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mantrabay · 2 years

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Rush Amid The Rapids Published 30

Original Version on Poetry Nook under my pen name

MyNAh_27

Inspired and edited by my wonderful sister Jay Pallen

“Must I always be posting transactions and extracting trial balances?”

I said to myself, Landon Croaker, an accountant, adjusting the padded compartments of my backpack as I rambled up a ragged winding woodland path.

A granite strewn gulag odyssey that’s second nature to me now.

There was the usual green stew of ornate plants with enthralling names that fascinate the tourist.

Ancient Fir Clubmoss which grows into a chalice like shape

as beads of moisture drip sluggishly from its toothless emerald surface.

St Patrick’s cabbage, a dessert

spoon’s mirror image with thick leather leaves and zig zag veins.

Hapless Fraochan and whort shrubs whose symmetrical fruit pendants are just waiting to be plucked.

To say nothing of that most prickly bane,

those nasty nettles that have one scratching endlessly.

Oxalic acid scald that triggers spasms rippling over bare skin.

I brought my notebook with me.

It was spiral bound with a shifting, shimmery, hologram motif emblazoned on the front.

Observations were logged for future reference.

Closet novelist or bard perhaps?

Maybe one day.

The natural word is driven by a multitude of forces.

It seemed as if we are all marionettes in a chain, both manipulator and manipulated, Svengali and slave.

Rainbow trouts extracting energy from water vortices by means of slalom action.

Hornet’s pigments as they harvest solar waves for flight or excavation.

Fern clad Sessile oak trees with hard shelled acorn progeny suggesting motion of a different kind.

Birds pirating said acorns to a vernal grass plot for seamless cycles.

Canopies of lattice branches that springboard every creature under the sun.

Those boughs with the brittle snap at taut intervals that plant a sting in one’s ear.

Shrieks from a stunned squirrel leaping in the arc of a trapeze with blue jay alarm signal in tow.

The non-stop rustle from rabbits under slender stalks, and overarching foliage across burrowed hidey-holes.

Puffball clouds and brown dust spores sprung by microscopic raindrops.

Echo chamber habitat in open foetal sesame hostile to human intruders.

A wastrel I was within the wilds and the elements were miffed by this tactless troll through their terrain.

I was getting close to that place where my friends, a husband and wife team lived and ran a fringe publishing company.

These partners had a similar office in town.

They carried their high octane business drive into this secluded spot.

Urban and rural life was their forte initially.

Their penchant for capturing niche markets and spotting trends was legion.

The couple resided in a cherry wood log cabin with tongue and groove cladding and a pine timbered roof lantern peering pensively into the maze-like river down below.

This dwelling was perched at the side of a mountain.

The mountain itself had a surreal sweep about it as it apexed towards the sky piercing spectra colored cloud balloons.

Like a watchtower it sat silently in sinister observance.

Sunlight gestated in the sky as I trekked forward.

A primeval heave juddered beneath the rumpled insoles in my footwear as they oozed sweaty squelching noises.

Insights like fumaroles coursed through my veins in blood red bursts.

Within this raw canvas a universal pulse, a oneness exists.

A fallow deer suddenly appeared.

It was of the chestnut coat and white mottles type.

The deer looked furtively at me with startled eyes deep in its skull as if it knew something I didn’t.

They have their own badinage and intuition that goes with it.

Within minutes it vanished.

A swarm of flies choose my face as target practice.

A virtual non stop kamikaze buzz.

Flies, the spooky whistleblowers on the solitary hiker with grazed cheeks as collateral damage.

The sweat brought on by my laboured trudge didn’t help.

Despite this onslaught I stopped to tie my braided lace bespoke boots.

Anticipation drove me on irrespective of the sweltering heat.

It was if I had survived some endurance test.

The clothes on my body were wringing wet but still I had broken the back of the journey.

Though I sometimes felt it had nearly broken the back of me.

Heading onwards the

urban spirit still had me somewhat in its spell.

Sleep busting motorway drones going beep beep, cone shaped traffic markers as hard plastic cordon, the rapid rail transit system with it’s clickety-clack cadences, sonorous horn signals from departing cruise ships.

There is the other side of the equation in these surroundings.

Chambered cairns, those passage tunnels from the past that act as stone markers for the venturer.

Platform mounds whose ribboned cracks and gouges play host to strongly rooted Chasmophytes.

The leaves softly hinted at a lurking silhouette as the log cabin became dimly visible.

“Hello, there. Fancy seeing you here.

Welcome back.”

Chelsea, in a quaint croaking baby twang that mocked distance.

“Oh …You frightened me.” Landon said.

For a moment I nearly toppled over but miraculously kept my balance.

Chelsea dashed towards me with a note of concern that soon turned to mirth.

“A bit worried there Landon but never fear.

It’s great to see you.

What a surprise!

But then we like surprising people too as you’ve learned by now.”

I paused and replied.

“How could I ever forget? It's the unexpected that adds spice to this life business and others too!”

Landon sardonically.

While catching up we spied a crestfallen black crow struggling to take flight.

It eventually did.

“Like people at work or in other situations.

They can find it hard going.”

Chelsea observes.

“I always find this a haunting spot.”

Landon briefly.

“Indeed. You sound tired.”

Chelsea replies.

“We’ll change all that. We’ll change everything about your life now you’re here.”

The ramifications of that comment would soon unfold.

Was there a shadowy presence stalking us or am I hallucinating?

“The last time I was here we talked about the possibility of children.

Any decision yet? Indeed we have been having this conversation for some time.

You could always adopt.”

I continued.

“Don’t have to do that.

Got my husband and he’s got me.” She said.

“We’re both kids at heart.”

Her voice trails off with a sad tinge.

“This location seems ideal but there’s school and….. other factors.”

Chelsea hesitantly.

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved with a bit of thought.” Landon in reply.

At this point Croaker sensed Chelsea’s unease and didn’t press the point.

“Hey, what’s this?” Croaker cried as two apples landed at his feet.

“Yahoo. You two.”

Chesney, Chelsea’s husband shouted before climbing down a tree with infant zeal.

“It’s been so long.

Doesn't time fly?

Going back to our childhood the days have been an endless sprint.”

Chesney again.

“These sudden appearances are very well coordinated.

Is there a hidden hand or something deeper?”

Landon mused as we all continued apace.

While walking it dawned on me how dewy-eyed this couple were.

They also cut thin, bony almost adolescent figures despite their thirty something vintage.

One could say they were reflections of each other in every sense.

Entering the cabin shortly afterwards it seemed like something from a children’s storybook.

Cartoon mosaics hanging precariously from their fool’s gold borders, zip purses with smashed purple bead inserts, and shredded comic strips in tiny bundles.

Plush stuffed toys with sewn outer fabrics as well but for whom?

“Ever since my first visit I’ve sensed a saga shrouded in the deepest mystery.

This cover up.

An untold tale.”

Croaker on reflection.

“Hey Snap. What are you thinking?

What’s accountancy like these days?

A game of noughts and crosses.”

Chesney’s barb evokes laughter.

“Nothing ever really changes.

The usual stuff, low risk profiles, investment hazards.

It’s a world I drifted into but is there a way out I wonder?

How about you?

Still building this publishing company in paradise.”

Croaker once more.

“Publishing is odd at times. It’s almost as if you are becoming the stories submitted.”

Chesney observed.

“Children's stories and fantasies are beginning to do well for us.

Themes linked to birth and regrowth which we’ve always had a thing about are also gaining interest.

All those manuscripts but am I boring you?”

He asked.

“Not at all.

It gets me away from the staid accountancy world.”

Landon tactfully.

A salad of roasted lemon, fennel fronds and pomegranate was served with zesty citric juices to accompany our discourse.

Guacamole dip based on chunky avocados, signature relish blobs and tortilla chips rounded off this fare.

Slants on various topics passed blithely from our lips.

Our enthusiastic voices filled the cabin adding an extra dimension to this haven from that Trojan horse we call the daily plod.

After our meal we placed the Royal Stafford dishware in the washing machine.

Chelsea’s phantom figure scurries outside with Olympic speed for whatever reason.

A flambeau wouldn’t have been out of place.

It was so redolent of the suddenness about.

A cocoon descends around Chesney and Landon as they become rapt in each other’s company.

Unfortunately Chesney had this habit of being swept up by his own conversations.

Against caw and pipe rook vocals in the background I quizzed Chesney about the urban country rift.

It seemed that even tranquil timberlands so-called have their own stressors.

“See those creatures slumped awkwardly on fragile twigs?

They can sense pending discomfort such as weather changes.

But can they really cope?”

Chesney pondered.

“Don’t know if you can really escape the man-made pressures of city life.”

A querulous tone from Chesney this time.

“Maybe these divisions are rubbing off on one another.”

Landon archly.

“Thud…… an incredible sound.

What was that?”

Chesney shook as he commented.

Chelsea walked in the door.

“Oh dear .. let’s say a homing pigeon.

Always up to that kind of nonsense.

They’re a strange breed.”

She said smugly.

“Very strange indeed.”

Chesney out loud.

A strained silence ensues as Chesney and Chelsea exchange glances but one could guess from their scrunched up expressions what they were thinking.

“Was that really a homing pigeon?”

Landon wondered and maybe Chesney too.

A circus of the wilds continued to intensify outside as species vies with species in a fanfare of egos.

Chirpy robin red breasts at the window,

wing scraping crickets in high chorus on a Vulcan steam curtain.

Horseshoe Bats that weave around rainbow shafts with aplomb.

Such delights as Daddy long legs with their cancan dances on sodden green patches.

“Excuse me …..ring a bell.”

Chesney diverting Landon’s attention from the goings on outside with a broken fragment.

Landon bought this autumn crocus crystal vase for them both on a previous sojourn.

It slipped from his hands in a butter fingers incident and predictably shattered.

From memory Croaker uttered the words “my lasting gift” as it fell.

Cackles all around but frustration for Landon.

“It’s an hilarious keepsake after a fashion.”

Chelsea opined.

“Oh, thank you I think.”

Said Landon.

The hours passed with this and other anecdotes.

We both decided to retire.

Landon saw Chesney furtively remove what looks like a letter from a ring pull drawer.

“Just an old bill.

Must shred it.” He said.

“Why would Chesney even explain that?

His face is red.

How curious.”

Croaker thought.

Shuffling to his allocated bedroom Landon did notice kids gadgets dangling over cube modular storage units.

Pink salmon quilted eiderdowns, pillows with children sleeping under moonlit skies, and Milky Way throw blankets completing this idyllic scene.

The night passed uneventfully.

There were some noises in the kitchen as early morning approached but I was too tired to notice.

Having woken sluggishly Croaker walked into the dinning area.

A sense of foreboding, an ominous ghostly silence filled the room.

The strangest happenings seemed imminent.

Landon grappled awkwardly with the claustrophobia around him.

It was rudely disrupted by the shrill chatter of the chestnut-sided warbler - Induna of the morning cacophony.

An oak hook tip moth added charm to the proceedings with its zoom and flutter acrobatics.

“I’ve the creepiest feelings about this morning.

Doubt if I’ll jot these presentiments down.

Not very promising for one who toys with the idea of being a writer.”

Croaker reasoned while casting a suspicious eye on everything.

“Buzzz ……Buzzz ....Boing.

It’s my old phone’s text tone.

My boss.

Wonder what he wants?”

Landon to himself.

“Dear Landon,

When you return I would like to speak to you about your future with this company.

At the moment I can’t go into further details.

As it involves a lot of interested parties a wide ranging discussion would be in order,

Regards,

Tom Wright

Managing Director.”

Landon’s worst fears now confirmed.

“What am I to make of that?

Just how serious is this or is there another …. what is this in front of me?”

A letter from Chesney and Chelsea.

“Hi Landon,

We had to leave quickly.

Just one of those things.

Help yourself to whatever largesse there is.

Don’t know how long we’ll be.

You can hang around of course or leave if you like.

Don’t break anything !!

Ha ha,

Ches and Chels.”

Incredible!

Between the text and the letter who wouldn’t be alarmed?

Landon limped outside to an ear splitting din and a mist laden detritus that merged into pockets of streams steeplechasing each other.

A slimy frog vaults and casts a damp viscous oil spray in Croaker’s direction into the bargain.

Something ….a shadow.

Was there someone following me?

“This has been the most peculiar visit I’ve ever had.

Intrigue seems encoded in it’s every aspect.”

Croaker’s anxiety growing.

A tap on the shoulder followed by a crystal shard landing near his feet.

“The vase remember ?

Don’t take yourself so seriously ……..there’s something we’d like to discuss with you.”

Chesney said pointedly.

“An Agatha Christie mystery novel has nothing on the twists and turns of this trip.”

Landon frets.

“We’ve been mulling over this, Chelsea and I.

Your presence is an extraordinary coincidence.

Do you have this sixth sense about some higher force at work?”

Chesney quizzically.

“We’d like to offer you a job as an accountant as there is a vacancy here.”

Chelsea this time.

Landon now shivering with the incongruity of it all.

“Don’t you know by now we love to jumpstart even our closest friends?

This post is

tailor-made for you and you’d be foolish not to snap it up.”

Chelsea once more.

“I’m sure your current boss will understand as our paths have crossed over the years!”

Chesney stated.

Croaker’s head was now in a spin.

What a bizarre comment but he said nothing.

“You like writing don’t you Landon?

Well, you did the last time we spoke.

There are plenty of stories around here.

Who knows, there might even be a role for you as judge and editor.”

Chelsea opining.

“Maybe those diary entries weren’t a waste after all.”

Landon hoped.

“Didn’t you go to an awful lot of trouble just to offer me a job?”

Croaker queried.

“Neither Chelsea nor I do things the conventional way.

We’ve been building up to this for quite some time.”

Chelsea with Chesney nodding.

A carousel of thoughts flashes through Landon’s mind at this juncture.

He walked in a trance struggling with everything that happened.

“What was in Chelsea’s large sports bag I wonder?”

Croaker thought.

“Let’s go for a swim, Landon.

I’ve got swim trunks for all of us.

Last down to the river is a nerd.”

An unsurprising dare from Chelsea.

We glide over spiked brambles, severed logs, twisted stumps and every jagged tooth rock shape imaginable.

Herculean feats were performed.

Because Landon was in a state of shock he got the wooden spoon.

Chelsea tossed a nylon mesh swim trunks at Landon as everyone duly changed.

Something slipped out of Chesney's pocket without him or any of us knowing.

It was that letter Chesney removed previously and read as follows.

“Dear Chesney and Chelsea,

As your doctor I regret you won’t be able to have children. It’s with a heavy heart I share this with you.

There are many reasons for this...”

The rest of the letter was creased and illegible.

It was subsequently swept to the river’s edge underneath a Crested Iris by a slight breeze.

Meanwhile, we were all breast stroking with abandon with the occasional breather as well.

“You can make up your mind, Landon at the end of this swim whenever that is and wherever it is taking us.”

Chelsea chuckled.

“Things really aren’t all that different around here bar the setting.

Even the speed.”

Once again Chelsea spoke as she circulates in the eddying stream.

“Let yourself go, Landon.

Be that rush amid the rapids.

Maybe it’s a different cage but still.”

Chesney, a toddler’s echo to this mind boggling denouement.

We all started off again as we follow each other downstream.

“Awh, the child within!” Cries Chelsea before heading off.

“An opportunity of sorts, an escape of sorts. I’ll probably accept this bizarre offer.”

Landon to himself as he swam.

At that moment the mountain looked down imperiously upon us all as the stray deer suddenly reappeared from nowhere.

Maybe that deer did know something after all.

Quite a few things perhaps!

Photograph and piece all my own work @mantrabay

I appreciate in advance everyone on Tumbrl who considers and rates this post

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moderntimbercraft · 3 months

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kahztiy · 6 months

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Flash Memory: Vitrine of Consciousness --YD6~01 Lionel and Gavin injuries, in the guise of a grandfather

Cement-scorched cracked scars my purlicue’s mediate arch thumb and index finger digits, reminiscent of the bricklayer’s trowel in my grip, as I pressed the hinge pin through the button-holes, and another golden cufflink toggle clasp the sky-blue-white fine striated shirt’s doubled-fold cuff. and right hand with Jean’s engagement onyx ring, alongside her wedding band picked by the heel, the Italian-tailored shoe, to pose onto the plinth to mixed shoes underneath the lid to the cabinet. I fingered a shoehorn, slipping my foot inside, stepping onto the shaggy carpet, to slip into a horsebit loafers on to my other foot, raising my eyesight along the pants’ pleats. soft Irish dance feet around the corner from the dressing room mirror atop the three-tier tilt-out heeled-shoe storage, from a glance at my centered Windsor tie. I pricked ears across the double bed’s white Duco headboard. to the bush outside the awning window sashes against a sky’s white glow, to two birds’ wild romantic flutters and chirps.

At the pace of a day to waste, with a glimpse fleeting, crawling out of bed, linen slender edge along the flipped back bedding, I spent thinking about the widowed geologist’s site visit. discarded Jean’s bedside sleek blanket and puffed pillow niggles, a biting, soulless chill. Past the ruffled frosted porcelain lamp shade to her night table’s glass top, I lifted keys jingling at my fingers, past the gold mine dumps, shuttled in my Audi S Coupe to Springs. Near home, from the Impact of a crash, engines kissed, from which an angelic young woman dressed in an efflorescent white, stepped from her outlined lobe of a heart to mine. In the aftermath, out of the showroom, I drove a Champagne Audi, and likewise dating Jean, I loaned her a 411 Volkswagen. The angelic woman stands outside my side window, her shocked eyes reaching for my boys in the rear, after I surmised the backrests absorbed their impact. In the aftermath, I continued shuttling to the geologist, who ordered me to stop construction work because his wife had died.

Light on my feet, out of the main bedroom, I’m minded toward a new start and oblivious to history’s wake, my speculation to a real estate market fall. opening bargain hunters, leading to two mortgage repayments, until Jean had no option but to follow me to a countryside suburb — dead silent, the corridor’s doorway spilling light, ghosted the plain white walls, the cradle of little boys’ growing fire to a stampede on a level-loop carpet. Lionel shooed his little brother, fearing his mother’s wrath, until up a few stairs, their steps fell silent. From the west wing long corridor, I’m walking Jean’s domain. The yellow glow, reflected by the low tongue-and-groove pine ceiling, I sensed the embossed ceramic tiles under my feet. To veer away from the north yard’s amber bullion glass door, adjoining through a wide doorway to the upholstered turquoise lounge furniture lost in space. I head for the shining telephone press button apparatus on a stool, in the lights of the south entrance door’s trio sidelights amber columns.

In a chill reigning silence, the telephone’s scattered rings, seeking openings among fluted columns and paneling, dissimulating plain icy walls. A decor I stole from an exclusive restaurant, and reminiscing scars, hence the drum’s rotating razor-sharp blades on the benchtop wood planer fingertip senseless shaving. The ringing runs like my little boys, past matching upholstered black Duco dining chairs huddling a diamond tablecloth, the west wing kitchen, a wild circle through the adjacent family room, emerging from the lounge, persistent searching for me, until reluctant receptionist’s fingers, brought the horn to my face.

I hung up the phone to a caller’s stern male voice. “There has been an accident. . .” Alongside, I pulled the solid door to the porch. Headed for my latest Red Audi to the fleet. With a bird’s-eye located the Stock Trader client, to track back mapping the Johannesburg highway’s overpass off-ramp. I reverse out of the carport, shift into forward gear, with a hand’s heel spin the steering wheel, to drive up the pan-handle driveway to the gates. engaged in Kelvin’s street, exiting the Wendywood side, to fine-tune the man’s voice echoing in my head, “Glenhove Road.”

Ahead of the overpass hangs a dark blanket, as I’m soul-searching precognitive vibes. the asphalt splits at the grass off-ramp island. throttled to coasting to bright red traffic lenses. On hold, I’m destined to head across into Central Street. A translucent Caltex bubble steered me in the face. I’m holding my brain’s scattering imagination, peering along the concrete curb, the slender grassy median a novelty to the roadway blurring to a distant strobing blue dot. My foot pressed the throttle, pulling across the intersection, passing a canopy’s fluorescence flood a few cars on the driveway, uniformed figures attended by fuel pumps, in the changing angle found my bearings before the highway construction. Crawled into the clearing roadway with a topographic survey as a white red-striped ambulance, wails away from the stationary vehicle distancing in the prolongation through Houghton’s mansion toward The Wilds.

Across the median, I spared glances at Jean’s Toyota slewed, the tail fender impact kinked the corner lamppost. I’m driving in the tracks of the ill-fated charcoal car, to a grandfather’s shadow rising from the intersection’s asphalt. With the heel of my hand turning the steering wheel, by the abrupt-ended median, rotating the grandfather’s scene as I spared an eye on the bustling parametric around Jean seated in the bright ambulance’s tailgate. Beyond which, the grandfather steered across the oncoming lane, seeking his course through the thickets grown tight since the access inception of the inbound highway.

I pulled up a distance past Jean’s Toyota along the curb, to alight the car, stepped onto the sidewalk, backtracking along the sidewalk, questioning. ‘_Where did Jean come from?_’ driving the boys to the Wendywood elementary school._’ I surveyed her father’s Toyota Cressida, the rear fender wrapped around the lamppost. I’ll pan a near-fatal scene, save for the concrete curb absorbing the rear wheel’s major impact. I step from the corner curb, heading toward Jean in a framed glow, tranquil on a throne. elegant crossed legs, lanky blond tied back in a ponytail. In my approach, raised lonesome eyes.

Schlepped with the burden of her mornings at the computer desk desolated account department, I paused. She said. “They have taken Lionel and Gavin away to the hospital.” Her downturn eyelids, accent drooping. “_’Our children! It’s not my fault what happened,_’ An old man just cut in my way — Can you get my purse out of the car?”

I turned away from Jean without visible injury midst examining paramedics. ‘_Me, of all people, she had provided the house number to call?_’ To arouse the Hydra of my mind, outreach over the suburbs, to hover in the Cape Dutch architecture’s vicinity to the Stock Trader, I extended with a wing. Through a hole high in the shy, reckoning to sight, Jean’s mother, in her family world, placed a ceramic teapot in the middle of the table. Onto a round table conversation, overhearing Jean says. “Ivan doesn’t love me anymore...”

While Rachel abstained from meddling, William Whitehorn, Lionel and Gavin’s grandfather, soft-spoken, said. “Jean! Just do as necessary. . . I’ll help you. Don’t worry about money.” My Hydra’s sight volatilized, rolling the scene in my head, I stepped the curb, around the lamppost wrapped by the rear fender, gripped the unscathed door, ducking the door gape from the passenger seat to the dark footwell, found Jean’s handbag by the foot pedals. Free to spy. ‘_How far are you proceeding with your divorce?_’ I scrambled midst a cold chill, to fumble through Jean’s bag, to unfold a slip of paper. My mind’s Hydra to sight, the conference room. In Jean’s wake, the divorce lawyer, and son reassured his father, Barry Baskin, across the table. “This is a case. . . ‘_to reap the fruits_’ We have a blank check — Her father pays.”

The paramedics swung doors closed to a pair of translucent windows, while I handed Jean’s handbag. I turned toward my red Audi, catching glimpses as the driver rushed for the flank, disappearing by the cabin. The van pulls away, the milky windows distancing, and left among the wrecks spread on the broad asphalt branching intersection.

Amid both forearms cast in plasters, Lionel sat upright in bed, and Gavin too, but stood beside his mother by the window light, amid a nurse on her way. I reflect the boys tossed, rough, and tumbled through the rear compartment of Jean’s Toyota, to a distracted glance over my shoulder, to an animation in the angle of the doorway outside the hospital room’s glass partition. A herd of stomping boots approached with wall-banging crates from the corridor. Turns out, a cheeky little blond girl scurried through the doorway into the room’s aisle, but unbeknownst, Aetheria permeates the internet. I’m called back to the television personality, Sybel Coetzee look-alike ash-blond mother, calling out. “We’re here with a television crew, for a Christmas Children’s program by the South African Broadcast Corporation.” from a bustling television crew. The mischievous blond head sunk behind the bedstead to Lionel’s bed. The camera operator freezes in the doorway, raising Sybel’s attention to Gavin. Sybel answers. “No, he can stay too.”

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jamessheen2022 · 9 months

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akuwoodpanel4 · 2 years

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The Basics of Wood Panelling

Wood panelling is a traditional form of millwork wall covering. It is constructed from rigid, interlocking components. Traditionally, it is made of wood, but it can also be made from plastic components. It is typically painted or stained, and it is ideal for interior and exterior applications. In addition to offering aesthetic benefits, panelling can be easily installed in a variety of settings.

In the Low Countries and the Rhineland, oak was the most common material for making panels. Later, walnut and poplar were used. But until the seventeenth century, oak was the predominant material for panel construction. Then, other types of wood, including pine and cedar, became more common. These wood species can last for several decades, and they are easier to maintain. Wooden panels are also great for exhibiting photography. Woodpanel

Wooden paneling can be a great way to spruce up any space. Just choose the type of wood that suits your style and use a leveling device to ensure even distribution of the panels across the room. The panels will create a more natural, earthy feel to your home. In addition to adding character to your room, wood paneling can also be attractive when used diagonally. White paint keeps the paneling clean and makes it look bigger.

The installation of wood paneling is surprisingly simple and fast. However, it's best to get a professional to do the job for you. If you don't have the right tools, you may find it difficult to install the panels. If you want to tackle this yourself, make sure you follow all the instructions carefully and use safety equipment. It's also a good idea to follow installation videos and tips provided by the manufacturer to avoid problems.

Wood panel manufacturing involves a variety of processes to create a high-quality product. The manufacturing process involves layers of wood veneer that are glued together in a mat. The veneered panels are often primed. This type of wood panel allows for easy application of paints and other finishes. There are also a variety of painting papers available.

The technique of oil painting on wood has improved over time. It is more stable and tolerant of humidity, and enables a high level of detail. The technique of oil painting also requires base processing, wherein the wood panel is coated with animal glue, a water-borne basecoat, or gesso. In some cases, a combination of all three methods is used.

In the past, wood paneling was almost exclusively made of pine or oak. However, during the 20th century, plywood was used to replace wood. This material was made by gluing thin wood veneers to the underside of a wood base. Other materials that were used as paneling included pegboard, vinyl, and hardboard. It is still possible to purchase solid hardwood paneling in architectural antique stores. However, it's not as easy to find a solid piece of mahogany.

Wood panels can be a great way to add a beautiful texture to your room. They can also provide some insulation to your home. This makes your home warm and comfortable during the summer months and cool in the winter. It's also a great way to reduce your energy costs. You can get wooden paneling in different sizes and colors, depending on your needs and budget.

Another option is tongue and groove wall paneling. This type of wood paneling is easy to install and has a tongue-and-groove connection between the boards. This allows the panels to fit together snugly. Using this type of paneling will provide a natural, relaxed look to any room. In addition, tongue and groove wall paneling will complement modern designs.

The popularity of wood wall paneling increased significantly during the Tudor era. Tudor monarchs prioritized comfort and relaxation over security, and paneling was an integral part of their architecture. During this period, oak was the most commonly used material for paneling walls. In addition to oak, Tudor paneling also included carved decoration and linenfold patterning. It also gave Tudor homes their unique appearance. So, when choosing wood paneling for your home, it's important to choose the right material.

Another popular option for paneling is beadboard. This type features evenly spaced grooves and can be installed on full walls or partially. The standard width of beadboard is 1.5 inches, but beadboard can also be custom-made to fit a particular room. There are several different styles and materials to choose from, and the price of beadboard depends on the quality of the wood.

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profenceflorida · 2 years

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Types of Privacy Fences

The privacy fence is an essential part of your backyard and home. It protects you and your family from prying eyes, while also giving you a sense of security. There are many different types of fences that will work for any budget or aesthetic preference.

In this blog post we’ll go over the multiple design options and materials. We’ll also talk about what to look for when choosing the right type of fence for your needs so that you can get started on planning out a beautiful new addition to your property!

Options in Privacy Fence Design

Privacy fence designs range from formal and forbidding to charming and welcoming. In addition to their look and feel, fence designs vary in the amount of privacy they provide.

Because your fence affects the ambiance of your whole landscape, it’s worth taking some time to get familiar with the options available, and then weigh the pros and cons of each.

Stockade

The stockade style fence is the most common type of privacy fence. Often when homeowners seek an estimate for a privacy fence what they mean in a stockade fence.

These fences consist of side-by-side boards with no gap. The top of the fence can be finished with simple pointed pickets or gothic points for more style. The pointed pickets provide security by discouraging climbers.

Shadow Box

Shadow Box fences, also referred to as “shadowbox”, are one the most popular option for creating back yard privacy.

In this design, boards are placed on opposite sides of the central rail with alternating positioning to create a symmetrical pattern that looks the same from both sides. These fences earn the nickname the “good neighbor fence” since your neighbors see the same finished look as you.

In order to provide privacy, the alternating boards typically placed close enough to eliminate gaps between the boards’ edges. However, airflow is still able to pass in between boards. On the downside, this means that individuals at an angle are able to see through it as well.

Typically shadow box fences will be built with wood. Pressure treated pine is a common choice with cedar being an upgrade in appearance and cost.

Board on Board

Board on board fencing is constructed with overlapping vertical pickets. Every other board covers the gap between the two underneath pickets. Unlike a shadowbox fence there is no space between the alternating pickets. All of the pickets are attached to the same side of the rails.

Lock Board

This type of fence has boards fit together tongue-and-groove style to create a solid panel that blocks the view. Lock board fencing will be even more sturdy than a stockade fence.

Unlike a stockade fence, there is no visible gap to allow for expansion. The expansion and contraction takes place within the tongue-and-groove.

A solid lock-board fence will block airflow. This can protect your living area from windy conditions, but will prevent a breeze from cooling you on a hot day.

Lattice

A lattice fence, created from thin slats installed in an open criss-cross pattern, is a more decorative type of privacy fence. Usually this fence will be constructed from pre-built lattice fence panels.

Although not providing complete privacy on its own, a climbing vine can be trained to cover up the fence and increase your level of privacy.

Horizontal

A horizontal privacy fence will be built in the same style as a stockade or shadowbox fence just with the pickets running horizontally. Horizontal fencing provides a modern contemporary look.

White not necessary you often seem horizontal fences finished with flat top rail.

Choosing Materials for Your Privacy Fence

Beyond choosing privacy fence design you also have some choices in materials:

Wood

As the most popular material for privacy fences, wood is suitable For every type of home and landscape. The preferred options for wood fencing included:

Pressure treaded pine – also includes Spruce and Fir

Cedar

Redwood

Western Red Cedar

Eastern White Cedar

All of these choices offer tradeoffs between cost, durability and aesthetics.

Vinyl (PVC)

Vinyl offers a durable, low maintenance alternative to wood. Vinyl is stronger than wood and doesn’t rot, split or warp or attract insects. You can clean it with soap and water or a power washer.

You do not have to settle for a bight white vinyl fence. Vinyl fencing now come in a wide variety of colors, so it should be easy to find one that you like.

Bamboo

Bamboo fencing is a quick and easy way to provide privacy around your outdoor space such as a yard, pool, or hot tub. The fencing is attractive, easy to install, and costs a fraction of other wood privacy fences. Bamboo is a fencing material that also provides its own unique look.

Allowed Privacy Fences

You will need to check your local municipal ordinances and any rules your homeowners association may have regarding fence installation.

For instance Manatee County allows privacy fences to be eight feet in height, with exceptions for the Whitfield Residential Overlay District, which only allows six feet. You will also find restrictions on materials and color choice.

Conclusion

A privacy fence provides you with a private space in your yard and garden. Whether you want to have a light, breezy fence or one that is completely secluded, there are designs out there to meet your needs.

#southwestflorida #profenceflorida

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washingtonpatton1 · 2 years

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Heart Pine Floors

Also Osmo Polyx Oil Tints is our most environmentally friendly product. If you have a read up on the products and let me know if you have any additional questions. Would I be right to imagine that the flooring goes in the cabin ? If you wish to speed up the job, hire a sliding miter noticed, particularly for the angle cuts around the fireside. KRONOTEX laminate floor panels must be checked for defects previous to and during their set up. Any KRONOTEX laminate flooring installed despite exhibiting visible defects is excluded from the warranty. One the first coat of varnish has been applied and dried the second coat may be utilized with out this concern. This just isn't a problem if using solvent-based high coats. Having just refinished a hundred and twenty year old pine floors, I wanted to maintain them extremely gentle and pure, without going yellow. If you use Bona Natural Seal, that will do the trick. pine floors For me, it labored out well, but when you’re doing this at home, achieve this at your own danger. The “book” says to make use of the conditioner, particularly should you aren’t distressing the wood. That stated, the durability of a floor depends not solely the species of wood from which it’s made, but additionally on its end. I even have observed that on the non-pine floors-old 3″ oak that was stained and sealed with some sort of polyurethane, that stains don't penetrate the wooden and it is simple to wipe up. The variation will have an impact on how a lot of the product is taken up into the wood, this is flip results the colour end result achieved. So the very first thing to do is strive some take a look at areas with the products you are trying to use. And that’s the effect you can get from a normal clear oil or varnish – as time passes it could flip a deeper orange/gold, even a nasty brown. If your pine floor has gone a humorous colour, you possibly can all the time sand the old end off and exchange it with a product that won’t change color as it ages. Today, most pine floors in the US are made from white pine, though some older homes do feature wonderful pumpkin pine floors. Another different is to get a flooring specialist to insert wooden beading within the gaps to shut them up previous to sanding and ending. And one other pointer, typically the color shall be perfect and you then apply a varnish or oil and it changes the colour, or highlights one thing in the wood that wasn’t not beforehand visible. Using awooden floor oil however requires upkeep, often each couple of years, nevertheless it won’t flake, crack or peel off. It looks better than varnish because it begins to wear and may be very straightforward to patch restore if it becomes worn in particular areas, unlike varnish. When an oiled floor begins to seem like its past its finest, merely clear with an appropriate floor cleaner to remove any marks, scuffs or stains, then re-apply a thin coat of oil, and “Voila! Age will also influence on the wooden and should you apply the identical product to a a hundred yr old pine board as you do to a 30 year old board you're likely to get a variance of some extent. Oils are sometimes recommended because they not only give a really protecting finish, but in addition give a pure feel and appear. Further advantages are the ease of upkeep, simply ensure the surface is clean and dry and apply a refresher coat when the wood is prepared to obtain it. My apologies for the delay in answering your enquiry. I’ve been studying your correspondence and am very impressdd together with your recommendation. Before we moved in, we had the floorboards sanded and varnished, telling the corporate that we needed the new look to “match” the fishbone in color as closely as attainable. Flooring laid over concrete that is still wet, or in basements and cavities, will shrink or increase excessively without proper consideration to moisture management and insulation. Use our calculator under to determine the number of bins you will want to cover the world you are flooring. Remember to include an added % for slicing purposes. We offer many pure merchandise that may vary barely on-line and as samples. We are "mill to project" exploration professionals and with warehouses stuffed with pine plank or paneling whether or not its jap white or southern yellow, there is no one better. For three a long time, Stonewood Products has equipped homeowners, builders, contractors, and manufacturers to loyal prospects nationwide. If you suppose that this won't be pale sufficient, then the Osmo Polyx Oil Tints in White is also an option. These oils require very thin utility to the floor. For high visitors areas corresponding to yours we advocate the Manns Trade Extra Tough Pro Floor Varnish. This is a very sturdy two half floor varnish that's best for top visitors industrial and domestic areas. I am undecided I want any dye on my lovely floors – do you think it’s necessary? But oil and varnish come with different sorts of maintenance, and to an excellent extent your choice depends on the quantity of damage and tear the floor receives. Osmo Polyx Oil Raw is made with pure oils and waxes, gives wonderful protection and durability and is particularly formulated to retain the ‘natural’ look of wood. It counteracts the damp-looking darkening effect and grain enhancement you usually get with normal clear oils or varnishes. If you’ve ever deep-dived into the best vinyl plank flooring manufacturers, you might need seen that some of their merchandise are actually made by totally different luxury vinyl flooring manufacturers. If you’re looking for a flooring that's simple to scrub and requires little repairs, look no further! This straightforward to clean laminate requires a easy clean and will resist any stains and spills.

#pine flooring #red pine flooring #tongue and groove pine flooring #white pine flooring #pine floors #pine plank flooring

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

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Hot Blood

This was written as a request for an anon who asked:

hi! i was wondering if you could write a dean fic where he’s with the reader in their car and hot blood by kaleo comes on, the reader sings along, their voice is really good, and dean realizes he’s in love w the reader

First of all, great song! I hadn’t heard a ton of Kaleo before, but I’ve put them into my rotation so thanks for the recommendation! I hope it’s okay that I took a few liberties with the format because it felt right with the angle; it’s from Dean’s point of view so the reader is in third person.

Title: Hot Blood

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1251

Summary: Hearing the reader sing along to Kaleo makes Dean realize his feelings about her are a lot more complex than he’s ever realized.

Warnings: swearing, pining, fluff, sexual frustration?

“The fuck is this?” Dean asks as she turns up the radio.

“The band’s called Kaleo—you’ll like them, they’re from Iceland!” she yells, starting to groove and hum along as the volume starts pounding through the speakers. She doesn’t hear when he repeats her—Iceland?

When she starts singing along to the radio her voice is somehow not what he expected—lower? Higher? He can’t even really tell, but that wasn’t the thing anyway, it’s that she’s…haunting. That’s it. The song is up tempo, the kind of rock beat he can tolerate even if it’s a poor facsimile of the greats, and that’s the crux of the hypnosis as she sings. Somehow, even howling along to a repetitive chorus, wind blowing the hair back from her face with the window of the Impala cracked a few inches, sides of her thumbs tapping the drumline out over the thighs of her jeans, it’s like she’s chanting a spell, triggering that deep-primal interconnectedness of a particularly vicious exorcism or bit of creation magic.

Maybe that’s just the closest he can get to placing it. The shock of how fucking good she is notwithstanding—and she is seriously good, makes Dean think of Janis and Chrissie Hynde and maybe even Joni Mitchell who he knows is a genius even if he might never admit it aloud—appreciating a killer singer never makes Dean feel like this, like he has to consciously focus on the road after the hundreds of thousands of hours he’s driven in his life for the way his brain wants to forego everything else on earth for that fucking voice.

Thank God for the bridge or Dean might’ve missed the turn, nothing else on the miles of wheatfields surrounding them he could even pretend to be distracted by but her. As it is, he takes it a little tight, and she smoothly reaches a hand through the open window to brace herself on the doorframe as the Impala carves out some rural dirt. Momentum shifts her a few inches across the leather toward him, sweet-salty shampoo and cherry chapstick scent of her dusty in the dry late summer afternoon wrapping him up like a boa constrictor, like tentacles, and he’s gotta immediately stop that connection because tying this moment to his Japanese erotica is going to fry his brain so bad he might actually have to pull over.

“See? I knew you’d like it,” she half-howls over the radio, laughing like nothing in this world matters except whether Dean’ll listen to some dumb song for her, and the sliver of tongue that catches the glisten of sunlight as she does is making Dean feel sort of queasy the way he did at 16, snuck into a bar with his dad as a reward for a hunt gone well and trying his best not to stare at the soft swells of the bartender’s body as she shook a tumbler of Vegas bombs, winking at him from across the room. John had made some half-joke about being careful with girls like that and Dean knew he was just being confronted with his son growing up, but he’d heard him loud and clear—a girl like that will drive you crazy, make you eat yourself up with want from the inside out. In that bar he’d been grateful for the low lighting and high top table to shield the physical weakness of his want but he’s a grown ass man now and he thinks maybe going crazy wouldn’t be so bad, maybe he could throw Baby in park and all the good karma he’s ever racked up would bless him in that moment, let him taste that tongue catching tiny sparks of sun beautiful and dirty and impossible to resist like a diamond from the dark mine of her mouth, feel that fucking voice vibrate under his fingertips as he tangled himself into the brambles of her.

And then the bridge is over. She’s turned the volume back up and is pulling exaggerated rock star faces as she sings to him. It takes a second before Dean realizes smile you fucking idiot and is sure he’s grimacing, hopes that the sunny day is enough to cover the flush he can feel in his cheeks and what the fuck is wrong with him? She’s not a siren, not some fuck-you-so-good-you-don’t-care-if-she-boils-your-bunny chick across a smoky bar, those jeans aren’t magic and in fact they were washed with his, ‘I don’t want to do a whole load, just let me throw my shit in with yours’ while she sat on the laundromat counter in worn cartoon pajama pants. That tongue—fuck, her tongue, why does this fucking song have so many “L” sounds in it—is the same one that sticks out round and juvenile like Charlie Brown’s when she’s reading something complicated.

When the song ends Dean’s white knuckling the steering wheel like he’s in a tropical storm and he can’t help but feel relieved. Back to the safety of his tapes, who would never try to pull whatever black magic bullshit that was on him. He takes a deep breath and promises himself to get laid at the next chance he gets lest he seriously fuck up like some hormone-stupid teenager. She’s put in a Chicago B side and he says a silent prayer because that’s exactly the kind of soft-sappy he needs to counteract this. Enough even that he trusts himself to confirm that it’s over, that momentary frenzy nothing but a blip of testosterone fueled by her disclosing a hidden talent. Maybe he can even compliment how well she sings without sounding like he wants to crawl inside her.

He almost does a double take when it’s still—like that, filter of unbelievable need unmoved from any part of her and he wants to fucking eat her alive, let her flay him open and wear him like a coat if that’s what she wants and he knows he is so fucked. She’s turned down Chicago to tell him something cool Sam figured out about snow spirits and yeti mythology the other day and it’s all he can do to focus on the right times to make vaguely affirmative noises or smile, because he’s trying to work out in his head how he’s going to be able to keep his brother from reading on his face how bad he’s got it the second they walk through the motel door. For all he knows Sam is going to say some slick shit about how he’s happy Dean’s finally figured it out for himself, the fucking know-it-all.

It takes a second for him to catch it when she asks him a question, and she looks a twinge concerned when he doesn’t respond right away. Gonna have to do better than that, dumbass. “Sorry, what?”

“You feeling okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Not if I can help it. “Yeah, sorry. Just, ah, need a sandwich or something, I’m starving.”

She throws her head back into the seat to laugh and a million coins pouring out of a Vegas jackpot couldn’t sound more precious. “We ate like an hour ago!” She shakes her head teasingly back at him, wide smile beaming like a dentist’s ad. “I fucking love you, dork.”

He knows it’s not what she means, but he lets the words make his blood run hot.

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass @vxnderlindes @deanwinchesterswitch @akshi8278 @itsjensenanddean @flannellover67 @weepingwillowphoenix @tj-drinks-tea @whatareyousearchingfordean @winchest09 @winchestergirl2 @samwisethegr8 @nobxdy @nurse-sarahrn @lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love @deanwanddamons @stressedoutkitten @winchestershiresauce @tatted-trina6 @percico-heronstairs @downanddirtydean @queenoftheunderdark @lyarr24 @wonder-cole @that-one-gay-girl @fairlyspnfanfic @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @mimaria420 @muchamusedaboutnothing @pvnsie @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

And as always, if you want to be on my taglist, were on the taglist and changed your handle, or I lost track of it, please let me know!

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hometoursandotherstuff · 3 years

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Victorian warehouse conversion by architect Mark Lewis.

The expansive kitchen stretches along one wall for nearly 20 feet. The cabinets were made from salvaged pine floors.

A tiled pantry doubles as a wine cellar.

Lewis wanted to preserve the sense of space and light.

A floating shelf of steel and salvaged floor joists serves as a partition. He further defined the living area with homey tongue-and-groove paneling painted blue.

The bedroom is a pretty blue and white.

A walled-up elevator shaft was a surprise discovery. Unearthed during construction, it was transformed into a closet with built-in drawers and its original battered wood doors.

The bathroom is lined in Metro White subway tile.

The rolltop bathtub is cast iron and the outside was painted.

The shower has a wood-trimmed glass wall & a waterproof wood floor.

I’ve never seen anything like this- an old-fashioned toilet of the sort seen in English country houses, but it actually flushes.

And, this looks like tongue & groove paneling, but it’s cast concrete with wood graining.

https://www.remodelista.com/posts/mark-lewis-interior-design-hoxton-square-london-loft/

#victorian warehouse conversion #industrial loft #long post

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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 3 years

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Ours

Extremely late and I’m EXTREMELY sorry!😭 @bluboothalassophile happy belated EVERYTHING! And just thank you so much for being the incredible friend that you are!!!! 🥰You know what this is 😏and I hope you enjoy because this is the first of three parts. Three just seemed to fit... I had a ton of fun writing it and hopefully it’s not rubbish.

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It took time and patience with an unpracticed key guided by an unsteady grip. A petite, pale girl caught her lip between her teeth, a tiny grunt escaping as she finagled with the door.

"Raven, is that you?"

But she was starting to get used to this.

There was a concluding click as the key's metal ridge caught the groove in the last lock of the six panel apartment door. When it opened, in wandered a wearied Raven Roth.

And Raven would have liked to think she wandered in gracefully, but she knew she was dragging. It was impossible not to while wearing shoes so abhorrently impractical they should have been illegal. So violent was the aching in her heels, that by the final stretch of half-block, they were nearly numbed. Gods and her back—it was practically killing her.

If she was being honest, Raven felt like something one of those city sweeping trucks scraped off the sidewalk at four-thirty in the morning. One could only hope she didn't look like it.

"Roy," Raven winced, eyelids squeezing shut as she spoke. "I'm alive—but barely."

"Jay?" Roy called out from somewhere in the foreground. "Where are you?"

As expected a low, disembodied grunt ushered out in lieu of a response.

"Didn't you hear—Raven's back!"

The door slid closed and a gust of air entered the foyer behind her, carrying with it the heady notes of brown sugar, nutmeg, and melted butter. And like a Pavlovian response, she forgot the discomfort and led herself up by the nose. Spine straightening, legs lifting, then posture rising. It was like her whole being had been revitalized in an instant. Who knew the promise of a home-cooked meal could do that? A wistful smile steered into her face as Raven thought about how evenings after work used to transpire.

Weeks ago, one foot in the door usually meant bra optional. And flattening into a decompression on the couch was a non-negotiable.

Needless to say, a welcome like this one would never not catch her off guard.

"Something smells like you've outdone yourself again," Raven spoke loudly over the faint sounds of sizzling, curiously craning her neck and sniffing the air distractedly.

And then Roy appeared. He was peering out into the foyer, red hair bleeding out against the backdrop of a white walled interior. "Dinner will be ready soon," he supplied and beamed at her. The brightness faded in increments as his deep pine eyes floated downward and he took what she was holding.

"Again?"

"Yep." Raven gave a single solemn nod and Roy let out a dramatic sigh.

"But it's Friday. Those bastards..." he muttered in disbelief and Raven smirked. Suddenly, he inclined his head toward the other room and inhaled suspiciously. "Do you...smell that?" Roy went rigid in realization. "It smells like I forgot the flip."

"It smells like...that one's Jason's," Raven corrected.

Red eyebrows raised, clearly impressed. "Right." He marched back briskly toward the kitchen, only pausing to point at the heavy bag full of file folders teetering on her shoulder. "You'll have to tell me and Jaybird all about...that."

"Yes, please." Raven let out a huff, lower lip quivering. "You're an angel..." Roy winked at the pout topped by pleading purple and disappeared.

"The irony," a low drawl called from just around the corner. "Are you always such a sight for sore eyes?"

It was Jason walking over with arms out as wide as his grin. Even without the sarcasm, his aura and footsteps were distinct—a dead giveaway. They were oddly as heavy as they were silent.

"Whoa…" he looked as concerned as Roy had moments ago. "Or are you just sore?" Strong, steady hands removed her bag from her shoulder. "That's better." Raven rolled her stiff arm muscles.

It was a relief, to hand off her burden for a moment, to no longer be dragged down by the weight of her work—and the world.

"How was our day?" he pressed like a man who knew the answer.

"Rough—and long..."

Quickly Jason knelt down, hand reaching out for her calf. "I've got you, Princess." And Raven placed a balancing hand on his shoulder while he undid her shoes, a grateful half-smile stitching across her face.

"Come, come."

He took her hand, twirling her around past the living room to deposit her right onto a stool next to the island. "Sit. Harper's making crepes." Jason pulled her stool close and spun it around, so he was faced with the back of her.

"Take it from me, they'll help with the tension. Of course... I also believe in a hands-on approach." Jason then cracked his knuckles—mostly for effect, because boy did he know what he was doing. His hands slid up her arms, to her shoulders and worked them over, then dug into the surrounding muscles with his fingers and kneaded hard with his thumbs.

"Mmm..." Raven's tension began to ebb and wane. "Well, that helps a little..." Jason turned up the pressure a few more degrees while his breath grew heated on her neck.

Aroma clouds were wafting around their heads, while Roy flipped another crepe in slow motion. And in an instant, Raven was transported to some sort variant of a Jason and Roy spa she didn't know she needed.

"Okay, that helps a lot." And she moaned in spite of herself. All her stress was melting away, turning into liquid and evaporating off of her, faster than the French butter Roy was melting on the stove. He tilted the bright red crepe pan in all directions, getting an even gloss of sweet, golden goodness in every crevice. And Jason's hands continued to manipulate each one of hers, until all the tightness in her upper body unknotted itself.

"Hmm, where else—where else? Ah." Jason's rough hands took hold of the chevron patterned lace covering her ankles and he began to massage away. "Did I tell you, how much I like these stockings?"

Raven seemed not to hear him. "Harder," she whispered. His knuckle pounded gently down her arches, then ground fixedly into her heel and, painstakingly along the sides. By the time he took her other foot into his lap, she was practically cooing. "Did I tell you how good you are at that?" The tip of Jason's tongue edged over the corner of his smile.

Gods.

"That really is a shame..." he said and Raven lifted her head towards him in question. "About your day? How rough and hard it was..." His hand was lowering, slowing, but lingering. "Normally when you put those two adjectives together... It could be a good thing."

"Okay...!" Roy had come over suddenly with his spatula proffering a piece of crepe, still steaming hot from the pan. "I'm testing something out tonight, so I've added a special ingredient to this batch."

"Oh good. Raven did have one of those days. She could use some..." Jason pantomimed a flippant gesture. It could have been taking a long drag or it could have been—

"Not that kind... A different kind of special..." Roy shot Jason and Raven a long once over. Something in the way he said special made the air around them begin to bristle with titillation, anticipation. "A few drops of...lavender extract..." His voice dropped another octave. And he began to blow on the bite while Raven and Jason watched his full lips. It seemed cooling the steam from the crepe had an opposite and equal reaction. As if each breath was fanning the flames rising between them, like a bellow into charred embers in the hearth of a fireplace.

"Let me know what you think of it." Gently, he fed her piece from his fingers and Jason leaned his face close to hers, like he was attempting to steal it straight from her lips. Just before the point of contact, Roy clicked his tongue playfully.

Almost like he was calling him off.

"If you want some you'll have to wait." Dazedly, Raven blinked at Roy. He shook his head of chin length crimson hair, half of it was up in a bun with the rest hanging in his face. "I'll be back with the rest." Teasingly, Roy waved the spatula like a stake to ward off his dark-haired, undead roommate.

"Jason..." The brunette inched nearer to her at the sound of his name. She kicked his stool with her foot so it swiveled further away. Ultimately, it only caused him to move even closer. "Aren't we in rare form tonight?" she sighed.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Jason insisted bemusedly, doing his best to appear impassive. "I'm always like this." He examined her wrist with his forefinger and thumb. "As for you... That office of yours must be working you damn near to the bone. Did you somehow manage to get tinier, Raven?" The left corner of his lips curled up.

She tore it away and glared at him, aghast. "Insufferable, patronizing," Raven muttered under her breath, nursing her wounded forearm. "Ass."

"But this ass speaks the truth," he raised an eyebrow loftily. "If you would just join our firm..."

"Your firm?" Purple orbs narrowed to slits. "Just because you guys are mercenaries for hire—"

"Mmm... We really prefer the term 'vigilantes,'" Jason punctuated with air quotes. "Actually, from a branding perspective, it's Heroes for Hire™—Roy's got a whole...thing..."

"Whatever you're calling your 'backwoods operation'." Raven's air quotes didn't disguise the disdain in her voice. "The point is, I like my non-profit just fine... And I am not tiny."

"Alriiight." Roy arrived with a huge ceramic serving dish full of crepes with powdered sugar dusted on top. "Eat them while they're hot. Raven..." He slid a plate over to her. "Eat up."

"I thought I would always get the first bite," Jason teased. Then quickly lunged forward, stopping short of Roy's smirk, hip cocked toward his. "What've you got for me, Harps?"

On a delay, the redhead drew back, as if he just remembered Raven was in the room. "Don't be greedy, Jay," he said at last.

The ebony haired man, raised an eyebrow, but began to unload fresh food onto his plate. Once every inch of real estate was covered in crepe, Jason started to attack with his fork.

"So, when have I ever been greedy?"

Was that besides the fact that his plate was loaded up with most of the food the archer had just cooked? And besides the fact that he hadn't really helped?

But then... neither had Raven. Unless licking the batter and 'testing out' a crepe or two counted.

"Well, Raven's barely eaten a crepe and you're drifting into seconds. Where's your hospitality? Shouldn't you share with our guest?"

"I can be hospitable..." He chuckled. "I'd rather just...share our guest."

Roy shot him a warning glare on his way back to the stove. Jason shrugged before closing in another crepe and filling his mouth with another forkful.

"You're amazing," Raven deadpanned.

"Aren't I? But I've got nothing on the food. I have to say, this is the best batch by far," he announced. "Roy, do you have any more of those blueberries you got from the farmer's market over the weekend?" Jason started to smirk at Raven. "Or strawberries? I know how much you enjoy them."

"Try the table," Roy yelled over his shoulder, mild irritation edged in his tone.

"Well..." Raven shrugged, her expression coy as she reached over for the blue container. "They are in season..." There were few things that could enhance Roy's crepes, except fresh berries. Raven puffed out her cheeks as she rifled through an almost empty berry basket. "And... there are only three left... You sure helped yourself," she accused heavily under her breath.

"I didn't see your name on them," Jason returned. "So it was fair game, like anything else in this apartment."

Raven folded her arms. "I thought Roy got them for me, didn't you Roy?" He glanced up at her as he moved around the open kitchen.

"Sorry, we're low, Rae," Roy said regrettably. "I should have picked up more. You'd think after a couple weeks, I wouldn't still be acclimating to having an additional mouth to feed. What can I say?"

"Yes, we're very sorry." Jason pinched her stocking-clad leg, eliciting a gasp.

Raven cut knife-sharp purple eyes at him before the redhead came around to her stool. Roy wiped a hand across the words Banging Redheads & Banging Brunches printed in a large black font on the apron.

Probably a Christmas gift.

And one for which Jason must have been responsible.

He ruffled the purple strands at Raven's crown with his spatula free hand. "I hope that's okay."

"Don't be ridiculous." She brushed the strings fastening the charcoal colored apron and tugged. "Now go take that off and come eat with us." Roy planted a kiss on the top of her head, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

"Hmm...I guess I could have blueberries..." Raven mused. "Now that I think about it, they'd really compliment the lavender. I don't know that strawberries would in the same way."

"Do you know that for a fact?" Jason took a small sip from his cup, eyes trained on her through the glass. "Or have you ever considered...both?"

With a startling scowl, Raven looked up from the melted whipped cream atop the remaining crepes on the granite counter. "Have you ever considered why I like Roy more?" She retorted. "It's this."

"Really?" And Raven pushed his stupidly handsome, smirking face away from her own. "Little bird, don't tease," Jason moaned, dragging out the last syllable. "I promise to be good, I'll share—I certainly don't mind sharing with Roy." She rolled her eyes, popping a blueberry in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

Jason was mostly euphemism on a good day, but this was different. He'd been dropping these odd hints all week. But Raven told herself it was another unexpected caveat about living here. She didn't think she should breach the subject or even read too much into them.

After all, she was only crashing with Jason and Roy for a little while longer.

This was purely temporary, until the super in her building got around to fixing the circulation unit in her water closet of a studio. Or that was what she told herself at first. She was quickly growing accustomed to the perks of living with them.

Being spoiled was... Well, it was nothing short of wonderful.

Gone were the days of scrounging up sad boxes of cereal for breakfast, schlepping together leftover takeout for lunch, or unearthing bags of nearly expired popcorn for dinner. Roy and Jason worked out a ton and ensured their fridge was always stocked. Even on the off-chance that it rained and the farmer's market wasn't open in the park so they could do locally-sourced organic.

That, and they could actually cook.

At a moment's notice, Roy could whip up an amazing French toast, or a hearty stew. If they were feeling wild he'd make them breakfast for dinner or vice versa. Even Jason's most experimental chili recipe could be redeemed by a few generous grates of cheese or a dollop of sour cream.

And clearly business was great, because their apartment was fantastic. It was spacious, but had all these homey touches, like a handcrafted breakfast nook Roy and Jason built together.

But tangible things aside, Raven found she actually didn't mind the company. So gone were the days of being alone.

The moments where he wasn't an insufferable tease, Jason loved attending their two person book-club. They talked books, trashy to classic and everything in between, often punctuated by an impromptu neck or foot rub.

When Roy wasn't working out, planning a job, or doling out heaps of domesticity onto her and Jason, he was a hopeless romantic. He reinvigorated Raven's secret love of rom-coms. But he also liked to learn from her. So he played chess, scrabble, even backgammon, and once in a while they were able to rope in Jason for monopoly. Roy was a very graceful loser at board games, but he was amazing when he got his hands around a deck of cards. And Raven was finding, she had a lot to learn from him.

But Raven's favorite nights were the ones where they could all just be. Listening to something old or indie in the background and talking until the three of them simply passed out.

The apartment just felt full—of fun, of food, of friends. Of laughter and love.

It was a wonderful life, but it was a shame it wasn't her life. Raven was a realist, she knew she'd have to go back.

But for now, she was going to enjoy every single second of it.

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mantrabay · 2 years

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Rush Amid The Rapids Published 35