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twstbookclub · 2 years ago

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Hello ! I just read the spins with silver and I cannot tell you how heartwarming it was, if I had to rate 1-10 about how melted my heart it I'd rate it 10/10 HAHAH

If it's okay with the admins, I'd like to request a Silver x GN!Reader where the special moments between them are Silver's most precious memories ! (aka: their first date, first kiss, etc.) it doesn't even have to be the major stuff, it can be the small things in life that he appreciates (maybe reader brewing him a coffee everyday, or him noticing reader's little doodles on his notes and helping him finish them when he accidentally dozes off, etc.)

(this is my first time requesting so please point out any mistakes i did when requesting !)

don't forget to take as much time as y'all's need, as well as prioritizing y'all's health first !!

thank you so much ! :DD

Recaptured Paradise

Summary: Silver takes time to himself to reminisce about the past that lead up to the romance story you both shared now. POV: 2nd Pronouns: Gender Neutral Admin/Writer: Kai⚔️ Tags: Silver, Fluff, Romance, Looking at the past, First memories, Silver looks at the past

Word count: 2,463

A/N: Hello our lovely readers!!! I was very excited to write our first ever request!! I do apologize since it did take a very long time but we did have other projects being done at the same time and there are life events currently, but regardless of that I hope you all enjoy!!!

Silver sat on the couch in the small apartment home that you both shared for a few years now, trying to keep himself awake as he searched through the internet quietly. He was looking for a gift for his partner in marriage, you.

He would take occasional glances at your resting body that used his shoulder as your pillow. "My sleeping beauty," he said quietly to himself with a gentle smile, and his eyes drifted from you to your hand. The ring on your finger twinkled in the moonlight that shone through the windows.

He suddenly started reminiscing when his eyes wandered and landed on your lips, instinctively making him leave a kiss on your head as you slept.

He couldn't help but look back at a few memories. "How did we get here?" He thought, then sat back to remember moments of years past.

The image of your genuine expression when you asked him on a date to the arcade shocked him at the time. Though, it was his fault since he mentioned that he wished to experience something new despite his busy schedule.

"Why don't I take you to an arcade?" He remembered that day as if it was only a few months back. The moment he agreed, your eyes lit up and looked like they held an entire galaxy in them.

"Honestly, I was hoping you'd say yes. I've been wanting to ask you on a date for a while!" Your words caused the entire world to stop, because little did you know at that time, he also wanted to ask you. Though, he never knew how.

You both had met the following day. As both of you ran out of class and down the hall to meet at the courtyard, every student watched, confused as to what was happening. That part didn't matter to either of you.

Meeting under a tree and staring into each other's eyes felt magical. Straight out of a fairy tale book. You were both laughing at how out of breath you two were from running, and knowing that you had the same idea made the atmosphere sweeter before it even started.

From showing Silver tons of games inside of the arcade building to him winning a stuffed animal out of a crane game, he truly experienced something different that day.

The date was followed by a short walk in the park to watch the sunset. You had insisted on it. It was worth it, because it gave him the chance to confess how fond he was for you.

He still vividly remembers how flustered you were from his sudden confession. He continued to ramble about how surprised he was that he didn't fall asleep halfway through. It was all because he was nervous after pouring unknown emotions out to you the best he could.

Silver smiled to himself at the memory. He couldn't help but remember how you two shared your first kiss.

You snuck out to see him as he patrolled around the Diasomnia grounds late at night. That day, you were convinced to confess your feelings to him, since you were so confused about whether he felt the same for you or not.

He tried to escort you back to the dorm so you weren't caught. You were stubborn enough to stay, but it was so worth it.

"No! I won't go home! I want you to hear what I have to say!"

"Prefect, please–"

"I like you! I have feelings for you! Even before the first date we ever had together! I have to say it now, or I'd give up trying any moment after…"

Those words had shocked him to his core. Deep down, he was so happy to hear them. His facial expression stayed blank as he was overwhelmed with emotion at your words.

Nonetheless, you had continued, but he was determined to hear it in the morning. Instead, he wanted to send you home. You didn't listen at all though.

"I know you might not like me back, but-"

Silver had cut you off by giving into his own temptation. His lips were so gently placed on yours, clueless on what to do next. He hoped to get you home, so it was easier to do that in a place where he knew people couldn't catch him.

You were utterly shocked, and you didn't know how else to react. The boy you fell for back during the Spelldrive Tournament was there, and he returned your feelings.

The kiss felt too quick. After Silver broke it off, you could say he was an absolutely flustered mess. You were too, so it felt like a perfect accidental moment.

After that day, that's when you two began dating. Funny enough, neither you nor him asked each other to make it official. Diasomnia students had seen you and Silver that night, and talked about it immediately. Word had spread around like wildfire.

Neither of you complained though, and neither of you noticed until later.

It took everything in Silver not to chuckle at the memory, holding back a laugh at how silly you both were back at the NRC.

Right after that, Silver started to remember the day you graduated. He was nervous around you, but he had a reason. They'd thrown you all a party to celebrate, but all he'd wanted that day was to spend it with you.

Lilia had helped him get a pretty hefty gift for the two of you a few months prior, and he was excited to take you there. The party didn't end until late at night, but he was still focused on showing you this gift since the longer he waited, the more nervous he got.

He'd taken you to an unknown building in a small city near Briar Valley. To your surprise, that building had the apartment you both lived in now.

At that time, the small home was empty, but it had so much potential to hold so many memories for the both of you, as long as you accepted it.

"Silver, what is this place?"

You were so confused as to why he brought you to an empty apartment, but it was insane to you that night. He let you roam around the place, and by the time you ventured around the last room, you found him on a knee in the middle of the living room. The same spot where he’d sit at the moment of reminiscing.

“I know that this is sudden and rushed and not as romantic as I hoped, but I don’t think that I can let another second slip by without doing this.”

Silver was nervous. Your expression then was pure surprise as he continued his speech.

“When I first met you, I only knew loyalty to the only family I knew and had. I was stuck in a constant loop of the same daily routine. The day you asked me out to the arcade, my whole worldview changed, and before I knew it, my loyalty extended to you.”

Silver paused as you had only listened to him. Your body had fallen onto the floor in front of him. Your heart felt heavy as there was a small lump in your throat at that moment.

“I realized that all of my thoughts had been overrun by you, by us. When I’m with you, you keep me awake, and are part of the chain that keeps me tethered to reality. I don’t think life could be the same if it’s not with you. No…”

Silver paused as he took a ring from his pocket, but your reaction to seeing it made his heart race through the entire moment. He knew what ring it was all too well, but you had only a brief understanding of it. He mentioned that the ring had been with him since birth, but that was all. Now, he was proposing with that same ring.

“It wouldn’t be life if every waking moment is not with you accompanied by my side. Not when I’ve grown to love you more than words can say in the past few years. So…”

Silver had called your full name before continuing, his free hand had taken your left hand into his own and held on tightly. He remembered how shaky his voice was by the end of his emotional outburst from the moment.

“Will you do me the honor of letting me be your partner, my spouse, even after death draws our final breaths?”

He let out a sigh of relief as he finished his words. He could only stare at you in anticipation. Your eyes felt teary at all of his words striking your heart in such a warm manner. You smiled at him as you gently squeezed his hand in the empty apartment.

Silver got distracted as you shifted around in your sleep before he could finish the memory. He fixed the blanket on your body when his eyes landed on the door, another memory coming up to him.

This one was the day you both had finally moved into that apartment. Silver helped bring in heavier furniture with the help of Jack and Sebek, even though Sebek was mostly yelling orders to the other two to get everything done a certain way.

Ace and Deuce were helping take items out of boxes and asking you what rooms they belonged in. Your job was to clean up the place and make sure that nothing went to chaos along with Epel.

That same day, everything had been moved into the right rooms, the only place set up being the living room. They had agreed to go out to eat since it was still pretty unorganized in their new shared home.

Afterwards, they’d come back to the door and open it when Silver suddenly scooped you up and carried you inside bridal style. It surprised you as you weren’t married yet, but you could only hold onto him as the sensation was making you laugh at the time.

You two didn't share a room as he felt it wrong to sleep in the same bed regardless of being in a relationship and under the same roof, but it didn't bother you either.

After that moment though, he would leave you on your bed but you didn't let him go. No one had slept by themselves that night, well… not really slept at all.

Silver snapped back to reality as he felt a small blush come up to his cheeks from the flashbacks. He looked around the room as his eyes stopped on the few pictures that hung up on the wall. Specifically, the one of your wedding day.

The smile on his face was so full of love and genuine care as the memory of the day played in his head, and his arm wrapped around you, gently bringing you closer.

He'd been a nervous wreck that whole day, and you'd been worried that something would ruin it. Though the wedding was small, it was fun for everyone invited. Sebek and Jack were crying together which made you and Silver laugh mid reception.

An afterparty held by all your close friends to celebrate was a big moment for the two of you. They all congratulated your marriage as Jade, Floyd, Leona, and Riddle had become like protective brothers towards you, telling Silver to take care of you more than he already had.

Everyone was great and made the party a night to remember. Once it was over, they all sent you on your way and took care of everything else, giving time for yourselves as they were all ready to say goodbye.

For a so-called "honeymoon", Silver had taken you on a horseback ride through the forest behind NRC, of course with permission from Crowley. The night was so sweet that it felt as if it happened only a few weeks ago.

Since then, the marriage life between the two of you felt just right. You helped make the small place a true home, while he supported you through everything.

Silver was so in love, and you equally. He stopped his daydreaming when you slowly opened your eyes from your slumber, sitting up and looking around.

"Morning, sleepyhead." Silver said as he gently patted your head, messing up your ready tangled bedhead.

"Sleepyhead…? Right back at you…" You responded with some tiredness behind your voice, adjusting to the moment. "What were you doing while I was asleep?"

Silver smiled with a small chuckle, and took a glance at the ring on your finger. "Nothing much, just looking back at some things from the past."

Your eyebrow raised in confusion but you shook it off, using his shoulder as a pillow again. Silver wrapped his arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer to him.

Him mentioning the past made you reminisce as well. This warm embrace of his made you remember other times.

Running through the forest to lay in a quiet spot after and watching the clouds move. Making him a cup of coffee in the morning to get him through at least the morning. You made their home a true home.

Your moment was interrupted as a sound was heard from another room. Your old room since you moved into Silver's once you both began sharing a name.

"Seems like duty calls, doesn't it?" Silver said as he looked at the open door then at you, letting go of your body to rise up from the couch.

"It never will." You responded and got up after him with a big smile, heading off to the room while holding his hand. He followed behind, squeezing your hand out of excitement.

The bassinet in the middle of the room moved slightly as small, happy noises were made. Once seeing your faces, a giggle was heard as Silver took the baby into his hands. He made silly faces and sweet coo's to the little one, getting happy and loud reactions which made him laugh in return.

You watched while leaning at the wall nearby. The sight of Silver being a father was one you loved seeing everyday, and you were happy with all that happened so far.

Your actions stopped as you caught him looking at you, a cheery smile on his face as he said the words "I love you!" in a sweet voice as if he was speaking as his child.

You laughed and stepped closer, taking the baby into your arms and kissing Silver on his cheek as a thanks. "And I love you too." Silver said, making you freeze in place.

You smiled and leaned onto Silver as he wrapped his arms around you, placing a soft kiss on your head.

"I love you both."

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kaijuposting · 2 years ago

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Ghost Drifting: Does it exist in the Pacific Rim film?

Now some of you might read the title of this post and think, "well of course it does, it was in the novelization and in that Tales From The Drift comic." Thing is though, canon and continuity within the Pacific Rim franchise has always been a bit of a mess, full of inconsistencies and contradictions. It's never really safe to assume anything. So, the concept of ghost drifting goes all the way back to the Pacific Rim draft script written by Travis Beacham, and it appears as he originally intended it in both the Tales From The Drift and the Tales From Year Zero comics, both of which he wrote. One could argue that it even appears in Pacific Rim: Uprising and in Pacific Rim: The Black, in the sense of human characters becoming part of the kaiju hivemind, although this is most definitely not what he originally had in mind with the idea.

So where does the original movie stand? Does it exist here? And if so, in what sense?

I would say that there is circumstantial evidence that it exists.

One piece of circumstantial evidence actually comes from very early on in the film. You can hear Yancy scream after Trespasser rips him out of the jaeger. Later on, Raleigh tells Pentecost that he was still connected to Yancy when he died. Because Yancy was ripped clean out of the jaeger before he died, he could not have been connected to the pons system. This would suggest that Yancy and Raleigh were actually ghost drifting when Yancy died.

On the other hand, five years have passed since Yancy's death, and it's extremely likely that Raleigh does not have a clear recollection of the event, and is remembering incorrectly.

After Mako and Raleigh's first drift, we see them get the same food in the mess hall, which could suggest that they are somehow synced or linked:

But while this is clearly meant to be significant somehow, there's no specific indication that this is caused by ghost drifting. They could have just swapped food preferences or cravings in the drift.

Another thing that could suggest its existence is how easily Otachi finds Newt. Like, when you're a giant monster there's not a whole lot to distinguish one guy from an entire crowd, and yet, Otachi finds him in a kaiju bunker anyway. One might argue that Otachi was tracking him by scent and/or taste, having a general idea of what Newt smells and tastes like from his memories of how things in the k-sci lab smell and taste. And one thing about Otachi is, she's the only kaiju with actual nostrils, and there's definitely something special going on with her tongue.

On the other hand, the novelization does have Newt experience "drift hangover" with the Anteverse, and with Otachi specifically. But of course, the novelization also says that Hermann is blond, so we can't assume that anything the novel says also applies to the movie. So does Newt experience ghost drift here, or is it all down to Otachi's nose and tongue? At this moment, it's a tossup.

One last thing that could maybe, possibly suggest ghost drifting is Stacker Pentecost's strange line toward the end of the film before he dies: "I will always be here for you. You can always find me in the drift."

This line could just be trying to convey a sentiment similar to "I'll always be here, because I'll live on in your heart." But that's not what Pentecost says, and what he does say implies a different kind of continued existence - one that's perhaps a bit more metaphysical. Though I do have to admit, it's not much. It really could've just been trying to convey something similar to "I'll live on in your heart." Looking at the movie from a writer's POV, I feel like if ghost drifting was actually intended to exist in this story, it would've been made more explicit. On the other hand, it feels to me like this story doesn't quite want to rule it out, either. In particular, the mess hall scene actually made me think ghost drifting was happening when Raleigh's voice started talking before switching to the scene in which he was actually talking. It's only just speculation, but I think it almost feels like foreshadowing for an actual appearance of ghost drifting in a sequel that never manifested.

#pacific rim #pacrim #pacific rim meta #ghost drift #ghost drifting #drifting #the drift

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randomrichards · 5 months ago

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TOP 10 MOVIES OF 2024 (SO FAR)

Honourable Mentions:

SOMEONE LIVES HERE

This one’s only an hour long but it delivers a powerful and frustrating documentary of a man trying to create homes for the unhoused.

Carpenter Khaleel Seivwright devotes his time to making small mobile shacks for the unhoused to live in, but he’s constantly undermined by Toronto city council that couldn’t care less about providing affordable housing.

It is maddening portrayal of shallow politicians that punishes those who try to help while offering no real solutions. There’s also hope in seeing a man go out of his way to help those in need.

10) ORIGIN

Real-life non-fiction author Isabel Wilkerson (Anjanae Ellis-Taylor) examines how social hierarchies are enforced in Origin, a compelling biopic about the making of Wilkerson’s acclaimed book Caste.

Drawing from the tragic killing of Trayvon Martin, both Wilkerson and writer/director Ava DuVernay introduces us to a series of real-life stories of oppression and defiance to showcase how systems are used to oppress marginalized groups. Among these stories are a German (Finn Wittrock) who refused to salute Hitler after falling for a Jewish girl, revelation of how America’s Jim Crow Laws inspired the holocaust and Dr. Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar (Gaurav J. Pathania) who defied his status as an “untouchable to draft India’s constitution. There are many uncomfortable scenes of innocent people being denied their basic humanity, especially one where a black boy is denied the use of the same pool as his teammates.

Origin is also a love story of Isabel grieving the loss of her husband (Jon Bernthal playing against type) as she continues her project. Bernthal shows his sweeter, sensitive side through flashbacks scenes with Ellis-Taylor. Ellis-Taylor also breaks your heart as Isabel mourns her loss.

This film a compelling drama that calls for recognizing other people’s humanity.

9) ROBOT DREAMS

Robot Dreams is one film nominated last year for Best Animated Feature hardly anyone got a chance to see. Now that it was release in select theatres, audience can see a beautiful tale of loneliness, friendship and drifting apart.

Based on the graphic novel by Sara Varon, Robot Dreams takes us into a 1980s New York full of anthropomorphic animals. A lonely Dog builds a robot friend, and they form a quick bond. It cultivates in an iconic early scene where they roller skate to the tune of Earth Wind and Fire’s “September”.

Writer/Director Pablo Berger makes us happy to see Robot and Dog together without one line of dialogue. It makes it more heartbreaking when Robot is left immobile and stranded on a closed beach and Dog is forced to wait half a year. Robot is left to dream about returning home to his only friend.

Writer/Director Pablo Berger proves himself a Master of Visual storytelling, getting a lot across without a single line of dialogue. It helps he has some top-notch animators communicate character’s thoughts and feelings through facial expressions. That animation also makes the background environment look beautiful, even though it’s portraying a grainy side of New York.

Berger balances style and substance for a visually pleasing but heartbreaking journey.

8) HUNDREDS OF BEAVERS

There are so many elements of this film that shouldn’t work. The film is a series of segments with very little connection between them. The special effects are extremely unconvincing with fake looking set pieces and awkward physics. All the animals are people in mascot costumes. These should be a put off for the average moviegoer. And yet director Mike Cheslik makes all those work to his advantage with Hundreds of Beavers, a cartoonish tribute to silent films and Looney Tunes.

Set in a winter wonderland of fur traders and gold prospectors, we follow Jean Kayak (Ryland Brickson Cole Tews), an alcoholic Applejack farmer who finds himself out of the job thanks to beavers. Now he finds himself trying to survive in the wilderness with many disastrous results. But he learns to survive with the guidance of a veteran fur trader (Wes Tank) and an Indigenous trapper (Luis Rico). But to earn the hand of a Furrier (Olivia Graves), he must get hundreds of furs for her merchant father (Doug Mancheski). This leads him to a one-man war with the titular beavers.

Cheslick delivers one side-splitting scene after another of Kayak’s disastrous attempts to trap prey, which often leaves him falling through rabbit holes. The fake looking special effects only add to the cartoonish tone, especially in one scene involving him in a log rolling war against a beaver. He also makes jokes that couldn’t get away with in the silent era including a reoccurring gag with trappers using very cartoon looking poo as beaver bait or Jean trying to trap rabbits with a female snow bunny only for it to be revealed the rabbits are gay.

The film doesn’t flow as much without a clear plot and the jokes don’t always knock it out of the park. But for most part, Hundreds of Beavers is a laugh riot.

7) FURIOSA: A MAD MAX SAGA

It’s a shame George Miller’s prequel Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga bombed at the box office because it has the kind of grand set pieces and thrilling car chases that deserve to be seen in a theatre. this compelling post-apocalyptic flick about the titular warrior (Alyla Browne as a child, Anya Taylor-Joy as an adult) seeking vengeance on the chaotic Dr. Dementus (Chris Hemsworth) compliments its predecessor Mad Max: Fury Road with the mind-blowing action scenes, creative visuals and social commentary that made the earlier film such a modern classic.

Both Furiosa and Fury Road should be uses as examples on how tell story through action scenes. Except for the franchises’ trademark opening and closing voice over monologues, Miller avoids exposition in favour of using the extended action scenes to reveal character, show the world’s rules and further the plot. This demonstrates a lot of trust in the audience to figure out the world through image alone, especially when he has only one short scene to show us the green world Furiosa grew up in. Then again, he’s such a master filmmaker that he can reveal so much information just from a single shot.

It’s worth noting that Furiosa’s more story oriented than Fury Road, focusing on the tragedy of the life Furiosa’s lost, especially her mother. Also, you must admire Miller for daring to spend an hour on Furiosa as a child. Of course, it helps that he has Hemsworth having a blast hamming up every scene.

It doesn’t quite reach the level of Fury Road and the CGI isn’t quite as convincing as the original movie. But Miller still delivers an exciting thrill ride worthy of the iconic franchise.

6) AMERICAN FICTION

Frustrated with his work not getting published, surly literary professor Thelonius “Monk” Ellison (Jeffery Wright) decides to make a racially stereotypical “memoir” under the guise of gangster “Stagg R. Lee” in the scathing satire American Fiction.

Cord Jefferson deserves his Oscar win for his screenplay. From the opening scene of Monk arguing with a white student over him writing the N-word on a whiteboard (referring to the title of a short story), He delivers an amusing commentary about modern racism. At the film’s core, Jefferson goes after the media representation that puts Black America in a box of Black Oppression Porn under the guise of “being real.” While Monk can’t get his books on Greek mythology published but much to his chagrin, author Sinatrara Golden (Issa Rae) writes a bestselling novel “We’s Lives in Da Ghetto” full of racially stereotypical dialogue. Monk’s publishing agent sums it up when he states “White people think they want the truth, but they don’t. They want to be absolved.” In one funny scene, he berates a bookstore for putting his book in “African American Studies” when it’s about Greek Mythology (“The blackest thing in this book is the ink”)

American Fiction is also dramedy about Monk being forced to return to his family home and confront his complicated relationship with his family when his sister (Tracee Ellis Ross) passes away and he’s forced to care for their mother (Leslie Uggams). It’s here that he’s reconciles with his chaotic brother Clifford (scene-stealing Sterling K. Brown) and finds love with a new resident Coraline (Erika Alexander). Jefferson proves just as effective with family dramedy as he is with satire, balancing the comedic moments of Clifford berating a local for interrupting his sister’s memorial with the heavy moments of their mother’s struggles with Alzheimer’s.

Jefferson also deserves kudos for creating complex characters. While his frustrations with the popularity of oppression porn is understandable, Monk often comes off as a judgmental snob. He remains likeable thanks to Wright’s charismatic performance. Clifford seems high on life (and cocaine), but he hides the hurt of his mother not accepting his homosexuality. Brown gets to shine in a monologue about Clifford’s dad not knowing his true self.

Jefferson is a filmmaker worth looking into.

5) CHALLENGERS

Luca Guadagnino brings us another entry to a unique subgenre of erotic films about a love triangle between two male best friends and a woman. This time, it’s between three up and coming tennis players.

The film starts years later with former tennis star Tashi (Zendaya) serving as coach for her husband Art (Mike Faist) who’s struggling to break out of a losing streak. Meanwhile, their ex-friend Patrick (Josh O’Connor) is sleeping in his van while awaiting the upcoming tournament. It’s this tournament that this trio is forced to confront their relationships.

Through flashbacks, Guadagnino and writer Justin Kuritzkes reveal how they got here her from being a trio of promising players. They introduce little details like a scar on Tashi’s knee and a tennis pose Art and Patrick use to indicate who had sex with Tashi. From these details, Guadagnion and Kuritzkes reminds us of the curveballs life can throw at us and how the characters adapt to them (or don’t).

Zendaya, Faist and O’Connor have excellent chemistry, seductively bouncing off each other. They also masterfully handle the complicated turns their characters take in reconciling their feelings for each other.

Challengers delivers a sensual character study of three athletes with feelings for each other.

4) CIVIL WAR

Civil War follows disillusioned photojournalist Lee (Kirsten Dunst) as she joins 2 journalists (Wagner Moura and Stephen McKinley-Henderson) and an enthusiastic young up and coming photographer (Cailee Spaeny) on a road trip across the United States as a rebel militia battles the president of the United States.

Writer/Director Alex Garland keeps the audience hooked from beginning to end as he puts our heroes in one dangerous scenario after another from a sniper battle at a Santa Village to the climactic battle at the White House. The most iconic is an intense standoff with the scene stealing Jesse Plemons as a sociopathic militia.

Garland makes the bold move of not revealing what caused the war in the first place. You can figure it out through the subtle hints including the President being on his 4th term the fact Texas and California have seceded from the country. This choice works to put the audience in the perspective of a photojournalist, who are expected to be an inactive witness so they can present events factually. But the film shows how challenging that is when it involves witnessing horrifying moments of a man being set on fire and putting their lives in danger. You see this in Dunst’s performance, who conveys her character’s exhausted weariness through her face.

Alex Garland gives us an action-packed thriller cultivating with an exciting shootout.

3) PERFECT DAYS

It’s one hell of challenge to create an engaging film with no conflict. That’s what makes Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days such a miracle. The beloved director defies basic film convention to create a meditative look in the life of Hirayama (Koji Yakusho), a custodian who cleans publish washroom in Tokyo.

Perfect Days has no true storyline. The closest thing to a plot happens when Hirayama’s niece shows up out of nowhere to stay with him but that happens way late in the film and gets resolved quickly. For the most part, Wenders focuses on the Hirayama’s routine days both at work and his personal life. It sounds like a boring movie, but Wenders uses those routines to create a sense of rhythm. It’s strange how reassuring to see Hirayama drinking a can of coffee every morning, sitting at a park bench for lunch and listen to his cassettes. That makes the breaks from routines more engaging, especially when Hirayama plays tic tac toe with a stranger.

At the core is Hirayama’s appreciation of the little things in life. You can appreciate how director of photography Franz Lustig makes Tokyo look so beautiful, even while Hirayama is cleaning toilets. Lustig also gets to shine in the brief black and white dreams that concludes each day. Wenders creates a meditative flick that makes you investigate the beauty within your everyday life.

2) THE TASTE OF THINGS

Vietnamese filmmaker Anh Hung Tran puts the viewer under a culinary spell in his French romance The Taste of Things. He adapts Marcel Rouff’s novel “La Vie Et La Passion De Bodin-Bouffant” about a beloved gourmet chef (Benoit Magimel) who decides to cook a special meal for his home cook (Juliette Binoche) when she falls ill. Tran and his director of photography Jonathan Ricquebourg leave audiences’ ravenous with long, beautiful scenes of cooking a variety of exquisite dishes. It’s best to eat before you watch.

The Taste of Things could also be regarded as a celebration of veteran French actors Magimel and Binoche who both delivered dignified yet loving chemistry, making us feel the unrequited love these two have for each other. It’s made more fascinating when it’s revealed he’s been proposing to her for 20 years to no avail. So, the climatic works both as an expression of his love and a show of appreciation for all she has done for her. There’s also a bit of tragedy given that she might not have much time left. You want them to get together.

It’s a perfect film for date night.

1) DUNE: PART 2

Denis Villeneuve creates one of those rare sequels that stands as a masterpiece that compliments the first film (and in some opinions, surpasses the original). It maintains the mind-blowing visuals, Game of thrones-like political intrigue and excellent performances that made its predecessor a hit.

The sequel has hero Paul Atredies (Timothee Chalamet) assimilating himself into the Fremen tribes to bring down the ruthless Baron Harkonnen (Stellan Skarskgard) and the emperor (Christopher Walken) while his mother Lady Jessica (Rebecca Ferguson) works behind the scenes to convince the tribesmen that her son is the prophesized messiah.

Dune: Part 2 puts the audience under its spell with Greg Fraser’s mind-blowing cinematography making the desert and the emperor’s kingdom dazzlingly real. They get to shine in the scenes in the Harroken kingdom, a cold world where the outside drains the world of all colour.

The film introduces us to new characters including The Emperor and his strategic daughter Princess Irulan (Florence Pugh). But it’s Austin Butler who stands out as the Baron’s sociopathic nephew Feyd-Rautha. Butler oozes menace with his cold stare, hairless figure, and raspy voice, especially when he mutilates a mistress just to test his knives.

What truly makes both Frank Herbert’s book and Villeneuve’s adaptations so special is how they deconstruct both the Chosen One archetype and white savior storyline. Throughout the film, Lady Jessica manipulates the Fremen people into thinking her son’s a prophet, a role Paul doesn’t want. Meanwhile, Chani (Zendaya) remains skeptical of the prophesy and calls out her father (Javier Bardem) for blindly believing it. Apparently, Herbert takes this deconstruction a step further in Dune: Messiah which will conclude the trilogy.

Villeneuve again proves himself truly cinematic storyteller with a uniquely epic style that elevates complex stories.

#Top 10 movies of 2024 #best movies of 2024 #random richards #Random Richards Reviews #dune part two #dune part 2 #somebody lives here #furiosa #furiosa a mad max saga #the taste of things #perfect days #wim wenders #civil war #challengers #american fiction #origin #hundreds of beavers #robot dreams

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tabswrites · 1 year ago

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Author Ask Tag

Tagged by @writernopal here 💜

Gently tagging: @pandoras-comment-box @elbritch-kit @clairelsonao3 @thatndginger

1. What is the main lesson of your story (e.g. kindness, diversity, anti-war), and why did you choose it?

Don’t let the past define you. Each MC is weighed down by something in their past: A reputation, a legacy, trauma. They will explore their grief in many ways, and while some of them will overcome it and grow, some will let it consume them.

When I started writing again, it was to help me process some really heavy stuff that I went through last year, and I realized I had let the situation overwhelm me to the point where I didn’t recognize myself anymore. It happens in little ways over time, and I’m sure others have experienced the same thing. I want people to know that the things that have happened to them, the things people have done, they don’t go away. Not completely. But if we learn to accept them and confront the emotions, those things become easier to overcome, and you don’t have to lose yourself in the process.

2. What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding (like real-life cultures, animals, famous media, websites, etc.)?

I’m inspired a lot by nature and animals, tv/movies I love, books, random and weird history facts, fairy tales/folklore. I also experience vivid dreams from time to time and they inspire a lot of my story ideas.

3. What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, help readers grow as a person?

Besides the whole “bring back magic” thing, I think overall the characters in ToL are trying to achieve inner peace for themselves, and I want the same thing. I do want to inspire people to realize that sometimes the greatest empathy you have should be towards yourself. Forgiveness is definitely one of the minor themes, as it has been a key part in my own personal healing process.

For the readers, I just want them to be mindful of tbe complexities of life and of other people. You never know what someone else is really going through.

4. How many chapters is your story going to have?

….more than 2, but less than 100? Honestly, I planned for 15 with ToL but it might go longer. I’m not the one behind the wheel, if I’m being honest.

5. Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original! Both of WIPs are on Ao3 and Wattpad.

6. When and why did you start writing?

I originally began writing when I was 14 when I started role playing on Goodreads. (Yes, that one.) My classmate and I started our own 1x1 and decided to turn it into a novel just casually. I ended up dedicating way more time to it and she stepped away, so I rewrote everything in my style. I finished it during NaNoWriMo a year later and even submitted it for Script Frenzy. That was the only serious writing project I ever did, 99.9% of my time was spent role playing. When my RP buddies started to drift away I got really depressed and ending up not writing for almost 6 years. Started back up again last year and here we are!

7. Do you have any words of engagement for fellow writers of Writeblr? What other writers of Tumblr do you follow?

No one will ever love your writing as much as you do, so you should love it the most! Don’t second guess yourself, and stop comparing yourself to everyone else! You chose to write the story for a reason—if that other person was meant to write it, you wouldn’t be the one kept up at night by story ideas.

I follow so many who have been tagged by other people but too bad:

@writernopal I love her writing and her OCs and she’s always supportive 💜

@outpost51 I would love to file a formal adoption request for Atria and no one else matches my deranged commenting style like him

@writingmaidenwarrior Always supportive and up for a chat, silly or otherwise!

@clairelsonao3 I love her writing and she’s super supportive too!

@sam-glade Sam has amazing world building and gives great critique!

Others I don’t know very well yet but I have enjoyed their writing and/or interacting with:

@reneesbooks

@mysticstarlightduck

@pheita

@avrablake

@coffeewritesfiction

#wow I talk a lot #tag games #writeblr positivity #writeblr #tess talks

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ifuckingloveryoshu · 8 months ago

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Hi I saw ur tags on my posts lol 🔥😭😭 thank you so much for liking my ryoshu and oc arts, but can I ask where did the name of yuzuki for ryoshu's daughter came from? I don't think hell screen mentioned her name?

Thank you for helping me get up this morning. Very short tldr but vauge answer: Hell Screen has been translated and adapted enough you could have read the a translation that keeps called Yoshihide's daughter, "Yoshihide's daughter"

If you read the Little Penguins Books Publishing, they did not use Yuzuki as the name from what I can see, but Yuzuki exist somewhere.

Lazily doing a half-baked investigation under read more.

I will never claim to know anything about translation and I had too little sleep to do things today. I'm also broke so I can't go cross refrence evey translation and adaptation of Hell Screen. I hope someone better than I can could look into this or help out. Ill come back to this maybe

This is absolutly not how you do research or go off of things but Penguin Publishing version reviews don't use the Yuzuki name so I'm thinking they don't use her name there. The Jay Rubin Translation doesn't use Yuzuki. I say that because I'm re-listening to this while cross refrencing a pdf I found. Im guessing their one in the same.

This archeologist/writer named matthewrettino uses Yuzuki when talking about Hell Screen

Haunted Places Ghost Stories did a reading on this and unrelated but they pronounce Monkehide how an american would so its, "MONKEY HIDE." But anyway, they use it. They just spell it liker Uzuki

Portrait of Hell or Jingokuhen make Yoshihide Korean, apparently. I wanted to put that here, it''s not really important, just an example of an adaptation changing something. You have a story for so long and things get changed.

It's part of human history and how we tell stories, we like adapting things and giving thigs new meaning just like Ryoshu. She's not named Yoshihide but we're all thinking, "Yeah, she's Yoshihide, she likes art, she has fire, shes sadistic, that's Yoshihide." But she's not an old man, Yoshihide never spoke in acronyms, Yoshihide's not a woman. Jesus Christ was never white. He was born in Jerusulm in a dessert, it would be strange if he was white. Most people living in the middle east and closer to the sun normally have darker skin because they have more melanin in their skin to protect from the sun. The image has been passed around so much that, at least in our Eurocentric culture, I can't find the word for it, Jesus is commonly depicted as white. Yuzuki could have never had the name in the original language, or the inverse, she could have had a name but time let it go through the skin of its fingers and it was lost to oblivion. We just need to rediscover where it's orgin came from.

Meme - A unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another

The name Yuzuki might as well be a meme. If it wasn't in the orginal version of Hell Screen, it just exist now. That's why people are like, "Yuzuki, that's the name of Yoshihide's daughter. That sounds right!" Because idea's spread from text, imagry, music notes, whatever you have come to life like a spark of flame from a lighter and drift off from its starting point. The co2 particles relase into the air and up to the clouds, and when enough people emmit co2 at a rate thats unsustantable for our planet, big things happen. Really big things happen. Or you just scream so loud that no one hears you and much like the effects of smoking, damage your lungs.

I hope it doesn't feel like I'm pulling stuff out of my ass. I'll come back to this and when I have a solid answer, i'll tell you or reblog this. No worries.

#thoughts about ryoshu #ryoshu posting #hell screen mention #ask #never take what anyone says at face value #esspecially when they don't cite their sources #even if they sound smart #EVEN THEN you need to go into those sources yourself and read them #interpret them yourself #be good #i don't mean this as a buzz word but use your critical thinking skills #im a community college student and a ryoshu obsessed person i shouldn't be your source for knowledge #thank you for the ask! i love ask just as much as I love ryoshu

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rjalker · 11 months ago

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and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin.

so they eat the bones too

what if I include the whole text on every post of my liveblog. Yes, I shall.

The Black Vampyre; A Legend of St. Domingo. By Uriah Derick D’arcy

So have I seen, upon another shore, Another Lion give a grievous roar; And the last Lion thought the first—A BOAR!

-Bombast. Furios

SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. NEW -YORK: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1819.

TO THE AUTHOR OF “WALL-STREET.”

MY DEAR SIR, CHARMED with the success of your anomalous drama, which, without aspiring even to the character of nonsense, has already seen three editions, I have been myself induced to venture on publishing; with the sanguine hope of also scraping together a few shillings, in these hard times. Permit me to inscribe this tale to you, with a fellow-feeling for your lack of genius; and a fervent hope, that our names may be encircled by the same evergreen in the temple of the Muses; and that we may long flourish together, on the same pedestal, embellishing and elevating the literature of the Auction Room.

I remain, My dear Sir, Your affectionate Friend, And obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR.

Introduction

If any person should have patience to read the following narrative, and can discover the Author’s drift, it is more than he can do himself. If it be thought exquisite nonsense, it is more than the writer dares hope: and if it be pronounced simple, stupid, and unadulterated absurdity, his own private opinion will perfectly coincide with that of the public. He began to write without any fable, and before he had found any had spun out the thread of his ideas.

This tangled skein of absurdities is now exposed to criticism, from the laudable motive of showing, of how much nonsense an individual may be delivered, in the short space of two afternoons; without any excuse but idleness, or any object but amusement.

The prominent descriptions, which it is here attempted to ridicule, are fresh in the memory of all who have read the “White Vampyre;” and to those who have not, the Superstition must be so familiar, that it is unnecessary to make useless extracts.

That the Author may not, however, be misunderstood, it may be necessary to state, that in the speech of the Vampyre, he had no design of descending to that meanest of all intellectual exercises, a travestie on authors who are justly admired: but meant, if any thing, simply to show how passages, which were fine in their original use, when garbelled by the ignorant and tasteless, become a melancholy rhapsody of nonsense.

“But first on earth, as Vampyre sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent; Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet, which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims, ere they yet expire, Shall know the demon for their sire; As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem. But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, best beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a father’s name— That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! Yet thou must end thy task and mark Her cheek’s last tinge—her eye’s last spark, And the last glassy glance must view Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue; Then with unhallowed hand shall tear The tresses of her yellow hair, Of which, in life a lock when shorn Affection’s fondest pledge was worn— But now is borne away by thee Memorial of thine agony! Yet with thine own best blood shall drip Thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip; Then stalking to thy sullen grave, Go—and with Gouls and Afrits rave, Till these in horror shrink away From spectre more accursed than they.”

-BYRON.

The Black Vampyre

Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS was a gentleman of African extraction. His ancestors emigrated from the eastern coast of GUINEA, in a French ship, and were sold in ST. DOMINGO remarkably cheap; as they were reduced to mere skeletons by the yaws on the passage; and all died shortly after their arrival, except one small negro, of a very slender constitution, and fit for no work whatever. The gentleman who purchased him, charitably knocked out his brains; and the body was thrown into the ocean. The tide returning in the night, it was washed upon the sands; and the moon then shining bright, the gentleman was taking a walk to enjoy the coolness of the evening; judge of his surprise, when the little corpse got up, and complaining of a pain in its bowels, begged for some bread and butter!

The PLANTER supposing his business to have been but half done, kicked him back in the water. The element seemed very familiar to him; and he swam back with much grace and agility; parting the sparkling waves with his jet black members, polished like ebony, but reflecting no single beam of light. His complexion was a dead black;—his eyes a pure white;—the iris was flame colour;—and the pupils of a clear, moonshiny lustre;—but so peculiarly constructed, that, though prominent, they seemed to look into his own head. His hair was neither curled nor straight; but feathery, like the plumage of a crow. Having paddled again on shore, he came crawling crab fashion, to the feet of Mr. PERSONNE. The latter gentleman, in considerable alarm, (not knowing whether it was Satan, Obi, or some other worthy, with whom he had to deal,) mustered up sufficient resolution, to tie a large stone round the boy’s middle: then, with a main exertion of strength, he hurled him into the sparkling ocean. He fell where the reflection of the moon was brightest, and sunk like lead; but immediately rose again like cork, perpendicularly, with the stone under his arm; while the radiant lustre of the planet retreated from his dark figure, exhibiting in its most striking contrast its utter blackness!

In this predicament, he came buoyant to land; surrounded, as he seemed, by a sphere of magic lustre. He now walked up to the Frenchman, with his arms a-kimbo, and looking remarkably fierce. Mr. PERSONNE’S particular hairs stood up on end, but being ashamed that a little negro of ten years old, should put him in bodily fear, he knocked him down. The Guinea-man rose again, without bending a joint; as fast as Mr. PERSONNE could upset him, he recovered his altitude; just like one of those small toys, fabricated from pith, tipt with lead, called witches and hobgoblins by the rising generation!

The PLANTER, in utter amazement and despair, took hold of the child by both his extremities; and pressing him to the earth, set down upon him! Then, halloing for his attendants, he ordered a tremendous fire to be kindled on the sand!! This was accordingly done. The GAUL congratulated himself on his perseverance and sagacity; and as he had never heard of ignaqueous animals, was confident that though the water fiend was so expert in his own element, he could not stand the fiery ordeal. The boy, meanwhile, lay perfectly passive, as if he had been a mere log; but presently, when the pile was all in a light blaze, with a sudden expansion, like that of a compressed Indian Rubber, he popped Mr. PERSONNE up into the air many yards, and he alighted head-foremost into the fire, where he had intended to have dedicated the sable brat, with his nine lives, to Moloch!!!

Whatever the negro was, it is notorious that Mr. PERSONNE was no salamander. He was rescued from the pyre, which, like Hercules, he had, (though unwittingly,) erected for himself; looking like a squizzed cat, and having apparently no life left in his body. The attention of the domestics was drawn entirely to their master; who soon betrayed signs of animation, though he exhibited a most awful spectacle: being one continual sore and blister. “His whole body was one wound,” as Virgil or some other poet has hyperbolically expressed himself.

Mr. PERSONNE, when he perfectly recovered his senses, found himself in his own bed, wrapt in greasy sheets, and smarting as if in a Cayenne bath. He called for a glass of brandy,—his dear wife EUPHEMIA,—and his infant son, who had not yet been christened. His lady, with streaming eyes, presented herself before him; and, after tenderly inquiring into the state of his health, told him, (with a voice interrupted with sobs and hiccups,) that when she went in the morning to see her baby, whom she had left in the cradle, there was nothing to be seen, but the skin, hair, and nails!!! She declared that there never was such another object; except, indeed, the exsiccation in Scudder’s Museum!

On the receipt of this horrid intelligence, Mr. PERSONNE was seized with a violent spasmodic affection; and shortly after expired, muttering something about sacre, and the Guinea-negro!

The amiable, but unfortunate Euphemia, was thrown into several hysterical convulsions; as well she might be, poor woman! when her husband had been made a holocaust, and served up like a broiled and peppered chicken, to feed the grim maw of death; and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin. The disconsolate widow caused her husband to be embalmed; and he was buried amid the lamentations and tears of all the funeral; much regretted by all who had the honour of his acquaintance, particularly by his negroes; who could not soon forget him; as he had left too many sincere marks of his regard upon their backs, to be ever obliterated from their recollections.

Time, as all the Greek tragedians, Solomon, and others have remarked, is a benevolent deity. Mrs. PERSONNE’S grief yielded to the soothing hand of the consoling power; and her bloom and spirits returned with more lustre and elasticity than they had before exhibited: as the rose, that had drooped in the fury of the passing storm, erects its blushing honours, and shows more beautiful and vivid tints, when the squall is over!

Many years after these occurrences took place, while EUPHEMIA was in second mourning for her third husband, she was indulging in the luxury of solitary grief; and reading Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and The Melancholy Poems of Dr. Farmer, in an orangerie. The refreshing breezes from the ocean, which now tempered the sultry heats of the declining day,—the soft perfume of the opening blossoms;—and the mellow tints of the evening sky, shedding that holy light, so dear to sensitive hearts, diffused a calm over her soul, wrapt in the contemplation of departed days. While lost in this pensive reverie, she perceived two strangers approaching her, in the extremity of the long vista of the grove. One of them was a coloured gentleman, of remarkable height, and deep jetty blackness; a perfect model of the CONGO Apollo. He was drest in the rich garb of a Moorish Prince; and led by the hand a pale European boy, in an Asiatic dress; whose languid countenance, slender form and tristful gait, were strongly contrasted with the portly appearance and majestic step of his conductor!

They both saluted the lovely widow, and after an interchange of compliments, accepted her polite invitation to set down, and take tea with her in the bower. She learned from the elder stranger, that he had brought out a cargo of slaves, whom his subjects had lately taken prisoners in war; and whom he had resolved to dispose of himself; as he was desirous of seeing the world. His Page, he said, was an orphan, left by a slave merchant in Africa.

The manners and conversation of the PRINCE had an irresistible charm. The regal port was manifest in his gigantic and well proportioned frame; and majesty was conspicuous on his brow, without its diadem. The turban and crescent had never graced a nobler front; but the win- ning condescension of his tones and language, while they could not banish the feeling of the presence of royalty, removed every restraint incident to that consciousness. He criticised the works, which EUPHEMIA had been perusing, with masterly precision; and displayed more knowledge than even the accomplished ideologist of Lady Morgan; with infinitely more discretion and good sense.

It is remarked by the Abbe Reynal, that there is a peculiar elegance and beauty in the complexion of the Africans, (when the eyes and nose are accustomed to their hue and odour.) This truth was realized by EUPHEMIA, as she gazed on the open visage of her illustrious guest. She thought surely that in him Nature might stand up and say “This was a man!” And certainly it is only the weakness and imperfection of our human senses, which, penetrating no further than the surface, is for ever deceived by superficial shadows. The empyrean is always blue, whatever vapours may float in our contracted atmosphere. And if we gaze on the rows of skulls, which festoon and garnish Surgeon’s Hall, we can apply no standard, to determine their relative beauty. They are all equally ugly; and the block of Helen might be mistaken for that of Medusa. Shakspeare, true to nature, has also remarked, “Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.”

The beauty then, the royalty, gentility, and various accomplishments of the BAMBUCK monarch, made captive the too sensible heart of the French widow. She forgot her ogles, graces, and even her loquacity; rooted to her seat, and fixed in immoveable contemplation of the AFRICAN’S face. What peculiar feature or lineament attracted her attention, she knew not: his eyes, though bright, did not sparkle; and the iris, though of a more vivid red than the roseate line in the rainbow, emitted no scintillations. In fact, his whole countenance seemed to look, and to perambulate her own.

The conversation gradually assumed a more empassioned and amorous complexion; and the little page, (who, though meagre and emaciated, evidently showed that he was no gump for his years,) taking certain broad hints, cast a mournful and intelligent look on the widow, said he would fetch a short walk in the plantation, and left the orangerie.

The PRINCE then spreading his glittering sash upon the grass, went down on his knees upon it; and broke out into the most ardent exclamations, of love and admiration; and professions of constant attachment. He said that the flat-nosed beauties of Zara; the scarred, squab figures of the golden coast; the well proportioned Zilias, Calypsos, and Zamas on the banks of the Niger; and even the great Hottentot Venus herself, had never for a moment made the least impression on his heart! His passion was a mystery to himself; its origin secret as the sources of the Nile ; but full and impetuous as its ample channel, when replenished from the celestial fountains of ABYSSINIA; while if Mrs. DUBOIS would shine upon its waves, its enlivened currents would fertilize his vast dominions, in the luxuriant realms of central Africa; making them to fructify yet more abundantly, with burning gold, and radiant diamonds!!!

What female heart could resist such pleadings, and the compliment implied in such a preference? When ZEMBO (the page) returned, the parties had agreed to be privately united on the same evening. The ceremony was accordingly performed, on the spot, by the family chaplain of Mrs. DUBOIS: not without many remonstrances on his part, as to the impropriety of marrying a negro. The PRINCE did not see to resent the affront; which, by the by, he had no right to do; as the priest got nothing for the job. ZEMBO, too, was extremely restless; till Mrs. DUBOIS gave him some sweetmeats, which seemed to quiet his conscience; after which he took some stiff punch, and fell asleep!

About midnight, the PRINCE came to him; and, shaking him by the ears, bad him rise and follow him. His bride was hanging on his arm, in an enchanting dishabille; and did not seem to be in perfect possession of her right senses. ZEMBO mournfully followed the new married pair.

They went silently out of the back door, with cautious steps, and proceeded through the orangerie. No breath of wind was stirring. The moon was on the zenith, surrounded by a pale halo of ghostly lustre. When they had crossed the plantation, they came to a place of sepulture; where the dark cypresses, and lugubrious mahogany, admitted but sparse and glimmering streaks of funereal light; which, falling on the rank foliage, the white monuments and broken ground beneath, presented a thousand dusky shapes, flitting in the dim uncertainty dear to superstition.

Vague terrors seized on the mind of the bride; and she began very naturally to inquire, what was the use of getting out of a comfortable bed, and trailing through the heavy dew, in her undress, to such an unusual spot for midnight recreation.

They now stood near the spot, where her three husbands, several children, and the skin, hair and nails of her first baby, were deposited in a row. At the foot of a tamarind, lay her third son; whose christian name was SPOONER, and who died, according to the tombstone, in a fit of intoxication, aged seven years and six months. On him she had bestowed a greater share of tenderness, than any of her other offspring; and his loss had caused her most affliction. The African, making observations on the grave, began to strip himself very expeditiously, assisted by ZEMBO; who seemed to recover from his blues; and by his activity and eagerness, manifested his expectation of soon seeing some fine sport.

Presently the two genii, or gentlemen, or whatever they were, turned towards the East, and performed certain antic prostrations; throwing handfuls of earth three times over their heads. Then returning to the tomb, they tore up the sods with ravenous fury; and soon drew out the last- mentioned son of the Lady, and threw him on the grass, beside the grave. ZEMBO fell as fiercely upon the corpse, as a hungry dog upon his dinner; but was arrested by the AFRICAN, who lent him a severe box on the ear, which sent him blubbering to a corner of the cemetery.

What added both to the mother’s horrors and admiration, was, that the body of her child was perfectly fresh, and the olfactory nerves experienced no unsavoury sensation from its proximity; while its cheeks were diffused with so deep a tinge of scarlet, that they shone like ruddy fireballs in the darkness of the spot. Her husband drew a golden goblet from beneath a large stone; then, bending over the corse, he scooped out the heart, with his long and polished nails; and, having pressed the blood into the chalice, mingled with it some dark particles, gathered from the newly turned up earth. From the pure and scanty lymph, which gushed near by and flickered like a streak of quicksilvery-light in the moonbeam, he added a third ingredient of the potion. Then seizing his passive and trembling spouse by the throat, and presenting the unnatural mixture to her lips; he cried in a hollow voice, whose very inflection thrilled through each fibre of its victim,—“Swear, or if that is against your principles, affirm, by this dirty blood,—and bloody dirt;—by this watery blood,—and bloody water;—by this watery dirt, and dirty water;—that you will never disclose in any manner, aught of what you have seen and shall see this night. Call them all to witness your wish, that in the moment when you even conceive the thought of perjury, your bowels may burst out, and your bones rot! Swear and drink!”

The affrighted woman murmured, (as articulately as the iron gripe of the monster would suffer her,) that she was not thirsty; and had not breath enough to aspirate such a terrible conjuration. “No trifling;” roared the fiend, “you have not a moment to deliberate.” But his bellowing and threats were vain; and he found to his mortification that he had gotten the wrong sow by the ear, or rather by the throat. She stuttered out, in the most pitiful accents, which would have softened any heart (but a Vampyre has none,) that though she was by no means partial to the delectable confectionary of the pharmacopeia, calomel and jalap, ipecacuanha, rhubarb, and tartar-emetic, she would rather take them all, collectively and individually, than the unchristian decoction he held against her teeth.

Foaming with madness, till the white slaver flowed down his sable limbs, the African hurled MRS. PERSONNE, DUBOIS, &c. &c. on the grave of her first husband, and stamping violently on the earth, it seemed to heave as with the throes of an earthquake. Immediately the tumuli yawned. The ponderous stones and slabs were shaken from their ancient sockets; and the ghastly dead, in uncouth attitudes, crawled from their nooks; with their hair curling in tortuous and serpent twinings; and their eyeballs of fire bursting from their heads; while, as they extended their withered arms, and tapering fingers, furnished with blood-hound claws, their gory shrouds fell in wild drapery around them, transiently revealing their forms, bloated as if to bursting, and often incarnadined with clotted blood, yet warm and dripping!!!

The Lady, (as those who have been in similar predicaments may suppose,) soon lost her recollection; not, however, before she had seen ZEMBO busily employed in tearing up the grave of her first husband; she saw herself surrounded by the spectres, and lost all consciousness.

When reason and sense returned, she found herself in the same place; and it was also the midnight hour. She was laying by the grave of Mr. PERSONNE, and her breast was stained with blood. A wide wound appeared to have been inflicted there, but was now cicatrized. Imagine if you can, her surprise; when, by a certain carniverous craving in her maw, and by putting this and that together, she found she was a—VAMPYRE!!! and gathered from her indistinct reminiscences, of the preceding night, that she had been then sucked; and that it was now her turn to eject the peaceful tenants of the grave!

With this delightful prospect of immortality before her, she began to examine the graves, for subject to a satisfy her furious appetite. When she had selected one to her mind, a new marvel arrested her attention. Her first husband got up out his coffin, and with all the grace so natural to his countrymen, made her a low bow in the last fashion, and opened his arms to receive her!

What were the emotions of this fond couple, when, after a lingering separation for sixteen years, they again embraced each other, with the ardour of an affection equal to their earliest transports, and which their long divorce served only to increase; tenderly inquiring into the state of each other’s health; and the accidents which had befallen them during their disjunction. They forgot even their hunger and thirst; and sitting down on a tombstone, made a thousand inquiries; which, however, they related to family concerns, might not be as interesting to the reader as they were to the parties concerned.

Mr. PERSONNE, however, looked rather glum, when he learned that his Lady had been thrice married, since his decease. But she assured him, that she would never more tolerate the addresses of another suitor: and as for the two husbands, they were rotten enough by this time; as she was confident they had not attended the Vampyre Ball, on the preceding night. As for her sable spouse, she trusted that he would never again appear to interrupt their happiness. But while she was expressing this hope, the gentleman in question, (like his relation below, according to the old proverb,) came upon the ground, with ZEMBO. Mr. PERSONNE, having neither sword nor pistols at hand, armed himself with a gigantic thigh-bone; and warned the BLACK PRINCE to stand upon his guard as he meant to punish him severely.

But ZEMBO, rushing between the parties, raised his hands in a supplicating posture; while the generous monarch, making a Salam to his antagonist, begged him, keep himself quiet, and look behind him. They both turned round on this intimation, when, to the utter confusion of the Lady, her second and third husbands, Messieurs MARQUAND and DUBOIS, arose from the graves, where they had been lovingly deposited by the side of each other. They both advanced to salute their wife; but Mr. PERSONNE, brandishing his thigh-bone, warned them to stand off, as he had the first title to the Lady. Much confusion would have ensued, had not the African Prince interfered. He told the gentlemen that so delicate a point could only be settled in an honourable way; and proposed that Mr. MARQUAND and Mr. DUBOIS should first settle their difference in a personal encounter; after which Mr. PERSONNE might give the survivor gentlemanly satisfaction. To this all parties assented.

As they were already stripped, the combatants shook hands, to show their mutual good-will; and proceeded to action, without further ceremony. Mr. DuBois soon brought claret from Mr. MARQUAND; who, in returning the compliment, fibbed Mr. DUBOIS so severely in the bowels, that he lost his wind; and gasping for breath, smote the air on all sides, without any of his blows telling. He came to the ground, and his bones rattled as he fell. But soon recovering his breath, he made a desperate attack on Mr. MARQUAND’S sconce; and favoured him with so terrible a facer under the gills, that he fell incontinently like a bull smitten in his front; but entangling his own heels with those of Mr. DUBOIS, they both came simultaneously to the ground; striking their heads against different tombstones; and knocking out their own brains.

They rose again, refreshed like the giant of old, by their grappling with the earth, and all the better for the loss of their wits, which, indeed, was a mere trifle. But the AFRICAN, who had no time to see more sport, fixed them to the sod by his superior strength; and ZEMBO dexterously pinned them fast, by driving stakes through their hearts, with a large sledge hammer, (which he carried about his person for such emergencies.) During the opera- tion, their roaring surpassed that which is performed by the Lioness, when bereft of her whelps; but as soon as they were fairly nailed to the counter, they lay motionless and breathless—a horrible pair of spectacles of sin and misery!

The AFRICAN assured the Lady, that she need never fear their second resurrection; and Mr. PERSONNE politely offered to settle their controversy, in any mode most agreeable to the PRINCE:—either to box with him on the spot, or appoint a meeting in future, with pistols, rifles, small or broad sword; or else they might toss up, who should set fire to a barrel of gunpowder. The PRINCE said that quarrelling was all nonsense, and offered his hand; but Mr. PERSONNE refused, saying, “Don’t be too familiar, Blackey;” and renewing his threats of cracking him over the noddle with the thigh-bone.

The generous monarch pocketed the affront. “You have been,” he said, “sufficiently rewarded, for the cruelties you practised upon my person, several years ago. I forgive you, my dear sir, what you performed, and intended to perform on me. Here is your son, who has grown considerably, as you may observe; and I assure you that his education has not been neglected. To his exertions last night you are indebted for your revivification. And as, you may remember, you were embalmed, you have kept quite sweet and fresh ever since your interment. Amiable and virtuous VAMPYRES! may you long enjoy that tranquillity and contentment, which your merit and accomplishments so eminently deserve! A vessel lies in the port, ready to sail for Europe in an hour. The Island is no longer a place for you. Here is money to pay your passages, and all I have to say, is, that the sooner you’re off the better.—Farewell!” So saying he departed, without waiting for the acknow- ledgments of the party.

Mr. PERSONNE and his Lady, whom we shall again call by her first marriage name, did not exactly comprehend what their dingy benefactor meant, by bidding them take French leave of the Island, like pickpockets and outlaws; but, as they were yet wondering at their own existence, like Adam and Eve, the first day of their creation, and as they had reason to believe the PRINCE a potent magician, who could rouse the dead from their searments, and turn the planets from their courses;—for these reasons, they concluded to follow his bidding, without any impertinent scruples. But as the keen edge of their hunger had been whetted by delay, they would fain have taken supper, and digested a little something wherewithal to strengthen them, before they set out.

ZEMBO, who had filled his own breadbasket very lately, and was in no such urgent necessity, protested with all the vehemence which filial reverence would permit, against the unseasonable gratification of their unnatural craving; and recited with just emphasis and good discretion, an extract from Counsellor Phillips’s harangue, about “the cannibal appetite of his rejected altar;” which his parents did not understand, and of course thought very sublime! But even this master-piece of mystical eloquence would have been delivered in vain; had not the boy given other reasons of such cogency, that they licked their lips—cast a longing, lingering look at the grave-yard,—and followed him without more opposition.

They prosecuted their nocturnal march, through closely woven and solemn groves; until they descended into a profound valley, where the light of the pale planet of magic adoration, streamed and quivered on serried files of bright armoury. The leader of the band seemed to have expected their arrival; and mutual tokens of recognition passed between him and ZEMBO. The whole company then set forward their array in silence;—

No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour’s clang, The sullen march was dumb.

By continual descent, they seemed to have penetrated the bowels of a cavern, whose ramifications ran under the sea; as they heard a murmuring roar, as of the ocean, above their heads. The party, by the instructions of ZEMBO, dispersed themselves in different directions; until they had enclosed the interior of the rock where its largest chamber was, to speak catachrestically, so artfully concealed by nature, that no one, not instructed by an adept in its subterranean topography, could ever have detected the secret of its existence. It had been, in former days, a place of deposit and asylum for the Buccaniers; and its situation had been since known only to the Professors of the OBEAH art, who held here their midnight orgies.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE, guided by their son, were placed in a situation, where, through the crevices of the inner partition of the rock, they could observe what was passing in the interior.

It seemed, at first view, a vast hall of Arabian romance; supported by immense shafts, and studded with precious stones; so various and beautiful were the hues, which the different spars assumed, in the light of an hundred torches, blazing in every quarter, and illuminating the farthest recesses of the cave. The walls were decorated with other appendages, which added to the mystery, if not to the embellishment of the scene; being irregularly stained with blood; decorated with rude tapestry of many coloured plumage;—and stuccoed with the beaks of parrots;—the teeth of dogs, and alligators;—bones of cats;—broken glass and eggshells; plastered with a composition of rum and grave-dirt, the implements of NEGRO witchcraft!

At one extremity of the extensive apartment, on a kind of natural throne, sat several blackamoors in sumptuous Moorish apparel; whom, by their swollen forms, and remarkable eyes, Mrs. PERSONNE knew to be GOULS; and among whom she recognised her late husband. The whole range of this vast amphitheatre, sweeping from before the throne, was occupied by slaves, rudely attired, and imperfectly armed with clubs and missiles; a decent platoon of black-guards were posted be- fore the Vampyre monarchs; and, in the centre, a band of musicians performed an exquisite symphony. The soft strains of the MERRIWANG;—the lively notes of the DUNDO;—and the martial accompaniment of the GOOMBAY, made, with their united noises, a discordant harmony, whose powers the lyre of Orpheus could not equal; and which would certainly be enough to frighten all the hosts of Pandemonium.

The oratorio being finished, the AFRICAN PRINCE arose, and making an obeisance to the company,—cleared his throat, and began to address them as follows:—“Gentlemen and Vampyres!”—but the VAMPYRES expressing their resentment against this breach of etiquette, he corrected himself: —“Vampyres and Gentlemen!”—but the NEGROES were no more willing to come last, than the Vampyres, and a loud growl accompanied by a slight hiss, again interrupted the orator. He was not, however, disconcerted, but like Mr. Burke, thundered out an iteration of the offensive sentence.

“Yes,” said he, “I repeat it, Vampyres and Gentlemen? Shall not the immortal precede the mortal?— Shall not those whose diet surpasses the nectar and ambrosia of celestials, precede the ephemeral race, who fatten on the unclean juice of brutes,—the rank essence of esculent productions,—or the nauseous liquor of the distillery? (applause—hear! hear! and see-boy! from the Vampyres—groans from the negroes!) Gentlemen of colour! I appeal to yourselves; shall not the descendants of the Gods be named before the offspring of the earth-born image, whom Titan impregnated with celestial fire?—For Prometheus was the first Vampyre. You must all know, as you have undoubtedly read Æschylus, that the vulture, who preyed on his liver, was neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He is called a dog, which makes him a quadruped;—he is represented as ερπωυ, creeping, which proves him an insect; and is said to have wings, which shows that he was a bird. Now, from this amphibious monster have descended the Crows,—the Jackalls,—and the Bloodhounds;—the pirate Bat of Madagascar,—and the man-killing Ivunches of Chili;—the Sharks;—the Crocodiles;—the Krakens;—the Horse-leeches;—the Cape-cod Sea Serpents;—the Mermaids;—the Incubi;—and the Succubi!!! (loud cheering from the Vampyres.) From Titan himself, descended the Cy- clopes, and all other ancient and modern Anthropophagi; and, in lineal descent, the Moco tribe of our own EBOES, to whom I have the honour of being related. Those of you, too, are his posterity, who, after your deaths, return to your native land—the true Elysium; where the balmy bowl of the Coco, the soft bloom of the ANANA, and the coal-black beauties of the clime of love, shall for ever reward your fortitude, and steep in forgetfulness the memory of your wrongs. (hear! hear! from the negroes.) But none of these genera or species of our order, must longer engage your dignified and charitable attention. I come to ourselves, full- blooded—unadulterated—immortal bloodsuckers!—To ourselves—whether Gouls,—or Afrits,—or Vampyres;— Vroucolochas,—Vardoulachos,—or Broucolokas—To ourselves—the terror of the living and of the dead, and the participants of the nature of both;—To ourselves—the emblems at once of corruption and of vitality;—blotted from the records of existence, and replenished to repletion with circulating life;—abandoned by the quick, and unrecognised by the dead:—‘at once relics and relicts;— rocked on the bases of our own eternities;—the chronicles of what was—the solemn and sublime mementoes of what must be!’ unqualified approbation from both sides of the house.)

“The estate of Vampyrism is a fee-tail, and may be docked in two different ways. The first mode is the sanguinary practice of perforating the subject with a stake; and this is final. The other is produced by the gentler operation of the narcotic potion you behold in this phial; by whose lenient and opiate influence, the individual is restored to the plight, in which he was previous to his death, or his becoming a Vampyre, and belongs to the OBEAH mysteries.

“But to come to the object of our present meeting. Sublime and soul-elevating theme!��The emancipation of the Negroes!—The consecration of the soil of ST. DOMINGO to the manes of murdered patriots in all ages!—No matter whether the bill of sale was scrawled in French or in English;—No matter whether we were taken prisoners, in a battle between the LEOPHARES and the JAKOFFS, or in a skirmish between the SAMBOES and the SAWPITS;—No matter whether we were bought for calico and cotton, or for gunpowder or for shot;—No matter whether we were transported in chains or in ropes—in a brig, or a schooner, or a seventy-four—the first moment we come ashore on ST. DOMINGO, our souls shall swell like a sponge in the liquid element;—our bodies shall burst from their fetters, glorious as a curculio from its shell;—our minds shall soar like the car of the æronaut, when its ligaments are cut; in a word, O my brethren, we shall be free!—Our fetters discandied, and our chains dissolved, we shall stand liberated,—redeemed,— emancipated,—and disenthralled by the irresistible genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION!!!” (Unparalleled bursts of unprecedented applause!!!)

Such was the report of this oration, taken down in short hand by ZEMBO; of whose extraordinary sagacity so many proofs have been exhibited; and who was never unprovided with materials for any emergency. The fiery oratory of the Prince communicated such inspiration to the auditors, that the whole mass of their thick blood leaped up with the quickening pulse of anticipated freedom; they danced and sung, with violent gesticulations, like perfect Corybantes; but unfortunately, their Phyrricks were interrupted by the glittering bayonets of the soldiery; who poured in upon them from every quarter, and hemmed them in, with a bristling chevaux-de-frise of steel. The Vampyres, surprised but undaunted, unsheathed their sabres, and drew up in a gallant style, as if determined to die game; being, indeed, assured, that like so many Phœnixes, they would rise from their own ashes, as often as they might be cut down.

A desperate conflict ensued, during which Mrs. PERSONNE observed the phial, mentioned by the Prince, lying on the ground; and very thoughtfully put it in her ridicule. The slaves, seeing how the business was likely to terminate, prudently sneaked off, while the attention of the military was occupied by the Vampyres. The former were violently exasperated to find all their labour so unprofitable; since while they themselves were wounded by every blow of their opponents, the latter, like so many ninepins, were set up, as fast as they were bowled down; bending to the storm, like masts on a tempestuous ocean, and rising again upon the billow in perpendicular triumph.

But, being instructed by ZEMBO, the soldiers pinioned them as fast as they fell; and prevented their rising, by sitting in great numbers on their bodies; though the task was somewhat like that of detaining quicksilver beneath the fingers. The PRINCE, however, still fought desperately. Brandishing a huge scimitar in either hand, he swayed his arms like the sails of a windmill; while limbs, heads, and bodies flew about him, curvetting and dancing in the air; as when the ingenious Mr. MAFFEY pulls to pieces a coach, or an old woman, children, chickens, friars, and petticoats dance about in wild confusion, till the artist’s hand again brings order out of chaos:—Or, as when the renowned knight of the BED-CHAMBER, whose name eternal vases shall record, saw the ungenerous caricature on the wall, wielding a ponderous jug, he smote the innocent tables, chairs, and bed-posts, and strode victorious over the gory field: So fought the PRINCE; till being neatly pricked in the spine, unexpectedly, he soused (as Johannes Porco Latinus remarks) “in principia fundimentalia,” and was immediately set upon by a host. So when a Gœtulian lion is pierced by the light bamboo, overpowered by the hunters, he struggles in his thrall like an Enceladus under Ætna, and dies at last with heart-wrung tears of anguish, and re- verberating roars of hatred!!!

Stakes were immediately procured, and the whole infernal fraternity securely disposed of: as their compeers, described by Homer,

With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors.

With their bellowings, the vast chambers of the subterranean rung like the caverns of Delphos, when the inflammable air was fired by the crafty priests. The Inhabi- tants of the Island started up from their slumbers in shuddering terror, and believed that an earthquake was rumbling beneath their feet.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE and ZEMBO lost no time in trying the effects of the African’s stolen prescription. Being thrown into a tranquil slumber they were conveyed to their plantation; and awoke the next morning, perfectly well, excepting slight colds in the head. Mr. PERSONNE, having been in statu quo, for sixteen years, was now much younger than his lady; a circumstance, for which she was not at all sorry; and which he himself declared by no means displeased him. The remainder of their life was serene as a tropic night; —illumined by the mild effulgence of domestic love;—fanned by the soft aspirations of peaceful bosoms;—and enlivened by the fire- fly scintillations of rapture!!!

ZEMBO, to whose taste and ingenuity they were indebted for their happiness, and who was baptized with the Christian name of BARABBAS, after an uncle of his mother’s, recorded what the reader has perused. One only circumstance, like one of those claps of thunder, frequently heard in the unclouded sky, passed over the tranquillity of their bosoms. Mrs. PERSONNE’S fourth husband’s child was a mulatto, and of Vampyrish propensities; of which his mother and Mr. PERSONNE were never able entirely to cure him, having used up all the African’s preparation.

The intelligent reader, (if any such there be,) will remember that this narrative commenced with the name of Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS, of whom nothing has since been said; and whose adventures (to use a FORUM trope) “must remain buried in the bowels of futurity,” until a more convenient opportunity. He is a lineal descendant from the last-mentioned mulatto; and the manuscript, which is now given to the public, was transmitted to him from his ancestors. He is a resident in Essex county, New- Jersey; and candour requires us to state, that he is no relation to his celebrated namesake at ELIZABETH- TOWN; as it is notorious to all who have had the pleasure of witnessing the size of the latter gentleman’s waist, that he has too much bowels for so diabolical a profession; and it is to be hoped in charity, that though he is such a delicate morsel, when he is laid in the sepulchre of his fathers, he may not prove a titbit, to GLUT THE THIRST OF A VAMPYRE!!!

Moral.

In this happy land of liberty and equality, we are free from all traditional superstitions, whether political, religious, or otherwise. Fiction has no materials for machinery;—Romance no horrors for a tale of mystery. Yet in a figurative sense, and in the moral world, our climate is perhaps more prolific than any other, in enchanters,—Vampyres,—and the whole infernal brood of sorcery and witchcraft.

The accomplished dandy, who in maintaining his horses,—his taylor, &c.—absorbs in the forced and unnatural excitement of his senseless orgies, the life-blood of that wealth which his prudent Sire had accumulated by a long devotion to the counter,—What is he but a Vampyre?

The fraudulent trafficker in stock and merchandize, who, having sucked the whole substance of an hundred honest men, is consigned for a few weeks to the sepulchre of the jail; and then, by the potent magic of an insolvent law, stalks forth, triumphant with bloated villany, more elated in his shameless resurrection to renew his career of iniquity and of disgrace,—what is he but a Vampyre?

The corrupted and senseless Clerk, who being placed near the vitals of a moneyed institution, himself exhausted to feed the appetite of sharpers, drains, in his turn, the coffers he was appointed to guard,—is he not, I appeal to the Stockholders,—is he not a Vampyre?

Brokers, Country Bank Directors, and their disciples—all whose hunger and thirst for money, unsatisfied with the tardy progression of honest industry, by creating fictitious and delusive credit, has preyed on the heart and liver of public confidence, and poisoned the currents of public morals, are they not all Vampyres?

The whole tribe of Plagiarists, under every denomination;—The Critic, who. by eviscerating authors, and stuffing his own meagre show of learning with the pilfered entrails, ekes out his periodical fulmination against public taste;—the Forum Orator, who, without compunction, barbarously exenterates Burke, and Curran, and Phillips,—the Second- handed Lawyer,—Scholar,—Theologue,—who quote from quotations, and steal stolen property:—the Divine, who preaches Tillotson and Toplady;—what are they all but Vampyres?

The Empiric, who fills his own stomach, while he empties his shop into the bowels of the hypochondriac;—the Bibliopolist, “who guts the fobs” of the whole reading community, by ascribing to Lord Byron works which that author never saw; the philanthropic Contractor for the Army, who charges more for lime and horse-beef, than his quantum- meruit for the best provisions; who sets up his carriage and his palace, by blistering the mouths and destroying the intestines of thousands,— what are these but Vampyres?

The Professors and Disciples of Surgeon’s Hall, who, when a fine fat corse is rolled out of the resurrectionist’s budget, set up a howl of horrible transport, like he anthropophagous Caribs in Robinson Crusoe;—glut their gloating eyes with the pinguidity and unctuousness of the subject; and whet their blades like Shylock, impatient to attack the ilia,—what are they but Vampyres?

And I, who, as Johnson said of an hypochondriac Lady, “have spun this discourse out of my own bowels,” and made as free with those of others—I am a VAMPYRE!

Vampyrism; a poem

Utrum horum mavis accipe.

SOLOMON LANG & LAUNCELOT LANG - STAFF, Esquires.

GENTLEMEN, FROM the Gazette of August 17th, I am happy to learn, that you have entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive. The ties of kindred and the attraction of sympathy, one would think, ought to have brought about this union much sooner. You are, I believe, of one family;—although I am ignorant from whence LAUNCELOT has taken the Agnomen of STAFF: and I am equally unable to divine, why you have both docked the Nomen of your ancestors, which hath been written LANGEARS from time immemorial. Whatever may be your reasons for disowning your consanguinity to the great GENTILE family, the literary and political worlds rejoice, at least, in this consolidation of the talents of their two most distinguished members. The parity of intellect,—the similarity of taste,—the pungency of sarcasm possessed by both parties, justify the expectations formed by the public, from this conjunction of two such great luminaries. Both are imbued with that modest confidence, connected with the consciousness of superior talent. SOLOMON is formed, perhaps, of more impenetrable stuff: LAUNCELOT has more of the irritability and exquisite sensibility of genius.—Ira quidem communiter urit utrumque; but SOLOMON taketh the driest knocks with a good grace; LAUNCELOT is sooner thrown into a fever, and frets, to use a classic quotation of his own, “like a bear, with a sore head.”—SOLOMON is the better grammarian: LAUNCELOT hath, occasionally, greater command of language. Solomon, as he states, composes ideas and types simultaneously, a la mode de Wooler; Launcelot has the advantage of seeing his ideas embodied in black and white, in their flight from his brains to the printing office.— LAUNCELOT the FIERY, may be likened to the mad ORESTES: SOLOMON the PATIENT, to the faithful PYLADES.— SOLOMON is original in his own way: LAUNCELOT purloins from Swift, and Rabelais and others.—SOLOMON, pilloried in his own press, with no ally but the gray mare, bravely receives the missiles of the whole legion of editors; LAUNCELOT has only to open his mouth, or saw the air, or make a leg, on the literary stage; and all the gods of the Philadelphia gallery, pipe their shrill catcalls in discordant unison.—The castigation of both is equally dreadful. SOLOMON, with his “Good morning, Mr. Coleman,” and “Rot the sarpent,” condenses all his wrath into a laconic sarcasm: LAUNCELOT elaborates books, to the great terror and discomfiture of Gifford, Southey, and Scott. The Quarterly Reviewers received a death blow, because they could not find out the wit of the Scottish Fiddle; and the translator of Juvenal has never dared to show his face, since Mr. LANGSTAFF promulgated to the world, the secret of his origin. Poor Mr. Hall, the editor of the Port Folio,— because he criticised that Poem, (than which, in the language of Croaker, “nothing can be flatter or funnier;”) according to the canons of Martinus Scriblerus,—said Hall has been severely bemauled for his temerity. Many a heart-burning hath he experienced, from the caustic of Salmagundi Redivivus—Godwot!—magni nominis umbra!—On the whole, “none but yourselves can be your parallels.”

Allow me to dedicate the following rhymes to your firm; which will, I have no doubt, stand secure, amid all the present wreck of matters, and crashes of credit. Profound ignorance, bolstered by vanity, sits firmly on it own fundamental principles. Farewell, Gentlemen, accept the considerations of my high esteem—

Fortunati ambo—si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

VAMPYRISM;

A POEM,

IN this blest land, where valour burst The links which bound his children erst, And rent the vail whose darkness hid Legitimacy’s monstrous creed;— Where all that since the world began Had sway’d the sacred rights of man, With ancient dreams had past away, And bare in all its weakness lay;— Here reason, in triumphal hour, Asserted too her conquering power: From mountain, valley, plain and flood, She exorcised the shadowy brood

II.

When freshening gales had swept the mists, That wildly wreath’d the mountain crests, No cloudy spectre o’er the storm Reveal’d the terrors of his form;— When evening breezes curl’d the wave No wraiths disturb’d the wandering brave,— When lost in darkness, down the side Of craggy mount their path they tried, And stunn’d by torrents deafening roar, Downward were hurl’d, to rise no more; Men said their balance they had lost, But never laid it to a ghost.

III.

No more, around the guarded gold, Their wake were pirates seen to hold;— No elves the midnight circle tript; No fairies lunar vigils kept; Genii nor devils rose—except, Indeed, that once in godly Salem, Blue laws and preachings seem’d to fail ’em; Bed bugs and rats their slumbers broke, On Beelzebub they laid the joke; Took brandy to expel the fiend, Which answered quite another end! Old ladies then to swim were taught, In amorous league with Satan caught;— And some were hang’d:—but now no more ’Tis fit to rake up that old sore.

IV.

Of late the pole its fiends has sent, The ‘tarnal Yankees to torment; By water witchcraft long distrest, In vain with all their might they guest; Till when their gumption seem’d to fail One captain got him by the tail; But metamorphos’d, (such their story,) The wizard gave the man the go-by Turn’d out a tunny fish to be, The “shallowest monster” of the sea.

And now they swear with might and main, That Monsieur Tonson’s come again: And Marshal Prince, his wife and daughters, Off Nahant, saw him walk the waters. The coachman there and Mrs. Prince Got at the odd fish several squints; But Mr. Prince, for weak his eye was, Look’d at him through a mast-head spy-glass; And took, lest men his word should doubt, An ugly likeness of his snout, With all the bumps the monster bore— He says, thirteen—his wife, two more.

VI.

In Morristown we’ve heard a ghost Wrought wonders to the people’s cost. ’Tis not long since, on New Year’s night, The devil gave three bad boys a fright; Who o’er their whiskey took to cursing, Spoke disrespectfully of his person, His government began to libel, And on the back-log put the bible.— But these things are of little moment, Unworthy of a further comment.

VII.

Yet SUPERSTITION! though thy throne Be rear’d in wilds and woods alone, Where the rude wanderer of the glen Invokes the souls of martial men;— Adores the torrent thundering loud; Calls on the spirits of the cloud;— And o’er the black and bursting heaven, Sees Ariouski’s chariot driven;— Yet, queen of terror’s sheetedband! Fiends worse than thine affright our land, While, stalking from their ghastly homes, The VAMPYRE host infuriate roams!

VIII.

Behold that EXQUISITE divine, Fit to hang up for fashion’s sign. In classic mould his wig is shear’d— SO SAUNDERS says—by all rever’d— (Yet much, with deference, due I doubt If Saunders’ science could make out Apollo’s nob, if slic’d off well, From J—n G. B—t’s bust to tell— Both are stuck up in the Academy— Yet for this query think not bad o’ me.) But to the Dandy—’neath his chin Hog’s bristles fiercely fence him in; One corset back his shoulders throws; His bowels other bones enclose; His ample chest is bullet proof, With cotton cram’d and such like stuff; And for his clothes—but here’s enough. For ere the printer’s tardy imp, Shall bid in type this doggrel limp, The swifter ninth part of a man Shall change the passing mode again; And waists now short shall then be long. All that’s now right shall then be wrong!

IX.

How came that puppy by his gig? What taught him how to look so big? For this behind the measur’d board His father scrap’d the growing hoard— Like him the pyramids who rear’d, To leave behind no name rever’d For, on the bowels of the heap, His revels shall this Vampyre keep; Till vigils late—and generous wine, And—things that suit no lay of mine; Have left him soon to die and rot, Be laugh’d at, pitied, and forgot! His species and his line to trace, And count the honours of his race, Let Mr. Wynkoop soar as high, As Scythia’s Cynocephali, And Mr. Langstaff dive as low As he, and he alone, can go;” Let this quote Greek—that crack stale jokes, The theme is worthy of such folks.

Lo! thro’ the bustling world of trade, What monsters march in long parade; Gorg’d with the substance of a host, Swelling they strut with empty boast; The bubble burst, and credit fled, The money’d quack proclaims them dead;— Bailiffs in haste the corpse escort;— The turnkey says his service short;— Awhile in jail their bones repose, Till lo! the dungeon doors unclose! Insolvent laws, with potent spell, Have wrought the wondrous miracle; Their words of might the dead restore; And even more bloated than before, From that deep sepulchre, to prey On all the gudgeons in his way, Of shameless resurrection vain, The VAMPYRE BANKRUPT stalks again!

XI.

Temples of Mammon! O beware What priests the golden chalice bear! And let not hands profane approach The tempting, costly shrines to touch! Have we not seen what secret stealth Has suck’d the vitals of your wealth, When the weak dupe, quite drain’d himself, Grew hungry for the luscious pelf; Nor did his secret orgies end, Till fail’d a whole year’s dividend. And now once more in open air, Have we not seen the Vampyre pair, Stalk forth, from jails and juries free, In all the pride of infamy?

XII.

O HERMES of these latter times, I hail thee in unworthy rhymes! Great ALCHYMIST, whose art alone Has found the philosophic stone! Thou arch magician! to whose hand Alone is given the hazel wand, That finds the veins of glittering ores, Great DOUSTERSWIVEL of conjurors! What though thine art itself despair, And all the pageant fade in air? While harmless mobs thy doors assail, And blustering butchers curse and rail, Above thine own Flaminian roll’d, Shall thy triumphal chariot hold Its course majestical along, Before the whole admiring throng!

XIII.

O JACOB! JACOB! thou art keen, As thy great namesake;—him, I mean. Who manag’d for himself to keep The best of crafty Laban’s sheep. Immortal VAMPYRE of our age! O might this unassuming page Be read by all, whose fobs must bleed, Thy ravenous appetite to feed Behind thy coach and four might I Roll in an humbler tilbury; Beneath thy wings might D’ARCY’s name Soar to the solar blaze of fame!

XIV.

Plumb from the giddy height I fall, Amid whole herds of Vampyres small, CRITICS, who worn out common place With Author’s pilfer’d entrails grace; The FORUM spouter—barbarous Turk! Who rips up Curran, Phillips, Burke, And thunders forth bombastic centos, Of wasted time the sad mementoes; All those who QUOTE at second hand, And what they quote don’t understand; The PARSON who in sleepy tone Evangelizes Tillotson; All PLAGIARISTS,—concise to be,— Are GOULs of high or low degree.

XV.

The QUACK with brick dust who provides, Wherewith to line his own insides; Who fills up all his hungry chinks, While to a ghost his patient shrinks; THOMAS who vends as Byron’s own The works of doggrelists unknown; Honest CONTRACTORS, who are able To cheat both government and rabble; Who, worthy of the scourge and gallows, Set up their equipage and palace; While blister’d mouths deep curses pour And tortur’d soldiers writhe and roar, Who eat the beef of horses dead, And craunch corroding lime for bread— These, as the sufferers all agree, Are of the GOULE fraternity.

XVI. There are whose tongues around them throw The gall with which their hearts o’erflow, Like those from old Medusa’s head, Where’er its venom’d drops are shed, Earth’s verdure fades;—rank poison springs; Snakes hiss, and dragons spread their wings. Pale Dian’s hopeless votary old, Crabb’d, ancient dames, and bachelors cold, Nay e’en the blooming maid—will hie To the foul feast of calumny; On wisdom, worth, and reverend age, Beauty and wit, they glut their rage; And fondly hope, that as they tear The limbs of murder’d character, Their own fair fame shall prouder swell, Fatten’d upon the feast of hell!

XV.

There is a spot, unknown to fame, Where Vampyres haunt their hold of shame When ENVY left her noxious cave, Along Passaic’s winding wave, (Though Ovid has this fact forgot,) She linger’d by one cherish’d spot; She left her benediction here, The ground became for ever sere; Infected by her scatter’d slime And tainted to all after time; Whoever tastes its baleful food, A Vampyre longs to feed on blood— The blood of honour, virtue free, Fame, confidence and chastity!

XVIII.

But wouldst thou, in thy purpose bold The demon orgies foul behold— Mark where the SONS of SURGEON’S HALL, Upon their foul purveyor call; And lo, the plunderer of the tomb Brings up his budget in the room; Rolls out, their ardent gaze before, A huge, fat negress on the floor; Then with a savage howl they roar! Like cannibals, prepar’d to roast Their pris’ners on some barbarous coast; Like Shakspeare’s Jew, the joyous band Whet their keen blades with eager band; While all the putrid limbs excite Their foul and Vampyre appetite.—

XIX.

And what am I, whose spider skill Has thus contrived this sheet to fill; From my own bowels spun the lay, Until I find no more to say? Before to all I bid adieu, Confess,—I AM A VAMPYRE TOO!

NOTE.

The following lines appeared in the Evening Post of August 14th:

FOR THE EVENING POST. To the anonymous Gentleman, who says he is the author of the “Black Vampyre.”

“Ubi dolor, ibi digitus—one must needs scratch where it itches.” --Burton’s Anat. of Mel.

Dear sir, since jackall-like you prowl, Preying on carrion in the dark, Unseen, I only hear you howl, And know you only by your bark;

I send my shot thus in the air, Aimless, and eke uncharg’d by wit; Yet knowing, it must fall somewhere, And where it happens, it must hit.

Though thus like rotten-wood to shine, Only through night’s uncertain cloak, With sickly lustre—I opine. Is “Low Ambition’s” stalest joke—

Yet men have always had strange ways, Like thee, of picking up stray laurels, When e’en like mine, the wither’d bays Unworthy were of serious quarrels.

And from Vespusius’ mighty theft Even to thy lowest pitch of pride, Thousands from other brows have rest The wreaths, fate to their own denied.

So P—g’s Muse, by Irving boosted, Above the brush-wood scrambled soon; High in the upper branches roosted, And chanted something like a tune.

Now floundering in the bogs alone, With sullen scream she frights our ears; And all, with sympathetic groan, Lament the boast of former years.

So at Commencement have I seen Full many in borrow’d plumes array’d; While but a scurvy show, I ween, The motley mimickry display’d.

Shade of a shadow! now good night! Ghost of a lie! invok’d in vain! Flit through the dim uncertain light, Be nothing—and thyself again!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

LAUNCELOT, it appears, not relishing the great moral truth alluded to in the above lines, inserted the following low-lived scurrility, in the New- York Gazette of August 17th:

COMMUNICATION.

Fortunate Escape!—The absence of the worthy editor of that “excellent journal” the Evening Post, already begins to be felt in the city. Several small dogs, supposed to be mad, taking advantage of their old enemy’s back being turned, have lately ventured out, in spite of the vigilance of the police, and molested several citizens of good credit and reputation. We understand, that last Saturday afternoon, a small puppy, either mad or very angry, sallied out of the office of that “excellent journal” the New-York Evening Post, and snapped at a peaceable gentleman who was going about on his lawful occasions, but who, for reasons best known to themselves, is very much disliked by the little dogs. Luckily, being an exceeding small pug, he only reached the heel of the gentleman’s boot, the which he gave a fearful wound, which obliged him to go immediately, not to a surgeon, but a cobbler. It is not ascertained whether the gentleman took occasion to kick him or not, but it is said the little animal ran back in the office, howling very much, and took shelter between Mr. B—’s legs.

P. S. The angry little dog wore a brass collar, on which was engraved the name of URIAH DERICK D’ARCY in large capitals.— The public is warned not to beware of him.

#Rjalker reads The Black-Vampyre

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scotianostra · 1 year ago

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On November 21st 1835 the Scottish makar James Hogg, the poet died in Ettrick.

I say poet, but Hogg defied categorisation. As well as his poems he is known as a songwriter, playwright, novelist, short story writer and parodist, he wrote with equal skill in Scots and English. Labelled as the Ettrick Shepherd, the former Borders farmhand, whose life spanned the 18th and 19th centuries, befriended many of the great writers of his day, including Walter Scott, John Galt Lord Byron,and Allan Cunningham.

Even though he was celebrated off and on in his own lifetime, some details of the author’s life remain unclear. Records place his baptism on December 9, 1770. But Hogg long believed he was born in 1772, on January 25 – Burns’ Night no less.

Aside from mimicking medleys, Hogg’s own body of work is made up of mountains of bits and pieces – and must be enjoyed on those terms. Seeking conclusions or definitive statements will only frustrate. Tales can drift off into fragments of poetry both familiar and new. Within stories he flips perspectives with little warning.

His , The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner us described as dark, humorous, violent, sweet, light, weird, wild,

Hogg’s mother, Margaret Laidlaw, was an important collector of Scottish ballads and a canny taleteller. His maternal grandfather, known as Will o’ Phawhope, was said to have been the last man in Selkirkshire to speak with fairies. Fairytale figures certainly fill Hogg’s most imaginative stories, most notably in his first collection of prose fiction, The Brownie of Bodsbeck and Other Tales (1818).

Burns was an early influence on Hogg, who considered himself to be the rightful heir to the Bard of Ayrshire and published his own collection less than four years after his idol’s death. Long before then, the locals dubbed him Jamie the Poeter, and he wrote countless songs for local girls to sing.

After writing a popular patriotic song, “Donald Macdonald”, in 1803, Hogg was recruited to collect ballads for Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. He also undertook extensive tours of the Highlands with a view to securing his own farm, but became more interested in the songs he heard along the way.

By 1819, he was recognised as a leading expert on Scottish ballads when the Highland Society of London commissioned him to produce the Jacobite Relics of Scotland, which became the benchmark of Scottish anthologies for many more decades.

He endured many failures on the way. In 1810, at the age of 40, Hogg moved to Edinburgh to settle into the life of a full-time writer. Within a year of starting it, his magazine The Spy folded. Readers weren’t ready for a publication that covered shocking themes such as extramarital sex!

Hogg spent the next few years scribbling more poetry and prose, and in 1817 he helped the subject of a post only yesterday, William Blackwood establish Scotland’s most influential literary periodical, the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine (later, Blackwood’s Magazine). In time, displaced by punchy younger contributors, Hogg eventually became a figure of fun in the same periodical. But he kept writing and writing. Winter Evening Tales, produced in the middle period of his life, is said to have been especially rewarding.

The University of Dundee recently produced a free online edition of The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, which includes explanatory notes and copies of the earliest reviews. Scotland’s great intermixer awaits new readers on the link below.

The statue of Hogg can be found at St May's Loch near Selkirk.

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #poet #makar #writer #shepherd

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captastra · 2 years ago

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TOW: Unreliable and drift to destiny sound like real interesting tales!

Thank you so much for asking!! I wrote a lot so both under the cut!

TOW: Unreliable was born when I watched Cowboy Bebop for the first time and immediately fell in love with it. Combining this with me wanting more for Alex Hawthorne, the previous captain of the Unreliable who met an unfortunate end, this story came about during Writer's Month.

The story is what if Alex Hawthorne had lived and he was the one that was hired to board the Hope and obtain a passenger from the ship that Phineas wanted to reanimate to help him save Halcyon. Alex takes on the job, hires Felix and Ellie to come with him to board the Hope.

The Hope is the worst kept secret in Halcyon and many have already snuck on to steal parts and even people to sell in Halcyons not so secret black market. Upon arriving on the ship Alex would run into Nyoka, a hunter from Monarch who he has met on other jobs and has an amiable relationship with.

The story would progress as in game once the passenger (Rhea Byrnes) gets woken up, adopts Alex's last name, and he reluctantly joins Phineas's mission to save the system. Max and Parvati would join once they got to Edgewater and Nyoka at the same time she joins in game too.

Alex and Rhea would develop a brother/sister relationship, with both being the sibling they never asked for but still care deeply about. It would also be fun to imagine how the rest of the crew would interact with a character like Alex Hawthorne. I feel it would be a fun story to explore all of this and how things may change and stay the same throughout the game (ugh lol).

NOW Drift to Destiny was another story that came about during Writer's Month, though I had been thinking about for awhile. Its a crossover with Pacific Rim (one of my fave movies) and what if Rhea and Felix turned out to be drift compatible.

Rhea is one of the only people to have piloted a Jaeger at a very young age and nearly died due to the events of that day. Felix is still our beloved rebel without a clue who despite his not so greatest choices in his young life, still proved to be capable of piloting a jaeger.

Of course there's romance, action, unethical experiments. Majority of characters in game play a big role in this story. Idk if I'll come back to it but I still think on it from time to time.

#answered #i love pacific rim so of course I need to put rhea and felix in a crossover au #kirjanikv6ilill #ty for asking <3!

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pinbones · 2 months ago

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I don't think 'irredeemable' should be a category of villain, that's adjacent to how villains function in a story and doesn't make sense. Except if you also consider 'hot' or 'blonde' to be meaningful categories that should determine a story's outcome, as opposed to being descriptors.

Villains undergo as much or as little change as is needed for that story. Getting 'redeemed' (vague), or getting worse, or not changing, or becoming changed but no better or worse from any objective standpoint, is all done because the story wanted it to happen in order to achieve a certain end. Trying to pick irrelevant traits like behaviours or thought patterns or mannerisms, and then matching those to some implied best character direction like 'redeemable/irredemable', is utterly missing the point.

A tame villain might need to never change so the hero has a consistent point to rail against, and then vanish in a puff of smoke when the story wraps up (killed/jailed/insert other way of disposing of a villain here). A villain that commits horrendous acts may need to complete the other half of a thematic statement about cycle of violence, and winds up a changed person, drifting away on their own accord to unknown waters, beyond where the hero and audience can deem them worthy of anything. A brutal villain who chose villainy and evil on purpose could become '''redeemed''' (vague) in a story about leaving the past behind when your past no longer serves you. A story is a process of logic but the writer gets to choose the logic.

You could drop a villain into another story, and their arc might shift like dropping water onto watercolours. The exact same reformed sidekick character could be fittingly executed by a noble hero in another tale, and that same hero could warp into a tragic figure or villain in another, because of the variation in even the most conventional stories.

It's a villain. A storytelling tool. It does what the story requires.

#the -able suffix needs to go basically #writing #villains #every day a new approach in teaching/discussing storytelling appears and aims for 'the point' with the accuracy of a kicked coffee mug

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sillybayo · 5 months ago

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Buried, and Then Suddenly...

(Originally posted on AO3 on 5/12/23. You can also read this on fanfiction.net)

An undertale post true pacifist route salphys fic with fluff and some hurt/comfort. Alphys needs help with taking steps to overcome her trauma related to the True Lab, and she knows who's perfect for the job. But things take an unexpected turn after a while...

~~~

The barrier is broken. Thousands upon thousands of new opportunities and experiences are open to the monsters of the underground.

The surface wasn't too different since the last time they were there. There were still homes, cars, bathrooms, phones, and so on. Some features evolved and changed, but it wasn't difficult to get used to.

Frisk introduced their family and friends to the monsters, demonstrating that they were not a threat, and hoping that everyone could get along. Thankfully Toriel and their mom bonded quickly, and the ghost family befriended their cousins with ease. There was still suspicion and caution, but overall, the news of the monster's peaceful return began to gradually spread, and solidarity took shape.

Months passed, and everyone seemed to have found a new place on land. Toriel became a teacher, Papyrus and Undyne became lifeguards together, Mettaton became an actor and writer of many arts, and Asgore became a gardener. Though, you may realize that two very important people are missing..

Sans saw this as a perfect opportunity to pick his life up again, so he started researching human jobs in science. They all seemed so interesting, so new, so exciting how human knowledge expanded. But then he noticed the amount of time it would take. The years of effort it would take for his talent to get noticed, let alone accepted. He adored the chance at something new for once besides laying in his room all day, wondering when things would change. Though, the motivation in his soul wasn't as passionate. It ached.

Alphys thought the same. Finally, something new for once that wasn't hiding away! Although, every time she stepped into a lab, or touched a vial, a nauseating lump formed in her throat. So she became a teacher at Toriel's school…for a week. That's when she realized that talking in front of 20-30 people made her stumble upon her words and actions, and made her palms sweat and shake. Next, she tried helping Mettaton write some plays. But, in his words—"Overly lovey dovey tales with no drama, no trauma, no weeping, no shrieking, isn't a tale at all!". She argued that stories can be just as interesting when they're peaceful and happy, and it was a passionate debate indeed. But he didn't want to hear it.

And now, she doesn't know what else she wants to do. She considered working as a cashier, but she heard horrible terrible tales from those who work as one, so she changed her mind fast. Then she came to the conclusion that..

She wasn't good at doing much at all.

It wasn't easy for her to accept at first, but it'll be fine, right? Thankfully Undyne let her stay in a spare room for now, so she doesn't have to worry about paying rent or anything at the moment. She'll ease herself back into science soon, she promised herself. She will. And she has a good plan on how to do just that.

"You wanna learn about physics?"

"Yes please. If you don't mind, of course."

A familiar skeleton stood at her (Well, Undynes) doorstep. Alphys had just called him over the phone for a favor, and seconds later, there was a knock at the door. She and Sans had a past together, working together for Asgore. They were good friends, though ever since…someone vanished and Alphys became the new head royal scientist, they started to drift apart, and they never spoke again. There were no harsh feelings towards each other, in fact, it was the far opposite. Far far opposite. But those feelings stayed buried for years. They've only met again thanks to Frisk. And now here they both are, alone together again.

"Well, it's not like I have anything better to do. So why not?" his voice alone proved he was truly smiling.

"Really? Thanks!" Alphys beamed. "I'm more of a biology kind of gal, so this is a little new to me…oh! Uhm, sh-should I go to the library real quick for a book or two? I'm not all that prepared because I didn't know if you'd say yes or not.."

"Nah, I got one." a book simply appeared in his hand as he held it up. Where'd he get that?

"Oh! Ok! Good! Come on in then!" she stepped aside to let him in, and then showed him the way to her room.

She opened the door for him, and he winked at her. What did he mean by that? Anyways, it was a decently sized place. The bed was in the corner with a small bedside table and a lamp. Then there was a bookshelf filled with manga, and a desk with a computer and an extra lamp. A small walk-in closet was on the opposite side of the room, and it mostly had oversized shirts and sweatpants, with some more professional looking clothes sprinkled in, and a lab coat that remained untouched for what felt like forever. The room had an overall pale yellow, blue, and white theme, and was comfortable to live in.

Sans brought in an extra chair and sat at the rectangular wooden desk, allowing room for Alphys to sit beside him. He opened up the book, and skimmed through pages to look for something at the very least intermediate for Alphys to pick up on. Finally, he landed on the section about biophysics. There was no need for Alphys to mention her main interest in biology earlier, for he remembered way back then when she quietly thought aloud while she worked around the lab. With the way she spoke without prompt and under her breath, they most likely weren't meant to be heard. But he recalled how focused and passionate she was. It's nice to look back on.

She scooted closer to him so she could read, and that's when they got started. Sans patiently answered all of Alphys questions, and checked if she understood certain concepts that might have been beyond her understanding. She was a quick learner though, much to his surprise. Not that he expected less, he just thought it was impressive. Though it was hard to focus because of all the birds chirping and cars passing by. Closing the window didn't really help much. The surface still needed a lot of getting used to. Sitting there alone was also quite uncomfortable. Despite its horizontal length, the desk was truly just made for one person in mind. They had to sit close enough together so that they could both read the passages, but the space wasn't perfect enough to contain the both of them, so they had to push their shoulders together. It isn't as romantic as visual novels make it seem. About an hour or so later, once they'd reached the half point of the section and went through all that trouble, they decided to take a break.

"So," he started while folding the top right corner of the page and closing the book, "what made you interested in physics of all things?"

"I, uhm, j-just wanted to try something new is all!"

"Mm," he didn't seem to take that. "Yeah, I get that. How's life been treating you?"

"It's been fine! You?"

"Same here."

I mean, it's not like they wanted to lie. They knew neither of them would judge. It's just that now didn't seem like the right time, not when they're together again after so long. It didn't feel right to ruin the casual mood.

"I heard you've worked with Tori at the school for a while. I'm sure those kids had you working down to…."

"Don't even finish that." she giggled. "I'm not even a skeleton! How does that joke even work?"

"Eh, just wanted to see you laugh."

Oh ok.

"H-how about you?" turning the topic around was a good plan. She can't lose it at a moment like this. "Are you working anywhere?"

"No, not at all. I thought about.." he trailed off. It's too terribly easy to be vulnerable around her. "Have you thought about working at the yellow M place?"

"Oh no. I refuse. Why would I want to be yelled at 24/7?"

"It wouldn't be that bad. Maybe you could just work behind the scenes, like a cook or something."

"Sans, I've been microwaving cups of noodles for years now." she deadpanned. "I cannot cook at all."

"You've been handling chemicals for just as long, and you can't even scramble an egg?"

"It got stuck to the pan."

A sudden laugh erupted out of him. Alphys didn't get why he found her so amusing, but it's nice to make someone happy for once. The laughs turned into giggles, and soon only little "Heh heh"s before he settled down with a wide grin. Well, it's always a wide grin, but Alphys grew to learn which were genuine, and which were just..there. She felt more comfortable with the former. It made her want to smile too.

"You're silly, Alphys. I like that about you."

"I-it's not like I'm trying to, but, thanks?" she smiled awkwardly. She had to cup her cheeks to make sure she wasn't heating up.

Did she actually like that, or was she just being polite? Sans was silent for a minute, and Alphys stayed in her chair, swinging her little legs. He studied her face while she wasn't looking. One hand was resting on the desk, and the other was propped under her chin. That's when he saw the little giddy smile and a light dust of a dark yellow on her face.

Ohh.

A teeny flutter tickled his chest. He couldn't help but to giggle again. Alphys turned to see what was so funny this time, and he waved as a way to say "It's nothing.", but he couldn't stop. Something felt warm, hopeful. And before he knew it, it took control of him, and released something he never thought he'd say out loud.

"You're cute, Al."

WHAT.

Wait.

Let's slow down. Pump the brakes. Hold on.

"I-I am?!"

NO.

I mean, she is.

What is he doing?

He paused, but something told him to keep going. "Yeah, you're sweet, smart, goofy. You're nice to be around." is now a horrible time to not make eye contact? Doing so might just kill him.

She swung her legs in a much more intense motion. Is this happening? Is this really happening? Right here? Right now? In front of her? In her room? The two of them? Alone? Together? Really?

"Sans, pinch me."

She saw several drops of sweat on his skull, and the smile was noticeably quite strained. But he got up and pinched her forearm anyways.

…..

Ok, so this isn't a dream.

It's really happening.

It's really happening!

But now what? What does she say? Does she just thank him and move on? Does she compliment him back? Yeah, let's do that.

"Thank you! You're cute yourself!"

Oh my god no not like that. Cute doesn't fit him at all.

"I-I mean, cool? Handsome? Uhm, you're…n-neat?"

"How about we start over?" he suggested with a slight tease in his voice.

"Right! Good plan!"

How is this happening though? They were just reading a few minutes ago, how are they being so open now?

Recall that it's been years since they've been together like this. Alphys always thought Sans was funny. Sans always thought Alphys was cute. They always thought of each other as nice friends who could share a joke with one another, even in the most boring places. Someone who could always lend an ear to a ramble about cat girls fighting alien boys. Someone who was consistently kind, even if they didn't know what was the matter. There has always been this small admiration..but it froze once circumstances changed in a blink of an eye. Did it die out? Or was it buried in responsibilities and pain?

Or did it burst?

A boney hand was on top of her claw. It was cold, but gentle, genuine. The silence was heavy. He slid his other hand under her claw. She held it as firmly as she could without hurting him. Then they peeked into each other's eyes.

"S-so..uhm." Alphys began. "Y-you…like me? Like, like me like me?"

"You sound like one of the characters you keep talking about." Sans joked.

"Oh hush! You're making me even more embarrassed!"

"Ok ok!" he took a brief yet deep breath. His voice became smaller than intended. "I..I do. I have for a while."

She sandwiched her claw on his hand. A handwich, if you will. "I-I do too! For years! I thought I'd never see the day where I would tell you! Let alone hear you say the same thing. There's just..no way someone could seriously love me."

"Well I do. I love you a lot, Al. You're weird in the best way possible."

She would've squealed right then and there if it was appropriate. "Thank you." then a thought occurred to her. "So, uhm, are we, like, dating now?"

He looked to the side and thought. His silence was unbearable. "Sure, I don't see why not. Can't promise I'd be the best lover though. Just let me know if you need a shoulder to lean on, ok?"

She couldn't help but to smile. It reached her eyes and she leaned out of her chair to hug him tight. It startled him for a moment, but he embraced her back. Neither wanted to let go.

"Would you mind telling me now why you want to learn about physics so suddenly? I mean, you just confessed something huge. Surely there's nothing else to hide."

Oh right! The physics book! She was so caught up in her little fanfiction moment that she completely forgot about studying!

"I..I just..want to ease back into lab work." the tone in her voice shifted drastically. "W-with working for Asgore and the poor monsters that I failed on..I..I just can't seem to do anything anymore.

B-but I love science! I love learning new theories and solutions and codes! I don't want something like this to be ruined for me, s-so I thought that maybe I could continue from a different perspective."

He would've frowned if he could. "I understand. You're strong for still standing after all of this..I would've given up."

"D-don't say that! You're strong too! I would've given up after I became the new head if I were you!"

A quick laugh escaped him. "Maybe we're both weak?"

She giggled with him. "Maybe we are."

And that was ok.

"So!" Alphys let go of him and sat back into her seat, clapping her claws together. "Should we go back to work? It feels like this break has gone on forever!"

"Right." he sat too. "You have a lot of catching up to do if you want to learn physics so badly. It's alright though, I gotcha."

#fanfic #fanfiction #undertale #undertale fanfic #undertale fanfiction #salphys #sans x alphys #alphys x sans #sans undertale #alphys undertale

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rjalker · 11 months ago

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Here is the text to read on tumblr. Copy and paste and download it wherever you want. Share it on a completely separate reblog so people I have blocked can also get it.

I have not actually read it while editing (it's a skill), so I can't offer any warnings for it. I will actually read it tomorrow, which is when I'll also upload it to the web archive. You can also upload it to the web archive, and other sites, literally whatever you want. It's public domain. Because I just sat here and fixed it and I fucking said so.

If you see any errors that are Obviously My Fault and not the original text, let me know.

(Archived read-more link that anyone, including people I have blocked, can click to read the story.)

The Black Vampyre;

A Legend of St. Domingo.

By Uriah Derick D’arcy

So have I seen, upon another shore, Another Lion give a grievous roar; And the last Lion thought the first—A BOAR!

-Bombast. Furios

_______

SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. NEW -YORK: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1819.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF “WALL-STREET.”

MY DEAR SIR,

CHARMED with the success of your anomalous drama, which, without aspiring even to the character of nonsense, has already seen three editions, I have been myself induced to venture on publishing; with the sanguine hope of also scraping together a few shillings, in these hard times. Permit me to inscribe this tale to you, with a fellow-feeling for your lack of genius; and a fervent hope, that our names may be encircled by the same evergreen in the temple of the Muses; and that we may long flourish together, on the same pedestal, embellishing and elevating the literature of the Auction Room.

I remain, My dear Sir, Your affectionate Friend, And obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR.

Introduction

-BYRON.

The Black Vampyre

The PLANTER supposing his business to have been but half done, kicked him back in the water. The element seemed very familiar to him; and he swam back with much grace and agility; parting the sparkling waves with his jet black members, polished like ebony, but reflecting no sin- gle beam of light. His complexion was a dead black;—his eyes a pure white;—the iris was flame colour;—and the pupils of a clear, moonshiny lustre;—but so peculiarly constructed, that, though prominent, they seemed to look into his own head. His hair was neither curled nor straight; but feathery, like the plumage of a crow. Having paddled again on shore, he came crawling crab fashion, to the feet of Mr. PERSONNE.The latter gentleman, in considerable alarm, (not knowing whether it was Satan, Obi, or some other worthy, with whom he had to deal,) mustered up sufficient resolution, to tie a large stone round the boy’s middle: then, with a main exertion of strength, he hurled him into the sparkling ocean. He fell where the reflection of the moon was brightest, and sunk like lead; but immediately rose again like cork, perpendicularly, with the stone under his arm; while the radiant lustre of the planet retreated from his dark figure, exhibiting in its most striking contrast its utter blackness!

In this predicament, he came buoyant to land; surrounded, as he seemed, by a sphere of magic lustre. He now walked up to the Frenchman, with his arms a-kimbo, and looking remarkably fierce. Mr. PERSONNE’S particular hairs stood up on end,but being ashamed that a little negro of ten years old, should put him in bodily fear, he knocked him down. The Guinea-man rose again, without bending a joint; as fast as Mr. PERSONNE could upset him, he recovered his altitude; just like one of those small toys, fabricated from pith, tipt with lead, called witches and hobgoblins by the rising generation!

The PLANTER, in utter amazement and despair, took hold of the child by both his extremities; and pressing him to the earth, set down upon him! Then, halloing for is attendants, he ordered a tremendous fire to be kindled on the sand!! This was accordingly done. The GAUL congratulated himself on his perseverance and sagacity; and as he had never heard of ignaqueous animals, was confident that though the water fiend was so expert in his own element, he could not stand the fiery ordeal. The boy, meanwhile, lay perfectly passive, as if he had been a mere log; but presently, when the pile was all in a light blaze, with a sudden expansion, like that of a compressed Indian Rubber, he popped Mr. PERSONNE up into the air many yards, and he alighted head-foremost into the fire, where he had intended to have dedicated the sable brat, with his nine lives, to Moloch!!!

Whatever the negro was, it is notorious that Mr. PERSONNE was no salamander. He was rescued from the pyre, which, like Hercules, he had, (though unwittingly,) erected for himself; looking like a squizzed cat, and having apparently no life left in his body. The attention of the domestics was drawn entirely to their master; who soon betrayed signs of animation, though he exhibited a most awful. spectacle: being one continual sore and blister. “His whole body was one wound,” as Virgil or some other poet has hyperbolically expressed himself.

On the receipt of this horrid intelligence, Mr. PERSONNE was seized with a violent spasmodic affection; and shortly after expired, muttering something about sacre, and the Guinea-negro!

No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour’s clang, The sullen march was dumb.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE, guided by their son, were placed in a situation, where, through the crevices of the inner partition of the rock, they could observe what was passing in the interior.

“But to come to the object of our present meeting. Sublime and soul-elevating theme!—The emancipation of the Negroes!—The consecration of the soil of ST. DOMINGO to the manes of murdered patriots in all ages!—No matter whether the bill of sale was scrawled in French or in English;—No matter whether we were taken prisoners, in a battle between the LEOPHARES and the JAKOFFS, or in a skirmish between the SAMBOES and the SAWPITS;—No matter whether we were bought for calico and cotton, or for gunpowder or for shot;—No matter whether we were transported in chains or in ropes—in a brig, or a schooner, or a seventy-four—the first moment we come ashore on ST. DOMINGO, our souls shall swell like a sponge in the liquid element;—our bodies shall burst from their fetters, glorious as a curculio from its shell;—our minds shall soar like the car of the æronaut, when its ligaments are cut; in a word, O my brethren, we shall be free!—Our fetters discandied, and our chains dissolved, we shall stand liberated,—redeemed,— emancipated,—and disenthralled by the irresistible genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION!!!” (Unparalleled bursts of unprecedented applause!!!)

Stakes were immediately procured, and the whole infernal fraternity securely disposed of: as their compeers, described by Homer,

With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors.

Moral.

N this happy land of liberty and equality, we are free from all traditional superstitions, whether political, religious, or otherwise. Fiction has no materials for machinery;—Romance no horrors for a tale of mystery. Yet in a figurative sense, and in the moral world, our climate is perhaps more prolific than any other, in enchanters,—Vampyres,—and the whole infernal brood of sorcery and witchcraft.

And I, who, as Johnson said of an hypochondriac Lady, “have spun this discourse out of my own bowels,” and made as free with those of others—I am a VAMPYRE!

Vampyrism; a poem

Utrum horum mavis accipe.

SOLOMON LANG & LAUNCELOT LANG - STAFF, Esquires.

Fortunati ambo—si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

VAMPYRISM;

A POEM,

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVIII.

XIX.

And what am I, whose spider skill Has thus contrived this sheet to fill; From my own bowels spun the lay, Until I find no more to say? Before to all I bid adieu, Confess,—I AM A VAMPYRE TOO!

If anyones interested in learning about the first black vampire short story, published in 1819, heres a link to the wiki, its called The Black Vampyre, and its about a former slave turned vampire who seeks revenge on his slave master. Its actually a first in many categories!

#The Black-Vampyre #god I have never fucking fixed text so quickly #I AM NOT working this hard for Astounding Stories of Super-Science #I just wanted to save peopel from that headache of a PDF

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