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#H.L Day writing as H.L Night
marscia · 2 years
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tagged by the lovely @labarium, thank you! last book I…
bought: Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter - Simone de Beauvoir
borrowed: A Mencken Chrestomathy - H.L. Mencken
was gifted: Complete Stories - Clarice Lispector
started: A Streetcar Named Desire - Tennessee Williams
finished: Faithful and Virtuous Night - Louise Glück
gave 5 stars: The Days of Abandonment - Elena Ferrante
gave 2 stars: Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel
didn’t finish: Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides (it was alright, Eugenides’ writing just wasn’t my cup of tea ☹️)
tagging some friends :) @tobesbones @apoherm @coffee-and-crime @adhyayana-v @adsolisoccasum @arianemarch @boxzillian @cupsnpages @gaaandaaaalf @almost-read + anyone interested in doing this consider yourself tagged!!
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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years
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I forgive you.
You have been forgiven long ago
For all you have ever done
And all you could ever do.
Never had truer words been uttered,
Or at least I think that's the case.
You see, trust is an expensive thing to come by these days
And the price for even myself is so great
That often I forget to pay it
And what memories or stories I purchased
Come back to me a little less reflective of their worth,
The discount version with some pieces missing
Or twisted,
Nonsensical when pitted up against
The ink penned in the half dozen journals littering my shelves.
My words leave my mouth as a great army
But come back to me all broken and beaten
Defeated by the sword of reality
Or therapy
Or maybe a little mix of both.
And all I can do is bandage the wounded
And ignore the remembrance of red blood,
Missing limbs and burnt flesh
That haunt my dreams,
Memories of the remnants of a war
That I think was a romance
Nothing but letters seeming to separate the two.
A romance from those plaid shirt autumn days
Where we drove up the mountain,
Pointing at the changing leaves and the deer that crossed our paths.
Days of running through the rain, wet heads thrown back and laughing
While the shoppers stared at us from the safety of the store.
Days of burying secrets beneath the snow
And searching through secondhand shelves for treasure hidden within
Wine drunk nights in a beaten down house that only felt like home to one of us.
Days of laughter while I struggled to drive your car,
Cursing when I stalled, and giggling when I made it.
Remnants of the nights falling asleep on a wet pillowcase, clinging tightly to hope,
Nights of driving home by myself to a cold bed,
my fingers dancing alone to the thought of you.
Nights of bargaining with God for a clean slate, a new start, the beginning of the next chapter.
Nights sleeping far from you, yet within the same four walls,
Unable to bridge the distance that one room makes feel like a chasm.
Nights of calls sent to voicemail or unanswered texts
Because this wasn't what you asked for, it was what you ended up with.
All this ripped flesh and hurt, these remnants of something that could have been great,
I've been stitching them up for months now but I can't seem to find the source of the bleed.
I think I could truly write a saga of you.
Maybe I will.
I just don't know what to call it
Or how to end it
Or even where it starts.
So at the end of it all,
Here I am standing on the last page of a book
Not knowing if I should reread it for the thousandth time
Or close the book jacket and slide it onto my shelf.
Here's what I do know though.
I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive you
For the arduous occupation
Of falling in love with you.
~H.L. Fitzgerald
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bapperina · 2 years
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This blog has always been primarily for you, h.l.
I am happy, i am stable, i am fulfilled. And yet i get random bouts of you nonstop in my head. I still cant solve why. I still cant completely move on.
Am i doomed to forever feel stuck? Why cant my brain work this issue out and move on? Why is it suddenly hard to let go? More than two years past where ive mostly forgotten you and yet the past weeks i think about you incessantly.
I had a dream about you last night. I was at some mexican party, some of my family was there. Somebody wanted to let me know you were going to show up. I expected you to show up with some girl but instead you showed up with your friend. I felt a wave of relief. We somehow ended up at the same table- and even in my dream i could so realistically recall that nauseous nervous gut feeling of being close to you. You tried to not look me in the eye. You made small talk. I dont even remember how it ended.
Am i wrong for still thinking of you? Its so hard to scrub you from my mind. The same way i still cant bear to delete all photos of you from my google photos. I simply just choose to not open my google photos instead of wiping them of you. But ever so often i go digging though them to find something and you pop up.
And i cant delete. It feels wrong. This picture- of you and i. It was real. We were in love. It was a moment in time that happened, we were happy. How could i delete it? How could i delete a moment in time captured? Deleting it wont make me forget anything we went through together.
And so i cant move on. My brain still tries over and over to rationalize any of it. Of our love, of our terribly painful fights and year long break up. Why couldn’t we last? Why couldn’t you stick it through? Why did i bother staying? Why did my love feel so unconditional? To this day I’ve never felt passion the way i felt for you. Maybe it was just a bursting flame meant to last only a second. Maybe it was meant to be a life long love.
Im sorry i sent you a text last month. I know you said to not contact you unless i wanted to start something a new. I had a little to drink and was having a good time celebrating the 4th. I thought of you and wanted to share that joy. I regretted it 30 seconds after i sent the text. Im sorry.
Either way. Here i am still thinking of you, wondering if you’ve forgotten me. I do wonder if we could’ve ever worked out. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe your just meant to be my life’s fantasy. Maybe its best to keep you that way. Forever in my heart as a corrupt ideal that could’ve been- that failed. Writing this out helps a little. Maybe in 3 more years i don’t remember your favorite movie, or your middle name. We wait and see.
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bookstattoosandtea · 3 years
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Release Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway: Liam by Stella Shaw
Release Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway: Liam by Stella Shaw
Release Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway: Liam By Stella Shaw Love at the Haven, Book 4 The brawny Dom and the beautiful Diva—and the secrets they keep. A personal trainer and part-time escort, Liam is burly, bossy, and perfectly cast as the resident Dom at the Haven Hotel. And if anything falls outside that box—like the lacy lingerie he keeps hidden in his gym bag—that’s easily ignored, right? Felix’s…
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hinac0lada · 4 years
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neck deep
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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oikawa tooru/reader 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: another attempt at angst. this was inspired by a dream i got the other night lol. so it’s very different from any other fic i’ve written + i’m kinda trying something new. [ graphic by me ]
they say dreams are like a shadow of history you’ve lived in a previous life. dreams stirs the imagination of one. like a cold, grey darkness. similar to a lonesome and hollow place. it’s like you can’t imagine stuff like that are what dreams are made of.
but what if dreams were like a calling? a premonition. a warning. suddenly dreams have become scary, like shedding light to an old folk tale.
lately, oikawa realizes his dreams may have a deeper meaning to them than he initially thought.
he vividly remembers the last place his dream took place. it was in a parking lot. he doesn’t know why since he doesn’t even have a license nor a car yet, but he peers through it anyway. he couldn’t see a plate number, but he remembers seeing vibrant colors of neon lights. red and blue, he recalls. 
he starts up the car, with the engine roaring to life. he waits for a moment to warm up the car, the luminescent lights inside glowing for indicators of certain buttons. oikawa steps on the gas pedal, accelerating to wherever the road ahead were to take him. sometimes it appeared endless, often leading him to a cold and empty cloud of space. at times, he feels as though he wasn’t even the one steering the wheel. the headlights were on. he doesn’t remember turning them on himself. but it doesn’t matter. there appeared to be nothing on the road. nothingness, it seemed.
oikawa takes a deep breath in, inhaling whatever fresh air he was surrounded with. he suddenly felt the air clog up. he felt like a fish out of water. he was beyond terrified and confused. a couple of dreadful minutes of feeling like he lost the ability to breath, it all came back. it choked him to breathe in multiple scents all at once. 
moments after an endless drive to nowhere, cars materialized out of thin air. all appear to be going in the same opposite direction. he was alone in his own lane. he observes each car passing by. they all had different sizes, ranging from minivans, micro, pickup trucks and small cabs. the only thing was, they didn't have any color nor shape. they were all silhouettes. it made him feel unease, as if at any moment, one would suddenly drift into his direction and slam his car out of the way. death by car accident. either one of these cars could be a symbol. vehicles of destruction, he thought. it was alarmingly fitting.
a silhouette manifested beside him in the passenger seat. he couldn't say he was surprised. the unknown figure just sat there, no words spoken. none of them spoke for a majority of the ride.
oikawa tries to talk to the figure seated beside him. he didn't know why, but he felt the need to. it's like he knew this mass of darkness in the real world. the mass was familiar to him.
even though he can feel the cold air it emitted, he feels warmth and solidarity. it wasn't a pleasant match, he'll give that. it made him feel bitter at the distasteful feeling. still, the figure gave no signs of moving or talking. by now, it's fixated on a much more humane form than just a dark floating mass of mist. he couldn't identify if it was a man or woman though.
but why would that matter anyway? it was stupid to question it in the first place.
oikawa felt helpless. he's arrived at their destination. it was a beauty salon surrounded by neighboring houses and convenience stores. it was so out of place. upon his inspection, the salon inside lead to an apartment. it was so surreal.
he finally gets out of the car, shutting the car door firmly and shifts towards the run-down building. he's blocked by a woman. she was fairly the same height as him, albeit a bit shorter. hair at a [h.l] length.  it was most definitely you in the flesh. the only difference from the real you was your eyes. dull, [e.c] irises seem to blend in with a colorless sheen of black; engaging in the pitch black sea of darkness.
he tries to speak but soon faltered when he couldn't even hear his own voice. your dead, fish-like eyes were unnerving. never blinking and cold. oikawa raises an arm out to touch you - to have some sort of contact and feel something akin to warmth. he felt so cold, but you only moved to avoid the hand reaching for your head. he didn't know why this action left him feeling numb. in reality, it wounds him more than he reap.
you took off running, making the gap between you two stretch even wider. he failed to notice the gap that formed the moment he found you. you ran inside the door of the one building that stood out more than the rest. he follows you, naturally. he looked like a lost puppy; all cold, searching for a place that would welcome him.
oikawa was shaken to the core. it wasn't that he was bothered by the transparent plexiglass was blocking him from making his way over to you, but it was the way you looked at him. you both were staring at each other down through the glass, one with wearisome eyes and the other a mute.
your face suddenly contorted into multiple expressions; from dumbstruck, sorrow, grief, disgust and finally rage. all emotions that he felt were directed at him.
he tried read your moving lips, as he couldn't even hear your voice from the other side, but he couldn't catch a word you were saying. your lips moved too fast for him to make out a sentence. he places his face closer to the glass, pressing his ear against it in hopes of making out something. anything, even if it was muffled. he jumped back a deafening sound of a high pitch octave waved through his ears. he hunches over at the tingling feeling he felt.
then he heard a sound. it was far away, distant. but as he stayed hunched in a fetal position, the voice got louder and louder. it was an echo coming from every direction. an echo comprised of you.
"look at you. so pathetic. i don't think i've ever seen a sadder sight." a giggle came from the left. your figure stood still beyond the thick layer of glass that proved to be a barrier between you two. he didn't need to take another look to know you were nowhere near him.
he hears snickers and mumbles of agreement behind him. "i can't believe i let him take away months worth of my life. i can never take those back." your voice seethed.
the color of the sky shifted to one of burgundy. the pop of color filled the dark void he was surrounded in, with the red-maroon like color kissing his skin in silence.
your laugh echoed everywhere as he leans his weight on one leg, staggering to stand up in his shaken state. you knew his vulnerability. you knew about his emotional state. he couldn't deal with it all at once, especially if it came from you.
"you think i care about you? please! am i that desperate to you?"
he whimpers, the ache in his heart growing ever so slowly.
"i don't even know what i saw in you."
his lips trembled.
"i don't ever want to see you again."
he trudged towards the glass barrier, hands shaking as he breathed a puff of air on the glass, fingers writing words he hoped you'd get. you had to.
please come back to me
in response to his poorly written message, you placed a palm on the glass, as if you were reaching out to him from your side.
i still love you
he can tell the difference though. he knows you didn't mean it. you never did.
so he ran away.
after crumbling back to the man he once was, he returned to the drivers seat, tears blurring his vision as he slammed his foot on the pedal, desperate to get out of that place. he didn't care where he ended up in. as long as it was far away from here. the road was dark and never-ending. he thinks back to the previous vehicles that drove pass him - probably hours or even days ago - and wishes how he should've just gotten rammed into. it wouldn't be so bad, would it?
time was nonexistent at this point.
oikawa woke up crying. his tears fell silently on his face. he was a bit startled, having awoke to a wet stain on his cheek. he brings up a finger to touch the drying tears. it's just a dream, he reminds himself. he squints his eyes in the dark, turning his head to find another source of light other than the moon shining through the windows of his apartment. his eyes lock on the alarm clock resting on the small cabinet beside his bed. it read 3:56 am.
he feels the bed shift, causing him to take a breather. he gives himself a moment to relax but he can't. he looks down on his shaky palms, envisioning your sleeping figure coddled up to a pillow beside him.
it just felt too real.
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dragon-kazansky · 4 years
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Ace - Joker [H.L]
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Summary: You're the ace up his sleeve.
I've never attempted to write this Joker before. I hope it isn't too bad. Please let me know if you like it. I would like to write more if you like it.
The Joker was a clever man.
He knew what he was doing and always seemed to have a way out should things take different turn. He claimed he didn't have a plan, but he was always prepared.
To say you were a part of plan wasn't entirely false. You were his way out.
Should Batman ever catch him. Should things not go as planned. Should someone unexpected interfere. You were there.
You were the ace up his sleeve and he often called you as such.
'If people know your name, they can find you.'
In front of others you were just Ace.
You don't remember how it ended up this way. You had been helping the Joker for quite some time. This was your life in Gotham, and to be honest, you wouldn't change it for anything.
Gotham was corrupt. Wrong. Out of place.
No wonder the criminals thrived here.
You thrived here.
You were currently sitting in a black van. Some of the Joker's followers were sat in the back with their masks on.
The Joker himself was inside the building across the road. He told you to wait for the sign before sending the others in.
You tapped your hand against the steering wheel, waiting. Your eyes on the wide window of the lobby. In the far back you could see the purple of his coat.
He didn't tell you what the sign was, you just assumed you would know when the time came.
"Who is this guy, anyway?" One of the guys in the back asked.
"Dont know, who cares. We get a fair share out of this job." Another replied.
"Hey, they say you've worked with him before. Come on, who is he?" The first guy asked you, placing a hand on your shoulder.
"He's the Joker. That's all you need to know." You glared at him through the rear view mirror.
"Who are you?"
"Ace."
"Just Ace?" He pried.
You glared at him a little harsher.
You had been Ace for a long time, you weren't about to change that for these pricks.
The guy retracted his hand from your shoulder and sat back down.
You didn't know who the Joker was. You had only ever known him as the Joker. You didn't know his name. His past. His story. You didn't know where he came from or what he did.
He was just the Joker.
You honestly didn't care to ask either. You trusted the man you knew. That was all that mattered.
You turned your eyes back to the window where you saw the Joker. He was standing there in clear view looking over at you. You could see the yellow of his teeth as he grinned at you, waving his hand.
"I think that's your cue." You announced to them.
The back doors of the van opened up and they guys filed out. You watched them scurry across the street and enter the building.
You sighed.
Your job was just to wait.
The Joker was still standing in the window looking at you. He wasn't grinning anymore, just standing there as the guys he hired began shooting at people behind him.
You couldn't help but chuckle and shake your head amused.
Joker ran his tongue across his bottom lip as waited for the guys to finish each other off. It wasn't the first time he had his hired helped kill each other one by one, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
It was a part of your job to find men foolish enough to fall for the lies you fed them. 'Do this and you each get a fair cut.'
You were just leading them to their inevitable deaths.
When the last man standing came back to him with a bag full of money slung over his shoulder, Joker ended him and grabbed the bag, picking up a second he had already filled by the door.
You rolled your eyes as he leisurely walked across the road, tossed the bags in the back, and sat in the seat next to you.
Joker licked his lips once more as he looked at you.
"What?"
"Nothing." You let a smile grow across your face. "Nothing at all."
You pushed down on the acceleration and drove off. Putting some distance between you and the building. It was a head start from the police too.
"It's a lot quiter in here now." You commented, keeping an eye out for police cars as you took a few turns here and there.
"Were they bothering you?"
"Not really. They asked a lot of questions, but that's nothing new." You smiled at him, taking a sharp right turn.
"What sort of questions?" He asked, sounding as if the answer really mattered to him.
"Wondering who you were and stuff. Not like I know the answer to that. You're just... you!" You slowed the van down when you were made it to the place for the car swap.
"That's all you need to know." He grinned, hopping out.
You grabbed a bag each and climbed into the car you had organised. It was a part of the plan. You had covered every angle just in case there ended up being a chase.
You wouldn't put it past the Joker to set up something like that.
He was spontaneous.
"I'm surprised." You climbed into the driving seat. Joker sat next to you once again.
"About?"
"The fact that I'm still alive. Why not kill me and take my share?" You looked at him seriously.
Joker grinned as he leaned in closer, leaving barely an inch of space between you both.
"I don't care about the money. It's the getting it that counts." He chuckled. "Anyway, what would I do without you?"
You looked into his dark eyes, confused.
"People like us, we make this city the way it is. You. You're my partner in crime. Without you, it's not as fun."
"You have Batman." You started the car.
The Joker basically existed to cause problems for the Bat. It was his purpose to bring chaos to the city and have the vigilante chase him.
"Yeah." He said, making it sound obvious. "He's not you. Batman and me, we're destined to be at each others throats. This back and forth system we have, it's never ending."
"What does that have to do with me?"
Joker hadn't once lifted his gaze from you.
"What we have is so much more entertaining." And important.
"Entertaining?"
"You're the ace up my sleeve. My way out. My friend."
Never, in all the time you had worked for this man, had you ever used that word with him. You had never seen him as a friend before. Joker was like your boss.
You laughed.
"Your friend?"
"Sure, why not?" He shrugged.
It was flattering to think that Gotham's big bad Joker had a soft spot for you. As far as you were aware, he didn't care at all about other people's lives.
It made you laugh.
The very thought was amusing.
You took a turn towards the warehouse the Joker had told you to go to earlier that morning. You would be hiding out here tonight.
"Now that is funny." You smirked.
Joker chuckled.
"We're a team, you and me."
"Creating anarchy everywhere we go." You basically sang.
"Exactly."
You pulled up when you got the warehouse and abandoned the car as you grabbed the money bags and followed the Joker inside.
You ignored the man strapped to a chair as you dumped the bags at his feet and walked on. Apparently he was a part of another plan. The Joker had kidnapped him for information and wasn't done with him yet.
The Joker followed you into the other room.
There was no doubt the GCPD and Batman were making their move now. They wouldn't be able to find either of you for a while.
"Ace."
You looked over at your shoulder at the man in purple. He was holding a wad of cash in his hand. He was looking oddly sincere right now, something you hadn't seen on him before.
"For me?"
To be honest, you couldn't care less about the money either, but the fact he was giving you some was touching. You really didn't need it though.
You took it from him, his gloved hand brushing against yours.
"I owe you some form of payment." He gave a quick grin as he turned on his heel and went back to the man in the chair.
You stared at the money in your hands.
"He's a psycho. You muttered. "But he's my psycho." You chuckled.
This was the life you had chosen, so you would take what you could get. He was kind to you in his own little way. Though the word 'kind' was a stretch.
At the end of the day, it was just an honour to work for this man.
You ignored the screams and shouts of the man in the other room and sat down. He was in for a long night.
Joker was working on riling up Batman once again. It wouldn't be long till you had another jo to do.
Despite everything, this relationship you had with this mad man was something you wouldn't trade for the world. You wouldn't have it any other way.
Whenever he needed you, you would be there.
This is what it meant to be Ace.
Tags:
@ntb-outsider @awyr @fandombeehive  @charmed-asylum
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The murder of Jason Blossom
Estelle: Good evening, Riverdale. I’m Estelle Ollier.
Omi: And I’m Omi Klyde.
Estelle: And this is Underneath The Surface, where we dive into the history of our town, Riverdale.
And today, we'll be talking about the murder of Jason Blossom.
Omi: The murder that sent this town in a downward spiral...Well, more than it already was.
Estelle: Well, let's just say that it sure gave a couple of families some unwanted attention.
Omi: Their meddlin' days were numbered!
Estelle: (chuckles) And this is how it happened:
Estelle: On the morning of the 4th of July 2017, the twins Cheryl and Jason Blossom drove out to Sweetwater River for an early morning boat ride.
Later that morning, the local scouts' group found Cheryl by the shore, crying.
She claimed she dropped her glove in the water, and when Jason reached for it, the boat tipped over. That was the last time she saw Jason.
Omi: This sounds like a much more abysmal version of Kim Kardashian losing her diamond earring.
Estelle: Maybe if Kim had lost it before people started dying.
Omi: Maybe the Blossoms and Kardashians could learn something from each other.
Estelle: (gasps)
Estelle: I'd rather not think about that.
Omi: Oh god, not like THAT!
Estelle: This is going to be a looooong night (chuckles)
Omi: Don't get me started on reality tv...I could talk for days.
Estelle: I'll just move on.
Omi: Yes, go on.
Estelle: About a month later, two teenage boys who wish to remain anonymous found Jason's body on the river shore, with a bullet wound in his forehead.
The coroner discovered that Jason had been a victim of animal scavenging. But he also found ligature marks, and signs that he was frozen.
And last but definitely not least, it turned out that Jason died on the 11th of July, instead of the 4th.
Omi: Yikes.
Estelle: Y-yeah, that changed the story.
Estelle: The results led the investigation to Cheryl, who voluntarily went with them as she claimed she expected them to find out she was guilty.
Omi: That girl’s been through Hell.
Estelle: Yeah, I guess being a Blossom is both a blessing and a curse.
Omi: I guess so. What happened next?
Estelle: In the principal's office, Cheryl admitted that Jason wanted to leave town and never come back and that she helped him come up with the plan, so their parents wouldn't go looking for him.
They made it to Greendale, and Jason left, saying he'd reach out in a month. But he never did.
She also mentioned hearing a gunshot the same day, and sheriff Keller let her go.
The next day, Archie Andrews admitted he too heard a gunshot that day. However, he claimed he didn't see who fired the gun.
When sheriff Keller asked why he was there and what he was doing, and if he was with someone who could've seen the shooter.
Archie answered that he was writing songs and that it was just him and his dog.
Omi: Was it really, though?
Estelle: Mmm, I heard things but I'm not sure it qualifies as evidence.
Omi: Same, that's fair.
Estelle: Fast-forward to several days later, on the last movie night at the Twilight Drive-In, someone broke into the Kellers' home, and stole all the evidence in the Jason Blossom murder case, including the documented files, background checks, and the video and audiotapes of police interviews. For sheriff Keller, this meant that Jason Blossom's murderer must be from Riverdale since the burglar must've known he wasn't home at the time.
Estelle: In September, sheriff Keller received a text from an unknown number, stating that Jason planned to run away with Polly Cooper as his parents disapproved of their relationship.
Polly never made it Greendale, however, as her parents sent her to Sisters of Quiet Mercy.
They had a getaway car parked on the side of the highway, along with Jason's belongings.
But by the time they reached the vehicle, it had been set on fire, destroying any potential evidence or clues.
Omi: What a coincidence...
Estelle: Mhmmm.
Omi: Alexa, play Things We Lost In The Fire... Wait, is that copyright? Do I have to sing again?
Estelle: Oh my God... Maybe play a snippet?
Omi: Lit... Like that car was. Ok, I’ll play it.
(things we lost in the fire starts to play)
Estelle: I'll try to chime in at a good moment.
Omi: (turns song off at the chorus)
Ok, I think that’s as far as my dad’s money can take us.
Estelle: (laughs)
Estelle: Ok, time to be serious again.
At the sheriff station, as he was about to start investigating the remains of the vehicle, the Blossoms let him know that Polly escaped the Sisters of Quiet Mercy on the same night that the car burned down, making this their new suspect.
Omi: Oh?
Estelle: Somehow, very short-lived, though.
Estelle: Meanwhile, during the investigation on the burned down vehicle, two fingerprints showed up, belonging to Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones.
Jughead's prints were on file from an incident that took place in 2011, where he attempted to burn down Riverdale Elementary School.
Omi: Queenie told me bout that, but I never thought it was true, damn. How did our lovely detective couple manage to involve themselves in this case?
Estelle: I guess, Betty got involved because of her sister.
Omi: True.
Estelle: Jughead, I don't know.
It didn't help him since they took him to the station.
During interrogation, Keller brought up Jughead's school records, stating that he was bullied a lot by the football team, whose captain was Jason, giving Jughead a motive to murder Jason.
Omi: Oh damn.
Estelle: Didn't look so good for him.
However, Keller later released Jughead after Fred Andrews claimed that Jughead was working for him the day Jason died.
Omi: Mr. Andrews always comin' in clutch.
Estelle: It felt a little too convenient if you ask me.
But that's also how I felt about the lie that Jason drowned since he used to be in our water polo team.
Omi: the Jones and Andrews have always been close. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was a coverup-LEGALLY I’m not saying it was though...
Omi: Wasn’t he one of the better swimmers, too?
Estelle: Yeah, so I don't understand why that was considered plausible before they found him.
Omi: It was an easy answer without taking the background into consideration.
Estelle: That applies to half the murder cases in this town.
Omi: Exactly...
Estelle: So, sheriff Keller returned his attention to Polly, who was pregnant and living at the Pembrooke at the time.
She confirmed that she and Jason intended to run away.
She then informed the sheriff that Jason was involved with the Southside Serpents, as he made a one time deal to deliver drugs for them in exchange for money.
Later that day, sheriff Keller received a phone call that two guys attacked an Andrews Construction employee.
The owner, Fred Andrews, mentioned that Clifford Blossom had his wishes to halt the project.
His son Archie, however, suggested that it may have been two members of the Southside Serpents, the location used to be part of their territory.
Omi: Is that so?
Estelle: It was one of the places the Serpents used to hang out, I heard.
Omi: Ahh, okay.
Estelle: I heard sheriff Keller let it slide, though. Which is weird to me.
Omi: Keller isn’t always the most...vigilant sheriff though.
Estelle: True, but his son also worked there. Makes me wonder if he'd let it slide then...
Anyway, let's move to the first real suspect of this case.
Estelle: On October 5, Keller received an anonymous tip, and he and his deputies obtained a warrant to search FP Jones' trailer.
In the trailer, they found the murder weapon in a lockbox, and they arrested FP Jones.
In the interrogation room, sheriff Keller informed Jones that the gun matched the bullet they found in Jason's body.
Omi: How did Jones react?
Estelle: According to FP, Jason approached him at the White Wyrm and explained his situation and that he needed money and a getaway vehicle.
FP made a deal that if he made a delivery for the Serpents, he'd give him money and a getaway car.
However, FP kidnapped him in Greendale, and he held him hostage in the basement of the White Wyrm.
Earlier, he learned that Jason was a Blossom, and he hoped to get a large amount of cash for his return.
But before he was able to make the call, Jason attempted to escape, and FP shot him, hid his body in the freezer, and later dumped his body in Sweetwater River.
Omi: Do we really believe that FP shot him?
Estelle: It is a little strange that he immediately chose to shoot him.
FP was a football player in high school, he'd know how to tackle him.
Omi: That seems like it would do more harm than good. One would think that, yeah.
Estelle: But sheriff Keller got a confession, and I guess that's all that mattered.
Omi: I wish this town would do better background checks.
Estelle: Sheriff Keller asked if FP also broke into his home, to which he admitted he was.
After the interrogation, FP's son and his friends approached sheriff Keller, claiming that someone planted the gun inside the Jones' trailer.
Omi: Oh?
Estelle: But like I said, sheriff Keller got a confession. And that was enough.
Omi: (sarcastically) Of course it was.
Estelle: The next day, the station received a 911 call that someone found a Serpent named Mustang dead in his hotel room.
In his hotel room, they found a duffel bag with a large sum of money, with the initials "H.L." on it.
At first, sheriff Keller assumed it was Hermione Lodge who gave him the bag until the daughter brought up that her father - who has the same initials - was in business with the Serpents.
Estelle: Well. Now we know why they gave up the Drive-In.
Omi: I was about to say... He’ll buy up this whole town when no one’s looking I swear.
Estelle: The world is just a Monopoly board for him. Even in prison. And, surprisingly, sheriff Keller let this slide.
But then, later that night, Alice Cooper handed Keller a USB flash drive.
The flash drive contained a surveillance video of Jason's murderer.
Despite his confession, it was Clifford Blossom and not FP Jones.
Omi: He’s got too many of those Get Out Of Jail Free cards, doesn’t he? Killing his own child? Disgraceful...
Estelle: Mhmm. And let me tell you why he did it.
Estelle: Jason wanted no part of the business, and Clifford feared that Jason running away could lead to his arrest, as his maple syrup business was a cover-up for transporting heroin. So, he had Mustang took Jason to the White Wyrm and later shot him.
Clifford then murdered Mustang and staged it as a suicide.
Arriving at Thornhill to arrest Clifford, they found Clifford in the barns where he hung himself.
Omi: Well, that was a rollercoaster.
Estelle: (laughs) I spent so much time trying to make sense of it for tonight. It's impossible.
Omi: I’m still not processing it. Like...what??? How the??? What??? That’s insane!
Estelle: It's like an episode of Dynasty.
Omi: I haven’t gotten to that show yet... Is it really?
Estelle: (sighs)
Estelle: Yes.
Omi: I'll put in on my list then.
Estelle: Back to the drama in our town:
Now that the real murderer was revealed, some people started to wonder what this meant for FP Jones.
Omi: Well, they obviously let him out, right? Or did he have a different but equally as essential role to play in this?
Estelle: Well, he was still guilty of tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, mishandling a body, perjury, etc.
So, he still remained in custody.
However, Sheriff Keller offered FP a deal that the DA and Mayor McCoy were willing to offer him leniency if he handed them the names of the drug dealers.
Estelle: Basically, throwing his own people under the bus.
Omi: isn’t that like, against serpent law?
Estelle: It's one of their most important ones, so I've heard.
Omi: same. Damn...and he’s still the leader?
Estelle: Which is why he declined the offer, and had to await trial, possibly facing twenty years.
Omi: well that’s good at least...the not breaking rules part.
Estelle: Yeah you might go to prison and won't be out until you're well into your sixties but-
hey, at least you didn't snitch on your buddies.
Omi: that just seems like a lose-lose situation
Estelle: I know he made the better choice given his environment, but-
yeah.
Estelle: Well, I guess we reached the end of this episode of Underneath The Surface. I'm Estelle.
Omi: And I'm Omi.
Estelle: Don’t forget to tune in next week, and join us for our next topic: the horror on Wabash Avenue.
Omi: See y'all then!
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bewitchingbooktours · 4 years
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After the Stars Appeared: A Lizard Queen Tale by H.L. Cherryholmes
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What inspired you to become an author? Storytelling, in any of its forms, fascinated me and I wanted to do that. How did you come up with the title for your latest book? This one was fairly easy. I wanted a title that would distinguish it from the series (The Lizard Queen) it follows. I wanted it to be something intriguing for those who haven’t read the series, while also letting those who have read it know when this book takes place. If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share? My plan is to write several books that will fall under “Lizard Queen Tales.” They won’t necessarily be sequential but they will be set in the same world with overlapping characters. What book are you reading now? Recursion by Blake Crouch What books are in your to read pile? The Order of Time by Carlo Rovelli and Home Before Dark by Riley Sager Who designed the cover of your latest book? Ryan Valle. I found him via DeviantArt when I was looking for an artist for The Lizard Queen series. He designed all but two of those books, as well as the three volumes. It was a no-brainer to use his wonderful services for a Lizard Queen Tale book. I highly recommend him. Do you have any advice for other writers? Keep at it. Even if you can only find an hour or so a day to write, do so. And move forward. Don’t spend time going back over what you wrote the day before or you’ll find yourself stuck in a loop and you’ll never progress. Just get out that first draft and then you can get to editing. What is next for you? Do you have any scheduled upcoming releases or works in progress? I’m currently working on a novel that is related to other non-fantasy books of mine that center around the fictional town of Coronado, New Mexico.
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After the Stars Appeared
A Lizard Queen Tale
H.L. Cherryholmes
Genre: Fantasy
Date of Publication: 8/10/20
ISBN: 8654919922
ASIN: B08D8KRBX5
Number of pages: 299
Word Count: 109,517
Cover Artist: Ryan Vale
Tagline: What if you knew the world surrounding you wasn’t the one you started out in?
Book Description:
Consumed by that question and feeling as though she’s lost part of herself, Uyazani despises this unfamiliar world. Glittering stars in the night sky are as abnormal to her as the pressing need to conceal her true origins.
Once a low-ranking soldier and now a special deputy for the Queen, she traverses the landscape in search of others who share her memory of a world past. When she locates one who seems to have discovered a possible way back, she grows fiercely determined to use his information to return to their world. But his mind is not what it once was, nor is Uyazani the only one who wants him to unlock the secret. She finds herself in a deadly tug of war with others who have darker intentions.
With time running out, she must either quickly unite his fractured memories to uncover the way home, or accept that the world she longs for will be forever out of reach.
Amazon
Excerpt:
She pulled down the exaggerated point of her wimple to better shadow her face. Adding a veil had been an option, but doing so would indicate she belonged to a cryptic sect, and that would only bring about questions. She’d chosen a dark-brown, long jacket and tall black boots for the same reason she’d chosen not to attach a veil. Should she be noticed, she would look like any of the hundreds of proselytizers rampant here in the Lower. She’d counted on this when she’d first learned where he was, and so far, the disguise had worked. No one had given her a second glance. Not that anyone should, really, not this far south; but on the off chance someone here was from Queensperch in the Upper and had perhaps visited High Palace in any sort of capacity, it was best to remain inconspicuous. Although she planned to continue the ruse while speaking with the asylum holder, she was nevertheless prepared to reveal herself, should it come to that. It wouldn’t, though. The heavy purse thumping against her thigh, as she followed an asylum worker down the narrow corridor, would be enough of an introduction. She doubted she’d even need to make up a name for herself.
Left alone in the asylum holder’s cramped study, she took another look at the letter—not the one that had been sent to inform her of his presence here in the asylum, but the letter that he had sent to the palace librarian. Many of the words were smudged and had been long before she’d slipped it into her trouser pocket prior to leaving the Upper. Because of the smudges in the center crease she guessed the ink hadn’t quite dried when the page was folded and handed over to whomever would help to smuggle it out of a castle and into a palace. At the top of the parchment, however, one line stood out clearly:
When a world expands history swells
The rest of the sentence, as well as the rest of the letter, was impossible to see in the dimness, but she didn’t need to; she’d read it so many times that she was certain she could recite the missive from memory. This was the letter confirming the possibility—a very strong possibility—that she could return to where she belonged. She carefully refolded it and returned it to her pocket.
Gaslights flickering against the walls cast an unsettling glow that made it seem as if objects in the room moved ever so slightly when not looked at directly. She wondered if this was purposeful. The occupants of this place surely needed no help in being unsettled, so it had to be for visitors. Probably to get them to leave quickly. The asylum would need more than an onerous ambiance to deter her. She’d come a long way and had no intention of leaving without the one whom she’d come for. Sweat gathered at the bottom of her wimple.
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About the Author:
H.L. Cherryholmes, author of The Lizard Queen series, A Slight Touch,  Come Back for Me, and The Reminisce was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico but has spent most of his life in California. He has a BFA from the University of New Mexico and a Master’s degree in Playwriting from the University of California, Los Angeles. Currently, he lives in Southern California with his husband, Ron Cogan.
https://www.hlcherryholmes.com/
https://www.facebook.com/HLCherryholmesBooks
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1398789.H_L_Cherryholmes
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Clive Cussler – American author and explorer
Born July 15, 1931, Clive Cussler was an American adventure novelist and underwater explorer. Cussler began writing novels in 1965 after his wife took a night job with the police department. He has over 85 credited to his name, including five non-fiction books and two children’s books. In all his books have sold 100 million copies.
Cussler’s series starring Dirk Pitt began in 1973 with the publication of The Mediterranean Caper. The Mediterranean Caper was a maritime thriller published only in paperback and it was the first publication that starred his famous protagonist Dirk Pitt. The first book that starred Pitt was Pacific Vortex which was written in 1965 but not published until 1983. It was published more as a ‘historical curiosity’ since Cussler didn’t believe it lived up to his other writing. Pacific Vortex was also released in a limited hardcover edition in 2000 with a print run of just 2,500 and a jacket price of $45.00. This edition has a color wrap-around dust jacket and six black & white illustrations by David Monette.
Cussler’s second published book, Iceberg (1975), was the first released in hardcover. Cussler’s third book, Raise the Titanic! (1976), featured more of the high adventure and high technology that Cussler would later be known for and it quickly gained popularity. It was made into a film of the same name in 1980.
First edition for sale by Quill & Brush
Cussler was also the founder and chairman of the National Underwater and Marine Agency (NUMA) which has found many notable underwater sites and over 60 shipwrecks. The agency led the expedition to find the H.L. Hunley, the first submarine to sink an enemy ship, which was found off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. The agency also shares a name with the fictional government agency in Cussler’s Dirk Pitt novels. 
In 1996 his first non-fiction book, The Sea Hunters, was published.
In the 2000s Cussler released many books alongside the Dirk Pitt series, including The NUMA Files, the Oregon Files, Isaac Bell Adventures, and the Fargo Adventures, which feature a husband and wife treasure-hunting team. He also wrote five non-fiction books and two children’s books.
Norwood Press, an imprint of  VJ Books, offers limited editions of Cussler’s books. 
An avid car collector, he founded The Cussler Museum in Arvada, Colorado, which is home to over 100 of Cussler’s rare and vintage automobiles from 1906 to 1965. Some of these cars are featured in his coffee table books Built for Adventure and Built to Thrill.
Cussler was also known for engaging with his fans on Twitter and was still tweeting just days before his death in February 2020 at the age of 88.
The post Clive Cussler – American author and explorer appeared first on Bibliology.
source https://www.biblio.com/blog/2020/02/clive-cussler-american-author-and-explorer/
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newtsgirl122 · 4 years
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My Story
For the longest time, I thought my life was normal, but after going to a friend’s birthday party in the 4th grade, I learned just how weird my family was.
I’m the oldest of five, I have two little brothers and two little sisters, who I love more than anyone else in the world. That’s about where the normal ends and the strange begins. Both of our parents had a very big, very serious problem. 
They were both addicted to drugs. 
For thirteen years, my life was a nightmare, or, as Deadpool would put it, “a massive trainwreck with short commercial breaks of happiness”. One thing many people don’t know is the effect drugs have on an entire family. As a child, I thought everyone went on “family trips” to the shady side of town, everyone’s parents slept most of the day and stayed up all night, letting their kids run rampant. But what made it worse was the other people our parents were involved with. Creepy people who always reeked of weed, smoking wherever they pleased and snorting thin white lines either on the kitchen or on the big white dresser in our parent's room that had pill bottles, trimmed straws, and razors all over it. To us, this was the norm. 
Our Father and Mother were two opposite people, and I really think they would’ve never dated if it weren’t for the one thing they had in common, that being their shared addiction. 
Our Father was a well known hard worker, funny and laid back when he was sober but angry and irritable when he was high or coming down from a high. Our Mother was the complete opposite, chill and calm when she was high, but a total monster when she was sober. 
For thirteen years us kids were beaten, abused and neglected. I got the worst of it because I was the oldest, it was my job to protect my siblings, even if that meant not being fed for a day just so they would be able to eat. 
So many things she did to me or allowed to happen and there was nothing I could do about it, I was helpless, alone. A slave to the tyrant that our Mother was.
Mom was the leader in the house, Dad was her little puppet, and we were just liabilities that brought in government funding from Welfare services. 
This continued until the day our father died in 2016, just a week before Christmas. My brother, David, and I firmly believe that what we saw that day was not, in fact, an accidental overdose but a murder, which is a story for another time. After that, I lost it and for three years, my four siblings have been in a back and forth custody battle between our paternal grandmother and our mother, who continues to abuse drugs and steal Death benefits we receive from our father’s passing.
As of now (January 2020), we are all together with our Grandmother fighting against our mother in custody court and the criminal court as back in November, our Mother attacked the second youngest, a 10-year-old girl, giving her a bloody nose and leaving major bruising on her neck and face.
I am currently a Junior in High School juggling schoolwork and helping care for my siblings. As of now, I am an honor roll student and plan on going to college to study History and hopefully more to either L.A., Orlando, or Tokyo, Japan. Now I know those goals are pretty lofty, but I believe if I work hard enough, I’ll be able to accomplish my dreams for the future of writing and studying History. 
The message in my Story is that no matter where you come from, be it a tiny town in Pennsylvania or Beverly Hills you can achieve your dreams. Through hard work and perseverance, anything is possible. And to anyone out there who may be struggling with life, remember that if I can do it, anyone can. 
I suffer from Depression, Anxiety, and PTSD, and sometimes I want to give in, to quit trying, but then I remember that I have 4 siblings looking to me as an example and it makes me work even harder.
Everyone has a purpose, you just have to dig down deep and find it. If no one else, I believe in you, I know you have potential, I see your worth. Never, ever, ever give up. You can do anything if you work hard enough and pursue your passions with reckless abandonment. 
Much love, - H.L. Cullen.
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gloomy-goober · 6 years
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The Strange Case Of Dr. Morales and Mr. Lyde
An AU I will never get around to writing completely.
A young psychologist who believes that the human mind is more then it appears. That humans are not one but two. In his attempts to prove this he creates a potion that splits his ‘soul’ in half. This half gives into most of his more natural desires that are shunned by Victorian society; they are impulsive and with skewed morals. 
Dr. Patton H. Morales
A young psychologist who is passionate about his work and his friends
Sweet natured and caring
Takes care of his servants as much as they take care of him
Best friends with Philipson and Lawson (met at university)
Is really bad at keeping secrets
Has a basic knowledge of chemistry
Comes from a simple family. Worked hard to get to a high position in society.
Lives alone with his butler and his dog
Dr. Roman H.L. Philipson
The heir to his father’s estate. Is under a lot of pressure to prove himself 
Wanted to be an actor but was forced to follow his father’s footsteps into the medical profession
Is a very dramatic man
A few years older then Morales
Writes fantasy literature under a false name
Was forced into a marriage with a third cousin (Natalie Foster). They are good friends but their lack of children is annoying both sides of the family. They refuse to do that because they are both very much homosexual.
Very adamant in his beliefs
Mr. Logan U. Lawson
Oldest out of all the university friends (Roman and Patton)
Handles both Roman and Patton’s affairs
Will become a bit more lively when given some wine
Not a very emotional man but does care deeply for his friends and colleagues. 
Met Mr. Lyde a street away from Patton’s home one night. Talked outside Lyde’s door. Impression was inconclusive but Lawson worries that Patton is being blackmailed
Personally takes it upon himself to investigate Lyde to protect his friends
Has not married and has no interest in doing so.
Upper middle class
Has a cat named Justice
Virgil B. Good
Dr. Morales’ butler (and more like unoffical son)
Does not like Mr. Lyde. Thinks he is a bad influence on his employer
A very soft spoken man but is not afraid to share his opinion
Comes from a lower class home and feels he is very lucky to have gotten a job for Patton. 
Helps Logan with the investigation of Mr. Lyde via tips and what he knows about the man. 
Used to join in on the discussion when Patton’s friends would join in. When Mr. Lyde showed up that stopped.
Just knows SOMETHING is wrong in the house but can’t figure out what. 
Mr. Douglas E. Lyde
Just showed up one day and became Patton’s personal assistant
Usually one side of his face is covered by hair or in a shadow
Has a tone of voice that never sounds sincere
Implusive
Does not listen to society’s rules
Can sometimes be heard arguing with Patton behind closed doors
Young in spirit and mind
Patton swears to everyone that Lyde would never do something illegal
No one knows where Lyde came from so it is guessed he was a street rat
Lawson is suspicious of Lyde because Patton asked for Lyde to be named in his will. If Patton disappears his estate is split between Lyde and Virgil. The disappearing clause is very alarming
Natalie Philpson nee Foster
Roman’s wife and third cousin
Very much a lesbian
Roman’s editor
Writes her own poetry under a false name. Mostly about how pretty women are
Is the one trying to set up dates for Roman with handsome young men
Tries to be a voice of reason during the Lyde case. To calm the nerves of everyone directly involved
I have really bad drawings of almost everyone but I don’t feel like sharing them. 
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Shai by H.L Day writing as H.L Night
Shai by H.L Day writing as H.L Night
Release Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway: Shai by H.L Day writing as H.L Night Malicious Gods: Egypt, Book 2 How do you play a game when there aren’t any rules? Petty crook and drug dealer Elijah Page’s plan was simple. Stay off the feuding crime-lords’ radar for long enough to make a quick buck in the city, and then get out. He couldn’t have been more naïve. Captured and beaten by McIntyre, he escapes…
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estacalavera · 6 years
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Hunter S. Thompson
“And I will give him the morning star.”
That is from Revelation— once again.  I have stolen more quotes and thoughts and purely elegant little starbursts of writing from the Book of Revelation than anything else in the English language— and it is not because I am a biblical scholar, or because of any religious faith, but because I love the wild powers of the language and the purity of the madness that governs it and makes it music. 
And there is also the fact that I spend a lot of my time on the road, renting typewriters and hustling FAX machines in strange hotels and always too far from my own massive library at home to get my hands on the wisdom that I suddenly realize— on some sweaty night in Miami or a cold Thanksgiving Day in Minneapolis— I need and want, but that with a deadline just four or five hours away is utterly beyond my reach.
You cannot call the desk at the Mark Hopkins or the Las Vegas Hilton or the Arizona Biltmore and have the bell captain bring up the collected works of Sam Coleridge or Stephen Crane at three o’clock in the morning. . . .  In some towns Maria has managed to conjure up a volume of H.L. Mencken or Mark Twain, and every once in a while David McCumber would pull a rabbit like Nathanael West’s Cool Million  out of his hat or his own strange collection in his office at the Examiner. . . . 
But not often.  Fast and total recall of things like page 101 from Snowblind or Marlowe’s final judgment on Lord Jim, or what Richard Nixon said to Henry Kissinger when they were both on their knees in front of Abe Lincoln’s portrait in the White House on some crazed Thursday night in July of 1974 are just about impossible to locate after midnight on the road, or even at noon.
It simply takes too much time, and if they’ve been sending bottles of Chivas up to your room for the past three days, they get nervous when you start demanding things they’ve never heard of.
That is when I start bouncing around the room and ripping drawers out of the nightstands and bed-boxes and those flimsy little desks with bent green blotters that they provide for traveling salesmen— looking for a Gideon Bible, which I know will be there somewhere, and with any luck at all it will be a King James Version, and the Book of Revelation will be intact at the end.
If there is a God, I want to thank Him for the Gideons, whoever they are.  I have dealt with some of His other messengers and found them utterly useless.  But not the Gideons.  They have saved me many time, when nobody else could do anything but mutter about calling Security on me unless I turned out my lights and went to sleep like all the Others. . . .
I have spent half my life trying to get away from journalism, but I am still mired in it— a low trade and a habit worse than heroin, a strange seedy world full of misfits and drunkards and failures.  A group photo of the top ten journalists in America at any given day would be a monument to human ugliness.  It is not a trade that attracts a lot of slick people; none of the Calvin Klein crowd or international jet set types.  The sun will set in a blazing red sky to the east of Casablanca before a journalist appears on the cover of People magazine.
It is always bad business to try to explain yourself on paper— at least not all at once—but when you work as a journalist and sign your name in black ink on white paper above everything you write, that is the business you’re in, good or bad.  Buy the ticket, take the ride.  I have said that before and I have found, to my horror, that it’s true.  It is one of those half-bright axioms that can haunt you for the rest of your life— like the famous line Joe Louis uttered on the eve of his fight with Billy Conn: “He can run, but he can’t hide.”  
This is a thing you want to remember if you work in either journalism or politics— or both, like I do— and there is no way to duck it.  You will be flogged for being right and flogged for being wrong, and it hurts both ways— but it doesn’t hurt as much when you’re right.
There are times, however— and this is one of them— when even being right feels wrong.  What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death?  If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring rain on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison scum right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation.
It’s a strange world.  Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.  A fat man will feel his heart burst and call it beautiful.  Who knows?  If there is, in fact, a Heaven and a Hell, all we know for sure is that Hell will be a viciously overcrowded version of Phoenix— a clean well-lighted place full of sunshine and bromides and fast cars where almost everybody seems vaguely happy, except for the ones who know in their hearts what is missing. . . . And being driven slowly and quietly into the kind of terminal craziness that comes with finally understanding that the one thing you want is not there.  Missing.  Back-ordered.  No tengo.  Vaya con Dios.  Grow up!  Small is better.  Take what you can get. . . .
Heaven is a bit harder to figure.  And there are some things that not even a smart boy can tell you for sure. . . . But I can guess.  Or wonder.  Or maybe just think like a gambler or a fool or some kind of atavistic rock & roll lunatic and make it about 8-1 that Heaven will be a place where the swine will be sorted out at the gate and sent off like rats.  With huge welts and lumps and puncture wounds all over their bodies.  Down the long black chute where ugliness rolls over you every 10 or 16 minutes like waves of boiling asphalt and poison scum.  Followed by sergeants and lawyers and crooked cops waving rule books.  And where nobody laughs and everybody lies and the days drag by like dead animals and the nights are full of whores and junkies clawing at your windows and tax men jamming writs under your door and the screams of the doomed coming up through the air shaft along with white cockroaches and red stringworms full of AIDSand bursts of foul gas with no sunrise and the morning streets full of preachers begging for money and fondling themselves with gangs of fat young boys training after them. . . .
Ah. . . but we were talking about Heaven. . . or trying to. . . but somehow we got back into Hell.
Maybe there is no Heaven.  Or maybe this is all pure gibberish— a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found out a way to live out there where the real winds blow— to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested. . . .
Res ipsa loquitur.  Let the good times roll.
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bookstattoosandtea · 3 years
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Release Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: Shai by H.L Day writing as H.L Night
Release Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: Shai by H.L Day writing as H.L Night
Release Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: Shai By H.L Day writing as H.L Night Malicious Gods: Egypt, Book 2 How do you play a game when there aren’t any rules? Petty crook and drug dealer Elijah Page’s plan was simple. Stay off the feuding crime-lords’ radar for long enough to make a quick buck in the city, and then get out. He couldn’t have been more naïve. Captured and beaten by McIntyre,…
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sensitivefern · 7 years
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BALTIMORE, NOVEMBER 15, 1948. ...his liver had bulged down to the level of his bladder... his blood count was alarmingly low, and that he seemed to be fast breaking up... His disease is simply arrested. In order to keep going he must avoid alcohol altogether. Patterson has managed to do this so far, but I am wondering whether he will hold out... Certainly he misses his Scotch very sorely. Nevertheless, he has stood up to the drill with great courage, and his apparent recovery is largely due to his own resolution. His mind is now perceptibly clearer than it was, and he doesn’t look so ghastly... He is still, of course, a sick man...
This was the last entry that H.L. Mencken made in his diary. Eight days later, on November 23, the thing that he had feared for so long happened – he was stricken by a massive cerebral thrombosis... the stroke permanently damaged certain brain areas and left him without the ability to read or write. No further literary work was possible. He lived for another seven years, cared for by his devoted brother August, and died in his sleep at Hollins Street during the night of January 29, 1956.
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ORRIS: Orris root is obtained from three species of iris (Iris florentina, I. pallida, and I. germanica), perennials native to southern Europe and cultivated chiefly in Italy for their fragrant rootstocks... roots grown in rather dry, gravelly soil appear to be the most fragrant.
Orris is readily propagated by division of the old plants, which may be set either in spring or fall about a foot apart in rows spaced conveniently for cultivation. It requires three years to produce a marketable crop of roots... they are [then] peeled and dried in the open air. The desired fragrance does not develop until after the dry roots have been stored for a long time, during which they are especially liable to the attacks of insects... Orris grows best in full sun, is often used in borders.
The royal fern (Osmunda regalis), likes sunlight and will thrive in very wet places, like bogs, meadows, or the edges of a brook or lake, if its crowns are above the high water line...
Both the *cinnamon** and the interrupted fern form large, fibrous root masses, often several feet square, above the ground. Called osmunda fiber or osmundine, this material is used to pot up orchids. Very rich, it will feed an orchid for up to five years. It is also extremely tough, and must be cut with a saw.
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shrub verbena | Lantana camara Beware the whiteflies and spider mites... give it absolute warmth... may be propagated by seed ‘for fun’... ‘If you like the smell of marigolds, you’ll love the sharp, strongly scented foliage of L. camara and montevidensis as well as appreciate how quickly they take on the filler role in container gardening’... the flowers of camara remind ‘me’ of ‘brooches or millefiori paperweights’... both species are butterfly magnets... lantana is a contemptible weed in the tropics... they can take the heats bravely, but don’t skimp on the water...
lion’s ear | Leonotis ‘And now for something different. I’ve found a plant that blooms during the mum season, produces flowers in autumnal orange, grows well in containers, and doesn’t fall prey to a wide variety of maladies’.. when in bloom, Leo resembles ‘a skyrocket in multiple-explosion flight, a green arm wearing several orange cuff bracelets, or a troupe of orange-winged acrobats standing on each other’s shoulders’... are best started from cuttings and pinched regularly... Ol’ Leo is a phosphorus hog, and demands much water, also...
[Encyclopedia of Container Plants]
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Feb 12 [1854]. PM – Skate to Pantry Brook. Put on skates at mouth of Swamp Bridge Brook. The ice appears to be nearly two inches thick. There are many rough places where the crystals are very coarse... [...] Landed at Fair Haven Hill. I was not aware till I came out how pleasant a day it was. It was very cold this morning, and I have been putting on wood in vain to warm my chamber, and lo! I come forth, and am surprised to find it warm and pleasant. There is very little wind, here under Fair Haven especially. I begin to dream of summer even. I take off my mittens. [...] This is a glorious winter afternoon. The clearness of a winter day is not impaired, while the air is still and you feel a direct heat from the sun. It is not like the relenting a thaw with a southerly wind. There is a bright sheen from the snow, and the ice booms a little from time to time. On those parts of the hill which are bare, I see the radical leaves of the buttercup, mouse-ear, and the thistle.
Especially do gray rocks or cliffs with a southwest exposure attract us now, where there is warmth and dryness. The gray color is nowhere else so agreeable to us as in these rocks in the sun at this season, where I hear the trickling of water under great ice organ-pipes.
[Thoreau, Journal]
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❚Roberta Peters, the Bronx-born coloratura soprano who at 20 was catapulted to stardom by a phone call, a subway ride and a Metropolitan Opera debut — her first public performance anywhere — all in the space of five hours, died on Wednesday at her home in Rye, N.Y. She was 86. Ms. Peters, who would sing with the Met 515 times over 35 vigorous years, was internationally renowned for her high, silvery voice (in private, she could hit a high A, two and a half octaves above middle C); her clarion diction in a flurry of languages; her attractive stage presence; and, by virtue of the fact that she and television came to prominence at about the same time, her wide popular appeal.
How Guardian readers are coping with the courgette crisis A courgette crisis has brought parts of the UK to its knees – or at least, caused some minor inconvenience. So naturally we asked Guardian readers to document their own struggles hunting down the elusive squash. There are courgettes in Yorkshire.
Having absolutely NO other stories to report on, the BBC tackles the tough issues such as: "Why do we put 'The' in front of the country Gambia when talking about it?"
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