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#Lafayette Gardens
meganlynnhostetler · 9 months
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📸 Instagram: @meganlynnhostetler
📍 West Lafayette, Indiana
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zainschevron · 2 months
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Patio - Pergola Large idea for a transitional side yard patio with stonework and a pergola
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irikon · 10 months
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Gazebos - Patio Inspiration for a large transitional backyard stone patio kitchen remodel with a gazebo
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morganleehostetler · 10 months
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fayes-fics · 2 months
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When The World Is Free: Chapter 2 -  La Valse de Paris
MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.
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Warnings: none
Word Count: 1.7k
AuthorsNote: Chapter 2 of new multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This details our reader settling into Paris and the outbreak of war. Benedict turns up next chapter. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3
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Paris, September 1939
Your first few weeks in Paris are a delightful blur. 
Spending late summer exploring the city - with Solène as your occasional guide and Eloise when she is not at work. You soak up every moment, from the windswept magnificence of standing atop the Eiffel Tower, your words being stolen by the wind, to the monastic silence of the Louvre on a quiet Monday morning. And everything in between - from Notre Dame's atmospheric incense-laden gothic darkness to the airy, resplendent glass dome of Galeries Lafayette that glitters like a prismatic jewel even on cloudy days. 
But perhaps your favourites are the little slices of city life: sitting watching the world go by at a corner cafe, the crunch and warm, pillowy softness of the first bite of freshly baked baguette as you wander back from the boulangerie, the lingering fragrance of the rose garden at the Château de Bagatelle in Bois de Boulogne... It's all pieces of a puzzle that fill your heart in ways that make your life before now seem drab, almost in black and white, like a photograph.
You have written to Stanley once since you arrived, effusive in your praise, a homily to your new home, however temporary. While proclaiming his happiness for you, his response tempered, a touch dismissive of your wonderment. I can scarcely believe any city could truly live up to the praise you so readily heap upon Paris, my love, he wrote back. That was a week ago, and your urge to reply has been muted. 
It's during an idle lunchtime by the Seine, eating a sandwich as you dangle your feet over the river wall, that you genuinely feel a local. An elderly French couple, likely visiting from the provinces, approaches you and asks you for directions to the Musée de l'Homme. Part of you aglow they think you sophisticated enough to look Parisian, and French. And you are able to help them, giving them the information in French, not fluent but sufficient that they are surprised when you confess “je suis américaine”.
In your third week, you secure the art gallery job Eloise had seen posted. An opportunity to meet many new people, primarily British and American, who share your love of art of all persuasions. You spend many a happy hour answering questions and building your knowledge of art, not just in your gallery but across the city. Part of you is wistful to study the subject in even greater depth than the books you borrow in copious quantities from the library where Eloise works.
You grow so close to Eloise so quickly that it’s as if you have known her your whole life. A sense of kinship, a near familial bond. You know, on some instinctive level, she will always be a part of your life somehow. Your evenings are often spent in lounge bars together—venues awash with art deco splendour as you listen to jazz through a cigarette haze and flirt aimlessly with a carousel of handsome men. Life seems so full of potential, a hum in your very being.
“What do you think the purpose of life is, y/n?” Eloise sighs as she flops onto your bed after returning from one such decadent night out.
“Aaaand we are done with the brandy…” you declare, taking the bottle of Martell cognac from her grip and placing it pointedly on the dresser, your high-handed point only mildly undermined by your own unsteady gait.
You collapse down next to her, the intricate ceiling rose around your light fixture swirling slightly before your very eyes.
“Love?” you hazard in answer to her question.
“Boo! Cliché!” she jeers, elbowing you good-naturedly.
“I don’t just mean romantic love,” you protest, “the love of family… friends…”
“Ah, yes, family. Endlessly large family. Don’t suppose you want an extra sibling or two, do you? I could be persuaded to let a couple go,” she squints comically.
“Depends… can I have the artist?” you jest.
“You have to stop staring at that painting; it's getting weird,” she opines with her typical bluntness, “and no, you can’t. You know he’s my favourite,” she pouts.
“I think he’s my favourite too,” you opine over a stifled yawn, any embarrassment about being called out for your unbridled admiration overridden by the sleepy state your comfortable bed lulls you into.
“If you end up being attracted to my brother, I will have to disown you, you know,” she pats your hand drowsily.
“Hmm, good thing he’s so far away…” you trail off with a lazy giggle, eyes drooping heavily.
It’s the last words you exchange before you both fall asleep on your bed.
Perhaps, as with all things that are too good, the idyll is temporary. It's the news you wake up to that following morning, September 4th, which throws everything into uncertainty. Solène knocks on your door early with an uncharacteristically sombre expression, wordlessly handing you the morning paper and flicking on the wireless on your mantelpiece, the fine lines on her face deeper etched, furrowed with worry.
‘La Guerre!’ the headline screams from the newspaper. And the voice on the airwaves, your ear more attuned to the language now, details how Britain and France have jointly declared war against Germany for their invasion of Poland a few days prior.
At the sound of the radio, Eloise emerges from your room, blinking and hair asunder, a little delicate from your previous night's revelry. You sip coffee at a loss for what to think or do. It’s an odd cognitive dissonance when life at once seems identical but also changed by an invisible shape - an undercurrent of fear, of the unknown, a punch to the pit of your stomach that you don’t know how to acknowledge - even as you go through the motions of your daily routine and head to work.
By the evening you are more phlegmatic about the situation. Your spirit dampened, yes, but not crushed. You feel an immense sense of privilege that conflict is not yet at your doorstep, but equally knowing being in the capital city of a nation that just declared war against a neighbouring country is not exactly safe.
You and Eloise splash out on dinner at an upscale brassiere that night, one you have both passed and commented you’d love to dine in some time. Both of you seized by the unspoken “what if”, the previous reluctance to treat yourselves entirely absent.
Talk on all the tables around you as you dine - on heavenly butter-soft steak - is about the war. What it could mean for Paris, fear of another major European conflict so soon after the last, the economic concerns - the bite of the early 30s depression just relinquishing its hostile grip on the somewhat bruised denizens.
Afterwards, you wander the cobbled streets back to your apartment, arms looped, bellies full, occasionally staring up at the starry night sky in mostly contemplative, sober silence. It’s a beautiful evening, but something in the warm breeze feels melancholic.
When you open the door to your building, Solène is waiting, rocking on her heels.
“Eloise, a telegram has come for you!” she announces, shoving a piece of paper into her hand. “And a telephone call from England earlier,” she adds, gesturing to the black rotary phone outside her place—the only one in the building.
Eloise gives you a brief glance and then opens the message. You watch her eyes ping across the text before her shoulders slump.
“My mother,” she sighs in explanation, “it appears she is summoning me back home.”
“What?!” the selfish reflex of not wanting to be left alone is the first thing flaring in you.
“It’s not fair!” she whines in a flash of child-like defiance before continuing in a more subdued tone. “She is sending my brother to come get me. She doesn’t specify which, but seeing as Anthony is a Lieutenant General in the Army and has likely been called to Churchill’s side, I'm presuming Benedict,” Eloise surmises. 
Your thoughts instantly fly to that painting hanging in your apartment upstairs. A strange flutter under your ribs at the idea you could be about to meet its creator. Quickly followed by a wash of guilt that you could even focus on such a frivolous thing.
“What will I do without you?’’ You fret aloud, grasping her arm tighter.
“There was a call for you too, y/n,” Solène pipes up. “Your father wants you to exchange your return ticket for a sailing home as soon as possible,” she relays.
“But.. I just got here!” your lament as defiant as Eloise’s. A frustrating sense you are losing a fleeting opportunity you already hold so precious - like a new toy being ripped from the meaty fist of a truculent toddler.
“Mes amis, what can I say?” that trademark Gallic shrug seizing Solène’s shoulders. “While Paris is safe for now, we do not know how much longer that will hold true… it is likely best you return home. Perhaps this will be over in weeks, and you can return?”
You know your parents have paid your rent upfront for a whole year, likely similar for Eloise, your landlady not impacted financially by your leaving, merely a wish for you to enjoy your Parisian adventures.
As you unlock the door to your apartment and wander in, both of you sigh; the illumination from the Eiffel Tower that refracts upon your window pane just adds to your melancholia, a sight that before had never failed to warm your heart.
“When will your brother get here?” your inflection dull.
“Tomorrow, most likely. It only takes a couple of hours to cross the Channel, and as you know, the train ride from the coast is just a few more. I expect he’ll be waiting for me right here when I return from work,” her tone is just as flat as yours.
You want to ask if she will pack tonight, but you stop yourself, seeing the flame that usually burns so bright behind her blue eyes dimmed. Wordlessly, you draw closer and pull her into a firm hug.
“I will miss you like a sister,” she whispers into your hair, returning the embrace just as fiercely, “maybe moreso.”
You nod and band your arms tighter briefly before letting go, bone-deep exhaustion overtaking anything else you see in her mirrored stance.
The last thing that captures your eye as Eloise turns to her room is that painting of her childhood home and, strangely, how it feels closer now than ever before.
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Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa
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i forgot to ask about this. but there is just something so sentimental about lestat going back to nola after paris. i mean after everything that happened he went there (in the book) and i just feel that he went to the placr where he was once happy. and i mean he was alone before, abandoned, abused and people trying to have him and forcing him. but there he fell inlove with a person that was so human and loved him back. that has got ti mean something. that he decided to go there and not just go somewhere else. do you think he did it cuz he just was so depressed about louis perhaps being dead and he wanted to punish himself in a way or so you think he wanted to be closer to louis in a way, even if he was “dead”
It’s a recurring theme in the books in that “home” to Lestat comes to represent wherever Louis is. Lestat refers to New Orleans as “home” on several occasions, which is always where Louis is at the time. It’s also worth noting that it’s not until Louis comes to live with Lestat at the Château in the Auvergne that Lestat starts thinking of the Court as “home.” The show, thankfully, has picked up on this fact.
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“I’m gonna miss this place. There’s not an inch of this city that wasn’t built from the fierce wilderness that surrounds it. Hurricanes, floods, fevers, the damp climate on every painted sign, every stone façade. High windows, through which enameled bits of civilization glitter. Silhouettes emerging, wandering out to catch a silent flash of lightening. The silly warmth of summer rain…desperately alive and desperately fragile.”
— Lestat in 1x07
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“There’s no place for me other than New Orleans.”
— Lestat in 1x06
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“He was in love with my city, and he wanted to know everything he could about it.”
— Louis about Lestat in 1x01
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“I had planned to make a new life for myself in Saint Louis. That was to be my destiny. And now I know I was right. Only it turns out the Saint is not a city, but a handsome man with the most agreeable disposition.”
— Lestat in 1x01
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“I love you, Louis. You are loved. I send my love to you, and you send it back round to me. And this circle, this home we barely had a glimpse of, know it frightens me as much as it does you.”
— Lestat in 1x01
Two years passed before I was strong enough to board a ship for Louisiana. And I was still badly crippled, still scarred. But I had to leave Europe, where no whisper had come to me of my lost Gabrielle or of the great and powerful Marius, who had surely rendered his judgment upon me. I had to go home. And home was New Orleans, where the warmth was, where the flowers never stopped blooming, where I still owned, through my never ending supply of "coin of the realm," a dozen empty old mansions with rotting white columns and sagging porches round which I could roam. And I spent the last years of the 1800s in complete seclusion in the old Garden District a block from the Lafayette Cemetery, in the finest of my houses, slumbering beneath towering oaks.
— Lestat in The Vampire Lestat
I went upstairs to prepare for the journey home. I couldn't wait to see this lunatic mortal again. And Louis- I had to lay it all before Louis. Of course he wouldn't believe it was possible, that would be the first thing he'd say. But he would understand the lure. Oh, yes, he would.
— Lestat in Tale Of The Body Thief
….and the parting from Gretchen to come home to Louis, who misunderstood all that I laid before him, and insisted upon his own interpretation of my words as he refused to give me what I sought.
— Lestat in Tale Of The Body Thief
The only name on my lips was Louis. Louis. I could not for a moment forget Louis. It was as if someone else were chanting his name in my ear. What would I do if ever again I laid eyes on him? How could I curb my temper? Would I even try? At last I was tired. My clothes were rags. I could stay away no longer. I wanted to be home.
— Lestat in Tale Of The Body Thief
At last, bruised in mind and soul, and telling myself I deserved nothing but misery, I went home. The warmth of spring had come to New Orleans, finally, and I found her swarming with the usual tourists beneath a clear and purple evening sky. I went first to my old house to take Mojo from the care of the old woman, who was not at all glad to give him up, save that he had obviously missed me very much. Then he and I together proceeded to the Rue Royale. I knew the flat wasn't empty even before I reached the top of the back stairs. I paused for a moment, looking down on the restored courtyard with its scrubbed flagstones and romantic little fountain, complete with cherubs and their great cornucopia-style shells pouring forth a splash of clean water into the basin below. A bed of dark sweet flowers had been planted against the old brick wall, and a stand of bananas was already thriving in the corner, long graceful knifelike leaves nodding in the breeze. This gladdened my vicious selfish little heart beyond words. I went inside. The back parlour had finally been finished, and beautifully laid out with the fine antique chairs I'd selected for it, and the thick pale Persian carpet of faded red. I looked up and down the length of the hallway, past the fresh wallpaper of gold and white stripes, and over the yards of dark carpet, and I saw Louis standing in the front parlour door. “Don't ask me where I've been or what I've done,” I said. I walked towards him, brushed him aside, and went into the room. Ah, it surpassed all my expectations. There were a very replica of his old desk between the windows, and the camelback sofa of silver damask, and the oval table inlaid with mahogany. And the spinet against the far wall. “I know where you've been,” he said, “and I know what you've done.” “Oh? And what's to follow? Some stultifying and endless lecture? Tell me now. So I can go to sleep.”
— Lestat and Louis in Tale Of The Body Thief
“The second time it was in New Orleans. I was near home, our flat in the Rue Royale. Just walking…”
— Lestat in Memnoch The Devil
“Come home with me,” he said. Such a human voice. So kind. “There’s time to come here and reflect. Wouldn’t you rather be home, in the Quarter, amongst our things?” If anything in the world could have truly comforted me, he would have been the thing—with just the beguiling tilt of his narrow head or the way that he kept looking at me, protecting me obviously with a confidential calm from what he must have feared for me, and for him, and perhaps for all of us.
— Louis and Lestat in Memnoch The Devil
“I’ll be down there, in our rooms,” he said, “waiting for you. They can’t keep you here much longer.”
— Louis to Lestat in Memnoch The Devil
*It’s no coincidence that while Louis is living with Armand at Trinity Gate that Lestat takes to wandering all over the world in self-imposed exile, because he has “no home” during that period.*
I longed for the sweet balmy air of New Orleans, across the sea, for Louis.
— Lestat in Prince Lestat And The Realms Of Atlantis
So this is the Court to which I returned, in which some six hundred blood drinkers were lodging, and a place in which I felt at home as I’d never felt anywhere in my entire existence except perhaps, perhaps, in my old flat in the Rue Royale in the nineteenth century, when Louis sat in an armchair by the fire reading the French newspapers and Claudia, in her puff-sleeved dress of white gauze, played the sprightly joyful music of Mozart on the pianoforte.
— Lestat in Blood Communion
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girl-hwat · 3 months
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i knew this would happen. this is what always happens.
in my mind this is about two and jamie but take it as you like. he was still young, and he still hoped, and he still lost.
lafayette, orville peck // it was the animals, natalie diaz // i guess, mitski // S6E44 the war games: part 10 // mahmoud darwish // aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe, benjamin saenz // unknown // the garden of eden, ernest hemingway // a self portrait in letters, anne sexton
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amelia202sblog · 4 months
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My friend and I decided to make an edit of what we think the Nevermore characters have
(Im including a list of all the voices used)
Lenore-Cassandra from rottmnt
Annabel-captain Amelia from treasure planet
Duke-Lafayette from Hamilton
Pluto-Daniel from hpma
Morelia- Clair from Derry girls
Bernice-clawdeen wolf from MH
Eulile -stairfire from Steven universe
Prospero-milo from Atlantis
Ada -Rochelle Goyal -monster high
Will-jay walker from lego ninja go
Montysor -striker from Helluva-boss
The deans-sad one and glad one from infinity train
The dollys-nurse joy from pokemon
Theo- Wirt from over the garden wall
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Olga (Ollie) Burgoyne
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Olga “Ollie” Burgoyne, also known as Ollie Burgoyne-Calloway, was a singer and dancer specializing in Russian and other ethnic dances. She was also an actress and businesswoman who gained popularity during the Harlem Renaissance and left her mark as one of the most influential African American dancers and choreographers of that time.
Ollie Burgoyne was born in Chicago, Illinois, on June 13, 1879. She was part Russian and part Creole. Ollie’s cousin, Ida Forsain, toured Russia and specialized in Cossack dancing. Influenced by Forsain, Burgoyne debuted at age 17 in John Isham’s Oriental America nightclub in Chicago in 1896. In 1901, at age 22, she embarked on an eight-year tour of Europe (Germany, France, Denmark, Switzerland, Hungary, and Russia) with seven singing and dancing girls known as the Louisiana Amazon Guards.
In 1903, Burgoyne briefly returned to the United States and joined the cast of the operetta In Dahomey, which was the first African American musical to be performed on Broadway. After her performance, Burgoyne formed Duo Eclatant with partner Asher Watts. She also founded the Burgoyne Musical Company.
During her years in Russia (1904-1914), Burgoyne performed in many prestigious venues, including the Krestovskiy Garden Amusement Park (St. Petersburg) and the Aumont Theater (Moscow). She also made side trips to Odessa in what is now Ukraine, Athens, Greece, Istanbul, Turkey, and Cairo, Egypt. She opened the Maison Creole lingerie store in downtown St. Petersburg (Russia), where she employed a staff of 27. In August 1914, while Burgoyne was vacationing in Marienbad, Austria, World War I broke out, and she was unable to return to Russia and thus lost her businesses and properties there.
Between 1914 and 1929, Burgoyne continued to tour mainly in western Europe. Her specialties were Brazilian, Spanish, and Russian dances, which she mastered while traveling. She briefly returned to the United States during this period, where she performed in New York City, Chicago nightclubs, and Harlem’s Lafayette Theater. In 1925, Burgoyne produced two dance revues, Darktown Strutters, and Harlem Strutters, in New York. She also appeared in ten Broadway productions between 1926 and 1937.
In 1931, Ollie Burgoyne was named one of the eight major dancers and choreographers of the Harlem Renaissance, part of an elite group that also included Hemsley Winfield, Edna Guy, Randolph Sawyer, Asadata Dafora, Katherine Dunham, Charles Williams, and Pearl Primus. In April 1936, when Burgoyne was 57 years old, she appeared in the play Mississippi Rainbow, performed at the Lafayette Theater. In the later years of her life, Burgoyne taught dance and worked periodically in the film industry, starring in movies such as Laughing (1930) and The Timid Ghost (1937). With a career spanning nearly 50 years, Ollie Burgoyne died on April 2, 1974, in Oxnard, California, at the age of 95.
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strengthwuzhere · 7 months
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"I thought theatre kids were nice" Amphibia actor AU, inspired by @/waybrights STATS (Sasha and the sharps) AU
Plot
At the age of twenty three Anne is influenced by her grandfathers stories about the 'old days' when he was once an actor, to become an one herself.
She was casted as the main character on a new show called "escape to Amphibia" as the main character. The main character is sixteen year old girl named Brenda Gardener. Who for the past eleven years of her life has grew up around talking frogs. On her sixteen birthday her froggy family gifted her a music box, which has been passed down by the elders of the family, once she opened the music box she and her family was teleported to a world with people who looked like her. The show follows the mitch match family through their adventures on the planet as Brenda tries to find her true self.
Profiles
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Character info
Anne Boonchuy-Plantar: Age twenty three, a well known tennis player before she started her career as an actress. Post clips of her tennis matches. Lives out in the country before moving to a apartment in city with her brother and his girlfriends.
Sasha Waybright: Age twenty three, a already famous actress and model before she started filming "escape to Amphibia". Posts every month or so of photoshoots. Lives in a unnecessary luxurious pent house in the city.
Marcy Wu: Age twenty three, a well liked artists and gamer on the internet before she started filming "escape to Amphibia". Posts her art and reminders about her gaming recordings. Lives in city in a shady apartment with her close friends Lunella Lafayette and Luz Noceda.
Sprig Boonchuy-Plantar: Age eighteen, never had more than two Twitter followers before his sister become famous and he was announced as her brother. Always posts cool places he finds in the woods, frogs/frog facts and the danger him and Anne gets into. Lives in city with his older sister and his girlfriends.
Polly Boonchuy-Plantar: Age fifteen, had around two thousands followers before Anne became famous. Posts videos and pictures of the robots and device's on here account. Lives on the far outskirts of the city on the Plantar farm with her parents and grandpa.
Ivy Sundew: Age eighteen, had about three hundred followers before Anne became famous. Posts clips of her self defense classes and her successes at scaring the Boonchuy-Plantar's. Lives in a apartment in city with her loves and Anne.
Maddie Flour: Age eighteen, had just over a thousand followers before Anne became famous. Posts stuff and images of witch craft and vodo dolls. Lives in a apartment in the city with her loves and Anne.
Molly Jo Waybright: Age eighteen, never had Twitter but after the first episode of "escape to Amphibia" Sprig convinced her to get Twitter so he could send her memes. She posts nothing, just lurking. Lives in house a little ways out side the city with her grandpa Otto so she could keep a closer eye on in.
Bee Boonchuy: Age, well he's ageing. He never once had Twitter, or had any intentions to download it. But Polly had convinced to install it so he could be a embarrassment to Anne. Lives on the outskirts of the city on a farm with his father-in-law, wife and his youngest child.
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This 1895 Queen Anne Victorian home in Apalachicola, Florida is absolutely breathtaking. It has 4bd., 4ba., and is listed at $1.750M.
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Just look at the delicately etched glass on the entrance door.
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This is not your usual Victorian- look at the wood walls. Isn’t this different and amazing?
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It has the 2 sitting rooms that most Victorians have, but I don’t quite know how to define their styles. The home has been reno’d, but it’s a combination of old and new. Notice how simply restored the fireplace is.
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It has more of a crisp, formal look.
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The gorgeous crown molding is intact.
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Instead of the flowery Victorian wallpaper, they opted for neutral colors and added features like a row of niches in the dining room.
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Look at the burled wood of this molding.
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Beautiful home office. 
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Stylishly vintage shower room. 
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Love the pantry.
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The wood in the hallways is just so beautiful.
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The everyday dining area is so pretty- not only a built-in, but a fireplace, too. 
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No expense was spared on the kitchen cabinetry- it’s gorgeous. 
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And, how cute is the vintage pantry?
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Check out the niches along the stairs. What a fabulous staircase.
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Isn’t this amazing?
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This bd. and its vintage bath are wonderful. 
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The bds. are stunning.
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And, this is the ladder to the Widow’s Watch. 
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The main bd. is especially beautiful and also has its own porch.
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And, look at the main bath. This is so pretty.
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Now, this is a vanity area.
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And, check out this shower.
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Amazing walk-in closet is actually a room.
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Cozy back porch.
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Original photo of the house. 
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Lovely gardens.
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The garage is cool, too- it has a lift.
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What a great garage.
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Those must be the old toilets! They actually saved them.
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The house is right near Lafayette Park &  Apalachicola Bay.
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/163-Avenue-B-Apalachicola-FL-32320/44752344_zpid/
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witchersmistress · 6 months
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Home Sweet Home
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this is a picture of a resturant from the French Quarter, found it on google :)
Summary: Another dual pov from both New Orleans present day and New Orleans 1865 from both Syverson and Aurora their back story
Permission is not given to copy my work in any shape, way or form. i'll haunt you for the rest of your days if you do K?
Trigger Warnings: Blood, violence, bodily harm/ injury, death. an 800 pound alligator named Old Louise, resentment towards me for what you are about to read.
Word count: 3K
 New Orleans 2023
 Aurora’s  POV   
I couldn't stop thinking about that interaction. I was sitting down at my laptop when there was a knock on my door “Come in!” I yelled. Mama J walked in “ Hi sugah, my granddaughter was telling me that you are looking for an old New Orleans home” I nodded, she leaned against the door frame. “Well sugah, my family has been here for over 150 years, my daddy used to tend garden's  for a number of homes in his younger years, tell me what you know and I'll see if I can help” I smiled excitedly. She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed as I dug out the drawings I had and began to explain my dreams to her. 
She never questioned anything, just giving me a small smile and looking at the pictures i've found on the web, that looked similar. " There was a spiral staircase that led up to a library that was filled with so many books' '' I told her as I scrolled to find the picture. She let out a light hearted laugh " Child, I know that house, c'mere" she got up and I followed out of the room and down the stairs into the sitting room.
She pulled an old photo album off the bookcase and took a seat on the couch. "Sit child, let me tell you a story" I sat next to her tucking my legs underneath Mr as she flipped through the book and stopped at this gorgeous house. Mama told me as she continued to flip through the pages. She has pictures of the ballroom, the stairs in the foyer of the house, the gorgeous gardening wing and the spiral staircase.
She let out a laugh " look at your grinning like a possum" she flipped to another page and showed the image of a man  in a military uniform, the picture had aged well even with some watermarks. She pointed at him "This fine young man was Captian James Logan Syverson, of the 1st Louisiana cavalry" she flipped to another page of him and a young woman together, she was sitting on a swing, her hair obscured her face, but the smile on his face said it all.
"She's pretty as a peach isn't she? That's the only photo they ever managed to capture of her. She shied away from the camera. She never liked to be on film." I cocked an eyebrow at her " how did you know this?" She flipped a few more pages in the book and landed on the staff of the house and she pointed to two of the ladies in the back " that there is my great great  grandmother Arlene, and her daughter Charlotte. The story of Syverson and Ms. Hathaway has been passed down in my family." She smiled a sad smile. "They first met in 1860, it was a founders day party, Captain Syverson walked in that room and was blown away by her from the moment their eyes met. He began courting her in 1862. This house was completed in 1863, he built it for her, their future home." She continued, flipping back to the picture of them. " She sadly passed away in the early months of 1865. Some say she was killed as an act of revenge against Syverson, others say she got sick and her body couldn't take it. They were to be married in that spring" 
She clicked her tongue, closing the photo album, placing a hand on top and one on her heart. "Logan was unable to set foot in that house again. The house stayed in the family. I believe it's currently owned by his grandson, that handsome man who climbed up on your balcony this morning, that cheeky boy" she placed the book in my lap as she stood.
"Where was Ms. Hathaway buried?" Fiddling with the locket around my neck. " Her family has a family plot in Lafayette Cemetery. The first one, they have a plaque with her name on it, but I doubt she is there." I turned my head with a quizzical expression, she tutted me several times " sweet child, she is buried with Syverson. No doubt in my mind, he has the money and the military on his side. Even in death he couldn't let her go" the sound of footsteps had me turning in my seat. It was her granddaughter, Emily, she was holding a house phone in her hand, " Excuse me gram but auntie is on the phone for you" extending the phone out to her. 
Looking at the photo album. I kept coming back to that picture of them. Running my fingers over the edge of the photo, suddenly I'm transported to another time. I'm the one sitting in the seat of that swing and I cannot stop laughing at Syverson. He took the two ropes and twisted me around and let them go so I would unravel with a squeal “Logan” I called out to him, he stopped the swing from spinning as he looked at me with so much love, my heart beat erratically as he leaned in closer.. “Rory child” Mama had called me, I shook my head and was brought back to her living room. “ Hmm '' I hummed at her, she was smiling like a fool, “ I just got off the phone with my sister, Freya, she said the Syverson boy just left and he'd be by to pick you up and show you his family home. He will be here in about 10 minutes” putting the photo album down on the coffee table. I bolted up the stairs to put my bag together and get my camera. 
Syverson’s POV
I didn't even get the chance  to knock on her front door before it opened “Logan what do I owe this pleasure ?” Freya said, she looked over at Gus and her eyes narrowed at him. Looking back over my way with one eyebrow cocked, holding up the strands of her hair “ I think i found her” her eyes widened “Say no more get in here” we made our way into her house, to her sun porch out back, where old Louise was out back basking in the sun, i grabbed a raw chicken leg out of his bowl and threw it out to him “ Here you go big fella” he growled as he chomped down on it, bone crunching and all. Gus shuddered at the sound and turned away.  She gestured for us to sit, she placed the strands of hair in a bowl of water and mixed them in, before she stood and went over to her bookcase and pulled out a small hope chest, and pulled out the few remaining things from Aurora, her favorite perfume, a couple of her hair pins, i could have sat for hours and wa\tched her pin her hair and lastly her silver hair brush.
She pulled a few strands from the brush  and mixed it in with the other strands, she mumbled over the water and smoke started to rise as Freya spoke in a language I did not understand. I watched the two strands of smoke curled and intertwined with one another. At the top of each smoke spiral was a visual of both Aurora’s past and present. Freya hummed as she waved her hands over the bowl and the 2 pictures became one. “Do you remember the night she died, Logan?” 
I nodded my head, it feels like it was just yesterday when she died in my arms. “I’ll remember that day for the rest of my life” she nodded and leaned back in her seat.
New Orleans 1865
It was the end of the winter season, spring was coming and soon with it my marriage to Aurora. Making my way into the sitting room, I saw her in her rocking chair, working on her needle point, her bottom lip twitching as she worked on her pattern. I placed a few more pieces of kindling into the fire, before kneeling in front of her, she gave me a small laugh and smile running one of her hands through my hair before going back to her work. I laid my head in her lap as she continued to work, humming softly. Her stomach let out a loud growl, “ I’ll get dinner started” she said as she put down her needle point. She stood up “I don't think so darlin,i can get you dinner, you just rest, you've been running non stop these last few weeks, you need to rest” she nodded up at me before she settled back down again. 
Making my way to the back of the house and into the kitchen, I found Ms. Charlotte turned to face me. “Good evening Captain, soup is almost ready."I nodded at her, “ Would mind so terribly to bring her a cup of tea, she needs to calm her nerves” she nodded and walked out the kitchen. I had finished grabbing all the silverware, when I heard a blood curdling scream come from the front of the room, dropping the ladle, I grabbed my gun and went racing towards the screaming
I skidded to a halt upon entering the sitting room, two men dressed in all black had, Charlotte and Aurora. “ Ahhh” a familiar voice sounded from my right, I turned to see who it was, it was John Davenport, Caroline’s  husband. But that was impossible, he was imprisoned to be hung for the murder of his boss
“I see the confusion written on your face, old sport” he sneered at me. “ I should be in jail but a strange man came to me with an offer, your life for mine” he strutted around the room as Aurora struggled in the man's hold, I narrowed my eyes at her begging her to relax, she looked at me and settled. “ You see Logan, you made some very powerful enemies who would do anything to see you crumble. So come to my surprise to see that you were taken here with Ms. Aurora, you made it all to easy to bring you down" he had a wicked gleam to his face as he twirled a small hunting knife in his hand " you really are a bastard John" Aurora spit at him, he walked over and squished her cheeks together " That pretty little mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one of these days" she wrench her head from his grasp and gave him a hard stare. He turned back to face me “But I am prepared to offer you a deal, I’ll kill Aurora, which is a better fate than what he has in store for her."
 He nodded at his men who started to wrestle the girls but Charlotte broke free, the guy went to grab her and Aurora stuck her foot out tripping the bastard “Get out of here Charlotte” she yelled as she took off out the door and into the night. 
I drew my gun to fight with John but he was much quicker than I. He had an arm wrapped around my neck and he had brought me to my knees and forced my gaze on my sweet girl. She was breathing heavily, “It's ok Logan, everything is going to be ok” I fought against John’s hold but it was no use, I couldn't get free,  I struggled against his grip " you'll live to regret this John."  I seethed. He threw his head back and laughed " It's not me, you need to fear Logan, it's August.. Do you remember him?"I remembered a Union General named August. He was a ruthless and a cold blooded killer. I saw him tear a man apart on the battlefield, his reputation precedes him. Very few men who went up against him lived to tell the tale, even then none of them in the end made any lick of sense, they talked about his glowing red eyes and his fangs. He was indeed a monster. A few select men, myself included, were tasked with disposing of him. We broke into his home, others looted and damaged his home, me and 2 other people stayed focused on the mission and it was to find him. Realization and terror must have been showing on my face, because John laughed. “Good you remember him, because he  never forgot you and he has been patiently waiting for a chance to get back at you.” he snapped his fingers and his goons, shuffled about and sandwiched Aurora between them.
 “You know old sport  i hate for it to come to this but you've left me no choice”he snapped fingers and the one of the me, withdrew his knife, with a singular thrust, he shoved the blade into her stomach and up into her ribs “NOOOOOO” i roared and tried to get to her as she dropped to her knees, john released me as i raced over to her and cradled her in my arms, placing my hands on her wound “Breathe for me, i know it hurts.." her hand cupped my cheek, " it… doesn't hurt Logan" a blood started to drip out of her mouth.
John let out a sadistic chuckle as he stood up, “ this might work out even better than the boss wanted” he turned his back to me and shout as we walked out “It was good to see you old boy, but i have bigger fish to fry this evening”
It took all my strength to not get up off that floor and go racing after him. “Aurora” a feminine voice yelled, Arlene and her daughter Charlotte made their way in through   the door with a younger man behind them. Charlotte’s eyes locked on us and she let out a gasp as she sank to the floor and the gentlemen behind her caught her. Arlene stood there, eyes wide and unshed tears shining in them. A soft touch on my face drew me back to reality, i looked down at her pale face, the blood staining her lips and chin. Her vibrant green irises seem to bore into me as she spoke
" don't you dare lose yourself, Logan Syverson. Don't you give into the darkness" she cupped my cheek, I pressed my hand to her wound, but I knew it was useless. With a nod of her head, Arlene and Charlotte came in closer. I let out a low growl " Logan '' Aurora scolded " enough they are going to help you, they are friends' ' I nodded at her, tears blurring my vision, she let out a sharp breath. 
 I turned to look at Charlotte but she just shook her head, turning back to face Aurora, she grabbed my hand and squeezed " there are some many things I want to tell you Logan, but from the moment I met you, I knew you'd be my undoing, but I didn't care, what was going to happen, I just wanted to love you while I could. I love you so much Logan Syverson, don't you ever forget that. We will meet again of that I am sure" I brought her lips to mine for one last kiss, when our lips connected, something in the atmosphere shifted, I pulled away and looked into her green eyes, " I'll find you again, no matter how long it takes" i assured her,  her eyes shined with the unshed tears, as the light faded from her eyes and the closed one final time. I pulled into my chest and roared in anguish.
New Orleans 2023
Syverson pov
My eyes shot open, a fresh tear rolling down my face, that Freya promptly swiped up and dropped into the bowl. A shiver rolled through my body as I watched the smoke grow and turn into a vision of Aurora and I walking in 1864. My heart swelled at the idea. "Congratulations Logan, she came back to you" she got up and grabbed her phone. "Emily, is mama available?" she asked. My heart soared when she finally came back to me.  I’ll be damned  sure  to give  her  a  spanking for taking so long, the damn brat that she is. Freya  chatted away with  her sister, I looked over at Gus whose eyes were firmly placed on old louise. “Gus' ' i said “He isn't going to attack you, he is just a big puppy' ' his eyes bugged out of his head' ' A PUPPY?!?! SYVERSON, HE IS A 800 POUND ALLIGATOR, WITH 80 TEETH WAITING TO TEAR YOU APART!!” Old Louise moved his head in his direction and opened his jaws. Gus jumped back in his seat “ Actually Gus, darling” Freya chimed in cause the poor fucker to jump out of his skin, “He wouldnt eat you right away, he drowned you but since you are so large he would stuff you under water for a few weeks, letting your meat and bones soften before ripping you to pieces to eat” he turned a shade of grey and louise, the cheeky thing snapped his jaws closed, sending Gus over his chair and out the door like a bat out of hell. 
I dropped in my seat in a fit of laughter as Freya walked over to Louise and gave him a scratch on his chin before crawling back into the water. “How is the old man hanging in there?” I asked her as we watched him swim away, she gave a heavy sigh. “He is good, getting up there in years, but still hanging tough” she watched the space he was for a few more minutes before she spoke “ I just off the phone with my sister, Jezabel, she was telling me that Ms. Rory as she called her, she remembers the family home you built her and like to see it” i shot up from my seat “ Relax sugah, i told her that you'd be there in 10 minutes for her” i ran out of the sun room, i turned back to thank her and she shooed me away “Go on get outta her go get your girl Syverson” she said with a laugh, i was down those front steps and into my truck with spinning tires and throwing gavel as i hauled ass back to the French Quarter.
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berniesrevolution · 2 years
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The Atlantic
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in 1851, members of a California state militia called the Mariposa Battalion became the first white men to lay eyes on Yosemite Valley. The group was largely made up of miners. They had been scouring the western slopes of the Sierra when they happened upon the granite valley that Native peoples had long referred to as “the place of a gaping mouth.” Lafayette Bunnell, a physician attached to the militia, found himself awestruck. “None but those who have visited this most wonderful valley, can even imagine the feelings with which I looked upon the view,” he later wrote. “A peculiar exalted sensation seemed to fill my whole being, and I found my eyes in tears.” Many of those who have followed in Bunnell’s footsteps over the past 170 years, walking alongside the Merced River or gazing upon the god-rock of El Capitan, have been similarly struck by the sense that they were in the presence of the divine.
The Mariposa Battalion had come to Yosemite to kill Indians. Yosemite’s Miwok tribes, like many of California’s Native peoples, were obstructing a frenzy of extraction brought on by the Gold Rush. And whatever Bunnell’s fine sentiments about nature, he made his contempt for these “overgrown, vicious children” plain:
Any attempt to govern or civilize them without the power to compel obedience, will be looked upon by barbarians with derision … The savage is naturally vain, cruel and arrogant. He boasts of his murders and robberies, and the tortures of his victims very much in the same manner that he recounts his deeds of valor in battle.
When the roughly 200 men of the Mariposa Battalion marched into Yosemite, armed with rifles, they did not find the Miwok eager for battle. While the Miwok hid, the militiamen sought to starve them into submission by burning their food stores, souring the valley’s air with the smell of scorched acorns. On one particularly bloody day, some of the men came upon an inhabited village outside the valley, surprising the Miwok there. They used embers from the tribe’s own campfires to set the wigwams aflame and shot at the villagers indiscriminately as they fled, murdering 23 of them. By the time the militia’s campaign ended, many of the Miwok who survived had been driven from Yosemite, their homeland for millennia, and forced onto reservations.
Thirty-nine years later, Yosemite became the fifth national park. (Yellowstone, which was granted that status in 1872, was the first.) The parks were intended to be natural cathedrals: protected landscapes where people could worship the sublime. They offer Americans the thrill of looking back over their shoulder at a world without humans or technology. Many visit them to find something that exists outside or beyond us, to experience an awesome sense of scale, to contemplate our smallness and our ephemerality. It was for this reason that John Muir, the father of modern conservationism, advocated for the parks’ creation.
More than a century ago, in the pages of this magazine, Muir described the entire American continent as a wild garden “favored above all the other wild parks and gardens of the globe.” But in truth, the North American continent has not been a wilderness for at least 15,000 years: Many of the landscapes that became national parks had been shaped by Native peoples for millennia. Forests on the Eastern Seaboard looked plentiful to white settlers because American Indians had strategically burned them to increase the amount of forage for moose and deer and woodland caribou. Yosemite Valley’s sublime landscape was likewise tended by Native peoples; the acorns that fed the Miwok came from black oaks long cultivated by the tribe. The idea of a virgin American wilderness—an Eden untouched by humans and devoid of sin—is an illusion.
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morganleehostetler · 10 months
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