Doordash dasher white screen

I’m fairly new to screen printing and was wondering how to get get a print like this. I’m assuming there’s a white base then the yellow is printed, then blue, then black but I’m not sure. Is all bitmap?

Decorating a large wall art in the living room can be both exciting and challenging. It presents an opportunity to create a stunning focal point that sets the tone for the entire space. One option is to use oversized artwork or a large tapestry that commands attention. This can be a striking painting, a scenic photograph, or a vibrant abstract piece. Another idea is to create a wall of mirrors in different shapes and sizes.
https://nordicwallcanvas.com/koi-fish-painting-original-feng-shui-framed-wall-art-red-orange-koi-light-blue-abstract-art-river-painting-large-textured-art/
For those who prefer a minimalist approach, consider a single, large-scale statement piece that captures the essence of your style. This could be a metal wall sculpture, a carved wooden panel, or even a decorative textile. Don’t forget the power of greenery. Install floating shelves or wall-mounted planters to bring nature indoors and add a touch of freshness to the space.
We’ve found great images to illustrate these ideas. Take a look and see if something sparks your interior imagination.

Decorating Your Large Living Room Wall

If you’re fortunate enough to have a living room that’s larger than 15′ x 20′, then chances are you’ve got at least one big wall. But what should you do with a large living room wall? We’ve brought together a whole bunch of ideas for you to consider as you plan your wall decor.

A Giant Painting

One thing about a large wall is it gives you the ability to showcase one fantastic painting. Whatever your style, whether it be abstract or representational, a large wall is almost like a blank canvas for the perfect large-scale art.
https://nordicwallcanvas.com/retro-classic-abstract-town-canvas-poster-and-prints-painting-sea-adventure-giant-shark-picture-wall-art-living-room-home-deco
You may even choose to hang a large-scale painting that perfectly goes with all of the color tones you’ve selected for your interior. In this case, a large abstract in shades of sage and white is the perfect complement to this natural-toned room’s decor.
A giant painting serves as an awe-inspiring centerpiece for any living room. Its grand scale captivates the attention and adds a dramatic focal point to the space. Whether it’s an abstract masterpiece, a breathtaking landscape, or a vibrant contemporary piece, a giant painting injects personality and artistic flair into your living room. It commands attention and sparks conversation, creating a visually stunning atmosphere.

A Collection Of Plants

If you love indoor plants, why not hang a series of floating shelves on your wall and fill them with gorgeous succulents or tropical plants. Match your planters to your furniture decor for a truly cohesive look.
A set of floating shelves, like this one, bought in multiples will enable the perfect plant arrangement for the large living room wall.
Don’t limit vertical gardens to outdoors. This super cool vertically grown grass hangs in frames above the living room sofa.

An Eclectic Collection

An eclectic collection in your living room is an opportunity to showcase your unique style and personality. Curate a mix of art, decor, and personal mementos that speak to your interests and experiences. From vintage finds to modern accents, an eclectic collection adds visual interest and tells a story. Combine different textures, colors, and patterns to create a dynamic and vibrant display.

One way to showcase your style is to hang an assortment of items you love. Here two prints and a shelf arrangement with plants show off the homeowner’s natural vibe.
This urban space combines the use of bold graphics, and useful items turned art. Like the bicycle hanging in front of a large propped painting.

Mirrors On A Large Living Room Wall

Mirrors are a gorgeous way to reflect the room around you. This decadent, luxurious living room in sultry greys, silvers, and black utilizes a large-scale mirror above the mantel as decor. Matching trim on the wall repeats the mirror’s pattern as a design element. This creates comfort in such a large room.
https://nordicwallcanvas.com/10w-12w-18w-indoor-wall-lamp-simple-modern-style-home-decoration-led-for-bedroom-living-room-sconces-mirror-light/
This room, with its extraordinarily high vaulted ceiling, uses a sizeable black-framed mirror above the fireplace to draw the eye up while reflecting the nature outdoors. The mirror is a natural choice for this space.
Additionally, mirrors can visually expand the dimensions of a room, making it appear larger than it actually is. By selecting mirrors in different shapes and sizes, you can create a visually interesting arrangement that adds depth and dimension to the living room. Mirrors on a large living room wall are a stylish and practical choice that enhances the aesthetics and functionality of the space.

Get A Giant-Sized Television

If you love watching the game or your favorite movies on a larger-than-life screen, why not use your living room wall? This beautiful space fills an entire wall for entertainment. Large loft windows take up the adjacent wall.

Getting a giant-sized television is an exhilarating way to elevate your living room entertainment experience. With advancements in technology, larger televisions offer immersive visuals and a cinematic feel. Enjoy your favorite movies, TV shows, and sports events with exceptional clarity and vibrant colors. The expansive display creates a focal point, transforming your living room into a home theater. Gather friends and family for an unforgettable viewing experience. With a giant-sized television, you can bring the excitement of the big screen right into your living room, making it the ultimate entertainment hub.

Tree Branches As Wall Decor

Another super interesting idea utilizes the beauty of the tree branch as wall art. This piece is 80″ x 80,” which means it has the heft to command an entire wall.
Tree branches used as wall decor bring a touch of nature and rustic charm to any living space. These organic elements can be displayed as standalone pieces or creatively arranged to form unique wall installations. With their intricate patterns and natural textures, tree branches add visual interest and create a sense of connection with the outdoors.
https://nordicwallcanvas.com/ashou-anime-scenery-tapestry-wall-hanging-aesthetic-tapestry-decoration-home-bedroom-wall-cloth-college-dorm-tapestry-wall-deco
They can be painted, adorned with fairy lights, or combined with other decorative items to create a personalized and whimsical display. Tree branches as wall decor offer an eco-friendly and budget-friendly option to infuse your living room with a natural and artistic vibe.
We hope these ideas have given you food for thought. Whether you want to buy something off the shelf, or cast about for something uniquely you, decorating a large wall is lucky. There are fun options. Decide on the style or vibe you want, then pick the right choice for that, and your budget. But most of all, have fun on the journey.

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Need to do, well, just about anything? The Tahoe can handle it.
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Pros
Aggressive approach and departure angles
Soft-touch interior details
Great versatility for family adventuring
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Cons
5.3-liter V-8's lackluster performance/economy
20-inch wheels aren't practical for off-roading
Push-button gear selector is fussy for no good reason
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In these SUV-crazed times, and when gas prices are a lesser concern, the Chevrolet Tahoe just might be the quintessential modern family vehicle. As a jack of all trades, it can tow toys, haul stuff, transport people, tackle a trail, and hold its own in the valet line. But as the saying continues, as a master of none, the 2023 Chevy Tahoe Z71 we tested isn't overwhelmingly excellent in any one category, instead aiming for a well-rounded, realistic target that it mostly nails for families (and businesses) with lots of things to do. For these customers, versatility beats being a master of one, as the saying sometimes ends. And hey, it's way more stylish than settling into minivan life.
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Z71 Trim: What It Includes
The Z71 is the Tahoe's most off-road-oriented trim, falling below the Premier and High Country in terms of starting price. Exterior visual differences up front include a skidplate and a high-clearance fascia with red recovery hooks. Seasoned off-roaders know GM trucks have poor approach angles that often result in stuffing the front end into obstacles and ripping off valances, so this adapted front end is a definite positive for those who will actually take their Z71 on the trail. That fascia combines with the Z71's available air suspension (good for a 2-inch boost over normal ride height) to provide an approach angle of 34.5 degrees; the Z71's departure angle is 22.5 degrees, and both angles represent useful improvements over more road-oriented models.
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The Z71 also features machined aluminum 20-inch wheels wrapped in 275/60 (33-inch) Goodyear Wrangler TrailRunner AT tires, black assist steps, and black roof-mounted side rails. The Z71 Off-Road package, available for another $6,000, bundles the Luxury, Max Trailering, Driver Alert, and Off-Road Capability packages, allowing buyers to pack on tons of features with one check mark. The last package specifically adds an electronically controlled limited-slip differential (eLSD), Magnetic Ride Control dampers, and adaptive air springs. You cannot order a Z71 with GM's excellent Super Cruise hands-free driving system, however.
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The adaptive air suspension automatically adjusts for road conditions, lowering to improve aerodynamics and efficiency. You can also adjust it manually. Once in park, it kneels (lowers) for easier egress—though it's a rather slow process. The system is quiet with no loud air compressor sound and pretty seamless.
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The setup offers nice ride quality, but does it make or break the Z71? Not really, as Tahoes on the regular suspension aren't uncomfortable. On the plus side, we used it to adjust heights when hooking and unhooking trailers. Why jump on the tailgate to disengage the ball when you can air down and lower the hitch?
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Why We're Testing It
About that electronic limited-slip differential that we mentioned: When we previously tested a Chevy Tahoe Z71, the eLSD wasn't yet available; instead, that truck had a mechanical rear limited-slip diff. Again, this isn't a feature that's going to make or break the Z71 for the majority of customers; most of the time, you'd never know it was there. In certain low-range limited-traction circumstances, it could make a difference. That said, our colleagues at Four Wheeler put it to the test: "Our crew found that [the eLSD] wasn't tuned quite as well as the competition's. It's almost as if GM's engineers designed the Tahoe's eLSD to require a lot of wheelspin before engaging. An actual electronically controlled locking rear differential would make a world of difference." It becomes even less of a necessity considering most folks won't want to have our test SUV's 20-inch wheels if they're going to do regular trailwork.
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Ain't So Peppy But Gets It Done
Our Radiant Red four-wheel-drive 2023 Chevy Tahoe Z71 housed the 5.3-liter V-8 making 355 hp and 383 lb-ft of torque. It gets the big SUV up to speed with little fanfare and works through a 10-speed automatic transmission that happily works away in the background. If you love the good ol' sounds and experience of a trusty V-8, the Tahoe's for you—your gas engine choices are this V-8 or a different V-8. (A torquey 3.0-liter turbodiesel is also available.) However, long gone are the days when V-8 automatically means quicker and faster than the rest.
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Our Z71 accelerated from 0 to 60 mph in 7.3 seconds. Not bad, Jack, but the problem is that nearly all the four-wheel-drive full-size three-row competition betters that time. The Ford Expedition and Toyota Sequoia with their twin-turbo V-6s are both quicker, with the former reaching 60 mph a full two seconds ahead of the Z71. Rather than hanging with the zippy V-6s, the Z71 sandwiches nicely between its V-8 competitors, the Nissan Armada on top and the Wagoneer on the bottom. (Of course, the Wagoneer's V-8 Hemi is going bye-bye in favor of the excellent Hurricane twin-turbo inline-six.) The Z71 is the only one of these SUVs under 400 horsepower, and the fact that it's light—only the Expedition is lighter—doesn't make a difference. Maybe it's good there's a new sixth-gen small-block in the works.
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Stick With The 5.3-Liter
The other available V-8, the 6.2-liter, is good for an additional 65 hp and 77 lb-ft of torque. Maybe more displacement delivers more awesome? Naturally, the 6.2-liter offers stronger foot-to-the-floor acceleration, but it also results in a heavier Tahoe that can tow and haul less than the 5.3-liter. Plus, the option tacks on an immediate $8,605 or so. And it requires premium gasoline.
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Unless you absolutely insist on having the biggest V-8 you can get, we'd stick with the 5.3-liter. Any benefits of the 6.2-liter just don't outweigh the 5.3-liter. The 5.3-liter pulls the Tahoe around reasonably well in regular driving, and no one in the school drop-off line will really be the wiser.
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All Those Trades This Jack Of An SUV Covers
Let's look at all the trades this jack covers. First, it's good for four people. The Chevy Tahoe Z71 can seat seven, even eight, but it's really in its element with four aboard. They each have their own captain's chair to stretch out, and the rear entertainment system with dual 12.6-inch screens now comes with built-in apps, making it more broadly useful. It's perfect for a family of four, with room in the third row for occasionally carrying grandparents or your kids' friends. Getting the whole crew out the door to dinner can be like herding cats; taking everyone in one car is a definite bonus. With the third row down, there's also enough room for all four folks to bring a decent load of luggage. If you plan to use the third row consistently, however, things get cramped very quickly. You gain people, but with the third row in use, you lose luggage room for those extra people. For families greater than four considering a Tahoe, we'd recommend a Suburban.
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It can haul and tow. The Z71 has a payload of about 1,700 pounds and as equipped here can tow 8,200 pounds. Sans kids, we once flipped all but the driver and passenger seats down and hauled a metric ton of overlanding gear to install on another project. The enclosed, upright space handled everything like a boss, and it would have been much harder to secure the load in a pickup. Plus, the Z71 has automatic load-leveling thanks to that air suspension.
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As for towing, we hitched an 8,000-pound 21-foot toy hauler to the Z71's cousin, the GMC Yukon AT4, and dragged it on a 2,400-mile road trip. We faced white-knuckle wind at the Bonneville Flats—the strongest we've ever experienced—steep grades, and everything in between. It did the job with confidence and stability. It's not all glowing, though. We averaged less than 9 mpg mpg while towing. Combined with the 24-gallon fuel tank, we were stopping for gas literally every time we could.
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It's not miserable off-road. Short of "death-wheeling," proceed with confidence. The Z71 does not feel like it'll fall apart off-road. For sketchier trails, it has four-low, the eLSD, an Off-Road drive mode, 10 inches of ground clearance, a bumper made for moderate step-ups, and multiple camera angles for seeing obstacles. You probably won't go buy a Z71 specifically for off-roading—and if you do, again, you probably want to fit smaller wheels—but our colleagues at Four Wheeler named the GMC variant its SUV of the Year.
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In The End …
The Chevrolet Tahoe Z71 isn't the most glamorous SUV going; even the GMC Yukon is perceived as more prestigious. But it can tow, it can take you far off the beaten path without shaking itself to death, it can swallow a ton of cargo, and it's as comfortable for long trips as almost anything you can buy. If you don't crave extra power or stout acceleration and aren't a fan of flashy SUVs, it's worth a look.
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Source: motortrend

Just installed this update and first time when went to the options the screen was white I had to close the App and open again, second time the same, third time was the win! Shows the map and walked around the rooms and all maps shows the presence icon; sometimes I see ghosts or others myself of the Multiverse… but now finally I could set new zones and enhance existing ones XD

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tends to crumble
“Quite distressing,” says the older man, there in the wingback chair. “Though one does not wish to play the churl. A certain degree of disarray must certainly be allowed, given the shocks – the challenge, the duel – ”
“Allowed?” says Agravante, there by the yellow stone fireplace, an elbow up on the mantel, and the older man takes a sip of milky tea from a thin bone china cup. “How is the King’s champion, by the way?” he says.
“Death’s door,” says Agravante. There on the mantel by his elbow a fiendish little basket-box, carved from a chunk of dark red wood. “Shame,” says the older man, shaking his head, stiff grey curls swept back, and the collar of his shirt undone, a blue scarf knotted tidily about his throat. “Though it is distasteful, how they might linger, on that threshold? Neither here, nor there,” and another sip of tea.
“What is it that distresses you, Medardus,” says Agravante. White-gold locks tied neatly black, his grey suit shot with blue.
“It’s a delicate question I’d have answered, Pinabel,” says the older man, setting the cup in the saucer on his lap, clink. “Does the King yet mean to pursue his bold vision?”
Agravante’s brow pinches. “Of course,” he says. “Insofar as I know.”
Medardus smiles. “Delicately put,” he says. “It’s been two days.”
“These things take time.”
“Two days,” says Medardus, “since he took from me mine offer,” knobbled fingers closing in a fist, drawn up by his yet-mild smile. “And not a word said since.”
“There’s much to be considered,” says Agravante. “Four of you do vie for her hand.”
“Please, Pinabel,” says Medardus, dropping his hand, and a clatter of cup and saucer. “It’s an indulgence to pretend the choice isn’t manifestly clear – that mine is not the best offering.”
“The best, perhaps,” says Agravante. “But sufficient?” A slatey shoulder shrugs.
“The King would demand more?”
“How can I answer that,” says Agravante, “when I know nothing of what you’ve promised, or he might require.”
“Nothing,” says Medardus, still smiling. “Such a delicate word.” Setting cup and saucer on the low table between them. “I would hope,” he says, “it could always be said that the Hound has done well by Medardus,” and he knots those knobby fingers in his lap. “Much as it can be said, to a surety, that Medardus has done well by the Hound.”
Rather carefully, Agravante does not smile at that, or nod, his shoulders do not move, nor does his arm, there by the basket-box. “Of course,” he says.
“But it’s also said,” says Medardus, “that a fear grips your court: that the line is not unbroken. That the Queen, despite her, prodigious recovery, has no Bride of her own. That your King’s hand, howsomever reluctantly, is forced. That he means,” and here Medardus leans forward, elbows on knees, “to take the Princess for himself, and that is why our offers go unanswered.” Sitting back, a dismissive fillip of his fingers. “Or so it’s said.”
“By some,” says Agravante.
“Indeed,” says Medardus.
“But not to me,” says Agravante.
“Ah.” Medardus pushes himself to his feet. “Tell me,” he says, as Agravante leads him out of the little drawing room, “how fares the Count?”
“Grandfather?” says Agravante, pushing open the sliding wood-paneled door. “He sleeps.” Beyond, a narrow hall, in the shadow of a long straight staircase.
•
“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.” A glass of wine in his hand, something dark. “She isn’t here.”
“She will be, soon enough,” says Marfisa, muddy boot up on the side porch step. “Jason, can I just, wait inside?” The collar of her sheepskin coat turned up, loose white hair stirred by a gust. He steps back, the door held open, his lips a sour purse between his mustache and his dull red beard.
Up the steps into a mud room, painted blue, forgotten coats and a tangle of umbrellas, a scooter, a chalkboard palimpsested with to-dos and shopping lists, “Ah ah,” he’s saying, pointing, thick-lensed glasses blanked out by the ceiling light, and she scrubs her boots against a mat before stepping up into a kitchen to the left there, ruddy stove and a steaming pot of something, stainless steel refrigerator hung about with coupons and note cards, a calendar, a math test festooned with red checks and gold stars, past a breakfast bar sloppily piled with newspapers and a box of soda cans, into a narrow sitting room, a low brown couch, a girl tucked at one end of it, under a red and yellow blanket, and pink headphones startling against her dark hair, watching something on the tablet on her lap. “Grace,” says Jason, still in the kitchen, but she’s already snatching off the headphones, a burst of chirpy music, as Marfisa steps about the low coffee table. “Hey, Mar,” says the girl on the couch, and “Grace,” says Jason again, “upstairs,” as Marfisa sits herself at the other end. Something bulky’s tucked in her coat, she leans over the table, pulling it out, a flat paper sack that spills out a sheaf of handbills, goldenrod pages splashed with black lines, a dancer rendered in calligraphy, and each marked by the green dot of an eye. “Oh, hey,” says the girl, springing from under the blanket, all elbows and knees and clattering headphones, “is that,” says Jason says “Grace!” again, but she’s already scooped up a handbill, turning it over and back again, nothing else to it but little pull-tabs at the bottom, each printed with an elaborately arabesqued question mark. “You’re putting these up?”
Marfisa shrugs. “You’ve seen them?”
“Yesterday, at Mississippi Pizza?” says Grace. “Did you hang ’em there?” Marfisa shrugs again. “The Mercury just had a thing about these things, like how nobody knows what they are, or who’s, it’s, it’s you! You’re doing it! Is it like, are you putting the band back together?”
“Grace,” says Jason.
“What,” snaps Grace, rolling her eyes away.
“Upstairs,” he says, “now. Flashcards till dinner.”
“Jason,” she says, but she’s kicking off the couch, scooping up the tablet, stomping around the table when back that way there’s a clatter and a squeak of hinges from that side porch, “I’m home!” cries someone, and “Carol!” cries Grace, turning on a dime, scampering off past Jason, through the kitchen, “Guess who’s here!”
Marfisa leans forward, slipping the handbills back in the sack, not looking up at Jason looking down at her.
And there’s Carol, by the breakfast bar, setting a brown leather book bag on the carpet. Draped in a brown and yellow striped serape, her dark hair neatly short. “Mar,” she says. “How are you.”
“Well as I might,” says Marfisa, looking up, pushing back a wave of white-gold hair. “What would you say to a chance to sing again, together?”
•
A hallway narrow, dim, dark doors to either side, silvery numerals set in the walls by each, slender 1s, a wiry 7, great round-bellied 6es, an 8, a 9. Iona in her yellow track suit leads the way around a corner, stops before the door at the end of the hall. 620, the numerals beside it. She plucks a white card from a pocket, holds it up before slipping it into the slot above the knob. “I miss keys,” she says, as the lock chunks, a green light flicking on. “These may be better, but not in any way that matters.” She opens the door. “Go on,” she says.
Within brown walls and gold, bathed in daylight hazed by yellow curtains drawn over corner windows. A comfortable yellow chair, a reading table and a lamp, unlit. A wide bed draped in blue and brown and at the foot of it, sat tailor-fashion, Ysabel, in a white chemise, and soft white leg-warmers thickly rumpled. “Starling,” she says, with a smile.
“My Queen,” says the Starling, a shadow there by yellow Iona, black jeans, black sweatshirt, the hood of it up. “This is not our usual Thursday,” she says, in not much more than a whisper.
“This isn’t a Thursday,” says Ysabel, nodding to Iona, who steps out, closing the door behind her. “This is a whole weekend, if you’d like.”
“But I must dance, ma’am,” says the Starling. “Today and tonight, at the club, and Saturday – ”
“It has been cleared, with your, manager,” says Ysabel. “You’re free, till Monday.”
“Free to be here, with you,” says the Starling. And then, “If it’s just to be the two of us?” Her words worn thin.
“If you’d like,” says Ysabel. “Or, step back through that door. The Chariot will happily take you anywhere in the city you may wish to go.”
The Starling reaches for the strap of the black gym bag slung from her shoulder. “I don’t mind,” she says, “being with you. I’ll just go change,” but “No,” says Ysabel, quickly, “Starling, no. Put that down. Sit with me.”
“My Queen,” says the Starling. “I am not who I am, when I’m with you.”
“Please,” says Ysabel. “Sit.”
The gym bag slumps to the speckled brown carpet. Stepping over, the Starling stands a moment before the foot of that bed, and Ysabel sat there, smiling up, but then she turns, the Starling, and finds the yellow chair behind her, and sits, a darkness in that weak light.
“I’m glad you came,” says Ysabel.
“My Queen desired it,” says the Starling.
“I thought,” says Ysabel, looking away. “I’d thought today that I might dance for you. I have danced, you know. At a party. She said I was quite good.”
“Of course,” says the Starling.
“I settled on an outfit,” says Ysabel, looking down at herself, “nothing too elaborate,” and “Good,” says the Starling, “but,” says Ysabel, “I’ve been flummoxed by my lips. What should the color be?” A hand, lifted to her mouth, her hair, “White?” she says. “To go with the ensemble? Or would that be too much? Would a simple red be enough?”
“No one pays attention to the lipstick,” says the Starling.
“You do,” says Ysabel, quickly, even sharply, and then, “You take such care, with yours.”
That hood shifts, down, to one side, dim light passing over her chin, the tip of her nose. “White’s better for the stage,” she says. “Too bold for such close quarters.”
“A simple red it is.”
“Your majesty is sad,” says the Starling, then. “Why should that be?”
“I,” says Ysabel, shoulders lifting, and her chin, a retort swelling but then suddenly pricked, deflating, and she looks away. “Affairs of the city,” she says.
“Not the heart, then?” says the Starling. “Nor the hips?”
Ysabel untucks herself, a bare foot lowered to the carpet, and her hands on the edge of the bed. “Tell me,” she says. “Do you know the smell, of blood?”
That shadow sits up. “I do, ma’am,” says the Starling.
“She sleeps,” Ysabel’s saying. “Peacefully. Her wound is poulticed with a fief’s portion. The bleeding’s long since stopped, but,” and she takes in a deep breath, shivering at the top of it, a sigh, “wherever I go in those rooms I still can smell it, that – tang, like an armor hot from the sun, and I,” but the Starling’s standing, stepping over, she kneels at the foot of the bed, reaches for a hand that Ysabel lifts away, “here I am,” she says, “holed up in a hotel across town.”
The Starling sits back on her heels. “Would you rather go to her?” but Ysabel’s shaking her head, “The Mason,” she says, “watches over her. She wants for nothing. I am,” but then she stops, and the Starling catches her hand, draws it down, covers it with her own. Ysabel says, “My brother once told me,” but then she stops again, blinking rapidly, looking down at the Starling looking up from under her black hood. “He was once a little boy,” says Ysabel. “Did you know that?”
“The King,” says the Starling, “yes, ma’am, of course. I remember those days.”
“Not even a Prince, just an infant, he came to me, in the little garden, and took my hand, and asked me, sister, why are you crying?” Turning her hand in the Starling’s hand, taking hold of it, squeezing. “And I said, because I do not wish to wed. But I am the Bride, I said, and one day a King will come, and I must take his hand. Whether I will or no, I must, but he,” looking away, “he swore to me, then and there, most earnestly, that he would one day be the King, that I might never need take anyone’s hand.”
The Starling says, “And he did just that.”
“My brother,” says Ysabel, “the King, this,” and her eyes close, the lashes of them shining, “city,” she says, and her mouth closes about another, unsaid word, she swallows, and a lick at her lips. “Jo,” she says.
“My Queen,” says the Starling. “I will go, and change, and dance for you, to take your mind,” but “No,” says Ysabel, leaning forward, her hands on the Starling’s shoulders, “do not change, do not dress, do not perform,” lifting a hand, right to the very hem of that hood, but then pulled back, withdrawn. “I would see you just as you are,” she says, her hands once more in her lap.
“But, my lady,” says the Starling, and she reaches up to draw back that hood. “I am always as I am.” Black hair uncurled, slicked back, clipped down to stubble along her temples, about those ears. Her cheeks, the line of that jaw. The nose. Those eyes, only a hazeled hint of green. Thin lips unpainted, upturned, parting as Ysabel leans close to say, “And you are with me,” and then a feathery kiss, tugging at the Starling’s hands, lifting, the Starling who stands up before her, and her hands fall to the Starling’s hips, rough black denim, the belt loops, her thumb, the wide leather belt, looking up, those green eyes. She yanks at the bulky black sweatshirt, “Get this off,” she says, and the Starling lifts it up and off and tosses it aside. Bare now from the waist up, and the torso of her lean and long, and her long arms sinewy lowering, curling, Ysabel’s darkly hands caught up against the smooth pale chest of her by those wide white hands, and the backs of them snarled with thick blue veins.
“Now would you have me go and change?” murmurs the Starling.
“But you are beautiful,” says Ysabel, slipping her hands free, reaching for the tongue of the belt. The buckle jangles. “Majesty,” says the Starling, “I am many things, but,” and a gasp, at the kiss pressed there below her shadowed navel, as those black jeans loosen, lop, as Ysabel’s fingers dip within to uncurl a palely slender cock, and a stroke for the lengthening lift of it, “oh,” says the Starling, “my Queen, you needn’t,” as her hand cups Ysabel’s face.
“But do you want me to,” says Ysabel, and the Starling, shivering, nods. “The principles, I should think,” says Ysabel, “are essentially the same?” And a lick of a kiss for the tip of it, there on her palm.
•
Pinned to the pole a mulching bark of posters, flyers, handbills, postcards, lapped and shingled one over another, rain-dimpled, sun-faded, twisted, torn, defaced, Thrash or Die, April Showers Burlesque, Snap! at the Holocene, Anodyne Presents, Missing Dog, Laughing Horse, Drum Circle Saturday Rain or Shine, Cinco de Mayo on the Waterfront, big black letters on an enormous sheet, Grupo Samurjay, Grupo Maravilla, Los Supremos de Los Hermanos Flores, Woodburn Rocks. As the bus pulls away she’s pushing back her black hair looking up toward the top of that slithery bristling treeline, there where handfuls of old notices have been ripped away leaving crowded dozens of denuded staples, glinting, by a metal sign that says No Parking This Block, a relatively fresh sheet of goldenrod paper, mad black scribbles limning a dancer, a single eye of bright green ink. She reaches up, to the pull-tabs fluttering the bottom of it, each printed with only an elaborately arabesqued question mark. Her other hand holds fast a black leather knapsack slung from the shoulder of her slick black jacket. Her glasses with thick black frames. With a sudden yank she rips the handbill down.
A broad porch with four front doors set one right next to another, and she unlocks, slips through the third of them, and up an immediate steep staircase, narrow between dark walls, unlit, that yellow page bright in her hand. Around the wall at the top of the stairs through an open room a couch the floor before it piled with cardboard boxes into a long hall once painted white, some time ago, lit by daylight seeping in from somewhere else. At the end of it a dark room, curtains drawn, and she closes the door behind her, a shadow in the shadows. Flump of the knapsack, dropped to the floor, creaking footstep, the thick click of a switch. Light blares from naked bulbs in the fixture in the middle of the ceiling, pink springs from the walls all whorled curlicues and faded bouquets, the bed there, skewed bedclothes striped dull brown and beige, and on the floor at the foot of it a great conical pile knee-high or more of gleaming golden dust.
She steps around it, jacket half-unzipped. A ridge of the pile has settled, slumped, dust trailed over the floor away from it, and the goldenrod poster drops, crumpled, from the hand she’s lifting to her throat, to the bit of black lace tied there. Steps back, around the bed. She grabs a little hand broom from the nightstand. Kneels down by the pile. Begins to sweep up the goldstuff, careful with each thread and grain.
•
Eyelids a-twitch, lips parting just to say not even a whisper, maybe a number, counting, nine or ten, eleven, those lids blink open over mud-colored eyes that swivel, narrow, try to focus, a gleaming edge there, mirror-bright, shifting as she blinks the length of it flat and smooth and slender, somehow deep within it coiling whorls of light and dark chased up and down a shallow groove that cleanly stretches up and up to a glittering net there on the pillow, wiry strands that knot a cage about a simple hilt she jerks away, kicks back sitting up, “Shit,” she says, as the sword’s tangled in the sheets, teetering at the edge of the futon. She’s bent over, thin white T-shirt, wine-red hair, rubbing her shin, a thin dark line of blood beading down by her ankle, “Shit,” she says, again. Snatching the hilt she whips the blade free from the sheets, “this fucking,” but it turns in her hand, a wrench and away it flies across the room to crack and a wibble it’s stabbed the white wall there by the plain black scabbard, hung from a nail, and the painted skull-mask also, the mane of it stirred by that thrust. Jo blinks. “Okay,” she says, to herself.
Without, the hallway’s dark, the little lights strung along the ceiling unlit. The kitchen beyond is empty, only glancing daylight and shadows. Jo leans over to knock at the door across the hall, “Ysabel?” she says, turning the knob. The room within all yellow and white, gauzy curtains, big bed neatly made, the armoire shut, and nothing draped over the dressing screen in the corner. “Ysabel?” says Jo again, but something, she looks down. Something lightly, barely there, faintly wisps, like down, like ash, falling from, brushing her foot, past her knee, caught there in the hem of her T-shirt, falling from, she lifts it, peering down at her belly beneath, and the line that climbs it packed with an ashen crust and a last few spangles of gold and, she touches it crumbling, flaking away, the pink skin taut beneath.
Back against the jamb. Dropping the hem of the shirt her hand to her breast, and quick wincing shallow breaths. Lurching up across and over to the dresser, a bouquet of heavy-headed peonies pink and yellow, she grabs a small brass box and pries it open, frees a cigarette, and a ragged book of matches.
The hall, the back room, dark, the back door and out, outside, out in the grass, under the sky, sunlight and blue sky, and glowering clouds behind, white and blue and grey and blue and greenly black, swollen with the coming rain. Fitting the cigarette to her lips but even as she opens the matchbook she’s falling to her knees in the lushly green, soft grass out to the parapets to either side, and she coughs up a sob, another, doubled over on her shaking shuddering self, her hand a fist to her chest.
The cigarette falls white to the grass before her. Feathers of grey-white ash caught about it, and sparks of gold.
A call behind her, muffled by walls and doors. Sitting up she catches, holds her breath. Swallows. A slam back there, distant, bump of a footfall, she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and leans forward getting her feet under herself but the back door bangs open boot-thump someone shouting and she springs up turns her arm flung out the sword
The sword in her hand –
Her hand, her arm extended shoulder dropped her torso sidelong and her front foot planted, off leg leaned back straight and true, off hand slung back to balance the thrust that’s ended sword-tip snagged in a corner of his unzipped shortwaisted jacket yanked up one side he’s twisted, turned away from it, both arms flung up and alarm gently folding his face.
“Oh God,” says Jo, dropping the blade, the ring of it soft on the grass.
“You’re awake,” says Luys, lowering his arms. Brushing the front of his soft brown jacket, his finger finding the hole punched there. “Your coat,” says Jo, “I’m so, sorry,” but “No sin espinas,” he’s saying, almost to himself, holding out a hand, “You are awake,” he says, but she rushes past that hand to crash into him tumbling her arms about him there on the rooftop under the clouds, she’s kissing his throat and then as he lowers his head she looks up to kiss his mouth, his mouth.
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