#Aluminum Glass Wall

[neuwall]

Partition Wall

Neuwall Partition Wall provides the movable framed glass wall with favorable strengths. It is designed with a top-hung system having no need for a track on the floor. The tempered and soundproof glass is singly or doubly inlaid in the aluminum framework.

Source : https://www.neuwall.com/

#movable walls #partition walls #glass partition wall #frameless glass partition wall #glass wall #sliding glass wall #folding glass wall #Frameless Glass Wall #Aluminum Glass Wall

[fromthedust]

SHAYE'S MELLOW - frontal view

SHAYE'S MELLOW - oblique view

SHAYE'S MELLOW - detail view of gold iridescent black glass element fitted into the aluminum-leafed resin casting (note some of the red primer showing through some cracks in the leafing)

SHAYE'S MELLOW - detail view of rainbow iridescent transparent amber glass element fitted into the slate (note the transparency on the right-hand side of the glass where it overhangs the slate)

SHAYE'S MELLOW - detail view of leafed lip element with four coats of tinted acrylic lacquer

SHAYE'S MELLOW - detail view of lips (the dark specks are incompletely-mixed pigments from the tinting process — I like the effect it gives)

aluminum leafed resin casting, green Connemara slate, iridescent slumped glass, tinted acrylic lacquer

Finally got around to finishing it. When I posted it as w.i.p. back in March I said it had taken eleven hours at that point and I estimated about four more hours to finish it. It actually took eight hours to finish it — the fitting of the small piece of glass into the resin casting (which I'd never done before — softer is not necessarily easier) took about three times as long as fitting larger glass to the slate. The tinted acrylic lacquer took four coats (instead of one) to achieve the color I wanted on the silver.

The title refers to Shaye Cohn's mellow tones on the cornet. Shaye is the leader of the New Orleans based jazz band TUBA SKINNY which I have listened-to for over a dozen years in recordings. In their first two albums she blew the trumpet, but by the band's third album she had switched to an old silver-plated cornet providing a much sweeter and mellower sound. The lips in the sculpture are about the same color as her instrument.

Shaye Cohn (American, b.1982) — daughter of jazz guitarist Joe Cohn, and granddaughter of jazz saxophonist Al Cohn. She also plays trombone and/or piano when she is with other jazz bands.

#sculpture #wall sculpture #lips #resin casting #slate #aluminum leafing #iridescent glass #music #jazz

[aluminium-systems]

#aluminium system #aluminium windows #aluminium windows and doors #aluminium doows #curtain wall #curtainwalls #curtain glazing #curtain wall system #glass curtain #aluminum curtain wall #sliding door #aluminium sliding door #glass patio doors #sliding glass doors #interior sliding doors #casement windows #double casement windows #aluminium casement windows #aluminum casement windows #modern casement windows

[vmsplus]

Top 5 Office Design Trends for 2023

The pandemic in the last two and more years has changed the work environment concept dramatically. But we have learned from history how to progress through tough times, and the lessons we got from the pandemic, which we should remember, include our work culture and atmosphere. Why? Because they have immense contributions to the economy and an individual’s mental spirit and health.

Sustainability, modern office design, nature-inspired elements, technology data, and networking are trends in 2023, in addition to natural light, water features, and ventilation.

The comfort and productivity of employees are affected heavily by the office design. Many times, simple changes in a business environment can influence the behaviour of employees and how they work. Whether you are redesigning your office or relocating, attention to detail and proper planning will help build an efficient and successful workplace where your workers are happy to be included.

Some office room designs consider using glass partition walls for office, which is excellent for dividing open spaces into smaller sections. You can easily differentiate the areas within a room without requiring building work. Besides, installing glass partition walls is cheaper than when you need to knock down walls and then building them again. These materials are also excellent for maintaining the natural light in the room.

Other businesses use the aluminum partition for office for those employees who want to block out too much noise in their surroundings. While aluminum is not a dense material like wood and glass, you can also depend on it to deflect sound, and you can work in peace sans the distractions that the other staff make.

Office layout is a term that deals with office interior design and all the decor that should be included in your workplace. The term also considers all the supplies, accessories, equipment, and arrangements necessary for the office to function correctly.

Today’s workplace design is very different from traditional offices during the pandemic, which often had a closed-plan layout with dividers that separate departments and employees and are visible to the naked eye.

Most traditional working spaces lack innovative and modern office furniture, such as standing desks and chairs designed for the working staff’s efficiency and comfort. Sadly the decors in the office may also need to be updated.

We have always learned from history how to advance with tough times, and as much as we cannot forget the lessons taught to us by the pandemic, it is always worth bearing in mind that in our routine lives, work culture and atmosphere are great contributors not only to the economy but also to the mental spirit of all workers.

Please contact VMS Trade Link today if you want to learn more about modern office design and glass office partitions. If you have a plan in mind for your office and need help, ask our customer service staff as many questions as you want, as they know about the subject. Even if it’s our customer service employees, we employ people who have some knowledge regarding the topic.

#office design #glass partition walls for office #aluminum partition for office #small office interior design #office interior design #modern office design #office room design #workplace design

[lawlietisawesome]

Open - Living Room Mid-sized trendy open concept light wood floor living room photo

#stone #nana wall #contemporary design #glass #aluminum frame

[chinosarah]

Orange County Concrete Slab Patio An example of a medium-sized, open-air concrete patio in a backyard

#patio #aluminum fence #modern railing #glass panel railing #glass wall

[pritygolhar]

#Glazed Aluminum Glass Curtain Walls Market

[sarisstg]

Poolhouse - Transitional Pool Idea for a mid-sized transitional indoor stone pool house with a rectangular shape.

#transparent roof panels #aluminum frame #stone walls #glass roof #pool

[skywindowsaluminumproducts]

Herculite doors offer a safe entrance to your facility while still allowing for natural illumination and unhindered views. Glass doors are frequently found in business spaces, mall entrances, and religious structures. Herculite doors offer a wide range of customization possibilities, including the type of opening and closing hardware utilized, the glass thickness, the handle designs, various colors or finishes, and much more. Visually, nothing beats a Herculite glass door.

#glass door #Herculite glass door #Contractor #doors #SkyWindows & Aluminum Products #frameless glass walls

[devinwong9873]

Glass dome tent sale

Aluminum Alloy Glass Curtain Wall dome Tent Star Hotel Accommodation One-Bedroom Tent Size Customization Global Sales

Tent factory direct sales

Guangzhou Yixing Tent Technology Co., Ltd.

WhatsApp: [phone]

Company website: http://www.yixingtent.com/

Ali International Station store URL：https://yixingtent.en.alibaba.com

Looking forward to your visit and consultation

#Aluminum Alloy Glass Curtain Wall dome #Star Hotel Accommodation One-Bedroom Tent

[amazon-railings-ca]

What Are The Best Options For Your Privacy Fence Panels?

Getting proper privacy fence panels is crucial to the safety and security of your home. Read on to find out the various materials used for privacy fence panels and which ones suit your needs. Read More: What Are The Best Options For Your Privacy Fence Panels?

#privacy fence panels #Glass privacy fence panels #vinyl privacy fence panels #wood privacy fences #hybrid privacy fence panels #stone wall privacy fence #aluminum privacy fences

[neuwall]

NWF-830 Folding Glass Wall

NWF-830 Folding Glass Wall provides the slim aluminum frame of the NeuGlass Folding Glass Wall product family. With a frame profile styled in a crisp, angular design, the intersection of two folding panels is a mere 3 3/20" (80 mm), this floor supported system offers an extremely streamlined appearance with minimal exposed hardware, creating a new level of aesthetics.

To know more visit https://www.neuwall.com/folding-glass-wall/ng840-folding-glass-wall.html

#aluminum glass wall #aluminum folding glass wall #Sliding glass wall #Folding Glass Wall #Movable Glass Wall #glass wall

[faeriekit]

Down and Out

phic phight prompts taken from @sillysugargliders and @akela-nakamura

“Technowizard!” Tuck declared, pointing up towards the glass ceiling. The ratty Hack-A-Thon tee-shirt and Star Wars print pants did not an imposing outfit make.

Sam’s avocado-coated face barely even looked up from her phone. “Lame.”

“The Finest Pharoah!” Tucker tried again, glaring straight down at Sam as he posed again— this time, with his other hand.

“Cringe,” was Sam’s bland contribution.

Tucker threw both his hands in the air in sheer exasperation, narrowly avoiding sending Sheila2 flying up into the air with them. “The— oh shoot— the Tech Menace! The Electric Enemy!”

“Makes you sound like a bit-rate villain,” Sam drawled, finishing out her level of tetris with perfect accuracy. She clicked off the phone before she could get suckered in. “Tucker, have you considered any good names? At all?”

Fair revenge was fair revenge, and Tucker didn’t want to waste his own pillow on vengeance. Using Sam’s bamboo-woven pillowcase against her facemask was fair game— and her shriek of rage over the smeared facemask was just desserts.

Tucker eventually lost, of course, smothered underneath the very same pillow he’d assaulted his friend with, but hey; he’d given it his all, and that was what mattered in the end.

Winning would be nice, though. You know. One day.

In the meantime, though, they were squatting in Sam’s greenhouse, reclining on air mattresses on recycled wooden palettes. It was kind of cold— Tucker was glad Sam had thought ahead and brought blankets— but there were no bugs, and there was no rain, even if there were frogs singing bleakly outside glass walls throughout the night.

Sam was good at pretending it didn’t bother her.

Tucker knew it had to, though. Sam was used to having things. Being comfortable. Having her bamboo toothbrush and toothpaste tabs at the ready, with her natural fiber blankets and her desktop computer and a credit card that would solve the majority of her problems.

Instead they had used the cheapest versions of everything at the dollarstore. Abrasive discount soap. Deodorant with added aluminum. They’d brushed their teeth at the spigot where the hose screwed on, and tomorrow they’d wash with the hose the same way.

Card could be traced. Tucker was the only one who’d been carrying cash in the moment.

Man, Tucker thought, tunnelling himself under his blankets. Running away sucked. At least the only thing Tucker had to miss was his parents. And his spare parts.

…He hoped his parents weren’t looking for him. The "proper authorities" had probably already informed them he was infected. They should…they should hopefully know that being gone was safer than being there.

Sam’s black-nailed thumb and green-coated face peeked at him from under the covers. Without his glasses, she mostly looked like a blob, so Tucker just waved. He wanted to be social. He wanted to be happy.

It felt like everything was falling apart through his fingers, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“Hey,” Sam said. “If you want to charge your tech, I’m out of the plug.”

It was a sweet gesture. “Thanks,” was all Tucker could say. But he didn’t want to leave his cave.

Sam, of all people, knew what level of trust the gesture meant when Tucker gave his phone over to her. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to; it was the same level of trust Sam was showing to him by letting them stay here, together, instead of apart, the way Jazz had originally planned.

Running away properly would have been safer. But here, in this moment, they were warm, and safe, and somewhat fed.

Tucker stuck his face into his pillow and thought It doesn’t get much better than this.

…Man, it was supposed to be roast beef dinner tonight. He was missing out!

“...I still think that Technowizard is a cool name,” Tucker grumbled to himself. Sam shot him a fond, if exasperated look.

“No.”

“Fine, bossy. What did you pick?”

“Foxglove,” Sam replied simply. “Most famous poisonous plant in the Western world. It’s poetic.”

Tucker thought on it. It…had merit, but… “You know people are going to shorten it to Foxy, right?”

Sam paused.

…She set her phone down with clear disgust. “Ugh. I hate that you’re right.”

“I’ll never let you down,” Tucker offered, very seriously. “I’m always right.”

Sam pulled the blanket back down over him until he squawked in indignation.

“Okay,” Sam’s voice came in muffled through their blanket barrier. “Maybe we can both hold off on names until we decide how we’re doing this, exactly.”

This, of course, being their new life on the run— ideally, taking down the GIW and their hold on Amity Park, or in the short run, cutting and ditching in every effort to not get captured. Their plan so far wasn’t much better than “wait for Danny to get home from Space Camp”, but, you know…needs are as they must. Or something.

“How about Cryptid?” Tucker offered, poking his head out of his blanket hovel. His glasses were…somewhere, but no matter where he groped for them, his hands still came up empty. “Short. Simple. Lots of hard consonants. Easy to muddy up in an internet search with other information. They’d be looking for you and find, like, the Entfield Horror.”

Sam gave that thought its due while Tucker found his glasses. “It’s…better than Inviso-Bill for sure.”

Okay, that one was worth the laugh.

“You could try Technomage,” Sam tried out in turn. "It would be like naming a snake 'snake', since you’re going through magical puberty or whatever, but…”

Tucker snorted. Magical puberty.

…But.

She’d been the first to notice when Tucker hadn’t even needed to touch Edna (PDA of the month) to write her new programs in class. She’d taped over his stylus to prove it to him— and Tucker hadn’t even noticed with the weight of a phantom stylus in his hand as he coded telepathically. Realizing he hadn’t been tapping any of the buttons had been. Spooky.

His phone didn’t need a SIM card anymore. He was saving his family a lot on outgoing and ingoing calls, apparently, and the reported number of texts they’d had to pay for was a big fat goose egg.

Also, he was pretty sure someone was emailing him at the moment.

…He wasn’t sure how he knew. But. It kind of tasted like blue raspberry. It was probably Danny’s sister.

So. Um. the magical puberty thing hadn’t been too off track. It had certainly been less subtle than Sam’s newfound ability to speak with plants, but…at least talking to your flowerpots looks normal from the outside looking in.

Apparently lawn mowing day at school gave Sam real trauma, though. Finding her in the nurses’ office with her head buried under her denim jacket had been scary.

“Better than nothing,” Tucker begrudgingly agreed. He left his glasses wherever they were; he’d find them in the morning. “I mean. We technically don’t even need names. If we just start breaking their stuff, they’ll probably name us anyway.”

Sam laughs. The green on her face is gone; she likely wiped her mask off when Tucker couldn’t see. “With you hacking their stuff?”

“And you growing your freaky vines out of their gear,” Tucker added. “The…what’s the one. The one that ate that one house?”

Sam leans her head down onto Tucker’s mattress. Her clean, damp face swims into view. “Oh. The kudzu?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah, I can cultivate that— not here, since it grows so fast. Did you know Kudzu’s supposed to be eaten? People usually take it off the roadside in China for an easy food source. That’s why it overtakes so much stuff here: there’s no one taking on the role of its natural predator.”

Huh. Well, sounded like something Sam would know. Tucker wedged his pillow further underneath his head; Sam’s still had some goop on it, so he gave her his extra blanket instead.

Sam stuffed it underneath her head with no issue. Without her purple lip and filled in brows, she just looked like Sam— just like a girl in his class, who wanted to make the world a better place, and didn’t know how to do it.

Tucker wanted to do better too.

But they wouldn’t do it alone. They’d be better off with Danny than without.

“All we have to do is make it until Danny comes back. And then we can reconvene.”

…And then what?

“And then?” Tucker asked, a little too quiet.

Sam had never backed down from a challenge. She never would. “And then we kick ass.”

Well. When she said that, it was all so simple.

The lights clicked out in the greenhouse, and just in time— the outside started to burst with light and sound as agents tore up the road outside the Manson property.

The door was locked. The daisies at the door and the wispy strings-of-hearts would give them more than enough warning if the agents swept through.

It was bedtime, or good enough as.

Sleep wasn’t restful, but the quality of the night didn’t matter; it only had to get them to the next day.

#phic phight 2024 #danny phantom #Phic phight #tucker foley #Sam Manson #ambiguous timeline when they're on the run from the GIW! 🎉 #Danny's fine he's just out of town #'where' space camp. he's on a break #giw as a bad guy with local regulatory power #fill

[collaredattachment]

Classroom Blues

Character: Melissa Schemmenti Word count: 3,310 Warnings: Car accidents, panic attacks, PTSD Genre: Hurt/Comfort Rating: T

Description: Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters. Every single kid stops what they’re doing. --- It’s never been so frightening to look out the window

“That’s looking great, Noah!”

You smile over his shoulder, and he beams back at you before returning to his crayons.

Second graders are so easy to please.

You walk past him to get a look at everybody else’s paper plate dinosaurs. Nathan’s is breathing fire. Tyrone gave his a little princess crown. When you asked, Jamila said hers is ‘a apatopasaurus’ and that she refuses any further comment.

Fantastic work, overall.

It’s looking mighty fine outside too; the day is stretching into afternoon, and the sun blazes into the art room, etching on the walls the shadows of the easter bunnies the first graders had made last week.

The clock is slowly ticking towards two, and you’re only fifteen minutes away from a hot McVegan — no tomato, and two hours of the Good Place. Jamila lifts her hand as high as she can and speaks before you can even get to her.

“I’m all done,” she says. Her apatopasaurus is made of three plates instead of one, and the legs have pink pipe cleaners for both claws and a tongue. There’s a little tear drawn beneath its googly eye.

“Oh, wow.” You turn it around and smile at the glitter glue spots drawn on the other side. “This is really great, Jamila. You wanna help me put it on the—“

Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters.

Every single kid stops what they’re doing.

“Look!” Samantha yells and runs to the window. Half the class follows her, crowding in a line to catch a glimpse. God’s mercy that most of them are too short to see past the supply shelf. It offers you no such protection, though.

Just by the crossing outside, a black car is crushed against a DHL truck. Must have been going way outside the speed limit; you’re barely allowed to hit 40 out there because of the kids. The left side is completely collapsed around the truck’s hood, but you can see the driver just fine from here.

Dead.

He’s dead.

You snap into action.

“Hey, come on,” you say and start herding them away from the windows. “The ambulance guys will handle it, okay? Let’s get back to work.”

Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, like you’re speaking into a bottomless tunnel. The kids don’t seem to hear you either. More likely they’re just not listening because they’re eight-year-olds and most of them haven’t had time to even think about death yet.

They haven’t been to a funeral on a perfectly sunny day, just like this one.

Haven’t hung upside down by their seatbelt in a upended car.

Or seen how broken glass mangles a face.

Stop.

You blink yourself back into the here-and-now. Your knees are already beginning to feel weak, ready to buckle under the slightest strain.

Just breathe. Ten years of practiced technique, honed to perfection. Breathe.

For the kids, if not for yourself.

The minute hand on the clock ticks over to fifty-three. A few kids, the same ones who always put the watercolors back where they belong once they’re done, were kind enough to head back to their seats, but that still leaves you with eight children glued to the glass, watching the driver get dragged out of the car. He’s dropped onto the pavement. Someone’s trying to resuscitate. You can tell from here that it won’t work.

“Okay, I mean it this time.” You try to cover your trembling voice, to apply the gentle authority you’d seen Barbara pull a thousand times. They don’t move an inch. Maybe it’s the gulf of difference in experience, maybe it’s just Barbara being Barbara, or maybe they can tell that you’re afraid.

You sigh and peel the kids off the window one by one and escort them into their seats. Inelegant. Methodical. Your limbs function outside your jurisdiction in a world entirely of their own. When you bring your hand to hover in front of your face, it feels lightyears away, a limb puppeted without its master.

You can still feel crumbled glass embedded between the creases of your palm.

Breathe, damn it.

“Who was that guy?” Jamila asks even after you’ve sat her back down by her dinosaur.

“I don’t know, buddy.” You brush cardboard clippings off her shorts and onto the floor. The fabric is void of feeling under your prickling fingers. “But I’m sure they’ve called an ambulance. They’ll take care of it.”

Sure enough, when you glance at the road, Janine is buzzing around the truck driver, her phone already glued to her ear.

The bell rings at last. The kids yell out in joy and their wave of conversation washes you back ashore for a second. They grab their bags, forget their plates and stickers and markers, and are out the door in record time. They’re so excited.

You can’t tell them to slow down, to stop, even, until the commotion outside is finished. You can’t do anything but stand still and listen as their voices ebb away into just an echo.

Pills. Where are your pills.

You stumble to your bag and search it with trembling, unsure hands, like fingers against a jammed car door, dipping into the seams to tear the whole thing off if you have to. You throw your keys on the table, same as your wallet, your planner, your lighter, and a handful of stray pens; all of them in a heap that slips over the edge and to the floor. You turn the whole bag inside out, but can’t find the pill bottle.

Your chest is getting tighter, heavier, like the spaces between your ribs are stuffed with cotton, like you’re trapped under a ten ton truck careening off the highway uncaring of casualties.

Breathe. Remember to breathe.

You can’t breathe, that’s the whole fucking problem.

The room is empty. Your only companion is the sun, and even she’s about to dip behind the buildings on the other side of the street.

You fall to your knees, grasping at the collar of your shirt, your fingers far too stiff, too jittery to undo one single button. You tear them open anyway. One flies under the shelf, like a body clean through the windshield. He said he didn’t need the seatbelt; it was such a short trip anyway. His legs were bent wrong six times over down in the ditch.

The world becomes muffled, stuffs your ears with ringing to keep you from hearing your own scratchy, frightened heaves for air. To save you the fear. The shame. You claw at your throat, at your chest, hoping you might dig out the chunk obstructing your windpipe.

You want to scream. So much. You’re mentally holding yourself by the shoulders, begging yourself to keep quiet. You’re in a position of authority. A child sees you like this, it’ll go down to the parents and you’re in trouble. Abbott’s in trouble. You can’t afford that.

You remember the mud staining your shirt when you’d crawled out, your leg broken and your face dripping with blood. You still don’t know if it was yours. Sirens, nearby. A broken airbag. A broken neck.

Blood.

You back up against the wall and your head bangs into the bricks with a sudden jerk, though the pain is nothing, nothing compared to—

A hand lands on your shoulder. You jump back in fright, your other arm flying to shield your face. Something hot drips down your cheek, but you can’t bring your fingers up to check, can’t trap yourself in that knowledge.

“Whoa, okay,” someone says. “No sudden touching. Gotcha.” The voice sinks like a rock into deep, dark water, far off and twisted. You can’t move to see who it is, who’s come to watch you in your weakest, most undignified moment.

“I’m gonna take your hand,” they say. “That okay?”

You nod, but the movement is stiff and thick with tension, just like the neckbrace they’d given you, after everything. You had a rash for weeks.

Your hand is enveloped by another, the touch soft, the fingers a little cold. There are rings right above the knuckles: two of them plain bands and one with a big, sharp stone on it. You squeeze the hand hard, hard enough to make the other person groan a thick, hefty ‘ow’.

“Okay. Think you could try and breathe with me? Doesn’t have to be perfect.”

The person doesn’t wait this time. They take a deep breath, exaggerated enough for even you to hear, and then exhale, like wind in the trees on a stormy night when nobody should’ve been driving in the first place.

Your attempt in following them is sad and broken. The air remains trapped in your throat, refusing to flow all the way into your lungs, no matter how you try to wheeze it in or out.

“Good, keep going.”

It’s not even remotely good, not even passable, but you keep it up anyway. In and out, but it’s more like i-i-i-i-in-in-in and ooo-out-o-ooout. This doesn’t deter the person sitting next to you, though. They keep their breathing even and deep, and you follow them, out of pace and rhythm in a one-sided dance where you keep crushing your mystery partner’s toes.

“You’re doin’ real good,” they say, and a thumb is drawn across your knuckles, soft and soothing, free of crusted blood or thick, soupy mud. “Just keep going.

Ain’t no point in rushin’ it, right?”

You do as you’re told. In and out. Your pained attempts slowly start to resemble what the other person is doing, more of a mirror than a reflection in disturbed water. The locked knots in your muscles start unwinding themselves open one by one, and you suddenly find yourself sagging forwards without control.

Arms wrap around your torso and your head knocks into someone’s clavicle instead of the floor. You’re shifted like a living doll into a more comfortable position and your nose buries itself into the nook between the person’s neck and shoulders. You inhale a lungful of syrupy perfume and papaya shampoo.

The clock keeps ticking. The rhythm anchors you, keeps you safely here on the classroom floor where there’s no cars, no highways, no forgotten seatbelts.

“That any better?”

Melissa Schemmenti moves her hand to your back to draw big, smooth circles into your shirt. You manage a dazed, exhausted nod.

The classroom is swimming back into view, bit by bit, color by color. Chairs abandoned where their occupants leapt out of them, craft supplies all over the floor. Tamir forgot his backpack.

“The kids—“

“Are fine,” Melissa says. Her arm slides off your back and around your shoulder instead. She squeezes you tight. “Janine and Gregory were on herding duty.”

“Ok,” you whisper. The clock ticks on, and your stomach dips when you read the face: ten past three.

“You wanna talk about it?” Melissa asks.

The scenery fades in and out, transforms into the woods by the highway and back into an elementary art class in disarray. A mess, both ways. You press your knuckles into your eyes and watch the sparks.

“I’m not sure,” you say.

Melissa nods and clicks open her phone. She shoots someone a text, though you only realize to look away by the time she’s about to write something to Janine.

“Thanks, though” you mumble into the crook of her neck. Your body is dipping straight past relaxed all the way into half-dead. Your fingers feel like spaghetti noodles.

Melissa huffs a laugh. “It’s no trouble.”

You sniff and wipe your cheeks. Apparently you were crying after all.

“How did you find me?”

Melissa puts her phone back in her pocket and you can feel her jaw tighten. She’s thinking.

“I was coming to check on the kids because, well. You know.” She waves her free hand toward the window. “I saw you go down. Fell right off your feet. Scared me to hell, you know.”

You grimace. “Sorry.”

“Pssh,” she says. “Like I said. It’s no trouble.”

You watch the splotch of sunlight, still persistently on the wall. Another hour and it’ll be gone.

You start to peel yourself off of Melissa, pausing mid-movement to wait for the ringing in your ears to ease up, and lean against the wall instead. Melissa, thankfully, keeps her arm around you for support.

“I was in a car accident,” you say.

Melissa’s brow shoots to her hairline when her head whips around.

“It was bad.” You rub your fingers together; a feeble attempt to get some feeling back into them. “I was sitting in the back and my best friend was driving. Her boyfriend was in the passenger seat.”

Deep breaths. In and out.

“They both died.”

“Jesus,” Melissa says, spits the lord’s name in a way that would make Barbara send both of you to sunday school. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Still.”

“Yeah.” You clear your throat, hoping to buy yourself a second of time to stave off any further admission; words you know you can’t keep to yourself right now but ones you’re embarrassed to admit regardless. “I can’t even watch tv shows about that stuff ever since. Of course it would find me in the front yard.” You scoff. “Figures.”

Melissa sighs, soft and smooth, so unlike your own strained, barely calmed breathing. “Shit.”

You can’t help the smile. “Yeah.”

“You feeling any better?” she asks.

You give your neck a little roll, wiggle your fingers and your toes. “I think so. I don’t think I can walk just yet, though.”

“That’s all right. My dinner plans can wait a couple minutes.”

Footsteps draw your attention to the hall. Barbara appears in the doorway in her light brown jacket, her and Melissa’s purses both slung over her shoulder. She takes a quick look at you and then stares meaningfully at Melissa, posing a silent question.

Heat floods into your cheeks, your neck, your ears. It could’ve been Janine, could’ve been Gregory, even Jacob, but of course it has to be Barbara Howard, the singlemost composed person in the whole world, who stumbles in on you crying into Melissa’s shoulder.

Her divorce papers were recently filed, though, so if anything, she’s probably very familiar with the feeling.

Melissa mimes ‘five more minutes’ at Barbara, and there’s a silent battle of wills between them, a conversation you couldn’t even begin to understand, after which Barbara sighs with a smile on her face, bows her head and disappears back into the hall.

“You gonna get home okay?” Melissa asks you when the sound of Barbara’s heels has faded.

“Yeah. Usually I bike, but I think I’ll walk home today. I’ll be fine.” Melissa’s face dips into a frown as she very seriously doubts you. There’s no escaping that look, and it only takes you a second to start sweating. You wonder how people actually trying to fight Melissa Schemmenti aren’t immediately recuded to cinders.

“I swear,” you say, and draw a cross over your heart. Melissa smacks her lips and tilts her head as she assesses your woozy, bulldozed self. Apparently you aren’t shaking that bad, because when she straightens herself, she says, “Okay. But.”

You want to groan. A good sign. Your feet are a little closer to ground again.

“You text both me and Barb when ya get home. Is that clear?”

You lift your hand in a salute. “Crystal.”

Melissa laughs, a smoke-worn, throaty sound that pulls you another inch closer to reality.

“Keep that up and no Schemmenti leftovers for you,” she says. “Cheeky little shit.”

She somehow drags a laugh out of you, short and genuine and good, and it’s not like none of this happened, but it lets you put a band-aid on the wound at least.

“I think I could try getting up now.” You try putting a little pressure on your foot, and though your leg doesn’t immediately smack right back to the floor, it does tremble a significant amount. Heat crawls down your neck again as you ask,

“Could you, uh…”

“’Course.”

Melissa gets to her feet with a strained groan and a ‘fuck my fucking knees’, but manages to get herself standing. She offers you her hand and you take it, keeping your free palm firmly against the wall as she pulls you to your feet. It’s an unsteady operation, one that leaves you dizzy and winded, and nearly back on your ass more than once.

Once you’re safely standing, Melissa gathers up the contents of your bag and hands it to you, but only once she’s made sure that you can actually carry it. She holds you by the shoulders all the way to the hall, and doesn’t let go until the door has safely clicked shut. You still keep your hand by the wall, though. Just in case.

“I’ll have to come in early tomorrow to clean up,” you say with a sigh.

“Don’t even think about it.”

When you look at her, Melissa is staring you down with the intensity of three suns. Whole solar systems, even. You put your hands up in surrender.

“Only if you’re sure,” you say. It is a relief, you have to admit. Especially if you still have to run to the pharmacy to get your prescription refilled.

“Don’t you worry your li’l head about it.”

She walks you all the way to the entrance, where Barbara is still waiting with a paperback book propped on Melissa’s bag.

“All cleared up, then?” she asks.

“Yup,” Melissa says. Short and sweet. Barbara doesn’t ask any further question, though you doubt it’s from lack of interest. At least Melissa has a dinner story to share, if nothing else.

You all slip out the door, but Melissa stops you there. She looks you over, head to toe, her lips pursed and her hands fiddling with the strap of her purse.

“You sure about this?” she asks. “I could give you a ride.”

You fish your keys from your bag and close your fingers around the one meant for the lock on your bike.

“I’ll be okay. And I’ll text you.”

Melissa raises her brow.

“Both of you.”

The idea of sending Barbara Howard a text of any kind outside a professional environment feels like some kind of a breach of protocol, but Barbara herself doesn’t seem phased. Outward, at least.

Janine is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this.

A cool breeze slides under your thin shirt, and your arms erupt in goosebumps.

“I better get going,” you say, but can’t get yourself to walk over to the bike rack just yet. Your fingernail digs into the notches of the key, and you try to figure out something to say, anything that could put into words just how much Melissa has done for you in one afternoon. In the end, you decide to go with something simple.

“Thank you, Melissa.”

She looks amused, truly like she’s done what anybody else would have. Like it’s nothing. You wonder if she’ll ever know how much it means, even if you tried to tell her.

“Eh.” She shrugs. “It was no trouble.”

How perfectly Melissa of her.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, and with one final wave and a smile goodbye, you start heading for home.

Behind you, once you’re definitely out of range, Barbara turns to Melissa.

“What happened?” she asks.

Melissa watches you clear the crosswalk and waits until you disappear behind the Subway.

“I’ll tell you later, hon.” She presses a kiss to Barbara’s cheek. “First we need to eat. I am too fucking hungry to talk.”

“Melissa Ann Schemmenti,” Barbara gasps, “you watch that tongue of yours.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Barb.”

“Incorrigible,” Barbara mutters and heads for the car. Melissa doesn’t miss the smile on her face.

“Love you too.”

#Melissa Schemmenti #Reader #Melissa Schemmenti x Reader #Melissa x Reader #Abbott Elementary #Reader Insert

[theminecraftbee]

BEE I JUST READ YOUR SUPERHERO FIC IT IS SO GOOD I LOVED IT!

are there any bits of worldbuilding or anything about the characters you want to share? because its all so interesting!

YES I’D LOVE TO. since you’ve given me free rein let me talk about moon city, one of the single most identifiable locations for “guessing I wrote that” possible. moon city is an amalgamation of things, but it’s also one very specific thing! on the amalgamation side, it’s meant to be a somewhat rust-belt-esq metropolis or gotham; it’s a fake city that could be nearly anywhere and has a fake, comic book-sounding name to invoke the hazy fake locations of comic books. it’s meant to be a sort of amalgamation of cities I’ve been to, a place that’s supposed to feel like it COULD be in a certain part of america, even though it’s not. in that sense many of the places are amalgamations—the flood wall is from a city I grew up in, the abandoned food plant is from near where I am now, the capitol is from another nearby city, etc. it’s meant to be identifiably east coast (the earthquake doesn’t work if it’s not!) but sort of in a “okay I can picture my city here” kind of way.

…kind of. in the other sense, I almost named the river in moon city the mon, because moon city is ALSO “what if the collapse of american manufacturing, mining, and chemical production DIDN’T cause the cities that relied on it to collapse with it”. moon city is “what if american chemical production in west virginia was like, as notable as us steel and pittsburgh glass, and there was another major american city center right near there in west virginia. what if the aluminum industry helped propel a city to a state like many of the nearby city centers are in today—not exactly a THRIVING metropolis, but also not a small one either, and a fairly major landmark. also what if there were superheroes and aliens but those only showed up like five years ago.”

it’s not a perfectly thought out worldbuild of that idea or anything—probably should have visited more manufacturing plants or docks or something if I was aiming for actual worldbuilding more than “enough worldbuilding to get a fictional comic book city across”, like, if I actually wanted to realistically build out that concept I’d need an entire alternate history and by then the ENTIRE setting would be really different not just the bits you get to see in the fic that are like our world to the left—but like, there are little hints throughout that that’s the kind of setting moon city is supposed to be in now. like, if metropolis is new york, moon city is some amalgamation pittsburgh and charleston if they’d both been cities with SLIGHTLY more money even after their industries left.

so… yeah hope you enjoy THAT ramble about one of the least consequential parts of the worldbuilding, but a thing I still had fun with! once again despite that little tidbit of the vibes it really is mostly supposed to invoke fictional comic book cities more than literally anything else, haha.

#answered #superball fic talk

[crmsnmth]

Bipolar

I write about the past as if I'm still living it Those warm summer nights in her room The ache of knowing I nade it all up The comfort that comes in dark glass bottles and aluminum cans The old taste of powders in my nasal cavity and in the sharp prick in collapsing veins The isolation and seclusion in a giant city surrounded by a thousand faces and somehow sitll alone The razor blade daces And the rope tied rafters The 150 little yellow pills and bullet spiritual visions Watch me paint the wall behind me in an instant The moments where I gave in and the moments where I gave up Relive the drug deals in beach front bathrooms Passing baggies in a roon that smells like shit and piss The delusional belief that I was never going to die. Is this depression or did I learn a new skill?

I think about the future like I know what is going to happen I write prophecy out in vague language so in the end I've got the upper hand Con artist tricks to read that old crystal ball Someday I'll grow old And someday I will die This is the universal truth of the human experience Someday after that I'll be dirt and a flower will grow out of my dirt that some young man will pick for the bouquet in his hands thinking about that special someone I told you I could see the future Because the future is just the past on replay Everything is in a loop and I am standing afront to the fact that I ever had the chance is quite the amazing thought We'll call this half mania.

#writers and poets #poems on tumblr #original poem #poem #poems #poetry #poetblr #spilled thoughts #spilled feelings #spilled writing #writing #my writing #spilled poetry #spilled emotions #spilled words #writers on tumblr #poets and writers #creative writing #writerscommunity #writerscorner #writer #poetry community #punk rock soap operas #punkrocksoapoperas