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smiledotdeer · 2 years

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And now, a compilation of the headcanons Cal shared with his audience last night!

1. "I was born and raised in a place called Cut Off. About a day's walk south of New Orleans, in Bayou Lafourche. Last I heard it had a little over five thousand people living there nowadays. Not too shabby I'd say!" 2. "One of my toys as a child was a slingshot. I became fairly decent at shooting from the metaphorical hip." 3. "I nursed a baby alligator back to health while I was still living in the bayou. Sometimes I wonder if she's still alive. They grow to be quite old, you know!" 4. "I never learned how to drive. I never needed to. I walked, or I was driven by someone else." 5. "I didn't practice vodou for very long before I died; only about five or six years. Most of what I know about it now was learned due to my continuing to research and study it after I came down here, along with a few extra things." 6. "I can shapeshift, but not in what one might consider the typical manner. I can't just snap my fingers and turn into whatever or whoever I wish. I have to study the anatomy of what or who I wish to turn into, memorize it, try it on for size, make mistakes, and make the tweaks necessary to perfect it. Right now, the only forms I know how to take on in their entirety, are myself, and that of a typical stag." 7. "I don't mind television. I enjoy films from time to time. I simply don't keep a television in my personal spaces, for personal reasons." 8. "I enjoy smoking from time to time, but my voice remains completely clear and unaffected. This is because I transfer the damage to Travis every time!" 9. "I don't like Catahoulas. They're the reason I was caught and shot." 10. "I own a mimic! It can turn into anything I ask, but most of the time I keep it as a mobile chest. A mobile, mostly fleshy, slight fuzzy, adorable little chest. With legs. And teeth. And a tongue. And a bottomless stomach for holding things. And food. It eats meat. Filet mignon is its favorite. I named it Chester." 11. "I also have a cat. His name is Churchill, but I just call him Church. He stinks. Badly. But no matter how I brush or bathe him it doesn't go away. Pretty sure he's got twisted bones, too. He doesn't feel right when I hold him. I love him to bits, though." 12. "I have a St. Bernard named Cujo. He doesn't smell good, either. And I think he's rabid? Or he just drools way more than he should. I dunno. I love him, too." 13. "I have a mouse. Mister Jingles. He likes rolling my spools around on the floor. I've lost a few because of him. I don't mind, though. As long as he's having fun." 14. "...I'm really tired. I might nap after this. ...huh? It's only four-thirty? Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!" That's. Not a fact, Al. 15. "I think it's a shame that people who like pumpkin spice are made fun of for liking pumpkin spice. Let people enjoy their fall treats in peace, dagnabbit!" 16. "My glasses are indeed prescription. I'm not completely blind without them, but I'm pretty dang close to it." 17. "Ribeye is my favorite cut of beef." 18. "Boudin is what I believe I make best." 19. "I have a coffee press in every room of my home." 20. "I was almost married once, back when I was alive." 21. "I have special pads on the bottom of my hooves that keep me from slipping and sliding on the wooden floors of my house." 22. "I served in the first World War. It's where I first got introduced to radio." 23. "I can play the piano, violin, organ, and harpsichord. I'd like to learn how to play the guitar someday." 24. "My house isn't really my house. I stole it from the living world after its owner died and teleported it down here during a visit topside back in the sixties." 25. "I've—got a lotta spell books. Wowza." 26. "I like the color green. It's soothing. Makes me think of plants. I like plants." Sniffle. "I wish they didn't die when I touch 'em." 27. "I'm lonely." 28. "Is—is anyone even listening? Or am I talking to myself? —who am I kidding. Nobody listens to the radio anymore. Not here. Not in my Hell. I'm—...I think I'm done."

#biography excerpts (headcanon)

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kinsurou · 3 years

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Alright, so…

Some weeks ago while checking some things out around my blog, it caught my attention that I’ve reached my 1k followers milestone, and there are no words to describe how happy this made me. However, being busy with some irl things as well as server collabs...as well as being as forgetful as always, I forgot to organize anything for this…

So! Rather than hosting some event, I decided to create this appreciation post, recommending some of my favorite works from some of my favorite content creators out there, as well as some of my closest friends that have been so amazing, sweet, and supportive.

With that said, let’s get started!

@wakaoujisenhime

For you, my lord / Bakugou x Reader

Oh god, this was like having someone rip out your heart and crush it in their hands with a smile. A beautiful piece revolving around Samurai Au that those of you who enjoy some good angst will most certainly enjoy.

Warnings: Angst, Death.

The Usual / BakuDeku x Reader

This fic? Oof, I still remember the day she came up with the idea for the plot. Beautifully written, astounding work and such a delicious plot that had me sweating like a sinner in church.

Warnings: Threesome, Public sex.

@iwaasfairy

Tricky words / Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

This fic featuring bully Kuroo is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever read, but it also gave me an exorbitant urge to smack the guy into oblivion. If you enjoy dark content, this one is a work of art.

Warnings: dubcon, bullying, manipulation.

Shhh / Daishou Suguru x Reader

Ok, I am not exactly a Daishou fucker, but this fic managed to give me some itty little bit of Daishou brain rot apkapsjap.

@shinsotired

Heaven sent, hell proof / DabiHawks x Reader

Now, this? This has a few of my favorite things; Dabi, Hawks, debauchery, threesomes, and monsters. The best part is that it’s a multichapter fic.

Warnings: Mentions of Noncon, Dubcon, Yandere, threesome.

Captains + Thigh Riding

She said thigh riding and I came running. While these are small scenarios with the Hq Captains they’re just as hot as the rest of her works. My favorite one is Bokuto. :wew:

Warnings: some dubcon, public, d/s dynamic.

@soft-for-shoyo

Shark / Miya Osamu x Reader

Monster fucking, that is the tweet. This fic has the perfect balance between dark elements, smut, and a pinch of soft that just….melts you on the spot. While Reader doesn’t have a good time at the start of the fic it gets better in the end and if you’re into the merdick, this fic is for you.

Warnings: Noncon (by a third party), dubcon, monster fucking, gore.

Jack Frost!Akaashi Keiji x Reader

Watching Saz slowly feeding us this piece in the server was so good, everyone was on the edge of their seat waiting to see what would happen next. So when I realized she shared it on Tumblr? I needed to add it here. A whole meal, 10/10.

Warnings: Somnophilia

@kuroos-babygirl

Smile for the camera / Aran Ojiro x Reader x Suna Rintarou

This was a pleasure to beta read for my wife. It pulls you into the story and the plot is wonderful.

Warnings: Threesome, voyeurism, filming.

Merry Christmas, I love you / Bokuto Koutaro x Reader

Another perfect mix of fluff and smut. Spending the holidays with Bokuto gone spicy. For those who love Christmas, this one has to be one of the sweetest Christmas fics for those of you who love the holidays.

@savagetrickster

Fever / Todoroki Shouto x Reader

One of the longest, spiciest, and best fics to exist, featuring Doctor Shouto. The amount of smut in this fic is unbelievable but you.will.not.regret reading it over and over again.

Cause I’m a fool / Todoroki Shouto x Reader

Ok, this one doesn’t have smut, but the angst? delicious. The way everything is described, from the surroundings to the character’s feelings is a beautiful display of art.

@honeytama

Wanted for Pleasure / Spinner x Reader x Stain

Listen, this is one of the hottest fics I’ve ever read. Threesome fics are some of my favorites and this one will NOT disappoint you. And of course, there’s some tongue action, courtesy of Daddy Stain.

Give me more / Shigaraki Tomura x Reader

Listen, Shigaraki’s not exactly one of my favorite characters to lewd, and yet, Lauren managed to make me enjoy a fic with this crusty bastard. And boy did I enjoy this a lot.

This is also part 2 of one of her previous fics, which you can find here!

@hawks-senseis

Dear Husband / Takami Keigo x Reader

Dom!Readers weren’t my thing until I came across this little series featuring Hawks as this sweet househusband and then brrrrrrrr, Prism.exe stopped working.

@sailor-manga

Caught / Shouta Aizawa x Reader

My masochist self couldn’t stop reading this one over and over because of all the angst AND the smut in it.

@sempiternal-amour

Tiddie Sucking / Bokutou Koutaro x Reader x Kuroo Tetsurou

The way this fic made me giggle like a madwoman...because it’s so damn good and I love fics where they play with your titties like you have no idea...ANYWAY, GO READ THIS, YOU WILL NOT BE DISAPPOINTED.

A Jolly-day, Holi-day / Suna Rintarou x Reader

This one is sfw and such an adorable fic! Personally, Christmas is not one of my favorite holidays but when I say mi corazón tagged me, my inner crybaby came out screaming like a rabid animal. Suna being so sweet and wholesome made this grinch’s heart swell.

@xplosiveboy

Incubus!Kuroo x Reader

Monster Fucking is a favorite of mine, but Incubus? Sign me the fuck up. *chef kiss*.

This little octopus blessed my existence with this fic and I will love them for eternity.

Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon, Monsters.

@rocorambles

Dream come true / Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

Yes another Kuroo fic, I have a problem pspdkspdks. This fic...God, I have no words to describe what it was like reading it for the first time. Beautiful, depraved, and perfect. Not apt for those who are not into dark content, but for those who like it? You’ve come to the right place.

Warnings: Noncon, Yandere, Non concented Somnophilia, DDLG.

@divinewhimsy

Upright Fool / Todoroki Touya x Reader

A small warning, don't read this if Shouto's your favorite Todoroki cause you might want to smack him during this fic. Touya on the other hand? Marry me pls. A sfw, no quirks AU that you'll definitely adore.

@candychronicles

Masquerade Girl / Takami Keigo x Reader

I don't think there's a lot of glory holes fics around, but this one is a gemstone. And Hawk's character is on point, everything Candy writes is perfect.

And there you have it, folks! These are some of my favorite fics, but not all of them. Will I make a part 2 of this appreciation post? Damn right! There are so many more fics I want to show you guys, such as one of the very first ones that turned me into a monster fucker as well as the one that inspired me to write “Forgive me, Lord”. And there are so many more blogs I need to fangirl about.

Until then, enjoy your visit to the Record’s store!

With Love -Prism. ♡

#🎙.Announcement-in-the-store #💖.Apreciation Posts #I WASN'T DONE ADDING PEOPLE AND TUMBLT POSTED IT BEFORE #WHAT HAPPENED

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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Nate and Bram: Sing

(for the anon who wanted a quick drabble of the first time Bram heard Nate sing...)

CW: dub con kissing, touching - noncon. Um, a game of darts that’s not strictly within regulations...

This is boring," Ashley complained, her arm drawn back behind her. She had her hair pulled back high on her head, and the wiry body, cutoff denim shorts, and red tank top she wore gave her a strangely young look, like the world's most rabid cheerleader.

"You c-c-could always not th-throw darts at me," Nate suggested, trying not to pull at the leather straps that bound his wrists above his head, elbows bent, against the wall. Bandages crackled around his neck - he’d pissed her off a few days ago and the cuts were still healing there, circle after circle layered over the old circles, the old scars, cutting the collar into his neck.

He’d never have to wear a real one, Bram said, because who needed that when he was so obviously already his?

"Oh, but it's so fun when I hit you," Ashley said, laughing. If Bram's true laugh was a hyena's awful cackle, Ashley laughed like a broken mirror of it - similar but shattered, somehow, stepping on a crackle of glass.

She threw the dart, and Nate let out a breath of relief when it buried itself in the wall three inches to the right of his neck.

"You could entertain us a different way," Bram said, sitting on the arm of the couch, a few darts in his hands, too. He wore black jeans and a black tank top, hair pulled back low at the nape of his neck, and every time Nate met his eyes he thought Bram looked like he'd been poured into those jeans, was maybe the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

Then Bram looked away, and it was gone. He was ashamed of himself for the thought, hated himself for having it, for not being able to not have it. The rage filtered back when Nate was allowed to look away. He remembered himself, then… and what he remembered was horrible.

Sometimes he wished for Bram to look back, because there was nothing he could do with the hate, but the love... the love at least let him pretend for a while that this wasn't Hell on Earth. Some days, he didn’t mind the pretending.

They had impeccable aim, the both of them, and he knew it - every time a dart buried itself in wood and not in his shoulder, his hip, his leg, it was because they were missing on purpose. And Bram hadn’t actually hit him yet except for a graze across one cheek.

Ashley, well… Ashley was responsible for the rest of the scratches, the thin lines that trickled blood and ached, throbbed in time with his heartbeat… but by now, this kind of pain was nothing compared to the other pains, the deeper ones.

Bram licked up the blood - and when he did, Nate loved him, because the blue eyes locked right on his. The shifting dark things that swam under Bram's ice-colored eyes had looked at him, but he was a different kind of food.

Then Ashley threw darts at his head, and broke that spell anyway.

“What… what d-do you want me t-t-t… damn it, to d-do?” Nate asked, the softness of his voice a tacit submission, acknowledging that he’d do it, whatever it was. He’d done worse. There was nothing they could come up with by now where he hadn’t already done worse… and probably enjoyed it, in the moment, if he was with Bram.

Bram held up a dart without moving from the couch, aimed it, looked down the line of it right at Nate. Then he paused and dropped his arm again, and Nate let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Sing for me.”

“... sing?” Nate pressed his back against the wall, as though he could somehow sink into it and get away from this moment. His heart started to pound, nervously, his eyes dancing from Bram to Ashley and back again.

Ashley curled one lip in thought, then dumped the rest of her darts on the coffee table. “Yeah, okay. I’m bored of this anyway, and we always liked music.”

“Remember dancing around the fires?” Bram asked her, a note of wistful nostalgia in his voice. “They’d play the drums and we’d dance, and dance…”

“Mmmn, I liked the dancing.” Ashley smiled, walking up to Nate, yanking the darts out of the wall from around him. He met her eyes without fear, without hesitation, because Ashley’s eyes were cold, hostile… and empty.

Nothing moved in her, beneath the surface. Nothing to drag him under.

Besides which, he didn’t belong to her, anyway.

“I c-c-can’t sing,” Nate said, a little too quickly. “It wouldn’t b-b-be any g, any good.”

“Ugh. Broken head.” Ashley slapped him, hitting Nate across the face the way you might smack a malfunctioning piece of electronics, stop a CD player from skipping. He took the blow without complaint, head jerking hard to the side and eyes closing, but the sting against his cheek meant nothing to him by now. “Why does he do that now?”

“Fear, I hope,” Bram breathed, with pure ecstasy in his voice. “Come on, baby, we don’t care if you’re good at it. Sing for me.”

“Are you… Are you g-g-going to let m-me down from the wall, Bram?” Nate asked, a little tentatively. He already knew the answer.

“No. Not until we’ve heard your song.” Bram smiled at him, that sweet loving flash of white teeth nearly the same shade as his skin, and Nate took in a breath, trying to remember - from the diaphragm, Nate, from the diaphragm.

Ashley draped herself across the couch on her back, dirty bare feet up in Bram’s lap, and turned to look at him. They looked so much alike and so little alike at the same time - the same shape to the face, the same cold implacable interest in him, even if Bram’s took a different flavor and Ashley’s seemed more like curiosity as to what his organs would look like if they stopped being inside of him.

“Wh… what song?” Nate asked, softly, curling his hands into fists. “What s-s-song do you want me to sing?”

Bram considered, leaning over with his arms resting over Ashley’s ankles, and Nate met his eyes willingly this time, looked right at him on purpose, and felt himself start to smile. A bit of white-blonde hair slipped loose from Bram’s ponytail and Nate’s hand jerked with an urge to push it back out of his face, tuck it behind one ear, tilt his head for the kiss.

“What s-s-song, Bram?” He asked, and heard the change in his own voice as though from a distance. Softer, sweeter.

The love, at least, made things bearable for a while.

Nate had a plan, but he wasn’t sure it would work, and they’d have to believe he was broken if Bram was ever going to leave him alone with Ashley again. Giving Bram the love would help him learn to trust, and Nate needed him to feel that trust so he could run.

“Anything you want,” Bram said, gesturing magnanimously. “Anything at all, baby.”

Nate nodded, slowly. He didn’t try to sound like he couldn’t sing, he didn’t try to lie and crack his voice. Instead, he took a deep breath, and sang softly, “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel… I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real…”

His voice was rough, a little scratchy and hoarse. He hadn’t sung in a long, long time, except occasionally when they were both gone and Nate was left alone with no way to pass the time.

The low bass of his voice began to warm to the words, though, and the roughness smoothed, stopped having that crack around the edges.

Bram sat back, watching him. Ashley’s eyes narrowed, just the slightest bit, in thought.

“The, ah…” Shit, it’d been a while since he’d listened to this song, he didn’t get to have music here, really… “S-Sorry… the needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting… try to kill it all away, but I remember everything…”

He swallowed, pitched his voice a little higher, closed his eyes to remember the words better, but when he did that, the love seeped away and the cold hatred took its place; the shame at himself for giving in, giving up, even as he plans and thinks, and plans some more.

The shame at what he had done to keep living, he tried to bury under the hate.

Warmed up by now, his voice is the soft and smooth baritone he’s always gotten attention for, whenever he allowed anyone to hear it. Like when he sang at church as a teenager, like when he sang to himself around the house, like when he sang to boyfriends and watched their eyes light up for him, just for him.

Singing used to be a gift he could give people - now it’s just another bit of himself that doesn’t belong to him.

“What have I become? My sweetest friend… everyone I know goes away in the end… and you can have it all, my empire of dirt… I will let you down, I will make you hurt… I wear my crown of sh-shit, on my liar’s chair… full of broken thoughts I cannot repair-”

Bram’s mouth was on his, and Nate lost all his air as the vibration of sound dies in his throat.

“You didn’t tell me you could sing,” Bram said softly, kissing along his cheek and down his neck. “You never told me, I didn’t know that about you, why didn’t I know that about you?”

Nate couldn’t help it; he started to laugh, airy and breathless. “Y-y-you don’t know anything ab, about me,” He whispered back, and Bram kissed him again to stop the words.

Ashley groaned from behind Bram, where she still lays on the couch. “Gross, Brammie. Like kissing a turkey dinner.”

“I love the turkey dinner,” Bram said softly, with perfect sincerity, against the bandages layered over Nate’s neck. “I love the turkey dinner so much. Keep going, Nate. Keep going but just for me this time, okay? Keep going.”

“Can you l-l-let me down from th-the wall, now?” Nate asked softly, and tilted his head for the next kiss, gave another piece of himself away for temporary reprieve.

One day I’m going to walk out of here and I hope you’re both dead when I do it.

“Will you sing the rest of the song for me?”

Bram’s cold fingers shivered along the inside of Nate’s wrist, just above the place where they’d tied him to the wall. An offer, a trade, a bargain.

Give yourself away, and live a little longer with your mind your own. Or give up, give in, and you don’t have to care any longer.

Nate smiled, turned to look Bram right in the eyes. “Y-Yes. If you let me d-d-down, I’ll sing.”

Bram’s fingers went to undo the buckles, and Nate let himself drown.

Then, rubbing one wrist with the other hand, he took a breath and started to sing.

“Beneath the stain of time, the feeling disappears... you are someone else, I am still right here...”

#ask ash something and she'll answer #Daniel michaelson drabbles #nate vandrum: a knight in soot-stained armor #bram and nate #Daniel Michaelson's story

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pani-slunce · 4 years

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Welcome to the forest of northern Michigan

Off in a cabin in the back a families living in

The dad is happy to be back he's been non stop working since

Young Jill came out his sack, but now the kid is ten

But the father can't believe what he's seeing

Jill is broken and started to twitch like she was fiendish, so he treats her like a thing

Almost like

She’s not from this earth and he blames God that he’s been cursed

Since her birth she gets worse

Punches on the walls and trees until her fist hurts

Her daddy doesn’t love her and her own mother is scared of her

So she just said fuck em and cut em and then fucked them good

Now little Jill is running through the woods

With her parents blood on her hands feeling fucking good to be free

But now Jill’s thirst has significantly increased

So she lurks by a church and goes berserk on a priest

Now she’s out searching for a whole group of Boy Scouts

She’s only working with three razors, but everyone has little to work with when they starting out

Somewhere out there in the forest

Lives a woman who eats the corpses

Of all her victims she beats and tortures

At will, this is psycho Jill

Now little Jill has learned how to kill, she grew a bit older, day by day eating human meat to get her fill

But, as Jill had bordem with America she set her sights on a country that was as remote as some areas in Canada

During the plane flight she focused on her need to kill, she managed to harm no one on the flight and even held still

She was daydreaming of the massacre’s she pulled in America, and was praying she could do the same thing in Czechia

Not to her surprise she had walk cuz she had no money. And even got sick because there was no human meat in her stomach. She knew she would feed soon as she stepped into the forest and found a old dude

He didn’t look like much of a meal on her first glance over. But she knew she had to eat something to tide her over

She pushed the man so hard that he fell off the trail. Jill already knew she was going to hell

As she couldn’t help but laugh as the old man fell

She ended up cutting and eating most of the raw meat. After she then organized the body all nice and neat

As she stepped further into the forest hunting like a rabid jackal, she saw in the distance an old building that looked like a chapel

It seemed ripe with kills as the chapel was surrounded by hills, a perfect place where kids can tell scary stories of Jill

She skipped over to chapel to have some fun, only to knock on the door and find a nun. Jill glanced over and saw the nun was armed with a gun. Jill was shocked by the woman and felt like she had to run

But she couldn’t she was stopped in her tracks, all she could do was stare at the nuns back.

The nun noticed that Jill was staring at her backside and without hesitation asked Jill to come inside

Jills heart started pumping and her hands got sweaty. Just the thought of finding other girl just as deadly

She obliged an stepped inside, as she followed the nun slowly and wide eyed

The nun and Jill ended up talking for hours. Until it was midnight and they could hear the ringing from the bell tower

The nun had asked her why she hasn’t left yet. It made Jill stand up and scream “I have a confession”

The nun sat and listened as Jill spilled everything she did in one sentence. Jill even had some gifts to give as she stood up and riddled through her pockets

The nun thanked her for being honest, and Jill tried to stay solid but broke and fell to the floor screaming sorry

Jill gave her ears from her victims and told her its memorabilia. The nun smiled and said “it’s ok child we all have our sins, mines happens to be pedophilia”

The nun started to feel Jill’s breast, to Jill’s surprise as she was only thirteen and her body hasn’t developed yet

Jill knew it was wrong but before she could say anything the nun was taking off her thong. The nun forced Jill into her. And hit Jill in the head when she wasn’t doing a good job at pleasing her

Soon Jill started liking it, and could tell she was servicing the nun because she was biting her lip.

Jill soon pulled her pants down and told the nun she wanted to take it then. The nun smiled and said “don’t worry I’m gonna break you in”

The nun forced her down as she teased Jill by moving her finger in and out. For the next few days Jill was having sex so often devolving worse habits

She enjoyed being the nuns personal faggot

But the subconscious need to feed and kill was on her mind still. To her sadness she had to leave and revert back to her old habits

Jill hugged the nun one last time

She said “please don’t forget me” and when she asked for the nuns name, she smiled and said “my name is Eszti”

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zipp0flare · 4 years

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Third time. This is the THIRD. TIME. that my new co-worker on third shift has asked me if I go to church, then questioned why I don’t when I answered negative. Two of those times were two days in a row.

Like. Do you have THAT little of attention span that you forget what my answer is? No. I do NOT go to church, I get ANGRY at the thought of it for multiple reasons. I am salty about it, I’m just not a fan at all. I’m honestly waiting for when I finally snap and go on a full rant about WHY I have such a hate boner for certain organized religions. No shade on anyone who’s religious, but sometimes I just go off and turn a little rabid.

It’s like he’s poking a bear at this point with constantly asking over and over and then wondering why. You don’t even do that shit with people you’re used to being with, let alone someone you’ve only worked with for not even a week’s worth of time.

I’m just. I’m slowly losing my mind with this guy. I’m usually pretty chill and pretty lax about people, but this dude is pushing ALL of my buttons. You’ve got energy? Chill, I get it. Just stop. SINGING. OLD MCDONALD! Literally. I was listening to some awesome Florence and the Machine, and this dude starts (off key) singing a children’s song from fucking grade school. And then asks if I like that song. WTF.

He also offended me when I was like, “Oh, one of my favorite artist is releasing a new album in October” and he immediately responded, “Oh, Drake?” No. No. Get that shit out of here. I don’t like Drake. I don’t like Alicia Keys, I don’t like Maroon Five. Stop saying that they’re the best. You may think so, but they are not my cup of tea.

Plus Relyt is coming back next Monday. We thought he finally got canned after calling off over, and over, and over again with bs excuses. But NOPE! Wife had a baby, let’s give this dude a month off! It’s a bit of a red flag that EVERYONE groans the moment they hear that he’s coming back (Elocin even groaned then said, “Well, I was needing the overtime anyway”)

#I'm losing my fucking mind with these people #I love most of my co-workers #but some I would HAPPILY do without #This current dude is driving me absolutely fucking crazy #questioning what something is for then questioning ME about it and doubting i know what I'm talking about #Bruh #I've been here for almost a year now #you've been in this building for a month #I know more shit than you don't question me when I tell you what a piece of equipment is for #zipp0 screams into the void

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emersonness64-blog · 6 years

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Truths

The Honest truth and also Charitable organization Forum is actually an online magazine of Human Life International (HLI), dedicated only to the holiness and also gift from all individual life, the objective as well as occupation of the family members, as well as the right to reside in accord along with our Catholic religion. Far coming from attempting to make sure that Comcast's merging along with TWC does not wear away affordable pressures to the hinderance of the general public, the suggested selection is attempting to micromanage the market, simply insisting that the general public rate of interest demands charge of this is actually very subjective as well as approximate laundry list from ideal products. In the days when car dealerships often tended to possess their stock as opposed to have this floorplanned" with a financial institution, as well as prior to the makers came up with the idea from accelerating top secret incentives to sell remaining vehicles from the previous model year, this wasn't the only thing that uncommon for a supplier to have an 18-month-old cars and truck someplace on the whole lot. If you or even any one of people you are actually teaming up have economic problems imprinting out the products, buying a binder, taking a trip to an activity, purchasing auto parking, you could get out of bed to $10 paid for printing materials as well as purchasing a binder per month, and also individually approximately $TWENTY for travelling to an occasion, like gas, spending for parking, rate of entry, and also approximately $TWENTY for event-themed prices, such as making a PTP indication for presence at an event including a march or political rally. In Our First, The majority of Precious Liberty," the Bishops of the United States highlighted the several manner ins which our freedom to easily exercise our Catholic faith has been endangered, including the HHS mandate for contraception, sanitation and abortifacients; legislation that weakens the Congregation's pastoral care of undocumented migrants; as well as bias versus Catholic altruistic services. That may mean existing through omission, as when an intellectual publishes a research study along with a productive practice, while concealing that he conducted 50 of the same experiments that fell short, up until by arbitrary possibility one lastly worked, a sensation referred to as publication some instances, false information is evident, to make sure that any person could find that. In other cases, this is actually less therefore. For those situations, the PTP calls on promise endorsers to rely on reputable fact-checking web sites and/or on the medical opinion. In providing our 1980 statement on the idea from unfair actions or methods" under our buyer security authorization, the Commission acknowledged the unpredictability that had surrounded the concept of injustice, confessing that this unpredictability has been truthfully bothersome for some services as well as some members from the lawful career." This depiction just as appropriately describes the state of our UMC authorization today. This rabid desecration of chapels, holy places, as well as spiritual fine art looks in individual past history certainly not just in sixteenth-century England and in Moslem damage of Christian parishes during the course of the Campaigns but also in Communist nations that have seized church residential or commercial property as well as reduced chapels to structures or stockrooms to offer the condition.

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I've gone through that residents either praise God or can find the trend, in the should be actually for safeguarding individuals off being actually injured through various other people.Shouldn' t be actually swiping from some and also providing to had me decades to determine why people, I think are primarily honest, help significant actually worship govt, feeling govt ought to have God like powers.Anyone assisting significant govt as well as going to a parish, appears to be praying to 2 were actually cautioned about doing that.I think they join parish from behavior and also govt is their actual God.

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mysteryshelf · 7 years

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BLOG TOUR - Fatal Facade

Fatal Facade by Wendy Tyson

Fatal Facade (An Allison Campbell Mystery Book 4) Cozy Mystery/Suspense 4th in Series Henery Press (June 13, 2017) Paperback: 278 pages ISBN-13: 978-1635112238 E-BOOK ASIN: B06XP2QG4P

Allison Campbell accepted a dream assignment: a visit to the Italian Dolomites to help Hollywood socialite Elle Rose reinvent herself. A guest cottage on the grounds of Elle’s historic castle promises to be a much-needed respite from Allison’s harried life on the Philadelphia Main Line, and the picturesque region, with its sharp peaks, rolling pastures, and medieval churches, is the perfect spot from which to plan her upcoming wedding.

Only this idyllic retreat is anything but peaceful. There are the other visitors—an entourage of back-biting expats and Hollywood VIPs. There’s Elle’s famous rock star father, now a shadowy recluse hovering behind the castle’s closed doors. And then there’s Elle’s erratic behavior. Nothing is as it seems. After a guest plummets to her death from a cliff on the castle grounds, Allison’s trip of a lifetime turns nightmarish—but before she can journey home, Allison must catch a killer.

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

What initially got you interested in writing? I was a fairly shy child with an active imagination. I found writing stories, especially about animals, was a great way to express myself and feel less isolated. As I got older and came out of my shell, I never lost that passion for writing.

What genres do you write in? Primarily crime fiction—cozies, traditional mysteries, and thrillers.

What drew you to writing these specific genres? A former agent suggested I write what I love to read, and I’ve long been a rabid fan of mysteries. The left brain/right brain aspect of reading and writing suspense appeals to me. I enjoy creating the characters and building a fictional world, but I also appreciate the puzzle-like challenge of plotting a crime.

Plus, I’ve been obsessed with the concept of justice since childhood. Real crime is gritty. Often the perpetrators aren’t caught and victims and their families never find justice. Crime fiction allows me to try and make sense of what’s too often a cruel world. And in my books at least, the bad people get their comeuppance. Justice is done.

How did you break into the field?

It took lot of hard work, rejection, and persistence. I started out by writing short stories. After my short fiction was eventually picked up by literary journals, I decided to try writing a novel. It took me about two years to write that first book and it (a work of contemporary women’s fiction) caught the attention of an agent but didn’t find a home with a publisher. Feeling frustrated, I switched to writing what I love—mysteries. I was determined to go the traditional route, and so I set out on a new agent search, to no avail. I wrote a second mystery, found an agent (whom I’m still with!), but it was my first mystery, Killer Image, that she sold. During this time period I graduated from law school, accepted a full-time job at a law firm, and gave birth to twins. Moral of my story: if you really want it, keep plodding away.

What do you want readers to take away from reading your works?

First and foremost, I want readers to be entertained. As with many cozy and traditional mystery authors, I pay a lot of attention to character development, setting, and world-building. I hope my readers will come for a visit and decide to stay awhile. I also want them to enjoy a good whodunit. The puzzle element is critical, and it’s always my goal to take readers on a suspenseful ride, with a mystery that’s not easily solved. And if readers walk away touched or inspired, or if they’ve learned something? Well, that would be wonderful too.

What do you find most rewarding about writing?

I love the process of writing, from experiencing that first spark of an idea to fleshing it out to editing the final product. I also relish connecting with readers. At its core, fiction is about the human condition. It should be evocative, touch on common experiences and emotions. I realized at some point that writers enter into a sort of unspoken contract with readers. We agree to spin a good story, create characters you want to care about; readers agree to invest time and suspend disbelief, at least to a point. (After all, how many murders can really occur in one small town before everyone moves away?)

What do you find most challenging about writing?

The final edits of a novel, especially the last rewrite, when you’re fine tuning language and making sure every word advances the story. It’s hard to let go!

What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field?

First, understand why you want to enter the field. The publishing business is tough. Unlike many careers, you can work hard and be talented and it’s still no guarantee of success. But if you understand that and really want it, if you must write, then my advice is to read, study craft, be humble enough to listen and confident enough to advocate for yourself, and avoid excuses. You’ll find a million reasons not to write. Do it anyway.

What type of books do you enjoy reading?

I have pretty eclectic taste, but my favorite books are mysteries and thrillers. I also enjoy the classics, women’s fiction, general fiction, and science fiction. Anything, really, if it sounds compelling.

Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you?

My husband and I are avid organic gardeners. A few years ago we started an urban vegetable farm on the grounds of a beautiful historic local property. The farm never fully got off the ground because of local zoning issues (very long and frustrating story), but we still “farm” our yard—a third of an acre outside Philadelphia. We produce enough on our small lot to feed ourselves, our family members, and some of the neighbors. While we were disappointed that the farm didn’t work out, it lives on as Washington Acres in my Greenhouse Mystery Series.

What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work?

I love hearing from readers! I can be contacted through my website (www.WATyson.com), Facebook (www.Facebook.com/WendyTysonAuthor), and Twitter (@WendyTyson and @WashAcresFarm).

Thanks for hosting me on your site today!

Books in the Allison Campbell Mystery Series:

KILLER IMAGE (#1)

DEADLY ASSETS (#2)

DYING BRAND (#3)

FATAL FAÇADE (#4)

About The Author

Wendy Tyson’s background in law and psychology has provided inspiration for her mysteries and thrillers. Originally from the Philadelphia area, Wendy has returned to her roots and lives there again on a micro-farm with her husband, three sons and three dogs. Wendy’s short fiction has appeared in literary journals, and she’s a contributing editor and columnist for The Big Thrill and The Thrill Begins, International Thriller Writers’ online magazines. Wendy is the author of the Allison Campbell Mystery Series and the Greenhouse Mystery Series.

Author Links

Author website Facebook Goodreads

Twitter: @WendyTyson

Purchase Links

Amazon B&N kobo

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Participants

June 13 – Cozy Up With Kathy – SPOTLIGHT

June 13 – The Pulp and Mystery Shelf – INTERVIEW

June 14 – Island Confidential – INTERVIEW

June 15 – StoreyBook Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

June 15 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – REVIEW

June 16 – My Reading Journeys – REVIEW, CHARACTER INTERVIEW

June 17 – Nadaness In Motion – INTERVIEW

June 18 – Laura’s Interests – REVIEW

June 19 – Texas Book-aholic – REVIEW

June 20 – A Blue Million Books – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

June 21 – Queen of All She Reads – REVIEW

June 22 – Sleuth Cafe – SPOTLIGHT

June 23 – Books,Dreams,Life – INTERVIEW

June 24 – Lori’s Reading Corner – SPOTLIGHT

June 25 – 3 Partners in Shopping, Nana, Mommy, &, Sissy, Too! – SPOTLIGHT

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Click Here Find Details and Sign Up Today!

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BLOG TOUR – Fatal Facade was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: Enduring Voices: The Legacy of Nat Hentoff

There have been dozens of obituaries for Nat Hentoff over the past week. He was memorialized in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Atlantic, and anywhere else a person could hope to be, with obituaries detailing his intellectual prowess and expertise on a myriad of subjects. Despite the plethora of responses to his passing, I cannot help but wonder how he is going to be remembered, and indeed if he is going to be remembered in the long run. Hentoff was a producer, not a star, nor even the type of director who gave himself an occasional cameo. History is not much good for remembering producers, despite the fact that no shows go on without them. Hentoff wrote himself out of many of his works and used a light touch in his interviews in order to focus entirely on the people he interviewed: their stories, their lives, their voices. This is what makes those pieces so rich. It’s why his subjects trusted him. He was a good listener. One of the best, it seems.

I dwelled on the “elegant riffs and the sweet harmonies” in the Times obituary: “the legendary jazz writer and civil libertarian who called himself a troublemaker and proved it with a shelf of books and a mountain of essays on free speech, wayward politics, elegant riffs and the sweet harmonies of the Constitution died on Saturday [at age 91] at his home in Manhattan … surrounded by his family members and listening to Billie Holiday.”

Hentoff worked at the Village Voice for fifty years, alongside a handful of agile writers populating their independent America with flair, teeth, and supple sentences. For my cohorts and me, they changed journalism.

Hentoff’s art was to highlight the art of others and he was so successful that he is in danger of being left out of the stories he stepped aside to make room for.

Any way you want to look at it he was prolific. There are many strands of Nat Hentoff, which, in both scope and depth, are hard to wrap your head around.

Known for books such as Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya (with Nate Shapiro) and The Jazz Life, his big themes (section titles of The Nat Hentoff Reader, 2001) include the condition of liberty, the passion of creation, the persistence of race, and the beast of politics. His lesser-known books are as rich and illuminating as his best known. These include Peace Agitator: The Story of A.J. Muste; a spirited and heterodox biography of Cardinal O’Connor, to whom Hentoff warmly referred as “my friend the Cardinal”; and (a personal favorite) his understated, rough-cut Young Adult novel Jazz Country, billed on the dust jacket as, “the story of a white teen-ager’s struggle to make it in the black man’s world of jazz.”

My own hope is that some day there will be a well-selected collection of Hentoff’s music writing, that will stand side by side with such classics as Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, a fellow writer and traveler who chronicled his own towering century.

For those less familiar with Hentoff, he may be one of the best-known Zelig figures that you’ve never heard of. Witness Hentoff taking the stand in Lenny Bruce’s obscenity trial, and placing himself in the line of fire, as William F. Buckley berated the specter of Black Power on his TV program Firing Line. As Camera 2 turned to Hentoff in the latter, he matter-of-factly explained that the truth of Black Power is that it did “not exist as yet,” which is why black people and groups such as the Black Panthers were organizing under its banner. Aboard Bob Dylan’s bus for the Rolling Thunder Revue tour with Joan Baez, listening to Allen Ginsberg holding forth; on the go again on a chilly night in April 1955, backstage among the 40-plus musicians at Charlie Parker’s memorial concert at Carnegie Hall, which Hentoff co-produced and to which he contributed program copy; or in the studio with Cecil Taylor and Abbey Lincoln producing the album We Insist! Max Roach’s Freedom Now Suite.

Though I did not always share his opinions and positions, I respected, even lionized Hentoff. He had an unabashed sense of rabidity about what he was here to do, and how to keep on doing it. I was not alone. David Lewis asked the poet Amiri Baraka what Nat Hentoff’s reputation was among jazz musicians. Baraka shook his head and laughed, “I don’t know, what’s the reputation of the Bible in Church?”

From the age of 15, as a muckraker for the mimeographed Boston City Reporter, where he wrote about anti-Semitism, to articles drafted the past few months (see his June 2016 article “Trump’s Dangerous War on Press Freedom,” as timely as it is distressing), Hentoff never stopped.

Some of the Hentoff tributes over the past week focus on his political writings, others on his jazz criticism. He himself understood that his articles, books, and producing were interconnected. Both politics and American creative music are share the clear-eyed goal that the fight for freedom never ends. For writers and musicians like myself, certain of his most powerful books are emancipations.

How did Nat Hentoff become Nat Hentoff? In his memoir Boston Boy, one exchange becomes a central trope of his identity: I was twenty, sitting at the bar in a struggling Boston jazz club, alongside Duke Ellington’s longtime tenor saxophonist — the large, often volatile, Ben Webster.… Ben had just finished a set with an earnest but stolid local rhythm section, and he had lifted them, as if in a huge fist, into a groove that at least approximated swinging. “You see,” Ben said, triumphant: “If the rhythm section ain’t making it, go for yourself.”

That principle of Ben’s music and his life, which were the same, has stayed with me. If I’m to have a headstone, I’d like that to be on it.

In Jazz Country, another elder black musician explains to the young white protagonist that you don’t have to play jazz to swing, you can “swing in other ways.” And that was Nat’s own story of how he translated he values of music and the Jazz life into his own writing and worldview. It is more than an honorific gesture that he was the first nonmusician to be recognized as a Jazz Master by the National Endowment for the Arts.

He said one of his favorite Ellington songs was “What Am I Here For?” It always struck me as a strange choice. I like a few versions of the song, but never felt moved by it. Still, I’d give it a close listen, trying to hear what Nat heard it in. As it turned out, the song held a private meaning for him. His autobiography Boston Boy provides a clue.

At age 15, he still didn’t know what he was here for, but he began to find out when he was recruited “as apprentice journalists for a muckraking newspaper — actually a four-page mimeographed sheet — the Boston City Reporter.” He reflected, “The only payment was that for me, it put a personal pulse, a rhythm, to Duke Ellington’s song.”

Hentoff took the song and question to heart. He knew enough to know that the question has no one answer, but that, in any case, the lived life is its expression.

For Hentoff listening was as essential as food, clothing, and shelter. It was basic need, and yet listening and “being there” were starting points; you then had to “make it” in the moment. This meant allowing conversations to go in unexpected directions. More than once Hentoff quotes cornet player Bix Beiderbecke, who learned to play by ear, obsessively listening to records: “That’s one thing I like about jazz, kid. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Do you?”

Strange as it may sound for a writer of his accomplishments, Hentoff believed that his most lasting achievement would not be one of his books, but in fact a television program that he helped produce one Sunday afternoon in 1957.

CBS asked Hentoff and Whitney Balliett to create a jazz program for the network. They selected the musicians and worked with them on the numbers to be played. The line-up included Billie Holiday, Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, Ben Webster, Jo Jones, Roy Eldridge, Gerry Mulligan, Mal Waldren, Milt Hinton, Osie Johnson, Vic Dickenson, Doc Cheatham, Danny Barker.

The show, The Sounds of Jazz, exemplified Hentoff’s light touch. The bare studio would be the stage. Against protocol, the cameramen were told “not to worry about being caught in someone else’s shot.” According to Hentoff, in his introduction to Listen to the Stories: Nat Hentoff on Jazz and Country Music (1995), permission was given for the cameramen to use their judgment on any “particularly arresting shots” and “not wait for the control room” for directions.

A seemingly minor detail, Hentoff relates that the musicians were “told to dress as they would for a rehearsal,” which meant that Holiday would not wear a dress and “most of the musicians wore their hats.” The details of the set up reveal Hentoff’s process in action. You can see the musicians sharing stories in their own private language in a small intimate setting.

The session’s moment of truth is Lester Young’s one course solo on “Fine and Mellow,” sung by Billie Holiday. Hentoff’s telling of it gives me the chills:

When The Sounds of Jazz was on the air, we in the control room were moving in time to the music until something happened that nobody had anticipated. It was an epiphany, a wordless remembrance of things past between Lester Young (“Prez” she [Holiday] had nicknamed him long ago) and Billie Holiday (“Lady Day” had been his name for her).

They had once been very close, but for reasons unknown they had grown far apart. During the week before airtime they had avoided each other. And Lester Young, sick and weak, had to be replaced [on an earlier part of the show] on the big-band numbers. All he had left was Billie’s number. I told him before the show started that he didn’t have to stand up for his solo; he could stay seated.

Billie was seated on a stool … She began to sing. In the control room we leaned forward. The song “Fine and Mellow” was one of the few blues in her repertory. She sang about trouble long in mind, with some kicks along the way. Her sound was tart, tender, knowing. And she was sinuously swinging.

It was time for Prez. He stood up and played the sparest, purest blues chorus I have ever heard. Nodding, smiling, Billie was inside the music. Her eyes met his. It was as if they were in another, familiar place, a very private place. I felt a tear, and so did [CBS producer Robert] Herridge.

As I dwell on Hentoff’s life and work I keep thinking how much poorer the history of jazz would be without him. I think about his liner notes for John Coltrane’s Giant Steps or his exceptional “Dizzy in the Sunlight” portraits of Dizzy Gillespie — more essays than I can name here. Hentoff wrote in such a way that we felt we were hearing something for ourselves when we were in fact hearing it through Nat’s scrupulous ear.

As Hentoff developed as a writer his questions became deeper about the person and deeper still about the bigger picture of one’s own life.

He was an early commentator on the cultural and racial politics of jazz, critiquing the white culture of jazz critics and even DownBeat magazine while he worked there. According to scholar Nichole Rustin he “was perhaps the most articulate white critic on the subject of race and its attendant discourses of power, agency, and class within jazz culture and on the national scene. Black musicians felt that they could trust Hentoff because of his deep knowledge about jazz history and its practitioners, and his respect for their ideas.”

If Hentoff is the voice of jazz writing, as he has been called, it is because he always allowed the voices of the musicians to take the lead. A typical Hentoff piece seems to tell you everything you need to know: a note or two from Nat, a quote or two from the musician, and then you’re off, on your own to immediately search for the music.

Here are the lead paragraphs for Hentoff’s “Every Night, I Begin Again.”

In the Ellington sense, Hank Jones is serenely beyond category. If I owned a nightclub, I’d give Jones a lifetime contract. Unlike some musicians who memorize attractive “licks,” as they used to be called, Jones is a true improviser. He is “the sound of surprise,” to use Whitney Balliett’s phrase for jazz as it ought to be.

Furthermore, Jones is a melodist, a lyrical storyteller. “In a way,” he [Jones] told me recently, “I have a singing approach to the piano. I play very long lines that connect with each other to tell a musical story. The sentences become paragraphs, and as for the colors — well, the harmonies are what the lines are built on.”

In many ways Hentoff’s significance has been acknowledged, and in others it has not been. Hentoff’s 1957 review of Thelonious Monk’s Brilliant Corners and his startling interview “Just Call Him Thelonious,” both provided a much needed window into Monk as a person, musician, and composer at a critical moment in Monk’s life and career.

A favorite line from Hentoff’s introduction to his interview with Monk, is “When he has something to say, he says it in his music.” Indeed, Hentoff’s critical evaluation of the pianist proved decisive.

I do not wish to overstate Hentoff’s significance, or the role he played in such critical receptions, yet it would be wrong to understate them too. It’s a hedge for other writers or historians whom might just wish to rush directly to the gold of the quotes and miss the alchemist in the shadows of such brilliant corners.

In high school my best friend’s father, who was an encyclopedia of American music, told me that when he first heard Monk he thought he was playing chopsticks. Later I came to admire his honesty about how he heard Monk. We want to believe that we can see and hear the most vital art and its contours, mysteries, and wily beauty, but more often than not trusted guides are needed.

In the end, so many of the people whom Hentoff interviewed said things to him that they either couldn’t or wouldn’t say to anyone else. This is the power of listening, but these conversations grew out of real relationships and mutual trust. And so it is, his interviews, conversations, and many books, starting with Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya: The Story of Jazz by the Men Who Made It, are a cultural treasure and inheritance. Hentoff never needed or wanted to be center stage, and that may have been the right-sized understanding of the role of a critic, and especially a white critic, in the jazz world. For me, Hentoff stands as one of the greatest sidemen in the history of jazz.

The post Enduring Voices: The Legacy of Nat Hentoff appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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