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animeniacss · 4 years

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A Palette of Emotions - Artist!Taehyung x Teacher!YN - Chapter 1 - Being a Professional

Synopsis: Taehyung dreams of being a professional and famous artist one day, but finds that the sea of creativity can be lurking with blood hungry sharks, as well as bland, motionless starfish. Swimming through the sea of opportunities somehow washed him up onto the shore of Bright Star Preschool, as an art teacher. This wasn’t where he expected to be 4 years into his career, but anything to get his big break though, right?

Feat. BTS, TXT, ITZY, Jisoo (BlackPink), Taeyong (NCT)

Genre: Romance, Slow Burn, Love Triangle, Drama, School Setting, Working!AU,

Length: approx. 4.6k words

Chapter 1 - Being a Professional

Art was subjective. Many people can see a film, pictures, video games, paintings, music, all of it, yet each person could leave with a different view of it to share with their peers. It provides chances of expression, different outlooks on multiple various exciting topics. Art could also help you make a lot of money if it piqued the interest of a particular group...you know, and if the artist was on time to the FUCKING ART SHOW!

Jimin’s eyes frantically scanned the entrance of the show, as people filed in and out, yet none of them was the person he was hoping would arrive. It had been a half an hour since the art show began, and Jimin had been making small talk with the attendees, high-end businessmen and women who were looking for the right art piece to hang in one of their many living rooms. However, they couldn’t purchase anything unless the artist was at the venue. Which, as of 7:35 p.m., he was not!

“Are you alright, Mr. Park?” A man asked, making the brunette turn his head. Before Jimin, stood the most important man in the room, the one that allowed Jimin to be standing on these marble floors at all. And he was here, with Jimin.

Waiting.

“You keep looking at the door. Don’t tell me your date stood you up.” Jimin couldn’t help but laugh a bit, taking a sip of his champagne.

“No, no.” He said. “Just waiting for someone.” Someone who I kept reminding that this was the most important night of their life and they’re still late! He thought to himself. Jimin looked over at the man before him and offered him yet another one of his charming smiles. “Oh, here. Would you like me to get you another glass of champagne, Mr. Oh?” He offered.

“Hm? Ah, I didn’t even realize I ran out.” The man laughed a bit. “I’d appreciate that Mr. Park, thanks. I’ll be over here by this artist’s work…” he motioned to a wall of different paintings. “I’ll see if I can finally scope out your artist.” The man looked at Jimin, seeing the slight look of panic on his face. It made him smirk. “Is he still in the bathroom?”

“Uh, I’ll find out.” He smiled, nodding his head. “While I get the champagne.” Just as quickly as he nodded his head, he hurried to find a waiter that was close to the entrance, pulling out his phone. As he stood by the door, he took a waiter by the tie, keeping him close. “Tell me the appetizers you guys have, please.” He asked. Though the man began to speak, Jimin was frantically pushing buttons. The sound of his phone connecting was no use to calm his nerves because if he didn’t get an answer, he would probably break the phone in half and flee to a different country. Fortunately, he heard a deep voice on the other side, panting and gasping for air in desperation.

“H-Hello?”

“Taehyung, where are you?!” He asked. “You’re almost 45 minutes late. There are people -.”

“Don’t shout, I... I hear from you.” Jimin blinked as he put a hand on his hip. “And take your hand off your hip. It makes you look like a diva.”

“Wha-?” Just then, Jimin turned slightly to his left to see a panting Taehyung, hunched over and holding onto his knees tightly as he tried desperately to get air into his lungs. His grey suit jacket was a bit wrinkled from the running, and his hair had little strands flying off his head from the wind blowing against it. But he was here and alive, so that was all that mattered. “There you are.” He hurried over. “What the heck is wrong with you? Do you know how much I had to crank up my charm to keep the people who want to see you at bay?”

“But you’re good at cranking up the charm. That’s why I love you.” Taehyung looked up at him, patting his friend’s cheek as the waiter walked over to the two of them, Jimin forgetting that the poor man was rattling off appetizers to him. “Oh, good. I need a drink.” Taehyung gasped, reaching out to grab one of the drinks. Jimin grabbed one too, and Taehyung smirked. “Have you been stress-drinking again?” He asked, putting the glass up to his lips and taking a sip.

“No.” He said. “...Well, yeah, but that’s not it.” Jimin quickly thrust the skinny glass towards Taehyung, who looked at him curiously.

“...You think I’m going to stress drink?” He asked curiously.

“No, dummy.” Jimin huffed, turning the two of them towards the gathering happening only feet away. “Look. Right there.” He pointed straight ahead. “Oh, Min-Jae. That’s the guy that keeps talking to me about you. He’s the guy who even got your work displayed here in the first place.” Taehyung looked the man over, watching as he stood by Taehyung’s paintings and works, hands in his pockets as he stared ahead silently. “Go bring him a drink and chat him up a bit or something, will you? I’ll go try and mingle with some other people for once.”

“Alright, alright.” Taehyung sighed. “...I still cannot believe you got my art into such a high-end show.” Taehyuhg sighed.

“Yeah, don’t make any of this go to waste. Now go.” Nudging his friend, Taehyung nodded, walking over towards Mr. Oh, drinks in his hands.

“Mr., Oh?” He called out, making the man look over. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Kim Taehyung.”

“Aaaah, Mr. Kim. Finally, I was getting worried your nerves got the better of you.” He said. When he saw the drinks in his hands, he grinned. “A partier?”

“Hm? Oh.” He chuckled. “No, Sir. Here. My manager told me that you were looking for another drink, so I took the liberty of bringing you one.” Mr. Oh took the glass into his hands, nodding his head.

“I was waiting for about 45 minutes.”

“I uh...heh. I apologize. This is my first time at an event as big as this. I usually have my art shown at smaller gigs.” Mr. Oh chuckled.

“I can tell...” Mr. Oh said, his eyes wandering back to the handful of portraits before them. He quickly took the full glass from Taehyung’s hand, lifting it to his lips to take a sip. “So, tell me, where does your inspiration come from?” He asked.

“Well…” Taehyung began, putting his hand in his pocket. He pursed his lips together. “It depends. This one I got inspired by a nice tree I passed by a while back.” He motioned to a painting that encompassed every shade of green on the canvas, the other various colors put in places that accented the beauty of the greens. “This one...I uh….” Mr. Oh looked over at him as Taehyung motioned to a myriad of colors on a circular canvas, blending and almost creating a new color entirely, while still accenting the beautiful hues of the rainbow. “This one I…made after a very...important….dark… a moment in my life.” He saw Mr. Oh put the glass to his lips again, and let out a shaky breath as he turned to a third painting. He was silent for a moment, pointing to the picture. He was out of bullshit to spew. “...Well, nothing inspired this one. I just wanted to draw a dolphin.”

“A....dolphin.” Mr. Oh said, nodding his head. “I see.”

“Yeah. A lot of things inspire me, but I don’t know how to describe them. I just paint what I want.” Mr. Oh walked over and examined the paintings, leaning in close to observe what he was looking at.

“....A dolphin.” Mr. Oh repeated. Taehyung raised an eyebrow, wondering why the hell this guy kept saying that.

“What do...you think?” He asked curiously, watching Mr. Oh step back once again. Silence filled their little area for a moment, and Taehyung shifted in nervous anticipation.

“What do I think?” Mr. Oh asked, turning back to Taehyung. He put his hands behind his back. Taehyung took a step back, trying to remain calm despite the sudden nervousness she felt in his stomach. “I think that you’re the kind of person who gives the term ‘professional’ a bad name.” It was then Taehyung felt it. His heart sank directly into his stomach.

“...I-I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Your paintings are subpar, your attire is atrocious, and your professionalism is a joke. Almost one hour late, and you couldn’t use that time to think up a single intellectual thing to say?”

“Uh, I-.”

“You even have your…Instagram on here. That’s just embarrassing…” He motioned to the small little plaque on the wall that read @thelocalartaeist. Then he turned back to Taehyung. “Look, Mr. Kim-.” Mr. Oh said, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. “I’ll be honest. You seem to deserve at least that. Your friend Mr. Park did a lot of help with the marketing of my business's newest branch in Busan.” When his comment was meant with a confused stare from the twenty-five-year-old artist, he let out a much more frustrated groan. “Consider it a favor to him that your art is even hanging up on this wall right now.” Taehyung frowned. “Why do you think I’m the only one here even giving these a glance? Because they’re not at the same level as the rest of the art in this show. You might want to consider staying at your...usual locals, hm?”

Taehyung’s eyes wandered to the paintings that were hanging on the wall. All of the hours he spent awake in his room, living off mugs and mugs of coffee, as crumpled and ripped up sketches scattered around him. They filled his studio apartment, leaving him to spend moments writhing in pain on the floor because he got a cramp in his wrist from hours of nonstop drawing, or in frustration. After all, he ran out of blue paint just as he was about to finish the sky. All those moments, he poured into his art….

...and he was unprofessional because he wanted to draw a dolphin?

When Mr. Oh watched Taehyung’s shoulders slump, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ll have my security return the paintings to you within 24 hours.”

“I don’t need your help,” Taehyung said simply. Mr. Oh blinked, eyes slightly wide in surprise. Taehyung’s lips turned into a tight frown. Mr. Oh nodded.

“Fine.” He said, passing his champagne glass to Taehyung once again, using his finger to tug at the wrinkly collar of his jacket before putting his hand in his pocket. “And invest in an iron. That’s a good start.” He hummed before he began to walk towards another group of people who were admiring the work of another artist. Taehyung looked down at the empty wine glass in his hand, gripping it tightly. He suddenly heard footsteps approach him. When he looked up, he saw Jimin.

“How did it….?” He fell silent, just staring at Taehyung. His knuckles were white, hand shaking slightly. “Tae-.” He put his hand on his shoulder. Just as he did so, Taehyung’s hand released, sending the glass onto the floor. A loud shattering sound alerted the attention of everyone in the room, finally bringing Taehyung back to reality. “Woah!” Jimin hopped back, watching glass scatter around his feet.

Taehyung glanced around, seeing the faces of other people. All eyes were on him now, women clinging to their dates in fear of a violent outbreak, single men preparing to take control of the situation as needed. Min-Jae was looking over, hands in his pockets as he chuckled a bit, only turning away from the scene with seemingly no more interest in Taehyung. Taehyung glanced at Jimin, who turned to a waiter and asked for someone to clean this. When he looked back to Taehyung, he offered a kind smile.

“You hurt?” Jimin asked curiously. Taehyung didn’t respond, only offering a soft smile. “...You can tell me what happened when we get home. Come on.” Patting his friends back, he led him out of the event, just as an event worker returned to the broken glass to clean this up. As the duo walked past, a couple was walking in, but Taehyung was so busy staring straight ahead that he didn’t notice, causing him to bump into the woman.

“Oh. I’m sorry, are you alright?” The girl asked, turning to him. Taehyung looked over, biting his lip.

“I-I’m fine. Sorry…” he said. The woman nodded, offering a kind smile before the man, a tall, well-pressed individual with black glasses and slicked-back brown hair, gently put his hand on the small of her back.

“Are you alright? Let’s get going.” The young woman nodded, following him into the event. Taehyung watched as Mr. Oh approached the duo, shaking hands with the man.

“Ahhh, Mr. Kim, I’m glad you finally made it. And who is this?” Mr. Oh said. Before Taehyung could overhear anymore of the conversation, Jimin finished leading him out of the event.

“I’ll make sure to get the paintings back to your apartment tomorrow,” Jimin said. Taehyung only groaned in response, stuffing his hands in his pockets as the duo headed down the road. “Let’s go down to that pub and get a few drinks.”

The local bar, a small yet cozy place where locals would get together to wash away the stresses of the long day they had, would find Jimin and Taehyung as frequent guests. Jimin’s job as a popular marketing executive meant that he had connections, connections that sometimes helped him and his friend out, while other times, slapped them both hard in the face. He was realizing now that this was a connection that would leave a dark bruise on Taehyung’s ego, as he sat back in his seat watching his friend throwback shots.

“You know if you keep drinking like that, you’ll wake up outside your apartment again,” Jimin said, crossing his arms. Taehyung set his now empty shot glass onto the table with a forceful slam, before looking at his friend with glazed-over eyes.

“Did you even hear what that jackass said to me?” he asked, sniffling. “No, you didn’t. He said my art was subpar, and I gave professionalism a bad name.” Running a hand through his hair, he sniffled. “You had to see how he looked at my picture of the dolphin. He said it was subpar. I worked days on that painting.”

“I know,” Jimin said softly. “I remember the fast food bags that piled up outside your front door because you wouldn’t pull yourself back to cook.

“Right?! But that jackass doesn’t even get that. All he cares about is…” he groaned, hands falling onto his face in an attempt to stifle his frustration. “I don’t even know. God, this sucks.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Jimin said. “You have tons of followers on your Instagram that love your work.”

“My work and my face. More than half of my comments are on how attractive my teenage fans think I am, not even my artwork.” He groaned. “I love them, but it’s so frustrating.” Jimin nodded in understanding, though he didn’t come close to understanding. “How the hell did you even get to know that guy? He said you helped him out.”

“Yeah. While I was helping him market, I overheard him talking about the art show he was holding for his friends. I showed him your social media, and he seemed to like it.”

“Well, I guess he’s a good actor, huh?” Taehyung sighed. As he saw one of the waiter’s approach, he leaned back in his seat. “Can I get another bottle of soju? I’m almost out.”

“No, absolutely not,” Jimin said quickly, his hand reaching out to grab hold of the empty shot glass. “He doesn’t need any more drinks, but some bread or something would help sober him up.” The waiter nodded his head, giving one more apologetic glance to the frowning Taehyung before walking away.

“Aaaah, Jimin, that’s not nice! I want to drink!” Taehyung whined, hoping a set of wide eyes and a pouty lip would help his case. It didn’t.

“I’m not carrying you home again; you’re heavy when you are blackout drunk!” Jimin huffed, running a hand through his hair. He could see Taehyung’s face slowly switch emotion. No longer was he pouting like a child with wide eyes and a quivering lip, but instead, his eyes cast over with a dark somberness, his bottom lip stuck between an anxious set of teeth. Jimin sighed, leaning forward so that his hand reached out, taking Taehyung’s hand tightly in his own. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Taehyung said, resting his head in his hand. “You didn’t make me look like a complete jackass in front of some of the most important business people in Korea.”

“But I shouldn’t have accepted the offer. Mr. Oh was a douchebag even when I was working for him. I just wanted to-.”

“Jimin, please,” Taehyung said, looking up at him. When Jimin looked up at him, he saw Taehyung’s glassy eyes turning red, and he quickly tried to hide it by running his arm across his wet eyes. “Just forget it.” Jimin leaned back in his chair, the duo staying in silence as the waiter brought over a basket of some bread, the warm aura of the slices of bread sending somewhat of a comforting feeling into both men. Taehyung reached out, taking hold of one of the loaves and tearing it in half, profoundly inhaling the warmth of the bread as if it would consume his body and take away the awful feelings coursing through him. When he took a bite of the dough, he glanced down at a napkin, sitting idly on the table as it waited to be used. It hadn’t yet, but Taehyung planned to put a stop to that. With the bread still in his mouth, Taehyung reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small pen. With a click, the pen opened up, and he grabbed hold of the napkin, sliding it closer as he leaned forward. When Jimin saw the pen touch the napkin, he tilted his head.

“Hm? What are you doing?” Jimin asked curiously, leaning forward in curiosity to what caught his friend’s drunk attention. Taehyung didn’t even look up; his pen continued to just scratch against the pale white napkin.

“Drawing.” He said simply. “The bread is hot.” Jimin couldn’t get a view of what Taehyung was scribbling down, since Taehyung had it so close to his chest. Tilting his head just a bit, Jimin was able to get a view of Taehyung’s face. His eyes were still red, still wet from the embarrassing night that he had experienced. However, Jimin noticed something new sparkling behind those wide, dark eyes.

Absolute inspiration.

----------------------------------

Teaching and instilling the ideas of inspiration in young children is an essential tool in the ever-growing development of children. Inspiration could come from anywhere, at any time. By providing children with enough opportunities to draw and create based on their own experiences, drawing their inspiration from things they didn’t even realize were planted in their memory, is an easy and enjoyable way to see the personalities of children. It takes a lot of patience, a lot of creativity, and a lot of overly exaggerated praise that keeps the children wanting to succeed in hopes of that praise being given again.

When you’re the head pre-school teacher of about 17 children just barely aged 4, you need to succeed at that whole ‘overly exaggerated praise’ aspect. You paced the room, watching the little heads of children rocking side to side happily, their hands reaching into colorful buckets of markers and crayons to pull out their absolute favorite color, only to scribble all over their blank, white canvas in five seconds and call that art. As your eyes scanned, one of your younger students, a girl named Yuna, was doing just that, a pink marker clutched in her tiny hands.

“Yuna, remember, don’t scribble all over the page. Draw a nice picture, use as many colors as you can, okay?” You hummed, kneeling down and gently reaching out for her hand, setting the pink marker down.

“But pink is my favorite Teacher.” She said sadly, pouting a bit.

“I know. But look at all the other amazing colors, okay?” You smiled, picking a few hues of reds, yellows, and blues, and spreading them all out in front of the little one for her to see. “Not everything in the world is pink, you know.”

“I know…” Yuna, though a bit bummed that she couldn’t create her entirely-pink world, reached out and grabbed the closest thing to it: red. With a pop, the cap fell onto the table, and Yuna hunched over, continuing her frantic coloring. Just as you continued to walk around and look at the kids, one of them tugged at your skirt. Turning your head, tiny Yeonjun, a skinny little boy with wide eyes, tried his best to get his picture as close to your eyes as possible.

“I’m done!” He beamed. “Look! Look!” As you knelt, you took the picture from his hands and examined it. Yeonjun’s image was decorated in various colors, arching over one another to make a crudely drawn, yet still recognizable rainbow. Some of the colors overlapped one another, and it seemed that the orange was an afterthought, hastily rushed in between the red and yellow at the last moment, so it wasn’t too easy to spot it. The sky was scribbled with a lighter blue than the one used for the rainbow, yet still, it was scribbled with such an unsteady and novice hand that the blue overlapped with the rainbow, and if it didn’t, there were significant gaps of white leftover that he didn’t color.

“This is so good.” You beamed. “Tell me, what was your inspiration for this one?” You asked curiously, looking up at the boisterous little boy whose eyes were sparkling.

“Well, I saw a rainbow with my Mommy the other day after it rained alllll night. Then, I got to splash in the puddles. So, I drew the rainbow.”

“I love it. Can I hang it up on the wall?” Yeonjun nodded, practically bouncing in place, his hands balled into anxious little fists. As you got to your feet, smoothing out your skirt, you led Yeonjun to the wall of pictures. The wall was covered in many different images from all the students, ranging from holiday and birthday cards to pictures they drew or even colored in. Whatever they wanted to display in the classroom, you were happy to hang up. The only rule was, they had to show that they worked hard on it. There were no scribbles on this wall, no random circles, or simple lines that were done in a second just so the student could get as many pictures as they could of their own plastered up for the world to see. That wasn’t fair, not in your eyes. “Alright.” Snagging a piece of tape, you handed the completed picture to the young boy. “You can choose where it goes.” Yeonjun’s eyes scanned the wall of art, trying to find the best place he could put it. After a moment, he found it.

“There!” His hand pointed up to a blank space he located, right between a colored in a picture of the South Korean flag, and a drawing of a tree with apples on it. “I want it next to Taehyun’s picture!” Before you could say anything, Yeonjun got onto his tiptoes, trying his absolute hardest to reach the spot himself. However, it was much too far for his tiny stature; even you had to reach your hand up and stretch for it to fit. However, just as Yeonjun was getting discouraged, he was swooped into the air. Turning your head, a heart-shaped smile, and wide eyes caught your attention. Jung Hoseok – better known to your students as just Mr. Hobi - your good friend and co-worker, who had a spirit so free and a personality so upbeat that just saying his name would get the kids in a frenzy every morning. He, though a bit unorthodox in his methods of handling the kids, was well-liked, and very good at his job.

“Up we go!” Hoseok cheered. “Okay, can you reach now?”

“Uh-huh.” The little boy placed his picture in the spot he desired, pressing on the piece of clear tape with his thumb to make sure it would stick. After staring at it with a proud smile, Hoseok set him down. “Thank you, Mr. Hobi~.”

“No problem. Now, go play until our next activity, okay?” He hummed, smiling wide as he watched the little boy hurry off. Next thing he knew, tons of children swarmed him, holding up their pictures.

“Me next, Mr. Hobi!” Yuna shouted, holding up her picture as high as she could.

“No, me!” Another boy, Kai, shouted, trying to get his even higher than Yuna’s.

“Alright, alright. We can hang them all up; we still have some room.” Hoseok said, kneeling to look at all of the pictures being shoved in his face. “Now, Kai, can you tell me what you made?”

“I made a dinosaur!” He beamed. “It’s breathing fire! I saw a real one at Disney one time!”

“Those aren’t real!” Another little girl, Chareyeong, shouted, a hand on her hip as the other held the palm of her best friend, little Yuna.

“Uh-huh! My Dad told me so.” Kai snapped back, deciding to end the conversation with his tongue poking out of his mouth. Chaeryeong was quick to do the same, as was Yuna before Hoseok quickly crossed his arms, a disapproving look aimed towards all of them. Instantly, the bickering ended. With that settled, Hoseok nodded, scooping the male tyke up and holding up in his arms, allowing him to search for a spot. You knelt as well, taking Yuna’s picture from her. While it was still consistently pink, the reds and blues added as well, making it look like Yuna spent a lot more time on her project.

“What did you draw for us, Yuna?” You asked curiously.

“A pink cotton candy castle with red and blue gumdrops.” Yuna nodded, a grin forming on her face that reached from ear to ear. You smiled as you examined the picture thoroughly.

“Can you tell me what inspired you to draw this, Yuna?” you asked curiously. Yuna was silent for a bit, taking a moment to think.

“…Well, I saw Yeonjun pick his nose in gym class yesterday, and thought it was gross. So, I drew cotton candy because it’s not gross.” A few of the other kids giggled at the memory of Yeonjun’s little finger jammed up his nose before the gym teacher quickly spotted and wiped his hand off with a Kleenex. Glancing up at Hoseok, he was just setting Kai back onto the floor; a grin spread on his face as he heard the little girls reasoning for her picture.

“…That’s your inspiration?” you asked, an eyebrow arched in confusion, and yet, somehow slight amusement. Yuna nodded, the reasoning making total sense to her.

“Mhm. It’s my inpirtion.” She hummed. Only able to reply with a shake of your head, you placed a piece of clear tape onto the picture, and moments later, Hoseok scooped her into his arms, as she searched for where she wanted her picture. Once it was up, you stared at it for a moment.

Inspiration could come from anywhere, it seemed.

Return to Masterlist

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A/N: I’m back guys! I look forward to sharing my newest fic with you. I have more stories and ideas in the works as well, so I hope you enjoy everything I have to share! <3

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saltandsilverstories · 4 years

Text

The Doors of Stone

Something lays beneath the glossy, blue tarps beside the doors. Patches of anti-snow paint portions of the tarp black, while small rivulets slide to the ground where the build-up grows too heavy. I stick my hand into one of the streams, watching it pile along the side of my glove, spill over the edge of my fingers, and trickle into the gaps between the bones of the skeletal foot peeking out from under the tarp.

I shake my hand clean, and tug the edge of the tarp over the foot. The Stasis Suit crinkles as I stand up, pressing a small button on my right wrist.

Please state your command.

“Run external status report,” I tell the Suit.

Scanning within a 100 kilometre radius. Please standby.

There is a slight delay.

External status report is as follows:

Depth status: 2,000 meters below surface

Temperature: -32°C

Precipitation: 90% chance of light anti-snow

Wind activity: Low

Flora: Undetected

Fauna: Unknown

My brows crease. “Elaborate on fauna.”

Fauna of an unknown species and/or origin has been detected.

A sharp bolt of adrenaline shoots from the centre of my chest and out, spreading down until my toes curl within my boots. “Approximate distance to fauna.”

Fauna detected at a distance of approximately 15 kilometers northwest.

I glance at the compass in the upper right corner of my Visor Display, then at the doors.

“Contact surface.”

Contacting Syndicate Technology. Please standby. A representative will be with you shortly.

A quiet jazz tune punctuated by a bossy saxophone fills my helmet speakers. I turn in place, facing the doors.

They are carved from something like ivory or marble, a pale stone with thin, grey veins and specks that glitter in the beam of my helmet lamp. They are polished so smooth that they glisten as if wet. Intricate patterns of swirls and loops cover its length, along with runes composed of straight lines and dots. The anti-snow seems to avoid the doors altogether.

The music cuts out, replaced by the scuffed sounds of someone fumbling with a microphone. “Hi there, Cartographer 4? So sorry for the wait. My name is Wilbur, and I’ll be your Surface Technician for today. What can I do for you?”

“Uh, yeah, hi.” I put my hands on my hips, turning again so I face the tarp. “I ran the status report, and I’m getting a fauna reading.”

“Um…” His chair creaks. “Hm. Is it okay if I request to view your Visor footage?”

“Go for it.”

He goes quiet for a bit, typing. “Well, I can see the notification, and I think it’s probably a glitch with the recent software update. I’ve went ahead and set up automated fauna notifications, just to see if the Suit decides to give it to you again later. Erm, while I have you here, let me just grab your consent one last time before I give you the instructions for the doors, okay?”

“Someone else made me do that before I got in the elevator,” I explain.

“I know, but it’s Protocol.” He needs to work on his apologetic voice.

I press my lips together, exhaling through my nose. My breath briefly fogs my Visor. “Yeah, fine.”

“As per the terms of your contract, you are tasked with mapping at least five kilometres of the area beyond the doors using the software in your Stasis Suit. Should you complete your task, upon your return to Syndicate Technology, your sentence with Ashby City Penitentiary will be terminated immediately. Should you fail, you will resume your sentence until completion with no chance of parole. Your signature on these documents indicate you have heard these conditions prior to this moment and provided consent to this task. C4, do you wish to proceed?”

I lick my lips. “I do.”

"Okay, great. Now let’s get those doors open.”

-----

The city beyond the doors is composed of pillars as tall as skyscrapers, reaching up into the cavernous ceiling. Archways link them, some lined with railings. Those must have been bridges. Buildings, most of them two or three storeys high, sprawl out in all directions, connected by a footpath of clean, square stones.

Anti-snow grinds into the traction grooves of my boots. The scenery remains a constant spread of stonework along both sides of the street, portions of it smudged into the distance by anti-snow build up. There are no air currents for the specks to twirl in. The entire city exists in black and white, a photograph for me to walk through. There are no other sounds than the ones coming from my person. The city is a skeleton, and I walk down its spinal column.

I thought the path I had chosen was the central one with how wide it was, but even so, there were portions of it where the anti-snow had accumulated so much that it almost reached my knees. Each of my footsteps were heavy and slow, my legs aching from the effort it took to move.

My foot catches on something, and I lurch forward, a yell escaping past my lips before I can stop it.

“You okay there?” Wilbur asks.

I push myself to my knees. The oxygen tank on my back makes it difficult to find my balance. “Yeah, I’m good. Just tripped on something.” I feel around under the anti-snow, my gloves gliding along the stones. The object is round and bigger than both of my hands. I pull it free, stumbling a bit.

A helmet. Syndicate Technology’s logo had been mostly scratched off, and the Visor was missing. I turn it in my hands, dumping out the anti-snow it had scooped up during its unearthing.

I gulp, my stomach knotting itself together with the end of my throat.

“Why— What is this doing here?” I ask Wilbur.

He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Just leave it beside the bench over there, on your left, and keep going. You’ve got three kilometres left.”

I don’t say anything, turning the helmet around some more.

“C4.”

I stare at the C2 printed on the top of the helmet, the C almost completely gone.

Approximate distance to fauna: 13 kilometers northwest.

The anti-snow sounds like a paintbrush on canvas as it trickles down my own helmet.

“I want out.”

“Dude, come on--”

“No, fuck this.” I lower the helmet, holding it at my side by its brim. “I’m not staying in this stupid cave if I’m not gonna make it out of here.”

“You’re gonna be just fine, I promise,” he continues.

“What happened to C2, then? Why’s his helmet here?”

He makes an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

I lick my lips, smacking the helmet against my thigh. “I knew him. His name was Lewis.”

Wilbur doesn’t have any response.

“You know his wife still shows up on visitation day? Like she doesn’t know where he is? But none of us have seen him since December.”

Wilbur’s breath enters his mic before his words. “I’m sorry, but if you back out now, you don’t get another shot at this. You can’t sign up again, and you can’t pick up where you left off. This is a one time deal.” He pauses. “It’s up to you.”

I groan, turning around and looking back down the way I’d come in before turning again and looking up the path I’d yet to explore.

“What do I do with it?”

“Just leave it there. You’re not supposed to bring anything back,” he instructs.

“But it’s from the surface.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The patience is dwindling from Wilbur’s voice, his tone as flat as the colour palette of the city.

I stare down at Lewis’ helmet, at the gap his eyes would’ve seen though, the way mine were now. “Fine.” I dropkick the helmet down the street. It clatters against the side of a building before making a faint crunch as it lands in an anti-snowbank.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Wilbur says, quiet.

“Fuck you.”

I keep walking.

-----

Wilbur spits out instructions as if he actually believes I’d follow them. Stick to the main pathways, don’t squeeze between buildings, don’t knock over language tablets, stop sitting, don’t cover the VisorCam.

“You’re not supposed to go into the buildings,” he told me, his voice existing somewhere within his nostrils. “We don’t know how structurally sound they are.”

“Well,” I clear the anti-snow off the stairs leading up the nearest building with my boot, “let’s find out.”

“This is a dumb idea.”

“You’re a dumb idea.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

As I step into the doorway, the building shakes, the ground buzzing with a heavy vibration. A thick, low tone comes from everywhere. It is a sound so heavy it settles atop my shoulders, making my knees quake. I hold onto the door frame, gripping it with both hands, trying to stay standing. My teeth clench, and a few pixels in my Visor Display short out, flashing neon green or blacking out entirely. The anti-snow outside bounces in a zig-zag pattern, moving slightly upwards before shooting down.

After a few moments, it stops. I leaned on the door frame, panting. The pressure of the sound made me forget to breathe.

“What are you doing?” Wilbur asks.

I scowl. “Did you not see any of that just now?”

“Any of what? You wasting time?”

“No, dickhead, there was some earthquake or something, and there was this sound…” I search my head for the right way to convey aloud what that sound felt like.

“It was probably just the software again,” he states. He’s not listening to anything I’m saying.

“It was out here, in the city, not in the Suit,” I insist, shaking my head.

“No, don’t, don’t do that,” he chides, “it makes me dizzy.” He clears his throat. “Maybe it was a windstorm revving up,” he continues. “You’d better hurry up and get this done quick then.”

“No, it wasn’t the wi--”

Approximate distance to fauna: 12 kilometers northwest.

My heartbeat occupies the silence that followed the notification, slapping against the inside of my ears.

“Head southwest from here,” Wilbur says.

I clench and unclench my hands into fists a few times to stop them from trembling.

I take a deep breath. “Okay.” I step back outside.

-----

I walk for another half an hour at least, along the same twisting road. The farther I go, the more dense the debris becomes. The state of preservation decays until I am climbing over chunks of roof four times my size, and shoving myself under sections of pillar that had fallen from the sky bridges above the city.

I stop in the centre of a side-street. A boulder fills the entirety of the way, with nowhere to go but over. I grab onto a protrusion, hauling myself on top. A grunt escapes my chest in a puff of breath that fogs my visor from the inside. My boots dislodge anti-snow and gravel as I try to keep myself from wobbling. I’m much higher off the ground than expected.

“Holy shit.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but I do.

The street is a collection of shards and fragments. The buildings are reduced to framework, the stones of the path dug up and strewn about, tossed like dice. Along the one wall that remains intact, a gash bisects it, a deep wound in the flesh of a former housing unit. Or maybe it had been a storefront. It is an impact site, with cracks webbing above and below the scar.

“What?” Wilbur smacks his lips.

“Are you eating?” I turn my head as I ask, as if he’d be standing beside me on the boulder.

A crunch. “It’s noon, and I already took my break.”

“You couldn’t have eaten then?”

“Wasn’t hungry then. So what happened?”

“You seeing this?” I ask.

“What?”

“This.” I turn in a circle, slowly, letting the camera do its work. “The street.”

“Oh, yeah.” Is he licking his fingers? “Mmhmm,” he pauses, swallowing, “It was probably the windstorms.”

“There’s no way.”

“Could be, though. Can’t rule it out. We can’t really get a read on anything.” Another crunch, and his breath shoves itself into his mic. “The storms fuck with the equipment.”

Attention: Distance goal met. Please return to the antechamber and wait for further instructions.

“You heard her, time to head back,” Wilbur says between chews.

“Do you have to be eating right now?” I ask.

“No, but I’m hungry.”

“It’s annoying as fuck.”

“So are you, now get moving.”

“Fine, Jesus.” I hop down from the boulder and start walking back the way I’d come, following the map I’d made with the Stasis Suit’s software.

Approximate distance to fauna: 9 kilometres north.

“Maybe walk faster,” Wilbur urges, swallowing whatever he’s eating.

“Right.” I start jogging.

I get about a kilometre away before another notification follows.

Approximate distance to fauna: 7 kilometres north.

He takes a sharp breath. “Run.”

“What?” My heart seizes.

“Run, right now.”

My boots skid on the anti-snow every now and then, and then I notice it.

“Uh, Wilbur,” I say, slowing down to make sure I’m seeing it correctly.

“Yeah? Wh— why are you stopping? I said run.”

“The anti-snow’s moving up.” I tilt my head back, peering up at the void that the city calls its sky.

“Fuck.” He kisses his teeth. “You’re about a kilometre from the antechamber… shit, uh, you see that building on your left?”

I turn my head. A section of its roof is missing, and its doorway lacks its door. “Yeah?”

“Get inside and brace. Quickly now, you don’t have much time.”

“Wh--”

“Don’t ask questions, just do it.”

I do as he says, sitting on the floor with my back to the only wall without cracks, tucking my head into my knees, wrapping my arms around my body.

“What’s happening?” I ask, my voice muffled from my face being so close to the Visor glass.

“You’re gonna be o--”

His voice is replaced by the tone from earlier. It comes from above and below, the entire city shaking from its vibrations. I shut my eyes, curling into a fetal position. In the distance, something crashes. Maybe a wall fell apart, or a pillar came loose.

The building I’m in lurches, the stones rumbling like a waterfall. The roof roars, and I can tell the portion of it that remained was no longer attached to the building. I slide along the floor, my eyes still closed. Something lands on my left leg, crushing it. I scream, grabbing onto my helmet.

The tone stops, and the vibration vanishes.

I lay on my back, staring up at the gap where the ceiling used to be, tears sliding up my temples and into my hair. Anti-snow lands on my Visor, obscuring my vision. I shudder, my teeth clenched as the pain from my leg worsens. I lift my head for a second, quickly wiping off the anti-snow, and see the massive block of roof that lays on top of my leg.

“Oh, fu-hu-huck,” I say, unable to hold myself up any longer.

“C4, come in.” Wilbur’s voice is grainy. “C4, what’s your status?”

I cough, the sudden movement sending stabs of pain up from my leg. “I’m here, status… fuck, I don’t know.” I groan, wanting to roll on my side, to move so that my leg hurt less, but I was stuck. “My leg…” The pressure of the block seemed to increase, and I screamed again.

“I know, I saw the stone.” The Stasis Suit’s voice has more variation than his. “Just stay still, okay? That was a windstorm just now.”

The pressure worsens even further, and I can’t take it anymore. With another shout, I yank myself as hard as I can away from the brick. I move a few inches, and something by my calf tears.

Warning! Rapid Depressurization! Warning! Loss of Oxygen Imminent!

“I just told you not to move!” There’s no more understanding in his words.

I cough again, my eyes feeling heavy. “It hurt so bad, man, you don’t understand.”

“Yeah, well now it’s gonna hurt even more.” He mutters something too quiet to be heard over the alarms. “You need to cover the hole in the Suit with something. Just push yourself back under the block.”

Nausea began to climb up my throat. “No way, I can’t do that.”

“It’s either that or have your organs liquefy from breathing in the anti-snow.” He lets his statement hang between us. “Your choice.”

I prop myself up onto my elbows, staring at the huge chunk of stone. My breathing is erratic, and I lick my lips. “Fuck.” I yell as I force myself forwards again, my leg feeling like it was being run over by a jet.

I take a few seconds to try and bring some sort of rhythm back into my breathing. The alarms quiet down. Wilbur types away at his end.

“Shit,” he says, typing more.

“What?”

He exhales sharply. “I think the collapse messed with the transmitter on your Suit. I can’t see your tracking data, and the save file is corrupted on my end. Let me reset the connection and see if it does anything.”

My beam from my headlamp begins to flicker.

Approximate distance to fauna: 6 kilometres north.

“Did you get that?” I ask.

“What?”

“The fauna notif.”

He grunts. “No.” He grumbles something. “I need to get my supervisor. Maybe the Commander…”

I clench and unclench my hands, my palms sticking to the inside of my gloves. “Why? What’s happening?”

“I’m gonna be right back. I need… Ah, shit, shit, shit.” He hits a bunch of keys.

“Wh-- You’re just gonna leave me here?” He can’t be serious.

“Just for a second. I’m not disconnecting, okay? I’m gonna initiate Rescue Protocol before I go.”

“You can’t.” You cannot leave me by myself.

“I’m just taking off my headset. I gotta go to the Commander’s office. Don’t worry. It’s gonna be fine. You’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a flash.”

“Wait--”

RESCUE PROTOCOL INITIATED

The words flash a few times before bannering at the bottom of the Visor.

Stay calm. Help is on the way. Syndicate Technology — The Future Is Here

“Wilbur?”

No answer. The asshole actually left.

My breath presses against the Visor glass like a greasy fingerprint, obscuring my view of the gaping hole above me. Anti-snow continues to fall, blacking out my line of sight. I can’t reach my arm high enough to wipe the centre of the Visor. A thin crack branches out from the bottom right of the glass.

“Fucking hell,” I say, hoping Wilbur might hear me.

My body aches, my leg on fire. Something wet trickles down from my forehead, between my brows, and into the corner of my eye. It’s warm, and stings when it meets my tear duct. I blink quickly, trying to clear my eye, but it just stings more. Fresh tears are pulled from my eyes, and my vision goes blurry until they dry again.

In the distance, something explodes, or maybe it implodes, whatever it was. It creates a boom, an impact so intense it sends a strong wind gusting through the city, whistling through the cracks in the building, and blowing the anti-snow off my visor.

Approximate distance to fauna: 5 kilometres north.

A sound comes from everywhere. The vibration drills up through from below, lodging itself in my chest. The tone is so heavy it adheres to my skin through my suit, and sucks the air from my lungs. I strain against the weight of the sound. It fuses me in place, my limbs tense and unresponsive. My jaw locks, my teeth clench.

I slam my arm against the ground, hoping to press the button on my wrist, but I miss, and end up crying out from the impact.

I can’t just lay in place, waiting for whatever that was to get here.

I take one deep breath, as deep as I can manage through the weight of the tone and the intensity of the vibration, and rip my leg out from under the roof chunk.

The Suit alarms resume, and I don’t have time to be bothered by them. I roll onto my stomach, grabbing my wrist and the command button. I press it rapidly, but the Suit doesn’t respond.

“Hello? Wilbur?”

No answer.

Warning! Oxygen Level at 90%

Approximate distance to fauna: 4 kiloḿȩ̰͖t̸̼̣̤̲͍͙e̞̠͢r̛̬͓̼̬̲s̛͈̗̹̩̟ͅ ͈͍̠̞͕n̠̳̟̫o͈r̥̩͕̱̯̦ͅt̞̭̯̞͎h

Shit.

The notification is garbled, obscured by green and magenta pixels blinking in and out. Static comes through my earpiece, screeching. I press the command button again, but the noise continues. A rumbling continues, somewhere above me, or deep below. Gravel and dust clatter off my helmet as it trickles down from above. The anti-snow churns, moving unaffected by gravity.

I drag myself out of the building by my forearms, tumbling down the stairs once I cross the doorway. I land on my stomach, the impact of my helmet against the stones adding another crack to the existing break pattern. I continue to pull myself along the ground, dredging up anti-snow as I move.

My breaths scrape down my throat, the air a cocktail of anti-snow and dust. I start coughing, and red droplets splatter against the inside of my visor, dripping between the cracks in the glass.

W͙a̟r͍ń̥̝͉̼̬į̦̠̮͔͈ͅn̳̻̙g͉̙̗!͙̲͔̠̖̩ ͏̭̞͓̳̱O̕x͓͚y̟͖̫g̳e͝n͈͈̪̘̪̕ ̠͈̬̞̪̼̱Ḻ̪̼̰̮̲͞e̯̦̝v̟e̷̝̙͈̫͓̭l̫̜͙̞̗͔ ̱̞͝a҉̦͍̰̳ț͉͜ ̗̱͇̟͇̺5̵̼̮͖̫̭0̸̬͙%͚̺͟

A̩̭̣p̀p̳̩̬̀ṛ̷̬̗̬̩o̤̤̗̻̱x̧̗i҉͇̻m̻a͓͈̯͍̼t̰͈̣̺͇̩̥͡e̦͉̗̟ ̲͓̞di̭̦͙̬s̢̺̞͇͙ta̶͎͎͈͎̦n̘̫͎̗̥̖͘c͚͈̪͓̪e̼̼̪͈̭̖͚ ̪̠͎͎̖͔̭t̻͈̣͢o͙̗̲̫͓̩̕ ̼̖̗̬̩f̶̟ͅa͍u̮͚̹͔̬͝n̤̜͖͈a̯̤͉͕:̴̖̮̟͇ ̧̯3̡̫̝͕̬ ̹͠k̳͖͔̤͙i̝̰͎̞͓l̜͘o͎m̦̠e͕̖͚̠̳t͚r̛̲̩̠̳e̢̩̪̣͎͚s̴̩͚̗̞̫ n̴̰͖̬͙o̢͈͓̖r̶̳͔͚tẖ̫̟͖

The notifications stack on top of each other as the centre of my visor display. My suit hisses as it leaks oxygen from the opening on my leg, and another by my elbow, the gas forming a fog around where I lay. My arms give out from under me, my visor cracking against the stones as I submit to the pressure. The screen is laced with shatter webs, sections of it completely dead. The static in my earpiece shorts out, a piercing, high pitched noise replacing it every now and again. The suits speakers blare warped chimes and bells, the sounds overlapping.

A͈̲pp̠͉̪̞r͜o͚̙̳͚̹͙̬x̤̦̰̤̼̟͟ͅi͓̠̦̬̮̗̫m̶̻̝̪̱a̫͇̳̫̟t̖̜e̠͖͓̥ ̭̖̤͓ḑ̜͉͎̩i̱͇st͝a̸̤̱̭nͅc̷̫̰͙e̞̹̲ ̩͕͎̯t̨ó̳͉̙̥̮̦ ̢͍̬̘̰͔f̗̬̻͕͚̝́a͟ṵ̡̭̤͓̬͕͖n̠̯͚͈̰͍̯ą̜͖̱̝̦:͉̙͚̜ ̴̹̥͚2̜̣͠ k̙̹̪̤̭̺̼i̲̺͙l͙̤̺o̫m͏̲e̹͇͔͙t̼̱̪re̯̥s̮͔̻̳ͅ ̩͙͇̳͝n͓͢o̺̫͉̠͓͝r̝͈̪̺̜͉̣͡t͖͉͍͖̣̠h

My gloves search for grooves between the path stones, something to latch onto. Each time I find one, I wedge my fingers in the space, hauling myself forward along the ground. The vibration sits on my back, pressing me into the path, trying to merge me with the earth.

The Rescue Protocol banner pixelates and warps, the letters rearranging themselves.

Ş̠̤̮T̢̲̟̳̙̘̟A̡͇̩̥Y̺̬ ̳̕WI̼TH̥̣̥̠̝̺̘ ̧͙̰͈̭Ṳ͟S̘̬͓̤̠ ̖̹̀S̨̭̗̺͖̼TA̩̟̰̹̜̜Y͕̻̰͔̙̤͝ ̮͕̫̞ͅW̘̼͈̳̙͕͍I͖̱̮̘̫̘͢T̩̩̹H͚̯̙̞́ ͖͍̩UŚ̺̫̜̱̣̖̗ ̞̠̙͜S̩͈̭̮T̰͍͇̲Ạ̡̯̫��̬͉Ỵ͢ ̸̯̲̘͖͖̝W̠͇̳͝IṰ̜̝͙̥̬H̦̦͓̹̣̙̟͝ ̕U̢S̴̤͕̤̲̩̼͈

W̳̪̙͙̝̰͝á͍̫͙̤͉̳r̷̘͍̺̠͙̱̪n̗̬̳̪i͍̕n͖͔̼g͕͕!̴͎ ̛͔͖͖̩̟O҉͖͔̪̪̗̯x̯͔͙̼̟͎ͅy͏̰̱̝͓̖̮g̙̦̳̖̻e̴n̦͍͕̩̰͖ ̟̮̣̖͉͇̯Lͅe̙̱͙̠̼͉̮v̼e͚̻̹̘̲̥ļ̣ ͏̭̙̰̰̞͎a̷̫̮t̗͖̖̮̤͖̼ ͍͚͖4̴̗̟͉ͅ0͓̘͍̥̲ͅ%͇͇͖̺͇

The light from the antechamber leaks just up ahead. I’m so close.

À͉̲̳͙͈̺̤p҉̲̣p҉̖̙̗͕̥ṟ͓̭͙̗o̗͚x̷͍̮͓̹i̧̱͙͙̳͔m͎͚̣͞a̘͚̼̤̳̣ͅt͕̻̦̥͈̖ͅe̗̲͉̜͉͢ ͏̰̭d̟̞̖̪͚͍̟̀i̪̟͖͖̥s͖̻͙t̴͓̜͕a̲̯̹̺nc̤̬̪͙e̢ t͈̖̜̗̘́ơ̤̝̝̲͉͓̙ ͉̮̗̬̦̝f̨͎̲͚̘̹̜̫a̫̦̦ṷ̣̯͔̮n͕̬͍̠͖̙a̴̱͉̪̯:͈̗̝̟̟͙ ̧̺5͙̗̭͍̦͈̤0̞̬̟̲0͡ ̯̞͉̠͈̯m̤̻̻e̘̪͙̘͟ͅt͓͓͚̺̘͈̦̕r̫̖͓̗̖̱e̛̘̣̖̱̞ş̣ ̼̻̗̪͖͕n̪̟̞̕ơ̯͇̱̟r̢͍̻̰̳̬ţ̫͇̱̠͇͍h̨̞͉

My display dies, and the audio system black out. The sound embeds itself in my bones, splitting into my cells. It invades my composition, tearing me apart, rippling across my skin, and forcing itself from me in screams that don’t make it to my ears. It is within me, reshaping me, compressing and expanding my form all at once.

My gloved fingers reach out somewhere ahead, trying to pull myself into the light that exists where I can no longer see.

Black smoke billows around me, engulfing everything in shadow. It seeps into the opening in my suit. I cough as it enters my lungs, gagging on the flavour of dry soil and pennies.

Ạ̤p̠͍p͙̭̦̦̳̖̀r̦͖͉̻͚ox̷̞̣̯͔̙̮̲i̢̞̠̟̱m̪̰̣͉̝̭͉a̛͚t̵̬̟̬̬̤e͜ ̲̯̭͖d͎̥̮͈̙̤i̭̬̳̖̦ͅͅs̸t̬͇̘̖̯̣̺anc̢̮e̳̫ ̮̜͈͙̗̳ţ̙̦̜o ̜̟͠f͏͉͈̝ͅa̯̗̬͓̩͡u͉̰̞̫̦̜̳͟n͜a̴̪͍̤ͅ:̛̥̜̺ ̭̟̙̮w̛̠͈e̙̜͚̼̮̝͙͡ ̤̫̮͔̠́a̯͓͓̘̼͞ͅṛ̶͖̜e̱̯ ͎͖̦͙̪͘he̵̻͉r͚̦̝̤̬̩̞e̢̮̳̩̫ ̪͓̖n̜͈͈̻̖̬̯͝ǫ̯̰̮̝͉͚w

The tone of the vibration shifts even lower, the sound no longer audible. Tightness coils around my ankle, and pulls me deeper into its expanse. My fingers tingle through the gloves as the ground speeds by underneath.

The world disappears. We become one.

#if you read the og version on creepypasta no you didnt #this is that story reworked across my entire senior prose workshop #theres actually more formal shit done but i cant change text colour on here??#mywriting #i like how this one turned out #prof said i could do more tho #who knows #anyway ily

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stone-man-warrior · 3 years

Text

Ongoing:

Astra-Zeneca = Astro-Xeneca = Woman of the cosmos = Libra = Statue of Liberty (comes with "just ice") = USA = "The Baby"

The Oxford part is the Mussorgsky Cannadian terror army coming around the Dead Man's Curve, wherever Dead Man's Curve can be found. They are armed. Pointy, and have reliable transportation.

There is a cart pulled by an Ox named Bleau that follows them around wherever they go, the Organ Grinder plays the bellows while his monkey collects the valuables left laying around by the US Citizen Free People who were run over at the Dead Man's Curve.

There is a Japanese slave chained to the back of the cart, he has a Hibachi Bar-b-que, but no matches. The cart driver, is a Mongolian man who speaks Russian. The monkey ties the valuables onto the sides of the Oxcart as it lumbers through on regularly scheduled daily rounds.

Meanwhile, the Pope treats his bunions at the podiatrist, they are appalling, spoils of war.

There is no one watching The Baby:

youtube

From Google:

Baby’s on Fire

BRIAN ENO

1971

Baby's on fire

Better throw her in the water

Look at her laughing

Like a heifer to the slaughter

Baby's on fire

And all the laughing boys are bitching

Waiting for photos

Oh the plot is so bewitching

Rescuers row row

Do your best to change the subject

Blow the wind blow blow

Lend some assistance to the object

Photographers snip snap

Take your time she's only burning

This kind of experience

Is necessary for her learning

If you'll be my flotsam

I could be half the man I used to

They said you were hot stuff

And that's what baby's been reduced to

Juanita and Juan

Very clever with maracas

Making their fortunes

Selling secondhand tobacco's

Juan dances at Chico's

And when the clients are evicted

He empties the ashtrays

And pockets all that he's collected

But baby's on fire

And all the instruments agree that

Her temperature's rising

But any idiot would know that

Source:

LyricFind

Songwriters: Brian Eno

Baby’s on Fire lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

==============================

4:28 pm: 11-28-2020:

A history lesson: There are free people, they are dancers. Free people dance, captive people do not dance. Dancing is the most sincerely human form of freedom.

There are terror soldiers who hunt and capture free people. There is a feast after the hunt. At the feast, the children sit at a table suitable for children, while the adults sit at the adult table.

The adults take the best parts of the hunted meat, the white meat. The children get the dark meat, the drumsticks, thighs, other dark meat.

The table where the children sit is called "the Kiddie Table". The meat that the children get, is also called "Kiddie Table" because that is what is served there at the "Kiddie Table".

There is a party that happens from time to time, before the feast, where the hunt for the free people is done. Many are lured to the sounds of music, cheering, people gathered at a festive event as the festivities are presented, and the sound can be heard through the air all over the shire.

There are dancers at the festive event, where hunting happens. Later, at the feast, at the adult table, the stories are told of the festival. Each adult tells how they "Danced on the Tables" at the party.

Think about that. Add a sword.

You should understand that two kinds of free people are at the festive event where the table dancing happened. There are the event planners, and there are the people who heard that the event was happening. Both groups, it turns out, are free to do as they choose. Free to lure victims, and others who are free to be victims. The adults at the adult table eat the best parts of the victims, while the children are served Kiddie Table at the Kiddie Table, arms, legs, hands, feet, are Kiddie Table.

The meat is stored in a "Hibachi" until it's time for the feast. It's an ice, chest with salted water and meat inside.

The terms Kiddie Table and Hibachi often are used simultaneously, one thing requires the other thing, so, if you listen closely to what is happening around you, you may have opportunity to learn on your own, before the party is started. I have known those two details for most of my life, since the 1960's. The terms are old, it's not a new idea, and it's not my idea, I need help to keep from becoming Kiddie Table, so I share what I learn, looking for help.

There is a lot more to this lesson. Includes a parade.

Those Twitter news video's where we see people waving to the Corona Victim as they all pass by on the street, are visual representations of the parade that happens just moments prior to the feast after the festive party where the victims were hunted, the feast follows the parade, by just a short time. The victims are barely alive at that point, are the "Grand Marshal" of the parade, it's a cannibal ritual. They are paraded around the neighborhood for awhile before the meal.

The Seventh Day Adventists who compose the terror army are cannibals and are Christian. They say:

"The meat tastes better after the adrenaline is flowing"

They are serious about that, so, more fear is added to the victim's predicament to please the palette of the SDA. That is what the parade is for. In that small, focused explanation of a relatively tiny part of the big picture of the Global Domination Under the Cross, is a plethora of translation fodder that can be used in reverse to find the comm on twitter that explains about it coded into the news stories.

"Charts & Graphs" can be many different things, for instance, One is "Carts & SAG".

To find the comm, find the parts, scan the major news networks, don't linger, just scan, read the tweet, tuck the ideas away in your thoughts, then there will come a time when one Tweet glues together many, intuitively. The entire Twitter Verified Accounts line-up are the commanders for the terror army, they all work in aggregate to say a single message, and there are many aggregates, many messages.

It's not easy to do, but the more you do it, the easier it gets.

Twitter is "Time Warp Terror". That throws a giant obstacle into the deciphering. The tweets are repeated, identical from 2008 when they were first presented, so, the instructions are present in the coded tweets, but the location is not present, sometimes the time of day is there, but not the place or town where attack is planned.

Unfortunately I have not found the key to the location information. That is going to be coming from a more live source somewhere other than twitter, I think.

Another way to explain similar idea is with a real terror scenario called "Crumpled napkin".

Goes like this, at a courthouse, in a courtroom, where a court hearing is happening:

Some terror soldier operative approaches the bench where the Judge is at, a lawyer, bailiff, anyone who is called upon. That person has a crumpled napkin, on which there is some information loosely scribbled, leaves it on the Bench while talking to the Judge at hearing, and by permission, to say a motion.

The name of a movie. The Director of the movie A scene from the movie. Other information is bonus.

What happens later, is the Judge sets into motion the information on the crumpled napkin, to happen somewhere in a town somewhere. That scene from that movie get played out in real life as a result. A terror scenario, “Schul Schut” for instance, and that might only serve as distraction for other Crumpled napkins.

So, the bonus information is a time, a day, a place, but may not be necessary all of the time.

Twitter is an enormous Crumpled napkin left on the bench. At 3:33 mark, we see an example of a Crumpled napkin presented before your eyes.

At the 00:03 Mark, Judy tells everyone what is happening, people passing (notes), right before your eyes, is what is going to happen. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CqFZJeEenA

youtube

(I’m pretty sure that Rodman was killed in defense at Dr. Hiedinger’s Medical Clinic office in Medford Oregon in around 2013 or so.)

========================

Local update: 5:16 pm: I took a walk to the mailbox just now. There on the road was Myers in their car, sitting at the cross-roads corner at the Y in the road in front of the South-East corner of my property. Then, a MedDems member from 598 Manning drove by quick, to reach Myers there at the corner, a brief pow-wow took place between the SAG MedDems, and the SDA Myers at the cross-roads.

It happens often that people sit in their car right there, it’s about 500 feet from where I am sitting here at my computer.

I suspect, and have for many years, that they sit there because of the blue-tooth range to my home. I have a implanted microphone transmitter that was put into my jaw by the terror army at a dentist visit after I was shot in the face in 2011. The thing has been broadcasting every thing I say since then.

Also, Centurylink ISP is part of the SAG terror. They use the Symantec norton product master copy to access computers of anyone who uses the Centurylink network. So, my computer, and yours, is equipped with two kinds of wireless capability, one is Wifi to a Wifi modem, the other is blue-tooth capability. Centurylink operatives are able to easily access my computer and yours through the DSL network, they can easily change the settings for Wifi and Blue-Tooth of the computer. They are able to reverse the setting indicators too, such that when you turn off the blue-tooth, and turn off the Wifi, the indicators say they are off, you believe they are off because you turned all of that off, and make sure that it’s all turned off.

Centurylink turns all of that stuff on, while also reversing the indicators, that say the wireless is off, when it’s all really turned on, and is broadcasting with no possible way to stop the broadcast because there is no one watching the baby.

Meanwhile, the terror bastards are sitting in the car, in blue-tooth range, stealing what I write as it is written, they are faster at typing than I am, can change the information, post it somewhere else, to fool the nsa fools who insist on being fooled all of the time by trusting the local authorities.

That’s what happened. MedDems warned Myers that I was coming outside so they drove away from the blue-tooth listening zone at the cross-roads.

Then, Sparacino drove by on a Shark Maneuver, to brush me back into my house, they have a lot of backup from the local authorities, Sparacino’s are protected by the imposter police, so I can‘t do anything about them menacing me daily while Myers is stealing what I write, and Centurylink turns my computer into a bill board on a freeway.

Send help.

Send US Military to Oregon.

Send medical services.

Bring your own Hospital.

5:42 pm.

=======================================

Bonus:

Astra-Zeneca = Astro-Xeneca = Woman of the cosmos = Libra = Statue of Liberty (comes with "just ice") = USA = "The Baby"

The Oxford part is the Mussorgsky Cannadian terror army coming around the Dead Man's Curve, wherever Dead Man's Curve can be found. They are armed. Pointy, and have reliable transportation.

Meanwhile, the Pope treats his bunions at the podiatrist, they are appalling, spoils of war.

5:50 pm.

==============================

More, general terror to know about: Remote control full size cars with taxedermied driver and passenger:

It’s sort of like a rolling bomb that does not explode. The SAG terror has been using remote control bait cars ever since the introduction of cruise control. The cruise control of a car is a basis on which a fully remote control car is modified. They need to incorporate a brake, and a reverse, and a way to engage the gears to modify a cruise control car into a remote control car. In the 1990′s, they were installing a brake on the drive shaftif the vehicle. See Datsun Truck, 520 and 521 models to see how a drive shaft brake works. I don‘t know how the arrange the gear engagement remotely, or reverse, except that later made transmissions are made with an electronically engaged reverse that is operated electronically by design from the factory, does not rely on linkage. So, later model transmissions are built for access to a remote application that way.

There are many ways that a remote control bait car can serve the terror army when the driver and passenger are already dead people who are stuffed, taxidermy applied, and look very alive, in a car that is operated by someone who is in visual range of the car as it goes down the road, luring victims. There are specific kinds of victims for this, comes with ambush, and remote control nitrous release at the time of being pulled over.

Probably not a freeway sort of attack plan, but is effective in the rural areas where all of the neighborhoods are occupied by terror army, so, no matter where a remote control taxidermy bomb ambush car is pulled over, there are plenty of people there nearby to do the ambush, one that is based on a surprise when the driver and passenger don‘t move, but can speak, as the remote operator says lines of script to a real police at that time through iPhone blue tooth.

nsa needs to know that kind of attack.

========================

Other general information, this about enormity, to understand how the Canadian terror army and the British who craft the Global Domination think and train their soldiers, with big ideas, not small ones: This graphic is a real terror training tool, used to show to young terror soldiers what “Panterra” looks like, Panterra is to move swiftly across the land in great numbers:

I don‘t know how the lessons are taught, I only have the graphic, and know that it is used as a talking point for Panterra. I also know that the graphic works in any language. The text on the graphic is a lot of “fine print” is about US Military bases, and that “Text” is what the Christian SDA are all about, so, interpretation is up to you, but I have found the hard way that the graphic is dangerous to put here, I recommend hiding this one, nsa should hide that one from view.

=========================

I mentioned Dr. Hiedinger above and want to make a reminder to myself that there is a lot to know about Hiedinger, AKA: Dr. Headbanger. The office is a killing feild the place is the same kind of place as is Pain Specialists of Southern Oregon, and is protected by the surrounding businesses there in that business park where the clinic is at. I don‘t want to forget that Hiedinger might be a pilot associated with Erickson Air-Crane who goes by the name “P-51 Frank” or “P-51 Franc”, just in case someone will talk to me about the terrorism some day, P-51 Frank was interesting for reasons I have long forgotten, so I don‘t have more to say about him now other than the clinic is a killing field and is highly protected from the surrounding area.

=============================

8:31 pm: Reminder of other stuff that has all been explained before:

Boeing 737 MAX airplanes. We are all brainwashed to believe all of the airplanes are broken, don‘t work, can‘t fly, are grounded, and unusable.

There is nothing wrong with the airplanes. Two airplanes crashed, we were told, by newsmedia. That means the airplanes are just fine, they are parked, or are being used, while everyone assumes they are broken. The 737′s are just repurposed is all, but for what?

Some can be used right now, they look like other airplanes do, so, in the sky no one is going to differentiate them from some other airplane.

On the ground, they can squeeze into a line-up at a airport un-noticed, the Screen Actor Guild took over the air-traffic controllers long ago, when the Department of Homeland Security was invented by W. Bush, so, those guys are not going to say when a 737 MAX is in the line-up on the runway.

The thing I want to focus on here is two things, that the airplanes could have been modified for carrying and releasing a lot of nitrous/Medazolam mixture over geographic regions to assist Amazon Prime ground crews with a prime of the area. Department of Transportation in the states is also part of what I say is the Amazon Prime Ground Crew for attacking by the SAG/Britain/Vatican agenda.

I don‘t specifics for that beyond being at Boeing Seattle on a tour on the day that the place was hijacked by men who did not speak English and had machine guns. The killed the office workers while me and my family was there. Payroll office workers are specifically what I recall about that.

So, the other thing I do have some specifics about, and that is an escape plan for the SAG leadership they laid out as a failsafe in event that something goes wrong and they need to go fugitive. That plan includes a few layers of threat to them, where the first layer is that they go to Puerto Rico, either physically, or symbolically with some news story about Puerto Rico, such as a lot of Democrat congressional terror bastards who all went there to watch Hamilton not long ago. I suggest that was a level one threat to them that prompted the symbolic excursion to Puerto Rico where they watched a Broadway play in a tropical paradise.

The next level of threat, should they need to, is to go to Costa Rica, either symbolically or physically. Same as the Puerto Rico escape, but farther away, and to a place that is said to be home to many retired US Military service persons. That, in my opinion, is the level of when the mass murder of our US Military becomes known, and of course the SAG and Congress all arranged that to happen, but is not yet public knowledge. So, if they are found to have been involved with that, then, the plan is to head for Costa Rica (”Co-Star Eureka! They found us”). So, those 737 MAX airplanes that are just sitting around start to become very handy with this kind of knowledge.

The way this escape plan works is to allow that the leadership can go hide somewhere if nsa finds out about what SAG (Congress) has done. They newsmedia presents a story about Costa Rica, and some other information, avd that kicks in a failsafe damage control set of circumstances that are all prearranged to solve that kind of problem, has much complexity, designed to overwhelm investigative persons, make detour, distraction, delay, and some lures into dangerous traps where the investigative people are taken out of the picture. Damage control is done by the SDA terror army as the SAG leaders are soaking up the sunshine in a tropical paradise in Costa Rica and have a lot of 737 MAX airplanes to cart them around until the dust settles. The airplanes also serve as a part to the damage control on their own somehow I am sure. They will use up every advantage those airplanes can offer.

So, the last and final exit SAG on the run fugitive actors, Musicians, Clowns and Magicians is Guiana, Suriname, and French Guiana at the north Eastern part of South America.

Here:

‘Those places, I understand, are all pre-equipped with amenities that were put there as far back as 2001. Good roads, internet, all is SAG friendly, ready to be occupied in event of Global Domination meltdown and SAG needs to go fugitive. Suriname is the symbolic way for SAG to say:

“They know our real last names now, we have to go to Suriname, we’ve been made”

So the 737 MAX airplanes are just the thing they need to have available for a stealth exit for a lot of fugitive actors on the run. They will just go live out the rest of their lives in a tropical paradise instead of ruling the world with the British.

And that is what I wanted to make sure to remind nsa and global security persons to look out for when the pressure on SAG gets too much for their candy assess to endure.

Guiana, Suriname, French Guiana, and the 737 MAX that is there to cart them around if necessary.

9:23 pm.

=================================================

11:40 pm:

There seems to be some interest in Scotland Yard here, the man says they are too close to his house, reaches out to Christian terror army with a verbal crucifix. "Length & Breadth" is just like "Far & wide", is a verbal cross.

Seems as if he is calling for Damage Control to do some damage, to regain control.

The term "fair" is also a circus. He calls for the circus to come to town. "Scotland Yard" may only be a place holder for some other unwanted interest he is facing too close to the house.

First rule of home ownership is "don't shit too close to the house". So, there is some shit going down in Perthshire. Same is true for criminals who travel, they don't do crime in their own city, the go somewhere else to do shit like that. That means it's probably not in Perthshire. Worcestershire, or Liecestershire, most likely.

Gleicestershire sent representatives from the Glee Club.

Sweeney Todd terror. The Barber shop is a sausage vendor at Windsor Castle. Sweeney in the Warp Drive, Mr. Scot.

I'm feeling problems are at the Advertisers Union. The place where the terror commands are generated for global consumumption. Could be BBC, Reuters and Reuters is SIS MI6.

That bridge, Vauxhall, at the end there, that cool looking building with the green roof.

(there is a secret door under the water that leads into the SIS. Ssshhhhush, don't tell anyone, it's a secret.)

There is a faint Disney reference there, leads to the castle. Where the castle is, so is Tinkerbell, so, Johnson is trouble too. I've come to this conclusion about Downing street: It's not a ten. It's a letter i or L and is a capital letter O, with one space betweeney. "i o, i o, so off to werk i go." Disney spells it like this:

"Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho"

High street, is like Front street, every town has one. I O Downing Street I/O Downing On Off Downing OO Downing Goose Egg Downing Gable & Abigale Gabble, Downing street. news media, Downing street The Gaggle Downing street

(how to get from there, to Watership Downing Street?)

Take the Yellow Submarine to Vauxhaul Bridge, go into the door.

The Beatatude, from the Pope. Bee attitude. Honey Combs Cells. Sweet.

(at that point, there is a Y in the puzzle, if you go that way, to follow the Beatatude, you wind up in “The Hobbit” at the place where Gandolf is trying to crack the code that opens the cave door by that lake where the See Monster is lurking, and when they go inside, there is a cave troll, Orch’s, and a Ballrok, so, fuck that, I’m going this other way, below)

Sugar Bear says: "Can't get enough of sugar golden crisp" They changed the name, from Sugar Crisp to Golden Crisp.

Vintage Audio King, (where we've changed our name, to:)Vintage King Audio nashville and Hollywood lochations.

Ten nessy (dead see monster)

Loched

Downing Street: VAK; Evac. There, seems to be the Watership Down. The See Monster nessy is dead, in the lake, needs evac. It's a Rabbit.

The Easter Bunny died. It was an old one.

Dead Royals? Royal Flush? Dead Pope?

Olive the above?

It's a Martini, shaken, not stirred.

Bond. James Bond. MI 6.

Mission Imp os syble (sheppard)

Mission Imp I O sybil/Mission impossible

Mission I MP I O sybil

Mission One: Member of Parliament I/O Poly The Parrot (Pope's Bird)

----------------------------

MP, hit Boris, use gas.

-----------------------------

????????????????????????????????????????????????

Can‘t be that simple.

He is taking to people at the SnP20.

That’s my house!

(next door, 520 Jackpine. Where Sir Richard Branson visits sometimes, and they keep a medieval torture rack there, for torturing.)

===============================================

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuS5NuXRb5Y

youtube

12:31 am: 11-29-2020:

l O Downing Street

L & O Downing Street (have a look at the ships components)

l O (step the fuck back, have another look)

Eleanor Rigby (step aside, scalawag)

(Apply Phonetician Philter)

Elenor Rigby (find the stowaway)

El ‘n’ O r (Make like a brazier, lift & separate. add wings)

l ‘n’ O r (simplify)

l ‘n’ O R Rig Bee (rearrange things, pirates say “Arrrgghh” ‘R’)

l ‘n’ O Arrrrgh Rig Bee’s (toss the n stowaway overboard here, they’re pirates, that’s what they do)

l ‘’ O Arrrrgh Rig Bee’s (stow the sails)

l O Arrrrgh Rig Bee’s (Use rigging Axe, remove mast)

l O Arrrrgh Bee’s (Jesus! it’s a submarine!)

l O Bee’s (streamline, crew below deck)

l O Bee’s of Downing Street (Watership Down)

l O Colonials (Simplify; “Pirates of the Caribbean” headed for India)

l O Colonials (Christen the Boat: HMS l O Colonials)

“HMS l O Colonials” of Downing Street

l O Trafficking Cells... Downing Street. (Justify a bit, ready the crew)

Who’s the Captain?

Prime Minister is Captain, they change from time to time, the boat is always “l O Downing Street”.

The Current (power) Captain is said to be Boris Johnson.

But, we don’t know for sure. You have to do your own research, they are cut throat pirates, anything could happen.

==================================

11-29-2020: 6:04 pm: That above is example of British SIS GCHQ terror code, uncoded enough to see that it’s real terror code. I did a sloppy job of unraveling it, and could go back through there to clean it up, but I am not going to do that.

What you see is a reflection on a time and place where changes occurred at l O Downing, the place was repurposed, the existing pirate ship at the time was recommissioned as a pirate submarine, and the Beatles song is part of that recommissioning.

The details represent a time when old ways were tossed out in favor of new, stealth, below the surface ways.

Even the Caribbean Bonus below is part of the GCHQ puzzle they made. It leads to what I said was a Syntax Error, but is a representation of what happens when the pirates come, there is a dead end, the road stops, the decode won‘t work at some point, you decide where the bottom fell out of it, and my label was Syntax Error for that, the moment the pirates take over at the reading of the code.

What came first? The Eleanor Rigby song, the l O Downing, or the JFK assassination?

The puzzle seems to represent a time when newsmedia got onboard of the British pirate ship, and it became a submarine.

Also for consideration is that recording of the Eleanor Rigby song. The quality of the sound, the art of the recording engineer, should not be discarded. That song, I have often said, is the single best recorded piece of music I can think of, not necessarily the best song, but the very best sound engineering is there in that recording. Considering that technology is supposed to make better recording as the tech is developed, and Eleanor Rigby remains as the leading example of recording masterpiece in my opinion, is a statement on it’s own. They wanted to make a statement, and the statement was made clear with that.

Do your own research.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

Use “Text” based terror code rules to see where that name leads to.

I am not going to do it. I suspect there is a message in the name, GCHQ SIS style.

The rules are that you do math to make a proof of some words. You have to account for every detail, every change you make needs some kind of explanation, you decide what the changes are, and how to achieve them. Stay close to home, there are pirates around, don‘t go wandering around too far without some kind of justification for it. The way this works, you are the master of your own destiny, but, you could be fooled by your own judgment, so, it’s all very subjective. Let the progression guide you.

“A Stately Procession” is a first year music class number at US Public School in the 1970′s, for aspiring musicians on a wide variety of orchestral instruments. Something to think about is all I say that for.

==================================

Bonus:

Caribbean

Cari b bean

Carry B Beans

Carry Bee Beans

Carry Bee SDA

Car rie Bee Bee ans

Car rye Bee Bee ans

Car rye Bees ans

Car Bread Bees ans

Car Bred Bee sans bee sands colony grains

Traffic Bred Bees Hands

Car Bred

Carb Red

Aerate Red

Air Raid bees hands

Air Raid Bees Crew

Air Raid Bestow

INVALID SYNTAX ERROR

============

That reminds me that Hillary Clinton‘s Password for Harmony Central (musician’s message board) is “Syntax”.

0 notes

marklipinski · 7 years

Text

THANK YOU!

WE’VE HAD OVER 11,000 VIEWS of THIS Live Chat!

THANK YOU!

WE’VE HAD OVER 11,000 VIEWS of THIS Live Chat

THANK YOU!

WE’VE HAD OVER 11,000 VIEWS of THIS Live Chat!

If you missed our last Facebook LIVE live video, here it is! Please feel free to leave a question or comment. All are answered. xooxm

Here are the links to the subjects we spoke about in this episode:

Mark’s Electric Irish Coffee Recipe

INGREDIENTS

Freshly Brewed Coffee

1 T Brown Sugar

1 Jigger Irish Whiskey

1 Jigger Cream Flavored Vodka

Whipped Cream

In a coffee cup, dilute the brown sugar in a small amount of hot brewed coffee. Add the whiskey and vodka. Fill the cup with hot coffee and add whipped cream (freshly whipped or from a can) onto the top of the coffee.

GADGET

Here’s the whipping gadget I used for whipping the cream in the video. It’s called,

It’s called the Cafe Casa Milk Frother.

Here’s the Amazon link where I purchased mine: https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/B01BKA11B0/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o07_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

HAPPY NEW YEAR (…resolutions)

Here’s a link to the New York Daily News article I referenced called, No. 1 New Year’s resolution is about people, not pounds

http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/no-1-new-year-resolution-people-not-pounds-article-1.2929009

ARE YOU AUTHENTIC?

Here’s a link to the Huffington Post article by Dr. Travis Bradberry that I referenced called, 10 Unmistakable Habits Of Utterly Authentic People

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-travis-bradberry/10-unmistakable-habits-of_b_13772102.html

TRICIA MALONEY

Here’s Tricia’s new book!

Quilts in the book are designed for the beginner to intermediate quilter. All of the projects use precuts (yeah, you can buy them, but I suggest you make your own precuts for your own unique quilt using Tricia’s patterns). There are 16+ projects in the book ranging from placemats and table runners-up to big bed quilts (which I love). Other features include alternate sizes, color options/ideas for most quilts, a little bit of color theory (which Tricia actually teaches), and a bonus pillow project!

Take a look at just a few of the projects from the book . . .

The perfect companion to your precuts

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OR you can order your copy from

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Amazon

This is Tricia and below is Tricia’s other book we spoke about on CREATIVE MOJO. I love the story behind the Russian Journey as documented by Tricia. Click on the book to order your copy.

Orphan Block Quilts is Tricia’s first book. Click on the book to order your copy.

Tricia will be sponsoring a BLOG HOP to promote her new book soon and has invited me to be a part of it. I’m thrilled to be asked. More on that soon!

BLOCK GENIUS: 201 PIECED BLOCKS WITH NO MATH CHARTS

In one volume, quilters will find 201 classic blocks that they can use to hone their sewing skills, in block exchanges or to create wonderful block sampler quilts. In this impressive collection, the author organizes the blocks in groups of 2 × 2, 3 × 3, 4 × 4, and 6 × 6 grids with instructions and math provided for 6-, 9- and 12-inch blocks.

This book is a block library that will be quilters go-to source for reference, inspiration and instruction. With the exception of a few that were designed by the author, the block designs are all nearly 100 years old. Some designs are still sewn to this day, but many deserve new recognition and use by today s quilters.

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Publisher: Landauer Publishing

Paperback: 144 page

Publisher: Landauer Publishing (September 15, 2016)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1935726900

ISBN-13: 978-1935726906

Product Dimensions: 8.2 x 0.4 x 10.7 inches

ORDER YOUR COPY OF BLOCK GENIUS: 201 PIECED BLOCKS WITH NO MATH CHARTS HERE:

http://landauerpub.com/block-genius.html

MARCIA HOHN

Marcia Hohn’s Quilter’s Cache website has been my g0-t0 place for years to find inspiration or research on old and new quilt blocks alike. It’s a fun site to get lost in as you surf and click from block to block to block to block and allow your imagination to soar. There’s a lot here, and it’s free (support her sponsors is all any quilter can ask….) Here’s the link:

http://www.quilterscache.com

PAULA NADELSTERN

SAVE THE DATE — PAULA’S POP UP STORE

The link for Paula’s Pop Up Store will go live January 15, 2017 from her website at

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The shop will be open January 15, 2017 to January 28, 2017 ONLY!

Orders over $50 will receive a free FANTASTICAL DESIGNS Coloring Book by Paula Nadelstern from Fun Stitch Studios

To see a preview of the featured products for sale, click

KISMET: Paula’s new fabric collection for Benartex http://paulanadelstern.com/fabric-intro.php?line=17

FABRICADABRA: Simple Quilts, Complex Fabric: Paula’s new book for C&T http://paulanadelstern.com/books.php

DEEP GEMS: Paula’s new thread collection for Aurifil http://paulanadelstern.com/books.php

KISMET BY BENARTEX (get yours BEFORE your local shops!)

Paula’s book Fabricadabra is published by C&T Publishing.

Here are a few of Paula’s other phenomenal books. Click on the book cover to order your copy.

CRAFTSY

https://www.craftsy.com

SPOONFLOWER

http://www.spoonflower.com

GLORIOUS EVERYTHING!

NEW for this year is Kim’s Glorious Garden which combines English Paper Piecing and applique!

About designer Kim McLean:

In the late ‘80s when my daughter Casey still allowed me to dress her, I used to go to this quilting store where they stock the Liberty fabrics I needed to make her smocked dresses. Anyway, all these gadgets and patterns for quilting intrigued me and finally I bought a pattern for making doll’s quilts. The instruction didn’t make sense as it was written for template free construction, but somehow I got it done and these “Amish” quilts in Liberty prints were completed, it was awful. The girls signed me up for the beginners class early in the year. They taught me how to draft blocks using the Jinny Beyer books and I was hooked. I made 2 sampler quilts that term and one of them won the beginner quilt category with the prize being 50 metres of fabrics, never saw anything like it. The teacher I had, Nonie Fisher, was very inspirational, she brought out all these books with antique quilts and Baltimore Album quilts for me to study.

I still look at those publications and now I draft my quilts using these antique quilts as inspiration. Sometimes I take elements from two or three quilts and use them in the one quilt, such as the “Turkish Tiles” (it won Judges Choice at the IQA Houston show 2004), sometimes I do the reproduction of the antiques, such as “The Roebuck Quilt Redone” (it won the IQA Founders Award 2002) and “Hexagon Stars” (this won second place in traditional quilt IQA Houston 2003), both quilts were inspired from Annette Gero’s book “Historic Australian Quilt”. Lately, during the last three years, I discovered Kaffe Fassett’s fabrics. Having been a fan of his tapestry kits, I took to his fabrics like a duck to water. At first, I bought these fabrics to make skirts and shorts but then I started experimenting with using the fabrics in quilts. Now, I am still using the antique quilts as inspiration and instead of using the reproduction fabrics, I have been using Kaffe’s fabrics. The “Lollypop Tree” quilt is an example of this, I saw a photograph of the quilt in Cyril Nelson’s calendar, it was a 12 blocks trees. I drew similar trees and added another 4 blocks and also added borders which echoed the trees in the middle. I have really enjoyed making this quilt, it still has the antique quilt idea but with contemporary fabrics. There are more quilts of this fashion coming, there are so many quilts swirling around my head presently, all waiting to be drawn up and stitched.

Get your supplies . . .

Both Paper Pieces and Glorious Color sell the instructions, the acrylic templates and precut paper shapes for English Paper Piecing. Just click on the image to get to the websites:

GloriousColor.com sells “starter packs” of fabrics (see some samples later in this blog) in various colorways. They also sell the papers and acrylics and books. Glorious Hexagons from Glorious Color – quilt fabric and kits from “Museum Quilts”, “Passionate Patchwork”, and “Kaleidoscope

Like last year . . .

PaperPieces.com is starting “auto-ship” of monthly paper packs to make GLORIOUS HEXAGON sampler quilt. Same as last year.Glorious Hexagons

To make the Glorious Hexagon quilt, either version you will need

Katja Marek’s book “The New Hexagon” Click on the photo to order yours…

The booklet “Glorious Hexagons” Click on the photo to order yours…

The monthly paper packets –there are 12 months. Click on the photo to order yours…

Optional but highly recommended — acrylic templates to fussy cut the fabric. Click on the photo to order yours…

All about designer Liza Lucy

Liza Prior Lucy made her first “quilt” in 1972 when she sewed 25 bandanas together, layered the top with a fat batt and a corduroy backing and tied it all together with wool knitting yarn. It was for her college boyfriend’s waterbed. She made her second quilt in 1990, this time in a more conventional manner, piecing a sampler block quilt. Quilting became a passion and in 1993 she proposed doing a book with her close friend, Kaffe Fassett.

Since then they have been working together writing patchwork books. Their first hardcover book was Glorious Patchwork and they are currently working on their 6th hardcover book. They specialize in re-interpreting traditional quilt patterns using contemporary fabrics and unexpected color combinations.

With two friends, Liza and Kaffe formed the Rowan Patchwork and Quilting Company 20 years ago, which is now part of the Coats consumer textile and craft business. Rowan makes fabric designed by Kaffe, Brandon Mably and Philip Jacobs. Liza works to help coordinate their fabric designs. Each year the group produces a soft cover book that features those fabrics.

Liza lives in Pennsylvania and has an online fabric shop, GloriousColor.com, that specializes in selling fabric designed by the Kaffe Fassett Collective.

The Slow Stitching Movement is her latest interest as she turns her attention to hand applique and English paper piecing.

Fabric Starter Packs

GloriousColor.com sells “starter packs” of fabrics in various colorways. Click on the photo to order yours…

www.GloriousColor.com

WHO BROKE THE VASE?

Mr. Electric’s new book, WHO BROKE THE VASE?, will be released in April . . . along with patterns for all kinds of things pertaining to the story . . . Stay tuned!

CHECK OUT Mr. Electric’s website and keep stopping back as it develops over the next several month rollout: www.thinkjeffreyturner.com

JOIN Mr. Electric’s FACEBOOK page: https://www.facebook.com/groups/ThinkJeffreyTurner/

APLIQUICK

These are the APLIQUICK TOOLS that I was talking about.

Here’s the link to the Apliquick Blog https://apliquick.com/?lang=en

The APLIQUICK CLIP from The Quilt Show:

Any Ideas?

If you would like a review of your book, fabric, product, or to make an announcement of an upcoming show or whatever…. simply send us what you would like us to show and tell for you!

Pickle Road Studios, LLC

13 Pickle Road

Califon, NJ 07830

Also, if you have anything you would like Mr. Electric or me to talk about on an upcoming Facebook Live or any questions personal or otherwise? Let us know in the comments section of this blog. Thanks! xoxom

FACEBOOK LIVE with Mark Lipinski and Mr. Electric, January 1, 2017 THANK YOU! WE'VE HAD OVER 11,000 VIEWS of THIS Live Chat! THANK YOU! WE'VE HAD OVER 11,000 VIEWS

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