#⋆ the casket you carry ! .࿔ ( short thread . )

[raspberry-cane]

what i felt, what i felt…

ENTER Tallow Alanis.

a  sprite  of  sorts,  once  trapped  within  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  for  offending  a  witch.  losing  his  fairylike  nature,  humiliated  by  his  new,  woody  body  being  chopped  down,  for  barn  floorboards.  it  was  only  at  the  twist  of  fate—  a  cruel  barnfire—  that  this  poor  lost  one  wrought  herself  a  new  body  of  burnt  bones.  but  friends  are  afraid  of  skeletons,  aren't  they?  and  you're  lonely  without  friends,  aren't  you,  tallow?  and  so  she  wound  herself  in  loam  and  fungi…  'till  moss  sprouted  from  every  pore  of  her  charred  body. 

surely was a spark!

tallow is a closed rp that makes part of the PILLOW DEN WEBRING. mun uses any pronouns. whereas tallow uses she/her, see/hear/hearself, it/its, they/them, and he/him.

< Tallow > friends  along  the  root  lines. 🌿 #acolyte — @upon-leda #angel — @aerbun #doll — @porcelainapparatus #fairy — #farmer — @cherry-riverine #husk — @vacantflesh #psychopomp — @xiiiupright #scientist — @virgilsmania #shadow — @insydiousw #stranger — @propheticomen #wizard — @islandvoids *ੈ𑁍༘ < Tallow > maps  of  all  my  wanderings. 🍃 #⋆ surely was a spark !.࿔ ( roleplay thread . ) #⋆ legend has it . . .࿔ ( in - chr post . ) #⋆ i ' m sure love exists .࿔ ( asks . ) #⋆ the casket you carry ! .࿔ ( short thread . ) #⋆ here soon - here soon . ࿔ ( ooc post . ) #⋆ we ' re all eating each other .࿔ ( angst . ) #⋆ i ' m a leaf - shaped shadow .࿔ ( reblog . )

[raspberry-cane]

the moss Men on your lawn.. . . Tallow put those there. she hopes you like them :D

I love not being able to remember my past!! It makes me seem even more insane.

[dorcasmeadowesirl]

our secrets laid bare

Chapter Two of my Dorcas!Survives AU. I wanted to post both because it's short AND it's more fun this way. And I need to be held accountable.

Chapter One here! Tell me your thoughts!

Chapter Two

It had been fifteen years since Dorcas had apparated and still, it was fifteen years too soon. No matter how tightly she clung to Dumbledore, she still felt the squeamish, throw-up feeling that you cannot really prepare yourself for. When she started to make sense of her surroundings, she realized she was in a house she’d never been in before. 

“12 Grimmauld Place, the Black family home. Sirius and the Order converted it into our new Headquarters. We should head toward the dining room, I’m sure they’re expecting us to enter at any moment.” Dumbledore said, then noticing the way Dorcas tensed up at the idea, took her hand and squeezed gently. “You go on now, I’ll be just a moment.” 

And like that, Dumbledore seemed to just disappear. For as much as Dorcas respected him, she did loathe his inability to navigate difficult conversations.

Anxiously, Dorcas walked forward and stood outside of the door. Behind it, she could hear the hustle and bustle of a meeting. Sirius, a voice Dorcas never thought she’d hear again, was arguing about Harry. Another voice quickly spoke over him, she couldn’t quite identify it – Molly Weasley, perhaps? Sirius had begun to argue again, but was silenced when Dorcas entered the room. 

The silence was deafening. The faces that looked back at her, some familiar, some not, all filled with mutual horror. As far as they were concerned, Dorcas was a ghost. A gravestone, left unvisited and forgotten for years.

“Remus, Sirius, Severus.” 

The beauty of being one of the first to “die” in a war is that you spare yourself the pain of seeing a funeral. Looking at these men now, she knows from the pain in their eyes that they grieved her, attended her funeral, buried her. 

In their school days,  Remus was really the first person who saw Dorcas as more than some label – she was not a Slytherin, “half-blood”, or “blood-traitor”, she was his friend who he described as being ‘smart as a whip’. In truth, if Dorcas could have half as much strength as Remus, she wouldn’t be standing in front of them now – rather, she’d be sitting among them at the table. Severus was good to Dorcas, despite their differences in their final years. They were friends, hell – almost family. She wondered how her mother must have felt, then, noticing that Severus did not attend her funeral. As for Sirius, there were no words for what Sirius was to her. Perhaps a nuisance, but a loving one nonetheless. She’d gone years seeing him as some kind of villain, traitor, but now, she saw a child trapped behind the eyes of a man – years of his life stolen by his own best friend. These men made Dorcas who she was, she fought that war because of them, for them, with them. 

Yet, standing in front of them, she felt more like a stranger than a friend.

“How? How is it that you’re here?” Remus started, standing from his seat, eyes never leaving Dorcas’. Silence filled the room after, Dorcas was struggling to find her words and all of the eyes on her didn’t help. Foolishly, she didn’t expect them to exactly be welcoming with open arms, but she felt like she was on trial. How could she fit 15 years of hiding into a single explanation? How could she describe that cursed night, when she unknowingly caused the death of the love of her life? How could she begin to untangle the threads of guilt? How could she ask for forgiveness when she felt so undeserving?

Sirius spoke then for the first time, “We buried you. We carried your casket.” It was clear that he was angry. And he had all right to be, but Dorcas deserved the chance to explain. 

“Well, the night that Voldemort-” she started, noticing a wince or two around the room, “I’m sorry, He Who Shall not be Named, when he came to-, to kill me, he meant for me to be tortured and murdered by his hand. At that point in the war, I’m sure you all can remember I was adamantly working on identifying his weaknesses so that he could be killed. I suppose I came too close.” 

“Before he could, um – before he could succeed, Dumbledore was warned. He came and grabbed me. There was no chance to explain or tell anyone” Dorcas choked out, struggling to control the shaking within.

Suddenly, Sirius broke out in laughter. Maniacal laughter. “What next? Will you tell us that he killed the McKinnons because of you? To find you?” Remus, trying his best to get a handle on Sirius, reached out to touch him but Sirius flinched at his touch. Dorcas could say nothing in response. That alone was all Sirius needed.

 “No,” he said, slamming down his glass and rising from his seat, “This is foolish. I won’t hear another word of it.”

As he moved toward the door, Dorcas began to stammer. “No, no, wait-” she began, she wanted to reach out and grab him. She wanted to try and console him, to embrace him in a hug that she long dreamt of. Yet, she felt stuck in place. It wasn’t her place anymore, her place had long been buried under six feet of dirt and fifteen years of regret.

“As far as I am concerned, you died to me the day we put you in the ground. To me, that is where you will stay.” he spat, shoving past Dorcas and slamming the dining room door.

Dorcas, who had previously never allowed anyone to so much as slightly raise their voice at her, could only sob in response. Remus rushed to her side and engulfed her. At that moment, no time had passed between them. They could’ve been their school-aged selves again, hugging after being separated for only a summer. Remus sobbed into her, clinging onto her as tightly as he could.

“I don’t care,” he said, crying softly “I don’t care what prevented you from coming back. You’re here. You’re here now.” 

Remus was an angry child. And who could blame him? His anger lived in him, within him, defined him. A part of her knew Sirius would be angry, but a part of her was convinced that Remus would be, too. 

Sirius was not wrong, they buried her.

And they buried Marlene.

And they buried James.

And they buried Lily.

How does that kind of loss not make you angry, bitter? 

But as she held him now, the anger, the bitterness, the years and years of isolation was expelled from him. She may not have been Lily, or James, but she was Dorcas and she was dear to him. She would not walk out of that door again. Remus had lost so much, he couldn’t bear to be angry anymore. 

“I can’t imagine that Mary will be as forthcoming.” Dorcas jokes, her face still buried in his shoulder. She felt as he tensed, turning her stomach within an instant.

“Mary’s gone. Not gone. Just not here. When Lily and James….she tried to stay. She just couldn’t. I-I wasn’t much help. I couldn’t convince her. I’m sorry, Dorcas.” he stammers out, gripping her tighter, as if she’d run for the hills and never return.

Well, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to. Mary MacDonald was the brightest star in any room, a face you’d look for in any crowd. Her laugh was infectious, but she was to be feared in her own right. She could duel against the best of them, fail a few times, but end up triumphantly standing on the chest of her opponent, pulling them up and asking for another round. Mary, gone? Not dead, but gone? 

It isn’t a terrible fate. Dorcas spent fifteen years alongside Muggles, drowning herself in their monotony. Some days were doable, others made her feel insane. And Mary, ever loyal to her family, would have had no issue simply assimilating back to “normalcy”, if she could ever experience it again. Dorcas wanted to be mad, but she’d be a hypocrite. 

“Pity. I’ll miss her greatly.” she said, but the words felt wrong. Mary was someone you never had to miss. She was supposed to be here. Remus pulled away, turning their attention to the table. 

Severus sat still, emotionless. “Meadowes,” he said, “pleasure of you to join us. Take Black’s seat. Our meeting was all but over and I do not believe he will rejoin us tonight.” Dorcas could not read his face. He was the only one who had not reacted to Dorcas and that alone, terrified her.

“Yes!” spoke Molly, breaking free from the spell of awkwardness that held the room, “Sit, please! You must be hungry, I’ll see to it that you eat.” she said, pulling out a chair that was not Sirius’, but next to her. Remus excused himself to “retrieve” Sirius, and Dorcas sank down into her chair. The conversation had reached a dead end with her arrival and though they were all adults, Dorcas had felt as small as ever. Molly excused herself to the kitchen and her husband, Arthur, followed after. 

“Dumbledore has informed me that you’ll be taking the Arithmancy post this fall, is that correct?” Severus spoke, finally making eye contact with her. A smile took over Dorcas, “Yes, I’m rather excited. I was always fond of Arithmancy, you know.” she said. Unexpectedly, Dorcas saw a smile fall over Severus’ face in a way that made her feel young again, as if she’d just been fussing with him and Lily in the library. The way his smile lifted to his eyes made Dorcas wonder if they’d shared the same flash of memories, days where it felt like they’d never not know everything about each other.

Dorcas, being a Slytherin of less desirable blood status and filled with every intention to defend herself when she saw fit, made herself a bit of an outcast. She lived by the idea that to be loved, one must first be feared. So, she made sure that no one, absolutely no one, would ever feel comfortable questioning her. It made her enemies. But, it also made her friends. Lily Evans was one of those friends. In her later years, everyone would remember Lily as warm and loving. But Dorcas knew a side of Lily that not many people knew. Lily did not just want to be good, she wanted to be great. For as kind as she was, Lily was smart. Smarter than many would come to give her credit for. She respected Dorcas’ tenacity. Her blood status simply didn’t matter – you’d speak to her as an equal or not at all. Anyone who stepped up against her came to understand why nobody else did it. Dorcas was feared, but more than that, she was respected. And in spite of that, she was good. Lily insisted that Dorcas was the exact kind of friend Severus needed. So no, Severus and Dorcas never immediately got on. But Severus needed Dorcas. He never had a sibling, but he always had Lily looking out for him. Over the years, there were times where Lily couldn’t save him. And there Dorcas was, like the sister he never had – watching over her shoulder, speaking but never really being heard by him. Severus was stubborn, but so willing to be stepped over, disregarded, and ignored as a means of survival. Instead of embracing what was different about him, he admonished it. Dorcas saw through him, pushing him to be better, to hold himself to better. When he fell in line with the “wrong” crowd, Dorcas saw through it. They were bullies. What better way to face your own bullies, than to become one? To tell the world you aren’t scared, when you’re terrified? Fake it. 

Severus was a fraud. He said things he didn’t mean. Terrible things, as if they would take away everything that made him less. Even now, people can’t see behind his cold exterior, his desperate grip on survival. Dorcas knew him and he hated it. Sitting across from him now, she still felt an affection for him, a desire to soothe that scared little boy in him. Losing Lily, losing her, it hurt him, and though he won’t admit it, Dorcas knew. And Severus hated that.

Dorcas made little conversation and excused herself to her earliest convenience. There seemed to be ghosts in every face and corner she turned, so she began to miss Jane. Right about now, Jane would be curled up with Misty, tea and book in hand. Suddenly, she found herself deeply concerned with the state of her cat, Misty. She’d never asked Dumbledore where her bags were. She’d never asked Dumbledore anything. 

She began to wander the house. Though it was late, voices could be heard in every room. Dorcas called for Misty as quietly as she could and eventually, a flash of orange came crashing out of a room, followed immediately after by Misty, followed by a bushy-haired girl.

“Crookshanks, no!” the girl yelled, storming right past Dorcas and chasing the cats down the stairs.

[calummss]

Time | Gilbert Blythe

masterlist

summary: time can fix a lot of things if you let it

words: 1.5K

requested by: anon

It’s been six months since Gilbert Blythe left. Six months without the boy you love so dearly. Six months without your friend. Gilbert had made short notice plans only days after his father’s funeral. When John Blythe died it felt like a never ending fog swept across Avonlea. You remember Mr. Blythe from your childhood. He was a very kind man that took good care of you, so when the news of his passing had arrived at your parent’s house you felt a heavy pit in your stomach. You were saddened by his death and couldn’t imagine what Gilbert was going through and sent him a pie the same day, knowing he would have a hard time preparing food for himself. It has been months since you attended the funeral and you remember it like it was yesterday.

‘Y/N dear, make sure to wear your black straw hat.’ your mother called up to your room.

You grabbed your hat and gently placed it on your head not wanting to mess up your curls. You took one last look in your mirror and hurried downstairs to see your father, mother and younger brother waiting for you. You quickly grabbed your shoes and tied them up.

‘I sure hope Gilbert’s okay,’ you spoke into the room feeling uneasy about the next couple of hours.

‘You’ll be able to see for yourself once we arrive.’ your mother said, adjusting your hat. She placed her hands and your shoulder and smiled.

‘Come one now, the carriage is waiting.’ your father announced and opened the door to reveal a coat of snow that painted the countryside. You stomped through the snow and sat yourself to the far left of the carriage as your mother, father and brother followed. The coachman lightly whipped the horse and you were on your way. When you arrived at the Blythe’s family burial site you saw the carriage that pulled Mr. Blythe’s casket towards the hole. You also saw Gilbert leading the line of people. You saw the pain in his eyes. His sparkly brown eyes were now dull, and glossed with his salty tears. His cheerful smile with those dimples you so loved, disappeared and weren’t to be seen. His posture was slouched and his head hanging from his shoulders on a thread. Your family and you respectfully walked up to the crowd that was gathered for a prayer in honour of his father. You saw Anne, Diana, Ruby, Jane, Tillie and Josie, all spread out throughout the crowd. You locked eyes with Anne and gave her a warm quick smile before turning away. When the service was over everyone gathered at the Gilbert House for some tea and conversation. You stood next to your mother, plate in your hands but you weren’t in the mood to eat. You set it aside and walked around the house to look for Gilbert. He probably needed someone to talk to. Once you searched around the house and almost gave up, you saw him outside in the front yard. You grabbed your coat, scarf and hat and rushed down the front steps.

‘Gilbert!’ you yelled after him.

Gilbert turned around with a surprised face, yet his eyes still carried his sadness within.

‘Are you leaving?’ you pushed your hands deeper into your pockets.

‘I can’t stand being in that house. Everyone wants to comfort me but I just want to be left alone.’ he confessed.

His hat draped over his forehead making it hard to make out his facial expression.

‘Where are you going?’ you asked him as he didn’t seem to stop walking.

‘I don’t know, the lake perhaps.’

‘May I join?’

He nodded and continued to look straight ahead.

After some time you arrived at the small lake in the forest you always went to after school in the summer. Everyone would meet up to bathe in the sun kissed water but everyone was happy and enjoying themselves. Today’s occasion was the opposite. You sat on a tree trunk and pulled your gloves from your pockets. Gilbert sat next to you and stared at the frozen water. He found comfort among the empty woods. You felt like giving him alone time and told him that you were going back to the house. That was the last time you saw Gilbert. Days after he packed his things and left on a ship. He left a note with a few details so that Avonlea wouldn’t erupt in fear of a murder or some sort.

During the first three months you would leave letters at Gilbert’s house in case he came back unannounced; just like he left, but you stopped soon after, after you realised that he wouldn’t be coming back for a long time.

You were peacefully sleeping in your bed when a loud thud awoke you. Your eyes were squinted due to the sun rays shining on your face. You got out of bed and started to get ready. Anne would be arriving any minute now. You always walked to school together. It was safer and more fun. When you rushed out of the door you saw Anne waiting on your doorsteps with an extra bottle of milk. You walked to school and noticed a large crowd gathered in front of the doors. Noticing the rest of the girl you walked up to them to ask what was going on.

‘Ruby!’ you called out and saw her spin around with a big smile on her face. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s Gilbert!’ she cheered loudly.

Your eyes went wide as you stared back at Anne. She had the same look painted across her face.

‘What do you mean ‘Gilbert’?

‘My uncle who works at The White Sands Hotel said that Gilbert passed through the place. Supposedly he was working on a ship!’ Ruby’s face was gleaming with joy. ‘He was covered in coal ashes.’

‘Is, Is Gilbert here? At school?’ you asked intriguingly.

‘I haven’t been inside but I don’t believe so. He’s probably at home.’ Diana chimed in.

You had to see him. You just had to. Knowing he was back and not knowing if he’d part again you ran back towards the forest. You made your way through the foggy woods and ran up to Gilbert’s house. You went up to the door and knocked on the door like your life depended on it. A few seconds later a man, whom you’ve never seen before opened the door.

‘Hello, who are you.’ he said in a strong accent.

‘Is Gilbert here?’

‘Yes, he is.’ the man smiled at you before he shouted at the top of his lungs. ‘Gilbert! There’s a girl wanting to talk to you.’

‘I’ll just come in.’ you smiled before slipping through the door.

‘Y/N?’ Gilbert sounded surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘What are you doing here?’ mimicked him.

‘It’s good to see you.’

Gilbert seemed happier than the last time you saw him. His teary eyes were now filled with joy. He seemed...okay, and you didn’t want to take that away from him but he couldn’t just show up and pretend like nothing happened.

‘Why did you leave?’

Gilbert’s back stiffened and shifted onto his other leg. He looked down at the floor not making eye contact with you.

‘Can you at least look at me.’ a hint of disappointment and annoyance coating your words.

‘I needed to get away from here.’

‘You left without a goodbye and you left without telling anyone. Do you know what it feels like? To see your friend leave you behind?’ you raised your voice. ‘You could’ve at least told me. I didn’t know when you were coming back. I thought you left me!’

‘Y/N, I’m sorry but I wasn’t in a good headspace and needed distance from this god forsaken town.’ he stormed past you. The man that had answered the door was long gone. Only the presence of the two of you filled the cold house.

‘Distance from me?’

‘I never said that.’ his irritated voice erupted from the back of the pantry.

‘Sounds like it to me!’ you yelled back, angrily stomping after him.

‘Why are you picking a fight with me, Y/N.?’

‘A fight?’ you stared at him in disbelief. ‘Picking a fight with you? I came over because Ruby was swooning over your return and I came here to make sure it was true. To-see-if -my-friend-who-left-me-without-a-trace-of his-existence-came-back!’ you snapped in one breath.

You had enough and quite frankly didn’t know what to do anymore. The person you loved so dearly had hurt you in a way that you couldn’t understand. Gilbert sat down at his wooden table and stared at you for a few seconds before talking.

‘What can I do?’ he said.

‘What can you do? I don’t know, what can you?’

‘Y/N, I’m serious. I don’t want this friendship to end over this.’

‘You think I want this? I’m just upset that you left me if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Please tell me what I can do.’ he pleaded out.

He stood up and took your hands into his. His brown eyes stared into your as your breath hitched.

‘I-I don’t know.’ you confess as you slid your hands out of his and turned your back towards him. ‘Nothing can fix this except time.’

You walked towards the door looking back at Gilbert once more.

‘Time can fix a lot of things if you let it.’

[tarithenurse]

Stolen - 14

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson &/x fem!gifted!reader Content: Gambling, mentions of heavy drinking, boredom. A/N: Survival mode: active. Clean up program “Vacation 1.0”: final scan.

14. Snake Eyes and Sissies

... Loki   ...

A nudge of a finger, a tap by the thumb, is all that’s needed to turn [Y/N]’s steps to thread an invisible route down the street. Every step she takes sends a bump into his palm. Whenever she sidesteps to avoid colliding with someone (who receives a harsh glare from Loki afterwards), it tugs at his body and he knows that he follows as much as he leads. Across a catwalk and into a lower section of Knowhere until they reach the destination in the shape of a secluded workshop with the owner’s name as the only identifier. Finally, Loki dares let go and he’s pleased to see she keeps close even as he pushes the door open and they’re met with stale air carrying the scents of hot metal and smoke.

“No credits. Only trades.” The creaky voice calls out sharply from behind a heap of scrap on a table in order to be heard over the grind of sawing through metal.

Loki smirks. “Think you can match a Stealth Hawk, Ek’ir?”

The screeching of the tool stops abruptly and a few of the pieces in the pile shifts due to movement behind. “What’s condition?”

“It’s seen some years...got a few dings, too.” Despite the reputation of the Skrull’s fleet, he knows this will be a hard sell. “Nearly intact and with full manoeuvrability.”

A small figure appears at the top of the scrap heap, round eyes invisible behind the goggles and the skin colour indistinguishable due to layers of oil and dirt. Still, Loki knows how carefully the craftsman is at sizing anything (and anyone) up.

“Define...nearly.” Hopping down from the table, they pads towards the potential customers.

“Got no blasters,” the Asgardian reluctantly admits.

Nearly through the first round, Ek’ir stops circling [Y/N] to stare at the Jotun with open mouth. “Why the Flerken would you dismantle the blasters?!”

“It was that or lose the entire ship.”

Meanwhile, the human is trying to come to terms with the situation. Born on a primitive world, her wonder at space travel and the visit on Alfheim had been reasonable, however she is bordering on rude if she doesn’t stop staring at the short person.

“If, and I mean if, it’s in good shape...” The cogs are turning behind the goggles to evaluate the potential gains and losses. “I’ll have to inspect it.”

“Of course.”

“Got a good few counteroffers you can choose from, at the moment.”

Loki arches a brow. “Freedom of choice?”

“We’ll see...but the Reach stays off limit!”

Few things would be as satisfying as wiping the smirk off Ek’ir’s proud little face. A Reach. Maybe the shop owner doesn’t know who Loki really is, but the species has a natural affinity for knowing exactly what a customer wants the most making it rare for one of their kind to settle in this kind of trade.

“Fair enough,” the god shrugs, “would’ve been nice to break open my casket of Asgardian mead onboard an Asgardian ship, though.”

It’s silent enough to hear the rowdy main street several blocks away as the trader pushes the goggles up onto the forehead, revealing exquisite lashes bordering yellow, cat-like eyes with deceptively narrow pupils. Small feet carries their owner right in front of Loki as if Ek’ir could stare down the much taller god.

“You got mead?” Loki shrugs once more. “How...how’ve you gotten Asgardian booze?”

Wouldn’t you like to know? “How have you gotten a Reach?”

...   Reader   ...

You’ve given up figuring out what Loki and the little person is talking about, preferring instead the distraction of the mess surrounding you. It’s a crammed place, heaps of scrap metal and tools tucked under an inconveniently low ceiling – although the owner wouldn’t have an issue with it, you suppose. Trying not to stare at the short person, you begin a game of guessing which parts could go where on a spaceship. The mental images quickly become grotesquely cartoonish, resembling the work of imaginative kids rather than actual space ship engineers.

Lost to your own musings, the gentle touch of Loki’s hand brings you back with a start.

“Come,” is all he says.

The delighted glint in his eyes doesn’t bode well as you follow both him and the alien out and back the way you came, mostly. A slight detour is allowed to bring you along to another dock with several vessels of different size and type one of which is the focus of attention. The Asgardian is playing it cool but you can see by the slant of his smile that he’s delighted with one of the ships in particular, commenting on its current state versus the original specs which are far beyond your grasp.

However, he doesn’t seem to strike a deal before having led the little one back to the ship that was your prison. It is the first time you really get to look at it without being in a rush (the second time seeing it from the outside at all). Sleek and silvery with a shape reminding you of a jagged spearhead it looks as lethal as you originally felt.

A Bugatti of space? Honestly, neither interstellar nor earthly transportation has mattered much to you as long as it worked and got you from point A to point B – you didn’t even own a car because that’s just silly when living in the city – but you’re pleased with the analogy.

“You got a deal if you throw in the cask of mead too,” the alien creaks.

"You drive a hard bargain," your travel partner retorts dryly.

Back and forth they go, inspecting ships and trying to outdo the other in tall tales about the vessels' past travels while you're bored out of your mind, eventually plopping onto the soft seat in a cabin of what they call “the Reach”. From there, you can see past the broken metal that could have made out the temporal bone (when the place wasn’t a wannabe planet) and to the stars beyond. How far are we from Earth?

This is only the second place you've been to since life changed drastically. In a way, it makes you feel special. Privileged. Deep within you a primal urge to keep moving is stirring, it's vibrating through every cell of the body until they ache with a need you can't satisfy on your own. Glancing briefly at Loki, you prefer to think it's also that longing, roaring silently and sending the butterflies in your belly swarming over a fire pit below.

"The rules are clear?" the little alien, Ek'ir, asks.

The Asgardian nods. "Doubles top with sixes as the best. Everything else reads as they show."

Propping yourself up on an elbow, you see them on either side of the table with a dice cup in between (where ever they've gotten that from). A wooden cask balances at the far end – a trophy on display. Memories from the parties you've gone to come back followed by vague rules from drinking games which always became less important as the nights carried on.

Ek'ir begins, slamming the cup down after having thoroughly rattled the dice around. A short peek. A frown.

"42."

Loki's face doesn't betray whatever he might be thinking. Slender fingers simply grab the cup and scoops up the roll to mimic the shop owner's motions. "Snake eyes."

The small hand with suction cups hovers in the air as the owner thinks carefully. With a flick of the finger the claim is proven true, resulting in a woody groan from this round's loser who of course is intend on revenge – a drawn out duel marked by small increments in the rolls before the Asgardian finds himself bested when trying to bluff. He takes it neatly, even sends you a wink.

"32," Ek'ir opens the third and final session.

"54."

The dice rattle a bit longer than strictly necessary. "65."

"Snake eyes," the god offers politely on return, causing the adversary to freeze.

Even you hold a breath. You have no clue why it's so important to get a different spaceship (and particularly this one except that it's aesthetically pleasing), however some sneaky plan must be depending on it or Loki wouldn't have gone through the trouble of bartering with the little alien.

"Naaaah..." They don't sound convinced. "A second one that soon? You think I'm gullible?" Still, the cup remains untouched, looming on the table.

"If you think me a liar, simply call my bluff." There's an air of nonchalance to the taller of the players. "Otherwise...best it."

"Probably counting on it, aren't you?"

There's no reply other than a shrug and a non-committal arching of the brows. He's bluffing. Admittedly, you're not sure. Yay for not playing him. Surely, Asgardian mead can't be that amazing?

"Ha!" Wrinkly hands snatch the cup away, a bright gleam in the alien eyes and a smile to match. Only...the glee dissipates as the roll is revealed: two ones.

[raspberry-cane]

you are Coddly sometimes see thinks this is Very funny . maternal ass hen missing the pinfeathers,. In a positive sense ,chirp chirp. :) Tallow is sure you will make it to the, Aether. EVENTUALLY! it wiill come about. she is hopeful. thanks muchly for the flesh. its good. pig? I like it!

i do not sing humanely. I do not have vocal chords as of late, they rotted. Wind whispers through Tallow and she hums you see? Is That singing?

i   dream   of   it.   i   close   my   eyes   and   i   see   it   so   close   and   yet   so   far   from   me

[honestsycrets]

What’s Gotten Into You II: The Royal’s Prayer

❛ pairing | alfred x reader, aethelred x reader, implied!canon pairings

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | after falling pregnant, the reader goes to the only place she knows is sacred: the chapel. it isn’t so sacred for everyone. 

❛  warnings | adultery, cheating, implied character death, judith being judith.

❛ sy’s notes | requested by @florenceivy​. my gif.

“I pray, Lord Jesus Christ, be armour around my womb. 

That whatever qualms are brought against me may be put out

Defend me on all sides with your strong shield. 

Cover me, therefore, from the Queen-- that… that we might make a covenant. 

A covenant of falseness? I ask, I am sure that it was your will.”

“I heard you,” Queen Judith grasps your elbow, pulling you free from the chapel. Your head covered by a veil, your head bows as she makes the others leave the stone room. Prayer was a private thing and so, you thought the words uttered under your lips were unheard. Yet, they were. “You are with child. His child.”

“I— It’s Aethelred’s.” You say, looking down your fine fitting dress. Your stomach swells behind the fabric. 

“Do not lie to me,” Judith pads around the room. “Your child is by Alfred. That is why I have found you here. Praying for absolution.” 

Her words have an annoying ring to it, but you know she speaks true. You are full of a child that is… well, Alfred’s. That night in which he came to lay with you. That was the night. A chill ascends your spine, and where you fear the words that come to your lips… you must speak them to her.

“It was not…” you whisper. “It is not what I intended. You must believe me. I never meant to fall with a child.”

She doesn’t seem to mind. She settles you upon one of the rows of seats and lackadaisically approaches the altar, her hands in front of her as she speaks. “You know, I too fell with a child in the same manner.” 

“Of the priest,” you acknowledge. “I am well aware.” 

 “Yes.” She acknowledges. “Of that conception, I have learned the only duty a woman has is to her child. Everything else is of no importance.” 

When you look up, Judith peers at you. As if to say-- that child, in your womb, is meant to be there. You pull the veil around your body as Judith turns around you. Her steps are measured and slow. In her presence, you feel less of a woman and more of a child. “You will keep that child. It is a gift from God and your king.” 

“The Queen is pregnant--” 

“I’ll care for Aethelred. And her.” Queen Judith cuts you short, leaving an obvious question hanging unanswered. What was she about to do? You know she has had questions about the paternity of the child in the Queen’s womb. That would make for two of you who had engaged in adultery-- though you consider yours less grave. 

After all, you had not been one to lay under a boorish Norse prince. 

“Thank you.” You quickly pay your respects and skitter out the room. If there was anything you learned of your uncle’s lover, Judith, it was that you should not, could not, and would not piss her off. And so any thought of abortifacients is thrown far from your mind.

Aethelred tightens his boots at your bedside. Your stomach distended, and yet, he did not speak of it. It is impossible not to know that you were with child, and yet, Aethelred settles his necklace under his tunic. He never addressed it-- not since that initial night. 

You look up at the swirling threads of the canopy, remembering the screams that emitted from Judith’s room. When I think I’ve something, you take it. It’s your brother’s child. She’s my wife. On and on, you remember them shrilling at one another.  

Then, at last, a silence when he padded into your room. The movement woke you. The dawning realization that he was fixed upon your belly, but instead brought himself between your legs to eat of you, and you wondered if it were frustration or anger as you lay caressing his hair with a full mind. 

“When will you return?” you ask him. 

“Soon enough.” 

His words are cropped short. He has not forgiven you. It is not as if he should not have-- but you wish that he would have known that this would happen. How could you resist love? You wonder if he had loves the other woman. If he did-- he had grounds for divorce. Much more than that, you think. 

Aethelred stands upright, his palm over the sword fixed at his waist. His steps tap close to you. When he stops, it is with a certain pause. Words lodge in his throat, forming a bolus deep in his throat. Yet, there’s nothing of substance. In its place, he sets his hand upon your stomach. 

“The battle will be short lived. I will see you when we arrive,” you say, sliding out of the bed to stand upright. He allows you to kiss him upon his cheeks. 

“I am sorry,” you say. You study him for some great few moments, the tension of his eyebrows pressing together. 

“Take care of my child,” he breaks apart-- and there’s a word lingering there. Maybe it doesn’t really matter. But something bids you to speak when the door slams shut. Even if the guards stand by it as if they were two long black wisps of metal.

“God preserve you, husband.” 

Outside of the castle, there was a great outcry of the likes you had not heard. Your time here has not been long. Only since Alfred married you off to keep you close. Still, you know the people of Wessex to be busy people. They do not often have time for emotions, raw and wild. 

“What is happening?” you push through. 

There, laying on the ground is a coffin. Not the one that you expect. Not the great bishop Heahmund whose sword is buried alongside him. Rather as Alfred’s voice booms over the death of the poor bishop, your eyes center on a jeweled coffin. On the ground. With great splendor. 

“(Y/N),” Judith calls, reaching for your hand. 

You ignore her and drop down, caressing the side of the casket. It’s dark wood, and beautiful jewels, and-- you shove the lid. Alfred, who has caught the noise, turns his gaze down toward you. His sermon dries on his lips. 

“Amen.” 

The lid. Your fingers can’t lift the lid. Mainly because Alfred shoves it back into place on the other side of the coffin. You tense, almost as if in surprise, and your body goes rigid. Alfred’s eyes are sharp and sure. You’re not opening it, Alfred seems to say through those eyes. If you were to look in, you would regret it. That much has been made true. In there, you know, is your husband. 

“Come, (Y/N).” 

Judith drops beside you.  

“Where is my husband?” you ask as if by those words, it would breathe life back into his lungs. Alred knits his teeth together. “Where is my husband? Where have you taken him? Is he inside-- tell me he is inside the castle, Alfred. Tell me.” 

“No,” Alfred grates out with a harshness that could sheer your skin. “He is not inside.” 

He is not inside because he is here. Lifeless. Unmoving and unapologetic. 

“Judith, Judith,” you reach out, grasping her arm. You breathe air forcefully in through your mouth and yet all you could taste was the acrid scent of death swirling through your lungs. “I can’t breath.” 

“I have you. Come.” 

“I can’t breathe.” 

“I know.” 

Your bed is big. Cold and lonesome. There is no Aethelred to stand at the edge of the bed, shrug off his robe, and climb in beside you. There are no stories to tell like a brother and sister rather than husband and wife. You can’t appear at his burial by your uncle’s body. You wish that you could, but the darkness of your thoughts hold it from you. 

There is no warning before the door opens. The guards shift to close it behind your king, whose exhaustion wears on his eyes, and who looks as if he may drop at any given moment. You frown at the sight of his eyes, lined by bags. 

“Today, I put my brother to rest.” 

Alfred reaches out with a soft hand, pulling your blanket down from your belly. He flicks his blanket to the side, slow and harsh breaths break free from your lips. You feel the tension like a cord, drawing your shoulders up when he elevates his hand to your stomach in gesture. 

“All the while I was sleeping with his wife.” 

“It was not you alone.” 

“I know this,” Alfred says. His eyes seem to gesture to your stomach. Alfred sits upon the edge of the bed. It hurts, your mind supplies. What he’s done-- because Alfred is a good man, with a good mind, and he feels bad for what he’s done. “I have seen your condition.” 

Your condition, you repeat after him. After a healthy span of heartbeats, you run your tongue over your lip. It’s such an easy thing to say for him as a king. He chose your husband, and now, he chose what would become of you.

“Are you going to send me away?” you press. 

“I could never,” Alfred replies. “Not to you.” 

You find comfort in that sentiment for only moments. He speaks true-- and yet, he’s torn on his own words. Alfred has always been someone that carried his worries on his face. You wish he wouldn’t. A cracking of the door breaks your focus. His too. 

“Alfred? May I speak to you?” In the shadow of the door, you see the glitter of a crown. The old queen Judith.

@tephi101​​ @alicedopey​​ @supernaturalvikingwhore​​ @tootie-fruity​​ @titty-teetee​​ @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla​​ @ethereallysimple​​ @deathbyarabbit​​ @deathbyarabbit​​ @readsalot73​​ @natalie-rdr​​ @lol-haha-joke​​ @lisinfleur​​ @hissouthernprincess​​ @marvelousse​​ @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol​ @vikingsmania​​ @wish-i-was-a-mermaid​ @lif3snotouttogetyou​​ @gruffle1​​ @cris101071​​ @gold-dragon-slayer​ @babypink224221​​ @wonderwoman292​​ @naaladareia​​ @beyond-the-ashes​ @generic-fangirl​​ @chinduda​​ @laketaj24​, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope​ @cris101071​ @daughterofthenight117​​ @unassumingviking​ @ladyofsoa​, @inforapound​​ @winchesterwife27​​ @feyrearcheron44​@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl​ @sallydelys​​  @bluearchersstuff​​ @affectionrabbitt​​ @whatamood13​ @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou​​ @unacceptabletatertots​​ @ivarandersen​​ @stra-vage​​

[askiisoft]

FAN ART FRIDAY: The Most Dangerous Dame

(Banner art by @ZeeboonInc.)

...And now, we return to you to your regularly scheduled programming. 

This week is a tribute to Katana ZERO’s final boss, the enigmatic NULL remnant, Headhunter. So much of her story mirrored Zero’s own—a reluctant killer at the mercy of her own crippling addiction—that players exhausted every alternative to killing her as she crawled pitifully along the floor. 

“Maybe you can spare her if you picked up some Chronos in the Slaughterhouse level?” 

“Maybe there’s a hidden dialogue branch where she tells you what’s inside the vault instead?”

“Maybe there’s a secret if you let her kill you enough times in a row?”

Ultimately, as she predicted, only one of them could leave that bunker alive. Today we salute the warrior woman who never gave up the fight, even in the face of certain doom.

[WARNING: Contains plot spoilers for ‘Katana ZERO’]

by @moryu

“I win, fucker.”

Zero’s precognition was established early on, but seldom treated as more than an in-universe lampshading of the rapid trial-and-error formula that dated back to 2009′s Tower of Heaven. 

It was Headhunter who revealed the full extent of what that power felt like: venting her anger through heinous atrocities only to reset time as if they never happened, or watching her opponent make the same blunder dozens of times, yet feeling her own willpower erode with each ‘do-over’. Her lackadaisical attitude towards death was something totally alien, and its implications re-contextualized much of the game’s earlier plot points. Even here, it seems she’s casually committing suicide just to fight the battle over again, having finally found a worthy opponent.

Just like with Zero’s purported forehead wound and The Dragon’s prototypical facial burns, fans seem to have given Headhunter a prophetic neck scar, as if taunting her foes, “yeah, cut me right here...if you can, that is”.

—

by @55_yamisan

I must confess that I’m not really into the whole “wedding dress” fetish that a lot of fans enjoy, but not even such formal wear could diminish Headhunter’s badass persona. 

Someone who wears her decade-old combat fatigues and mask in public clearly doesn’t care much about fashion. Still, sometimes being an assassin requires a disguise, and I imagine this is the extent of what Headhunter was willing to put on to infiltrate her target’s fancy evening gala; take or leave it, Al-Qasim. 

The juxtaposition of an an elegant neon dress and black garters with her signature beret, oversized zip-up jumper and massive fuck-off carbine is perfect for a proud, no-nonsense femme fatale who would never embarrass herself by rocking out to EDM or admitting to liking anime.

—

by @stanio_kz

In Eastern mythologies, there is a concept of the ‘red string of fate’, an invisible thread that connects every person from birth to their destined soulmate. For those fated to have their lives cut short, however, it instead links them to the source of their inexorable doom...

@stanio_kz’s illustration of this concept is both beautifully composed and intriguing in its symbolism. The cord around Headhunter’s neck obviously references her grisly fate, but could the two ends leading off-panel indicate a branching narrative, perhaps a reality in which Headhunter won her duel with Zero and lived on to take her revenge? On this subject, the artist says, “It really doesn't make any sense, I just wanted to draw them ...”

—

by @ZeeboonInc.

I don’t think it’s possible to capture the essence of Headhunter’s fighting style—constant teleporting, knife charges, and firing deadly beams from every angle—in a still image, but Zeeboon comes pretty close with these dynamic poses. 

Before her shockingly pretty face made her the darling of fan artists everywhere, this interpretation of Headhunter in mask and full garb represented what NULLs everywhere must have seemed like: a gaunt, faceless harbinger of death, unable to reasoned with or defeated by anyone but another Chronos user.

—

by @DEL_streamer

Those of you who follow me on Twitter have already seen this one, but it must be re-iterated: this looks unbelievably awesome. 

The sharp angles, ambient glow, and jet-black finish of Headhunter’s mask are one of the most sleek and menacing designs I’ve witnessed, and the way her cloak billows along the line of action to complement her dynamic landing pose sells the blowback from parrying Zero’s attack and makes her the clear focus of the picture. 

Comparatively, Zero’s muted colors and more inert kneeling pose that suggest he can barely keep up with Headhunter’s sheer speed, despite wielding a superior weapon.Without having played the game, I might assume she was the main hero, and Zero a nondescript mook.

—

by @shaocixiezi

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call “black humor” at its finest.

At my last job, my going-away gift was a novelty USB drive of Batman, whom my co-workers knew was my favorite superhero. I use it to store backups of my art, and pulling off his head still unnerves me every time.

—

by @Kazzang3

There has been some graphic artwork of Headhunter’s decapitation, yet Kazzang’s minimalist and near-photorealistic interpretation sends chills down my spine. 

The dark grey bodysuit beneath her NULL cloak is pitch-black here, leaving the eye nowhere to focus but Headhunter’s face, the outline of her forlorn expression darkened in the harsh glare of red. Such minimal detail, yet such incredible layout and resounding impact that’s impossible to forget.

—

by @spiderbirdo

Katana ZERO’s level of technology seems anachronistic at times; people still use mobile phones and watch movies on VHS tapes, and yet we encounter laser grids, flying gun drones, and cryostasis without remark. Part of Headhunter’s memorability comes from her absurdly high-tech weaponry, beyond what a wartime NULL would have wielded during the war: beam rifles, floating sticky mines, and teleportation abilities to surpass even a Gamma like Zero.

Spiderbird captures that mystique as Headhunter’s mines float around her like Gradius-style Options, bathing her in an eerie magenta glow. She appears as a time traveler might to a modern-day soldier: no face, no past, but carrying a perfect knowledge of the future and tech so advanced that any confrontation would be futile. 

—

by @NagataBt

“They may seem dead to you and I, but to them they are still dying. No one to even hear their screams.“

In the weeks following Katana ZERO’s wide release, there was speculation that Headhunter’s demise had spared her from the limbo of living death that await all NULL: “She died before her withdrawal progressed that far,” or “Her death was final because her head was cut off, like how zombies work.” Anything to escape the guilt of killing one of our own for ultimately nothing.

We can only hope those theories are true, for the alternatives are far too bleak to contemplate.

—

by @zenixdd

This is just wonderful: Headhunter, a superhuman stone-cold killer, taking a moment to adjust her hairband just as any other girl would. Her tiny blue earring, mild freckles, and pale bags under her eyes from nights of exhaustion and endless Chronos hallucinations reveal the delicate vulnerability of someone who just mentioned wanting to drink your blood like a juice box.

—

May “Full Confession” play on loop at your closed-casket funeral, Headhunter. Your war, at long last, is over.

If you’d like some artwork featured on a future Fan Art Friday, just use the Submit Button on this blog!

*Gulp, gulp* by @WarioEAG

[salfacearchive]

so i just did a full run of sally face, to refresh myself on the beginning and see how his character changed as well as to make a few notes, here’s the results. it’s 4am, so bear with me if this is a little incoherent.

first! applying to any thread tagged under “child of abomination”, i am keeping sal’s semi-corporeality. meaning, the planeswalking? that’s canon! i’ve already adapted the white/black room ghost zaps into my portrayal, so this isn’t a huge stretch. essentially, rather than being yoinked out of whatever timeline or world variant he’s in by whoever wants him there, this is something he has full control over. at first, he required a vessel of some sort for his soul to connect to, as his body & abilities both weren’t strong enough nor capable of withstanding the power from it. for a while, ashley was this vessel, but the ritual itself required far less blood; or if it did, a regular sacrifice would be fine. ( provided it was an average to large sized animal. think: goats! ) eventually, as he adjusts to this power, he’d be able to control it so it wouldn’t overwhelm and ultimately destroy his corpse, newly-reanimated. he’d need dug up, of course, but in comparison to literally everything else? minor issue. given he’s a split soul of many different sals in a previously-deceased body, his original body would not age. really, his body is ... weird, given it’s almost definitely been embalmed and all the nitty gritty details of that have been carried through. a lot of basic functions such as breathing--while still second nature--aren’t automatic. if he sleeps, for example, he’ll look dead. it’s kind of icky. but he’s technically alive! and that’s the important part.

in any situation prior to his own body repossession, if a character has a particular connection to the other side, or at the bare minimum believes wholeheartedly in the existence of spirits, sal could appear as one to them. how specifically is debatable, but he mostly appears as he did at his grave--in a torn prison jumpsuit, electricity sparking off his body, hair frizzy, and he looks as if he’s rotted a bit in his time underground. not exactly a pretty sight. 

second! how he dealt with the news of his mother’s death. the short version is, he didn’t. for a while, that is. it’s a common trauma response for children, especially ones who lose a parent when they’re extremely young--just like sal--they don’t fully understand what death is, and it’s partially why he kept bringing up “when will mom get out of the hospital?” & “i chose the pink one because that’s her favorite color. i hope she’ll recognize me with it on.” this ties in to my prior study of sal missing his mother’s funeral, albeit now some of the information needs tweaked on it, but the core still applies. he didn’t see her corpse outside of the initial flashback, he didn’t see her in her casket, he didn’t see who went to the funeral itself; he was far too unwell to do so. her death likely registered up to a year or a few years after the initial event that killed her and scarred him, and it wasn’t a subtle progression. when it hit, it hit hard, and alongside starting to register his trauma, he was dealing with bullies in school, a father who was trying his best but starting to form a nasty drinking habit, and growing depression and anxiety all at the same time. getting gizmo helped keep him somewhat stable, but for a long while he was in a numb/ignorant state of denial when it came to his mother. it happens.

third! the dog noises and dogma. these are connected. sal, in the same position as likely every other victim of the massacre, did hear a dog barking. that’s what made him want to go see it, unaware that it wasn’t a real dog at all. something was already possessing dogma, and while it may not have been the red eyed demon exactly until the end, it was an evil entity of similar caliber. this entity sounds and looks like a dog to lure in its victims. not even just with the mask, though that’s what they’d see in their final moments. the dog the victims would see would appear as a black dog with red eyes, usually two, but it’s likely that there’s cases where it’s appearance is a little bit ... off. maybe more eyes, maybe dripping ink or tendrils or something, the works. the dog is a part of dogma, a part of the plague of shadows, so “dogman” is an accurate description from sal as a child. if you attack it, it yelps in a similar fashion. it is very much dog-adjacent, and this is on purpose.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Aristoff

Name: Aristoff Age: 27 Gender: Male Sexuality: Bisexual Height: 6′3″ Occupation: Hunter  Weapons of choice: Hand crossbow, short sword (and a few small knives hidden strategically about his person. For emergencies) Positive traits: Amiable, effective, funny, charming, versatile, easy-going Negative traits: Impulsive, chatty, vain, competitive, evasive, cocky Relationships: Former Enforcer: Maeve Terrell. She is very glad to see him assigned to Lunaris (and out of her hair) Former Hunting Buddies: Calder (mentor), Jesaren, Sura, Avenir

Fun Facts (under the cut):

Carries a needle and thread for emergency repairs sewed to the inner lining of his vests. All of them.

Has been referred to as ‘annoyingly cheerful’ more often than he can count.

Once called his Enforcer, Maeve, at 2am in a panic demanding advice on how to get blood stains out of cashmere.

Is a crack-shot with his hand crossbow. Gets better when he’s pissed off. Gets worse when he’s drunk (do not let him try to shoot an apple off your head after a night at the tavern).

Pretty high tolerance for alcohol, given his height and build.

Smokes, but only after really stressful jobs. You see him smoking? He probably needs space. Or the opposite, depending on the person.

Will happily strike up a competitive bet with a fellow hunter mid-job to keep things interesting.

Tends to know a lot more about other people than they know about him.

Has a surprising amount of creature knowledge (largely thanks to Calder’s gruff yet effective teaching). 

If a target ruins any of his favourite vests, it’s like hitting his berserk button. His wrath has actually been described as terrifying to behold.

Already has an outfit picked out for his eventual open-casket funeral. It is expensive and very flattering. 

“Listen, if I have to wear something for the rest of eternity, it’s going to be silk.”

Will laze around in half-buttoned shirt and trousers. That’s his idea of ‘house clothes.’

Has a 3cm scar running from the outer corner of his right eye. Hides it with his hair.

Takes failure surprisingly badly. If a mark gets away, it eats away at him. He just doesn’t let it show in public.

Runs on black coffee and enthusiasm.

Spends more time than he would ever admit achieving his ‘effortlessly tousled’ look.

Only has a dimple on the left side. Don’t remind him.

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

The Night Swim by Megan Goldin

 Two women traumatized

Twenty-five years apart

One suffered and died long ago

One alive suffering every day

 Two other women

Invested in the traumatized

Looking for answers

Looking for truth

 This is more than one story with the lives of four women in two eras enduring a similar traumatic experience. The story is told in chapters that speak of the present as seen through the eyes of Rachel who will be presenting information for the followers of her true crime podcast and what she says in the podcast presentations are interspersed in the story in true time as if shared while she is speaking on her program. The other portion of the story is told in letters and notes written by a person that seems at first to be a stalker but then later proves to have a story she wants Rachel to hear and in hearing she hopes that Rachel will help her find the truth about her sister and perhaps in so doing find justice for Jenny. The trial is also experienced through the eyes of Rachel and I felt as if I were there hearing it beside her.

 What I liked:

* Rachel: a tenacious, insightful, curious, intelligent woman who as a journalist looks for the truth and presents her story without bias…or would like to think she does. I would have enjoyed hearing a bit more of her backstory and wondered if perhaps she might star in a series of books in the future with each one about a podcast she is preparing for.

* Hannah: a woman with a childhood nobody should have lived through. I liked the way she was finally ready to find answers, seek justice, and perhaps find a type of closure so she can move on.

* K – the rape victim taking her rapist to trial. I was able to see through her experience the travesty rape victims face within the the court/court system

* Jenny – I think she was the star of this book even though she was long gone.

* The way the clues about the past (and the present) were revealed

* The unflinching look at bullying, rape, and other difficult topics in this book

* That the truth did finally come out before the end of the story

* The look at how people can see the same situation so differently

* That this left me caring, thinking, and wishing life could be different

* The nightingale…

 What I did not like:

* Knowing that what is was written as fiction in this book is not fiction to those who have experienced what the women in this story did.

* Being reminded again that rape victims are put on trial almost more than their rapists

* Realizing once again that the courts are not always just or that justice is not always served within courts

 Did I enjoy this book? Hmm…I did but it was unsettling in some ways and yet very very good

Would I read more by this author? Definitely                              

 Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for the ARC – This is my honest review.

 5 Stars

BLURB

In The Night Swim, a new thriller from Megan Goldin, author of the “gripping and unforgettable” (Harlen Coben) The Escape Room, a true crime podcast host covering a controversial trial finds herself drawn deep into a small town’s dark past and a brutal crime that took place there years before.

 Ever since her true-crime podcast became an overnight sensation and set an innocent man free, Rachel Krall has become a household name—and the last hope for people seeking justice. But she’s used to being recognized for her voice, not her face. Which makes it all the more unsettling when she finds a note on her car windshield, addressed to her, begging for help.

 The new season of Rachel's podcast has brought her to a small town being torn apart by a devastating rape trial. A local golden boy, a swimmer destined for Olympic greatness, has been accused of raping the beloved granddaughter of the police chief. Under pressure to make Season 3 a success, Rachel throws herself into her investigation—but the mysterious letters keep coming. Someone is following her, and she won’t stop until Rachel finds out what happened to her sister twenty-five years ago. Officially, Jenny Stills tragically drowned, but the letters insist she was murdered—and when Rachel starts asking questions, nobody in town wants to answer. The past and present start to collide as Rachel uncovers startling connections between the two cases—and a revelation that will change the course of the trial and the lives of everyone involved.

 Electrifying and propulsive, The Night Swim asks: What is the price of a reputation? Can a small town ever right the wrongs of its past? And what really happened to Jenny?

 Buy Links:

Macmillan

Books-A-Million

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

EXTRACT

 Chapter 1

 Hannah

  It was Jenny’s death that killed my mother. Killed her as good as if she’d been shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The doctor said it was the cancer. But I saw the will to live drain out of her the moment the policeman knocked on our screen door.

 “It’s Jenny, isn’t it?” Mom rasped, clutching the lapel of her faded dressing gown.

 “Ma’am, I don’t know how to tell you other than to say it straight.” The policeman spoke in the low-pitched melancholic tone he’d used moments earlier when he’d pulled up and told me to wait in the patrol car as its siren lights painted our house streaks of red and blue.

 Despite his request, I’d slipped out of the back seat and rushed to Mom’s side as she turned on the front porch light and stepped onto the stoop, dazed from being woken late at night. I hugged her withered waist as he told her what he had to say. Her body shuddered at each word.

 His jaw was tight under strawberry blond stubble and his light eyes were watery by the time he was done. He was a young cop. Visibly inexperienced in dealing with tragedy. He ran his knuckles across the corners of his glistening eyes and swallowed hard.

 “I’m s-s-sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he stammered when there was nothing left to say. The finality of those words would reverberate through the years that followed.

 But at that moment, as the platitudes still hung in the air, we stood on the stoop, staring at each other, uncertain what to do as we contemplated the etiquette of death.

 I tightened my small, girlish arms around Mom’s waist as she lurched blindly into the house. Overcome by grief. I moved along with her. My arms locked around her. My face pressed against her hollow stomach. I wouldn’t let go. I was certain that I was all that was holding her up.

 She collapsed into the lumpy cushion of the armchair. Her face hidden in her clawed-up hands and her shoulders shaking from soundless sobs.

 I limped to the kitchen and poured her a glass of lemonade. It was all I could think to do. In our family, lemonade was the Band-Aid to fix life’s troubles. Mom’s teeth chattered against the glass as she tilted it to her mouth. She took a sip and left the glass teetering on the worn upholstery of her armchair as she wrapped her arms around herself.

 I grabbed the glass before it fell and stumbled toward the kitchen. Halfway there, I realized the policeman was still standing at the doorway. He was staring at the floor. I followed his gaze. A track of bloody footprints in the shape of my small feet was smeared across the linoleum floor.

 He looked at me expectantly. It was time for me to go to the hospital like I’d agreed when I’d begged him to take me home first so that I could be with Mom when she found out about Jenny. I glared at him defiantly. I would not leave my mother alone that night. Not even to get medical treatment for the cuts on my feet. He was about to argue the point when a garbled message came through on his patrol car radio. He squatted down so that he was at the level of my eyes and told me that he’d arrange for a nurse to come to the house as soon as possible to attend to my injured feet. I watched through the mesh of the screen door as he sped away. The blare of his police siren echoed long after his car disappeared in the dark.

 The nurse arrived the following morning. She wore hospital scrubs and carried an oversized medical bag. She apologized for the delay, telling me that the ER had been overwhelmed by an emergency the previous night and nobody could get away to attend to me. She sewed me up with black sutures and wrapped thick bandages around my feet. Before she left, she warned me not to walk, because the sutures would pop. She was right. They did.

 Jenny was barely sixteen when she died. I was five weeks short of my tenth birthday. Old enough to know that my life would never be the same. Too young to understand why.

 I never told my mother that I’d held Jenny’s cold body in my arms until police officers swarmed over her like buzzards and pulled me away. I never told her a single thing about that night. Even if I had, I doubt she would have heard. Her mind was in another place.

 We buried my sister in a private funeral. The two of us and a local minister, and a couple of Mom’s old colleagues who came during their lunch break, wearing their supermarket cashier uniforms. At least they’re the ones that I remember. Maybe there were others. I can’t recall. I was so young.

 The only part of the funeral that I remember clearly was Jenny’s simple coffin resting on a patch of grass alongside a freshly dug grave. I took off my hand-knitted sweater and laid it out on top of the polished casket. “Jenny will need it,” I told Mom. “It’ll be cold for her in the ground.”

 We both knew how much Jenny hated the cold. On winter days when bitter drafts tore through gaps in the patched-up walls of our house, Jenny would beg Mom to move us to a place where summer never ended.

 A few days after Jenny’s funeral, a stone-faced man from the police department arrived in a creased gabardine suit. He pulled a flip-top notebook from his jacket and asked me if I knew what had happened the night that Jenny died.

 My eyes were downcast while I studied each errant thread in the soiled bandages wrapped around my feet. I sensed his relief when after going through the motions of asking more questions and getting no response he tucked his empty notebook into his jacket pocket and headed back to his car.

 I hated myself for my stubborn silence as he drove away. Sometimes when the guilt overwhelms me, I remind myself that it was not my fault. He didn’t ask the right questions and I didn’t know how to explain things that I was too young to understand.

 This year we mark a milestone. Twenty-five years since Jenny died. A quarter of a century and nothing has changed. Her death is as raw as it was the day we buried her. The only difference is that I won’t be silent anymore.

 Chapter 2

 Rachel

 A single streak of white cloud marred an otherwise perfect blue sky as Rachel Krall drove her silver SUV on a flat stretch of highway toward the Atlantic Ocean. Dead ahead on the horizon was a thin blue line. It widened as she drove closer until Rachel knew for certain that it was the sea.

 Rachel glanced uneasily at the fluttering pages of the letter resting on the front passenger seat next to her as she zoomed along the right lane of the highway. She was deeply troubled by the letter. Not so much by the contents, but instead by the strange, almost sinister way the letter had been delivered earlier that morning.

 After hours on the road, she’d pulled into a twenty-four-hour diner where she ordered a mug of coffee and pancakes that came covered with half-thawed blueberries and two scoops of vanilla ice cream, which she pushed to the side of her plate. The coffee was bitter, but she drank it anyway. She needed it for the caffeine, not the taste. When she finished her meal, she ordered an extra-strong iced coffee and a muffin to go in case her energy flagged on the final leg of the drive.

 While waiting for her takeout order, Rachel applied eye drops to revive her tired green eyes and twisted up her shoulder-length auburn hair to get it out of her face. Rachel was tying her hair into a topknot when the waitress brought her order in a white paper bag before rushing off to serve a truck driver who was gesticulating angrily for his bill.

 Rachel left a larger than necessary tip for the waitress, mostly because she felt bad at the way customers hounded the poor woman over the slow service. Not her fault, thought Rachel. She’d waitressed through college and knew how tough it was to be the only person serving tables during an unexpected rush.

 By the time she pushed open the swinging doors of the restaurant, Rachel was feeling full and slightly queasy. It was bright outside and she had to shield her eyes from the sun as she headed to her car. Even before she reached it, she saw something shoved under her windshield wiper. Assuming it was an advertising flyer, Rachel abruptly pulled it off her windshield. She was about to crumple it up unread when she noticed her name had been neatly written in bold lettering: Rachel Krall (from the Guilty or Not Guilty podcast).

 Rachel received thousands of emails and social media messages every week. Most were charming and friendly. Letters from fans. A few scared the hell out of her. Rachel had no idea which category the letter would fall into, but the mere fact that a stranger had recognized her and left a note addressed to her on her car made her decidedly uncomfortable.

 Rachel looked around in case the person who’d left the letter was still there. Waiting. Watching her reaction. Truck drivers stood around smoking and shooting the breeze. Others checked the rigging of the loads on their trucks. Car doors slammed as motorists arrived. Engines rumbled to life as others left. Nobody paid Rachel any attention, although that did little to ease the eerie feeling she was being watched.

 It was rare for Rachel to feel vulnerable. She’d been in plenty of hairy situations over the years. A month earlier, she’d spent the best part of an afternoon locked in a high-security prison cell talking to an uncuffed serial killer while police marksmen pointed automatic rifles through a hole in the ceiling in case the prisoner lunged at her during the interview. Rachel hadn’t so much as broken into a sweat the entire time. Rachel felt ridiculous that a letter left on her car had unnerved her more than a face-to-face meeting with a killer.

 Deep down, Rachel knew the reason for her discomfort. She had been recognized. In public. By a stranger. That had never happened before. Rachel had worked hard to maintain her anonymity after being catapulted to fame when the first season of her podcast became a cultural sensation, spurring a wave of imitation podcasts and a national obsession with true crime.

 In that first season, Rachel had uncovered fresh evidence that proved that a high school teacher had been wrongly convicted for the murder of his wife on their second honeymoon. Season 2 was even more successful when Rachel had solved a previously unsolvable cold case of a single mother of two who was bashed to death in her hair salon. By the time the season had ended, Rachel Krall had become a household name.

 Despite her sudden fame, or rather because of it, she deliberately kept a low profile. Rachel’s name and broadcast voice were instantly recognizable, but people had no idea what she looked like or who she was when she went to the gym, or drank coffee at her favorite cafe, or pushed a shopping cart through her local supermarket.

 The only public photos of Rachel were a series of black-and-white shots taken by her ex-husband during their short-lived marriage when she was at grad school. The photos barely resembled her anymore, maybe because of the camera angle, or the monochrome hues, or perhaps because her face had become more defined as she entered her thirties.

 In the early days, before the podcast had taken off, they’d received their first media request for a photograph of Rachel to run alongside an article on the podcast’s then-cult following. It was her producer Pete’s idea to use those dated photographs. He had pointed out that reporting on true crime often attracted cranks and kooks, and even the occasional psychopath. Anonymity, they’d agreed, was Rachel’s protection. Ever since then she’d cultivated it obsessively, purposely avoiding public-speaking events and TV show appearances so that she wouldn’t be recognized in her private life.

 That was why it was unfathomable to Rachel that a random stranger had recognized her well enough to leave her a personalized note at a remote highway rest area where she’d stopped on a whim. Glancing once more over her shoulder, she ripped open the envelope to read the letter inside:

 Dear Rachel,

 I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name. I feel that I know you so well.

 She recoiled at the presumed intimacy of the letter. The last time she’d received fan mail in that sort of familiar tone, it was from a sexual sadist inviting her to pay a conjugal visit at his maximum-security prison.

 Rachel climbed into the driver’s seat of her car and continued reading the note, which was written on paper torn from a spiral notebook.

 I’m a huge fan, Rachel. I listened to every episode of your podcast. I truly believe that you are the only person who can help me. My sister Jenny was killed a long time ago. She was only sixteen. I’ve written to you twice to ask you to help me. I don’t know what I’ll do if you say no again.

 Rachel turned to the last page. The letter was signed: Hannah. She had no recollection of getting Hannah’s letters, but that didn’t mean much. If letters had been sent, they would have gone to Pete or their intern, both of who vetted the flood of correspondence sent to the podcast email address. Occasionally Pete would forward a letter to Rachel to review personally.

 In the early days of the podcast, Rachel had personally read all the requests for help that came from either family or friends frustrated at the lack of progress in their loved ones’ homicide investigations, or prisoners claiming innocence and begging Rachel to clear their names. She’d made a point of personally responding to each letter, usually after doing preliminary research, and often by including referrals to not-for-profit organizations that might help.

 But as the requests grew exponentially, the emotional toll of desperate people begging Rachel for help overwhelmed her. She’d become the last hope of anyone who’d ever been let down by the justice system. Rachel discovered firsthand that there were a lot of them and they all wanted the same thing. They wanted Rachel to make their case the subject of the next season of her podcast, or at the very least, to use her considerable investigative skills to right their wrong.

 Rachel hated that most of the time she could do nothing other than send empty words of consolation to desperate, broken people. The burden of their expectations became so crushing that Rachel almost abandoned the podcast. In the end, Pete took over reviewing all correspondence to protect Rachel and to give her time to research and report on her podcast stories.

 The letter left on her windshield was the first to make it through Pete’s human firewall. This piqued Rachel’s interest, despite the nagging worry that made her double-lock her car door as she continued reading from behind the steering wheel.

 It was Jenny’s death that killed my mother [the letter went on]. Killed her as good as if she’d been shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge shotgun.

 Though it was late morning on a hot summer’s day and her car was heating up like an oven, Rachel felt a chill run through her.

 I’ve spent my life running away from the memories. Hurting myself. And others. It took the trial in Neapolis to make me face up to my past. That is why I am writing to you, Rachel. Jenny’s killer will be there. In that town. Maybe in that courtroom. It’s time for justice to be done. You’re the only one who can help me deliver it.

 The metallic crash of a minibus door being pushed open startled Rachel. She tossed the pages on the front passenger seat and hastily reversed out of the parking spot.

 She was so engrossed in thinking about the letter and the mysterious way that it was delivered that she didn’t notice she had merged onto the highway and was speeding until she came out of her trancelike state and saw metal barricades whizzing past in a blur. She’d driven more than ten miles and couldn’t remember any of it. Rachel slowed down, and dialed Pete.

 No answer. She put him on auto redial but gave up after the fourth attempt when he still hadn’t picked up. Ahead of her, the widening band of blue ocean on the horizon beckoned at the end of the long, flat stretch of highway. She was getting close to her destination.

 Rachel looked into her rearview mirror and noticed a silver sedan on the road behind her. The license plate number looked familiar. Rachel could have sworn that she’d seen the same car before over the course of her long drive. She changed lanes. The sedan changed lanes and moved directly behind her. Rachel sped up. The car sped up. When she braked, the car did, too. Rachel dialed Pete again. Still no answer.

 “Damn it, Pete.” She slammed her hands on the steering wheel.

 The sedan pulled out and drove alongside her. Rachel turned her head to see the driver. The window was tinted and reflected the glare of the sun as the car sped ahead, weaving between lanes until it was lost in a sea of vehicles. Rachel slowed down as she entered traffic near a giant billboard on a grassy embankment that read: WELCOME TO NEAPOLIS. YOUR GATEWAY TO THE CRYSTAL COAST.

 Neapolis was a three-hour drive north of Wilmington and well off the main interstate highway route. Rachel had never heard of the place until she’d chosen the upcoming trial there as the subject of the hotly anticipated third season of Guilty or Not Guilty.

 She pulled to a stop at a red traffic light and turned on the car radio. It automatically tuned into a local station running a talkback slot in between playing old tracks of country music on a lazy Saturday morning. She surveyed the town through the glass of her dusty windshield. It had a charmless grit that she’d seen in a hundred other small towns she’d passed through over her thirty-two years. The same ubiquitous gas station signs. Fast-food stores with grimy windows. Tired shopping strips of run-down stores that had long ago lost the war with the malls.

 “We have a caller on the line,” the radio host said, after the final notes of acoustic guitar had faded away. “What’s your name?”

 “Dean.”

 “What do you want to talk about today, Dean?”

 “Everyone is so politically correct these days that nobody calls it as they see it. So I’m going to say it straight out. That trial next week is a disgrace.”

 “Why do you say that?” asked the radio announcer.

 “Because what the heck was that girl thinking!”

 “You’re blaming the girl?”

 “Hell yeah. It’s not right. A kid’s life is being ruined because a girl got drunk and did something dumb that she regretted afterward. We all regret stuff. Except we don’t try to get someone put in prison for our screw-ups.”

 “The police and district attorney obviously think a crime has been committed if they’re bringing it to trial,” interrupted the host testily.

 “Don’t get me wrong. I feel bad for her and all. Hell, I feel bad for everyone in this messed-up situation. But I especially feel bad for that Blair boy. Everything he worked for has gone up in smoke. And he ain’t even been found guilty yet. Fact is, this trial is a waste. It’s a waste of time. And it’s a waste of our taxes.”

 “Jury selection might be over, but the trial hasn’t begun, Dean,” snapped the radio announcer. “There’s a jury of twelve fine citizens who will decide his guilt or innocence. It’s not up to us, or you, to decide.”

 “Well, I sure hope that jury has their heads screwed on right, because there’s no way that anyone with a shred of good old-fashioned common sense will reach a guilty verdict. No way.”

 The caller’s voice dropped out as the first notes of a hit country-western song hit the airwaves. The announcer’s voice rose over the music. “It’s just after eleven A.M. on what’s turning out to be a very humid Saturday morning in Neapolis. Everyone in town is talking about the Blair trial that starts next week. We’ll take more callers after this little tune.”

  Copyright © 2020 by Megan Goldin

 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MEGAN GOLDIN worked as a correspondent for Reuters and other media outlets where she covered war, peace, international terrorism and financial meltdowns in the Middle East and Asia. She is now based in Melbourne, Australia where she raises three sons and is a foster mum to Labrador puppies learning to be guide dogs. The Escape Room was her debut novel.

Social Links:

Author website

Twitter @megangoldin

Facebook

Author Blog

GoodReads

Q&A with Megan Goldin

Author of

THE NIGHT SWIM

  1. Your previous novel, The Escape Room, was set in the world of Wall Street high stakes investment banking. How did you decide to set your next book in a seaside resort community?  

 For me, part of the pleasure of writing is to explore characters, places, issues and even writing styles. When I finished writing The Escape Room, I was interested in expanding my horizons as a writer rather than embarking on a new novel that would tread similar ground to The Escape Room. I'd been reading about several sexual assault cases going through the courts and I was interested in exploring some of the issues in my fiction. Not just about sexual assault itself but about the judicial process and the effects of it on families. As for my choice of location, my process is that I sit down and start writing, and let the story unravel in a very organic way. So when I started writing The Night Swim, the setting sort of chose itself!

 2. Rachel, the main character in The Night Swim, hosts a true crime podcast.  Are you a fan of those types of podcasts yourself?  Why do you think they're so popular these days?

 I love podcasts and I listen to them often, while exercising, cooking and driving. Of course among the podcasts that I enjoy most are true crime podcasts although I also enjoy history podcasts and current affairs podcasts as well. True crime podcasts are popular because people are fascinated by the dark side of human nature. Like many podcast listeners, I became a fan after listening to Serial. I quickly became addicted to other podcasts as well. The biggest problem right now with true crime podcasts, and podcasts in general, is that there are so many fantastic ones around. I wish I had more time to listen to them all.

 3. What made you decide to write the book from a dual point of view?  Did that make it easier or more challenging to explore the parallel storylines?

 It's actually quite challenging writing from multiple points-of-view as each narrative has its own 'voice' and style  so it's quite a complicated process. I often start my writing day by spending the first couple of hours just reading back on the previous chapters of that particular point-of-view so that I can get the 'voice' back of the character before I start writing.

 4.  Are courtroom scenes difficult to write?  How do you keep the energy or tension up?

 I've read novels and watched movies with terrific courtroom scenes over the years. When done well, powerful courtroom scenes are among the most memorable scenes in films and books. So I have to admit that I rubbed my hands with glee when I had the opportunity to write the courtroom chapters. It's almost as if I'd been working towards writing those chapters my entire life!

 5. The tight-knit town in the story is torn apart over charges that the town's "golden boy" brutally attacked a young woman.  Were there any real-life cases you drew from to tell this story?

 There wasn't any specific cases that I based the novel on but there were many sexual assault cases that had been in the news over the years that I had read about. Many of them left a deep impression. When I started writing The Night Swim, I went back and read courtroom transcripts from some of these cases as well as other cases that came up in my research. I also read, watched and spoke with as many people as I could in order to get an insider view of what happens when these cases are brought to court.

 6. The parallel storyline involves someone (Hannah) leaving mysterious notes for Rachel, begging her to investigate their sister's death from decades ago.  Why was their approach so secretive, and at first, vaguely threatening?

 Hannah had a traumatic childhood because of what happened to her mother and sister. She never really recovered from those childhood traumas so she was understandably wary about whether her story would be taken seriously. She was a fan of Rachel's podcast and she truly believed that Rachel would get justice for her sister if she only knew what had happened, but she also knew that she needed to find a way to connect with Rachel and get her attention. Following Rachel, and leaving messages for her was her way of connecting. Hannah was so focused on getting to the truth about what happened to her sister that she didn't realize that it might be perceived as threatening.

 7. The Night Swim looks at how sexual assault victims who come forward often face an equally traumatic ordeal with the investigation and publicity. How did you portray this with sympathy and care, while still keeping the pages turning?

 I tend to put myself in my characters shoes when I write so I found it emotionally gruelling to write some of the chapters related to sexual assault in The Night Swim. I felt an enormous obligation to be as accurate as possible about what sexual assault survivors and their families go through. So I did as much research as possible and wrote, rewrote, edited and re-edited those scenes many times over. I did my very best to write it with the respect and sympathy that the subject matter deserves as it's a truly harrowing trauma that affects people for the rest of their lives.

 8. A nightingale makes regular appearances throughout the book.  Are you a bird lover yourself?  What made you include that in the story?

 As part of my research, I'd read about the Greek myth of Philomela. She was raped and then silenced when her tongue was cut out and eventually turned into a nightingale. There are various interpretations of the story but some suggest that the silencing of Philomela symbolises the silencing of women over the centuries. So that's how the nightingale found its way into the book. As for whether I'm a bird lover: I'm living in Australia right now and we have magnificent wild parrots and rainbow lorikeets which are the most stunning rainbow colored birds that live in the trees by my house. We're currently locked down due to coronavirus so it's somewhat liberating watching the beautiful Australian birds fly around freely even if we are stuck at home.

 9. I hear you just got a new puppy to help you and your family get through the lockdown in Melbourne.  Tell us about her!

I jokingly call her our lockdown puppy but in truth we'd been thinking of getting a puppy for a long time. She is a Labrador puppy and we were lucky to get her because in Australia there is such a demand for dogs right now that there are few rescue dogs available and pedigree breeders have multi-year waiting lists. My beloved Lab cross died of cancer a few years ago and I'd been waiting until my kids were old enough to get a new puppy. I volunteer to care for temporary guide dog puppies so our new puppy was always going to be a Lab of some description. They are beautifully natured dogs although they spend the first year tearing the house apart as they chew everything in sight. My last Lab ate books from cover to cover. With the pressures of the lockdown and the effect it has on kids, it's a welcome distraction for my kids to have a puppy to help raise.

[fayewonglibrary]

Faye Wong scores full marks for making it through an awkward encounter (1998)

RARELY does one see Faye Wong caught by surprise on stage. Outside her Beijing home, the stage is her most natural habitat, somewhere she seems completely at ease.

But there the cool chanteuse stands - in the limelight on a Tokyo stage in front of more than a hundred journalists and music industry people - wearing an expression of rare helplessness, and a flashy black outfit dripping with sake.

Even the army of press photographers - who would never let such an opportunity escape their lenses - are left in awe as Wong stands there for minutes, waving her liquor-soaked limbs in an unsuccessful attempt to dry herself.

Only after repeated whispers for help do her management personnel fumble on stage to hand her a towel.

The undisputed queen diva of Cantopop has a reputation for being one of the most difficult and uncompromising artists on the scene and taking part in mundane publicity gimmicks is not usually part of her schedule.

But there she was, hammering open a sake casket to mark her first appearance in Japan when she inadvertently covered herself with the lukewarm alcohol.

But surprise, surprise: she took it all in good grace and humour, and laughed off the blundering attempts at crisis control by her fretting management team.

One could nearly hear the sighs of relief from Wong's team and record company executives as that rare grin flashed across her usually stone-cold visage.

When Irving Berlin wrote 'there's no business like showbusiness' he could not have foreseen the price of present-day stardom.

For fame and fortune, the cost to celebrities is of self: their privacy is undone, their dignity unheeded and their personal lives unhinged.

While the ability to remain unperturbed by the paparazzi and the gossip-mongers can be achieved by numbing the mind to it, the real test comes when a star has to cope with personal catastrophes and carry on with their job.

Several local artists have had to struggle with personal tragedy recently. Singer Andy Hui Chi-on expressed his sorrow at his mother's death by pulling out powerful performances in a series of concerts, while actor Leslie Cheung Kwok-wing, scheduled to start a new film next month, is also grappling with the same pain.

With Wong, however, one might expect the worst. Given her notorious temperament and occasional fits of eccentricity, she could have walked out on the promotional function.

But she regained her composure and carried on. To think she would pass on this Asia-wide media opportunity was unthinkable, according to record company sources.

The massive press function, which took place on October 21, was the kick-off to EMI's campaign to launch Wong into each Asian market, with the singer headlining a showcase of performances by EMI artists. The bill for the barely two-hour event, which included flying in journalists from all over the region, ran to about a million dollars.

Before the press conference begins, a plethora of EMI big shots wander on stage to mumble their praises of Wong: 'the biggest star in Asia', 'a potential for Europe and America' and 'a priority for EMI worldwide' are just a few of the hyperbole heaped on the diva.

Wong remains unfazed, however, and waits solemnly for the first question.

With a sorry state of affairs back home, and a horde of press before her, she is visibly nervous. She has no need to worry, however.

THE first two questions set the tone for the session: the first one involves a Japanese reporter inquiring what the album title Chang You means.

Wong is crisp: 'Chang You means singing and travelling in Chinese - that was what it's about actually.' And the second one: 'Has your daughter commented on your latest album?' A fair question to ask, Ching-tong is 18 months old and is unlikely to comment on whether her mother's latest trip-hop incarnation is good enough.

Wong reacts gracefully in the face of such inanity, saying her daughter did not really say anything about the music, but 'occasionally moved along with the music and all'.

And it goes on.

Wong does not stray from her style of giving short replies to long questions. When asked to compare the Cocteau Twins - with whom Wong collaborated several years ago on a track called Serpentine - with similar styles of music in Hong Kong and China, she said: 'I listen to music which I like - I don't really analyse that much.' Details of Wong's domestic life, however, is what the press is baying for. One of the talking points of Chang You is the track Child - or Tong in Chinese - a dedication to her daughter.

She is pressed on matters such as how she is raising Ching-tong. Couching her answer in terms of her work, she confides family life has meant a different way of songwriting as a result of the inspiration she received from becoming a mother. These threads eventually lead to what record company personnel have warned is the taboo of the day: the recent death of Wong's mother. Although instructed not to ask anything about the subject, the inevitable occurs and Wong is asked about her relationship with her mother.

For the first time, Wong stiffens and demands the reporter clarify the question. In reply, Wong uneasily dodges it and mumbles about characteristics her mother passed on to her.

Wong has never been the kind of entertainer who banks on cosiness and good-natured banter to draw the crowds in.

It is the music that matters.

So what she fails to deliver at the question-and-answer session, Wong more than makes up at the one-song performance - and only one song is needed to mesmerise: the overflowing tones of her hit Lovelife is enough to have the industry people politely nodding in appreciation.

Her image in Japan has been fed by her portrayal of a dreamy and detached woman in Wong Kar-wai's Chungking Express. Since it was interpreted that she was playing herself in the movie, her style - which matches what many Japanese youngsters consider kakko ii (meaning cool or trendy in Japanese) - is likely to prove a hit on these shores.

Record-buyers have been seen crowding around listening booths in Shibuya record stores to try out Chang You.

Wong's schedule does not stop: her three-day stint in Japan will also take in tens of interviews for both print and electronic media.

Her manager, weary from the repeated enquiries on whether Wong's functions are to be called off, feigns nonchalance. Whether people buy the album will depend not on the death of the singer's closest relative, she says.

When prodded, she admits Wong had to cancel some of her duties in Japan, but only because of conflicting schedules and not as a result of Wong's personal tragedy. She lightly waves away another barrage of questions.

After Japan, Wong will prepare for concerts on the mainland. In between work she will find time to return to Shanghai to take care of her mother's funeral rites and other arrangements.

Despite all this, Wong is weathering her misfortune with bravery - indeed, there is no business like showbusiness in the way you learn to bear up and carry on.

In the case of Wong, the potential pan-Asian diva of the future, anything that fails to shoot her down just makes her stronger.

As always, the show must, and will, go on.

------------------------------------------------------------------

SOURCE: SOUTH CHINA MORNING POST

[grim-faux]

2 _ 4 _ These Roads Know You

First

  The televisions always mystified him. Their calls, the demanding, this strange insistence.

  ………………………… TuNe ThE tRANsmISSion...................……………

    When he first had to use them, really test himself with them, it was only a short leap to a nearby device. Always among strong pulls, limited. A room away, perhaps another building; the point being, he usually knew where he was going.

  He wasn’t sure where the building was, or where it was the Thin Man kept him. The city was a sea of stretching skyscrapers, some so high they blotted out the sky. He didn't know where they were most times, he only went where the tall thin man guided them. Still, they didn't seem near the shore, when he tested the transmissions draw once more. The television awaited in the back room while he was exploring, as they usually did before the device insisted he respond to its call. Never mind the chance it might burst if he went shooting through the screen. It was habit more than anything.

  The device took him to the edge of the city, like he had thought. Wanted. However, it wasn’t the right edge of the city. A horribly familiar place. How long ago was it that they arrived at the terrible city? How long ago was it, that he was cast aside? He was so bad keeping up with the days. None of that was important anyway.

  None of it mattered, he reminded himself. Warned, more than anything. You matter. No one else will come save you, and why should they?

  This prospect with the television did make him optimistic. It could be a way to get him where he needed to be, close to the city edge. Perhaps beyond. One day, someday, he might be able to escape the reach of the Thin Man.

  But not today. Today, he is very tired.         

  For the billionth time, Mono yawned. The rain did not let up much this day, but it was traversable given some other times he had to brave the weather to escape some hostile area or reach a building of suitable fortitude. It was no easy feat getting into some places that seemed stable, part of the problem being they were stable and had no openings to slip into. He tottered after the tall thin man, uncertain where they were going this hour, he didn’t bother in ask. The Thin Man seemed to know what roads to take, which pathways were safer.

  Mono wasn’t much in the right headspace to deviate too much, the air being much colder than usual and him failing to locate something edible to bite into. Maybe some bread, or gummy sweet stuff. He yawned again, and stuck a glower to the back of the Thin Man’s head.

  Not for the first time, the man in the hat awoke him with twitching. Mono caught some sleep that was good, didn’t really recall what he was dreaming, but he thinks there was food. Good memories. But the Thin Man had dream haunts, and had a hard time shaking out of them. Mono could get him out of it like the others, but then he was left with the prospect of no one on watch. That wasn’t safe.

  Thus, it became his role. He didn’t mind watch, he preferred it to naps. The Thin Man stopped plenty of times that he could take some half sleep between eats. It wasn’t a big worry.

  Nonetheless, it felt like they had been wandering forever, scouting through this district of the city. Off and on, he’d see the Viewers blundering around. When there’s enough space for the Viewers to get along, they’re not much of a bother. On occasion, one would plummet from the sky. Mono supposed eventually they just toppled out of a building or somewhere, in their mindless quest to find a television. Though, he did recall seeing a number poised on roofs gazing toward the Signal Tower. He tried not to think of that eerie sight.

  Or how hard he insisted to Her that he could make this right. Stupid. Danger. Bad.

  How long has it been? It could have been miles and miles, or it could be days? A while back he had to abandon the new pot hat, after it became too heavy for his shoulders and head to carry. It was missed a good deal, for the insulating warmth it offered. He gawked up at the sky, trying to judge the light through the canopy of swirling grays. The pastel haze hadn’t changed. It felt very late.

  The Thin Man stopped beneath a wide spanning awning at a building front, the main doors decimated and a fissure forming along the wall beneath. His studious gaze scanned an open stretch of road, to the right. His interest might’ve fallen to a chasm and its unclear begin or end.

  Mono braced his arm on the tall figures shin and checked the collapse within the buildings entrance. From where he was poised, he couldn’t see much through the devastation – an archway or something, the interior was probably just as bad. He wondered if there was a way through, without a teleport. It would be hard, and it would hurt.

  When the figure shifted, Mono leaned back and resumed following. Along the path a decorative wall structure he might be tempted to climb over, forced him to hike around. If the Thin Man didn’t like obstacles, he flashed out and the air surged. It didn’t hurt quite like it used to, but he was not usually near the man in the hat when he did those things. It still placed him a ways back, and he had to hasten his pace to catch up. Sometimes the Thin Man would glance over and check where he was, but Mono was doing well. They stopped enough times that he could get his bearings. He was no worse than before.

  Nonetheless, his legs were very achy from going so far, and he was leaning more and more on things or against solid walls or poles that were not the Thin Man. He had yet to see a place that he could get into to escape the rain, and an ugly tightness crept into his chest. Some buildings he might have the ability to scale loomed beside the jagged road, but it needed more dexterity and energy than he was equipped to relinquish at current.

  A gutter leading to a cracked window frame, a sequence of boxes that sat beside a grungy chain-link fence, or a doorway with a large dumpster jammed in front of it - all appealing points for search and see, but he was barely able to stay upright. He needed to save energy for flee, because it never mattered how tired he was or how brief the rest, something would always find and chase.

  The street splint three ways, one road immediately slashed from course due to a cataclysmic graze through the asphalt and a sequence of shattered buildings; only the memory of walls remained. The Thin Man stayed on the sidewalk and took the right, briefly, his head tilted to examine the skyline.

  Mono leaned on the side of a building he was skimming along, and gave his location a short examination. Straight looked clear. There was no guarantee it would have more prospects for shelter, no more than to venture through the right side. The open and wide road seemed very daunting and impossible. A toppled mailbox sat to the edge of the sidewalk, its door ripped off. It wasn’t his first choice, but he was burnt-out on perusing options that didn’t exist. He was not going to make it another step, let alone run.

  It would be okay. He just needed to rest his eyes and stop moving. The danger wouldn’t find him here. A little bit of time to rest his weary limbs.

  Cautious as ever, he gave the sides of the bent exterior a go over, before he crawled into the hollowed box. He bundled up in his soaked coat on the damp and rusted floor, one eye open. The faint tapping of rain gentle and pleasant on his ears. The diluted roll of static began fading, and he realized how inured to it he was. It would only be for a while. The Thin Man would be annoyed, again.... But he can go do something else for a while. Mono would think of nothing and have a rest.

  Unless something slinked by and he was forced out. He wouldn’t argue with that.

  He shut his eyes and listened to the air, whistling over the sharp edge of the casket. The saturated curb burbled, while the little rivers twittered and rolled through the debris on the road. He focused on the things far out there, the things he wouldn’t be able to see. He had to listen and stay vigilant, do half sleep. The mailbox was a trap with a broken door.

  Barely an interlude expired and he opened his eyes. Was it the scent or the threading static? The delicate prattle of rain on the metal hull vanished, and Mono curled his hands into fists. Mad. He was going to be mad. Can’t follow. Sleep. Hurt sleep.

  He scooted further into the back of the mailbox and nibbled on his bandage.

  “Are you hurt?” the voice hummed, carefully. “Tired?”

  Not hurt. Not really hurt. Hurt sleep.

  Mono took a deep breath on the soured metal and exhaled, working studiously to control his heart rate. He thinks he mumbled something, but even he didn’t have a grasp of what. He almost wished they stayed longer at one of the shops, but no foods. And the man in the hat was bad at watch.

  The static sizzled and fabric shifted. The voice was much closer now. “Stop? Rest?”

  “Mhm.” He was stop, and he was rest.

  “Come out? Come?”

  No. He hissed a little and tucked deeper into the little hovel, but he was already pressed back as far as physically possible. It did occur to him that nothing was really going to stop the Thin Man from snatching him out by, say his arm or a leg. He flinched as the hands descended into view on the sidewalk outside.

  “Mono. Hey.”

  He blinked, blearily. It was time the Thin Man go. Mono didn’t understand. He couldn’t follow, he was going to stay. It was done. The Thin Man leaves, and then later finds. It is what the Thin Man does.

  “Y'leave,” he murmured.

  An exasperated sigh. “No. No leave. You come.” The pause held out briefly, and he expected to be torn out. A sad little shadow. “Stay with. Keep.”

  It took a moment for Mono to process the word. Stole. Keep. He pulled his arms up under his head and tried to calm down. Does the Thin Man keep him? Was okay? In take? He could only see the waiting hands. Standing would be hard.

  “Cold hurt.” Once more, the Thin Man offered.

  Hesitantly, Mono uncurled and crawled out of the mailbox. He was right, it was hard to move on his frigid joints after the short lapse. The mailbox was an icebox, and everything of Mono was stiff from his nose to his toes. Once he had emerged fully, the Thin Man didn’t budge. He was bent low, patiently waiting like a statue.

  Mono tried to pull himself up more on his legs as he inched forward, but he didn’t quite make it. The Thin Man slipped his hands forward before he could crash into the sidewalk. He needed rest. He needed stop. The hands folded around his icy heap of limbs, and he didn’t protest at the finger nudging into his back.

  “If need rest, should tell.”

  A little noise slipped from Mono’s throat, but he didn’t know if it was a whine or bliss. The Thin Man stole him, and that was okay. The little jitters still worked through his body, but it would be okay. The reassuring caress on his back withdrew, and the slight weightlessness settled in his limbs as the Thin Man rose. The hands cupped tighter around him as he fussed and twisted. He wanted to see. He was so frustrated he nipped at a finger, not really sizing up the consequences. No ill events came of it, aside from making it a little more challenging to get himself situated.

  __

  Eventually the Thin Man conceded to the withering child, and settled to hold Mono steady within his hands and keep him close to his chest, in case the boy took a tumble. He resumed walking, electing the direction he had been along prior before he lost connection with Mono.

  Once the child could peer out, he became placid. Gaze solid and unwavering, the meager shaking evaporated instantly. “Tol….”

  He was uncertain what to say on that; aside from reflect how cumbersome it was to step through doorways. At least the child looked much better than when he was, crammed inside the mailbox.

  “I supposed, yes. I am.” One of these structures should have the base essentials that would be crucial, but for—

  A Viewer gave an agonized shrill before colliding with a rooftop, across the road.

  —a space relatively sparse of the dangers the Viewers posed, among other threats that would keep the child wary. Utilizing a television would deliver them to a more placid territory of the city, if not so far gone entirely by otherworldly erosion. He could fortify a building with essential amenities, but he didn’t want to be out of commission for an unknown period of time and alarm the already haggard child.

  Mono fidgeted around between his palms, trying to find more room and he supposed see the ground. “Careful.” It wasn’t as if he was never cautious with his steps, but the boy was more tipsy and bold than typical. He was a little surprised the child was patting at his thumb.

  “Like. Good. T'is n'happy,” he rasped.

  The child was very alert now, a stark contrast to prior. His bright eyes skimmed up the walls of nearby buildings, the sidewalk sweeping away below. The little face kept flicking to his, but the expression was far from terror or panic. It was elation – as if he was trying to convey something that couldn’t form into verbal expression.

  Naturally, Mono had been high and higher still, far above creaky floors or roads. However, never instilled with the delight of being allowed to soak in his surroundings, let alone the leisure pause to look without the impending urgency to relocate now. Never before with assured safety, only within the prospect of reach a destination and quickly. Most often, dangers lurked blow, or the knowledge lurked in the subconscious that a faulty plank would spell pain or dash his body to pieces. The sensation of protection from these threats was something entirely foreign.

  “Nunh get. Hn… no hurt.” Then he became very still and quiet, curled up in his coat and satisfied to behold from this bizarre vantage. Internalize this new thrill of detachment from threats. Of something akin to safety.

  The Thin Man tipped his head. “Are you all right?”

  “Not. It—it’s… bigger,” he mumbled, captivated. Then, a little quietly, “Faster?”

  Honestly, that almost made him chuckle. “No. This is fine. It would not be safe, to you.” Mono turned his face back to him, and he’s endeared by the look of disappointment. That was much better. “Don’t look that way. Someday, I might have to go fast, and you won’t like it.”

  Mono lit up. “Practice?”

  He looked away, pretending to consider. “No….” The Thin Man waited for Mono to huff and whip away, for some sulking, before he smirked broadly. Maybe they could practice at a later date, when the child was in better health.

  For the now, he would keep him out of the rain and find a place where they could put up for a short while. And try to make the child feel solid and secure, give him the chance for some recuperation out of the hazards always seeking. It was a trial to coax the child out of the rickety little shelter, but he supposed that's how children were. Perhaps it was better Mono didn't shed off the skittishness entirely, but he held out hope that eventually the smaller would approach him when he was in dire need. He couldn't really say, these habits remained engrained into his survival.

Next

[hencoplumbingservices]

DNA, dedication bring WWII casualty from Woodland home

Find out how to get the best plumber in Vancouver Washington

It’s been a long, long time since U.S. Navy Musician Second Class Francis E. “Ham” Dick was last home.

The Woodland High School graduate was just 19 years old when he enlisted in the U.S. Navy in Portland. He was 20 years old when he arrived aboard the battleship USS Oklahoma. And he was just shy of 21 when the Japanese military attacked Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, launching the United States into World War II.

Dick was among the 429 people who died aboard the Oklahoma that day. For decades his unidentified remains lay in one of 46 mixed caskets in Hawaii before being transported to a lab in Nebraska as part of an identification program through the Defense PIO/MIA Military Accounting Agency.

Nearly 78 years later, that program was able to identify Dick’s remains, put them on a plane and send them home for a memorial and formal burial.

Dick’s younger sister, Vancouver resident Carole Green, is his closest surviving relative and one of the few people alive who knew him firsthand. Green found out in September that her brother’s remains had been identified. She recalled her first thought after hanging up the phone:

” ‘Well, damn,’ ” she’d said to herself. ” ‘I wish Mom had been here.’ ”

Green’s emotions about the whole thing are complicated. Only 3 years old when Dick went off to war, she doesn’t really remember him. But she grew up in a family that never stopped missing their son and brother, and she heard stories. He’d sweep up his baby sister and dance with her, Green remembers hearing. He’d try to get her to talk.

“It’s hard to tell you how I feel. I watched Mom and Dad mourn for him for years,” Green said.

“I’m 81 now; they were still alive then. They’d say, ‘Oh, Carole, you should have known him.’ ”

Francis earned the nickname “Ham” as a baby, conferred by a cousin who commented during a diaper change that he looked like a fat little ham. The name stuck.

What Green heard growing up was this: Ham never met an instrument he couldn’t teach himself to play. A born musician who could sight-read music, Ham was also an athlete, an actor and a dancer. There wasn’t a mean bone in his body. The girls loved him.

“Very handsome, and very talented,” Green said.

He grew up in the era of the big bands, and would enter and win jitterbug contests with a close female friend who would go on to marry his brother.

“He could play anything he picked up for about five minutes. He was really gifted,” Green said.

“I never, ever dreamed even in my lifetime that they would find him. That’s a lot of people and bones that they gotta go through.”

‘It doesn’t happen like in ‘CSI’

Using a combination of techniques, a team of 10 analysts at Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha can identify the remains of sailors from the USS Oklahoma with tremendous confidence. But it’s a mammoth undertaking, and speed is of the essence — soon, there won’t be any surviving family members left to send these fallen servicemen home to.

“We have about 13,000 specimens, individual bones we can count,” said Dr. Carrie Brown, DPAA forensic anthropologist and the leader of the team tasked with tracing remains from the ship.

When the identification program started in 2015, the list of people whom those bones could belong to was 394 names long. With each positive identification, it’s been reduced to 196.

The collection of techniques used to identify 78-year-old human remains wouldn’t seem out of place on a detective show.

The identification tools run the gamut, from old-school — circumstantial and historical evidence recovered from the scene, like dog tags or rank insignia — to more modern-day DNA analyses.

In Dick’s case, his remains were identified using autosomal DNA that was compared with a sample from his little sister, Green. The results lined up with the historical and circumstantial evidence, as military records show him arriving on the ship around six months before the Pearl Harbor attack.

“All of our cases are essentially cold cases,” Brown said. And while DNA is certainly handy, it’s not conclusive. In order to make a positive identification, at least two threads pointing at the same person need to converge.

“We always use a multipronged approach — multiple lines of evidence,” Brown said. “It doesn’t happen in 45 minutes like in (the TV drama) ‘CSI.’ It’s a little bit more than that.”

Easier identifications can take as little as eight days. Others may take decades, depending on the evidence on hand.

The USS Oklahoma team started its task by matching dental records to intact skulls. That’s relatively simple when the records are available, but more complicated in practice for a few reasons, Brown said.

“We have their induction records. When they joined the military they got a dental exam. Those (records) range from very good to absent,” Brown said.

Of course, some skulls don’t have intact palettes. There’s also the issue of time. A crew member who joined at 20 and died at 21 would have a fairly accurate snapshot of their dental work preserved for Brown and her team to access. But what about someone who enlisted at 18 and died at 40? Their induction records wouldn’t serve as an accurate depiction, and their updated medical records went down with the ship.

“There could be a lot of room for discrepancy,” she said.

After identifying everyone they could with dental information, the team moved on to isolating the outliers — people who for some physical reason stood out from the majority of the crew.

If the men were particularly old or particularly young, tall or short, or of a different race, it’s easier to tell their remains apart, Brown said. That technique also worked for anyone who had a rare DNA sequence.

“We’re trying to get all the ones that have some piece of evidence that distinguishes them from everybody else along the way,” she explained. “If you have a rare sequence, or are 6-foot-5, or are 50, or 18.”

A crucial part of the identification process included collecting DNA samples from known next of kin. Without a library of DNA samples from close relatives, there would be no way to compare results.

“We go out and we collect as much of the data as we can ahead of time,” Brown said.

Her team uses both nuclear and mitochondrial DNA testing. Autosomal testing is a type of nuclear DNA that’s unique to each individual, making it a powerful testing tool, but there’s only one copy of nuclear DNA within a cell.

Mitochondrial DNA includes genetic information that passes down through the maternal line to both male and female children. Everyone from the same maternal line will carry the same mitochondrial DNA profile, making it handy for identifying blood relatives.

“It preserves really well, and there’s a ton of mitochondrial DNA in a cell,” Brown said. “We don’t have self-references on file. We can only go back in time genetically with their families, so we can get family reference samples that way.”

Racing time

At this point, it’s a race against the clock for the team of analysts to identify USS Oklahoma remains as fast as they can. Not because the evidence is eroding, but because networks of families and friends are.

Many of the men who died that day were young and never had children. Their parents are long gone. Even people who knew them are aging and dying. A few, like Dick, have surviving siblings.

Most of the sailors being identified have descendants from extended family that they never met. With increasing frequency, those are the people left to claim the remains when they finally do come home.

“We are dealing with second-, third-, sometimes fourth-removed from the actual person,” said Chuck Prichard, a spokesman for the DPAA.

“In World War II, many parents were left behind. When the parents passed on, many of them handed that torch off to a sibling,” Prichard continued. “Now we’re getting to the point where they pass that on to their children, and we’re getting nieces and nephews and grand-nieces and -nephews … they’re doing it for their mother, who did it for their mother.”

But every once in a while, you get a case like Ham Dick’s. Carole Green might have been too young to remember much about her brother, but she feels a connection to him.

“That’s why we’re trying to go as fast as possible, because there’s still some siblings left,” Brown said.

Homecoming day

It was punishingly, bitterly cold, the middle of a snow flurry, when Dick’s remains flew into Portland International Airport on Feb. 9. But that didn’t stop the full military honors that accompanied his homecoming.

It also didn’t stop Green and her son Mike — Dick’s nephew, whom he never got to meet — from paying their respects on the tarmac.

Green’s eyes welled up when she approached the casket as it was carried off the plane, draped in an American flag. The tears caught her by surprise, she said. She didn’t expect it.

“I used to dream,” she said, “that I’d be in Hawaii and walk past a hospital, and there he’d be sitting. I’d look at him and I’d recognize him.”

“I would have loved to be able to remember.”

A memorial service at Vancouver Funeral Chapel on Feb. 13 was crowded with extended family who grew up hearing stories about Ham. Others came because they wanted to pay respects to a fallen World War II sailor, including descendants and relatives of fellow Pearl Harbor veterans and the Patriot Guard Riders.

They played a song — “It’s Been a Long, Long Time,” recorded in 1945 by Harry James and Kitty Kallen.

In the back of the room, you could just barely hear Green up front, singing along:

“You’ll never know how many dreams

“I’ve dreamed about you,

“Or just how empty they all seemed without you

“So kiss me once, then kiss me twice

“Then kiss me once again.

“It’s been a long, long time.”

Pearl Harbor and the USS Oklahoma

Just before 8 a.m. on Dec. 7, 1941, the Japanese military launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It killed 2,403 Americans, mostly Navy personnel, and thrust the United States into World War II.

Eighteen ships sank or ran aground, including the USS Oklahoma. Commissioned in 1916, the 583-foot battleship capsized after taking several torpedo hits.

Thirty-two men were rescued from the Oklahoma’s overturned hull in a rescue mission that went on for hours. Another 429 died, including Musician Second Class Francis E. Dick of Woodland.

Pearl Harbor casualties

2,403 Americans died at Pearl Harbor.

1,338 of those bodies remain unrecovered.

62 of the unrecovered are from Washington.

429 people died aboard the USS Oklahoma during the attack.

35 USS Oklahoma remains were identified.

394 remains were classified as “nonrecoverable” in 1949.

198* of the 394 remains have been identified since an ID program began in 2015.

* Dr. Carrie Brown, DPAA forensic anthropologist and USS Oklahoma Team Lead, identified the 198 remains from USS Oklahoma casualties. Remains from the other 196 people are still awaiting identification. Eight of those 196 people awaiting an ID are from Washington.

[Read More …]

Find out how to get the best Vancouver Washington plumber

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: How a Smithsonian Naturalist’s Skeleton Ended Up on View at the Museum

Installation view of Robert Kennicott’s bones Objects of Wonder at the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

WASHINGTON, DC — The Objects of Wonder exhibition at the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History (NMNH) is overflowing with the priceless and the odd. A huge chunk of lapis lazuli, a lion shot by Teddy Roosevelt, whale earwax, 40,000- to 20,000-year-old mammoth meat and hair, and extinct taxidermy animals, are all spectrally illuminated like relics in the dark galleries. Among them is one of the earliest contributing scientists to the museum’s diverse collections, his burnt caramel-colored bones reclining in a glass case.

As the wall text above this skeleton proclaims, he is Robert Kennicott, a Smithsonian naturalist and collector. In 1852, at the age of 17, he began sending specimens to the then six-year-old Smithsonian. He continued to contribute for the rest of his short life, both in Washington, DC, where he was a lively member of the Megatherium Club of young naturalists, and in the field, where he was one of the more forward-thinking scientists on conservation. As the Smithsonian cites, in the 1850s he argued for attention to habitat loss:

Man interferes unwisely [in the vast system of nature], and the order is broken. … [B]efore waging any war on any animal, let us study its habits, and look well to the consequences which would follow its extermination.

A full-body photograph in Objects of Wonder depicts Kennicott as a swashbuckling adventurer with shoulder-length hair, dressed for the frontiers of Canada and today’s Alaska, where he spent years on expeditions. But how did he come to be a museum display?

Robert Kennicott, photographed by William H. Dall in 1927 (via Smithsonian Institution Archives/Wikimedia)

The exhibiting of human remains in natural history museums is certainly not rare; see the current Mummies exhibition at the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Meanwhile, the remains of architecture writer Christopher Gray, who died this April, were donated to the Smithsonian to be exhibited at his alma mater boarding school. Yet the display of a white museum collector’s bones is unexpected, especially since until 2001 Kennicott was resting peacefully beneath the earth at the Grove in Glenview, Illinois, his childhood home that is today a National Historic Landmark.

What killed Kennicott at the age of 30, while on an expedition with the Western Union to map an Arctic telegraph route, was a mystery ever since his body was found. Many, including fellow expedition members, believed it was suicide by strychnine. NMNH forensic anthropologists Kari Bruwelheide and Doug Owsley set out to determine the truth when they cracked open the cast-iron coffin in which he had been interred. Bruwelheide and Owsley are leading experts in iron caskets, and these methods of air-tight burial can remarkably preserve remains. For instance, the cast-iron Fisk coffins, patented in 1848 by Almond Fisk, have preserved flesh, bones, and clothing, sometimes as if they were mummified.

The glass face plate on Kennicott’s coffin was broken, so he was much deteriorated, but his military-style expedition uniform was still carefully dressed on his bones. Bruwelheide and Owsley recently published their research with Cambridge University Press in a paper called  “Unearthing Robert Kennicott: Naturalist, Explorer, Smithsonian Scientist.” They concluded: “Chemical analyses, combined with historical information on Kennicott’s life and the description of his body and the scene at the time of discovery, exclude suicidal ingestion of strychnine. The assembled profile strongly supports death from cardiac arrest.”

Robert Kennicott’s bones in Objects of Wonder at the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

It turned out that the strychnine in his system was not enough to be the cause of death and was more a side effect of living in the Victorian age. NPR’s All Things Considered reported that he was indeed known to carry a vial of strychnine. In the 19th century, you were as likely to get cocaine and poison in your apothecary treatments as effective cures, and Kennicott, whose chronic childhood illness led to his interest in the nature around his Illinois home, may have used it therapeutically. Poisoning was also a hazard of being a 19th-century scientist, as the strychnine was employed for small animals, and arsenic and mercury were used for specimen preservation. As Alison Matthews David explored in her 2015 book Fashion Victims, even the taxidermy birds decorating 19th-century ladies’ hats had dangerous levels of arsenic.

Kennicott’s remains, donated to the Smithsonian by his descendants, make him part of the museum in a way few of its scientists are, with a whole portrait of his life threaded through its collections. His letters are at the Smithsonian Archives, his hundreds of specimens now dispersed through the NMNH. He even had an innovative noninvasive 3D scanning of his skull at the Smithsonian, allowing for a forensic reconstruction of his face:

And, like his bones, many of his specimens are supporting contemporary science. A jar of cricket frogs installed by his skeleton in Objects of Wonder were collected in 1858 Illinois, before the introduction of organochlorine pesticides and flame retardants, so researchers can compare the state of the frog population to this past baseline. Along with the tiny frogs, a headdress from the Northwest Territories made with grizzly bear claws, a stuffed herring gull, and a red fox are displayed in front of a graphic background based on a map Kennicott sketched of an area around Fort Nulato in today’s Alaska. Stretched out in the gallery lights, his bones stained a deep color from the iron coffin, his path has come full circle, his afterlife merging with his passion for science.

Specimens collected by Robert Kennicott, on view in Objects of Wonder (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Label text for Robert Kennicott’s skeleton, showing the bones being removed from his cast-iron casket (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Cricket frogs collected in 1858 in Illinois by Robert Kennicott (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

DenCho Dene headdress made from wool cloth, glass beads, cotton thread, and grizzly bear claws, collected by Robert Kennicott in the Northwest Territories, Canada (photo by the author for Hyperallerigc)

Herring gull collected by Robert Kennicott in Objects of Wonder at the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Objects of Wonder continues at the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History (10th Street and Constitution Avenue, NW, Washington, DC) through 2019.

The post How a Smithsonian Naturalist’s Skeleton Ended Up on View at the Museum appeared first on Hyperallergic.

from Hyperallergic http://ift.tt/2qg3Ner via IFTTT