Colorado avalanche license plate frame
Promoting electric vehicles by using clever messages on personalized license plates.
2013.02.28 18:46 paulwesterberg Promoting electric vehicles by using clever messages on personalized license plates.
Several auto manufacturers now have electric vehicles for sale to the general public, but market penetration for plugin vehicles is less than 1% of new vehicles sold. Pure electric vehicle sales are just 0.2%. More people will become aware and interested in electric vehicles when they see early adopters driving them. Having personalized plates will help increase consumer awareness.
2023.06.02 14:14 the-third-person Souhait
I’m an artist. Not one you’ve heard of, though that may be changing soon. Being an artist is about creation, not about commercial success. I wouldn’t mind getting the occasional acceptance mixed in with the constant stream of rejection, of course, but it’s a process.
A long process. They say that most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead. I’d always hoped that I’d make it slightly before that.
I graduated last year with an MFA from a relatively prestigious institution, along with a dozen other folks who convinced themselves that an insurmountable pile of debt was the best way to jump right into the starving artist lifestyle. We were, as mentioned, a small class, so we all went to each other’s showings and were generally supportive, but I was only really friends with two of the others, Jerrod and Albina.
The three of us ended up rooming together for the last year of the program, and we kept that going post-graduation. Having other folks in the house who look through the mail with the same mix of hope and trepidation is surprisingly helpful. Alone, it’s easy to simply look at everyone else’s filtered life and assume that you’re the only one failing. When you come down in the morning to find your roommate crying in her cornflakes because her last eleven submissions haven’t even gotten the courtesy of a rejection letter, it’s a little easier to see that this is just how life goes sometimes.
One of our favorite Friday night activities was going to local galleries to see who they had on display. There were a few reasons for this. One, it gave us a good idea of what they liked to show, helping us hone our own submissions. Two, it was very cathartic to be catty about what had been picked. Three, a lot of the galleries had free hors d’oeuvres and wine.
I guess four, we liked art, but honestly it was hard to remember that sometimes. Sometimes looking at other people’s finished canvases just made me angry. What made them able to decide that they were done? What made other people agree that they were worth hanging on the wall? What justified the astronomical price tags next to them?
I’m not saying that this was anything but jealousy. I’m just saying that art and I are in a complicated relationship.
About a month ago, we went to a newly-opened gallery, Souhait. It was the usual setup: tall glass windows in front showcasing the art placed strategically on bright white walls within. It had the standard mix of oddly angled separators allowing the patrons to wander slowly through the room and discover the paintings one at a time. Basically it looked like every other gallery, but as it was a new opening it had better wine than most.
I was taking a casual tour of the perimeter when Jerrod appeared at my elbow.
“Hey, congratulations!” he said. “You weren’t going to tell us? I can’t believe you managed to keep this a secret.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Oh, yeah, ‘what’ indeed.” He steered me around several corners to where Albina was admiring a painting. “‘There’s a new gallery opening, we should all go, no reason.’ Congrats!”
I stared at the painting in disbelief. It was one of mine.
I was certain that I hadn’t submitted to this gallery. I hadn’t even heard of it until Albina had mentioned that it was opening. I would have remembered receiving a letter of acceptance, and I definitely would have remembered delivering a painting. None of these things had happened.
And yet there my art was on the wall. It had my signature, and my name displayed next to it on a card. I knew the piece. I’d done it two or three years ago. It was good, very representative of my style at the time, but I’d moved on and had stopped trying to get it displayed a while ago. The last I had seen it, it was six or seven canvases deep in a stack of pieces that I had nowhere else to put.
It was fairly obvious that that was not the case now. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
Albina and Jerrod were both praising me, so I just smiled and made vaguely humble comments. I must have submitted it. It wasn’t like someone had broken into our apartment and stolen a single piece of my art. It was both confusing and concerning that I couldn’t recall offering it to this gallery, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
I was still trying to puzzle this out when another familiar piece caught my eye. I nudged Jerrod. “Oh, so I’m the one keeping secrets?”
He raised an eyebrow at me, and I pointed across the floor. His eyes widened as he saw the same thing I had: one of his paintings neatly framed and prominently displayed.
“I didn’t even know you’d finished that one,” I said. “I swear I saw you working on it like two days ago.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a bit lost. “I was.”
“How’d you get the gallery to take it before it was even done?”
“Oh my God, look!” said Albina.
In the back corner of the gallery, occupying an entire corner, was a small collection of Albina’s work. It was expertly curated. I’d watched her develop her style for years, and the eight paintings chosen here perfectly encapsulated the entire range. Clusters of people kept gathering in front of them, and I saw more than one slip off to speak to the gallery owner about purchasing a piece.
“Albi, these are amazing,” I told her after we finally managed to get close enough to see them all properly. “This—some of these are absolute perfection. I don’t think I’ve even seen all of them.”
“Seriously, when did you do all of this?” asked Jerrod. “Some of these are definitely new. Unless you have a secret studio you’ve been hiding from us?”
He narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion. She laughed, shoving him lightly, but behind her smile I saw the same confusion that I’d heard in Jerrod’s voice, the same that I’d felt myself. None of us knew that our work was going to be on display here. Something was very odd.
We didn’t talk about it then. Oddity or not, our art and our names were on display, and there were free drinks to toast with. We refilled our glasses, congratulated each other effusively, wandered the gallery for a bit and then did it all again. By the time we were walking home, all concerns had vanished from all of our minds. We were successful! We could figure out how and why later.
The next morning, Albina was dead.
I woke up late with a hangover. Jerrod woke up later, looking even rougher than I did. There was nothing resembling breakfast anywhere in the apartment, so we sat and sipped our coffee silently. Albina’s door was open, and I think we both hoped that she’d gone out to get bagels or something and that we would shortly be provided for.
She wasn’t answering texts, and Jerrod and I were just starting to get concerned when there was a knock at the door. We opened it to find a policeman asking if we knew Albina Shevchenko, and if we had contact information for her family, and if we could come identify the body.
It had been a hit and run. She’d been dead by the time witnesses had gotten to her. No one had seen the car’s license plate. The police didn’t even pretend that there was a chance of justice.
They gave us her effects, including what remained of a bag of bagels. Somehow that was the worst part for me. She’d gone out to get something to celebrate with us. It made us complicit.
At the funeral, the priest spoke about her giving spirit and her wonderful personality, but most of all he spoke about her massive artistic talent. He went on at length about what she could have created if she had not had her span cut short. The entire gathering nodded along with him.
Jerrod and I exchanged looks. It wasn’t that he was wrong. She was amazing, and eventually the world would have known about her. It’s just that that hadn’t happened yet. The three of us were, as far as we could tell, the only ones really aware of how much potential we had. If everyone knew this about her, why had she been scraping by in a dingy apartment with us, trying to get enough money together to buy more art supplies?
“We should go back to Souhait,” Jerrod said after the funeral. “The gallery owner probably doesn’t know. We’ll need to get her pieces back before he trashes them when she doesn’t respond.”
Our trip was unnecessary. The gallery owner had Albina’s obituary blown up to large size and prominently displayed next to a tremendous collection of her work. It covered entire walls of the gallery, each piece with an explanatory card discussing when and why she had painted it. Where the prices had been on the cards, every single one was marked “SOLD.”
I was looking around for the owner to ask where he was sending the money when Jerrod grabbed my arm.
“Look,” he said, half-whispering.
Arranged in a neat circle on one wall were a dozen of his paintings.
“I don’t know that I want to be on display here,” he said. He sounded frightened.
“Then take them back. They’re your pieces.”
“Are they?” He pointed. “I never finished that one. That’s how I wanted it to look, but I couldn’t get it right. I swear I never completed it. And there! I never painted that. I thought of it, I knew it in my head, but I have never put brush to canvas for it. Not even to start it.
“How could they have any of this? How could anyone?” His voice was rapidly rising toward hysteria.
“Hey, let’s get you out of here,” I said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll come back tomorrow and get them taken down if you want. We’re all running on fumes right now.”
Privately, I thought again about the piece that Souhait had of mine. I’d never gotten around to looking for it at the apartment. Things had been a blur since Albi’s death. I wondered how this gallery had so much of our stuff. I wondered what else had been taken.
Back at home, Jerrod rummaged through his artwork, hunting for something.
“See?” he said finally, holding up a canvas. “I told you. It isn’t done.”
He was holding up something that could have been an early attempt at one of the pieces we’d seen in the gallery. It was the same general idea, but the colors weren’t right and the composition didn’t gel. Also, as he’d said, it was clearly incomplete. Parts of the canvas still showed through in some areas. It wasn’t what was hanging on the walls.
“I told you,” he repeated. “How can they have art I never finished?”
I tried to get him to calm down. I sat him down on the couch and poured him a drink. We’d go back in the morning, I said. We’d find the owner. We’d sort all of this out. It was a problem for tomorrow, not for this evening. Not right after a funeral.
I thought I’d gotten him to agree with me. I poured us both another drink. Somewhere in the middle of that one, I fell asleep on the couch.
When I woke up, Jerrod was gone.
Just one of those things, the police said. Wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been mugged. His credit cards and phone were gone. He’d bled out in the street. He was almost halfway to Souhait.
I went there to get his art taken down, like he’d wanted. They’d already expanded the collection. His photo smiled down at me from the main wall, next to an obituary lauding his talent, his bold innovation, his novelty. The rest of the gallery was plastered with his work. I recognized some of the paintings he’d been rifling through at the apartment the previous day. Most had already been sold.
And on the back wall, in a small but well-lit section by themselves, hung six of my paintings. The one that I’d seen the first night was there, along with two others I was particularly proud of. If I’d been asked to pick three pieces to best represent who I was and who I had been as an artist, those might have been them.
The other three bore my signature, but I did not paint them. Not yet. Like Jerrod, I knew the subject matter in them. I had thought of them, conceived them, and even made some attempts to put them to canvas, but they had never come out like I’d imagined. I’d set them aside to try again later, when I had better supplies, when I was better.
Yet here they hung, complete and perfect, exactly as I had pictured them. It was a triumph of my craft.
It was beautiful to see what I could become, given enough time.
It’s just too bad that I don’t have it.
Most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead.
submitted by the-third-person to micahwrites [link] [comments]
A long process. They say that most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead. I’d always hoped that I’d make it slightly before that.
I graduated last year with an MFA from a relatively prestigious institution, along with a dozen other folks who convinced themselves that an insurmountable pile of debt was the best way to jump right into the starving artist lifestyle. We were, as mentioned, a small class, so we all went to each other’s showings and were generally supportive, but I was only really friends with two of the others, Jerrod and Albina.
The three of us ended up rooming together for the last year of the program, and we kept that going post-graduation. Having other folks in the house who look through the mail with the same mix of hope and trepidation is surprisingly helpful. Alone, it’s easy to simply look at everyone else’s filtered life and assume that you’re the only one failing. When you come down in the morning to find your roommate crying in her cornflakes because her last eleven submissions haven’t even gotten the courtesy of a rejection letter, it’s a little easier to see that this is just how life goes sometimes.
One of our favorite Friday night activities was going to local galleries to see who they had on display. There were a few reasons for this. One, it gave us a good idea of what they liked to show, helping us hone our own submissions. Two, it was very cathartic to be catty about what had been picked. Three, a lot of the galleries had free hors d’oeuvres and wine.
I guess four, we liked art, but honestly it was hard to remember that sometimes. Sometimes looking at other people’s finished canvases just made me angry. What made them able to decide that they were done? What made other people agree that they were worth hanging on the wall? What justified the astronomical price tags next to them?
I’m not saying that this was anything but jealousy. I’m just saying that art and I are in a complicated relationship.
About a month ago, we went to a newly-opened gallery, Souhait. It was the usual setup: tall glass windows in front showcasing the art placed strategically on bright white walls within. It had the standard mix of oddly angled separators allowing the patrons to wander slowly through the room and discover the paintings one at a time. Basically it looked like every other gallery, but as it was a new opening it had better wine than most.
I was taking a casual tour of the perimeter when Jerrod appeared at my elbow.
“Hey, congratulations!” he said. “You weren’t going to tell us? I can’t believe you managed to keep this a secret.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Oh, yeah, ‘what’ indeed.” He steered me around several corners to where Albina was admiring a painting. “‘There’s a new gallery opening, we should all go, no reason.’ Congrats!”
I stared at the painting in disbelief. It was one of mine.
I was certain that I hadn’t submitted to this gallery. I hadn’t even heard of it until Albina had mentioned that it was opening. I would have remembered receiving a letter of acceptance, and I definitely would have remembered delivering a painting. None of these things had happened.
And yet there my art was on the wall. It had my signature, and my name displayed next to it on a card. I knew the piece. I’d done it two or three years ago. It was good, very representative of my style at the time, but I’d moved on and had stopped trying to get it displayed a while ago. The last I had seen it, it was six or seven canvases deep in a stack of pieces that I had nowhere else to put.
It was fairly obvious that that was not the case now. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
Albina and Jerrod were both praising me, so I just smiled and made vaguely humble comments. I must have submitted it. It wasn’t like someone had broken into our apartment and stolen a single piece of my art. It was both confusing and concerning that I couldn’t recall offering it to this gallery, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
I was still trying to puzzle this out when another familiar piece caught my eye. I nudged Jerrod. “Oh, so I’m the one keeping secrets?”
He raised an eyebrow at me, and I pointed across the floor. His eyes widened as he saw the same thing I had: one of his paintings neatly framed and prominently displayed.
“I didn’t even know you’d finished that one,” I said. “I swear I saw you working on it like two days ago.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a bit lost. “I was.”
“How’d you get the gallery to take it before it was even done?”
“Oh my God, look!” said Albina.
In the back corner of the gallery, occupying an entire corner, was a small collection of Albina’s work. It was expertly curated. I’d watched her develop her style for years, and the eight paintings chosen here perfectly encapsulated the entire range. Clusters of people kept gathering in front of them, and I saw more than one slip off to speak to the gallery owner about purchasing a piece.
“Albi, these are amazing,” I told her after we finally managed to get close enough to see them all properly. “This—some of these are absolute perfection. I don’t think I’ve even seen all of them.”
“Seriously, when did you do all of this?” asked Jerrod. “Some of these are definitely new. Unless you have a secret studio you’ve been hiding from us?”
He narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion. She laughed, shoving him lightly, but behind her smile I saw the same confusion that I’d heard in Jerrod’s voice, the same that I’d felt myself. None of us knew that our work was going to be on display here. Something was very odd.
We didn’t talk about it then. Oddity or not, our art and our names were on display, and there were free drinks to toast with. We refilled our glasses, congratulated each other effusively, wandered the gallery for a bit and then did it all again. By the time we were walking home, all concerns had vanished from all of our minds. We were successful! We could figure out how and why later.
The next morning, Albina was dead.
I woke up late with a hangover. Jerrod woke up later, looking even rougher than I did. There was nothing resembling breakfast anywhere in the apartment, so we sat and sipped our coffee silently. Albina’s door was open, and I think we both hoped that she’d gone out to get bagels or something and that we would shortly be provided for.
She wasn’t answering texts, and Jerrod and I were just starting to get concerned when there was a knock at the door. We opened it to find a policeman asking if we knew Albina Shevchenko, and if we had contact information for her family, and if we could come identify the body.
It had been a hit and run. She’d been dead by the time witnesses had gotten to her. No one had seen the car’s license plate. The police didn’t even pretend that there was a chance of justice.
They gave us her effects, including what remained of a bag of bagels. Somehow that was the worst part for me. She’d gone out to get something to celebrate with us. It made us complicit.
At the funeral, the priest spoke about her giving spirit and her wonderful personality, but most of all he spoke about her massive artistic talent. He went on at length about what she could have created if she had not had her span cut short. The entire gathering nodded along with him.
Jerrod and I exchanged looks. It wasn’t that he was wrong. She was amazing, and eventually the world would have known about her. It’s just that that hadn’t happened yet. The three of us were, as far as we could tell, the only ones really aware of how much potential we had. If everyone knew this about her, why had she been scraping by in a dingy apartment with us, trying to get enough money together to buy more art supplies?
“We should go back to Souhait,” Jerrod said after the funeral. “The gallery owner probably doesn’t know. We’ll need to get her pieces back before he trashes them when she doesn’t respond.”
Our trip was unnecessary. The gallery owner had Albina’s obituary blown up to large size and prominently displayed next to a tremendous collection of her work. It covered entire walls of the gallery, each piece with an explanatory card discussing when and why she had painted it. Where the prices had been on the cards, every single one was marked “SOLD.”
I was looking around for the owner to ask where he was sending the money when Jerrod grabbed my arm.
“Look,” he said, half-whispering.
Arranged in a neat circle on one wall were a dozen of his paintings.
“I don’t know that I want to be on display here,” he said. He sounded frightened.
“Then take them back. They’re your pieces.”
“Are they?” He pointed. “I never finished that one. That’s how I wanted it to look, but I couldn’t get it right. I swear I never completed it. And there! I never painted that. I thought of it, I knew it in my head, but I have never put brush to canvas for it. Not even to start it.
“How could they have any of this? How could anyone?” His voice was rapidly rising toward hysteria.
“Hey, let’s get you out of here,” I said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll come back tomorrow and get them taken down if you want. We’re all running on fumes right now.”
Privately, I thought again about the piece that Souhait had of mine. I’d never gotten around to looking for it at the apartment. Things had been a blur since Albi’s death. I wondered how this gallery had so much of our stuff. I wondered what else had been taken.
Back at home, Jerrod rummaged through his artwork, hunting for something.
“See?” he said finally, holding up a canvas. “I told you. It isn’t done.”
He was holding up something that could have been an early attempt at one of the pieces we’d seen in the gallery. It was the same general idea, but the colors weren’t right and the composition didn’t gel. Also, as he’d said, it was clearly incomplete. Parts of the canvas still showed through in some areas. It wasn’t what was hanging on the walls.
“I told you,” he repeated. “How can they have art I never finished?”
I tried to get him to calm down. I sat him down on the couch and poured him a drink. We’d go back in the morning, I said. We’d find the owner. We’d sort all of this out. It was a problem for tomorrow, not for this evening. Not right after a funeral.
I thought I’d gotten him to agree with me. I poured us both another drink. Somewhere in the middle of that one, I fell asleep on the couch.
When I woke up, Jerrod was gone.
Just one of those things, the police said. Wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been mugged. His credit cards and phone were gone. He’d bled out in the street. He was almost halfway to Souhait.
I went there to get his art taken down, like he’d wanted. They’d already expanded the collection. His photo smiled down at me from the main wall, next to an obituary lauding his talent, his bold innovation, his novelty. The rest of the gallery was plastered with his work. I recognized some of the paintings he’d been rifling through at the apartment the previous day. Most had already been sold.
And on the back wall, in a small but well-lit section by themselves, hung six of my paintings. The one that I’d seen the first night was there, along with two others I was particularly proud of. If I’d been asked to pick three pieces to best represent who I was and who I had been as an artist, those might have been them.
The other three bore my signature, but I did not paint them. Not yet. Like Jerrod, I knew the subject matter in them. I had thought of them, conceived them, and even made some attempts to put them to canvas, but they had never come out like I’d imagined. I’d set them aside to try again later, when I had better supplies, when I was better.
Yet here they hung, complete and perfect, exactly as I had pictured them. It was a triumph of my craft.
It was beautiful to see what I could become, given enough time.
It’s just too bad that I don’t have it.
Most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead.
2023.06.02 14:13 the-third-person I discovered one of my paintings in an art gallery
I’m an artist. Not one you’ve heard of, though that may be changing soon. Being an artist is about creation, not about commercial success. I wouldn’t mind getting the occasional acceptance mixed in with the constant stream of rejection, of course, but it’s a process.
A long process. They say that most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead. I’d always hoped that I’d make it slightly before that.
I graduated last year with an MFA from a relatively prestigious institution, along with a dozen other folks who convinced themselves that an insurmountable pile of debt was the best way to jump right into the starving artist lifestyle. We were, as mentioned, a small class, so we all went to each other’s showings and were generally supportive, but I was only really friends with two of the others, Jerrod and Albina.
The three of us ended up rooming together for the last year of the program, and we kept that going post-graduation. Having other folks in the house who look through the mail with the same mix of hope and trepidation is surprisingly helpful. Alone, it’s easy to simply look at everyone else’s filtered life and assume that you’re the only one failing. When you come down in the morning to find your roommate crying in her cornflakes because her last eleven submissions haven’t even gotten the courtesy of a rejection letter, it’s a little easier to see that this is just how life goes sometimes.
One of our favorite Friday night activities was going to local galleries to see who they had on display. There were a few reasons for this. One, it gave us a good idea of what they liked to show, helping us hone our own submissions. Two, it was very cathartic to be catty about what had been picked. Three, a lot of the galleries had free hors d’oeuvres and wine.
I guess four, we liked art, but honestly it was hard to remember that sometimes. Sometimes looking at other people’s finished canvases just made me angry. What made them able to decide that they were done? What made other people agree that they were worth hanging on the wall? What justified the astronomical price tags next to them?
I’m not saying that this was anything but jealousy. I’m just saying that art and I are in a complicated relationship.
About a month ago, we went to a newly-opened gallery, Souhait. It was the usual setup: tall glass windows in front showcasing the art placed strategically on bright white walls within. It had the standard mix of oddly angled separators allowing the patrons to wander slowly through the room and discover the paintings one at a time. Basically it looked like every other gallery, but as it was a new opening it had better wine than most.
I was taking a casual tour of the perimeter when Jerrod appeared at my elbow.
“Hey, congratulations!” he said. “You weren’t going to tell us? I can’t believe you managed to keep this a secret.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Oh, yeah, ‘what’ indeed.” He steered me around several corners to where Albina was admiring a painting. “‘There’s a new gallery opening, we should all go, no reason.’ Congrats!”
I stared at the painting in disbelief. It was one of mine.
I was certain that I hadn’t submitted to this gallery. I hadn’t even heard of it until Albina had mentioned that it was opening. I would have remembered receiving a letter of acceptance, and I definitely would have remembered delivering a painting. None of these things had happened.
And yet there my art was on the wall. It had my signature, and my name displayed next to it on a card. I knew the piece. I’d done it two or three years ago. It was good, very representative of my style at the time, but I’d moved on and had stopped trying to get it displayed a while ago. The last I had seen it, it was six or seven canvases deep in a stack of pieces that I had nowhere else to put.
It was fairly obvious that that was not the case now. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
Albina and Jerrod were both praising me, so I just smiled and made vaguely humble comments. I must have submitted it. It wasn’t like someone had broken into our apartment and stolen a single piece of my art. It was both confusing and concerning that I couldn’t recall offering it to this gallery, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
I was still trying to puzzle this out when another familiar piece caught my eye. I nudged Jerrod. “Oh, so I’m the one keeping secrets?”
He raised an eyebrow at me, and I pointed across the floor. His eyes widened as he saw the same thing I had: one of his paintings neatly framed and prominently displayed.
“I didn’t even know you’d finished that one,” I said. “I swear I saw you working on it like two days ago.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a bit lost. “I was.”
“How’d you get the gallery to take it before it was even done?”
“Oh my God, look!” said Albina.
In the back corner of the gallery, occupying an entire corner, was a small collection of Albina’s work. It was expertly curated. I’d watched her develop her style for years, and the eight paintings chosen here perfectly encapsulated the entire range. Clusters of people kept gathering in front of them, and I saw more than one slip off to speak to the gallery owner about purchasing a piece.
“Albi, these are amazing,” I told her after we finally managed to get close enough to see them all properly. “This—some of these are absolute perfection. I don’t think I’ve even seen all of them.”
“Seriously, when did you do all of this?” asked Jerrod. “Some of these are definitely new. Unless you have a secret studio you’ve been hiding from us?”
He narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion. She laughed, shoving him lightly, but behind her smile I saw the same confusion that I’d heard in Jerrod’s voice, the same that I’d felt myself. None of us knew that our work was going to be on display here. Something was very odd.
We didn’t talk about it then. Oddity or not, our art and our names were on display, and there were free drinks to toast with. We refilled our glasses, congratulated each other effusively, wandered the gallery for a bit and then did it all again. By the time we were walking home, all concerns had vanished from all of our minds. We were successful! We could figure out how and why later.
The next morning, Albina was dead.
I woke up late with a hangover. Jerrod woke up later, looking even rougher than I did. There was nothing resembling breakfast anywhere in the apartment, so we sat and sipped our coffee silently. Albina’s door was open, and I think we both hoped that she’d gone out to get bagels or something and that we would shortly be provided for.
She wasn’t answering texts, and Jerrod and I were just starting to get concerned when there was a knock at the door. We opened it to find a policeman asking if we knew Albina Shevchenko, and if we had contact information for her family, and if we could come identify the body.
It had been a hit and run. She’d been dead by the time witnesses had gotten to her. No one had seen the car’s license plate. The police didn’t even pretend that there was a chance of justice.
They gave us her effects, including what remained of a bag of bagels. Somehow that was the worst part for me. She’d gone out to get something to celebrate with us. It made us complicit.
At the funeral, the priest spoke about her giving spirit and her wonderful personality, but most of all he spoke about her massive artistic talent. He went on at length about what she could have created if she had not had her span cut short. The entire gathering nodded along with him.
Jerrod and I exchanged looks. It wasn’t that he was wrong. She was amazing, and eventually the world would have known about her. It’s just that that hadn’t happened yet. The three of us were, as far as we could tell, the only ones really aware of how much potential we had. If everyone knew this about her, why had she been scraping by in a dingy apartment with us, trying to get enough money together to buy more art supplies?
“We should go back to Souhait,” Jerrod said after the funeral. “The gallery owner probably doesn’t know. We’ll need to get her pieces back before he trashes them when she doesn’t respond.”
Our trip was unnecessary. The gallery owner had Albina’s obituary blown up to large size and prominently displayed next to a tremendous collection of her work. It covered entire walls of the gallery, each piece with an explanatory card discussing when and why she had painted it. Where the prices had been on the cards, every single one was marked “SOLD.”
I was looking around for the owner to ask where he was sending the money when Jerrod grabbed my arm.
“Look,” he said, half-whispering.
Arranged in a neat circle on one wall were a dozen of his paintings.
“I don’t know that I want to be on display here,” he said. He sounded frightened.
“Then take them back. They’re your pieces.”
“Are they?” He pointed. “I never finished that one. That’s how I wanted it to look, but I couldn’t get it right. I swear I never completed it. And there! I never painted that. I thought of it, I knew it in my head, but I have never put brush to canvas for it. Not even to start it.
“How could they have any of this? How could anyone?” His voice was rapidly rising toward hysteria.
“Hey, let’s get you out of here,” I said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll come back tomorrow and get them taken down if you want. We’re all running on fumes right now.”
Privately, I thought again about the piece that Souhait had of mine. I’d never gotten around to looking for it at the apartment. Things had been a blur since Albi’s death. I wondered how this gallery had so much of our stuff. I wondered what else had been taken.
Back at home, Jerrod rummaged through his artwork, hunting for something.
“See?” he said finally, holding up a canvas. “I told you. It isn’t done.”
He was holding up something that could have been an early attempt at one of the pieces we’d seen in the gallery. It was the same general idea, but the colors weren’t right and the composition didn’t gel. Also, as he’d said, it was clearly incomplete. Parts of the canvas still showed through in some areas. It wasn’t what was hanging on the walls.
“I told you,” he repeated. “How can they have art I never finished?”
I tried to get him to calm down. I sat him down on the couch and poured him a drink. We’d go back in the morning, I said. We’d find the owner. We’d sort all of this out. It was a problem for tomorrow, not for this evening. Not right after a funeral.
I thought I’d gotten him to agree with me. I poured us both another drink. Somewhere in the middle of that one, I fell asleep on the couch.
When I woke up, Jerrod was gone.
Just one of those things, the police said. Wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been mugged. His credit cards and phone were gone. He’d bled out in the street. He was almost halfway to Souhait.
I went there to get his art taken down, like he’d wanted. They’d already expanded the collection. His photo smiled down at me from the main wall, next to an obituary lauding his talent, his bold innovation, his novelty. The rest of the gallery was plastered with his work. I recognized some of the paintings he’d been rifling through at the apartment the previous day. Most had already been sold.
And on the back wall, in a small but well-lit section by themselves, hung six of my paintings. The one that I’d seen the first night was there, along with two others I was particularly proud of. If I’d been asked to pick three pieces to best represent who I was and who I had been as an artist, those might have been them.
The other three bore my signature, but I did not paint them. Not yet. Like Jerrod, I knew the subject matter in them. I had thought of them, conceived them, and even made some attempts to put them to canvas, but they had never come out like I’d imagined. I’d set them aside to try again later, when I had better supplies, when I was better.
Yet here they hung, complete and perfect, exactly as I had pictured them. It was a triumph of my craft.
It was beautiful to see what I could become, given enough time.
It’s just too bad that I don’t have it.
Most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead.
X
submitted by the-third-person to nosleep [link] [comments]
A long process. They say that most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead. I’d always hoped that I’d make it slightly before that.
I graduated last year with an MFA from a relatively prestigious institution, along with a dozen other folks who convinced themselves that an insurmountable pile of debt was the best way to jump right into the starving artist lifestyle. We were, as mentioned, a small class, so we all went to each other’s showings and were generally supportive, but I was only really friends with two of the others, Jerrod and Albina.
The three of us ended up rooming together for the last year of the program, and we kept that going post-graduation. Having other folks in the house who look through the mail with the same mix of hope and trepidation is surprisingly helpful. Alone, it’s easy to simply look at everyone else’s filtered life and assume that you’re the only one failing. When you come down in the morning to find your roommate crying in her cornflakes because her last eleven submissions haven’t even gotten the courtesy of a rejection letter, it’s a little easier to see that this is just how life goes sometimes.
One of our favorite Friday night activities was going to local galleries to see who they had on display. There were a few reasons for this. One, it gave us a good idea of what they liked to show, helping us hone our own submissions. Two, it was very cathartic to be catty about what had been picked. Three, a lot of the galleries had free hors d’oeuvres and wine.
I guess four, we liked art, but honestly it was hard to remember that sometimes. Sometimes looking at other people’s finished canvases just made me angry. What made them able to decide that they were done? What made other people agree that they were worth hanging on the wall? What justified the astronomical price tags next to them?
I’m not saying that this was anything but jealousy. I’m just saying that art and I are in a complicated relationship.
About a month ago, we went to a newly-opened gallery, Souhait. It was the usual setup: tall glass windows in front showcasing the art placed strategically on bright white walls within. It had the standard mix of oddly angled separators allowing the patrons to wander slowly through the room and discover the paintings one at a time. Basically it looked like every other gallery, but as it was a new opening it had better wine than most.
I was taking a casual tour of the perimeter when Jerrod appeared at my elbow.
“Hey, congratulations!” he said. “You weren’t going to tell us? I can’t believe you managed to keep this a secret.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Oh, yeah, ‘what’ indeed.” He steered me around several corners to where Albina was admiring a painting. “‘There’s a new gallery opening, we should all go, no reason.’ Congrats!”
I stared at the painting in disbelief. It was one of mine.
I was certain that I hadn’t submitted to this gallery. I hadn’t even heard of it until Albina had mentioned that it was opening. I would have remembered receiving a letter of acceptance, and I definitely would have remembered delivering a painting. None of these things had happened.
And yet there my art was on the wall. It had my signature, and my name displayed next to it on a card. I knew the piece. I’d done it two or three years ago. It was good, very representative of my style at the time, but I’d moved on and had stopped trying to get it displayed a while ago. The last I had seen it, it was six or seven canvases deep in a stack of pieces that I had nowhere else to put.
It was fairly obvious that that was not the case now. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
Albina and Jerrod were both praising me, so I just smiled and made vaguely humble comments. I must have submitted it. It wasn’t like someone had broken into our apartment and stolen a single piece of my art. It was both confusing and concerning that I couldn’t recall offering it to this gallery, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
I was still trying to puzzle this out when another familiar piece caught my eye. I nudged Jerrod. “Oh, so I’m the one keeping secrets?”
He raised an eyebrow at me, and I pointed across the floor. His eyes widened as he saw the same thing I had: one of his paintings neatly framed and prominently displayed.
“I didn’t even know you’d finished that one,” I said. “I swear I saw you working on it like two days ago.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a bit lost. “I was.”
“How’d you get the gallery to take it before it was even done?”
“Oh my God, look!” said Albina.
In the back corner of the gallery, occupying an entire corner, was a small collection of Albina’s work. It was expertly curated. I’d watched her develop her style for years, and the eight paintings chosen here perfectly encapsulated the entire range. Clusters of people kept gathering in front of them, and I saw more than one slip off to speak to the gallery owner about purchasing a piece.
“Albi, these are amazing,” I told her after we finally managed to get close enough to see them all properly. “This—some of these are absolute perfection. I don’t think I’ve even seen all of them.”
“Seriously, when did you do all of this?” asked Jerrod. “Some of these are definitely new. Unless you have a secret studio you’ve been hiding from us?”
He narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion. She laughed, shoving him lightly, but behind her smile I saw the same confusion that I’d heard in Jerrod’s voice, the same that I’d felt myself. None of us knew that our work was going to be on display here. Something was very odd.
We didn’t talk about it then. Oddity or not, our art and our names were on display, and there were free drinks to toast with. We refilled our glasses, congratulated each other effusively, wandered the gallery for a bit and then did it all again. By the time we were walking home, all concerns had vanished from all of our minds. We were successful! We could figure out how and why later.
The next morning, Albina was dead.
I woke up late with a hangover. Jerrod woke up later, looking even rougher than I did. There was nothing resembling breakfast anywhere in the apartment, so we sat and sipped our coffee silently. Albina’s door was open, and I think we both hoped that she’d gone out to get bagels or something and that we would shortly be provided for.
She wasn’t answering texts, and Jerrod and I were just starting to get concerned when there was a knock at the door. We opened it to find a policeman asking if we knew Albina Shevchenko, and if we had contact information for her family, and if we could come identify the body.
It had been a hit and run. She’d been dead by the time witnesses had gotten to her. No one had seen the car’s license plate. The police didn’t even pretend that there was a chance of justice.
They gave us her effects, including what remained of a bag of bagels. Somehow that was the worst part for me. She’d gone out to get something to celebrate with us. It made us complicit.
At the funeral, the priest spoke about her giving spirit and her wonderful personality, but most of all he spoke about her massive artistic talent. He went on at length about what she could have created if she had not had her span cut short. The entire gathering nodded along with him.
Jerrod and I exchanged looks. It wasn’t that he was wrong. She was amazing, and eventually the world would have known about her. It’s just that that hadn’t happened yet. The three of us were, as far as we could tell, the only ones really aware of how much potential we had. If everyone knew this about her, why had she been scraping by in a dingy apartment with us, trying to get enough money together to buy more art supplies?
“We should go back to Souhait,” Jerrod said after the funeral. “The gallery owner probably doesn’t know. We’ll need to get her pieces back before he trashes them when she doesn’t respond.”
Our trip was unnecessary. The gallery owner had Albina’s obituary blown up to large size and prominently displayed next to a tremendous collection of her work. It covered entire walls of the gallery, each piece with an explanatory card discussing when and why she had painted it. Where the prices had been on the cards, every single one was marked “SOLD.”
I was looking around for the owner to ask where he was sending the money when Jerrod grabbed my arm.
“Look,” he said, half-whispering.
Arranged in a neat circle on one wall were a dozen of his paintings.
“I don’t know that I want to be on display here,” he said. He sounded frightened.
“Then take them back. They’re your pieces.”
“Are they?” He pointed. “I never finished that one. That’s how I wanted it to look, but I couldn’t get it right. I swear I never completed it. And there! I never painted that. I thought of it, I knew it in my head, but I have never put brush to canvas for it. Not even to start it.
“How could they have any of this? How could anyone?” His voice was rapidly rising toward hysteria.
“Hey, let’s get you out of here,” I said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll come back tomorrow and get them taken down if you want. We’re all running on fumes right now.”
Privately, I thought again about the piece that Souhait had of mine. I’d never gotten around to looking for it at the apartment. Things had been a blur since Albi’s death. I wondered how this gallery had so much of our stuff. I wondered what else had been taken.
Back at home, Jerrod rummaged through his artwork, hunting for something.
“See?” he said finally, holding up a canvas. “I told you. It isn’t done.”
He was holding up something that could have been an early attempt at one of the pieces we’d seen in the gallery. It was the same general idea, but the colors weren’t right and the composition didn’t gel. Also, as he’d said, it was clearly incomplete. Parts of the canvas still showed through in some areas. It wasn’t what was hanging on the walls.
“I told you,” he repeated. “How can they have art I never finished?”
I tried to get him to calm down. I sat him down on the couch and poured him a drink. We’d go back in the morning, I said. We’d find the owner. We’d sort all of this out. It was a problem for tomorrow, not for this evening. Not right after a funeral.
I thought I’d gotten him to agree with me. I poured us both another drink. Somewhere in the middle of that one, I fell asleep on the couch.
When I woke up, Jerrod was gone.
Just one of those things, the police said. Wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been mugged. His credit cards and phone were gone. He’d bled out in the street. He was almost halfway to Souhait.
I went there to get his art taken down, like he’d wanted. They’d already expanded the collection. His photo smiled down at me from the main wall, next to an obituary lauding his talent, his bold innovation, his novelty. The rest of the gallery was plastered with his work. I recognized some of the paintings he’d been rifling through at the apartment the previous day. Most had already been sold.
And on the back wall, in a small but well-lit section by themselves, hung six of my paintings. The one that I’d seen the first night was there, along with two others I was particularly proud of. If I’d been asked to pick three pieces to best represent who I was and who I had been as an artist, those might have been them.
The other three bore my signature, but I did not paint them. Not yet. Like Jerrod, I knew the subject matter in them. I had thought of them, conceived them, and even made some attempts to put them to canvas, but they had never come out like I’d imagined. I’d set them aside to try again later, when I had better supplies, when I was better.
Yet here they hung, complete and perfect, exactly as I had pictured them. It was a triumph of my craft.
It was beautiful to see what I could become, given enough time.
It’s just too bad that I don’t have it.
Most artists don’t become famous until after they’re dead.
2023.06.02 14:08 Framess- Found A VP License plate a few weeks ago
 | submitted by Framess- to mildlyinteresting [link] [comments] |
2023.06.02 14:05 germanky Immediate Openings Licensed Practical Nurse LPN Colorado Springs
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2023.06.02 14:05 bashmydotfiles Anchoring freestanding shelves when studs aren’t aligned
Hey everyone!
I’m working on anchoring some freestanding shelves. The studs I’ve found are within the width of the shelf, but don’t line up with the pre-drilled anchor holes.
The pre-drilled holes also go through additional anchors that would secure screws by attaching to the frame of the shelf (rather than just relying on the back).
I have two options:
1) Screw one hole into a stud, and use a toggle bolt for the other.
2) Screw a piece of wood that spans the two studs, and then screw the shelf into the wood. The wood would not go beyond the width of the shelf.
I’m leaning towards #2, since the previous owners of the house I’m in left a bunch of wood in the basement.
What type of screws should I use?
How can I make sure the type of wood I have is safe?
I have a bunch of different types - I do know I have some sturdy plywood similar to the photo posted here: https://diy.stackexchange.com/questions/69354/plywood-plate-for-mounting-to-wall
Just with less “layers” if that makes sense. Still feels extremely sturdy!
submitted by bashmydotfiles to HomeImprovement [link] [comments]
I’m working on anchoring some freestanding shelves. The studs I’ve found are within the width of the shelf, but don’t line up with the pre-drilled anchor holes.
The pre-drilled holes also go through additional anchors that would secure screws by attaching to the frame of the shelf (rather than just relying on the back).
I have two options:
1) Screw one hole into a stud, and use a toggle bolt for the other.
2) Screw a piece of wood that spans the two studs, and then screw the shelf into the wood. The wood would not go beyond the width of the shelf.
I’m leaning towards #2, since the previous owners of the house I’m in left a bunch of wood in the basement.
What type of screws should I use?
How can I make sure the type of wood I have is safe?
I have a bunch of different types - I do know I have some sturdy plywood similar to the photo posted here: https://diy.stackexchange.com/questions/69354/plywood-plate-for-mounting-to-wall
Just with less “layers” if that makes sense. Still feels extremely sturdy!
2023.06.02 13:41 BlueFishcake Sexy Sect Babes: Chapter Sixty Five
“It’s not very iconic,” Jack mumbled to himself as he watched the frame of the newest variant of Crawler come together.
Though calling it a ‘Crawler’ was a bit of a misnomer, given that the vehicle didn’t actually crawl. Instead, it would move about on treads. Like a normal tank. Which, while practical, were rather boring to look at.
To make matters worse, Shui would be taking just over half of the iconic older variants of crawler that did actually crawl with her on her journey North. Doing so would allow her force to be entirely mechanized – or horseborne in the case of the cultivators – reducing a journey that would normally take months into one that would take weeks.
Plus, a mountain pass is actually a location where the mechanical legs might see some practical use, he thought.
Shui was certainly pleased about the extra support. While Jack wouldn’t go so far as to say she was giddy, there was certainly a degree of ‘pep’ to her steps as she rushed about the city organizing her new ‘army’. Even the mortal elements, which he got the feeling were normally an afterthought in these kinds of engagements.
She’d be taking fully one third of the militia that An had arrived with a few weeks ago. Ten thousand men and women. As well as fifteen cultivators – who Jack had made sure came from differing Sects. A move that would hopefully keep her from getting up to mischief by turning them against him.
Hopefully.
Ideally, he’d like to say that was why she was taking a contingent of homegrown Jiangshi ‘natives’ – for a given use of the word. The reality was that she was taking the militia because the alternative was a force of spear wielding sect troops, which would be like feeding meat into a grinder.
Which might have been just fine for the Empire, but mortals actually had some innate value to him. To that end, those sect troops still in the city – all fifty thousand of them - were going to be re-equipped and retrained as part of his new Ten Huo army.
Which was why five thousand militia members would be sticking around to train them in turn, while the remaining fifteen thousand returned to the very important task of guarding Jiangshi.
Which was a priority, given that An had all but stripped the province bare of soldiers to create her rescue force – and if they didn’t return soon their absence would be keenly felt.
Of course, this all relies on the Sects giving up their personal armies without a fight, Jack thought. Here’s hoping my most recent lesson in who holds the biggest stick will remain stuck in their mind when I make that announcement…
“Perhaps.” Elwin said from beside him, returning his thoughts to the mundane nature of his latest construct. Not that you’d know it from looking at Elwin. The elf’s arms were crossed as she watched with no small amount of awe as his workshop’s many pneumatic arms worked to bring the tank to life. “That will change though. I have oft found that the iconic nature of a soldier or weapon only grows with their success. And to hear little Lin go on about this machine, it will be very successful indeed.”
Jack hummed, conceding the point. Both Lin and Huang were down in his workshop with them – the two seemingly near inseparable these days for some reason – both huddled over a data-slate as they chatted animatedly about something related to the design.
They were a mismatched pair to be sure, but it seemed that Lin had chosen to take the former princess under her wing. Which was rather ironic, given that she was the goat-kin and Huang was the dragon-kin.
“Do you think Shui’s realized that she won’t actually be spending much of her time up north building her fortress?” he hummed.
“I would worry for her intelligence if she didn’t,” Elwin opined. “And the fact that she’s not battering down your door to demand changes to the manifest she’s been provided suggests she has.”
Jack hummed in agreement. He didn’t doubt that Shui had already noticed that her little taskforce was almost entirely devoid of building materials or craftsmen. Not that she’d want to be lugging stuff like stone or timber halfway across the province when there were plenty of natural resources at her destination.
Still, she’d want craftsmen trailing along with your supply chain though.
As well as nails.
To hear his advisor’s talk about them, you wanted nails by the barrel. To that end they had some. Gao, Ren and An had stressed that no army should ever be without things for even a moment, but they weren’t present in nearly the quantities required to build a mountain fortress like the one he hoped would soon block off the only remaining route into the province – if you ignored the ocean.
Which both Imperials and Instinctives were seemingly content to do.
No, the Pig-kin had probably known from the moment the plan was presented to her that Jack would be waiting for her to arrive at her destination before he flew over in his suit and built a fortress basically overnight.
That thought made him feel better about his decision to put her in charge of the job. It was an important job after all, sealing off the last ‘free’ entrance into his small empire.
I’ll probably want to head back to Jiangshi first to resupply basic building materials when I do head over there, he thought as he made a mental tally of what was currently floating around in his inventory. The thought made him sigh. The sooner I get a train network set up the better.
There was just so much that needed to be done…
He shook his head as he refocused on the task at hand, which was creating the prototype of the new Kang Barrel. A name that had created nothing but confusion for his underlings, but tickled his funny bone.
Not least of all because he hadn’t been the one to come up with the joke.
His microbots were. And while the fact that his microbots were currently capable of making jokes terrified him to his core, he couldn’t deny that they were good at them.
Because truth be told, he’d never wondered why tanks were called ‘tanks’. Though, to be fair, he never wondered why half a dozen other things were named as they were.
As it turned out, the reason tanks had been called what they were was because they’d been smuggled to Europe – or the irradiated zone as it was now known – disguised as water tanks.
Thus, Barrels had seemed an apt name for his own variant – even if no one but him got the joke.
Hell, that just made it funnier to him.
“So, how are things coming with your apprentices?” he asked the elf.
Smiling, the woman was about to respond when Ren rushed in, looking more frantic than usual. Which was a rather impressive feat given that she’d spent the last few weeks effectively running his city for him and was normally operating somewhere between totally overwhelmed and barely hanging on.
“Where are your formal robes, master!?” the merchant all but hissed. “I told you the ceremony would be starting in a few hours!”
Jack glanced over at a nearby clock.
“Ah… I knew I was forgetting something.”
Not that it mattered, he didn’t care what Ren said about tradition.
He was going in his armor.
--------------\
“With that, I present your new magistrate,” an older man called out to the crowds below.
The male cultivator was actually the oldest looking cultivator Jack had ever seen. The man was a craftsmen, a well respected one. And he was also the one who had been in charge of creating the staff that ostensibly controlled the city’s runic defenses.
And keying them to Jack.
Theoretically.
That wasn’t how it had gone down – and the other man had made it abundantly clear what he thought of this change in tradition.
Jack didn’t care then and he didn’t care now.
Which was why he ignored the other man’s stinkeye as he stood up from his throne and strode over to the balcony.
“The Empire has abandoned us.”
His first words were solemn, yet they rolled over the crowd below without trouble. A feat accomplished by a few carefully positioned loud speakers.
Which might have been why, despite the distance between him and the throngs of… not quite human mortals and cultivators below, he could almost hear the audible intake of breath that followed his statement.
Criticizing one’s superiors really wasn’t done in the empire, by virtue of the fact that said superior was usually your superior because they were entirely capable of lopping your head off. If they weren’t, you’d be the superior.
Again, certain parallels between the Instinctive hordes and the Empire leapt to Jack’s mind.
“The Empress has abandoned us. Time has dulled her edge. Corruption has infested her courts. Lethargy pervades her armies. And now, like an ape grasping for a branch as it plummets to its doom, the Empress pulls tight on her outer provinces in a desperate attempt to arrest her fall.”
It helped that what he was saying was mostly true. Or so he assumed. Because he’d yet to meet a system of power that wasn’t at least a little corrupt.
Silence was the only response he received to his words though.
Which, again, was to be expected. While the Empress wasn’t a ‘goddess’ in the religious sense of the word – the empire as a whole was surprisingly secular in that regard, focusing instead on something Jack would have described as Pseudo-Buddhism – she was also one of the founders of the Empire.
Again, not someone you criticized for long before you found yourself suddenly a few feet shorter from the top down.
Fortunately, Jack had a secret weapon.
“Yet Ten Huo only grows in power!”
That was the signal for the doors to the palace to open, and from them cart after cart of sizzling pigs, cows and whole chicken were wheeled forward. Prepared by the palace’s chefs, they’d done an incredible job with the task they’d been given. Even from his position up high on the balcony Jack found the smell intoxicating as it wafted up to him.
Fortunately, the line of sect troops guarding the front of the palace held steady as the crowd almost unconsciously surged forward at the sight of such a feast.
Really hope no one’s going to get crushed in that, he thought.
That was why he had a few cultivators on standby who would use directed burst of killing intent anywhere the press of bodies got too tight. The effectiveness of which Jack had been a little dubious of, but it was apparently a tried and tested method for ‘delicately’ dealing with unruly crowds.
Personally, Jack would have preferred to use his own troops, but Ren had quite reasonably pointed out that when it came to keeping crowds of agitated mortals in line, none were better than the personal armies of the sects.
…Or the Imperial army – but most of them were dead now.
That didn’t mean he’d come completely unprotected. His own troops had emptied out the palace of all courtiers and Sect guards hours ago in preparation for his speech. A feat that would have been impossible mere days ago, but it seemed that his little display to the Sect leaders had the effect he’d intended it to, because the cultivators present on the premises hadn’t even made a single peep of complaint as they were ordered out by a bunch of mere mortals.
Albeit, mere mortals who had An commanding them.
“We must cast off the shackles that have for so long held us back!” Jack announced. “This is not about power. Not about greed. Or pride. It is about survival!”
This time he got roars of approval – though whether that was down to his words or the food that was now being passed out to the crowd, he couldn’t say.
It didn’t really matter. It was about the optics of the thing. When people looked back on this moment, they would remember the cheering. And that would mean it had to have been a good thing, right?
“Ten Huo must grow. Must cultivate it’s strength. Must power through the troubles ahead,” he roared. “Which we have. Through our guards. Through our walls. Through our cultivators. And through our gonnes. Through those things we broke the back of the horde and slew their false dragon. And it is through the power of those things that we might beat back any foe that might threaten our home.”
He raised his fist high – and at the correct moment, his Red Dragon armor flared into being, the feathers atop fluttering proudly in the wind. “Ten Huo forever! Against all that might come! Together we are strong!”
Perhaps it was just his imagination, but that time the cheers felt more genuine. A chant even started.
“Ten Huo! Ten Huo! Ten Huo!”
“To that end, I intend to correct some of the failures of the old regime! Firstly, I shall be cutting the mortal guard force of our city’s sects down to one tenth their current size.”
That caused a stir, not just from the cultivators who were stood on the nearby pavilions, but from the rearmost ranks of the sect guard that were currently holding back the crowd while simultaneously handing out food.
Which made sense, he was currently discussing their livelihoods. The only thing that separated them and their families from the desperate crowds in front of them. Because while the city wasn’t quite close to starving as a result of the recent hostilities, it was true that a great many households were now tightening their belts.
Service in the Imperial Army or Sects provided some degree of protection from that reality.
“And from those men and women, I shall forge a new force. A grand Ten Huo army to rival that of the decrepit Empire. Well trained. Well armed. Professional soldiers. An expansion and revitalization of the Jiangshi militia that saved this city all those weeks ago.”
That seemed to silence much of the hesitation that had formed in the sect troops. The crowd though was all for it, whooping and hollering at the idea of more troops of the ilk that had so captured the city’s love with their arrival into it.
“I do this not out of contempt for the sects but out of love. With this I free them from the responsibility of policing the city. Of dealing with the mundane details of the mortal world. I free them to focus on their one true goal; the pursuit of cultivation and immortality.”
More importantly, it would make a coup significantly less likely to be successful later down the line. Or at least, less viable. Because as potent as cultivators were, they were still just individuals. They had more in common with fighter craft than infantry. They could take ground and destroy targets, but they couldn’t be expected to hold it without support.
Support Jack fully intended to cut out from under them while claiming he was doing them a favor. And while he could certainly see some idiots in the pavilion nodding along with the idea of ‘freeing themselves from the need to deal with mortals’, most of the leadership was rightly frowning at the thought of losing their ability to project power into the city.
Without mortal soldiers to form a buffer around them, they would effectively be besieged within their compounds.
Yet even as he could see them slowly considering raising some form of stink over it, he could also see them glancing over to the empty seat in their lineup where the Silver Paw sect might have stood.
No, they might make a perfunctory fuss, but they’d do as he told them. This was the ideal time for him to make a move like this. It was almost expected.
To be sure, he knew some would cause some form of trouble over this move, but that trouble would be a lot easier to deal with when he tripled the number of soldiers he had at his command within the city.
Down below, Jack could see the distant figure of Gao – and a small application of magnification showed the man was looking rather pale. Which made sense, given the massive task Jack had just slammed down in front of him. An, for her part, looked positively giddy about the whole thing. Ren just looked… tired and unsurprised, as if more work appearing on her lap was just to be expected where Jack was concerned. Elwin looked disinterested in the whole thing, which was par for the course.
Lin and Huang were… nowhere to be seen?
Huh, he thought.
For just a moment he was worried something might have happened, but a quick glance at the trackers attached to them – via some ‘gifts’ of jewelry – showed the pair were back at his compound. In the same room even.
Very close.
Probably caught up in some science experiment, he thought with a small smile.
“Yet what is a mortal army without a core of cultivators?” Jack continued. “Am I to demand a tithe from the sects that have already given so much? To both me and this city?” He shook his head. “Nay.”
He stretched out his arm, and with perfect timing a dozen figures dropped from the windows of the palace, landing perfectly behind the sects guards in a crouched position.
They were clearly cultivators – yet they didn’t look like them. For one thing, they were armored. From head to toe. Gleaming steel armor that was inlaid with protective runes.
It wasn’t as comprehensive as metal plate would be. Gaps existed to allow for great locomotion from the user. Yet it was still more armor than any cultivator would ever be caught wearing.
Because in the local parlance, armor was a sign of weakness. A lack of confidence in ones skills and cultivation.
Or at least, that had been the case until Jack showed up.
The next thing about them was that they were uniform. Perfectly so. Only the weapons were different. Some had glaives. Some had swords. Others axes. The only commonality there were the revolvers at their hips.
He didn’t doubt they looked absurd to the cultivators in the pavilions, each of them dressed differently to their fellows, with only a small adherence to their sect colors to mark their allegiance. Because cultivators didn’t do uniforms.
They were warriors. Heroes. Not soldiers.
Or at least, they weren’t, Jack smirked.
He raised both arms high above his head.
“I demand nothing of the sects, for volunteers have already shown up to be part of this great army. Ready to give their lives. Their souls. Their very identities to protect our great Ten Huo!”
Jack slammed his fist down onto the banister, letting the loud thud echo across the courtyard.
“I present to you, the Steel Paw!”
For the first time since they had arrived, the mystery cultivators stood up, their blue cloaks fluttering in the winds as they pulled back their hood to reveal not faces, but helms.
Helms shaped like a snarling tiger.
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Another three chapters are also available on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/bluefishcake
We also have a (surprisingly) active Discord where and I and a few other authors like to hang out: https://discord.gg/RctHFucHaq
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Though calling it a ‘Crawler’ was a bit of a misnomer, given that the vehicle didn’t actually crawl. Instead, it would move about on treads. Like a normal tank. Which, while practical, were rather boring to look at.
To make matters worse, Shui would be taking just over half of the iconic older variants of crawler that did actually crawl with her on her journey North. Doing so would allow her force to be entirely mechanized – or horseborne in the case of the cultivators – reducing a journey that would normally take months into one that would take weeks.
Plus, a mountain pass is actually a location where the mechanical legs might see some practical use, he thought.
Shui was certainly pleased about the extra support. While Jack wouldn’t go so far as to say she was giddy, there was certainly a degree of ‘pep’ to her steps as she rushed about the city organizing her new ‘army’. Even the mortal elements, which he got the feeling were normally an afterthought in these kinds of engagements.
She’d be taking fully one third of the militia that An had arrived with a few weeks ago. Ten thousand men and women. As well as fifteen cultivators – who Jack had made sure came from differing Sects. A move that would hopefully keep her from getting up to mischief by turning them against him.
Hopefully.
Ideally, he’d like to say that was why she was taking a contingent of homegrown Jiangshi ‘natives’ – for a given use of the word. The reality was that she was taking the militia because the alternative was a force of spear wielding sect troops, which would be like feeding meat into a grinder.
Which might have been just fine for the Empire, but mortals actually had some innate value to him. To that end, those sect troops still in the city – all fifty thousand of them - were going to be re-equipped and retrained as part of his new Ten Huo army.
Which was why five thousand militia members would be sticking around to train them in turn, while the remaining fifteen thousand returned to the very important task of guarding Jiangshi.
Which was a priority, given that An had all but stripped the province bare of soldiers to create her rescue force – and if they didn’t return soon their absence would be keenly felt.
Of course, this all relies on the Sects giving up their personal armies without a fight, Jack thought. Here’s hoping my most recent lesson in who holds the biggest stick will remain stuck in their mind when I make that announcement…
“Perhaps.” Elwin said from beside him, returning his thoughts to the mundane nature of his latest construct. Not that you’d know it from looking at Elwin. The elf’s arms were crossed as she watched with no small amount of awe as his workshop’s many pneumatic arms worked to bring the tank to life. “That will change though. I have oft found that the iconic nature of a soldier or weapon only grows with their success. And to hear little Lin go on about this machine, it will be very successful indeed.”
Jack hummed, conceding the point. Both Lin and Huang were down in his workshop with them – the two seemingly near inseparable these days for some reason – both huddled over a data-slate as they chatted animatedly about something related to the design.
They were a mismatched pair to be sure, but it seemed that Lin had chosen to take the former princess under her wing. Which was rather ironic, given that she was the goat-kin and Huang was the dragon-kin.
“Do you think Shui’s realized that she won’t actually be spending much of her time up north building her fortress?” he hummed.
“I would worry for her intelligence if she didn’t,” Elwin opined. “And the fact that she’s not battering down your door to demand changes to the manifest she’s been provided suggests she has.”
Jack hummed in agreement. He didn’t doubt that Shui had already noticed that her little taskforce was almost entirely devoid of building materials or craftsmen. Not that she’d want to be lugging stuff like stone or timber halfway across the province when there were plenty of natural resources at her destination.
Still, she’d want craftsmen trailing along with your supply chain though.
As well as nails.
To hear his advisor’s talk about them, you wanted nails by the barrel. To that end they had some. Gao, Ren and An had stressed that no army should ever be without things for even a moment, but they weren’t present in nearly the quantities required to build a mountain fortress like the one he hoped would soon block off the only remaining route into the province – if you ignored the ocean.
Which both Imperials and Instinctives were seemingly content to do.
No, the Pig-kin had probably known from the moment the plan was presented to her that Jack would be waiting for her to arrive at her destination before he flew over in his suit and built a fortress basically overnight.
That thought made him feel better about his decision to put her in charge of the job. It was an important job after all, sealing off the last ‘free’ entrance into his small empire.
I’ll probably want to head back to Jiangshi first to resupply basic building materials when I do head over there, he thought as he made a mental tally of what was currently floating around in his inventory. The thought made him sigh. The sooner I get a train network set up the better.
There was just so much that needed to be done…
He shook his head as he refocused on the task at hand, which was creating the prototype of the new Kang Barrel. A name that had created nothing but confusion for his underlings, but tickled his funny bone.
Not least of all because he hadn’t been the one to come up with the joke.
His microbots were. And while the fact that his microbots were currently capable of making jokes terrified him to his core, he couldn’t deny that they were good at them.
Because truth be told, he’d never wondered why tanks were called ‘tanks’. Though, to be fair, he never wondered why half a dozen other things were named as they were.
As it turned out, the reason tanks had been called what they were was because they’d been smuggled to Europe – or the irradiated zone as it was now known – disguised as water tanks.
Thus, Barrels had seemed an apt name for his own variant – even if no one but him got the joke.
Hell, that just made it funnier to him.
“So, how are things coming with your apprentices?” he asked the elf.
Smiling, the woman was about to respond when Ren rushed in, looking more frantic than usual. Which was a rather impressive feat given that she’d spent the last few weeks effectively running his city for him and was normally operating somewhere between totally overwhelmed and barely hanging on.
“Where are your formal robes, master!?” the merchant all but hissed. “I told you the ceremony would be starting in a few hours!”
Jack glanced over at a nearby clock.
“Ah… I knew I was forgetting something.”
Not that it mattered, he didn’t care what Ren said about tradition.
He was going in his armor.
--------------\
“With that, I present your new magistrate,” an older man called out to the crowds below.
The male cultivator was actually the oldest looking cultivator Jack had ever seen. The man was a craftsmen, a well respected one. And he was also the one who had been in charge of creating the staff that ostensibly controlled the city’s runic defenses.
And keying them to Jack.
Theoretically.
That wasn’t how it had gone down – and the other man had made it abundantly clear what he thought of this change in tradition.
Jack didn’t care then and he didn’t care now.
Which was why he ignored the other man’s stinkeye as he stood up from his throne and strode over to the balcony.
“The Empire has abandoned us.”
His first words were solemn, yet they rolled over the crowd below without trouble. A feat accomplished by a few carefully positioned loud speakers.
Which might have been why, despite the distance between him and the throngs of… not quite human mortals and cultivators below, he could almost hear the audible intake of breath that followed his statement.
Criticizing one’s superiors really wasn’t done in the empire, by virtue of the fact that said superior was usually your superior because they were entirely capable of lopping your head off. If they weren’t, you’d be the superior.
Again, certain parallels between the Instinctive hordes and the Empire leapt to Jack’s mind.
“The Empress has abandoned us. Time has dulled her edge. Corruption has infested her courts. Lethargy pervades her armies. And now, like an ape grasping for a branch as it plummets to its doom, the Empress pulls tight on her outer provinces in a desperate attempt to arrest her fall.”
It helped that what he was saying was mostly true. Or so he assumed. Because he’d yet to meet a system of power that wasn’t at least a little corrupt.
Silence was the only response he received to his words though.
Which, again, was to be expected. While the Empress wasn’t a ‘goddess’ in the religious sense of the word – the empire as a whole was surprisingly secular in that regard, focusing instead on something Jack would have described as Pseudo-Buddhism – she was also one of the founders of the Empire.
Again, not someone you criticized for long before you found yourself suddenly a few feet shorter from the top down.
Fortunately, Jack had a secret weapon.
“Yet Ten Huo only grows in power!”
That was the signal for the doors to the palace to open, and from them cart after cart of sizzling pigs, cows and whole chicken were wheeled forward. Prepared by the palace’s chefs, they’d done an incredible job with the task they’d been given. Even from his position up high on the balcony Jack found the smell intoxicating as it wafted up to him.
Fortunately, the line of sect troops guarding the front of the palace held steady as the crowd almost unconsciously surged forward at the sight of such a feast.
Really hope no one’s going to get crushed in that, he thought.
That was why he had a few cultivators on standby who would use directed burst of killing intent anywhere the press of bodies got too tight. The effectiveness of which Jack had been a little dubious of, but it was apparently a tried and tested method for ‘delicately’ dealing with unruly crowds.
Personally, Jack would have preferred to use his own troops, but Ren had quite reasonably pointed out that when it came to keeping crowds of agitated mortals in line, none were better than the personal armies of the sects.
…Or the Imperial army – but most of them were dead now.
That didn’t mean he’d come completely unprotected. His own troops had emptied out the palace of all courtiers and Sect guards hours ago in preparation for his speech. A feat that would have been impossible mere days ago, but it seemed that his little display to the Sect leaders had the effect he’d intended it to, because the cultivators present on the premises hadn’t even made a single peep of complaint as they were ordered out by a bunch of mere mortals.
Albeit, mere mortals who had An commanding them.
“We must cast off the shackles that have for so long held us back!” Jack announced. “This is not about power. Not about greed. Or pride. It is about survival!”
This time he got roars of approval – though whether that was down to his words or the food that was now being passed out to the crowd, he couldn’t say.
It didn’t really matter. It was about the optics of the thing. When people looked back on this moment, they would remember the cheering. And that would mean it had to have been a good thing, right?
“Ten Huo must grow. Must cultivate it’s strength. Must power through the troubles ahead,” he roared. “Which we have. Through our guards. Through our walls. Through our cultivators. And through our gonnes. Through those things we broke the back of the horde and slew their false dragon. And it is through the power of those things that we might beat back any foe that might threaten our home.”
He raised his fist high – and at the correct moment, his Red Dragon armor flared into being, the feathers atop fluttering proudly in the wind. “Ten Huo forever! Against all that might come! Together we are strong!”
Perhaps it was just his imagination, but that time the cheers felt more genuine. A chant even started.
“Ten Huo! Ten Huo! Ten Huo!”
“To that end, I intend to correct some of the failures of the old regime! Firstly, I shall be cutting the mortal guard force of our city’s sects down to one tenth their current size.”
That caused a stir, not just from the cultivators who were stood on the nearby pavilions, but from the rearmost ranks of the sect guard that were currently holding back the crowd while simultaneously handing out food.
Which made sense, he was currently discussing their livelihoods. The only thing that separated them and their families from the desperate crowds in front of them. Because while the city wasn’t quite close to starving as a result of the recent hostilities, it was true that a great many households were now tightening their belts.
Service in the Imperial Army or Sects provided some degree of protection from that reality.
“And from those men and women, I shall forge a new force. A grand Ten Huo army to rival that of the decrepit Empire. Well trained. Well armed. Professional soldiers. An expansion and revitalization of the Jiangshi militia that saved this city all those weeks ago.”
That seemed to silence much of the hesitation that had formed in the sect troops. The crowd though was all for it, whooping and hollering at the idea of more troops of the ilk that had so captured the city’s love with their arrival into it.
“I do this not out of contempt for the sects but out of love. With this I free them from the responsibility of policing the city. Of dealing with the mundane details of the mortal world. I free them to focus on their one true goal; the pursuit of cultivation and immortality.”
More importantly, it would make a coup significantly less likely to be successful later down the line. Or at least, less viable. Because as potent as cultivators were, they were still just individuals. They had more in common with fighter craft than infantry. They could take ground and destroy targets, but they couldn’t be expected to hold it without support.
Support Jack fully intended to cut out from under them while claiming he was doing them a favor. And while he could certainly see some idiots in the pavilion nodding along with the idea of ‘freeing themselves from the need to deal with mortals’, most of the leadership was rightly frowning at the thought of losing their ability to project power into the city.
Without mortal soldiers to form a buffer around them, they would effectively be besieged within their compounds.
Yet even as he could see them slowly considering raising some form of stink over it, he could also see them glancing over to the empty seat in their lineup where the Silver Paw sect might have stood.
No, they might make a perfunctory fuss, but they’d do as he told them. This was the ideal time for him to make a move like this. It was almost expected.
To be sure, he knew some would cause some form of trouble over this move, but that trouble would be a lot easier to deal with when he tripled the number of soldiers he had at his command within the city.
Down below, Jack could see the distant figure of Gao – and a small application of magnification showed the man was looking rather pale. Which made sense, given the massive task Jack had just slammed down in front of him. An, for her part, looked positively giddy about the whole thing. Ren just looked… tired and unsurprised, as if more work appearing on her lap was just to be expected where Jack was concerned. Elwin looked disinterested in the whole thing, which was par for the course.
Lin and Huang were… nowhere to be seen?
Huh, he thought.
For just a moment he was worried something might have happened, but a quick glance at the trackers attached to them – via some ‘gifts’ of jewelry – showed the pair were back at his compound. In the same room even.
Very close.
Probably caught up in some science experiment, he thought with a small smile.
“Yet what is a mortal army without a core of cultivators?” Jack continued. “Am I to demand a tithe from the sects that have already given so much? To both me and this city?” He shook his head. “Nay.”
He stretched out his arm, and with perfect timing a dozen figures dropped from the windows of the palace, landing perfectly behind the sects guards in a crouched position.
They were clearly cultivators – yet they didn’t look like them. For one thing, they were armored. From head to toe. Gleaming steel armor that was inlaid with protective runes.
It wasn’t as comprehensive as metal plate would be. Gaps existed to allow for great locomotion from the user. Yet it was still more armor than any cultivator would ever be caught wearing.
Because in the local parlance, armor was a sign of weakness. A lack of confidence in ones skills and cultivation.
Or at least, that had been the case until Jack showed up.
The next thing about them was that they were uniform. Perfectly so. Only the weapons were different. Some had glaives. Some had swords. Others axes. The only commonality there were the revolvers at their hips.
He didn’t doubt they looked absurd to the cultivators in the pavilions, each of them dressed differently to their fellows, with only a small adherence to their sect colors to mark their allegiance. Because cultivators didn’t do uniforms.
They were warriors. Heroes. Not soldiers.
Or at least, they weren’t, Jack smirked.
He raised both arms high above his head.
“I demand nothing of the sects, for volunteers have already shown up to be part of this great army. Ready to give their lives. Their souls. Their very identities to protect our great Ten Huo!”
Jack slammed his fist down onto the banister, letting the loud thud echo across the courtyard.
“I present to you, the Steel Paw!”
For the first time since they had arrived, the mystery cultivators stood up, their blue cloaks fluttering in the winds as they pulled back their hood to reveal not faces, but helms.
Helms shaped like a snarling tiger.
First / Previous / Next
Another three chapters are also available on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/bluefishcake
We also have a (surprisingly) active Discord where and I and a few other authors like to hang out: https://discord.gg/RctHFucHaq
2023.06.02 13:27 DrengrMike Product or patent law
Can I legally purchase a product that is patented and plate it in silver and resell it so long as I have a reseller's license and I don't alter the title of the product listing what I did to it? To be specific I want to buy montek broadhead arrow heads plate them in silver then resell them on my website as a trophy/keepsake.
submitted by DrengrMike to legaladvice [link] [comments]
2023.06.02 13:16 madsheb Gunpoint Carjacking Under Investigation in Newark - the area of 16th Avenue and South 20th Street. Armed suspect took victim's white Dodge Charger before fleeing. The vehicle head reported temporary license plate number "Z200123". No physical injuries were reported.
 | submitted by madsheb to Newark [link] [comments] |
2023.06.02 12:59 fourleaffungi Missing Person - Urgent
 | This is a good friend of mine who has been missing for over 3 days. **NEWEST UPDATE: License plate read in Henderson Nevada on I11 (right near Las Vegas, Red Rock Canyon, Sloan Canyon, Hoover Dam...) He has been to Vegas a few times in the past few years and enjoyed it, especially walking down the strip, Area 15, and most likely any nearby secluded nature areas. Reasons to believe he may be trying to slip out of the spotlight and blend in/disappear on the streets, at isolated camping spots, etc. Possible that he could interact with someone in this community while doing so. He made mentions of suicide and disappearance before leaving while his fiancée and 2 children were asleep. ** Please be on the lookout for this car (silver 2022 Toyota highlander - CT license plate BE35285 - generic pic attached) *** Left from Manchester CT on 5/30. Originally thought he could be in CT, NY, PA, MI, or along the Appalachian Trail. Received one license plate reading from Binghamton NY 3 days ago, one in Illinois heading west on Rt 55 2 days ago, an ATM withdrawal in Tonganoxie Kansas yesterday *** submitted by fourleaffungi to homeless [link] [comments] Concerned for his safety and wellbeing. Feel free to share to any communities. *** Please call Manchester CT police if you have any information. Attached photos of his car type, and the bag and tattoo described in the alert. |
2023.06.02 12:45 1keric What do you guys think of this license plate design?
 | submitted by 1keric to Miami [link] [comments] |
2023.06.02 12:16 Special-Setting-1570 Woke up to a blue light above me
Woke up to a blue light above me on the wall going up to the ceiling about 6-7 feet away and then disappearing it was rectangle shaped and when I saw it I instantly knew something was off because that's never happened and there was no way that light could have been coming from inside and it didnt appear to be coming from outside either. It was a little smaller than a license plate it started halfway up the wall when I opened my eyes and disappeared in around 4 seconds after I saw it. At first I thought it was a car light or something so I looked down to the only window it could have possibly been coming through and didn't see a light trail then looked back to see it reach the ceiling and then disappear. I didnt have any sense of fear when seeing it. What could this have been?
submitted by Special-Setting-1570 to Paranormal [link] [comments]
2023.06.02 12:02 SaturdayInSuburbia [Feedback] A few fragments from Chapter 1 of a Short Story I'm working on (my first serious attempt). Would like to know people's thoughts on this style/feel
His dad read in a magazine that the greenest lawns need to be watered first thing and so the sprinklers were programmed to come on very early. Carl woke to their patter and to the smell of wet grass and May blossom. Looking down, a slice of dawn light crossed the middle of the bed (right over his tummy) and he watched as strands of dust drifted through it, their spiralling, jerky motions briefly visible before they vanished into the airy space of the room on either side. At some point, he drifted back to sleep.
In the houses around him, forty or so others lay in their beds, dreaming dreams which, if you could have seen them, would have blended into a heady mix of hope and fear that hovered just above the various Groves, Avenues and Closes that made up the neighbourhood. This cloud was as real, somehow, as the birdsong flitting between the trees and the mist creeping back down the streets to the sea. Within it, promises of new lives and new lovers blended with unseen foes and inexorable catastrophes. Some confronted deeply hidden parts of themselves, manifest as dead relatives, impossible landscapes, bizarre tasks and strange entities with shifting identities. Others dreamt about nothing at all, and contributed only black streaks to the otherwise iridescent, billowing cloud.
For his part, Carl dreamt he was five years younger, learning to ride his bike. His mum was running behind him holding on to the back of the seat, giving him time to find his balance while his legs built up enough momentum to keep him upright. Then he was doing it – he was riding and it was exhilarating: a blur of light and colour and rushing air. And then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t. He was awake.
“Morning, dingus,” came a voice with a hint of amusement. Carl blinked his eyes open and stared at the boy outside the window. His hair seemed to possess a life of its own, swirling and dancing in the breeze. The boy smiled with his eyes but not his mouth and nodded toward a corner of the room. Carl followed the nod and saw a cricket ball sitting against the skirting board. “Lucky your window was open. Pass it back?” Carl looked again at the boy, still half asleep. The boy began to roll his hands with mock impatience: “You deaf or something?”
Cautiously – without a word – Carl pushed off the duvet, swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his feet to the carpet. He went to the corner, picked up the ball and walked it back to the window. He held it out and saw the black squiggles curving around its surface. “Who signed it?”, Carl asked. The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the ball and ran across the lawn, disappearing into the hedges at the bottom of the garden. Carl stayed at the window for a few moments. As he stood, cool, salty air flowed past him into the room. The sprinklers pattered away.
-----------------------------------
The houses of stood in a row like colourful blocks. Mrs Friedman moved past them slowly, eyeing each in turn. The older she got, the more her taut face struggled to conceal the many jealousies, slights and conflicts that had amassed behind it. And so, more and more often, some of the bile overflowed back into the world, escaping her thin lips as a pointed whisper or, sometimes, even a direct attack – which is what happened next.
“Have you eyes?” Her frail voice floated down the drive, weakening with every inch. It was almost imperceptible by the time it reached Mr Fuller’s ears. It was, however, just enough to make him turn around and investigate. Seeing her, he smiled and began walking toward her, wiping his palm on a rag and setting up to shake hands.
“Hi there and good morning”, he said, “I’m Paul Fuller – new to the neighbourhood and it’s very nice to meet you.”
She stared at his outstretched hand and remained perfectly still, her white-knuckled fingers wrapped around the Zimmer frame. The man’s pleasantness confounded her – as had his claim that he was new to the area (that the house had been for sale was news to her). But, after a moment’s stasis, she managed to brush all this away and gesture weakly toward the drive. She asked again, “have you eyes?”
“Excuse me, madam?”, Paul replied.
“Your weeds”, she said, raising her eyebrows to indicate the displeasure she felt at having to repeat herself.
Paul scratched the back of his head and looked at the little green shoots that were just starting to peep through the cracks in the paving stones.
“I’m almost waist deep in them.”
“Oh. We’ve just moved in.” Paul said defensively. “In fact, we’re actually still moving in”. He pointed to the delivery van parked on the drive. “But, well – I’ll get the weeds cleaned up just as soon as I can, madam.”
“Good”, she said, resuming her slow shuffle down the street. Inside a cluster of bushes, two bright eyes were fixed upon her; a little fist gripped a weighty ball.
-----------------------------------
Mrs Alleman’s hands burned pink in the washing up bowl. She’d read somewhere that, for every additional degree she could tolerate, another species of germ was eliminated. Since then, increasing the temperature had become something of a challenge. She enjoyed the sharp tingle she felt as she pushed it up a little more each day, and she believed she was approaching what was possible for a human hand to endure. Her vindication came on the rare occasions when her husband or a friend got splashed dropping in a bowl or plate, or when they tried to fish out a piece of cutlery or a utensil, and jumped back in utter shock. “The hotter it is, the cleaner it is”, she’d sing, voicing the mantra that so often cycled in her mind.
Through the steam and the droplets running down the glass, she could just about see her husband talking to the new neighbour – or rather, the neighbour talking to him. Even from across the road, her husband’s discomfort was apparent, revealing itself in his demure, slouching gait and the way he kept glancing back at the house as though worried it would vanish and leave him stranded on this earnest stranger’s lawn. Left to his own devices, she knew, it would have taken him weeks or months to introduce himself – and, even then, it would only have happened thanks to some chance encounter at the grocery store or in the park, or in some other communal space, and only if the other party initiated it.
His awkwardness endeared her. It always had. Though, seeing her husband’s vacant face staring over this stranger’s shoulder, she experienced something else – something that was getting a little more familiar these days: a smidge of annoyance, perhaps. She pushed it away, reminding herself of all the things he did for her and for their family. Sighing, she pulled her hands from the blistering water and dried them off.
“Hi there”, she shouted as she crossed the road, waving with one hand and using the other to shield her eyes from the morning sun. “Welcome to Sunningdale. We’re so glad to see someone finally move in to this beautiful house. Mr and Mrs Cartwright only put in on the market on account of her mother’s – his mother in-law’s – health, bless her, which took a real turn last year. Cancer! I know. I mean, absolutely the last thing she needed. Her husband, Mrs Cartwright’s father – Mr Cartwright’s father-in-law – died last Christmas, sadly. Yes, on Christmas day itself, which they say is a very common day to die. I’m not sure why. Something to do with being surrounded with family? Maybe. Who knows? Anyway, the only reason they moved is to be closer to her in what will most probably be her final year. They were completed devastated to lose the house, of course – their home for over twenty years. But they needed to downsize, anyway. Two birds and all that. I actually remember seeing him carry her over the threshold. And haven’t they kept it lovely? I suppose that’s one of the reasons you bought it – gosh, yes, they really did keep it lovely, didn’t they? And is there a Mrs…”
“Fuller”, Paul answered, “And no, sadly not. There used to be. But she died – three years ago. Not on Christmas day. But also of cancer. Absolutely the last thing we needed.”
Mrs Alleman’s face dropped. “Oh, gosh – I’m so sorry. How cack-handed of me.”
With a smile, Paul revealed he was type of man who could joke about his partner’s death, which was a relief to the Alleman’s in the moment, but which would cause some disquiet to both of them as they lay siltenly in their beds that night.
-----------------------------------
submitted by SaturdayInSuburbia to KeepWriting [link] [comments]
In the houses around him, forty or so others lay in their beds, dreaming dreams which, if you could have seen them, would have blended into a heady mix of hope and fear that hovered just above the various Groves, Avenues and Closes that made up the neighbourhood. This cloud was as real, somehow, as the birdsong flitting between the trees and the mist creeping back down the streets to the sea. Within it, promises of new lives and new lovers blended with unseen foes and inexorable catastrophes. Some confronted deeply hidden parts of themselves, manifest as dead relatives, impossible landscapes, bizarre tasks and strange entities with shifting identities. Others dreamt about nothing at all, and contributed only black streaks to the otherwise iridescent, billowing cloud.
For his part, Carl dreamt he was five years younger, learning to ride his bike. His mum was running behind him holding on to the back of the seat, giving him time to find his balance while his legs built up enough momentum to keep him upright. Then he was doing it – he was riding and it was exhilarating: a blur of light and colour and rushing air. And then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t. He was awake.
“Morning, dingus,” came a voice with a hint of amusement. Carl blinked his eyes open and stared at the boy outside the window. His hair seemed to possess a life of its own, swirling and dancing in the breeze. The boy smiled with his eyes but not his mouth and nodded toward a corner of the room. Carl followed the nod and saw a cricket ball sitting against the skirting board. “Lucky your window was open. Pass it back?” Carl looked again at the boy, still half asleep. The boy began to roll his hands with mock impatience: “You deaf or something?”
Cautiously – without a word – Carl pushed off the duvet, swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his feet to the carpet. He went to the corner, picked up the ball and walked it back to the window. He held it out and saw the black squiggles curving around its surface. “Who signed it?”, Carl asked. The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the ball and ran across the lawn, disappearing into the hedges at the bottom of the garden. Carl stayed at the window for a few moments. As he stood, cool, salty air flowed past him into the room. The sprinklers pattered away.
-----------------------------------
The houses of stood in a row like colourful blocks. Mrs Friedman moved past them slowly, eyeing each in turn. The older she got, the more her taut face struggled to conceal the many jealousies, slights and conflicts that had amassed behind it. And so, more and more often, some of the bile overflowed back into the world, escaping her thin lips as a pointed whisper or, sometimes, even a direct attack – which is what happened next.
“Have you eyes?” Her frail voice floated down the drive, weakening with every inch. It was almost imperceptible by the time it reached Mr Fuller’s ears. It was, however, just enough to make him turn around and investigate. Seeing her, he smiled and began walking toward her, wiping his palm on a rag and setting up to shake hands.
“Hi there and good morning”, he said, “I’m Paul Fuller – new to the neighbourhood and it’s very nice to meet you.”
She stared at his outstretched hand and remained perfectly still, her white-knuckled fingers wrapped around the Zimmer frame. The man’s pleasantness confounded her – as had his claim that he was new to the area (that the house had been for sale was news to her). But, after a moment’s stasis, she managed to brush all this away and gesture weakly toward the drive. She asked again, “have you eyes?”
“Excuse me, madam?”, Paul replied.
“Your weeds”, she said, raising her eyebrows to indicate the displeasure she felt at having to repeat herself.
Paul scratched the back of his head and looked at the little green shoots that were just starting to peep through the cracks in the paving stones.
“I’m almost waist deep in them.”
“Oh. We’ve just moved in.” Paul said defensively. “In fact, we’re actually still moving in”. He pointed to the delivery van parked on the drive. “But, well – I’ll get the weeds cleaned up just as soon as I can, madam.”
“Good”, she said, resuming her slow shuffle down the street. Inside a cluster of bushes, two bright eyes were fixed upon her; a little fist gripped a weighty ball.
-----------------------------------
Mrs Alleman’s hands burned pink in the washing up bowl. She’d read somewhere that, for every additional degree she could tolerate, another species of germ was eliminated. Since then, increasing the temperature had become something of a challenge. She enjoyed the sharp tingle she felt as she pushed it up a little more each day, and she believed she was approaching what was possible for a human hand to endure. Her vindication came on the rare occasions when her husband or a friend got splashed dropping in a bowl or plate, or when they tried to fish out a piece of cutlery or a utensil, and jumped back in utter shock. “The hotter it is, the cleaner it is”, she’d sing, voicing the mantra that so often cycled in her mind.
Through the steam and the droplets running down the glass, she could just about see her husband talking to the new neighbour – or rather, the neighbour talking to him. Even from across the road, her husband’s discomfort was apparent, revealing itself in his demure, slouching gait and the way he kept glancing back at the house as though worried it would vanish and leave him stranded on this earnest stranger’s lawn. Left to his own devices, she knew, it would have taken him weeks or months to introduce himself – and, even then, it would only have happened thanks to some chance encounter at the grocery store or in the park, or in some other communal space, and only if the other party initiated it.
His awkwardness endeared her. It always had. Though, seeing her husband’s vacant face staring over this stranger’s shoulder, she experienced something else – something that was getting a little more familiar these days: a smidge of annoyance, perhaps. She pushed it away, reminding herself of all the things he did for her and for their family. Sighing, she pulled her hands from the blistering water and dried them off.
“Hi there”, she shouted as she crossed the road, waving with one hand and using the other to shield her eyes from the morning sun. “Welcome to Sunningdale. We’re so glad to see someone finally move in to this beautiful house. Mr and Mrs Cartwright only put in on the market on account of her mother’s – his mother in-law’s – health, bless her, which took a real turn last year. Cancer! I know. I mean, absolutely the last thing she needed. Her husband, Mrs Cartwright’s father – Mr Cartwright’s father-in-law – died last Christmas, sadly. Yes, on Christmas day itself, which they say is a very common day to die. I’m not sure why. Something to do with being surrounded with family? Maybe. Who knows? Anyway, the only reason they moved is to be closer to her in what will most probably be her final year. They were completed devastated to lose the house, of course – their home for over twenty years. But they needed to downsize, anyway. Two birds and all that. I actually remember seeing him carry her over the threshold. And haven’t they kept it lovely? I suppose that’s one of the reasons you bought it – gosh, yes, they really did keep it lovely, didn’t they? And is there a Mrs…”
“Fuller”, Paul answered, “And no, sadly not. There used to be. But she died – three years ago. Not on Christmas day. But also of cancer. Absolutely the last thing we needed.”
Mrs Alleman’s face dropped. “Oh, gosh – I’m so sorry. How cack-handed of me.”
With a smile, Paul revealed he was type of man who could joke about his partner’s death, which was a relief to the Alleman’s in the moment, but which would cause some disquiet to both of them as they lay siltenly in their beds that night.
-----------------------------------
2023.06.02 11:47 asteen40 Joeyy front license plate
 | submitted by asteen40 to joeyy [link] [comments] |
2023.06.02 11:36 Noisy_Miner Crux35 - 3.5" DJI O3 Air Unit build - 138g dry
 | submitted by Noisy_Miner to fpv [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/790riirjjk3b1.jpg?width=3473&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=bf12c9c05e6907a7f4f5825f60046bad4b20a02b I am sharing this build, not because it is perfect, but because when I was doing it, I couldn't find any information about other Crux35 O3 builds, so perhaps this might help someone else if they plan a similar build. It is definitely not a crash safe build like AOS 3.5, but it is the only frame I had available and gives me a light-weight agile and quiet flight experience with HD. Also props are not in view with camera and no jello noted. The build: BNF Crux35 -> Crux35 frame + ELRS X1 FC +EX1404 KV3500 + 16V Capacitor Extra parts for mod:
I plan to switch to Gemfan Hurricane 3525 props when they arrive from China, and also do a much lighter TPU print. I think it is possible to get down to about 128g with changes to TPU and some screws types/lengths. |
2023.06.02 11:23 fuunexcs Lessons learned from my first ever accident
I was in my first ever motor accident last week where I was on my MC and the other was in their car. I got away from it quite unscathed as it was in a roundabout at low speed, but my bike got pretty messed up from it.
After much back and forth with my insurance company, here are all the things that I can not stress enough you need to document to cover your own ass, as I am currently in a dispute that neither party can prove or disprove about each other.
Because we live in the age of cellphones, whip that sum'bitch out as soon as possible and start recording and taking photos.
My number 1 biggest mistake was not taking photos of where in the roundabout/road my bike was at right after the accident. It is super important, especially if road markings (full lines, special conditions, road signs (yield, stop) etc.) could have a massive impact on the police report and insurance case.
I made the mistake of not doing most of these things and am now in an irritating insurance situation.
Ride safe and stay vigilant.
submitted by fuunexcs to motorcycles [link] [comments]
After much back and forth with my insurance company, here are all the things that I can not stress enough you need to document to cover your own ass, as I am currently in a dispute that neither party can prove or disprove about each other.
Because we live in the age of cellphones, whip that sum'bitch out as soon as possible and start recording and taking photos.
- Take photos of where on the road your bike is at. DO NOT PICK IT UP BEFORE YOU HAVE DONE SO.
- RECORD ANY INTERACTION WITH THE OTHER PARTY. Make sure to get their face in the frame.
- Record the immediate surroundings. Catch number plates, faces, car-makes and models - anything that can help your insurance contact potential witnesses.
- Call the police and request an officer be present before interacting with the other party beyond getting their info.
- Pullover anyone who has seen or could have seen the accident happen. Get their contact info; Full name, phone number.
- Get the other party's contact and insurance info. Including their passengers', in case they claim bodily-harm due to the accident.
- Keep calm and focus on yourself. It is important everything YOU need is gathered.
- Do not, under any circumstances, make on-the-spot deals about who is taking blame. Unless you write down explicitly what you or they did and sign it, it does not aid you in any way. Especially if it's just a handshake deal. Any one can change their mind.
- If they are hysterical and/or in shock, do not interact with them beyond getting their info unless you are recording. They do or say things they will claim to their insurance was made in an irrational state of mind. But with video evidence you may stand a better chance.
- Take photos of brake-tracks and liquid leaks from your bike.
- Make a 360 recording of your bike and their vehicle.
- Take panorama and close-up pictures of all damages on the spot. Both of your bike and their vehicle.
My number 1 biggest mistake was not taking photos of where in the roundabout/road my bike was at right after the accident. It is super important, especially if road markings (full lines, special conditions, road signs (yield, stop) etc.) could have a massive impact on the police report and insurance case.
I made the mistake of not doing most of these things and am now in an irritating insurance situation.
Ride safe and stay vigilant.
2023.06.02 11:22 Express-Bench-1732 To the lady in the Nashua Costco parking lot with the “EWDAVID” license plate…. That was my best stranger interaction of life.
Today at Costco I was on the phone and saw a truck with a “EWDAVID” license plate. I smiled, pointed at the plate, gave a thumbs up and the lady driving, with a huge smile, gave me a thumbs up back.
This interaction filled my heart and I just know that you’re so cool. Thanks for brightening up my day!
submitted by Express-Bench-1732 to SchittsCreek [link] [comments]
This interaction filled my heart and I just know that you’re so cool. Thanks for brightening up my day!
2023.06.02 10:27 b787665 08' TL-S License Plate
 | If I were to move the license plate to be off centered, revealing the "ACURA" logo under the plate... would I have to drill holes into the body? And how do you cover up the existing holes from the current plate? submitted by b787665 to AcuraTL [link] [comments] |
2023.06.02 10:16 LPR-Parking-System Smart LPR Parking Management System
Our system uses advanced License Plate Recognition (LPR) technology to capture and record vehicle license plates, which enables automated access control, parking fee collection, and real-time monitoring of parking occupancy and availability. This can save you time and money, while also enhancing the safety and security of your parking facility. Here are some of the key features and benefits of our Smart LPR Parking Management System: ① Automatic recognition of license plates and vehicles
② Fast and accurate processing of entry and exit transactions
③ Real-time monitoring and reporting of parking availability
④ Automated access control and parking fee collection
⑤ Customizable parking policies and pricing structures
⑥ Improved security and reduced risk of fraud and parking violations⑦ Enhanced user experience and convenience for parkers
submitted by LPR-Parking-System to u/LPR-Parking-System [link] [comments]
② Fast and accurate processing of entry and exit transactions
③ Real-time monitoring and reporting of parking availability
④ Automated access control and parking fee collection
⑤ Customizable parking policies and pricing structures
⑥ Improved security and reduced risk of fraud and parking violations⑦ Enhanced user experience and convenience for parkers
2023.06.02 10:13 fourleaffungi Missing Person - Urgent
 | This is a good friend of mine who has been missing for over 3 days. **NEWEST UPDATE: License plate read in Henderson Nevada on I11 (right near Las Vegas, Red Rock Canyon, Sloan Canyon, Hoover Dam...) He has been to Vegas a few times in the past few years and enjoyed it, especially walking down the strip, Area 15, and most likely any nearby secluded nature areas. He made mentions of suicide and disappearance before leaving while his fiancée and 2 children were asleep. ** Please be on the lookout for this car (silver 2022 Toyota highlander - CT license plate BE35285 - generic pic attached) *** Left from Manchester CT on 5/30. Originally thought he could be in CT, NY, PA, MI, or along the Appalachian Trail. Received one license plate reading from Binghamton NY 3 days ago, one in Illinois heading west on Rt 55 2 days ago, an ATM withdrawal in Tonganoxie Kansas yesterday *** submitted by fourleaffungi to LasVegas [link] [comments] Concerned for his safety and wellbeing. Feel free to share to any communities. *** Please call Manchester CT police if you have any information. Attached photos of his car type, and the bag and tattoo described in the alert. |
2023.06.02 10:12 ASM_50 Cool license plate
 | Went to see Yeah Yeah Yeahs in Chicago last night and spotted this plate! submitted by ASM_50 to pearljam [link] [comments] |
2023.06.02 10:12 fourleaffungi Missing Person - Urgent
 | This is a good friend of mine who has been missing for over 3 days. **NEWEST UPDATE: License plate read in Henderson Nevada on I11 (right near Las Vegas, Red Rock Canyon, Sloan Canyon, Hoover Dam...) He has been to Vegas a few times in the past few years and enjoyed it, especially walking down the strip, Area 15, and most likely any nearby secluded nature areas. He made mentions of suicide and disappearance before leaving while his fiancée and 2 children were asleep. ** Please be on the lookout for this car (silver 2022 Toyota highlander - CT license plate BE35285 - generic pic attached) *** Left from Manchester CT on 5/30. Originally thought he could be in CT, NY, PA, MI, or along the Appalachian Trail. Received one license plate reading from Binghamton NY 3 days ago, one in Illinois heading west on Rt 55 2 days ago, an ATM withdrawal in Tonganoxie Kansas yesterday *** submitted by fourleaffungi to Nevada [link] [comments] Concerned for his safety and wellbeing. Feel free to share to any communities. *** Please call Manchester CT police if you have any information. Attached photos of his car type, and the bag and tattoo described in the alert. |
2023.06.02 10:00 msgmeyourcatsnudes I saw a license plate that said VORE in placerville today.
Secondary shutout out to LATN LVR
submitted by msgmeyourcatsnudes to Sacramento [link] [comments]