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puddleduckswellies · 3 years

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11, 18 & 31?

Thank you, Im guessing this is the “3 things…” ask!

11 - 3 books that you would recommend everyone to read.

My number one pick for this would be Jackdaw Summer by David Almond. Despite the entry level-3 writing style, this has been my favourite book since I first bought it from the old bookshop in the highlands. I haven’t read it in many years and yes maybe my memories are clouded with nostalgia but I still think about it often and would definitely recommend you to read it.

“One hot summer's day a jackdaw leads the two boys into an ancient farm house where they find a baby, wrapped in a blanket, with a scribbled note pinned to it”

“I want to be crazy as the moon, wild as the wind and still as the earth. I want to be every single thing it’s possible to be. I’m growing and I don’t know how to grow. I’m living but I haven’t started living yet. Sometimes I simply disappear from myself. Sometimes it’s like I’m not here in the world at all and I simply don’t exist. Sometimes I can hardly think. My head just drifts, and the visions that come seem so vivid.” - David Almond, Jackdaw Summer

My number two choice is also a childhood favourite which was bought in the very same bookshop as the first, however i bought it several years later. It is Dark Isle by D.A Nelson and is the book that introduced and got me into the fantasy genre. I love it because it is so individualistic and well written. It really does create a world unlike any other I have heard of. Or maybe I’m just biased because it is set in my home country. But seriously if you are looking for a new fantasy novel to read you should give this one a shot.

“A dragon with a grudge, a resourceful dodo, a talking rat and a young girl who learns to be brave. All on a quest that takes them into another world.”

“And so it began to rain. Cold, harsh raindrops fell like tiny arrows against the dragon’s unmoving, stone hide. She braced herself against the terrible weather that was to come, forever alone and miserable.” - D.A Nelson, Dark Isle

My final recommendation is a classic. Richard Adam’s Watership Down. I’m sure many of you have heard of this book and have also read it, but if you haven’t I highly suggest you do. The 1978 movie is a masterpiece in it’s own right but I feel that there was so much cut from the book to hit their runtime that the two stories have become very different. However if you do not want to read the book (which I would understand as it is very long and wordy) then I would say that the movie is a good substitute. Either way I can be certain that this story will affect your life even if it is only a little. On my trip to Yorkshire last year I couldn’t help but think about the Down and the tale I had grown up with and whenever I see a rabbit I think of Fiver and Hazel. I love the way that Adams was able to create and entire society to show us how humans are seen from the eyes of a rodent.

“Set in England's Downs, a once idyllic rural landscape, this stirring tale of adventure, courage and survival follows a band of very special creatures on their flight from the intrusion of man and the certain destruction of their home. Led by a stouthearted pair of friends, they journey forth from their native Sandleford Warren through the harrowing trials posed by predators and adversaries, to a mysterious promised land and a more perfect society.”

“There is nothing that cuts you down to size like coming to some strange and marvelous place where no one even stops to notice that you stare about you.” - Richard Adams, Watership Down

(Other books I love which are a bit less nostalgia based: faceless by Alyssa Sheinmel, The Rest of Us Just Live Here by Patrick Ness, and Orangeboy by Patrice Lawrence)

18. 3 dream jobs you had in your childhood

When I was younger my main dream was to be an Astronaut. Growing up watching Doctor Who I thought spacemen were the coolest people ever. As I got older I began to want to go to outer space for a different reason. It looked so peaceful up there and quiet, floating about in nothing with the stars and planets. Then I got to high school and realised how boring I found the non floating part of being an astronaut. Now i’m on a search for somewhere quiet and peaceful that doesn’t require me to know the laws of maths to get there.

I also had a brief moment of time where I wanted to work on a stage in Theatre (as many kids do). But I was/am a shy and overly conscious person and didn’t particularly like being watched never mind putting on a performance. I soon realised that I didn’t enjoy the idea of being on stage, but more so being recognised and working as part of a team. I really just wanted to have fun and get along with others naturally like other people could.

My third choice is also one that lingers into my adult life. Park rangers have always been a point of envy for me, being able to work outdoors in the quiet, making sure nature is safe and sound. Sometimes I regret studying what I currently am and wish I could just give it all up and switch to study geology and biology, but I know I don’t have the brain or patience for it, so for now I’ll stick on the path I have chosen

31. types of flowers you love the most

To be honest my favourite flower isn’t even my flower of choice. See, I don’t really know much about flowers and I prefer things like ferns or trees. However, my mother loves flowers. She has basically taught me everything I know about them. So my favourite would have to be her favourite, Rhododendrons.

Despite not being fussy about flowers I do still like some more than others, mainly because of memories associated with them. The Clover would have to be my second flower of choice. I know it’s more of a leaf, but when I was younger I remember playing hide and seek in the field after school, with the grass high over my head and the purple clover flowers standing out against the green. They signified the start of summer and the time for going out with friends and never knowing what you would do.

My last flower that I love is Foxglove (Digitalis if you must). It was another flower that showed the start of summer as a child and it was nice to see them appearing out of nowhere overnight. The name always amused me as I imagined little foxes using the flowers as mittens in the winter (something I am now definitely going to attempt to draw). I also enjoy them because I love to watch the bees fly into them and you can only see their wee bums wriggling while they work.

#ask game #thanks for the ask!#my asks #asks open #answered asks #book recommendations #wts

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prose-for-hire · 4 years

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Vision of you

Pairing: Doyle x reader

Request: Can you please do a Doyle from angel imagine where the reader and Doyle are together and have their first kiss

Requested by: @mrshotchner (it won’t let me tag you sorry)

A/N: I used his first meeting with Angel as inspiration, Doyle meets reader before Angel and convinces them to come along for the good fight. I move time on a little so we can have our first kiss at the end. 🖤💜

You worked together for a while, having barely spoke to him. One morning he had climbed up onto the desk and announced that he quit. Apparently, there was a spiritual experience that he was being called to. The good fight, he called it, echoing words that had not yet been said. You frowned at him but shrugged, sliding your headphones back on and taking the next caller as you typed out their information. He was promptly escorted from the building and was not permitted to clear out his stuff.

You finished your gruelling shift at the call centre, trying to sweet-talk customers and up-sell to the best of your ability. It wasn’t good and it definitely didn’t feel honest, but it was work. Not everyone could up and leave for spiritual experiences when there was rent due next week. This thought reminded you of the guy that had happily quit. His name was Boyle- or was it Moyle? You had exchanged numbers before after promising to cover his shift once. You felt bad that he was made to leave his stuff and so you went over to the desk that had already been taken by another employee around ten minutes after he left but his potted cactus and notepad that had nothing but a crude drawing of said cactus remained untouched.

You decided to take them, something was telling you it was pretty important that you made sure they were returned to the correct owner. You cleared your own desk for the day (everyone hopped desks but you were allowed a decoration each), shrugged on your jacket and left the building. You flipped up your cell, looking for the man’s contact information.

Doyle! That was it – his name was Doyle. You hit the contact and waited for him to answer your call.

A phone nearby started to ring and you looked up, moving the phone from your ear. He stepped from out of the shadows and smiled, his smile was slightly crooked in a way that only now you realised was cute as he walked towards you. You ended the call and the ringing stopped.

“You lookin’ for me, darlin’?” He asked, his lilt echoing around the underground car park.

“I was, uh, looking for the owner of these” You admit, rather than agreeing that yes you were in fact looking for him. The way he asked implied he was expecting you which made you confused.

“Well, you found me. Want to get a drink – my treat. As a thank you?” He posed it as a cheeky question, but something behind his eyes was serious and waiting almost desperately for your answer. In reality, Doyle knew that this was going to happen – he left the cactus on purpose (he had never once brought any decorations for his desk at work before). The Powers wanted him to convince you to leave your place of work too and join him – apparently you had a big part to play in their plan.

“Yeah, one drink. That should be okay” You smiled, nodding. He took the cactus and the notepad, swiftly throwing the items in the nearby bin before looking back up to you with a smile. Your expression was a picture of shock so he moved the conversation along.

“Which one’s yours?” He asked, gesturing around at the cars but you just shook your head.

“It’s just a shortcut – I don’t really need to drive I live close and if I need to go further out I’ll just get a cab” He nodded along, he already knew this. The powers had shown him flashes – he knew how this was going to pan out.

The tricky part in all of this, was convincing you. When you arrived at a bar, one you had heard about but never been in, he paid for your drink despite your protest that he had just lost his job.

“Y’see, I’ve been sent here by the Powers that be”

“The Powers that who?”

“Be” he repeated, the side of his mouth crooked in a smile at your confused expression. He found it sweet.

He then launched into a long-winded explanation, filled with wild side-tangents. Something about atonement and then to sweet talking you before charging back into talking about the proper way to dispose of a vampire.

He insisted you were paramount to this all-powerful plan. Secretly, he decided that even if you weren’t he would have said the same thing to convince you to stay around. You were speechless by the time he had finished, but you did somehow feel that he was being genuine. That demons were terrorising LA and there would be some prophesised hero that you should both probably help out and save the world while you were at it.

There was something about his demeanour, it put you at ease. You finished your drink and just stared his way as a silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure where you could even begin to reply to his explanation which had lasted at least an hour. Saying that, you enjoyed his voice so you definitely could have sat there and listened to him speak for longer.

“Trust me, darlin’?” He held his hand out, that cheeky smile plastered all over his face with no sign of ever stopping. You took his hand to shake it, but he moved to kiss the back off your hand. You moved it away and he chuckled with a shrug. You couldn’t help joining him in his smile, it was ridiculously infectious and you cursed him still with a smile on your face. You could see yourself getting on with him, maybe you really should trust him on this.

It had been a month and Doyle had spoken to Angel and the three of you, although things had started off a little shaky, were starting to work together properly.

You had quickly caught feelings for Doyle, his charming nature had got the better of you. Not that you would admit it to him. You had this unspoken promise to each other, this trust that had only grown since you knew him. But you had been unable to express that you wanted more than a friendship with him. There was always something in the way, so you had tried to just savour any moment you shared with him. Little did you know, he was doing the same. Any moment, even if it was mere minutes he got alone with you, even just joking around between cases, he would play them back in his head afterwards.

Eventually, Cordelia joined Angel Investigations too. You liked her mostly and you decided it was good for Angel to have someone familiar around the place. You couldn’t say he ever opened up, but he was fond of Cordelia. You had originally been worried she may catch Doyle’s eye but if you could read his mind you would have known that’s the furthest from the truth. He often thought about you, kissing you. Touching you. Sometimes a case would snap him out of a very vivid scene and he would find himself slightly disappointed that he would have to focus on reality until the next demon was off the streets.

One evening, after a case the four of you had been sat around the desk complaining about how the one client you had that week had turned out to be double-crossing you and had refused to pay you.

“Ew, I mean did you see those demons? Some creatures weren’t made for good lighting” Cordelia stated, starting to launch into a rant about demons staying in the dark underground lairs they deserve before you cut in.

It struck a chord and you had noted that Doyle had looked ridiculously uncomfortable. Mainly because there was a lack of his eyes on you, you often caught him staring and always smiled back when you did. But there was a distinct lack of attention from the man, in fact, the only thing that met his gaze was the flooring Cordelia was still yet to clean despite it being her turn this week.

“Cor, stop it. A lot of demons are friendly and just because they don’t look the way you do doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some compassion” You stated, before reminding her she might want to give the floor a look at.

He never once told you about his demon half until that night. His eyes were glassy and he had drunk too much liquor and it all bubbled to the surface. The way you had so easily cut Cordelia off. Meant every word you had said. It gave him hope. Hope that he could be himself with you, completely. No more hiding behind his smart remarks or throw-away comments.

So he said it. Out loud. He still told you as if he was expecting you to go. Leave him and never talk to him again. All because of the way he looked.

You shook your head softly, prying the bottle from his hand. He had been clinging to it all night, having felt guilty for keeping it from you but to insecure to reveal it. You took him into your arms and held him close to you as his arms wrapped around you tightly, almost cutting off your circulation.

A week later, he caught up to you. He had been trying to find a way to express the way he felt. The gratitude he had to you for being so kind with him. He had noticed the way your eyes lingered on him and a smile spread across your face when he spoke to you. He noticed how often the pair of you would break off from the others and spend ages talking together. And most importantly, he had noticed that this had all continued in the same way since he had revealed to you his other form. You truly liked him for who he was. Not despite of anything.

So he just walked straight in, took his hand and pulled you to meet his lips. You were shocked by his action and so didn’t kiss back right away, but soon you melted into the kiss as he moved against you with an intensity you were sure you had to be dreaming. Your hands started to slide up his back as you relaxed into the kiss, your lips parting as his tongue requested entry to your mouth. The sensation was dizzying, as if kissing were something new only you had discovered. The first and most perfect kiss in the world. Because it was him and you. His insistent mouth parting your eager lips, sending sizzling electricity along your nerve-endings and passing them through to his. Transferring everything to him, as he promised the same in return. Evoking a sensations neither of you had ever known you were capable of feeling until now.

Doyle’s eyes snapped open, his lips still felt as if yours were brushing against his and so he moved his fingers to lightly touch them. He then reached for his head, the discomfort from the vision was something he hadn’t felt with such intensity for a long time. The visions would never create such a vivid story before this one and that’s how he knew this was something important. Special.

He got up from where he had been on his knees in his room, having been caught up in the vision for a while. He looked over at the cactus that had been on the cabinet in his room since before he moved in, his eyes casting upwards as if in deep thought about something. As if he needed to consider what to do next. He nodded to himself, making his decision.

He quickly got up, swiped the pot and the notepad beside it and made for the door: apparently, today was the day he was going to quit his job. He had never enjoyed a 9-5 anyway, and if it meant meeting you, well, he was going to have to do as the vision says.

#was it obvious lol #sometimes i feel like its nice if u can guess the ending #Doyle #Doyle x reader #Doyle imagine #btvs #ats #angel the series #ats x reader #ats imagine #btvs x reader #btvs imagine #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #buffy the vampire slayer imagines #gender neutral #gender neutral reader #allen francis doyle

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ala-mhinyan · 4 years

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III :: MUSTER

{{ TW: NSFW ; Self Harm ; Self-Flagellation }} Ft: @talesfromthegameff14 and @whenaltsattack

The crisp chill of Shirogane’s night air did much to settle the wobble in the green-haired Keeper’s legs after the evening he’d had. He could still taste sake on his lips and tongue, still feel the burn of alcohol too strong coursing through his veins--could still feel the weight of his decisions like lead in his belly.

Tonight had been good. He’d enjoyed himself.

This was the lie he would feed himself until it burned at his mental and became truth; until he no longer saw the back of the Thavnairian’s head in his mind, until he couldn’t hear their voices, until he couldn’t feel the tingle burn away at his spine. He would lie to himself over and over again if it meant that he would get the idea out of his head that this had been another heartbreaking evening of his own accord.

It wasn’t a bad evening for anyone but him, so why couldn’t he just let go of this?

Bile rushed up his throat as his thoughts soured, the Keeper taking a moment to pause just outside of the gate to his estate--a thin hand grasping the stone pillar to keep himself from toppling over and spilling his gut onto the pavement. No, not like this--he must not do that here. Sheer determination was the only thing that kept him on his feet while he slipped over the stone path toward the double doors; sobering almost instantly at the sight of the two guards waiting patiently.

“Young Master.”

Tsubaki grimaced at the title inwardly, though his expression was the perfect face of neutrality--tipping his chin slightly. The guards wordlessly reached for the handle of the door and pulled back, pulling it open in a smooth motion for the Keeper to make his way inside. Waiting for him was a handmaiden, who bowed automatically in his direction and hung in that position until he’d passed by. She fell into line behind him as he silently made his way through the grand, silent estate--making a bee-line toward his room.

“I--Young Master, if I may say--”

“You may, Shoko.”

The handmaiden wrung her hands at her waist, the pretty hyur sweeping dark tresses over her shoulder as she bowed slightly. “I mean not to impose but perhaps the young master would prefer a bath before retiring to his room…?”

Tsubaki shook his head, immediately regretting the movement when his vision swirled and his tail had to swing out in a wide arc to auto-correct his balance mid step. A pause and then he continued on. “That will not be necessary, Shoko. I will retire for the evening.”

“But Yo--”

“Shoko.”

The tone was firm, though his ears twitched when he heard the women utter a soft apology. He sighed quietly under his breath, making his way through what felt like corridor after corridor until he finally happened upon the sliding door that led to his room. He was appropriately centered further back in the home but not the furthest, giving him his ample privacy with dozens of empty rooms surrounding his. It was a boon to be allotted his privacy.

“Dismiss the servants for the night. Good night, Shoko.”

“Yes, sir… Good night, Young Master.”

He slid the door shut behind him with a quiet thunk and stepped across the wide, bare room to a set of dressers--using thin fingers to pull open one of the drawers and retrieve a small wooden box. The drawer slid shut with a push and he turned away from the dresser, moving to a sliding door on the left--pushing it open and closing it behind him.

The bare room was dimly lit by candle only; centered in the middle was a lone seat cushion.

Tsubaki made his way to the single cushion and sunk down on it with a measured amount of grace, sweeping his long tail around him to rest by his ankles. Once seated, he waited. He knew the time it would take for the servants on this side of the estate to disperse, giving him ample time to fall into the thunderstorm of feelings that’d been brewing since he stepped out of the Red Lantern estate.

Images of the scene he’d been in-explicitly present for but not apart of flashed through his mind; the memory of the dancer tossed over Akihito’s naked flesh and given the right to taste. It hadn’t been the first time Tsubaki had seen his bodyguard’s body but this had been something vivid that he burned into his mind to remember. He let out a breath and allowed his mind to wander--let himself fall back into the moment as it were. Allowed himself the memory.

How Aki’s body moved against the Keeper’s like they’d been made to fit together; that they’d found bliss in one another and the half-raen had enjoyed himself enough to cry out in pleasure; suffocating Tsubaki in their lust while he watched in complete silence from a nearby sofa. Fan lashes fluttered shut and his mind’s eye filled in the blanks--the slap of skin fervent and the rush of pleasure like electricity over his skin. More--more. Until Aki’s bliss rushed jerky and wet and those sinful lips prayed to the Miqo’te riveted to his lap; calling names was a form of worship.

“Tsubaki.”

The vision distorts and shatters instantly, the Keeper jostled out of it by his own desires--cheeks burning a deep red. What had he just…

NO!

How could he taint the memory like this!?

The Red Lantern had been an experience he hadn’t been expecting but had enjoyed none-the-less; a surprising turn-of-events that had the evening ending with his crimson-eyed self watching his bodyguard find his bliss in the mouth of a beautiful whore by the name of Durelle. The man had been sat at their table by the Madame of the house to enjoy themselves and had, naturally, attached himself to Akihito like most people did. It was hard not to see it coming; the half-raen was personable and good-looking! He was everything that a social butterfly would need to flourish in this world!

Tsubaki was none of that. He was frail, feminine-faced and small; sporting dark green hair and crimson eyes. There had been too many times that comments had been made about his appearance; did he really look that strange? His clothing was sleek to fit his frame and muted in all ways, his attempt not to draw too much attention to himself and yet, even there, he’d stuck out like a sore thumb.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he be like everyone else?

Why couldn’t he be a jovial soul that found his will and personhood in crowds; why couldn’t he be the friendly one that everyone flocked to? He was frail by design, he’d never be sought after like the others were--he was too different. Too strange.

Wasn’t this why Aki’s affections fled elsewhere?

This broke the dam; tears building and falling from the corners of his eyes as he hunched over the wooden box clutched tightly in his hands.

The image of the half-raen’s sister flickered into his mind and the Keeper’s hands were moving before he could think to stop himself. The latch on the wooden box flipped and he opened the lid to reveal several pristine tools sitting on top of a white cloth; two sharpened pieces of bamboo, a sharpened wooden dagger and a flayed bunch of bamboo stalks bound together with a tie. Without missing a beat, the Keeper took up one of the bamboo sticks and pulled back his sleeve to jab the sharpened end into the meat of his shoulder; drawing a long red line across the span of his arm. Line after line; shoulder to elbow. It burned and stung like hell; the pain enough to coax him fully into sobbing outright--the froth of his life essence spilling down his skin to drip onto the white cloth and his dark colored skirt. The more he hurt himself, the more he allowed himself to sob and fall into his emotions.

Akihito would never be his. All because he couldn’t muster the will to tell the man his feelings.

His anguish peaked and the Keeper cried out in agony; throwing the bamboo stick aside to grab the clump of bamboo stalks. One hand reached back behind him and tugged hard--pulling his long shirt over his head and tossed against the wall. A thin arm arched up and back; the slap of stalk against skin ringing out in the room. Skin split--blood spilled and pain blossomed all along his upper shoulders, mingling over the detailed spider lily tattoo that adorned his shoulders. Each slap of skin and howl of pain brought him redemption. Each hit? A balm.

It wasn’t until his fuzzy mind couldn’t think anymore that he set down the makeshift flogger and let his head fall back so his eyes could look to the ceiling. This was a bittersweet pain; pain on the outside and inside, colored with the red of relief.

Kami forgive him; he was only mortal.

If only he’d never been born.

A bell passed with the Keeper stiff in that pose; only to eventually put the tools away into the box along with the red splotted cloth. He’d clean his tools by hand, scrub the room by hand to hide his shame--and then take care of the wounds. They would not heal in a day; there was a reason why he always wore long clothing and loathed to show any bit of his skin. The concoctions he could could up to neatly sew his skin back together and leave a flawless, perfect finish would take it out of him for several days but it would not matter.

No one would ever know.

The room was treated, his wounds tended and he fell into his futon with an exhausted sigh--rolled over and let sleep claim him. It was a fitful sleep, one wrought with guilt and anguish but it was something he’d felt he deserved.

Tomorrow, he would smile at Aki like he always did. Ask him about the weather. Talk about the meaningless.

Hide his shame; like always.

#my writing #ffxiv #ffxiv writing #ffxivwrite2020 #tsubaki #akihito #komyo #fingerguns.

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freckled-girl-2319-blog · 5 years

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Part 1:

The trees whipping past me in a blur as I ran through the woods, I was running away. I couldn't remember why I was running but I knew I had to. A loud rumble cut through the air and the shaking of the ground sent me flying into a fallen log. I quickly looked behind me expecting to see something chasing me yet I saw nothing. I quickly got to my feet and started to run again this time faster. Another boom sounded but I managed to stay on my feet. I broke through the woods into a clearing, my lungs burned but my body kept pushing.

"Almost to the river" I thought.

The air smelled of grass and dew mixed with the damp smell of the earth. Another boom sounded out and a crack split open right before me. I fell backwards trying to stop myself from falling in. The crack expanded as I scrambled to my feet getting up to head the other way then another boom sounded out breaking the earth behind me leaving me on a small circle of isolation. Panicking I tried to calculate if I could jump across the cracks, just as soon as the thought crossed my mind the cracks enlarged greatly to a size I could not jump across. The smell turning to burning and ashes started to float into my vision along with embers. Looking into the crack I noticed lava. I scanned my surroundings looking for a way out. The lava was rising and if I didnt find a way out I was going to die. Another boom sounded out knocking me over the edge forcing me to grab onto the ledge, holding on for dear life. My fingers were slipping due to the wet grass from morning dew. I kicked my feet trying to find something to get my feet hooked in, anything that could possibly save me from falling. The lava was getting closer and my fingers were close to falling. I saw a flash of lightning and closed my eyes knowing what's next to come. I willed something or someone to come and help me. When the last boom sounded out I fell screaming. I could smell and feel the heat of the lava drawing closer.

I sprang up taking in deep breaths. My clothes were soaked with sweat as if the lava had really been close making me sweat. My head fell into my palms as I tried to calm myself. I've had the same dream every night for the past week, each night the dream went longer and added new parts. I couldn't help but feel the dream had something to do with my burning today.

A knock on my door startled me.

"Owen, honey its time to get up" my mother called in a cheery voice. "Its your burning day!" She cheered walking away from the door.

I slowly got out of bed. My legs felt like jelly and my heart was about to burst from my chest. I slowly walked out of my room making my way downstairs for breakfast with my mother. I walked into the kitchen to find a place setting for my mom, my father, me, and disturbingly my little brother. I stared at the plate set out for my little brother. A new chair accompanying the table for him.

My mom walked in to see me staring at the spot.

"I didnt mean to upset you or anything...I just think that he deserves to be apart of this day. He is your brother." My mother whispered.

I walked over to his place setting and ran my fingers down his plate as if just touching the plate would allow my brother back into this world.

"Its ok, I think thats a good idea." I whispered giving my mom a forced smile, walking over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. My mom gave out a sigh of relief and her face broke into a large smile.

My mom quickly changed the subject to something cheerier. "Your father will be home soon. He got the day off of course. Nobody not even the King could keep your father away on this day."

Smiling I asked my mom if she needed any help to which she replied no shooing me upstairs to get ready for my big day.

As I was getting ready I heard my dad come through the door. I hurriedly got ready so I could see my dad faster. Racing down the stairs I reached my dad who was smiling big and holding my mom.

"Happy burning day son." My dad said with a grin. I ran to hug my dad breathing in his scent. Both my mom and dad specialized in weather spells. They both smelled like rain and snow. I grinned up at my dad who tried scooting his way to the kitchen for breakfast. Upon seeing my brothers sitting place his smile changed to a wistful one. He brought my mom and I closer and laughed.

"Why dont we get to eating? The food smells ravishing." We all quickly sat except mom who went to the kitchen to get milk and coffee. Dad was rarely home and when he was it usually wasn't for long. I talk to my parents about everything so my dad and I have a lot to catch up on.

"So Owen, how is everything?" My father asked.

"Well... I've been having these...dreams" I started. My father looked at me strangely.

"Dreams...what kind of dreams." My father asked not understanding why I brought this up.

"They are dreams I've never had before and I've never experienced any dreams like this ever." I was getting a little worried that my parents would think I'm crazy or brush it off as nothing.

"Son...when a boy..a man gets older they experience changes...and whatever your experiencing in your dreams are normal and its a completely natural thing." My father started. I looked at him confused.

"You dont really think!" My mom gasped and looked at me then my dad again. "He's having..wet dreams?" My mother whispered even though I could clearly here her. Now I was just embarrassed.

"No! That's not what I was talking about!" I exclaimed embarrassed.

"Son there's nothing to be embarrassed about, it happens to everyone. When I was your age-" I cut him off.

"Dad I was talking about a different sort of dream! My dreams are more like nightmares, really vivid nightmares!" I explained. My dad and mom looked at me serious, then started laughing.

"What's so funny?" I demanded. My dad went back to eating his food.

"Don't worry about it Owen, the dreams have to do with your specialty." My dad chuckled. I felt confused and clearly it showed on my face because my dad brushed it off again.

"It happens to everyone Owen dont worry about it." My dad stated. My mom and dad went on to a different conversation.

I nodded my head slowly and started to eat my food. We all joked and laughed, swapping story's of the two weeks my dad has been gone.

When breakfast was over my dad cleaned up as my mom and I went upstairs to get her ready. Just as we picked out a dress for my mom, my phone went off.

Mac: Dude, come to the park and bring snacks I'm hungry

Reading the message I laughed.

"Love you mom, Im going to bring Mac food." I laughed. I kissed my mom goodbye and grabbed the keys to leave saying a quick goodbye to dad. Making my way over to the park stopping at a convenience store for Mac's snacks. When I arrived at the park I saw Mac sitting on the swings playing on his phone. There were a few kids playing on the jungle gym while the parents sat on benches chatting and watching their kids. I took a seat next to Mac swinging myself a little bit. I tossed the food to Mac and watched his face light up.

Mac looked at me grinning. "Your the best!" He exclaimed digging into his food.

I chuckled."Yeah, whatever"

I watched Mac eat his food, patiently waiting for him to finish.

"Are yah ready for your burning?" Mac questioned, finishing his food.

I smiled at him."I'm excited, but no defiantly not ready."

"I understand, I was the same way when I thought about it, actually more nauseous than anything." He shrugged. "Nothing to worry about, it doesnt hurt too much."

I gave a sarcastic chuckle. "Oh yeah, that makes me feel better."

Mac smiled at me. "Dont get sarcastic with me or you'll regret it." He smerked. "Besides, I wasn't trying to scare you or anything. I mean its called a burning its gonna hurt a little at least."

"I didnt really think about it..." I admitted looking at the children playing. "You know I kinda dont want to be a weather specialist." I whispered.

"You don't?" Mac looked at me puzzled. "I mean I support you and everything, but its not like you have a choice."

I looked at him trying not to look annoyed. "I know I can't choose, but I'm really hoping I'm not. If I am that's tons of pressure, not only to be great and get a good job, but also to marry another weather specialist. I want to marry who I want for love not to breed for more weather magicians." I complained. "Also weather magic isn't that powerful and if-". Mac interrupted me.

"I know you want to avenge your brother and weather magic doesnt seem like the right magic to use." I nodded, agreeing with him. Mac was someone who could understand my need to avenge my brother. If I didnt avenge my brother then I would feel like that one moment would control my whole life, make me think back and feel horrible about the fact that I could do nothing.

Mac's face broke out into a smile.

"Why don't we go back to your house and prank your dad? Call it a welcome home present." He smiled deviously.

Smerking I nodded my head, jumping from my swing and throwing Mac's trash away.

When we arrived at my house I watched as Mac sneakinly climbed into my window. We couldn't let my parents know he was here, that would ruin the prank. I walked into my house, trying to act as natural as possible.

"Honey, your back. I was wondering if you could help-" I interuppted my mom.

"Sorry, I'm feeling a little tired so I'm going to take a nap to refresh for my big day." I lied.

"Of course. I'll just ask your dad." She gave me a kiss on the cheek and left to find my dad. I arrived in my room to find Mac laying across my bed on his side with one of his hands propped up to be on his head and the other on his hip. He was smerking greatly.

"Owen, paint me like your one of your French girls." He exclaimed while striking a pose. I laughed and shut my door. Mac wiggled his eyebrows at me before sitting up into a normal position.

"Let's make up a master plan." He said deviously while tapping his fingers together like a corny villian in a kids cartoon. I scoffed and sat next to him giving his head a little push.

"My dad is helping my mom do something so we have enough time to think of something good." I explained. "And it can't be anything we have already done. So things like glue and pillow feathers, or paint on the door frame, are out of the question."

Mac pretended to put a thinking cap on, and made a very concentrated face.

"Well we could do a smack cam?" Mac questioned.

"Smack cam?"

"Well you'll call your dad upstairs to like help you with something and I'll be waiting in like the closet or something and he'll come in and I'll have a plate full of shaving dream and I'll smack it in his face." Mac explains rather quickly.

"That sounds messy......let's do it!" I exclaimed.

Mac jumped up with his fists in the air in a silent cheer.

"Great! Now go get the stuff but act inconspicuously. We dont want to be found out."

I snuck my way downstairs, my mom and dad nowhere in sight. I quickly grabbed the stuff and ran back upstairs.

Mac's face lit up when he saw the supplies. We got everything ready and Mac was taking his place in my closet.

"Oh hey!! Look at that, back in the closet where I belong!" Mac joked and winked at me. Laughing I closed the closet and called for my dad to come up.

I was in my bathroom pretending to be concerned about the shower.

"What do you need?" My dad called through my bedroom door.

"Come in." I called. "I need help with the shower, something's not right." My dad made his way in looking accusingly at me.

"What did you do to it?" He questioned making his way over. Just as he was going to pass the closet Mac jumped out and smacked my dad right in the face with the shaving cream. I started to laugh as my dad stood there shocked, then a smile broke out on his face. He started walking towards me. With his hands outstretched to grab me. I turned around and grabbed the shower head and pointed it at me dad.

"Dont come any closer or you'll regret it." I said laughing. He didnt stop getting closer so I turned the water on. My dad quickly ducked out of the way and the water sprayed Mac. Mac looked at me with a glare. Then grabbed the shaving cream. They both came towards me.

"No guys stop this isn't fair, it was Mac's idea." I pleaded, neither of them listened because then I was tackled and covered with shaving cream. We all looked at each other and started laughing.

My mom came in to see what all the ruckus was about and chuckled at the sight, instantly knowing what happened.

"Alright, boys its time to get going, All if you get cleaned up." My mom laughed. I instantly quieted down, anxiety creeping into my body as I thought about how the next few hours would go. Apparently I looked terrified cause Mac gave me a tap on my shoulder with a reassuring smile.

"I'll be here for yah."

I gave him a nervous smile. "Thanks."

We all got cleaned up and then loaded up into my moms small car and headed to the inner walls. Since my dad was a guard I was to have my burning in the inner walls of the castles surrounding ones.

The ride there was filled with my mom and dad's excited chatter of me specializing in weather magic. Mac and I were very quiet on the way there. Every now and I then I caught Mac looking at me with concern, no doubt making sure I was ok.

As we drew closer to the burning centre my anxiety got worse. I imagined the worse case scenarios. I imagined the burning not going right and I ultimately died from severe burns. I also imagined not being a weather specialist and my parents being not only disappointed but also disowning me, yelling at me wishing my brother was the one who lived. I also imagined being a weather specialist and going through life knowing that all my choices are already made for me.

Mac noticed me starting to freak out and grabbed my hand, a weird jesture but oddly calming. He gave my hand a reasurring squeeze and smiled.

He whispered softly to me as if trying not to scare a little bunny. "It'll be ok Del. I promise." The use of my nickname made me smile. Mac was actually a nickname, not actually my friends really name. His real name was Nuada, but we all just used his middle name. Mac was Irish so his name was hard to pronounce.

"Thanks Mac, just nervous that's all."

Mac squeezed my hand again in reassurance. The car came to a stop and my parents called for us to get out. Mac let go off my hand and started to get out. I sighed getting out of the car, my hand still tingly from Mac's grip. We all walked to where the burning centre was. The equipment looked like the really old 'witch burning' pits from old human stories. I shivered thinking of burning to death while everyone I knew watched unaware that something was wrong.

A middle aged women and two men who looked like bodyguards walked up to us smiling.

"Now which one of you is Owen?" The lady smiled. I timidly stepped forward, and gave an awkward wave.

"Uh...me."

The lady smiled knowingly. "Of course you are. Come this way, only one person is aloud with you from now on. Everyone else will have to wait." My parents looked at me telling me to make the decision. My parents didnt tell me I could have a person with me, they actually didnt tell me much. When Mac's burning day came around he was by himself. I was confused and in a daze, scared by the burning and just wanted to be comforted.

"Mac...please." I pleaded, hoping he would accept.

My parents didnt look the least bit surprised or even disappointed. Mac smiled at me wrapping his arm around my shoulder, trying to calm me down. The lady smiled and started to walk away, Mac and I followed waving my parents goodbye.

"Its ok, just breath." Mac whispered, rubbing my shoulder in an attempt to calm me down. "We dont want you having a panic attack, right?"

I nodded trying to keep my breathing steady. Mac was a person I trusted and I could easily show my signs of distress. I didnt have panic attacks frequently but when I did they were very intense.

The lady took us to a room where they had laid out paint and other ritual items. Two younger ladies who looked about 14 were waiting for us.

"Ok, Jennet and Beatrice will take care of your symbols and get you ready. Now Mac can stay with you until you get tied to the burning stake, then he will be as close to you as possible." This time it was me who grabbed Macs hand, I squeezed his hand while staring at the floor. "Then right after Mac will be brought to you. We will try to make you as comfortable as we can." The lady gave a reassuring smile that I caught from the corner of my eye.

"Thanks, he is just nervous." Mac said politely. The lady left the room being very quiet. I stood in the same spot for a few seconds. The two ladies walked towards me.

"Hey, Owen? Right?" I nodded. "I'm Jennet, I promise that itll be ok. Just come over to the table we will get you ready and Mac will come over too. Ok?" I nodded again making my way over to the table. The ladies gestured for me to sit on what looked like a doctors table. I sat and waited for them to grab their supplies. They carefully drew the symbols on my face. A symbol for each specialty. When the burning happens the symbols change into whichever one the person will specialize in. Then you just have a bunch of the same symbols on your face. It can't get any clearer than that.

Mac smiled at me.

"What are you looking at?" I questioned wierded out.

"You look like a very good sacrifice." He laughed. I did not find this as amusing. Giving him my best glare, I silently flipped him off. He just laughed.

"I'm sure something will come to gobble you up! Maybe a vampire or a demon." Mac laughed making 'scary' jestures with his hands.

#writing #newstory #readthisplease #author #burning #bxb #gay #lgbtq #fantasy #witches #wizards

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thanidiel · 6 years

Text

Establishment

[Taking place in some fuck-off time bubble a month after the current phase of the Kris storyline]

From the green horizon that divides Dawnspire Province from its Kingdom whole, a curious sight greets the scarce workers tending the plots of winter-wheat surrounding ailing Autumnvale.

Like the rolling fields of the Goldsea, the Sun, posed overhead, shines onto a glinting sea of bodies. Two-hundred men and women, all donning the winged greathelm of the Phoenix Guard, march in unison along the stone-laid road set centuries prior and maintained since. In the center of their army, space is made for the movement of herded cattle and wagon; evidencing that these elves had no intention to return to the bounty of the Dawnspire garrison any time soon.

At the head of this formation, two horseriders post to the rhythmic trot that leads them closer and closer towards the approaching village. To the left, overtaken by the other, a woman with a mass of hair as black as the beast ‘tween her knees. To the right, a figure with the same greathelm as the host behind them: their body below bathed in red and slivering gold (striking against the white of their steed) and in their hand, standard breaches skyward. Large and paramount, the weathered, scarlet, symbol of Tyr’s Hand, and beneath, the more vivid gold and crimson of the Sunguard.

Once, the movement of such armies along this route between Quel’Thalas and its Dawnspire whether in war or peace was a regular occurrence. Now, the flow of migration that met Autumnvale has trickled to near-nothingness beyond the most bold, or desperate, of elves.

So unique this sight is, the marching host observes the quick withdrawal of the labourers specked all along the soon-to-be-harvested green of winter-wheat towards the disrepair of the village.

Allowing no pause, the army draws ever-steady to the very edges of the farmland surrounding the village buildings within. And that is when the leading figure releases their grip on the reins of their companion. Their unoccupied hand raises high and flat into the air. A succession of shouts and the two hundred come to clean halt in moments with the thud of feet and the ache of wagon wheels.

Once the din of noise settles, the low feminine that had been in quiet discussion to the woman to her right raises to a high thunder that carries over the army and to the ears of the villagers already beginning to gather in the square ahead.

“Harthen! Establish the company’s encampment along the plain. Lynxfury, Dragonsroar, Hawkspear Platoons - you are with me. Assemble behind me in phalanx as the others disperse. Gather the supplies we spoke of last night, the wagon marked with yellow paint.”

The Captain’s vision lolls lazily to regard her partner; a feat that is, by no means, done easily with the weight of her greathelm. her volume lowers to something only heard to Bricini.

“Get the fuck out of my sight. I don’t need you.”

“Oh, Light, you’re such a romantic. Say it again. Once more. With feeling.”

“I mean it - you can’t fuck this up. Go take a nap in one of the supply wagons.”

“I! Want! ...to see my girlfriend, my partner, in her element. Is that so unbearable to deal with?”

“Yes.”

“I’m gonna be in the crowd.”

“Get off the horse, then.”

“But–”

The Phoenix Guard presses her knees into the bare flanks of her mare and bends her head to murmur into its ear. A slow, precise, walk of its hooves commences with another flourishing wave of left hand towards the gathered thirty-six behind them.

Flowing around the dismounting Dawnmender, the soldiers make their way to the center of Autumnvale: where, already, about half of its population has gathered in curious interest towards the seemingly paused army. Worry, hope, fear, caution: she catches all of these murmured sentiments through the whispering people. Very few seem to have recognised her from past days.

The soldiers move in quiet succession around the barren market stalls and prominent statue that make up the core of the square. Ultimately, presenting themselves to where the crowd has condensed the most, towards where the square bleeds into the majority of the sprawling buildings.

From there, one squad breaks from the three-platoon-strong phalanx and quickly establish themselves a large, empty, space behind the Duskward. Unslinging their packs from their shoulders, they work to establish a framework of wooden pole and stake in the earth interspersed between the pieces of stonery below - displaying the reason for the long roll of fabric that spanned the length of the phalanx before it.

In the meantime, Thanidiel pulls herself from the saddle of the dirt-slicked and pale horse below her. Clutching the reins of the placid animal in her left hand, she steps forward towards the crowd. She continues her silent march, closer and closer, to the growing citizenry. Until the phalanx’s backline steps backwards over the tarp to heft it up in smooth coordination and the whole of the formation strides to cover the space made between the working six.

Only then, she brings herself to a squared halt. From her slitted visor, the newly-instated Kin’taris gazes upon the sampling of her wards before her. Many are too young for work, with disproportionate bodies and stringy muscles to their bones. Some are too old for work, with curled, shriveled, bone and hair of fading pigment. Few of those who do not take to the sides of either caretaker or charge possess the weight of true adulthood, even their ears lack length. She could not even call what she had to work with here as ‘scraps.’

The doubled standard raises overhead, the noon-sun catching along the lengths of weighty fabric, and crashes down towards the earth in one beat (of course, it had cantripped an hours’ time before to cut through and settle in the soil as well as it does: thank the Sun for the unsuccessful arcanists ‘mongst the men). Her hand goes for the lip of her greathelm shortly after, already unstrapped from her head before they had entered village, and pulls away the heavy metal.

In the woman’s grip, the armour-piece fall to clatter against the golden steel of her chausses. Easing the ache sparked down her muscles from a motion more theatrical than based in her usual practicality, she hefts the same shoulder in a rolling motion. The draping mantle of a once-great lynx shakes around her in the process as Thanidiel lofts the strong of her imperious chin upward, flicking aside loose curls of her platinum hair. Her one eye falls upon the approach of Sir Reval through the villagers.

She thunders.

“Hail, People of Autumnvale!

Above all, I provide to you condolences concerning the passing of Besari Vella. The most deep of sorrows gripped me the day it was discovered that the efforts of your’s, Kin’taros Reval, Serdari Truefeather, and myself, failed to preserve the life of your own.

As we all know well, however, we, Children of the fallen Blood, must push on with the clockwork of the seasons ahead of us no matter the grief that clutches our breasts. We must honor the memory of not only the late Besari, but those that fell around her, as the Sun and Earth return their bodies to the wheat. Thus, your Serdar has assigned me, Thanidiel Highdawn, to warden these lands under the charge of Kin’taris.

From this point forward, Sir Reval and his troops are dismissed from garrison. His Lord has greater needs of his talent in regions beyond here.

The absence of his skill and the absence of his soldiers emphasises the gaping void that these foreign wars have exacted upon Autumnvale. In exchange; I bring you not only replacement, but I promise you growing respite of the burdens felt here.

Here is a fraction of the able-bodies I have brought you:”

In practiced unison, the thirty soldiers planted behind the Captain all remove their grandiose phoenix helms from themselves - all daring to throw the priceless armour forward with the lob of Thanidiel’s own signature of battle. All displaying the vibrant youth in their taut skin and seafoam eyes staring out to the Citizenry.

The winged gold falls in a rain of metallic racket, rolling this way and that way to strike either stone or the rims of the crowd’s well-worn boots. The Phoenix Guard allows the din to fall down to creaking hints, though not long enough for the people to recover from stupour.

“—the largest misconception suffered by the World is that soldiers eke their livelihoods on the sole spill of blood. We come here to alleviate such falsehood. We will work. We will perform our duties to not only the protection of Autumnvale, but its succour as well.

Aye, People of Autumnvale, we will harvest the ready bounty of your fields alongside you. We will repair what the Broken Men have razed here and more. We will take your ill and your hurt into our camps with open arms. We will assure that there is always bread in your bellies and a fire for your bones. And never shall we ask of you of anything but to live your lives as you ought to live them, anywhere where the Serdar’s Sun strikes the grasses.

Not only will we assist in the going-ons of the village, but we will work to revive the trade route that runs here from Dawnspire to Western High Home. The Broken Men that we all once called siblings terrorise our livelihoods. Telchis Truefeather, as both Serdar and Archon, possesses little patience for Oathbreakers, especially those who would exert their sorrow with ill upon their former loved ones.

It is his Will and, thus, mine to provide security to this region once more and reestablish the flow of trade. We would have Autumnvale’s square and streets filled to the brim with merchant stalls and first-privy to the goods that flow between this province and beyond - as the days of past prosperity.

So it all shall become and be.

I will make myself available here, in this square, for the People as long as there are troubles to plague us; I refuse to spend a single copper of your funds nor hour of your time to repair Sunvalor Estate, a pointless indulgence that benefits only myself.

I want all remaining businesspeople and those you call leaders to speak with me in orderly fashion during meal or passing times over the next week. I wish to evaluate what we are missing here in terms of resources and specialised labour to better my judgement of Autumnvale’s needs going forwards.

Please disperse and return to your days. The army beyond your fields will make rounds starting on the morrow to find and make work with you. Step forward if there are words to be passed.

Belono sil'aru, Tel rea Belore’dorei.”

Having refined to good time in the days prior, Thanidiel’s speech commences right as the crimson and gold tarp is completely fastened and secured to the Commander’s tent established. Pushing out a lengthy breath of repose from her lips, the woman passes off her reins to one of the soldiers now breaking from formation to recover their helmets. She accepts trade of her distinct helm, with its engraved horses into its fore, in return.

The Duskward pulls on the standard she had plunged into the earth minutes ago, turning away from the din of cheering younglings. She notes the squad from before, periodically jogging in and out of the tent with her needed furnishings in the wagon that had followed some distance away: table and stool, bed, armour-and-weapon stands, maps, papers, inks, quills. Their Captain drives her standard back into the ground where it near brushes against the pulled-back tent flap behind it.

The hours drone on in the aftermath of her introduction in a flurry of countless conversations hunched in stool, and painstaking notes generated by the new Kin’taris - a library of cross-reference birthed in a days’ half and promising much more in the length of this evaluation period.

By the time nightfall truly engulfs the village - the woman’s eye strains in throbbing pain, not to mention her spine and backside. She drains her waterskin like she had escaped the heat of Hellfire once again with the exit of the last tradesperson (a carpenter lamenting the lack of lumber for needed reconstruction) into the darkness beyond.

The thrumming relief in her breast is palpable when, minutes later, the smell of just-cooked beef wafts in through the tent opening. Followed by a characteristic smirk and wild of black hair.

[Appearance by @jessipalooza | Mentions/interest of @felthier @azriah ]

#writing #thanidiel #bricini #autumnvale #sunguard #telchis #ellasha

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coveredwiththemask · 7 years

Text

A colourful mind - Jughead Jones x reader

Please don’t repost anywhere without my permission! (or I’ll hunt you down)

Summary: You are sick of seeing in black and white so you try to find your soulmate. However it is not the one you expected.

Pairing: Jughead Jones x reader

Word count: 1,600+

Note: please note some words are BreE as I’ve only learned only this variation at school and I mainly use British vocab rather than American. Thank you!

A/N: okay so maybe you don’t know but I’m a bitch for some soulmate AU and I’ll read it till the end of my days. Anyway, I’ve decided to write a piece of my own concerning this AU. Hope you like it! And please let me know if you’d like part 2 :)

Masterlist

———————-

Almost everybody had their soulmate in this world. You could meet them when you were five of fifty years old but when you did, the world suddenly was a better place than before. The moment of meeting your soulmate was not very noticeable at first, however, after a while you started seeing in colours. And it all started with a single touch. Then, hair you brushed everyday faded to blonde or became more vivid shade of red or brown. After discovering your soulmate your world had changed, hopefully for better.

(Y/N) (L/N) had still been seeing in black and white but it didn’t bother her in a slightest. After all, her mother had told her that everything had its time and place. Therefore, (Y/N) waited patiently for her soulmate, believing that they would meet one day, when she would not expect it. While living in California, (Y/N)’s eyesight had not changed at all. Sometimes though, she prayed for a soulmate because of one simple reason – all of her closest friends had already found their soulmates. They described to her how the grass looks or what the colours of the sunset are. These little things made (Y/N) to see for herself all the wonders of the world.

The day the whole family moved to Riverdale was a big deal to (Y/N). Even though she doubted that she would find a soulmate in such a small town, there was a slight hope of meeting new people that she hasn’t touched. New people and maybe among them, her soulmate.

Who knew.

After a while she became friends with two nice girls from her school, Betty and Veronica who often hung out with two boys during the lunch break but she had never bothered to come and join them. She preferred to be alone sometimes, drawing people from afar. Because of lack of ability to distinguish colours, (Y/N) only used pencils to draw. After all, people said that it is the colour she could see.

And so she drew, sitting under the big tree in the yard until one day Betty approached her and renewed her offer for (Y/N) to join the group during the lunch.

And (Y/N) did so.

Archie and Jughead, as (Y/N) got introduced to them, had one thing in common with her -both did not see colours. The only one who did, was Betty but she seemed to be upset whenever the topic was brought up, so (Y/N) made a mental note to herself to not bring it up. Like ever.

Because there were the cases when somebody were your soulmate but you weren’t theirs. These cases were rare but occurred. Nobody really knew why it was this way but that’s how the things were and it had been accepted. Nonetheless, people who had not have mutual relationship with their soulmates were pitied.

(Y/N) did not want to look at Betty through the eyes of the soulmate thing because Betty was a wonderful whole on her own. With or without a soulmate.

The other day, when the five of friends were supposed to meet at Pop’s, (Y/N) arrived earlier than she was supposed to and she saw that she was not the only one. In a booth across the diner, sat Jughead, typing furiously on his laptop. She approached him, a bit uncomfortable.

“Hi Jughead” greeted (Y/N), smiling slightly.

Jughead only nodded quickly and returned to writing. She knew that this was just the way he was, quiet, laconic. Moreover, they were not close friends, they barely spoke to each other. Being in one group of friends did not make them real friends. They simply enjoyed the silence they shared while waiting for the others to join them, (Y/N) sipping her chocolate milkshake and Jughead slowly eating his fries.

(Y/N) looked at him while he was still too focused on writing and she decided to create something of her own. She slowly took the sketchbook out of her bag and opened it on a blank page. With the several strokes she planned the pose and proportions and then she started to draw more details. Like the way Jughead’s curls escaped the beanie he always wore. Or the way his brows furrowed as he tried to focus.

(Y/N) was so focused herself on the drawing that she did not see the three of her friends approaching the table.

“Oh what is it” You could feel somebody’s hands snatching your sketchbook out of your hands, fingers slightly brushing with each other, before you could protest. “Wow, (Y/N) this is really good. It’s like we had second Jughead with us”

(Y/N) noticed how Jughead’s head turned to Archie, as he was the one who took her sketchbook. The slight crimson colour creeped her cheeks as she felt the heat rushing there.

“Archie, please give it back” she said, reaching her hand out.

Archie did give it back, again brushing their fingers and (Y/N) couldn’t shake the feeling that he was doing it on purpose. Like he was checking if she had been his soulmate. (Y/N) shrugged it off and hid the sketchbook away from the hungry eyes of her friends. They spent their time joking around talking happily before returning to their homes around 9 p.m. . (Y/N) laid in the bed that night, wondering if the next morning would be different for her.

But it wasn’t.

The familiar shades of black and white greeted her as soon as she opened her eyes and then she knew. Archie Andrews wasn’t her soulmate. She felt a little disappointed because after a while she quite desperately wanted to enjoy her life to the fullest and by that she meant seeing in colours.

Two months passed quickly and summer tuned to autumn with its all grace. The cold weather surprised (Y/N) one day as she hurried to the bus stop, her hands freezing. She was already a bit late for her classes, only two minutes left and a whole building to go through. Because she was not looking where she was going, she collided with a heavy body in a school hallway. The impact made her lose her balance and the cry of surprise escaped her lips as she fell on the floor.

“Oh god, (N/Y), are you okay?” she saw

Jughead before her, offering her a hand. She accepted it and stood up, feeling a striking pain in her calf.

“Thanks Juggie, no time, gotta go!” and as soon as she appeared, she disappeared out of his sight, running slower this time because of the pain.

During the last class (Y/N) couldn’t focus on what the teacher was saying because of the horrible headache that had no intentions to go away anytime soon. She tried to relieve some of the pain by rubbing her temples but the effect was non-existent. Going home was no less pleasurable as her vision became a bit blurry as the pain came and went in a waves, sending the pulses through her whole body.

She was in no shape to meet with Betty and Veronica later at Pop’s and the thought of cancelling plant came to her mind once or twice before she texted Betty about the situation.

Her mother seemed to worry but nonetheless she didn’t say much and gave her daughter the painkiller when (Y/N) asked her.

I’m just gonna take a nap, thought (Y/N) and closed her eyes.

She woke up the next day as the alarm clock on her phone went off. She yawned and realised that the pain was gone… and something odd seemed to happen. Her vision was sharp like always but the tone of her sheets seemed different. Or maybe it was just her imagination?

With a firm shake of her head, she started dressing up. And it all went well without any complications until the first time she saw Archie that day.

He was standing with Betty and Veronica near their lockers, just chatting about the upcoming game. There was, however, something different when she looked at him. He smiled in the same way, wore the same jock jacket… all about him seemed the same and different at the same time.

“Did you do something new to your hair, Archie?” asked (Y/N), utterly confused by the weird sensation she had been feeling since she saw him.

“No, I don’t think so, I mean I might have put more hair gel than I wanted to but I guess it still looks the same. Right?” Archie started touching his hair frantically.

“I mean it seems to be a different colour-“ (Y/N) suddenly stopped talking as the realisation hit her.

She saw Archie’s hair. It was a bit different. Because she saw its colour.

(Y/N) gasped and she saw that Veronica and Betty’s eyes open wide.

“You see your first colour” stated Betty, a shock on her face. “Oh god, (Y/N). Who did you touch yesterday?”

(Y/N) thought for a bit and nobody special came through her mind as she was in too much pain to notice.

“I don’t really remember. I mean the whole day is quite a blur because of the headache I had” She shivered at the thought of the pain. “In the morning it was quite alright, I mean, I was barely on time and then run into Jughead, like literally but-“

“Wait” Veronica interrupted (Y/N) “ Did you and Jughead touch?”

“I guess so?” to be honest, (Y/N) wasn’t sure. She tried to recreate the scene.

Oh.

They did indeed touch.

“We did” she whispered, a look of disbelief on her face.

Was Jughead her soulmate? Was it mutual? Or maybe he was not her soulmate?

“Speaking of Jughead, I haven’t seen him yet” Archie’s voice pulled (Y/N) out of the trance.

Veronica and Betty exchanged knowing look before speaking to (Y/N)

“You need to talk to him” Started Betty, and Veronica joined in.

“Now” They said in unison.

Part2

#my post #mywriting #jughead jones #jughead #riverdale #jughead jones x reader #jughead jones one shot #a colourful mind

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mhedu1055-blog · 5 years

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Commenting on Teaching and Learning

In this lesson, I introduce the new topic of griots and spoken word poems to my class by asking multiple questions to prompt brainstorming and critical thinking of the significance behind this new idea being taught, such as “What is a griot?” and “What is oral tradition?” (1:30). My students are able to tell me what they believe a griot is from their prior knowledge, using their own words. One such response was “an elder and usually the African tribes that are the ones who hold the information of the essence, their being”, which I took as comprehension of the topic (1:57). I further question my students about what a griot does and one student says, “I think that a griot, through spoken word, gives out the information to the village and informs people what he or she knows” (2:20). I ask for examples of a griot in today’s society to further their understanding and they give me such examples as rappers, singers, writers, poets, musicians, and teachers, or “people who make impacts and can tell stories” (3:45). They make these connections from their past and current experiences to promote their comprehension. After making these connections, I explain how spoken word poems capture a specific time that would never occur again in the same way, and tell a story about that time (such as a particular incidence in a time and place, in which the people act and dress in a certain way), giving an example of how they could create their own spoken word poems (5:25). Framing my explanation in this way expanded upon their knowledge of what a spoken word poem consists of. I have my students listen to two spoken word poems by The Last Poets called “On the Subway” and “Jones Coming Down” and reflect on the language being used in the poems. (8:05, 12:00). The language of the poem reveals what life had been like in that time period. After listening to “On the Subway,” my students detect the reference The Last Poets make a reference to Harlem when they say 125th Street (9:23). My students expand upon this reference, commenting on how the authors had felt free in Harlem, compared to their reality of not being truly free in the world. They also tell more instances of outdated language and the use of figurative language, as well as the author’s purpose, such as the words “digging”, “wearing a mask of confusion”, use of drums from African tradition, and the allusion to white men oppressing African Americans (9:50, 10:20). Now, I can tell that my students have grasped the understanding of the content and now urge them to branch out their usual way of writing and try their hand at this new poem format. I separate my class into groups, with each focusing on a specific scenario. For each scenario, I ask them to focus on certain points that I want them to bring out in their poems. The scenarios I had chosen are: riding on the subway (important political events and how they are revealed), being in the hallway (descriptive appearances), riding on the bus (social problems and advances), and being on the street (appearances using slang and figurative language). I enjoy having group work in the class because it increases their “group chemistry”, in which students group together and work on poetry. Their group chemistry was evident when they constructed their own spoken word poems in groups in the activity they had just done. When working together and collaborating, they are able to connect and come up with powerful statements (16:25). They are able to write these poems as they draw back on personal events they have experienced and/or observed. They consider who they are at the moment, how they are feeling, and how to put that into a story as a poem. Now they are able to use their own language to illustrate their lives with spoken words from the examples that we had listened to from The Last Poets and the ones they had come up with in class (14:20).

During the lesson’s activities, my students recall prior academic knowledge of concepts such as metaphors and idioms and are able to identify them in later usage (10:20). They look back on their own personal, cultural, and community experiences and are able to relate with many examples. One example is how a student questions why black people demand so much respect from people outside of their race without respecting each other. Another suggests how they title their poem “Downtown Planet” because downtown encompasses a mixture of different cultures, which is what is seen in downtown, in which everyone is trying to reach the same destination of their journey (14:24). They analyze the spoken word poems they have listened to with their prior and current knowledge of history and social issues. Using their newfound knowledge, my students proceed to tell me how times have changed with an example of style of dress with tight and loose pants. They are able to relate what they have learned from my instruction of spoken word to describe how there is a “jailbird mentality.” This mentality demonstrates how people dress to go along with the crowd and how in the past, it was trendy to wear tight pants but in modern times, it is fashionable to wear loose pants (5:45). Another student goes further and uses the previous example of the change in style with pants to explain how spoken word can change the representation of the stigma that comes along with an object and “urbanize” it, meaning change the meaning to fit modern times and places (6:20). My students use events from their life, ranging from the people they see out in public to their own feelings. With these examples in mind, they are able to expand upon topics they want to express in spoken word poems. One such example is social issues. Social issues are a prevalent theme in these spoken word poems and my students examine how these issues influence them and how they can put these feelings into words as a story, adding greater meaning with their own experience.

After discussing what griots and spoken word poems are, I pose the question of how we can construct a spoken word poem, like a griot does. To do this, I tell them that they must use descriptive imagery, such as colors and textures relevant to the time period and place, that cannot be replicated ever again (7:05). I further elaborate on how spoken word poems are constructed by telling them how essential it is to “give a vision” and to make a “picture using words” to make the listener feel like they are in the time that the speaker is describing (6:15). One student discusses how if she were to write a spoken word poem about the time she is in right now, she would be able to tell exactly who she is just based on the description of her clothing and her feelings, years into the future (7:20). Hearing this and instances from other students confirms that they have grasped the material. I encouragingly affirm all their statements to boost their confidence in their skill of writing spoken word poems, by agreeing with their statements and sentiments that we are all griots. This gives my students the prompt they need to start thinking about the themes that are common in spoken word poems. These revelations that they come up with about the expansive spectrum spoken word poems fall under are delved by the critical thinking, pondering, and evaluation of the work that griots do. Under my guidance, I assist my students in their groups as they write their own spoken word poems. We already know how to use figurative language and encourage them to use already known skills, to not be afraid of this “new” concept because it is just something they need to put a name to (15:40). This form of storytelling is eye-opening for my students as they dip their feet into new waters and further explore this world of storytelling. With this lesson activity, my students are able to implement their story into a new structure they have just witnessed to further develop their skill in this content of language.

The next day, I have a guest speaker come in to talk to my class about spoken word poems. This guest speaker is Abiodum Oyewole, a member of The Last Poets, two of whose spoken word poems we have listened to the previous day (18:00). Oyewole recites his poem “Jones Coming Down” and my students are mesmerized to have actually met the person who they have heard on the radio just yesterday. My students read aloud their spoken word poems (21:55). Their poems demonstrate their mastery of the knowledge required for the lesson, with the incorporation of each required element we had come up with together as a class. Each poem consists of descriptive language used to describe the scene, in vivid detail, “thus enhancing their vocabulary immensely” (22:20). I notice that after speaking with Oyewole, they are more confident and inspired. They feel proud having impressed a talented poet like Oyewole and now they feel “unstoppable” (28:10). I am proud to see the great orators and griots they have become over the course of the lesson (22:30) Spoken word poems have made an impact on my class’ lives. They have become more culturally aware and even check the news of the goings on in society (23:45). Their confidence and strength have been boosted from their meeting and discussion with Oyewole and now they are assured of what they say (25:10). With this lesson, my students are able to embrace the poetry they have written, expand upon this new knowledge and use these skills to spread their experiences through writing and speaking. This new form of expression broadened their horizons of sharing their stories and increased their understanding of this new topic, which I feel will influence the way they tell their own personal stories and apply these skills in the future. With this spoken word poem lesson, I want them to take away that they are able to deeply and powerfully express what they choose, to make a point about their lives, society, and their places in society with meaningful language, as the griots they have become.

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eigam2 · 6 years

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Week 4 - 02/08/18

PLASTIC CYLINDERS FABRICATED Have tracked down one firm that can supply 1 metre long (diameter 200mm) cylinders in clear acrylic. Only problem $385 each delivered in two days from Melbourne - will continue the search but may have to use them. I would want 3/4 plus 3/4 half size for floor display!

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Checked with Andrew about erecting dark spaces. Anne-Marie happy to have small dark room (vacated by post docs) Azadeh is happy to use white wall on end for her video, Jill is thinking about taking her work from the middle petitions across several windows and down to sinks may not need south end wall after all. Making Dark Spaces for Grad Show; On Jills advice Tejal and I will have to erect dark spaces from either black plastic or cloth (both are unsuitable for my reflections!). Andrew advised that we will have to weld rods to hold up small beams that we will need to staple the plastic or cloth to under the ceiling netting. These rods will need to be welded to attach to the rafter beams. Booked in 10am Wednesday August 15 holiday week with Tejal. As Tejal cannot collect the metal needed I am to collect all metal materials. Further advised the others of the need to do welding course and that I will collect metal next week

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Grad Show Meeting; I was very late as I forgot. Went off to buy cake for Ronda’s significant birthday and had lunch out! However, I am the Editor and Workplace Liason Officer to liase with Andrew about the logistics of the Grad Show.

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VISIT BY REBECCA ROSS ‘THE WALLS ART SPACE’ MIAMI Gold Coast. An exhibition space run by Rebecca Ross and it does not cost to exhibit there. Most of the funding is via grants. It has been running 5 years, 4 in this space and they were included in the preparations for the Commonwealth Games which provided funding for the gallery to host installations.

details; Rebeccaross.com www.rebeddaross.com.The.Walls

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ARTISTIC PROPOSAL 3RD YEAR SCULPTURE TRIMESTER 2, 2018 ;

ARTISTS STATEMENT —S5138324 MARGIE E BORGER (KNOWN AS MAGGIE)

Australian artist Maggie Borger, has worked with light and space to create immersive and moving artworks that play with viewers’ perceptions.

By converting plastic sheets into cylinders and securing them with thin metal rods in a regular spiral pattern, Maggie produces surprising internal reflections. When lit by spotlight, interesting effects can be achieved.

This post-modern work follows on from the 1950s Zero Group’s new beginnings and the California Light Movement including James Turrell’s contemporary works.

Maggie is currently in third year of a Bachelor of Fine Art, Queensland College of Art, Griffith University.

ARTISTIC PROPOSAL ;

DESCRIPTION;

Taking A1 drypoint etching sheets, I form them into cylinders secured by thin metal rods evenly spaced and in the shape of a spiral. These rods enter the cylinder one side emerging slightly lower on the other side. These structures or maquette are not what my work is really about, it is about what effects they produce, it is an interactive performance requiring the viewer. In a darkened room strong spotlights are shone though the spiral producing surprising, distorted projections. A smoke machine highlights the beams of the spotlights adds a further dimension to the work. A fan keeps the maquettes in movement and the projections have been described as mesmerising and disorientating.

CONTEXT, WHAT AND HOW;

Developing a large melanoma in my right eye, detected 2012, meant that I have had to change my practice significantly. However, I am lucky to still have 3D vision, albeit altered vision. We take for granted our eye sight so to lose it is quite a shock and it meant I could no longer practice as I had previously.

Thus, I began investigating the sculptural qualities of transparent materials. I was also interested in playing with shadows and found fantastic reflections inside the cylinders when I inserted the metal rods through them. It then seemed logical to space the rods evenly along the cylinders and angled down so that they protruded a bit lower as they emerged from the other side. Suspending these cylinders so they could move, the best effect was achieved by projecting a narrow spotlight through them. This formed a moving distorted image on the floors and walls. It is this distorted pattern, and its possibility for interactivity that my work is about. I see it as a performance.

There are many possibilities to develop this work further from maquette stage.

*Firstly, I want to investigate installing more cylinders so that each wall receives the projections as well as the current ones on the floor. and I would like to produce professional maquettes, so this may involve having them fabricated.

*Building a mirrored room is another possibility,

*as is limiting the number viewing the work at any one time.

*Lights - varying in intensity etc.

*Smaller works could be placed along one wall on the floor, sitting on turntables (three or four turntables) with a light shining up through the centre of each so that the viewer could be exposed to the internal reflections that started this process.

* Another possibility would be to suspended the cylinders by strings of waxed linen, tied to the outside of the projecting rods and attached to walls and ceilings (this however may reduce the possibility for the viewer to wonder freely around the work)

*Ultimately, I envisage having a very large manufactured cylinder, large enough to walk through with equally large metal rods inserted and/or perhaps even strong spotlights instead of rods. However, in the time available, and given manufacturing constraints, and budget constraints, I think this may be a long term project.

*Having investigated the above, I could then investigate how colour changes the work

*Lastly, as I see this work as a performance, preserving it as a video would be desirable.

THEORY AND HISTORY

Having developed the works to a point where they produced interactive, distorted reflections, I wanted to investigate ‘What is Art, and Why is my Sculpture, Sculpture” I had trained at a traditional Art School before third year at Griffith, a school that I suspect would not have called my work, Sculpture.

I looked to some other artists who posed this same question. Works such as Marcel Duchamp’s ‘Fountain’ 1917, Eva Hesse’s ‘Stretcher’ 1960 and Jessica Stockholder’s ‘My Fathers Backyard’. I also queried the vivid festival light works and even illuminated adds on walls, asking ‘are these art?’

Had other artists played with light? I discovered such as Laszlo Moholy-Nagy working in the 1930s the Zero Group from 1950s Germany and the California Group from the 1970s and still functioning today with James Turrell one of its more prolific contemporary artists. Many of these light artists were also eliminating the idea of an ‘object' as a sculpture. By creating situations which the human eye was not adapted to cope with. For example monochrome needs time for the eye to adjust to ie they were playing with perception. My art also plays with perception.

Having identified the history of light art, I looked for peer reviewed essays and one by Rosalind Krauss’ ‘Sculpture in the Expanded Field’ was particularly relevant. It related to the profusion of Sculpture in the late 1970’s, which broke with tradition and did not follow the century old rules relating to sculpture. Krauss, making use of the klein diagram proposed expanding the field of sculpture. She introduced three new terms to her expanded field; site constrution, marked sites and axiomatic structures. According to her expanded klein diagram, each of four light Artists in a peer reviewed paper by Tim Edensor ‘Light Art, Perception and Sensation’ 2015, were producing Sculptures. And using the expanded klein diagram, my artwork was indeed Sculpture.

My work relies on the chance like quality of the moving ,distorted projections and the presence of a viewer. Yet the precise structures or maquettes also become interesting under the spotlight, whose beam defined by the smoke, adds another dimension to the work. Some point to the spiral as like DNA, and others to the projections as ‘like an eye’, these comments fit with my context, it was just something that I had to produce and It is contemporary sculpture.

Maggie Borger

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EXHIBITIONS (GROUP)

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2017 SAE, Byron Bay, NSW

2016 Border Art Prize, Tweed Gallery, Murwillumbah, NSW

2016 Byron Bay Arts Classic, Byron Bay, NSW

2011 Sculpture by the Tree, Federal, NSW

2012-14 End of Year exhibitions, National Art School, Sydney, NSW

2012 Skeleton in the Park, Wynyard Park, Sydney NSW

EXHIBITIONS (SOLO)

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2014 National Art School, drawing machine

FINALIST AWARDS

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2017 SAE, Byron Bay, 5 minute video, Director and Editor

2016 Selected to hang, Border Art Prize, Tweed Gallery, Murwillumbah NSW

2016 Second prize, Painting, Byron Bay Arts Classic, Byron Bay, NSW

2011 Highly Commended, Sculpture by the Tree, Federal, NSW

IMAGES

https://vimeo.com/273443110 VIDEO OF TRIMESTER 1 SCULPTURE

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silviascorcella · 7 years

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Artist Review: NATALIE SHAU

Chi sono quelle bellissime creature femminili sospese in un limbo di denso mistero, abitanti sensuali di atmosfere oniriche che rendono palpitanti con la loro aristocratica perfezione corporea, imbrigliate in un silenzio ammiccante, carnali e algide così in posa dentro quel lontano mondo di favola?

Eppure così delicate e reali, come lievissimi petali di rosa sparigliati nell’aria. Come in un intrigante gioco di specchi, la loro identità è irrimediabilmente allacciata a quella della loro autrice: Natalie Shau, Lituana di Vilnius, giovane e già parecchio meritatamente famosa per il suo talento artistico spiccatamente digitale, che abbraccia anche la fotografia.

“Beh, sono un’artista digitale che crea ritratti femminili surreali: il mio lavoro è molto femminile e romantico, con delle sfumature più oscure e tracce quasi sinistre; tuttavia i soggetti dei miei ritratti sono anche molto “girly”, da ragazza, e fragili. Da persona reale, io probabilmente sono più realista ed ho molti altri interessi oltre all’arte e alla moda: come le armi, la storia e la geopolitica. Credo che il mio lato romantico e quello realistico si equivalgano, sono entrambi parti della mia individualità e del mio carattere.”

Come per ogni vero talento, la formazione di Natalie è fatta della stessa materia della vocazione, cresciuta e rafforzata con la dovuta educazione tecnica: “Sono sempre stata appassionata di arte, da che ho ricordi: quindi non so spiegare come io ci sia entrata, immagino per una questione di natura. Ho frequentato molte lezioni d’arte a scuola, ho anche preso alcune lezioni private di disegno di tanto in tanto. Ma in termini di arte digitale e fotografia, ho imparato tutto quello che so da sola e con l’aiuto di alcuni amici: oggi, grazie ad internet puoi trovare così tanti tutorial, che puoi imparare qualcosa di nuovo praticamente ogni giorno!”

Ebbene, chi sono quelle fanciulle ammalianti e arcane, immerse in mondi visionari e abbigliate con cura meticolosa fin nel dettaglio più stiloso? Da dove provengono e che racconti serbano? “I miei soggetti sono eroine fiabesche, angeli caduti, regine esiliate ed anime perdute. Sono molto ispirata dalla moda! Stilisti come Alexander McQueen, John Galliano, Jean Paul Gaultier e molti altri. La maggior parte delle mie protagoniste è vestita in modo piuttosto complesso, così che possa far loro esprimere i loro sentimenti e stati emotivi non solo attraverso le espressioni del viso e dalla posa, ma anche grazie agli abiti e allo stile. Traggo ispirazione da tutte le arti: pittura, letteratura, cinema, musica. Ma anche dalla natura. Ache i miei sentimenti e desideri privati possono ispirarmi nella creazione delle opere: talvolta faccio sogni così vividi che devo includerli nelle mie immagini.”

È un confine poroso quello tra sogno e realtà: l’uno fluisce nell’altra, si scambiano e si sdoppiano al di là di quel velo di illusione steso dai pennelli digitali di Natalie. Ma al di qua del velo la sua visione sulla nostra dimensione di vita si fa ben netta: “penso che il mondo sia un posto bellissimo, meraviglioso e orribile allo stesso tempo. La gente è così tanto assorbita dalle cose materiali che dimentica della compassione e della gentilezza, o anche solo della semplice consapevolezza.”

Una visione che diventa consiglio inaspettato se interrogata sul tema corrente di questo numero di Hachi, “Imitation of life”: “i social media, ecco cosa mi viene immediatamente in mente. Credo di non dover spiegare il perché. I social media hanno invaso la nostra vita e le persone ne sono diventate schiave. Credo che ognuno dovrebbe prendersi dei giorni liberi da internet anche solo per ragioni terapeutiche. Haha!”

[ENGL.]

Who are those beautiful female creatures hung in a limbo dense with mystery, sensual inhabitants of dreamlike atmospheres that they make throbbing by their aristocratic body perfection, harnessed within an alluring silence, carnal but detached by striking a pose inside that faraway fairy world; still, so delicate and real, as faint rose petals scattered in the air? As in an intriguing game of mirrors, their identity is firmly fastened to that of their author: Natalie Shau, Lithuanian from Vilnius, young and already deservedly renowned for her artistic talent, that is digital-based while embracing also photography. “Well, I’m a digital artist who creates surreal female portraits: my work is very feminine and romantic, with some darker undertone and creepy twist; however my portrait subjects are also very girly and fragile. As a real person, I’m probably more realistic and I have many more different interests apart from art and fashion: such as weapons, history and geopolitics. I think my romantic and realistic sides are both equal parts of my individuality and character.”

As for every real talent, Natalie’s education is made of the same substance as the vocation, grown and strengthen by a proper technical training: “I was always into art since I can remember: so I cannot explain how I am into it, I guess it’s some natural trait I have got. I had very extensive art classes in school, I also took some private drawing classes from time to time. But in terms of digital art and photography, I’ve learned everything I know by myself and with some friends’ help: nowadays, thanks to internet you can find so many tutorials about it, so you can learn something new almost everyday!”

Well, so, who are those charming and arcane women, plunged into visionary worlds and dressed with meticulous stylish care? Where are they from and what tales do they hold? “My subjects are fairytale heroines, fallen angels, banished queens and lost souls. I’m very much inspired by fashion! Designers like Alexander McQueen, John Galliano, Jean Paul Gaultier and many more. Most of my characters are dressed pretty intricate, so that I express their feelings and emotional state not only through facial expressions and posture, but also by clothing and style. I draw inspiration from all the arts: painting, literature, cinema, music. And nature as well. My own feelings and dreams can also inspire me to create artworks: sometimes I dream such vivid dreams that I just have to include them into my images.”

There’s a porous boundary lying between dream and reality: one flows into the other, they double beyond the veil of illusion spread by Natalie’s digital brushes. But on this side of the veil, her vision about our life dimension turns to be very neat: “I think the world is a beautiful, wonderful and horrible place at the same time. People are so much absorbed by material things that they forget about compassion and kindness, or just simple awareness.” A vision that becomes an unexpected, quite profane yet redeeming piece of advice when Natalie is asked about the theme of this current Hachi issue “Imitation of life”: “Social media: that's what comes to my mind immediately. I think I do not need to explain a lot why. Social media just invaded our lives and people become slaves of it. I think every person should get internet free days just for therapeutic reasons. Haha!” And maybe, they might have some rest in your enchanting pop surreal wonderland, we would add!

Silvia Scorcella

[Published on Hachi Magazine issue n°4]

#hachimagazine #hachi magazine #hachi mag #natalie shau #artist #art #arte #digital art #arte digitale #illustration #illustrazione #art magazine #rivista d'arte #independent magazine #editoria indipendente #intervista #interview #fashion writer #talents room

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