#Abysmal dismal format

[fandomhopper23]

Abysmal: Hermione was being Hermione when she said expulsion is worse then death.

Dismal: Hermione was right and in the Wizarding world expulsion is actually worse than death because if you get expelled from Hogwarts, an incredibly famous and respected institution, no other school is taking you in and you won't learn how to properly control your magic which could lead to you accidentally harming and killing others or becoming an obscurus. This is also why Dumbledore didn't expel anyone for 'The prank' in the marauder's fifth year, and doesn't expel people in general.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Tony Stark’s Guide to Being a Functional Adult

Step 2: Learn Basic Adulting (AO3)

Dinner that evening was a slightly awkward affair; Bucky was clearly self-conscious about having a virtual stranger in his home and Tony was too tired to turn on the charm like he normally would.  They had ordered cheap Chinese takeout that Bucky must be enjoying, judging from the way he was steadily emptying his carton of General Tso’s, but Tony mostly picked at his and wondered if it was possible to develop atherosclerosis from a single meal.

“So are you going to get the rest of your stuff tomorrow?” Bucky asked as he got up to pour himself another glass of water.

Tony toyed with his chopsticks and stared down at the glutinous mass on his plate. “That is all my stuff. My dad kicked me out of the house and that was everything I had on me when I left.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” Bucky’s face creased with sympathy. “You know, if you need to pick up some stuff I can take you to the store.”

Tony sighed and rubbed his eyes.  “I can go myself, if you just tell me where it is.”

“It’s not a big deal, I need to pick up some stuff too. We can go tomorrow.”  Bucky pushed back from the table and started cleaning up, tossing his empty food carton in the trash and putting his silverware and glass in the sink.  “I figure we’ll trade off doing dishes?” Bucky said over his shoulder as he grabbed a towel from his room and headed to the bathroom.

“Sounds fair,” Tony called back.  He put his almost untouched Chinese food away and eyed the pile of dishes in the sink like it was a nest of snakes.  But there was a sponge behind the faucet and one of the bottles below the sink identified itself as dishwashing liquid, so he was almost done when Bucky got out of the shower.

“Oh, you washed them all by hand,” Bucky said in surprise, toweling his hair dry, his t-shirt and sweatpants clinging to his damp skin in a way that almost had Tony dropping the slippery glass in his hand. “You could have put them in the dishwasher.”

“Oh,” Tony said, looking back down at the soapy sink, face getting hot.  “I, um, didn’t see it there.  I’m almost done anyway.”

As Bucky shrugged and turned away, Tony glared at the dishwasher and quickly finished scrubbing the plates.

(More after the break!)

After an abysmal night’s sleep getting used to the night sounds in an alien part of the city, Tony made himself a bowl of cereal and then spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at the blinking cursor on his screen, struggling with indecision.  He’d googled the proper format for a resume but got stumped at the very first step – having his name on the top of the document.  The word “Stark” marched black and ominous across the top and revealed the gaping hole in Tony’s plan: who in their right mind was going to hire him? Who would believe that a Stark was genuinely interested in working a wage job, and then could be trusted to keep quiet about it when any tabloid would pay good money for the hot tip that Tony Stark was punching a time clock? He couldn’t lie, like he had to Bucky, because he didn’t have a fake ID nor the vaguest idea of how to get one.  “Shit,” he said, raking his hands through his hair as he thought furiously.  He didn’t even know how to go about finding a job under the table; do you just go around to businesses and ask?

Eventually he closed the resume document – “No, don’t bother saving it,” he muttered resentfully, closing the dialogue box on his screen – and sent an email to his old professors, asking if they knew of any paid positions that were accepting students, carefully phrasing it so it looked like he just needed work experience instead of money. One guy got back to him immediately, but his response was not encouraging.  “Paid positions are usually limited to students with financial need,” Tony read. “Well, shit.”  He thought about writing back and explaining that he was one of those students, but again, the prospect of reading about his family drama on the New York Daily News stopped him.  With another curse of frustration he closed his laptop and set it on the floor, then rolled over to bury his face in his pillow.  How do people do this?

There was a knock on the door and then Bucky said “Tony? Are you ready to go to the store?”

Tony sighed and sat up.  “Sure, hold on a second.”

The drive was short but Tony spent most of it frowning to himself as he watched Bucky navigate the car’s controls one-handed. Doing almost anything, like hitting the turn signal or putting down a window, involved holding the steering wheel still with a knee and awkwardly reaching over; Tony imagined he didn’t listen to the radio very often because changing the channel would be a hell of a hassle.  But it wouldn’t be that difficult to move the important things to the right side of the steering column where Bucky could reach them, Tony mused.  If he could wire the controls for the radio and windows straight into the steering wheel that would be best, but you would need to-

“Alright, we’re here,” Bucky announced, putting the car in park and interrupting Tony’s thoughts.

“Dollar Tree?” Tony read the store’s sign as he climbed out of the car. “What is this place?”

“It’s like a Dollar General but cheaper.” At Tony’s still baffled look, he said, “You’ve never heard of Dollar General? What about Walmart?”

“Oh, yeah, Walmart,” Tony echoed, making a conscious effort to smooth the look of confusion from his face.  He obediently followed Bucky around the store with a shopping cart, wincing at the squeaky wheel that announced his progress through the store and using his best poker face to keep from wrinkling his nose at the musty smell and the crowded, overflowing shelves. When they came up to the register Tony handed over his credit card and prayed that his father hadn’t gotten around to cancelling it yet, because the cash he had in his pocket wouldn’t cover it and they still had to go get groceries.

“You seem like you’ve had some experience with this,” Tony commented as they loaded all of his newly acquired stuff in the trunk.  Bucky had been the one to take the lead, letting Tony push the cart around while he threw stuff into the basket, stuff Tony hadn’t even thought of needing like socks and underwear and spare toothbrushes.  His matter-of-fact attitude about the entire trip had gone a long way to making Tony feel better about not knowing what the hell he was doing.

Bucky snorted. “People like to think it’s all kumbaya out there for gay kids since gay marriage was legalized, but I know plenty of people that got kicked out of their homes for being gay or trans. So yeah, I’ve done this a time or two.”

Tony couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that was part of his dad’s problem with him going back to school, like maybe Howard thought that if Tony came home to work at SI he would settle down into respectable heterosexuality with some high society debutante.  “Did it happen to you?” He blurted as they got into the car.

“No, my parents were really cool about it when I came out,” Bucky answered, apparently not bothered by the fact that Tony had pretty much just asked him if he were gay.  “Where to now? Grocery store?”

“Yes please.”  As Bucky cranked the car, Tony took a deep breath and said, “By the way, I’m bi.”

Bucky flashed him a grin as he turned around in his seat to back up the car.  “Nice to meet you, Bi. I’m Bucky.”

“Oh, God,” Tony groaned with a short laugh. “Is that what your parents said to you when you came out?”

“Kind of.  When I told my mom I was gay she said, ‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Gay, you look an awful lot like my son Bucky.’”

“Yeah, my parents did not have that reaction,” Tony said with a grimace. His mom had looked confused and cried a little and his dad had locked himself in the office for the rest of the evening, and then they had never really talked about it again.  The one time Tony had brought a guy over for dinner his father left on a ‘sudden’ business trip that ended up lasting the whole weekend; Tony had gotten the message after that.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said.

Tony shrugged and looked out the window to avoid the sympathy in Bucky’s eyes.  “Not the first time I’ve disappointed my family,” Tony said lightly, flashing a smile he didn’t feel, “and definitely not the last, I’m sure.”

That night Bucky showed Tony how to cook frozen pizza because it had been on sale at the grocery store.  Tony was chewing dismally through what tasted like damp cardboard when Bucky came up the stairs from the shop.  “Tony?  You’ve got a visitor,” he said as he opened the door, and Tony put down the pizza and wiped his fingers on his pants nervously as he stood.

“Oh, Jarvis!” He said in relief.  “I didn’t know you were coming. Let me help you.”  Jarvis’s hands were full so he took the boxes and bags from him, hurriedly cleaning his cheap thin-crust pizza from the table for him to sit.  Jarvis accepted the seat with an almost silent sigh, rubbing his knee a little after the climb up the stairs.

“Would you like something to drink?” Bucky offered from the kitchen, discreetly trying to straighten up the small apartment for their unexpected guest.

“No, thank you, I shan’t be long,” Jarvis offered with a polite smile.  “I was just bringing some things for Tony as a housewarming present.”

“Like what?” Tony asked curiously, and started digging through the bags.  “Oh my God, you brought me food,” he said with reverence, opening the lid to one of the storage containers and wanting to cry from the smells inside.

“Your mother also sent along some things,” Jarvis said, handing him a small box that was undeniably his mom’s, Tiffany blue and edged in silver.

“Oh.” Tony started to open it and hesitated, then closed the lid. “Thank you.”

“How are you doing?” Jarvis’s hands crossed and he leaned over the table, the lines around his eyes creased with worry.  “Howard is being stubborn and pretending that nothing has changed, but the rest of us are worrying.”

“I’m fine,” Tony said, trying to sound fine and not like he was terrified or homesick or lonely. “I like it here.  It will be close to my degree program when class starts in the fall.”

“Good.  You’ve already sent in your application?”

“It’s not due until February, but I’m not worried.”  Kind of a lie.  He was a bit worried, but it kind of seemed that a bit worried was just his life now, so what’s one more thing.

Jarvis smiled.  “No, I imagine not.”  He patted Tony on the shoulder, his knuckles swollen with arthritis. “I can’t stay long, I have dinner plans with Ana, but I did want to say that I’m proud of you for not letting Howard bully you.”

“Thanks, Jarvis. Say hello to Ana for me.”  Tony walked Jarvis back to his car and watched him drive away, taking a moment to feel sorry for himself before he headed back up the stairs.  He missed Ana and Jarvis with a physical ache; they had been the ones to make the Stark house a home, and he wanted to have that back so badly it hurt. Eventually though, he forced himself to go back up the stairs and help Bucky put the food in the fridge. “Have you eaten?” He asked, cracking the lid on one of the glass dishes.  “Want some of this homemade lasagna?”

“You had me at homemade,” Bucky said with a crooked smile and turned to pull a couple of plates out of the cabinets.  “Who was that? An uncle? He seemed nice.”

“Old family friend, though I did call him uncle when I was younger.  Kind of like Aunt Peggy, but Jarvis is more like a dad than anything else.  Better than my real one, most days,” he muttered under his breath, making a face as he put a slice of lasagna on each plate to reheat.  “So how was your day?”

After dinner and dishes, Tony debated opening the box from his mother, chewing on his thumb as he studied it.  After a moment, though, he put it in the bottom of the closet, not really emotionally ready for whatever was inside; probably some sort of emotional blackmail, like heartfelt letters from his dad when he was young or something.  Instead he pulled his laptop out and tried to relax by reviewing his application to the Tanden School, which required a thesis project proposal along with the usual essay.  Until recently, he’d been reviewing some of his father’s old scrapped designs with the idea that it would endear the old man to the idea of another doctorate, for all the good that’d done.  He’d been particularly excited to work on the arc reactor, hoping to make it more efficient and preferably smaller, but now just looking at the blueprints were making him angry all over again.

With a sigh he set his computer on the floor next to the bed and fell back against the pillows. Out in the living room he could hear Bucky watching a movie and wondered if he’d be imposing if he went out to join him. To be honest, though, he wasn’t sure that he felt like the company anyway, so he rolled over and eventually fell asleep.

[konohagakurekakashi]

Writing Prompt: Kakashi's views/musings on Tsuande's early days as Hokage.

[Writing Prompt Accepted-Thoughts on a Leader]

'A leader is best when people barely know that he exists, when his work is done and his aim fulfilled, they will say- we did it ourselves.' Said datum never rang more true than for that of the Hokage, a Fire Shadow, looming over both his enemies and his subordinates as both a wise, firm regulator and a potent power of military cogency for his daimyō. It was something Kakashi understood since the simple age of four, something all Konoha shinobi and civilians understood; which is why though the position was respected, it was never coveted once you were past your ambitious Genin phase and the weight of the ninja profession finally sank deep within your very fibres and roughages.

For all intents and purposes the Professor and Minato-sensei was all that Kakashi has ever known in the form of a leader and both served as his paradigm and daily reminder that though he might be at the forefront of the mission rankings--he would never be a real leader in comparison--a fact that he was generally content with and accepted, for he was fashioned to follow orders to the letter, not give them. It was proven on his very first mission as a Jōnin and remained unremitting in his failures to break through his former Kohai’s walls, his charges’ hatred and self-misgivings or to keep his sensei’s legacy safe from the missing-nin (Akatsuki, Jiraiya-sama called them) so intent on the young Jinchūriki’s capture.

In his sorry state, head throbbing due to the effects of said former Kohai’s dōjutsu and Tsunade-sama’s earlier prodding. It was crystal clear that he lacked Sarutobi-sama’s astute way with words or the Fourth’s insight and Fūinjutsu skill. Should he have had either perhaps things would have gone differently, if only by a margin. A bitter sigh before a hand rose to rub at his pulsing lid, the action willing away the many thoughts coiling within his mind, as well as the incessant sobbing of both Gai and the nursing staff seeping across his threshold. It had been exactly four days since the Sannin made her unexpected return and pulled him from the miasma left by the Tsukuyomi. Since then the Hatake’s surroundings have been fraught with nothing but noise-The kind that Icha Icha Paradise could not drown out.

Another sigh, before Kakashi shifted within his stiff hospital sheets, lone hue flittering towards the lit hallway upon the sound of a chair leg splintering against a far-off wall. Testing the stretch and ripple of his muscles, Kakashi floundered, before bare feet slipped onto tile; his mind drifting to the induction ceremony looming just around the corner and what it could mean for Konohagakure no Satō. Kakashi has after all known the Senju for most of his existence and knew first hand that if he did not possess the qualities of his former teacher, then neither did she possess the former qualities of hers. With a torrent of apologies resounding about the hospital, Kakashi murmured a low ‘gomen’ of his own, before he stepped towards the window, his shadow spanning ahead of him as if eager to disappear into the night and away from all the ruckuss. Settling on the idiot excuse of Mnr Ūkki being cold, lonely and in dire need of a proper bedtime story; Kakashi followed after, effectively cutting his stay short and not feeling the least bit repentant for the water pitcher that was sure to expire due to his empty bed.

The next time the Hatake fixed his calculating gaze upon the form of the the Kunoichi, it was from his slumped position behind Kurenai and Asuma. It was a bright balmy day, despite the fact that the village was still in its reconstruction phase and the Sandaime has just been laid to rest. The Many shinobi gathered about him had their own gazes fixed upon the Hokage Tower as the Godaime finally lifted her hat of office. All of their hues though strained with the effects of the Chūnin Exams also ignited with a hint of optimism, of expectation and the Hatake felt his fingers twitch within his pockets and his lungs constrict--Because despite his cynical views on the shinobi system and the acidic bite of fear that that inherent optimism, that Will of Fire will one day be snuffed out; he couldn’t help being somewhat optimistic himself, even as the Kunoichi’s lip twitched and her russet stare hardened into one of determination once she pitched the Hokage Hat into the soft breeze and over the sea of her clamouring soldiers.

Maintaining that sliver of optimism was an entirely different undertaking, however.

Tsunade was not a conventional Hokage, her brash actions and talent for stepping on toes cementing the silver-haired Jōnin’s earlier assessment. Where Sandaime-sama was always cool and collected and prepared to listen to the grievances of his council and his subordinates; Tsunade in turn was quick to anger, her vast travels having done nothing in dampening her passions. Kakashi had it on good authority that the administration budget had all but doubled due to a constant lack of office furniture and accessories and he knew from being the intended target of one too many medical journals that she did not tolerate his ‘grievances’ and what he thought of as his ‘endearing’, little habits. Yet it remained a pleasant surprise when he almost walked in on one of the Godaime’s impromptu meetings with her council (more than three hours late for his own mission briefing) and found her to be unchanged in her beliefs and adamantly refusing to be swayed by the advisors' stern warnings. Though he respected them as one would respect anyone of age and skill, the Hatake could never accept the council’s rationality and the way they seemed to act on things behind the Professor’s back. He well remembered the way Danzō tried to veer him into betraying the Third and his two avid supporters were on the vanguard of those vetoing against him keeping Obito’s eye after the events of Kanabi. So it was only natural that Kakashi chose the slanted nook below the Hokage’s window as his favourite reading perch from thereon after. --Birds of a feather, hmm.

It was also from that sunny perch, the tiles warm and chiselled beneath his sandals, that the Hatake came to know that even though the Medic held none of the traits he came to associate with that of a Hokage, she instead held a plethora of other peculiarities he now welcomed in that of a village leader. The Senju for one was fiercely loyal to her subordinates and their dreams, evident by her unwillingness to label his student turned avenger a missing-nin despite it being the logical course of action, electing instead to put her faith in the capabilities of the younger generation time and time again. She never begrudged her Shinobi for missions gone awry (a notion which would have been welcomed in the time of his father) and rather showed genuine relief each and every time they came back from a mission alive and in (relatively) one piece. She was more than adapt in seeing underneath the underneath and knitted their skins back together on more occasions than he cared to contemplate--but it was her uncanny ability to push her militia past their usual capabilities and into avant-garde scenarios altering dangerously from the usual pairings and team formations, to obtain the best of outcomes for that of her village. She did not care and at the same time cared too much. Her near abysmal buckets of empathy rivalling even that of Naruto and reaching far past the borders of the Fire Nation to that of smaller settlements and the rival nations alike.

Yes the Godaime had her fair share of unhealthy customs, but as Kakashi made his way through the deserted twists and turns of the village, calloused fingers wound tightly about the ankles of one of Tsunade’s many debt collectors who managed to sneak into the village as a tatami merchant, Kakashi was hit with the sudden, jarring realization that the Kunoichi was more his leader and Hokage than that of Minato-sensei with his impossibly short tenure, or that of the infamous Professor combined. Taking a moment to tilt his head back and peer up at the hoary glow of the moon, the Hatake affirmed with a low grunt in his throat that he would follow any and every order from the last Senju even if it meant demeaning his skills to that of a watchdog. Not so much due to his duties as a Shinobi of Konoha (Kakashi was nothing if not a loyal, effective tool) but because he really wanted to.

Despite the lethal flick of her fingers and her persistently loud persona, Kakashi believed that she was adamant in carrying forth the First’s Will of Fire, Obito’s will- and despite her custom to lecture him on immaterial things and avoid some of her more dismal duties as a Kage, Kakashi knew that she was someone Rin looked up to and would strive to be like, had she still been alive. So it was with little effort that the Hatake heaved the groaning loan shark up and into the guard booth manned by Izumo and Kotetsu, a low chuckle barely concealed as a cough cutting through the chirp of crickets as the two Chūnin spluttered and rolled sideways to avoid the desperately flailing limbs. Trusting the two to take out what remained of the trash; Kakashi then proceeded to head back the way he came whilst thumbing at the ragged ends of the IOU rumpled within his holster. The past was in the past. Comparing the living to the deceased would bring him nothing, least of all answers. The best that he could do was to pull his weight and hope that everything else would fall into place. If it meant changing his Paradigm to that of the Godaime—well, he could live with that.

[sportlifestoryz]

Newcastle 1-1 MU

Manchester United escape Newcastle with a point after a dismal display by Ralf Rangnick's side as sub Edinson Cavani comes to the rescue to cancel out Allan Saint-Maximin's superb opening goal

Manchester United have a fashionable new manager, a fancy new formation but sadly the same players.

Ralf Rangnick's team were abysmal here in the north-east rain. Shambolic, lacking intelligence and, most damningly of all, occasionally unwilling to do the hard yards.

What is it that happens to good players when they wear the red of this great club? Until Rangnick and his eclectic new coaching staff can figure that out, there will be more nights like this.

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Newcastle were superb for Eddie Howe. Finally their supporters can hope. They didn't deserve a point from this, they deserved all three. That they didn't take them was due largely to the brilliance of United's goalkeeper David de Gea and, right at the end, the thickness of a post.

When they scored early on through the fabulously entertaining Allan Saint-Maximin, it felt as though the home team would face a mighty struggle to hold on.

United had not played for two and a half weeks and were at full strength. But that was not how this game played out.

Howe's Newcastle were energetic and full of ideas and menace. United, on the other hand, were full of mistakes.

In the centre of the field the Brazilian Fred was laughably bad. Behind him Raphael Varane was almost as dreadful and there were others. At half-time Rangnick hauled off Fred and Mason Greenwood but there were many other candidates for that indignity. Marcus Rashford and Cristiano Ronaldo were among them.

In the end United took a point. They may feel that is okay but it isn't.

Prior to this game, only Burnley had lost here in the league. That United came within 21 minutes of doing likewise should shame them. So should the fact that Newcastle had twice as many shots on target and also hit the post through Miguel Almiron in added time.

Rangnick has done his best to shake things up.

After a couple of weeks of thought, he set United up to play 4-2-2-2 here. Strange but at least it was different. But formations mean nothing if players can't keep the ball or do the basics.

Newcastle's opening goal in the seventh minute was superb but also had roots in a United mistake as Varane failed to control a ball in the centre of the field. Saint-Maximin was on it in a flash and drove hard at the top of the United penalty area, cutting right past Diogo Dalot and then Maguire before slashing a fierce shot in to the corner to De Gea's left. The goalkeeper had no chance and St James' Park was alive.

Maybe Newcastle needed to score again to have a chance of winning. As chaotic as United remain, they do normally score. Howe's team had their moments as De Gea dived to deny Jonjo Shelvey and Callum Wilson was correctly denied by an offside flag.

But it was a moment right at the start of the second half that felt huge at the time and ultimately proved so. When Emil Krath reached the byline to cross low, Saint-Maximin had 80 per cent of the goal to aim at but could not make the necessary connection and could only drag the ball back towards De Gea.

At first sight it looked a very good save but it was actually a really bad miss and that was a shame for player who had contributed so much to the night.

With Edinson Cavani and Jadon Sancho on, United did improve a little. Rashford had a long shot touched over and one from Ronaldo fizzed wide. Cavani then miscued after Sancho set him up.

But the high comedy remained. Sancho crossed in to the crowd and then Rashford did the same. Harry Maguire then played a ball from deep straight into touch before Ronaldo was booked for a wild swipe at Ryan Fraser.

When United equalised, it was from their best piece of football of the night. A sweeping ball from Bruno Fernandes located Dalot on the right and when his low cross reached Cavani, he scored with a weak but accurate shot after his first attempt came back to him from a defender.

With a good chunk of time left to play, a good United team would have gone to win. In fact, a half decent United team would have done so. But this lot are an incohesive, half-hearted bunch at times. For too many of United's players, there is always somebody else to blame. For a while it was Ole Gunnar Solskjaer's fault but the removal of that excuse has now left them looking rather naked. We can see them now for what they are.

Towards the end, it was Newcastle who pushed for glory. Howe had been brave enough to send on Almiron – an attacking player – and he brought a simply wonderful save from De Gea moments after a raking drive from Jacob Murphy struck the foot of the post.

The fourth official gave United six added minutes to save themselves but they did nothing with it and at full-time Ronaldo was straight down the tunnel. No acknowledgement for travelling supporters facing 150 miles home in the rain. No acknowledgement for his opponents.

Ronaldo has form for this and it's not good enough. When is someone going to tell him that he is part of this team and as such part of this problem?

[manchestersportmania]

Newcastle 1-1 MU

Manchester United escape Newcastle with a point after a dismal display by Ralf Rangnick's side as sub Edinson Cavani comes to the rescue to cancel out Allan Saint-Maximin's superb opening goal

Manchester United have a fashionable new manager, a fancy new formation but sadly the same players.

Ralf Rangnick's team were abysmal here in the north-east rain. Shambolic, lacking intelligence and, most damningly of all, occasionally unwilling to do the hard yards.

What is it that happens to good players when they wear the red of this great club? Until Rangnick and his eclectic new coaching staff can figure that out, there will be more nights like this.

Newcastle were superb for Eddie Howe. Finally their supporters can hope. They didn't deserve a point from this, they deserved all three. That they didn't take them was due largely to the brilliance of United's goalkeeper David de Gea and, right at the end, the thickness of a post.

When they scored early on through the fabulously entertaining Allan Saint-Maximin, it felt as though the home team would face a mighty struggle to hold on.

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United had not played for two and a half weeks and were at full strength. But that was not how this game played out.

Howe's Newcastle were energetic and full of ideas and menace. United, on the other hand, were full of mistakes.

In the centre of the field the Brazilian Fred was laughably bad. Behind him Raphael Varane was almost as dreadful and there were others. At half-time Rangnick hauled off Fred and Mason Greenwood but there were many other candidates for that indignity. Marcus Rashford and Cristiano Ronaldo were among them.

In the end United took a point. They may feel that is okay but it isn't.

Prior to this game, only Burnley had lost here in the league. That United came within 21 minutes of doing likewise should shame them. So should the fact that Newcastle had twice as many shots on target and also hit the post through Miguel Almiron in added time.

Rangnick has done his best to shake things up.

After a couple of weeks of thought, he set United up to play 4-2-2-2 here. Strange but at least it was different. But formations mean nothing if players can't keep the ball or do the basics.

Newcastle's opening goal in the seventh minute was superb but also had roots in a United mistake as Varane failed to control a ball in the centre of the field. Saint-Maximin was on it in a flash and drove hard at the top of the United penalty area, cutting right past Diogo Dalot and then Maguire before slashing a fierce shot in to the corner to De Gea's left. The goalkeeper had no chance and St James' Park was alive.

Maybe Newcastle needed to score again to have a chance of winning. As chaotic as United remain, they do normally score. Howe's team had their moments as De Gea dived to deny Jonjo Shelvey and Callum Wilson was correctly denied by an offside flag.

But it was a moment right at the start of the second half that felt huge at the time and ultimately proved so. When Emil Krath reached the byline to cross low, Saint-Maximin had 80 per cent of the goal to aim at but could not make the necessary connection and could only drag the ball back towards De Gea.

At first sight it looked a very good save but it was actually a really bad miss and that was a shame for player who had contributed so much to the night.

With Edinson Cavani and Jadon Sancho on, United did improve a little. Rashford had a long shot touched over and one from Ronaldo fizzed wide. Cavani then miscued after Sancho set him up.

But the high comedy remained. Sancho crossed in to the crowd and then Rashford did the same. Harry Maguire then played a ball from deep straight into touch before Ronaldo was booked for a wild swipe at Ryan Fraser.

When United equalised, it was from their best piece of football of the night. A sweeping ball from Bruno Fernandes located Dalot on the right and when his low cross reached Cavani, he scored with a weak but accurate shot after his first attempt came back to him from a defender.

With a good chunk of time left to play, a good United team would have gone to win. In fact, a half decent United team would have done so. But this lot are an incohesive, half-hearted bunch at times. For too many of United's players, there is always somebody else to blame. For a while it was Ole Gunnar Solskjaer's fault but the removal of that excuse has now left them looking rather naked. We can see them now for what they are.

Towards the end, it was Newcastle who pushed for glory. Howe had been brave enough to send on Almiron – an attacking player – and he brought a simply wonderful save from De Gea moments after a raking drive from Jacob Murphy struck the foot of the post.

The fourth official gave United six added minutes to save themselves but they did nothing with it and at full-time Ronaldo was straight down the tunnel. No acknowledgement for travelling supporters facing 150 miles home in the rain. No acknowledgement for his opponents.

Ronaldo has form for this and it's not good enough. When is someone going to tell him that he is part of this team and as such part of this problem?

[fairyringquotes]

John F.M. Dovaston, Magazine of Natural History: Fairy Rings, 1832

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Art. I. Fairy Rings, by John F.M. Dovaston, Esq., A.M., of Westfelton, near Shrewsbury.

    “’T’is very pregnant, The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it, Because we see it; but what we do not see, We tread upon, and never think of it." (Measure for Measure.)

Sir, The fair authoress of ‘The Mummy’ well and wisely observes that "There is an invincible feeling implanted by nature in the mind of man, which makes him shudder with disgust at anything that invades her laws." To such who study and esteem her laws, there cannot be a truth more triumphant. Yet the unthinking mind of man not only indulges in, but doats on, mysteries without meaning, and superstitions without support. Some of these, indeed, in themselves innocent, have, by the genius of poets, been made the vehicles of elegant amusement, and allegorical instruction; while others, dismal and diabolical, have, by the cunning of bigots, become predatory on society, and blasphemous to Heaven. There is a perverse propensity in unenlightened minds to embrace the incomprehensible, and reject the obvious; and millions at this moment implicitly believe in Nixon's ‘Prophecies,’ and those of Moore's ‘Almanack,’ who smile with coarse incredulity at being told of the rotatory motions of our globe, or the cause of an eclipse: doubting what is demonstrable to a child of the commonest capacity, and admitting what would stagger the soundest philosopher. Like the poor woman who, receiving her son from the West Indies, listened with satisfactory conviction to his marvelous narrations of rocks of sugar and rivers of rum, but shuddered, and gave him the flattest contradiction, when he averred that he had seen fishes that could fly; when a moment's reflection, even of her mind, would have shown as near an affinity between fowls and fishes, as between sugar and sand. But these good though simple souls, "most ignorant of what they’re most assured," whose delight is in the marvelous, did they but turn to Nature, would find her kingdom peopled and furnished with incalculably more wonders, ay, and true ones too (were that any recommendation), and each perspicuously and indubitably indicating almighty power, wisdom, and benevolence, than all the abortions that were ever spawned from the monstrous womb of Superstition; even more incongruous and copious than "the stuff which dreams are made of," — more charming, more changing, and more enchanting. What are the tricks and transformations of the most cunning necromancer, compared to the metamorphoses of millions of insects, that actually, and almost hourly, unfold before us; from the smooth and compact egg, to the rough and frightful reptile, through the curious mummy of a chrysalis, to the splendid and celestial butterfly? Look at the myriads of monadal and polypodal molluscous creatures that people every part of the multitudinous ocean! Minuteness, indeed, rather than an argument against, is an augmentation of, astonishment; equal wisdom being displayed, and wonder excited, in the articulations of an elephant or an aphis, in the ramifications of a forest or a fern, in the fructification of a melon or a moss; indeed, the last is incomparably the most intricate and interesting. Look at the fantastic and often, at first, repulsive formations, and apparent deformities, of these creatures of the waters, with limbs and organs in every place and shape but what we expect, and tentacles hundreds of times longer than themselves! Why, heraldry itself never came up to these, with all its hippogryphs, dragons, wiverns, hydras, chimeras, and amphisbaenas dire. Some flowers that are now brought from abroad are so extravagantly eccentric in composition, so magnificent in structure, and so dazzlingly glaring in colors, that the most imaginative painter would never have thought of limning such. Some parasites so expansive and ponderous, having blossoms many feet in diameter, exist on trailing plants utterly unable to support themselves. Nay, the momentary actions of nature are ceaseless successions of miracle; evaporation, condensation, suspension of odor, and vibration of sound. Even poetry is surpassed; for what fairy grotto ever equalled the feathery crystallizations of a frosted pane, glistening and sparkling in splendid brilliance? Or what sparry groves or coral caves of the Nereids, deep in the vast abysms of ocean, could ever vie with a silent frost-forest; heavily still, and candied with spikes of hoary rime, spangling and blushing in the earliest beams of the golden sun? What gigantic palace of enchantment copes in splendor with the columnar shafts of icicles congealed around a winter waterfall? or, in curious castellets, embrasures, and bastions, with the masses of powdery snow sifted fantastically through a hedge into a deep lane? Thus, though lost in the immensity of boundless space, all breathing with creation, the humble student of nature, one of the happiest of earth's creatures, may exclaim with the sublime Callias (in ‘Anacharsis’), "The insect which obtains a glimpse of infinity partakes of the greatness which overwhelms it;" and may cordially say with the philosopher,  Even to such an one as I am, an idiota, or common person, no great things, melancholizing in woods and quiet places, by rivers, the goddesse herself, Truth, has oftentimes appeared:" but on opening his eyes on the pampered and artificial world (whether civil or religious), he will feel with King Lear's honest fool, that "Truth's a dog that must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when Lady, the brach, may lie by the fire and stink." It is an unconfutable truth, that among people who have made the greatest progress in natural history, their ideas of the Deity have always been more refined, exalted, and sublime; while in the darkness of theirs where that science has slept, or been sluggish, their notions of his nature and attributes have been derogatory, detestable, and even diabolical.

But to my intention; or I shall be like Bayle, who, in his work on comets, has forgotten them, and filled his volumes with everything beside, eccentrically erratic: and so may I be herein like a stuffed toucan, all bill and no body. I was led into this lengthened preliminary by some reflections on fairy rings, for the cause of which I think I can account, without offense to that airy people, for whom I confess I have a hankering fondness, in consideration of one William Shakespeare, and his fanciful brethren, who have given them a permanent ascendency they long ere this had lost, but for the embalming power of song; so I shall proceed with all due loyalty to the jealous King Oberon, his crown and dignity: confining myself to the two prevailing opinions of their cause; the first whereof I think I shall confute, and establish the second. Let the incredulous in philosophy continue their superstition; this is a harmless one: for though the fairies have long ago left off dropping testers in our shoes, they do not pick our pockets.

It is asserted that these rings are occasioned by centrifugal fungi, which the ground is only capable of producing once; and these, dropping their seeds outwards, extend the rings, "like circles on the water." Fungi I conceive to be the effect, and not the cause, of these] rings: and ground producing fungi once, is not incapable of reproductiveness, as the possessors of old mushroom beds well know; for simply by watering, they will reproduce exuberantly, without fresh spawn, for many years. Besides, we find all these fungi without rings, plentifully; but very rarely without some visible (and never perhaps without some latent) excitement; such as dung, combustion, decomposing wood, or weeds; indeed, the seeds of fungi are so absolutely impalpable, that I have sometimes thought they are taken up with the juices into the capillary tubes of all vegetables, and so appear, when decomposition affords them a pabulum and excitement, on rotten wood and leaves: and this seed is produced in such excessive quantities, thrown off so freely, and borne about so easily, that perhaps there is hardly a particle of matter whose surface is not imbued therewith; and had these seeds the power of germinating by mere wetness alone, without some other exciting cause, all surface would be crowded with them, and pasturage impeded. Now, were these rings caused by the falling of the seeds centrifugally, they would enlarge, which they do not, but after a year or two, utterly disappear; though plenty of the seed may be seen to load the grass all around. I have brought large patches of these rings into other fields, but never found them enlarge; and the turf I have taken back to replace in the rings has never partaken of their nature. Why, too, should the grass be more rank in the rings? one would conclude the seeds of fungi would make it less so. Now, the exciting cause that occasions these fungi, and deeper verdure to come up in circles, the true, the nimble fairies —

"That do by moonshine green sour ringlets make,  Whereof the ewe not bites; whose pastime is  To make these midnight mushrooms"—  

I hold to be strokes of Electricity: and I owe you "the picking of a crow," good Mr. Loudon, for refusing, some time ago, the admission of a gentleman's Essay on Electricity, averring it incompatible with Natural History; when you very well know that no part of organized nature can go on a moment without it, and that no part of unorganized matter exists, not subject to its pervasive influence. [Footnote: Excepting glass and a very few others similar; to which, however, it may be most easily communicated by the intervention of metal, and made to retain it perfectly when the metal is removed.]

A very considerable portion of those volleyed lightnings and rolling "thunder, that deep and dreadful organ pipe," which often keep such awful coil and "pother o'er our heads," has frequently very little or nothing to do with us; for though a nimbus be heavily discharging its rain, cumuli are bagged up in different heights the lobed and thin edges of which may be often seen through the shower, tinged by the flash; as one cloud is giving or receiving the fluid, according as it is more or less disposed. This may be proved by theory: but I have very often witnessed it, safely seated on the tops of very high mountains, in the calm and quiet sunshine and sweet serenity of a blue sky: and some who read this article will remember witnessing it with me on the craggy heights of the Glissegs, and even from so low an elevation as the Balder-stone of the Wrekin. But when a column of electric fluid affects the earth, either ascending or descending (for I confidently contend, in the very face of some modern theorists, that it ascends innumerously oftener than it descends, though I must not pause to prove it here), it scorches the ground all around its edge, where there is plenty of oxygen in contact with it, and leaves the centre unscathed, where the oxygen is either expelled or destroyed, and so fertilizes the extremity: the consequence is, that the first year the grass is destroyed, and the ring appears bare and brown; but the second year, the grass re-springs with highly increased vigor and verdure, together with fungi, whose dormant seeds are so brought into vegetation, that without this exciting cause might have slept inert for centuries. These fungi are most generally of the Agáricus, Bol¡etus, or Lycopérdon, sometimes Clavària, genus; I have very rarely seen any other. The fertilization of combustion, as agriculturists well know, though violent, being of short duration, these circles soon disappear. They are, moreover, generally found in open places, on hillsides, wide fields, and broad meadows, where lightning is more likely to strike; and seldom near trees or woods, which throw off, or receive the fluid silently and imperceptibly. I have indeed sometimes seen one all round a tree, which must have been by a stroke, from which trees are by no means exempt. I confess I have never been able to produce a single spot by electricity: though a learned friend and myself one summer collected and repeatedly discharged a prodigious accumulation of battery on the grass-plot before my dining room window: but it requires, to produce a very small ring, an incalculably larger column than it is in the utmost power of man to accumulate or discharge. The following year, however, my friend was pleasingly amazed at beholding a noble fairy ring on the very spot! and was long in doubting suspense, till I informed him I had made it with what really acted on the same principles, — fresh soot.

I remember (though for relating it "I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me"), when a youth at Christ-church, some Oxford wags traced with gunpowder, and fired on the short-mown grass of the Grand Quadrangle in that College, in large capitals, the short monosyllable that so much appears to puzzle poor Malvolio in the epistle forged by his Mistress Olivia's chambermaid; and to the affected indignation of the old dons, and the titillatory fun of the merry Oxonians, the little word flourished there in brown and green for two years; and may be still talked of yet in those frolicksome regions, by such humourists as,

Sir, yours, John F. M. Dovaston. Westfelton, near Shrewsbury, Dec. 30. 1831.

[ecotone99]

[HR] The Abomination

“For the sake of humanity’s future peace and safety, it is absolutely necessary that Earth’s dark corners stay unilluminated and its abysmal depths remain unfathomed; lest we revive sleeping abominations and entice blasphemous nightmares of bygone eons to squirm and crawl out of their murky resting places.”

R.H. Blake, The Burrower Beneath[1]

​

His instruments told him that he had arrived in the late morning. The sun was low, hovering above the eastern horizon, yet the atmosphere was dismally gray. With cloudless skies above and no ground-hugging fog to diffuse the sun’s radiance, Brandon Wells found himself at a loss to explain why a beautiful day should have been so preternaturally dreary. It was as though he were looking at the world through a pane of dirty glass in every direction, all color muted or subdued by some intangible filter, and that wasn’t all.

Wells was no neurotic, nor was he given to frequent attacks of anxiety, but never in his life had he felt so unnerved by a mere location. A wellspring of irrational fear had erupted within him almost the very instant his boots touched the ground. The emotion had sprung on him fast, like a striking viper, and just as quickly abated, becoming a kind of raw excitement that made his muscles quiver and his skin prickle.

Like a sprinter waiting for the crack of a pistol shot, his body was primed and ready to run, begging for the signal to go, go, go!

Wells looked over his shoulder at the Ergosphere, the only thing in sight that had any color to it, and its hull of neutron-degenerate gravitonium was hardly esthetically pleasing to the eye. The vehicle seemed to speak to him:

Take me away from this place. Just get in and go!

Wells reigned in his overactive imagination. Despite his innate fears, he was intent on exploring the ruins.

And they’re ruins even now, Wells mused. Over 12,000 years before my time, and this place is already derelict.

Before him, carved out of cyclopean cliffs of dull, striped sandstone, were the gargantuan stepped walls of an ancient ziggurat. Calling the monument a “ziggurat” was a misnomer, Wells knew, but he couldn’t think of a better word to describe the monument’s general form. The builders had taken advantage of natural breaks in the cliff to fashion a megalithic structure with a combination of sloping and stepped walls.

Stepped pyramid? Wells asked himself. That descriptor didn’t seem to fit either, so he took to calling it simply “the Monument” although giving the structure such an innocent name did nothing to alleviate his feeling of disgust.

A tremor coursed through the ground, accompanied by the grating sound of rubble moving against rubble. There was a sharp pop as stonework cracked wide open, and Wells cried out in panic, his nerves already on edge. As if hearing him, the earth calmed, and all became still. Feeling terribly ashamed of himself, Wells sat down on a flat piece of rock and waited for his hammering heart to slow down.

He should’ve known to anticipate seismic activity. Earth was nearing the end of its most recent Ice Age, a time period future geologists and archaeologists would name the Pleistocene. The spot upon which Wells stood was still part of the Asian continent, but 12,000 years later it would be underwater, the Monument reduced to a set of ruins just off the southern coast of Yonaguni Island[2]. Wells had traveled back in time to investigate the area, intent on proving that the mysterious Yonaguni Monument was actually a natural formation. Instead, he had found something clearly man-made.

But what race of mankind could have built such a colossal structure, there, at the end of the Pleistocene epoch, where Homo sapiens and their cousins, the Neanderthal and Homo erectus, were only using crude stone tools? The engineering knowledge and necessary implements were thousands of years away, in the Bronze Age, at least. Had the ancient sandstone really been sculpted by human hands? Was the monument’s geometry, its straight edges and sharp right angles, truly the conception of a human brain? The longer he observed, the more Wells became convinced of an alien and altogether inhuman origin. The chrononaut shook his head, trying to banish his irrational thoughts by repeating his mantra:

It’s the glory of God to hide a thing, but to seek out the hidden is the honor of kings.

He had discovered something truly extraordinary, and his imagination was running amuck with terror, filling his mind’s eye with terrific visions of eldritch horrors. Wells, disgusted with his childishness, pushed himself to his feet, wondering why the Monument had evoked such a strong reaction from him. Perhaps it was an ancient instinct, something in the genes passed down through the ages from his earliest progenitors. He ignored the feeling of impending danger and marched up a winding ramp to a large rectangular gateway cut into the rock wall. As he did so, another tremor shook the Monument, causing him to trip. Again, he suppressed the urge to run away, to return to the Ergosphere and leave the cursed Monument behind forever. When the quake passed, Wells continued up the ramp; although, each small step was a herculean effort.

He finally reached the top of the ramp and peered down an unlit passageway of indeterminate length. Wells knew immediately that he was looking into the abysmal mouth of Hell, that lurking somewhere in the hidden recesses of the Monument, a terrible evil was waiting for him. Reaching into his pants’ pocket, he took out a flashlight and shined the beam along the walls, revealing intricate symbols carved into their surface. Wells ran his hands over the faces of the walls and was startled by their glassy smoothness. Not only was the rock like polished granite, but the signs were etched in gold! It was impossible, but Wells could hardly dismiss the evidence as easily as he could his own imaginings. Where had the knowledge to make such sophisticated artwork come from? It was certainly beyond the skills of humanity, there, at the end of the Ice Age, where stone knives and bear skins were the cutting edge of technology.

Wells’ research had hardly been exhaustive. The ancient history of Yonaguni Island was vague, its earliest recorded history reaching back only as far as the fifteenth century A.D. Had the region been home to a heretofore undiscovered species of technologically advanced humans sometime in the far distant past?

It’s the most plausible conclusion, Wells thought, but he was skeptical.

Wells continued down the passage with renewed curiosity, trying to decipher the wall art as he went. The symbols were accompanied by intricate and beautiful bas-reliefs that, together, seemed to tell a story. He took his translator out of his back pocket and, using its camera, took a picture of a section of the wall. It could not decipher the ancient language, but it did identify several characters that were similar to those found on the Dispilio tablet[3]. The translator also suggested that the language was meant to be read from top to bottom, left to right.

Wells had better luck interpreting the scenes depicted in the bas-reliefs. Although they were dazzling and gorgeous works of art, their gold outlines sparkling like ribbons of sunlight in the beam of his flashlight, the story they told filled the chrononaut with unmitigated dread.

Minutes turned into hours as Wells laboriously pieced together the narrative represented in the bas-reliefs, switching from the left wall to the right, trying to establish linearity of plot, all the while progressing deeper into the bowels of the Monument. He eventually came to the conclusion that he was looking at some sort of creation myth. The story started with a war being waged in the heavens, depicted in the bas-reliefs as two sets of entities engaged in combat against a background of stars. One faction had an anthropoid outline, the figures cloaked head to toe in armor and wielding weapons. In opposition, the second set of figures were depicted as misshapen monsters that could hurl lightning bolts. The carvings of the monsters, though outlined in gold, were grotesque and lacked the refined detail of the anthropoids, and Wells had trouble finding words to adequately describe their characteristics.

In another scene, the armored anthropoids were shown victorious, casting the monsters out of the stars and exiling them to a planet. It couldn’t have meant anything else, Wells knew. Shown in the background of the same relief was a large, four-pointed star and two dots. One dot was smaller and closer to the star while the other was slightly bigger and further away.

“The Sun,” Wells said, his voice sounding oddly muted within the passage. “Mercury…Venus…Earth.”

The curved line in the foreground must’ve represented the surface of the Earth; the anthropoids, still among the stars, pointed their outstretched arms across the emptiness of outer space towards the planet; the monsters were shown falling down a tunnel represented as a gold-speckled triangle that twisted and wound through the void until it’s vertex touched the inside of the curved line.

Wells moved on to another bas-relief, wondering how much of the story he was missing without reading the ancient text that went with it. The next carving depicted a pantheon or hierarchy of creatures that, he supposed, were the worshiped deities of the people who’d built the Monument. They were hideous things, and he wondered if they didn’t symbolize the exiled monsters from the previous image.

“But why would the artists choose to represent their gods as vague and amorphous in one picture but well-defined and hideous in another?” Wells asked.

Within the pantheon image, the deities were given weird and exaggerated features in both face and body. There was a thing that looked like a squid with the round, sucking mouth of a leech. Another was a spider with a lidless eye for an abdomen. A third was long and serpentine, but it had great big paws, a pair of leathery wings, and a head like a bearded dragon. Those were just a few of the less disturbing characters, but what drew Wells’ attention the most was the symbol that occupied an empty spot at what should’ve been the top of the hierarchy. It was a dot with a straight line, a hooked line, and an arrow, each radiating out of center.

None of the other deity images had a symbol associated with their picture, and Wells was left wondering why the top god only had a symbol to represent it.

Wells’ continued examination of the walls brought him before a bas-relief depicting the squid monster, its feelers wrapped around some massive sea creature, possibly a prehistoric whale, and apparently in the process of devouring it. Other reliefs showed similar scenes of the monster gods, one in particular depicting a lumbering giant that dwarfed a herd of roving brontosaurs. Finally, Wells came to one of the last panels. He wiped cold sweat from his brow, unaware until that moment that he had been sweating profusely. His skin was clammy and his clothes were uncomfortably sticky and heavy. His instinctual urge to flee from the Monument, which he had largely been able to ignore, absorbed as he had been with interpreting the bas-reliefs, suddenly resurged and he had a vision of himself running out of the Monument, screaming like a madman.

“It’s the glory of God to hide a thing,” Wells whispered, “but to seek out the hidden is the honor of kings.”

Some things should stay hidden, a voice in his head replied, and he shuddered.

He had been wondering who, or what, had built the Monument and for what purpose. Wells found his answer in the last bas-relief on the left wall. It showed a vaguely anthropoidal creature which stood upright on a pair of thick, backwards-bending legs and a saurian tail. Its chest and torso were humanoid in shape, but the hands on the ends of its arms possessed three clawed fingers and an opposable digit like a thumb. Attached to the shoulders by a stubby neck was a round, hairless head with two eyes, a flat nose, and a round, lipless orifice that must’ve been a mouth.

The Earth was old, Wells understood, and humanity would be forever ignorant about most of her past. That was why he had taken it upon himself to explore the hidden history of deep time, to fill in as many gaps as he could, but the mysteries of the Monument were too baffling. Was he really supposed to believe that the Earth had been home to an intelligent race of monstrosities from the stars? Setting aside the possibility of extraterrestrial life, which Wells was willing to entertain, where was the evidence? Surely they were part of the fossil record. Why hadn’t he seen their bones in the dinosaur exhibit next to the T-Rex? And what about the Monument’s builders? To what bygone era of Earth’s antiquity did they belong? The carving on the wall was a bastard hybridization of saurian and human physiognomy, which should have been impossible, considering dinosaurs and humans had 65 million years of time and one mass extinction separating them.

The planet is 4.6 billion years old, Wells thought. There have been five major extinctions that we know of. It’s physically impossible to account for every creature that’s ever lived. New species are discovered all the time, but how many species go extinct every day that we never know about?

A new wave of seething terror coursed through him, and Wells jumped to the side, aiming his flashlight into the chamber beyond the passageway. He had suddenly become aware of a foul stench akin to burnt garlic, a permeating odor which threatened to smother him like a wet blanket, and he began to dry heave. His impulse to run came roaring back with a vengeance. The smell—that smell—it was the crack of the pistol, the go sign, the final warning. A voice called out to him from deep within his mind:

Run, you damn fool! Run! Get out while you can!

Wells remained resolute and forced himself to continue through, past the end of the passage. He knew that he was in mortal danger—all his senses told him so. Something was waiting for him within the Monument, something old and expectant and every bit as curious about him as he was about it. Wells didn’t understand how he knew these things, he simply knew them to be true, as if they were self-evident. What horrid abomination could stir such ancient instincts within him to life? What star-born monstrosity could unbury prehistoric knowledge from the deepest recesses of his brain and draw it to the surface?

Wells had to know.

“It’s the glory of God to hide a thing,” he whispered, “but to seek out the hidden is the honor of kings.”

Ignore me at your own peril, you fool. It was the same voice that had told Wells to run, to get out while he still had a chance. It was his sense of self-preservation, his survival instinct, the oldest and most basic of human drives. It had been given a voice, snarling, angry, and loud. It was furious at Wells for ignoring it. How old was that voice? Over how many millennia had it been passed down that it should know the implicit danger of the Monument and the alien thing inside it?

Wells entered a tall, vaulted chamber with a flat, circular floor. The walls, ceiling, and floor were the same striped sandstone as the rest of the Monument, and Wells hypothesized that the cavity was a natural cave that had been altered by artificial means to serve a purpose. The sandstone walls had been cut into stepped ledges, forming a kind of amphitheater or auditorium. The smell of burnt garlic was overwhelming within the confines of the chamber and grew to unbearable levels nearest the center of the room, where there was a circular pit, six feet in diameter, carved out of the floor.

Inside the pit was a churning, bubbling fluid, dark and wretched in color. It was then that Wells saw the other markings on the floor, each pointing radially from the lip of the pit: a straight line, a hooked line, and an arrow.

The fluid heaved, and a vaguely human appendage emerged out of the pit to slap wetly against the floor, and Wells jumped backwards, a scream lodged somewhere in his throat. Another arm appeared, its three-fingered hand grasping the lip of the pit, the dark fetid fluid dripping sinuously onto the sandstone floor. Then the fluid expelled a round head with lidless, bulging eyes, each blood red with a few black dots in each. A lipless orifice made a wet, sucking noise like a single, deep breath, and Wells finally screamed.

The Monument trembled, dust falling into his eyes. He was running down the long passageway with the horribly beautiful bas-reliefs and the ancient language carved in gold upon its walls. The light at the entrance of the passage was like a beacon, urging him on. He ran at full steam—it was the fastest and longest sprint of his entire life—screaming all the while; although, he could barely hear himself over the sound of cracking rock. His body had been tensed like a taught rubber band for hours, and he had finally snapped, all the stored adrenaline burning up in a matter of seconds.

Wells reached the entrance and flung himself off the ramp and into open space. Gravity snagged him, pulling him to the ground, and he landed on his feet, white hot pain shooting up his legs. He rolled on his side, grimacing. Looking up, he saw the mouth of the passage belching gray rock dust as portions of the monument cracked and fell all around him. The latest earthquake did not abate as the previous ones had. It was as if some unseen force was intent on destroying the Monument now that its secret was known.

The chrononaut got to his feet and limped to the Ergosphere as quickly as he could. It was hard to keep his balance while tremors shook the ground, but he made it to the hatch and hauled himself up the steps into the time machine. He turned and watched with tremendous satisfaction as the Monument folded in upon itself, and then he smashed the big red button on the wall with his fist, closing the hatch.

For many weeks following his excursion, Wells found himself unable to sleep without dreaming about the Monument and the abomination that had lived there. He wanted to believe that it had been buried in the ruins and swallowed by the seas, lost to time forever, but an angry, snarling voice within him kept saying the same thing, over and over:

It’s too much to hope for.

​

And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this is also a vexation of the spirit. For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.

Ecclesiastes 1:17-18

​

[1] Original quotation paraphrased from At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft

[2] The westernmost inhabited island of Japan, located between the East China Sea and the Pacific Ocean.

[3] Discovered in 1993 during excavation of a Neolithic settlement in Greece and dated to circa 5202 B.C., the symbols on the Dispilio tablet are thought to represent the earliest form of writing ever found to date.

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