#tell-tale mart

[cormancatacombs]

Thank you for shopping at the Tell-Tale Mart!

Where great deals are just a heartbeat away!

[theood]

[loversatthegreatdivide]

Heavy Lies the Heart - Chapter 6

Masterlist // Continue Reading

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!OC Word Count: 2.6k Tropes: mutual pining, fluff, angst with a happy ending, royalty Warnings: death Summary: When two second-borns looking for direction meet by chance, can they find purpose in each other? Or will circumstance keep them apart? A/N: First of all, writing as Whistledown is rough. Second, I'm glad that it seems like everyone is liking this story so far! I had a lot of fun with this chapter, so hopefully you'll enjoy it too!

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This author hardly knows where to begin, with last nights ball so abound with secrets and scandals.

The young ladies of the ton never shine brighter than in the darkness of the evening. Yet last nights events have shown that, while some gleam as brightly as the stars, there are others whose light shines far dimmer then the rest.

Penelope Featherington, out now for her third season in the marriage mart, is one such dim light. Miss Featherington, who was so certain that she would be unable to find a husband on her own, enlisted the help of Mister Colin Bridgerton. And while we all knew Miss Featherington's hopes of finding a husband were slim at best, this recent scandal will certainly make any further hopes disappear. Whatever faint glow Miss Featherington may have once possessed has surely now gone out.

But Penelope Featherington was not the only scandal we witnessed unfold.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Beatrice shown brilliantly on her second appearance of the season. The young princess garnered much attention from the members of the ton, but none moreso than Mister Benedict Bridgerton.

Having shared her first dance of the season with Mister Bridgerton, it was clear to this author that sparks were flying. Their shared looks were hardly subtle, and one has to wonder how two relative strangers found themselves, by all appearances, so well acquainted.

The princess danced five times in total, sharing a scandalous three with Mister Bridgerton. Their lack of proprietary and the princesses clear favoritism shocked many of the ton, but this author cannot help but applaud their boldness.

A royal falling for a commoner is hardly a new story. However, with the crowns stiff traditions and the rumored strict parenting of the Prince Regent, will this tale end in tragedy? Is there to be a royal wedding in our future, or will circumstance keep these two lovebirds apart?

This author, as ever, eagerly awaits to see what unfolds.

---

Benedict once again found himself slumped deeply onto the settee in the Bridgerton drawing room. His arms lay crossed over his chest as he looked anywhere but at Anthony, whose scowl had made an unwelcome return after its brief, but welcome, absence.

"What in God's name were you thinking?" he asked roughly, brandishing the latest copy of Lady Whistledown in his hand. The rest of the family, excluding the two youngest members, sat around the room, with expressions ranging from sympathetic and worried, to extremely uncomfortable. "Of all our siblings, I thought you the least likely to cause trouble this season. I thought you had more sense than this Benedict."

Eloise scowled at the veiled accusation. She looked to Francesca, whose only reaction was to stare blankly at the floor until the hostility inevitably subsided.

"It was quite a surprise--did you not tell me yourself last night that it was your first time even seeing the princess?" Colin asked.

Anthony turned his scowl on his younger brother, "You are not off the hook yet either--while our reputation may not have been effected by your actions, poor Miss Featherington's is all but ruined thanks to you."

Colin looked away from his brother, a look of guilt clear on his face. Unnoticed, Eloise's expression mirrored his.

"However, that will have to wait," Anthony turned his attention back to Benedict, "At present, our biggest concern is what in the world possessed our dear brother to act so foolhardy, and what is to be done about it."

"Now, perhaps we can all calm down for a moment," Violet suggested, smiling as she attempted to defuse the situation.

"Yes Anthony, your mother's right," Kate agreed, "We have not even heard what Benedict has to say about it--this could all just be a misunderstanding."

Everyone turned their attention to Benedict, eagerly awaiting his response.

He had another choice in front of him. Either he could downplay the situation to the best of his ability, hoping to keep his family in the dark about the full extent of his relationship with Beatrice. This seemed at least somewhat doable; it was unlikely any of them suspected he was taking late night promenades with an unchaperoned princess.

The other option was simply to tell them everything. His family did seem to have a knack for discovering secrets that its members would rather keep hidden. He knew it was only a matter of time before they learned everything; and all the more likely, given his desire to be with Beatrice. It would be rather obvious he had lied if he continued to pursue her publicly.

Benedict sighed, sitting up as he clasped his hands in front of him. He looked at Anthony, who stared back exactingly.

"Alright fine, you've caught me. I suppose there is no point in lying about it now: Beatrice and I have been seeing each other in secret, and we have become quite...attached," he admitted.

There was a silence throughout the room as his family stared back at him in shock and horror. In an instant, the silence was filled with the roar of multiple voices shouting out at once--including two that had, until this moment, been eavesdropping quietly in the next room.

"You've been doing what?"

"Have you gone mad?"

"Did you just use the princesses first name? Just how close are the two of you, Benedict?"

"What does attached me? Brother, you didn't..."

"Heaven help us, how will her majesty react to all this?"

"If the two of you marry, will that make Benedict a prince?"

"What? Does that mean we would have to call him your highness? Because I absolutely refuse."

The jumbled voices mixed together until Benedict could hardly make out what was being said. Finally he stood, throwing his hands out.

"Alright enough!" he shouted, quelling the storm of questions and concerns, "I know it was...unwise to meet a young lady unchaperoned, but I can assure you the time was spent on conversation--nothing more," he emphasized, "I was...unaware of her station when these meetings began. She had kept it a secret, and I only learned of her title when she was presented at the ball last night--though I will admit to knowing she was likely of higher rank."

He ran a hand through his think, brown hair as he looked to the floor.

"I have no idea what is to be done now, if anything can be done but," he sighed, "That being said, it is my intention to pursue her...as far as we are permitted to go," he looked back up at them, "I...I love her."

The room was silent once more, no one quite sure how to respond to his bold declaration. Benedict swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, uncomfortable in the uncharacteristically quiet room.

"Oh, Benedict my dear," his mother finally spoke. Her voice was a mixture of happiness and sympathy, clearly unsure what to make of the situation or how best to advice him.

Benedict looked down, "If you'll excuse me." Without waiting for a response, he quickly made his way out of the drawing room; the wide eyes of his family following him as he went.

---

Beatrice sat, stiff and silent, as the queen sipped her tea in the chair opposite her. Dread filled her as she waited for her grandmother to speak: To reprimand, to yell, to show some sign at all as to what she was thinking. Be she waited in vain, the queen seeming content in leaving the words unspoken as Beatrice's heart threatened to give out with every passing second.

Queen Charlotte had of course received the latest copy of Whistledown that morning, reading it with haste as she always did. Not that she had needed Whistledown to tell her what she had seen with her own eyes. After her first dance, the queen's eyes hardly wavered from Beatrice. Charlotte had watched her granddaughter like a bird of pray stalking a field mouse, observing her every move, her every expression and gesture.

Their carriage ride home had been eerily quiet. Charlotte was hardly known for keeping her opinions to herself, yet she had said nothing to Beatrice the entire trip back to Buckingham House. Now, having not spoken since their arrival at the ball the night before, Beatrice grew more and more anxious of what would be said when that silence was finally broken.

Her grandmother set her teacup down with a clank, and Beatrice sat up as straight as a board.

"Beatrice," Charlotte spoke at last.

"Y-yes, grandmama?"

"You know I am no fool." It was a statement, not a question.

"Ah...yes, grandmama."

"I am unaware how it is you've managed to spend time with that man without notice, and I suspect I would not be happy to know. However what I do know, is that whatever has been transpiring between the two of you stops now."

Beatrice looked down shamefully, "Yes, grandmama."

"Your father will no doubt have heard the news, and is assuredly on his way here to scold you severely. I suspect he will likely insist on you leaving Buckingham House immediately."

"But--" Beatrice began to argue, only to be silenced by a piercing stare from the queen.

There was a long moment of quiet as Charlotte ran her hands over the small, fluffy dog in her lap. She seemed to think something over.

"Tell me, what are your intentions with this Benedict Bridgerton? A passing fancy is well enough for the common crowd, but royalty hardly has such a luxury. Our every move is scrutinized--you moreso than others as the daughter of the future king."

"It is not a--" Beatrice was clearly upset, but willed herself to stop and take a breath, "I know father would never approve, but it is my deepest desire to be with him. I love him, grandmama, and I...well I don't care what father thinks, or anyone else for that matter." She held her head up as she attempted to look resolute.

The queen quickly took another sip from her teacup, hiding the slight smirk that had formed at the corner of her lips.

"I see," was her only reply.

Silence fell between them once more as they awaited the inevitable arrival of the Prince Regent. The queen's face was a mask that hid her true feelings, while Beatrice's face betrayed her renewed feelings of dread. Her grandmother may not have been harsh--a miracle if there ever was one--but her father would most certainly not have the same composure.

---

"The absolute indignity of it all--the indecency!"

George IV, Prince Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the future king, and Beatrice's father, paced the floor of the lavish drawing room as he ranted on and on. His displeasure with the situation had been expressed in at least one hundred different ways already, yet he seems to always have more to say.

"Papa, if you would only listen--" His daughter pleaded, but to no avail.

"Listen? As I listened when you requested to stay at Buckingham house for the season? As I listened when you promised me nothing of consequence would occur? As I listened when you assured me that you would behave as a princess should?"

"It was only dancing papa, nothing more!"

"Then why is there word across London that you've been having secret trysts with this man--this Bridgerton--since you arrived!"

Beatrice stood, her fist balled at her sides, "That is a lie! Whistledown has made everyone believe something untoward has taken place between us, but that is untrue!"

Queen Charlotte, who sat watching silently from the sidelines, eyed her granddaughter. Whether or not she believed her, she said nothing.

"So you would have me believe there is nothing between the two of you then? That you and he have no attachment?" George asked skeptically.

"I," Beatrice hesitated, "I would not say that is entirely the case."

Her father's face went red with rage as a tense air filled the room.

"You are to return to Warwick House immediately," the prince ordered through gritted teeth.

Beatrice shifted in place, before looking her father in the eyes with as much courage as she could muster, "I...I will not."

"I beg your pardon?" George stared at his daughter in disbelief.

"I, I wish to stay, and," she swallowed, "And I wish for Benedict Bridgerton and I to be allow to court."

Charlotte's eyebrow raised in interest, her gaze returning to her son as she waited to hear his reply. George was nearly dumbstruck at the request. It was a rare occasion that his youngest daughter ever spoke back or questioned his authority--for her to do both in one sentience was practically unheard of.

"You, I--How dare you ask--"

"You allowed Charlotte to choose her husband, why should I be allowed any less?" Beatrice questioned, feeling emboldened with every word.

"The situation with your sister was quite different, as you are well aware. And at the very least she had the good sense to choose a prince!" her father reminded her loudly.

Beatrice scowled, "That does not change the fact that she refused the marriage you arranged for her in favor of one she chose for herself! And did you yourself not try to take a commoner for a bride? How can you scorn me my love when you out of everyone should understand my feelings?"

"Love?" George repeated, clearly on the verge of another hours-long lecture.

"Alright, I believe I have heard quite enough," Queen Charlotte cut in, standing as she looked to her son.

"Mother--"

"Enough, Georgie," she commanded, and, despite his position as regent, he obeyed, "You have already agreed to allow Beatrice to stay at Buckingham House--so she shall stay."

"But I--"

Charlotte raised her hand, "I am not done. In addition, I would have you consider the request your daughter has made from you."

"What? I would never--"

"It is your decision of course, you are the Prince Regent and thus have the final say on all royal marriages. However, I implore you to consider the misconduct and scandals you and your family have already brought to this, the noblest of houses."

"That is hardly--"

"Frankly dear, the people dislike you. Allowing Princess Charlotte to marry the man she chose was perhaps the one thing you've done so far that has won you any manner of good will from the people. Perhaps allowing Princess Beatrice, a current darling of the ton, to do the same will have a similar effect on the rather poor image the people have of you."

George stood silent, stunned at his mother's stance on the issue. Beatrice looked between the two of them, just as surprised. She hadn't a clue as to why her grandmother seemed to be championing her relationship with Benedict, but she would hardly complain. Her grandmother was perhaps the only hope Beatrice had of convincing her father to agree to her wishes.

"I," George paused, "I will take it under consideration, mother."

"That is all I ask. It is, as I said, your choice to make," Queen Charlotte smiled, "Though you should consider quickly--we will be expected to make a statement of some sort soon enough, lest the rumors grow wild and out of control."

"Yes, mother," he replied, his anger all but deflated in his mother's overbearing presence.

"Wonderful," Charlotte turned to Beatrice, "Now, shall we then, my dear? I believe I would enjoy hearing some music after all this noise."

Beatrice responded quickly, hoping to leave the negative atmosphere permeating the room as soon as possible, "Ah! Yes of course, grandmama!"

Queen Charlotte moved elegantly out of the drawing room, with Beatrice following close behind. This left George alone, standing awkwardly in a stiff, unpleasant silence. He huffed, shaking his head and grumbling to himself as he exited the room soon after.

----------

Tags: @empressnatsume @sarahskywalker-amidala @may-and-lay @asterizee @g4ns3y @bubblegumcat229 @mhmoony

[walmart-the-official]

Never seen a Walmart, tell me, are the tales true? Is it basically omega mart but more American?

Well, we let you keep the lemons. So it’s a bit different. The lemons aren’t alive by the time you get them.

[rabbitcruiser]

Truck Driver Day

Professional truck drivers are honored and celebrated today with Truck Driver Day. In the United States, a driver is considered to be a truck driver when their vehicle has a gross vehicle weight—the weight of the vehicle loaded—of at least 26,000 pounds. They must obtain a commercial driver's license (CDL) to drive a vehicle of this weight. Employers often require their drivers to take a safety training program, and some also require a high school degree or GED.

Truck drivers carry all kinds of freight—livestock, food, canned goods, liquids, packages, and vehicles—all across the United States and the world. They often have to load and unload their freight and must inspect their trucks before taking to the road. Truck drivers often ship products to stores, and some may have to undertake sales duties. Many truck drivers work long hours. Some may have daily local routes that keep them close to home, while others may have routes and schedules that often change, and many have to be away from home for an extended amount of time.

Some trucks were on the road in the United States prior to World War I. Trucks continued to be used and developed during the war, and by 1920 there were more than a million trucks on the roads of America. Trucking continued to expand over the following decade, on account of advancements such as the introduction of the diesel engine, improved rural roads, the introduction of power brakes and steering, and the standardization of truck and trailer sizes. In the 1930s, a number of trucking regulations were implemented, and the American Trucking Association was created. Trucking activity increased in the 1950s and '60s, in large part because of the creation of the Interstate Highway System. Regulations on the weight of trucks continued to be updated.

The heyday of the truck driver came in the 1960s and '70s. At the time, a wide swath of the public viewed truck drivers as modern-day cowboys or outlaws. The rise of "trucker culture" was signaled with the proliferation of trucker songs and films, the wearing of plaid shirts and trucker hats by the public, and the wide use of CB radios and CB slang. The romanticization of trucker culture subsided by the dawn of the 1980s.

Many truckers went on strike during the energy crises of 1973 and 1979, after the cost of fuel rose. The Motor Carrier Act of 1980 partially deregulated the industry. As a result, many new trucking companies were started. Trucker union membership also drastically declined, leading to lower pay. But the deregulation did reduce consumer costs, and it increased production and competition in the trucking industry. By the twenty-first century, trucking dominated the freight industry. In 2006, there were 26 million trucks on America's roads, which hauled about 70 percent of the country's freight. Truckers continue to play a prominent role in keeping the wheels of the economy turning, and for the hard work they put in to make this happen, they are honored and celebrated today!

How to Observe Truck Driver Day

Some ideas of ways the day could be spent include:

If you are a truck driver, get out there and drive! Or, take the day off. It should be up to you!

Wave to truckers or make a gesture like you are pulling a truck horn in an attempt to get them to honk their horns.

Thank a truck driver. Tell them thanks in person or make a social media post of thanks. Include the hashtag #TruckDriverDay.

Become a truck driver.

Listen to some truck driving songs such as "Convoy" and "Truck Drivin' Man."

Watch some truck driving films such as Smokey and the Bandit, Convoy, and Big Rig.

Talk on a CB radio.

Eat at a truck stop.

Attend or take part in the National Truck Driving Championships, which are held around the time as Truck Driver Day.

Read a book about trucking or truckers such as Trucking Country: The road to America's Wal-Mart Economy or The Long Haul: A Trucker's Tales of Life on the Road.

Explore the websites of organizations and companies related to the industry such as American Trucker, Truckers News, the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration, the American Trucking Associations, and the Women in Trucking Association.

[despair-to-future-arcs]

Ooooooh you owned a casino man?? Damn i wanna go there right now!

Ye-Yeah, honestly I was surprise I had a casino but you have to remember that I don't have any memory of the tragedy so this is suprising.

Right...I forgot you didn't watch your memory disc, I wish we know more about it?

Yeah and given this is Nagito we talking about, it could be anything...

Actually I did remember quite a bit about the casino along with the other places listed; the casino was use to help fun the Warriors of Hope in Towa City and even became the source of money for all Despair-related activity after the Otori Mart stop supporting Despair.

Which this place is really hard to get to and you need to get an invitation which it's based on luck, so good luck trying to get to it.

Wow Mahiru, you know a lot about this place and even know about the other companies. How do you know that?

Well given what Mahiru's is, I think you'll understand why she knows of it.

Wait, so Mahiru knows all the businesses, actually I did remember Mahiru was the one to keep track of all of them and wrote the whole list...

Ye-Yeah, you might want to look at my name and what company I own, it might explain a lot...

*Masa looks at the list again* ...

————————————————————————–

The Companies owned by Class 77-B; ...

... Mahiru Koizumi - Despair Time TV

————————————————————————–

Wait, is...is that Despair Time TV?! Holy shit, it's the curse news station journalist and reporters disappear to when they try to investigate! This is like... such a huge deal.

Wait you recognize this place?

Yeah, I mean this is the broadcast system that broadcasted Junko Enoshima's killing game and the Warriors of Hope's Demon Hunting Game which if someone reports on this place and lives to tell the tale, it'll get you a lot of attention so when I read this... man, this is gonna be quite the big scoop here and probably put me on top of new networks.

Still, this is quite unexpected but I guess it does make sense why Mahiru knows all the companies related to despair, no wonder...well I guess lucky for me, huh? Was not expecting it but I think I'll call dibs on this one.

Ye-Yeah... you seem way too excited about it, I mostly just reported on things, that's it...

[heldflesh]

TALES OF SABRY — FAIRUZ IBRAHIM.

──  (  tamino.  genderqueer,  he / they.  )  recently  seen  trapezing  across  a  lone  stage,  spotlights  dancing  off  beaded  sweat  –  audience  a  crowd  of  one,  half - asleep  or  otherwise  dead,  spirit  rising  from  still  body  in  a  chant;  encore,  encore!  bravo!  at  verve:  enter  FAIRUZ  IBRAHIM  SABRY.  twenty  six  years  old  &  a  scorpio,  usually  observed  in  tits  out;  slivers  of  chainmail  barely  concealing  loving  shark - bites  alongside  rib,  fishnet  your  only  true,  loyal  companion  –  starfish  spurs  against  heeled  boots;  aquamarine  could  never  ;  fairuz  is  a  devotion  visitor  known  within  their  circle  as  MADCAP  +  GRANDIOSE,  a  perpetual  hum  of  knife  prty  by  deftones  on  salted  mouth.  something  of  the  HUBRISTIC  +  CAVALIER  follows,  regardless  …  something  to  do  with  an  incessant  need  to  entertain  and  please,  for  oneself  and  for  others,  one  complete  theatrical  act  ,  perhaps  ?  strange,  what  a  SIREN  can  get  up  to.  they’ve  been  heard  waxing  lyrical  about  a  dream  they  had  recently,  a  strange  tale  of  lightning  against  stark  red  sea;  no  tell  of  morning  from  night  –  only  fools  dare  to  cross  the  threshold;  scaled  body  wrapped  around  splintering  wood,  ichor  flowing  from  lip  and  chest  –  harpoon  a  stake  upon  self  .  pay  no  mind  to  fanciful  star  -  gazing,  though:  rather,  mind  the  tangible.  focus  on  defense  being  a  performance  in  itself,  accusatory  points  towards  a  faceless  jury  and  judge  in  the  checkout  line  of  a  mini  mart  –  i'm  innocent,  your  honor!  hear  my  pleas,  hark  my  –  cue  one  dragged  away  by  smoothed  heels,  threats  brimming  lips  /  insatiable  hunger  and  the  habit  of  playing  with  ones  food  –  thoughts  bubbling  mid - air,  tom  and  jerry  sequence  of  cat  and  mouse,  mallet  to  head  –  cuckoos  circling;  almost  as  satisfying  as  the  kill  /  and  bone  an  accessory  –  so  sustainable  chic!  –  fish  spine  piercing  cartilage,  ribs  lining  lobe  –  cuffs  of  mysterious  vertebrae,  drilled  and  filed  and  –  .

... mentioning themes of IMPLIED MAN - EATING, SLIGHT BODY HORROR, INJURY, DEATH, and RESURRECTION. proceed with care.

with palms held out.

full name — fairuz ibrahim sabry.

nickname(s) — ruse, in a poor attempt to give himself a nickname ( did not stick ); pretty boy; puck ( perked up chee– ); narcissus, after method acting too hard– austin butler who?; others yet to be seen.

date of birth & age — october 29th, 19xx, physically twenty6.

gender / pronouns — genderqueer; he / him & they / them preferred, all welcomed.

sexuality — bisexual.

typing — siren, slut of the sea ( affectionate ).

occupation — unfortunate thespian; one man act; professional ( ? ) clown; cashier at oracle & oddysey.

astrology — scorpio sun, aries moon, leo ascending.

interests — cheap thrills. spotlight - induced sweat. anything that gleams or sheens, skin included. red meat & red wine & red lipstick in a very real, very french way. fishnet for more reasons than none. garnering attention. burlesque clowns. being a burlesque clown. six seas, don't bring up the seventh.

aversions — "deep" feelings. "deep" conversations. forced intellectualism, you can be pretentious and stupid! skeptics & nonbelievers. taxes. tax collectors. attention seekers, there can only be one ( it's them ).

next in queue — girls on film, mindless self indulgence; pain, boy harsher; slow, depeche mode; talking in your sleep, the romantics.

notable features — what's not to notice? knife - like teeth and an old scar where they nip into bottom lip every too - wide grin & lazy clown make - up; a triangle beneath every eye ( only two, for now ).

general disposition — too grand and generally delusional, but they wear it very well.

last known location — lifting himself back onto the rocks in a siren - dwelled cave like a baywatch wannabe, only to slip upon the surface and back into the water. hasn't emerged since out of hurt ego and deeply hitting embarrassment.

scrying mirror & kindred — mercutio ( romeo & juliet ), dorian gray ( the picture of dorian gray ), oberyn martell ( game of thrones ), theodore laurence ( little women ), emma woodhouse ( emma ).

what lurks in the past...

time is trivial beneath the ocean's surface; light no longer refracting, only vast blue encasing the young. first memory - first consciousness, an array of bubbles; thrashing and struggling, god mother's serpentine body wrapping around and around until all is still once more, until only bone is left to drift further down the depths.

their behavior is pack - like, school of sirens circling coasts like sharks, symbiotic and one; homes made of shipwrecks and reefs, underground caves and trenches, close to docks and ports and harbors, convenience - store runs for sailors and captains. it's rare that they break surface, walk among humans - entertainment best between selves and their food; happy meals best accompanied by toys.

fairuz is both alike and unalike them; a penchant for the finer, rawer things in life, metallic tang behind each sharp tooth, and a growing boredom, tree - like in their sternum. branching, rooting - blooming dissatisfaction with each coast they distance from. the sea felt stagnant, while every breach of ripple upon surface revealed new buildings - years meaningless to them, but everything to land dwellers.

curiosity, was all it was; curiosity all that killed them. separating from pack, intrigued by talks of a circus near - shore, a different sort of spectacle than drama between sister sirens ( they gave a mermaid's purse to you? but they gave one to me! you slu - ); fairuz became enthralled with the faeries who spun from silk, the witches who swallowed fire only to shoot fireworks from tongue - the ringleader whose smile pierced through every one of fairuz' hearts.

their visits upon land became more frequent, trailing the traveling troupe whenever able; need an incessant itch beneath their scales, a match against their ever - growing hunger. quick snacks became one, then two - doubling with each town or city swam across.

fairuz never heed the warnings of a red sky, human paranoia no toll upon their body; still broke surface, that fateful day, lightning serving them well - ship an oyster cracked wide, ready for taking. their hunger barely satiated when a whistle sung from behind; not a warning, but the sound of air tearing as a harpoon spit from its gun and ripped into their scaled flesh.

the sky was no longer red; no longer anything, the ocean's pressure luring them into their endless slumber; reminiscent of their youth, when they welcomed the sea's warm embrace like their own mother's. comfortable. warm. safe. do you wish to live, siren?

voice clear as day; like a whisper into their ear, soft and urging. you can live forever, if you please. if their consciousness was still awake - fairuz would've found the humor in being siren - called; instead, their spirit stirred inside them, hands pressed upon their former living shell. let us save you. let us free you. just say yes.

sirenkin, their family: the choice to leave was no one's but fairuz', one of their few regrets in life; visiting sirens of devo, do you know this fucker?

righteous fishermen with penchants for revenge: slow your rolls - fairuz' is just a little guy, a little fella! and they should be dead! right? ... right?

...comes to light in present...

five years resurrected, five years given to delphinium's traveling, theatrical circus troupe and one would've never guessed; a puzzle piece fitting just right against an entirely wrong picture, the epitome of a live, laugh, love sign hung crooked against a contemporary farmhouse kitchen wall - fairuz dazzles all. or pisses them off - either, or - all of the above; attention is attention, and fairuz craves it almost as much as they crave fle-

they awake the same everyday; a life - rattling exhale of breath, gasping and hoarse like the first time they reopened their eyes; almost comedic, hand trailing to the star - like scar upon their chest - a tale better left unsaid, in accordance to delphinium. they know best - better than fairuz, at least; knows what secrets are best kept, while fairuz spills open at any given moment, at any curious glance.

he's all emotion; nothing cool, nothing collected - only extravagant, demanding; eyes on them at all times. dramatics started at the blink of a single one of those eyes - constantly performing for an unknown audience, never caring if others are swept up by his current. takes good intentions and swallows them for his own benefit; you wouldn't trust a god, would you?

the circus settled in devotion just short of a few months ago; no signs of leaving yet - performances weekly, each and every weekend and occasionally wednesdays, if audience demands then who are they to gatekeep? fairuz lurks beneath the sea's rippling surface some days - sleeps behind the counter of oracle & oddsyey's other days; a siren needs a little spending money, after all; especially him, pockets usually barren and closets overflowing. otherwise can be found wherever there's a crowd.

traveling circus troupe [ menacing voice from behind, hey sis- ]: fairuz' found family. faeries and witches and humans and sirens and nymphs alike, all welcomed as long as they harness talent. don't ask why fairuz' is there; only delphinium knows.

a horde of angry lovers: a necessity in every town, devotion no different. fairuz is more wrong than right, would rather end up in a second grave than admit it.

...and carries into the future.

how long can a corpse walk for, before their magic runs out? before they've stolen all the energy left inside, until blood is shed once more - theirs and others, and others and theirs. prophecies tell of moon falling back into sea and never - rising once more, fallen on unwilling ears - fairuz' mostly, forever pig - headed, too busy gazing upon reflections.

how many enemies, can one make? scorned lovers of lovers, scorned friends betrayed for the slightest whim, abandoned on impulse. scorned family - sick of antics, of fairuz' thoughts that only revolve around himself.

fairuz never worries of the future. but perhaps they should.

prophecy - spewing nymphs: they heed not their warnings, demise be damned - you'd think fairuz would know better by now.

friends to enemies: a eventual happening, slow at first, but like all fire - the more it grows, the farther it spreads.

[tayfabe75]

And it all comes down to this. Hey guys! I should be sleeping, because I have to get up in a few hours to go to Good Morning America tomorrow– but I can't. I can't stop thinking about the fact that in less than 24 HOURS, the new album is going to be out. It's crazy to think about, because this is literally everything I've thought about for the past two years. I've been wanting you to hear these new songs since the very moment of their creation. Every single song has a face attached. They're all about people. Some even mention names. But most importantly, these songs tell my stories. These songs tell the story of my freshmen year of high school, and the day I met Abigail. They tell the story of the guy who apologized over and over again without ever meaning it. The story about saying goodbye to someone when you don't want to, because you can't breathe without them. The story of the boy who never realized he was with the wrong girl, and that the right one was right there in front of him. The story of my childhood, and the moment I realized my mom was the best friend I'll ever have. The memories of running and laughing and having the best days with her. These songs tell stories about fairytale romances, and how sometimes they don't work out the way you dream about when you're a little girl. Because when we're young, we dream about Romeo and Prince Charming– and we hope he'll ride up on a white horse and rescue us. But sometimes the white horse shows up too late, after the prince has already let you down and left your dreams out in the rain. I never read a fairy tale with that ending. I guess that's the hard part about living in reality. One song tells the story of the underdogs who spent every day dreaming about the day they'd see things change, and the story of the night things finally…. did. And they sang hallelujah. There's the story of the first date that's so magical, you want to dance around the parking lot in the rain. In your best dress. There's the tragic story of the boy who walked away–because he found some other girl to promise forever to. Then there's the love story about how it can all actually work out perfectly and wonderfully. And how love really CAN be everything we dream about. About how someday, we all just might find the one that will kneel to the ground and pull out a ring and say "Marry me, Juliet. You never have to be alone. I love you and that's all I really know." And maybe that's wishful thinking. But maybe… that's just being fearless. ;) Midnight tonight. Be there. lovelovelove -T- PS: I heard a great place to buy the first copy is the Wal Mart in Hendersonville, TN. It's so great, I might just go there myself and pick one up.

November 10, 2008: Taylor posts to Myspace on the eve of the Fearless album release. (source)

[the-marron]

MASTERPOST

Lin Jing - Deathbucks

Lollipops - Unseen

Destiny/ Fate - https://the-marron.tumblr.com/post/704962199055122432/guardian-fic-rec-destinyfate (REC)

Flower Tribe -  Thistle

Betrayal - Betrayal

Misunderstandings -  I Could Be The One

Home - My heart burns

Shadow Blitz -  A Dream World Field Day 

Revelations - The Mirror Husband

Glasses - That fatal kiss is all we need

Alternative First Meeting - Then One Day

Chen Xinyan - Friends

Free Square - A Way to Dragon's Heart

Yashou Market -  https://the-marron.tumblr.com/post/704419053589184512/yashou-market-song (a song)

Forgotten -  As It Is

Suits - The Secret Life Of SID

War - Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a memory

Dragon City -  These little town blues are melting away

Saving the World Star-Crossed Lovers - Even if our paths never converge

Awl of Mountains and Rivers Meeting Again -  I Count the Hours Without You

Chu Shuzhi - Tell Me Your Worries

Mask -  The Odds Will Betray You      

Dixing/Difu - I'll send you all my love

Hope -  The Tale of Two Brothers

Flirt -  Horror Mart

BONUS:

Short and Sweet -  Heart Moving     

Supernatural Elements - Irremovable Spell

Dragon -  Shelter from the Storm

[annabelle-creart]

Hi and howdy. I have a lot of names but you can call me AnnaBelle or just Nani.

//

Hola y buenas. Tengo muchos nombres pero puedes llamarme AnnaBelle o solo Nani.

I'm a young artist who wants to be a great artist, maybe my post are not frecuently but I try and unfortunadly, Instagram and Twitter didn't help me with that.

//

Soy una joven artista que quiere ser una gran artista, quizas mis publicaciones no sean frecuentes pero intento serlo, y desafortunadamente, Instagram y Twitter no me lo han permitido.

That's why I came here, hoping here people will see my art, to start again in an artist friendly plataform (at least that's what I hope).

//

Por eso vine aqui, esperando a que la gente pueda ver mi arte, de empezar otra vez en una plataforma más amigable con artistas (al menos eso espero).

Now I'm working in a proyect named 'The New Tales of Mars Grimm' and is about fairytales and novels with different storys but with the escent that in our minds we have about the original versions.

//

Ahora estoy trabajando en un proyecto llamado 'Los Nuevos Cuentos de Marte Grimm' y es sobre cuentos de hadas y novelas cambiadas pero con la escencia que le hemos dado a las versiones originales en nuestra cabeza.

And in my Wattpad account (which is ONLY in spanish and where my succes is really hopeless) I was writing an original book of modern fantasy and 2 The Arcana fanfics, the game that made want to become who I want to be, an artist who tell dramatic and magical stories. And I REALLY HOPE you will help me to reach that dream.

I will love you help me with a follow, I will love you forever.

Thank you.

//

Y en mi cuenta de Wattpad (que SOLO esta en español y my exito no es nada bueno) estuve escribiendo una historia original sobre fantasia moderna y 2 fanfics sobre The Arcana, el juego que me hizo querer ser quien quiero, una artista que cuente historias dramaticas y magicas. Y ESPERO DE VERDAD que puedas ayudarme con ese sueño.

Me encantaria que me puedas ayudar con un follow, lo atesorare por siempre.

Gracias.

[casspurrjoybell-17]

HEART'S FATE - CHAPTER 52

*Warning Adult Content*

"I suppose your sister hasn't watched many Bond films, has she?" Martin Hunter asks, breaking the oppressive silence at last.

"What do you mean?" Skylar West peers at him through the bars of his cell with a frown.

"After the villain reveals the villainous plan, they usually leave the hero alone somewhere, so he has plenty of time to escape."

"You think we can escape from here?"

"You don't?" Martin hears the hopeful tremble in his own voice and clears his throat.

Skylar gives his mate a smile tinged with defeat.

"I fear not. No one ever has, anyway."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Martin says, refusing to give in to complete despair just yet but when Skylar's expression doesn't change, his own slips. "I'm sorry about your father," he adds.

"Me, too. I'm sorry for a lot of things, actually."

Skylar reaches for his lover across the space separating their cells and Martin does the same but they can't even touch one another's fingertips.

Martin lets his arm drop and grasps the bars, instead.

"Will Natalis really send me home, do you think?"

"Yes," Skylar says firmly. "She's ruthless but she's no fool. She won't risk making enemies unnecessarily, though I imagine she's less concerned with Wolves than with Shanti's ability to get past the barriers here."

"Is there any way we can delay this 'trial?' Shanti said she'd be back in three days and we've two more to go."

Skylar sighs and runs a hand through his long, golden hair.

"I don't see how. 'Swift justice is justice done,' as my father used to say."

"Didn't work out so well for him, did it?" Martin grumbles and winces with immediate regret. "I'm sorry, that was cruel."

"Never mind. It's true," Skylar says, waving a hand. "Fortunately, treason is among the few crimes punishable by death and my father is the only Mer-person to be executed in living memory. Well, until tomorrow morning, anyway."

"That won't happen," Martin says. "It can't. There must be something we can do. What about Anemone? Won't she help us?"

"I think she would, if we could only get word to her."

"Can't we?"

Skylar looks up at the low, slimy ceiling of his cell which, like Martin's seems to have been carved roughly from the rock, as if scooped out by a gigantic hand.

"I don't see how. We're a hundred feet below the ocean floor and my voice doesn't carry through stone."

He drops his gaze to his Fated-Mate once more.

"Martin, I think we must accept that we ourselves are helpless in this and that if no help comes to us, we must resign ourselves to this fate. I am happy enough to know that, whatever happens to me, you will be safe. I have faith in Natalis' power, if nothing else. She will be sure you remember nothing aside from the memories she plants in your head. In fact, perhaps it would be kinder if I sang you to sleep myself. Natalis can plant memories whether you are conscious or not. This way, you could shut your eyes here and wake up at home, safe and happy."

"No," Martin shakes his head. "No, Sky. I'm not giving up and neither are you. Where there's life there's hope, as my mom always says."

Skylar smiles but rather than hope, Martin sees only gentle sorrow and deep love in his eyes.

"You must hope for the both of us, I think," he says. "In the meantime, I want to know all there is to know about you, Martin Hunter and even if, by some chance it is not, let us pretend this is the last night we shall have together."

Hugging himself against the cold, Martin shivers but force myself to smile.

"Alright. Not like we've got much else to do."

Over the next few hours, Martin tells Skylar all he wants to know, tales of his childhood and youth, growing up in a wolf pack and everything that went along with that, from his first Shift, to the time his fellow triplets and he got chased by a Lycian, to the moment he knew or thought he knew, that he had met his mate.

"It seems that my ticking clock was a lie but yours remains, I think," Skylar says, when Martin falls silent. "Whatever happens to me, you must return and rid yourself of that poisonous bond, for your children, if not for yourself."

'I hate that I agree with him and that the love of my life should point out the fact that I will always have a higher priority than either of us but the truth is the truth.'

"What about you?" Martin asks. "You must have a thousand stories."

"You won't remember them."

"Tell me anyway," Martin whispers.

"Alright."

With a smile that carries a heartbreaking blend of love and hopelessness, Skylar indulges him and Martin understands that his mate's childhood was, by and large, a solitary one.

Despite having as many siblings as Martin, Skylar's were not the companions of a happy home that Martin had been and 'father' and 'mother' were titles as devoid of emotion as 'General' and 'Queen.'

The reputation he eventually earned for being cold and aloof stemmed not from any real disdain for others but from a place of self-protection, the sad defense of a lonely mer-boy, pretending not to care about anyone else because he believed no one cared about him.

Martin does his best to commit every detail to the deepest recesses of his memory, in the hopes that despite Natalis' mind-wiping magic, he might retain it all.

Nonetheless, somewhere along the way Martin falls asleep, lulled by the sound of Skylar's voice.

An unknown amount of time later, he awakens, stiff with cold and finds himself face to face with a wolf.

It's young, barely more than a pup and while he's never seen it before, he recognizes it's beautiful, liquid amber-brown eyes.

"Miguel?"

The young wolf whines and presses it's cold, damp nose to Martin's brow.

It feels incredibly real but Martin knows he must be dreaming.

In proof of this point, a loud clanging sound startles him to true wakefulness.

Natalis has returned, flanked by a pair of armed guards.

They've unlocked Skylar's cell and dragged him out of it, securing his hands in a pair of gold cuffs and tying a silk cloth over his mouth.

He shoots Martin an anguished look that tells him he'd hoped he wouldn't wake up, that he wouldn't see him like this and then he's led away.

Martin shouts after him and calls his sister every name in the book, including a 'salt-crusted cunt' but it does no good.

She ignores him and leaves him alone in the silence and the cold.

For a time, Martin paces the tiny confines of his cell, as much to keep warm as out of restless anxiety.

The next time Natalis comes down here, it will be to tell him that Skylar is dead and to erase every memory he has of him.

They met only months ago but it feels as if Martin always knew Skylar, like he's a part of him and like he'll never be whole without him again.

Maybe that's unhealthy, a trap Wolves are too prone to fall into.

Martin doesn't know, all he knows is that he'd do just about anything to save his Mate.

The problem is, he's not sure what he can do.

The vision from his dream, which he'd nearly forgotten upon waking, flashes through his mind and he recalls what Shanti had said about Miguel being a 'traveler.'

Could that really have been him?

Had he seen their predicament and was he even now relaying that information to Noah and Ambrose, Julian and Dane?

Martin doesn't dare to hope and even if it were true, he can't see how it would help.

If only he were here in person, Martin thinks, as he stares disconsolately at the bars of his cell.

A thin young wolf could easily slip between them.

The thought hits him like a bolt of lightning.

'A thin young wolf, or a severely underfed adult.'

For over a year, Martin's inner Wolf had slumbered, wasting away within him, hiding from the pain of a broken bond.

It had woken up a little when he formed a new bond with Skylar and he'd felt ready to Shift at last but in all the chaos he'd almost forgotten that he could.

Stripping out of his clothes, Martin stands shivering in the cold, terrified but determined.

He's not sure how much a lone wolf can do against a palace full of Mer-people but he's about to find out.

With a last, shuddering breath, he shuts his eyes and Shift.

It hurts.

For some Wolves, it always hurts, for some, only the first time is painful.

Martin and his siblings are generally lucky and most of them Shift with ease.

He's never felt anything like this.

It feels as if every bone in his body is being crushed, every muscle torn to shreds and every nerve set on fire.

A scream that becomes a howl of agony tears from his throat and Martin almost loses consciousness as his mind seeks an escape.

He comes to, lying on the stone floor, a soft whine in his throat, his breath rapid and shallow and his heart tripping along light and fast in his chest.

Thankfully, the pain fades quickly, leaving him weak and trembling but whole.

Carefully, Martin gets to his feet and shakes out his fur.

The effort leaves him dizzy and he sits back on his haunches to catch his breath again.

Once he's caught his breath, Martin decides to take a chance.

Gambling on the idea that most Mer-people will never have heard such a sound, he fills his lungs with air, tilt his head back and releases a high, keening howl.

It lacks the power of his brother Alpha Dane Hunter's voice, it hasn't even half as much strength as any of his siblings;but it's all he's got and it will have to do.

Thankfully, the doors don't seem to be soundproof and Martin hears exclamations of confusion and surprise on the other side.

He waits, muscles bunched with tension, as the bolts are drawn back and the locks undone.

As soon as the door opens a crack, Martin hurls himself against it, bowling over the guards on the other side and leaping clear amid shouts of fright and alarm.

He takes off at a sprint, dashing out across the open courtyard beneath the enormous bubble dome and tries to force his Wolf's mind to think.

He needs to find Skylar but he's only seen glimpses of the palace and have no idea where Natalis would have taken him but if she means to make a spectacle of this 'trial' and legitimize her own rule, Martin's guessing it'll be somewhere public, somewhere outside.

Martin looks up at the palace, at the towers and spires and spots a stone stairway leading up to the top of a great wall.

He dashes up it, knocking aside a pair of guards on their way down, eliciting more cries of alarm and surprise and takes off along the walkway toward another tower.

He's nearly reached it when he almost crashes headlong into someone stepping through a side door and screeches to a halt with his claws scrabbling against stone.

Anemone drops the handkerchief into which she'd been crying and releases an ear-piercing shriek.

As she catches her breath, hand on her chest and eyes wild and wide with fear, Martin lowers his head and whines.

"Martin?" she gasps. "Is that... you?"

He snorts and paws at his snout, attempting to convey that it is indeed him, that he's not a threat and that he needs her help.

Somehow, it seems to work.

Anemone looks up and past Martin as the sounds of shouts grow louder.

The guards, having recovered from their surprise, are in close pursuit.

She gasps again as things fall into place.

"You've escaped, then. But how... Never mind. Quick, through here."

She darts back through the door from which she'd emerged and Martin follows.

She slams it shut and throws the bolt.

"You're looking for Skylar, aren't you?" she asks.

Martin whines again and yips with urgency.

She shakes her head as tears fill her eyes.

"It's too late. You can't get to him. Not in time and not like this."

A growl rumbles in Martin's chest and Anemone backs away instinctively.

He may be emaciated and weak but he's still larger than a natural wolf and his eyes are a glowing amber-red.

Coupled with his disheveled grey and black fur and untrimmed claws, he must make for a fairly terrifying sight.

Martin lowers his ears and wags his tail in a wordless plea and somehow, she understands.

"Alright," she says, relaxing again. "I'll show you. Then you'll understand."

Turning, she leads the way at a run, which is well below Martin's top speed but gives him a chance to catch his breath as he lopes after her.

As she traverses hallway after hallway, climbs one flight of stairs after another, Martin begin to wonder if she's leading him in circles and giving the guards time to catch up to them but at last they emerge at the open top of the very tallest spire and then Martin understands.

The edge of the protective dome is very close here, so close that if Martin was in human form, he could lean over the balcony, reach out and touch it.

In the distance, outside the protective bubble, in the open sea, a group of Mer-people are gathered around what looks like a broken bridge spanning half a yawning chasm.

At the very edge, Martin can just make out the figure of Natalis, dressed in shining golden armor, holding a spear.

Another figure, which he takes to be Skylar, dangles above the chasm from a stone arch, which once might have supported part of the bridge.

A heavy weight is affixed to his fish's tail and his hands are bound.

Just as Martin has ascertained all this, Natalis raises her spear and casts it, severing the rope from which her brother hangs and Skylar plummets into the deep.

[mask131]

The folklore of the Berry region: Les Martes et la Pierre à la femme

Loosely translated from A. Laisnel de La Salle’s Croyances et légendes du coeur de la France (Beliefs and legends of the center of France), 1875

Article: Les Martes

In the town of Saint-Benoît-du-Saul, at the feet of the hill where the castle of Montgarnaud can be found, there is a deep ravine filled with rocks of fantastical and twisted shapes, and through which the wild stream of the Portefeuille flows. It is said that in this place there is an entire population of fairies - and that their voices with strange accents can be heard during thunderstorm nights, mixing themselves with the roar of the streams. They are said to live in “l’Aire aux Martes”, a crystal palace hidden beyond the waterfall that starts the stream. 

Despite a seemingly divine nature, the Martes have all the needs of a regular human being. During droughs, when the water of the stream is very low, we see at the bottom of the water, cooking ustensils made out of rocks: most notably the cauldrons and the pans of the Martes can be seen. It is also said that at Sassenage, near Grenoble, you can find a rock formation which is the oven in which these fairies bake their cakes. 

The Martes of Montgarnaud are said to be very excentric, both in clothes and behavior. According to the locals, they appear as tall and skinny women, with a tanned skin and a disheveled appearance. Their long hair, black and straight, fall in one go all the way down to their heels, and their breasts, nearly as long as their hair, usually end at the level of their knees. These horrible creatures often appear to a laborer who works in a plain or to the sheperds who brings his flock to the hill nearby - they stand at the top of mounts, on dolmen’s tables, or at the crest of a peulvan. They call the men they see in impudent and shameless ways, and if said men do not answer their call, they throw back their breasts over their shoulders, and start running after them - forcing the laborer to abandon his plough, and the shepherd to abandon his sheep. 

The Martes are said to co-exist with a species of giants known as “Martes” or “Marses”. Tradition does not tell what kind of relationship unites the female Martes and the male Martes. But the male Martes are said to be abnormaly strong - according to legends, all the dolmens, menhirs and cromlechs of the region were created by the “games” of those giants. 

Article: La Pierre à la Femme

In the Cher region, it is not a giant, but a giantess that was said to have created a menhir (or peulvan) of red granit. It is found near the town of Saint-Georges-sur-Moulon, and it is named “la Pierre à la Femme”, “the Stone of the Woman”. The legend says : An unknown woman appeared one day, out of the depths of the old forest of Haute-Brune. She was an inhumanly beautiful lady, of a colossal height. She was holding in her apron an enormous stone. She ahd crossed the top of the hill and was walking down its slope, when her apron broke - the stone fell, and it fell right where you can see it today. 

According to another version of the tale, the mysterious female traveller was rather carrying two rocks of an equal size. One slipped out of her hands, and it broke - these are the stone fragments seen to the right of the path leading to the Salle-le-Roi, at Montpensier. The other, she placed on the oppose side of the hill, where it is today. A third version claims that, when the stone was placed by the mysterious woman, it was roughly the size of a nut, but that it grew and grew with time until it reached the size it is today. Every night, at dusk, the beautiful stranger can be seen roaming around the stone.

It was believed that the Stone of the Woman was blocking the entryway of a tunnel, in which an enormous amount of riches could be found. But the underground treasure could only be accessed once a year. On the Palm Sunday, when, returning from the procession, the clergymen and the people stop in front of the church’s door (which had been closed previously), the stone starts shaking. And when the priest knocks on the door with his cross, singing “Attollite portas”, the stone rises up, and falls on its side, freeing the access to the vault below. Anyone can enter through the gateway and take as much gold and precious stones as they can... But they have to be fast, because as soon as the three last kocks are given on the door, the rock returns to its original place, and stays there, unmovable, until next year. It is said that many were buried alive in such a way, punished for their excessive greed... 

[antigregarious]

Flagstaff.

Get your kicks on Route 66. One phrase that haunted my childhood. Growing up poor, I was bullied for a certain name that was on multiple t-shirts. In the words of Kevin McCallister. “You could get beat up for wearing something like that.” I don’t think it was so much the clothes, but the place they were purchased from. K-mall. Well, K-mart was its real name.

Fast forward to the year 2017. I decided it was time to take a small photo trip. Just me, my camera, and a journal. Where was I heading? I was on my Way to Flagstaff, One of the many places that I have yet to see. Before leaving off on this adventure I did what any good son would do, called mom. After telling here where I was off to, and before saying our goodbyes, and I love yous. She started to sing, my ears started to ring. I was having deja vu.

My first stop, a gas station. The ol’ S-10 need a little bit more gas and well, we can say that nature started calling. It looks like everyone and their dog decided to take a trip today as well. makes sense, it was a Friday after all. The restroom was packed, so, like a dog I was on the hunt for a bush. Luckily I seen a little hill right behind the gas station. A perfect spot, and a perfect spot indeed. After business was handled, I got another call. This call needed me to go back and get the camera.

The landscape was stunning. Red mountains, green shrubs, and the way the clouds diffused the sunlight. Now would be a good time to call upon my inner Ansel Adams. You know just one of the greatest landscape photographers of all times. Not me, him. Unlike Ansel, 99.9% of my work is done in color. Earth tones and warmth are my jam. I decided to go with black and white for this one.

After being greeted with such a scenic view, I made it to downtown Flagstaff. Having the trusty D-7100 and a good ol 35-mm lens I was ready for anything. Well, just about. See, I have discussed this many of times, the traditional street photography isn’t for me. The type of capturing candid shots of strangers. Capturing, shots, and strangers. That is a weird sentence when said out loud. I will stick to shooting buildings.

Speaking of buildings, the Hotel Monte Vista is a site to see. A couple clicks of the shutter, I needed to know more about this place. After reading it was a haunted hotel, then something about spirits of prostitutes. I was sold! Wait, what? John Wayne stayed here? Oh, the cowboy not the killer clown. Still pretty interesting though. Being a fan of the show Ghost Adventures, I wondered why they haven’t came and investigated this place. Wait. No one can confirm its haunted, but the tales add to the lore. Question somewhat answered.

Making my way downtown walking past, an alley with stray dogs and cats they’re homeward bound. Something like that right? I am not a fan of seeing stray animals, but I know that is a problem to tackle at a later date. What I am a fan of though, alley’s. There was something about this one. It was the cracked asphalt leading my eyes right to the sunset. It was the mess of the power lines, and a tree that could cause a hazard. It was those vintage looking street lamps.

Isn’t it just my luck. Every motel or hotel I’ve called didn’t have any open rooms. I guess everyone was traveling. And we all decided to come here. It’s starting to look a lot like I’m either spending the night in the truck or staying with the ghosts of some hookers. That doesn’t sound to bad. I just wanted a warm place to sleep, because it got cold, real cold. Luckily, I was given a Carhartt jacket a few years back. Being from a desert town I always wondered when will I ever need a jacket like this. I needed it.

There was a loud noise hurling in this direction. A scene from a western movie. I haven’t seen a train in years. Standing, and waiting for it to pass. I started a conversation with a dude standing next to me. I asked him about the Monte Vista. He heard the stories and actually stayed there. I told him how I was debating whether or not to stay there, well, because of the prostitutes. Once the train passed, we were all good to go. We seen a group of ladies. They all had on mini skirts. We just looked at each other and laughed.

I was finally able to book a room. Yes! On my way back to the truck, I seen something that looked like it belonged in a movie. In this movie I was almost late to get to Platform nine and three-quarters. A little to excited I had to stop and admire this place. While I was admiring it I seen something out of the corner of my eye, something familiar. A logo, the original logo. Words aren’t my strong suit. But this was one time I was left almost completely speechless. The only thing I could say was.

Get your kicks on Route 66.

[ledenews]

(Publisher’s Note: The Prologue is the beginning of a new series of short historical stories that focus on the 20th Century in the Wheeling area when downtown streets were packed with consumers, the air was stained by factory soot, and organized crime was accepted as a normal part of the culture. It was fast, it was secret, it was deadly, and it’s remembered well by the young people who witnessed it all and are now telling their tales.) Prologue It didn’t look like it does in those mafia movies like “Goodfellas” and the “Godfather” trilogy. Wheeling’s mobsters weren’t well dressed, they didn’t all wear fedoras, and they didn’t kiss rings. They did kill, though. They did hurt. They played dirty, were mean minded, and they were vile creatures, especially during the three decades when Paul “No Legs” Hankish was boss. The organized crime in Wheeling wasn’t what most would consider “mafia,” though, because family connections weren’t part of business with the two underbosses. Instead, it was a mob of thieves, bootleggers, bookies, hijackers, drug runners, pimps and prostitutes, and cold blooded killers similar to what this region of Appalachia was known for dating back to the days when the National Pike guided strangers to the original Gateway to the West. The recorded history of organized crime in the Wheeling area dates back to the 1930s when “Big Bill” Lias ran the rackets and the racetrack on Wheeling Island. Lias was a legit businessman with restaurants and bars, sure, but he also ran bootlegged booze, operated gambling rings, and was suspected but never convicted of shootings, home and business explosions, a few murders, and the car bombing of his archrival, Paul Hankish, in early 1964. Lias was even questioned by investigators in the death of his first wife, Gladys, in 1934, but he also was loved by Wheeling residents because he gave away free turkeys during Thanksgiving holidays and brand-new televisions for Christmas. He was convicted of a few crimes and his Wheeling Downs horse track was seized by the federal government for tax evasion in 1952, but “Big Bill” prospered anyway until his passing in 1970. "Big Bill" Lias operated gambling rackets and prostitution rings during his reign as Wheeling's mob boss up until his death in 1970s. Hankish was a different boss. He reined over a hierarchy far more extensive than what Lias operated because of purposeful expansions in prostitution, gambling, drug trafficking, and stolen goods, and he also became connected with underground rackets up and down the Ohio River and along the East Coast. Hankish was quick-tempered, dismissive of and demeaning to law enforcement, he loved to be feared, and he never cared much to endear himself to the general public. But the general public sure did keep an eye on him and his men like sports fans watching the action of a big game. Men and women and moms and dads saw what they saw, and so did their children because it all just looked like life in Wheeling, a city predominately hardworking, religious, sports minded, and middle class. Little leagues were popular, high school rivalries probably were taken too seriously, and pro players from the Pirates and Steelers were common customers of that “Wheeling Feeling.” The Friendly City’s downtown from 50 years ago is recalled fondly because the streets were crowded with commerce and countless customers shopping at countrywide chain stores like GC Murphy, JC Penney, Sears, Value City, and National Record Mart. The Mendelsons, the Bourys, the Goods, the Posins, and the folks at Stone & Thomas added the local flare that older residents in the Wheeling area still yearn for today. In many ways, the valley’s mob years proved to be a better time economically, socially, and, believe it or not, criminally. For the majority of the region’s residents, organized crime simply provided innocent amenities like those weekly wagers, slot machines, and back-room poker games. The population of Wheeling peaked in the 1940s and Main and Markets streets were lined with department stores and specialty shops, doctor’s and lawyer’s offices, and banks and bars and restaurants. The menus ranged from burgers and fried fish to prime rib and shrimp cocktail, and if you wanted in on “some action,” there were pool halls, back-room poker games, and “green door” brothels for that, too. Downtown Wheeling was consistently crowded with shoppers, and th best place to park was inside the Wheeling Wharf Garage that rested along the Ohio River up until 1998. As it was, most men made a good living wherever he got dirty during the day, and mothers raised children and managed the households. It was considered the most wanted version of the American Dream at the time because the U.S. economy once allowed for stay-at-home moms to care for the kids, and Wheeling’s economy from the 1950s through the ‘80s included the ability to gain living-wage employment at mills, mines, and factories straight out of high school. “Normal” was different back then. It’s been rumored for six decades that Lias ordered the assassination attempt on Hankish on January 17, 1964. Hankish, then only 32 years old and married, may have lost his lower extremities in the bombing attack, but he gained the “Pauly No Legs” nickname, earned “invincible” status with the underworld, and became something of a folk hero throughout the valley and beyond. If a resident ignored the mob, the mob ignored the resident. But if the resident wanted to place a bet, buy a date, purchase stolen goods, or score some cocaine, they didn’t have to look far. The storytellers in this series are older adults today, but back in Wheeling’s heyday they saw what they saw and remember every detail from their younger years. They claim to know more than most after seeing secrets and hearing hushed details, and some were cops and lawyers and reporters from back then while others were the neighbors, the bartenders, the chefs, and the customers, too. Some are still cautious and didn’t want their names named while others, like former United States Attorney William Kolibash, tells his tales with great detail after he and his agents picked apart Hankish’s intricate criminal organization that involved prostitution, stolen goods, tax fraud, drug trafficking, gambling, money laundering, and murder. Sure, “Big Bill” got busted for tax evasion and was suspected of much more, but Hankish was credited by federal authorities for being an extremely intelligent man with an advanced criminal mind. In his prime, Hankish controlled the culture in night clubs, restaurants, billiard joints, and brothels, and he held the reins of his multi-million-dollar organization very tightly. Those who were loyal were rewarded, but those who failed him were discarded without regard. This row of buildings along Market Street has had a reputation in the past as being the home for bookies and other illegal activities. Under Hankish, the mob was mean. It was nasty. It was cruel and it was deadly. People did the unthinkable, they did it for money, and they committed those crimes as many times as they had to so the cash continued to flow. Some of the felonious activities were kept out of sight like the truck hijacks, disciplinary beatings, drug drop-offs, prostitution, and murders, but most of the rackets were hidden only by the front doors of neighborhood bars. The spot sheets, poker machines, game boards, and daily and weekly drawings were protected by a “wink-wink” mentality, and so were the bets with bookies and the sales of stolen goods at alleged discount stores like Ron’s Value Center near 22nd Street in Center Wheeling. The men who took orders directly from Hankish didn’t call themselves a “Mob,” and many of the family names most believe were involved with gangster activity actually were not. Hankish played hard, though, and after copping a plea that ended a week-long trial in downtown Wheeling in October 1990, he paid dearly for his dastardly and deadly deeds when, at the age of 58, he was sentenced to 33.5 years in federal prison and fined $72,500. When Pittsburgh Post-Gazette reporter Jan Ackerman reported the trial results on October 26, 1990, the reporter stated in the article that the Wheeling area was known as an “Ohio Valley community (that) has long been a haven for gambling and open criminal activity.” Ackerman also quoted Kolibash as saying, “(Hankish) was kind of a symbol of that attitude of permissiveness (in the Wheeling area), (with) people winking at criminal activity.” Paul “No Legs” Hankish had a long criminal record at the time he was brought to trial in October 1990. Kolibash, now 80 years old, retired, and soon to publish his book entitled “Justice Never Rests: A U.S. Attorney's Battle against Murderers, Drug Lords, Mob Kingpins & Cults,” recalls much more about the mobsters and the city’s culture of organized crime and he has shared those memories for this series of tales told by those who saw it, did it, felt it, and miss a time when live music, dance clubs, and fine dining was available in the area. Kolibash remembers that version of the valley when he was a kid growing up in Benwood and attending Linsly Military Institute. He recalls what downtown Wheeling looked like when he started with the U.S. Attorney’s Office under Jim Companion in 1973. After a decade as an assistant federal prosecutor, Kolibash was nominated to be the U.S. Attorney in the Northern District of West Virginia by President Ronald Reagan in 1982 and was confirmed by the U.S. Senate. He remained in the position until 1993 when he moved on to private practice, but it was Kolibash who was the quarterback for the “dream team” task force that dismantled organized crime and sent “Pauly No Legs” Hankish to prison for the final time. And he has stories to tell, too, and that’s why Kolibash talks about FBI agents Tom Burgoyne and Dick Jones, and about Pat Butler when he was with Wheeling Police, mob muscleman Jesse Anderson and his bright yellow three-piece suits, and the pay phones Hankish used daily because he believed the feds had his phones bugged. Kolibash tracked the mob’s trail of corruption up and down the river and to places like Pittsburgh, New Jersey, and Miami, and he picked apart a complex criminal organization that was, for years and years, invisible in broad daylight. Before the prosecutor and his team began sting operations, for example, there were more than 20 brothels in South Wheeling, a bookie and a coke dealer in every bar and pool hall, stereo Hi-Fis without serial numbers, bootlegged beer hidden away in alley garages, and a growing Missing Persons list. This series of short historical stories will tell truth and reveal the criminal-yet-accepted culture that once existed in all corners of the Upper Ohio Valley, and the writings will explain – thanks to eyewitness accounts – the pros and cons of living side-by-side with organized crime while also dissolving illusions about legends many believe these days when it comes to Wheeling’s two infamous mob bosses. It was the “Wheeling Mob,” indeed, but it was this Wheeling mob. Read the full article

[wausaupilot]

Marathon County Public Library book clubs: August

Stratford Young Adult Book Club: “Salt to the Sea” by Ruta Sepetys Aug. 8. This historical fiction novel tells the gripping tale of four young refugees seeking freedom during World War II. Adults and teens welcome! 5:30 p.m. 715-687-4420. [MCPL Stratford] Marathon City Book Club: “Crying in H Mart” by Michelle Zauner Aug. 12. An unflinching, powerful memoir about growing up Korean-American,…

[rabbitcruiser]

Truck Driver Day

Professional truck drivers are honored and celebrated today with  Truck Driver Day. In the United States, a driver is considered to be a  truck driver when their vehicle has a gross vehicle weight—the weight of  the vehicle loaded—of at least 26,000 pounds. They must obtain a  commercial driver's license (CDL) to drive a vehicle of this weight.  Employers often require their drivers to take a safety training program,  and some also require a high school degree or GED.

Truck drivers carry all kinds of freight—livestock, food, canned  goods, liquids, packages, and vehicles—all across the United States and  the world. They often have to load and unload their freight and must  inspect their trucks before taking to the road. Truck drivers often ship  products to stores, and some may have to undertake sales duties. Many  truck drivers work long hours. Some may have daily local routes that  keep them close to home, while others may have routes and schedules that  often change, and many have to be away from home for an extended amount  of time.

Some trucks were on the road in the United States prior to World War  I. Trucks continued to be used and developed during the war, and by 1920  there were more than a million trucks on the roads of America. Trucking  continued to expand over the following decade, on account of  advancements such as the introduction of the diesel engine, improved  rural roads, the introduction of power brakes and steering, and the  standardization of truck and trailer sizes. In the 1930s, a number of  trucking regulations were implemented, and the American Trucking  Association was created. Trucking activity increased in the 1950s and  '60s, in large part because of the creation of the Interstate Highway  System. Regulations on the weight of trucks continued to be updated.

The heyday of the truck driver came in the 1960s and '70s. At the  time, a wide swath of the public viewed truck drivers as modern-day  cowboys or outlaws. The rise of "trucker culture" was signaled with the  proliferation of trucker songs and films, the wearing of plaid shirts  and trucker hats by the public, and the wide use of CB radios and CB  slang. The romanticization of trucker culture subsided by the dawn of  the 1980s.

Many truckers went on strike during the energy crises of 1973 and  1979, after the cost of fuel rose. The Motor Carrier Act of 1980  partially deregulated the industry. As a result, many new trucking  companies were started. Trucker union membership also drastically  declined, leading to lower pay. But the deregulation did reduce consumer  costs, and it increased production and competition in the trucking  industry. By the twenty-first century, trucking dominated the freight  industry. In 2006, there were 26 million trucks on America's roads,  which hauled about 70 percent of the country's freight. Truckers  continue to play a prominent role in keeping the wheels of the economy  turning, and for the hard work they put in to make this happen, they are  honored and celebrated today!

How to Observe Truck Driver Day

Some ideas of ways the day could be spent include:

If you are a truck driver, get out there and drive! Or, take the day off. It should be up to you!

Wave to truckers or make a gesture like you are pulling a truck horn in an attempt to get them to honk their horns.

Thank a truck driver. Tell them thanks in person or make a social media post of thanks. Include the hashtag #TruckDriverDay.

Become a truck driver.

Listen to some truck driving songs such as "Convoy" and "Truck Drivin' Man."

Watch some truck driving films such as Smokey and the Bandit, Convoy, and Big Rig.

Talk on a CB radio.

Eat at a truck stop.

Attend or take part in the National Truck Driving Championships, which are held around the time as Truck Driver Day.

Read a book about trucking or truckers such as Trucking Country: The road to America's Wal-Mart Economy or The Long Haul: A Trucker's Tales of Life on the Road.

Explore the websites of organizations and companies related to the industry such as American Trucker, Truckers News, the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration, the American Trucking Associations, and the Women in Trucking Association.

Source