#the total length of the bay window seats three people.

[averlym]

based on this quote by @fivecoins

[shijiujun]

ChuYao + kids/babies?

lullaby

(or when Chusheng dumps a baby on Lu Yao and Lu Yao tries his best to excel at his given task of the day with a little help)

—

Warm sunlight slowly illuminates the his office as the minutes tick by, but Chusheng pays no attention, his eyes trained only on the three documents before him. He’s on the last leg of this murder case that took two, complete days to deal with and in a rare turn of events, they didn’t need Lu Yao’s help on this one, especially because they knew who the murderer was. What kept Chusheng and the rest of the men at the station for the past 48 hours was simply trying to find the culprit.

As he signs his name at the bottom of the last document with a flourish, Chusheng immediately stretches, working out the kinks in his neck muscles from sitting in the same position for too long. a glance out the windows tell him that it’s dawn and he’s left Lu Yao-

Chusheng stills suddenly, his eyes going wide.

-he’s left Lu Yao at home, for the past two days without even checking on him.

Lu Yao is going to murder him, or make him sleep out on the couch for a week.

The thought of Lu Yao getting angry at him has Chusheng leaping out of his seat and rushing for the door, only to turn back for his jacket, still sitting over the back of his chair. On his way out, he nearly crashes into Ah Dou who has bags of what smells like breakfast in his hands, almost knocking the man over.

“Are those sheng jian baos?” asks Chusheng, stopping halfway down the stairs.

“Ah… yes, your breakfast-“

“Thanks, Ah Dou,” Chusheng grabs at the bags and runs to his car, leaving Ah Dou staring after him in confusion.

As Chusheng slams his foot down on the accelerator and heads back home, he knows the worst part of this situation isn’t just leaving Lu Yao alone for the past two days without even calling him once.

It’s that he left Lu Yao alone with a baby, for fuck’s sake.

How could he have forgotten?

Their case involved the murder of a woman by her jilted lover, and said woman happened to be a nanny watching her employer’s one-year old baby for three days after the baby’s parents had to leave for Suzhou urgently. Needless to say, when they found the dead nanny in the living room and a loudly wailing baby in a crib upstairs, Chusheng found himself saddled with a baby temporarily.

It was going to take the parents two days to get back home, but in these two days, no one was available to take care of the baby. There were a few young fathers at the police station, of course, but the entire force was out on the streets, hard at work trying to catch a murderer who was outwitting them at every turn.

Youning offered, and that was when Lu Yao took the child from her, glaring at her.

“I wouldn’t even leave my dog with you,” he said incredulously. “This is a living, breathing child, Bai Youning!”

And that was how Chusheng ended up dumping a baby on Lu Yao one month after they began dating, and two weeks after Lu Yao moved in.

As far as he knows, while Lu Yao is capable of taking care of himself and could at least cook better than he and Youning combined, Chusheng doesn’t remember Lu Yao having any experience caring for a child, much less a baby. Changing diapers, making milk, keeping the child alive-

At the thought of that, panic fills him, and Chusheng is quick to open the doors to his apartment, afraid of what he might find.

Much to his consternation, the house is empty. There’s no sign of Lu Yao in the bedroom, in the study or in the bathroom. In fact, it smells and looks as if Lu Yao hasn’t been home the past two days.

Chusheng dials the phone for Youning next, his mind jumping to the worst of possibilities. Did Lu Yao leave him just because he dumped a child on him? It was wrong of him, but the situation was dire and Chusheng was so focused on catching the murderer that exploring other options on the spot was impossible for him at the time.

“… didn’t San Tu tell you? He brought the baby back to the Bai manor. I told him Man-jie at the very least would know how to keep the kid alive,” Youning yawns loudly over the line. “Think he’s been there the past two days too.”

Chusheng blanches immediately, pressing two fingers to his temple. He hangs up without even saying bye to Youning and heads out again.

The Bai manor?

Lu Yao is normally so afraid of Bai Qili, and that worsened after Chusheng told his adoptive father about his relationship with Lu Yao. It was only two months ago that Bai Qili threatened to beat both him and Lu Yao to death, because of all the people he had to fall in love with, he had to love a man, and the Lu family’s younger son at that.

It took two weeks to convince the old man and for his rejection to morph into grudging acceptance. Still, he has not invited Lu Yao into the manor for dinner yet and both him and Lu Yao have been pretending the other doesn’t exist to circumvent any future arguments that might arise.

Now he’s worried not only for the baby, but Lu Yao and Bai Qili himself.

Chusheng arrives at the manor in record time fifteen minutes later, and before he can even knock, the doors open, revealing a smiling Man-jie.

“Chusheng shaoye, you’re back early,” the woman says, stepping aside to let him in. “Lu shaoye is still asleep-“

When he passes the midway point of the lobby and the living room comes into view, Chusheng sees Lu Yao asleep indeed. His boyfriend is conked out on the couch in his pyjamas, covered warmly by a thick duvet.

And carrying the baby in question, pacing up and down the length of the living room is one Bai Qili.

“Lao ye-zi?” Chusheng asks in bewilderment, taking a step forward.

The man looks up at the call, and Chusheng nearly jumps when the man hushes at him.

“San Tu is asleep,” he whispers. “The boy is also finally asleep, don’t wake them!”

San Tu?

He must be dreaming, Chusheng thinks. That’s the only explanation for the scene before him. Since when did the old man get so chummy with Lu Yao? And how is it possible for Lu Yao to fall asleep, leaving himself vulnerable like this in front of the fearful Bai Qili?

“Ah… Lu shaoye has been taking care of the boy here, but because we are all unfamiliar faces to him, the baby has been crying a lot. This is the first time Lu shaoye and the boy are sleeping so peacefully like this,” Man-jie murmurs in his ear. “Lao-ye won’t say it, but he’s been taking turns with Lu shaoye too.”

Bai Qili walks over gingerly, and before Chusheng can say anything, he gently hands the baby over to Chusheng, who has no choice but to fumble and carry him. He’s afraid the jostling will wake the child up, but he stays thankfully asleep, his head lolling adorably against Chusheng’s shoulder, not that the man can see it.

“I’m old and need the sleep,” Bai Qili says, turning away to head up the stairs and back to his room, probably. “Take care of the kid and San Tu.”

Chusheng is at a total loss, standing stiffly at the entrance of the living room with deadweight in his arms. He’s not good with children either. After all, for as long as he can remember, he’s been a member of the gang. Children don’t usually dare to come near him, and there’s no reason for him to spend time with children either.

Walking over to where Lu Yao is sleeping, Chusheng sits down on the floor carefully so that he can see Lu Yao’s face properly.

He hasn’t seen Lu Yao in two days, and it’s strange how much he misses him.

Leaning forward, Chusheng presses a light kiss to Lu Yao’s lips, his eyes fluttering close.

Unfortunately, these two days have trained Lu Yao to be a light sleeper and the movement wakes him up. It takes him a few seconds of blinking to clear his vision and seeing Chusheng seated before him, he smiles.

“Lao Qiao,” he murmurs. “You’re back?”

Chusheng leans in, unable to resist kissing a sleep warm Lu Yao like this again.

When they part for air, Lu Yao’s eyes go immediately to the boy sleeping in Chusheng’s arms and reaches out with a light chuckle, “Lao Qiao, you’re going to get a stiff shoulder and neck carrying him like this. He’s not a bomb, you know.”

Glad to pass the little human to Lu Yao who settles the baby against his chest securely, Chusheng replies, “Two days and you’re an expert?”

That’s two more days of training than you have,” Lu Yao sticks out his tongue at him. Then remembering something, he asks, “Please tell me the parents are on their way.”

“Mnn, they sent a telegraph yesterday to say they’ll arrive sometime in the afternoon. Sorry for dumping him on you like that.”

Lu Yao sighs dramatically at the apology, “I move in for barely two weeks and you dump a child on me, Lao Qiao. The romance is dead.”

Chusheng reaches out to pinch at Lu Yao’s nose, and that’s when Lu Yao sees the dark-eye circles around his eyes. Wordlessly, he shifts inwards, then pats at the vacated space.

“We can probably sleep in for a bit.”

“This couch is a little too small for the both of us, San Tu ah. We should go upstairs-“

“And risk waking this little one up?” Lu Yao whispers back, incredulous. “I just need two more hours of sleep, that’s all I’m asking for. Just get in, Lao Qiao.”

It is a ridiculous tight squeeze and Chusheng feels as if he’ll fall onto the floor at anytime, but Lu Yao’s weight on him is familiar and he really is tired. Looking down, he sees Lu Yao snuggling comfortably against his side in a pretty awkward position, and the little tuft of hair on the baby’s head from where he’s asleep on Lu Yao.

“… Lao Qiao, what do you think about kids?” Lu Yao asks, and Chusheng’s eyelids are so, so heavy.

“Anything is okay,” he mumbles back before falling asleep.

As long as it’s with you.

***

[isingonly4myangel]

How do you think Monty, Sibs & Phoebs are handling this quarantine situation?

Welp...

It's rough, but they’re managing and some days are better than others.

Sibella's losing her entire mind, being the extrovert that she is. 

She's done a fair amount of online shopping, mostly clothing and bath products. She started the quarantine doing her hair and makeup every morning, more out of habit than anything else, but now she's given up on the makeup and her hair spends most of her waking hours in a messy top knot. But even now her nails are painted- she did her best to recreate a nail salon treatment for both she and Phoebe one evening. There are newly delivered sheet face masks in the fridge to keep them fresh for later, and even Monty has agreed to do one. She got tired of scrolling through social media weeks ago, and now she really only looks through the Instagram stories of people she's particularly interested in keeping up with. Her sleep schedule is totally jacked, and there are a number of days that find her sitting outside at dawn, sleep having escaped her grasp that night. She's working her way through not only Netflix but also Amazon and Disney+, though her new favourite streaming service is Broadway HD. She's always loved the theatre, and in recent years she's been working both onstage and onscreen. It's one of the things she misses most fiercely during this lockdown, and being able to experience even that tiny portion of live performance offers significant comfort. She's also doing her best to practice her languages, journaling both in French and Italian almost daily. Something new she's found in quarantine is comfort in nature. She likes to sit outside when the weather is nice, she helps Phoebe with the gardening. One afternoon, Phoebe looked out the window to discover Sibella lying on her back on the grass in the yard, music in her earbuds and a smile on her face.

Phoebe, naturally more introverted, is less distressed about staying home but is more nervous about the virus itself. The cleaning regimen in the house is due to her, and every precaution is taken for anyone leaving or returning to the house. She spends a lot of time in her garden, caring for her roses and mint, peonies and rosemary. She loves watching them grow week to week, admiring their progress and new blooms. One of the few perks of suddenly having more free time than she could have imagined is that now she can actually chip away at the stacks of books she's had lined up to read. She always jokes that her to-read list is taller than she is, and she's happy to have the chance to jump into a story that is not her current reality. Though parts of her current reality she still appreciates. Currently she's reading a collection of Elizabeth Bishop, Pulitzer Prize-winning poet. She leaves little sticky notes on pages to mark her favourites, and she enjoys reading them aloud to Monty and Sibella. She's also considering subscribing to the Masterclass program, because it seems like it has material that the whole household would be interested in. When Monty plays the piano, she likes to sit next to him on the bench and sing, and sometimes she joins Sibella in the shower. She loves to have her hair washed by Sibella, and though she's never admitted it out loud, the blonde is definitely aware of the fact. Phoebe is also doing a good deal of baking, finally having the time to work her way through the Pinterest board of recipes she's saved. Last week it was red velvet cupcakes, this week she's planning Oreo truffles, as it's currently too hot to turn on the oven.

Monty lands, as usual, somewhere between Sibella and Phoebe. In several ways. He's really more concerned for them than for himself- he spent the first few days of quarantine unwillingly imagining what might happen if one of his girls got the virus, how he couldn't stand to lose either one of them. Just thinking about it at length he nearly drove himself to insanity. He's calmed down considerably since then, and he's decided to just make the best of the situation. There are definitely still moments of anxiety, but he keeps the fear at bay by trying to stay busy. He's beaten three video games so far, and he's making good progress on a fourth. He's particularly enjoying being able to make music- he hasn't been able to really sit down and play, because usually any free time he had was later at night, and there's a lovely old woman living next door who he wouldn't want to disturb. But now he can practice in the afternoon, and none of the neighbors seem to mind. In fact, Doris- the grandmother from next door- dropped a letter through their mail slot one day, telling him how much she enjoys hearing the music, so now when he sits down at the piano he makes sure to prop the window open. Sometimes she leaves little notes on the front porch with music requests, and he always learns the pieces for her. In the evenings, occasionally he and Sibella and Phoebe will sit outside around their little portable fire pit and he'll play his guitar while the girls sing. On some songs he'll even chime in with a harmony. Those are his favourite moments, the ones he gets to share with his girls. He sifts flour for baking endeavours and fills watering cans for Phoebe, listens to reviews of new shows from Sibella, and freezes leftover coffee into ice cubes because he knows the blonde likes iced coffee when it's hot out. He sets the table so they can have breakfast on the patio, pressing a kiss to Sibella's forehead when she admits she hasn't slept yet as she sits down to breakfast. He mixes cocktails in the evenings, makes sure Phoebe can always find her reading glasses. And naturally, the three of them spend a good deal of time in a tangle of limbs and bed sheets.

There are, of course, more difficult days. It's hard to even open the news, much less keep up with it. Sometimes Sibella will spend too long trying to read about what's happening in the world, and she ends up curled into the corner of the sofa, clutching a pillow to her chest while she tries to fight off the hyperventilation. When Phoebe's first mint plant keeled over in its little pot and could not be revived, Phoebe cried for hours, and at a point it was not just about the mint. There are moments when Monty has to hold Sibella and/or Phoebe close, his face tucked into their hair and neck, just to calm his racing heart. Doris's birthday was earlier this month, and the three of them stood on the front porch with tears in their eyes, watching Doris and her daughter press their hands to either side of the window, reaching for each other but only able to touch glass. There are sometimes tearful late-night discussions with the three of them all seated on the kitchen floor. And some days, it all just seems too difficult, and they all stay together in bed well into the afternoon. Some evenings, they have to watch something familiar and comforting, taking a break from their exploration of new content; a couple of weeks ago, all of them sobbed their way through 'Christopher Robin', and last night Sibella begged to watch Mary Poppins (The others agreed, of course, and now there are plans to watch the Princess Diaries series, as Monty confessed to only having seen the first one).

But even when things are difficult, they turn to each other. The three of them work as a team, and they know that if they just hold tight to one another they'll come out of this alright.

[lovehugsandcandy]

Eight Days a Week, Eight Seconds a Kiss (Part 4)  (Colt x MC)

A/N: I KNOW I AM AWFUL WITH UPDATES and I APOLOGIZE! Part 4 of rom-com RoD featuring awkward Ellie who just wants someone to kiss her already and totally idiotic wingman Colt. You fools.

Pairing: Colt x MC, ROD

Length: ~2500 words

Rating: PG-13 (Swearing, probably, because I swear a lot.)

Summary: Ellie wants to live her life to the fullest, starting with her first kiss. She just needs a little encouragement.

Tuesday: Time to Show Your Worth, Child

Ellie had barely stopped the car when Colt was there, right in her space, long fingers clasping the door frame, blocking her from getting out of the car.

“Let’s go.”

“What?” She wasn’t even fully out yet, legs hanging awkwardly in the air between them.

“Come on, we gotta go.”

“What.” She swung her legs back into the car as Colt bolted around the front and threw himself into the passenger seat. 

“Come on, throw it in reverse, let’s go.”

“What is wrong with you?” She didn’t wait for him to respond before she complied, backing out through the bay doors onto the street.

“Take this right.”

“Were you waiting for me to show up so you could ambush me?”

“We have things to do, don’t we? Amorous adventures to obtain?” His voice was dull, annoyed, the snark of the question falling flat. He looked out the window, sunlight shining off his hair. Bathed in the afternoon light, she could be forgiven for mistaking him for an angel at first glance; however, upon closer inspection, the dangerous glint in his eye and furrow of his brow marked him as more fallen than heavenly. 

She narrowed her eyes. “This seems more like you escaping than us going on an adventure.”

“Maybe we can do both.” He shrugged, finally relenting under her glare. “I just didn’t want to be there anymore.”

“Ok…”

“It’s like the orphanage of misfit toys in there. I needed to get away.”

Ellie waited.

“Get on 110. North.” He leaned his head on the glass, distraught, hand in front of his mouth, eyes hazy and unfocused out the window.

She merged onto the highway and waited some more.

Finally, after Ellie had to bite the inside of her cheek three times in an effort to keep from filling the silence, he spoke. “I fucking hate that guy.”

She gave a noncommittal hum as her eyes cut to him. She had a feeling she knew who this was about. “Whatever happened to not letting others control how you feel, Colt?”

“Whatever happened to minding your own business, Ellie?”

She smirked. It couldn’t be that bad if they were continuing their normal pattern of mildly harassing sarcasm. “…Did something happen at the shop?”

“They’re planning something, Logan and Pop.” Colt let out a sigh. “All buddy-buddy in the office. Pathetic.” He looked at his hands. “I can’t believe Pop trusts some dropout loser over me.”

“Don’t call him that.” The words were out before she could reconsider and they hung in the silence of the car. She grimaced as Colt turned to her, eyes narrowed.

“Of course you’re defending your lover boy. Fucking Logan.”

“You know, Colt? You know what I think?” Ellie huffed. “I think you’re jealous of him.”

He stopped short to stare. “Jealous? Of Logan? That’s a good one…”

“Yeah, I think you are.” She didn’t mean to sound so snide but couldn’t really regret the words once they were out.

“Why the hell would I be jealous of him? He’s a fucking idiot dropout who has no idea what he’s doing in this crew. He’s like a sentient piece of bread that wanders around taking up everyone’s space and energy and time like he’s some prince instead of a black hole of suck.”

“Colt…” Apparently, she hit a nerve.

“He’s like if you took me, made him less attractive obviously, and then surgically removed both this brain and his spine and somehow people around here treat him like he’s God’s gift to….”

“COLT!” Finally, her yell got his attention. “Stop.”

“Yeah, just jump to his defense…”

“Well, you’re being ridiculous!” She gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Am I?”

“It’s not a competition for your dad’s affection, Jesus.”

Colt slouched petulantly against the seat, arms crossed. “Says the person who’s desperate for that asshole.”

“Ok, none of this has to do with me so stop it.”

He turned to her, face paling. The silence stretched on as he just sat there, looking at her as if he was seeing her for the first time.

“What?” She wished, not for the first time, that she could read his mind as he looked to the floor.

A deep breath. “Yeah. Nothing to do with you.” He caught her eyes, a weak smile on his face. 

She had to look back at the road. At least in her case, the person her dad loved more than her didn’t exist, the Ellie in his mind just a figment of his imagination.

“Whatever, forget about it.” Colt shook his head. “Take the next exit.”

“Where are we going?” She navigated seamlessly through the traffic to get to the right lane. 

“You’ll see.”

“Is it somewhere we can lose your attitude problem?” Ellie grinned sweetly.

“I think it’s somewhere I can lose my annoying smart-ass driver.” Colt returned her smile with a smirk of his own. “Park here.”

“Okay…” Ellie dutifully parallel-parked into the space with a beaming grin that only dimmed slightly when she thought about how impressed her dad would be. He might be proud if he saw how well she could drive but definitely wouldn’t be pleased if he saw the company she was keeping.

She followed Colt out of the car, looking around at the swanky storefronts around her, old money and new money combining in a gilded array that made her uneasy. “Why are we here?”

“Because this is supposedly the highest rated spot in LA. After you dissed the dive bar, I thought you might want a change of pace.”

She looked down at her school clothes, at Colt’s leather jacket. “Isn’t there a dress code?”

“Come on.” He loped his arm around her, pushing her along with easy confidence. “Aren’t you sick of missing out on things?”

She had to smile.

“And are you going to let the opinion of these strangers rule your life?”

She smiled wider. “No.”

“Then let’s go.”

~~~~~

“I’m not even going to point anyone out to you.” They were settled at the bar, waiting for menus, and Ellie couldn’t help but stare. The bar, the room, the people, this whole place? It felt like she was transported into a magical fantasy world; everything was gleaming, gilded bar shining in the chandeliers, beautiful people carrying fancy martinis without spilling a drop.

“Why, no octogenarians here for you to mock me with?”

“No, I looked.” He ducked his head to hide the smile. He looked perfectly at ease, sprawled over a bar stool, roguishly handsome with the jacket and the hair and the self-assured smirk. Ellie felt like a fish out of water.

“I don’t fit in here, Colt.”

He swiveled his stool to look at her. “Of course we do.”

“How are you so sure about that?”

“Well, I know that, regardless, we could steal any of their cars. It helps.”

Ellie cracked up, throwing her hands over her mouth to tamp down the noise that escaped her mouth. This was not the kind of place where the noise that escaped her mouth was allowed; this was a place of restrained luxury, where quiet conversations and the delicate tinkle of silverware on plates were the only noises welcome. 

“Excuse me, but you have the most beautiful laugh.”

Ellie turned in shock to the man sitting next to her, She hadn’t even noticed him when she slid into the stool but now she couldn’t look away. She knew LA was full of attractive people but this guy was handsome. Dark eyes, dark hair, lips curving over blindingly white teeth. She definitely did not expect this when she got here.

“What a line,” Colt grumbled under his breath.

Ellie ignored him in favor of her sweetest smile. “Thank you.”

“I’m Jack,” He held out a hand, which she shook, eyes wide. Strong handshake, confident. Damn. Mercy Park Crew, who?

“I’m Ellie.” 

“Oh boy.” 

Ellie quickly swiveled to glare at Colt before turning back to her other side.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Jack didn’t seem to notice Colt’s dour face on her other side; Ellie silently thanked any and all deities she could think of.

“Sure!”

Jack leaned over to speak softly to the bartender while Ellie wondered if she agreed too enthusiastically. Was she supposed to play hard to get? What did one do in these situations?

Then, she grimaced when she realized the bartender was sliding her a glass of wine. She could feel Colt shaking his head next to her.

Oh well. In for a penny, out for a pound. She took a sip and had to bite her tongue to force it down. Dear God, this was awful. It tasted like someone poured perfume into gasoline. What the hell was this stuff?

Jack didn’t seem to notice the expression on her face but Colt definitely did, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. With a huff, she rotated in her seat so she was facing Jack, trying to ignore the distraction behind her.

“So do you come here often?”

Colt groaned and Ellie sighed. She was going to kill him. “First time actually, yourself?”

“I come here a bit; I live just up the block.” Jack leaned closer, conspiratorially. “I actually knew you’ve never been here before; I definitely would have noticed you if you were a regular.”

Ellie flushed. Colt snorted. Ellie’s hand clenched into a fist, almost an automatic reaction to an annoying stimulus, and she tried to calculate how long it would take him to walk back to the shop. Not long enough.

“So what do you do, Ellie?”

“I’m in school.” She realized what she admitted when Jack’s face fell. “College. I’m in college. Senior year. Uhh…..UCLA.”

“What are you studying?”

“Uhhh….business?” She could hear a thud behind her. It sounded like Colt hitting his head on the bar.

“That’s awesome.” Jack leaned in closer and rested his chin on his hand.

“So what do you do?”

“Other than be the luckiest guy in the world to meet you tonight?” Ellie flushed as he took a sip of his wine before resting a strong forearm on the bar. Ellie was sure her face was bright red; no one ever hit on her. “I’m a lawyer for a television station. Contracts, intellectual property, all that boring stuff.”

“That sounds really interesting actually.”

“Boring.” Colt had obviously picked his head off the bar to resume his snide commentary. She was about to reply to Jack when she heard a muttered “Whoa” behind her. Colt tried to grab her arm, a quick touch to her elbow, but she shook him off.

He then coughed behind her. She ignored him.

He coughed louder, again. Ellie sucked in a breath through her teeth and continued to look away. At this point, she was winning the ‘Ignore Colt Olympics’ and she sure wasn’t going to give up her medal.

Apparently, he didn’t like that. He kicked her stool, hard; Ellie pitched forward and was barely able to catch herself by slamming her palm onto the bar. 

She whirled to see him frantically slashing a hand across his neck. “Colt, what the hell?”

“Abort, abort, this is bad, let’s go.”

She leaned in closer to his face. “Are you kidding me? I am actually not shooting myself in the foot for-”

“No, you don’t understand, he’s-”

Jack stood next to her, sliding off the bar stool from an imposing height. “Uhh, do you know him?”

She rubbed her forehead. “Unfortunately. Sorry, my friends are kinda embarrassing.”

“Hah.” Colt scoffed. “At least your friends aren’t married.”

“What? What are you talking-” She trailed off as she watched Jack’s face fall. Her eyes darted to his left hand; there was no ring but a very obvious tan line marked where one apparently was a fixture on his finger. “What the hell?”

Jack sighed. “I can explain…”

Ellie jumped up, mouth open in shock.

She was about to lay into him, cheeks reddening in embarrassment, when the woman on the other side of him leaned over, long blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “He can explain.” The look on her face was severe, voice serious. “I’m his wife. We are looking for a third to join us. Interested?”

Ellie just stared, blinking, gaping; was she drunk? Off one sip of wine? She was drunk, wasn’t she? Did they just ask her-?

Colt found his voice first. “Holy shit. Plot twist.”

~~~~~

“I cannot believe…” Ellie huffed the words out around a hot dog. After their rapid escape from the bar, Colt complained so vigorously that he would die without sustenance that they stopped into the 7-11 for food.

Colt shrugged. “You could have knocked out a lot of firsts tonight. First kiss, first threesome…”

“Shut up.” She knocked her shoulder into his before taking another sip of her Slurpee to try to mask the bitter taste of wine and defeat on her tongue. Whatever the magical combination of chemicals and sugar that were contained in the 7-11 elixir, it was working, tasting far better than the stupid wine.

“What?” He edged his shoulder right back into hers, a warm shove. “You didn’t want to go home with the plastic couple in there?”

“Urgh. No, thank you. I came with you, I’m leaving with you.”

His walking slowed as he looked at her, face softening into something that almost would have been affection, if it were on anyone else. She stopped, turning to him with a question in her eyes, as his eyes traced her face.

“You have some…” His thumb reached up to brush against her face, lingering over her lip. His eyes were focused on where his finger was on her face but, even worse, it was all she was focused on, every cell leaping at the gentle pressure, strangely intimate, the busy sidewalk and ritzy crowd fading to nothing. Her stomach fell to her toes, like she was on a roller coaster, the weightless swoop from flying over the precipice into an unseen fall.

“Colt?”

He dropped his arm as if he were shocked. “You…umm….you had some ketchup. On your face.”

“Thanks?” It was more squeak than speech.

He turned to the car, ears red, opening the door and practically throwing himself into the seat. “Don’t mention it.”

Ellie didn’t bring it up, not at all through the ride back to the shop, but she thought about it the entire way, the sudden warmth in her stomach unfamiliar and weird and not entirely unpleasant. By the time she pulled into the bay, she could almost pass it off as a momentary weakness, a never-to-be-repeated softness from the abrasive force climbing out of her passenger seat.

She clambered out after him, clutching her Slurpee, the sugar still sharp on her tongue after the wine, sweetness always stronger after a bitter bite. She tossed the cup into the trash, watching him wander over to his bike, shoulders tense. 

“Hey.” Her voice carried through the empty shop. “Thanks for taking me out tonight.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “No problem. Sorry about the guy.”

Ellie shrugged. “Probably better we didn’t get involved.”

“Yeah.” He grinned at her but his eyes were far away. She was going to ask, to probe, but he continued, talking fast. “Well, have a good night.”

“Thanks, you too.” She nodded and turned to go to her car.

Two steps and she looked over her shoulder, smiling to see he was still watching her. She grinned wider and was gratified when she saw his eyes start to shine and crinkle at the corners, an actual smile from him.

Five more steps and she turned again, giving him a wave when she caught his eye. 

And one more look as she got in the car door, laughing at his exasperated “Good night, Ellie.”

She had a smile on her face the whole way home. It actually was a good night.

Tags:  @deimosensblog @alegria1580  @choicesarehard@thefarrari@client-327 @moonlit-girl-wonder @going-down-downtown@soniadotalves@jolietmaraud @hazah@flowerpowell@poeticscolt@brightpinkpeppercorn @zaira-oh-zaira@desiree-0816 @leelee10898@maxwellsquidsuit@liamzigmichael4ever @octobereighth@omgjasminesimone @waytooattuned @i-only-signed-up-for-fanfiction

[lake-lyn]

ET’s exclusive excerpt of The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan (1/2)

Chapter 1

There is no food here

Meg ate all the Swedish fish

Please get off my hearse

I believe in returning dead bodies.

It seems like a simple courtesy, doesn’t it? A warrior dies, you should do what you can to get their body back to their people for funerary rites. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I am over four thousand years old. But I find it rude not to properly dispose of corpses.

Achilles during the Trojan War, for instance. Total pig. He chariot-dragged the body of the Trojan champion Hector around the walls of the city for days. Finally I convinced Zeus to pressure the big bully into returning Hector’s body to his parents so he could have a decent burial. I mean, come on. Have a little respect for the people you slaughter.

Then there was Oliver Cromwell’s corpse. I wasn’t a fan of the man, but please. First, the English bury him with honors. Then they decide they hate him, so they dig him up and “execute” his body. Then his head falls off the pike where it’s been impaled for decades and gets passed around from collector to collector for almost three centuries like a disgusting souvenir snow globe. Finally, in 1960, I whispered in the ears of some influential people, Enough, already. I am the god Apollo, and I order you to bury that thing. You’re grossing me out.

When it came to Jason Grace, my fallen friend and half bropppther, I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. I would personally escort his coffin to Camp Jupiter and see him off with full honors.

That turned out to be a good call. What with the ghouls attacking us and everything.

Sunset turned San Francisco Bay into a cauldron of molten copper as our private plane landed at Oakland Airport. I say our private plane. The chartered trip was actually a parting gift from our friend Piper McLean and her movie star father. (Everyone should have at least one friend with a movie star parent.)

Waiting for us beside the runway was another surprise the McLeans must have arranged: a gleaming black hearse. Meg McCaffrey and I stretched our legs on the tarmac while the ground crew somberly removed Jason’s coffin from the Cessna’s storage bay. The polished mahogany box seemed to glow in the evening light. Its brass fixtures glinted red. I hated how beautiful it was. Death shouldn’t be beautiful.

The crew loaded it into the hearse, then transferred our luggage to the backseat. We didn’t have much: Meg’s back- pack and mine (courtesy of Marco’s Military Madness), my bow and quiver and ukulele, and a couple of sketchbooks and a poster-board diorama we’d inherited from Jason.

I signed some paperwork, accepted the flight crew’s condolences, then shook hands with a nice undertaker who handed me the keys to the hearse and walked away.

I stared at the keys, then at Meg McCaffrey, who was chewing the head off a Swedish fish. The plane had been stocked with half a dozen tins of the squishy red candy. Not anymore. Meg had single-handedly brought the Swedish sh ecosystem to the brink of collapse.

“I’m supposed to drive?” I wondered. “Is this a rental hearse?”

Meg shrugged. During our flight, she’d insisted on sprawling on the Cessna’s sofa, so her dark pageboy haircut was flattened against the side of her head. One rhinestone-studded point of her cat-eye glasses poked through her hair like a disco shark n.

The rest of her out t was equally disreputable: floppy red high-tops, threadbare yellow leggings, and the well-loved knee-length green frock she’d gotten from Percy Jackson’s mother. By well-loved, I mean the frock had been through so many battles, washed and mended so many times, it looked less like a piece of clothing and more like a deflated hot-air balloon. Around Meg’s waist was the pièce de résistance: her multi-pocketed gardening belt, because children of Demeter never leave home without one.

“I don’t have a driver’s license,” she said, as if I needed a reminder that my life was presently being controlled by a twelve-year-old. “I call shotgun.”

“Calling shotgun” didn’t seem appropriate for a hearse. Nevertheless, Meg skipped to the passenger’s side and climbed in. I got behind the wheel. Soon we were out of the airport and cruising north on I-880 in our rented black grief-mobile.

Ah, the Bay Area . . . I’d spent some happy times here. The vast misshapen geographic bowl was jam-packed with interesting people and places. I loved the green-and-golden hills, the fog-swept coastline, the glowing lacework of bridges and the crazy zigzag of neighborhoods shouldered up against one another like subway passengers at rush hour.

Back in the 1950s, I played with Dizzy Gillespie at Bop City in the Fillmore. During the Summer of Love, I hosted an impromptu jam session in Golden Gate Park with the Grateful Dead. (Lovely bunch of guys, but did they really need those fteen-minute-long solos?) In the 1980s, I hung out in Oakland with Stan Burrell—otherwise known as MC Hammer—as he pioneered pop rap. I can’t claim credit for Stan’s music, but I did advise him on his fashion choices. Those gold lamé parachute pants? My idea. You’re welcome, fashionistas.

Most of the Bay Area brought back good memories. But as I drove, I couldn’t help glancing to the northwest—toward Marin County and the dark peak of Mount Tamalpais. We gods knew the place as Mount Othrys, seat of the Titans. Even though our ancient enemies had been cast down, their palace destroyed, I could still feel the evil pull of the place—like a magnet trying to extract the iron from my now-mortal blood.

I did my best to shake the feeling. We had other problems to deal with. Besides, we were going to Camp Jupiter—friendly territory on this side of the bay. I had Meg for backup. I was driving a hearse. What could possibly go wrong?

The Nimitz Freeway snaked through the East Bay flatlands, past warehouses and docklands, strip malls and rows of dilapidated bungalows. To our right rose downtown Oakland, its small cluster of high-rises facing off against its cooler neighbor San Francisco across the Bay as if to proclaim We are Oakland! We exist, too!

Meg reclined in her seat, propped her red high-tops up on the dashboard, and cracked open her window.

“I like this place,” she decided.

“We just got here,” I said. “What is it you like? The abandoned warehouses? That sign for Bo’s Chicken ’N’ Waffles?”

“Nature.”

“Concrete counts as nature?”

“There’s trees, too. Plants flowering. Moisture in the air. The eucalyptus smells good. It’s not like . . .”

She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Our time in Southern California had been marked by scorching temperatures, extreme drought, and raging wild res—all thanks to the magical Burning Maze controlled by Caligula and his hate-crazed sorceress bestie, Medea. The Bay Area wasn’t experiencing any of those problems. Not at the moment, anyway.

We’d killed Medea. We’d extinguished the Burning Maze. We’d freed the Erythraean Sibyl and brought relief to the mortals and withering nature spirits of Southern California.

But Caligula was still very much alive. He and his co- emperors in the Triumvirate were still intent on controlling all means of prophecy, taking over the world, and writing the future in their own sadistic image. Right now, Caligula’s fleet of evil luxury yachts was making its way toward San Francisco to attack Camp Jupiter. I could only imagine what sort of hellish destruction the emperor would rain down on Oakland and Bo’s Chicken ’N’ Waffles.

Even if we somehow managed to defeat the Triumvirate, there was still that greatest Oracle, Delphi, under the control of my old nemesis Python. How I could defeat him in my present form as a sixteen-year-old weakling, I had no idea.

But, hey. Except for that, everything was fine. The eucalyptus smelled nice.

Traf c slowed at the I-580 interchange. Apparently, California drivers didn’t follow that custom of yielding to hearses out of respect. Perhaps they gured at least one of our passengers was already dead, so we weren’t in a hurry.

Meg toyed with her window controls, raising and lower- ing the glass. Reeee. Reeee. Reeee.

“You know how to get to Camp Jupiter?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“ ’Cause you said that about Camp Half-Blood.”

“We got there! Eventually.”

“Frozen and half-dead.”

“Look, the entrance to camp is right over there.” I waved vaguely at the Oakland Hills. “There’s a secret passage in the Caldecott Tunnel or something.”

“Or something?”

“Well, I haven’t actually ever driven to Camp Jupiter,” I admitted. “Usually I descend from the heavens in my glorious sun chariot. But I know the Caldecott Tunnel is the main entrance. There’s probably a sign. Perhaps a Demigods Only lane.”

Meg peered at me over the top of her glasses. “You’re the dumbest god ever.” She raised her window with a final Reeee. SHLOOMP!—a sound that reminded me uncomfortably of a guillotine blade.

We turned west onto Highway 24. The congestion eased as the hills loomed closer. The elevated lanes soared past neighborhoods of winding streets and tall conifers, white stucco houses clinging to the sides of grassy ravines.

A road sign promised CALDECOTT TUNNEL ENTRANCE, 2 MI. That should have comforted me. Soon, we’d pass through the borders of Camp Jupiter into a heavily guarded, magically camouflaged valley where an entire Roman legion could shield me from my worries, at least for a while.

Why, then, were the hairs on the back of my neck quivering like sea worms?

Something was wrong. It dawned on me that the uneas- iness I’d felt since we landed might not be the distant threat of Caligula, or the old Titan base on Mount Tamalpais, but something more immediate . . . something malevolent, and getting closer.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Through the back window’s gauzy curtains, I saw nothing but traffic. But then, in the polished surface of Jason’s coffin lid, I caught the reflection of movement from a dark shape outside—as if a human-size object had just own past the side of the hearse.

“Oh. Meg?” I tried to keep my voice even. “Do you see anything unusual behind us?”

“Unusual like what?”

THUMP.

The hearse lurched as if we’d been hitched to a trailer full of scrap metal. Above my head, two foot-shaped impressions appeared in the upholstered ceiling.

“Something just landed on the roof,” Meg deduced.

“Thank you, Sherlock McCaffrey! Can you get it off?”

“Me? How?”

That was an annoyingly fair question. Meg could turn the rings on her middle fingers into wicked gold swords, but if she summoned them in close quarters, like the interior of the hearse, she a) wouldn’t have room to wield them, and b) might end up impaling me and/or herself.

CREAK. CREAK. The footprint impressions deepened as the thing adjusted its weight like a surfer on a board. It must have been immensely heavy to sink into the metal roof.

A whimper bubbled in my throat. My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I yearned for my bow and quiver in the backseat, but I couldn’t have used them. DWSPW, driving while shooting projectile weapons, is a big no-no, kids.

“Maybe you can open the window,” I said to Meg. “Lean out and tell it to go away.”

“Um, no.” (Gods, she was stubborn.) “What if you try to shake it off?”

Before I could explain that this was a terrible idea while traveling fifty miles an hour on a highway, I heard a sound like a pop-top aluminum can opening—the crisp pneumatic hiss of air through metal. A claw punctured the ceiling—a grimy white talon the size of a drill bit. Then another. And another. And another, until the upholstery was studded with ten pointy white spikes—just the right number for two very large hands.

“Meg?” I yelped. “Could you—?”

I don’t know how I might have finished that sentence. Protect me? Kill that thing? Check in the back to see if I have any spare undies?

I was rudely interrupted by the creature ripping open our roof like we were a birthday present.

Staring down at me through the ragged hole was a withered, ghoulish humanoid, its blue-black hide glistening like the skin of a house y, its eyes filmy white orbs, its bared teeth dripping saliva. Around its torso uttered a loincloth of greasy black feathers. The smell coming off it was more putrid than any dumpster—and believe me, I’d fallen into a few.

“FOOD!” it howled.

“Kill it!” I yelled at Meg.

“Swerve!” she countered.

One of the many annoying things about being incarcerated in my puny mortal body: I was Meg McCaffrey’s servant. I was bound to obey her direct commands. So when she yelled “swerve,” I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The hearse handled beautifully. It careened across three lanes of traffic, barreled straight through the guardrail, and plummeted into the canyon below.

[our-jensen-ackles-love]

Dancing In The Dark; 8.

Dean Winchester x Reader 

Summary: You made a mistake last night.. you went home with a married man. A man whom you had crushed on since your first day at work, a man who you knew had secrets, a man whose wife had invited you over to dinner time and time again. So how did the two of you end up in bed last night? 

Word Count: 1.9k 

Warnings: a little angst for ya. 

Author’s Note: all mistakes are mine, hopefully you don’t kill me.

BUY ME A KO-FI     SERIES MASTERLIST    FEEDBACK

8.

It had to have been sometime after two in the morning when you awoke to what sounded like Dean’s deep voice echoing off the bedroom walls.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” he whispered the best he could, making you realize that he was probably on his phone - the one that he always kept next to him on your other night stand. “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

You were holding your breath, trying to piece together who was on the other side of this phone call, but no one was coming to mind. Well, that was a lie, there was one person who came to mind, but you had to think that it had been close to three weeks since the divorce filings, there would be no way in hell she would be trying something now.

“Alright, listen, and I need to remain calm,” there was a pause. “Remember where I kept the salt? Go and grab it, cover all the windows and under the door. Make sure that you have enough leftover to make a circle.”

Another pause and you felt the bed shift as he moved to stand, still keeping his voice hushed. “I’ll be over there shortly.”

You listened as you heard him slip on his jeans, trying to quiet the clang of his belt. You listened as you heard him shuffle for something in that little backpack you had grown to love seeing in your tiny little apartment. You listened as his sock clad feet padded across the bedroom floor, before squeezing your eyes shut when you sensed he was in front of you.

The heat of his body was all you felt when he leaned over your frame. Trying to keep yourself as “relaxed” as you could, attempting give the illusion that we were actually asleep, you felt the coolness of his lips push on your temple.

Holding your breath, you waited until you heard the click of your front door. You had finally gotten around to giving Dean the spare key so that he could come and go as he pleased, but the last thing you thought he would do would be using it to sneak out.

Without really giving yourself time to over analyze the situation, as much as your half awake brain was trying to convince you to do, you hopped up and ran to slip on some shoes. It was crazy, but you knew the only way you were going to get your brain to stop circling around who he was going to see at this time of night was to head over there.

Taking the back roads, to avoid being caught trailing him and having to answer the kind of questions you were sure you were ready to face, you found your way to the Braeden’s house and just like always, almost every single light was on in the place - lighting it up like a beacon for the whole world to see.

“No,” you whispered as you saw Dean’s pick-up whip into the driveway. Your heart sank as you saw the way he parked the car and raced out of the driver’s seat, fist pounding on the front door only for Lisa to swing it open in nothing, but a nightie.

If you could hear a person’s heartbreak, you could confirm that it happened when you saw the way that Lisa wrapped her arms around her supposed soon-to-be ex husband. You knew that you needed to get out of there, you just weren’t sure where to go.

--

It must have been hours of you wasting gas just to circle around town, looking for anything that could keep your mind at bay. As promising as drowning your sorrows in a bottle of whiskey sounded, you knew it was only a short term solution for getting away from your problems. By the time the sun broke through, you found yourself in front of the local coffee shop.

Shutting off the engine, you looked down at your pajama clad legs while trying to decide if it was worth your wild to go in and get a caffeine fix. The idea of trying to face the day, and possible conversation, with anything other than a sugary, butterscotch flavored cappuccino sounded like utter hell.

Something buzzed in your coat pocket. Pulling your your phone, you saw a picture that you and Dean had taken together just a couple weeks ago flash across the screen. He was smiling, causing his eyes to crinkle up at the corners and you had been making some sort of goofy face that required your eyes to be crossed and your tongue to be lazily hanging out. You both looked so content with each other, but it was a feeling you couldn’t share with anyone else. Because you were his best little secret.

You hit the ignore button, but made note that this was the third time he had called you in the last thirty minutes. He had probably gotten home not too long ago and realized you weren’t there. A part of you wondered how that made him feel; guilty or forgotten?

Getting the courage to get out of the car, you swung open the car door before following the same action with the glass door of the coffee shop. It being six in the morning on a Thursday, it was only reasonable that there was a line of zombie like customers needing their fix.

Your phone buzzed once more in your pocket, but you just let it ring, knowing if it was important the person on the other line would leave a voicemail. By the time you reached the front of the line, you still weren’t sure just what you were jonesing for. Looking away from the menu above the cashier, you made awkward eye contact with the college aged kid before you. “If you were having a life crisis right now, what would you order?”

“Uh, a coffee.”

The kid didn’t need to be bombarded with your life problems. “Alright, can I have a coffee with two extra shots and maybe a pump or two of something with caramel in it.”

He nodded his head, blonde curls bouncing against his forehead as he repeated your order and giving you a total. Paying it, you made your way over to the small table with the single chair that was cozied up right by the store’s little fire place while you waited for your name to be called with your coffee.

Knowing that you were going to be spending most of you time here, you pulled out your phone, noticing how Dean had called you two more times while you were in line. Ignoring the missed calls, you pulled up your best friend’s number, shooting her a quick text explaining that you weren’t feeling too good and wouldn’t be in to work today.

She responded quickly wishing you to feel better because she wasn’t about to be coming in to work tomorrow all hungover. Despite how shitty you felt, her response made you laugh.

“Y/N!”

Glancing up, you saw a paper cup hit the counter before the barista behind the bar walked back to start another order, waiting for you to come and retrieve it. Shrugging off your jacket, you hung it on the back of your chair making sure it was your placeholder for the table, not that it was likely that people would be rushing to sit and sip some coffee when they all needed to be at work.

“Thank you,” you mumbled in the general direction of the girl tucked behind the giant espresso machine, not even sure if she heard you before heading back to your table.

Someone grabbed your forearm tightly, stalling you from taking another step forward. “Does your phone not work this morning?”

Your heart both fluttered and sunk at the sound of his voice. “Mornin’ to you too, Winchester.”

“That’s all you are going to say is, ‘mornin’’ to me?”

Shrugging enough that your arm was released from his grasp, you continued your trek back over to your abandoned jacket. “I mean, I could ask you how you found me.”

All too aware of the way his footsteps followed you back to your table, he pulled a spare chair away from the table next to you, swinging it around so that he was sitting across from you. “It’s called a GPS tracker.”

“You have a tracker on my phone?”

Dean shook his head, eyes still on you to the point you weren’t sure if he had blinked yet - let alone by how bloodshot they looked. “No, you have your location shared to all your contacts.”

“Oh.”

“Y/N,” he signed, running his hand through his hair and down the length of his exhausted looking face. “Where the hell have you been?”

You looked down at top of your cup, gently removing the lid to allow some of the heat to escape; the steam disappearing up into the air almost as soon as it had the freedom. “I’ve just been out driving.”

“Care to tell me why?”

You gave him a shrug, your throat closing up at the thought of even having to explain to him what you had seen when you tailed him, but knowing that if you didn’t it, would just build up and build up until you were certain you would explode. “I just.. I needed to clear my head.”

Dean leaned forward, a hand tentatively reaching across the table towards you. “You followed me this morning, didn’t you?”

Your silence seemed to be all the answer he needed because his hand retreated quickly, running through his hair once more. Dean looked over at you, his eyes roaming across your face as several thoughts ran through his head, probably trying to figure out just what you saw.

“Y/N, I can promise you right now, it’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t that what everyone always says when they get caught doing something they aren’t supposed to?”

He leaned forward, daring to cup your cheek so that you would look up at him and stop trying to busy yourself with the sleeve on your to-go cup. “There.. There is something you don’t know about me.”

“It would appear so.”

The bitterness in your tone was cold enough that Dean’s jaw set and he practically shivered despite his back being practically pressed against the fireplace. “No, really. There are some things about my past that you don’t know about.”

You glared at him, waiting for him to continue, but he seemed to be waiting for the okay that you even wanted to hear him speak. “Okay, then, do you care to share?”

“I,” he paused, bringing his hand back to clasp his other in front of him, everything from the tone of his voice to his overall demeanor was all business. “I was a hunter.”

Snickering, you noticed how his face didn’t change when yours did. “What? Like you shot game? What’s so brooding about that?”

“You know those tales about the things that go bump in the night?”

His tone was still unwavering, making you slightly concerned, even if you were still pretty pissed at him. “Like, the boogeyman?”

“Even worse.”

“There are worse things than the boogeyman?”

Dean looked around the little cafe before leaning in closer, giving you a full view of those green eyes of his. “How about the Devil?”

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[maine-writes]

The Execution

It was a grand spectacle. 

For weeks, Moff Edrian Porum boasted of his capture of an “insidious rebel commander”. The Imperial News Network plastered the Twi’lek’s blue face throughout Praxus City, announcing the time of her public execution, and reminding everyone of whom they serve. 

A grand platform was erected in the center of the city, so that Imara’s death would be visible to all in attendance. Porum invited military leaders, Imperial elites, and wealthy benefactors to the affair, an obvious political manuver. 

In the sweltering heat of the mid-summer’s day, beneath the Praxian sun, the crowd roared for the Twi’lek��s death. Imara defiantly faced the jeering crowd, her steel gaze fixated on the gilded raised platform on the other side, where Porum and his guests watched from. Her body ached and her faced was bruised, as expected after spending time in Porum’s prison. 

The fat, toad-like human had a twisted grin across his face as he imagined Imara’s body writhing in pain. This was his domain; the skyscrapers that surrounded the square, the speeders that zoomed through the air, all belonged to him and were under his control. And now, this beautiful Twi’lek, wrapped in leather and cloth, bound by chains, was as well. 

He stood from his seat and stepped forth, and the crowd turned to face him. The stormtroopers that stood guard on both platforms, and around the perimeter of the square, all stood at attention, their rifles presented and their armor polished. 

“My fellow citizens, proud citizens, of the Empire,” Porum began, speaking with a surprising eloquence, “Before you stands a rebel; a criminal, a murderer who attempted to harm our fair city!” 

The crowd showed Imara no mercy, screaming for her head. Porum seemed to take a sick joy from this depraved, carnival-like atmosphere. Orb-shaped droids warbled and whirled as they floated around in the air, recording the pomp and circumstance of the event. 

“What say you we show this vile woman what we do to her kind?” he asked the crowd. 

As the people cheered, the length of chain that was connected to the platform and those that bound her wrists withdrew, pulling her to her knees. As the stormtroopers on the platform took aim at her, Porum asked, “Any last words, rebel?” 

Imara, her unfliching gaze never once leaving Porum, had only this to say: “Smile.” 

There was a thunderous crack that echoed through the square as a sharp pain shot through Porum’s body. Suddenly, one of the camera droids in front of Porum began to fire numerous blaster shots into him and his guests. As the life drained from his body, Porum staggered forward before plummeting off the platform. 

Panic swept over the crowd and the guards scanned the tops of the skyscrapers to find the shooter. Amidst the pandemonium, two hooded figures stood out, calm and unmoved. To the guard’s surprise, a shaft of cool blue light emerged from the hand of one, and one of brilliant crimson emerged from a length of metal in the hands of the other. The two figures removed their hoods, revealing themselves to their adversaries; a young, bearded man with jet black hair and dark skin, who wielded the blue lightsabre; and a human-like being wrapped from head to toe in cloth, wearing the iconic mask of the Sand People, who wielded the red-bladed gaderffi. 

The two pushed their way through the crowd as the alarmed stormtroopers wildly shot at them, which were either deflected or hit an unfortunate civilian. When they reached the platform, the two leapt up to it with ease, to the amazement and terror of the stormtroopers. 

In a flurry of swift movements, the young man sliced through the rifles of the stormtroopers around him and pushed them off the platform with an unseen force. In contrast, the Tusken bludgeoned the soldiers’ first with the weighted end of his gaderffi, stunning them, before slicing at the their arms and legs with the blade, and then finally running his blade through them. 

The young man then produced another lightsabre from his belt, using it’s green blade to cut through Imara’s bindings as his accomplice disarmed his share of the guard. 

“You’re late.” the Twi’lek said, taking the extra lightsabre. 

“Had to make it look good for the camera.” the man quickly quipped. “At least Tess didn’t miss, right?” 

As if on cue, an airspeeder swooped down from behind a building, piloted by a small brown Ewok. Sitting beside the furry creature was a young woman with short, black hair, wielding a long slugthrower rifle. The entirety of her right arm was made of dark grey metal, her thin fingers clacking on her self-made rifle. 

The Ewok yelled incomprehensibly at the trio, motioning toward them. 

“He’s telling you to get in.” the young woman informed them, “If that’s not obvious.” 

As soon as the three hopped aboard, the speeder raced out of the square, weaving around the blaster fire from the guards below. 

“So this is Plan B, Tessa?” the young man asked, “Where’d you even get this?” 

“I borrowed it!” said the girl, “Dude was totally cool with it! Sort of. He doesn’t really know I borrowed it, but I left a nice note.” 

In pursuit was another airspeeder, one piloted by local law enforcement. As the passenger shot at them with a blaster, the Ewok quickly turned around in his seat, taking aim with a grenade launcher almost as big as he was. 

A single grenade was enough to take down the airspeeder. As the burning wreck fell to the ground, the furry alien laughed and cheered with glee, shouting in his native language. His friends would’ve appreciated that he waited until they were farther from their pursuers. 

“You’re one weird little guy, Prug.” Tess said, seemingly unaffected by the explosion, before returning to the passengers in the back seats. “How’d you guys like the modifications I made to that camera droid?”

“Where’s the Bull Shark?!” the young man asked, his ears still ringing. 

“It’ll show up any moment now.” Tess replied, “Got a new pilot droid for it.”

As they passed the last skyscraper, the group spotted their beloved Bull Shark, a modified HWK-290, it’s sharp, bulky bow prominently featuring decals that resemble the triangular teeth of a predator. They quickly approached the aft cargo bay doors, which slowly opened before them, and landed the airspeeder inside. 

Safely inside their vessel, the group took a moment to savor their victory. 

“Told you the plan would work, Gnask.” the young man said to the Tusken Raider. 

“Don’t celebrate too early, Naveed.” the Tusken warned him. “There’s always another sandstorm.”

“What could possibly go wro-!?” the young man began before being interrupted by an explosion, throwing everyone in the cargo bay off their feet. 

“That.” Tess said, pulling herself back up on her feet before rushing out the door toward the main body of the ship.

When they regrouped in the cockpit, Tess quickly pushed the pilot droid aside and Prug jumped into the co-pilot seat. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here before whatever hit us hits us again.” she grumbled as she threw various switches and checked a number of flickering screens, her Ewok friend babbling unintelligibly in agreement. 

“Guys.” Imara uttered, looking out the cockpit window. 

It didn’t take long for the others to spot the same thing she did; the unmistakable, dagger-like shape of an Imperial Star Destroyer. And when they did, their hearts sank and they all fell silent. 

“There’s the storm.” Gnask deadpanned. 

A short story based on recent Star Wars tabletop game adventure. I was playing a Tusken Raider Sith. GM argued that they were not smart enough to be Jedi, so I asked if I could make him a Sith. 

[zrtranscripts]

Season 6, Mission 16: Poison

Report anything suspicious

JODY MARSH: Is it a bit weird that we know Pit Viper has the contract on Selma? Do they usually advertise that sort of stuff?

AMELIA SPENS: In general, their favored form of advertising is heads on spikes. I don't know how the Laundry learned Pit Viper have Selma's contract. Perhaps Sigrid wanted it broadcast to discourage others from running.

PAULA COHEN: To discourage others from running? From her Handmaid's Tale-style fertility baby serum factory?

PETER LYNNE: And they weren't even injecting babies with zombie spit in Gilead.

AMELIA SPENS: [parks vehicle] Well, this is as far as I can take you. Highgate, the badlands of London. Well, some of the worse lands. Anyway, I'm not getting nearer the Pit Vipers than this.

PETER LYNNE: Surprised you got as close as this, to be honest. You going soft?

PAULA COHEN: Or do you like us, Amelia?

AMELIA SPENS: I've always liked you, but liking has nothing to do with business. And this is business. Buying out Selma's contract is worth a shot. If you manage to deal with Pit Viper, they'll be grateful I sent the business their way. And if you don't make a deal with them, they'll be grateful I sent their targets their way. Win-win-win.

JODY MARSH: I'm always surprised. I should try to stop being surprised. That could be my New Year's resolution, actually: don't be surprised when Amelia seems helpful, but actually has an angle.

AMELIA SPENS: Oh, but if you weren't surprised, it would hardly be as much fun! Right, you lot. Pit Viper's HQ is in the London Underground. You have my directions. You'll have to do some fast talking when you get there. 

See up there, amid the plumes of oil fires and the burned buildings? That hellscape is what remains of Highgate Station, and is absolutely the safest way into the Underground, this side of the wall. Well, I've got to be back at New Canton soon for an oil treatment. Go on. Do what you do. Run!

PAULA COHEN: It doesn't sound safe.

PETER LYNNE: It's not likely to be safe. I heard the London Underground was totally filled with zombies.

PAULA COHEN: I heard there were enclaves down there. Found their way to the Cold War bunkers and have been living off old tinned SPAM ever since.

JODY MARSH: We've got to do this. Pit Viper are after us and after Selma, but they're neutral. Like Amelia, they just go to the highest bidder. So if we can buy out both our contracts, they'll be working for us against Sigrid, not against us. And I'm sorry, Peter, Paula, Five, but you've all shown you're more indestructible than most.

PETER LYNNE: No, that's fair. I've got more lives than a Christmas number one, and I like to think I'm not quite as annoying.

PAULA COHEN: [laughs] If you want annoying, I'll sing you the dreidel song if we get through this. All right, Five. Let's get down these stairs into the pit of Hades.

JODY MARSH: Amelia's map is pretty clear. She's put it together from – oh, nice. She's written, "Compiled from the reports of those of my people who made it back alive." She says at the bottom of the staircase, you turn... towards the skeletons.

PETER LYNNE: Ooh, look, there are actual skeletons nailed up to the wall here. What delightful taste in interior decoration the inhabitants of these tunnels do have. [gasps] You could ask Zoe and Phil to do a radio segment on it, Jody. "Post-Apocalypse Decor: Dos and Don'ts."

[zombies moan]

PAULA COHEN: And to add to the ambiance, there are zombies. How chic. Five, you take the lead. Time to run.

PETER LYNNE: Oh yay! Someone's smeared this part of the wall with their own blood and feces!

PAULA COHEN: How do you know it's their own? There are viscera there. I suppose it might be somebody else's body cavity contents.

PETER LYNNE: Hmm, you make a fair point, Doctor, as you always do. Someone smeared this wall with blood, feces, and viscera of unknown origin.

PAULA COHEN: Pit Viper's doing a very efficient job of trying to put people off finding them.

JODY MARSH: That's what everyone says about them. They're an unstoppable killing machine. Once they've taken on a job, they never give up. There are no lengths they won't go to to do what they’ve set out to.

PETER LYNNE: Well, if you're going to be a deadly assassin force, at least be an excellent one, I suppose. You know, I think this is almost as bad as commuting in London before the apocalypse.

PAULA COHEN: Oh, I don't know. At least we're getting somewhere. No one's canceled our transport, and we don't have to deal with Southern Rail apologizing for our inconvenience in a totally unconvincing way, which makes it clear that, ideally, they'd like to inconvenience us some more. Possibly using blood, feces, and viscera of unknown origin.

[train creaks]

JODY MARSH: Guys, a train has just come loose from its siding uphill from you. It's rolling towards you!

PETER LYNNE: Is that a coincidence, or does someone know we're here?

JODY MARSH: No time to find out now. Run!

PETER LYNNE: Paula, Five, up here!

PAULA COHEN: Five, take my hand!

[train passes, PETER LYNNE and PAULA COHEN laugh]

JODY MARSH: Wow, that was close!

PETER LYNNE: You know, last time I was in London, something similar happened to me. Your wife almost didn't save me, Paula. I think she'd have left me there to be crushed by the train. 

PAULA COHEN: But would you rather she had?

PETER LYNNE: [laughs] I think maybe I would have, then. I don't know. It's funny, isn't it? Keep expecting this grand moment. Flash of meaning where I realize what I'm for, and why I'm like this. It didn't come. Had to work it out for myself.

PAULA COHEN: Yeah, I know what you mean. For a long time, I asked myself, why me? Why was I infected? Why is it me who can't even play with my daughter without checking myself for nicks and scrapes every time? There's never an answer. Why did one person die in the apocalypse and another didn't? Because we're all subject to the laws of randomness of the universe.

PETER LYNNE: I like that. We're a playlist on shuffle. Things just come up. Sometimes you think you see a pattern in them, but it's you making the pattern, not the world.

PAULA COHEN: Ugh. More zoms I think, Jody.

JODY MARSH: Um, Amelia's map says it's an enclave of city commuters.

PETER LYNNE: I see them in the dark corner of the platform. 10 of them. Teeth filed to points, and pinstriped loin cloths. They're holding – are those broken shards of iPad?

PAULA COHEN: Not too dangerous, then.

JODY MARSH: Amelia's map says they dip them in a noxious compound of flesh-eating bacteria that can destroy even zombies. She also says, "Do remember, bankers are the ones who ran the economy off a cliff. They know how to muck stuff up."

PETER LYNNE: She's got a point. Which direction?

JODY MARSH: Straight ahead, then right. Go.

[spear thunks into wall]

PETER LYNNE: And one final spear outrun. The bankers have given up for now.

JODY MARSH: Amelia's notes say, "Don't kid yourself. They'll be back, and in greater numbers." I think she put that stuff in because she thought Sam would be on this mission. Have you noticed how they're getting friendly since they've been working on the baby rescue together?

PAULA COHEN: Yes, but I don't like to think about it. We'd better keep moving. How far are we from Pit Viper now?

JODY MARSH: Amelia's notes - mm. Get a bit sketchy here. She says, "If you get this far, you'll have done better than most people I sent down here. I think the commuters ate most of them! Well, you should find Pit Viper if you continue down the tunnel until you find another train. Or a building."

PAULA COHEN: That's vague.

PETER LYNNE: Oh, God. Look at that.

JODY MARSH: What are you seeing?

PAULA COHEN: Peter's pointing to... the wall of the platform?

PETER LYNNE: No, the shadows. The shadows, they're following us, look!

PAULA COHEN: Oh, no. It's headless zombies, Jody. Those indestructible zombies. The ones you can't kill by taking the head off! They must be behind us. We can see their shadows. God knows what would happen if one of them bit me.

PETER LYNNE: Or me, or Five. We've got to get out of here. Run!

[zombies growl]

PETER LYNNE: They're not getting any closer.

PAULA COHEN: They're not getting any further away!

PETER LYNNE: Yes. Peculiar. They've been exactly keeping pace with us, just a little behind us the whole way. Just a sec. Stop a moment.

PAULA COHEN: Stop?

PETER LYNNE: Just three seconds. I'll time it. One Mississippi, two hippopotamus, three extraterrestrial. Look.

PAULA COHEN: They've... stopped.

PETER LYNNE: Intriguing, isn't it?

PAULA COHEN: What are you doing?

PETER LYNNE: Heading back a bit to see what's going on. I shouldn't think Pit Viper will thank us for leading a horde of indestructible zombies to their hideout. Probably won't put them in a deal-making mood.

PAULA COHEN: Fair enough. Something is off here. Let's go with, Five. Huh. Would you look at that?

JODY MARSH: Again, I can't see.

PETER LYNNE: They are decapitated zombies with their heads in their arms.

JODY MARSH: So maybe get out of there?

PAULA COHEN: They're nailed to a little wagon. Look. There are remote controlled brakes.

PETER LYNNE: That's incredibly efficient. Keep everyone at bay, minimum effort or danger. Brilliant tactical work.

JODY MARSH: Yeah. I've heard that about Pit Viper. Always get the job done.

PETER LYNNE: Yes... yes, they would.

PAULA COHEN: Watch out. Someone's coming. It's... a train guard. She's still wearing her RMT uniform.

GUARD: I see you've passed the final obstacle. You must be here for the Pit Viper.

PETER LYNNE: Why, yes, we are.

GUARD: Come with me now. Run!

[classical music plays]

JODY MARSH: Where are you guys? My cams are giving me nothing.

PAULA COHEN: Jody, it's actually lovely! Nice, quiet tube carriage. Upholstered seats, curtains on the windows. Pit Viper have set themselves up well. Protected and secure.

PETER LYNNE: Feared by everyone, they can go anywhere. Talk to all sides. How very, very clever.

GUARD: Are you ready to meet the Pit Viper?

PETER LYNNE: Oh, I think we are.

PAULA COHEN: Jody, there's a door at the end of the carriage. The guard is just -

GUARD: [opens door] Step inside, please.

JODY MARSH: Where are you, now?

PAULA COHEN: An office. Very tidy. Utilitarian. A map of the new UK on the wall, and there's... a person in a viper mask sitting behind the desk.

GUARD: I'll leave you now with the Pit Viper. You parley alone.

PAULA COHEN: Yeah, um. Thank you. [door closes, music turns off] Uh, Pit Viper. We're here from Abel Township. We know you have a contract on us, and... we wanted to discuss it. [sighs] Oh, look. Would you mind taking the mask off?

[cloth rustles]

JODY MARSH: Are they doing it? Taking the mask off?

PETER LYNNE: Yup.

PAULA COHEN: Oh, Jody. You'll never guess who Pit Viper is.

JODY MARSH: Is it - ? Oh God, it's not Sigrid, is it?

JANINE DE LUCA: No, Miss Marsh. It's me, Janine.

[ronaldbosieyiii]

Tiny House: Part Three

Things I used for this project:

ISOTunes Bluetooth Hearing Protection

Circular Saw

Framing Nailer

Custom Tool Belt

Slap Stapler

There was actually two months time in between my first visit (when the first two videos were made) and this second visit when we made this video above. In that time, Anne completely cleared out the site by removing the old shed she knocked over prior to us starting on this one. She also leveled out the land and caulked and primed most of the tiny house. 

Bonus for this part of the build: George Vondriska came to help as well!

This week we started off with the electrical. First using a chalk line to mark the heights of the electrical boxes. Actually I held one end of the line but then while George started nailing on boxes, I started screwing down the floor. Anne and I used nails when we were putting it together, but adding screws will prevent squeaking over time. 

While we were keeping busy there, Anne was going around the studs drilling holes in order to run the Romex. Anne figured out where she would be placing her panel then we started routing the wire. She actually plans to do solar in the future but while figuring out that process, we stuck with the traditional method of power. The tiny house will have a few boxes along the lower walls, a few light scones above the windows, then 6 outlets in the ceiling for lights or maybe fans. 

Working as a team, George would work ahead and drill the holes needed, while I followed him running the wire. I’m not sure if you can see or not but Anne placed the level across both our ladders to hang the Romex wiring from so she could feed it to me as needed. This is a great solution if you don’t have a spool caddy. 

After getting all the wall outlets and switches wired in, we ran the wiring to the ceiling lights then started on insulation. We went with pre cut and faced batts and started on the ceiling as it’s the worst. What we found to work quickest is George and I would be on the ladders with Anne passing us the batts. I would feed in my end and staple it down. Then pass it to George where he would repeat on his end of the batt. All the while Anne would be cutting another batt to size to fit the wall cavity my ladder was currently positioned in front of. By the time I split the batt down the center and fed it behind the wiring in the cavity, George was done with his securing and would pass the stapler back to me. 

All three of us got a kick out of trying to perfect our timing on this. : )

When it came to the walls, it seemed to go even quicker as most of the bays were as easy as taking a batt out then stuffing it in the cavity. However, we were working with just a single stapler so we ended up with one person stuffing (making sure to split the batt and place half behind the wiring), one person stapling, then the third person measuring the odd ball size cavities and making those cuts needed. This kept all three of us busy and knocked the job out quickly. 

Alright, up next was drywall! Which I was stoked about as I’ve never done drywall before. With the ceiling going to be the most difficult, we started there. Also you want to start on the ceiling so your wall boards butt right up to it. 

We first made a helper in the shape of a T. This will be used to hold up the drywall sheet while we have time to secure it.

Now folks, I know this to be called a dead man, and George knows it to be an old lady……which are quite different. Either way, you can see how it works here. George and I are able to lift the sheet into place, then when we were happy with it’s position Anne could kick in the dead man which allowed us to rest our shoulders and start attaching. 

Before attaching the panel though, George would first cut out around the electrical boxes with a router and a bit called a roto zip. It works similar to a flush trim bit except it’s much smaller and is designed for this specific application.

Then using a collated gun, which is a drill that feeds screws off a magazine clip, I would start attaching my side to the studs. Since there was only one collated gun, George would use a regular drill to drive in screws on his side. At least enough of them to hold up the panel so he could hop down and start lining out the next sheet and I could finish up the attaching. 

A few other things I learned that are helpful on this step is to mark all your studs and rafters on the panels before setting them into place. This way you can very quickly go through and attach it. Stagger your seams just like with any other sheet application. When you start on a second row use a full panel and start in the center of the room then work your way out. Oh, and if you use a regular drill for drywall, look into a special bit for drywall screws that will prevent you from overdriving the screw.

You’ll notice that the drywall we are using is green, that’s because this is moisture and mold resistant. Anne noticed it was only going to cost $60 more to use this kind of drywall over the traditional kind and with it being in the forest and in Washington she decided it would be worth it. 

After getting the ceiling knocked out, we unloaded the rest of the drywall from the truck and into the tiny house so it would all be on hand to quickly throw up. The sheets come in a pack of two and just a tip, as you unload and stack them, peal off the paper ends and flip the outside panel so it faces the same direction as it’s partner. This way the entire stack is all facing the same way in the end and you won’t have to do a bunch of flipping around when you’re rockin.

With the ceiling done, next we repeated the process and knocked out the walls. We very quickly got into the groove of two people holding the panel up, while another attached….this was mostly my job because once I discovered the fun-ness of that collated drill I wasn’t willing to give it up…..When the sheet was attached enough to stay up, George would cut out for the boxes while Anne would measure for the next board and be prepping it with cutting it to length or height, then also laying out the stud lines….or going back with the regular drill and sinking any screws that didn’t properly seat with my gun. It is really important for the next step that you don’t have any scew heads protruding.

Now we were in Washington and dancing around rain the three days we had to work, so with a break in the rain, we decided to attach the roof before taping and mudding. 

You should remember from part two that Anne and I already progressed the roof to sheathing, roofing paper, and drip edge but were waiting on the metal roof to be delivered. So now it was as simple as passing the panels up, laying them down, and attaching them. While these panels are large, they aren’t that heavy so I was able to tilt it up to the roof then George was able to pull it up all the way and create a stack on the roof to use. 

One panel wasn’t long enough to have the overhang Anne was wanting so we started off by cutting a panel up to create a starter strip. Starting at the bottom of the roof we made a few spacers to make sure the overhang was even then another spacer to use as a guide on where to place our screws. This just keeps them in line and makes it look sharp in the end. 

After the starter row was complete we started laying down full panels, over lapping each one by one corrugation and again using a spacer to make sure the overhang was even along the top of the roof. This was my first time laying down a metal roof and I must say I’m a fan. It was easy and it looked very sharp afterwards. Total I don’t even know if the roof took us an hour to complete. 

Still taking advantage of the let up in rain, we continued on with the outside work. Moving over to the soffit. For this we used some plywood that Anne had on hand which happen to be some 3/8” material and cut it to size with a circular saw. And this wasn’t all that bad. Soffit on my shop was horrible and I think scarred me for life! Or at least my shoulders for life, but using boards only 8’ long made it extremely manageable. Tip for this step is to go through and mark all your studs on the siding before throwing up the soffit. If you forget it isn’t a big deal as you can just measure, but it does speed things up if you remember and mark. We attached them to the studs with a framing nailer.

It was in the middle of this step that George had to fly back to WI so we said our goodbyes but got back to work. Since Anne and I were already on ladders we went ahead and cut and threw up the remaining trim work needed. 

But after that, the only thing outside left to do was prime and paint but we decided to leave that and spend my last day in Washington getting further on the inside. 

Now Anne plans to do a nice reclaimed barn wood floor eventually but in the meantime we did a second layer of plywood for the subfloor. We tracked in a ton of mud through building so we made sure to sweep before laying these sheets down and also made sure to stagger the seams from the previous layer of treated plywood. 

That was of course a very simple step. Next we threw up a few sheets of cement board. This is because Anne is including a tiny stove in the tiny house. She will eventually plumb an exhaust line that will vent through the ceiling but for the mean time we just took care of the floor and walls by cutting a few boards then attaching them in place. Later Anne will cover these boards in stone and create an accent section that should look pretty adorable and cozy. 

Even though it’s far from ready to be installed, we at least wanted to unbox the tiny stove to set it in place and see how it would look. Pretty adorable and cozy if you ask me. 

Alrighty, now on to taping and bedding! Again this was a first for me and I will tell you now, that I loved this step. I wish I had more time to dive into it and get really good at it. Anne taught me what she learned from doing her shop build then we took off on it. It took us a second to figure out the best way to work efficiently but we eventually came to Anne going around and taping all the seams then me coming back and mudding. 

We used mesh tape for all of the seams but paper tape in all the corners. Anne was having a heck of a time with the corners, particularly on the ceiling, but a friend suggested wetting the tape before applying it and Anne said this made all the difference in the world. So just a tip if you’re new to drywalling. 

We made it a point to complete the first coat before calling it quits that day so that it could be setting up over night and allow us to apply a second coat before I had to head back home. The next day we started the day off with the second coat hoping it would dry by afternoon time frame so we miiiight be able to get a third coat on, but no such luck. With all the rain Washington was having when I was there, there was too must moisture in the air for it to dry quickly. No problem though. 

This last day was Anne’s actual birthday. We ended up eating two different kinds of birthday cake for breakfast, spent a few hours mudding together on this awesome little house we built together, then spent the rest of the time playing around her farm with her lovable animals. I just want to say that I feel very blessed to have found a friend who thinks this was a perfect day.

Be sure and watch Anne’s YouTube channel to see the rest of the progress of Tiny House and I hope you enjoyed this series.

(If you haven’t seen part one and two in this series, you can check out part one here and part two here)

The post Tiny House: Part Three appeared first on Wilker Do's.

from Wilker Do's https://ift.tt/2CJKPa3 from Ronald Bosley III on Blogger https://ift.tt/2PyzgVQ

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Pershing 9X test

The Pershing 9X may be as fast and fabulous as ever but it now has the polished manners to match its outrageous performance

Back in the 90s supercars used to be big, brash noisy things that were brutish to drive and more than a little intimidating. If you overcooked it on a corner or backed off the throttle at the wrong time there was a real danger of stacking your Ferrari F40 or Lamborghini Diablo into a hedge. The same was true of fast, surface-drive boats. Alan Harper tells a salutary tale of the time he barrelled into a turn with too much trim and sent the whole shooting match into a violent spin that sent fellow journalists scattering around the cockpit. It wasn't until the advent of the Honda NSX that people started to realise you could still enjoy all the speed, style and grip of a mid-engined sportscar without feeling like you'd just survived three rounds with Mike Tyson. Of course some old dinosaurs bemoaned the fact that supercars had lost their edge now that anyone could jump behind the wheel and give it some stick, but the steady rise in sales of supercars that were faster and prettier than ever but easier to drive soon shut them up. I mention this only because when Pershing announced last year that it was going to start fitting IPS drives and Seakeeper gyros to its latest offering, you could almost hear the ghosts of powerboat racers past spinning in their graves. To dyed-in-the-wool purists it must have sounded like Ducati was going to start fitting stabilisers and shopping baskets to its latest range of superbikes. I'm about to find out if their concerns are justified.

  Baying superboat

The Pershing 9X I'm sitting at the helm of still looks and feels like a red-blooded superboat. The Fulvio De Simoni styling is as sleek and aggressive as ever. The carbon-fibre decks and superstructure show no expense has been spared in the quest for performance, and it's powered by a pair of massive 2,638hp MTU V16s, with razor-sharp surface-drive propellers glistening under the bathing platform.

Only the small joystick jutting from the armrest of the main captain's chair and a pair of Seakeeper MG9 gyro stabilisers tucked into the engineroom suggest there's more to this set-up than meets the eye. Pershing calls it the Easy Set system and as the name suggests its purpose is to demystify the dark art of berthing and driving a powerful surface-drive boat. It had better work because my experience of driving such craft is slimmer than a stick insect's waist and I'm about to unleash the full fury of those V16s on a very trusting crew. Perched high up on the innermost of the three captain's chairs with the distinctive single-spoke wheel an arm's stretch away in front of my knees and flanked by ZF's stainless steel throttles on my right and the aforementioned joystick on my left, it feels more like the command station of the starship Enterprise than a regular boat helm. Three tall touchscreens dominate the view forward while a pair of deep windscreen mullions on either side block out a chunk of my peripheral vision. I take the decision that in a boat this fast it's what's in front of me that counts and ease the throttles decisively forward.

Somewhere behind me I can hear the pitch of the engines rise but it's strangely muted and remote like the rumble of distant thunder. It takes a few seconds for the propellers to find their bite – the inertia of a 68-tonne boat takes some shifting – but a glance behind me reveals the water has turned from glassy blue to boiling white. Then it starts to happen, slowly at first but with a sense of impending inevitability that comes from having 5,276hp at your disposal.

The transition onto the plane is almost imperceptible as the Easy Set system adjusts the trim to compensate but once the turbos kick there's no hiding the sheer immensity of the forces at work. The boiling mass of white erupts into a full-blown rooster tail, the water releases its grip on the hull and the 9X starts to skim across the surface like a smartly-thrown pebble.

    Strong, silent type

The strange thing is that from where I'm sitting it all feels remarkably chilled. We're reeling in the horizon at 42 knots in a 92ft cruise missile but without the speed over ground numbers flashing up on the Simrad MFD, I really wouldn't know how fast we are travelling. The engines are so smooth that we can chat without raising our voices, the seals on the doors and windows block out any wind noise, and the Easy Set system means there's nothing for me to do except decide how much throttle to use and point the bow where I want it to go. I try to induce some drama with an armful of lock. The fly-by-wire steering has an odd, artificially weighted feel that self-centres when you release it and sure enough the computer interprets my intentions, adjusts the trim and feeds in the rudders so that the boat traces a smooth steady arc that would barely ruffle the surface of a G&T.

It's only when I pass over the helm and retreat to the open cockpit that I get a proper sense of the sound and fury. There's no hiding the full power of the engines out here and the sheer speed and height of the rooster tail is a genuinely awe-inspiring sight. Of course you have got the option of driving from the sundeck up top if you want to feel the wind in your hair, although once again the wheel is a long way in front of you and down by your ankles. Perhaps that's why the joystick is there for you to make course adjustments under way as well as help with berthing. Now you too can pull into port and look like a boating god as you point and twist the joystick in the direction you want to go while the computer juggles the drives, thrusters and rudders to follow your every command.

Of course there's a lot more to the 9X than simply getting to the best bay ahead of the chasing pack in order to grab the prime anchoring spot. You want to enjoy the boat when you get there and that's where Pershing has also taken major strides. The tender garage has a drop-down ramp that makes launching the Williams 385 and PWC a doddle. The foredeck seating area and cleverly concealed sundeck up top provide a number of different options for guests to hang out in the sun, while the clever drop-down patio doors create a seamless flow between the cockpit and saloon. And of course those two powerful Seakeeper stabilisers ensure it remains rock steady even in a Mediterranean swell.

  Inside information

Personally, I found the interior decor of this boat a little too cool and clinical for my tastes but at this level customisation is a given so you should be able to specify a look that meets your needs. The master suite has 6ft 5in of headroom throughout, a totally flat floor and a large walk-in wardrobe in addition to a lavish ensuite bathroom.

The forward VIP is a little more unusual with its offset bed and asymmetrical hull windows making it seem a little less welcoming than the smaller but brighter guest double. The fourth cabin follows up the rear with a pair of narrower single beds. The crew area occupies a similar footprint to the master cabin but houses the ship's galley as well as two ensuite crew cabins.

As we return to port I'm in awe of the 9X. It is a remarkable achievement that such a fast, powerful machine can also be such a relaxing, civilised ride. And the fact that it's vastly easier to manoeuvre than any of its predecessors is a major win for owners and crew alike. If I'm honest, there is a small part of me that questions whether driving a 92ft Pershing with over 5,200hp should be a little more involving but the reality is that the owners themselves will rarely drive the boat (that's what crew are for) and the mere fact that they can now do so safely without a master class in surface-drive handling is a thrill in itself. As Ferrari and Lamborghini found out some time ago, it pays to flatter the driver rather than frighten them and the Pershing 9X will charm them all the way to the bank.

  At a glance…

Length overall: 92ft 4in Beam: 20ft 5in Waterline length: 69ft Draught: 5ft 5in Fuel capacity: 9,000 litres Water capacity: 1,200 litres Displacement: 68 tonnes

Contact: Pershing

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This article Pershing 9X test appeared first on Motor Boat & Yachting.

[davidastbury]

August 2017

Don Coming up to forty Don knew he was at the top of his game – he was the best salesman of advertising space in the organisation, and his commission earnings were huge.  One afternoon, riding on his conceit, there was a flare up with the boss, which had been fermenting for a long time, and Don told him where to stick his job. This wasn’t altogether unplanned; his life was about to go into a new phase.  He had fallen in love with a colleague in the London office – a very beautiful woman who made him feel young again – being half his age – and she had suggested that he move in with her.  He could not believe how lucky he was. It must have been difficult telling his wife.  They went back a long way; she had been his girlfriend at seventeen; at eighteen she was pregnant and at nineteen they were married.  Maybe she had seen it coming – who knows?  Two days later he waited in the car-park for his daughter to finish work.  He put his face forward for a kiss and she hit him as hard as she could. Don settled into his new life with his new girlfriend.  Everything was very lovely.  But he hadn’t realised how hard she worked, or the extent of her ambition.  She worked long hours and would come home tired but still energetic – still buzzing with the atmosphere of her job and London life.  During the weekdays she never dropped her ‘work’ personality – he never had her to himself.  She never felt the need to relax, she would chatter about her day and the people with whom she worked (names that meant nothing to him) -  and she would get changed and want to eat out – they seemed to be always eating out. He quickly discovered that the job offers would not coming flooding to him.  People in the ad business, while showing pleasure at hearing from him, did not call him back.  So he would get up late and prowl around the flat.  Everything about the place was light and a bit girlish – even when she made a mess it was unmistakably a woman’s mess.  He began to feel a bit crude and heavily masculine – it began to annoy him.  So he started to visit the local pubs at lunchtime, and then back to the flat to sleep it off. I am sorry that I cannot give an ending because I have no contact with anyone who might know Don.  I am curious about the regret he must have felt – leaving his wife like that –  dumping her – just as she was about to start her cancer treatments.

Natasha Adorable little girl actress – surrounded by doting, important men; a child star  upstaging Orson Wells!  At six years old she was the earner in the family; all she had to do was learn her stuff and be adorable and the money poured in.  She said - ‘Mom told me to pose and smile and the cameraman was going to make me famous or something. I believed everything my mother told me.’  Her mom controlled everything. In her mid-teens she was brutally raped by a famous film actor.  Her mother prevented her calling the police, reasoning that the man would probably beat the charge and the outcome would be the end of the girl’s career. She married her dreamboat and appeared to be very happy – until one night she returned home unexpectedly and found him having sex with another man.  They were divorced.  Years later they met again and decided that they still loved each other and remarried. Her career was faltering.  She had an impeccable history of giving top value; she was the ultimate professional.  She was utterly reliable, but she was missing out, and that must have been hard to take. Maybe years of being subservient to the bosses; of jumping to do what they wanted; of the oppression of third-rate people, of unsatisfactory men and cloying parents, of having her real name taken away and never believing that she fitted with the new one, of being manipulated, of bumping into her rapist at events, of the lethal hypocrasy of some of her friends, of the searing headaches after too much alcohol, of the weirdness of her psychiatrist’s ‘treatments, of the insinuations of her husband’s friend, of the three of them in the boat together.  And that dark night in the bay when she drowned in black water.

Sunshine Today! A man and a little girl and a large dog – passing the house, heading towards the carnival up the road in the village.  The little girl is trotting, needing two or three steps to each of the man’s, and the dog is pulling.  Even though out of breath she is talking excitedly.   She’s looking up at him and explaining something; it’s as if she wants him to see her face, or he might miss the point.   He’s quite happy letting the dog pull, and he’s probably very happy for his daughter to chatter away – he’s happy that she knows all about whatever-it-is, and that she wishes to share it with him. I can hear a band in the distance, getting louder – trumpets and drums, and the man and the little girl and the dog head towards the music.

A Flighty Woman She let you down – big time!  Not to put too fine a point on it, she dumped on you from a great height.  I understand how you feel and I am very sorry. I will walk away with a head full of unspoken words. -  ‘Didn’t you have two fabulous years with her?  Didn’t you rush to throw your heart and soul at her, as if that would guarantee her loyalty?  Did she ever ask for all that you gave her? Didn’t you ever feel that you were corrupting her; turning her into something that became shameful to her?   Did you never understand that only the first lie is difficult, after that they just flow. ‘Why don’t you simply let her melt into the past.  You had good times – why not be grateful and see that knowing her was better than not knowing her.  People change and they go their ways –  loyalties realign, children grow up, parents die – be glad of all the happiness you can and don’t try to fix it, don’t press it with hateful permanence, like a butterfly impaled with a pin.’

The Ghosts of Oxford Street …  #1 It is said that if you walk the length of The Strand you will pass at least two murderers and one international spy.  Today, if you walk Oxford Street, preferably on a hot afternoon, it is likely you will meet the ghost of Dr. Stephen Ward. Ward loved Oxford Street for two reasons – it had lots of coffee bars; usually with low tables, bamboo screening, and uniformed girls serving foaming coffee in shallow glass cups – and outside, passing along the pavements, was a parade of the prettiest women in London.  He was well known in these coffee bars, always at a window seat, always primly dressed in suit and white shirt, chain-smoking his beloved Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes, sometimes alone and sketching, sometimes talking with a friend, but always, always with an eye on the young women passing by. He told his journalist friend Warwick Charlton that sitting and watching this display of loveliness was all he wanted out of life.  Women were essential to him – he could do without men, but never women.   He could talk about endlessly about ‘classifications of beauty’ or how beauty was perceived in different cultures.  His own preferences may not have matched the aesthetic of Lord Clark at the National Gallery, although who knows?  Perhaps Lord Clark also enthused at the new innovation of very short skirts (later to be called the ‘miniskirt) which was actually invented at a shop on Oxford Street. He never meant harm to anyone, but what can you do when an angry boyfriend shouts in the street and fires a gun?  Everything fell apart.  Bill disowned him. The web closed in on Christine, the press attacked him every day, his drawings were secretly bought by a representative of Buckingham Palace. Stephen Ward knew it was all over, and he chose the avoid the horror of prison – on the night of 30th July 1963 he wrote and few letters and then took the pills.

Restaurant Me:  ‘And what’s the soup of the day – today?’ Waitress:   ‘Ragwort and Laburnum – it’s very nice.’ Me:   ‘Yum.’ (Her sense of humour matches mine)

On the Train Dreadfully rude woman in the waiting room – the woman next to her was getting up and trying to squeeze past her.  The poor woman’s face was tight with pain and she had two arm crutches.  The rude woman finally, and with a sigh, moved back in her seat to let her through. A few minutes later the woman limped back and struggled to get back to her seat.  Again the rude woman made heavy weather of letting her resume her place.  Much muttering and ceiling gazing.  I felt like saying something to her, but before I could the two started chatting.  They were together – in fact, looking closely I’d guess they were sisters!

One Day One day my garden will be ripped up and totally destroyed.  A new owner will take the opportunity to extend the house or even build an additional one on land which is now the garden.  People don’t want gardens anymore. The trees will be cleared along with everything else – including the sleeping place for fifty years of our cats and dogs - and other loved creatures.  It will all be dug up - pipes will be laid, cabling, concrete foundations. The descendants of the magpies that cackled at me this morning will one day look down and say – ‘It was nice here once; when the man with white hair had it.’

Piccadilly Station … Manchester Beautiful black woman – slim as a pencil.  Superb backward tilt of her elliptical shaped head – neck like Nefertiti.  She walks like a dancer leaving the stage. Following her like a shadow is her daughter – a four-year-old copy of herself, trotting weightlessly, long legs flickering - reaching up for her mother’s hand.

Manchester 3rd July 2017 I have seen a reincarnation of John Christie – you know the one – the multiple murderer of Rillington Place –every bit as realistic as his wax dummy in Madame Tussauds.  To be honest it shocked me – a monster from the bleak austerity of the 1950s – (London was horrible in those days before Dulux paint was invented). This man had the same frightening shabbiness – the same opaque gaze of the true pervert – that insinuating half sneer –that presumption of knowing something about you – that repulsive intimacy – that sly trickle of friendliness – that undertaker’s smile!   Well – the old bastard is back and I’ve seen him – giving out religious leaflets and saving souls on Market St. Manchester.   South Manchester Grand Victorian villas obscured by vast trees.  I am walking to synagogue – an Orthodox synagogue!  Walking quickly as the tradition teaches – you walk quickly to a place of worship but walk slowly when leaving.  I’m all smiles on this sunny morning – I’m a guest – and guests smile. Everything is so lovely – men in suits, ladies dressed up, children darting about –  I enter the iron gates  – and the sun bursts through the leaves and I’m ready to praise the God of dappled things and furtively touch the warm Didsbury bricks.

On the Train Had to stand all the way, no seats available.  No one got up to offer me their place – that’s fairly rare – in fact only Asian young people do that now.   I’m not complaining; I’m glad to be fit enough to swing from a greasy strap for half an hour – but I do draw the line at young executives expecting to pass in front of me when getting off.

Mary Notnice – some background information I don’t suppose any of us really knew Mary very well because, despite her conceit,  she didn’t talk much about herself -  but it’s possible to get a certain picture by putting lots of bits together. I knew she was working in the office because of her catastrophic exam results, and yet she considered herself far too important for the job and looked down on the other girls. It was clear that she didn’t have a normal sense of humour – instead she found amusement in peoples mistakes and embarrassments. We knew that she treated her numerous boyfriends very badly; none of whom survived more than a few dates. We knew she didn’t get along with her mother and was irritated when she called during working hours to see her. We knew that she had been brought up by her mother; her father walked out when Mary was tiny and there had been hardly any contact since.  Dad remarried but she had never met her step-brothers and step-sisters. Once when smoking grass, she told someone – (who told me) – that she couldn’t cry.

Department Store I was standing waiting for the lift for the sixth floor when I noticed something.  People stepping off the escalator had to turn right and pass a cosmetics display stand.  Prominent in the stand was a huge ornately framed mirror – it was like something out of Madame Pompadour’s bedroom.  I watched the shoppers, male and female, approach the mirror, each with the self conscious expression look we all have when we are about to face our own image. But it was a cheat – there was no mirror; the picture frame was hollow and simply gave a view of the interior of the make-up cubicle.  So the passersby passed by – each quickly changing their expressions from one of seriousness, self-adoration, coquettish-ness, fake irritation, agony, drop-dead coolness – back to their ‘normal’ faces. Something quite deep here too – expecting to see your own image and finding nothing there.

Stolen Kisses End of term and some sort of garden party – quite a strong memory.  My friend Russell was having his picture taken with our form-teacher; the two of them standing with the arch and the driveway in the background.  He’s got his arm around Russell’s shoulders, something he often did, but no one bothered.  Of course today he’d be sacked and locked up for five years, and then banned for life from the company of young people.  Anyway, he was a nice man and perhaps viewed Russell as the son he never had - and all that crap. There was a crush of people, chattering, holding glasses, standing on the freshly cut grass – sunshine, the trees rustling in the breeze, a buzz of happiness at the approaching freedom – the weeks of holiday!  I could see Russell’s gorgeous mother talking to a parent.  She was wearing a thin dress and flat shoes and the man with her couldn’t take his eyes away. But I was looking for Russell’s sister – I knew she was there somewhere, it was just a matter of finding her.  The elation of the afternoon had caught me – I was part of it -  I was ready to be reckless and convinced that I would succeed.   Older friends had given me advice – I was only twelve – and all I had to do was approach her and somehow survive the scorching heat of her loveliness – get close to her and say: -  ‘I love you’. But first I had to find her.

Natural Selection She sat in the car and watched as her father went to keep his appointment with the Warden.  The Warden would have an active involvement with the selection panel -  or at least he had influence.  She had attended her interview and had not been accepted. The visitor was shown all the courtesy of a respected member of the college alumni. After the pleasantries the Warden, standing at the window and speaking in a voice as soft at butter, got to the point. ‘It is mildly disagreeable to have to explain our decisions knowing that our reasoning does not always entirely satisfy.  You see, we have to match a broad approach to our own – dare I say – parochial one.  We have many presssures - education generally is a wide and contentious subject – and the question is not whether we ought to turn infants into educated adults, but rather what sort of education we give to whom.   ‘Oxford can only provide a small part of the answer.  By the time children reach the age at which they apply to Oxford, they have either acquired or have failed to acquire most of what they need in the way of knowledge, ambition, intellectual curiosity and the capacity for learning more.  What we face every year during the admissions process is a little under five times as many applicants as we have room for, almost all them with near perfect records at school – and very few of them significantly much better, or significantly worse than the rest. ‘I ask you to consider our difficulties………’ And so it went on.   Later, as they drove home in silence, all the girls’ thoughts were about her boyfriend.  She was seeing him later – she couldn’t wait.

Mrs Asquith When you are ten years old you see everything – you are all eyes!  And my eyes must have lit up when I saw Mrs Asquith cross the road and stand near me in the bus queue.  She looked like no other woman I had ever seen – nothing like my mother’s friends or the female teachers at school.  Mrs Asquith was like a fim star.  I would stare at her high heels and belted raincoat – her froth of scarves - her casually careful hair-do, her red lips. On one of these occasions she turned to face me, as if feeling the unfocused heat of my gaze, and winked at me.  From that moment on, she was my dearest, most exciting and most secret friend. She lived in a farm cottage – down a narrow and usually muddy footpath (there was a way for vehicles to access it, but that was a long route) – through fields and hedgerows, and set near the edge of a lake.  It was very familiar to me and my pals because those meadows and woodlands were the places where we went for our adventures – in fact we sometimes put up a tent and slept near the lake.  I loved looking at her cottage when it was going dark – the windows lit – the chimney making a lot of smoke – long shadows of the huge water barrels used for collecting rainwater (the cottage didn’t have a water supply) – the cries from the cattle sheds where the animals had been put up for the night – and the crimson reflection on the surface of the lake as the sun drowned.   There was a Mr Asquith – but I never saw him, and there was a son roughly my age, but he was at some school or other, as a boarder.  Mrs Asquith used to go out in the evenings and she would walk the half mile to the main road.  When she reached the end of the lane I once saw her take off her muddy boots and put on her heeled shoes – the boots were put in a bag and then hidden in the long grass.  Every time I went down the lane, usually walking my dog, I would check to see if the bag was there – if it was, it meant that she was ‘out’ somewhere. I was with a friend one night, at this same spot, when we saw that a car had pulled in and was parked ‘off’ the path.  It was dark but I could see two people in the car.  The casually careful hair-do was down into her face and she was looking up to see what the man had seen.  I pulled my friend’s arm we rushed away. Sometimes I’d hear women talking to my mother about Mrs Asquith – insinuating remarks – utter poison.  They voiced their suspicions but I never spoke a word …I never spoke a word against Mrs Asquith.

Every twelve months or so I visit an audiologist and she does her best to keep my one decent ear in good working order, or as well as that is possible.  She is very skilful and I always leave her clinic with sharper hearing – people’s voices are clearer -  traffic noise sounds louder etc. At the end of the session she clicks away on the keyboard updating her notes and we drift into general conversation.  I am always curious at the way the professional manner recedes and her own very sensitive personality comes through.  From my first appointment I knew that she was the best type of medical practitioner because her skill was mixed with natural empathy and kindness.   We were talking generally about the difficulties of coping with deafness and she said that because she has a problem herself, she knows how her patients feel.  She told me that whenever she is upset she goes deaf.  I asked about the nature of the upset and she said it wasn’t the ‘crying’ type, it was more about strong conflict situations.  She feels it building up and then she totally loses her hearing for a while.  Of course she had every sort of test but nothing was learned. ‘So, you see - it’s a mystery!’ – she said. ‘No it isn’t’ –  I thought.  ‘Your deafness is caused by your priceless, precious protective control systems – all shutting down and keeping you from harm.  

Manchester Royal Infirmary 2nd August 2017 I was ushered into a bay and asked to sit on a strange looking chair – it had a 1930s dentistry look about it – but quite comfortable – in a sinister sort of way.  A male nurse then appeared and told me to hold out my arm so that he could insert a cannula into a cooperative vein – which I did –  making a fist as instructed (‘up the revolution’ and all that).  Half way through the procedure he said; ‘Excuse me, I’ll be back a minute’ and rushed off.  ‘Back in a minute!’- where had he gone – to the lavatory?’ - I hoped he would wash his hands before resuming my own non-cosmetic body piercing. And then I noticed that he hadn’t properly drawn the curtain, and that someone was peering in at me.  Ancient watery eyes.  An old man in a wheelchair; probably waiting his turn to be cannulised. I decided to put on a show for him.  First of all I did my ‘watching-the-shower-scene in Psycho, face.  A medley of horrified contortions ending with me slumping lifeless on my dentist’s chair.  He was really laughing, silently, but I could see him shaking. The male nurse made his bumptious entrance, muttering;  ‘Sorry about that’ and resumed his efforts the get at my vein. When I was finally sorted out and the curtain was tugged back, I expected to see the old man, but he had gone – he must have been wheeled off somewhere.  

Pret a Manger   #37 I’ve seen them before, but not this close.  She’s quite bossy – obviously a student, probably a star student if such a title exists.  He is different – open faced and friendly – and is clearly a bit overawed by her.  Perhaps he doesn’t feel her equal; perhaps he’s afraid someone at the university, someone as clever as she is, will take her away. I wish I could reassure him.  I wish I could tell him that women don’t want a clever bastard who knows everything and always has his nose buried in books.  Women want a man who says what he means and can use a power-drill.

This morning – the market Among the swirl of people was a mother and daughter -  Pat went over to them and asked if they were Iranian.  The daughter smiled and replied that they were often mistaken for Iranians, but they were Kurdish.    We said that we knew a lot of Kurdish families in the area.  The daughter’s face lit up when Pat mentioned names – people she knew too – events which we had attended and the places that Pat has visited in Kurdistan. And she chatted about herself – she is going to be a pharmacist – Inshallah – and she was very happy to meet us – and her voice was as sharp and clear as a bell, wrapping up her personality in a Lancashire accent as strong as my mother’s.

Ian Ian S. had a bout of mental illness – which wasn’t a wise thing to do in the 1960s.  He was ashamed and none of us knew what to say to him, so we didn’t say anything. Much later – after not seeing each other for about three years – he never returned to the firm where we had both worked – we met on Cross Street and went for a few drinks together. He was a different person.  There was a tremendous seriousness as if every word he spoke was a rock chiselled from his heart.  Nothing to be discussed; it was the truth and that was that. He said;  ‘I have been to hell and hell is about being alone, totally alone.  No one can help - it isn’t possible for anyone to help – but you don’t know that at the time.  You think people can and you go to them for help – and they make you worse – the ones who say they can help make you really ill.’ I said something silly like; ‘…people doing their jobs as best they can’  and ‘…I suppose every case is different’ and so on. He glared at me and said;  ‘You haven’t been listening – the ones who say they can help are the ones who make you really ill.’

Jacqueline She was in her second year at medical school and had already decided to be an ophthalmologist.  She used to sit in the library studying a book called ‘The Eye and Orbit’ and other titles dealing with surgery of the eye.  She was called Jackie and she was the girlfriend of my friend Kevin Cassidy. Kevin kept her very much to himself – we only saw him when he was alone.  I once commented on this and he said that Jackie didn’t like being in a crowd; she was shy and very quiet.  But around that time there was some sort of incident on Oxford Road – very near to the medical library.  A man was lying on the pavement and people bunched up around him.  Someone had phoned for help but it wasn’t clear  what had happened – a woman said that he had fallen over in a fit – another said that a man had come up and hit him, and then ran away.  He wasn’t fully conscious.   Jackie, apparently untroubled by shyness, loudly announced that she was a medical student and that everyone must stand back and let her through.  She knelt beside him and did the things that doctors do in such situations – but – all the time that she was working on the man, her face was very close to his – very close – nearly touching. Kevin had seen all this – he had watched her kneeling astride the stranger, with her face over his, and it puzzled him. I thought of her fascination with eyes, but I said nothing – I left him to work it out for himself.

1964…..A Fine Romance She: She used to sit on her boss’s knee and flick his tie – she took part in beauty contests and had been on TV – she was stalked by a footballer – she was assaulted by a dentist – she went to the Lucy Clayton school of modelling – she liked pubs and would order pints of beer and leave them – she couldn’t cook – she enjoyed dancing by herself – she didn’t mind men ‘trying it on’ – she loved her German shepherd dog and she wanted to visit New York. He: He wanted her for himself.

R He has two ex-wives - I knew them both – and two furious mothers-in-law, one of whom physically attacked him in the street.  There are lots of stories about his unstable business activities – repossessions, liquidations, courts and so on – but he always bounces back and somehow obtains credit to start up again. I see him sometimes with his new wife. They have a little girl and it all looks very nice and settled.  But, given the opportunity, he asks me, in a nonchalant matter-of-fact sort of way, if I ever hear anything about J, his first wife.

On the Train The cruelty of the young – not something talked about very much, as if a curtain of indulgence is pulled across and a quick change of subject.  They are, after all, young and selfish. Here’s something I saw in the waiting room.  Two young people;  in a relationship (as the questionnaire puts it).  He exercising his freedom to come and go whilst she would willingly give up hers.  He warbles about his plans – which appear not to include her – and takes at face value her murmured encouragements.   She is perfectly wrong-footed – how can she protest at his enthusiasm and ambition?  How can she ask about her own position without sounding pathetic, as if she is a draw-back to his burgeoning progress? So she will worry about his barnstorming ideas, and adjust as needed.  She will get used to what he is going to do – and then, without being consulted he will have changed his mind and have found something ‘better’ – and so on. He perhaps will have a good future – people like him do – but at some point, in twenty years or so, he will feel a regret at the way he treated this girl – in forty years he will experience serious guilt. Such as I say…the cruel. l

[ideadeco]

Discover Monemvasia Castle

Monemvasia’s name (Greek: Μονεμβασία) derives from two Greek words, ”mone” and ”emvasi”, meaning “single entrance”. Its Italian form, Malvasia, gave its name to Malmsey wine. Monemvasia’s nickname is the Gibraltar of the East or The Rock. No wonder why all houses are actually like  “small rocky islands” on The Rock. Windows were build to be small, in order to protect the houses from the winds or the pirates. 

The town itself is located on a small island off the east coast of the Peloponnese and is linked to the mainland by a short causeway 200m in length. Its area consists mostly of a large plateau some 100 metres above sea level, up to 300 m wide and 1 km long, the site of a powerful medieval fortress. The old town of Monemvasia is a perfectly preserved medieval settlement still inhabited, a world cultural heritage monument and a major attraction for every traveller in the Peloponnese.

Meet the People

Giorgos Kissamitakis

Giorgos Kissamitakis was born and raised into the Castle of Monemvasia. His family house now it is the summer house not only for the family but also for his friends.

This was originally our family house. Although it is a late 19th century building, was renovated  with respect to its historical character and succeed to combine all the modern facilities into a romantic castel-house.

Kissamitakis Guesthouse in Monemvasia

Kissamitakis Guesthouse in Monemvasia

Kissamitakis Guesthouse in Monemvasia

Kissamitakis Guesthouse in Monemvasia

Kissamitakis Guesthouse in Monemvasia

It was renovated originally in 1984 and then in 2000. Ground level includes living/dining area with one couch and a fire place. Second level includes the bedroom with a double bed. Within total of 44 square meters inhouse surface all visitors gain an authentic taste of 19th century way of living  with all the essential benefits of technology; including a private shower, kitchen and a beautiful terrace with panoramic view of the Aegean.

It has a unique, magical atmosphere and a fascinating history. Monuments and churches are scattered throughout the old town. An important archaeological collection is housed in the old mosque in the Square of Elkomenos Christos.

Do you want to be his guest? Here you can BOOK NOW a room and have the time of your life!

If you need more information, leave him a message HERE  and he will get back to you within 24 hours. 

History of Monemvasia

The island of Monemvasia was separated from the mainland by an earthquake in 375 AD. The majority of the island’s area is a plateau about 100 metres above sea level, and the town of the same name is built on the slope to the south-east of the rock, overlooking Palaia Monemvasia bay. Many of the streets are narrow and fit only for pedestrian and donkey traffic. A small hamlet of about 10 houses lies to the northwest.

Early History

While uninhabited in antiquity, the rock may have been the site of a Minoan trading post. Pausanias, the renowned Greek traveler and geographer, referred to the site as “Akra Minoa”, which translates to “Minoan Promontory”.

Middle Ages

The town and fortress were founded in 583 by inhabitants of the mainland seeking refuge from the Slavic and the Avaric invasion of Greece. A history of the invasion and occupation of the Peloponnese was recorded in the medieval Chronicle of Monemvasia.

From the 10th century AD, the town developed into an important trade and maritime centre. The fortress withstood the Arab and Norman invasions in 1147; farm fields that fed up to 30 men were tilled inside the fortress. William II of Villehardouin took it in 1248, on honourable terms, after three years of siege; in 1259 William was captured by the Greeks after the battle of Pelagonia and in 1262 it was retroceded to Michael VIII Palaiologos as part of William’s ransom.

Monemvasia Castle

It remained part of the Byzantine Empire until 1460, becoming the seat of an imperial governor, a landing place for Byzantine operations against the Franks, the main port of shipment (if not always production) for Malmsey wine, and one of the most dangerous lairs of corsairs in the Levant. The Emperors gave it valuable privileges, attracting Roger de Lluria who sacked the lower town in 1292. The town welcomed the Catalan Company on its way eastward in 1302. In 1397 the Despot of the Morea, Theodore I Palaiologos, deposed the local dynast of Monemvasia, who appealed to Sultan Bayezid I and was reinstated by Turkish troops.

In 1419 the rock appears to have come into the possession of Venice, though it soon returned to the Despot. About 1401, the historian George Sphrantzes was born in the town. After the fall of Constantinople in 1453 Monemvasia held out against the threats of Sultan Mehmed II in 1458 and 1460, when it became the only remaining domain of the Despot of the Morea, Thomas Palaiologos, claimant of the Imperial throne. He had no forces to defend it; he offered it to the Sultan, and finally sold it to the Pope.

Monemvasia Castle

By 1464 the inhabitants found the Pope’s representative feeble and the Pope unable to protect them; they admitted a Venetian garrison. The town was fairly prosperous under Venetian rule until the peace of 1502-3, in which it lost its farm lands, source of its food supply and of Malmsey wine. The food had to come by sea or from Turkish-held lands, and the cultivation of wine languished under Turkish rule.

Monemvasia

The rock was governed by the Venetians until the treaty of 1540, which cost the Republic Nauplia and Monemvasia, her last two possessions on mainland Greece. Those inhabitants who did not wish to live under Turkish rule were given lands elsewhere. The Ottomans then ruled the town until the brief Venetian recovery in 1690, then again from 1715 to 1821. It was known as “Menekşe” (“Violet” in Turkish) during Ottoman rule and was a sanjak (province) centre in the Morea Eyalet.

The commercial importance of the town continued until the Orlov Revolt (1770) in the Russo-Turkish War, which saw its importance decline severely.

The town was liberated from Ottoman rule on July 23, 1821 by Tzannetakis Grigorakis who entered the town with his private army during the Greek War of Independence.

  Modern times

In 1971, Monemvasia became linked with the rest of the outside world through a bridge on the western side that connects to GR-86 road.

In more recent history, the town has seen a resurgence in importance with increasing numbers of tourists visiting the site and the region. The medieval buildings have been restored, and many of them converted to hotels.

For the past few years, on July 23rd there is an independence day celebration in the main port. Speeches are made and the story of Tzannetakis Grigorakis, and his men, is recounted in both Greek and English. Inhabitants and visitors can gather to watch as a ship, built every year, is filled with pyrotechnics and set on fire.

Monemvasia Castle

Visit Monemvasia and have the time of your life at Kissimitakis Guesthouse! Discover Monemvasia Castle Monemvasia’s name (Greek: Μονεμβασία) derives from two Greek words, ”mone” and ”emvasi”, meaning “single entrance”.

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Divertimento #123

Video of a patient with severe Parkinson's Disease, before and after ingesting medical marijuana.  Impressive. Fossilized trilobite eggs discovered. "When [President] Roosevelt heard that a torpedo was zooming toward him, he asked to be moved with his wheelchair over to the railing so that he could see it. Fearing an assassination plot, the Iowa turned its guns toward the William D. Porter — however, the crisis ended when the torpedo finally detonated as it struck heavy waves created by the Iowa’s increased speed. Walter reportedly answered with a meek “We did it” when pressed. The entire crew was placed under arrest and sent to Bermuda to face trial — the first instance in U.S. Naval history that the entire crew of a ship had been arrested." Intraoperative virtual reality may be useful in allowing lower doses of sedatives and hypnotics for surgery patients. "Today saw the release of a new study from the Grantham Institute for Imperial College London and the Carbon Tracker Initiative. It argues that solar photovoltaics and [electric vehicles] together will kick fossil fuel’s ass, quickly. “Falling costs of electric vehicle and solar technology,” they conclude, “could halt growth in global demand for oil and coal from 2020.” That would be a pretty big deal." Explanation of the floating dry-erase stick man.  Impress your friends.

"The 588th was the most highly decorated female unit in [the Soviet air force in WWII], flying 30,000 missions over the course of four years -- and dropping, in total, 23,000 tons of bombs on invading German armies. Its members, who ranged in age from 17 to 26, flew primarily at night, making do with planes that were -- per their plywood-and-canvas construction -- generally reserved for training and crop-dusting. They often operated in stealth mode, idling their engines as they neared their targets and then gliding their way to their bomb release points. Myths about what does and doesn't constitute treason. "På väg mot vaken såg vi älgen göra flera misslyckade försök att ta sig upp själv. Den klarade heller inte att knäcka isen och ta sig in till land på egen hand, så min sambo, Sigrid Sjösteen, började ivrigt hugga upp en ränna in till grundare vatten. Vi turades om att hugga i omkring 30 minuter innan älgen var i säkerhet på land." (saving a moose frozen in a lake) About those little dots on your car windows.  "Most importantly, it acts to prevents ultraviolet sun rays from deteriorating the urethane sealant."  And "there’s another group of dots on the windshield right behind the rearview mirror. As shown in the clip below, these dots, called the “third visor frit,” are there to help block the sun as it beams in from between the two front sun-visors." Collector's Weekly has an extensive article on the history of model railroading. Everything you need to know (or not) about the baton or truncheon (also called a cosh, billystick, billy club, nightstick, sap, blackjack). "The one for daytime was called a day-stick and was 11 inches in length. Another baton, that was used at night, was 26 inches long and called a night-stick, which is the origin of the word "nightstick"." Someone did a detailed analysis of the most recent Super Bowl (LI) and determined that the ball was in play for a total of 16 minutes and 4 seconds.  "There were 178 plays (including kickoffs, point-afters, spikes, etc) with the average play being only 5.47 seconds long."

Dragonfly wings kill bacteria.  "...the bacteria are essentially caught in one of those sinister traps of which movie villains are quite fond. If they don't move, the bacteria might survive. However, when they do move, shear forces pull on the EPSs, ripping the membrane apart. This results in a fatal leakage of cellular contents, which causes the cell to deflate like a balloon..." How to make ice cream from snow. Why British roads are called "metalled" when they have no metal.  "Gravel is known to have been used extensively in the construction of roads by soldiers of the Roman Empire, but a limestone-surfaced road, thought to date back to the Bronze Age, has been found in Britain. Applying gravel, or "metalling," has had two distinct usages in road surfacing. The term road metal refers to the broken stone or cinders used in the construction or repair of roads or railways, and is derived from the Latin metallum, which means both "mine" and "quarry". The term originally referred to the process of creating a gravel roadway. Pie chart explains pyramids. "The paternoster is kind of elevator that consist of a chain of open compartments that move up and down continuously through the vertical shaft of a building in a loop and without stopping. Passengers step into the moving compartments in the direction they wish to go and then hop off when the elevator reaches the desired floor. There is no stopping in between the floors, and passengers must remain alert and get their timing right or else get severed." China is now the world's biggest producer of solar energy. Read about Mohamed Bzeek, a foster father who takes in children with terminal illnesses.

"Now, Bzeek spends long days and sleepless nights caring for a bedridden 6-year-old foster girl with a rare brain defect. She’s blind and deaf. She has daily seizures. Her arms and legs are paralyzed. Bzeek, a quiet, devout Libyan-born Muslim who lives in Azusa, just wants her to know she’s not alone in this life. “I know she can’t hear, can’t see, but I always talk to her,” he said. “I’m always holding her, playing with her, touching her. … She has feelings. She has a soul. She’s a human being.”

Apeirophobia is fear of everlasting life. UNIT 731 (2015) "A research unit of the Imperial Japanese Army during the second Sino-Japanese War and WW2, who conducted human experiments and committed horrible war crimes. After the war, the U.S. government assisted in a coverup of their activities in exchange for the medical data they acquired." "A Utah mother has received immense amounts of praise on social media for dressing up as a man to take her son to a "dads and doughnuts" event at his school... Kittrell said she became a single parent three years ago, and eventually asked her son if he wanted to take his grandfather to the event.  Her son told her no and that he wanted to take her because she was his mother and father." An argument that the phrase "Dark Ages" is inappropriate.  "Far from being a stagnant dark age, as the first half of the Medieval Period (500-1000 AD) certainly was, the period from 1000 to 1500 AD actually saw the most impressive flowering of scientific inquiry and discovery since the time of the ancient Greeks, far eclipsing the Roman and Hellenic Eras in every respect." The CIA has a Flickr account with a webpage with many albums of declassified maps. The Bay of Bengal is dying.  "Many once-abundant species have all but disappeared.... Fish stocks have been decimated by methods that include cyanide poisoning. The region was once famous for its coral reefs; these have been ravaged by dynamite-fishing and climate-change induced bleaching. Yet the exploitation of these waters continues without check." "Queen Elizabeth had her own “Watchers,” a network of agents who intercepted letters, cracked codes, and captured possible dissenters to protect the crown in secret. The queen’s network of spies formed the original surveillance state in the U.K., and she started it for good reason... When spying abroad, Dee signed each private letter to Elizabeth with the insignia “007”—a moniker that was later borrowed by Ian Fleming, writer of James Bond." A mother saved her baby from a house fire by strapping him into a car seat and then dropping him from the second-story window.

   "Soul-crushing facts about income inequality." Why you shouldn't play dodgeball with a softball player. "Technology can also allow people to access cars long after they’ve sold them, which is enough to leave any buyer uncomfortable." "Hungry hungry humans."  A discussion thread suggested this was either a corporate team-building exercise, or a Mormon youth-group activity. This Finnish resort bills itself as "the world's most enchanting Arctic resort."  I believe it.  Look at the photos and the videos. "There have been rumblings regarding some sort of nuclear incident—or possibly incidents—in the Arctic over the last month. Multiple reports, some of them from official monitoring organizations, have reported iodine 131—a radioactive isotope often associated with nuclear fission—has been detected via air sampling stations throughout the region." A waitress physically drags an unwanted guest from a restaurant. (this) How to use a can of tuna to cook a dinner (clever, but I asked a friend who does long-distance hikes; he said he'd rather consume the oil than burn it) This week's gifs:

Trump signing an executive order. 

"It was probably for the best that they didn't see it."

The Trump handshakes.  A gallery of examples.   Trudeau uses his left arm to defeat the pull.

A 10-million-gallon tank at the Georgia Aquarium.

A beautiful retracting driveway gate.

Which restroom to use???

This week's embedded images are winners of this year's Wellcome Image Awards, via Digg.  Info re subject matter and photographer/artist at the link. from DIYS http://ift.tt/2mDKldd