Pink - please contact emilyroubini1950@gmail.com facebook: Emily Roubini: August 2024

Tuesday, August 27, 2024

Monday, August 26, 2024

Oil

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Oil2

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Sunday, August 25, 2024

lo-fi

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wakeup

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music_

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Deco

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Flowers

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In the quiet town of Willowbrook, where the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the local bakery and children played in the dusty streets, a peculiar event occurred one summer evening. An unassuming old man, Mr. Greenfield, known for his meticulously kept garden, was seen sprinting from his house, his face as pale as the moon above. His eyes were wide with excitement, and his frail hands clutched a small, crumpled piece of paper.

Mr. Greenfield was not known for his speed, nor was he known for his excitement. Most days, he could be found tending to his garden, his back bent over the vibrant blooms, his hands covered in earth. His neighbors, accustomed to his tranquil demeanor, watched in surprise as he dashed past them, not bothering to exchange his customary nod or wave. The children playing in the street paused their games, their laughter fading into the warm air as they stared after him, curious about the sudden urgency in his gait.

The paper in his hand was a treasure map, or so it seemed to the old man. It was a page torn from a book, yellowed with age and smudged with fingerprints, but it held the promise of something precious. On it were scribbled a series of symbols and a crude drawing of the town, with a red 'X' marked in the center of the old cemetery. The map had arrived in a mysterious envelope, slipped through the mailbox slot in the dead of night.

With trembling hands, Mr. Greenfield unfolded the map and studied it under the flickering streetlight. The cemetery was a place of quiet beauty, with ancient trees casting dappled shadows over the headstones, and flowers of every color imaginable blooming in wild profusion. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where people went to remember their loved ones and seek solace. But tonight, it called to him with a different purpose.

Wednesday, August 21, 2024

Deco

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Tuesday, August 20, 2024

Hyperloop

"You're not going to believe this," Mark said, his voice quivering with excitement. "They're actually building it."

Sarah looked up from her book, raising an eyebrow. "Building what?"

"The hyperloop! The high-speed transportation system that's going to change the world!" Mark replied, his eyes gleaming.

"Oh, that thing," Sarah said, trying to hide her skepticism. "Isn't that just a pipe dream?"

Mark waved his phone in the air, displaying an article with a sleek, futuristic image of a pod gliding through a tube. "They've broken ground in the desert outside of Vegas. It's happening!"

---

The hyperloop was a concept that had captured the imagination of the public for years. The idea of traveling at the speed of sound, in a vacuum-sealed tube, was the stuff of science fiction. Now, it was becoming a reality. Or so they claimed.

Mark was an engineer, and the thought of being part of something so revolutionary was like a siren's call to him. He had been following the project's development closely, eager for any morsel of information. His apartment was cluttered with blueprints and articles, all detailing the progress of the hyperloop.

Sarah, on the other hand, was a journalist. She was used to hearing about grand schemes that never saw the light of day. She liked Mark's enthusiasm, but she had learned to be wary of promises that seemed too good to be true.

---

"Come on, you've got to admit it's exciting," Mark said, his voice filled with passion. "It'll cut travel times down to minutes instead of hours."

Sarah set her book aside, giving Mark her full attention. "I know it's your thing, but it's all theoretical. There's no guarantee it'll work."

"That's where you're wrong," Mark said, pointing at the article. "They've tested it. The first passengers will be riding it in less than a year."

---

Sarah couldn't help but feel a spark of curiosity. "What happens if something goes wrong?" she asked.

Mark paused, considering her question. "They say it's safer than flying," he said. "But, you know, there's always a risk."

The room grew quiet, the weight of the conversation settling between them. The hyperloop was no longer just a distant dream, but a tangible reality that was approaching fast.

Loop

In the quiet town of Willow Creek, where the streets were lined with old oak trees that had seen more seasons than the townsfolk could count, there lived a peculiar man named Alfred. Alfred wasn't your typical neighbor; he had a penchant for peculiar hats and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. His days were spent tinkering in his cluttered workshop, emerging only to collect the mail or to buy supplies from the local hardware store. The children would often peek through the cracks in the fence, their eyes wide with wonder at the strange contraptions that littered his yard.

Alfred's house was a quaint, two-story Victorian with a wild garden that had long ago overtaken the sidewalks. The once-white paint had faded to a soft gray, and the shutters hung at odd angles. Inside, the walls were lined with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with tomes that spoke of forgotten inventions and obscure scientific theories. The air was thick with the scent of oil and metal, and the floor was a maze of gears, springs, and half-finished inventions. In the center of this chaos sat a single chair, meticulously clean and surrounded by a circle of clear space. It was the only place in the house where Alfred could sit and think without the risk of a screwdriver or a stray screw landing in his tea.

One unusually warm afternoon, as the sun slanted through the dusty windows, Alfred was engrossed in his latest project: a brass-and-steel contraption that hummed and ticked like a living creature. His gnarled hands moved with surprising dexterity, assembling the pieces with the precision of a master watchmaker. His eyes darted back and forth from the blueprints spread across the table to the object before him, lost in a world of cogs and circuits. The rhythmic sound of his tools was the only music in the room, a soothing symphony of creation that drowned out the distant chirp of birds and the occasional hum of a passing car.

The townsfolk had grown accustomed to Alfred's oddities over the years, but today was different. A rumor had begun to spread, a whisper that grew into a murmur and then a shout. It seemed that Alfred had stumbled upon something that could change the very fabric of their lives. But as the shadows grew longer and the light in the workshop grew dimmer, Alfred remained oblivious to the excitement brewing outside his walls. He was too busy trying to solve a puzzle that had eluded him for decades—a puzzle that would soon ensnare the entire town in a loop of fate none of them could ever have anticipated.

Hive

The old man sat on the edge of the pier, his weathered face a silent narrative of the countless summers and winters he had seen. His fishing line danced with the waves, a silent partner in his solitude. In the distance, a solitary seagull squawked, piercing the stillness of the early morning.

His name was Joe, and he had lived in the small coastal town for as long as anyone could remember. The pier was his sanctuary, a place where the worries of the world couldn't touch him. Each day, he'd arrive before dawn and leave only when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the shimmering sea.

Joe had always been a man of few words, preferring the company of his thoughts to the chatter of the townsfolk. He had seen families grow and wither, children become adults, and adults become children again. The rhythm of the tides was more reliable than the ebb and flow of human relationships.

As the sun climbed higher, a peculiar scent wafted towards him on the salty breeze. It was faint at first, but grew stronger, a mix of something metallic and sweet, almost floral. He squinted into the horizon, his eyes catching a glimpse of something unusual—a large, dark mass moving steadily towards the shore. His curiosity piqued, Joe began to reel in his line, preparing to leave his perch.

The closer the mass grew, the more defined it became. It was unlike anything he had ever seen—like a giant bee's nest, but made of a material that gleamed in the sunlight. It was a structure, vast and imposing, and it was definitely not of this world. The scent grew stronger, tickling the back of his throat with a hint of mint and copper.

Joe's heart pounded in his chest. He knew he should leave, but his feet remained rooted to the spot. The object was now a mere hundred meters from the shore, and the water around it was churning with an eerie life. His line grew taut as something took the bait, but the struggle was unlike any fish he had ever caught.

With a trembling hand, he pulled in his catch. It was not a fish that emerged from the water, but a small, gleaming device that looked like a USB stick, covered in what appeared to be a living tissue. The moment it hit the wooden boards, it began to pulse with a soft blue light, and the pier trembled beneath his feet.

The townsfolk had heard tales of strange happenings at sea, whispers of things that did not belong in their quaint, secluded lives. But Joe had never paid much heed to those stories. Now, as he stared at the alien artifact, he realized that he was about to become the subject of their whispers.

Three Hill

In the quiet town of Three Hill, a peculiar event had occurred. Mr. Jenkins, the local postman, had gone missing for three straight days. The townsfolk exchanged worried glances as they gathered in the quaint town square, their whispers echoing against the cobblestone streets. His mail cart remained parked outside the post office, the mail untouched and spilling over the sides like forgotten secrets.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when young Alice noticed the cart. She had always been an early riser, eager to greet the day with a skip in her step and a song on her lips. Alice had known Mr. Jenkins since she was a toddler, and his absence was as peculiar as it was concerning. She approached the cart with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, her eyes scanning the neatly organized letters and parcels for any clue to his whereabouts.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the letter addressed to her. It was a large envelope, with her name scribbled in a hasty, unfamiliar hand. The paper felt thick and important, hinting at a message of significance. With trembling fingers, she carefully pulled it from the pile. The postmark was smudged, the ink blurred, as if the sender had been in a hurry or perhaps even distressed.

Alice opened the envelope, revealing a single sheet of paper folded neatly inside. The moment she unfolded it, a strange symbol fluttered into view. It was unlike anything she had ever seen—a combination of swirls and sharp angles that seemed to dance before her eyes. The symbol was drawn in a deep, almost iridescent blue, and it filled her with an inexplicable sense of unease.

The note beneath was even more perplexing. It was written in a language she didn't recognize, the letters looping and twisting in a way that defied the familiarity of her own tongue. Alice felt a prickle of excitement at the thought of a secret message, but it was quickly overshadowed by the cold reality that Mr. Jenkins was still missing. The mystery of the letter would have to wait.

Rushing home, she shared her discovery with her mother, who looked at the symbol with a furrowed brow. "I've never seen the like," she murmured, turning the paper over in her hands. "But it's definitely not from Mr. Jenkins."

The townsfolk grew increasingly anxious as the hours ticked by. The local sheriff, a burly man named George, organized a search party. They combed the surrounding woods and fields, calling out Mr. Jenkins' name until their throats grew hoarse. Yet, no trace of him was found. As night fell, the townsfolk gathered in the square, their faces a tapestry of worry and fear. It was then that Alice remembered the symbol.

With the fading light of the day, she decided to show the letter to the town librarian, Mrs. Baker. Known for her extensive knowledge and vast collection of books, Alice hoped she might shed some light on the curious symbol. The library was a bastion of comfort in the heart of Three Hill, its warm lights beckoning to those in search of answers. Mrs. Baker peered over her spectacles at the paper, her eyes widening with astonishment.

"This," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "this is the seal of the ancient guardians of Three Hill. They've not been seen nor heard from in centuries."

The room grew quiet, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Alice's heart raced. What could this mean? And what did it have to do with Mr. Jenkins?

Mrs. Baker went on to explain that the guardians were mythical protectors, sworn to safeguard the town from an unknown danger that had long been forgotten. The symbol was a call to action, a plea for help.

"You must show this to Sheriff George," she urged. "We may need to expand our search beyond the town's borders."

With a newfound sense of purpose, Alice dashed out of the library, the crumpled letter clutched in her hand. The mystery had deepened, and the fate of Mr. Jenkins—and perhaps all of Three Hill—rested on her ability to unravel the enigma of the ancient guardians and their cryptic message.

One, two, three!

In the quiet town of Willow Creek, where the air had the scent of freshly baked bread and the sound of children's laughter, lived a peculiar man named Mr. Jenkins. He was a creature of habit, his days as predictable as the tick of a clock. Every morning, at precisely 6:15 AM, Mr. Jenkins would step out onto his porch, tie his shoelaces with a double knot, and begin his daily ritual. He'd tip his hat to Mrs. McDonald across the street, who was often found watering her garden, and then he'd shuffle down the cobblestone path to the local diner. His gait was slow and deliberate, as if he were afraid to disturb the delicate balance of the world around him.

Mr. Jenkins had a round face, framed by a thick white beard that grew down to his chest. His eyes, though clouded with age, twinkled with the wisdom of a man who had seen much and forgotten even more. His clothes were always neatly pressed, a stark contrast to the chaos of his unkempt yard, which was a jungle of weeds and discarded machinery. The townsfolk had grown accustomed to his peculiarities, and they'd often greet him with a nod and a knowing smile. But there was one thing that none of them knew about Mr. Jenkins: he had a secret.

This secret was not a scandalous affair or a hidden treasure. It was something far more peculiar, something that had been passed down from his grandfather, a man who had served in the Great War and had come back with a strange fascination for numbers. Every evening, after the diner had closed and the townsfolk had retreated to the comfort of their homes, Mr. Jenkins would return to his cluttered workshop. There, under the flickering glow of a single light bulb, he'd immerse himself in his work. The walls were adorned with scribbled formulas and diagrams, each one more complex than the last.

His workshop was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could lose himself in the silent symphony of gears and springs. His hands, though wrinkled and arthritic, moved with the precision of a master craftsman. His latest project was a contraption of metal and brass, a puzzle of interlocking pieces that seemed to have no purpose other than to confound the uninitiated. It was a machine that he had been working on for months, a machine that was supposed to do something incredible, something that would change the course of history. But what exactly that something was, even Mr. Jenkins wasn't entirely sure. The instructions had been vague, written in a language that seemed to shift and change every time he looked at them. Yet, he felt an unshakeable urgency to complete it.

Halo

"So, what's the deal with the new kid?" Emily asked, her curiosity piqued as they watched him from the corner of the schoolyard.

"I dunno, he's kind of weird," her friend Laura replied, her eyes following the solitary figure with a mix of fascination and skepticism.

"Weird how?"

"Just... different. He doesn't talk much, keeps to himself." Laura shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "But he's got this... I don't know, this vibe."

Emily nodded thoughtfully. The new student, Alex, had indeed been the talk of the school since he'd arrived. His silence was as loud as any of the other kids' laughter, and his eyes... there was something about the way he looked at you that made you feel like he could see right through you.

---

Alex sat alone at the far end of the lunch table, staring at the half-eaten sandwich in front of him. He'd tried to make friends, but every attempt had been met with either awkward silence or a hasty retreat. It wasn't that he didn't know how to interact with people; he just didn't know how to interact with people here. This place was so... strange. So... ordinary.

He missed the comforting hum of the engineered city, the way the buildings grew taller and more complex the closer you got to the center. Here, everything was flat and open, the sky stretching out in an endless blue canvas that made him feel exposed. He missed the familiar scent of metal and ozone, replaced by the overpowering aroma of freshly cut grass and the distant waft of someone's lunch meat.

---

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch and the start of the next class. Alex gathered his things, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stood. He was already dreading the inevitable stares and whispers that would follow him down the hall. As he approached the classroom door, someone bumped into him, sending his books flying.

"Watch where you're going, freak!" a voice snarled.

Alex looked up to see a group of older kids laughing, the ringleader's eyes cold and challenging. He took a deep breath, reminding himself to stay calm, to keep his secret hidden. He couldn't afford to draw attention to himself. Not here. Not now.

---

Inside the classroom, the teacher, Mrs. Johnson, was writing something on the board that Alex couldn't quite make out. He picked up his books and hurried to his seat, hoping to blend in unnoticed. But as he sat down, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. The silver halo around his head, faint but undeniable, glinted in the sunlight. He ducked his head, heart racing. Had anyone else seen it?

Sugar

The old clock in the corner of the room ticked away the seconds with a rhythm that had long ago lost its charm. It was a relic from another time, one where the passing of time didn't feel so heavy. Rachel stared at the faded numbers, the hands moving almost imperceptibly, and wondered how many more moments she could endure in this quiet agony. She had spent hours sitting on the edge of her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her thoughts racing like a river in flood.

Her bedroom was a prison of her own making, the walls adorned with posters of smiling faces and places she longed to visit, but the smiles taunted her, the vibrant colors of the posters seeming to mock her monochrome existence. Rachel's eyes flitted to the half-empty jar of sugar on the windowsill. It was a simple act of rebellion against her mother's strict dietary rules, a silent declaration of her desire for something more than the blandness of her daily life.

The sweet aroma of the sugar filled the air, dancing with the faint scent of her mother's perfume that lingered from her last lecture about the importance of discipline. Rachel had nodded along, but she felt the sugar whispering promises of escape, of a taste so sweet it could make her feel alive again. It was a siren's call, and she knew she couldn't resist much longer.

With a sudden jolt, she stood up, the mattress sighing in relief beneath her. Rachel felt the weight of the jar in her hand, the grains of sugar shifting and whispering against the glass like secrets waiting to be told. She pulled the curtains aside and peered out into the darkening evening. The streetlights flickered to life, casting long shadows across the pavement. Her heart raced as she contemplated the act of defiance that was about to unfold. She knew she was about to cross a line, but she didn't care. The sugar was her beacon in the night, and she was ready to follow it.

The kitchen was eerily quiet, the only sound the hum of the fridge in the corner. Rachel tiptoed across the cold tiles, the jar clutched tightly to her chest. The light was a soft glow, and she felt like a thief in the night. She reached for the cookie jar, her heart thumping like a drum in her chest. Her hand hovered over the lid, and she took a deep breath. The anticipation was almost too much to bear.

With trembling hands, Rachel unscrewed the jar and dipped her fingers into the sugary abyss. The crystals clung to her skin, cold and sweet, and she brought them to her mouth. The taste was a revelation, a symphony of sensation that made her eyes water and her taste buds sing. She had never tasted anything so heavenly. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a spark in the void of her controlled existence.

Her mother's footsteps echoed down the hallway, jolting Rachel back to reality. She hastily shoved the jar back onto the shelf and darted out of the kitchen, her heart hammering in her chest. She made it back to her room just in time, collapsing onto the bed. The sweetness lingered on her tongue, a guilty reminder of the joy she had stolen. Rachel lay there, her heart racing, listening to the ticking clock. The sugar had offered her a taste of freedom, but now she had to live with the fear of being caught. Yet, she knew she would do it again. The thrill was too great, the craving too intense. The war between rebellion and obedience had only just begun, and Rachel was ready to fight for her next sugar-coated victory.

mathematics

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Saturday, August 17, 2024

Mochi!

_kawai

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Tuesday, August 13, 2024

morning cafè

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jazz

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Sunday, August 11, 2024

Landscape

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Sunday, August 4, 2024

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frames

https://neural-frames.s3.us-east-2.amazonaws.com/exports/515565/202408142943_50296243.mp4

shoujo

Love story-

white

In the quiet town of Meadowbrook, where the air smelled faintly of freshly baked bread and the chime of the town clock echoed through the cobblestone streets, there lived a young woman named Clara. Clara had a peculiar habit of speaking to the flowers in her garden, which she tended with the care of a devoted mother to her children. Her house, a quaint cottage painted a soft shade of yellow, stood out from the rest with its vibrant array of blossoms. Each morning, as the sun gently nudged the horizon awake, Clara would step out onto the dew-kissed grass in her oversized gardening boots, a steaming cup of tea in hand, and greet the daisies, roses, and lavenders by name.

Clara's days were simple and routine, much like the seasons that painted the town in a different palette each year. She worked at the local library, her eyes often drifting to the children's section where the books about magical lands and mystical creatures held more allure than the dusty tomes of history and science. Her heart ached for adventure, but she found solace in the predictable rhythm of her life. The flowers were her escape, her silent companions that never judged her dreams of exploring beyond the town's familiar borders.

One peculiar afternoon, as Clara was pruning her roses, she noticed something odd among the blooms. A single white flower had emerged, stark against the backdrop of color. It was not a daisy, nor a lily, nor any other flower she had ever seen before. It was as if it had been plucked from the pages of one of her favorite books and planted in her garden overnight. The petals were as soft as silk, and the center held a secret, a tiny, pulsing light that danced like a captured star.

Intrigued, Clara reached out to touch the mysterious blossom, but as her fingertips grazed the petals, a sudden gust of wind sent it fluttering into the air. It danced and twirled in the breeze, the light within it growing brighter with each spin. The wind grew stronger, carrying the flower further and further away until it was lost from sight. Clara watched it go, a strange sense of longing welling up inside her. That night, she lay in bed, unable to shake the image of the white flower from her mind. It was as if it had whispered a secret that only she could understand, a secret that promised an adventure she had longed for but never dared to seek.

_white flowers