magic5ball

[magic5ball]

[magic5ball]

A Letter to Mom (18)

Dear Mom,

I'm finally here. The Great Lakes. I've seen them on many a screensaver before, but I never expected them to be so vast. You could mistake them for the ocean, the water stretching out for miles, and just under the coast, coral buttresses flash advertisements in elaborate phosphorescent shows! I can't believe they were just out in the open, for anyone to see. Usually you have to PAY for advertisements this beautiful!

Anyway, there were also great barracudas snaking through the shallows, and periodically a majestic manta ray would leap into the sky, belly spots promoting every flavor of ration under the sun!

No doubt you wonder why so many saltwater creatures call this place home, when it should, in theory, be freshwater. The Boss explained to me as I entered the Rail Station. Solar system wide demand for saltwater fish far exceeded the actual saltwater available on Earth at the time, our Glorious CEO melted key icecaps and salinated the Great Lakes in order to keep our planet competitive on the galactic market! I also asked about where the freshwater fish went, but my Boss assured they are safe and sound in a tank six feet underneath us.

Speaking of our Glorious CEO, I feel his presence strongly here, far more so than I could ever feel up north. In every fungal lantern, towering basalt monolith, even the mint you can pay extra to get placed under your pillow are overflowing with PONG. Not the least because his eyes are printed on everything, so you know they're all quality products.

And don't get me started on the hotel itself, whose thousand stories overlook the great inland ocean, and whose cerulean halls are coated in a pheromone known only as 'Ocean Breeze'. Look at me, acting like a poet!

Perhaps most astounding of all, my room has a real, genuine, BED! Designed specifically for the purpose of sleeping. That I have been deemed worthy of such a privilege no doubt grants you great pride in me.

Forgive me for not writing more. The bed sheets are inviting and it's not good form to waste the CEO's gifts.

Under the covers,

Kib Johnson.

[magic5ball]

saying goodbye to childhood sci-fi optimism and the I.G.Y. future

I don't want to say farewell to optimism and hope altogether. Both concepts are still valid even though we're getting the Second Coming of Donald Trump (or maybe it's his third or fourth or tenth, because he keeps crawling back into the spotlight after repeated humiliations) and it looks like the U.S. and the Democrats are both mortally stricken. Hope hasn't vanished, but now I'm going to have to work for it.

It's something to realize that despite years of trying to toughen myself up, trying to cultivate a dispassionate and analytical approach to the challenges of a world dissolving into chaos, I've been hindering myself through nostalgia—nostalgia, the same sickness that infected the U.S. with the "Reagan Revolution" (actually a fascist counterrevolution) and has finally slain the patient. Both my older sibling Frisk (born 1972, I was born in 1974) grew up in a staunchly leftist household, raised by a scientist father with a great many friends from many other countries and a mother who'd fled the wreckage of Allendist Chile and taught her children to believe in revolution and social justice. But we were still children being brought up in whitebread West-Coast U.S. society, going to whitebread West-Coast U.S. schools, so we got corrupted by whitebread American optimism. Even my saturnine sibling, for a little while there in childhood, wanted to believe that somehow everything would be OK. The hard times were temporary and things would get better and we'd have a different world to live in by the time we were grown up.

Right? 😬

Obviously that did NOT happen and, if I'd been wiser during the 1980s, I would have perhaps noticed that the nation was already mortally wounded. I think Frisk, always more practically minded and attentive to mundane concerns, noticed much sooner and this contributed to the extremity of their growing despair and mental illness. I continued to put faith in escapism, fantasy, and sci-fi optimism. I don't think that was wrong exactly but like way too many privileged American kids growing up in those years I was too willing to be merely dazzled by technology and its promises—rather like Snowball in Animal Farm, altogether too excited by his daydreams of a miraculous mill—and seduced by the notion that "progress" (that vaguest of abstractions) was inevitable merely because technology was always improving. As I got older, sci-fi and fantasy slowly became more mainstream in popular culture, especially after the advent of Star Trek: The Next Generation which I faithfully followed in high school and early college years. Surely this was a sign! Surely the future really WAS getting brighter all the time!

Right? 😬

Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony. My sibling and I would eventually clash on this matter—we grew apart, estranged by our vast difference in temperament. Frisk thought I was fatally frivolous; I thought (*sighs*) that Frisk was simply lost, their mind now so scrambled by illness that I'd never understand them again. We were both wrong about each other, and yet we were both correct. We are reunited in Hell, however; that is something to feel good about.

And somehow, our clash of temperaments is reconciled in a single song, one of Frisk's favorites, so now it's one of mine as well. Frisk tried to get me interested in Steely Dan and eventually I picked up the vibe. Frisk found little peace in their previous life but music helped. Donald Fagen's solo album The Nightfly has much the same mellow sardonic vibe as Steely Dan's music and was a big Frisk favorite. Fagen was a big sci-fi fan as it happens and the lead track on The Nightfly, "I.G.Y." (International Geophysical Year, a grand worldwide science project from the late '50s) has a lot of sincere enthusiasm for old-fashioned sci-fi visions of a gleaming space-colony future like I got from magazines and books during childhood, but deftly undercut by Fagen's world-weary sarcasm. Can you tell? I quote the lyrics in full:

standing tough under Stars and Stripes, we can tell this dream's in sight you've got to admit it, at this point in time that it's clear the future looks bright on that train all graphite and glitter undersea by rail 90 minutes from New York to Paris well by '76, we'll be a-OK 🎶 what a beautiful world this will be what a glorious time to be free what a beautiful world this will be what a glorious time to be free, oh 🎶 get your ticket to that wheel in space while there's time the fix is in you'll be a witness to that game of chance in the sky you know we've got to win here at home, we'll play in the city powered by the sun perfect weather for a streamlined world there'll be spandex jackets, one for everyone 🎶 what a beautiful world this will be what a glorious time to be free what a beautiful world this will be What a glorious time to be free, yeah 🎶 on that train, all graphite and glitter undersea by rail 90 minutes from New York to Paris (more leisure for artists everywhere) just a machine to make big decisions programmed by fellas with compassion and vision we'll be clean when their work is done we'll be eternally free, yes, and eternally young 🎶 what a beautiful world this will be what a glorious time to be free what a beautiful world this will be what a glorious time to be free 🎶

"Well by '76, we'll be a-OK" rather gives the game away: if this song is written from the late '50s perspective, the bicentennial year of 1976 must have looked very optimistic indeed. It wasn't so bad in reality either; Jimmy Carter was elected and the U.S. could still feel like a member of the international community, albeit a humbled and troubled one stained by Watergate and the genocidal fixation on Vietnam. But The Nightfly came out in 1982, after the fascist GOP installed the ghastly grinning Reagan in the Oval Office, and Reagan had no use for international coöperation or space exploration—Ronnie Raygun wanted to put bombs and spy satellites in space, not peaceful explorers.

The '50s sci-fi future had NOT come true and now Fagen could only look back regretfully on it. Here in 2024, with the nightmare of Trump II and Elon Musk looming over us all, the daydream of eternal freedom on that wheel in space in the sky seems more phantasmal than ever, although Musk keeps alive a horrifying parody of it, promising his cultists a vision of Martian paradise that must surely be completely illusory, for in reality Musk wants SpaceX to be a military contractor and revival of Reagan's space-weapons notions, and Starlink is blotting out the stars rather than reaching for them. People still long for "a machine to make big decisions", that's for sure, although the LLM fraud is a terrifying betrayal of that promise.

Frisk, nodding along serenely to this song, might well tell me: "told you so!" I had believed in the I.G.Y. dream, which Fagen was perhaps consigning to history with his gently sarcastic take on it. But I choose to believe still. Fagen believed in it once; maybe he still did, just a bit, and that's why the song is so appealing still. I haven't given up hope. Maybe I'll make it to 2076, and make the song come true.

~Chara of Pnictogen

[magic5ball]

A Letter to Mom (17)

Dear Mom,

The rail came today. The drinky-bird and I spent an hour waiting for it in the main lobby. I don't know what it was- the anticipation of it barreling down the tracks, the nearly 24 hour days warming my frosted heart, perhaps?- but I was EXCITED. With a giddiness that threatened to burst out of my stomach and into the wild blue sky. But that would be the loss of a valuable company asset, so I kept it in.

I also received, at long last, an explanation as to why my former employees are still registered as working with the company. The Boss told me that by keeping them registered, he can pocket their salaries for himself, which has used to buy mansions for his children and friends. And let me tell you Mother, I am deeply sympathetic. If anyone deserves some extra money in these extraordinary times, it's him. And anyway, he told me our Glorious CEO already knows, so these methods are clearly virtuous in ways my entry level brain cannot comprehend.

Fortunately, any lingering sadness I might have felt evaporated the moment I stepped on that Rail. You should see the way it hums and purrs!

As I type this, so many fantastic things are passing by me. The blank slate of home has been replaced by rolling hills, verdant spears of green a thousand feet tall, and tracts and tracts of circular ration farms, all tilled by bison several stories high.

I've never felt more alive, yet I also despise my feeble brain's inability to put the sights into words. Even now, I see another wonder-

a chain gang of pylonds, marching in procession, creating an almost perfect trail in the forest as they move!

Wish you were here,

Kib Johnson

P.S. Worry not about the Drinky-Bird. I left it plenty of Friendly Flavored Rations, it's favorite!

[magic5ball]

stolen from that social media site gay millennials and grumpy boomers use

[magic5ball]

A Letter to Mom (16)

Dear Mom,

I never did tell you about the cores, did I?

When one looks at the vast tracts of white up here, they immediately assume emptiness; lifelessness. But nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, all a manner of extermophile bacteria are buried in the cold, feeding on Pong only knows what. But over time their populations change, and this information is useful to the higher-ups for reasons I am too stupid to understand. This is where the lampreys come in.

They instinctively burrow into the substrate (ice) headfirst, burrowing directly downward. As they do so, they defecate, and their poop emerges as a coiled spiral onto the surface of the ice.

By observing these, I can determine populations of cyanobacteria in the ice. They have, such fancy names, those bacteria, like lungens or spirilla. And in their simple acts f living and dying they carry out their duty to our glorious CEO by providing information on climate fluctuations over the years!

What a beautiful world this is, where not even the breath of the smallest bacteria is pointless!

Running on Ice,

Kib Johnson

P.S. Don't worry about me contacting hypothermia. Pongcorp had provided me adequate office paper by which to craft a coat.

[magic5ball]

A Letter to Mom (15)

Received a letter from the Boss today, curt and to the point:

I WON!

I mean, I knew it would happen if I believed in myself and worked hard, but it is strange to have finally reached the destination. Of all the employees at our glorious company, I assumed somebody would have a brighter idea than mine. But it seems I have underestimated my own genius!

Anyway, the Boss has formally invited me to the great Meeting of the Minds! A rail is coming to pick me up in a week. In the meantime, I am to go outside and check on the cores. Then write a report regarding the bacterium therein.

Eternal is the victory,

Kib Johnson

[magic5ball]

So I just finished my second read-through of Moby Dick, and I have to ask...

As usual, please feel free to add details in the comments and tags!

[magic5ball]

A Tale for the Far Off Times (4)

In appearance, the Venusian was not unlike you or I: They had two legs and two arms with an appropriate number of digits, a torso, and a head with the appropriate sensory organs. They even collapsed on the ground in a manner that would not be unfamiliar to us. But unlike man, they had green skin, red eyes, and in place of hair was a dirty and wilted flower.

None of this deterred Alltech's curiosity. If anything, it piqued it, for the being induced in hera sensation that seemed at odds with her nature as a living thing. From what she understood, such a sight ought to induce disgust or revulsion at such helplessness, but instead, she felt a strong desire to protect and care for it.

We might call it pity.

So she changed the tip of one of her legs so that it resembled a Venusian, in the way you or I might wear a finger puppet, then dipped said finger into the three dimensions the Venusian could perceive.

Suffice to say, the Venusian screamed. And kept screaming, until Alltech dragged them to the foot of a tree, Then they curled up into a ball and whimpered. Soon, they fell asleep.

To their surprise, they eventually awoke under a silk canopy. Lying in front of them was a creature like a Venusian, but far more beautiful.

Are you okay? Alltech beamed into their head.

Hungry. The Venusian thought, pointing to their mouth.

And so Alltech went to find them something to eat. In doing so, she came across a village full of Venusians.

What a sight they were! And how unlike the monkeys Altech had met before, with their ragged clothes through which ghastly sores showed and not a single shoe between them!

When she asked for food, they glared at her ruefully, and asked

"How could you say such a hateful thing?!"

I'm sorry. Said Altech without speaking. I'm new here. I did not mean to offend.

At this, many of the villagers went back to their busywork, but an outgoing one explained

"It's immoral to ask for something you didn't earn. And to do so is to imply our village is full of degenerates."

And who told you this?

"I learned it at university, duh!"

I see, beamed the great spider, and how might I enroll in such an establishment? To pursue your world's wisdom, of course.

"Enroll?" laughed the inquisitive one "Stupid visitor! I'll take you there right now!"

And this Alltech found herself dragged to the world of higher education.

[magic5ball]

Finally, after a few solid years of searching, I found the giant dinosaur book I had as a kid and would stare at for hours. The beautiful paintings, the gory fights, the intense weather, the DRAMA, mama! It’s even better than I remember, every page is a damn treasure.

And then there’s this goofy motherfucker.

[magic5ball]

WE ARE NO LONGER COELACANTHS

TODAY WE ARE

PACU

!!Pacu Supremacy Forever!!

[magic5ball]

Shaun Tan - Moonfish

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Take II (Part 1, Chapter 3)

Chapter 3: Lord of the Bees

            The following four days could best be described as long. Or if you’re really feeling poetic, LOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGG. Long and bleak and miserable. Four days I lived a tedious nightmare of extensive hikes, crappy songs before meals, and stupid dick jokes at bed. And always, always there would be Ms. Hobag with a smile on her butt ugly face, handing out stickers for even the most mediocre accomplishment, as if those would magically evaporate our sorrows. Though if the way my fellow inmates wore the things was any indication, they were probably repurposed nicotine patches.

            And to rub salt in the wound, while I was slogging through the most inhumane torture on Earth, Hilda was out going on adventures with fantasy geese or whatever. Though I shouldn’t have been surprised. Ever since we’d turned ten, it seemed like she’d been doing her own thing a lot. Probably because she realized just how lame my life was. In fact, it wouldn’t be until night four we finally made a rendezvous.

            That night, I was curled up on my cot, trying to ignore the double whammy of bug bites and a full bladder, praying to whatever God might be out there to give me an answer, a sign that I might escape, though these prayers were probably lost amongst Howie Ronson’s late night penis jokes. In that moment I hated Howie, the cocky, unfunny turd, and how everyone thought he was the coolest guy in the universe just because he knew the f-word. I mean, I’d known about fudgenugget for ages, but you didn’t see me getting an award!

With every lame hose and sausage pun, uttered from his stupid mouth, he ignited a fledgling fire in my heart, a fire that, God willing, would grow into the blaze to burn the stupid camp to the ground! Or maybe my body was overheating under the covers. Whatever. It still beat the mosquito bites.

Around then is when Hilda showed up.

“I-Im really sorry.” She whispered from under my cot. “But we’re busy organizing a raid and-“

“Why can’t you just tell the truth?” I said between my teeth, just loud enough to get a snicker from the other guys.

“W-what do you mean?” She stuttered.

“I mean, why can’t you just say you’re goofing off in the woods or something, instead of making up stupid stories?!”

And at that moment, I swore I heard thunder outside as the cabin got just a little colder.

“Because I’m not!” She cried. “The Larp geese need my help to-!”

”I need your help! But lately, all you seem to do is wander off to do your own thing!” I whisper-screamed, tears running down my cheeks.  

“You say that like I want these stupid adventures! Maybe I want to go to school and make friends with other kids instead of playing errand boy for a bunch of talking birds!”

“Yeah right, like anyone would want my stupid life!”

“Your life has Joel, the coolest baby brother who ever lived! Do you know what I’d do for-!”

We did this for, I’d say two hours. Thankfully, the sudden surge of cool air had put everyone to sleep.

“Look Watt, I know you’re angry, but I want to make it up to you.”

“Well, unless you can turn me invisible, I don’t see how I’m leaving this camp.”

“No. I was thinking an escape plan.”

“A good one?”

She nodded. “The best.”

And under the covers, I doodled in my repurposed mad libs book late into the night.

.  .   .

Unfortunately, that meant I woke up real groggy the next day, which is not how you want to be when escaping the summer camp from hell. And for all our trouble, our plan wasn’t that complex, either: that day was our first waterboarding session, or as they called it- swim lessons.

Now, I know you probably don’t think much about swimming, but I was one of those kids whose Mom had to dye the bathwater brown and pretend it was cola just so her son would wash his dang hair already. Combined with the knowledge that Lord knows what had peed in the pool, I was not a happy camper.

            Our instructions were simple: form a line outside the pool while the instructor would take us in one at a time and dunk our heads for ten seconds. Instead I took a cue from the Old Testament and made my own personal Exodus.

I dashed across the concrete rim of the pool, pavement cooking my feet, a counselor and ten other kids hot on my tail. At first I thought I was out of luck, that they’d catch me before I even made it to the twelve foot area, when I saw it hung on the side of the supply shed: a life saver. A grin crept across my face. Dad and I once watched every single Rambo movie in a single night: now it was time for that father-son bonding moment to pay off. I picked that life preserver up by the rope and started swinging it like a ball and chain. Before anyone knew what was happening, four kids were knocked into the water.

“Watterson, what-“

BAM! Into the drip went the counselor! The remaining six campers kept their distance, trying to find an opening. I kept swinging, slowly backing toward the chain link fence. Right at that moment, the sun came out from behind a cloud, its’ glorious light shining on yours truly. But I wasn’t out of the woods just yet (metaphorically, of course: I needed to make my way into forest for my escape): I was still leaning on Hilda and her alleged goose friends to carve a hole in the chain link fence. But victory was so close I could taste it!

            And then a steady buzz cut the air. A sound I’d recognize anywhere.

.   .   .

The trouble started in 1st grade, on the best day of my life. Our class had just finished a field trip to the Academy of Natural Sciences, the best place on the planet, but just as I was nodding off on the bus ride home-

“OUCH!”

I felt the sharpest sting in my belly. First I shrugged it off as just a weird thing, but it came again. And again. I thought I was going crazy! I wailed, helpless to fight the invisible demon kicking my butt. It was only when a teacher told me to lift up my shirt, where the black and yellow culprit lay waiting.

And from that day forward, the sight of that little black and yellow bugger filled me a dread like nothing in the universe.

.   .   .

Which is my way of saying I screamed  

“BEEEEEEEE!”

Like a little weenie before plunging into the water.

But me being me, I had made just one teeny, tiny miscalculation: I was in the twelve foot end, couldn’t swim for my life, and the chlorine was setting my eyes on fire. But I’d escaped death by stinger, so at least I could die happy.

The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was a ruby red ladybug drifting by on the wind as the sun ducked behind a cloud, because God is funny like that.

.   .   .

            I woke to the hum of the camp’s only air conditioner. Now, I’m not usually one for cryin’, but in that moment I wept buckets. It’d been so long since I’d felt the sweet kiss of artificial cooling I’d almost forgot it existed. The rest of the room looked kinda like the principal’s office at my school: filing cabinets in a corner, big desk topped with a computer dated even in ’06 and football player bobble heads- the whole shebang. Then I read the name plaque on the desk. I may have gotten a C- in english, but even I knew how to spell Ms. Helga Hobag in big gold letters. And just my luck, I could hear footsteps echoing down a hall outside. With what little juice left in me, I tried to make a break, only to find my arms were tied to the chair with lanyards, many of which I’d made myself during arts and crafts period. Above, a fan circled like a flock of vultures waiting for fresh meat.

Then SHE walked in, and the breath left my lungs.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Watterson J. Tostig.” She said.

I cringed. Only two types of people ever called me by my full name: my parents-

-and my worst enemies.

“I know ladybugs can be scary, especially for a boy your age, but your behavior was very inappropriate.”

“Taunt me all you want, woman.” I growled, deepening my voice far as it would go. Though mostly I wound up sounding like a grumpy Chihuahua.  “You’ll get nothing outta me.”

Ms. Hoebag looked at me like I was one of those weird paintings with the melting clocks.

“I wasn’t going to punish you, Watterson. I was just going to remind you to wear more bug spray next time.”

“So I am I off the hook?” For a second there, I swore I saw the bluebird of happiness flying by outside.

“Unfortunately, no. Because you forgot to take off your underpants while swimming, silly! That’s against the dress code!”

            Just like that, the metaphorical bluebird smacked itself on the window and died. But at least I now knew why my swim trunks felt weird that day! And to make matters worse, those tighty-whities were my only pair! (I was supposed to bring ten, but when Dad wasn’t looking I replaced them with my Mad Libs books.) But I distinctly recall that at that moment, my pants felt dry. To this day, I don’t know whose underpants I was wearing at the moment. Probably the only mystery of life I’m fine never knowing the answer to.

“It saddens me to say this Watterson, but you need a time out.”

The last words were a sledgehammer to the face. I could only sputter “But..butt…” as I was carried, still tied to the chair, down a long hall that stank of sawdust and despair. At the end of said hall was a door, and through that door…

The room was totally empty, save for a lightbulb hanging by a thread and a T.V. against the back wall.

“Now Watterson.” She began, the faux sunshine gone from her voice. “We need to talk about Hilda.”

[magic5ball]

Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkin's conceptual drawing of the Paleozoic Museum, a proposed museum of natural history in Manhattan which was never completed, from The 13th Annual report of the Board of Commissioners of the Central Park for the Year Ending December 31st, 1869

https://archive.org/details/annualreportofbo00newy_2/page/n42/mode/1up

[magic5ball]

The Races of Venus (4)

The Nudibranch AKA the Slugfolk

When the Elder Venusians bestowed the gift of sentience upon the planet, they did not expect it to sink to the bottom of the great bromeliad seas, whole oceans which existed in the pools between leaves of Venus’ plants. There, it was ingested by the local sea slug population.

Venusian sea slugs, it should be noted, have an odd series of adaptations which allowed them to assimilate foreign matter into their DNA, assuming the characteristics of the consumed product. And so it was with the spark of life.

Initially, the Nudibranch (as they called themselves) lived in isolated villages at the bottom of the bromeliad seas, venturing landward only to trade goods- and as their societies grew more sophisticated, so did the trade.

That all changed with the reemergence of the Elder Venusians who, after surviving a near-extinction event, were eager to reclaim their old imperial holdings. And upon seeing theNudibranch, who changed gender just as easily as you or I change clothes, they found a new target for their ire.

In this way the Nudibranchs, under their fancy new moniker, Slugfolk, entered new lives as the eternal servants of the Elder Venusians. A Nudibranch in this relationship enjoyed twelve hour shifts, building vainglorious temples for what scraps of food their masters would allow them. The young were in an especially fraught position: after birth some would be artificially tweaked by the Elder Venusians to be better equipped (and more subservient) to whatever task their kindly masters required. On the bright side, the Chlorophyton were also enslaved, so at least the race did not suffer alone.

However, despite the Elder Venusian’s best efforts, the good times just couldn’t last.

Nobody remembers exactly when it happened, only that it did. The Chlorophyton and Nudibranchs had been pushed just a little too far, which, combined with a few bad crop harvests, erupted into full scale revolt. By the time the Elder Venusians attempted to quash it, the number of nobles was so few and enslaved so high that revolutionary success proved inevitable. In the end, the Elder Venusians were driven into their old lands once more. But the Chlorophytons and Nudibranch, finding their political differences irreconcilable, partitioned the planet to form their own kingdoms. And from these, two great Kingdoms emerged: Nangfa Kingdom, which resided on the tallest tree on all of Venus, and the Bitterfruit Kingdom, which controlled the great floating islands that drifted across the Venusian sky.

Despite this, there were many who distrusted them on account of their colorful and unorthodox sex lives, as well as their controversial beliefs, such as that transgender males could, in fact, be lesbians.

Nudibranch families, compared to those of their contemporaries, were structurally more similar to what one would find on Earth. Although genders varied, there existed in any given family unit one or more ‘parents’ who took custody over one or more ‘children’, typically conceived with one of their partners. In fact, it was not uncommon for Nudibranch to change genders multiple times in their life, most of which were accompanied by celebration.

Despite this, social stratification was similar to that of their neighbors, with a large ‘peasant’ class overseen by a small ‘nobility’. The Nangfa Kingdom in particular had a High Monarch whose reverence was found excessive to all but the Elder Venusians. This was not wholly without reason, however, as Nangfa’s monarchy proved as flexible as its citizens when it came to adapting to changing economic and social conditions. An ability that allowed their monarchy to stay in power much longer than those of its’ neighbors.

The Nudibranch are most famous for their Jung, massive, domesticated, flying sea (or perhaps sky) hares that serve as merchant vessels, their backs heavily laden with the spices from which the Nudibranch draw their wealth. However, their rotund, almost docile appearance causes them to be derisively nicknamed ‘slug-tugs’ or ‘junks’ by enemies of the Nudibranch. But don’t be fooled: many of these tugs come equipped with fearsome canons to protect their cargo!

The Nudibranch were known to both their neighbors and those of other planets as being very open to trade and welcoming of foreigners (within reason). Whereas the Chlorophyton tended to deter invaders via fierce resistance, Nudibranch kingdoms often resorted to more diplomatic means. Rather, they the welcomed them as business partners- on their terms. It was this openness that helped them retain good diplomatic ties with the rest of the solar system. Unfortunately, this same openness also made them vulnerable to offworld ambitions…

[magic5ball]

ON THIS DAY: February 28th, 1947

The 228 incident was an anti-government uprising in Taiwan that was violently suppressed by the Kuomintang-led Republic of China government, which killed thousands of civilians. The number of Taiwanese deaths from the incident and massacre was estimated to be between 5,000 and 28,000. The massacre marked the beginning of the White Terror in which tens of thousands of other Taiwanese went missing, died or were imprisoned. The incident is one of the most important events in Taiwan’s modern history and was a critical impetus for the Taiwan independence movement. (source)

[magic5ball]

Jim Gary’s 20th Century Dinosaurs at the Tallahassee Museum

8/22/18