six stories tall

random reminders!

Kvothe was actually born in a barn. 

10 copper jots = a full talent 

People don’t know where the moon actually goes

Ruh were systematically slaughtered and particular words HEMM used was associated with it. [👀] [CHAPTER 13-14 ish if I wrote the chapter right in The Wise Mans Fear]

Auri knows how to make candles!

Alar means belief 

Sim has very steady hands – said by kvothe that he has a steadier hand than some in the medica 

Devi was the one who sold the plumb bomb to ambrose – not knowing who it was going to be used for

By chapter 47-49 in The Wise Man’s Fear, kvothe ISNT EVEN 17 YET. He’s only 16 “a moth past my 16th birthday” [actual quote from book around the time he was going to the maers estate]

Archives are six stories tall, and unknown floors below

“None of you are lovely, with the exception of Simmon” Savoy said as he winked at him. pROOF SAVOY IS GAY AF AND SIMMON IS A PURE SON

Proper / polite gestures to greet women:

Ature -  nod over the hand

Cealdish - brush knuckles lightly and make a kissing sound

Modegan - press lips to te back of own thumb

Commonwelath - kiss back of hand

Wil is actually from a wealthy merchant family from Shaul

Sim is also from a wealthy family, Auturan. 5 unnamed siblings

The Chandelier

by reddit user The_Dalek_Emperor

This story was the highest rated story of October:

The year my mother and father were wed my father bought his wife a very beautiful Baccarat chandelier. It weighed one ton and hung down two entire flights of stairs. Because it was so large my father searched high and low for a home that could accommodate it. He chose a very old palatial home in the Welsh countryside. The mansion was six stories tall and in the middle of the home was a tall, spiraled atrium with a glass ceiling. The stairs wrapped around the walls of the spire encircling the great chandelier at the top.

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it really messes me up that i cant live in the dreams i have, its like my self says hey shes handling too much lets give her a break,

an old beautiful house six stories tall in a big old village town, i walk with friends through the village finding really cool things in charity shops, like this knitted gnome hat with teddies and fruit knitted on, i buy it, my mum is in the house, she is happy, she doesnt need a walking stick

i am a pirate, sitting on the deck of my ship with my crew, they are each telling the story of how they came to be pirates, their words come alive, i feel myself falling in love with them and them with me. one of them. a girl with golden hair and so many freckles, looks at me smiling, i can still see her face. another is a man, his face is boyish as he looks at me in jest, his eyes big and dark. the captain, i cant remember his face but he was very protective of me. the last girl, we were in love, i cant remember her face but i felt so strongly for her.
me and her go swimming in rock pools with tiny turtles, they are worried that someone might hurt me but we are having fun.

was dating a frogman who needed to always be in water, i dug him a hole in the marble and filled it with pond water for him to crouch in, i loved him.
The Chandelier.

The year my mother and father were wed my father bought his wife a very beautiful Baccarat chandelier. It weighed one ton and hung down two entire flights of stairs. Because it was so large my father searched the whole of Britain for an estate that could accommodate it. He chose a very old palatial home in the Welsh countryside. The mansion was six stories tall and in the middle of the house was a tall, spiraled atrium with a glass ceiling. The stairs wrapped around the walls of the spire encircling the great chandelier at the top.

As far back as I can remember I would spend my days lying underneath the cascading crystals far above and watching the twinkling prisms catch the sunlight and cast vibrant, breathing rainbows across the walls. My mother would smile at me and giggle to my father behind her hands. I was a romantic, she said, a dreamer. Father would smile knowingly but never bother to glance my way. He only had eyes for my mother, at least until little George came along.

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#20: The Chandelier

By: The_Dalek_Emperor

Length: Short

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE

The year my mother and father were wed my father bought his wife a very beautiful Baccarat chandelier. It weighed one ton and hung down two entire flights of stairs. Because it was so large my father searched high and low for a home that could accommodate it. He chose a very old palatial home in the Welsh countryside. The mansion was six stories tall and in the middle of the home was a tall, spiraled atrium with a glass ceiling. The stairs wrapped around the walls of the spire encircling the great chandelier at the top.

As far back as I can remember I would spend my days lying underneath the cascading crystals far above and watching the twinkling prisms catch the sunlight and cast vibrant, breathing rainbows across the walls. My mother would smile at me and giggle to my father behind her hands. I was a romantic, she said, a dreamer. Father would smile knowingly but never bother to glance my way. He only had eyes for my mother, at least until my brother George came along.

But I wasn’t a dreamer, no, I fought sleep with every breath. I much preferred to spend my evenings dancing in the star fields that twinkled in the spire on clear nights. If moonlight shone into the great atrium it was transformed by the Baccarat into a million shimmering, glittering tiny stars. The chandelier was always gently, gently swaying even without a draft in the house and it would make the crisp, vibrant celestials dance upon the wall to a song I could almost hear. And I would dance among them.

One day I awoke from an afternoon nap to the sharp sound of a protesting metal groan. I arrived at the banister just in time to see the Baccarat’s metal supports snap in two. The chandelier fell half a story until it was brought to a violent and abrupt halt by its last remaining support - a thick, nylon rope.

George was playing with a train set far below and I screamed at him. He looked up at me for just a moment and then he was obscured from my view as the nylon snapped and the chandelier went crashing down five stories to the first floor where my mother had thrown herself protectively over George.

My father would only shed his tears for them behind closed doors. A week after their deaths Father had the Baccarat repaired and rehung. It had been my mother’s and he loved her deeply. Perhaps he liked to look at it and think of her. But I like to think he rehung it for me because he knew how much I loved it.

But the chandelier wasn’t the same. The gentle cadence it had loyally kept was now replaced by a stillness as absolute as death. The rainbows were dull, almost colorless and the dancing stars that had once glittered upon the walls at night were absent and the spiraled atrium remained as dark as the heart of an onyx.

I still spend my days and nights lying on the floor looking up at the chandelier and hoping its magic will return to me. Some days I can almost see the vibrant colors and speckled starlight. Most days I see nothing at all.

But nothing at all is better than the nightmare that peeks through the veil sometimes, cruel and uninvited. Sometimes I can feel the cold and the hunger and the pain in my chest. Sometimes the dark nights and dull days make sense. Sometimes I can see the chandelier for what it really is. Because sometimes I remember that it wasn’t the Baccarat that my father hung at the top of the atrium that day - it was himself.

Green Eyes and Whispered Lies: Part 2

Originally posted by bitemytonguedarling

Notes: Part 2 is here! I hope you like it xx

Word Count: 1392

Song: (The one Dean plays) Bon Iver - Flume

Beta’d: By the lovely Jamie, @teamfreewill-imagine

Tags: At the bottom!

Warnings: Some language(?)

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My name is Y/N.


You were in a good mood as you walked down the sidewalk by the railroad, seagulls crying as they flew over the water.

You rested the coffee down on the bench before taking a seat next to it, deciding that you should work while you waited for Dean.

You were trying to keep yourself as distant as you possibly could, but you still couldn’t wait to talk to the green eyed man again. Ever since you left your friends and your ex back at home, you decided that shutting yourself away would be better for you. You couldn’t get hurt if you didn’t let anyone get close enough to.

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SIX STORIES TALL

Madz Rehorek, Giles Crook, James Morgan, Amy Lobb, Pauline Anastasiou, and Nick Manuell form the photography collective ‘Six Stores Tall’. Like many artist collectives, the group formed to motivate the production of art, and learning from each other. This initiative resulted in a recent exhibition titled ‘Six Stories Tall’, featuring work commenting on the disposable nature and accessibility of the photographic medium.

Nick Manuell conceived the premise for the show, and says this of the concept:

‘6 Stories tall is a poster exhibition developed to comment on the disposable nature of the photographic medium. All artists are given the opportunity to come up with a series of images that revolve around a narrative. Multiples of the images are then pinned to a wall and torn down and taken home by the viewers who then dispose of (or collect) the images as desired. It is a comment on the juxtaposition of roles played by the artist and the viewer.’

The close knit group of BA of Photography graduates from RMIT frequented pubs discussing the expenses of printing. It has become a frustrating problem for students where the cost of producing the artwork [photographic print] inevitably raises the cost of the artworks produced, making them inaccessible for people to purchase. ‘Six Stories Tall’ shows the collective’s incentives in art: to place importance on the sharing of art and ideas rather than making art for profit. This was emphasized in the presentation of their work as ‘cheap, dirty..’ however ‘ultimately about the content’. In rendering the finish of the work redundant, the collective successfully drew focus to the content, once you come to realize the purpose of the ‘punk’ aesthetic of their exhibition.

This cheap and accessible approach to presenting work in a gallery context was derived from the disposable nature of the photographic medium. The disposability of the medium has in recent years boomed in popular culture, as a result of the sharing of images through the internet via social networking websites and alike. This online accessibility of photographs makes an ironic contradiction in a fine-art context, where the cost of producing the images makes the photographs as inaccessible as the photographs online are accessible.

The opening night for Six Stories Tall articulates the atmosphere they were trying to create. It was fun. It was approachable. It also inspired discussion around the challenge Six Stories Tall had posed against the art institution. In addition, not only was there a great turn out, fun had, and art discussed; at the end of the day artworks were still being ‘purchased’, they were still treated as an art object to be admired and considered, they were shared and appreciated.
….and yes, as the flyer promised, like all good opening nights, there was beer. As well as an easily-made, yet delish, punch which I think would make a welcome addition as a staple to openings nights at galleries across Melbourne.

The photographs themselves did not possess a collective theme, the unification of the artworks was achieved largely through their presentation. Again, this made the purpose of the exhibition very clear. Madz Rehorek described the lack of restriction on developing a theme of content as ‘invigorating’. As though a burden were lifted, this allowed a valuable freedom for the artists. The effects were visible when viewing the show, as each group of photographs evidently held their own as individual pieces, at the same time being bound together by a shared interest. 

The process of making the artworks was also reflective of their response to the online phenomenon of sharing photographs. The artists took advantage of the accessibility in sharing images through mobile phone photographs, Mac screenshots, and other devises to send images to one another and discuss their ideas instantaneously whenever they felt like it.

 A lot can be learned and admired from Six Stories Tall; from their initiative in utilizing cultural shifts to maximize the appreciation of art, to their delegations of tasks in the planning and lead up to the exhibition.

BRUCE gallery has once again proven to be a useful setting for experimenting with concepts that challenge the gallery institution. The character of the space adds a whole new dimension to art and considerations to be made by the artist, enriching the exhibition experience.

(Words by Elena Valimberti)

Hmm. At some point I mentally conflated Hamilton and that song about George Washington where he’s six stories tall made of radiation so in my head it’s just been like singing “Hamilton, Hamilton, this musical is really about immigration” to that same rhythm

The Chandelier

credit to- The_Dalek_Emperor

Trigger warning. Can’t tag it or it will give the ending away. Message me if you need to know it.

The year my mother and father were wed my father bought his wife a very beautiful Baccarat chandelier. It weighed one ton and hung down two entire flights of stairs. Because it was so large my father searched high and low for a home that could accommodate it. He chose a very old palatial home in the Welsh countryside. The mansion was six stories tall and in the middle of the home was a tall, spiraled atrium with a glass ceiling. The stairs wrapped around the walls of the spire encircling the great chandelier at the top.


As far back as I can remember I would spend my days lying underneath the cascading crystals far above and watching the twinkling prisms catch the sunlight and cast vibrant, breathing rainbows across the walls. My mother would smile at me and giggle to my father behind her hands. I was a romantic, she said, a dreamer. Father would smile knowingly but never bother to glance my way. He only had eyes for my mother, at least until my brother George came along.

Keep reading