#and then there's also the etymology of course

[vbartilucci]

People walking from left-to-right in movies are interpreted as "moving forward" and are seen as positive individuals, and people walking right-to-left are seen as sinister (even the etymology of that word is based on the left hand).

The opening of Strangers on a Train uses that fact effectively - protagonist Guy Haines walks through the train station (and the frame) from left to right, and antagonist Bruno Antony (a very interesting man) walks from right to left.

This also implies that they are walking towards each other, as they of course eventually meet.

ok well this blew my mind

This is also true with filmmakers. Western filmmakers pan their cameras mostly left to right and Iranian filmmakers do right to left.

[wellntruly]

The Long Goodbye, Altman (1973)

M*A*S*H, Season 3 (1974)

aaannd

M*A*S*H, Season 4 (1975)

Remember for three years in the 1970s when we were just doing this apparently

[the-monkey-ruler]

Where do people get female from with macaque king because I don’t see it in the hanzi 🔭

So I'm not a linguist but I've been told because 弥猴 / 猕猴 / 獼猴 is connected with 母猴 when it comes to there use in language.

I'm very sorry to say I don't know the history of language or why these two character or so closely tied but I have seen that if you use 獼猴 it isn't too far away from saying 母猴 as well.

And thus connects that it isn't too far to assume 母猴 when reading 獼猴王.

At least that have I have seen it.

And also helps that the Yu translations also see this connection as well.

(Back of the index in Book 1)

And then referenced again in the second book when Wukong is telling his party about his sworn brothers.

I get it if not everything thinks 母猴 when 弥猴 but that is the best I can give you and some links to help show.

I hope that helps!!

[thecurioustale]

Twists and Turns

I finished writing the end of a scene from Galaxy Federal tonight. For months I have had it in mind but hadn't mustered the resolve to write it. The middle part of the scene was already on the page, more or less (though with frequent small revisions). The beginning part of the scene, meanwhile, remains only partially written. But it's also its own, distinct thing compared to the middle and end parts, which flow together and act as one. Really they are two scenes within a single event.

Finishing a scene is much less common for me than starting one, especially when it comes to bigger scenes that got a big burst of writing done on them at the onset and then languished on the page over a long period with only incremental revisions to the existing text and very little of the remaining unwritten text attempted at all. So it's always nice to add major new pieces onto an existing scene and actually finish it (even if in this case the beginning of the scene is still unfinished).

Excluding the beginning part of the scene, the middle and end parts are just over six thousand words, twenty-five hundred of which I wrote today. My first work on the scene dates all the way back to August! And all those frequent little revisions to the middle part, which is the main bulk of the scene, mean that that part of the scene reads really nicely now. It's a Command Deck scene, so there's lots of Ship's Business: jargon and numbers and so forth. This novel bridges the gap between hard and soft sci-fi; it's actually all hard sci-fi, but dressed in a way that often appears very soft. But this scene is one of the ones that'll eat normies for lunch, lol.

Or maybe not! I'd like to think my writing's charming even when it's technical.

[the-second-visitor]

Yeah that feels like something you should talk about in college history courses. Or it should at least be mentioned so you can find the info yourself. (Not sure what elementary has to do with this though. No way kids this young would get anything from learning about these things.)

There is also the question of time and if there are things more relevant to where you live. (like is the etymology of "slave" actually relevant to you?)

I'm not saying the system isn't bad though.

[krytus]

put on the dragonheart soundtrack while writing and accidentally ended up w/ name etymology as flirting 😮‍💨

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

I started reading Discworld earlier this year –because I figured it's a cultural treasure and I may as well get around to it by now– and like, I knew something about Terry's ability to sneak underhanded puns into the texts –I've seen the posts. I'd also read Good Omens, even if at that point I couldn't disentangle who was writing what.

So I entered the books fully like the Stay back, slut meme, except regarding wordplay. I was reading with a fine-toothed comb. I was squinting at every name and testing every phoneme. Not necessarily because I don't like puns or didn't enjoy the idea of getting caught by surprise, mind you, just that I'd heard very good things about Terry Prachett's humor and I didn't want to miss any of his jokes and with wordplay stuff if you don't catch it, you'll never know it existed.

I caught a lot of stuff, and even when I didn't get some of the references (the series stretches across a lot of decades I wasn't born in) I could still at least tell when he was making them. I made it out of my grand read with a pat on the back and a certain pleasure in the knowledge that I had enough pop-culture and etymological awareness to not let Terry pull a fast one on me.

In classic Pratchett fashion, turns out I was dead wrong.

I was rereading Soul Music, because even if I'm late to the party I still enjoyed the Discworld books immensely, and I got to the scene where a bunch of schmucks with no music knowledge (or talent) are infected by the spirit of rock n' roll and descend in a horde upon a guitar shop. The owner starts off trying to sell them decent instruments, but, soon realizing his new flow of customers couldn't play a triangle and are more interested in the look of the thing anyways, he promptly starts pulling out his scrappiest, crappiest pseudo-instruments (Ankh-Morpok, amiright) and sticking a bunch of paint, glitter, and ankh-stones on them for the look of things before selling them at marked-up prices.

Ankh-stones were first mentioned in Sourcery, I think, and were used in the creation of the fake Archchancellor's hat. They get mentioned in other books on and off as a source of bedazzlement that's pretty clearly meant to be a riff on rhinestones. First time I read about them, I went "oh what a nice little bit of worldbuilding, of course some gems would get named after local stuff" and thought no more on it. But like…

Ankh-stones.

Rhinestones. Rhine-stones.

The infamously nasty River Ankh that flows(?) through Ankh-Morpok, and the River Rhine, a real river that exists.

I just about swore and hit the table when I clocked that one, because I went into the series ready for it, I was looking for it, and Terry still fuckin' got me good.

[mashkaroom]

Translation thoughts on the greatest poem of our time, “His wife has filled his house with chintz. To keep it real I fuck him on the floor”

It’s actually quite tricky to translate. Because it’s so short, each word and grammatical construction is carrying a lot of weight. It also, as people have noted, plays with registers. “Chintz” is a word with its own set of associations. Chintz is a type of fabric with its origins in India. The disparaging connotation is from chintz’s eventual commonality. Chintz was actually banned from England and France because the local textile mills couldn’t compete.

Keep it real” is tremendously difficult to translate -- it’s a bit difficult to even define. It means to be authentic and genuine, but it also has connotations of staying true to one’s roots. Like many English slang words, it comes first from AAVE. From this article on the phrase:

“[K]eeping it real meant performing an individual’s experience of being Black in the United States. As such, it became a form of resistance. Insisting on a different reality, one that wasn’t recognized by the dominant culture, empowered Black people to ‘forge a parallel system of meaning,’ according to cultural critic Mich Nyawalo...The phrase’s roots in racialized resistance, however, were erased when it was adopted by the mostly-White film world of the 1970s and ’80s....Keeping it real in this context indicated a performance done so well that audiences could forget it was a performance.This version of keeping it real wasn’t about testifying to personal experience; it was about inventing it.”

One has to imagine that jjbang8 did not have the origins of these phrases in mind when composing the poem, but even if by coincidence, the etymological and cultural journeys of these two central lexemes perfectly reflect the themes of the poem. The two words have themselves traveled away from the authenticity they once represented, and, in a new context, have taken on new meanings -- the hero of our poem, the unnamed “him”, is, presumably, in quite a similar situation.

Setting aside the question of register, of the phonology, prosody, and meter of the original, of the information that is transmitted through bits of grammar that don’t necessarily exist in other languages -- a gifted translator might be able to account for all of these -- how do you translate the journey of the words themselves?

In my translations, I decided to go for the most evocative words, even if they don’t evoke the exact same things as in the original. The strength of these two lines is that they imply that there’s more than just what you see, whether that’s the details of the story -- what’s happening in the marriage? how do the narrator and the husband know each other? -- or the cultural background of the very words themselves. I wanted to try and replicate this effect.

Yiddish first:

זייַן ווייַב האָט אָנגעפֿילט זייַן הויז מיט הבלים

צו בלייַבן וויטיש, איך שטוף אים אופֿן דיל. zayn vayb hot ongefilt zayn hoyz mit havolim.

tsu blaybn vitish, ikh shtup im afn dil

This translation is pretty direct. There is a word for chintz in Yiddish -- tsits -- but, as far as I can tell, it refers only to the fabric; it doesn’t have the same derogatory connotation as in English. I chose, instead, havolim, a loshn-koydesh word that means “vanity, nothingness, nonsense, trifles”. In Hebrew, it can also mean breath or vapor. I chose this over the other competitors because it, too, is a word with a journey and with a secondary meaning. Rather than imagining the bright prints of chintz, we might imagine a more olfactory implication -- his wife has filled his house with perfumes or cleaning fluids. It can carry the implication that something is being masked as well as the associations with vanity and gaudiness.

Vitish -- Okay, this is a good one. Keep in mind, of course, that I’ve never heard or seen it used before today, so my understanding of its nuances is very limited, but I’ll explain to you exactly how I am sourcing its meaning. The Comprehensive Yiddish-English Dictionary (CYED) gives this as “gone astray (esp. woman); slang correct, honest”. I used the Yiddish Book Center’s optical character recognition software, which allows you to search for strings in their corpus, to confirm that both usages are, in fact, attested. It’s a pretty rare word in text, though, as the CYED implies, it might have been more common in spoken speech. It appears in a glossary in “Bay unds yuden” (Among Us Jews) as a thieves cant word, where it’s definted as נאַריש, שרעקעוודיק, אונבעהאלפ. אויך נישט גנביש. אין דער דייַטשער גאַונער-שפראַך --  witsch -- נאַריש, or “foolish, terrible, clumsy/pathetic. not of the thieves world. in the German thieves cant witsch means foolish”. A vitishe nekeyve (vitishe woman) is either a slacker or a prostitute. I can’t prove this for sure, but my sense is that it might come from the same root as vitz, joke (it’s used a couple of times in the corpus to mention laughing at a vitish remark -- which makes it seem kind of similar to witty). I assume the German thieve’s cant that’s being referred to is Rotwelsch, which has its own fascinating history and, in fact, incorporates a lot of Yiddish. In fact, for this reason, some of the first Yiddish linguists were actually criminologists! What an excellent set of associations, no? It has the slangy sense of straightforward of honest; it has a sense of sexual non-normativity (we might use it to read into the relationship between the narrator and the husband) -- and a feminized one at that; it was used by an underground subculture, and, again, the meaning there was quite different -- like the “real” in “keeping it real” it was used to indicate whether or not someone was “in” on the life (tho “real” is used to mean that the person is in, while “vitish” is used to mean they’re not). It’s variety of meanings are more ambiguous than “keep it real”, which can pretty much only be read positively, and it also brings in a tinge of criminality. Though it doesn’t have the same exact connotations as “keep it real”, I think it’s about as ideal of a fit as we’ll get because it’s equally evocative of more below the surface. I also chose “tsu blaybn vitish”, which is “to stay vitish”, as opposed to something like “to make it vitish” to keep the slight ambiguity of time that “keep it real” has -- keeping it real does< I think, imply that there is a pre-existing “real” to which one can adhere, so I wanted to imply the same.

The rest is straight-forward. “Shtup” is one of a few words the Comprehensive English-Yiddish Dictionary (CEYD) gives for “fuck”, and I think it has a nice sound.

Ok, now Russian

женой твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками

чтоб не блудить с пути, ебемся на полу

zhenoy tvoy dom napolnin fintiflyushkami.

shtob ne bludit’ s puti’, yebyomsya na polu

In order to preserve, more or less, the iambic meter, I made a few more changes here -- since Russian, unlike Yiddish, is not a Germanic language, it’s harder to keep the same structure + word order while also maintaining the rhythm. I would translate this back to English as:

“Your house is filled with trifles by your wife. To not stray off the path, we’re fucking on the floor”

So a few notes before we get into the choice of words for “chintz” and “keep it real”. To preserve the iamb, I changed “his” to “your”. This changes the lines from a narration of events to some outside party to a conversation between the two men at the center. Russian also has both formal and informal you (formal you is also the plural form, as is the case in a number of other languages). I went with informal you because I wanted to preserve the fact that his wife has filled his house not their house, as someone pointed out in the original chain (though I don’t think that differentiation is nearly as striking in the 2nd person) and because it’s unlikely you’d be on formal you with someone you’re fucking (unless it’s, like, a kink thing). I honestly didn’t even consider making it formal, but that would actually raise a lot of interesting implications about the relationship between the speaker and the husband, as well as with what that means about the “realness” of the situation. Is, in fact, the narrator only creating a mirage of a more real, more meaningful encounter, while the actual truth -- that there is a woman the husband has made promises to that he’s betraying -- is obscured? that this intimacy is just a facade? Is there perhaps some sort of power differential that the narrator wishes to point out? Or perhaps is the way that the narrator is keeping it real by pointing out the distance between the two of them? there is no pretense of intimacy, the narrator is calling this what it is -- an encounter without deeper significance?

Much to think about, but I actually think the two men do have history --  i think the narrator remembers the house back when it was actually only “his house” and was as yet unfilled with chintz. We also don’t know what they were calling each other prior to this moment. This could be the first time they switched to the informal you. 

Ok moving on, I originally translated it as “твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками жены”. Honestly, this sounds more elegant than what I have now, but I ultimately though removing the wife from either a subject or agent position (grammatically, I mean) was too big a betrayal of the original. The original judges the wife. She took an active role in filling the house. If she were made passive, that read is certainly a possible one -- perhaps even the dominant one -- but it could also read more like “we are doing this in a space filled with reminders of his wife and the life they share” -- the action of filling is no longer what’s being focused on. Why do I say the current translation is inelegant? I feel you stumble over it a little, because it’s almost a garden path sentence. This is also an assset though. “Zhenoy tvoy dom napolnen” is a fully grammatical sentence on its own, and it means “Your house is filled by your wife” -- as in English, the primary read is that the wife is what the house is full of. If the sentence makes you stumble, perhaps that’s even good -- we focus, for good reason, on the relationship between the two men, but in a translation, the wife is able to draw more attention to herself.

Ok, chintz: I chose the word “финтифлюшки” (fintiflyushki), meaning trifle/bobble/tchotchke, because it, allegedly, comes from the german phrase finten und flausen, meaning illusions and vanity/nonsense. Once again, I like that the word has a journey, specifically a cross-linguistic one.

Keep it real: this one, frankly, fails to capture the impact of the original, in my opinion, but allow me to explain the reasoning. “Stray off the path” implies, again, that there is some sort of path that both the narrator and the husband were on before the wife and the chintz -- and one they intend to continue taking, one that this act is a maintenance of. It brings in a little irony, since the husband very much is straying from the path of his marriage. “Bludit’“ can also mean to be unfaithful in a marriage (as, in fact, can “stray”). The proto-slavic word it comes from can mean to delude or debauch -- they want to do the latter but not the former.

As for register -- “shtob” is a bit informal. I would write the full version (shto by) in an email, for example. The word for fuck, yebyomsa, is from one of the “mat” words, the extra special top tier of russian swears, definitely not to be said in polite company (and, if you are a man of a certain generation or background, not in front of women; it’s not that the use of mat automatically invokes a male-only environment, but if we’re already thinking that deeply about it. But while we’re on the topic, i will say that in my circles in the US, women use mat much more actively than men (at least in front of me, who was, up until recently, a woman and also a child).)

Ok i think that’s all the comments i have!

[tragedykery]

[ID: a meme of a skeleton lifting the lid of its coffin and stepping out of it. text (which is old english) reads, “Hwonne þu dead eart ac þu hyrst mann nathwylcne secgan, ‘Sceacespere spræc Eald Englisc.’” /end ID]

[octuscle]

Halloween Spirit

Mortimer didn't think much of video games and the like. Like social media, he blamed them for the dumbing down of the population and the success of populist parties. And if proof were needed, his cousin Dylan was proof. Dumb as a bag of

Since he couldn't find a hotel anymore, Mortimer had been forced to stay with Dylan during a conference. They hadn't talked much, Dylan was usually out with his “bros.” At the gym, at the sports bar, at the football game. Mortimer had used the evenings accordingly and cleaned the apartment, which was quite a mess. And when he came home in the evening, he was glad when a little of that cleanliness and order remained. Today he was lucky: the apartment was almost in the same condition as when he left it in the morning. There was only a PSP with a note on the dining room table. In Dylan's clumsy handwriting it said, “Bro, can you help me with the Halloween quiz? I always fail on the first I'll be back at eight, let's go for a steak then.” Mortimer was a vegan. Of course Dylan knew that. Mortimer sighed, took the PSP and sat down on the sofa.

“What is the etymology of the name Halloween?“ Good heavens, thought Mortimer! Is this going to continue at this level? He typed in ‘All Hallows’ Eve.” “Who does the custom of carving and lighting jack-o'-lanterns commemorate (last name, first name)?” Did Dylan really not know that, Mortimer wondered and typed in “Jack Oldfield.” “Wrong” lit up on the display. “The correct answer would have been 'Oldfield, Jack'.” Out of the blue, Mortimer had to burp. Stupid software, he thought. A good AI would have recognized that he had only mixed up the order. He took a sip of cola from the can on the coffee table. ‘On which day do children in Germany traditionally go from door to door collecting sweets?’ Mortimer scratched his head. That was on St. Martin's Day. But when was that again? He typed in “November 11th.” Again, “Wrong! The correct message would have been November 10th.” Mortimer burped again. Hehehe, that was a good one. Came from the chili today. He took a slice of cold pizza out of the box next to him and moved on to the next question. “What is a zombie brain hemorrhage?” Mortimer had no idea. He just wrote “a TV series”. “Wrong, a zombie brain haemorrhage is a cocktail made of peach schnapps, mint liqueur, Bailey's Irish cream and a dash of grenadine.” Mortimer farted. Damn, the chili had been really good. But something else stank too. Mortimer raised his arm. No, that wasn't it. That was honest man sweat. Just the way a man had to smell. Mortimer pushed up his undershirt and scratched his stomach. This game was really boring. “What is the most popular Halloween costume of 2024?” Mortimer didn't feel like it anymore. He would put on his football gear like every year. With that, he could get any guy into bed. Especially the little nerds. They weren't so bad, usually made a real effort in bed… Shit, what was the question again? Okay, so “football player”. “Wrong, the correct answer would have been ‘Shrunken Head Bob’.” Was there another beer in this pigsty, Mortimer wondered. He looked at what other games Dylan had on the PSP. When was the idiot finally coming home? They were supposed to go out for a steak with the guys. Mortimer could definitely use some protein. He flexed his biceps. Yes, the babies needed feeding.

“Bruh, im still stucc in traffic. Ill b home in about a quarter of an hr. Get ready fo' an epic dinner!” Mortimer knew what that meant. He wouldn't need his best buddy Dylan for the next hour. Enough time to play another round of Peace Walker. And then there was finally meat, almost raw, just how Morty liked it best. Hehehe, rare is also good for Halloween. His favorite holiday. But who could come up with such a stupid quiz with smart-aleck questions about it was a mystery to him.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: First image shows large falafel balls, one pulled apart to show that it is bright green and red on the inside, on a plate alongside green chilis, parsley, and pickled turnips. Second image is an extreme close-up of the inside of a halved falafel ball drizzled with tahina sauce. End ID]

فلافل محشي فلسطيني / Falafel muhashshi falastini (Palestinian stuffed falafel)

Falafel (فَلَافِل) is of contested origin. Various hypotheses hold that it was invented in Egypt any time between the era of the Pharoahs and the late nineteenth century (when the first written references to it appear). In Egypt, it is known as طَعْمِيَّة (ṭa'miyya)—the diminutive of طَعَام "piece of food"—and is made with fava beans. It was probably in Palestine that the dish first came to be made entirely with chickpeas.

The etymology of the word "falafel" is also contested. It is perhaps from the plural of an earlier Arabic word *filfal, from Aramaic 𐡐𐡋𐡐𐡉𐡋 "pilpāl," "small round thing, peppercorn"; or from "مفلفل" "mfelfel," a word meaning "peppered," from "فلفل" "pepper" + participle prefix مُ "mu."

This recipe is for deep-fried chickpea falafel with an onion and sumac حَشْوَة (ḥashua), or filling; falafel are also sometimes stuffed with labna. The spice-, aromatic-, and herb-heavy batter includes additions common to Palestinian recipes—such as dill seeds and green onions—and produces falafel balls with moist, tender interiors and crisp exteriors. The sumac-onion filling is tart and smooth, and the nutty, rich, and bright tahina-based sauce lightens the dish and provides a play of textures.

Falafel with a filling is falafel مُحَشّي (muḥashshi or maḥshshi), from حَشَّى‎ (ḥashshā) "to stuff, to fill." While plain falafel may be eaten alongside sauces, vegetables, and pickles as a meal or a snack, or eaten in flatbread wraps or kmaj bread, stuffed falafel are usually made larger and eaten on their own, not in a wrap or sandwich.

Falafel has gone through varying processes of adoption, recognition, nationalization, claiming, and re-patriation in Zionist settlers' writing. A general arc may be traced from adoption during the Mandate years, to nationalization and claiming in the years following the Nakba until the end of the 20th century, and back to re-Arabization in the 21st. However, settlers disagree with each other about the value and qualities of the dish within any given period.

What is consistent is that falafel maintains a strategic ambiguity: particular qualities thought to belong to "Arabs" may be assigned, revoked, rearranged, and reassigned to it (and to other foodstuffs and cultural products) at will, in accordance with broader trends in politics, economics, and culture, or in service of the particular argument that a settler (or foreign Zionist) wishes to make.

Mandate Palestine, 1920s – early '30s: Secular and collective

While most scholars hold that claims of an ancient origin for falafel are unfounded, it was certainly being eaten in Palestine by the 1920s. Yael Raviv writes that Jewish settlers of the second and third "עליות"‎ ("aliyot," waves of immigration; singular "עליה" "aliya") tended to adopt falafel, and other Palestinian foodstuffs, largely uncritically. They viewed Palestinian Arabs as holding vessels that had preserved Biblical culture unchanged, and that could therefore serve as models for a "new," agriculturally rooted, physically active, masculine Jewry that would leave behind the supposed errors of "old" European Jewishness, including its culinary traditions—though of course the Arab diet would need to be "corrected" and "civilized" before it was wholly suitable for this purpose.

Falafel was further endeared to these "חֲלוּצִים‎" ("halutzim," "pioneers") by its status as a street food. The undesirable "old" European Jewishness was associated with the insularity of the nuclear family and the bourgeois laziness of indoor living. The קִבּוּצים‎ ("Kibbutzim," communal living centers), though they represented only a small minority of settlers, furnished a constrasting ideal of modern, earthy Jewishness: they left food production to non-resident professional cooks, eliding the role of the private, domestic kitchen. Falafel slotted in well with these ascetic ideals: like the archetypal Arabic bread and olive oil eaten by the Jewish farmer in his field, it was hardy, cheap, quick, portable, and unconnected to the indoor kitchen.

The author of a 1929 article in דאר היום ("Doar Hyom," "Today's Mail") shows unrestrained admiration for the "[]מזרחי" ("Oriental") food, writing of his purchase of falafel stuffed in a "פיתה" ("pita") that:

רק בני-ערב, ואחיהם — היהודים הספרדים — רק הם עלולים "להכנת מטעם מפולפל" שכזה, הנעים כל כך לחיך [...].

("Only the Arabs, and their brothers—the Sepherdi Jews—only they are likely to create a delicacy so 'peppered' [a play on the פ-ל-פ-ל (f-l-f-l) word root], one so pleasing to the palate".)

Falafel's strong association with "Arabs" (i.e., Palestinians), however, did blemish the foodstuff in the eyes of some as early as 1930. An article in the English-language Palestine Bulletin told the story of Kamel Ibn Hassan's trial for the murder of a British soldier, lingering on the "Arab" "hashish addicts," "women of the streets," and "concessionaires" who rounded out this lurid glimpse into the "underground life lived by a certain section of Arab Haifa"; it was in this context that Kamel's "'business' of falafel" (scare quotes original) was mentioned.

Mandate Palestine, late 1930s–40s: A popular Oriental dish

In 1933, only three licensed falafel vendors operated in Tel Aviv; but by December 1939, Lilian Cornfeld (columnist for the English-language Palestine Post) could lament that "filafel cakes" were "proclaiming their odoriferous presence from every street corner," no longer "restricted to the seashore and Oriental sections" of the city.

Settlers' attitudes to falafel at this time continued to range from appreciation to fascinated disgust to ambivalence, and references continued to focus on its cheapness and quickness. According to Cornfeld, though the "orgy of summertime eating" of which falafel was the "most popular" representative caused some dietary "damage" to children, and though the "rather messy and dubious looking" food was deep-fried, the chickpeas themselves were still of "great nutritional value": "However much we may object to frying, — if fry you must, this at least is the proper way of doing it."

Cornfeld's article, appearing 10 years after the 1929 reference to falafel in pita quoted above, further specifies how this dish was constructed:

There is first half a pita (Arab loaf), slit open and filled with five filafels, a few fried chips [i.e. French fries] and sometimes even a little salad. The whole is smeared over with Tehina, a local mayonnaise made with sesame oil (emphasis original).

The ethnicity of these early vendors is not explicitly mentioned in these accounts. The Zionist "תוצרת הארץ" "totzeret ha’aretz"; "produce of the land") campaign in the 1930s and 1940s recommended buying only Jewish produce and using only Jewish labor, but it did not achieve unilaterial success, so it is not assured that settlers would not be buying from Palestinian vendors. There were, however, also Mizrahi Jewish vendors in Tel Aviv at this time.

The WW2-era "צֶנַע" ("tzena"; "frugality") period of rationing meat, which was enforced by British mandatory authorities beginning in 1939 and persisting until 1959, may also have contributed to the popularity of falafel during this time—though urban settlers employed various strategies to maintain access to significant amounts of meat.

Israel and elsewhere, 1950s – early 60s: The dawn of de-Arabization

After the Nakba (the ethnic cleansing of broad swathes of Palestine in the creation of the modern state of "Israel"), the task of producing a national Israeli identity and culture tied to the land, and of asserting that Palestinians had no like sense of national identity, acquired new urgency. The claiming of falafel as "the national snack of Israel," the decoupling of the dish from any association with "Arabs" (in settlers' writing of any time period, this means "Palestinians"), and the insistence on associating it with "Israel" and with "Jews," mark this time period in Israeli and U.S.-ian newspaper articles, travelogues, and cookbooks.

During this period, falafel remained popular despite the "reintegrat[ion]" of the nuclear family into the "national project," and the attendant increase in cooking within the familial home. It was still admirably quick, efficient, hardy, and frequently eaten outside. When it was homemade, the dish could be used rhetorically to marry older ideas about embodying a "new" Jewishness and a return to the land through dietary habits, with the recent return to the home kitchen. In 1952, Rachel Yanait Ben-Zvi, the wife of the second President of Israel, wrote to a South African Zionist women's society:

I prefer Oriental dishes and am inclined towards vegetarianism and naturalism, since we are returning to our homeland, going back to our origin, to our climate, our landscape and it is only natural that we liberate ourselves from many of the habits we acquired in the course of our wanderings in many countries, different from our own. [...] Meals at the President's table [...] consist mainly of various kinds of vegetable prepared in the Oriental manner which we like as well as [...] home-made Falafel, and, of course vegetables and fruits of the season.

Out of doors, associations of falafel with low prices, with profusion and excess, and with youth, travelling and vacation (especially to urban locales and the seaside) continue. Falafel as part and parcel of Israeli locales is given new emphasis: a reference to the pervasive smell of frying falafel rounds out the description of a chaotic, crowded, clamorous scene in the compact, winding streets of any old city. Falafel increasingly stands metonymically for Israel, especially in articles written to entice Jewish tourists and settlers: no one is held to have visited Israel unless they have tried real Israeli falafel. A 1958 song ("ולנו יש פלאפל", "And We Have Falafel") avers that:

הַיּוֹם הוּא רַק יוֹרֵד מִן הַמָּטוֹס [...] כְבָר קוֹנֶה פָלָאפֶל וְשׁוֹתֶה גָּזוֹז כִּי זֶה הַמַּאֲכָל הַלְּאֻמִּי שֶׁל יִשְׂרָאֵל

("Today when [a Jew] gets off the plane [to Israel] he immediately has a falafel and drinks gazoz [...] because this is the national dish of Israel"). A 1962 story in Israel Today features a boy visiting Israel responding to the question "Have you learned Hebrew yet?" by asserting "I know what falafel is." Recipes for falafel appear alongside ads for smoked lox and gefilte fish in U.S.-ian Jewish magazines; falafel was served by Zionist student groups in U.S.-ian universities beginning in the 1950s and continuing to now.

These de-Arabization and nationalization processes were possible in part because it was often Mizrahim (West Asian and North African Jews) who introduced Israelis to Palestinian food—especially after 1950, when they began to immigrate to Israel in larger numbers. Even if unfamiliar with specific Palestinian dishes, Mizrahim were at least familiar with many of the ingredients, taste profiles, and cooking methods involved in preparing them. They were also more willing to maintain their familiar foodways as settlers than were Zionist Ashkenazim, who often wanted to distance themselves from European and diaspora Jewish culture.

Despite their longstanding segregation from Israeli Ashkenazim (and the desire of Ashkenazim to create a "new" European Judaism separate from the indolence and ignorance of "Oriental" Jews, including their wayward foodways), Mizrahim were still preferable to Palestinian Arabs as a point of origin for Israel's "national snack." When associated with Mizrahi vendors, falafel could be considered both Oriental and Jewish (note that Sephardim and Mizrahim are unilaterally not considered to be "Arabs" in this writing).

Thus food writing of the 1950s and 60s (and some food writing today) asserts, contrary to settlers' writing of the 1920s and 30s, that falafel had been introduced to Israel by Jewish immigrants from Syria, Yemen, or Morocco, who had been used to eating it in their native countries—this, despite the fact that Yemen and Morocco did not at this time have falafel dishes. Even texts critical of Zionism echoed this narrative. In fact, however, Yemeni vendors had learned to make falafel in Egypt on their way to Palestine and Israel, and probably found falafel already being sold and eaten there when they arrived.Meneley, Anne2007 Like an Extra Virgin. American Anthropologist 109(4):678–687

Meanwhile, "pita" (Palestinian Arabic: خبز الكماج; khubbiz al-kmaj) was undergoing in some quarters a similar process of Israelization; it remained "Arab" in others. In 1956, a Boston-born settler in Haifa wrote for The Jewish Post:

The baking of the pittah loaves is still an Arab monopoly [in Israel], and the food is not available at groceries or bakeries which serve Jewish clientele exclusively. For our Oriental meal to be a success we must have pittah, so the more advance shopping must be done.

This "Arab monopoly" in fact did not extent to an Arab monopoly in discourse: it was a mere four years later that the National Jewish Post and Opinion described "Peeta" as an "Israeli thin bread." Two years after that, the U.S.-published My Jewish Kitchen: The Momales Ta'am Cookbook (co-authored by Zionist writer Shushannah Spector) defined "pitta" as an "Israeli roll."

Despite all this scrubbing work, settlers' attitudes towards falafel in the late 1950s were not wholly positive, and references to the dish as having been "appropriated from the [Palestinian] Arabs" did not disappear. A 1958 article, written by a Boston-born man who had settled in Israel in 1948 and published in U.S.-ian Zionist magazine Midstream, repeats the usual associations of falafel with the "younger set" of visitors from kibbutzim to "urban" locales; it also denigrates it as a “formidably indigestible Arab delicacy concocted from highly spiced legumes rolled into little balls, fried in grease, and then inserted into an underbaked piece of dough, known as a pita.”

Thus settlers were ambivalent about khubbiz as well. If their food writing sometimes refers to pita as "doughy" or "underbaked," it is perhaps because they were purchasing it from stores rather than baking it at home—bakeries sometimes underbake their khubbiz so that it retains more water, since it is sold by weight.

Israel and elsewhere, late 1960s–2010s: Falafel with even fewer Arabs

The sanitization of falafel would be more complete in the 60s and 70s, as falafel was gradually moved out of separate "Oriental dishes" categories and into the main sections of Israeli cookbooks. A widespread return to כַּשְׁרוּת‎ (kashrut; dietary laws) meant that falafel, a פַּרְוֶה (parve) dish—one that contained no meat or dairy—was a convenient addition on occasions when food intersected with nationalist institutions, such as at state dinners and in the mess halls of Israeli military forces.

This, however, still did not prohibit Israelis from displaying ambivalence towards the food. Falafel was more likely to be glorified as a symbol of Jewish Israel in foreign magazines and tourist guides, including in the U.S.A. and Italy, than it was to be praised in Israeli Zionist publications.

Where falafel did maintain an association with Palestinians, it was to assert that their versions of it had been inferior. In 1969, Israeli writer Ruth Bondy opines:

Experience says that if we are to form an affection for a people we should find something admirable about its customs and folklore, its food or girls, its poetry and music. True, we have taken the first steps in this direction [with Palestinians]: we like kebab, hummous, tehina and falafel. The trouble is that these have already become Jewish dishes and are prepared more tastily by every Rumanian restaurateur than by the natives of Nablus.

Opinions about falafel in this case seem to serve as a mirror for political opinions about Palestinians: the same writer had asserted, on the previous page, that the "ideal situation, of course, would be to keep all the territories we are holding today—but without so many Arabs. A few Arabs would even be desirable, for reasons of local color, raising pigs for non-Moslems and serving bread on the Passover, but not in their masses" (trans. Israel L. Taslitt).

Later narratives tended to retrench the Israelization of falafel, often acknowledging that falafel had existed in Palestine prior to Zionist incursion, but holding that Jewish settlers had made significant changes to its preparation that were ultimately responsible for making it into a worldwide favorite. Joan Nathan's 2001 Foods of Israel Today, for example, claimed that, while fava and chickpea falafel had both preëxisted the British Mandate period, Mizrahi settlers caused chickpeas to be the only pulse used in falafel.

Gil Marks, who had echoed this narrative in his 2010 Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, later attributed the success of Palestinian foods to settlers' inventiveness: "Jews didn’t invent falafel. They didn’t invent hummus. They didn’t invent pita. But what they did invent was the sandwich. Putting it all together. And somehow that took off and now I have three hummus restaurants near my house on the Upper West Side.”

Israel and elsewhere, 2000s – 2020s: Re-Arabization; or, "Local color"

Ronald Ranta has identified a trend of "re-Arabizing" Palestinian food in Israeli discourse of the late 2000s and later: cooks, authors, and brands acknowledge a food's origin or identity as "Arab," or occasionally even "Palestinian," and consumers assert that Palestinian and Israeli-Palestinian (i.e., Israeli citizens of Palestinian ancestry) preparations of foods are superior to, or more "authentic" than, Jewish-Israeli ones. Israeli and Israeli-Palestinian brands and restaurants market various foods, including falafel, as "אסלי" ("asli"), from the Arabic "أَصْلِيّ" ("ʔaṣliyy"; "original"), or "בלדי" ("baladi"), from the Arabic "بَلَدِيّ" ("baladiyy"; "native" or "my land").

This dedication to multiculturalism may seem like progress, but Ranta cautions that it can also be analyzed as a new strategy in a consistent pattern of marginalization of the indigenous population: "the Arab-Palestinian other is r­e-colonized and re-imagined only as a resource for tasty food [...] which has been de-politicized[;] whatever is useful and tasty is consumed, adapted and appropriated, while the rest of its culture is marginalized and discarded." This is the "serving bread" and "local color" described by Bondy: "Arabs" are thought of in terms of their usefulness to settlers, and not as equal political participants in the nation. For Ranta, the "re-Arabizing" of Palestinian food thus marks a new era in Israel's "confiden[ce]" in its dominance over the indigenous population.

So this repatriation of Palestinian food is limited insofar as it does not extend to an acknowledgement of Palestinians' political aspirations, or a rejection of the Zionist state. Food, like other indicators and aspects of culture, is a "safe" avenue for engagement with colonized populations even when politics is not.

The acknowledgement of Palestinian identity as an attempt to neutralize political dissent, or perhaps to resolve the contradictions inherent in liberal Zionist identity, can also be seen in scholarship about Israeli food culture. This scholarship tends to focus on narratives about food in the cultural domain, ignoring the material impacts of the settler-colonialist state's control over the production and distribution of food (something that Ranta does as well). Food is said to "cross[] borders" and "transcend[] cultural barriers" without examination of who put the borders there (or where, or why, or how, or when). Disinterest in material realities is cultivated so that anodyne narratives about food as “a bridge” between divides can be pursued.

Raviv, for example, acknowledges that falafel's de-Palestinianization was inspired by anti-Arab sentiment, and that claiming falafel in support of "Jewish nationalism" was a result of "a connection between the people and a common land and history [needing] to be created artificially"; however, after referring euphemistically to the "accelerated" circumstances of Israel's creation, she supports a shared identity for falafel in which it can also be recognized as "Israeli." She concludes that this should not pose a problem for Palestinians, since "falafel was never produced through the labor of a colonized population, nor was Palestinian land appropriated for the purpose of growing chickpeas for its preparation. Thus, falafel is not a tool of oppression."

Palestine and Israel, 1960s – 2020s: Material realities

Yet chickpeas have been grown in Israel for decades, all of them necessarily on appropriated Palestinian land. Experimentation with planting in the arid conditions of the south continues, with the result that today, chickpea is the major pulse crop in the country. An estimated 17,670,000 kilograms of chickpeas were produced in Israel in 2021; at that time, this figure had increased by an average of 3.5% each year since 1966. 73,110 kilograms of that 2021 crop was exported (this even after several years of consecutive decline in chickpea exports following a peak in 2018), representing $945,000 in exports of dried chickpeas alone.

The majority of these chickpeas ($872,000) were exported to the West Bank and Gaza; Palestinians' inability to control their own imports (all of which must pass through Israeli customs, and which are heavily taxed or else completely denied entry), and Israeli settler violence and government expropriation of land, water, and electricity resources (which make agriculture difficult), mean that Palestine functions as a captive market for Israeli exports. Israeli goods are the only ones that enter Palestinian markets freely.

By contrast, Palestinian exports, as well as imports, are subject to taxation by Israel, and only a small minority of imports to Israel come from Palestine ($1.13 million out of $22.4 million of dried chickpeas in 2021).

The 1967 occupation of the West Bank has besides had a demonstrable impact on Palestinians' ability to grow chickpeas for domestic consumption or export in the first place, as data on the changing uses of agricultural land in the area from 1966–2001 allow us to see. Chickpeas, along with wheat, barley, fenugreek, and dura, made up a major part of farmers' crops from 1840 to 1914; but by 2001, the combined area devoted to these field crops was only a third of its 1966 value. The total area given over to chickpeas, lentils and vetch, in particular, shrank from 14,380 hectares in 1966 to 3,950 hectares in 1983.

Part of this decrease in production was due to a shortage of agricultural labor, as Palestinians, newly deprived of land or of the necessary water, capital, and resources to work it—and in defiance of Raviv's assertion that "falafel was never produced through the labor of a colonized population"—sought jobs as day laborers on Israeli fields.

The dearth of water was perhaps especially limiting. Palestinians may not build anything without a permit, which the Israeli military may deny for any, or for no, reason: no Palestinian's request for a permit to dig a well has been approved in the West Bank since 1967. Israel drains aquifiers for its own use and forbids Palestinians to gather rainwater, which the Israeli military claims to own. This lack of water led to land which had previously been used to grow other crops being transitioned into olive tree fields, which do not require as much water or labor to tend.

In Gaza as well, occupation systematically denies Palestinians of food itself, not just narratives about food. The majority of the population in Gaza is food-insecure, as Israel allows only precisely determined (and scant) amounts of food to cross its borders. Gazans rely largely on canned goods, such as chickpeas (often purchased at subsidized rates through food aid programs run by international NGOs), because they do not require scarce water or fuel to prepare—but canned chickpeas cannot be used to prepare a typical deep-fried falafel recipe (the discs would fall apart while frying). There is, besides, a continual shortage of oil (of which only a pre-determined amount of calories are allowed to enter the Strip). Any narrative about Israeli food culture that does not take these and other realities of settler-colonialism into account is less than half complete.

Of course, falafel is far from the only food impacted by this long campaign of starvation, and the strategy is only intensifying: as of December 2023, children are reported to have died by starvation in the besieged Gaza Strip.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System’s (Israel’s primary weapons manufacturer) landlord; donating to Palestine Action’s bail fund; buying an e-sim for distribution in Gaza; or donating to help a family leave Gaza.

Equipment:

A meat grinder, or a food processor, or a high-speed or immersion blender, or a mortar and pestle and an enormous store of patience

A pot, for frying

A kitchen thermometer (optional)

Ingredients:

Makes 12 large falafel balls; serves 4 (if eaten on their own).

For the فلافل (falafel):

500g dried chickpeas (1010g once soaked)

1 large onion

4 cloves garlic

1 Tbsp cumin seeds

1 Tbsp coriander seeds

2 tsp dill seeds (عين جرادة; optional)

1 medium green chili pepper (such as a jalapeño), or 1/2 large one (such as a ram's horn / فلفل قرن الغزال)

2 stalks green onion (3 if the stalks are thin) (optional)

Large bunch (50g) parsley, stems on; or half parsley and half cilantro

2 Tbsp sea salt

2 tsp baking soda (optional)

For the حَشوة (filling):

2 large yellow onions, diced

1/4 cup coarsely ground sumac

4 tsp shatta (شطة: red chili paste), optional

Salt, to taste

3 Tbsp olive oil

For the طراطور (tarator):

3 cloves garlic

1/2 tsp table salt

1/4 cup white tahina

Juice of half a lemon (2 Tbsp)

2 Tbsp vegan yoghurt (لبن رائب; optional)

About 1/4 cup water

To make cultured vegan yoghurt, follow my labna recipe with 1 cup, instead of 3/4 cup, of water; skip the straining step.

To fry:

Several cups neutral oil

Untoasted hulled sesame seeds (optional)

Instructions:

1. If using whole spices, lightly toast in a dry skillet over medium heat, then grind with a mortar and pestle or spice mill.

2. Grind chickpeas, onion, garlic, chili, and herbs. Modern Palestinian recipes tend to use powered meat grinders; you could also use a food processor, speed blender, or immersion blender. Some recipes set aside some of the chickpeas, aromatics, and herbs and mince them finely, passing the knife over them several times, then mixing them in with the ground mixture to give the final product some texture. Consult your own preferences.

To mimic the stone-ground texture of traditional falafel, I used a mortar and pestle. I found this to produce a tender, creamy, moist texture on the inside, with the expected crunchy exterior. It took me about two hours to grind a half-batch of this recipe this way, so I don't per se recommend it, but know that it is possible if you don't have any powered tools.

3. Mix in salt, spices, and baking soda and stir thoroughly to combine. Allow to chill in the fridge while you prepare the filling and sauce.

If you do not plan to fry all of the batter right away, only add baking soda to the portion that you will fry immediately. Refrigerate the rest of the batter for up to 2 days, or freeze it for up to 2 months. Add and incorporate baking soda immediately before frying. Frozen batter will need to be thawed before shaping and frying.

For the filling:

1. Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Fry onion and a pinch of salt for several minutes, until translucent. Remove from heat.

2. Add sumac and stir to combine. Add shatta, if desired, and stir.

For the tarator:

1. Grind garlic and salt in a mortar and pestle (if you don't have one, finely mince and then crush the garlic with the flat of your knife).

2. Add garlic to a bowl along with tahina and whisk. You will notice the mixture growing smoother and thicker as the garlic works as an emulsifier.

3. Gradually add lemon juice and continue whisking until smooth. Add yoghurt, if desired, and whisk again.

4. Add water slowly while whisking until desired consistency is achieved. Taste and adjust salt.

To fry:

1. Heat several inches of oil in a small or medium pot to about 350 °F (175 °C). A piece of batter dropped in the oil should float and immediately form bubbles, but should not sizzle violently. (With a small pot on my gas stove, my heat was at medium-low).

2. Use your hands or a large falafel mold to shape the falafel.

To use a falafel mold: Dip your mold into water. If you choose to cover both sides of the falafel with sesame seeds, first sprinkle sesame seeds into the mold; then apply a flat layer of batter. Add a spoonful of filling into the center, and then cover it with a heaping mound of batter. Using a spoon, scrape from the center to the edge of the mold repeatedly, while rotating the mold, to shape the falafel into a disc with a slightly rounded top. Sprinkle the top with sesame seeds.

To use your hands: wet your hands slightly and take up a small handful of batter. Shape it into a slightly flattened sphere in your palm and form an indentation in the center; fill the indentation with filling. Cover it with more batter, then gently squeeze between both hands to shape. Sprinkle with sesame seeds as desired.

3. Use a slotted spoon or kitchen spider to lower falafel balls into the oil as they are formed. Fry, flipping as necessary, until discs are a uniform brown (keep in mind that they will darken another shade once removed from the oil). Remove onto a wire rack or paper towel.

If the pot you are using is inclined to stick, be sure to scrape the bottom and agitate each falafel disc a couple seconds after dropping it in.

4. Repeat until you run out of batter. Occasionally use a slotted spoon or small sieve to remove any excess sesame seeds from the oil so they do not burn and become acrid.

Serve immediately with sauce, sliced vegetables, and pickles, as desired.

[pico-farad]

GX Character Names - an in-depth analysis

(i promise there's more substance than you think)

⇀ yūki jūdai (遊城 十代)

« yū (遊) - play, enjoyment » « ki (城) - castle »

The yū (遊) uses the same kanji that all the other Yu-tagonists have, but it's probably more relevant to Judai than any other protagonist. 遊 is a particle with many associations, most notably play and games, but also enjoyment, freedom, travel, and hedonism. All the protagonists play children's card games, but Judai is the one who most treats it like a children's card game, even when he shouldn't. His signature phrase is literally "That was a fun duel!"

The ki (城) kanji means castle and could be a slight nod to his past life, but more importantly, yūki is a homophone of 勇気, meaning courage and fighting spirit -- fitting for his hero theming and pure shonen protag energy.

« jū (十) - ten » « dai (代) - generation »

First of all, there's a fun connection with the first character of Judai's name meaning 10, to the first character of Manjoume's name being 10,000, as well as the Tenjoin siblings phonetically having 'ten' in their name (Fubuki even references it by signing his name '10join').

The second character dai (代) is fitting given the name of the show. The G in GX stands for "Generation." And the X stands for "neXt," but get this -- X is also 10 in roman numerals.

That's right... Judai's name is literally GX.

It goes deeper though. The more blatant meaning is that taken together, 十代 means adolescence, or teenager (it has similar etymology to the latter, something like "the tens ages"). But jūdai is also a homophone of 重大 - serious, grave, of great importance. That's it, those are literally the themes of the show in one name.

GX is ultimately a coming of age story. Judai is a kid who just wants to play games and have fun, but over the course of the show, is forced to give up that childish simplicity in the face of adult responsibility. He starts off believing that being a hero is just about courage and shonen ideals, and learns though grave consequences that it's not, and that being a hero isn't fun at all.

⇀ manjoume jun (万丈目 準)

« man (万) - ten-thousand » « jou (丈) - height, strong » « me (目) - eye, seeing »

This is where the 1, 10, 100, 1000 chant comes from. Combined with the second character, it feels grandiose and ego-inflated, then when you add on the final character, me (目), associated with seeing, the vibe you get is something like "looking down on (from a height of 10,000)." All of which makes his insistence on being called Manjoume-san even more conceited, but also gives you an idea of how the Manjoume family name looms over Manjoume himself.

« jun (準) - semi, secondary »

In contrast to his family name, his given name shows us the other side of Manjoume's character. jun has several kanji spellings with positive and auspicious meanings. One of them, 潤 (to profit, to become wealthy), would have been an obvious choice for our rich boy. 

But no, instead they chose 準, a kanji with a meaning that can be difficult to pin down. It's associated with preparation and reserves, such as reserve funds (準備金) -- in other words, being the back-up, extraneous. In the workforce, it indicates assistants, associates, juniors (準会員, 準社員). It's part of the words for semi-finals (準決勝) and runner-up (準優勝). Ultimately, it's a character that carries a meaning of being secondary.

Underneath all that snobby pomp, Manjoume feels inferior to his brothers, and can also never win against Judai, and this drives his character arc. The tension between his last and first names, of "looking down on" and "being secondary," is emblematic of Manjoume's internal conflict.

This is driven in even further by the fact that his brothers have first names that complement their last name. The first character of his oldest brother's name, Chosaku (長作), means leader, senior, or superiority (which directly parallels the meaning of associate for Jun, and also fits with Chosaku being a businessman), but it's also phonetically the same as 兆 which means one trillion, basically exaggerating upon the 10,000 of his last name.

Meanwhile his middle brother Shoji's name (正司) starts with the character associated with truth and lawfulness (ironic considering he's a slimy politician), was archaically used to mean of higher rank in court (again paralleling Jun), and also has a niche meaning of 10 to the 40th power, or... 10,000 trillion trillion.

⇀ marufuji shou (丸藤 翔) and marufuji ryou (丸藤 亮)

« maru (丸) - circle, entirety, perfection » « fuji (藤) - wisteria »

Circles are significant symbols in Japanese culture, used in divination to represent completeness and perfection, and the kanji 丸 also carries this meaning. Wisteria is a cultural symbol too, representing love and longetivity, with a tie to royalty and nobility.

All together, the name rings as elegant and dignified. In season 1, we see how Shou feels pressured and unable to live up to the name he shares with his brother, who embodies it. Perfection is a key part of Ryou's character -- in the graduation duel, he even acknowledges that he has reached perfection, but also that it is a limit, setting up for the deconstruction of the theme.

« shou (翔) - to soar »

Shou's name simply represents his character arc, starting from Osiris Red with no confidence in himself, and ending in Obelisk Blue, surpassing his brother who has an opposite arc of "falling." It's also a homophone of 小 meaning small or younger.

« ryou (亮) - clear, brightness »

The kanji used for Ryou's name is part of words like moonlight (亮月), rightfulness (亮直), as well as words associated with royalty, like mourning the emperor (亮闇). All of which vaguely match the tone of Ryou's character as "the Kaiser." The Cyber Dragons are also light attribute, and he is introduced with "light" theming which is all reversed after his turn to the dark side in season 2.

The kanji can also be part of the word ryousatsu (亮察) which can mean to take into account, to consider, and to sympathize. A core theme of Ryou's character is having respect for his opponent and not underestimating them -- this is why you'll often hear Shou referring to "respectful dueling," and also why Power Bond is their signature card, because without respecting your opponent's capabilities and taking their field into account, the card will backfire on you.

Oh, and as an aside, Ryou does not use the same kanji as Bakura Ryou from the original Yu-Gi-Oh, who uses 了 -- completion or ending.

⇀ tenjoin asuka (天上院 明日香) and tenjoin fubuki (天上院 吹雪)

« tenjo (天上) - heavens » « in (院) - institution »

The first part ties into the Cyber Angels that Asuka uses, as well as the Atmosphere cards that Fubuki uses in the manga. It's also referenced by Fubuki in his embarrassing pickup line ("What do you see above?" "Ten... join!" This is the guy that Manjoume thinks is the love magician)

The second part is a particle used for institutions, particularly stately ones in government or higher education, which makes sense if you believe Asuka becomes a teacher. Overall, it's a refined name which perfectly suits Asuka, and not Fubuki.

« asu (明日) - tomorrow » « ka (香) - fragrance »

The first part of her name is why Jim calls her Tomorrow Girl, which spawned the Asuka/Jim ship by itself, but it also suits Asuka really well, because her character arc in season 4 is ultimately about moving on and embracing the future. She leaves behind the safety of Duel Academy and takes a step into the unknown by going to America.

« fubuki (吹雪) - blizzard »

This is why he's nicknamed the Blizzard Prince. Otherwise, he doesn't have any connection to blizzards, but Asuka uses ice decks in the Society of Light and in the manga, so the Tenjoins both have some ice theming.

⇀ misawa daichi (三沢 大地)

« mi (三) - three » « sawa (沢) - marsh, brilliance »

Another number-themed name alongside Judai's 10 and Manjoume's 10,000. sawa is a common kanji in names, but you could argue it ties into his signature monster, Water Dragon.

« dai (大) - great, vast » « chi (地) - earth »

Of his six decks, we see two of them, his water deck and his earth deck. The latter of which he uses against Tania, who in turn uses her wisdom deck -- which is perfect because daichi can also be a homophone of 大知, which means great wisdom. Nerd.

⇀ tyranno kenzan (ティラノ 剣山)

« tyranno (ティラノ) »

This name is derived from tyrannosaurus rex. Because he's got dino fucking DNA.

« ken (剣) - sword » « zan (山) - mountain »

The literal characters are fitting for Kenzan, who has an offense-focused deck of mostly earth attribute monsters, and a personality to match. But as a whole, 剣山 refers to a tool in traditional flower arrangement. The kenzan is the base in which the arrangement is stuck into, a foundation which keeps the structure secure. Kenzan ultimately looks up to Judai (and calls him aniki) because he wants to be a leader like him, one who can bear the weight of his followers' expectations. We don't get much of this after his introductory episode, but I still think it's a fitting name for a dependable guy.

⇀ saotome rei (早乙女 レイ)

« sa (早) - early, quickly » « otome (乙女) - maiden »

This one is pretty on the nose. The first character refers to how she came to Duel Academy early, being younger than all the other characters, and not joining the cast until much later. The otome is the same used in her signature card Koisuru Otome, or Maiden in Love, and also refers to a romance genre for girls. As a whole, saotome is also a term for a girl who plants rice paddies.

The name may also be a reference to Saotome Ranma, the protagonist of Ranma ½, which is about a boy who changes into a girl when splashed with water.

« rei (レイ) »

Rei is a unisex name with many different kanji spellings and meanings, but instead, Rei's name is spelled with katakana. Given that she dresses as a boy twice and uses masculine pronouns in Japanese, this may be to make the gender more ambiguous than if kanji with more gendered connotations were used, such as 麗 (graceful) or 鈴 (bell sound) which are more feminine, or 零 (zero), or 令 (authority) which are more masculine.

If you ever wondered, Ray from Arc-V also uses the same katakana spelling, though this may be because most of the Arc-V characters from other dimensions use katakana, which sounds more foreign or ambiguous in origin. Meanwhile, Rei from Zexal uses 零 (zero).

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Feel free to correct me if anything doesn't seem right! I'm not Japanese and may have read too much into some of this.

[auriidae]

DUDE DUDE DUDE THIS IS SO FREAKING COOL. EXPLODES FOREVER AHHHHHHHHHH

THANK YOU??????

they're both so SHAPED i love gem's hooves and claws and the way you did her antlers in your style. and pearl's frills so cutesy forever and the little PINPOINTS OVER THEIR HEARTS/neck i just noticed ougH.....

also. i am obsessed with the names BTW. I HOPE YOU KNOW. i've been like highkey looking for proper titles for creatureform shinyduo for a while now (i've been sitting on an idea for gem but could Not find anything i loved for pearl) so can i just?? quietly canonize these?? ur wordplay is always So fun. waugh <333

Some hastily drawn fanart for @auriidae ‘s shapeshifter shiny duo AU! The concept is so so so cool and I Love drawing Beasts and Creatures [: thank you for giving us cool awesome stuff <3

(Also I came up with “Hartebeast” (shot in the heart) and “Voice of the Sea” (slit throat) and was too inordinately pleased with the way it matched to not do something about it. These are names are Not Canon lol)

[arcane-vagabond]

Amhrán na Farraige

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Selkie!Reader

Summary: For centuries there have been legends of beautiful women who disguise themselves as creatures from the sea, only coming to land to sate their curiosity about the world above. Bradley was a simple man who had a taste for simple pleasures. A whole life spent at sea meant he was accustomed to these tales, but nothing prepares him for the reality of them.

Content Warning: ANGST, smut (brief, p in v), Pregnancy, References to the supernatural, Third person narrative, Some fluff, Dub-con, Kidnapping, Forced marriage (kind of, you'll see), Stockholm Syndrome, Some domestic violence (against spouse and towards children. Nothing heinous, just some grabbing and shaking), Anger, Celtic myths/legends, Celtic songs, Depression, Lies, Men driven mad, Descriptions of blood. I think I got everything, but PLEASE let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 13.2k

Helpful pronunciations (not exact, but close):

Amhrán na Farraige - [oh-ron nuh far-ig-uh] "Song of the Sea"

Sidhe - [She] "Fairy" (Also there's a whole etymology thing with this but yeah)

Mo Chroi - [moh khree] "My heart"

Mo Ghrá - [moh graw] "My love"

Mo Mhuirnín - [moh wor-neen] "My beloved"

Mo Stóirín - [mo store-een] "My Little Treasure"

Song One (The cliffs) || Song Two (The end)

God was not real, of this Bradley Bradshaw was sure and certain. At the very least, if he had existed at all, he was surely dead now. Or perhaps he was a neglectful deity. Bradley had seen too much death and hardship in his life to think otherwise.

He had seen men gasp for an unhearing god as they lay on battlefields, blood coursing out the holes in their bodies as tears streamed down their unseeing eyes. He had seen children starve, begging their still mothers for food that would never come, not while hardship endured in the land. He had heard the wails of women as their sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands never returned home, hand reaching out for an embrace that would never be returned.

All eyes looked to God, but God did not look back.

The only thing Bradley was sure of, was the existence of the fair folk, the Sidhe his mother had always called them. The beings who walked the between, never staying long in this world or the next.

��That shadow that lingers in the corner of your eye?” She had smiled, stroking the hair out of his face. “That’s the fair folk, honey. Always watching, but never seen. If they do let you see them, Bradley, then it’s already over. They’ve gotten you.”

His mother had done her best to keep him sheltered from the horrors of the world, but death and famine followed the people along the coast. His father had died in a shipwreck off the coast when he was young, and while his mother had done her best to keep her sorrow hidden, Bradley often caught her eye turned towards the sea. She disappeared when he was only sixteen.

Bradley had heard stories of people being taken by the fair folk, lured to the hills beyond the town, some never to be seen again, while others came back different. He wondered if the men who had gone off to war had been taken, replaced with something hollow, something not quite all there. Had his mother been taken by the Sidhe? Taken to the land beyond to be with his father? Or had her sorrow and longing for her long-dead husband become too much all at once, the grips of the icy waters too tempting an offer to resist?

It didn’t matter anymore, though. Bradley was alone and took work where he could, soft hands of youth turning to calloused hands of adulthood. His once bright eyes grew dull from the monotony of the jobs at sea, life becoming routine as day after day he boarded a ship to earn his livelihood.

As he grew older, the wages from the odd jobs allowed him to purchase his own vessel, a small boat that rocked in the choppy waves as he hunted the seals that littered the coasts.

He remembered watching from the small house he and his mother lived in as the creatures hopped out of the water to lay on the rocks. He would inch towards the door until she caught him, a stern look on her face as she scowled at him.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” she scolded him, hands on her hips. “You leave those creatures alone. They’re not doing anything to bother you.”

“Elijah’s da’ hunts them,” he remarked once, only serving to deepen her scowl.

“He does,” she muttered. “And he’s a lucky man that the selkies are a forgiving lot.”

“What’s a selkie?” Bradley had asked, eyes lighting up in intrigue. His mother regarded him for a moment before gesturing for him to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Bradley settled in, eyes eager as he waited for his mother to explain.

“The selkies are fair folk of the sea,” she began, eyes serious as they darted above his head to look out the window towards the beach. “They may look like seals, but underneath their blubber and fur, they look like people just like you and me. They’re beautiful, Bradley, but curious to a fault. They walk on land in human form, shedding their seal skin once every seven years.”

“Why seven?” He had asked, voice small with wonder.

“Just the way the magic works,” she had replied with a shrug. “You can always tell when a seal is a selkie based on the size. The bigger the seal, the more likely it is to be a selkie, Bradley. Killing it and taking the skin will earn you pay, but you’ll have blood of the fair folk on your hand. Remember that.”

And he had remembered, for a while at least. He would watch the seals as they basked on the rocks, always wondering if the ones that met his curious gaze were one of the fair folk - a selkie.

Now the years had passed, grown from a small boy into a man of large stature. He commanded respect from those in the small, seaside village. Long had the days passed when his mother had warned him of hunting the seals and long had passed the days when he took those warnings seriously. He had joined the few who hunted the creatures around the rocky shores, braving the misty seas to earn himself a living.

He sat in his boat, the waves rocking him side to side in the way they often do during misty weather. Bitter cold clawed at his skin, numbing his fingers as he waited. Waited for something to come out of the water. Waited for any sign that he would earn a meal.

He fiddled with the ropes that lie around the floor of the boat, tying knots that he would need later. Undoing them, tying them, undoing them again. Anything to keep himself occupied while he lay in wait.

His breaths came out as white puffs of clouds, matching the ones surrounding him. Ice water clung to the whiskers on his upper lip, dripping down to run along his jaw and throat. He shifted, burying himself further into the warmth his coat provided. It was worn. He would need a new one soon. All the more reason to keep hoping for a prize catch.

The sound of disturbed water drew his attention towards the shore, and he slowly crept forward to peer over the side of the boat. A large seal bobbed at the surface, taking slow, deep breaths of the cold air that surrounded them. Slowly, Bradley reached for his harpoon, watching as the seal floated closer and closer. He raised his arm slowly, taking aim. He took a breath. Then another.

He released the harpoon just as a wave crashed into the side of his boat, sending the weapon veering off course. The harpoon struck the seal’s side, creating a gash that seeped blood into the water. The seal gave a pained cry, diving down into the murky depths of the sea, and Bradley cursed.

He stared at the spot where the seal had disappeared, already feeling the pangs of hunger stab at him. His nostrils flared as the desperate sense of anger welled up within him. How could he have been so careless? The size of that pelt would have brought in enough money to last him months. He heaved a sigh, pulling the rope to bring the harpoon back towards him. His fingers dipped into the icy water, the pain of it distracting him momentarily from his despair.

Bradley tossed the harpoon to the floor, the item landing with a thud as he slumped onto the bench. He buried his face in his hands, mind moving with blinding speed. He could still earn enough money to survive, he thought to himself. He could still do this. He just had to be more careful next time, should wait until he’s closer so he doesn’t miss. Still, his mind wandered back to the seal. The sheer size of it had his mind drifting back to the stories his mother had always told him. Of course, Bradley was older now, and he wouldn’t be scared by tall tales. However, the foolishness of youth still clung to him, for though he was now considered a man, he was barely twenty-two summers old.

Bradley heaved a sigh, sitting up and rubbing his hands together to create some warmth that would awaken his freezing fingers. He gripped the oars in his hands and began to row back to shore, the sun already dipping towards the horizon. He was always tempted to stay out past dark, but the older fishermen and hunters warned him of the dangers that came about at night. While Bradley was a fool, he wasn’t stupid.

He neared the dock that stood on the beach outside his home, moving to secure the boat to one of the posts when something caught his eye.

It floated in the water, a silvery grey blob that moved with the tide. Bradley’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place what it was in his mind. The blob slapped up against the side of the boat, and it was then that he realized what he was looking at. It was a perfectly preserved seal pelt, much like the one he had just seen. He supposed that it had fallen off a cart on the way to market, the winding roads by the cliffs being one of the few ways to make it into town. It wasn’t unusual for things to be knocked off of carts, finding their way onto the beaches and eventually into the sea.

Bradley wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, not after his blunder. He scooped the pelt into the boat, laying it out to dry before lifting himself onto the dock. It would be days before he could take it to the market to sell, and he hoped no one recognized it when he did make his way into town.

An odd feeling overcame him in that moment, a feeling of unease and tension winding up his spine and gripping his throat. The feeling told him he was being watched, but by what, he did not know. His eyes darted around, expecting to see one of his neighbors by the house, but no one stood atop the cliff. The wind picked up around him, the cold of it stealing the breath from his lungs, and he curled in within himself to try and preserve some of the warmth he had left. The feeling told him he was making a mistake, but he ignored it, surmising that what he felt was guilt at having come into fortune from another’s strife.

Bradley shook his head to rid himself of the feeling, taking one last look around before trudging across the beach and up the path to his home.

The house was cold, but not for lack of warmth. Bradley kept the rooms heated well. No, the house lacked the happiness that made it a home, and this was something he was keenly aware of. It had been a home once, way back before his mother had disappeared.

Now, Bradley existed within its walls, hoping one day that he would find himself ready to settle for one of the pretty girls in town, the ones that smiled at him sweetly whenever he deemed it necessary to venture in. Perhaps he would finally give in to Orla’s flirting. She was a sweet thing, always filling his cup more than she ought to, setting it down in front of him with a bat of her eyes. She wasn’t a bad choice.

Bradley shook the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t entertain the idea of taking a wife, not when his circumstances were so uncertain.

He settled further down into his chair, feet propped up by the fire, the glowing embers serving to help warm him from his time out in the cold air during the day. The wood cracked and popped as the fire consumed it, and Bradley soon found himself dozing off. Exhaustion seeped down to the very marrow of his bones, his muscles stiff from the hours spent hunched over on the boat. His eyes began to flutter shut, urging him to embrace the sweet oblivion that came with sleep.

His body jerked, eyes snapping open. He wasn’t sure what had startled him at first, his heart hammering away in his chest as he let out a shaky breath. His ears perked, eyes darting as he waited for whatever it was that had roused him. He didn’t have to wait long, a second cry sounding from outside.

It was one of pure, unadulterated sorrow. The cry of someone so grief stricken, they sounded almost like an animal. A chill ran down Bradley’s spine at the sound, and cautiously he moved to stand, heading towards the front door. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to leave well enough alone, but he worried that someone might be heart or in trouble. Grabbing his coat, he slipped back into his boots and walked out the door.

The cold was something he thought he should be used to at this point, but it still shocked his system every time he stepped foot out into it. The moon was the only source of light save for the faint, orange glow that filtered out of the windows of his house. The air stung his lungs, and he suppressed a shiver that threatened to run up his spine. The cry had sounded far, coming from towards the beach if he had to guess. He began to walk, boots crunching against the dirt path as it gave way to sand. The waves crashed against the shore like thunder, so loud that he almost didn’t hear the faint cries coming from further down the strip of sand.

He almost missed her huddled in the sand, back pressed up against one of the large rocks at the edge of the shoreline where sand met grass. Her head was buried in the crook of her arms, shoulders shaking as she cried, quiet whimpers wracking her body.

“Miss?” He called out once he was a few feet away. “Are you okay?”

Her head snapped up, hair falling in her face as sorrow filled eyes peered up at him. The look of her knocked all air out of his lungs, and for a moment he couldn’t focus on anything but how beautiful the woman in front of him was.

“Can’t find it,” she croaked. Her voice was still sweet sounding despite the hoarseness of it, and Bradley found himself captivated even further by her. His eyes left her face then, realizing for the first time that she was naked.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, rushing forward as he shrugged off his coat. “Here, take this.”

He wrapped the coat around her smaller frame, the material dwarfing her. Her lips trembled, though Bradley suspected it wasn’t from the cold. She didn’t seem to see him as she continued muttering to herself, eyes darting wildly between her hands and the sea.

“Can’t find it,” she said again, her voice growing in pitch as the desperation took hold.

“Can’t find what?” Bradley asked, brow furrowing in confusion as he glanced around the beach. “Did someone hurt you? Where are your clothes?”

A choked cry spilled past her lips as a fresh wave of tears began to stream down her face. She shook her head wildly, hands darting out to grasp at his shirt. Her fingers seemed to push him away and pull him closer at the same time as another wail climbed up her throat.

“Can’t find it!” She shrieked, eyes growing wider as she stared at the water. “Wanna go home.”

“Where is home?” Bradley asked, his own anxiety beginning to peak as he gripped onto the woman’s shoulders. Her eyes glanced to his, but they did not see him.

“Between the light, between the dark,” she whispered, eyes boring into him. “Between the cold, between the warmth. Between the moon, between the sun. Between the north, between the south.”

The between was something Bradley’s mother had always cautioned him about.

“It’s where the fair folk live, Bradley,” she had told him. “They don’t live here, but they don’t live fully in the other. They’re from somewhere in between.”

He shook the thought from his head. He knew he was being superstitious, ridiculous even. The fair folk were prideful beings, surely one wouldn’t be sitting here talking with him like this.

And yet, as Bradley looked upon this woman, heard how she spoke, a voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that there was something strange about her. Something…otherworldly.

“Are you alone?” He settled on, trepidation clear in his tone. “Is there someone I can go get for you?”

“Can’t go home,” she muttered, eyes turned longingly to the sea as tears streamed down her face. “It’s too late.”

Bradley heaved out a sigh. He would have to take her home, let her rest and try again in the morning.

“Can you stand?” He asked her. She said nothing, nails biting into the skin of her arms as she continued to stare out at the water. Bradley reached out to her, Taking her arms gently to help her stand. Her lips curled in a wince, hand flying to her side. His eyes flickered down, and for the first time noticed the dried blood on her side.

“You’re hurt,” he frowned, moving closer to inspect the wound, but she shied away from him, her own frown tugging on her lips. His tongue darted out to wet his own nervously, as he glanced from her to the house.

“My house is a bit of a ways up the hill,” he started, nodding towards it. Her gaze was more focused now, eyes flickering towards where he gestured. “Do you think you can make it?”

She didn’t respond, instead tilting her head to the side as she regarded the distance. Finally, she nodded, and Bradley felt his shoulders sag in relief. The wind whipped around them, and he was reminded of how cold it was. It would be best to get her inside as soon as possible, though he couldn’t help but notice that she seemed holy unaffected by the freezing temperatures even though she stood in nothing but his coat.

He waited for her to move towards the house, but she remained still, watching him watch her. Finally, he pressed his lips together and began to walk towards the house, boots crunching against the ground once more. The woman made no sound as she moved behind him, her gaze fixated on him the entire time.

He paused outside the front door, hand hesitating above the knob. Slowly, he turned to look at her once more. Her eyes stared back at him, eyes that reflected the orange glow cast into the night, eyes that swirled with knowledge that Bradley could only dream of. She said nothing as they watched each other, those sorrowful eyes watching him with curiosity, so much like seals that littered the shores. Bradley sucked in a quick breath before turning around to push the door open.

The warmth was welcome, and he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he stepped into the main room, turning to watch as the woman stepped across the threshold. Her eyes darted around, taking in the various pieces of furniture and decorations that were scattered about as Bradley closed the door softly behind her. She took a few more tentative steps into the house, head cocking to the side in such an unusual way as to further confirm what Bradley was slowly accepting.

She walked past him, eyes glittering with intrigue as she came up to the fire. She crouched down, head still tilting to one side, and Bradley was captivated by the sight of this beautiful woman bathed in the light of the fire in his home. Before he could react, she reached a hand out into the flame, letting out a startled, pained yelp as she retracted it. A whimper left her lips as Bradley rushed forward, kneeling in front of her and taking her hand in his.

“Why would you do that?” He asked, no real heat behind his tone as he inspected her fingertips. “Don’t you know it’s hot?”

Her fingertips were a little pink, but otherwise no real damage had been done. She stared at him with an unreadable expression, eyes still studying him. He hesitated for a moment before moving to stand, keeping her hand in his.

“I can show you to your room,” he told her, tugging on her hand lightly. Her eyes scanned him from head to foot and then back again before allowing him to pull her to her feet. The two padded down a small hallway before he pushed the door open to a bedroom that had long stood unoccupied. He tugged her inside, motioning for her to sit on the bed. She sat obediently, watching and waiting for him to make his next move.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he exited the room. He made his way to the washroom, grabbing bandages, a cloth, a bowl, and a pitcher of water. He returned to the room quickly, finding that the woman had not moved an inch in the time he was gone. He sucked in a breath as their eyes once again met, wary meeting curious. He set the items on the bedside table as he gestured at her.

“You’ll need to take that off so I can see the wound,” he murmured, heat rising to his cheeks as he glanced at her uneasily. She paid no mind to his discomfort, easily shedding the coat and exposing her naked body to him as simply as if he had asked her to close the door. He cleared his throat, eyes darting down to look at the angry-looking gash on her side. The wound appeared to be superficial, but he couldn’t be sure until he cleaned it.

He turned to ready the cloth, keeping the bowl of water close so he could rinse if he needed to. Tentatively, he reached a hand up, running his fingers over the dried blood upon her skin, eyes darting up to search for any sign of distress. Her face remained impassive as she watched him, and Bradley’s jaw clenched as he began to wipe gently at the wound.

He had been correct in his initial assessment, the gash was more of a flesh wound and thankfully wouldn’t require stitching. He grabbed some of the salve he had brought in, applying a decent layer before wrapping a bandage around her midsection. Bradley tried not to think of how close he was to the woman, of how beautiful she was, especially when she seemed wholly unbothered by his presence.

“I, um,” he stuttered, cursing his nervousness, “I can bring you something to wear. I still have some of my ma’s things.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, not that she would give him one if the last half hour had been any indication. He made his way down the hall to the door he had not opened in years, taking a deep breath to steady himself before pushing inside.

The room was just as his mother had left it all those years ago, the only thing having changed was the layer of dust that coated everything. Bradley moved quickly to the wardrobe on the far side of the room, opening it to reveal several different clothing options. He grabbed what he could carry, making sure to grab some of the sleeping garments before heading back down the hall. The woman sat unmoved once more as he appeared, draping the options on the chair to his left by the vanity.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he said lamely, gesturing towards the clothing, “so I grabbed what I thought might look nice.”

The woman’s gaze moved slowly to the clothing before she rose to her feet. She padded across the room, not a sound from her as she walked over towards where he stood. Her eyes darted up to his for a moment before back down to the clothes. Small hands reached out to pick up one of the nightgowns he had grabbed, eyes studying it with a frown. Her hands tightened on the fabric, a look of despair washing over her face and disappearing just as quickly before she slowly eased it over her head, letting it drape down her form. She reached her hands up to pull her long hair out of the confines, letting it run down her back as she stared up at him.

There was something inherently wild about her, something that sent Bradley’s heart racing as he looked at her standing there in the room. She looked so out of place but so at ease with her surroundings, and he could hardly stand it.

“My room is just down the hall,” he told her, shoulders pulling back a fraction as he regarded her. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”

He gathered the things he had brought in, moving to leave when she grabbed his shirt, stopping him. He glanced at her from over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion as he waited for her to speak.

“Do you hear them?” She asked, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re calling for me.”

Bradley listened in the silence that followed, and it was a second before he heard the quiet, distant barks of seals mixed with the keen of something he could not place - something not quite human, not quite animal. He looked at the woman, her eyes having grown distant once more as a tear slid down her face. Bradley sucked in a quick breath as a shudder ran up his spine.

“You should get some sleep,” he whispered, breaking the silence. “You seem like you’ve had a long day.”

The woman looked at him once more, sadness swelling within her eyes before she slowly nodded, letting him go. She turned towards the bed, padding silently across the room once more.

Bradley closed the door behind him as he left, hands shaking as he listened for the click of the latch before putting away the items in hand. He put out the fire, washing the room in darkness as he dragged a hand over his face. With a glance towards the hall, he crept towards the front door, opening it and shutting it behind him carefully as to not make a sound. The cries from before could be heard louder now, and Bradley thought his heart would burst from his chest from the unease that enveloped him.

The moon still shone bright, lighting his path down towards the dock and his boat. The waves lapped against the shore, the cries louder the closer he came. His boat knocked against the wooden stands of the dock with every crash of the waves, and sitting there, on top of the bench, lay the pelt.

Bradley’s heart quickened at the sight, a sense of dread filling him at what he might find once he inspected it. His boots clicked against the wood as he made his way down to the edge. He kneeled down, snatching the pelt from its perch and into his hands. It was soft, nearly dry. He ran his hands over it, inspecting it closely as he squinted in the dark.

He was lost in the sensation of the pelt, how smooth and soft it felt in his hands, and for a moment he allowed himself to close his eyes and compare it to how soft the woman’s skin had felt under his fingertips earlier. He was pulled from his thoughts as the soft fur transformed into a matted and cracked mess. His eyes flew open, breath catching in his throat as he took in the bloodied tear down the side of the pelt.

Right where the gash on the woman was.

There was no denying it in his mind now. The woman in his home was one of the Sidhe - a selkie.

The cries grew louder, and Bradley’s head whipped up to stare out into the water. He couldn’t see them, but knew they were out there, searching for a sister that was lost to them. His grip on the pelt tightened, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He scrambled back to his feet, boots stomping against the wood and then the ground as he ran back to the house. His mind raced with thought after thought as his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. His hand reached out to open the door, but he stopped short, fingers hovering over the knob.

The cries off in the distance sounded as he stared at his front door before looking down at the pelt in hand. He could return it to the woman, let her return back to the sea she called home. But a more sinister thought crossed his mind. Why should he give it back? The woman was safe with him, after all. He could protect her from those that wished to hunt her, keep her warm and fed like a man should. He could love her, give her a life beyond what the sea had to offer. The memory of her skin under his fingertips once again rushed to the forefront of his mind, and he allowed his hand to drop back to his side. Yes, he would keep the pelt. Keep it hidden away where she nor anyone else would ever find it.

He turned on his heel, running towards the small shack just a few yards away from the house, ripping the door open and stepping inside. The structure held mostly items necessary for fishing and repairing his boat, but an old trunk sat in the back, practically hidden by various tarps and other objects. The cries of the other selkies grew louder, almost like they could sense the pelt in his hands and were coming to find it.

Bradley pulled the trunk out into the open, moving to the workbench and grabbing one of the keys that sat in the top drawer. He kneeled down in front of the trunk, unlocking it and opening the lid with a quiet creak. Inside lay old photos and trinkets that his father and mother had collected over their years together. He pulled a few items out before placing the pelt gently into the trunk, covering it back up with the aforementioned items.

He closed the lid, locking it. The wailing cries coming to an abrupt and sudden stop as he did so. He stayed there for a moment, the only sound to be heard being his heavy breathing and the waves crashing against the shore below. Slowly, he moved to stand, shoving the trunk back where he found it and hiding it away once more. No one would think to look in there. No one would know what he kept hidden. He tossed the key back into the top drawer, stepping out of the shack and back into the night.

The air was still around him, eerily so, and Bradley made his way quickly back to the house. His fingers were numb, whether it be from cold or nerves he wasn’t sure, but the tension didn’t ease as he closed the front door quietly behind him, his back pressed against it for a moment as he listened for any sound that the woman might have heard him. Hearing nothing, he toed his boots off, setting them by the door before making his way quietly towards his room, noting that no light shone under the woman’s door. He changed quickly for bed, crawling under the blankets as if they might shield him from the consequences of his actions that evening. He took a few calm, steadying breaths before closing his eyes.

Sleep did not come easy to him that night.

The first morning had been awkward, Bradley rising with the dawn to find the woman already sitting at the dining table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of the nightgown. Her eyes darted up to meet his as he entered the room, stopping short at the sight of her.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, shock clear in his voice as they stared at one another. She blinked at him, saying nothing. She seemed perkier this morning, albeit still cautious as she watched him walk further into the room. Bradley grabbed the box of matches from the shelf, taking one out and striking it with a pop. The woman jumped at the sound, eyes flickering to the watch as he leaned down to light the stove, shaking the match out once he was done.

“What is that?” She asked, and Bradley turned to look at her in surprise.

“What is what?”

“The colors,” she supplied, nodding at the burnt match in his hand. She pointed towards the fireplace. “They were in the cave over there last night as well.”

Bradley’s gaze flickered over to where she pointed before landing back on her.

“It’s called fire,” he started slowly, a frown tugging on his lips. “I use it to cook things and keep the house warm.”

“Fire,” she repeated, testing the word out on her lips. “It hurts.”

“It can,” Bradley agreed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You shouldn’t touch it.”

She nodded solemnly, clasping her hands out in front of her. She watched as he began to prepare breakfast, turning on the toaster and slicing up the fish to cook in the pan.

“I like those.”

Bradley turned back around to find the woman sitting with most of her torso on top of the table, her legs stretched to accommodate her. Eyes shone with delight at the sight of the fish, and Bradley arched a brow at her.

“Yeah?” He hummed. She nodded enthusiastically, tongue darting out to lick at her lips.

“There’s lots of them,” she told him. “They swim in groups and they’re easy to catch. The fishermen catch them using nets.”

“They do,” Bradley nodded, laying a strip of the mackerel down in the pan. It began to sizzle, and he was struck with how hungry he truly was.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, turning to look where the woman now stood, eyes wide as she watched the fish cook down. He stared at her for a moment before turning his attention back to the fish, flipping it over before it burned.

“I’m cooking,” he told her. The woman leaned forward, sniffing at the food before wrinkling her nose.

“It smells weird,” she muttered, and Bradley laughed.

“It smells fine,” he smiled, sliding the fish onto one of the plates on the counter. “You’ve just never had it cooked, I’ll bet.”

He ushered her back towards the table, setting the plate down at the spot she just occupied and handing her a fork. He turned back towards the stove, laying another slice of the fish down as the woman took a tentative bite. Chewing slowly, she perked up as the taste rushed over her, shoveling more into her mouth with a satisfied purr. Bradley soon joined her, chuckling as he watched her. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so light, the last time he laughed so freely.

“You should slow down,” he smirked, taking a bite from his own plate. “You don’t want to choke.”

She peered up at him, pausing in her feast as she considered his words. She cocked her head to the side in that curious way before taking a slower bite, looking up at him for approval. The two ate in silence for a few moments before Bradley cleared his throat, drawing her attention.

“My name is Bradley,” he said, glancing up at her as he swallowed a mouthful of fish.

“Bradley.”

“What should I call you?” He asked, and she frowned in confusion.

“What do you want to call me?” She asked him.

“Don’t you have a name?” He chuckled, disbelief coloring his voice. Surely even the fair folk had names to give. Her face drew tight in sorrow once more, and Bradley felt a twinge of pain in his chest at the sight. Her gaze slowly turned towards the window where the sea lay just out of sight.

“Only the water knows my name,” she told him, grip loosening on her fork as it clattered against the plate. “Only it can say it.”

Bradley watched her. Watched how her breathing grew ragged. Watched how her eyes glistened with unshed tears for a home she would not return to. Her lips trembled, and Bradley cleared his throat.

“I need to head into town,” he said. “Need to see a man about a job. Do you want to come with me?”

She turned to look at him, eyes still hazy from wherever she had let herself wander. She blinked once, twice.

“I suppose,” she whispered finally. Bradley nodded, clearing the plates from the table.

“You’ll need to change,” he told her. “You can’t go out wearing that.”

She looked down at her nightgown with a frown before looking back up at him.

“It’s, uh,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not appropriate for others to see you dressed like that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just,” he blew out a breath, “please pick a different dress?”

She gave him a sour look before standing and disappearing down the hall. Bradley blew out a breath before moving to clean the kitchen area. The woman reappeared, wearing a simple, blue dress. Bradley nodded in approval before his eyes landed on her bare feet.

“Stay here,” he told her, walking down the hall to the far bedroom. He walked in, straight up to the wardrobe and began rummaging through until he found a pair of his mother’s old shoes. He reappeared in the kitchen, handing the woman the shoes with a shy smile.

“I don’t know how well they’ll fit,” he started, “but they should work until we get you some new ones.”

She eyed them distastefully, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“I don’t want them,” she said finally, moving to hand them back to Bradley. He shook his head.

“You need them. They’ll protect your feet, and people will expect you to wear them.”

She scowled, pushing them forward once more, but Bradley stopped her.

“Please, mo chroi,” he pleaded. “Just while we’re in town. You can take them off as soon as we’re home.”

Her gaze softened at the endearment, and reluctantly, she shoved her feet into them. He helped her lace them, calloused fingers making nimble work of them, and soon they were ready to go. He grabbed a thin jacket for himself while he made sure to hand her the heavy coat to combat the frigid air outside. The walk to town took about an hour, and the weather was sure to still be cold and damp as it often was during the time between spring and winter.

Bradley turned to her, a thin-lipped smile on his face as his hand rested on the door. He gave her a once over.

She looked like any other person upon first glance, but if you stared too long, something wild shone on her person that drew you in. Like it would suffocate you if you stared too long. He sucked in a breath, torn between keeping her in his sight and making her stay. If she came, the townsfolk would surely be able to guess that she was not a mere human girl, but if she stayed? If she stayed, she might find the one thing he hoped she never would.

“Alright,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

Weeks had passed, and the two had developed a routine of sorts. Bradley had started work as the lighthouse keeper, walking every day down the path along the cliffs to clean and polish the light that guided ships to shore. When he finished, he began work on the nets for when he ventured out into the sea to catch fish. It was a steady source of food, and food was not something Bradley took lightly. Memories of what it felt like to go hungry when there was so little to go around, fueled his drive to ensure there was enough, always enough and plenty to spare. He showed mo chroi how to prepare and salt the fish they couldn’t eat, showing her how to store it for future meals.

She was a quick learner, performing the tasks diligently as the days passed, and soon she took over most of the household chores. The widow Callahan checked in on them from time to time, her wise eyes studying the new woman of the house every time she came by.

“Be careful, young man,” she’d always say, dark eyes narrowed up at him. “You may have tamed her now, but the fair folk were not meant for gilded cages. Don’t give her what you cannot spare.”

Bradley would assure her that he wouldn’t, but in truth, he had no idea what she was telling him. He was content with how things were, content to have a partner by his side to help with the work he had done by himself for years. He still caught her staring longingly out at the waters she once called home, but the longing looks grew farther and farther apart the longer she stayed with him, resigning herself to her new life on land.

He was mending a tear in one of the nets when she appeared beside him, silent as always. He was used to it now, no longer startling every time she appeared around him without a sound. He became attuned to her presence, sensing when she came and when she left.

She said nothing to him at first, content to watch him as he worked, and he was content to keep working. It wasn’t until she kneeled beside him, gentle hand placed on top of his arm that he stopped.

“What is it, mo chroi?” He asked, gazing up at her. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting a faint golden glow onto the summer evening. Bradley couldn’t help but to admire her beauty in the dimming light, eyes glittering and skin smooth as porcelain as they looked at him. She wore only a white chemise, something she was prone to do when it was just the two of them. She didn’t like the heavy, scratchy feel of the dresses, only wearing them when there was company or when the two ventured into town. Bradley complied with her whims, finding it hard to say no to her.

“Why do you not have a woman?”

The question caught him off guard, eyes widening as his jaw went slack.

“What?” He blinked, scrambling to make sense of her question. She hummed, pressing closer to him. Bradley found it hard to think with the feel of her soft, warm body so close to his, one hand tracing over the planes of his chest as she continued.

“The men in the village,” she pressed, eyes never wavering as they bore into his own, almost hypnotic in the way they captured him, “they all have a woman to keep them company, to hold them, to love them. But you do not.”

Bradley’s eyes darted back and forth between her own, words failing him. She lifted a leg, resting it in between his own as she straddled his thigh. The hand that rested on his arm trailed up to play with the curls at the base of his skull, her body flush with his now as his hands came up to rest on her thighs. The hem of her chemise rode up to reveal smooth thighs that had Bradley reeling with lust. She leaned forward, a purr on her lips as she trailed her nose along his jaw and up to his ear.

“Is it me?” She asked softly, hand splayed on his chest as her lips brushed along the shell of his ear. A shudder ran up along Bradley’s spine at the sensation, mind growing hazy and clouded with lust for the creature before him.

“Am I yours?” She breathed, meeting his eyes once more. The air between them was charged, and for a moment Bradley could think of nothing but the way she felt against him. The way her lips hovered over his.

He lunged forward, pulling her impossibly closer as their lips melded against one another. He was spellbound, captivated, obsessed. His hands tightened on her thighs, and she sighed against his mouth, spurring him on to nip at her bottom lip. She granted him entrance, gasping as he licked hungrily into her mouth, the sweet taste of her driving him mad as a hand slid up to press against her lower back.

She wasted no time lifting herself off of him long enough to free him from the confines of his trousers, small hands gripping his hardening length. He let out a pleasured groan, head tilting back as she stroked him slowly before positioning herself atop him. There was no buildup between them, Bradley gripping at her as she slowly eased herself down onto him. A keen left her lips as he stretched her, mind numbing pleasure coursing through his veins as her velvety walls fluttered around him.

Her eyes were closed tight as she rested on top of him, her hips flush against his as her hands rested on his chest for balance. Bradley had never seen a more beautiful sight. Slowly, she rolled her hips against his, breathing ragged as she built a rhythm. Bradley laid against the wood of the dock as he watched her take her pleasure from him, a hand running up her stomach to rest between her breasts. He could die a happy man right then and there.

Her pace grew faster as she approached her climax, whimpers and cries spilling past her lips as she rode him, and Bradley pushed himself into a sitting position, careful to not disturb her. A hand rested on her back as he nuzzled into the space between her breasts where his other hand had just been. The sleeve of her chemise fell off her shoulder, and Bradley lifted his face to nip and lick at the skin there. He could feel his own high approaching as she ground down on him, and his free hand rose up to wrap around her throat, squeezing gently. She froze, hips stopping as they locked eyes. The only sound to be heard between the two of them was their ragged breathing.

For a second, Bradley thought he had crossed the line, but she made no move to remove his hand. The two stared at one another for a long moment before one of her hands came up to rest atop his own, squeezing them lightly as she began to move her hips once more, slower this time, drawing out the inevitable. He groaned at the sensation, feeling his stomach tense as her eyes never left his, her gaze intense as she chased release. Her walls fluttered and tightened around him, and with a final cry, she came, her head thrown back and her hot, wet cunt milking his own orgasm out of him with a shout. His spend coated her walls, leaking out around him as he shuddered and fell back against the dock with eyes pinched closed. Her hips still moved against his, drawing out every ounce of pleasure she could, giving herself to him with every movement.

She was his now, he had marked her.

Her hips finally stilled against his, and he could feel her staring at him. Her fingers trailed up his chest, along his jaw, before finally stilling on his lips. Bradley peeled his eyes open slowly, and he would have sworn he had died and gone to heaven for if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was looking at an angel. The setting sun cast a halo around her head as her hair blew in the wind, hypnotic eyes boring into him as the golden glow of the evening enveloped her. His lover smiled down at him softly, fingertips stroking his lips before leaning down to press her own against them.

She didn’t look to the sea much anymore, her longing gazes turned to brief flickers as she went about her days. Still, there were nights when her eyes would glaze over as the sound of seals calling out in the night made their way up to the confines of the house. Bradley would watch as her lips trembled briefly, the look in her eyes growing farther away until suddenly she would snap back to the moment, offering him a loving smile as she continued her mending.

Her stomach began to swell in the autumn months, and Bradley often found himself reluctant to leave her side. He would place a hand on her stomach, eyes lighting up in delight every time he felt a kick to it. He’d rest his head on top of her, muttering sweet words and promises to the babe that grew within. She would rest her hand on his head, stroking his hair soothingly as the fire crackled in front of them.

They were happy.

There was one night, however, when Bradley came back from the village to find his wife no longer at home, and panic overtook him. He tore through the house, ripping open every door he could find until he was faced with a horrifying possibility. He ran outside to the old shack, nearly ripping the door off of its hinges in his haste to open it. His eyes scanned the dark interior, his lantern casting shadows across the walls as he sighed in relief at the realization that his secret was still hidden underneath tarps and old traps.

His brow furrowed as he stepped back out onto the open cliffs, the wind whipping around him as he scanned the dancing grass. His eyes stopped at the edge of the cliff, terror gripping him once more at the thought that his lover might have done the unthinkable. Had she tried to return to the depths from where she came? Her body would not survive the plunge, not without the skin that lay hidden in shadows. He trudged towards the edge of the cliffs, the wind biting his skin and seeping to his bones as his heart thundered in his ears. He peered down at the rocks below, stopping only when a song sounded on the wind.

Little sister, sister hu ru

My love, my sister hu ru

Can you not pity o hol ill eo

My grief tonight hu ru

The voice was beautiful and full of sorrow, cries carried on the wind and out to the sea. Bradley swung the lantern towards the rocky path that led up to the lighthouse, the moon casting ribbons of silver that silhouetted the tall structure.

I am a poor woman hu ru

Sad and miserable hu ru

I climbed up o hol ill eo

Ben Sgrìobain hu ru

Bradley moved quickly through the grass and up the path, the sound of the song growing louder with each step he took. The stone structure stood proud against the backdrop of the sea, the waves crashing against the rocks below, almost drowning out the song as he rounded the walkway, finding his wife standing on the edge of the cliff.

I didn’t find there hu ru

What I wanted hu ru

A girl o hol ill eo

With hair like a daisy hu ru

Tears streamed down her face as he watched her, her hair whipping in the wind as her hands cradled her heavily swollen belly. Her feet were bare, and she wore a thin chemise that did little to protect her from the gusts that enveloped her body. No sobs left her as she finished her song, only the look of someone who had been lost, lost and never found in a world that was not her own. Bradley sucked in a breath, lips pressing firmly together before he stomped towards her. He dropped the lantern at his feet, the flame within dying at the impact as he gripped her shoulders and whirled her around to face him. Her eyes grew wide as his rage flooded to the surface, nostrils flaring and fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“What were you thinking?” He hissed, shaking her with every accusation. “You scared me half to death! What are you doing out here dressed like this? It’s too cold for you to be out here with nothing to protect you. I thought you had-”

He gestured towards the cliffs, the words dying on his lips as he choked on a sob. The tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly, rolling down his cheeks as his hands gripped onto her even tighter. If he held on tighter, she would never leave, would never return to the sea, would never leave him. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again, not when he had tasted a life that was shared.

She stared at him, eyes wide and searching as the wind danced around them. Her hand slowly reached up to cup his jaw, thumb smoothing over the stubble that grew there.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, voice almost lost on the wind. She leaned forward, and Bradley lurched back, eyes wide and scared as they watched her. The two stayed like that for a moment before she moved once more, hand holding his face in place as she brushed his nose with hers before pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. Tears continued to stream down Bradley’s face as his eyes flickered closed, embracing her as different emotions swirled inside him.

“Never leave me,” he begged in a whisper against her, one hand dropping down to cup her stomach as he rested his forehead against hers. He opened his eyes to find her already looking at him, black water dancing in her gaze.

“Never, mo ghrá.”

Their son was born a month later, loud cries spilling into the night as Bradley waited outside with some of the older men from the village. His head perked up at the first wail, eyes shining with excitement as her screams were replaced by those of the infant. The widow Callahan opened the front door moments later, apron covered in blood as she wiped her hands on a rag.

“You have a son,” she announced with a small smile, and Bradley grinned so hard, he swore his face would split in two. The men around him clasped him on the back, cheers ringing out in the night as they opened up spirits brought with them for the occasion. Bradley was keen to see his wife and son, but one of the men shoved a mug into his hands.

“Have a drink first, lad,” he hollered with a laugh. “The misses and the wean will still be there after.”

Bradley downed the drink as quickly as he could, much to the amusement of the others. He shoved the cup into the hands of the man nearest to him, not waiting for it to be refilled as he made his way into the house. The widow Callahan was cleaning up her supplies along with her apprentice when Bradley entered the room. His wife lay propped up in the bed, a small smile on her face as she cooed at the small bundle in her arms. Her eyes flickered up to his for a moment before back down. He crossed the room, easing down gently beside her on the bed. The babe gurgled, eyes closed as he yawned, and Bradley felt his heart swell.

He reached a hand over to run a finger over his son’s hands, heart dancing in his chest when the babe gripped it, small hand so strong for someone who was only moments old.

“What should we call him?” Bradley asked, cuddling into her side, exhaustion seeping through her.

“I thought we might call him Ronan.”

Bradley paused. The meaning of the name was not lost on him, and his gaze flickered to her profile for a moment before nodding.

“Ronan,” he murmured, eyes turning back to his son, nodding. “Aye. I like it. Ronan it is then.”

The babe gurgled once more, and Bradley reached over to take him in his arms, cooing softly as the bundle fussed.

“We should let your mother rest,” He whispered to the baby, a small smile on his wife’s lips as she nestled into the inviting warmth of the bed, her eyes drooping as she fought to remain awake. “She’s had a long day, don’t you think? It’s not easy bringing someone into the world.”

He tore his eyes away from his son to gaze at her, adoration shining bright as he reached a hand to smooth the hair out of her face.

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, bouncing the baby lightly as he moved to stand, his eyes already fixated back on the bundle in his arms. Her eyes followed him as he walked towards the door, lips curled into a smile as she slipped further and further into oblivion.

Bradley offered her one last smile as she fell asleep, walking towards the main room and sitting down by the fireplace, the orange glow of the fire bathing the two in the warm light. The men outside still celebrated, and Bradley rolled his eyes, smiling down at his son.

“I wanted to talk to you, man to man,” he started, rocking the baby in his arms. “I can’t guarantee you an easy life, Ronan. In fact, it might be a hard one. What I can promise is that I’ll be by your side as only a father can be for his son.”

Ronan cooed, opening his eyes for the first time to look up at his father, and Bradley’s heart soared.

“You’re born from two worlds, you know,” Bradley continued, a small frown tugging on his lips as he considered what this would mean. “A living bridge between the seen and unseen, but what does that mean for you, I wonder.”

The fire popped as it consumed the wood, the crackling the only thing heard besides the faint sound of Ronan breathing. The men had left to continue their drinking in the village, and soon even the widow Callahan and her apprentice left, bidding him a good night as they did. Bradley said nothing to them in response, eyes trained on the baby in his arms even as the sun rose above the horizon.

Ronan grew quickly, much to Bradley’s surprise, and soon he was toddling around and talking, a smart lad whom Bradley found he never had to instruct more than once, eager to take on the responsibility of being the eldest. Two years after he was born, another bundle joined their home, a boy they named Rían who grew to fill the house with peels of laughter everywhere he went. His wife showed no more signs of longing for the sea, too enamored with her children to pay much mind to the sea which she once called home.

Three years after Rían was born, they welcomed Cillian into their fold, a quiet babe who grew into a curious and bright little boy. Bradley was happy with his life and even prouder of his family. He soon began teaching Ronan how to weave nets for fish and how to fix the traps they used to catch the migrating salmon, and it wasn’t long until Rían joined them. Cillian was too young, staying behind with his mother as the other three made their way out to sea to bring home food for the next day.

Their evenings were spent sitting by the fire, the boys playing with their toy soldiers as their mother worked on her mending, Bradley resting from a hard day’s work as he smoked a pipe, a habit he had picked up to help ease the tension he often felt these days as he grew older. It was on one such evening that Cillian pulled on the skirt of his mother’s dress, eyes so much like hers as they gazed up in curiosity.

“Ma,” he chirped, earning her attention. She smiled down at him, setting down her latest project to give him her full attention.

“What is it, mo mhuirnín?” She asked.

“The people in town say you’re not from here,” he continued, earning the attention of the two other boys and Bradley as well. “If you aren’t from here, then where do you come from?”

The silence was heavy in the room, not a soul moving as the words hung in the air. His mother’s eyes glazed over slowly as she thought about the home she left behind so many years ago. A look Bradley had not seen since before their first son was born made its way onto her face, and his heart began to thunder in his chest. Time seemed to stand still as she considered her words.

“Between the here, between the now. Between the day, between the night. Between the land, between the sea. Between the awake, between the asleep. Between the real, between the myths. That is where I am from,” she told him, a hand coming up to cup his chin gently. In that moment, Bradley remembered the wild that dwelled within his wife, the constant call from within to return back to the sea. He remembered that while he grew older, she remained forever the same, never changing. He remembered the fear that gripped him each night at the thought that she might leave, and rage filled him.

“Enough,” he snapped, drawing all four pairs of eyes to him. Bradley was a kind, easygoing man, not prone to anger, and the sight of him now shocked his children, fear flashing in their eyes at the look of anger that clung to his face.

“I won’t hear another word,” he hissed, grip tight on the pipe in hand. He gestured wildly at his children as they sat, paralyzed with fear. “To bed, all of you!”

They did not need to be told twice, scrambling to their feet as they hurried down the hall, the sounds of doors shutting behind them. Regret filled Bradley almost instantly, but it was not enough to quell the fear that still raged on inside of him. His eyes watched the hall before sliding over to look at his wife. Her head was bowed submissively, an impassive look on her face as she continued her mending, and Bradley settled back into his chair, an air of unease settling in around him.

It was a few weeks later when Bradley had taken the two older boys off that his world turned upside down.

Cillian was a curious boy, too curious for his own good, one might say. He loved to experience the world around him and oftentimes found himself in more trouble than he could handle. His father had warned him to stay away from the old shack that stood by the cliff, telling him that there were things in there that could hurt him if he wasn’t careful. Cillian heeded the warning, but grew more and more curious the longer it remained unexplored. It was for that reason he found himself opening the door, the creeks of the old hinges causing him to turn around to make sure he wasn’t heard. Confident that his actions still remained a secret, he crept into the dark shack, eyes wide as he took in the different trinkets strewn about.

It was nothing of import, mostly old tarps and broken traps his father had not seen fit to fix yet. An old desk sat against the far wall, and as Cillian crept farther and farther into the room, he noticed how more and more things lay stacked atop one another, as if trying to convince him to turn back. There was something that called out to him though, and the need to find what it was became stronger with each passing second. The pull pulsed around him, almost like a heartbeat as he inched closer and closer to the far side of the shack. It wasn’t until he came upon an old chest that the energy suddenly calmed, almost like it disappeared and Cillian reached out his little hands to try and pry the lid open. It did not budge, locked so that prying eyes would not find what was not theirs to seek.

Surely there must be a key? His eyes scanned the area around him, frowning when one couldn’t be found. His gaze landed upon the desk, and he stumbled over the items strewn about as he made a beeline for the lone piece of furniture. His hand reached up to drag the top drawer open, little legs stretching as far as they could to allow him to look inside. There were several keys that lay on the bottom of the drawer, but only one was carved ornately enough to match the old chest. Grinning at his prize, he seized it in his little fist, scrambling back over to the chest.

He let out a giggle as the key slipped easily into the lock, twisting it until a click could be heard. Looking behind him to make sure he was still alone, he lifted the lid of the trunk slowly. He vibrated with excitement at the thought of the treasures he might find, only to be met with the sight of trinkets tossed haphazardly inside. He reached a hand in to rummage through the piles of junk, frowning at the piles of nothing. He was about to close the lid once more when his fingers brushed against something soft, and his breath caught in his throat. He gave it a tug, but the object did not move. Huffing, he wrapped both hands around the object, grunting as he tugged it free from the confines of the trunk. He fell back with the force, landing against an old crate with a thud and a shout. He scowled at the crate, rubbing his backside before turning his attention to the prize at hand.

It was a seal pelt, the silver reminding him of the moonlight that danced through his window at night, the same beams that glittered atop the water of the sea. His hands ran over it, delighting in how soft it felt against his skin, and with a grin, he wrapped it up in his arms and ran out of the shack into the late afternoon sun.

His mother was hanging laundry out to dry, the sheets billowing in the wind as she pushed hair out of her face. Her stomach was swelling once more, just enough to be noticeable through her dress.

“Ma!” He cried out, running to her quick as his little feet could carry him. “Look what I found!”

She smiled down at him, gaze adoring before landing on the item in his hands. Her smile faded, the faraway look from that terrible night when his father had lost his temper returning to her face as she beheld the pelt in his hands.

Bradley and his sons walked up the path, smiling amongst each other as they hurried home, eager to be reunited with their mother and brother. Bradley’s eyes darted up the path, itching for a glimpse of his wife when his eyes landed on the scene unfurling before them. Her hands reached out to the pelt his youngest son held up to her, and his stomach dropped as he blanched.

“No!” He shouted, breaking out into a sprint up the path, but it was too late. Her fingers wrapped around the pelt, and something awakened inside of her, something long thought dead. A grin stretched across her face as she snatched the skin into her arms, letting out a delighted cry as she ran down the path, narrowly avoiding her husband’s arms and past her children. Bradley stopped short, turning on his heels to chase after her, legs pushing as hard as they could in a desperate attempt to catch her, hand reaching out to grab her. He was so close, fingers brushing the ends of her hair, but the call of her nature was stronger than any love he carried for her. She threw the pelt around her shoulders, a laugh leaving her as her feet touched the water, and with a leap into the air, the woman was once more a seal, landing in the water with a quiet plop. Bradley continued after her, feet pushing through the resistance of the sea as he clawed his way forward.

“Come back,” he cried, water up to his waist now. “Come back!”

It was no use, his wife was gone, stolen back by the sea, and tears streamed down his face as he scanned the surface for any sign of her. The water was oddly calm given how frantic he had become, and the despair inside him rose to a fever pitch, released in a guttural cry as he unleashed his anguish for the sea to hear.

“You promised!” He screamed, throat strained with the force of it. He let his face drop into his hands, clawing at the skin of his face as his eyes darted wildly all around like he was a man possessed. Sobs wracked through his body as the reality of what happened settled over him.

“Come back.”

Bradley was not the man he once was, and he would never be again. The house felt cold and empty with his wife gone, and he could not find it in him to do much of anything. Numbness filled his bones, the sorrow of losing that which he loved too much for his mind to bear. Most days were spent along the shore, desperate eyes searching for any sign of his wife before one of his children was able to coax him back to the house, usually well after the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

He didn’t eat much, sullen gaze turned down towards his plate, but never eating more than a mouthful or two of whatever was placed in front of him. His face grew gaunt as the weeks turned to months, dark circles growing under his eyes.

A house that was once filled with laughter now served as a tomb, the once happy memories enshrined within its four walls. The children no longer laughed, no longer played. The love of their mother was no longer there to keep them warm. Few words were uttered amongst each other, and no one was quite able to meet the eyes of another.

Utensils scraped against each other, not a word spoken as all eyes remained cast downward.

“I saw a seal today,” Rían whispered, jumping as the sound of metal dropped against a plate. Bradley’s eyes bored into his son, a haunted look on his face as he turned to him.

“What did you say?” He asked, leaning forward, tears gathering in his eyes. Rían stared at his father before casting a nervous glance to Ronan. Bradley pushed out of his chair, kneeling in front of his son as his hand gripped his shoulders painfully. Rían whimpered, trying to get out of his father’s grasp.

“Where did you see it?” Bradley rasped, voice croaking from under use. His nails dug into the boy’s skin, a pained cry spilling out of Rían’s lips. Ronan scrambled up out of his seat, hand wrapping around his father’s arms to try and pull him away from his brother.

“Tell me where you saw it!” Bradley shouted, shaking the boy roughly, eyes wild and unseeing.

“Da please!” Ronan hollered, pulling with all his might, and Bradley’s grip loosened, sending Rían flying back into his chair with a cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at his father, limbs trembling from fear. Bradley’s eyes focused, seeing his son for the first time in that moment.

“Rían,” he whispered, eyes darting around to look at the other two. Cillian sat on the opposite side of Rían, tears streaming down his own face as his bottom lip trembled in terror. Ronan stood behind him, face unreadable as stone as he watched his father.

“I’m,” Bradley breathed, stumbling to his feet as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t wait for a response, exiting the room in a hurry.

The next day had them returning to their new normal. Ronan took charge of the fishing, bringing home what he could, which was just enough to keep everyone fed. Rían had taken up the housework in the absence of their mother, Cillian helping where he could at his young age.

Bradley’s days were spent at the shore, watching and waiting for a love that would never return to him. His thoughts often turned to the happier memories, of days spent in her embrace, the feel of her lips against his, the way she smiled at him. He longed for it. Longed for the time when he didn’t feel so alone, so listless.

The children had changed in the months since their mother left as well.

Ronan had taken up the mantle of provider, taking what he could to the village to barter and trade, but few would do dealings with someone who was not wholly human, mistrustful eyes that had once been focused on his mother now turned to him with disdain.

Rían’s once bright laughter was now nothing but a memory, something thought about only in passing now as he worked his way through the chores that needed doing. He slowly forgot how it felt to smile.

Cillian, who had once been the most inquisitive of the bunch, now never strayed far from his brothers, never moving far from sight. He did only as he was told, and his brothers started to wonder if he ever used to talk at all.

Much like every other night, it was Ronan who bade his father to return to the house once the sun set, frost hanging in the air now that winter was upon them. Bradley allowed himself to be pulled back to their home, head hung low as he trudged up the path behind his son. He sat in his chair by the fire, hand stretched out to hold someone who was not there as he stared into the flames, eyes unseeing, and his children wondered if they would forever see the unseen.

One by one, the boys left for bed, Ronan being the last to bid his father a goodnight, a frown tugging on his lips before shaking his head and disappearing around the corner.

Bradley sat motionless as the minutes turned to hours, still as a statue as he continued to mourn.

A knock sounded at the door, and he shifted in his seat. Another knock had his head turning in that direction. Who would be calling at that time of night? Slowly, he rose from his chair, walking towards the front door. He grasped the handle, twisting it and pulling it open.

The night was dark, the moon, which normally cast light onto the path that led down to the beach, was hidden behind the clouds. Bradley stared into the night, unfeeling and unmoving. He moved to close the door when a song rang out, the voice so alarmingly familiar.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mairg san tìr seo, 's mairg san tìr 'G ithe dhaoine 'n riochd a bhìdh Nach fhaic sibh ceannard an t-sluaigh Goil air teine gu cruaidh cruinn

His eyes alighted in recognition, tearing out of the house and onto the path as fast as his feet could carry him. The voice grew no closer as he ran, breaths coming out ragged as he gulped for air. The waves crashed against the shoreline as loud as thunder but never drowning out the voice he had longed to hear.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mise nighean Aoidh mhic Eòghainn Gum b' eòlach mi mu na sgeirean Gur mairg a dhèanadh mo bhualadh Bean uasal mi o thìr eile

He stopped, spinning wildly in search of her, crying out in frustration when he saw no one. A scream ripped its way through him, desperate and haggard as he continued to spin, only stopping when he caught sight of something on the dock. The same dock he and his lover had spent countless afternoons on, basking in the glow of each other and sharing stolen touches. He walked slowly towards it, boots crunching in the sand and then knocking against the wood as he came to the end of the dock. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he kneeled down beside the small bundle.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

Thig an smeòrach, thig an druid Thig gach eun a dh'ionnsaigh nid Thig am bradan thar a' chuain Gu Là Luain cha ghluaisear mis'

His hands reached out, stopping when the bundle moved, a gurgle sounding. His heart skipped a beat, the cold seeping through him in the winter’s night. It was then that the clouds moved, allowing the moon to shed light down on where Bradley crouched.

It was often said that Cillian was the son that bore the largest resemblance to his mother, but gazing at the babe in front of him, Bradley knew that this was the child his wife carried before she left. His hands crossed the distance to pick her up, hands gentle as he cooed down at her. He was struck then by the discovery that she was wrapped in silvery grey fur, the same size as a seal pup.

The baby let out a tiny cry, and Bradley shushed her softly, rocking her gently. He and his wife had discussed different names before that fateful day, but only one stuck out to him as he gazed at the babe in his arms.

“Aisling,” he whispered reverently, holding her tighter to his chest as tears streamed down his face. Aisling let out another cry as Bradley moved to stand, never taking his eyes off of her.

“‘s alright now,” he cooed, turning back towards the house. “Your da is here now, mo stóirín.”

His fingers wrapped around the fur with a frown. The small bundle in his arms would never leave him, not like her mother had. He would see to it this time.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

A/N: I kid y'all not, this fic has been on my mind for MONTHS ever since someone suggested it. Selkies have always been one of my favorite stories from Celtic legends, and I really hope I did this justice because it was such a pleasure to write and pour my heart and soul into. I highly recommend you check out the stories if you have time because a lot of the inspiration for this fic came from them!

Another quick note as I wrap up here, I wanted to touch on the meaning of the names I chose. Ronan actually translates to "seal" or "oath, promise." Rían (pronounced Ree-on) means "king" or "ocean" depending on the etymology. Cillian (pronounced kill-ian) means "war, strife." Finally, Aisling (pronounced Ash-ling) means "dream, vision."

The first song I actually looked up the English translation, but it's a song sung by a woman who was stolen by the fae, calling out for her sister to come and help her. I thought it would be interesting to see it used in the reverse. The second song is actually one said to be sung by the selkies themselves, very fitting for this fic, I think.

Thank you all so much for reading this one! As always, reblogs and comments are appreciated. You can also find me on AO3 under sailor_aviator. Until next time!

[nqueso-emergency]

The use of Bummy really upsets and annoys me so I want led to write down my thoughts and I hope you can share 💕

Is the use of Bummy as a ship name offensive?

Yes, it is correct if you put the BU from Buck and the MMY from Tommy. Yes you get “Bummy”.

So what is the issue? It’s common practice in shipping, fans combine two characters names together, forming a new ship name (portmanteau or smushword). For instance, the ship name for Dean Winchester and Castiel from Supernatural is referred to as Destiel. The 'De' from Dean, and 'tiel' from Castiel.

Well, it’s the use of “bum” as part of the portmanteau and the closeness to the word “bummer” and “bumming”.

Why is that an issue?

Number one because the word “Bummer” is a gay slur word in British English & slang. Number two because this is a gay ship. Number three the majority of people using this ship name dislike the coupling. It’s generally used as part of a wider negative sentiment about the couple. Number four the fact one member of the pairing is a British actor meaning it’s a bit close to home.

One of the common responses to people saying the name being homophobic and offensive is that pro BuckTommy fans have dug up an obscure slur to find issue with the use of the ship name.

Let’s break it all down… we’ll start with the etymology first.

American English and British English as a language has a good few words with very different meanings. It’s understandable that both side would be unaware of subtle language differences. It’s easy to talk about trash vs. rubbish. It’s much harder to talk about words that could be used as offensive or considered a slur. I don’t want to start listing slurs for obvious reasons that fall under this umbrella (there is actually a few) so I’ll try to be concise.

Let’s use the example of “fanny” as word that in UK considered a vulgar word meaning the female genitals but actually means butt in America. A polite way to say fanny in the UK would be “front bum”. Because your ass, or buttocks in the UK is your bum. Aka your gluteal muscles.

So it’s means your bottom. But like most words you can use it in multiple ways and it can have multiple meanings. Bum, bummer, bumming etc. Various meanings depending on the context. A bum can be a homeless people or my backside. If I add an action word “to bum” it’s anal sex. If I said “what a bummer” I might be saying that’s disappointing. Or I might be using it as a slur to describe a gay person. Everything from tone of voice and inflection to your physicality can change the meaning.

Does the fact it’s of British language, history and cultural background mean it doesn’t count?

Is it obscure?

The slur “bummer” in the UK and Ireland is one of a number of terms beginning in the 1980s, and especially in the late 1990s, as an insult amongst young people. While curse words were cracked down someone using it as an insult could mostly fly under the radar. A school yard taunt.

The peak use of the word as a slur was over 20 years ago. Of course if you’re 21 years old that feels completely irrelevant. If you’re a millennial and lived through that peak of popularity then you have entirely different perspective.

In fact, as UK or Irish society has evolved in the last 20 years and become more progressive homophobic language is widely unacceptable in polite society. It’s not that specific slurs have become obsolete but that any slurs or micro aggressions in general have becoming broadly intolerable.

For me, obscure would be a word where no one living would recall it.

Similarly the word “gay” its self which was also used with derision during this time (being stupid, or equivalent to weak.) The pejorative use of the word "gay" was waved away as banter for more than a generation. But even then using such words and slurs as “a joke” had a knock on effect. So for example, college-age men were more likely to repeat the word negatively if their friends said it, while they were less likely to say it if they had lesbian, gay or bisexual peers.

Words such as “queer” or “gay” have been reclaimed by the Queer community since but it isn’t as clear cut as that and often there is a generational issue where younger people — millennials are fine with it. Gen Xers are less comfortable with it. And then older people or boomers, maybe, who find its use problematic.

What is the relevance of bringing in the wider use of homophobic slurs? Well we see fans waving away concerns about the use of Bummy as “not that deep” it’s just their names mashed together. Dismissal of the slang term as obscure and BuckTommy fans scraping the bottom of the barrel to find a reason to be offended. That narrative is repeated whether true or not because their side of the Fandom said it. The main demographic using the term is younger Gen Alpha Gen Z and American. A cohort with no frame of reference. And seemingly uninterested in extending curiosity to learn or to listen.

That all mirrors behaviour we have seen before. Does that mean I think anti BuckTommy fans are homophobic… no actually I don’t think that at all. Because there is nuance. Instead I think that they are okay using an offensive portmanteau because they intensely dislike the ship and that is simply slippery slope.

But is there a counter argument to that? Why jump to that conclusion?

Let’s say they just don’t want to use Tevan as that has Evan as part of the name. Okay, that’s a good reason. But wait? Why not use BuckTommy the most popular ship name? Or Kinley? Or Tuck? Why say Bummy Bones and not BuckTommy Bones? Why despite being told it’s offensive and having the ability to just Google it do they hand wave that away with wilful ignorance.

I do think the ship name of Bummy is used to intentionally have negative connotations. It’s meant to annoy BuckTommy fans. Perhaps it’s just engagement bait.

I've held on to this ask waiting for a good time to post it.

Today is that day.

[markscherz]

This might be a weird question but I can't think of a better person to ask! My nibling recently came out as non-binary and wants to change their name, but they're struggling to find something they are happy with.

They were given a feminine name at birth and are currently using a masculine name, but aren't happy with either of them. Every human name that's suggested to them is either too masc, too femme, or has poor associations. However, they love frogs, so I wondered if that might be a solution.

I've tried to find frog names that might work as a human name, but so far I'm not having much luck. It's not allowed to start with R or J, and apparently it's not allowed to have an X in it because nibling thinks they're "not cool enough" to carry that off (I've tried explaining that they're wrong, but 16 year olds are very sensitive).

If this isn't too weird a question, can you think of any frog or toad names that might be manageable as human names? We live in the UK for reference

So many thanks for even reading this giant info dump 💕

Wow this is only the second time I have gotten to help find a name for a human. What an honour.

Okay firstly, sounds 100% like your nibling is cool enough to use an X (despite my current negative emotions associated with the letter due to the Elongated Muskrat), and there are some *amazing* names out there with X's in, so they should at least consider them. Scinax and Ixalus for instance are great. Ixalus has a fun history: originally it was coined as a replacement name for Orchestes, which wasn't available because there was already a beetle genus called Orchestes. But then it turned out that Ixalus was *also* not available, because the world's most beautiful antelope, the bongo, was already called Ixalus. Only, the bongo had already been called Tragelaphus. So now Ixalus isn't the name used for *any* animal. Ixalus is Greek, meaning 'bounding, springing, spry'. Also there are numerous other frog genera that use the ending -ixalus, such as Heterixalus, Micrixalus, etc.

But, taking the lack of X seriously, here are some other alternatives. I will avoid names that are derived from other people's names, and focus on names that have a neutral ring to my ear, and are also euphonious (nice to say or hear) and fewer than four syllables. I am also only considering genus names, because there are too many species names to choose from:

Acris — meaning sharp, sour, bitter, pungent, sharp, keen, acute, energetic, eager, etc. Technically this is the feminine version of the adjective; the neuter version is Acre, but I do not think anyone would read 'Acris' and immediately think either gender. It is supposed to be pronounced with a long a, as in 'hard', but a lot of people pronounce it with a hard a as in 'ace'. This name is most familiar to Americans, because Acris are cricket frogs, widespread in the US.

[Acris crepitans, src]

Mantis — of course, the genus Mantis was coined by Linnaeus in 1758, and so it is unambiguous that this is not a frog name. However, it is very often used as part of frog taxonomic names, such as Chiromantis, Boehmantis, Guibemantis, Gephyromantis, Phlyctimantis etc. Mantis is Greek (μάντης), and means oracle, prophet, soothsayer, seer, clairvoyant, or fortune teller. The name has the feminine gender in its language of origin, but that has no bearing on its use, which, barring the character in the Marvel movies, does not seem particularly gendered to me.

[Pristimantis cruentus, src]

Dasypops — simply a delightful name, but probably not neutral enough. I have not been able to figure out what the etymology is; it might be a play on Dasypus, the Greek word meaning 'rough-footed', which is a genus of armadillos. The frog is also spectacular, but there are no photos I can legally share on tumblr.

Kaloula — a euphonic name with an unclear meaning. Very round frogs. I love them.

[Kaloula pulchra, src]

Adelotus — means 'unseen'. These are 'tusked frogs'. Males have crazy extensions of lower jaw bones, and they fight with them.

[Adelotus brevis, src]

Taruga — a Sanskrit name meaning 'tree climber'. I fucking love this name, and the frogs are just *chef's kiss* POINTY, and have really committed to bold colours.

[Taruga eques, src]

EDIT: I have been informed that taruga means ‘blockhead’ or ‘numb skull’ in Spanish, so it might not be the best choice. Sorry!

If the nibling would like to check out a list of genera themselves, there is a tolerably complete list here.

I hope this helps!