@nosternostri-blog1 / nosternostri-blog1.tumblr.com
Autoshipping is pretty reprehensible, and so is godmodding! I can’t believe in the year of our lord 2k17 we still have to reiterate this. Even worse is godmodding canon characters just to fit into your OC’s romance eugh
ASK FIRST. Simple as that! Don’t assume!
Annette Hanshaw
Tip Toe Through the Tulips 1929
everyday I think about how much I love Jasmine Jolene
There wasn’t any point in arguing with her uncle. They were cut from the same cloth—stubbornness was passed down from the father’s side, they said—and arguing with him would have been like arguing with herself. Or perhaps a brick wall.
“Of course, dyadya,” she said instead, standing to stub out her half-smoked cigarette in his ash tray. “I’ll let Grisha know.”
As they said, it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.
“Where are those blueprints you want me to look over?” she asked as she gathered the dossier spread out on his desk. “I can look them over and then run them down for corrections if needed on my way to see Grisha.”
“Here,” he mumbled, signing his name in a an extravagantly scrawling hand, before shutting the file and sliding it over. “I only need you to look it over for any deficiencies, or miscalculations I might have missed. You know how tired my eyes get after staring at these for too long. My brain’s scrambled.”
He glanced sidelong at his pretty niece, satisfied that she would do as he asked, and obey him. She always did. Jo might learn a think or two from her. “Say, doll, why don’t you go to High Street after, pick yourself up something nice. And something for my wife, too. You always know what she likes. You’ve been working too hard, and I worry you don’t spoil yourself as you ought to. Put it on my account. For being such a good girl.”
Snow held back a roll of her eyes and leaned over to oblige him, plucking the cigarette holder from Ryan’s desk.
“Grisha,” she scoffed, too much of her accent coming out with it. “Grisha. He’d peg Grisha on sight, he’s got the grace and subtlety of a German. No, I don’t think I’ll ask Grisha, but I did have an idea to sniff him out.”
Her teeth clicked idly against the end of the cigarette holder as she pulled the file towards her again, flipping open to the folded paper within. “I think if I go myself, I can hire him for a made-up case and see how he does. That’s two birds with one stone. We see how thorough he is, and we see if we can find out his employer. He’s new enough that he won’t know names and faces yet. Well—not mine, anyway. Besides,” she added under her breath. “Aren’t private dicks always soft for ladies in distress?”
He frowned at that, putting down the pen he’d only just picked up, to glower in her direction. “Go yourself?” he repeated, the curl of his lips twisted into ungainly shapes at the thought of it. “What will people think, seeing you skulking around a private detective’s office? —And don’t call them dicks, it sounds lewd, кукла, and now I’m even less persuaded to let you do this wild goosechase— And what will people say if something happens to you? They’ll say I can’t keep my own. No, darling, let Grisha go. I won’t cry if misfortune happens upon him, he’s nearly a cretin. You, I’d mourn until my eyes dried up, and after.”
He did get sentimental when it came to her. He picked up his pen again, avoiding what he anticipated would be her patented ‘don’t boss me, Uncle’ glare, and pretended to be engrossed in his paperwork again. “Tell Grisha to take care of it. And then report back to me. And don’t curse me when you leave. I’ll hear it. Or someone will.”
Snow shut the door behind her, heels clicking pertly against the floor as she crossed the room to his desk, flipping through the file in her hands to withdraw the dossier of the investigator.
“I can’t put my finger on it,” she began as she set it down and turned it towards him. “But I feel like someone was trying to tell us something by sending this up. There’s nothing about him that stands out. Except for the fact that he had his relocation here paid for in cash by a mystery donation. His bank statements don’t show that he had that kind of money.”
She took a seat and helped herself to one of the slim, silver-tipped cigarettes Mr. Ryan kept on his desk. The click of the lighter echoed in the quiet of his office. “We’ve seen that before,” she pointed out, smoke curling from her teeth. “And they usually end up working at Fontaine Futuristics. I think that’s worth looking into.”
He pulled the dossier into his lap, leafing through it once quickly, then a second time more conscientiously. It was like trying to piece together those children’s puzzle that didn’t quite fit, even then they were supposed to.
“I’d trust your instincts on this one, кукла,” Ryan said at last, snapping the report shut and tossing it onto his desk. His legs uncrossed as he leaned forward with a frown. “Fontaine Futuristics. With another intelligence point man. I don’t like it.”
He looked up at his niece with an expectant look. She rarely approached him with a problem without at least a handful of solutions to offer up. “So what do you propose we do?” he asked. “You talking surveillance here, or what? Do we sit back and check in on him from time to time or you think he’s worth tailing? Talk to Grisha. You tell him what you want, and he’ll take care of it. Oh, and don’t smoke without a filter, for god’s sake, take one of your aunt’s cocktail-length holders, if you must. It looks tawdry, holding it like a peasant.”
Information of all new residents was forwarded up through the ranks, with any of interest finally ending up on Snow’s desk. It was then her task to be the last line of scrutiny before forwarding the information to her uncle. Very few made it that far.
Private investigators were a rarer breed than some of the other residents. Engineers and scientists were drawn to Rapture, a Mecca of innovation, with artists and laborers pulling in a close second. But it was a veritable wild west in the sense that it was largely self-governed, and Snow couldn’t imagine that appealing to anyone who branded themselves a pseudo-cop.
Nothing jumped out at her the first time she scanned his docket, so she reread it more slowly, picking apart the information between the lines. New Yorker, mid-thirties, unmarried, no children. His business card was attached in the file, listing the address of his office topside, and another listing the address of his office in Rapture, but little else. She tucked the Rapture business card in her pocket. But still nothing stood out. It was possible that it had slipped through the cracks as a mistake, but something told Snow that one of her subordinates had sent it through for a reason.
She knocked on Andrew Ryan’s office door, three sharp raps, before cracking it open to peek inside. “Do you have a minute, dyadya? I mean, Mr. Ryan. I wanted your opinion on something.”
The sound of his native tongue was pleasant, sweetened further with the voice of his newly darling niece. It hadn’t been very long indeed since she’d come down to Rapture, but she’d proven herself to have the wit and charm about her to succeed in the myriad quotidian tasks he put before her, even spearheading some of his more complicated projects recently, all while maintaining the nostalgic sweetness of the girls he remembered of his youth. There seemed to be some unspoken rule that those in the business of innovation were bound to be socially inept, and now that Jo’s charms had faded for him, he welcomed the invigorating freshness of Snow’s prepossessing capability. It was therefore not unexpected that she would rise in the ranks to become his personal assistant, his most trusted and loyal, because after all, who could one trust but blood?
So rapt was he in the heavy maudlin mood that circled him like a shroud that he hardly remembered that she had some serious business to address, until he saw that important set of her jaw, the draw of her ruby-red mouth into a serious, grim line, her bright blue eyes somehow more scintillate with purpose.
“Of course, снегопад, enter,” he invited grandly, waving her within as he leaned back in his chair. He was a man of little patience when it but she had proven to be a capable and efficient worker, that he knew at once that if she had taken the time to inform him of something, it must be pressing indeed. “Have a seat. You can tell me while I look over these blueprints. I’d like you to have a look over them, as well, before I send them off to my contractor.”
Jacky flinched at the snappish tone and then again at the shout that had cut off his words before they could come stumbling out of his mouth, but the recoil only lasted a moment before he was urging the paper up to him again.
“No, no, Papa,” he said insistently, cheeks still pink with preemptive giddiness as he half climbed into his lap to slap the portrait down to join the other drawings Papa had on his desk. He craned his neck back to grin at him, all dimples. “It for you, Papa.”
He let his finger trace the shape of the whale proudly and pat the paper helpfully. Papa would know it was a whale, of course. He was all brains like that– Jacky had heard that– but he couldn’t contain himself despite that. “It’s a present,” he informed him in an excited whisper. “A whale.”
Ryan leaned back in his chair, hands lifted in heedful chariness as the little dirty thing clambered coltishly into his lap. There was a little furl of determination in his pale brow that Ryan could at least appreciate. It was a language he could understand and appreciate.
And as he leaned over to get a better look, Jack had managed to knock over the old lowball glass of bourbon all over his blueprints. “Christ, Jack!” he cried, reflexively hefting the little thing out his lap and tossing him to the side, not caring how or why or if he landed. He was on his feet, tearing the pocket square from his breast to mop uselessly at the plans desperately.
“Jo!” he boomed, and his voice echoed in the height of the halls, the volume dissipating in the reverberation, but not the bitterness. He still hadn’t looked at Jack. “Come get your son!”
Reblog and put in the tags what kind of bender your muse would be
I love you, and it’s getting worse. -Joseph E. Morris
penned by Michael. making a comeback.
Source: Tumblr / wehadfacesthen http://ift.tt/1D4dH3N
Evening wraps, a photo by Gordon Parks, New York City, 1956
teaching daddy how to curtsey ʕ •ᴥ• ʔ
Art deco neon signs, lights and shadows at the corner of Broadway New York. 1930 by wavz13
Art Deco Sculpture
NYC, Manhattan, Chanin-Building, Rene Paul Chambellan
One of the sculpted towers of the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge over the Cuyahoga River in Cleveland is shown with Terminal Tower in the background left in the top photo, from 1932. The art deco figures represent “Guardians of Transportation.” The bottom two undated photos show more detail, the bottom one showing an entire tower. Four towers adorn the bridge, two on each side of the river.
Top photo from the Flickr feed of Robert Vaughan; bottom photos from clevelandhistory.org.
Eden Teatro cinema. Lisbon, March 2015.
