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Art Musicky nonsense

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I sell via this site mostly, but I also try to do craft shows and the Fremont market when I can get things together enough to do it!

:( Alas, but the P-I was so much better a paper. At least KOUW still seems to be a functional source of local journalism.
 
The reporters at the Times are great. I know a few of them. But it's still a Blethen paper. KUOW is worth it; always listen when I come to town.

I'm'a buy shaving soap if you make any. Because I shave that way and it would make shaving even more enjoyable.
 
Ha-HA! Another post that isn't music, and doesn't translate well across the Internets! I did fancy baking tonight. I'm proud of it. It reminds me of how I went to school for this cooking nonsense and I'm really very good at it, I just don't have the temperament to make a career of it.

ai.imgur.com_a9b6wcv.jpg

Raspberry macaron with lavender lemon curd filling, and lavender macaron with raspberry lemon curd filling. <3 They are exceedingly tasty. I shall now likely leave this thread vacant for another two months and/or until I have time to really go at Setareh Wing musics again.
 
A bit of writing. I was like "I'm disappointed by the content and quantity of queer media I have access to" and then I was like "but I could write my own, SO THERE." And so I started doing that.

Nora had been only five years old, the first time she'd followed the Old Hasegawa Road, named for her grandfather or great-grandfather in generations past, from the place it left her quiet seaside hometown to the burnt-out husk of a lighthouse that had once, long ago, signaled danger to boats passing the rocky shoreline of the Cove. She had learned the secret paths that only children can find, between the jagged, weathered basalt and the vital fir – learned the paths that light feet could tread, that could never be walked the same way twice, that led to the magical destination of anywhere by the blue-gray sea.

It had proved to be a rare escape, in her childhood. Her name was Hasegawa, and though the fortunes of the family had dwindled in recent decades, it was a name that still carried expectation. Azami's Cove was their town, the long-abandoned timber mill and the still-productive granite quarry their legacy. Seldom had Nora managed to break free from the structure and predestination of her life for long: school occupied much of her time, and outside school, her mother insistently kept her busy, with private lessons in ballet and Latin, etiquette and the Classics, familial rivalry and the Chicago school of economics.

Still, Nora had found time for that escape, when she could. The old lighthouse, scorched by wildfire and rotted through from age and rain, stood tall in her fondest memories.

When she was six, and cut her own hair in defiance, and fled to the lighthouse to escape her mother's censure, and it had kept her safe from punishment, at least for a few hours.

When she was eight, and Adeline had stolen bamboo beanpoles from her father's garden, and they'd played pirates overlooking their domain until Adeline skinned her knee and ran home and spoiled the whole beautiful affair.

When she was eleven, and she and Elsie jumped off the sheer cliffs, thirty feet down to the cloudy water below, and by fortune or miracle lived to tell the tale, and she'd thought to herself that Elsie was beautiful, and wondered what that meant.

When she was fourteen, and kissed a boy for the first time, as the waning gibbous rose in a rare clear sky above them, and Alex had been clumsy, but sweet and gentle, and when it was over they'd both awkwardly agreed it was a mistake, and that it was better they stay friends.

She was sixteen, now, and the hidden paths her feet had once found so easily now snatched at the hems of her jeans and scratched for her eyes with unseen stones and stray branches. Elsie was nineteen, and gone away the year before, all the way to Bellingham for college. Adeline was a Lemieux, and now that she was old enough to understand, Nora's mother simply couldn't allow her to associate with such rabble. Alex and Adeline were dating, or at least kissing in public with the sort of frequency that said they might be, and that meant she couldn't talk to him, either.

But the lighthouse, that was always as she remembered it, ever standing despite the neglect and abuse and exposure, a monument, she thought, to the value of unbridled stubbornness. A place she could sit at the edge of the cliff above the relentless violence of the ocean, and watch the tides race through the Strait, and be alone with her thoughts.

Except today, she wasn't alone.

What first caught her eye was the streak of blood, unmistakable, deep red-brown, smeared by a small hand along the lighthouse' ancient wall. A trail that led to the scorched door, bolted from the inside, that Nora had never seen opened before today, and into the small foyer beyond, half-filled by fallen brick and broken timbers from floors above. There, curled up and still, she came upon a young woman, no older than Nora herself, her dark hair tangled and matted with filth, her white shift dress stained deep crimson from her belly to her neck.

Nora let out a muted cry of shock, fumbling for her phone, then fumbling further as she struggled to dial. She knelt by the motionless girl, trying to muster through her panic the proper place to check for a pulse, the proper way to staunch a wound.

I'm at the old lighthouse on Hasegawa Road. She could hear herself speaking to the dispatcher, frenzied and fearful but more clear than she'd have expected, but her voice sounded a thousand miles away. I need help. Someone's been, stabbed? Or shot or, or. I don't know. I don't... she's – she's breathing but she's bleeding. She's lost so much blood I don't-

She'd shrugged out of her sweater, folded it into a compress, and pressed it tight against the girl's wound to staunch the bleeding, though she didn't remember doing any of those things. In the distance, through the haze of adrenaline and fear, she heard sirens, and hoped she'd called in time to make a difference.

“Just hold on. Please hold on. I've got you. Okay?”

I've got you. Don't go.

Please.​
 
Whipped kokum butter lotion. :eek: With a lavender Earl Grey scent blend. This is more stuff that doesn't necessarily translate well to photography, but that I am nonetheless quite proud of~
 

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