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#fizz is a chaotic menace
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(Hi there Opo. I want to say I love every interaction we had together. With your awesome, creative OC Sipho, your accurately chaotic Fizzarolli, and menacing Luci, you have wowed me time and time again. I enjoy seeing your drabbles between Fizz and Mammon, and your amazing art work. I'm hanging on the edge of my seat to find out what happens in our threads. I also miss chatting with you and really hope you've been doing all right. I care about you and want you to remember you deserve happiness and good things. Thank you for being here and sharing your talents with us. )
( 。・_・。)人(。・_・。 ) I hope you know this can be said towards you as well. Don't think I haven't been paying attention to our server because I have. There's so many things I want to tell you. If I could, I'd sit you down and have an honest heart-to-heart with you because I feel it's something you need. At the end of the day though, it's up to you whether you listen to what I say or what others say and take it to heart, which I hope you do, but I can understand if you don't. Sometimes it takes a few times for the message to finally sink in before it does. Believe me. I know. Sometimes I still have a hard time believing some of the things people tell me because of how ingrained some things are, but... you'll get there. I know you will.
Regardless, I too have been enjoying our threads and I'm glad to hear you have been too. I get a little anxious regarding some of the darker ones, mainly because I've had people in the past approach me and ask if there was something wrong with me or write vague comments about me on the dash even though both I and the person agreed to these conditions. So what if there's something wrong with me? Inherently, there's a little something wrong with all of us because newsflash-- We're not all perfect and that's okay. If people want to make assumptions based on the things I write before getting to know me though, then that's on them.. Not me. I don't owe them excuses. Not anymore.
Sorry.. I went on a tangent there. My bad. Either way, I'm thankful to be writing with you and I love your OC despite what you make think or feel about her. You're a good person even if sometimes your thoughts may tell you otherwise. Even if other people in your life say so as well. I'm going to say this now-- My opinion matters more, because well.. fuck, I'm being honest and I don't sugar coat my words. I don't see the point in doing that shit, so all this? 100% the truth. That's just how it is.
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dustedmagazine · 4 years
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Clang!—Whac-a-Mole (Self-Release)
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Whac-A-Mole by Clang!
Clang!, from Tampa, plays a hard, menacing kind of punk, shades of Shellac in its irregular whomp of bass and drums, in the difficult, jury-rigged architecture of its vamps and rampages. A saxophone shoots off like fire-crackers out of a diesel-smelling smoke of dissonance, fizzing wildly and briefly in an arc from here to there, wherever that is. This debut self-release is all taut, fuzz-crusted stomp, its mud-caked riffs clomping laboriously uphill, then tumbling downhill in chaos, and it is very, very good.
Clang! is a four-piece anchored by Emily Jones’ monumental bass and Andrew Goding’s militant drumming, ignited by the chaotic fire spray of Brian Shield’s guitar and given hair-pulling, manic tension by the sheep-bleating, tone-fraying pitch of Zachary Hickerson’s saxophone. This debut album, recorded pretty much live over about five hours at a studio in Tampa’s WMNF radio (“community conscious radio”), delivers their gut-punching, violent sound with surprising clarity.  You feel like you’re in a war-zone but lucid and with an ability to see the details.
Details like the screaming onset of “Lie,” when everybody plays one note as hard and fast as possible – an exclamatory sax trill, a furious drum roll, an alarm-toned guitar scramble—before getting sucked into a slouching carnage of fuzz bass and drums. “Genius” with its clamorous power chords, puts a little shimmy into its straight-up punk-ness, slipping sideways into funk-like syncopation as Shields chants expressionlessly, “You’re not a genius/you can barely stand up straight/you’re not an artist just because you use all of that paint” (“Gen-i-us” has three syllables, which seems exactly right in context.) “Shovel” jerks to life in a barrage of rudimentary drum racket, its riff tipping backward and forward, its saxophone skirling wildly. Here, a riff is taken to a corner and bludgeoned to death, with everyone, bass, guitar, drums, whaling wildly on it until a bubble of blood dribbles out of its mouth.
Most of the songs rattle by in a minute or two, until then end, when “Gomorrah” bucks, twists, stutters and roars for a body-pelting nine-plus minutes. Give it to Clang!, though, long is never boring. Bits of sax, guitar, drums and bass fly like electric shocks off the cut’s muscular churn. The center of it—fuzz bass as always—pulses and swells like the sinews of a large animal, powerful and sure and entirely unconcerned by the damage in its wake. It’s not that a lot happens in the track. The riff is short and endlessly reiterated. But enough life and force surge through it that you’re never quite sure where the song will land. It is the opposite of hypnotic, forcing you to engage and be aware, rather than trip out, as you move through it.
“If you think you don’t work hard enough/you do,” Shields intones on the very stirring “Exploitation,” and in fact, these songs work brutishly hard and with a great deal of violent precision. Clang! pushes to the breaking point through 12 songs and 34 minutes but doesn’t break down once.  
Jennifer Kelly
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webcricket · 5 years
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Looking Glass
Chapter 23 - Begin the Begin
Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader
Word Count: 1393
Summary: Lucifer is a dick. Castiel has some trust issues; fortunately, he also has the reader. With the rift closed, everyone lets loose back at the bunker.
Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!
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“Careful there – last step’s a doozy.” Cementing a callous grip around your bicep to prop up the feet faltering on the final bus stair as you flounder into his looming person, Lucifer’s unkindly grin-framed chuckle singes your cheek. He resists your off-balance efforts to wriggle away, fixing his fingers further into the denim fabric of your jacket and the bruisingly insulted flesh below until a panged whimper rouses in your throat and unshed tears blear your vision. The sound of suffering sparks a ring of red round the merciless pitch of his pupils.
Boot having missed the step as though it were a mere mirage of solidity, dazed both by the clumsy landing jolting up your spine to slam together teeth and the sulphur tinge suffusing his breath, you can’t tell if you were accidentally shoved from behind by another refugee eager to exit, or if the fall is some devilish retribution for the ill-advised slap of his head earlier.
You immediately regretted the action given the oddly cool effect on his demeanor and Cas’ worry-wrought glance at you, the crevicing of his brow seeming to entreat why. You know angels – all angels – represent a threat, with archangels’ whims and propensity to power trip as stand ins for God plying the worst type of peril, but the escape from this world into that other where everything is different, the connection you share with Cas and the rawness of his reciprocated feelings, these experiences dulled the gravity of danger, lessened your wariness, and subdued the common sense required to contain a stupid reflex to swat the devil to stop his incessant rambling and chaotic driving like the buzz of an irritating fly – a mistake of being too familiar. Regardless of the how of the tumble, no sentiment of thanks stirs on your tongue for the rudely firm rescue.
Hearing the tumult, rift-bent regard revolving to check on you, Cas bristles; a protective gleam of blue ignites in his irises when he sees Lucifer’s coarse clasp. Unhesitating to sacrifice himself in your defense, he wedges a shielding arm into the sliver of space separating you and flicks the angel blade into his inflexible fist. “Let. Her. Go,” he growls, cadence clipped, through the set of his jaw. Shoulders squaring, wings bereft of their full-feathered glory – somehow more inimitable in menace given the scarcity of plumes and jagged scars illustrating the seraph’s tenacity for surviving defeat to rise again and again – swish up and out, shadowing out the sun-filtered sky behind in a starkly silhouetted show of warning.
Brown crusts of leaves churn in a tornadic uprising around you, giving the distinct impression of a gale wind driving downward from above and betraying the divine origin of the upheaval in the electric tingle charging the air.
Not wanting to risk spoiling his own escape and father-son reunion with a confrontation over an inconsequential human, Lucifer’s grasp loosens; palm lifting, the digits splay in appeasement and move to scratch through his hay-hued hair as though nothing untoward happened. “Just sayin,’ it’d be a real shame to stumble this close to safety.” It’s uncertain whether he’s referring to you, or administering the advice aloud to himself; he shrugs, clears his nose with a disinterested sniff, and shoves the offending deeper into the dirty blond tufts.
Castiel’s wings shudder, reluctantly rumple and withdraw, skeptical in their rustling retreat of the devil’s duplicity.
You touch trembling fingers to your angel’s balled fist, tender trace of the tips over his knuckles and tucking of them into the tractable palm assuring him you’re okay.
“Cas, Ketch – show ‘em how it’s done!” The urgency deepening Dean’s directive to demonstrate the leap between worlds for the others to follow leaves no time for further speculation or contests of celestial machismo.
Locking his hand fast around your wrist, Cas leads you toward the wavering bolt of energy, nudging you ahead by the waist as you near.
“Okay then, catch you two on the other side.” Lucifer issues a promissory salute and inserts himself into the horde of apocalypse deportees – patience isn’t a virtue in his vocabulary, but sometimes a cat must wait for the opportune moment to pounce on an unwitting mouse.
The last either of you sees of his sinister smirk before being engulfed in the rift’s golden glow, Sam halts him mid-stride with the butt of a rifle, and whatever words the Winchester utters blunt the edges of his engraved smugness.
* * * * *
The celebratory atmosphere of the bunker thrills with conversation, clinking of liquor laden glassware, and the soft metal pop and fizz of beer bottles opened. Arms looped round his waist, you snuggle the seraph listening to Dean relate the detail of Gabriel’s dauntless and unselfish change of heart to go tête-à-tête with Michael in a bid to buy time. Cas rests a palm over your shoulder, fingertips absent-mindedly stretched in seeking out the exposed rim of a rose-flushed spot near your collarbone, skin gilded with a mark of passion he place there hours ago and a world away.
Sam approaches, thick amber whiskey sloshing in his glass as he scales the steps.
Tongue dryly swiping over your teeth, you’re reminded it’s been over a day since you properly ate or drank anything substantial. You sneak a caress beneath Cas’ suit coat, tickling his torso through the white cotton of his dress shirt to garner his attention. Peering up into his inquiring blues, you ask, “Babe, you want a beer?”
The term of endearment curls up the pouting corners of his pink mouth in fondness, brightening the solemnity veiling his aspect as he processes the loss of Gabe. He wags his chin to indicate no, missing the warmth of your body as he watches you wander into the map room where the beverages sit by the case upon the table.
Once you’re beyond earshot, he fetters his focus to Dean. What he’s longing for is good news, not bad. “And what about Lucifer?” Ever since the bus, he’s been unable to shake the nagging apprehension founded in the archangel’s sudden silence in response to your rebuke. When the devil isn’t deluging the air with snake-tongued syllables, he’s seething, and that kind of meditative thinking means one thing – trouble. He felt immense relief to witness the rift close without Lucifer reentering this world, yet doubt lingers, darkening the lightness of manifest victory.
“Sam handled it,” Dean indicates his brother with a nod.
Cas looks to Sam for confirmation, searches his fatigue-pallid and unsmiling face for decidedly absent tell-tale signs of a long-awaited cathartic triumph.
The younger Winchester’s conflict-infused hazels briefly meet the heavenly blue and break off with a nebulous bob of the head to stare into the whisky.
The angel determines the silence to mean that whatever ultimately happened remains unknown because when Sam stepped through the rift, Lucifer was left alive. Why – when they had the chance to kill him after he was wounded by Michael – is beyond the Cas’ comprehension. His mouth molds to form the word what, as in, ‘What happened?!’ Less question, more exclamation.
“And hell, buddy,” –Dean claps his friend on the back, so hard Cas shuffles his weight foot to foot to reset his wobbling knees– “you came through with a personal win, too. You got the girl!” The hunter means it, he’s happy for him; he’s also distracting from Sam’s palpable distress by keeping the angel from probing for a deeper explanation.
Your laugh – easy and relaxed, unburdened and free of fear – as you exchange a few words with one of the refugees, the young woman, Maggie, they travelled through the vampire infested tunnels with, strikes Cas’ perception through Dean’s posturing for positivity. Finding you across the room, the foreboding flees from his features to mirror your merriment when you sense the heat of his gaze and flash him a smile.
Dean’s right, he realizes – he does have you; the angel simply isn’t used to trusting anything in life save the eventuality of failure. Exhaling his unease in a purgative sigh, he breathes in the bolstering recognition of the good winding her way through the throng of people toward him as Bobby calls for a speech, thanking Sam and Dean, and welcoming them to the family as Cas welcomes you into his arms, pressing you to his vessel’s steadily drumming heart.
Next: Ch. 24 - Heaven is a Place on Earth
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100albumcountdown · 5 years
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21. Tom Waits - Rain Dogs (1985)
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Tom Waits might be the most enigmatic figure in pop culture. Everything he does is skewed through the fractured lens of his various personas, from the deadbeat crooner of his jazzy output in the 70s, through to the devilish blues howler he morphed into for Heartattack and Vine, the lysergic carnival storyteller of Swordfishtrombones and the gruff, wisened trickster of Bone Machine and Mule Variations onwards. Even his limited public interviews and periodic film roles are conducted through the twisted reality of this caricature, with interviewers struggling to unveil any semblance of truth or reality from his mumbled non-sequiturs, and savvy directors using his already layered mythology to bring a bizarre humour or menace to the characters he plays on screen. He’s also another artist whose back catalogue can be quite intimidating to newcomers, as it stretches back to the early 70s and has remained artistically fresh and culturally relevant ever since – making him an almost entirely unique case amongst aging musicians. I would suggest Rain Dogs is probably the ideal starting place for most beginners: it’s not his most complete vision (that would probably be the skeletal blues deconstruction of Bone Machine) or the most accessible (Closing Time best displays his traditional fare, whilst Small Change is the peak of his jazzy balladeer period), but it’s definitely his strongest set of songs; showing off a dazzling array of seedy deadbeat characters, lyrical oddities, and rich musical styles, as well as being packed from start to finish with some of his most vital songs. It combines the character driven storytelling of Blue Valentine, the carnivalesque brass flourishes of Swordfishtrombones, and the gritty, angular blues he would go on to explore on later records, without losing sight of the core melodicism that has always underlain his experimental productions and hoarse, fractured vocals. Opener ‘Singapore’ begins with a darkly jaunty stroll through seedy docklands, introducing a cast of twisted merchants, drunken sailors and one armed dwarves over parping brass and oompah drums. It’s an irresistible burst of dense melodrama and charismatic menace, immediately setting the scene for the kaleidoscopic array of lowlife characters and musical oddities to come. ‘Clap Hands’ is a sinister clatter of wooden percussion, muted fingerpicked acoustic guitar and a fizzing, staccato solo from band leader Marc Ribot, whose creative playing brings a gritty edge to the whole record. ‘Jockey Full of Bourbon’ sounds like a night-time slink through dingy late night bars, ‘Big Black Mariah’ is an industrial funeral romp, whilst ‘Hang Down Your Head’ and ‘Time’ return to more traditional ballad territory. ‘Midtown’ sounds like a manic jazz fuelled chase sequence from some bizarre 1970s Heist film, ‘Blind Love’ is a blast of twisted, grizzled country, and ‘Downtown Train’ is a melodic slice of urban romance so good even an insipid Rod Stewart cover couldn’t kill it’s magic. This is just a selection of the array of styles and themes on offer throughout Rain Dogs, but the whole album is held together by Waits’ unflinching lyrical mastery and bellowing charisma. At this point in his career Waits was so adept unveiling the dark underbelly of American life, whilst simultaneously keeping his stories sympathetic to the bizarre, down on their luck characters, that he could push the core of his songwriting into increasingly abstract and expressive styles, managing to capture the atmosphere and mood of a hidden world of captivating drama, intrigue and menace. It’s the best album in the discography of a true musical original; a record so gleefully unique and out of step with the musical trends of the rest of the world that it feels like it could’ve been created at any time in the last 40 years. That said, it’s also a record that could definitely only ever come from the warped, chaotic mind of one incredibly talented individual.
Also listen to: Small Change, Blue Valentine, Swordfishtrombones, Bone Machine, Alice, Bad as Me
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birdofdoom · 7 years
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Cinderella
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This is my first fic, and I know that it needs a lot of work, so please bear with me. I just hope someone out there might enjoy it. Any and all feedback is welcome. This is a multipart fic in which the reader meets Michael at the Eden Club. Although they get off to a rough start, a friendship and romance kindle. I’m not sure how long this should be or if I should pursue this story further. 
Michael x Reader
Bawdy horns blared over fast-paced ragtime, the ivory keys ringing in a sense of feverous joy. As the tempo quickened, the brass became sporadic and needy. In the collection of well-dressed and gyrating bodies, libations and inhibitions flew freely.
The entire lounge pulsed with a warm sepia glow ebbing from the lamps lining the gilded art deco booths. It was as if the world was alive again. After years of death and war, everyone was allowed to breathe a sigh of relief and kick up their heels for the party of the century. [Y/N] promised that she wouldn’t let it pass her by. Smoke filled the posh club, creating strange shadows and halos that flitted above sequins and beads on dresses as their owners swirled and sashayed promiscuously. [Y/N] somehow felt at home in the chaotic sea of bodies and jazz, although it was her first time venturing into such an establishment. Her silk velvet frock lacked the panache of the more expensive gowns covered in heavy baubles, but the peacock blue was eye-catching all the same. As she lost herself in the joy of the dance floor, eyes of men discovered her. She was self-aware, but assured in her beauty.
Appearance had never concerned her as much as the idealistic desire to feel. Since the War, [Y/N]’s life had fallen to a standstill. With no surviving family and no foreseeable future, the silence at funerals and wakes seemed to saturate her small country hometown. The weight of the quiet was stifling. She could feel her youth slipping through her fingers as she suffocated on the trite pity of neighbors. She yearned for a connection, an adventure: the ability to feel alive. She wanted to live with a rush tickling surreptitiously through her bones. She craved the warmth and connection of companionship. She wanted to be around people her own age. So she left home, following her desire naively to a cocktail lounge in London.
She giggled innocently as she crossed the dance floor to the bar. As she opened her purse retrieving what little money she had saved for this special night out, she ordered a sidecar. Tonight was her birthday and she was feeling like treating herself. No one here thought of her as a poor country girl or knew that she had found her way to the city just four days prior. Here in her blue gown, she could be as posh as her merlot-colored fingernails. She smiled at the man behind the bar and walked cautiously to an empty booth, careful not to spill her extravagant purchase. She sat alone, bobbing her head to the sinful jazz. She sipped her drink, slightly revolted by the bitterness and resentful of the burn at the back of her throat. She had never had the money for alcohol and found her new investment to be lackluster at best. She silently wondered how anyone could grow to love something so vile. [Y/N] continued to ruefully nurse her aesthetically pleasing cocktail as to not shatter the façade of a perfect evening. She felt herself enjoying the moment, the gayety, slowly slipping into happiness. The cognac had kissed warmth into her cheeks and she could feel rash decisions brewing.
Not unbeknownst to [Y/N] a rather devilishly attractive boy had been staring from across the room. In one of the select booths he and a gaggle of rowdy men in stylish suits were carrying on. They seemed so incongruous: scarred, rough, workingman faces wrapped in fine bespoke suits. She didn’t recognize the group, but figured them to be of some import because of their influence on the lounge staff. Bottles of, what she figured to be, expensive champagne and whiskey were emptied and replenished with vigor as waiters ran to and from the bar. Cigarette girls and social climbers seemed to hang on their every word. [Y/N]’s imagination seemed to run rampant with possibility as to who these men could be. Lost in fascination and infinite scenarios [Y/N] didn’t notice the pretty boy sliding into the seat across from her.
“I’ll buy you another drink. What are you having?” she strained to hear his voice over the music and the buzz of activity. Yet somehow, the soft tone seemed strong and smooth, confident and poised. She could tell he wasn’t from London, but he seemed relaxed and at home all the same.
“Gin fizz,” she mused.
He raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose you consider that a drink.” She smirked in response to his condescension.
“You asked. I answered. It isn’t like you’re the one drinking it, and I know you can afford it.” She was surprised at the assertive air that purred out of her voice, and apparently so was he. He shook his head with a slight smile that hooked to the right. He snapped his fingers and ordered her drink from a nervously sweating waiter.
“My, my, aren’t we impressive,” she teased. He pulled a cigarette from a silver tin offering it to her. She shrugged it away and as he drew it to his mouth she watched him subconsciously lick his lips. His voice lacked the dry gravelly resonance of a smoker, but she could see the relief in his eyes as he took an initial lengthy drag. It left her wondering how long he had been smoking. Much like the dissonance she found in his clothing, company, and accent; his smoking seemed to paint the portrait of a man comfortable in a setting he was not brought up in, yet somehow inevitably destined for.
She looked at him observing, wondering. [Y/N] was unashamedly staring, and under her sharp gaze he began to blush. He mistook her curiosity for desire and was trying now desperately to appear cool. The smoke from his cigarettes smelled oddly of cherry wood, and it somehow hung heavy over their small table. They sat there, staring at one another and time began to slow. The saccharine smell of smoke, the heat of stage lights, and wails of horns filled the room with a thick and tangible energy. She raised her gaze from his lips to his eyes as he began a French inhale. His eyes were dangerous. Somewhere in between the milky opacity of malachite and the brilliance of emeralds, his green-eyed gaze pierced through her. It was then she knew it was tension.
“Here you are, madam,” the waiter stammered as he placed the fragrant citrus cocktail on the table. She turned to smile and thank him. With that, time resumed and the spell had broken. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks as she recognized how lovely he truly looked. She sipped at her drink nervously, hoping to muster the courage to continue their conversation given her new realization.
“So, you’re new. What brings you to our club? Do you like it here? It doesn’t seem like your scene.” His voice hung on “our” and she noticed. He fidgeted with his aubergine necktie, and she wondered why.  
“And what scene is my scene exactly, Mr…?” she mused.
“You can call me Henry. I don’t know, posh girl like you seems more fit for a debutante ball than a club.” His voice seemed hesitant as he looked back to the booth he had appeared from. Three men were now intently staring over at [Y/N]’s table with seditious innuendo. Upon further inspection, they were an odd bunch indeed. The eldest man had an auburn mustache and a face licked by scars. He seemed intimidating and menacing, yet laughed the loudest with a broad smile. He seemed rather deranged and on edge, like some mad dog. Sat next to him was a younger man. Older still than Henry, his baby face scrunched strangely around a fat cigar as he puffed from it continuously. The last man at the round table seemed hardly a man at all, rather a child; a teenager. He giggled and sipped beer while the other two continued to carry on drinking something much stronger. As the older duo ruffled his hair and teased him she concluded that they must be family. Yet in spite of the jovial tone at the table across the lounge, [Y/N]’s stomach turned as the sneaking suspicion that her interaction with the charmer across the table was a cruel prank grew.
“Also, our club? And who is this ‘we’ that own the club? Is it your lot over there? Why don’t you invite them over? They’re practically leaning into our conversation as it is,” she asked taking another sip from the refreshing fizz. Anger danced across his cheeks, and she knew she had hit a nerve.
“If you’ll excuse me.” He stood rather abruptly and marched over to the rowdy booth. He was met with whoops and whistles, the eldest man slapping his back with gusto. She couldn’t hear what Henry was saying, but by the edge in his eye she could parse out that he wasn’t pleased.  
“Oh come on, Michael!” the eldest pleaded. “We was just wantin’ to know how it was going. She ain’t bad, but seems a bit of work…” his brashness was interrupted by an icy look. He ran his fingers through the wiry facial hair, irritated and slightly embarrassed to be scolded by someone his junior.
The boy with sage eyes walked back to her booth trying unsuccessfully to appear unbothered. He rearranged his beet colored tie again, which she now figured to be a nervous tick. Disappointed with his apparent lie, she cocked an eyebrow as he slid into the leather booth across from her. The lively music had lulled into a sensually subdued slow number, and a general smoky hush seemed to fall over the club. He dabbed his completed cigarette in the silver ashtray and replaced it with a clone from his silver tin. She held out her palm in request.  
“So which is it? Henry or Michael?” she asked flatly as he leaned over to give her a light. The small flame exaggerated the surprise on his face. She inhaled deeply with a sense of trepidation and distrust; the crimson cherry’s embers glowing. [Y/N] could tell that he was attempting to piece together some semblance of a cogent story, but she wasn’t going to be so quick to believe. She knew he had lied and that he wanted her, so she was going to enjoy watching him struggle to explain a way out of his fib. She exhaled smoke with a sigh. He found her haughty exasperation simultaneously worrisome and attractive. A long silence had passed and she had decided to leave, her patience wearing thin. She stood up to leave after downing the remains of her cocktail, disappointment souring the sweet drink. So much for [Y/N]’s perfect night.
“Wait...” he gasped grabbing her arm. “What’s your name? I want to see you again. I can explain…” His icy smug composure was melting. 
“Cinderella,” she laughed as she pointed to the gilded clock on the wall. It was near midnight and the joke was too easy to pass up. “I best be on my way, before other people and things start to transform from princes into rats and pumpkins.”
… TBC
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aradxan · 7 years
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Riders on the Storm by shutterbug_uk2012 Riders on the storm Riders on the storm Into this house we're born Into this world we're thrown Like a dog without a bone An actor out on loan Riders on the storm Riders on the Storm-The Doors A storm breaks over the Elgol peninsula, the clouds swirling in a chaotic mass through the brooding peaks of the Cuillins as the waters, whipped up by the freshening winds churn and boil in a maelstrom of foam and spray. The dying light of the sun casts an other-worldly glow over the unfolding scene as the dull boom of the waves striking the distant cliffs plays out an intricate orchestral embrace with the frenzied sound of the sea tearing itself apart over the sharp granite beneath my feet. A cacophony of hisses and crackles and fizzes to accompany a far off bass line. I shot this at a focal length of 16mm while perched on the edge of a rocky outcrop. With the incoming tide and increasingly menacing seas, there was very little time to set up but I wanted to try as much as possible to place the viewer right in the frame. To at least capture some of the raw energy and feel of that night. So turn up the music to one of my favourite tracks and taste the salt............. It pays not to slip here. Technical : Nikon D810, Nikkor 16.0-35.0 f/4 at 16mm, f/14, ISO 64, 1 second exposure. Gitzo GT3523LT with FLM-CB48 II ballhead. http://ift.tt/2gLcUR0
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e-ethan · 7 years
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Riders on the Storm (Explore #1) by shutterbug_uk2012 Riders on the storm Riders on the storm Into this house we're born Into this world we're thrown Like a dog without a bone An actor out on loan Riders on the storm Riders on the Storm-The Doors A storm breaks over the Elgol peninsula, the clouds swirling in a chaotic mass through the brooding peaks of the Cuillins as the waters, whipped up by the freshening winds churn and boil in a maelstrom of foam and spray. The dying light of the sun casts an other-worldly glow over the unfolding scene as the dull boom of the waves striking the distant cliffs plays out an intricate orchestral embrace with the frenzied sound of the sea tearing itself apart over the sharp granite beneath my feet. A cacophony of hisses and crackles and fizzes to accompany a far off bass line. I shot this at a focal length of 16mm while perched on the edge of a rocky outcrop. With the incoming tide and increasingly menacing seas, there was very little time to set up but I wanted to try as much as possible to place the viewer right in the frame. To at least capture some of the raw energy and feel of that night. So turn up the music to one of my favourite tracks and taste the salt............. It pays not to slip here. Technical : Nikon D810, Nikkor 16.0-35.0 f/4 at 16mm, f/14, ISO 64, 1 second exposure. Gitzo GT3523LT with FLM-CB48 II ballhead. http://ift.tt/2gLcUR0
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erickramirezcruz · 7 years
Video
Riders on the Storm por Paul Por Flickr: Riders on the storm Riders on the storm Into this house we're born Into this world we're thrown Like a dog without a bone An actor out on loan Riders on the storm Riders on the Storm-The Doors A storm breaks over the Elgol peninsula, the clouds swirling in a chaotic mass through the brooding peaks of the Cuillins as the waters, whipped up by the freshening winds churn and boil in a maelstrom of foam and spray. The dying light of the sun casts an other-worldly glow over the unfolding scene as the dull boom of the waves striking the distant cliffs plays out an intricate orchestral embrace with the frenzied sound of the sea tearing itself apart over the sharp granite beneath my feet. A cacophony of hisses and crackles and fizzes to accompany a far off bass line. I shot this at a focal length of 16mm while perched on the edge of a rocky outcrop. With the incoming tide and increasingly menacing seas, there was very little time to set up but I wanted to try as much as possible to place the viewer right in the frame. To at least capture some of the raw energy and feel of that night. So turn up the music to one of my favourite tracks and taste the salt............. It pays not to slip here. Technical : Nikon D810, Nikkor 16.0-35.0 f/4 at 16mm, f/14, ISO 64, 1 second exposure. Gitzo GT3523LT with FLM-CB48 II ballhead.
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