text:
Class - NathanielMature
Willow made hamburgers for dinner again. We ate mostly in silence. I really had enjoyed working with the filly. At first I thought Little Bit was a silly name but it seemed to match the horse's personality.
"That's why we wait to name them," Aaron explained. "Little Bit was born while Willow and I were away at a conference in Tulsa so we haven't really gotten the chance to watch her. We find out what their personalities are like, you see. For example: Flame has the worst temper."
"And you put me in a stall with her," I groaned and they both laughed.
"You did fine," Aaron said, passing Willow his plate. "You both ought to get some sleep. We're going to the ranch to get ready for classes nice and early. Willow, I think you'll finally get to go back down."
Willow yawned. "In that case, g'night gentlemen."
I watched her walk up the stairs with a frown on my face.
"It's okay to get along with her, you know," Aaron said and I looked over at him.
He was watching me with a smile on his face. I shook my head.
"Nah," I said, stretching. "We're too similar."
"Ain't that the truth," he snorted. "Good night, Nathan."
"Fuck me sideways! God damn it! Shit!"
I sat up straight and stumbled to my door. I threw it open and looked around. Willow was hopping on one foot in the bathroom, struggling with a towel and bandages. I snorted and she glared at me.
"Well don't just stand there," she snapped. "Help me out!"
"Ah, shaving," I said and got a bandage out for her. "Jesus Christ!" I cried when she pulled the towel away. "What did you shave with!? A steak knife!?"
"Shut up," she snarled. "Fuck," she hissed. "I can't get the blood to stop."
"Of course you can't," I said, taking the towel and running it under hot water. "That cut is four inches long!"
"It's not that bad," she pouted and I pressed the towel to her leg.
I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."
We waited until the blood finally stopped. She propped her leg up on the sink and took at least five Band-Aids and put them on. It was then I noticed she had the perfect hourglass figure and was surprisingly flexible.
"Stop gaping and go put a shirt on," she grumbled, her face pink.
"What's the matter, Willow?" I teased, leaning against the wall. "Can't handle the sight of a sexy man?"
She glared. "Out," she ordered.
"But I'm comfortable," I said.
She rolled her eyes and shoved on my left shoulder. I stumbled back and she slammed the bathroom door in my face. I laughed and changed into a sleeveless shirt and blue jeans. Downstairs, Aaron was pouring orange juice.
"Everything okay up there?" he asked. "I haven't heard her swear like that in a long time."
I shrugged. "She was shaving and cut herself pretty badly."
"Well, time to make a fattening breakfast," he chuckled. "Do you know how to make pancakes?"
"I pity the man who can't," I laughed.
I was feeling more comfortable around Aaron and in the house. I didn't feel like I had to ask for permission whenever I wanted water or to turn the TV on. I wondered if I'd get used to being around Willow.... As I turned and saw her coming down the stairs, though, I knew I probably wouldn't.
She was in a pair of shorts that stopped mid-thigh and a pink tank top. She was pulling a brush through her hair and wearing boots that covered where she had cut herself.
"I swear to God I hate shaving," she grumbled, not noticing my open jaw.
I shook myself and went back to making the pancakes.
"I heard your cry of anger," Aaron laughed. "It's been a while since you've said all that."
She huffed and opened the fridge to get the eggs.
"Hey," she snapped at me. "Where are my eggs?"
"We're having pancakes," I snapped back. "Where do you think they are?"
"Ass," she grumbled, snatching them.
"Bitch," I retorted, grabbing two before she could run off with them.
Aaron snorted and sat at the table with his orange juice and the newspaper. Willow got her phone out and I groaned.
"Not your Pandora," I begged. "Seriously, you have the strangest taste in music."
"Says the man who still listens to the Backstreet Boys and Avril Lavigne," she said, rolling her eyes and turning the volume up.
I pointed my whisk at her. "Do not diss the 90's. Avril is classic!"
"No. The Beatles are classic. Avril is just-"
"You're in the paper," Aaron interrupted and we looked up at him, frowning. "Apparently, Brandon is now claiming you're pregnant with his child."
Willow's jaw dropped and her whisk clattered to the floor.
"What!? That bastard!"
Aaron snorted. "And you have an STD, Nathan."
"That I don't have trouble believing," Willow muttered and I glared at her.
"Damn it," I groaned.
"The fun never stops," Willow sighed, washing her whisk then returning to the eggs. "How many kids have we got coming today, Dad?"
"Fifteen," he answered. "Today it'll just be me and Willow teaching, Nathan. You'll observe and take notes from Willow."
Willow laughed and nudged me obnoxiously. "You have to do what I say," she said in a sing song voice and I shoved her.
"Just make the eggs, woman," I snapped.
It was 7:30 by the time we finished a quick - but definitely large - breakfast and got down to the ranch. Cars were already pulling up and kids came running out happily. They ranged from 10 to 22. There was one, though, that looked my age. He walked with his nose in the air and reminded me of a Hollywood stereotype: polo shirt with a pastel sweater around his neck and khaki shorts.
I looked at Willow. "Is he for real?" I whispered. "He's riding in that?"
"Don't let looks deceive you," she whispered back, watching him get on a horse. "Matt's the best rider we have. His outfits are ridiculous, though. Tennis shoes," she added with a sigh. "Well, time to begin."
Parents backed their cars up and converged onto the tailgates to watch their kids. The first thing Willow and Aaron did was go among the kids and make sure their feet were in right and they were holding the reins correctly. When we passed by Matt, he winked at Willow but she ignored him.
"Lookin' good today, Teach," he flirted.
"Your stirrup is too loose," she said and he turned a little red, tightening it. "We'll start with warmups," she said to the group at large. "Millie, make sure you're tight, remember?"
"Yes, Miss Turner!" a little girl in pig tails said happily.
"Dude. That girl is itty-bitty!" I said. "How is she on that horse?"
"Millie's a decent rider," Willow answered, passing me a piece of gum. "Pitch is the best size for her."
Matt trotted over, looking angry. "Where's Spirit?" he demanded and I frowned.
"Back in line, Matt," Willow said.
"I'm supposed to be riding with Spirit this weekend," he snapped. "Where is she?"
Willow's eyes were filling with tears.
"Let me guess: you sold her," he sneered.
"How about you shut your fucking mouth and do what she said?" I hissed. "She said get in line. Go get in the damn line."
He glared at me but flicked the reins.
"Thanks," she whispered.


text:
Word Life is a blogging platform with all the bells and wistles it is expected for. No plugin's headaches. All that is needed is bundled. It is possible to choose or code templates. Most of all it aims to gather all the good ideas from others.
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subset: commoncrawl


text:
There are thousands of Rubik's cubes on the market, varying types stratified through nomenclature, families and subfamilies. Cuber: How to Solve Various Puzzle Cubes Parts I & II reveal the solve cases for fifty of the most popular cubes amongst collectors and competitors. Cuber is for the beginner and is in no way written to be mysterious. One is herein supplied with the clear tools toward successful solves.
To view this DRM protected ebook on your desktop or laptop you will need to have Adobe Digital Editions installed. It is a free software. We also strongly recommend that you sign up for an AdobeID at the Adobe website. For more details please see FAQ 1&2. To view this ebook on an iPhone, iPad or Android mobile device you will need the Adobe Digital Editions app, or BlueFire Reader or Txtr app. These are free, too. For more details see this article.
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text:
Real LWP Snow & Snowman Ver2
by: FUNCOM • 0
All Android applications categories
by: FUNCOM • 0
★ ★ ★ Real LWP Snow & Snowman Ver2 ★ ★ ★
Draw pretty snowman in the background as a real eye peongpeong.
Saw the shape of the eye differs from the effect of the non-
Really realistic snow falling effect with more
Realistic Meet Winter and Christmas!
Beads inside Christmas music boxes below
Another snowy effect, directing and
Makes the atmosphere more beautiful realistic candle.
Press the Settings icon after installing apps
Live in the background, you have to do is choose.
Thank you.
Live Wallpaper, Christmas, Santa, Santa Claus, a snowman,
Candles, music boxes, peonkeom
live wallpaper, lwp, christmas, xmas, santa,
Santa Claus, snowman, snow, candle, funcom
Tags: javascript realistischer schnee , realistic snowman
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text:
Stones Roses' second Finsbury Park gig hailed as 'mesmerising' and 'amazing'
Stones Roses fans have praised the band's second gig in London's Finsbury Park describing it as 'mesmerising' and 'amazing'.
Here's hoping!
Not quite so rock n roll after all...
They wanna be adored anew
They are the Resurrection again
The TV weatherman also dismissed claims that he had shown his pupils a porn film.
Ian Brown described how he and his classmates were shown gay porn by the former ITV weatherman when he was 11 years old.


text:
Three first-half goals from Andriy Shevchenko, Didier Drogba and Mikel Jon Obi underlined Chelsea's control as they despatched Colin Calderwood's Coca-Cola League One side with the kind of nonchalance expected from the Barclays Premiership champions.
Mourinho had already given Chelsea's fans a major boost prior to the kick-off when he re-emphasised his determination to remain as coach until his contract expires in 2010.
Shevchenko, who scored twice in the 4-0 demolition of Wycombe in the Carling Cup semi-final last week, gave Chelsea the perfect start when he put them in front in the ninth minute.
Forest's hopes of pulling off a giantkilling act were dealt a massive blow when Shevchenko's shot from eight yards out took a deflection off Forest defender John Curtis and bounced into the net. But much worse was to follow for the League One side 10 minutes later.
This time it was Drogba who ensured Forest's cup dreams were over when he sent a curling free-kick into the top corner from 25 yards. It was the Ivorian striker's 22nd goal of the season and it effectively killed off the tie.
It was a professional performance from the champions even without half of their regular midfield engine room in Michael Ballack and Claude Makelele. Their replacements, Mikel and Lassana Diarra, gave stand-in captain Frank Lampard plenty of service.
The Premiership side constantly searched for a third goal and it arrived seconds before the end of the first half. Forest failed to deal with Lampard's corner and the ball fell to the feet of Mikel who poked it home.
Forest's performance in the opening half was poor by their own standards but they gave Chelsea more to think about in the second period. In the 58th minute they could have reduced the arrears when Junior Agogo just failed to reach the ball as it rolled across the face of the goal.
Forest were far more adventurous in their approach in the second half but Chelsea remained in control with Mourinho using the opportunity to give 16-year-old midfielder Michael Woods his second substitute appearance for the club in place of Lampard.Reuse content


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text:
Systems Biology Opens New Research Pathways
Systems Biologists Are Attacking the Encrypted Messages That Would Allow Us to Predict and Change the Course of Disease
Individual Tumor Profiling
Has Tumor Molecular Profiling Enabled More Effective and Less Toxic Cancer Treatment?
Top 10 Under 40
Up-and-Coming Stars Shine in Biopharma Research and Business
Podcast: FDA's New Commissioner Hits the Ground Running
Scott Gottlieb, M.D., Commits to Speeding Up Drug Reviews, and Maintaining Safety and Efficacy
Pfizer Taps Compugen for Discovery Work
Pfizer has signed on Compugen to conduct discovery against three targets of its interest. Pfizer will provide the funding, and Compugen expects to synthesize molecules and deliver them to Pfizer within the next few months.
Following an evaluation period, Pfizer will have the right to exercise options for worldwide, exclusive licenses to develop and commercialize selected compounds or further optimize them to obtain final potent, selective product candidates with favorable pharmacokinetic properties. If exercised Pfizer will pay Compugen milestones plus royalties on resulting drugs.
"Although use of our various discovery platforms is now providing us with a growing inventory of novel drug and target candidates for further development and licensing, the most unique aspect of our capabilities is the ability to systematically, and within a short timeframe, provide what we call discovery-on-demand product candidates for selected areas of interest to our partners," says Anat Cohen-Dayag, Ph.D., president and co-CEO of Compugen. "We are extremely pleased to be entering into this multitarget collaboration with Pfizer, and we look forward to entering into similar agreements with additional pharmaceutical and biopharmaceutical companies."
During the past few years, Compugen has designed, developed, validated, and disclosed 10 discovery platforms. Most of these discovery engines are based on a process of in silico prediction and selection, followed by synthesis and experimental validation. The initial in silico predictions usually involve a large number of possible candidates, with the selection step resulting in a very small subset, which is expected to have the highest probability of success. These molecules are then prioritized, synthesized, and experimentally validated.
One of the key Compugen platforms to be utilized in the Pfizer collaboration was recently developed and has not yet been publicly disclosed. This new technology is based on a process that is different from the prediction-selection-validation method underlying most of Compugen's other discovery platforms. The platform uses understandings of certain basic biological phenomena and advanced computational biology to first design in silico, as opposed to selecting molecules that meet the specific requirements needed for them to become optimal therapeutic candidates for the relevant target. These predicted molecular sequences are then synthesized and experimentally validated.
Compugen's discovery platform is being used by a slew of companies including Bayer Schering Pharma, Merck & Co., Merck Serono, Ortho-Clinical Diagnostics, Pfizer, Roche, and Teva Pharmaceutical.
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text:
Category:632 North Dearborn Street
English: 632 North Dearborn Street is an 1892 building on the northwest corner of North Dearborn and West Ontario streets on the Near North Side of Chicago. It appears in historic building listings as the Former Chicago Historical Society Building or Old Chicago Historical Society Building, because it was the home of the Chicago Historical Society until 1931. It has also been the Institute of Design (1946–1956), recording studios (1950s and 1960s), and nightclubs since 1985: The Limelight (1985–1989), Excalibur and Vision (1989–2012), and Castle, an entertainment complex with 4 parts (Craft, Palladium, Dome Room, and Cabaret) since 2013.
|Object location
|View all coordinates using: OpenStreetMap - Google Maps - Google Earth - Proximityrama
This is a category about a place or building that is listed on the National Register of Historic Places in the United States of America. Its reference number is 78001126
Media in category "632 North Dearborn Street"
The following 6 files are in this category, out of 6 total.
- Excalibur Nightclub.JPG 2.4 MB
- GLC At Chicago Excalibur.jpg 2.88 MB
- Jay Bradley Pro Wrestler.jpg 566 KB


text:
I don't know about you, but I love The Chase. I don't go out of my way to watch it, but I find myself in front of it a lot, and it always entertains.
Mainly due to Bradley Walsh and his shit jokes. And also when he finds something funny and fully loses the plot.
Enter Fanny Chmelar, the two words that absolutely destroyed the legendary host and went viral on Facebook in Twitter within minutes of the broadcast.
It's a bit old, but there is always time for classic moments like this.


text:
June 2015
Duty to Report
June 2016
Resource and Reflection Guide for the Professional Advisory: Duty to Report
Protected Titles and Designations
2014-2015 Annual Report
2013-2014 Annual Report
2012-2013 Annual Report
2011-2012 Annual Report
2010-2011 Annual Report
2009-2010 Annual Report
2008-2009 Annual Report
Connexions provides sector and College news along with regular features on the early childhood education profession.
Read past issues of Connexions.
Volume 11 - Mandatory Continuous Professional Learning Program for Registered Early Childhood Educators (RECEs) (June 2016)
Volume 10 - Practice Guideline: Supporting Positive Interactions with Children (June 2016)
Volume 9 - Mandatory Employer Reporting Obligations (October 2015)
Volume 8 - Professional Advisory: Duty to Report (June 2015)
Volume 4 - Use of the Protected Titles and Designations (June 2012)
Volume 3 - Code of Ethics and Standards of Practice (February 2011)
Volume 2 - Public Register (March 2010)
What's New for Employers - Summer 2016
Employer Reporting Obligations
What do you know about your child's RECE?
Code of Ethics and Standards of Practice
This joint resource was developed as a result of a collaborative research project involving both the Ontario College of Teachers and the College of Early Childhood Educators. This resource helps to bring the ethical standards and standards of practice for both professions to life as educators work together to support early learning.
The College is pleased to publish case studies describing real experiences in the professional practice of early childhood educators. These cases were written by registered members of the College.
Case Study 1: Sarah's Confusing Behaviour
Case Study 2: Accepting the Consequences
Case Study 3: Getting Bumps and Taking Lumps
Case Study 4: No Qualified Staff
Case Study 5: Denton's Birthday Cupcakes
Case Study 6: In the Best Interest of the Children
Case Study 7: New Kid on the Block
Case Study 8: New Responsibilities and Challenges
Case Study 9: Valuing Inclusivity and Privacy
Case Study 10: Balancing Supervisory Responsibilities
Case Study 11: Once We Were Friends
Similar to case studies, vignettes highlight dilemmas associated with professional decision-making and action and may be used as a professional learning resource.
Do You Really Know Who Your Friends Are?
Conflicting Approaches
What to do about Lisa?
Fall '15: Child development
Spring/Summer '15: Expectations of new RECEs
Winter '15: Conflicting views
Fall '14: No-Smoking policy
Spring/Summer '14: Establishing boundaries between professional and personal relationships
Winter '14: What falls under "professional supervision"?
Fall '13: Using social media
Spring/Summer '13: Differing philosophies and practices
Winter '13: Legislation or policies that apply to RECEs
Fall '12: Professional development and dual relationships
Registration and Member Services 2015 Survey: Early Childhood Educator Entry to Practice and Early Career Transition
Registration and Member Services Survey 2014: Early Childhood Educator Entry to Practice and Early Career Transition
Registration and Member Services Survey 2013: Early Childhood Educator Entry to Practice and Early Career Transition
Registration and Member Services Survey 2011: Early Childhood Educator Entry to Practice and Early Career Transition
Early Childhood Educators Act, 2007
Education Act
Child and Family Services Act
Child Care and Early Years Act
Ministry of Education
Ministry of Children and Youth Services
Association of Early Childhood Educators Ontario
Association francophone à l'éducation des services à l'enfance de l'Ontario
Affiliated Services for Children and Youth
Best Start Resource Centre
Canadian Child Care Federation
Child Development Resource Connection Peel
Child Care Human Resources Sector Council
Early Childhood Community Development Centre
Ontario Early Years Centre: Brant
* The College of Early Childhood Educators provides information and communication in an accessible manner when requested. If you require an accessible format and/or communication support, please contact a College staff member or the College at email@example.com.


text:
You'll be forgiven for being thus far oblivious to Bitwig. They've been quietly beavering away at developing their flagship product, Bitwig Studio, since their inception in 2009, and only just approaching beta. With a team comprising some notable ex-Ableton brains, it's no surprise that Bitwig Studio has more than a couple of things in common with Ableton Live. Here's the video:
Bitwig Studio though has a number of features that Live users have been wishing for either en masse or in niche for some time – here are a few of the most interesting features we've picked out of the information we've had thus far:
- Full cross platform support: Windows, Mac, Linux
- 'on note' automation editing that looks similar to Cubase 6′s VST note expression (we're waiting for confirmation on the exact functionality of this, but it's confirmed that it can control per note panning, timbre, and volume of included instruments)
- Onion skinned automation lanes showing multiple parameters simultaneously
- Split pane workflow of clip/groove based sequencing and linear sequencing
- Clip based effects automation sequencing
- Block style pattern sequencing, ala MPC, FL Studio, Maschine etc
- Non exclusive mixer tracks that will play audio and software instruments on a single channel
- Multiple document editing, allowing copy and paste between documents
- Multiple window support
The future for Bitwig Studio is a spinning coin of opportunities and threats: It's very similar in many aspects to Ableton Live, and thus is likely to get someone's back up somewhere. If Live can essentially integrate what Bitwig are doing close enough to the release of Bitwig studio, especially now the cat is somewhat out of the bag, it could see Bitwig Studio struggling to gather steam. That said, with Ableton Live's next big update presumably being Live 9, the iterative nature of Ableton's product development seems to have hampered its once unshakeable stability and if Bitwig Studio's ground up design means it's rock solid yet still fully featured, it could reap the rewards of a defection or two.
We're certainly excited to see and hear the extent of the included instruments and effects, and there's even plans to include a Reaktor/Max like instrument editor after launch. We're thinking ahead here, but if Bitwig Studio can be installed on an ultra-low footprint Linux install and manages to sound as great as it looks without relying on third party plugins… well, let's just leave it at 'we're excited'.
More information as we have it – which will be soon. Let us know what you think – are you thinking about it as an Ableton Live beater, or is it unnecessary to draw that close a comparison?


text:
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Great starter home, or rental!! Home is in very good shape and the bathroom has been completely re-done. 3 nice size bedrooms and large kitchen and living area. 1 acre lot with room for a shed or outbuildings.


text:
Brian and Casey
Dedicated to Brian and Casey in their temporary separation.
Brian and Casey
By Arley Steinhour 012012
A brother lost his dog, today,
Fourteen years a best friend,
So much pain he couldn't play,
Casey waits for Brian at other end.
Reading Brian's sharing, with a tear,
I could tell that Brian's heart did ache,
With heartfelt solace, him to cheer,
I offer up this comfort, for his sake:
A dog is our best buddy,
What else could he be,
Too vibrant to be fuddy-duddy,
And, too much heart to be a tree.
The next time that you see him,
He'll surely wag his tail,
You'll both be young and trim,
Together you can run a mile.
So, don't feel badly in your heart,
You need no tears, for memory,
Casey will reside in a special part,
Of your heart and Family Tree.
Hold your head up, and proclaim,
A great dog owned a part of your life,
Knowing he'd wait in Snow or rain,
Soon together, without mortal strife.
- -- Posted by fred2 on Sat, Jan 28, 2012, at 7:56 PM
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text:
The Legend of Autumn Vampire
Book by: Villard Cord
Status: Finished
Genre: Fantasy
Chapter1 (v.1) - The Legend of Autumn Vampire
There was autumn. Of those that savours of pavements and tobacco smog. Though different was the time: people wore gowns and elegant suits, their roads went in cabs, and only the silence of secrecy inks kept their heart testimonies.
Gloomy London had used to the needling rains long ago. Addict against his own will, he laughed at reflections of streets in the autumnal puddles. Here and there: in a bakery and grocery store, jewelry and antique, and, of course, in a pub – people swallowed dreary whiskies, complaining that rain today's pouring more cats than before. And London – high sinewy old man in an old-fashioned jacket – sullenly nodded, fetching them a new pint of weary hops.
That autumn rains poured cats and dogs, indeed. The city turned deserted. Balls ran one after another (to let the rain-mood off), but the fun'd die with umbrella's curve. Those days people rumoured a ghost: haunting eventide alleys and parks, dancing with lanterns to the music of cloudy skies. Someone saw him sailing by Thames in a maple leaf boat; some closed tight the curtains, being afraid of his look, chanting grey; some even - faltering - told that they'd met him, but then couldn't remind any words, just the music of splashes, composing the ghost, and his colourless eyes - full of rain.
In those days there appeared a man, who'd come oft in a pub not afar from the forsaken garden, adjoining the decrepit chapel. He didn't wear any hats or umbrellas; his coat was thrown open, and he always preferred to look down, avoiding the curious sights. He'd order rum or whisky and sit for hours near the window, listening to rain drumming on the wan lone glass. It seemed his coming ever brought the wind and dampness: then people'd move to the fireplace, reaching for warmth; but he'd still take place right at the door and breathe in the fragrance of weather. Bartender'd shrug his shoulders then: judging by accent, strange guest was Irish, and all Irish for him sounded «far from this world».
When the guest'd leave, people sighed of relief, as they'd do if rain, burst under the roof, again is returned in embraces of winds and lamenting pavements.
No one knew him by name, but those who met – called him Rain: he was so much alike to the wet English autumn…
"Rum, please…"
"The usual…"
Bartender nodded and reached for the ice.
"No, no. No ice… 't makes me winterish…"
"You're enjoying this rain?"
"He's alive…" Stranger smiled, yet down were his eyes.
Bartender shook his head, pouring rum into glass.
"What, in your smell, is the fragrance of rain?" Stranger whispered.
"And the smell of wetness?"
"Why should I know?" Bartender hemmed and turned back, returning to his work, but stranger went on, as speaking to himself:
"Today is rummy – for my smell. Rain has beautiful taste, but no fragrance at all. I enjoy granting him an aroma…"
He smiled and sipped from a glass.
"Drop after drop – rummy rain fills the veins…"
Leaving the pub, he was gathering wetness, breathing in rainy freshness through rummy fumes; kissing his beloved autumn with the blackened eyes, drunk by her ecstatic beauty.
Most likely, he could be the sole who loved rain: ghost, haunting alleys and parks, laughing, welcoming hugs to the kisses of cloudy fairies. Gloomy London – acquainted to wetness had blown away people from streets – became his cursed castle, where autumn and rain shared the couch of mellowing leafage.
That day, while the park promenades, he heard cries.
She was there, sitting on the bench: trembling, sobbing, burying face with hands. And, generally, he'd pass by – being hostile to people – but something caught his eye, made him come closer and sit beside her. Watching her from under the soggy eyelashes he tried to find out, what's wrong with the girl, while she cried on her bitterness, as if never noticed his coming.
"You are like autumn… that beauty and sad…"
She was startled with his words, but, looking at him through the hazes of tearful eyes, sadly uttered:
"Go away. I don't need any pity."
"But… You are the beauty. You can make the rain…"
Girl bitterly smiled to a thought that she bumped into mooner – then reached for a handkerchief to wipe off the tears; but he took her hand gently, and his rainy eyes imbued with pray…
Please, don't…
"What kind of gentleman are you, letting out your hands…" But she wouldn't finish, as stranger came kissing her cheeks and lips, licking off salty nectar of her tears.
Oddly, she wouldn't resist, like being charmed by his sudden endeavour. In an eventide park under cover of rains she felt panting inside and, unable to hold back the passion, instinctively yielded, surprised, to his sudden caress.
"Who are you?"
"I heard someone calling me Rain…"
"I love it… Rain…"
"I will be calling you Fall."
"Rain and Fall…"
"Fall and Rain…"
After park, they had long promenades by the quays, and Fall happily cried, as Rain kissed off her tears, and she felt that his cold eyes came warmer.
Later he got her on cab and then watched, in the middle of watery road, how she vanished – his Fall – in the mysterious shade.
Her rain – is another. Salty, knocking off feet, drugging with a peculiar fragrance. I could go kissing her on and on, drink her delicate nectar... disparate with rain, which had become my shadow… And now when she's gone, I am boiling within. My obsession – oh, maddening Fall!
That night he didn't go to pub, wishing for the taste of Fall to last for ever.
But with the morn, of sudden, clouds scattered, and the rain-drops dried. People ran out into the streets, smiling at the blazing sun. Only he – alone in damp grotto by swampy swan-pool, tried to sleep, until sun would extinguish. Though the feeling inside wouldn't let any rest… as rough opium of human tears set his hunger on fire…
Names do not mean much in this story. This is why you will never know the name of the girl he called Fall or, like, mine. Doesn't matter at all. And even if might – will just hinder from considerate reading.
That girl, as you could've guessed already, had befallen disgrace. Which led her in rainy autumnal park, where she found a hope that happiness still could be happened. Where she met a vampire, summoned with the call of her tears…
Like a newborn, she greeted the sun, which had torn through the bulwarks of sorrowful weather, hoping that this – is another good sign for the end of all dismal and dreary, and cold of her life being. The whole day she could just dream away in their promenades with Rain, waiting for the evening, when they promised to meet again; and she bantered herself, smiling: 'Above all, there should be no rain…' And before going out, whispered, wagging at mirror: 'Hence, no mo tears, hear me! No more tears!'
But there happened more tears. He didn't come. Passersby watched her with pity, as she cried on the bench. One even tried to address her with sympathy, but she wouldn't hear or see anyone, craving for the Rain to come, cherishing the hope, which hurt – and heavier poured ringing tears.
He lied in agony on the heartless stones of world-forsaken grotto, unable to break his refuge. Parks and alleys dried out; calmed down the winds. Clear sky promised not any clouds, thus he knew that he couldn't abandon his ghostly place… hence pierced on and on skin with claws, eager to silence the echoes of cries of his fair Fall, whose tears – must appertained to him – wasted dead in the rustling leaves, withered. His drug – rough opium of rain, salt morphia – did call, allured, but when he tried to get out of the grotto, dry wrinkled London injected his soul with the summery liquids, burning, choking his throat, as willing to squeeze out his life. Then vampire crawled back in his prison, where faint underground brook from the swans' pool kept feeding his rain-coat shade.
He loved to watch how black swans in the greyness of rain sailed like ancient barks ripping storms by the flow of autumn, raising flags from their sable feathers, hailing him – the sea captain of morion smokes. They were so alike: black swans and coated in clouds autumn vampire. Just like him, they enjoyed when it rained and would hastily hide when it shined in decrepit chapel, long forgotten by men. There he built artificial pond, filled with water from mourning heaven; there loved to spend hours himself, listening to the wandering wind howling through the time-worn walls. Though in shine days still brightly was there. He felt sun stretching out his hands everywhere, spitting dryness, so then would escape to his grotto: dark and thick, solid as coffin, accustomed to creatures like him, though hungry for blood.
He wouldn't tell what is Seasons or Calendar. He lived with special understanding of his own Seasons. When it rained – the autumn reigned over his world. And thus, he'd lust to last for ever. But then, alas, at sudden, summer'd come. Skies'd dry, rains'd die, flesh-eating sun'd crawl out, and people… many people. The world around would turn into a dreadful orgy of voices and sounds. In those days even there, in his forsaken garden, he could hear the steps. Once happened: some kids tried to enter his refuge, but he frightened them, playing a ghost, spreading rumble and moans all over the grotto – and they ran away. He grieved that summer couldn't be frightened, as well.
But mostly he feared of winter. Shuddered at every crunch of snow under passersby' legs; shivered in his light coat; and worriedly watched the underground brook being shrouded with thin icy scales. Then he smashed it, ground with stones into ashes, protecting his faint spring from horrifying wintery breath.
At summer he was frightened to dry; at winter – to freeze. Only at autumn, when poured are the rains, he would have promenades, filling London again with the rumours of ghost, dancing 'midst puddles, swallowing cloudy tears.
And now, unexpectedly he realized that his life kaleidoscope had beheld the new season. But he wouldn't know how to describe it, though felt – it's connected to her, whose cries he could hear from afar, as they drove him crazy. But the rain was numb, thus autumn vampire had to suffer the pains of his heartbeat.
She waited for him 'till the sunset, but Rain didn't come. Tears dried, killed the hope, and she couldn't decide, what'd be next. Like she couldn't before, when she thought, no one else ever'd make her heart aching. She got a cab back home. There, in boudoir before the mirror, gulping chartreuse, she feebly whispered, peering into the bleeding aureoles of ink: 'No more tears… any tears… never.'
That night it rained again. Though she slept blue of emerald liquor: couldn't hear the splashes of sorrowful fairies at the closed-shut windowpane.
A handkerchief. Only a handkerchief on the lonesome bench in the nightly grim park – all what's left from her. He picked it up carefully, holding to lips: licked soft fabric, imaging kissing off her rainy tears, tasting her passionate watery nectar, and, couldn't be patient for more (full of violent illness) drank off – ferociously draining silk fabric on the tips of his pale, hungry, dried off pain-lips – her decadent autumn melancholy. That's when he felt again the ecstasy within, as if he partook of forbidden fruit, dissolved in space, moored – after countless seasons of mooning – to the island, where infinite rains have poured lotus haze in crystal goblets. He closed his eyes and could see her – beauteous Fall gowned in fallen leaves, granting him one of the goblets. Like true sommelier, tenderly and slowly, he accepted the gift, smelling the aroma, further making a sip, letting flow by the tongue the thick rivulet of viscid temptation.
"Here is the special wine. Pleurs d'Affe[1]. Which grows in eventide falls from the rarest overcast tears. Which bouquet smells of maple leaves, seasoned in puddles in drowsy sparkles of the last lantern's breath… hurried, floundering glow of dark-roasted tobacco and ashes from beheaded match… subtle blossom of my favored perfume, spread with camellias' petals by the dank winds, blended into the sweetish sativa of misty October. Which taste firstly is salty, weepy, wed with rough and spiced tempranillo, opening further in bitterish duo of opium dusk and scorched almond-heart, with a colouful finish of astringent conifer tar, melted in sighs of ailing kisses. Pleurs d'Affe. Are you enjoying my treat?"
"Oh, aye…"
"Then drink more… Drain me…"
And he drank – drained every single drop from the handkerchief; fallen on his knees, craving for more, obsessed with the hungering madness. Nor rain, neither perpetual autumn – but desire to stay on that island forever possessed him. There, in crystal goblets, She was pouring the colourless wine – Pleurs d'Affe – which reflected cold vagueness of his eyes, stranger to the world of men and flesh temptations.
He looked for her anywhere, but couldn't hear the music of tears. Night seemed eternal. He searched for her beyond the windows, but met just his own reflection on the curtained glass. Mooned around the quays, yet rain scared away anyone but stray dogs. The goblet in his hands got a crack, and he smashed it in ire at mourning pavements. Then the following scream grown in gust, clanking lids of the dustbins, fracturing branches, tearing fences away from the shadows of sorrowful lamps.
Exhausted, desperate, the autumn vampire didn't notice his entering the pub, where got habit of ordering the taste for his rainy obsessions. Coming closer to counter he – first time in his life – rose eyes and looked straight at the bartender, tall and sinewy old man dressed in old-fashioned jacket. Amused, he realized the sudden desire to look. But that new sensation felt more like the animal instinct, as if something was telling him to search, to analyze, to feed on anything that hadn't been of interest before.
"Your eyes, sir. Do they shed?"
"Nay… this is just the colour…"
"Of the eyes?"
"Rainy, colourless."
"I remember, last time they were dark."
"So, do you? That's just rum. Rum makes darken..."
"I say, from that few drops?"
"Aye… just, give me wine…"
"Any special?"
"Something spicy… and salty…"
"I may stir up tempranillo with merlot but, afraid, this will bite badly. Can't help with anything better, alas."
"Badly or not – I don't care. Need the taste. I'm looking for the special taste."
"That's hardly it."
"But wouldn't hurt the trying."
Bartender shrugged his shoulders, though started with the stranger's order. The mixed wine colour came as pomegranate rot, and neither smell nor taste resounded like the spell of Pleurs d'Affe. However, despite this, vampire didn't curl or weep – just drank, sip after sip, watering eyes with woeful pomegranate shadows.
Could anything have changed since he did try the spicy opium of tears, but no winds or dampness accompanied him then into the pub: just stranger warmth of overwhelming passion – a current rearing up the waves, whilst instants of blinding coition. This is why (as there's no other answer) she got drawn to him – the night lady, being one of those patrons of pubs, who lives for a bite of some casual feeling. She sat down next to him and, smiling, following with artful hungry eyes, tasted his wine.
"What is that drink you sip, despondent beauty?"
"Both salty and spicy, yet fruitless…"
"Odd-tasting, indeed…"
"Can you rain?" All of sudden he asked, gazing through the pomegranate cloud.
"What?" Surprised at first, girl laughed, then giggled. "Ah, I see! Believe me, I can surely cry, if thus are wishes…" And she playfully reached for her plump mellow lips.
"Show me."
"Don't beat around the bush? I hope in bed you're not that hasty!" She smiled again, taking his hand. "Come! I will show you..."
Camellia, torn into shreds by the smoky wind, salt paint and shade of burnt nut, green poisonous tea and swollen anise star – more spicy and rougher the wine, like a cheap table liquid, diluted, served there, where's no space for the elegant concord. Thus tasted her – the lady of the night – traded her simple casual delight for the ticket to last lamented destination.
When she – naked, caressing his skin – cried at last, he went kissing her madly, licking tears, calling her my fair Fall; but with each further sip disappointment had grown: for her rain was another, not even a bit like the haunting heart Pleurs d'Affe. Then she screamed, tried to run, spat curses and coughed, but vampire had wrapped his embrace – drinking her tears in a hope that somewhere within might reveal that inspiring bouquet. Alas, dried her to death, thrown in anger her goblet at ground, only whetted by drearily distant and elusive aroma of his loving drug… subtle blossom of my favored perfume, spread with camellias' petals by the dank winds...
Sadly he looked at the girl, who lay breathless beside. He drank her rain, all her tears, delivering into arid world, where red-hot wasteland sun devours spirits. And, watching her dead withered body, he feared himself, understanding not, why had killed, though felt that even those tears'd given him something special, dissimilar to habitual bore-pouring rain. He even sensed that if autumn is gone, he could wander in parks by the sunlit alleys, 'midst the crowds, not fearing the drought, not returning to his gloomy and swampy lacklustre grotto.
That night the storm enveloped city. And lasted for the day, thrusting madness of needling rains in the avenue skins. When me, the narrator of this eccentric story, stayed on the balcony of aged forsaken house, unsealed to the pulsative rhythms of ravening skies, mixing, like autumn vampire, spiced rum with rainwater, spectating, how favourite artist smudged paint at the dark English anguishing canvas by threatening string. These times I would always be anxious to leave my still trembling shades, ceasing the lamp, and walk into the rain, set promenades along the sodden pavements, bidding farewells to men that extinguish at any wet trifle 'neath the sheds, 'yond the doors.
We've been ever alike with my hero in these aimless drifts into the rain. But that night he felt different, untouched by the thundering lay…
There I stayed for a while, leaned against the ancient wall, listening to the autumn vampire disclosing those heavy soul-shattering sounds, as if willing to break his ringing-sad xylophone. As if he could hear rain no more – his mesmerizing rate – but made his own, vigorous and loud: to drown the hunger within. Thus wearisome women are raped. Thus rush from the brink to the riffs. To delirious knocking of bells at the head…
He tried to remember his song, but tears swallowed the sanity, stealing concord bygone. I could hear his scream, then the cymbals of thunder rebounded; was being hunted by torn leaves vertigo 'till the end, when anew blinding withering sun burst through clouds, breathing out lilac smoke to the housetops of grey.
That endless, ambiguous October… the season of rhythms and snakes, zeros and infinite wars. When else but this timeless exterior could happen the story, which spells draw autumn to windows and harvest the rains – like the roses, the colourless dames, wearing wounds wherefrom thorns are blossomed. Yet, this is not another fairy tale (of those that people tell), and I won't hush the blood by cutting down the deaths... still there magic rains, and my beloved hero, despite all, excites the sympathy. Maybe now he watches you through the autumnal tears...
He never lived as a human before, was hiding from the world, aside. Thus hardest thing was: to become like them. When meeting they saluted one another, then spoke about weather for somewhy. No poetry of heart, no word of mind, no eye-admiring touched them – at theatres might be, but on the city streets they didn't care much but weather and the captions of the daily news.
"How do you do, sir! Marvelous weather it is!"
"What a sun! Such a pleasure to sight! Finally, fine weather spell after cloudy sorcery – what news could be that much delightful!"
"But the Queen! Haven't you heard? How courtly is her choice of wine!"
Exclamatory nonsense…
He couldn't sense this life, as couldn't tell why people prefer sunny brightness to rain. But that he knew: those people one and all desiring to be happy, having proclaimed their rituals as festivals and church, hid storm-clouds inside – of special rain – the drug of pure ecstasy, which'd given him the power to trespass the seasons' verge, to burst through dungeon of eternal autumn and wreck askesis, abandoning the grotto in rumours of legends gone by.
He stayed in modest but spacious flat of camellia girl, trading her place for his former being. Got some money, purchased cane and hat, and black velvety gloves matching colour of dark round glasses, which helped his eyes endure the brightness of afternoon sun. And more, what is much curiosier (being characteristic to young cherub-like beings) – obtained small secret diary, wrapped in black leather, which entitled by blood of the rain with his magical spell: 'Pleurs d'Affe'.
Despite the tears that soothed vampire's hunger (yet haven't dried) still filled his granite veins, he realized, they couldn't be enough to struggle with that lifeless summer. Thus, forcing to forget his deep obsession to find her – his fair Fall, the first he tasted – he went out, mingling with Londoner-dandies on the even boulevard, searching for another prey-tears, their sorrowful limbo.
People gathered in pairs or companies, gossiping nonsense and captions of recently news. There, amidst the great numbers of motley assorted devotees of simulated hearts, 'twas hard to find someone who cries out his burden sincerely. Vampire perceived this when drifted through pomaded fates, and as the hunger grew stronger he felt – still despising himself for the killing – that could kill again for the opium tears, which would comfort his roaring spirit.
Despondent, he nestled on the fallen leaves' plaid, spectating at distance, from under the oak canopy, how silhouettes fade with the creeping up night; looking out, subdued to the instinct, for the prey that would comfort his mind. At a sudden he thought he'd gone mad hearing voice of a child reaching out from thickening darkness. But, as listened, having forced hunger to rest for a while, he was sure for real: little girl, rung of lament and pain, spoke to him.
"Sir… can you hear me, sir?"
"You're odd, sir... beautiful, well-dressed, sitting on the dirty soggy leaves."
"Just tired, need a rest…"
"Odd. Why not rest on the bench?"
"Indeed… but that's for them…" Vampire smiled. "Say, have you ever wondered what do leaves think of?"
"No, sir…"
"Look…" He took the pallid leaf, lost in the side of his coat. "This little leaf had a family before and lived right there on one of those branches above. But one day his family forgot him, or he'd gotten lost by himself, carried away by hunting the wind, splashing in heavenly bath, thus, like a tear down the cheek, had befallen to ground. There, 'midst many of other stray leaves he tried hard to live longer, yet just suffered more from kicks of heartless heels. That's how he lived, hurt puppy, licking old and freshly wounds. But then one day when he abased before the face of death, he was taken by passerby stranger, and warmed under his canopy."
Smiled again, he put leaf in the pocket and looked at the girl. In her eyes – tears were shaking to melt.
"You are like pain... which I never would heal, as I can't blow away stormy clouds. But I could become rain that will wash away tears, ceasing hurts of your weary shrouds."
"But… I don't like rain…"
"You shall love him…" And he sheltered her under the coat, giving hair a tousle.
Then she couldn't refrain any longer and burst into tears, though – had used to control herself during the seasons of streets – hurried to wipe them away, but vampire grasped dead her weak hands, and the breath of rain slid like a knife on her watery cheek.
Which bouquet smells of maple leaves, seasoned in puddles in drowsy sparkles of the last lantern's breath…
Tenderly, almost rocking to sleep, he recovered from under the cloak dry petal of neglected joy, letting fall – living sorrow – to bottom of puddling stars. Some believe children have their own heaven and hell. But that tearful pain had dissolved in the season of universe. With ever sky'd spread canopy of rain.
Fall sadly watched her shadow in the window being slowly covered by the rain. The skies – couldn't have held the pain – endured no more, hence shed their grief upon the grave of gentle youth, from grey and hazy veins, broken by thorns. London put cigarette heart at the flesh of soporific lantern; then, thoughtfully staring below, stiffened still in expectance of last tardy cab. And though his shade gave away: with his bound wrist pricked by a nonchalant needle; yet he acted the same – lonesome sorcerer who tied up crossroads, alleys, side streets of arterial wheel-tracks and steps with tight noose of his resolute will.
Different cities inhabit the world. Some – alike friends, do all their best to help people live happily. Others – of grey eminence – spectate and study, seldom intervene in time, being "I"s that selfish: they consume the creatures alike them. Some – wild cats, and on their own they oftly stray abroad: never thence return, leaving abandoned homes and road-spines – un-live. As for London – the ever-coughing spectre, Albion reaper had imaged a tired escapee, finally wilfully came to his sentence, strangled by his own heavy rust breath. He was matured in sickness: respiratory, cardial, osteal, psychic. Some of them he could hide, but all had to be lived with: thus people accustomed to lame shut-in old man, whose chronic coughs have seasoned the nursery halls of soot-streets with nicotine ashes and blood of Byronic disorder.
Fall tasted wine, losing sight of the late London cab; then – having the candle beheaded – she listened to rain, closing eyes. To the tune so tearfully nigh, which had carried to park: there on watery bench she would find him – the autumn vampire, a bitter illusion of her pointless waits – kissing her salty lips. She tried to forget him, but sorrow of night-gowned clouds hurt spirit again: then she left home, muffling in shawl, being led by faint calling of fatuous heart (always aching ineptly) to the place, where in maple languor and wetness of nocturnal void Rain granted… though afterwards plundered her candour.
An orphan alley bade her gloomy welcome; and silent bench, which mouth unsealed but once, bent to her feet. Its branchy figure, lachrymal, spread shivering 'neath the maple crowns, raising the skirts, to stop their wetting in the puddles, changing to the blackened mirror wells of rainy spell. There blossomed silhouettes of nightily lampions, half-shielded by the palms of new moon rising; with feeble cries of wolves – old wails, ramming off distant doors and walls, kicked the heralds of autumn around, casting malady wreaths down-rods[2].
She waited, but the time stood still in pouring land; therefore she left behind the ghosts of musty lanterns, as following some instinct – in a trance – catching at the echoes of faraway elegy: burst on the lash-tips, dissolved on the alkali tongues, interred beyond the tombstones of desolate brooks. There, in obsidian casket black swans swallowed tormenting pain, laid in deathbed of rain. There in cradle of storms cherub ceased, choked with feathery clouds. Decayed Cupid had portrayed the curving of merriment…
She sat down by the edge of swan pool, letting feet into lacklustre water. Autumnal tortures reflected in flowers of pain; lilies tangled in hair – the weeds – had been peacefully nibbled by proudly birds. By their necks, as by delicate windings of bridges – waterfalls of ethereal regions – down the showery goblet trickled lunar-strain drops, blending into the season of fade, making liquor for those whose names are recorded in tears.
His elegy died at the moment she entered the grotto. He cherished her view – such desired, expected – covered by darkness of pain; yet resisted the urge to come out from stony embrace. From the niche, unseen and still, he spectated his beauteous Fall, biting lips, holding crescent insanity, awoken by novel sensation of morphium rain. He could drink her to dregs, drain the goblet of tears, but had feared that finished at once he would never partake Pleurs d'Affe – the deific nectar that'd shown him the world rich with plentiful patterns of haunting desirable scents. Thus he, motionless, wished her to leave: just to trace her again through alleys and parks, wouldn't have let her known himself as a wild mad-howler, a killer, vampire of rains.
It seemed almost an aeon had passed till she left off with nightly inclemencies. Curtained newly born sun, taught the piano to lament and dream, covered crescendo-strings with frayed coat, casting rivers of boiling veins flow by crystalline beds from the cloudy tops – with elegiac sounds. Alike autumn vampire she wished to neglect – to leave rainless behind. She'd imagine the sea-line: there behind her – hypnotics of Ireland; there before her – below the dusk-bow – turquoise sonnet wrapped in terra-cotta plaid hung over the land; and revealing through the razors of light, guiding overcast swarms (like a kite – by the Sethian thread) would a stranger approach, whose name knocked with rain at the windows of her unsealed heart.
"What are these?" She would whisper.
"A gift…"
"What a beauty… fresh cloudy bouquet…"
"Of best blooms from the palace of rain…"
"Take me there, I beg you!"
"I can't…" He would shake his head turning from her to the darkening sea. "I will waste you. Some-rain you'll just end up being one of those clouds, who follow me as a dreary shades."
"Like that girl?"
"Like that girl… or another…"
"But why?"
"Not to stop… loving you…"
"Killing… for loving…"
"Damn sun again… Does he annoy you, sir?"
"Oh… aye… indeed."
"Still mixing wine?"
"The taste is all the same…"
"Perhaps, you haven't known the taste you love."
"I have… though couldn't drink. The more I sought, the more I craved – the more had fear to waste. This wine could be the fairest in a million. And if I empty her – then just a bottle left, recalling sadness. What's the sense? Next day I shall want more, but won't find any better: and my life will become just an endless nostalgia for taste, unique above all. Unhappily, all vessels dry…"
"But this is life: finding sole unique wine amidst any – and, tasting her ideal art, live the best of your time."
"To drink… perchance forget… and thereupon? To hide in coat and steal away at night into the storm, shedding the rain – the tears – as shadow fading with the clouds to star of day? Can't bear this, nay…"[3]
"Me either. Though open aye."
Their sights collided: old 'tender and autumn vampire – grey stone and colourless blood.
"I wish the rain be timeless…"
"Then neither spell of prelude nor postlude would cast. That same arrested life, as if Londoners would pester me with continuous rounds of pints, of a different kind, losing taste and minds. But everyone prefers his own sort, but wouldn't even constantly consume it: because the sorts' variety exactly helps to better understanding how full and rich is his own personal beloved nectar, which – as the anodyne to woe – can rest his soul…"
Autumn vampire, beleaguered with agonized lust, had abducted the numerous vessels of rain, one by one. But the more seduction he'd devoured, the more he'd remembered the taste – astringent opium of Fall, which had been beckoning thus much and tortured his unrest, abruptly turned into a humanly-possessed spirit. His diary of rainy ink had put on bloodstained leathers – vampire of tears had shifted in vampire of men, whose life from sensuous eclecticism now filled with wasted captions from the buried widows…
Since time they met again, by may-be-luck, at one of balls that people'd have as lawful mask for vicious congregations. They danced throughout the evening, and left with holding hands. One day they stayed at his place, another day – at hers. While in-between had promenades along that alley, where had firstly met, in rain.
He cursed himself he wouldn't leave. She reproached with herself wishing him near. Together they dreaded of time, when the clouds would fade…
Which happened, as always could happen in life. Sun fell upon streets of the city, and no single cloud had blackened London's grey hair for three days by then. Autumn vampire felt drought. He was losing control, powers waned; she, beside, watched his sufferings, fearing to leave him alone, as a human, acquainted with love, would afraid of her near departure.
With hungry sight he scoured the land in search for faces, sadly close to shed, but nothing could break through the perfect scent of his jealous Fall. He tried to be alone, but every time her eyes poured tears, he couldn't leave, not to increase her pain… but not to drain, like orphan girl he'd killed in compassionate will to give comfort. Though every day vampire weakened, famished, paled like a lantern, crippled on the bridge across the dried-up riverbed, and Fall wouldn't refrain from shedding more, as dying candle sheds her viscid nectar.
He rushed to her, kissed, licking off her salty drug, partaking maddening bouquet of Pleurs d'Affe. Thereafter, being self anew, spectated how she dried – how withered at his sight his fair Fall, becoming waterless enfeebled vessel. But he – seasoned to pain tearless vampire, born under canopy of storms in bed of rain – yet drank her life, her will, her grief, her loving.
"I drank the wine…"
"I see. No disappointment?"
"Why, the fairest taste!"
"No mixing further then?"
"Oh, nay!"
"But what's the taste? Can you describe your wine?"
"Ah! Hers…"
His eyes, just full of life and colour, clouded. Odd feeling within made confused. The taste that he sought, that he loved – he forgot it, abandoned. As he never had known strange spell Pleurs d'Affe, never met that rain revelation, which had torn him out of the sullen grotto, breaking the shadow chains.
"From your pensiveness, sir, can tell thus. You've forgotten to taste, just drained to the lees, simply pleasing the caprice of hunger; thence no memory – nothing is saved of that precious vessel, which has been so dear to you just a while ago, as you felt."
Haven't answered, autumn vampire ran headlong through mazes of walls and barriers of men to see her – who'd inspired the sense that he lost in the blinding defiance of days. There, beyond the window, in expectance of eventide lanterns, he felt her again like that time, when had tasted her firstly under the autumnal rain: slightly caressed her sunken cheeks and sharp arch-brows, thoughtfully touched her dry hands, wrapped in thin cloth of skin; uncovered, turning the pages – the leaves, inscribing with swan-pen the tears of rain-coloured poesy...
Something quavered then in the city of rains, and for a second to storm smoked heaven of heart had serened.
If rain be timeless… nothing shall be changed… and even rain himself will taste of water. It is inconstancy that makes so hard but desirable overcast grief. Myself – the narrator of this – don't fancy constants. Despite all inspiration and dreaming of rain, I accept his ebbs and flows, for them also are enchanting spells. Might have earlier cravingly waited (like the autumn vampire) for the heaven to mope, trading sun for the darkness of shivery grave... but for now, admit that serene sky can do marvels either.
"I love you…"
"I love…"
Fall smiled, from under her eyelids poured tears – small diamonds of most sincere and rainbow dreams. Rain, thundering within, shed over her calmly; and tenderly drew in with lips the debris of her liqueur, mirth-sorrow…
The special wine. Pleurs d'Affe. Which grows in eventide falls from the rarest overcast tears. Which bouquet smells of maple leaves, seasoned in puddles in drowsy sparkles of the last lantern's breath… hurried, floundering glow of dark-roasted tobacco and ashes from beheaded match… subtle blossom of my favored perfume, spread with camellias' petals by the dank winds, blended into the sweetish sativa of misty October. Which taste firstly is salty, weepy, wed with rough and spiced tempranillo, opening further in bitterish duo of opium dusk and scorched almond-heart, with a colouful finish of astringent conifer tar, melted in sighs of ailing kisses.
Pleurs d'Affe – are the tears of love …
This legend came in season of the fall. In one of all, when burning hot are pavements, and people partake beer and cider, hiding in the shades from frenzy of the dusty sun. That time the sudden drought befell quite yet unhealthy London, and even those, who'd used to whine 'bout weather, begged and prayed for the rain.
When the wind from Irish Sea had blown black painful clouds, which enveloped most of the heavenly canvas, people thought, 'tis witchery or God'. Merrily they sprang out on the streets, grateful to rain that played coda to unwonted British drought: and they leapfrogged in puddles, dancing and laughing together with the joyous minstrel chants. Yet, after an hour of infinite shower their ardeur ceased, and men – reborn to sullen – plodded on to their doors, wearing weathery grudge.
They say then had happened one hell of a rain ever yawned above London. And presumably rumours tell sooth: even old man himself, setting soaked wet jacket, couldn't hold quite unwelcoming words to that eerie fall, knocking back Islay scotch. However, I know: in the deeps of his smoked English heart had compassion, being sad with the fate of the one, whose tears had crushed at the crossroads of serpentine chains, ripping rains off his chest with the gust-pains and deathly diffusions.
Later some whispered a tale of clouded figure – a spirit of eventide fog, who carried a woman in scarlet camellia dress; and the scent of her hair – the velvety almond liqueur with a bite of fresh southern sativa – whirled curls into mellowing dormancy of tangoing leaves. Two spectres of dust 'bove the rain-gowned park, on heaven and earth – in the paintings of smog, in the mirrors of rain-echoed elegies. Two autumn-beloved; their eyes – full of rain – streamed with mosaic sparkles, which then, disappearing in greys, blazed with dusk.
Since, the legend is told: there in comfort of smoke and kisses of rain you can come into flowers – their buds are like chalices – goblets of wine, subtly weaved from the autumnal pleasures. They turn to skies, down their bitter tears; and if you try to touch – decay to lees.
A bit farther – neglected mysterious garden, where still in the pond close to decrepit chapel black swans spread their wings in the rain. Here, even if weather's serene, ever clouds lament o'er grave of love, cloaking the grotto in lyrical, delicate, salty and overcast sorrow.
And fair timeless Fall by purling leafage draws the elegy of sails on rainy tides…
[1] Pleurs 'Affe (composed from French: Pleurs = rain, tears; Eau d'Affe = liquor, spirit).
[2] Down-rods (poetic abridgement of the phrase: down on the fence rods).
[3] Allusion to the monologue of Shakespeare's Hamlet ("To be, or not to be..."), composed in the same manner by the lip-drops of autumn vampire.
© Copyright 2017 Villard Cord. All rights reserved.
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it's writting amazing, I didn't finish reading yet but the way it's going is amazing
i agree with midnight cat lonely child!!!! great read.
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Harmony: trying
"No, you're not. What I did there was selfish more than courageous. I thought that if I freed you, that you would sing and cast upon them all. It was all for me."
"all for me"
"all for me"
the words echoed in my head all night, I cried myself asleep . I thought about his words and cried harder. Before I knew it, it was morning and I quickly revised the lyrics to songs that would drive our side on and silence our enemy. 'Dont tell me' seemed good, I'd use that when I had enough anger to yell it at the opposing side. But for now I settled on 'someone to fall back on', I had enough sadness to put enough emotion behind it so I would make our enemies fall into crumpled heaps on the floor. I got a shower and changed for what could be the last time. I draped a green dress that settled around the floor. If I was going out today, I was going out with a bang. I let my long brown, strait hair fall and exited my room. Knowing that today I would try my hardest.


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Antique Clock
As I mentioned before in an earlier post, I travelled to St. Louis where my family is based. My mom had gotten this clock when I was just a little kid from an auction, and wanted to pass it along to me. She believes it's from 1843 and made of walnut. I think it looks great in the den. What's interesting is that I had been thinking about getting a clock for this room for some time, but never acted upon it. I even remember thinking as a little kid that this was a pretty cool looking clock. Now, I just need to get it to work.
It will go for about a minute or 2 then just loses it momentum. I'm sure I've winded up to it's max point too. Next stop...clock repair shop.


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Lectionary Reflection for the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Year C September 18, 2016 The first thing I want you to do is pray. Pray every way you know how, for everyone you know. Pray especially for rulers and their governments to rule well so we can be quietly about our business of living simply, in […]
Lectionary Reflection for the 10th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C, July 24, 2016
Dear friends, it's time we get really bold in our conversations with God, time that we prayed like we believed it, time that we expect God to respond. The world needs the church to show up and start with bold prayer followed by faithful action. (Photo: leland, Creative Commons)
Wrapped in Prayer
Seventh Sunday of Easter Year A, June 1, 2014
As we leave Easter for the long, green season of ordinary time, may we never forget that relationship with God is anything but ordinary. May we also never forget that prayer is powerful and in it we enter into conversation with our Lord, into the very presence of the Divine. (Photo: Bill McChesney, Creative Commons)
Stewards of the Promise (Part Two)
To be a steward of Jesus' bold promise in this week's reading implies that we will fully invest ourselves in passing on the faith, in sharing the story, and in continuing the work of Christ. In doing so we align our wills to Christ's will, and as his body visible today we boldly carry his message to the world. (Photo by Charles Clegg, used by Creative Commons license)
Wise Words for Consternated Christians
Lectionary Reflection for the 10th Sunday after Pentecost, July 28, 2013
Today's lessons offer wisdom for those too timid or troubled or tired of praying. Jesus tells us to ask, and Paul reminds us that we have received. How can we help equip our communities to be confident in prayer, deepening the roots of faith, and bearing fruit abundantly? Read on! (Photo: Leland Francisco, Creative Commons)
Away from the Noise
We can pray anywhere, and God is always around us all the time, but it's easier to connect with the Divine One when we find moments of silence. It's no wonder the world does everything it can to keep silence at bay. (Photo (c) dampoint – Fotolia.com)
Cultivating Spiritual Growth
Lectionary Reflection for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, August 5, 2012
How's the work of cultivating disciples going in your community of faith? Paul has some good words for spiritual gardeners in this week's epistle lesson, and the gospel reminds us the master gardener's mentoring that sustains us. (Photo by hans s used under Creative Commons License. Thanks!)
Heavenly Hushpuppies and Crumbs of Grace
"We are beggars; this is true" are among the last words supposedly written by Martin Luther. In this week's gospel reading we see both sides of the table–insider and outsider–and we play both roles in this life. Photo by Clevergrrl used under Creative Commons license. Thanks!
Daily Bread: Enough for you, for the Community, and for the World
Lectionary Reflection for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, July 25, 2010
What does the petition "Give us each day our daily bread" mean to the individual disciple and to the Body of Christ? This week's gospel offers a good opportunity to reflect on these words, on stewardship, and on the concept of "enough."
The prayerful pose
Press you hands together, palm-to-palm, finger-to-finger, thumb-to-thumb. Go ahead. Do it now, and hold it for a few seconds. Are you doing it? Not a very natural pose, is it? In fact, it feels kind of awkward, right? At least it does for me. The position forces your hands to straighten against their natural curvature. […]


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It only takes a minute to get started. Fill out our simple sign up form and login to the website.
This step is elective but will drastically multiply your chances of people actually reading your profile and contacting you. Write a little something about yourself, your interests and upload any nice photos of yourself.
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|Message view
|« Date » · « Thread »
|« Date » · « Thread »
|"email@example.com" <itli...@schrievkrom.de>
|Re: Deletion of a document with GUI not possible ...
|Thu, 19 Sep 2013 05:02:18 GMT
Yes, I think you are right. I think its a misworkig validate function. When I look at http://guide.couchdb.org/draft/validation.html there is a utility function I used in my validate functions: function require(field, message) { message = message || "Document must have a " + field; if (!newDoc[field]) throw({forbidden : message}); }; and I had a boolean field in my document I tested with this function and it throws an exception whenever the attribute is false :-)))) I changed this function and now the errors are gone. On the other side the GUI of CouchDB never showed me the cause of the deletion error - actually the deletion dialog always stayed open. Marten Am 18.09.2013 19:11, schrieb Dave Cottlehuber: > My guess is that you aren't (yet) aware that validation functions also > apply to document deletions, & one of your validation functions is not > accepting the updated deleted document. With a single _deleted field > added, the validation function presumably still passes. > > A+ > Dave > >
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Purple Lepidolite
Purple Lepidolite from Australia is an opaque stone that contains bits of mica and calcite. It is a beautiful deep purple that can only be found in Australia and is a byproduct of a nickel mine.
Pictured wet
Note: This stone is recommended for advanced cutters as the material tends to flake and takes longer to polish.
Size ranges from 5 - 5 lbs.
**Minimum Order 5 lbs.**


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Posts Tagged 'six pack fitness'
Injuries Prevention for Six Pack Training
Six Pack Education involves operating the main muscle tissues really hard for greatest definition and to accomplish the 'look'. Nevertheless, within the quest for the fantastic six pack, it is actually crucial to maximize protected procedures, especially if trying to get 6 pack abs speedy. One mistaken transfer can lead to months of pain and orders to not get the job done out whatsoever. six pack abs after 40
Most important to six pack coaching will be the utilization of proper kind at all times. A lot of people today blast as a result of their 6 pack teaching session as well speedily. This may be as a result of an easy lack of time for the proper exercise session or because of the adrenaline rush normal of a difficult exercise. To be able to realize optimum gain from the work out, it's important to work muscle mass teams to exhaustion. This requires a small amount of money of transient pain that need to be labored as a result of. Some discomfort is there to remind the athlete of the body's all-natural restrictions. It's exceeding crucial that you listen to what your system is telling you and react accordingly.
6 Pack Education and your Back
A quick search within the anatomy from the again reveals that it is mostly comprised of extended thick muscle groups that extend the entire duration in the spine.
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The teres muscle tissues (teres minor and teres important) also support in arm motion and aid to fortify the shoulder joint. They're attached at the upper arm as well as the vertebral column.
The Latissimus Dorsi Muscle mass is general the biggest muscle on the back again. It attaches at both of those the pelvis as well as the vertebral column as well as to the upper arms. It's utilized in aiding in rowing motions, as well as helps in helping the human body remain within an upright position.
There's also a big sum of connective tissue in the again (fascia), proven since the white tissue in the mid very low again in the illustration. This tissue extends past the muscle fibers or addresses them to reinforce attachments to other muscle tissue and bones. The best example of a performing tendon can be inside the knee. The fascia does let for your small amount of money of movement, but it really primarily there to aid the muscle mass keep set up.
Six Pack Schooling along with your Abdominal Muscular tissues Six pack education
When back again injuries may be widespread in people that are not appropriately conditioned, abdominal pulls or tears are also doable. The primary anatomy with the stomach consists from the transversus abdominis, rectus abdominis, and stomach obliques. Most of these muscle tissues perform collectively to bend and flex the vertebral column, compress and shield organs, and guide in respiration. You'll find also a lot of deep muscle tissues that help during this method.
Accidents to both the back or abdominal muscular tissues might be grouped into acute, subacute, or persistent. Based on the injury system, strains, sprains and ruptures are achievable. A gradual and incremental strengthening method might help to prevent most of these injuries. These muscle groups can generate issues if not properly strengthened and protected. Even a insignificant personal injury to at least one of these areas normally takes an extremely extended the perfect time to recover, and it could possibly involve the complete size in the back given that the pain has a tendency to go close to.


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Panag, father of Bollywood actor Gul Panag, is an activist and has been associated with the party for long but on Thursday ruled out the possibility of contesting the upcoming Lok Sabha elections.
He said that he would like to contribute to the party and would raise matters of national security pertaining to defence personnel. "I felt it was time to make a difference and of all the political parties this is the best for my kind of personality," he told. He is likely to advise the AAP on matters of national security.
Meanwhile, AAP continues to add more people in its kitty ahead of the Lok Sabha elections. Several well known names, bureaucrats, celebrities and industralists are making a beeline for the party membership.
OneIndia News


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I Won't ChangeMature
Once in one's lifetime, you must be told that you are doing wrong. Of course, to make it as bluntly as I can; it sucks. Often times you're in denial and refuse to believe that someone like you could have harmed even a fly's baby. In other situations, you are fully aware, and the conversation about it does nothing but confirm your suspicions; you're a creep. A weirdo to those that you thought, those that acted to be; your friend. It's worse when they don't have the guts to say it to your face, and instead take shelter behind the protection of a selected individual that is meant to strong-arm the mentioned creep.
So that's what happened today. It was an innocent text message from a friend asking if I could go over to his house to talk, something about life. Immediately, I knew it was going to go downhill from there. Apparently, I was creeping my friends out by acting in odd mannerisms which, oddly enough, I had been doing since they met me. Where's the logic in that? It was a tirade of insults all under the pretense that they wanted to keep me as a friend, but just 'wanted me to change'.
How can someone act so casually about trashing your personality just for a few select entities that obviously would be better out without you, and vice-versa? Well, my answer was the truth, the absolute truth. I don't think being weird and generally crazy fits into every soul, into every life. For as long as I can remember, I have tried to change myself. After all that time, however, I have given up. I have found people that I thought accepted me for who I am, but actually were spitting fire behind my back.
This is who I am, and I refuse to change. They like to sound like they care, but I want the bullshit to stop. All it would have taken was the simple phrase, 'I hate you'. Instead, this scenario played out. I nailed my audition, earning a very large lead part in the winter play at my high school. Suddenly, this moment is crushed, my happy mood with it, as I was angered beyond all reckoning at this sudden barrage of faults my past friends claimed to have discovered. If they disliked me so much, you would've thought this would have appeared earlier, hmm? No. And if there was one moment where I was a creep, it was when they ignored me for no reason as soon as the school year began.
Well let me say this; what did you expect me to say? What did you expect me to do? Oh, hold the phone, let me go and act perfect just for that camera your eyes conceal. I thought I could be nice to you, and everyone else in your company, but this is just enough. You were posers, and if you really want me as a friend, fine, just accept me as who I am. Otherwise, stay out of my life. I already deleted you from my phone contacts, and if I see you, I won't even offer a glance. If I had Facebook, I'd be in a deeper hole with all of the other people that got messed up in a social life.
When I look in the mirror, I don't see someone perfect, no, not by a longshot. What I do see is myself, and who I have become, and that I have succeeded as this person. We only get one life to live, so you better like yours. Is it the greatest life one can achieve? Nope. But is it good enough to keep? Of course. If that means having to cut some corners for the greater good, fine by me, especially if those corners are jagged and razor sharp.
I appreciate the talk, but next time you come and face me. I mean… if you're going to fuck me over, might as well say it right to me, huh? I'll wait and see just how much you care, and then we can go from there. For some reason, I have a feeling I will never see your bitching attitude again.
No. I will not change. Not for you, and not for anybody.


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Video breaks
From the biggest wave of all time to hairy clifftop shenanigans (plus a bit of comedy in the mix), we've rounded up our favourite online travel videos of the year
South Africa's third-largest city is a unique blend of Zulu, Indian and European influences. Taxi driver Moosa Kajee takes Kevin Rushby on a tour of his city, stopping at the Victoria Street market for souvenirs, a cafe serving local fast food favourite, Bunny chow, and the beachfront where he comes to chill out at the end of the day
Time-lapse photography is the perfect medium for travel, capturing the essence of a place or experience in minutes. Small wonder so many photographers are using the technique to showcase their travels. Here are some of our favourites
In the first of a new series, author Tahir Shah gives Marcel Theroux an insider's guide to his home city of Casablanca
London to Istanbul, Part 4: Benji Lanyado reaches the end of the line, and unearths a link to the city's ancient trading past
London to Istanbul by train, Part 3: Ceaucescu's remains have been exhumed this week, but Benji Lanyado goes looking for another Romanian tyrant
In the second part of his journey from London to Istanbul, Benji Lanyado explores the extremes of Budapest, from the Hussars in Heroes' Square to a historic synagogue in the 8th district
London to Istanbul by train: In the first part of Benji Lanyado's big train adventure, he takes in lunch in Paris, meets his new cabin mates en route to Germany and has an urban adventure in Munich
The ancient Basque culture has survived against the odds. We tour the region to see what's being done to preserve its unique identity
Jamie-James Medina gets an insider's view of the Bronx from a hip-hop legend
Henrietta Lovell travels out of Cape Town to enjoy the slow life on a traditional farmstay in the ancient Cederberg mountains
The World Cup hits Cape Town in a couple of weeks, but what else is there to do in South Africa's largest capital city when you're not watching football?
Helston's spring festival sees the whole town turn out for one big dance - to a tune that Terry Wogan made famous in the 1970s
India's original coffee houses are in decline, facing competition from a new breed of modern outlets. Dave Young visits a thriving Kerala cafe for a taste of traditional India
Georgia Brown joins millions of pilgrims travelling to Haridwar, in the foothills of the Himalayas, for one of the largest religious gatherings on the planet
Marcel Theroux paddles up Tonlé Sap lake in the heart of Cambodia and samples some famous (and infamous) street food in Siem Reap
Benji Lanyado gets away from the strip in Las Vegas and discovers the original heart of the neon capital of the world
Benji Lanyado finds out what makes the capital of conservative Texas so strange
The nightlife blogger for the Baltimore Sun newspaper takes Benji Lanyado on a tour of the gritty city's bars and clubs
Travel writer Andrew Spooner goes on a culinary taxi tour around London, courtesy of his neighbour, cab driver 'Mudzi' Mehmet
Benji Lanyado finds out how Olympos on the Turkish coast has managed to remain an unspoilt haven
Part two: Marcel Theroux swaps a shared berth on a public train for luxury quarters on an antique loco as he pushes into the far north of Russia
Part one of Marcel Theroux's epic journey across Russia by train takes him north from Moscow
Benji Lanyado experiences the famous variety of Istanbul's fast food
Georgia Brown takes the Big Friday bus down to Cornwall for a weekend of surfing
Filipe Folhadela and Mami Pereira of Le Cool take Benji Lanyado on a tour around some of Lisbon's hottest spots
The president of the Republic of Užupis gives Benji Lanyado a tour through his domain in Vilnius, Lithuania
Benji Lanyado gets an insider's tour of Praga - Warsaw's hottest district for the arts and party crowd
Benji Lanyado checks into the hotel billed as the most futuristic in the world - and finds service with a SIM
Benji Lanyado visits Sicily's second city Catania and samples its traditional street market
In the first of our series of Guardian Video Breaks, we visit Iceland's capital ahead of its annual Arts Festival