#Duane Sharp

[movielosophy]

The Story of Pearl Girl | A date in Yangzhou

[kdo-three]

Duane Eddy and His 'Twangy' Guitar - Rebel-'Rouser (1958) Duane Eddy / Lee Hazlewood from: "Rebel-'Rouser" / "Stalkin'" (Single) "Have 'Twangy' Guitar Will Travel" (Album) "The Backbeat of Rock and Roll 1948 - 1962: Seminal Sounds from the Instrumental Epoch" (2012 Compilation Box Set | CD1)

Instrumental | Instrumental Rock | Rockabilly

Mono: JukeHostUK (left click = play) (320)

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Stereo: JukeHostUK (left click = play) (320)

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Personnel: Duane Eddy: Electric Lead Guitar Donnie Owens: Rhythm Guitar Corki Casey O’Dell: Rhythm Guitar Al Casey: Piano Gil Bernal: Saxophone Buddy Wheeler: Electric "Click" Bass Jimmy Simmons: Acoustic Bass Bob Taylor: Drums

The Sharps: Backing Vocals / Rebel Yells / Handclaps

Produced by Lee Hazlewood / Lester Sill

Recorded: @ Ramsey Recorders (AKA Audio Recorders) in Phoenix, Arizona USA March, 1958

Single Released: May 1958 Jamie Records

Album Released: on January 9, 1958 Jamie Records

Box Set Released: on December 11, 2012 Famous Flames Records

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 10&11 - "Blow to the Head" & "Double Vision"

Durlyne let the Tanners have the slums and, in exchange, the Tanners did not often venture into the city's ghers nor its moneyed streets. This rule wasn't written down anywhere nor ever even said aloud; it seemed instead branded on local hearts. Durlynians learned it in the way that children learned knives were sharp and stoves were hot.

The Tanners had been Lemuel's boogeyman the first ten years of his life. Afterwards, he met the world's scarier monsters, but tales of the Tannery rogues had primed him for them: throatcutters, twin takers, back flayers. Hides from the Tannery were the finest in the land, for they did not skin the swine nor stag; Tanners skinned the man.

If you stayed out of the slums though, a lad was safe. A careful lad was safe.

So why, today, was the Sheriff of White Hill constabulary laying murdered in his fine home? His whole family, in fact, was murdered. A wife, two little boys, an infant girl, and even the family kedises slashed to death in their drawing room. Lemuel didn't understand it, but it was hard to question: one of the assassins had been caught trying to put the manor to the torch afterwards. A Midmolil boy for sure. An oily little throat-cutter called Corley Full Tang. By dawn, the inquisitors would twist him into shapes that did not yet have names.

But right now, his two accomplices were flying through the labyrinthine slums beyond Blue Boy Bridge. And Lemuel Adelier wanted them badly. He was only a week returned home from the army, freshly recruited to the Lions of Mercy. He was a Lion! They could never send him away again.

As long as he was a GOOD Lion.

"Take some care there!" Duane called after his brother, egging his mount on until it ran apace with Lemuel's panting bull , "You don't chase the viper into its den; you don't put yourself alone in the dark with it!"

Lemuel barked a laugh. "Home to the wife then if you're afraid, old man! Did you not see the blood in the Sheriff's home? From corner to corner it pooled! Over tin soldiers and a Tainish primer it pooled!"

Lemuel didn't have to turn to see the words had struck. There was a six month old baby girl in his brother's home now. Never again would he be fighting fully armoured. "Of course I saw it," Duane snarled, "And my prudence is not fear, ye strutting cock! Do as I say and wait for reinforcements. Do not ride off unbuttoned in your shortclothes and embarrass me, the one that brought you here. This isn't Chinoll!"

"Embarrass you!" Lemuel echoed, "Embarrass you!"

"Do you not covet the snakes? Know your place or the closest you will ever be allowed to a vliegeng are their dung heaps!"

"I don't need your permission! I'll find them!"

The Adeliers had been born and raised in the Godkiller's city, and though Lemuel had always respected his grandfather's advice to never venture beyond Blue Boys Bridge, he knew the Tannery's mark as well as any other local with a sense of self-preservation. As his hound snuffed after the villain's scent now, he noticed that mark mysteriously absent from the walls. Should the killers not be running back to their den, or at least towards the assurance of their own territory?

Lemuel was about to make this observation aloud when a door blew open, and eyes flashed in the night. "There!"

A throwing knife shot wasp-like from Lemuel's hand. The figure in the doorway yelped (Lemuel distantly hoped he had not just murdered a washwoman) and bolted from the building towards a break in the opposite wall. Clattering to the pavement, the knife didn't stick, but Lemuel's dog was already pounding past it, leaping, landing hard on the rogue's back. Lemuel dismounted like a diving raptor, sailing over the hound's head and to his prey's side.

"Some viper!" Lemuel grabbed his collar, hauled him to his feet. "More a worm slinking on his belly through the dirt! You slaughtered that entire family, and not a drop of blood on you! Look at the professional, Duane! Look at the coward!"

The elder Adelier pulled his hound up sharp, oozing disgust. "Excrement in a suit," he hissed, "Child-killing trash that would make a liar of Sonum Ssael when He taught every man has in him the way to His side. WHY! Who hired that hit, demon?"

Lemuel punched fingers into the knife slash in the assassin's coat, then ribs. The move would have felt more satisfying with a clawed gauntlet, perhaps, but it still produced a warbling, ricocheting scream. Blood oozed, and stuck the contents of the rogue's opened pocket to the LIon's punishing hand.

"Stop it!" Duane demanded. Lemuel did it again. Oh, Duane professed to loathe this sport, but he'd deliver this bastard to the inquisitors without a qualm in his heart. Ha!

"Sing for us!" Lemuel snarled, "Sing! Or I let you live to see the pit! And by God, if you do, you'll wish I'd taken your liver-"

The world offset suddenly, violent as a rutting vliegeng. Lemuel's vision exploded silver, and it was his turn to be on the ground. It was happy to catch him, but then he couldn't lift his newly wet head nor remember what he'd done with his legs. Fearfully Duane snapped his name but it was only his shadow that approached. Then in a mighty leap it cleared him, and Lemuel saw his brother bolt to the far end of the alley, palms flashing green spellfire. There was an exchange of pymary there, too fast for Lemuel's concussed brain to follow. Duane would win of course. It was hardly worth watching. Perhaps he'd give that show a miss entirely…

When next he opened his eyes, Lemuel was in his bed at the Temple barracks. Pink sunlight filtered through the high slits in the walls. He felt warm and sleepy and doped with something that he thought he'd like a second helping of.

"Oh, no, no," admonished Leysa, pushing him back down. Drugged or sober, Lemuel was powerless to resist. He lay obediently paralysed by the same tone of voice his new sister-in-law used when telling Duane he WOULD be playing cards and smoking with her father and his friends tonight.

"Where… is…?"

She smiled, grim, and fixed the cold rag back on his forehead. "Duane is choosing the 'most cross and callous tyrant in the Temple' for the task of interrogating the man he caught last night. Those terrible criminals nearly had the undoing of you, sweet boy, and you know your brother is one to take that personally."

Lemuel shut his eyes, giddiness and nausea battling for control of his stomach. "He… will wring his hands over insulting a hackney… until one he holds dear is threatened. Then, he would challenge God."

"I confess it to be a quality I adore," laughed Leysa. Lemuel thought she had the most musical laugh. He felt singularly accomplished when he could produce it. "Please do not mistake his nature for hypocrisy. Recognise that it is love."

"I fear… I embarrassed him last night."

"You are his brother. It is why brothers are. I did not see embarrassment when he laid you here in your cot however, nor after he had sent for his own sleeping wife to tend you. I only saw-"

"Love. It's how he gets away with everything."

Leysa laughed her songbird laugh, carefully petting his head. She liked him, and Lemuel still couldn't figure out why. He rubbed his eyes, cross, then felt a stinging spot suddenly at his side. His blood-sticky fingers found bandages there, and produced great agony when he pressed them into his abdomen. Leysa captured his hand, shushing him.

"Now, I told you they nearly had the undoing of you. After his friend struck you with that spell, the man you were on top of put a knife into your side. He's still out there, somewhere, but no concern of yours. You need to rest. I will have the cleric bring more medicine."

Hard breaths through his nose. Lemuel bade the pain subside as his mind raced. None of this made sense… but he would NOT be Duane's embarrassment. "Please," he agreed with Leysa, "More."

===

Double Vision

A few hours later, his hound was happy to see him, though Lemuel wondered why the kennel lads were keeping the animals two apiece in their stalls today. As he neared, careful not to seem in a hurry to the attendants, the pair of dogs resolved into one.

Oh.

He wanted to shake his head to clear it, but was certain that would result in a swoon. God's Beard, could he ride at all with his eyes half-crossed by the Temple's finest unguents?

They'd killed the pain at least. Lemuel was able to swing onto his saddle with the barest grunt, and only the slightest tickle of oozing blood from his stitched side.

"We don't have a lot of time before Leysa returns," he murmured. The dog whumped and beat its tail twice. Leysa'd gone home to feed the new baby, but she'd threatened him with strangulation if he moved from the cot. That's why Duane had sent for her. It had nothing to do with her laugh nor her kind eyes nor any particular skill she had at pressing cold rags to hot foreheads. Duane simply thought he'd mind her more than anyone else. Well! The great Duane Adelier was not so wise, was he!

He'd said papa would be coming to visit soon too, after the shop closed. That would not control him either! No, no. That only motivated him to put himself elsewhere. He did not need to see the old man's pity; that look in his eyes with which he had always regarded his youngest son. That look. That inscrutable LOOK.

I'm sorry you're not your brother.

To hell with it. Lemuel had investigative work to do, and some degree of personal honour to restore.

He made it over the Bridge in an hour, sticking to the low streets and away from the busy market corridor. Passing over the river, it was grey and berg-bloated, bottles and trash choking the banks. In the wan afternoon light, Lemuel looked down at his gory right hand. He squinted, willing his vision to align and read to him the torn scrap of paper stuck to his palm.

"Gherson Oa"

It had been in his would-be murderer's pocket. Was it a street? None that he knew. Perhaps a business name somewhere in the slums?

Once he'd reached the mouth of the alley, Lemuel left his hound and proceeded on foot. The wine-coloured stain half-way down the filthy corridor left him even sicker in his middle. He saw Duane's prints in it, a wild frenzy of boot soles and bloody knees. Slashes where his coatskirts had dragged through the seeping red.

"Love," Lemuel whispered. Of course Duane loved him. And he loved Duane. But there was not one Goddamned thing in the world that love could mend. Ssael spoke of honour, of duty, of responsibility towards family, faith, and country. If the Godkiller had thought more of love, He'd have said so. Let love be for mothers, fathers, and children. Let it be for people who knew how to laugh.

Quietly, carefully, Lemuel eased open the door from the night before, the one from which his attacker had bolted. It was unmarked. The lock was broken. Freshly broken. The knights and constables must have already been through here?

Aye, the small room inside was a mess. Turned over tables, papers scattered, a wooden trunk opened with pymary and all its contents emptied into a heap. Lem crossed the room and descended a hobbled set of wooden stairs leading out the back. They led to a basement converted into an equally disastrous kitchen. Its upholstered chairs had been slashed open. Sawdust hung in the air. Lemuel had to squeeze his nostrils shut for if he sneezed he was sure he would split open.

That's when he saw it. Sitting on the dark counter admidst overturned mustard jars, half a loaf of stale bread, and a few broken jars of pickle, he spied a canister with its label torn.

"tmeal," it read.

Sweating through his uniform, Lemuel affixed to it his own bloody scrap of paper.

"Gherson Oatmeal."

He breathed a chuckle, expression a rictus of triumph, and unscrewed the top.

There was only a dead mouse inside.

"Bleeeeeeding heeeeell," he moaned. Duane would laugh at the soldier brat thinking he'd figured out something clever. The Temple's finest men had swept through here. If there was anything to be found, they would have found it!

But there WAS something to find! Something about the entire assassination was wrong. The Tanners would not have ventured to the Sheriff's very home to kill him. They would not have killed the entire family, enraging the rest of the city. They would not have been caught in the act! And a Tannery assassin would not have stabbed a knife into an unconscious Lion and failed to have it kill him!

Amateurs! These were amateurs!

But wait, wait, wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Duane had spoken in the past of pymarics with material triggers. Doorways that only opened if certain keys or materials swept into their questing field.

"Is there a dead mouse door?" he asked the room.

Well, not in the north wall. He held the oatmeal canister in front of him like the world's least successful alms cup, rattling the limp rodent inside, running it past a framed calendar, a faded old poster for the General Foundry's playhouse (destroyed in a fire years ago), a shelf of tin tea canisters and detergent boxes. Nothing. Nor did the east wall budge, nor were there any likely apertures to the west, which was covered over with dusty shelves, a grimy wash basin full of dishes, and a stove missing its grills.

"An embarrassment!" he despaired, holding his head. He felt weak and sick. Blood dribbled down his hip and made a wet, cold streak in his trouser leg. They would never give him a vliegeng. Newly arrived and already put in his cot by some son of a bitch wright; by some cowardly murderer with an oatmeal label in his bloody coat. Probably the lunatic only kept it to roll a weed fag! Piqued, furious at himself, Lemuel threw the canister and its forlorn dead occupant to the floor-

Which dissolved beneath his feet. Into perfect powdery blackness, Lemuel fell.

Concluded here.

[bathylychnops]

iwant to make a slideshow or something to gush properly about my favorite artists here but i wont make a slideshow iwill just listthem and tryto say a clear amount about each one

most ofwhat inspires me is shapes and like balance of detail and simplification, colors and compostion.. just somuch,... ouh..

alot ofthese are gonna be 'love how they simplify things' because i add too many details and lines and make a drawing stiff and i cant like, see the drawing underneath allthe load-bearing details gfsfgs

@wigglybug im not biased because thisis my wife he is just also my favorite artist and i adore everything about her colors, character designs, stylization of shapes especially, like with just a few lines she can make very visually pleasing but informing shapes, inspires me to draw more just for the fun of it, and somuch more but icant talkabout murphy onthis post anymore itwill go on forever

@sarakipin inspires me to keep shapes clear & bold but also so delicate details and design & scene elements, also makes me wantto make more full scenes, with backgrounds and more ambitious illustrations

@siins STYLIZATION fun shapes and expressions its all so dynamic but very solid, with bold lines and bright colors its just wonderful like every character is immediately recognizeable and so fun

@slowopoke gosh shapes colors movement and ilove their style, and warm colors i love warm colors in art. very clean but rough scratchy lineart in a soft way? its very good, also another onethat makes me want to simplify my shapes and art more to leave room for details

@peachdeluxe linework, goodd character designs and clear fun expressions, i LOVE how they stylize hair, clothing folds and coloring is just delightful

@cherryspliced again, very clear shapes and character designs, very EXPRESSIVE too and it all feels so solid like their fanart feels like its his own ocs

@thetrashppl inspired me to loosen up shapes and lines and make more dynamic expressions and lines, like rougher but clear sketching, and has a delightful artstyle like very sharp but also round and solid

therestoo many more i have toomany thoughts but notenough energy to write them but iwill tag my friends ilove their art (not tagging like so theyhave to do their version of this post, just so youguys canlook atyeir art)

@honeyginsen @mythicalmeowz @phthalomus @juicedeletedagainwoahshockerwow adn ihave more friends but idont know ifthey wanttobe tagged

icant tag them but ilove leyendecker and norman rockwell, any old painted pinups but especially the Duane Bryers 'Hilda' pinups...

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt! Requested by @editoress!

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | “If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.) for the brothers Adelier

**********

Smoke billowed high in the starless night sky, the roar of the flames muffled only by the screaming rats that infested the Court.  They scattered, pleading for mercy as he pushed through the throng, only to be run through by his gore soaked blade in reply.

Words had long since failed him, his voice hoarse from the thick, pungent smoke and his grief-stricken cries.  He had tried calling out to her, silencing the rabble with a swift swing of his sword when they drowned him out—but only the hungry crackle of a raging fire and endless bawling answered.

Mikaila.  Her name rang out in Lemuel’s mind like a bell repeatedly struck, loud and constant and inescapable.  She was gone.  Gone.  No—stolen.  Vanished into the night like footprints in a snowdrift, locked away for the sins of his hubris.

A man fell to his knees before Lemuel, his dark hair streaked through with gray and his eyes alight with terror.  He opened his mouth as if to speak—or maybe scream or beg or cry—but only blood surged forth as Kossaul buried itself deep within his chest.

Mikaila.  The bell tolled once more as the man slumped to the ground, his death rattle lost to the distant sound of a building’s collapse.  Mikaila.

“What more must you take from me?”  Duane hissed, his voice undercutting the anguished mantra.  “Was my life not payment enough?”

“I’ll find her,” Lemuel said, his voice low and rough.  He scanned the groups of stragglers that continued to fight the flames, their faces blurred by the unending flow of tears.  One of them moved to strike him, a plank of still burning wood in hand—but he hardly made it three steps before Lemuel slashed at his throat.  Hot, viscous fluid splattered on the ground, mixing with half-melted snow and staining it a deep crimson.  

Lemuel kicked the man to the side, his body hitting the dirt with a muted thud, and continued his rampage through the streets.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there,” Duane said, the words drowning out the wail of a child from a pile of smoldering rubble.  “She should have been safe at home with Leysa and Simon, tucked away from the cold and the snow as guests began to trickle through the door.”

“I’ll find her,” Lemuel said again, insistent.  Desperate.  The dark, smoke filled sky glowed a dull orange, casting the slums in a hazy light.  Shadows grew longer and darker and loomed with menacing intent, as if they too sought his niece.  “I’ll find her.”

“But you had to see her,” Duane continued, the words sharp and accusing.  “You had to see her just one last time, damning her along with me.”

“Shut up,” Lemuel snapped, his voice cracking as his eyes burned with fresh tears.  The flesh of his cheeks stung as a cold gust of wind blew through the alleyways, drying the tears as they fell.

“The spare finally given his chance at worth,” Duane spat, “only to squander it like an untried youth in a whorehouse.”

“Mikaila!” Lemuel called out, wiping at his face with his sleeve.  The bright green fabric came away smeared with scarlet streaks.

“All you had to do was die,” his brother taunted.  Lemuel pushed onward, blind to the slaughter happening around him.  In the flames of a burning home, Lemuel swore he saw the billowing robes of a Ssaelit priest.  

“And yet, even in that simple task,” Duane sneered, unrelenting in his scorn as Lemuel tore through the residents of the Court, “you were still found to be lacking.”

[thegenxorcist]

The Ropen

Shortly after World War II, as western missionaries began to penetrate the deep jungles and remote islands of Papua New Guinea (PNG), stories of a flying creature called the Ropen (“demon flyer”) began to be reported. Duane Hodgkinson was stationed east of Lae, near Finschaven, PNG as part of the Army cavalry in 1944. About noon one day in August he was walking down a trail through a clearing in the forest when he was startled by a crashing in the brush. As he watched a large bird-like creature ponderously rose from the ground, circled and flew away. Hodgkinson, a pilot, estimated the wing-span to be that of a small airplane, about 25 ft. He clearly recalls the dark-gray coloration, long serpentine neck, beak, and distinctive head crest. Described as a nocturnal creature, the Ropen possesses two leathery wings like a bat, a long tail with a flange on the end, a beak filled with teeth, and razor-sharp claws...

The “Ropen” of Papua New Guinea | Genesis Park

[slippinmickeys]

Old Chem, pt 5

TW: school lockdown

Lockdown. A shooter on campus. Things he never used to have to think about. 

He was in class and the kids were quiet, everyone with their nose glued to their phones. The doors were barred. They all looked scared.

“Can anyone tell me what part of the brain takes over in fight or flight?” he asked quietly. 

Most of them look up from their phones, confused. Classes were canceled, was this guy really trying to teach? This was a smaller, 200-level class, though, these kids knew this stuff.

One, in the front row, half raised her hand. Mulder nodded at her.

“The amygdala?” 

“That’s right,” he said. He was sitting on top of one of the desks in the front of the room, trying to appear as casual and calm as he could so that his students might feed off of his vibe. 

“When the alert came through our phones, the amygdala took over. Anyone remember the first step?”

“Perceiving the threat,” said a kid in the back. 

“Yep,” Mulder said, holding up two fingers. “Step two: flight or flight, triggered by adrenaline and cortisol. These happen quickly. We can stay in step two for a bit. Prolonged stress response. Who feels like they’re in it now?”

Most of the hands in the class went up.

“The goal is to get the prefrontal cortex back in control,” he said. 

“How do we do that?” said a sophomore from the front. He seemed a little angry, was nervously chewing his gum, fidgeting. 

“Deep breathing can help,” Mulder said, and noticed a few students take deep breaths.

“Exercise too, believe it or not,” Mulder went on. 

“We’re shit out of luck there,” said the sophomore. “We’re locked in this room.” 

There were sirens blaring distantly from the other end of campus.

“True,” said Mulder. “But there are other ways.”

“Like?” said a quiet girl from the front. He thought her name might be Courtney. 

“Talking to other people,” Mulder said. “Getting creative. And,” he went on, “Cognitive activities. Putting your brain to work. I want everyone to write or type out–right now–the title of the paper you turned in last week for this class. On paper, on your laptop, on your phone, doesn’t matter.”

He gave them all a minute. “Okay,” he said. “Now write down roughly what your thesis statement was.”

Another moment. “Okay. Now who’s still in Fight or Flight?”

Less hands went up and Mulder smiled. “See? It's already working.” 

A few students smiled back, looking more calm. 

Then, one of the girls that was on the ski trip with them raised her hand, her face pale. 

“Professor Mulder?” she said. 

Mulder nodded at her. 

She swallowed. “They’re saying hostages were taken. In the Miller Lab.”

All the kids swung their phones back up and Mulder felt a sharp dart of primal fear pierce through his chest. The Miller Lab was the one Scully ran. And she was there right now. 

***

What he was doing was idiotic and breaking pages worth of school protocol and policy, but he didn’t think about any of those things as he ran over the footbridge and toward the lab where Scully spent a majority of her time on campus. 

The whole of the building was cordoned off with yellow police tape and there was a ring of police cruisers parked at haphazard angles surrounding it. Clumps of students stood in the trees beyond the emergency vehicles, some hugging each other, some nervously watching. About twenty yards away, Mulder spotted Rudy, one of Scully’s graduate lab assistants nervously chewing his black painted nails. 

“Rudy!” Mulder called and ran over to him. “Where is she?” he asked without preamble.

“I don’t know,” Rudy said urgently. “I was in a different part of the building. There was shouting and then kind of chaos and then a gunshot. Someone pulled the fire alarm and we all tore ass out. I haven’t seen her.” 

Next to Rudy stood another lab assistant. She was teary, wide-eyed.

“He said his name was Duane Barry,” she hiccuped. “He said…he said some crazy shit.”

Just then a large armored-like vehicle pulled onto the scene and parked. A moment later the back door opened and a large man in a blue slicker jacket hopped down. He was bald, with glasses, and when he turned to talk to one of the cops on the scene, Mulder saw the big yellow letters across the back of the man’s jacket: “FBI.”

“Fuuuuck,” swore Rudy softly. 

Mulder was in a blind panic, but trying not to show it. Stairs were being attached to the big vehicle, and several other agents emerged from it, walkie-talkies in their hands, all of them looking serious, all of them wearing guns. He was on the verge of marching over and offering help or demanding answers–he wasn’t sure which–when he heard someone shout his name from behind him. 

He whirled around and there was Scully coming at him at a full run, her white lab coat flapping in the air behind her. He tore away from Rudy and flew to meet her, sweeping her up into his arms and into a grip so fierce she grunted. Her arms swung around his neck and she pressed her mouth to his collar. 

“I’m okay,” she whispered several inches below his ear. “I’m okay.” 

***

Charlie and his wife Sandra sat across from them holding hands, Sandra’s dress the same pale pink as the linen tablecloth on Margaret Scully’s dining room table. The leaves of the table had been pulled out and put on and it was set up in festive Easter decor; elegant candlesticks, a light brown water pitcher shaped like a rabbit, round enamel eggs in pastels dotted amongst the platters heaped with honey-baked ham, salad, sweet rolls. 

“God, that must have been terrifying,” Sandra said, looking at Scully with a sympathetic look. 

“It was,” Scully said simply. She pulled her napkin out of its ring and draped it over her lap.

“I’m just glad they got the guy,” said Melissa, who lowered herself down to sit on Scully’s other side. Across from her, and next to Sandra, sat Bill and Tara, whose belly was softly rounded with pregnancy. 

“What motivated him, did they say?” Charlie asked. 

From the head of the table, Scully’s mother sat silent and uncomfortable, watching her children talk with her hand resting along the top of her wine glass. 

“He claimed to have been abducted by aliens and experimented on,” Mulder said. “He thought the labs at the university were somehow involved in whatever he thinks happened to him.”

“Delusional,” Bill spit.

“Likely, yes,” Mulder said, the only person at the table qualified to make that diagnosis. He felt sorry for the man.

“Did you talk to him?” Bill asked, looking at his youngest sister. 

Scully shook her head. “I saw him in the hallway with the gun. Threw the lock on my lab, pulled the fire alarm and jumped out my window.”

Mulder reached over and squeezed her hand. Her quick thinking had probably saved numerous lives. 

The incident had shaken him profoundly. Made him rethink all of his priorities.

“I hope the man gets the help he needs,” Mrs. Scully finally spoke.

Mulder remembered watching the guy get perp-walked into the back of an unmarked sedan by the tall, bald FBI agent. He remembered the wild, desperate look in Barry’s eyes. Mulder hoped he’d get the help he needed, too. 

“Let’s move on to happier discussions,” Mrs. Scully went on, giving her head a little shake and reaching her hands out on either side of her to grip hands with Charlie, with Mulder. “Who’d like to say grace?” 

Mulder held her hand warmly, reached out to take Scully’s as well. Before he ducked his head, he looked briefly at Margaret Scully’s hand, at her thin, paper-like skin, her knobbly arthritic knuckles, the wedding ring on her hand sitting in its own worn groove, nicked and shining, a perfect circle of aurum. 

Bless this food to our use

He’d like to put a ring on Scully’s finger, he thought suddenly. He’d like to bind her to him forever.

and us to thy service

[upsidedog]

moon song, phoebe bridgers // love dog, duane dogg // placeholder // bite inhibition, wikipedia // the bad thing, liz gorny // sharp objects, gillian flynn // how to be a dog, andrew kane // bluets, maggie nelson // stranger things throughout

[talisidekick]

I quite like swords, do you have any fun facts on them

(Axes are fine too)

Well, since I already did a whole post on Axes, which you can read here:

I might as well do my due diligence and info dump on my knowledge of swords so ... I should have expected this but here we go:

A Brief (lmao not at all) Overview of a Complicated Sword History

by an autistic trans girl demon

So before we get started, first we have to understand the categorization of swords. What we know as a "sword" is a general term from Old English deriving from the word "Sweord", meaning a "long bladed weapon with a handle and sometimes a hilt that is designed to stab, hew, cut, or slice; this means if it was clearly designed not to stab, hew, cut, or slice, and doesn't have an arbitrarily "long" blade, it's not a sword. Secondly, a lot of historical sources really only focus on swords as weapons, not tools, and thus we have an issue where tools that fall under the same description of swords won't typically be called swords but classified as "this other totally not a sword thing". Thirdly, swords were a slow development from daggers, which were classified loosely as double edged blades of a knifes size. If you're not following yet, this classification doesn't apply to all long-bladed creations and rarely do we get accounts of their use as tools because of this. That is, unless, you start looking at the few tools that became swords. And additionally, we have to remember that other cultures had definitions for tools, weapons, and items that crossed over or into what the English defined as a "sword" meaning that the "sword" category starts getting messy real quick. This simply isn't as clean as "wedge-on-a-stick" (axe) or "short sharp thing with handle" (knife). And rather than define what is a sword by it's common definition, it's actually better to look at what has become classified as a "sword" despite not quite meeting the definition initially defined as "a long double bladed weapon with a handle and sometimes a hilt" and those creations that should be classified as swords but aren't.

Which we begin the "sword-enough" category in China with the Dao. The above image is the Duan Dao. Dao are single edged long bladed weapons that showed up somewhere in 1600 to 1050 B.C. during the Shang Dynasty period but gained popularity as a cavalry sword much later. There are many types of Dao, each classified by their blade length, blade type, handle length, etc. and had strict requirements for construction. It was used like a sword, but only had one edge, so we called it a sword despite it's cousin the Dao phased out, the Jian, actually fitting the initial "sword" description perfectly.

A version of a Jian for reference.

But I can hear it coming: isn't a Dao just a Sabre? And sure, the image I showed LOOKS like a Sabre, but thats because of the Dao's complex history and how it evolved over time. It at one time looked like this:

Which is a Wodao, a variant if the Dao that looked and often had very close similarities to another "shouldn't be a sword but is" creation from a different country. That is, the one edged blade known as ...

The Katana. But oh wait, this is actually part of a series! See out of all the "swords that shouldn't be swords" from Japan, the Katana has a shorter cousin, the Wakizashi, which is slightly smaller in blade and hilt, and the Tanto which should be a knife, but somehow squeezed itself in. All of these weapons have specific requirements to their construction to be called what they are from blade and tang length, to steel folding requirements, etc. but all have one thing in common: they've only got one edge. And next up from another edge of the world is ...

The Scimitar. A bastardization of the Persian word Shamshir, which is an entire classification of swords with curved blades that some Sabres, Dao, and at one point Katana's were all classified as. This category of one bladed swords is massive and includes weapons from North Africa to the Middle East to some areas in Europe. And is this rants segway into the tools category, starting with dancing swords. Now bear with me because I don't have a photo for this one; just a rant. While sword dancing began as training exercises for many cultures, it became entertainment and from it birthed a subcategory of unbladed swords that were flimsier, more flexible, and less likely to cut you. Unlike dancing with axes where the most that was done at best was a blunting of the blade, dancing swords aren't able to be resharpened to be weapons but are rather "tools" of entertainment. Despite not being bladed at all, or intended to stab, cut, hew, or slice, they look like swords and thats enough to call them swords. But want to know who doesn't get this treatment?

The Machete. Tanto gets to squeeze in on sword, but this is just a "long bladed knife". It's history is supposedly grounded in South America as a bush clearing and harvesting tool. But it's a tool, not a weapon, and thus in it's own class. Another familiar face stuck in it's own class is ...

The Sickle. Now theres MANY types of sickles, many sizes, several could be "swords" by the way we include one-bladed creations. But alas, it's not a weapon, thus not a sword, unless it IS a weapon in which it IS a sword, a "sickle sword" or ...

A Khopesh. But oh crap, a sickle that is a sword? A tool used both for combat, harvest, and a trade tool? Thats only 1/3 sword! What can we do to preserve our obviously pristine and infalliable "sword" categorization? Answer: call it "Sickle Shaped".

Look, I don't know how to end this besides saying that I do genuinely love swords. They've been coming of age gifts, presents for achievements, badges of honour, and in many cultures, like my ancestors, a symbol of love and unity. The very act of driving a sword deep into a pole to see how far it would go in as a "sign" of how long a marriage could last was part of some germanic/viking culture. Swords are awesome. But the classification and what we do and don't consider a sword is arbitrary, hypocritical, and stupid.

Go buy a sword for a loved one. The classification apparently doesn't matter so just make sure it looks "sword enough" and no one can argue with you.

[jess-le-mess]

Feedist Kinktober - Day 27

(Prompts: Boozy Belly 🍺 / Dragon's Hoard 🐉)

[Content notes: Fat FtM main character; Thin nonbinary love interest; M/Nb attraction dynamics; belly play; mild intoxication]

Game Night

Flynn loved his tabletop gaming group dearly. He'd met the core members when he was still  in Engineering school, and not a single one of them at the time had said anything bad or weird about his transition. Now, four years later, and a few of them were out too as various things. A couple of the guys, Kyle and Oliver, had come out as gay, and Dana had come out as a woman.

And then there was Duane, bless him, who was cis and straight and often forgot that Flynn was trans and called him "big bro" despite the fact that, although Flynn did have a few inches and at least a hundred pounds on him, Duane was like forty or something.

Tonight Dana was hosting. She and her wife lived in a manse, which she enjoyed telling new group members every time and assuring them that she "thoroughly witchified it" with a smirk.

She greeted Flynn wearing a cute little sundress that accentuated her petite figure, and gestured for him to head to the dining room-slash-gaming table.

"Vivian made miniature pop tarts for tonight, Flynn. Do you like miniature pop tarts?"

Flynn shrugged. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a miniature pop tart.

"Good man," she said, patting him on the back. "They're cherry filled."

As they headed into the dining room, Flynn spotted a new face. The new person had short dark hair combed off to the side, wearing a red flannel and a black tank top. They looked to be in their mid-20s.

"That's Eli," Dana said. "They were on the Pride planning committee with me this summer."

Eli offers a wave. "Hey."

Flynn takes the empty seat next to Eli. "I'm Flynn."

"Cool. Nice to meet you. So Dana says you're an engineer too?"

"Yep. IT. And you?"

Eli laughs. "Hell no. I like to think of my career as being more gay disaster, terror to gender everywhere. Something like that." They take a sip of their beer. "And by that I mean I'm an event planner."

Eli smiled at Flynn and looked into his eyes for a second, and Flynn couldn't help but feel a bit flustered. Eli's skin looked so clear and soft, a nice contrast to their sharp jawline and visible cheekbones. He wanted to touch it, if he was being honest with himself.

Flynn takes the beer handed to him by Dana and opens it. He takes a sip, in motion with Eli. "That must be interesting, though."

"It is what it is, I guess," Eli shrugs.

Flynn frowns at the apparent end of the conversation, wishing he'd had more courage or at least affability to keep talking to this person.

The first board game they played was some game where people had to draw pictures that could only be of adjectives that could be used to describe the thing, but not the thing itself.

Flynn's partner was Jade, Dana's best friend. But Flynn had already had two beer by this point, and Jade had already had half a bottle of wine.

"Goddammit Flynn, it's not a hockey stick! Hockey stick isn't even an adjective! Dana, why can't I be your partner?" Jade whined.

Dana waved at her and squeezed her wife's hand. "Sorry bestie. Viv and I have a mind link."

Jade slumped down in her chair.

Unsurprisingly, Flynn and his partner came last.

*****

The second game was some trivia thing and Flynn was paired up with Kyle, who knew everything about everything.

It was mostly smooth sailing for them, thankfully. Flynn had probably have five beer by then, but Kyle didn't drink so he was in fine form. At least until they ended up with a question about music history and Vivian, a muscular butch who was at least six feet tall, threatened to cut him if she didn't give him the point. Kyle refused to relent, but his answer was wrong anyway.

In the end, they won the game, even if Vivian did silently signal that she still had her eyes on Kyle.

*****

As Flynn had lost count of how many beer he'd had by this time, he figured it was maybe more than he should've had, but he was paired with Eli for the third game, that much he did know.

The game itself involved a dragon in some way. You had to steal things from the dragon, and get them...somewhere? For reasons?

Eli was really pretty.

Shit, though. Did they like being called pretty? Flynn knew firsthand the power of a gender-affirming compliment. He'd die if someone called him pretty, but getting called handsome, rare as it happened, could sustain him for days.

"You look good," Flynn said, the words rolling out of his mouth.

"Hmm?" Eli looked at him, his eyes a bit dazed-looking. He'd probably had a few too many too.

"I dunno. Pick the term you like to use. But, like, you look so good. I want to touch your face."

There was a pause.

"You too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Flynn felt the warmth of Eli's hand touching his cheek. He leaned into it, until the pressure again left him. "That was nice."

Eli then whispered in his ear, making the hairs on his neck bristle. "Hey, can I?"

Flynn had no idea what Eli was talking about until they put a hand on his large belly that rested on his thighs.

He nodded quietly.

Eli made happy noises as he reached underneath Flynn's T-shirt and quietly massaged Flynn's belly for a moment until stopped when Dana looked over at them.

"I mean, we're both pretty wasted, huh?"

"Yeah," Flynn said, his whole body suddenly feeling warm and alive from Eli's touch.

"We probably shouldn't."

"Yeah."

Eli whispered again. "But I would."

"Yeah?"

"Oh hell yeah," Eli said, slipping his hand under Flynn's shirt again, just for a second, before getting back to the game.

[djarindykes]

the mandalorian, jon favreau // sharp objects, gillian flynn // dog thoughts, anna haifisch // no one is ever going to want me, giles corey // love dog, duane dogg

[awritingcaitlin]

✨Vibes✨

4 Songs 3 Visual Media 2 Books 1 Author

✨BREWING WAR VIBES✨ 🎧 "Bullets" by Archive, "Opacus" by Arkasia, "Heartlines" by Florence + the Machine, "High Priests" by Ronan Hardiman 📺 Witcher, Arcane, Dragon Age 📕 THE THOUSAND NAMES, WAY OF KINGS ✍🏻Brandon Sanderson

✨ SiegeWIP vibes ✨ 🎶 "Avalanche" by FLETCHER, "Love Lost" by Mattia Cupelli, "An Toll Dubh" by Runrig, and "Steampunk Dogfight" by Escape the Clouds 🍿 Sharpe's Rifles, Dishonored, SW: The Clone Wars 📗 DUNE and MISTBORN 🖊️ Robert Jordan

✨ CureWIP vibes ✨ 🎵 "Jump!" by Thomas Bergeson, "Whispers" by DREAMOIR, "Fight Song" by Rachel Platten, "Alba" by the Sidh 📽️ Firefly, Cowboy Bepob, and Warhammer 📘 The Expanse series and CRIMSON QUEEN ✏️Diane Duane

✨ Violin Heist Vibes ✨ 🎻"The Hero Within" by James Paget, "Halo of Light" by Taylor Davis, "Roundtable Rival" by Lindsey Stirling, "Wild Heart" by Thomas Bergeson 🎦Pirates of the Caribbean, Mission Impossible, Fullmetal Alchemist 📔MISTBORN era 2, FOUNDRYSIDE 🖋️ Tamora Pierce

✨ SecretSoup2 Vibes ✨ 🎧"Dog Days Are Over" by Florence + the Machine, "Never Say Die" by CHVRCHES, "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper, and "What About Us" by P!nk 🎮Xenogears, Tales of Symphonia, Xenoblade Chronicles 📙Discworld, KH novelization 📝Every ND fanfic author

✨ Team W Vibes ✨ 🎵 "Don't You Worry Child" (PTX cover), "Rebels in the Light" by Manicanparty, "Gold Guns Girls" by Metric, "Night Sky" by CHVRCHES 🎮Kingdom Hearts, Spiderverse, Super Smash Brothers Brawl 📘His Dark Materials, Circle of Magic ✍🏻x-over fanfic writers

✨ The Great Game Vibes ✨ 🎶"Walk me Home" by P!nk, "A Praise Chorus" by Jimmy Eat World, "Disarm" by Smashing Pumpkins, "Moondance" by Nightwish 📺Hero among Thieves, Disney's Atlantis, Chrono Trigger 📘The Witcher Series, THE SHADOW THRONE 🖊️Claudia Grey

✨Aftermath Vibes✨ 🎼"I'm not Okay (I Promise)" by My Chemical Romance, "We Don't Have to Dance" by Andy Black, "Kill the Lights" by Set it Off, "Heartbreak Feels so Good" by Fall Out Boy 🎥The Owl House, Breath of the Wild, Avengers 📕CLOCKWORK BOYS, THE FAULT IN OUR STARS 📝Robin McKinley

✨Beauty and the Dragon Vibes✨ 🎶"What if it Doesn't End Well" by Chloe Moriondo, "I Need a Hero" (Shrek 2 version), "If I Ever Leave This World Alive" by Flogging Molly, "Love from the Other Side" by Fall Out Boy 🎬Shrek, Beauty and the Beast, Gargoyles 📙BEAUTY, DEALING WITH DRAGONS ✍🏻Patricia C Wrede

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 14 - "Left for Dead"

After the spellfire and the crack of bones, the sweaty pursuit and the terror of loss, Duane Adelier lay quiet in an alley far removed from the kind of battlefield he'd long assumed he'd die on.

He remembered the first time he'd truly thought death had come for him. It hadn't been the old houndcart that had given him his limp and his relationship with God, nor that drunk and murderous Plat egged on by his school chums. There hadn't been time, then, to wonder how many more of his breaths the khert had saved.

No. The first time he'd feared for his life had been in Fachlyne, a week after deployment, when he and a dozen other Council Army recruits had found themselves pinned at the end of a long street by a rebelling crowd of plague-stricken. Duane had not wanted to start blasting at civilians, but they'd already started blasting at him. The ground was growing red and slippery underfoot. Duane saw a boy throw his arms out as though to catch something, and his own intestines unspooled into them.

"Ssael help me not to disapoint you," he'd whispered, "Ssael, I long only to follow your Way."

A sharp knee ground suddenly into his back. Hands twisted his jaw open, icy liquid was poured behind his teeth. It was syrup-sweet at first, then painfully bitter, thick, and choking. Spellwords compelled him to swallow. And swallow. And swallow.

The air grew thin. His heart cramped and his brain spasmed silver starfire in his skull. Every artery burst into flame, then were extinguished by a cold knife punched expertly into the back of his neck. It was held there, squirming like a living thing. His poisoned soul screamed one unending scream-

Then nothing. The khert-lines soothed themselves. Snow settled over the stillness.

"Hell of a fight," his captain had said as they'd picked their way over the pieces of bodies on that Fachlynian street, "Somewhere in the bright lands, the eels are eating well."

[romanceyourdemons]

omg there’s a fourth book *face palm* add in “breaking dawn” and “part one” for your ask game

doing my best on this one

“‘To be a historian,’ Prosperity said with all the care and sharpness of a sculptor breaking away stone, ‘is to act contrary to the natural state of the human mind.’”

“The next dawn enfolded the palace in silence and discipline like it always did, but after that brief, warm moment of freedom, the quiet that had almost become bearable began to suffocate Fortune.”

“There was something unspeakably grotesque about this corpse, this meat-thing that used to be Lord Cosmos Duan. Fortune could not name what it was. Any one part of the corpse’s body seemed perfectly ordinary, even something you could expect on a living ill person. But the whole effect was… Witchcraft did that to a body.”

[longlistshort]

Kimowan Metchewais, “Cold Lake Fishing”, 2004/06

Koyoltzintli, “Gathering Roots” and “Spider Woman Embrace”, Abiquiú, New Mexico, 2019, from the series MEDA, 2018/19, Archival pigment print

(Alan Michelson “Hanödagayas (Town Destroyer): Whirlwind Series”, 2022 Archival pigment prints and “Pehin Hanska ktepi (They Killed Long Hair)”, 2021 Single-channel video installation: wool blanket and video projection; 1:05 minutes (looped), no sound)

Currently at the USF Contemporary Art Museum is Native America: In Translation curated by Wendy Red Star and organized by Aperture. The work included offers viewers a chance to discover new perspectives on the Native American experience.

From the museum- “The ultimate form of decolonization is through how Native languages form a view of the world. These artists provide sharp perceptions, rooted in their cultures.” —Wendy Red Star

Native America: In Translation assembles the wide-ranging work of nine Indigenous artists who pose challenging questions about identity and heritage, land rights, and histories of colonialism. Probing the legacies of settler colonialism, and photography’s complex and often fraught role in constructing representation of Native cultures, the exhibition includes works by lens-based artists offering new perspectives on Indigenous identity, reimagining what it means to be a citizen in North America today.

Works included in the exhibition address cultural and visual sovereignty by reclaiming Native American identity and representation. Honoring ancestral traditions and stories tied to the land, Koyoltzintli (Ecuadorian-American, b. 1983) reflects on how the landscape embodies traditional knowledge, language, and memories. Nalikutaar Jacqueline Cleveland’s (Yup’ik, b. 1979) photographs of contemporary tribal communities in western Alaska document Native foraging and cultural traditions as a form of knowledge passed through generations. Revealing stories of trauma and healing, Guadalupe Maravilla (American, b. El Salvador, 1976) communicates autobiographical and fictional narratives informed by myth and his own migration story.

Expanding Indigenous archives and collective memory through photographic means, works by the late artist Kimowan Metchewais (Cree, Cold Lake First Nations, 1963–2011), drawn from his personal archive of Polaroid photographs, construct self-realized Native imagery challenging the authority of colonial representation. Excavating repressed colonial histories of invasion and eviction, Alan Michelson (Mohawk, Six Nations of the Grand River, b. 1953) reinterprets and repositions archival material to redress history from an Indigenous perspective. Marianne Nicolson’s (Musgamakw Dzawada’enuxw First Nations, b. 1969) light-based installation projects Dzawada’enuxw tribal symbols of authority and power onto colonized spaces to contest treaties that imposed territorial boundaries on Indigenous lands. Duane Linklater (Omaskêko Ininiwak from Moose Cree First Nation, b. 1976) reconfigured the pages sourced from a 1995 issue of Aperture, featuring Indigenous artists, creating space for artistic improvisation and reinvention across generations.

Reflecting on performative aspects of Indigeneity and the colonial gaze, Martine Gutierrez’s (American, b. 1989) series of photographs reinterpret high-fashion magazine spreads with a revolving roster of identities and narratives to question Native gender and heritage. Working across performance and photography, Rebecca Belmore (Anishinaabe, Lac Seul First Nation, b. 1960) creates powerful reenactments of past performances incorporating organic materials that reference knowledge, labor, and care of the Earth in defiance of state violence of Indigenous people.

This exhibition closes 12/1/23.

Rebecca Belmore, “matriarch”, 2018, and “mother” from the series “nindinawemaganidog (all of my relations)”, 2018, Archival pigment prints

Photos by Rebecca Belmore and Installation by Marianne Nicolson

Marianne Nicolson’s installation detail

Nalikutaar Jacqueline Cleveland, “Molly Alexie and her children after a harvest of beach greens in Quinhagak, Alaska”, 2018 and “There are two main Yup’ ik names for crowberries or blackberries in Alaska, “paunrat” and “tangerpiit””, 2017, Archival pigment prints

Guadalupe Maravilla, “I Crossed the Border Retablo”, 2021, Oil on tin, cotton, glue mixture, wood

Duane Linklater, “ghost in the machine”, 2021, Archival pigment prints

Martine Gutierrez, “Queer Rage, Dear Diary, No Signal During VH1’s Fiercest Divas”, and “Queer Rage, THat Girl Was Me, Now She’s A Somebody”, 2018. digital chromogenic print

One of Kimowan Metchewais’ polaroids from the slide show

[foxghost]

Joyful Reunion

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index

Seventh of Seventh · The Distance Between Two Shores

A rising autumn breeze passes through the empty palace hall. Duan Ling hurries through the gallery, the ends of his black robes fluttering in the breeze. His long hair is held in a low ponytail with a single black string, and his soft lips are ever so slightly pursed.

He walks past the swaying silhouettes of trees humming with the last of late summer cicadas, past the garden swirling with yellowing autumn leaves, past dusk adorned with crisp dark shadows cast by lantern light into the fresh night touched with the purple-red tinge of a dying sunset. Life is like a stage, and the curtains have fallen to reveal a sheet of sapphire silk studded with magnificent stars.

Dressed all in black, he seems almost to become one with the night. Slowly, he comes to a stop and stands before the White Tiger idol. Starlight shines down from the vaulted roof of the pavilion after reflecting off its angles. The Zhenshanhe has been placed horizontally on a sword stand, enshrined beneath the claws of the god that rules the autumn season.

This place is like the temple nearest the constellations, and every time Duan Ling stands beneath the white tiger’s gaze, he would feel as if he’s only one step away from the river of stars above. But it calmly blocks Duan Ling’s way as if there is a bustling heavenly realm behind its back, where mortals may not set foot.

“Dad.” Duan Ling walks forward, gently strokes the white tiger’s sharp canine, and puts his face against its ice-cold nose. He says, sounding enchanted, “Another year’s gone by.”

He lights three sticks of incense, and bows to the white tiger idol thrice. An autumn breeze sends the muslin curtains fluttering. The scent of sandalwood wafts through the air. Duan Ling climbs up the idol’s base, crawls into the white tiger’s outstretched, scouting paw, and leans back into its arm. He faces the star-studded firmament as though he’s being held by the white tiger, and in a daze, he lets his mind wander.

Lord White Tiger’s eyes reflect starlight, and its cool jade body gradually warms. Leaning back against the well-defined, powerful muscles of its chest, Duan Ling suddenly senses something.

“Who’s there?” Duan Ling can dimly notice a silhouette behind the muslin curtains.

Another gust of wind brings up the curtain, and a tall man walks into the shrine.

Duan Ling stares at him in shock.

The man has deep-set eyes like stars, with dark eyebrows and soft lips, and he’s dressed in an embroidered pale blue fighter’s robe. The clothes, however, are half foreign and half Han, with the left sleeve tied the way a warrior wears his sleeve, while the right sleeve is left hanging wide like a literati’s. The trajectory of the White Tiger constellation has been embroidered onto his open gown, with the major star done in silver thread, glittering with the same starlight that illuminates the sky.

He has on fighter’s boots decorated with a pattern of clouds, a silver pauldron on his left shoulder. A gem shaped like a water drop adorns his right wrist.

“Dad?” Duan Ling almost can’t believe his own eyes. This is his father, but not the father he knows well; this one is even younger than when Duan Ling met his father for the first time, as though he’s just past twenty. He’s handsome and fair, and there is not a sign of the turmoil and sternness that used to plague his eyes; in place of that is an innate graceful elegance.

Li Jianhong smiles, leaping onto the base of the white tiger idol, and leans against the tiger’s body. The white tiger suddenly starts to move, letting out a low growl, startling Duan Ling.

“How did you …” Staring at this whole get-up, Duan Ling feels a rush of pleasant surprise.

“Become so young?” Li Jianhong says. “Looks like my son’s all grown up though.”

Duan Ling finds it all incredible; he and Li Jianhong seem to be two young men similar in age, and next to each other, Li Jianhong barely looks much older than him at all.

“Even though you’ve grown up, and dad’s gotten younger, you still can’t call me gege.” Li Jianhong jokes, “You couldn’t have imagined what I looked like when I was younger, my son?”

There is nothing but astonishment in Duan Ling’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth keeps turning up for the smile he can’t hide. He picks up Li Jianhong’s hand and stares at the jade on his wrist. “What’s this?”

“Star jade,” Li Jianhong replies with a smile. “I need it to patrol the skies. Here, it’s all yours,” he says, taking it off for Duan Ling.

“I don’t want it,” Duan Ling looks blandly at him, having figured out the meaning behind his father’s frivolous smile. “What’s it good for? It’s not even as pretty as my jade arc.”

“It’s a star,” says Li Jianhong. “One of the many stars in the sky. It controls the fates of everyone in the mortal world. People are always saying, ‘if you want the stars from the sky I’d pluck them down for you’, this is what that means.”

“Dad, have you become a Daoist Immortal?” Duan Ling sounds amazed.

Li Jianhong’s robe flaps in the wind. He gives Duan Ling an enigmatic shh in reply and explains, “Tonight happens to be the Seventh of Seventh, so I came down while the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid are busy seeing each other. I’ll have to head back soon lest they find me out.”

“Will we ever see each other again?” Duan Ling can’t help himself; his voice grows thick with tears.

Li Jianhong calmly watches the tears in Duan Ling’s eyes, but he doesn’t answer. From his reading of the ancient tomes, Duan Ling has gleaned that the gods cannot enter the mortal world without cause, and they must not reveal the ineffable. But to be able to see him once more during this one lifetime already leaves Duan Ling without regrets.

“I see you every day,” Li Jianhong whispers. “I’m always here.”

He pulls Duan Ling to him, putting Duan Ling’s head on his shoulder. He says smilingly, “Do you not have anything else to say? Look how old you are already, and still such a crybaby.”

Duan Ling’s tearful expression turns into a smile. He studies Li Jianhong’s eyes and nose, and he thinks that he is still him; through all these years, Duan Ling has never forgotten every time he’d dreamt of him.

“I had a dream last month.” Duan Ling thinks of this and that, but doesn’t really know what he should say, and ends up saying, “I dreamt of you.”

“Yeah?” Li Jianhong takes off his outer robe and pulls it over them like a blanket as they stargaze together. “What was your dream about?”

Duan Ling pauses to think, but as he’s about to say more, Li Jianhong continues, “You’re like our great ancestor, and like Zhuangzi too — always sleeping and dreaming when you’ve got nothing better to do. One moment you’re turning into a butterfly, another you’re turning into a big fish … watch out you don’t end up getting stuck in your dreams and can’t wake up anymore.”

Duan Ling is smilng again. “Actually, if I can see you in my dreams all the time, I probably wouldn’t want to wake up.”

The two of them lean against each other the way two young men would. Whenever Li Yanqiu used to reminisce about his and Li Jianhong’s youth from time to time, Duan Ling would feel rather envious. Wouldn’t be nice if time can flow backwards so he can be around during his father’s younger days, to conquer the world at his side, or just to administer the realm for him?

But he never could have imagined that he would reunite with his father again under these particular circumstances. In the mortal world, people spend much of their time apart, and reunions are few and far between; it has always been thus. If he dillydallies much longer, his father may have to leave again before they manage to get much of a conversation going.

"In the dream, you took me along on a military campaign to the north to fight the Goryeo empire and the Mongolians. "Duan Ling recalls some details from his dreams, and everything seems so vivid it’s almost like it happened yesterday. He looks up again and says, “Lang Junxia was still alive, and he took me to his village as a guest. Chang Liujun was around too, also Zheng Yan and Wu Du. They were all by my side. Oh, and you gave me this huge lecture.”

Li Jianhong’s expression darkens. “Of course I’d have to lecture you. You follow Wu Du around all day long and don’t even want your dad anymore. Running off all the time doing lord knows what — what if you got lost?”

Duan Ling stares at him in shock.

“You knew?!” Duan Ling is stunned in an instant. “How did you know that?!”

“I don’t know.” The corner of Li Jianhong’s mouth twitches as he immediately washes his hands of the whole thing. “I seriously have no idea.”

“You knew!” Duan Ling grabs Li Jianhong’s sleeve and refuses to let go, arguing, “how else would you have known that I ran off with Wu Du?”

Li Jianhong can’t help but laugh out loud. “Where’s Wu Du? Call him over. It’s been ages since we had a drink together.”

“You two drank together?” Duan Ling sounds flabbergasted. “I never heard him say that.”

The more Li Jianhong says, the worse this gets; it’s his fault really that his own son is too smart, and he’s almost tricked into revealing a bunch of ineffable mysteries. He has no choice but to stop talking, just stares at Duan Ling and smiles.

“What are you smiling about?” Duan Ling frowns.

“There are lots of things I can’t say, so I can only smile. What else can I do?”

Looking at this father’s handsome smile, Duan Ling suddenly isn’t sure what he should say anymore. After a bit of thinking, he says, “So the one in my dreams really was you.”

Li Jianhong raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t refute Duan Ling, but he doesn’t admit to it either. He opens his hand, and in his palm is that star jade, its lustre incomparably gentle, with soft halos sparkling within.

“This is for you, a star from the sky,” Li Jianhong says.

Duan Ling touches it lightly with a finger, and the star jade blossoms with a bright but gentle glow, like he’s been placed in the centre of the Silver River. Its white light fills the space between sky and earth as the Silver River descends, and all at once, Duan Ling feels as though he’s in the middle of an ocean of light.

“Dad.” Duan Ling has a feeling that Li Jianhong is about to vanish in the middle of that ocean.

But Li Jianhong is smiling at him. “Come into my dream, my son.”

Duan Ling cries out, “Dad!”

But Li Jianhong has already become starlight, vanishing from Duan Ling’s side. In the midst of these brilliant rays, Duan Ling feels as though he’s become a lot smaller, all the way back to the time he reunited with his dad for the first time. Li Jianhong looks down at Duan Ling, his smiling eyes filled with tenderness. He reaches out and strokes Duan Ling’s head before turning into a gentle breeze, and on this holiday where girls pray to the stars for hands as nimble as the Weaving Maid’s, he scatters into the horizon.

Seventh of Seventh; the Silver River looks both clear and shallow; how vast can the distance between two shores ever be?

Duan Ling looks all around him. In this gentle dreamscape, the stars are fragments of light undulating on a river; on either shore of a crystalline river, they gaze at each other lovingly without a word.2

This translation is by foxghost, on tumblr and kofi. I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, it was reposted without permission. Do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

Two lines from 迢迢牽牛星 / The Distant Cowherd Star, by an anonymous poet during the Han dynasty, is one of the Nineteen Old Poems. ↩︎