symphony woods

Green Chartreuse

The only liquor so good they named a color after it” - Quentin Tarantino, Death Proof

My man, Taratino, knows what’s up. As do the monks who make this stuff. This is the perfect digestif. It’s a really incredible pleasure and a lovely way to help digest your meal. Loads of herbs (obviously) on the nose - sage, rosemary, basil, thyme - wormwood, LOADS of mint and alpine wood. A symphony of green herbs on the palate. Very warming and sweet. Tons of mint. Drink it straight or put a few tablespoons into a hot chocolate - do what you gotta do!

F***ing high % abv

FRANCE

The Upstairs Neighbor

Sherlock Holmes hated cats. Well, to be specific, he hated one specific cat. Namely the beast that lived in the flat above him.

The monstrous creature had moved in several weeks before and begun its reign of terror immediately. For hours, Sherlock laid awake that first night as the cat raced from one end of the flat to the other, its claws playing a spine-tingling symphony on the wood floors. It cried endlessly between the hours of 4am and 6am until its owner, who somehow managed to sleep through the racket, woke up and fed the demanding creature.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, the beast had taken it upon itself to taunt Blackbeard, Sherlock’s basset hound. On more than one occasion, Sherlock had had to manhandle an over-excited Blackbeard down the stairs for his walk while the cat, having escaped its confines, followed them while remaining just out of snout-reach.

Sherlock’s curses and threats of finding a nice experiment on its front left paw, didn’t faze the haughty beast.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes hated cats. And today, he was ready to commit felinicide.

oOo

He supposed he could be partly to blame. After all, he had left his door open, anticipating Mrs Hudson’s daily tray of tea and gingernuts.

Blackbeard had been laying in the patch of sunlight by the window, worn out from chasing down an attempted murderer the day before. In Sherlock’s opinion, the old boy had earned a day off. And Sherlock had been looking forward to a quiet day of experimenting on some appendages he had finagled from Stamford, who was more than happy to send him away with the parts, instead of having Sherlock underfoot as he struggled to keep up with the ever-increasing work at Bart’s.

Yes, it was going to be a good day.

That is, until Sherlock discovered they were not alone.

Above him, a floorboard creaked. He paused in the process of removing a fleck of skin from a 45-year-old man’s middle finger.

Another creak.

Sherlock straightened. Too heavy for that cat. And his owner had gone out early in the day, he recalled the outer door slamming shut.

He waited, but when nothing else sounded from upstairs, he promptly forgot about it and returned to his experiment.

It was at this point, looking back, that Sherlock knew he should have gotten up and investigated. If he had, he might have noticed Mrs Hudson’s coat missing from the hall pegs and realised it was her that had left earlier. And he might have noticed the open door at the top of the stairs, where that demonic black cat sat staring down at him, waiting for the right moment to creep down and send everything to Hell in a handbasket.

But he didn’t, so it did.

oOo

Like the calm before the storm, the seconds of blissful silence in the flat should have raised the red flags in his Mind Palace, sending alarms blaring and readying him for battle.

But they didn’t.

So caught up in his experiment, he did not hear Blackbeard snort awake and growl a friendly warning. The uninvited guest ignored it and sauntered inside.

Blackbeard rose to his haunches and watched as the cat rubbed up against the nearest chair. Sherlock’s chair. Leaving its fur and scent on it.

A possessive growl ripped out of Blackbeard’s throat and he pounced. But the cat was quicker. Around the room they ran, knocking over piles of books and Sherlock’s music stand, before the cat made a quick right and dashed into the kitchen and, in one graceful leap, jumped onto the table and scampered across.

Sherlock drew back in surprise as dismembered fingers went flying in every direction. His stool tipped back and he tried to grab hold of the table, but it was too late and he fell over backwards with a shout.

‘Whooooaaaa!’ His breath was knocked out of him and he lay there, dazed.

Blackbeard, unable to make the same leap, tried to go under and managed to knock loose the one bad table leg and only just made it out the other side before the table buckled and sent everything that remained on it to the floor.

Silence fell like a thick blanket over the room.

Laying there, his legs akimbo over the stool and suffering a bruised bum, Sherlock coughed and sucked in deep breaths as he tried to understand what had happened.

He turned his head and glared at the culprits. Blackbeard had the decency to look guilty and whined softly, padding over to Sherlock and nudging his leg.

Behind him, the beast was perched atop the microwave, triumphant. With a forefinger in its jaws.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his nemesis.

'Oh my god! Oh, oh are you okay?’ A soft, feminine voice called out from the doorway. Sherlock turned his head back and looked straight up into the face of an angel.

Or, his upstairs neighbor. But with the overhead light casting a glow around her elfish face, he gave himself a little grace for the misunderstanding.

She was petite, but strong, as Sherlock discovered when she practically hauled him to his feet after ascertaining he had not injured himself too badly.

'I am so sorry, I didn’t realise I had left the door open and Toby got out.’ She continued to apologise profusely as she bent down and almost absentmindedly gathered up the stray fingers. Sherlock watched in bemusement as she laid them out on the counter, correctly in order, before gently but firmly taking the one from the demon beast, er, Toby.

’-not usually such a maniac. I think it’s been the move and he is upset about having left Manchester.’

Sherlock eyed the beast in question. He didn’t believe for one second that this was too out of character.

'I will replace your table and if there’s any damage to the microscope, I’ll pay for the repairs. I really am truly sorry! This is not at all how I wanted to introduce myself. I’ve just been so busy settling in and going through mounds of paperwork for my new job, I just kept putting it off.’ She was wringing her hands and gnawing her lip, showing more guilt than Blackbeard. The faithful dog must have sensed her distress and he sat beside her and leaned against her leg to offer her comfort.

With two sets of big brown eyes staring at him so sadly, Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

Looking between the cat, who twitched its nose and tail as if to say 'you’ll do’ (whether as a begrudging friend or its next meal, Sherlock couldn’t say’ after all, the cat apparently had a taste for human flesh) to his faithful hound who had tilted his head back to gaze adoringly at the woman who was petting him in the perfect spot behind his right ear, he had a feeling things were going to change.

And when he looked back at his neighbor, took in the faint blush on her cheeks, her cherry print cardigan and long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, with glasses perched on her nose, and combined that with how she had not batted an eye at his experiment or gathering dismembered body parts from the floor of his flat…

Oh yes. He knew was most definitely in trouble.

euphxmie  asked:

Hi, I know you’ve been busy and all that, and I hope you’re feeling well now❤. I don’t know if you’ve heard the song “Symphony” from Clean Bandit. It makes me think about Dennor. Could you write something inspired in that song? (If yes, take the time you need, dear. It could be in canon or AU)

I decided to make this angsty because I haven’t written anything sad in ages :)) Enjoy! <3

His violin stands in the corner of the room, a thin coating of dust clouding and obscuring the chestnut wood. Mathias has not touched that violin ever since its owner was no longer there to polish it. But as he collapses into his worn blue armchair, (its twin remaining forever empty) eyes dull and bleary, a string of honey-fluid notes spins about in his head. He used to listen as Lukas practiced, used to turn over the pages of sheet music and let himself drift away on a tide of melodic bliss. No more. Now all Mathias has left of that is the constant symphony in his mind, a sorry collection of notes from some concerto that he will never know the name of. His eyes slide shut, and he passes a weary hand across his face. Sleep comes with merciful speed. 


‘Mathias!’ His name is called from the sitting room in familiar dulcet tones. ‘Mathias, come and listen to this!’ When he arrives in the sitting room, Lukas is waiting at his music stand, indigo eyes wide and expectant. He sets his bow to the string with customary concentration, pinching his bottom lip between his teeth in an incorrigibly endearing manner. But the sound that flows from the instrument is anything from endearing. 


He is jolted awake by the harsh crackle of the television. Sighing, Mathias forces one eye open, to be met with the jarring sight of Emil sat in his brother’s chair. He is focused intently upon the screen- and when Mathias realises what it is showing, his heart leaps horribly. Emil’s tenth birthday, seven years ago. He was ill, so they had a party at home, just the three of them. Lukas plays ‘Happy Birthday’ on his violin, smiling the whole time, so alive and happy and radiant that Mathias almost tries to reach through the screen and touch him.
'I filmed that,’ he mumbles through numb lips.
'I remember.’ He says nothing when the video begins to loop again. He says nothing when tears gather at the corners of Emil’s eyes and drip down his face, brushing against the curve of his tremulous smile. He says nothing when his own tears begin to fall, blurring his vision, says nothing even when a roaring fills his ears and he can no longer hear the dancing lilt of Lukas’ violin.


It weaves a tune of light and dark, humming and soaring, passing through various crescendos and staccatos until a grin breaks across Mathias’ face from the sheer beauty of the music. He knows he is the luckiest man alive when the violin’s voice fades and Lukas’ eyes meet his, deep and dark and serious. 'Well?’ he says tentatively. 'What did you think?’
'You wrote that?’ Lukas nods. 'Know what I think?’ murmurs Mathias, pulling him close. 'I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. Bar your voice, of course.’ Lukas rolls his eyes at the sentimental comment, but he lets it stand without rebuke, tightening their embrace. Mathias can feel his heartbeat, fast and fluttering. 'Do you have a name for it?’ he whispers into Lukas’ pale hair.
'Symphony. Just symphony.’


(later, he decides that Lukas called it that because he knew there would never be more than one symphony- theirs) 


Mathias cannot bear to face the cold isolation of the bedroom again, so he sprawls across the sofa, feet dangling off the edge. He misses their old nighttime routine. How Lukas would switch on the radio as he brushed his teeth, humming and bobbing along to some boring pop song that couldn’t even hold a candle to his own compositions. Then he’d shout Mathias from downstairs, and they’d curl up close together, finding something to watch on TV or simply revelling in each other’s warmth. Now, it is the company he craves more than anything. Emil has always been distant, showing his affection with more distant gestures, and he holds true to that still by slinking off upstairs to his room. Silence reigns. But it is no silence for Mathias- the darkness swarms about his head, surfacing old memories of better times, with the ever-present tune of Lukas’ symphony looping around his head. It is very much Lukas’ song; how he wishes it would not play on repeat. For there is pain in quietness, a dull smothering ache that only one thing can pierce, yet that thing is beyond Mathias’ reach now. He dreads sleep. To sleep is to dream, and to dream is to be shown cruelly brief snatches of the blissful life he once led. But exhaustion claims him all the same. 


The next day, Lukas receives a letter in the post that only makes things better.
'From the music department at Oslo University,’ he whispers, fingers brushing over the envelope in reverence. The letter is an inviation to have his composition played by the university orchestra at their summer concert, with a chance for a CD and recording of the piece to be made. Mathias, of course, takes the opportunity to celebrate.
'We’ll have a little party!’ he suggests. 'Let’s go to the supermarket and pick up a few things.’ So they set off, and for a time all is well. Lukas lets go of his usual caution with shopping and buys expensive party food, imagining the look on Emil’s face when they arrive home with their veritable feast. Ironically, it is Emil he thinks of when he looks across the street and spots a traditional sweetshop.
'I’ll get Emil some liquorice,’ he tells Mathias. 'Be back in a minute.’ He darts out of the supermarket, glancing quickly both ways before making a quick sprint across the road.
'Lukas-’ There is an ear-wrenching squeal of brakes. 


He wakes alone and cold, back aching from the dull weight of the sofa behind him. Mathias’ eyes flicker open. They stare into nothingness, into a pitch-black ceiling of despair, itchy with fatigue and begging to be closed again. Mathias does not let them. He dreamt… what did he dream of? Night-velvet eyes, silver-gold hair, a voice speaking soft words that he will never hear again. Slowly he becomes accustomed to the darkness, and his gaze lands upon the sleek polished length of Lukas’ old violin. The songs it played were beautiful once. Forget love songs on the radio; all Mathias wants to hear is the low, quavering notes that first bewitched him. Anger streaks through him like wildfire. If it wasn’t for the violin, Lukas would never have written their symphony, if it wasn’t for the symphony than they would never have had cause to celebrate, and if it wasn’t for that then- He shakes his head. Tears, red hot with rage, prick at the base of his eyelids and spill out in constant streams. With a trembling hand, Mathias reaches out and folds his fingers around the neck of the violin. It snaps easily across his knee. He rips out the strings, smashes in the polished wood, the symphony on repeat again and again and again and again and again, destroys what was once a symbol of his love until it lies broken and defeated on the floor. Like him. Lukas was his life, and when he left there was no reason to keep going. Mathias buries his head in his arms. What has he done?


'Lukas? Lukas, can you hear me? It’s going to be all right. I promise.’

Thanks for the ask! :D

anonymous asked:

Do you have a favorite Landslide performance? I think my very favorite is the one from the Rumours tour in Japan. It's really so special. Even Lindsey has a certain look on his face throughout the whole thing.

Hey anon, I agree, the one in Japan from the ‘Rumours Tour’ is just gorgeous! I have so many favorites though… ‘The Dance’ DVD one holds a very special place in my heart because it was the first one I’ve ever watched. I was very touched by “this is for you Daddy” long before I became a fan.

I love the one from Passaic in 1975 where Christine introduces the song, she sings it so softly and there’s a beautiful “oooh” in the middle. Also the one from Wallingford in 1975, I’m pretty these pictures are from that radio show.

I absolutely love the one with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra. The ‘Walden Woods’ benefit performance from 2002 has the most gorgeous arrangement and it’s just so different that it’s a favorite too! All the performances from the ‘Arizona Heart Institute’ concerts and the ones with ‘Sound City Players’.

And I was in awe of every single performance of ‘Landslide’ from the ‘24 Karat Gold Tour’. ♥

ironic-flute  asked:

6, 12, 17 :)

6. What is your favourite thing about your instrument?
Tbh this applies to both my clarinets, but my favourite thing about them is that they’re really old (for clarinets) and I know they’ve been loved and played before they got to me, and that makes me happy (fun fact: my A clarinet was actually owned by the former principal clarinet of the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra) Also the wood that was used to make them gives them a gorgeous tone ♥️

12. My instrument and I are like ____ ? Best friends I guess? Or my instrument is like a very good dog: I love it, it’s almost always with me, and it makes me very happy

17. What is the most damage that has been done to your instrument?
Oh boy, one time I dropped my Bb clarinet down a flight of stairs. Concrete stairs. And it BOUNCED off the bottom to the step before landing on the floor. I felt like I’d witnessed a traffic accident or something. It was in the repair shop for a loooooong time after that (some of the damage is still evident - the trill jets keep coming out of alignment and making this god-awful clacking noise

Thank you very much for the ask, friend! ♥️😊