side of me, but otherwise I was alone, moving through what felt like a forest only to pop out every block or so, and have to cross at a crosswalk to avoid being flattened. It punctuated the hike with a strange staccato, and well illustrated the nature of this hike as a mixed experience early on, for though it felt like I was in the wilds, the city was just beyond my green bubble, ever waiting for me.  

That experience was not to last though, as I crossed into the wide expanse of Presidio Park. The location was once a military base and an important pacific fortification for the US Military, and at one time, Spain. It was established in 1776, the very same year that America declared independence from England. The fort maintained a military presence within San Francisco until 1994, ending its 219 years as a fortification. At that time, its sprawling 1,500 acres were deeded to the National Park Service, and remains in its possession to this day. (source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presidio_of_San_Francisco)

As a result of its military history, it is full of parade grounds, and is not as densely packed as the rest of the city. Moving up a steep incline, I soon found myself in a well kept parkland. The noises of traffic, so prevalent not fifteen minutes before, fell away. Here people walked dogs, and jogged along, past historical markers and fitness placards, while birds sang and squirrels jostled for bits of food left upon the ground by picnickers. 

Diverting past a golf course filled with Lexus, BMW and Porsche a plenty, the trail veered and the population dived as a shaded wood welcomed me. Gaining elevation, quiet surrounded me, save for the pacific wind that blew through the trees granting a cool tinge to the noon time air, all while the Golden Gate Bridge began to peek through the wooded copse. 

So far, this hike had been full of surprises, and as I stood overlooking the national cemetery, with a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge, I could not help but feel that I had found a type of hidden treasure nestled within the city.  

Following the trail, it led me out of the woods, back to sidewalk, and eventually asphalt as I navigated the old military base. Winding ever north, the spires of the Golden Gate became more and more dominant as I moved deeper into the old military base, finally passing a large parade ground set before four identical barracks in a spanish architectural style. It was a curious mash up of architectural beauty and picture perfect reproduction that made them seem both original and mass produced at the same time providing a jarring effect as I followed signs for the coastal trail.

Arriving at Golden Gate plaza, I stopped for lunch and  looked towards the bridge, considering  my options. Tourists dominated the area, crowding almost every free space, as they milled about from shops, to path, to photo opportunity. Rented bikes whizzed by, with hardly a care for any pedestrians around them, who seemed equally oblivious as they wandered about. 

What struck me as interesting was the number of languages I heard, Chinese, Korean, Dutch, English, and others I could not readily identify. While it was a chaotic morass, this area was still a global meeting of various cultures all gathered together to experience a particular American landmark that always ends up destroyed in any blockbuster action movies. 

Considering it now, I suppose in that moment I had become a tourist too, because I was about to undertake the same journey, adding a little over three miles to my hike, and walk the bridge. 

This sounds like a romantic notion. As stated, the Golden Gate is famous, bringing in visitors from around the world to see its iconic red spires. It is the symbol of San Francisco, dominating logos, souvenirs, paintings and films. However, the fact that it is such a venerable symbol does not take away from the fact that it is also a critical traffic artery, and a busy tourist destination. 

In short, I had entered into utter chaos and noise. People pressed in around me in a manner that I would associate more with New York City than the bay area, as traffic roared by at highway speeds.  Bicyclists continually zoomed by, ringing their bells, giving you only moments to push yourself up against the side, but I wasn’t about to turn around. 

As I wrote last week, perseverance pays, and I had come to hike that damn bridge. 

Ushered on by winds, and a prevailing sense of mild panic being surrounded by so many people, the views only got better as I made my way across. There, over an expanse of bright blue water lay Alcatraz, and to my other side was the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. Massive container ships trailed out before my vision, ferrying their goods back and forth, as sail boats raced by distracting me from the chaos that was around me. 

Some experiences, some views, make the chaos worth it. 

Hooray for type two fun. 

A curious rhythm to the hike became apparent as I ventured on, past my halfway point. After another section along a busy road, I again found myself in a forest. This time, clinging to high rocky hills that overlooked the ocean. Waves rolled in as the container ships continued their endless procession in the distance, as the hike again grew more and more wild only for it to dump me suddenly, back into a neighborhood, back into the city, before dropping me off onto the beach. 

Here among decaying and abandoned bunkers, and cannon emplacements, kites flew, and people luxuriated in the sun enjoying cool seventy degree temperatures, a marked, and beautiful contrast to the sweltering heat wave that was punishing much of the rest of the country at the time. Reporting earlier on the fantastic weather conditions back to our cover artist in Connecticut, they sent a simple one word reply. 

“Jealous.” 

Moving along the shore, past the ruins of the Sutro baths, I was once again on the sidewalk, this time happy for the experience, if for no other reason than that it was keeping sand out of my shoes. Two days after my hike, they still rattle when I put them on, as so much has worked itself between the goretex layers, I wonder if they will ever be free of the gritty material ever again. 

Finally, I ended up on the edge of the Golden Gate Park, the very same area I had started. Following a path, through the beautifully kept park, I soon found myself amongst the woods again, as the light of day began fading. As a result of backtracks and diversions, the hike had stretched long, ultimately coming in at 16.1 miles.

Oftentimes, hiking is seen as a purely rural, or remote activity, however this adventure showed it can be anything but. With a bit of planning and searching, I had found a hidden gem, full of history, stunning natural scenery and ample challenge. Best of all, it was just a short bus ride away in the heart of the City by the Bay.

[outerspace-iiinnerspace]

Hey! I have other things I should be writing but I’m gonna be self indulgent and write out everything about my Steven Universe ocs because who’s gonna stop me, huh?

Under cut because guess what? First I have to explain this theory I’ve got for any of it to make sense and that’ll be long.

So the first thing is a theory about gem reproduction. Gems come from Kindergartens, that’s a thing we know about Gems. But apparently they don’t only come from Kindergartens; Pearls come from the Reef and I can see other kinds being made in different ways. Ambers emerging from huge trees, anyone?

If Gems always had to be made though, then who made the first ones? Some theorists on here think it was some other species, some think it was the Diamonds, my theory is that it was all just Gems. Gems originally arose from spontaneous germination. One or two would appear at a time, eventually come into contact with others, and build a society. Since they’re basically immortal it didn’t matter that the population grew very slowly, and once they managed to develop FTL travel it’s easier than ever to search out new Gems. They would find them on planet surfaces, on asteroids and moons, even inside gas giants every so often. Even though there was a ton of research into it, no one was ever able to predict locations where Gems would form.

Eventually, though, that avenue of inquiry came to an unexpected conclusion: how to induce Gem formation. No longer did they have to travel across space to find new Gems and bring them home; just make them and here they are.

This discovery was the start of Era 1 and the imperialistic portion of Gem history. Since Gem production is resource-intensive and can’t be done indefinitely on the same planet, they had to expand and look for more planets. The Gems who were capable of making new Gems suddenly became extremely important and had all kinds of authority. The Gem population which had been growing so slowly started exploding; the parts of society in charge of integrating new Gems into it wasn’t able to cope and started just slotting new gems into all the new jobs this expansion was making. It was meant to be temporary; let that Quartz fight for a while until she figures out what she really wants to do.

(Gems don’t really have a “childhood” life stage; they come out of the ground ready to do what they do. Before, a Gem would usually be alone for some time before encountering any others and have some idea of who they were and what they liked. Now, hundreds and then thousands of new people were popping out of the ground every month, with no idea who they were.)

Over time, these “temporary” assignments became expected, then enforced, then not even worth thinking about. Of course a Peridot will work with tech. Of course a Bismuth will build. What else would she do? 

The older Gems, who had existed before this age of Kindergartens and classifications, will outnumbered and growing more so over time. The Diamonds, having used their authority as the ones actually creating the other gems, took power for themselves and no one thought to doubt it. The old-timers either took their expected jobs, struck out from the empire on their own, died (Gems may be immortal but they’re not indestructible), or stuck around on the fringes of society, tolerated but not much else.

Of course “naturally occurring” Gems still come into being, but they’re rare and aren’t sought out any more. When an empire Gem comes in contact with them they’re welcomed into the fold, but there are no doubt many more out in the universe making their way on their own.

My two ocs, Ekanite and Coffinite, are both old timers. They predate the Diamonds, they predate the Kindergartens. I don’t know if the show has ever established the age of the Gem empire but the precise number of years doesn’t matter. They’re old.

Ekanite and Coffinite (the stones) are slightly radioactive, and I can’t imagine the characters would be different. Gems wouldn’t be bothered by it but their electronics are another story; there are no Kindergartens producing radioactive Gems. Why make Gems that mess with tech? 

Given this, there was no easy modern era job to point to and say “Ekanites and Coffinites do this.” After millennia of kicking around, doing odd jobs, and drifting further from the center of Gem society and out near the frontier, they ended up with their career: mining asteroids.

The two of them own a ship. It’s an old, ugly clunker (”Just like us,” Ekanite jokes. Coffinite winces.) with no FTL, makeshift shielding around the controls and a cabin barely bigger than the holes they came out of so long ago. They cruise in whichever direction they feel like for as long as it takes until they find a nice metallic rock. One of them makes a spacewalk and tethers it, then off they go again until they’ve got a good half-dozen or so. Then they head back to the nearest station to drop off the ore, get some repairs, and spend a few days in port. Each trip can take hundreds of years, but what does it matter? They don’t need food or water, only enough air to transmit sound waves, and they’ve got an atomic engine that should burn for a couple millennia before it needs refueling. Life ain’t that exciting, but if they wanted adventure they’d have gone out and found some.

Personality-wise, Ekanite is the dreamer. She’s the one who gets distracted on spacewalks looking at stars when she’s supposed to be tethering a rock. Her summoned weapon is a pickaxe, but it doesn’t get much play. Sometimes she’ll use it to hammer pitons into the rock but that’s almost never necessary. Ekanite also used to mess around with art a long time ago. It was never anything fine; she just enjoyed slapping colors around. Her and Coffinite’s ship is painted inside and out with clashing blues, yellows, reds, whites, purples, and greens. If Gems have the concept of a social butterfly, Ekanite’s one. There are very few gem types she wouldn’t feel comfortable approaching for a conversation, a learned habit coming of being one of the only of her kind.

Coffinite is the practical one, keeping track of the miles and the fuel and the maps. Even if you can’t die from space, being lost in it isn’t an enticing thought. She’s the sensitive one; while Ekanite self-deprecates with ease and finds genuine humor in being an old-timer, Coffinite doesn’t appreciate being reminded. She misses the past, she misses the dabbling and dilettanting she did before a Gem was expected to have one purpose all their life. She prefers staying with Ekanite on their ship than trying to get along with other, younger, Gems. Sometimes, when a mood hits at the same times as they’re in port, she won’t even leave the ship.

Neither of them were involved in Rose’s rebellion, or the events of the series so far. They probably never picked up Steven’s broadcast, or heard the news about Era 3. If they ever made it to Earth, Coffinite would spend as much time with humans as she would. She would talk to them because they wouldn’t know how she’s different from the others, because they’re too unfamiliar to remind her of things, because they’re new. She would take on as many jobs and hobbies as she could manage, but only one at a time, and only for a few decades before getting bored. She would lay in the sun on the beach and not talk to anyone for days on end.

Ekanite would try her hand at painting again, but give it up pretty quick. She actually prefers looking at art to making it, but had no way of knowing that when the only art she saw was her own. She’d make an effort to get to know the humans and other Gems around, but get overwhelmed after a few conversations and retreat to her ship to read magazines. It’s tough to get used to after so long alone.

I had a story at one point about them finding a naturally occurring Peridot in an asteroid. Her gem had formed partially below the surface so she wasn’t able to emerge and take form for the first time until Ekanite hacked her out. The conflict was between whether they should bring her back to civilization to have a “normal” life with other Peridots, as part of the empire, or keep her with them to live out on the fringes, isolated, without the advantages of modern Gem society, but comparatively independent. 

[writesandramblings]

Secret’s End - Chapter 6

“Fruit of the Poison Tree”

Table of Contents

A/N: Sometimes the missions you don’t go on are as important as the ones you do.

<< Ch. 5 - Laugh It Off Ch. 7 - If You Never Ask >>

Ensign Zahra Hasimova shook like a leaf. There were pieces of security officer on her face. There were pieces of security officer on her face.

It was supposed to be a simple historical survey, cataloguing some cave paintings left by a primitive species, a few hours of fresh air and sunshine and then back to the confines of the ship. The creators of the cave paintings had gone extinct several thousand years ago. From what, they did not know, but Hasimova suspected the answer to that question was directly related to the bits of security officer on her face.

Now it made sense, Saru’s ganglia.

“Could be anything,” said Dr. Channick, scanning the valley with her eyes more than her tricorder. “Viral contagion, supervolcano blocked out the sun, their choice of building material.”

Channick, Hasimova, and a security officer were standing on a rocky outcropping partway up a cliffside near the end of a ravine. A picturesque valley of trees and fields stretched out in front of them, seemingly untouched by industry or society.

The truth was hidden in plain sight. The rock in this region—and across much of the planet—featured abundant veins of cinnabar, a striking red mineral classically used on Earth to produce the color vermilion.

Cinnabar was also notable for another reason: it was as deadly as it was beautiful, with high concentrations of mercury. The locals, oblivious to the risks, had used the material extensively in their architecture, creating towns that, in their heyday, must have been startling gems of red jutting up from the landscape. A few thousand years of sedimentary deposits later and the only signs left of these structures were areas of unusually poor plant growth, like the treeless void of grass in the valley below. The locals were long gone but the poison remained.

“Maybe they had a limited diet and starved when there was a blight,” continued Channick. Offering medical theories as to the fate of the natives was her flimsy justification for getting off the ship and enjoying the scenery.

The security officer waited for them to finish taking in the view and offered Hasimova a hand down. She smiled in thanks and he smiled back.

They picked their way along the wall of the ravine, deposits of gravel crunching beneath their feet. A broad smear of silty mud ran through the ravine’s center, suggesting that when it rained, the whole area became a river of significant depth and danger, with rapids and undercurrents capable of dragging a person under and slamming them into the rocky walls with enough force to pulverize. At present, the greatest danger was to their uniforms. The security officer’s shoes and pants were already caked up to the knees from some earlier muddy crossing. Channick and Hasimova had beamed down onto the same side of the ravine as the cave and were spared the need to repeat this indignity.

The cave was a gaping maw in the wall. It had likely formed as the result of an eddy forcing enough water against one spot to form a depression in the rock. After a millennia of repeated flooding, the depression had grown into a pocket, then a cavity, and finally a wide, open chamber with broadly sloping walls, its apex a good twenty feet above their heads. It possessed the slight chill and faintly clammy smell of a place that knew no sun.

A second security officer greeted them from inside, their escort’s partner. “Take a look,” she said, shining a light up onto the ceiling.

The paintings were high along the ceiling and walls. Strange humanoid figures, gesturing as if in welcome, or perhaps warning, because a wave was not a universal hello. The figures highest up were full-body while the ones further down were cut off at waists and knees, the pigment on the lower half of the walls long since washed away.

There were abstract markings, too. Spirals and burst shapes, a pattern of diamonds perhaps intended as constellations. Hasimova imaged them and made a note to compare the patterns against stars visible in the planet’s night sky.

“Pax is gonna be so jealous,” said the male security officer. Hasimova smiled to herself. She might have suggested Paxton accompany them, but his shift had not yet started and she wanted to be the one to index the paintings. Being assigned to the bridge as an ensign was an amazing opportunity she intended to make the most of. When these images went back to Starfleet’s archives, her name would be listed on the files and her analyses would be the initial launching point for further investigation.

“There’s one in every crew,” Channick remarked under her breath. Hasimova looked over at the security officers. The female officer was eating a protein bar. She offered her partner half and he predictably declined. The current generation of Starfleet-issue protein rations was infamous for its unpalatable flavor profile and equally long shelf life. Many people thought a willingness to eat the bars increased your chances of away team duty. Even this was insufficient incentive to convince most officers to eat the rations outside of anything but the most dire of survival situations. A friend of Hasimova’s had eaten one on a dare and declared it “pure poison.”

“I’m gonna go do some more scans,” said Channick, which was probably code for going hiking. “Try not to fall on a rock or have a medical emergency.”

“Just pictures,” promised Hasimova.

The female officer volunteered to accompany Channick. The doctor declined the company and repeated her warning not to cause any medical emergencies.

“You be careful,” said the woman. “Watch out for the Jabberwock.”

“If I find any lifeform bigger than a rabbit, it’ll be a miracle.”

“Yeah, this planet is pretty dead,” noted the male officer.

“Saru didn’t come down. You should’ve seen his ganglia.”

There had been, prior to the initial beam-down, an incident. Standing in the transporter room, moments away from mission commencement, a ganglia reaction had frozen the Kelpien in place. This was not the first time it had happened, either. Three previous incidents of varying severity had necessitated replacing Saru on the away team roster at the last moment. Today marked the fourth.

Channick was entirely dismissive of the suggestion. “He thinks every planet is dangerous. It’s an evolutionary reaction to stress, it doesn’t mean anything.” A reaction sometimes strong enough to merit a medical exception, but Channick’s data had yet to reveal a conclusive correlation between the ganglia and mission outcomes. Most missions entailed some level of danger and occasionally the danger was fatal to someone. Saru’s ganglia in no way guaranteed a fatal outcome. She intended to talk to him about the issue this afternoon because enough was enough.

“Still,” said the woman. “Keeps your comms open.” Channick feigned a salute and exited.

Hasimova continued her imaging. It wasn’t enough to just get the pictures, she also took detailed material scans. The redder pigments contained cinnabar, of course.

The male officer wandered over to join Hasimova. “Do you think they looked like us?”

“Humanoid, at least, Beyond that, I can’t say.” The paintings were too crude to have any discerning features.

“Stop bothering her, Hack,” called the women.

“I’m not! Am I?”

Hasimova smiled. Hack had a thick head of dark brown hair, bright brown eyes, and a square jawline. “No.”

“See? We’re just having a conversation.” His partner rolled her eyes and went to stand guard nearer the entrance. “You’ll have to forgive Geri. They don’t train us security officers in manners. They think it’ll interfere with our ability to fight off threats.”

“Oh? So what do they train you to do?” asked Hasimova coyly. None of Hack’s subsequent boasts had anything to do with Starfleet training programs.

He was outlining an escapade involving drinking most of the available alcohol in a small Icelandic town when there was a thud from the cave entrance. Geri was on the ground, already in the process of trying to get back up. Hack rushed to her side.

“I just... had a sudden wave of vertigo,” said Geri.

“I’m on my way back,” said Channick over the comms.

“I think I’m okay.”

“Probably that protein bar you ate,” suggested Hack.

“Probably,” said Geri, sounding unconvinced.

“I told you not to eat—”

Something pulsed across the surface of Hack’s skin, like a wave of subdermal fire. He started to fall.

He did not hit the ground. His skin seemed almost to glow and then suddenly there was a wet, sucking sound as the surface of his body exploded in a spray of fat and muscle and every other element of soft tissue, the force sufficient to shred his uniform. Most of him landed on the ground, but enough of him landed on Hasimova and Geri that calling the spread of slime and cloth at their feet a human corpse was not accurate in the slightest.

Hasimova stood there, shock-still, her mouth open, feeling the dribble of viscous fluids down the side of her face.

“Doctor!” shouted Geri. “He exploded!”

A moment later, so did she, with the same pulsing ripple of energy across her skin.

Hasimova did not close her mouth fast enough. All the many words of her communications training failed her. Over the comms, all Channick could hear was her screaming.

“A parasite,” concluded Channick back in the relative safety of sickbay. “In the mud of the streambed. It was underground, so it didn’t show up on surface scans. Wouldn’t normally be a problem, but...”

Geri and Hack’s legs had been coated in mud from crossing the ravine. Hidden within the silty particles were hundreds of desperately hungry microscopic parasites. Exposure to a new food source switched them from a dormant state to one of rapid reproduction. Coupled with the human immune system’s failure to identify the parasites as a form of invasive tissue, the parasites had been able to lay millions of eggs in their new hosts. The human circulation system did the rest, spreading the eggs across every corner of the human body.

This situation was not intrinsically fatal. It turned out the parasites were easily filtered out by the transporter’s protocols once identified, but the security officers had been down on the planet for a few hours, enough time for the things to reproduce en masse. Then, when the density of eggs was at a critical mass, an enzymatic reaction caused all the eggs to hatch at once.

“Is this what wiped out the native population?” asked Georgiou.

“Maybe. Chances are the natives weren’t affected by them the way we are. The DNA of the parasites has an... explosive reaction to human DNA.” Even if there had never been any pieces of security officer on Dr. Channick, the sight of Hasimova standing there covered in splatters from both was not easily forgotten.

“It is unfortunate you were not there,” said Georgiou.

Channick bit her lip. The reaction had been so immediate, her presence would not have made any difference whatsoever. The real misfortune was that Channick had been playing archaeologist and scanning the geology of the area with her tricorder rather than the officers.

“I will have to put this on your record.”

“I understand, captain.”

Georgiou considered her chief medical officer. None of them had identified the danger in time to avert this disaster except perhaps Saru. “Perhaps we should put more stock into Saru’s ganglia.”

“Yes, captain,” said Channick.

“Do not worry. You have an exemplary service record. That this mistake has cost the lives of two of my crew is a tragedy, one that we will prevent in future. It will not end your career.”

With that, Georgiou left Channick to mull things over. Channick was having a hard time deciding what felt more insulting to her, the suggestion she cared about her career in the wake of this or the idea that it could have been predicted by Saru.

The correlation to Saru’s ganglia remained unclear. Yes, Saru’s reaction prior to the mission had been extreme enough to excuse him from beaming down on a seemingly routine task and two people had subsequently died, but on a hunch, Channick tested the parasite’s DNA on a sample of Kelpien DNA. It was entirely nonreactive. Whatever danger Saru had been sensing, it had not been danger to himself.

Inconclusive, she decided. And tragic.

There remained a question as to the parasite. The nearest computer terminal was blinking with a prompt inviting her to name the newly-discovered species for the report. There was no way she was going to name it after herself. The victims deserved a memorial, but there was something macabre in the idea of naming something for the first people it killed, and also the question of which officer to name it after. Ensign Harold Tackett had died first, but Lieutenant Geraldine Combs was higher-ranking and had a longer service record. Channick pressed a finger to record a prompt response but remained indecisive. “Com-Tack’s parasite?”

This was how the seventh planet of the Tonnata system came to be mistakenly labeled as “Comtax” for the next six months until someone in stellar cartography corrected it, and the parasite was labeled as “Comtaxan” in an even smaller error that never was.

It was normal for Saru to feel like all eyes on the ship were upon him, but today there seemed to be evidence to support this. Furtive glances, hushed whispers, and he could easily imagine what they were saying. He knew they were going to die.

If only he had. He knew something was wrong before the away team left the ship, but as with so many other times his ganglia reacted, he did not know why until after the tragedy. His ability lacked any clear prescience. Always there was an edge of uncertainty.

Despite this, Georgiou had taken him aside at the beginning of his shift to inform him that from now on, he should keep her appraised of his gangliar reactions. “You are a more potent force than I realized,” she said, and he thanked her and swallowed the fact he was more embarrassed by his ganglia than anything else. Captain Georgiou would never flinch in the face of death the way he did. Perhaps, he told himself, he could take solace in the fact his affliction could be of use to the captain. The idea was mildly reassuring.

His ganglia were not being particularly reassuring right now. The sensation of being watched was uncomfortable enough his only intention on his mid-shift meal break was to secure a serving of blueberries and retreat to a quieter place to eat them. He stood waiting in line for his turn at the food dispenser, his gaze stalwartly on the floor.

“You sick freak!” screamed Hasimova from the far side of the room, accompanied by the rough bray of a chair scraping across the floor. Saru’s head jerked up.

Hasimova was standing next to a seated Paxton, two trays of food on the table. Hers contained three-quarters of a sandwich and his a bowl of oatmeal. Hasimova’s hand jerked with uncertainty. Then she grabbed the bowl of oatmeal, upended it into Paxton’s face, and stormed out.

On the far side of the mess hall, a lieutenant commander from Paxton’s shift slowly clapped. Ignoring the derision, Paxton wiped oatmeal from his face and flicked the clumps onto his tray. Most of the congealed mass of food had landed in his lap by way of his chest. He did what he could to remove it. Another lieutenant at the next table offered him her napkin in pity.

Wiping down the chair, Paxton picked up both of the food trays and brought them to the service area. Then he came and stood behind Saru in line.

“Lieutenant,” said Saru uncertainly.

“Lieutenant Saru,” said Paxton, disarmingly neutral.

“Is everything alright?”

“Um,” said Paxton, squinting. “Are you asking because you want to know or are you just being polite?”

The answer was that Saru was being polite, but to say as much would ruin the intent. Saru sidestepped the question. “Ensign Hasimova seemed to be in distress.”

“I did get that impression.” It could have been a joke, but Paxton’s expression was grimly intent.

Saru reached the front of the line. He placed his order with the computer. A moment later, Paxton did the same at the adjacent dispenser when it became available. “Oatmeal. Bananas and cinnamon.” Their orders appeared at the same time and they both started towards the main entrance, awkwardly halting as they realized their destination was the same. Saru motioned for Paxton to go first.

This was all the encouragement Paxton needed to initiate a conversation. “Was it bad that I threw away Zahra’s sandwich? I didn’t think it was right to leave it there on the table. But maybe she’ll come back for it.”

Somehow, Saru doubted Hasimova was going to return to the mess hall anytime soon. “I do not think it matters. There is no shortage of... sandwiches.”

“Good point. I wonder how long I have to wait until I can apologize.” Paxton began to eat his oatmeal as he walked.

“That would depend on what you need to apologize for.”

“I asked her what it looked like when Hack died.”

Saru maintained his stride despite the somersault his mind took. “Why would you ask that?”

“That’s...” Paxton’s brow furrowed. “If I could see what it looked like, then it would be like I was there.”

Saru slowed to a stop. “I almost went on the mission.” He reached a hand up towards his head, fingers hovering inches away from his ganglia slits.

“Why didn’t you?” It seemed like Paxton was the only person on this ship who did not know.

“I sensed death.”

“Oh.”

They stood there, uncomfortably still and silent until Saru asked, “Why would you wish to see death?”

Paxton shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth and gulped it down, “It’s not that I want to see death, it’s that I wish I could’ve been there with Hack. He’s my friend. If I can picture it in my imagination, then at least in some part of my brain, I was there.”

Humans were really alien, Saru decided. He knew firsthand the visuals of his kin being butchered as food and that was something he would rather not have seen. He resumed walking and Paxton followed his lead. “The reality of the situation would likely not be the comfort you imagine.”

“Maybe. But not knowing is worse.” They arrived at the aft turbolifts and waited. “I was thinking of asking the captain if I could go to the memorial service.”

“I am sure she would allow it.”

“He has a sister, Evelyn.”

There was nothing really to say to this statement of fact. Saru offered the vaguest of platitudes. “I am sorry for your loss.” The turbolift arrived. A crewman stepped off. Saru and Paxton stepped on. “Deck five.” Paxton said nothing; his quarters were on the same level.

It was a short ride. Not short enough—the sense of shared confinement drove Paxton to resume talking as Saru tentatively ate a blueberry.

“He was my best friend. I wasn’t his, but he was the best one I had.” The lift doors opened.

“Perhaps you should speak to someone,” advised Saru, exiting the turbolift with a single graceful stride.

Paxton did not move immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m being weird and bothering you and you don’t even know me. Sorry.”

Saru stood outside the turbolift, staring at Paxton, trying to contextualize this behavior. It was very different to the reactions Morita and Yoon had displayed over the death of a man, by Morita’s own admission, they barely knew. It was also markedly different from Paxton’s confident exuberance a week ago when he had assailed Saru on the subject of the lului language. There was something tragic in the loss of that innocence. “You are... not bothering me.” It was an awkwardly difficult statement to make, since it was untrue.

Paxton exited the lift then, gaze downcast. The door closed behind him and the turbolift hummed off to its next destination. “It’s fine, I know I’m annoying. The common denominator in my lack of friendships is me.” Despite the body language, his voice was entirely unsentimental, verging on introspectively curious. “My reactions are a little... off. Eventually the novelty of my weirdness wears off and people realize they’d rather hang around with someone who falls within ‘acceptable social parameters.’” He used the hand with the spoon in it to mime half a set of air quotes. “And then they disappear. I wonder if Hack...” He fell silent. Contemplating whether or not the sole person he still labeled a friend would have ceased being his friend if only he had lived long enough was an immensely depressing train of thought.

Saru looked at the bowl of berries. “I believe you are describing the normal rise and fall of social relationships. Friendships are largely based on proximity. A change in shift, posting, or interests, and it becomes very difficult for either party to maintain the requisite interactions to continue as ‘friends.’”

Paxton looked up. “Really? It’s not just me?”

The rigid lines of Saru’s face seemed to soften slightly. “Entirely not.”

Encouraged, Paxton set off down the hall and Saru did the same, catching up to the much shorter human in all of two steps. Despite the improvement in Paxton’s demeanor, his conversational bent remained bleak. “It doesn’t change the fact everyone leaves in the end. It’s inevitable. You can’t fight the future.”

Saru tilted his head. “The future is not yet determined.”

“Isn’t it, though? The present is the culmination—the logical conclusion of all the events of the past. Our decisions are based on our experiences, so given the same history prior to this moment, we will always choose to do exactly what we do, the way we do it.”

Lalana had said something similar to Morita and Yoon. Events are a cumulative result of all events which came before them. Paxton’s interpretation of the sentiment was a little more extreme.

It was an extreme Saru had encountered before, in a science course at the Academy. He had not been brave enough to voice his own opinion at the time, but in the years that followed, he had developed a response and was now prepared to present it. “Determinism is a philosophy which fails to anticipate the unpredictability of quantum mechanics. If the atomic reactions which govern the firing of neurons are random, then it is possible for a multitude of outcomes even given identical circumstances.”

Though Paxton had not been in the class with Saru, he had also had this discussion before and jumped right to a counterargument also mentioned in Saru’s course. “Assuming the randomness of quantum reactions is sufficient to overpower the psycho-neurological programming on the macro level.”

“An unresolved question of scale,” allowed Saru. “If I may, there is a relevant analogy on the macro scale. If we were merely a product of our genetic programming, then I would not be on a starship. I believe in free will, Lieutenant Paxton.”

“So people have a choice and choose to tell me I’m a freak?” Saru had not foreseen this consequence of his assertion. He was at a loss as to how to respond. Paxton stopped in front of one of the dozens of doors along the corridor. “This is me.”

Saru said the only thing he could think of in reassurance. “Ensign Hasimova was in distress. I am certain she did not intend to refer to you unkindly.”

“It’s okay. It isn’t the first time someone’s called me a freak or a robot and it won’t be the last. Water off a duck’s back, right?” This time, the words were resilient, but the tone verged on upset. Paxton’s emotional state was consistently opposite the content of his remarks. “I’m gonna change. Thanks for walking with me, lieutenant.”

“We were going in the same direction,” said Saru, downplaying the charity. He was unsure what the idiom about the duck meant and had no interest in learning the particulars.

“Then I guess it’s a friendship of proximity. Beep boop!”

Saru stared.

“Sorry,” said Paxton, smiling weakly. “Robot humor. See you later.”

“Lieutenant—”

Paxton froze with his hand on the door controls.

“It would be advisable to attempt an apology to Ensign Hasimova tomorrow. You should never leave an apology too long.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

The door closed. Saru stood alone in the hallway, wondering at the whole conversation. Even if Paxton failed to meet the definition of proximal friend rather than mere acquaintance, Saru hoped his words had provided some consolation to the other lieutenant. He hated the thought of anyone around him suffering as a result of a misunderstanding. He set off towards his own quarters to finish the rest of his break in peace.

There was another possibility. Perhaps most people did form enduring social bonds and Saru was as odd a duck as Paxton because neither of them had much in the way of long-term friendships.

Maybe it was for the best. Deep space exploration was a high-risk undertaking and having friends meant potentially losing them in a very permanent sense.

In light of Georgiou’s newfound admiration for Saru’s ganglia, Channick debated the merits of calling the Kelpien in, but at the end of the day she was the ship’s chief medical officer and she had her own conscience to answer to. “Lieutenant Saru to the medbay.”

Saru arrived with wringing hands and worry written across every inch of his posture. “Dr. Channick, is there something wrong? My latest medical scan, I thought there might be an abnormality—”

Channick held her hand up for silence. “Your scan was fine. That isn’t why I called you in. Lieutenant, I need you to hear something, and I need you to really take it in, understand?”

Saru’s head jerked in alarmed confusion. It sounded like he was in trouble.

“Your ganglia. You had a bad reaction before this last mission and didn’t go down, and I signed off on that. The mission turned out to be dangerous, yes, but every mission is potentially dangerous. Every moment in time is potentially dangerous. I want to make one point here, and that is what would have happened if you had gone down to the planet.”

Saru recalled Lalana saying something similar during the battle with the pirates. There is nowhere in the universe which is safe. He found himself thinking of the lului regularly, wondering where she was in the universe and what she was doing, but far be it for him to bother her.

Channick picked up a biological sample dish. It contained a quantity of dirt. She opened it. “Put your hand in this.”

Saru tentatively complied. It was just dirt.

“This dish contains the parasites that killed Lieutenant Combs and Ensign Tackett.”

Saru’s hand jerked back. His whole body pulled away, his limbs tensing as he fought the urge to leap blindly backwards. Only one thing kept him in place. For all that he knew he should be afraid, nothing in his instincts had alerted him to danger.

Channick closed the dish. “No ganglia, right? Because this parasite isn’t dangerous to you. Just the people around you, provided we fail to take precautions.” She pulled the medical gloves from her hands and dropped them into the nearest receptacle.

The tension abated. “The danger I sensed, the coming of death... It was not my own.” It wasn’t always. Saru’s ganglia were perfectly capable of reacting on behalf of others, as they clearly had in this instance. “Perhaps if I had stopped them from going down to the planet...”

Channick took a deep breath. This was not the point she was trying to get across to him. “Saru. You are the most cautious and thorough science officer on the whole ship. When most people would logically stop looking for something, you keep checking. That’s why I know, if you had been down on that planet, you would have found the parasite.” She imagined Saru would have checked under every stone, leaf, and twig and still balked at the idea of issuing an all-clear.

Realization seized Saru. He clasped his hands and straightened to his full height. That made it even worse. There were two ways he might have prevented their deaths. “I am... more responsible than I realized.”

“No, don’t go there. The responsibility is mine. I should have had this damn conversation with you weeks ago. I’m your doctor and I could have run my own scans down on the planet. None of this is on you. Besides, we can’t change what happened.”

Channick seemed to be taking all the blame on herself. Saru knew what Lalana would have said on the subject, that no one person was more responsible for any given outcome than another, but it seemed to him that of the thousand, tiny million interactions that had led to the deaths on Tonnata VII, more than a few of them belonged to him and Dr. Channick, and Saru’s rejection of Paxton’s determinist philosophy further meant the two of them could have changed things if only the past were changeable.

Saru folded his fingers gracefully together. The past was over and done. “But we can change what happens going forward.”

There was something in the way Saru said it, an unusual certitude to his tone. Channick relaxed. Most of the crew had mixed feelings about their resident Kelpien and his many idiosyncrasies, but Channick knew there were several ways to define intelligence and her favorite was “the capacity to exceed evolutionary instinct.” For all his fears and struggles, Saru was a highly intelligent officer.

“Wash your hands,” she told him. “Those parasites will kill most anyone else here.”

The third planet orbiting Bepi 113 was a maelstrom of trionium gas and electrically charged particles. Drifting a safe distance away, the Shenzhou was witness to an impressive display as ribbons of plasma discharged across the atmosphere in a pattern not unlike the way the genetic incompatibility had danced beneath Ensign Tackett’s skin—a similarity known only to Ensign Hasimova, who repressed a shudder as she observed the phenomenon from her post on the bridge. Her nominal acceptance of Lieutenant Paxton’s apology had not extended to providing him the requested description.

There was no way to beam down through the atmosphere to investigate the anomalous readings coming from the planet’s surface. They would have to take a shuttle. As the away team donned EV suits and the engineers triple-checked the shuttle reinforcements, Saru could not repress the violent reaction of his ganglia.

The ensign beside him eyed the ganglia nervously, reminded of Tackett in an entirely different way. This felt like the prelude to Tonnata VII all over again.

It was hard to miss the staring. “Do not concern yourself, ensign,” said Saru.

“But...”

“If there is danger, then I will assist in handling it.”

The ensign relaxed. If Saru was willing to go down there, there was no reason for any of them to be worried.

There was plenty of reason, of course. The ensuing chaos of another mission gone dangerously awry entirely justified the appearance of the ganglia, but when the unstable electrical field produced a series of dangerous plasma waves that threatened to fry the shuttle and strand them on the surface or worse, Saru deflected the waves away from their position by polarizing the trionium gas around the shuttle, rendering it anathemic to the charged particles, and they all made it back to the ship in one piece.

Chapter 7

[islandpcosjourney]

Day 14 – May ’22 challenge

22nd May 2022

It’s usually around this time when I’d start to dream/think about food and right on cue, it’s happening! Only this time, although I’ve been shown a constant stream of cookie, brownie & sweety adverts, I’m craving salads. The weather certainly hasn’t been the cause of my salad dreams as it’s been so dreary and wet all day. Usually I’d start to crave the salads when the weather starts teasing about summer, so I suppose yesterday’s sun I felt while outside painting the garden furniture, could’ve given me enough of a tease to trigger the tastes of summer?

I mentioned seeing a particularly inspirational photo of a salad before in an ad on FB – halloumi, pomegranate seeds, tender stem broccoli among other delights. I can’t get that image out of my memory, and I’d really love to prepare it when I’m all done in a few weeks. While searching for the recipe on FB to find that company who advertised it again (I have no idea who it was) I did general searches using words like diet, healthy eating, halloumi salad, among other searches and came across posts I’d either made on my own page or on group pages from 2017 where I was mentioning my clean eating & dietary changes, all to change my lifestyle while we were TTC. I was so hopeful back then. There was even a post about being on my first day of Provera and looking forward to a bleed in a few days – gosh, how different it was back then. Provera was what my consultant was giving me to induce bleeds before being able to take Clomid, the ovulation inducing drug. I’d had to fight to get her to prescribe that to me – how different my mindset was back then. I’d do anything to avoid medicines now! Of course the Clomid didn’t work because my body wasn’t in the right foundation state for it to work – but did anyone say that? No! Yes she asked me to lose weight but that was because I was overweight for an IVF referral. She even admitted that losing weight wouldn’t make me ovulate, so even she didn’t think that I could achieve what I have done already naturally. Well, she had said that my chances of doing anything naturally (ovulating, conceiving, or carrying to term) would be low, if at all. However, even when a medical professional said that to me, I didn’t give up hope and I went searching elsewhere for answers.

It's nice to be reminded of what state of mind I was in 5 years ago by seeing what I wrote down, to myself or to others. Technology & social media gets the points for that! I also linked to an article about PCOS and diets which I took another look at just now. It’s short and sweet but it does confirm that what I’m doing now is right. Fully avoiding any food group is not the balanced diet that one requires to treat their PCOS but no ONE diet is suitable either – you have to find what works for the individual & I suppose I have in a way, or at least I’m getting there. Avoiding gluten, dairy, sugar, veg oils & anything processed was working for me back then, but it was not in any way sustainable. It might’ve helped me to lose some weight (12lbs), but it wasn’t working for me reproductively because nothing was changed, and my hormones were still off the chart. I still don’t know what my hormones are officially doing now but I’m sure my consultant will tell me in June, confirming that I’m on a better path now. I may be avoiding gluten, dairy, sugar, veg oils & anything which needs digestion just now, but I only do it to flood my body with all of the good stuff. See, when I avoided it before, I still wasn’t getting enough of the good stuff and unless I stuck to it 100%, I was wanting the bad stuff all the time.

I cannot wait for the summer when I can enjoy heat outside. Kevin teased me today when he called while he was sunbathing outside on deck! He’s in Denmark now and enjoying that heat while I’m here with the drizzle  It sparked us talking about holidays and our honeymoon. Our honeymoon was the only holiday abroad I’ve ever had and right about now, another one wouldn’t go amiss. We’re just constantly chasing our tails trying to do something or other to one of our houses. He asked me where I’d like to go, if I could choose anywhere – New Zealand (he knew I’d say that!). The only comment I’d had made about our honeymoon was the amount of English tourists all around us wanting chips with everything and the eateries looking like they were catering to that too. We tried our best to eat out locally every night and came back about a stone heavier hahaha but the next place we go to, I’d love to be away from the resort-type areas where we can eat authentically local food. 

Now that’s got me thinking of Greek food! Kevin got me into Greek food, and I’ll love him forever for that. It’s my favourite cuisine now. Meze is something he grew up with visiting his Great Uncle in Cyprus. The traditional Cypriot Meze, meaning “little delicacies”, is around 30 small plates of savoury dips and vegetables and a wide range of fish and meat dishes cooked in several different ways. Chicken Souvlaki is one of my favourite, belonging to both Greece & Cyprus and its one of the dishes I love Kevin making us on the BBQ. We usually call it Gyros but if we were to go to Cyprus or Greece we’d find that Gyros is meat cooked on a rotating skewer and then shaved before serving in a pitta, like a donner, whereas Souvlaki is cooked on sticks over a grill served with fried potatoes, pitta bread, sauce & salad on a plate. We don’t do it like that as ours is either chunks of meat or a full marinaded breast over the BBQ before chopping up and serving in the same gyros way but it’s easier that way than trying to cook it on a skewer on a rotating spit and shaving it – goodness knows how we’d do it. Anyway, I’m craving that with lettuce and tzatziki and perhaps a side of couscous with pine nuts & some halloumi. The Mediterranean diet is usually quite a healthy one with olive oils and fresh food right at the heart of it. One day I’ll get to experience it authentically for myself but until then, we’ll make do with our versions! Yummy! Now I’m going to be planning our summer gatherings! Starting with Kevin’s birthday bash sometime in June – watch this space!

Going back to what I was saying earlier about the changes I was making 5yrs ago. Even though it didn’t work, it was a solid foundation on which to build. Yes I abandoned it when Dad died and grief was more important to address than anything else but it was also the way in which it was meant to be. Like a good whisky or fine wine needs to develop for years in the cask, my body/my mind/my soul needed that time to come to terms with everything that was happening to it. The hurt I experienced through my trauma, medical diagnosis and grief has all shaped what I am making of life today. I’m sure in years to come I’ll also look on these current times and wonder what on Earth worried me so much and realise that it was all just building me up, making me stronger and stronger. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is a very true phrase I often use. Of course it does and every day is a school day. I may be writing about my journey but incase you haven’t noticed - I’m just fumbling about here trying to make the best of it. I make mistakes. I don’t always learn from them. I fall off the wagon but I keep getting up again & striving to achieve better each time. I might never get there but the journey has already felt worth it, just to explore the possibilities.

[mmmmmmmmmmmmphf]

Business art (1/???)

Pairing: TaeKey

Length: 2913 words

          New York was everything – spiral of streets, red brick buildings, shiny glass, dusty corners, smoking drainage catch pits – but peaceful haven, refuge of sleeping stars and few light points of windows. For Kibum red neon lights of American dream were like fitted crimson overall made from glossy leather from Fendi’s autumn collection; stylish, full of youthful silliness and tired pulsating energy. From the moment when a city has welcomed him with its unstoppable rush on John F. Kennedy airport, he knew that teenager from Daegu will find there everything Korea has never dreamt of.

          And if Kim Kibum, sixteen years old, who put his foot for the first time on American soil, hasn���t had a clue how to swallow an enormous dose of depravity, then Kim Key, currently twenty years old student of business school emitted it personally, with every trickle of smoke joining a process of ozone depletion. Cigarette sit between his slim fingers and fire relentlessly hollowed millimetres of tobacco, systematically changing into dust. Key moved his arms and gold sparkles fell into a darkness stretched under his balcony on Peter Cooper Village. Noise of cars from First Avenue blended in his ears into silence – to be honest he couldn’t remember last time without any form of noise around him. New Yorkers don’t have this type of luxury.

          Finally, there wasn’t anyone around, so he could let his thoughts off, which among numerous groups of friends didn’t have a chance to be thoroughly achieved. Few hot minutes on sticky air of American night were perfect nutrient for mind and spirit.

          He rested his cheek on hand and with bored interest observed grey smoke, wandering lazy circles in stuffy air. Great description of life, he thought, inserting a finger right in a middle of tinning smoke; like curious child, checking limits of various things. We circle only to be shortly forgotten.

          He was perfectly aware that with last possible inhale of cig he should leave a balcony and develop an interest in notes, waiting inside his room to put some information in his head with aggressive colours. He knew how necessary it was for his education – that’s why he threw still smouldering end of a cigarette to flower pot with a wilted palm decorated with lights and took next one from a package. Soft sound of menthol click got lost in the air followed by characteristic cradle of a lighter. Residents of tenements on the other side of a street could see again a red point against the black background of Kim’s windows.

          He couldn’t stop a memory of another town coming to his mind – different from his home in every respect. Drowning in pomegranate and yellow, under a care of cypress tree, stars and golden moon. Kibum looked up. Just like he expected starlight has been long gone, absorbed by all red neon lights and only moon was blinking to him from behind the clouds – even moon seemed to be dim, or was it always so grey? Skin above his elbow sting a little, still sensitive after a freshly made tattoo and he lowered his eyes, caught by falling sparkles from a cigarette. Definitely it used to be brighter.

          He wondered if Van Gogh would have gone crazy closed among skyscrapers – would illness hollow his mind if he lived in an expensive loft, paid forty thousand dollars in cash for annual tuition, made silly hurtful tattoos and smoked fifth cigarette, which were the last in painfully new package of Vogue. Kibum’s lips spread in smile lacking amusement. There wasn’t any other option, he had to go crazy, this moon would drive anyone mad. Anyone?

          He felt (at least he should, that’s why he told himself he did) excitement about a visit in Museum of Modern Art and he thanked God that his department didn’t limit its students only to subjects furiously boring – but he knew he won’t miss thorough analysis of B2C strategy and declining balance method regarding exhibitions, because life of a business student cannot be lean on naïve absorption of art, whydoIstudythis. Shamefully for all this years spend in New York, never once had he gone to this art sanctuary even if there was one of his favourite paintings there. Teenagers are busy with other matters and before anyone could think about it, they could only be embarrassed about losses in their life experiences.

          Maybe I should go to France, he thought, not seeing how lost air blow lifted next sparkles from an end of his cig. Maybe a little bit of sunshine would change me into walking example of happiness. His therapist would pleasantly nod his head and smile widely, looking for any progress in his fight with Kibum’s mind. Weather is often a catalysator of emotions, France would be great for you, especially south, Kibum, same goes for change of environment. The moon hid completely behind clouds and he hoped it was smoke from his five cigarettes that covered it from his sight.

          Kibum regretted he couldn’t do anything about an emptiness closing his mind in a painful darkness – maybe he would have found any comfort in painting over hollowing everything nothingness. Instead he could check GPD of South Asian countries, distinguish classical conditioning from operant and read a balance sheet with comprehension whydoIstudythis. His soul has shed more than one tear because of lack manifest of his feelings more significant than hours upon hours of unhealthy cry. Maybe Paris would wake up his dormant impressionist, and before end of everything he would make pieces of art only to die and double their value.

          Seven. Seventeen, twenty-seven thirtyseven, since childhood seven has been his favourite number – at the beginning only thanks to influence of Harry Potter, but with time it grew to a little bit mature approach. So typical that even such silly matter changed in his life into fucking tragedy. Van Gogh died at the age of thirty-seven.

          The moon showed on the sky the moment he shut a door and closed curtains.

              If he were to be absolutely honest, Kibum would admit that one hundred and thirty dollars for bottle of perfumes is definitely too much – that’s why he used his Valentino Uomo only a little bit more to make sure he’s dramatic enough. Smelling mix of bergamot, coffee and hazelnuts drying on his wrists and neck he realised people want to highlight they are alive even with their scent. Otherwise why would they pour perfumes on their pulse?

          Kibum stood in front of a mirror and with characteristic move started fixing his fringe, which freshly blow dried seemed to be unusually fluffy – it gave him silly hope this day won’t be much worse than the others. He should have long abandoned such behaviour that brings him only disappointment, when darkness in his head wins again.

               With critical eye he evaluated his appearance in a mirror to make sure he looked fashionable enough – fact that majority of his course doesn’t bother about something so trivial doesn’t mean he would let himself be any less than perfect. Black and white creepers, high socks with embroidered characteristic double C, huge jeans jacket with rolled up sleeves covering stripped top, carelessly tugged into washed jeans with slovenly ripped leg. Yves Saint Laurent would be proud. His attention caught visibly marked under the material thighs and again he swore he wouldn’t eat anything more than two hundred and thirteen calories in his life.

               He bought a coffee in Starbucks while pretending to notice interested glance of barista. Kim saw it but didn’t actually believe it’s really there – such ill thoughts have been following him constantly for years now, even if his therapist detailed every reason why it’s absurd. He smiled with a flirt in a corner of his lips, took his venti ice americano on double coffee shot, turned on his heel and completely ignored cute message scribed with black sharpie on transparent cup. He made this boy a favour, ignoring his attend to get into Kibum’s life.

Quickly he got to Sixth Avenue, moving around as a true New Yorker – not looking at people among him, hurrying to his matters. They were supposed to meet with whole department at destination so texting with one hand and tightly holding a coffee in the other, Kibum took an orange metro line on Seventy First. For ten minutes he managed to empty half of a cup – why didn’t he think how awfully hot it is – and he jumped out at Fifty Third. With help of Google Maps he got to museum, which by mix of metal and glass truly put into mind word ‘modernism’.

               In no time he found Woohyun and Jack who also were drinking incredibly large and incredibly sweet ice coffees, trying to fight American sun, wanting to kill them for sure, it’s ridiculous how hot it was.

               ‘’I’ve finished my part of a report, so we can meet tomorrow at Kibum’s and put everything together” Key, Key thought with irritation, looking around people’s shoes to show his visible lack of interest on mentioned mutual assignment. Ending ‘bum’ in his name was quite unfortunate in English speaking society, so he put a lot of thoughts to make people call him only with his nickname. Only Nam seemed to not understand such a simple request.

          Unknowingly his eyes have caught familiar mix of colours – pomegranate and yellow, uneven brush strokes even more distorted by printing on the socks. Cypress looked like a tower, really, and a town has disappeared behind the edge of short martens. Before Kibum could see anything more than amazingly skinny legs in wide pants, these walked away along with their owner, who had to have extremely dramatic sense of humour to wear on their feet a reproduction of panting they will see in a couple of minutes in original.

          He quickly forgot about this person when Woohyun suddenly reminded him about his presence and Jack let them know their professors appeared with these enormously expensive entry tickets. They flood inside like only group of twenty years olds can and started their journey through modern art sanctuary. Kibum had to admit being impressed by what human beings can create with their only two hands and loads of imagination.

             While standing behind Cathy Wilkes’ installation Kibum tried to define if he’s amazed or confused by artist’s choice of showing woman’s body. Then he smelled familiar bergamot mixed with something extremely strong which make him think about sitting in full sun while wearing leather jacket with bouquet of sweet flowers. Key tore his eyes away from half naked figure of a women and with partial interest tried to find a person who would wear such wonderfully difficult and universal perfume in equally dramatic amount as Kibum his Valentino.

          He looked at a small group of students whose interest has been set on extremely intricate installation on a wall. Key didn’t know what was so familiar about them even though he was sure he hasn’t seen them at campus even once – he didn’t even know if it was someone from them who smelled so interesting. That’s why he moved to a next room, and shortly redhead hair of one of the boys has disappeared from his memory.

             After getting to know works of Marina Abramovic Kibum promised himself he won’t ever get interested in art of performance to have better night sleep of course when he could fall asleep at all.  He broke this resolve the moment he crossed a border of Bruce Nauman’s exhibition and completely fall for brilliant use of neon lights, photography and oh God Art Make-Up would drive their finance prof crazy, Kibum loved it.

          ‘’I’d like to go to Paris’’ someone sighed the very same moment Key took off headphones after listening to dramatic dialogue in mix of every languages in the world. He wouldn’t have put a second thought to this because who wouldn’t if it weren’t for next words, said with a familiar accent. Kim tried to get rid of it for long and difficult years. ‘’All real artists are from Paris”.

          The boy was an inch taller than Kibum, had longer ginger hair loosely tied at the top of his head and was someone that could be name ‘an art person’ in Kibum’s opinion. Piercing through whole ear, colourful tank top freely hanging down to mid-thigh, pants with wide leg and… post-impressionist socks. So dramatic boy was an impressionist enthusiast and even shared Kibum’s dream, very often misunderstood by his friends so far.

          Before anyone from the boy’s group has realised someone paid them more attention than to art around them, Kibum withdrew from a room to find a toilet and then go straight to his favourite piece of art in 1880-1950 paintings exhibition.

             It could be expected that ‘The Starry Night’ would be catching attention of great number of visitors so Kibum didn’t frown too much seeing a lot of heads and not the painting. He couldn’t be named a patient man but for his inspiration he would wait just enough time for people to move and let him see everything clearly.

          Deep peace of a town, quiet still cypress’ peak and church tower patiently watching over it touched Kibum in a difficult to explain manner, especially when taking under consideration artist’s biography. Nobody was sure if Van Gogh has created this painting while having an anxiety attack but Kibum was sure that if it was a case, then recreating the village from his memories brought him temporary relief. That he put all his worries into dramatic sky and guarded them with powerful stars and moon and maybe that’s why he wasn’t pleased with his work who would be pleased, looking at their rotten soul taking a form.

          Bergamot, pepper and lilies of the valley. Key knew this scent and for a couple of seconds he wondered how much he was insane, who remembers random people’s scents. Kibum discretely looked at his left and he would lie only a little if he said he didn’t expect to see this strange boy who caught his attention numerous times in museum full of people.

          Dark eyes lined with kohl looked intensively into mix of shadows of the painting and if Key weren’t a serious business student because he was he would have thought that the boy left New York long ago. That he observed quiet Saint Remy in June 1889 with Van Gogh and that’s why he got to understand everything a painter wanted to show – he was far in a journey while Kibum only just began his. Impression was electrifying and soothing at once and Key would only think about a sun radiating from certain posture of a stranger.

          ‘’You’re aware it’s really rude to stare at someone like that?” the boy asked, not taking his eyes from a painting which made Kibum realise that he had to see him looking all the time.

          ‘’You’re aware you have a reproduction of painting worth millions on your socks?’’ an answer was so much Kibum – fast and aimed on keeping his opponent off guard. Boy’s eyes firstly moved to his shoes then following to Key’s face who suddenly wanted him to stare again at the painting. He couldn’t exactly put a word to the feeling that got him, but Kim knew it went beyond his comfort zone and he wasn’t sure if it bothered him.

          ‘’As long as it’s only reproduction it’s fine. It’d be worse if I decided to wear an original, don’t you think?’’ Kibum didn’t expect such an answer, it was in the middle between serious question and joke and he didn’t know which route he should take to not be considered insane.

          ‘’You should try” he said eventually, deciding to take a game with completely serious face, just as he really considered running to a piece of art, throwing it off the wall and making a perfect suit for this boy. ‘’It will match your socks”.

          A stranger smiled slightly and leaned over to Kim, as he’d like to reveal him a secret. Sweet lilies of the valley prevailed pepper and Kibum didn’t know if he’s still breathing.

          ‘’I’m more for Monet and Dali, but I will help you here, if you help me later’’ no, he wasn’t breathing. That’s why when he burst into laugh, he smelled again an intense doze of perfumes that surely mixed with his own scent of mellow evening. For a second Kibum wondered what’s the effect of their composition, but he quickly waves off this thought to focus on a strange talk.

          ‘’First, I have to know with whom will I steal and ruin quite good impressionism” he said in fluent Korean, almost sure a boy won’t have any problem with understanding. And if his surprised face was any indication, Kibum felt proud of successfully covering his accent of sixteen years. He was also satisfied to surprise a stranger who seemed to be a bunch of interesting secrets in Kibum’s eyes.

          ‘’Lee Taemin” he introduced himself, bowing a little and oh Kibum almost forgot about excessive politeness of Koreans. He didn’t know where his reluctance towards strangers went. He forgot for a little while about a moon.

          ‘’Kim Key’’ answered, not paying attention to any piece of art anymore.

             A few weeks later Kibum discovered that Taemin uses Tuxedo from Yves Saint Laurent, two hundred and three dollars for a bottle and he admitted Lee was dramatic enough to steal pieces of art together.

[cokeisrael4-blog]

Can South Philly Hold On to What’s Always Made It Unique?

City

It’s our most famous neighborhood, defined by its immigrants and its characters, by intermingling (sometimes clashing) cultures — and by near-constant change. Where does it go from here?

The rapidly changing South Philly. Photograph by Adam Englehart

In the late summer of 1981, very much against my Catholic mother’s wishes, I had just moved into a rowhouse at 17th and Naudain — then the very bottom edge of Center City — where my new boyfriend lived. Mom, who’d recently been diagnosed with cancer, was coming for her first visit, reluctantly. The neighborhood was admittedly sketchy — most of Center City was, back then — but I was proud of our chic little home, with its new sofa and drapes and the garden planted out back. Mom knocked, I opened the door, and she peered past me into the narrow hallway.

“Oh my God,” she said, and not in a good way. “It’s just like Morris Street.”

That was where my mom grew up: 128 Morris Street, in the heart of South Philly. A hundred or so years ago, for reasons that are lost in the sands of time, Casimir Norvilas, a Lithuanian immigrant, moved there. He was still in his 20s, but he’d already lived an exciting life, having served in the merchant marine and fought Pancho Villa on the U.S.-Mexican border.

In Philly, perhaps calling on some leatherworking skills acquired on the horse farm near Vilnius where he grew up, he opened a shoemaker shop. He married a fellow Lithuanian immigrant, bought the house on Morris Street, and had three daughters, the eldest of whom was my mom.

The part of the city where he settled was traditionally a point of entry for immigrants. It was close to the docks where ships arrived from the Old World; those same docks provided jobs for laborers whose only skill was brute force. The first big flush of migrants to the city had been Irish, pried from their hearths in the 1840s by a potato blight that caused widespread starvation, killed a million people, and drove another two million to exit the Emerald Isle. The next was Italian, propelled by the “unification” of small city-states and the breakdown of the peninsula’s feudal system. Some seven million mostly Southern Italian peasants decamped for foreign parts.

The Morris Street house where the author’s mom grew up. Photograph by Michelle Gustafson

Since then, wave after wave of newcomers has inhabited the rowhouses of South Philly, on both the east and west sides of Broad Street — Southern blacks with the collapse of Reconstruction, Eastern European Jews starting in the 1880s, more Italians after World War II ended. Mexicans moved north under the 1942 bracero (“one who works using his arms”) program, and smaller tides of Cubans and Puerto Ricans and Vietnamese and Cambodians and Liberians landed here, too. South Philly was a place to gain a foothold, to begin anew, to build something from nothing for impoverished families from all over the world. Then your kids got the hell out.

That was what Mom did. She made her way to Girls’ High, which was then at 17th and Spring Garden, and after graduating went even further up Broad Street to Temple, where she met my dad. Together, they began a family and a series of successive moves away from South Philly, to Willow Grove and Glenside and finally bucolic Doylestown. They raised a solid middle-class clan of four kids and a dog on a third of an acre there.

Which is why, I think, the house on Naudain Street so unnerved Mom. When you’ve spent a lifetime trying to escape the past, it can’t be easy to realize that your child just cheerfully leaped back in.

That was the only time Mom ever visited me and Doug, who eventually became my husband. She died three months later. I’d like to think it wasn’t seeing the house.

•

The workingman’s homes that make up Philly’s rows were built in the mid-to-late 19th century, as the city underwent rapid industrialization. But there were rowhouses even before that; witness the city’s oldest block, Elfreth’s Alley. William Penn envisioned his city filled with gracious single homes set amid green lawns, but it didn’t take long for speculators to slice up the blocks he laid out and eke the most from them by erecting rowhomes. The city was built atop clay, which is what you make bricks from, which is why the rowhomes were brick.

I have the vaguest memories of the house on Morris Street; Poppy’s shoemaker shop and the penny-candy place next door made more of an impression on me. I know this, though: Mom’s parents, like so many new arrivals here, found the fact that they were allowed to own land amazing. Slaves from the South and serfs from the Baltic States and paesani from Italy had all fled societies in which “real estate” belonged to the master or czar or king. To buy for yourself even the postage-stamp property beneath a rowhouse was a marvelous thing.

Which is one reason newcomers stayed put. “People would move to South Philly because it was close to jobs on the waterfront or in the garment factories,” says Bryant Simon, a history professor at Temple. “Then they created a culture that reminded them of where they were from.” They opened butcher shops and bakeries, planted grapevines in tiny backyards, built churches and fraternal organizations. They dug in, deep.

A window near 8th and Tasker. Photograph by Michelle Gustafson

Southern Italian immigrants, notes Penn city planning and urban studies professor Domenic Vitiello, had a particular pattern of migration: “They settled in groups of people from the same town. You could identify them — this block from this village in Abruzzo, this block from this village in Calabria.” Mexican immigration, Vitiello adds, would later follow this same pattern.

My mom’s mom’s sister, Adeline, married an Italian my grandfather fondly called “Goombah Jimmy.” We only visited Adeline’s house, on Wolf Street near Broad, for the Mummers Parade and the occasional funeral, but it stood out because it was so unlike anything else in my bland suburban life. People drank, hard; everyone was loud; the women and the food — Italian sausages, kielbasa and pierogies — smelled wonderful; and in an upstairs bedroom there hung the biggest painting I had ever seen, a full-size reproduction of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, with all that bare-breasted flesh. Who could look away?

I went back to South Philly recently and checked out the house on Wolf Street. There were potted plants taking the sun beside the front stoop. Mom’s people were farmers at heart. She would have liked that.

I went to Morris Street, too, to see what was left of number 128. It looked good — the trim all freshly painted, a fancy ornamental door. There was a planter beside it, too. The houses on Mom’s row are tiny — under a thousand square feet, with two bedrooms and a single bath. Yet when she was a kid, her family took in a boarder to help with the bills, which wasn’t rare. A 1904 survey of the area from 8th Street to 9th Street between Carpenter and Christian showed that 41 of the 167 houses were occupied by three or more families. That’s a tight squeeze.

Bryant Simon says you can tell when a neighborhood gentrifies by the house numbers; newcomers prefer sans serif fonts. There’s a lot of sans serif on Mom’s block. Another clue: the four new three-story townhomes with garages and roof decks. They have three bedrooms and two and a half baths and, you can bet, one family apiece.

•

Mom’s old house sold for $43,000 in 1995; today, its estimated worth is $218,985. The big difference between people buying in South Philly these days and those from the old days is that the latest arrivals don’t land here with nothing. They bring along advanced degrees and SUVs and Mitchell Gold sofas and IRAs.

Back in 2011, Kate Mellina and her husband, Dave Christopher, moved from Asbury Park to Philadelphia, where Mellina had grown up: “In the Northeast — St. Timothy’s parish. But my dad was from South Philly. St. Monica’s. You forget how Philadelphia is defined by its parishes.” The couple, both artists, were looking for an area that was “up-and-coming,” Mellina says, and they bought a house in East Passyunk, overlooking the famed Singing Fountain. “It was not quite as developed then,” Mellina says, “but you could see it was on its way.”

Not long after they moved in, one of the couple’s friends happened on a vintage photo album at Lambertville’s Golden Nugget flea market and recognized some famous faces posing with the grinning strangers inside: Bob Hope, Tony Bennett, Johnny Mathis, Liberace. On the back of the album was the photographer’s studio address, on East Passyunk Avenue. “Our friend knew we’d moved in around there, so he gave it to us,” Mellina explains. “He said, “Here’s your housewarming present — find out who these people are!”

Naturally, Mellina says, she started by showing the album to her neighbor, “Frank from around the corner, who’s been here forever.”

“Oh, that’s Palumbo’s!” Frank said.

“We were like, ‘What’s Palumbo’s?’” Mellina had never heard of the now-defunct nightclub at 8th and Catharine that hosted everyone from Sinatra to Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. back in the day. It started life as a boardinghouse for immigrants sailing from Italy; legend has it they’d arrive speaking no English but with signs around their necks that read PALUMBO’S.

Plenty of Palumbo’s stars were homegrown. South Philly’s rowhouses all looked alike on the outside, but they sheltered singular individuals inside. The roll call just of those who passed through South Philly High at Broad and Snyder is startling: Marian Anderson, Mario Lanza, Chubby Checker, Jack Klugman, Frankie Avalon, bandleader Lester Lanin, composer Vincent Persichetti, NBA founder Eddie Gottlieb, world heavyweight boxing champ Tim Witherspoon, mayor Frank Rizzo, boxing trainer Angelo Dundee … It’s hard not to feel optimistic in a neighborhood where just a few streets over, a Jewish punk named Eddie Fisher grew up to divorce Debbie Reynolds so he could marry Elizabeth Taylor. America. What a country.

“South Philly is a real neighborhood,” says Kate Mellina. “It’s a mix of people whose families have been here for three or four generations — in the same houses — and new people moving in with dogs and babies.”

Since the album was foisted on her, Mellina has visited senior centers and the local library in her quest to identify the non-famous people in its pages. She discovered that it had belonged to Arthur Tavani, a writer for a little local newspaper. “His sister was still alive then,” she recalls, “living in the same house they grew up in. She greeted me like a long-lost daughter.” Mellina also talked to Carmen Dee, who’d been the bandleader at Palumbo’s, which burned down in 1994. And she’s chronicled her efforts at a website, Unexpected Philadelphia, that lets you scroll through the photos in case there’s anyone you know.

“South Philly is a real neighborhood,” says Mellina. “It’s a mix of people whose families have been here for three or four generations — in the same houses — and new people moving in with dogs and babies. Everyone seems to get along. You take your lawn chairs out front in the summer, and people parade by with the kids and the dogs.” Asbury Park, she notes, actually was a small town — “but it didn’t have that small-town feel.”

The small town has gone big-time over the past decade. Townsend Wentz, Nick Elmi, Chris Kearse, Lou Boquila, Lynn Rinaldi, and Lee Styer and Jessie Prawlucki have all opened restaurants along this stretch of East Passyunk. The neighborhood has coffee shops, twinkly string lights, a British pie shop, and Artisan Boulanger Patissier. You’ll find dim sum and doggie boutiques, a retro typewriter repair shop, breweries and bike stores, not to mention a yoga studio that recently hosted a visit from an alpaca. It’s a freaking hipster paradise.

A block or so north, the paradise ends.

•

Philly’s Italian Market, which stretches along 9th Street roughly from Dickinson to Fitzwater, started out as a Jewish market. It’s now mostly Asians and Latinos who run the iconic sidewalk stalls. To go from twinkly Passyunk Square to, say, Giordano’s produce stand just above Washington is sort of a shock. The market hasn’t gentrified. It still has flies in summer and burn barrels in winter, and wooden skids and flattened cardboard boxes are piled everywhere. (“That’s not real trash,” Bryant Simon teases when I raise the subject of the market. “They bring it out every morning so it looks like a scene from Rocky.”) It also has guys who pick out your tomatoes for you, thank you very much, and put them in a bag. The area is a good example of the challenges of gentrification. “How do you maintain the market while the neighborhood changes?” asks Simon. “That’s a delicate balance. Tourists can only buy so many vegetables.” Anthony’s Italian Coffee & Chocolate House has stood here for four generations. Now it has online ordering, and seasonal lattes like the Spring Fling and the Crème Brûlée.

There have been fitful efforts to start up a Business Improvement District for the market, so merchants can kick in to gussy things up. A few years back, Michelle Gambino, business manager for the South 9th Street Business Association, described her vision for the future, with organic foods and craft booths alongside the homely produce carts: “We’re hoping that the look will continue to be Old World, but just upscale.”

To add to the balancing act, New York developers have so far unveiled three iterations of an apartment building planned for the heart of the market, right at 9th and Washington, ranging from six to eight stories in height. The latest version has 157 units. Merchants and shoppers panicked when plans showed the driveway to the building’s underground parking right on 9th Street, where it will surely disrupt the market’s traffic and pedestrians. So much for Old World.

“There are two processes going on in South Philly right now,” says Bryant Simon. “Longtime residents are being displaced by new immigrants and by high-end creative-class people.” In other words, old South Philly’s getting squeezed from both sides.

The Italian isn’t the only market in South Philly. The busy commercial stretch of Washington between 6th and 16th earned the soubriquet “Little Saigon” thanks to immigrants who settled there after the Vietnam War. (Condé Nast Traveler once dubbed the area “Pho Row.”) The city’s Asian population has continued to grow, jumping by 42 percent from 2000 to 2010; Philly is now home to the East Coast’s largest population of Vietnamese immigrants. At Horace Furness High, near Mom’s old house, 48.5 percent of the kids are Asian.

In Little Saigon, too, change is coming. Developers have proposed new rowhomes and duplexes, plus parking spots, on the site of the Hoa Binh shopping center, which occupies almost an entire block at Washington and 16th. The current shopping center isn’t pretty. But neither are most newly built rowhomes, when you think about it.

There may be no better example of South Philly’s metamorphosis than what used to be the Edward W. Bok Technical High School at 8th and Mifflin, where neighborhood kids not bound for college once studied tailoring and plumbing, hairdressing and bricklaying. After closing down in 2013, the Art Deco building, constructed in the 1930s by Franklin Roosevelt’s Public Works Administration, was reborn as BOK, an urban playground with a roof-deck bar, boutiques, “maker spaces,” tattoo artists and, of course, yoga. “I think BOK is a fascinating symbol,” says Bryant Simon. “There are two processes going on in South Philly right now. Longtime residents are being displaced by new immigrants and by high-end creative-class people who value urban spaces and are knowledge workers.” In other words, old South Philly’s getting squeezed from both sides.

•

We tend to think of “South Philly” as the Rocky world that’s east of Broad Street, but Point Breeze and Grays Ferry are South Philly, too. They were settled along familiar lines, first by European Jews, then by Italians and Irish, and finally by blacks driven west from their original stronghold in what had been farm country near 7th and South. There were race riots here in 1918, touched off when a black woman moved in; thousands battled in the streets. By the 1920s, according to a resident quoted in Murray Dubin’s South Philadelphia: Mummers, Memories, and the Melrose Diner, from Lombard Street to Washington Avenue between Broad and 20th was “solid black.” Still, racial strife bubbled up regularly. In 1997, then-mayor Ed Rendell had to negotiate a compromise with Louis Farrakhan to ward off a planned protest.

Today, Point Breeze is ground zero for Philly gentrification. The median housing price in the most gentrified section rose from $29,000 in 2000 to $234,000 in 2016, while the population of black residents changed from 80 percent to 46 percent. Bryant Simon, who wrote a book about Starbucks, says you can trace the spread of gentrification in coffee shops. He mentions developer Ori Feibush, who fueled Point Breeze’s gilding by opening OCF Coffee House at 20th and Federal “as a way of planting a flag. He was smart about that.”

Neighbors playing at 2nd and Porter. Photograph by Michelle Gustafson

For many residents of western South Philly, Feibush, who’s been building new townhouses everywhere, has become the face of black displacement. In 2015, he ran against incumbent 2nd District Councilmember Kenyatta Johnson in a bitter primary fight that stirred race into the already boiling pot of tax assessments and abatements and property values. Johnson won. In May, he introduced a bill that would ban from Grays Ferry and Point Breeze the balconies and bay windows featured on many newly constructed rowhomes — a pointed up-yours to Feibush and gentrification. The resentment is understandable.

Racism has a long history throughout South Philadelphia. “It would have helped if Frank Rizzo didn’t tolerate white resistance, or if there had been no redlining,” Simon says. Old photos of South Philly High show integrated sports teams as far back as 1918, and black and white cross-country runners in the ’50s with their arms draped around each other. But as recently as 2009, black students were beating up Asian immigrants. Following a boycott, a new principal, and a Justice Department investigation, matters have improved.

In fact, says Penn’s Vitiello, you could make the case that since the 1970s, South Philadelphia has been the city’s most successful neighborhood in terms of immigration: “A wide variety of refugees has found it comfortable and livable. There’s a wide variety of ethnic groceries, goods and services. The housing stock is still affordable. There are still plenty of absentee landlords who see new immigrants as an important source of income.” And many older residents, he says, “welcome newcomers in a very humane way. They appreciate that their neighbors are here just trying to raise their kids and provide for themselves.” It was former mayor John Street, he points out, who first established sanctuary protections in Philadelphia back in 2001, along with Irish-born police commissioner John Timoney.

“Change related to new immigrants is nothing new in South Philly,” Bryant Simon says. “It’s never been without tensions. Change is kind of perpetual there.”

To some extent, Vitiello says, politicians here have embraced immigrants because they know that without them, the city would be shrinking, not growing. He puts Michael Nutter in this economically motivated camp. But Jim Kenney, whose parents came to the U.S. from Ireland — and who grew up five blocks from my mom’s house, at 3rd and Snyder — “has consistently been more about treating people as humans, as neighbors,” he says.

At the same time, South Philadelphians, Bryant Simon points out, have always shown “a commitment to maintaining their turf.” Historically, this is the land of mobsters and payola, not touchy-feely empathy. “We make fun of yoga studios and deck bars serving IPAs,” Simon says, “and the identity that goes along with certain cultural practices.” But alpaca yoga isn’t South Philly’s big problem now: “The real tensions are over real estate values.”

On the positive side, he notes, “Change related to new immigrants is nothing new in South Philly. It was always a place of immigrants. It’s never been without tensions. Change is kind of perpetual there.”

•

I used to live in South Philly. In 1988, Doug and I bought a little rowhouse near 20th and Snyder for $35,000. We were ready to have kids and wanted some stability. We were an odd fit for the neighborhood back then. There was nobody our age on our block; old people lived there, and their kids drove in from Jersey for Sunday dinner. One entire wall of our bathroom was mirrored; it became our daughter’s favorite part of the house. Once, when I was taking the bus into Center City with Marcy when she was two, a nun asked what parish we belonged to. “We don’t go to church,” I told her. “Surely you’ve had her baptized,” she said. I shook my head. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “Do you want your daughter to go to Hell?”

Most people, though, were nice to us. Johnny from the auto shop across the street would invite us in for barbecued deer during fall hunting season. In winter, we pushed the kids in strollers beneath rainbows of Christmas lights. In summer, there were walks to the water-ice stand and cooling showers from fire-hydrant sprinklers. The mobster’s mom down the block wouldn’t let her grandson come to Marcy’s birthday party, but she did show up afterward with excuses and a gift.

After six years, we got tired of chasing guys with guns off our stoop, of worrying that the kids would get hit by cars, of the endless litter and the fight to find parking. I longed for a real garden, not a couple of barrel planters. We escaped to the suburbs, just in time for Marcy to start school. We sold the house for less than we’d paid for it, to two Cambodian brothers. We always have been terrible at real estate.

Today, the house we dumped for $32,500 is worth an estimated $195,954. I go back to see it, for old time’s sake. The neighborhood is still dotted with bodegas and pharmacies and Chinese takeout joints, but there’s a new coffee shop that delivers through Grubhub. Our place looks tidy and kempt; there are a host of potted plants beside the front door, which is painted deep blue. The house numbers are a bougie font. The young woman who lives there now walks dogs for a living. We exchange emails, and I ask if the bathroom still has that mirrored wall. She LOLs. It does.

In nearby Girard Park, I pick my way through downed tree branches from a recent storm to view a plaque honoring Kenyatta Johnson for nabbing $600,000 in improvements to its drainage, benches and walkways. Within eyeshot of the house where a pipe bomb blew up Phil “Chicken Man” Testa in 1981, I join a woman sitting on a park bench with a little girl in a stroller. I smile and tell her my daughter learned to walk right in this park. She smiles back. “I’m the nanny,” she says.

A nanny. In Girard Park. It’s the beginning of the end.

Not so fast, says Vitiello. “South Philly is pretty big,” he points out, “and gentrification moves in waves. There are some indicators that suggest South Philly will keep growing, and others that suggest its growth will be slow and halting.” That means South Philly’s seemingly impossible balance of old and new, rich and poor, black and white and everything else, could endure. Large tracts here, Vitiello insists, should remain affordable for a long time to come.

Maybe so. All I know is, there’s new three-story housing going up across 20th Street from our old place, no doubt with garages and roof decks.

Oh my God. It’s just like Morris Street.

Published as “True South” in the July 2019 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Source: https://www.phillymag.com/news/2019/07/06/changing-south-philly/

[aprilpillkington]

Mehndi is the standard art of henna painting in India and the...

Mehndi is the standard art of henna painting in India and the Middle East. You might see it composed as mehandi, mehendi, mendhi, henna, al-henna, and a myriad other names and spellings. In current times, United States henna artists have actually come to denote the art with the term “Henna Body Art.” All of these words describe the very same ageless art kind, body painting for festive occasions. However you spell it, mehndi is pronounced meh-hen-di (with a soft, oral d sound like “thee”). I focus on understanding conceptions of henna in India, where it has been utilized since the 12th century. Many historic files detail earlier use; for example, it is the Arabic Muslims who brought henna to India, where it has blossomed into its own distinct art design. In Indian mehndi, a person applies styles generally to a lady’s hands and feet. For especially auspicious celebrations, men apply mehndi as well. The most auspicious occasion necessitating mehndi art work is the Indian wedding, where both bride and bridegroom use henna, along with numerous members of the bridal party. Henna on any occasion signifies fertility. At the wedding, henna artwork additionally symbolizes the love between husband and wife, and the stain’s long-lasting nature signifies the long-lasting nature of their love. Mehndi came into use because of its cooling healing impact in a hot environment, and, in India, it was likewise a way for a couple to be familiar with one another before an arranged marital relationship. A variety of customs underlie the use of mehndi, including wedding games and legends. For example, the groom’s name is normally written somewhere within the bride’s mehndi; if he can not discover his name within the complex design, the bride-to-be is stated to have the control in the marital relationship. Also, a dark mehndi design for both groom and bride represents that the two will have a strong relationship. Within the past couple of years, mehndi has ended up being popularized in the West by musicians and Hollywood characters alike, and is now a quickly increasing trend among females and males in world culture.

Translating the word “henna” actually indicates “to end up being queen.” The Indian name “mehndi” designates the procedure, the dye, and the stain of mehndi. To make the color, henna (mehndi) leaves are dried and finely ground. The powder that results is filtered two or more times through a fine nylon cloth. This process results in removing the coarse fibers from the powder, making what is left finer and much easier to use. The artist then blends this great powder with an oil (such as eucalyptus, nilgiri, or mehndi oil) and other liquids (lemon, water, or tea), making a thick paste. This paste is applied to the user’s hand in various designs, which can range from large, thick patterns to Moroccan geometric patterns to traditional Indian paisleys and lace-like drawings. All relies on the ability of the artist and the style of styles used. An option of lemon juice and sugar is then applied to the drying mehndi to allow it to stay stuck to the skin and to improve the passing away procedure. Mehndi is yet another standard yet exciting pre wedding. In Indian wedding events, a lot of focus is given on customs and rituals and the very same is shown in the Mehndi event prior to marital relationship. Mehendi ceremony has actually become such an essential part of the wedding ceremony that it can not be thought of without it. Furthermore, Mehndi is one of the sixteen accessories of the bride and her appeal is insufficient without it. Mehndi ceremony generally takes place just before marital relationship. According to the routine, the bride does not get out of your house after this event. latest mehndi ceremony is basically arranged by the household of the bride and is generally a personal affair which happens in the presence of good friends, family members and family members. However, the scale of the event depends upon specific choice. Some individuals commemorate it with excellent pomp and show. Mehndi is among the oldest forms of body art conceived by guy. The Hindi and Arabic word Mehendi is originated from a Sanskrit word ‘mendhika’ which referred to the henna plant itself. Recommendation to uses of henna can be traced back to the Bronze ages. In the bible, henna is referred to a Camphire. In and around the Indian subcontinent, henna has actually been utilized as a cosmetic even before Vedic ages. India is thought about as the source from where the body art customs with henna infect different parts of the world like Egypt, Asia Minor and the Middle East. Recommendations of henna throughout the mummification procedure of Pharaohs in addition to anecdotes of the well-known queen Cleopatra using henna to paint her body are widely known in history. Prophet Muhammad is understood to utilize henna paste to color his graying beard and was known to promote use of henna to others too. Use of henna is considered exceptionally auspicious in numerous traditions all over the world, particularly within Hindus, who would consider Mehndi part of the popular 16 adornments or Solah Shringaar. Henna (Botanical name: Lawsonia inermis) is a small shrub-like plant, discovered in tropical climates of Indian sub-continent, Malaysia, Africa, Middle Eastern nations. The leaves and branches produce a red-orange dye known as Lawsone that is responsible for imparting the characteristic color when bound with protein particles of the upper skin layer. The plant is commercially cultivated in Rajasthan, Punjab, Gujarat and parts of Madhya Pradesh. Traditionally, the Mehndi paste is made from dried powdered henna leaves. The leaves are dried in sun, ground and sieved to obtain a great mossy green powder, which is then integrated with water, lemon juice, drops of eucalyptus oil, and blended till a smooth paste is gotten. The paste is soaked overnight for maximum infusion and after that put inside a plastic cone. Smaller sized cones are preferred as it manages easier application.

The ideas of the cones are cut according to the preferred density of the lines required. The cones are squeezed gently to guarantee smooth, constant flow of Mehndi. Application is usually started from lower arms, gradually moving down the hand, ending in the fingertips. Gone are the days when particular aunties and sis were in need around the neighborhood for their proficiency in Mehndi designs. Now Mehndi event centers around expert Mehendi artist who focuses on the current trends in henna art. Standard Indian designs consist of peacock themes, flower styles, bride/groom reproductions and other components that cover every inch of the hand, forearms, feet and calves. The fingertips are normally covered in thick layers of henna paste. The concept is to decorate the bride’s body in replica of pricey Jewelry. For those who are minimalists, they can choose Arabic designs where the Mehndi concepts are normally applied to one side of the hand and feet and do not extend to lower arms or calves. Floral and paisley themes dominate this design and the styles are generally curvy with lots of focus on vines. Indo-Arabic design of Mehndi fuses these 2 design trends into an elegant, creative genre. Newest trends in bridal henna styles is incorporation of colors in between henna themes, addition of stones and blings, addition of flashes or metal dusts. Geometric patterns and white henna styles are also in vogue today. The henna requires to be continued for a minimum of 4 hours for deep and uniform color. The longer the paste is kept, the deeper will be the color. The color really magnifies depending on one’s body heat, so the henna-painted body parts can be covered in plastic wraps or foils to seal in the body heat. A mixture of lemon juice and sugar should be applied on the styles with a brush or light fabric at 1 hour periods so that the dried Mehndi does not fall off and sits tight making sure much better color. Another method to ensure better color advancement is to dry roast some cloves on a tawa and letting the hands absorb the smoke. The Mehendi must never be gotten rid of by water after it has actually dried and ought to be done by just rubbing the hands together as the dried bits come off easily. The Mehendi Ceremony normally happens the day before the wedding, in the early morning. The bride and the groom’s household observe this routine independently at their own homes. It is generally a females centric event with the men of the household typically not getting involved. The attire preferred for the ceremony are simple, in light colors, nothing too flashy. The venues are decked up with flowers and colorful drapes. The bride-to-be wears a light yellow or light green colored Lehenga or Salwar Kameez with short sleeves ideally and the groom wears Kurta Pajama also in light colors. It is elective for the groom to wear Mehendi, however a bit is used on his hands and feet in simple dots or little designs. The ceremony likewise involves application of oil on the groom’s hair. The henna for the bride’s event needs to show up from the groom’s side together with some other presents like fruits, dry fruits and sweets. Women of the house put together and the Mehndi is either used by among the bride-to-be’s relative or nowadays by professional Mehendi artists. Designs are more elaborate and depending on what the bride-to-be chooses, the henna is applied on the front and back of her palm, lower arm, till above the elbows, and on the feet till below the knee. Senior ladies sing standard Mehendi songs with dholaks and other musical instruments. Ladies family members of the bride also get simple mehndi applied to their hands, although the designs are not as sophisticated as the bridal Mehendi.

The Mehendi ceremony contains within itself a host of conventional beliefs that are handed down the generations. Traditionally, someplace within the intricate bridal Mehendi, the groom’s initial is included. In post marriage ceremonies, the groom needs to look and discover it out. This helps with a nice ice-breaker for the recently wedded couple specifically in case of an organized marital relationship. It is also stated that the darker the color of the Mehendi, the more love the bride will get at her in-laws and particularly from her other half. The durability of the color of Mehendi has special significance also. In older days when set up marital relationships were primary, the bride-to-be maintaining her Mehendi while visiting her parents’ house after the wedding indicated her mom that the in-laws were considerate and caring.

Use of Mehendi in a pre-wedding ritual is not just cosmetic however has deep underlying scientific factors behind it. Henna is understood for its cooling properties and is expected to soothe the bride’s nerves when applied to her hands and feet. Indian wedding events consist of a host of pre and post wedding event rituals that extend the happy event through days before and after the real wedding day. These colorful occasions bring the whole household together, even from far off locations. The immediate and extended families, buddies and neighbors get together to commemorate the union through various reliable routines throughout a span of several days. The Mehendi Ceremony is one such occasion that is an important part of the wedding event events. latest mehndi Event typically refers to application of a henna paste in elaborate detailed designs on the bride’s hands and feet. A profoundly vibrant event, with lots of singing and dance performances involved, the Mehendi event formally begins the wedding festivities in full equipment.

This ritual is not only part of Hindu wedding events in Northern and Eastern India but likewise a part of the wedding rituals among Indian Muslims. The ceremony is observed in nations adjoining India like Pakistan and Nepal, as well as in several Arab countries in the Middle East. Although, the routine was predominantly observed in parts of northern India, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh and Punjab, the pattern has gained appeal all over India. Increasingly more cultures are accepting the idea of Mehendi Event as a pre-wedding routine mainly due to the aesthetics involved. The ceremony has actually become a sign of magnificence, fun and celebrations, and reason for some major pre-wedding girl bonding. Mehndi (or Hina) is the application of henna (Hindustani: हेना- حنا- urdu) as a short-term type of skin decor, most popular in South Asia, the Middle East, North Africa, and Somaliland, along with migrant communities from these locations. It is generally used for events and unique events, particularly weddings. Henna designs are usually made use of the hands and feet, where the color will be darkest since the skin includes greater levels of keratin. The leaves of the henna plant consist of a red-orange color particle, lawsone, which has an affinity for bonding with protein, and has been utilized to color skin, hair, fingernails, leather, silk, and wool. Henna leaves are usually dried and ground into a powder, which is mixed into a paste and applied using a range of strategies. The henna pasted is generally left on the skin for eight hours; after it is removed, the pattern continues to darken for approximately 3 days. The word “henna” originates from the Arabic name Hina for Lawsonia inermis. In the Bible’s Tune of Tunes and Tune of Solomon, henna is referred to as Camphire. In the Indian subcontinent, there are lots of alternative words such as Mehndi in North India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. In Arabic-speaking nations in North Africa and the Middle East the Arabic word is “hina.” In Telugu (India, Malaysia, U.S.), it is referred to as “Gorintaaku.” In Tamil (South India, Singapore, Malaysia, Sri Lanka) it is called “Marudhaani” and is used as ground fresh leaves rather than as dried powder. It is used in various festivals and celebrations and utilized by ladies and children. It is left on overnight and will last one month or more depending on the plant and how well it was ground and the length of time it is left on. The various words for henna in ancient languages suggest that henna may have had more than one point of origin. It is understood that henna has remained in usage as a cosmetic, along with for its expected healing homes, for a minimum of 5,000 years, but a long history of migration and cultural interaction has actually made it tough to identify with absolute certainty where the custom started. Some scholars claim that the earliest paperworks of henna usage are found in ancient Indian texts and images, indicating that mehndi as an art-form may have come from ancient India. Others declare that the practice of ornamenting the body with henna was taken to India by the Moguls in the twelfth century C.E., centuries after it had been in usage in the Middle East and North Africa. Another theory is that the custom of easy mehndi originated in North Africa and the Middle Eastern nations during ancient times. Henna is likewise understood to have been used in ancient Egypt, to stain the fingers and toes of the Pharaohs prior to mummification. Another possibility is that the similar use of henna for skin decor arose independently and possibly at the same time in these regions.

It is theorized that dots of henna were first applied to the palms of the hands as a means of cooling off the body. Early users of henna started to add lines and other shapes to the single dot on the palm, ultimately developing the fancy styles used today. Henna has actually been used to adorn girls’s bodies as part of social and holiday celebrations because the late Bronze Age in the eastern Mediterranean. The earliest text pointing out henna in the context of marriage and fertility events comes from the Ugaritic legend of Baal and Anath, which has references to ladies marking themselves with henna in preparation to satisfy their spouses, and Anath adorning herself with henna to celebrate a triumph over the opponents of Baal. Wall paintings excavated at Akrotiri (dating prior to the eruption of Thera in 1680 B.C.E.) show females with markings consistent with henna on their nails, palms and soles, in a tableau consistent with the henna bridal description from Ugarit. Many statuettes of young women dating between 1500 and 500 B.C.E. along the Mediterranean shoreline have actually raised hands with markings consistent with henna. This early connection between young, fertile females and henna seems to be the origin of the Night of the Henna, which is now well known global. The Night of the Henna, an event throughout which henna is applied to the hands and feet of a bride, and often to other members of the wedding party, was commemorated by most groups in the areas where henna grew naturally.

Mehndi is the standard art of henna painting in India and the... published first on https://the4th3rd.tumblr.com

[gothrapxxx]

Mehndi is the standard art of henna painting in India and the Middle East. You might see it written as mehandi, mehendi, mendhi, henna, al-henna, and a myriad other names and spellings. In current times, United States henna artists have pertained to denote the art with the term "Henna Body Art." All of these words explain the same classic art form, body painting for festive occasions. However you spell it, mehndi is pronounced meh-hen-di (with a soft, dental d sound like "thee"). I focus on comprehending conceptions of henna in India, where it has actually been used given that the 12th century. Lots of historical documents detail earlier use; for example, it is the Arabic Muslims who brought henna to India, where it has actually blossomed into its own distinct art design. In Indian mehndi, an individual applies designs traditionally to a woman's hands and feet. For especially advantageous celebrations, males use mehndi also. The most auspicious celebration necessitating mehndi art work is the Indian wedding event, where both bride-to-be and groom apply henna, along with numerous members of the bridal celebration. Henna on any occasion symbolizes fertility. At the wedding, henna artwork furthermore signifies the love between husband and wife, and the stain's long-lasting nature symbolizes the long-lasting nature of their love. Mehndi entered use because of its cooling restorative effect in a hot environment, and, in India, it was likewise a way for a groom and bride to learn more about one another before a set up marriage. A variety of traditions underlie using mehndi, consisting of wedding event video games and legends. For instance, the groom's name is typically written somewhere within the bride-to-be's mehndi; if he can not discover his name within the complex design, the bride is stated to have the control in the marital relationship. Also, a dark mehndi design for both bride and groom symbolizes that the two will have a strong relationship. Within the past few years, mehndi has become popularized in the West by artists and Hollywood characters alike, and is now a quickly rising pattern among females and guys in world culture.

Equating the word "henna" actually indicates "to end up being queen." The Indian name "mehndi" designates the procedure, the color, and the stain of mehndi. To make the color, henna (mehndi) leaves are dried and finely ground. The powder that results is filtered 2 or more times through a great nylon cloth. This process leads to getting rid of the coarse fibers from the powder, making what is left finer and easier to utilize. The artist then mixes this fine powder with an oil (such as eucalyptus, nilgiri, or mehndi oil) and other liquids (lemon, water, or tea), making a thick paste. This paste is applied to the wearer's hand in various styles, which can vary from large, thick patterns to Moroccan geometric patterns to standard Indian paisleys and lace-like drawings. All depends upon the ability of the artist and the style of styles used. A solution of lemon juice and sugar is then applied to the drying mehndi to allow it to remain stuck to the skin and to improve the dying process. Mehndi is yet another conventional yet interesting pre wedding ceremony. In Indian weddings, a lot of focus is given on customizeds and routines and the very same is reflected in the Mehndi ceremony prior to marital relationship. Mehendi event has ended up being such an integral part of the wedding ceremony that it can not be imagined without it. Additionally, Mehndi is among the sixteen adornments of the bride and her beauty is insufficient without it. Mehndi event usually happens just before marriage. According to the routine, the bride-to-be does not step out of your home after this ceremony. simple mehndi event is basically arranged by the family of the bride-to-be and is generally a personal affair which happens in the existence of friends, relatives and family members. Nevertheless, the scale of the event relies on private choice. Some people celebrate it with fantastic pomp and show. Mehndi is one of the oldest kinds of body art developed by guy. The Hindi and Arabic word Mehendi is stemmed from a Sanskrit word 'mendhika' which described the henna plant itself. Referral to uses of henna can be traced back to the Bronze ages. In the bible, henna is described a Camphire. In and around the Indian subcontinent, henna has been used as a cosmetic even prior to Vedic ages. India is considered as the source from where the body art traditions with henna infect different parts of the world like Egypt, Asia Minor and the Middle East. Recommendations of henna throughout the mummification procedure of Pharaohs in addition to anecdotes of the famous queen Cleopatra using henna to paint her body are popular in history. Prophet Muhammad is known to use henna paste to color his graying beard and was understood to promote use of henna to others as well. Use of henna is thought about immensely auspicious in lots of traditions worldwide, especially within Hindus, who would think about Mehndi part of the popular 16 adornments or Solah Shringaar. Henna (Botanical name: Lawsonia inermis) is a small shrub-like plant, found in tropical climates of Indian sub-continent, Malaysia, Africa, Middle Eastern countries. The leaves and branches produce a red-orange dye called Lawsone that is responsible for imparting the characteristic color when bound with protein particles of the upper skin layer. The plant is commercially cultivated in Rajasthan, Punjab, Gujarat and parts of Madhya Pradesh. Traditionally, the Mehndi paste is made from dried powdered henna leaves. The leaves are dried in sun, ground and sieved to obtain a fine mossy green powder, which is then integrated with water, lemon juice, drops of eucalyptus oil, and mixed till a smooth paste is acquired. The paste is soaked overnight for optimum infusion and after that poured inside a plastic cone. Smaller cones are chosen as it affords much easier application.

The suggestions of the cones are cut according to the favored thickness of the lines required. The cones are squeezed lightly to make sure smooth, constant circulation of Mehndi. Application is normally begun with lower arms, slowly moving down the hand, ending in the fingertips. Gone are the days when particular aunties and sis were in need around the area for their know-how in Mehndi designs. Now Mehndi event centers around professional Mehendi artist who specializes in the most recent patterns in henna art. Conventional Indian styles consist of peacock themes, floral styles, bride/groom reproductions and other elements that cover every inch of the hand, lower arms, feet and calves. The fingertips are usually covered in thick layers of henna paste. The idea is to decorate the bride-to-be's body in imitation of costly Fashion jewelry. For those who are minimalists, they can pick Arabic styles where the Mehndi concepts are normally applied to one side of the hand and feet and do not extend to lower arms or calves. Floral and paisley themes control this style and the designs are usually curvy with great deals of focus on vines. Indo-Arabic style of Mehndi merges these 2 design patterns into a classy, artistic category. Latest trends in bridal henna styles is incorporation of colors in between henna concepts, addition of stones and blings, addition of flashes or metallic dusts. Geometric patterns and white henna designs are likewise in vogue today. The henna needs to be kept on for a minimum of 4 hours for deep and uniform color. The longer the paste is kept, the deeper will be the color. The color actually intensifies depending upon one's temperature, so the henna-painted body parts can be wrapped in cling wrap or hinders to seal in the temperature. A mix of lemon juice and sugar should be applied on the styles with a brush or light cloth at 1 hour intervals so that the dried Mehndi does not fall off and stays put guaranteeing much better color. Another method to make sure better color advancement is to dry roast some cloves on a tawa and letting the hands soak up the smoke. The Mehendi should never be gotten rid of by water after it has actually dried and must be done by simply rubbing the hands together as the dried bits come off quickly. The Mehendi Ceremony normally takes place the day before the wedding, in the early morning. The bride-to-be and the groom's family observe this ritual separately at their own residences. It is traditionally a women centric event with the men of the family generally not taking part. The outfits chosen for the ceremony are simple, in light colors, absolutely nothing too flashy. The venues are decked up with flowers and colorful draperies. The bride-to-be wears a light yellow or light green colored Lehenga or Salwar Kameez with short sleeves preferably and the groom uses Kurta Pajama likewise in light colors. It is not compulsory for the groom to use Mehendi, however a little bit is applied on his hands and feet in simple dots or little designs. The ceremony also involves application of oil on the groom's hair. The henna for the bride's ceremony needs to arrive from the groom's side together with some other gifts like fruits, dry fruits and sugary foods. Lady of the houses put together and the Mehndi is either applied by one of the bride's relative or nowadays by professional Mehendi artists. Designs are more elaborate and depending on what the bride prefers, the henna is applied on the front and back of her palm, forearm, till above the elbows, and on the feet till below the knee. Elderly girls sing conventional Mehendi songs with dholaks and other musical instruments. Ladies loved ones of the bride-to-be also get latest mehndi applied to their hands, although the styles are not as intricate as the bridal Mehendi.

The Mehendi ceremony includes within itself a host of standard beliefs that are handed down the generations. Traditionally, somewhere within the complex bridal Mehendi, the groom's preliminary is included. In post wedding, the groom needs to look and find it out. This helps with a good ice-breaker for the freshly wedded couple especially in case of an organized marriage. It is likewise said that the darker the color of the Mehendi, the more love the bride will receive at her in-laws and especially from her partner. The longevity of the color of Mehendi has special significance as well. In older days when set up marital relationships were primary, the bride-to-be retaining her Mehendi while visiting her parents' house after the wedding signaled her mother that the in-laws were thoughtful and caring.

Use of Mehendi in a pre-wedding routine is not just cosmetic but has deep underlying clinical factors behind it. Henna is known for its cooling residential or commercial properties and is expected to calm the bride's nerves when applied to her hands and feet. Indian weddings consist of a host of pre and post wedding rituals that extend the happy event through days before and after the real wedding day. These colorful events bring the whole household together, even from far off locations. The immediate and extended families, buddies and neighbors get together to commemorate the union through numerous tried and true routines throughout a span of numerous days. The Mehendi Ceremony is one such occasion that is an indispensible part of the wedding celebrations. simple mehndi Event typically describes application of a henna paste in fancy complex designs on the bride's hands and feet. A tremendously colorful event, with lots of singing and dance efficiencies involved, the Mehendi event officially kicks off the wedding celebrations completely gear.

This ritual is not only part of Hindu wedding events in Northern and Eastern India but also a part of the wedding event routines amongst Indian Muslims. The ceremony is observed in countries adjoining India like Pakistan and Nepal, in addition to in a number of Arab countries in the Middle East. Although, the ritual was primarily observed in parts of northern India, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh and Punjab, the pattern has gained appeal all over India. More and more cultures are welcoming the concept of Mehendi Ceremony as a pre-wedding routine mainly due to the aesthetics included. The event has ended up being a symbol of splendour, enjoyable and festivities, and excuse for some significant pre-wedding lady bonding. Mehndi (or Hina) is the application of henna (Hindustani: हेना- حنا- urdu) as a temporary form of skin decoration, most popular in South Asia, the Middle East, North Africa, and Somaliland, along with migrant neighborhoods from these areas. It is generally employed for events and special events, especially weddings. Henna designs are generally made use of the hands and feet, where the color will be darkest due to the fact that the skin consists of higher levels of keratin. The leaves of the henna plant consist of a red-orange dye particle, lawsone, which has an affinity for bonding with protein, and has actually been utilized to color skin, hair, fingernails, leather, silk, and wool. Henna leaves are usually dried and ground into a powder, which is blended into a paste and applied utilizing a range of methods. The henna pasted is typically left on the skin for 8 hours; after it is removed, the pattern continues to darken for roughly 3 days. The word "henna" originates from the Arabic name Hina for Lawsonia inermis. In the Bible's Tune of Songs and Tune of Solomon, henna is described as Camphire. In the Indian subcontinent, there are lots of variant words such as Mehndi in North India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. In Arabic-speaking countries in North Africa and the Middle East the Arabic word is "hina." In Telugu (India, Malaysia, U.S.), it is known as "Gorintaaku." In Tamil (South India, Singapore, Malaysia, Sri Lanka) it is called "Marudhaani" and is utilized as ground fresh leaves rather than as dried powder. It is utilized in numerous celebrations and celebrations and utilized by women and kids. It is left on overnight and will last one month or more depending upon the plant and how well it was ground and how long it is left on. The various words for henna in ancient languages recommend that henna may have had more than one point of origin. It is known that henna has actually been in usage as a cosmetic, along with for its supposed healing residential or commercial properties, for a minimum of 5,000 years, but a long history of migration and cultural interaction has made it tough to figure out with outright certainty where the custom began. Some scholars claim that the earliest paperworks of henna use are found in ancient Indian texts and images, showing that mehndi as an art-form may have come from ancient India. Others declare that the practice of ornamenting the body with henna was taken to India by the Moguls in the twelfth century C.E., centuries after it had remained in usage in the Middle East and North Africa. Another theory is that the custom of latest mehndi come from North Africa and the Middle Eastern nations throughout ancient times. Henna is likewise known to have been utilized in ancient Egypt, to stain the fingers and toes of the Pharaohs prior to mummification. Another possibility is that the similar use of henna for skin design developed individually and maybe all at once in these areas.

It is thought that dots of henna were first applied to the palms of the hands as a means of cooling off the body. Early users of henna began to add lines and other shapes to the single dot on the palm, ultimately establishing the sophisticated styles utilized today. Henna has been utilized to embellish young women's bodies as part of social and holiday events considering that the late Bronze Age in the eastern Mediterranean. The earliest text mentioning henna in the context of marriage and fertility events comes from the Ugaritic legend of Baal and Anath, which has references to ladies marking themselves with henna in preparation to fulfill their partners, and Anath adorning herself with henna to commemorate a victory over the enemies of Baal. Wall paintings excavated at Akrotiri (dating prior to the eruption of Thera in 1680 B.C.E.) reveal women with markings consistent with henna on their nails, palms and soles, in a tableau consistent with the henna bridal description from Ugarit. Numerous statuettes of young women dating in between 1500 and 500 B.C.E. along the Mediterranean coastline have raised hands with markings constant with henna. This early connection in between young, fertile women and henna seems to be the origin of the Night of the Henna, which is now popular global. The Night of the Henna, a ceremony throughout which henna is applied to the hands and feet of a bride-to-be, and typically to other members of the wedding celebration, was commemorated by the majority of groups in the locations where henna grew naturally.

[turbogrill]

The Israeli Chef Making Ancient Rotten Fish Sauce the Not-so-traditional Way

Abie, the Doktor

It’s the morning of October 29. In the evening, Abie, the new restaurant owned by brothers Yotam and Asaf Doktor (proprietors of two other Tel Aviv eateries, Haachim and Dok) was to open its doors to clients for a trial run. Chef Asaf was worried, not only because of the grand occasion and the pressure of managing service and staff in a new location, but also because an unfortunate incident had occurred the morning before. “The chefs broke the last bottle of garum we’d prepared,” he said glumly. “I didn’t explode in a fit of anger – but I almost blew up inside. We’re making another batch of garum, but it won’t be ready for a few weeks.”

Garum, a basic element of the Mediterranean diet until the Middle Ages, is a sauce derived from salted, fermented fish, notable for its complex salinity and umami taste. In ancient times it was prepared by drying and fermenting small fish such as anchovies and sardines, together with their innards, in straw baskets or clay barrels that were placed out in the sun. In the past few months, Asaf Doktor, known to all as Dok or Doktor, experimented with the preparation of traditional garum, intended as a cooking ingredient and condiment for some of the dishes on the new menu.

“Some people want to go forward with progress, but my interest is to go back, to the traditions and the roots,” he says. “I have no problem using modern technology. I have a sous-vide cooker in the kitchen, and it cuts down the time to prepare garum from 6 months to 11 weeks. To accelerate the fermentation process, caused by enzymes originating in the fish guts, we used barley koji that we got thanks to the Dok restaurant. Because [the menu] is based exclusively on local ingredients produced in Israel, and because we invited the public to share interesting raw ingredients with us, almost every day someone knocks on the door and brings something. In this case, it’s a young man from a kibbutz in the north who’s interested in fermentation processes and who makes barley koji and miso.”

At Abie, Asaf and Yotam Doktor’s fish restaurant in Tel Aviv. Dan Perez

Curiosity about the past and the tendency to treat the restaurant’s kitchen as an experimental research laboratory is manifested in Abie’s most prominent feature: an immense wood-fired grill – 3.5 meters long, half a meter deep – that dominates the narrow, elongated space. Abie is named “a little for Abe Lincoln, like the street, and a lot for Abie Nathan, a restaurateur and person of peace who understood long before all of us that there’s a shared Mediterranean space,” says Asaf. It’s the next stage in the development of the restaurant business for the Doktor brothers and their partners.

Haachim, opened in 2011 on Ibn Gabirol Street in Tel Aviv, is a modern skewers restaurant based on a charcoal-fired grill. Dok is a small, intimate bar-and-restaurant adjacent to it, which opened in 2015. “Abie is something of a combination of the two,” Asaf Doktor says, “but a wood grill takes the place of the charcoal grill. For the local ingredients we’ll go with a less rigid version than in Dok – here you can have a coffee and eat tahini – but we will still work with small manufacturers who supply most of the products – the primary one being local fish. There’s no meat, only fish and vegetables.

“We work with four different fishmongers to try and acquire the best catch: fish imported only from the Mediterranean – Cyprus and Egypt – and hopefully importation of mussels and fish from Greece will also develop; and fish [raised in] local sweet-water ponds, mostly St. Peter’s fish and trout, which in my view have achieved excellent quality. When fishing in the Mediterranean stops during the reproduction period, we’ll serve a more pared-down menu, which will include fish from breeding ponds and pickled and preserved fish that we prepare ourselves.”

At Abie, Asaf and Yotam Doktor’s fish restaurant in Tel Aviv. Dan Perez

Cooking at the primal level

It’s enthralling to watch the big grill, in which two or three fires at different stages are always burning, and the work of the cooks, who incessantly need to feed the fire or shift a burning ember. “It’s cooking at the most primal level,” a cook who visited the restaurant early in the trial run said in amazement. “To throw logs on the fire, like in the past, and over them to grill animals, vegetables and fruits. In the modern age, cooking processes are hidden behind sophisticated instruments and techniques, but here you’re reminded anew of how the controlled use of fire was a driving force in human development.”

“Charcoal is also made of wood,” Dok says, explaining the choice of a wood-fired oven that entailed installation of a complex, costly system of chimneys and smoke filters to meet environmental standards. “But the burn and emission of charcoal are different,” he adds. “In a way, as with the challenge of local raw ingredients that we set at Dok, we’re making it hard on ourselves. With charcoal you skip the combustion stage and get a stable, long-lasting fire. With a wood stove, we have to start by igniting the fires, created from twigs with logs atop them, hours before the service; and because wood is more dynamic, we need to ensure a fire nonstop.

“It’s a headache,” he continues, “but it makes the work more interesting, with the goal of making the aromas and flavors more interesting, too. Working with wood also allows us to place the foods above the fire – at different levels of proximity to the flames or to the glowing coals – on thin nets, instead of the thick nets that a coal-fired grill requires.”

At Abie, Asaf and Yotam Doktor’s fish restaurant in Tel Aviv. Dan Perez

Wood for the fire comes from agricultural refuse provided by farmers who cut down trees, old groves and orchards; the main types at the moment are pomegranate, citrus and olive trees. The wood-fired oven is used simultaneously for grilling, for slow or fast cooking of fish, shellfish and vegetables, and for smoking fish heads and bones to produce stock. (The sight of fish hanging on a steel hook above the source of the fire makes you think of still lifes by Chaim Soutine or larder paintings by Juan Sanchez Cotan; the image will surely become an icon readily identified with the restaurant.)

The wood oven, covered with red bricks, also includes a hot smoker. The range of fish and cooking techniques made possible by this oven prompts thoughts about the use of the sea creatures’ less familiar parts, which usually get thrown out. One day in the restaurant’s trial run, an excellent stew of turnips cooked on the grill and then smoked together with the flesh of triggerfish heads was served. The next day came triggerfish stock and heads of little tunny with saffron and fennel.

In the first two weeks of the trial run – the restaurant opened in the season when fishermen return to the sea (between summer and winter, or what optimists call the “Israeli autumn”) – the first diners enjoyed excellent dishes based on blue crabs, striped sea bream, anchovies, Spanish mackarel, greater amberjack, chub mackerel and other local fish. The grilled trout, from local ponds, is also very good; and even better is the St. Peter’s fish, also raised in local ponds, served deep fried as is the custom here. “Frying enhances St. Peter’s fish,” Dok says. “I’ve noticed that wherever I go in the world people respect it and present it as the crowning glory of the local kitchen. Maybe the time has come for a renaissance of St. Peter’s fish in the Israeli consciousness, too.” Served with the fish is a selection of Mediterranean mezze, such as homemade ikra, labaneh and a spread made from fava beans and grilled vegetables.

Abie is located in a strange-looking concrete building that used to be a telephone exchange and had been abandoned in recent years. The nearest neighbor in the small, neglected commercial center, opposite excavations for the light train project, is a local supermarket. Like the brothers’ other two restaurants, which appear to have successfully captured the elusive essence of Israeliness, the design and atmosphere of the new establishment create a relaxed feeling free of formality and luxury elements.

Abie, Lincoln 16, Tel Aviv, 03-777-5161

Ronit Vered

Haaretz Contributor

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