#bloody memoir

[lapumpkinmusic]

BLOODY MEMOIR vol. II

[j-august]

John, Lord Hervey, Memoirs of the Reign of George the Second from His Accession to the Death of Queen Caroline

[miss-tarja]

Iridiscent (Ch. 7)

Pirate! Miguel O'Hara x Mermaid! Reader

Previous Series Masterlist

WARNINGS: Mysticism included, mentions of religious practices such as Palo Mayombe and it's elements, mild gore, emotional distress, terrible sailing weather, mystic elements, hints of trauma, injuries, Historical innacurracy for the sake of the plot.

Summary: Freedom comes with a high price.

A/N: Missed our grumpy pirate? I did <3. The highlighted terms with bold have a brief description of meaning. Thanks for sticking with this story c:

Although the haunting presence of Constantino had long abandoned the ship, and the now free men got themselves to clean up the battle's aftermath as best as they could, there were still traces of him that refused to abandon El Aquelarre. They clutched his ship in desperate tugs of subtlety that made even the most skeptical of men to turn his eyes in discomfort at the sight.

The key Peter gave him opened nothing else but his personal headquarters. The foul smell of rotten herbs and other revolting odors, greeted those brave enough to peek inside El Brujo's memoirs and personal safe space.

An assorted variety of glass jars full of things Miguel couldn't name even if his life depended on it, nested snugly in a fine dark wooden shelf, the tags with their content long faded from the constant use. But their smell either burned his nostrils, or seduced him enough to tempt him to open the jars and their contents. However logic and his common sense, prevailed.

His brain told him to not delve into things he couldn't comprehend, despite the title of a non-believer. As contradictory as it was, he believed in mermaids, cause he had seen one, but his mind still refused to acknowledge magic in any sort of form. Miguel didn't believe in anything he couldn't see.

He didn't believe in invisible things that controlled his fate at whims. He believed in choices and their consequences. In facts, things he could count and feel, not legends that varied their version everytime someone spoke them out loud, to inflict fear in those hearts that still debated in whether to believe or not.

"Shit..." Peter murmured, nonplussed and severely uncomfortable upon the hideosity that stumbled before his nervous eyes. Miguel followed his line of sight and his stomach churned with such a heavy discomfort, that bile menaced to rise up in the back of his throat.

If the jars with the unknown and fetid smelling ingredients made him queasy, these ones in particular had him nauseous.

A couple of brown eyes floated within a jar, and by the looks of the tender and still colored tendons around them, Miguel took his best guess that they were a fresh addition to the madman's lurid collection. The tongue came next, it made him marvel and scrunch his nose in disgust upon realizing how long the organ actually was.

Other vital parts remained sealed in crystal clear jars. His red eyes menaced to pop out of their socket as he stepped back when a heart, a human heart, beat despite no source of life attached to it. As if someone had squeezed enough to give the last show of spark before the unsettled pirate.

"¿Qué mierda?..." The captain murmured, disturbed, with his fist clenching in a meek attempt of keeping his composure, as Peter pulled him away from that specific shelf, equally perturbed if not more. (What the fuck)

The rest of the men had been long gone as they couldn't stomach whatever horrors they had witnessed. Some ran away to alleviate the sudden and gnawing discomfort into the sea.

Hobie's morbid curiosity was sated and crushed as soon as he also saw the beating organ. For a minute he truly believed he had inhaled too much tar smoke to the point of it messing with his perception.

"What kind of bloody madman was that git?" The lanky and pierced man spoke as he searched through the least rotten herbs, hoping to find something that would calm the burn in his wounded arm. Carrillo had thrown him on the jagged and piping hot splinters, earning him a couple of mean scrapes and burns.

"Someone that truly believed he had powers but was merely a delusional murderer." Explained Miguel as he wiped his nose from the pungent fragrance of a sickly sweet-smelling stick.

"Woah, woah. Don't touch anything!" Peter warned but Hobie huffed, rummaging through the various baskets of greens and bones.

"Relax, mate. I'm looking fo' aloe, my arm burns like hell. These santeros and shite use them to cure wounds. So he must've a piece somewhere."

"Constantino isn't a santero. He's a palero!" One of the men grumbled darkly in a thick accent, pointing at the sigils scribbled and painted through the room's walls with caution. Patipembas* drawn in every surface El Brujo's managed to. The man grabbed Hobie's hand as soon as it hovered over a rusty bucket full of sticks and human bones."Don't touch that!" (*Sygils used in Palo)

Everyone stilled and their skin crawled as the man made a cross sign over himself and the rest. Hobie just quirked a brow, confused and frustrated. His respect for religion had gone south for good a long time ago.

"What? Just'a bunch of bones and-"

"Shh! Shh!" The man reprimanded him, "It's not that. It's an nganga.*"

There was a collective round of 'a what' from the men gathered, even Miguel who looked at the man with critical and confused eyes. Palero, Santero, brujo, all were the same deceivers for him. However, the pirate had to admit that the symbols and elements reminded him of the rites Adia sometimes participated in back in the hacienda, behind Guillermo's back. Even Fermin had his own customs before sailing.

"A Nganga. It's the central piece of the ritual. Without it, there is no rite." Explained the man as he pointed the grim object. "They're receptacles for the nkisi.* (*Spirits)

"Ya speak as if we're actually understanding, Oba." huffed Hobie, equally upset and spooked at the eerie aura the various wooden carved statues, heavy with a bunch of indented nails, oozed from the corners of the makeshift altar.

The man in question rolled his eyes. "I was a palero." Oba rolled up his sleeves and showed small scars in the shape of crosses in some parts of his arms, "Salazar wasn't. He didn't get scarred. I searched whatever left from his body."

"So all of this is for shit and giggles?" Miguel frowned

"No, no." Oba shook his head, he wouldn't be past his mid twenties, "All these things are part of rituals, captain. But bad things happen if you practice Palo without a Tata's* permission. It's not for everyone."

"Tata?" Peter repeated with a light giggle, the word too funny-sounding to ignore, yet his brain turned hazy with the confusing terms and information the more Oba talked.

"*A Palo priest. You think they let anyone in? No. If you aren't allowed in, is cause your spirit, fate, everything in you does not match the principles of Palo Mayombe. And what happened to Salazar is the proof! He used Palo for his own benefit without permission. You don't mess with the mpungu* and leave unscathed." (*Gods)

"A'ight. Got it, none touches this place." Hobie grabbed the so needed piece he was looking for and smiled, "Startin' now."

"I'd leave this place if I was you-"

Miguel however had stopped paying attention, too busy and enthralled at the sight before him that the rest turned a blur of muffled voices and shapes behind him. His eyes, remained a bit too long on a precious blue colored jar, within, the most enchanting, large, and iridiscent scales he had ever seen rested at the bottom along the same pearl that caused a fight back in the docks against Edward Low, surrounded by a thin layer of flesh, as if it was forcefully pried away. A couple of crimson droplets tainted them.

A surge of disbelief and rising anger ran through his being. Constantino had dared to pluck tiny parts of yourself as a wretched souvenir for his atrocious museum of horrors. These findings only cracked even further his skeptical walls, leaving room for doubt to seed in. What if Salazar had actually gained some sort of power to bind you? How did he find you? More importantly, how did he trapped you?

If anything, Miguel believed Olivares was insane to the point of feeding himself with lies and legends that supposedly granted him authority over the unseen and unknown, nurturing that delusion of being a messenger of the dark magic he devoted himself to.

Miguel had heard rumors about Salazar being a paranormal confidant and consultant to none other but royalty. It wouldn't surprise him if people recurred to these practices in exchange of something. A selfish wish in quid pro quo of something so sacred as a life.

Black candles that adorned the rest of the shelves were half consumed, some flickered faintly with the little breeze seeping in, dried herbs and dessicated little crawlers remained haphazardly through the altar, the small skulls that Miguel hoped they didn't come from where he imagined, laid either broken in pieces or whole through the table, marked with melted black candle wax and more sigils engraved onto them.

Oba kept explaining the Palo's functions to Peter, that somehow regretted in prying further on the gruesome details on how Olivares had tarnished the reputation and the usage of the religion to his wretched whims.

But in truth Miguel couldn't care less about it, his synapses were working the information in his brain, making sense of so many things he had seen back at the bilge. Like the missing scales in some parts of your fin, the scratches and holes in it, he didn't have to imagine who dragged you inside as his eyes wandered briefly over Carrillo's charred body.

Hopefully the shaman back at Isla del Sol, would help. He didn't know what would she do, but her intervention was a must, curiously, the shaman was the only one that somehow had gained her ounce of respect from the pirate, cryptic and annoying as she was.

Miguel had so many questions and so many unsolved reproach surrounding your mere existence. So many why's and little answers left him sighing and his shoulders tensing.

None of those answers would come if he didn't take you to the capable hands that undoubtedly would mock him for his initial skepticism. He held the key tighter on his hand, and threw it in his pocket. A sudden rush of panic coursed through him upon remembering something important.

Mierda

His hands palmed deeper into his pockets, alarmed as panic rose once more, but as quick at it came, it disappeared when his hands touched the fine chain of the locket, crunching softly under his caress. His lips exhaled, relieved and his eyes closed for a moment. He'd definitely need a better place to keep it before he mislay it for good. He couldn't afford to lose Gabriella again.

"You okay?" Peter mumbled, watching him through wary eyes. The initial discomfort had made everyone uneasy, but Miguel seemed particularly affected, some of his color had drained from his rich cinnamon flesh.

Miguel nodded, watching the milieu for a moment. His men worked, some pushed the bodies out the board, leaving a soon to be gone trail behind. Others, searched through the bodies and wiped the human gunk out the way. Many washed the blood, ashes and gunpowder soiling the dark planks of the deck.

Freedom wasn't exactly pretty, but as long as it remained in their side, the circumstances of it's origin mattered little. Some of his crew even wore merry smiles as they cleared up the deck in high spirits, chanting even despite the gore surrounding them. Celebrating a well deserved fresh start after years of imprisonment and whipping.

Nostalgia flooded his brain with memories of his old crew, but the bitter recollection of some of them holding a resentful glare as they marooned him, had marked his trust and shook the core of his morals. Guarding his trust from those new in his presence.

Miguel only hoped the sea would also be a steady ally as his knees quivered, the elegant wounds Olivares gave him, and the battle's weight on his shoulders, finally caught up with his stamina, depleting it completely. Sending him to stagger next to a now concernedmerchant.

"Hey!, Hey, pal. It's ok, I've got you." Peter muttered as he hooked one of Miguel's heavy arms over his sore shoulders, before he could collapse completely. Some splinters still remained into the captain's skin. "C'mon." Peter hauled him to lean over him, "Need a doctor over here!"

It was the last thing Miguel heard before letting darkness and the ache in his body to claim him.

Papa

Faint blurs of a smile smudged behind his eyes, glimpses of those gorgeous brown eyes he inherited her, stared back at him, with curiosity and a smile that disarmed him every time he came home after weeks in the sea. They blinked, expectant.

Papa, wake up!

The peppering smell of tar became a bit too much for his senses, overwhelming him as the smile disappeared, morphing into this gruesome row of bleeding, sharp teeth, devouring a familiar man. Elliot.

His heart leaped in his quivering ribcage while the half eaten man reached to him, begging with his semi devoured hand to stop the munches on the bleeding carcass his body was turning. But before what was left of his hand touched him, the yellowish row of human teeth sprawled before him in a cruel smile.

Shapes and blurred motions jumbled together in the shape of none other but Constantino, plunging with a forceful thrust his rapier deep in his chest as he cackled. Unleashing the revolting smells that mutinied in his overwhelmed senses.

Miguel's eyes blinked so hard and fast he saw lights dancing before him, his hand immediately clutched his chest. Heaving breathlessly.

"Cap's awake!" Shouted Oba, squeezing the excess of water from a rag.

Miguel on the other hand, rushed, although with uneven steps, towards a bucket. Emptying the unhealthy dose of discomfort the nightmare gave him. The smells, Contantino's cackle, and the rough careening from the ship didn't help his nausea.

His body glimmered with the thin layer of sweat from the quick fever that took over him. Leaving his brain a puddle, his mind in shards and his lungs demanding for air. Much for his dismay, the same oxygen he breathed and coursed through his body, was plagued with  the scent of some herbs he and his men found back at Olivares' altar.

Oba, the palero, or so Miguel recalled, brought him a goblet with water.

"You talk in your sleep." The young man pointed with a concerned stare as Miguel gulped down the contents. The coolness of the vital liquid quenched not only his thirst, but also the persistent and burning sensation travelling up and down his throat.

"Drink this." Oba offered a small shell full with a green-ish liquid, "It's not poison, that's fo' sure." He chuckled, and Miguel drank, only to spit the sip he had gotten with a soured face.

"What the fuck is this?" He grumbled, disgusted at the flavor, and Oba pursed his lips, supressing a laugh

"Burdock, oregano, cedron, and cinnamon. You got a fever, Cap. And turns out Olivares had a good bunch of medicine hidden under the altar." Oba offered the concoction again, and Miguel didn't have much choice but to drink it in a go. God or the universe forbid him to get sick. Not when he was so close in getting the answers he needed.

Another violent wave shook the room, and Oba held onto the bed frame. Peter, Hobie, and a small group of men entered, all keen eyes set on him, expectant of their new course.

The herbaceous smell remained on him, as little pecks of a green paste adorned the cuts El Brujo's had given him.

"You need to follow your own advice of keeping yourself alive, pal." Chuckled Peter as he offered a clean chemise to the pirate. "The men were scared you didn't make it."

Miguel huffed and wore the piece of clothing, covering the bandages and healing wounds from curious eyes. He stretched; some muscles popped back to their rightful place.

"Oba." Said man stared at him, "How much medicine do we have left?"

"Enough to get by until next docking, cap."

"Were the injured men treated?"

"Yes, sir."

Miguel nodded approvingly as he secured the belt around his hips; his new weapons, which had rested next to his bed, were now sheathed on each side of him.

"The sea is still angry, sir." One of the men mumbled, a bit fearful.

"Righteously so, we keep throwing Spaniard trash in it. How many men are there left in total?"

"Total twenty. In good condition fifteen."

"Five injured and fifteen good... Difficult but doable." Miguel mumbled as he weighed his options. "Just beg we survive the storms, and trouble doesn't find us." With a roll of his shoulders, he stepped out of the room ready to see the task ahead through.

He wouldn't leave the men's hope hanging, not when their help was vital in completing his own goal. Selfish, perhaps, but it was the only way available for him at the moment.

He truly couldn't care less what the men did once they docked, as there were always willing daredevils ready to risk their lives for a good feel of life, money, and adventure. He'd get more. Besides, he'd understand if most decided to never come back, as a peaceful life on land was too tempting to go back into a hellish existence aboard a stolen ship.

The salty air filled his lungs vigorously, sparking the all-too-familiar commanding voice he used. Captain O'Hara gathered the men and divided the tasks. Hobie was in charge of the canons and explosives along with another group. Oba indisputably got the title as the doctor. Others dispersed into smaller but still important tasks.

However, one of the challenges piled up in his list made itself present as a thunderous boom echoed through the quickly greying skies. He'd have to teach as much and fast as he could on how to manipulate the sails, ropes, and rigs to those remaining. A properly timed movement could mean the ship's and it's inhabitants salvation.

He sent the most skilled men in climbing to the masts and instructed them through teaching the most basic of functions. Miguel barked orders and instructions, despite the soft breeze hardening by each second.

The ship shook and groaned at the wave's restless pace.

"Batten down the hatches!" Miguel barked, and some just looked at him confused.

Dios mio...

"Fuck," he grumbled, shaking his head; it'd be a miracle if he actually made it alive. "Tie everything down! A fucking storm is coming!"

The men quickly scurried to secure everything in sight. Ropes flew here and there, and orders kept flowing, sometimes drowning under the rattling thunders.

Miguel moved through stations, making sure the knots on the ropes were tight; he'd have to keep simple terms for the men under his command, despite the experience in him fighting to escape his mouth.

A wave sent the galley tipping violently to the left. Some men fell, and others held tightly to the secured canons. But Miguel knew this was just the beginning. He had seen storms so violent it felt as if he wouldn't live to tell.

But this one in particular was dark, grim, and violent. Doubt beat for a second in his heart as his eyes didn't find a single trace of blue in the clouds, just endless grey and black, darkening by each passing second. A booming thunder cracked, illuminating the men briefly.

"Waves on sight, cap!" One of the men up in the mast yelled, and Miguel's Adam's apple bobbed.

Giant waves weren't his favorite; in fact, they frightened him, but there was no time for fearing as it was only one way of standing against them. Without wasting a second longer, he ran towards the steering wheel and turned El Aquelarre face to face with the upcoming wave.

"Are you mad?!" Hobie's unsettled voice rang behind him as he held onto whatever surface he could grab. "That wave is gonna kill us!"

"I'm saving us!" Grunted the pirate as the galley groaned and trembled under their feet. His hand clutched the steering wheel with all the strength he could muster. "Tell everyone to hold tight, and when the wave hit us, crouch!"

The thunder cracked and whipped the sky, letting a flashing spectacle of blinding lights to rule over for a second, enough time for some men to lose their grip in their anchors and fall down, rolling onto the moaning and quivering deck.

" No, no! Hold on tight!" Roared Miguel, Peter found his own secure heaven within the base of the main rigs, his hand stretched over some of the fallen men, aiding them to take a hold.

The angry winds blew, stretching the sails in their full might, pushing El Aquelarre faster and forward to it's newfound enemy. It was as if Aeolus purposely blew over, messing with Amphitrite's calm, awakening her once appeased wrath, reminding her of what Zeus' offsprings had done to one of her children, and the trembling ship was caught in the middle of a family feud.

"Take cover!" Yelled Miguel from the top of his lungs as the unforgiving rain began pouring. Whipping flesh and every surface it could reach with stinging and gelid splatters.

The men watched horrified as the ship's tip groaned as it rose against the tidal wave, slanting back, menacing to turn upside down. Yet Miguel stood his ground as best as he could, for a second the wave's height and gravity swooped him off his feet, only to force him down, again on the slippery surface, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The screams of a man falling down against the captain's quarters doors made him turn his eyes elsewhere before he caught the gruesome sight of a lose canon falling on top of him, crushing his body. One less men.

How many more would he lose to appease the sea? He didn't know and refused to believe such thing or act like Constantino. It was just weather, a terrible weather that was costing his men.

El Aquelarre shook and the captain's eyes widened on the loud crack echoing through the ship as soon as the fore and bowsprit touched the enraged sea once more. They had survived the first wave.

The sea conceded them a moment of peace, but in truth it was only preparing to charge once again.

"Tie that cannon down!" roared Miguel as he struggled to keep the course steady, but the wheel had stuck, making the ship to detour to the left. "Fuck!"

Peter didn't think twice and rushed, next to Miguel's side to try and unstuck the steer.

"It's fucking stuck!"

"No shit, Parker!" Grunted Miguel pulling back with all his might, "if we turn completely to the left, we'll die!"

"Then fucking pull back, pal! I don't want my wife to contact me from the living just to scold me for being an idiot!"

With a growl Miguel pulled as the ship leaned upwards once more, the rushing footsteps alerted him as Hobie joined the pulling party. Their combined efforts managed to release the wheel in a rough spin.

The captain managed to hold the steer and pivoted the ship straight before it turned completely to the left, and have the wave tumble the ship completely.

Part of the cold and unforgiving waters doused the deck, wiping some men from their spots and dragging them to the board, another fell down to the sea, leaving him with a crew of thirteen.

"Puta madre, ya cálmate!" (Chill the fuck down)

Squawked Miguel angrily to the sea, letting his frustration to run unfiltered, chastising like he would with his old lover whenever she got too whiny and childlike over the littlest of things, just for the sake of annoying him. And much to his relief, the sea listened, albeit reluctantly.

The waters slowly lost strength despite their irritation, whipping the rear of the ship in a final resentful protest, sending everyone to lurch forward. Miguel stumbled against the steer as Hobie and Peter crashed against the steering wheel's board.

It was a little price to pay for their peace. The foreign cheers and claps echoed though, celebrating another day of staying in this earth. They had survived.

For how long though?

Miguel sighed and passed a hand over his face. Although one problem had been scratched off the dangers list, so many more were to come. Other pirates, pivateers, English navy, more storms and waterspouts were next. All of them potential risks to take into consideration.

Hopefully Amphithrite's ire had sated with the offering of Constantino himself, or maybe it had caused the opposite effect and it unleashed the enormous waves towards them. The captain didn't know anymore. But Miguel was certain he needed to remain alive until Sunny Island came into view. And given the compass' direction,  half a day of voyage remained.

Contradictory as it was, he was glad his old crew marooned him nearby the Havana. Circumstances always seemed to favor him. The day had started and they already had survived two of the biggest waves he has seen in his life. Although his mind was too temped to ask himself what else could go wrong, he limited himself to be grateful enough to live for a couple of  hours more.

Never in his life he'd feel more relieved as soon as the only man with a little experience at sailing, screamed those words he longed to hear.

"Land A'hoy!"

He took the spyglass from Hobie's hands and took a peek, as if reassuring himself the man in the mast wasn't lying. His lips stretched in a relieved smile as soon as he saw the familiar multicolored flag with a black circle in it, waving proudly through the touting wind.

Finally his nerves would stop tensing and making a mess out of his thoughts at the near miss he had in the remaining voyage. If it hadn't been for Olivares' ship, with the Spaniard flag, they all would've ended up on a ship with a course to England, awaiting trial and hanging for piracy.

But fate had twisted ways, to make even his most despicable allies to aid him, one way or another.

"Tie the canons! Rise those sails, prepare for docking!" Barked the captain.

Some men couldn't help but give each other a heartfelt hug, others cried and cheered upon seeing the distant dock.

"Anwé!" Miguel called and said a young man peeked his head from the mast's post.

"Aye, sir?"

"Get me that flag down, boy."

Hobie smirked, barely containing his excitement as the ship soon approached to dock.

A wave of pride ran through Miguel's chest upon seeing the shock and disbelief in the other sailor's faces as the black ship, emerged from the sun's dying golden rays, like a black hole materializing before their very eyes.

Naturally the rest of the pirates readied their weapons as the ship docked. It wouldn't be much when Sheng Hyun, Toussaint and Xavier made their appearances, alarmed that a foe galley arrived. Salazar was a known privateer to anyone that ended up in Isla del Sol. And now, much to everyone's disbelief, Miguel rose the bloodied Spaniard flag high.

"Mon dieu" Mumbled Toussaint, widening his eyes at the realization. And if it wasn't enough proof, Miguel stepped out, wearing one of Contantino's rapiers on his hip, Hobbie wore Olivares' famous black feather hat.

"¿Q-Qué hiciste Miguel?" (W-What you've done?)

Asked Xavier, recognizing right away the hat. Miguel didn't know if it was concern or excitement in his purest of forms that the fellow Spaniard pirate experienced.

"Un enorme favor a todos. Where is Tlali?" (A hell of a favor to all of us.)

"She's on her hut. She's meditating, you know how she gets when she gets interrupted while doing so!" warned Edward.

"I need to see her-"

"Can you forget about her for a second? You fucking killed Olivares! O-li-va-res! You know what that means?!" Xavier shook Miguel by the shoulders as he took the infamous rapier in his hand, smirking with evident delight as he rose it in victory.

"Constantino Salazar de Olivares... is no more! ¡¡El Brujo está muerto!!" (El Brujo is dead)

The uproar was nearly defeaning, as all pirate gathered that listened, cheered and roared upon the news. Their hunter, their living nightmare in the shape of a devilish spaniard man devoted to spirits and gods, was gone.

Miguel took Edward and Toussaint to a more quiet place and spoke "My men helped. I just weakened him enough for my crew to deliver the final blow."

"Still, you do realize who you fought against, didn't you? Don't be modest, O'Hara. It's not suitable for a demon to be soft."

Miguel chuckled and shook his head. "Many won't even get on that ship again, and truly, I can't blame them after the hell we faced. Could you tend to them? Treat the ill and feed them all?"

"It shall be done." Nodded Edward, "Any man that brings us peace will drink and eat at our table."

"Before you give them women," he pointed at Toussaint with an accusatory finger, "The white man with a stupid-looking face and English uniform, is married and with a child. Don't bother him." Warned Miguel as he made his way towards the shaman's hut.

Toussaint lifted his hands in defense with a mischievous smile on his face as he saw Miguel leaving. "Understood, my friend. No women for the white boy."

Miguel's steps rushed, and soon he began jogging towards the hut; he saw the ever-familiar smoke spilling out the makeshift chimney of the shaman's home.

"Tlali!" He called, "Tlali!" Miguel barged in through the coral and bone curtain, only to find incense's smoke filling the space. "¿Dónde se ha metido?" (Where did she go?)

He searched in the two bedrooms but found nothing but freshly picked spines from a fish's leftovers.

Qué maña de desaparecer, Dios mio. (what a freaking habit for disappearing)

Miguel surrounded the hut to see if she was somewhere else, but to no avail. His steps guided him back to the dock, surely he will find her later, but hopefully alone.

The sun finally died behind the orange hues, torches were lit along the way, some stray dogs followed him, earning some quick pets from him, before returning to the ship. The men were gone, leaving a black yet elegant carcass behind.

He'd think about what to do with it later, and the little museum within. He was sure Tlali would do something useful out of it. Even the merchants. But right now his mind was focused in a single target, reaching to you.

He didn't know how you were, and hopefully that storm didn't shake your tank too much.

His steps turned left, right, left again, and twice to the right, specifically on that hidden passageway he found. The sea was so calm he could barely feel it moving. He stopped here and there to see if there were any lagging men that rather the comfort of the ship's barracks than the outside. But thankfully, they were all gone. Even Peter, Hobie, Oba and Anwé.

Miguel went through the passage, lighting up the faroles in the way, creating a dim atmosphere, as he made it to your room, but stopped in his tracks.

The iron and coppery smell was so pungent he took a step back; a sniff echoed behind the door. Usually the bilge water had other unpleasant smells, but not copper, much less iron. His heart's pace quickened as he rushed towards the door.

The heavy object behind the wooden door wasn't an obstacle for him to push with all his might, only to hear a deafening and skin-crawling breaking. Glass was breaking.

No...

He pushed enough to push himself in, and nothing but darkness and muffled silent cries received him. He quickly searched for where the blue resin stones were, nearly tripping at the musty ropes haphazardly placed around, but eventually he found it. The only thing standing after the storm.

Miguel took the resin stones and clashed them together, earning a flickering blue hue that barely reached beyond his feet. The resin stones were wet; hence, they didn't produce much flame. But the light was enough to point out something he had missed the first time he was in this place. A farole etched to the wall, Miguel took a nearby stick and tore part of his chemise to wrap it around the makeshift torch.

Then, lit it up with one of the hall's faroles and returned. As soon as he also lit up the lone lamp, a column of fire spread through the ceiling, following a straight pattern until it reached a round giant lamp that immediately blazed with fire, and for a minute, Miguel wished to be blind, to have a heart of stone, and to be immune to the sight before him.

Your tank was broken.

The floor, usually humid, was now wet with a sticky and fiery copper smell, and his eyes didn't take long in identifying the source of it. His legs quivered as his eye followed the crimson trail leading up towards a fin. Your fin. 

Maldito perro... (fucker)

His mind rumbled with the several insults it came up with when referring to Salazar. Miguel’s chest stirred with a grievous feeling he wished he could erase from within, because that’d mean feeling free of guilt. If he would’ve released you sooner, you wouldn’t be under the several pieces of glass splinters, wounding your body. You would be safe and sound, a bit beaten but still safe and in one piece. Not like this.

Shame no longer mattered in your features; it only left a place for a quietness so still and dead, Miguel could hear his own heart beating through his ribcage until a soft, painful moan crushed it.

Your head laid on top of the tank’s shard-less edges as the rest hunched and curled against it. A wooden beam had trapped your torso, unabling you to move. From what he could gather, he supposed the beam fell on top of you when the tank collapsed. The hook Carrillo pierced through had torn through the base and sliced it remorselessly in half.

The storm

He blinked, remembering that lurid crack that rumbled through the ship. It hadn’t been the ship’s carcass breaking as he initially thought, but your tank. The storm had been powerful enough to send the glass container tumbling over and crashing across the floor. 

Your clawed hand twitched, and Miguel approached warily; his hands trembled, but the need to remove that hefty-looking beam off you was a must. Even if you survived, he hoped you wouldn’t munch over him like you did with Elliot. 

Scared, and with anxious hands, he pushed the rotting beam off your body, earning a deep and loud wheeze from you that instantly turned into a deafening wail as soon as air filled in your lungs.

Miguel covered his ears from the acute ringing in his eardrums and began picking up other debris that had fallen over you, clearing as much as he could from the troubling sight. As soon as his hands grazed the scales in the midsection of your tail, his skin crawled upon hearing you, or rather your fear mixed with anger, loud and clear.

“Get your wretched hands off me!” 

He stopped, like time, like his breathing and every single thought running rampant in his brain. Was he dreaming? Was this a joke from the universe he had yet to understand? So far he was told that mermaids didn’t talk, that the sole purpose of their mouths was to lure men to their inevitable deaths with heaven-like chants. Not talking. 

Not giving him a simple yet meaningful order as you tried to crawl away from him with a primal fear oozing from whatever surface it could escape, like the blood within your veins. His mere presence caused such a terrible and obvious turmoil within you that he had to gulp down with difficulty the overgrown lump in his throat.

Realization finally fell in the pit of his stomach like a heavy brick, packed with a myriad of emotions he couldn’t properly sort. Not only were mermaids real, but they also cried, bled, and talked. 

You could speak. 

And hated him.

Taglist:

@nerdykat @munixumai @raiirai @sarapaprikas-blog @deputy-videogamer @rizahawkeye1380 @littlenyx @marit332 @iz-iplier @mad-hatter-rici @viriexo @obi-mom-kenobi @allysunny @lishdfish @not-ur-average-fangirl @freehentai @darksidecorner @winteringfalls @ellasarich @eustashh @nyxismoon @murnsondock @pluviophilis @oooof-ifellforyou @oharasmommymilkers00 @plusultrayokai @teacoffeeflavored @ctizu1 @dickfartcheesy @s0lm1n @vonev @iwumrndbm @azuredragonstrike @Iyykeyyy @arrozyfrijoles23 @frompeach @ghostlyworld @liamdasimp @straw-berry-ghoul @migshusben @nediks @fayeofthenightingale @gedankenmoon  

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading update: july 2024

full disclosure: I started out July in a bit of a mental lurch, really feeling stuck in a rut. there are a lot of reasons for that, absolutely none of which need to be shared with the general populace of tumblr dot com, but suffice to say that I was feeling listless and reading was not a high priority. I was pretty content to accept that this was going to be another month where I didn't finish a lot of books. I was too busy for most of June, and now too unfocused and bummed out in July.

and then that ended up not being the case. I think I can chalk that up to three things:

very early in the month I realized that none of the reading I had been planning on getting to was grabbing my interest at all, so I did something drastically different: picked up a YA memoir that I bought at pride on the recommendation of a bookseller. not my usual kind of reading at all, but YA is very readable and memoirs grab me fast because I'm nosy, so I figured it might be great for getting out of a rut. and boy, was I right!

Akwaeke Emezi also has a new novel out, and if you don't know then please note now that I'm a person second and an Akwaeke Emezi fan first. their newest novel was a sinister joyride, non-stop twists and turns that I couldn't put down until I saw the characters through to their bitter ends.

and, of course, over in the Dungeon Meshi manga I got to Mithrun. I've only had Mithrun for a couple of chapters, but if anything happened to him I'd kill everyone in this dungeon and then myself. even if I hadn't been able to read anything else, that would have kept me running back to the library for more Dungeon Meshi.

all of which added up to a fairly voracious appetite for books being reignited in my brain, and my second most book-heavy month of the year so far (still haven't beat May, but there's time). sick!

so - what have I been reading?

Delicious in Dungeon Vol. 7-10 (Ryoko Kui, trans. Taylor Engel, 2019-2022) - mannnnn I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said elsewhere, but Dungeon Meshi is so. fucking good. the way that Kui starts to raise the stakes of the story and grow the world beyond the core band of adventurers is so conscientious and well-done, timed perfectly so it never feels like having an undercooked heap of fantasy exposition thrown at you all at once. instead everything proceeds at a perfect simmer, leaving me feeling like the frog in that pot of boiling water who didn't notice how dire things had gotten until it was very suddenly too late and I was screaming bloody murder at a book. things have gotten so dire that I'm yearning for the days when fighting a red dragon was our biggest problem - and yet, through it all, every character remains rendered with humanity and compassion, no matter how scary, dangerous, or outright alien they first appear. I'm not naming any spoilers, but I need [REDACTED] to fix shit ASAP in Vol. 11 and [SUPER REDACTED] is on my shitlist fucking forever. also Mithrun sweetie you're perfect, do as many crimes as you want.

Heart and Hand (Rebel Carter, 2019) - my romance novel of the month, as picked by my lovely patreonites! this self-published historical romance promised some messy f/m/m, following a biracial (half Black, half white) young lady, Julie Baptiste, as she responds to a marriage ad that takes her out west to the fictional town of Gold Sky, Montana. Julie's sort of a standard historical heroine - she doesn't care for the silliness of high society and vastly prefers the company of books, looking forward to becoming Gold Sky's schoolteacher - but her marriage has a twist: rather than marrying one man, she's agreed to marry two, a pair of friends who have been inseparable since they served together in the Civil War. this book is charming, for sure, but I can't help be more intrigued by what isn't there than what is, namely: are these men having sex with each other or not? Rebel? hey, Rebel? why is there no DP in this two husbands mail order bride book? that was, like, he bare minimum that I expected. for the love of god, why did those men never put both of their dicks inside Julie at the same time? why did we spend so much time on emotional conflict that could be easily resolved if anyone just talked to each other when Julie's two beautiful husbands could have been having sex in front of her? HELLO?

also, listen, this is such a nitpick, but I am FROM Montana and it feels personal: I know that the general poverty of frontier life isn't sexy, but god these people are WAY too well off. at one point Julie enjoys some fucking BANANAS, something that I goddamn assure you were not easy to come by in late 19th century Montana. a banana. as fucking if.

All Boys Aren't Blue (George M. Johnson, 2020) - as is proudly advertised on the back cover of my copy, in recent years All Boys Aren't Blue has been the second most-challenged book in America behind Maia Kobabe's Gender Queer. reading through All Boys Aren't Blue it was initially hard to see what exactly was so objectionable, until I realized that a queer Black person living their life with compassion and joy is the scariest thing some of these motherfuckers can possibly imagine. Johnson writes about their life growing up in the nexus of racism, homophobia, and masculinity with wisdom and endless compassion, directly addressing young people who may find themselves in similar positions to offer them assurance that they, too, can be okay. more than anything, All Boys Aren't Blue is a plea for young people to live their lives without fear and shame. it's a beautiful blessing of a book that I hope brings comfort to every innumerable kids who need it.

Little Rot (Akwaeke Emezi, 2024) - how do I even begin to describe Little Rot? definitely not for those who feel squeamish about sex crimes, I guess that's an important place to start. this novel starts with the breakup of a long-term Nigerian couple, Kalu and Aima, and follows both of them into a weekend that starts with drugs and sex parties and spirals increasingly out of control from there, drawing more and more characters into a complicated snarl of money and power. Little Rot has the seedy, lurid draw of an episode of SVU if SVU ever grew up and realized that cops don't do shit, reveling in the nastiest that Emezi's imagined city of New Lagos has to offer. cannot say this book is for everyone - few of Emezi's novels are - but god, it's a thrilling study in corruption.

The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader (editor Joan Nestle, 1992) - this is a massive and fascinating historical document, assembled by Nestle as part of her work with the Lesbian Herstory Archives. within this collection are letters, interviews, academic essays, poems, and transcribed oral histories from all manner of self-identified butch and femme lesbians. while some of the contributors are recognizable names in the history of American queer activism (including Pat Califa, who's a bisexual trans man now lmao), others are women who were just trying to live their lives with as much authenticity, comfort, and dignity as was possible in their time. (although, notably, the vast majority of these women are white, and all but a very few are Americans. racial and cultural diversity is not one of the collection's strong suits.)

the personal narratives span all over the twentieth century, and I was really delighted to see the very frank discussions of what would be written off as "bad representation" by a lot of queer resources today: butches overdosing on toxic masculinity and getting in messy bar brawls, femmes committing outlandish acts of adultery, lesbian sexual awakenings taking place between fairly young children, and one extremely memorable instance of a butch getting unexpectedly pregnant and decided to do a little sex work on the side since she couldn't get more pregnant than she already was. I was particularly fascinated by the many, many accounts of "second wave" self-identified lesbian feminists who tried to do away with butch/femme identities and "politically incorrect" expression of lesbian sexuality altogether (that's everything but mutual cunnilingus, btw) in pretty eerie echoes of contemporary radfem arguments. at close to 500 pages it's definitely better suited to skimming and stopping to read whatever catches your attention rather than trying to read cover to cover, but I think this is a really invaluable piece of history.

American Mermaid (Julia Langbien, 2023) - this was a novel, for sure. American Mermaid is a novel about a broke, anxious high school teacher named Penelope whose novel, also called American Mermaid, is a runaway success that gets optioned for film. Penelope quits her teaching job and moves across the country to Hollywood to work on the script with two dude bros who don't really Get what American Mermaid is about, and set to work turning Penelope's weird, unsexy female empowerment novel into an MCU-style action romp with a hot young lead. the novel's strongest when it's deep in the spirals of Penelope's frantic mind, probing the conflict between her fairly desperate need for cash (she wants to be financially independent of her conservative father, she has good reason to suspect breast cancer is in her future, she wants to start a family someday) and the artistic affront she feels at watching her story be disrespected and dismantled. where it's weaker is in the extensive chapters of the story-within-a-story; while useful for context, I straight up didn't need to read that much of Penelope's novel. and the plot overall kind of felt like it fell off the rails near the end once Langbien finishes making her point about how Hollywood sucks. it's not bad, but it's also just... fine. it's fine!

How to Taste: A Guide Discovering Flavor and Savoring Life (Mandy Naglich, 2023) - how do I put this so nicely? this book is for people who are kind of dork ass losers about food, a group that I do very much count myself as a part of. I first became acquainted with Naglich's work when she appeared on a podcast called the Sporkful, which claims that it is "not for foodies, it's for eaters." I'm a fairly devout listener, and after listening to Naglich describe her efforts to become a master cicerone (one of the world's most elite beer tasters, a distinction that is taken Very Fucking Seriously) I thought sure, whatever, that's a book I can get behind. Naglich is maybe a big more entertaining as a podcast guest than a nonfiction author. in places the book can be dry or roughly constructed in a way that suggests another pass by an editor or maybe a co-writer would have helped. and straight up, there are just weird fucking typos in this book that are like. crazy to me, I cannot believe they got through. the cheap-ass cover art also suggests this was not exactly a high budget production.

but having been very mean about it, there are a lot of extremely interesting tidbits about the world of professional tasting here! it sounds awful and you couldn't pay me to do it, but here's the cool thing: Naglich is extremely aware that what she does is insane and she knows that the average reader doesn't want to learn how to identify where a coffee bean was grown just by sniffing the bean from across a room. what she offers instead are really approachable ways to be more conscientious about how you interact with and appreciate food! and she also shares some really cool info about tasting snobbery that IS bullshit, to help you sort out the stuff that actually matters and emphasize that fun and personal taste ultimately trump any "rules." it's a very dorky book but I, personally, did have a good time.

Sex Criminals Vol 3: Three the Hard Way (Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky, 2016) - every time I read another volume of Sex Criminals I find myself thinking "man, hang on, do I ever actually like Sex Criminals? am I enjoying this?" but then I end up placing a hold on the next one. I don't know, it's charming! it's like so very VERY 2010s in its dialogue, by which I mean it's like. you know. it's giving Joss Whedon before we all found out how bad he sucked and collectively booed him. but man, I love a story that's down to get weird, and Sex Criminals is sooooo about being weird. and yet also very normal where sex is concerned! considering this is a series all about people having freaky world-altering powers that activate when they cum, sex is treated as an incredibly ordinary thing, warts and all. I like that! I like seeing that! idk, I don't need every comic to be perfect, as evidenced by the fact that I'm actively enjoying Azrael: Angel of the Bat. sometimes the vibes are just good.

[starrynightsoversunflowers]

I made a rec list for Latin American books that have queer themes

*DISCLAIMER: "Queer" is not a theme per se. Sometimes it's about identity, sexuality, love, horror, violence, etc. All happening around queer characters.

Most of these deal with pretty heavy themes: prostitution, rape, violence, aids, death. Some representations can be considered "problematic" if you're boring. There are different ways to approach queerness.

Feel free to yell at me about these books/ask where to read them/make recommendations/etc. I definetly have favourites. Also some have movie adaptations.

Descriptions and warnings under the cut

La condesa sangrienta (The bloody countess):

The story of countess Erzebeth Báthory, a medieval hungarian countess know for committing more than 650 murders and inspiring the figure of the vampire. There´s no explicit queer relationships here but there´s absolutely some homoerotism in the narrations of torture. Pizarnik was a lesbian also. TW: disturbing, torture, blood, murder, you should not read this in one go.

El lugar sin límites (Hell has no limits):

The story about la Manuela, a homosexual transvestite that owns half a brothel in a small town. Her daughter owns the other half. The novel shows crudely the misery of forgotten towns and the day to day life of prostitution. There's also a movie. TW: prostitution, murder, homo/transphobia.

El mundo alucinante (A Hallucinations):

A fantasy and free version parody of the Memoires of Fray Servando Teresa de Mier. Known for the uses of magical realism and innovative prose.

Cobra:

Two stories meet. The first is of Cobra, a transvestite, and her transformation. The second of her initiation in a band of black jackers. Erotism and death.

Evita vive (Evita lives):

A controversial book around Eva Perón (after her death) who lives among prostitutes and homosexuals, having orgies and living a life of debauchery.

El beso de la mujer araña (The kiss of the spider woman):

The meeting of two prisoners living in the same cell. One, Valentín, is a political prisoner and the other, Molina, is a sexual deviant. During their weeks there, Molina narrates movies to Valentín and their relationship develops. There's also a movie.

Stella Manhattan:

During Brasil's military dictatorship, the apolitical Eduardo, a.k.a. Stella Manhattan, is expelled form his country for his shameful homosexuality. He returns to the surface as a brazilian counsil in New York and is immediately accosted by a military called Colonel Vianna, a sadomasichist known as the "Black Widow", and by the guerrillas seeking his befall.

Antes que anochezca (Before night falls):

Th 7th of december of 1990 the Cuban author Reinaldo Arenas, in a terminal phase of AIDS, would commit suicide, leaving behing this moving and political testimony, which he finished mere days before taking his own life.

Salón de belleza (Beauty salon):

In a large, unnamed city, a strange, highly infectious disease begins to spread, afflicting its victims with an excruciating descent toward death, particularly unsparing in its assault of those on society's margins. Spurned by their loved ones and denied treatment by hospitals, the sick are left to die on the streets until a beauty salon owner, whose previous caretaking experience extended only to the exotic fish tanks scattered among his workstations, opens his doors as a refuge. In the ramshackle Morgue, victim to persecution and violence, he accompanies his male guests as they suffer through the lifeless anticipation of certain death, eventually leaving the wistful narrator in complete, ill-fated isolation.

Bajar es lo peor (Going down is the worst):

With gothic resonances, Enríquez shows crudely the Buenos Aires of the 90's. The confinement and the paranoia of cocaine, sex as a means to escape or survive, political unbelief, mix with a romantic love that never reaches satisfaction. There's also a movie. TW: drugs, prostitution, rape, suicide.

Loco afán (Mad eagerness):

These "chronicles of aids" narrate stories of homosexuality in Latin America, focused on drag, transvestites and AIDS.

Sirena Selena vestida de pena:

Discovered by Martha Divine in the backstreets of San Juan, picking over garbage, drugged out of his mind and singing boleros that transfix the listener, a fifteen year old hustler is transformed into Sirena Selena, a diva whose uncanny beauty and irrisistable voice will be their ticket to fame and fortune. Auditioning for one of the luxury hotels in the Dominican Republic, Selena casts her spell over Hugo Graubel, one of the hotel's rich investors. Graubel is a powerful man in the Republic, married with children. Selena, determined to escape the poverty and abuse s/he suffered as a child, engages Graubel in a long seduction in this mordant, intensely lyrical tragi-comedy - part masque, part cabaret - about identity (class, race, gender) and "the hunger and desire to be other things."

Tengo miedo torero (My tender matador):

It is the spring of 1986, and Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet is losing his grip on power. In one of Santiago’s many poor neighborhoods, a man known as the Queen of the Corner embroiders linens for the wealthy. A hopeless and lonely romantic, he listens to boleros to drown out the gunshots. Then he meets Carlos, a young, handsome man who befriends the aging homosexual and uses his house to store mysterious boxes and hold clandestine meetings. And as the relationship between these two very different men blossoms, they find themselves caught in a revolution that could doom them both. There's also a movie.

Adiós mariquita linda (Goodbye pretty pansy):

Chronicles of ire, delation, passion, resentment and loves. Stories of different cities and travels.

Sexografías (Sexographies):

In fierce and sumptuous first-person accounts, renowned Peruvian journalist Gabriela Wiener records infiltrating the most dangerous Peruvian prison, participating in sexual exchanges in swingers clubs, traveling the dark paths of the Bois de Boulogne in Paris in the company of transvestites and prostitutes, undergoing a complicated process of egg donation, and participating in a ritual of ayahuasca ingestion in the Amazon jungle--all while taking us on inward journeys that explore immigration, maternity, fear of death, ugliness, and threesomes. Fortunately, our eagle-eyed voyeur emerges from her narrative forays unscathed and ready to take on the kinks, obsessions, and messiness of our lives. Sexographies is an eye-opening, kamikaze journey across the contours of the human body and mind.

Los topos (The moles):

The son of missing persons of the Dictatorship casually meets a half-brother who poses as a transvestite to investigate ex repressors and cops.

La virgen cabeza (Slum virgin):

When the Virgin Mary appears to Cleopatra, she renounces sex work and takes charge of the shantytown she lives in, transforming it into a tiny utopia. Ambitious journalist Quity knows she’s found the story of the year when she hears about it, but her life is changed forever once she finds herself irrevocably seduced by the captivating subject of her article.

Falsa liebre (False hare):

The darkness at the port engulfs everything. Pachi and Vinicio go deeper into the beach, approaching an improvised party. They are looking for something to numb their bodies, something to finally erase themselves. Summer has been long, and that day was much worse. Not far from there, Zahir fantasizes about his next travel to the capital city or the northern part of Mexico, away from the aunt who keeps asking him for money, controls him through physical violence, and has driven his little brother, Andrik, to run away from the family home and end up in another: a man’s house, who caresses Andrik and then strikes him with the same hand. Now Zahir must not only convince Andrik to start a new life, but make sure they find a way out of that seemingly endless beach. TW: rape, prostitution, violence.

Ladrilleros (Brickmakers):

Oscar Tamai and Elvio Miranda, the patriarchs of two families of brickmakers, have for years nursed a mutual hatred, but their teenage sons, Pájaro and Ángelito, somehow fell in love. Brickmakers begins as Pájaro and Marciano, Ángelito’s older brother, lie dying in the mud at the base of a Ferris wheel. Inhabiting a dreamlike state between life and death, they recall the events that forced them to pay the price of their fathers’ petty feud. The Tamai and Miranda families are caught, like the Capulets and the Montagues, in an almost mythic conflict, one that emerges from stubborn pride and intractable machismo. Like her heralded debut, The Wind That Lays Waste, Selva Almada’s fierce and tender second novel is an unforgettable portrayal of characters who initially seem to stand in opposition, but are ultimately revealed to be bound by their similarities. TW: violence.

Cuerpo a tierra (Body to the ground):

We aren't always owners of our own decisions, sometimes we´re pulled by an irrecognizable impulse and, sometimes, the only truth is that of the body. Betrayal and deception, love and heartbreak, love and search are the protagonists of these stories.

Temporada de huracanes (Hurricane season):

The Witch is dead. And the discovery of her corpse has the whole village investigating the murder. As the novel unfolds in a dazzling linguistic torrent, with each unreliable narrator lingering on new details, new acts of depravity or brutality, Melchor extracts some tiny shred of humanity from these characters—inners whom most people would write off as irredeemable—forming a lasting portrait of a damned Mexican village. There will be a movie by the end of the year. TW: rape, paedophilia, prostitution.

Pelea de gallos (Cockfight):

Ampuero sheds light on the hidden aspects of the home: the grotesque realities of family, coming of age, religion, and class struggle. A family’s maids witness a horrible cycle of abuse, a girl is auctioned off by a gang of criminals, and two sisters find themselves at the mercy of their spiteful brother. With violence masquerading as love, characters spend their lives trapped reenacting their past traumas. Heralding a brutal and singular new voice, Cockfight explores the power of the home to both create and destroy those within it. TW: rape, incest, violence.

Las aventuras de la China Iron (The adventures of China Iron):

1872. The pampas of Argentina. China is a young woman eking out an existence in a remote gaucho encampment. After her no-good husband is conscripted into the army, China bolts for freedom, setting off on a wagon journey through the pampas in the company of her new-found friend Liz, a settler from Scotland. While Liz provides China with a sentimental education and schools her in the nefarious ways of the British Empire, their eyes are opened to the wonders of Argentina’s richly diverse flora and fauna, cultures and languages, as well as to the ruthless violence involved in nation-building.

Mandíbula (Jawbone):

Fernanda and Annelise are so close they are practically sisters: a double image, inseparable. So how does Fernanda end up bound on the floor of a deserted cabin, held hostage by one of her teachers and estranged from Annelise? When Fernanda, Annelise, and their friends from the Delta Bilingual Academy convene after school, Annelise leads them in thrilling but increasingly dangerous rituals to a rhinestoned, Dior-scented, drag-queen god of her own invention. Even more perilous is the secret Annelise and Fernanda share, rooted in a dare in which violence meets love. Meanwhile, their literature teacher Miss Clara, who is obsessed with imitating her dead mother, struggles to preserve her deteriorating sanity. Each day she edges nearer to a total break with reality. TW: violence, cannibalism.

Las malas (Bad girls):

A trans woman's coming-of-age tale about finding a community among fellow outcasts. Born in the small Argentine town of Mina Clavero, Camila is designated male but begins to identify from an early age as a girl. She is well aware that she's different from other children and reacts to her oppressive, poverty-stricken home life, with a cowed mother and abusive, alcoholic father, by acting out-with swift consequences. Deeply intelligent, she eventually leaves for the city to attend university, slipping into prostitution to make ends meet. And in Sarmiento Park, in the heart of Córdoba, she discovers the strange, wonderful world of the trans sex workers who dwell there. Taken under the wing of Auntie Encarna, the 178-year-old eternal whose house shelters this unconventional extended family, Camila becomes a part of their stories-of a Headless Man who fled his country's wars, a mute young woman who transforms into a bird, an abandoned baby boy who brings a twinkle to your eye. TW: rape, prostitution, transphobia, murder, child death.

Nuestra parte de noche (Our share of the night):

A young father and son set out on a road trip, devastated by the death of the wife and mother they both loved. United in grief, the pair travel to her ancestral home, where they must confront the terrifying legacy she has bequeathed: a family called the Order that commits unspeakable acts in search of immortality. For Gaspar, the son, this maniacal cult is his destiny. As the Order tries to pull him into their evil, he and his father take flight, attempting to outrun a powerful clan that will do anything to ensure its own survival. But how far will Gaspar’s father go to protect his child? And can anyone escape their fate? Moving back and forth in time, from London in the swinging 1960s to the brutal years of Argentina’s military dictatorship and its turbulent aftermath.

Tesis sobre una domesticación (Thesis about a domestication):

A single transvestite is enough to undermine the foundations of a house, to untie the knots of compromise, to break a promise, to give up a life. The familiy clings to brief moments of happiness without noticing it´s been defeated since the start.

La hija única (Still born):

Alina and Laura are independent and career-driven women in their mid-thirties, neither of whom have built their future around the prospect of a family. Laura is so determined not to become a mother that she has taken the drastic decision to have her tubes tied. But when she announces this to her friend, she learns that Alina has made the opposite decision and is preparing to have a child of her own. Alina's pregnancy shakes the women's lives, first creating distance and then a remarkable closeness between them. When Alina's daughter survives childbirth – after a diagnosis that predicted the opposite – and Laura becomes attached to her neighbor's son, both women are forced to reckon with the complexity of their emotions, their needs, and the needs of the people who are dependent upon them. TW: child disease, family violence.

Huaco retrato (Undiscovered):

In an ethnographic museum in Paris, Gabriela Wiener is confronted with her unusual inheritance. She is visiting an exhibition of pre-Columbian artefacts, the spoils of European colonial plunder. As she peers through the glass, she sees sculptures of Indigenous faces that resemble her own - but the man responsible for pillaging them was her own great-great-grandfather, Austrian colonial explorer Charles Wiener. In the wake of her father's death, Gabriela begins delving into all she has inherited from her paternal line. From the brutal trail of racism and theft that Charles left behind to revelations of her father's infidelity, she traces a legacy of abandonment, jealousy and colonial violence, in turn reframing her own struggles with desire, love and race. Seeking relief from these personal and historical wounds, Gabriela turns to the body and desire as sources of both constraint and potential freedom.

Sacrificios humanos (Human sacrifices):

An undocumented woman answers a job posting only to find herself held hostage, a group of outcasts obsess over popular boys drowned while surfing, and two girls suspect sinister behavior from the missionaries lodging in their home. Simultaneously terrifying and exquisite, Human Sacrifices is "tropical gothic" at its finest. Ampuero considers the decay and oppression beneath the surface of our humid and hostile world, where those on the margins must pay the price for the comfort and safety of the elite. These twelve stories contemplate the nature of exploitation and abuse, illuminating the realities of those society consumes and leaves behind.

Soy una tonta por quererte (I'm a fool to want you):

In the 1990s, a woman makes a living as a rental girlfriend for gay men. In a Harlem den, a travesti gets to know none other than Billie Holiday. A group of rugby players haggle over the price of a night of sex, and in return they get what they deserve. Nuns, grandmothers, children, and dogs are never what they seem. These 9 stories are inhabited by extravagant and profoundly human characters who face an ominous reality in ways as strange as themselves.

Las indignas (The unworthy):

A searing, dystopian tale about climate crisis, ideological extremism, and the tidal pull of our most violent, exploitative instincts. TW: death, animal death, rape, cults.

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Tadeusz Pankiewicz

Tadeusz Pankiewicz was a Polish pharmacist who helped the starving, suffering Jewish residents of the Krakow ghetto by providing them with medicine, food, and other lifesaving supplies.

Born in Sambor, Poland in 1908, Tadeusz studied at the prestigious Jagiellonian University in Krakow. In 1933 he took over the family business: a small pharmacy called Under the Eagle. Germany invaded Poland in 1939, but Tadeusz’s quiet life and successful small business were mostly unaffected, until 1941, when the Nazis forced the city’s 15,000 Jews into a ghetto.

Tadeusz’s pharmacy happened to be within the ghetto’s borders. The Nazis shut down other businesses and essential services in the ghetto to make it impossible for Jews to get food and other necessities, but Tadeusz refused to close his store. He bribed the Gestapo, using his own savings, to keep Under the Eagle open. Tadeusz was inspired by his Catholic faith to stay and help people however he could.

Conditions in the ghetto were horrific. There was never enough food, and every day residents died of starvation or illness; others were shot in the street by Nazi soldiers. Medicine of any kind was almost impossible to obtain, except from Tadeusz, who provided health care and pharmaceuticals for free to residents of the ghetto. He also provided them with lifesaving products such as hair dye to disguise their identity and tranquilizers to keep children quiet during Gestapo raids.

Tadeusz’s pharmacy became the go-to place for Jews to meet, plan underground activities and acts of defiance, and get lifesaving care and equipment. Tadeusz and his pharmacy employees Irena Drozdzikowska, Helena Krywaniuk, and Aurelia Danek put their lives at significant risk to help the Jews of the Krakow ghetto. Besides medicine, supplies and a safe place to meet, the brave pharmacist and his staff shared their meager wartime food rations, and hid Jews on the property during deportations. They were able to smuggle some Jews out of the ghetto and take them to hiding places where they would be safe.

Tadeusz actually befriended German soldiers to get information from them! He got them drunk and cleverly manipulated them into telling him about planned actions against Jews so he could warn them. Another service Tadeusz to the Jews trapped in the ghetto was acting as intermediary between them and the Poles with whom they left their valuables.

Among the people who met in secret in the pharmacy were prominent figures such as writer Mordechai Gebirtig and artist Abraham Neumann, who were tragically shot by the Germans in the ghetto in the infamous Bloody Thursday of June 4, 1942. Julian Aleksandrowicz survived the war to become a doctor and medical professor who specialized in the treatment of leukemia. Dr Abraham Mirowski, another Jew saved by Tadeuszm later said that the kind pharmacist was “living among us, was continuously exposed to dangers, but it did not make him scared. He was full of sympathy for our tragedy and wanted to help us with all his heart. Each death of a man or a woman was a traumatic experience for him.”

After the war, Tadeusz stayed in Krakow and, in 1947, he published his memoirs of life under German occupation. He continued working as a pharmacist. In 1957, some of the Jews he’d saved brought him for a visit to Israel as their guest. Tadeusz was honored as Righteous Among the Nations by Israeli Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem in 1983.

Tadeusz Pankiewicz died in Krakow in 1993. His pharmacy is now a museum about the history of the Jews of Krakow, with special focus on the ghetto years. Tadeusz and his brave staff are also a featured museum exhibit.

For helping Jews in the Krakow ghetto, we honor Tadeusz Pankiewicz as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[justchelleing]

hmm I hope I did this right :'D

- Where's My love, SYML w/ Dazai :o + romantic !

Where's My Love?

Pairing: Dazai Osamu x Gn! Reader

Type: Oneshot

Genre: Angst

Warnings: major character death, implied suicide, blood descriptions, mentions of death, cutting, implied death.

Synopsis: Dazai always tries to find his lover and when he sees them, he only says a 'hello' but never did he say his goodbye.

A/n: Thank you for requesting! Reader is refered to as 'them' or 'they'. Hope you'll like this! Dw you did it correct! Italic for flashbacks

Event // Ada.Masterlist // M.Masterlist

There was nothing he could feel, he held the cold and lifeless corpse of his lover; just as he did to his dear friend a few days ago. Cold pulse, it was the only thing he could find; coldness, just as who he was before he met them. How hard he tried to find the love they once held in their eyes. He didn't mind his bleeding hand, he could only focus on holding them. His bloodied hand was mostly theirs and a small mix of his. The tears that dripped to his scarred hand made it sting; just like a wound topped with salt. He tried to make their heart beat once again but it was hopeless, they only held him dearly—as if they were fine and smiled before their eyes completely shut; never to open again. He screamed their name at the top of his lungs before he slowly laid their body on the floor, just like they were resting. He walked away, numb tears escaping his hazel eyes. The room was illuminated by the warm sun they once loved, and the crimson blood was oozing out of the three bullet holes on their chest. He tightly clenched his hand, not minding how much it hurt from the wound. The rain started to pour while the bright and orange sunset was covered with dark, thundering storms. He walked away, turning his back on everything, the Port Mafia, Chūya, his crimes, Oda and you.

"Dazai-san? Are you there? Kunikida-san called me and told me to go to work with you." Atsushi knocked on a small apartment room owned by the Agency.

Dazai sat up and looks at his hand again. It was clean, no blood was leaving his body through a wound that once was. A mark was left there, a memoir that the day he got that wound was the one where he failed to save you.

"That dream again.."

A few tears escapes his eyes and landed itself on his hand, just as that day. He wiped them away after hearing Atsushi knock on the door again.

"Yeah I'm here Atsushi-kun!" He said through the door, trying to sound as cheerful as possible though his voice came out dry and hoarse.

"Are you okay Dazai-san? Are you sick?!" Atsushi asks, his tone full of worry and franty.

"Nop! I just woke up so please wait for me in a few minutes Atsushi-kun!" He said in his usual cheery tone making Atsushi sigh in relief. Dazai's words soon registered in his mind, and he began to panic.

"But Kunikida-san will scold both of us for being late!"

"It's fineee! Its just going to be the same old Kunikida!" He tried explaining while ramaging through his drawer, trying to find his bandages.

"But—"

"I'm gonna be quick Atsushi-kun, I'm just going to dress! You don't want me to go to the agency shirtless do you?" He said in a spiteful voice, wrapping his arms, hands, neck and torso with leftover bandages.

"eww no!"

"exactly" Dazai replied before wearing his shirt and vest. He glances at the scar again before opening the door and throwing in his overcoat.

"Let's go Atsushi-kun!"

He skipped to the agency with Atsushi behind him. They got scolded by Kunikida but it the end he was the one that took his hour long lecture and Dazai got punished by him.

The day passed again, and the moon showed in the midnight sky. Dazai was laying in his futon, staring at the dark ceiling, bottles of sake throws across the floor. He turned his head beside and saw them, a worried look was plastered on their face as they looked at him. He knew that his mind was playing games with him, despite that he came to caress their cheek to feel their warmth; but they disappeared, and his hand only met the cold and empty sheets beside. He clenched his fists tight before standing up and grabbing his overcoat and leaving his messy apartment. Walking in the dark streets lighted by the faint moonlight, was something both of them used to do. He gently smiled at the small memory before continuing to walk, he arrived at a small greeny fields in the outskirts of the city.

"Darling! Osamu! Wait up!" They said before panting.

"You really need to run faster my love!" He turned around and saw them with furrowed eyebrows. He chuckled before going to them.

"You're so unfair! I'm on my slippers because you called me and told me it was an emergency!" They pouted, taking his assistance and grabbing his hand for support.

"It is an emergency! I was bored and I missed you!" He pointed out.

"Haii.. whatever.. Don't you dare try to lie to me" They sighed shooting him a worried look before caressing his bruised cheek, and he leaned on her hand.

"What do you mean love?" He sent them a cheeky smile, trying to feign innocence and ignorance.

"Osamu." They said his name in a serious tone, and he only laid his head down.

"I-its nothing" He quietly muttered, getting closer to them, trying to feel their warmth.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm here" The hand cupping his cheeks snaked it's way to the back of his head, as he leaned his head into their shoulder.

Their hand slowly and gently patted the back of his head while he hugged them. The silent crickets are the only thing that was heard. He felt scared, he didn't want them to know his line of job in fear that they would leave him. They were a civilian and he was a mafioso—no an executive of the Port Mafia, the rulers of the night. He needed comfort, he wanted to tell them how his friend betrayed them and now the other was dead; but he couldn't, he was afraid of them abandoning him too. Nobody spoke a word, they didn't bother to ask him more, they just waited for him to open up. They gently hummed a tune as they waited for him, their voice was like a lullaby that comforted a scared and crying child.

The event plays on his mind, seeing illusions of that day in the fields, he could not remember what happened afterwards. He put his hands on the pockets of his overcoat as his fingertips got colder and colder. Walking to a small cliff near the ocean, a name was carved in a rock just near the edge, beside it, was a fresh bouquet of roses. He leaned against the grave as he closed his eyes, reminiscing the old memories.

"Hello love... I missed you" He gently smiled, feeling the cold breeze pass.

A faint voice whispered comfort in his ear.

"I missed you too.. tell me.. is that little girl, the one you told me about—Kyoka, I think—is she okay?"

He felt his hair ruffle, as if someone was playing it just like they did. He wanted to open his eyes to know who it was, but he knew that they would disappear just as he looks behind. He knew that he was just thinking how they would respond but he didn't mind it.

"Mhm.. the conflict was over and the Moby Dick returned to the ocean... Kyoka's now home with the agency" He whispered, trying to feel their warm.

"That's good.. How is the agency treating you.?"

"hmm.. Atsushi-kun is as usually kind.—" he faintly smiled.

"—oh, Kunikida tied me to a chair earlier and beat me up because I was late, it hurt a lot. Ouch" He dramatically whispered and they faintly laughed in return. Silence once again came, the howling winds and the clashing waves are the only things that can be hear besides his lone heartbeat.

"Come back to me please.." His voice cracked. He heard no response, he opened his eyes and looked behind to see nothing but a view of the night sky and the dancing leaves. A part of the cloudy sky was clear, showing the moon perfectly, as if it made way for someone to go high above.

"I'll go to you soon love.. and if the heavens forbid it... I'll fight against God myself just to return to your embrace" He sat up and glanced at the grave once again before finally returning to his apartment.

He closed his door and muttered a small "I'm home" hoping for someone to respond. Taking off his shoes and overcoat, he took a blade from his bathroom drawer, and then made himself comfortable in the bathtub. He rolled up his sleeves and sat up, positioning the blade just perfectly on the veins in his wrist. With one quick and deep slash, blood started gushing out of his left wrist. He winced in pain, taking the blade once again, he slashed his right wrist; it was less deep than the cut in his other wrist but nonetheless, it was deep. Blood started to drip to his garments and bathtub, his vision started to blur and he leaned completely to the wall, closing his eyes. At the last moments of his life, he remembered what happened after that day.

"Hey... If you don't want to tell me it's okay, but don't ever try to hide your emotions from me.." They smiled at him, their fingers playing with his hair.

"What do you mean? I don't hide them—" He left their embrace and tried to put on a facade.

"Osamu. You don't need to hide them" They said, walking upfront, their voice was full of calmness, just like a lullaby. Their arms was behind them, their right hand holding their left arm

"Fine... But let me ask you this then." He looked at their back with a serious tone.

"Why did you come in the middle of the night to a cliff just because I told you to do so?" He asked, his gaze following them as they walked forward to the edge, admiring the moon. They continued to hum before they responded to his question.

"Because I love you" They turned around and smiled at him. They put a strand of hair behind their ear, as the wind passed by.

"mmm.." He opened his eyes to see their illusion planting a kiss on his forehead.

"I..finally..found..you...." His voice slowly faded into nothing but air.

It was as if time stopped for a mere second. The pain that engulfed him whole was now only faint. Their warmness returned to him and his vision completely faded to black, submitting to the sleepiness he held after hearing them hum his favorite tune...

[graceisinthelibrary]

How about #2 from the prompt list.

Sorry, but this took a while and it's too long... It's set between the episodes 5.5 and 5.6.

“You’re burning up! Like a match!” 

“Nonsense! Bugger off!” The mere idea was preposterous. Siegfried stared at his brother, the smug beggar, and wished him to the moon or at least back to Doncaster. He did his best to ignore the heat in his cheeks and hoped his beard would sufficiently cover his unease, before anyone else noticed it. 

Tristan chuckled and picked up the manuscript, the tome, as Siegfried had baptised it and gave the title a closer look. “Ancient Persia, eh? A memoir… anything racy?” With another giggle he dropped the volume to the desk. Dust exploded, dancing in the sunlight of the late spring morning. 

Siegfried wished his embarrassment about his feeble attempts at dating were less distinctive. It rubbed him the wrong way that everyone thought he was a lonely old man without any prospects in love. Well, he was getting older, no doubt about that. His aching bones spoke volumes about his age and so did his reading glasses, but none of this meant he wasn’t interesting to women. He was rusty, admittedly. But he wasn’t past his prime. Mrs Hall had said so, Carmody had reminded him about it, but Tristan had a field day with it. 

Somewhere behind him, he heard Mrs Hall moving about. She was giving the dining room a thorough dusting and although she would never say anything to embarrass him, he knew she was well aware of his interest in Miss Grantley. There was nothing happening in this household that she wasn’t aware of. He felt the heat in his cheeks intensifying as he tried to fathom whether she had an opinion about the matter or not. 

Did she think of him as a fool for trying his luck? 

Did she find him pathetic by getting into Miss Grantley’s good graces by reading her book? 

Tristan apparently did and he knew Helen good enough to know, she was thinking the same. James was perhaps the only one who didn’t bother to phrase his opinion and he was glad for his partner’s discretion. 

He had read his way half through the manuscript by now and didn’t know what to make of it. Catherine Grantley’s grammar lacked some things to be desired, and the story of her life seemed indeed racy. A bit too racy for his taste, but then what did he know about life and love in Persia? He wasn’t stuffy, but he wasn’t sure he enjoyed various descriptions of liaisons in the desert. 

In the corner of his eyes he watched Mrs Hall as she picked up Evelyn’s picture and cautiously cleaned it. She placed it gently back on the piano before she moved on to the next object, a small clock. The almost loving way with which Audrey Hall looked after Evelyn’s memory touched him and made him wonder about Miss Grantley and the late husband she barely remembered. 

The phone rang and sensing this was the opportunity to get rid of Tris, he barked at his brother to answer ‘the bloody phone’. Tris’ refusal, rooting in his amusement, vanished when Mrs Hall used her feather duster and her stern gaze on him. Once again she had saved him, but he didn’t want to show her how much Tristan’s teasing bothered him. 

“Just ignore him,” she said softly. “You know how he is.” 

“You mean he’s an annoying busybody. Worse than the vicar’s wife!” 

“He means well. He wants you to be happy.” 

“Well, I would be a lot happier if people stopped bothering me!” He snapped. Mrs Hall was the last person who deserved his gruff, but he didn’t know how to cope. He stared at the manuscript and sighed, annoyed with himself. “Is it that bad?” She asked, leaving it open if she was referring to the book or the woman herself. 

“Bosworth was right, you know.” He shoved the book into his drawer and shut it forcefully. “I’m all played out. Maybe I should join him for some bingo session on Friday night in the church hall.” 

Now it was her turn to chuckle. “You better not. You have no idea how the widows long for an eligible widower who’s still in possession of his own teeth and hair.” Despite his wish to be grumpy she just made him laugh. He looked at her and realised how cute she looked. The duster was stuck under her armpit and one of the feathers had come loose and was entangled with her hair. He longed to pull it out, but that would perhaps be considered overstepping. There was a roguishness about the way she smiled at him, that restored his good mood though and so he let her go without mentioning the feather. 

His eyes followed her trail down the hall. Suddenly he thought that he maybe should tell Miss Grantley about her grammar mistakes and some minor content-related improvements for her literary work. 

On her way into the kitchen Audrey thought about Siegfried and his sudden wish to impress that archeologist or whatever that lady did for a living. She couldn’t help but feel that she had put the bug in his ear when she had told him not to compare himself to Bosworth and that there was plenty in life ahead of him. And she had meant it. Their temper aside, the men didn’t have much in common. 

So, why did it bother her that he was trying to get into the good graces of this exotic stranger? From what Carmody had told her, Miss Grantley was an alien figure to begin with. Nice, but also… aloof? If Richard Carmody noticed as much she must be a handful. 

Lost in her thoughts, she entered her pantry and listlessly collected the ingredients she needed to prepare lunch. As she put the pan on the stove, Siegfried entered the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. 

“I can do that,” she offered and looked at him. 

He just smiled and shook his head. “Mrs Hall… May I?” 

Confused, she blinked, as he raised his hand and pointed at her head. 

“Course…” 

He slowly pulled out the feather and showed it to her. “A bit rogue that one,” he said. She took it and smiled at him. “Thank you for restoring me dignity.” 

“Thank you, Mrs Hall,” he said and when she crooked her eyebrow, puzzled, he added, “For being you.” 

[sea-salted-wolverine]

The worst part of wild game processing is not the stalk or the kill or the cleaning or the skinning or the gutting. It is not the washing or the washing or the washing or the endless washing or the asking yourself just how much organ meet you're actually going to eat, or even the industrial grade sanitization and the Sharpening Of The Knives.

Its when you finish all that, you've been as meticulous as it is possible to be and you could probably preform successful orthopedic surgery on a hare because you have been that precise in the careful process of butchery. When every surface and object in your kitchen has been bloodied and washed and sanitized and bloodied again. It's when you are packaging your finished product for the freezer, a store for future days, memoirs of successful hunts and days spent in the wild, and you look down at this meat that will feed you and some fucking how there is still a tuft of fur stuck to it.

[aroaessidhe]

aro & ace books: nonbinary (adult/NA)

The Bruising of Qilwa - fantasy, nonbinary aroace MC

Our Bloody Pearl - fantasy, an agender aroace siren MC

Màgòdiz - postapoc/fantasy, one of the MCs is nonbinary/two spirit & aroace

A Milky Way Home - contemporary romance, nonbinary transmasc demiaro ace MC

Gender Queer - memoir, genderqueer & acespec author/MC

Werecockroach - scifi novella, aroace agender MC

Catastrophe Incoming - fantasy, one of the MCs is demi

The Thread That Binds - fantasy, 2 ace & aroace agender MCs

The Chronicles of Nerezia - fantasy, 2 nonbinary aroace MCs

She Who Became The Sun - a nonbinary acespec MC

The Unbalancing - fantasy, nonbinary demi MC, nonbinary aroace SC

Blasted Research - postapoc/scifi, nonbinary ace MC

Help Wanted - low fantasy, gender questioning (grey)ace MC

Tears In The Water - contemporary romance, gender-and-ace-questioning MC

The Wolf Among The Wild Hunt - fantasy, nonbinary aroace QPR-LI

#aspec books / aspec database / tumblr masterpost

[lapumpkinmusic]

[j-psilas]

Each row is curated around a theme or idea, designed to give you An Experience™ when you read/watch/play all five from left to right.

Places That Awaken Us: Halloween (1978), Little Nightmares (2017), The Lighthouse (2019), The Shining (1980), Silent Hill 2 (2001)

Trials of Possession: The Exorcist (1971) and Legion (1983), The Exorcist III (1990), Faith: The Unholy Trinity (2022), The Babadook (2014), When Evil Lurks (2023)

Fractured Self, Tortured Self: The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner (1824), Perfect Blue (1997), Father of Lies (1998), Inside Mari (2012-2016), Slay the Princess (2023-2024)

The Dark Feminine: Carmilla (1872), The Witch (2015), The Bloody Chamber (1979), Ringu (1998), Rule of Rose (2006)

Now is the Time of Monsters: De Bello Civili, or Pharsalia (61-65 AD), Dracula (1897), Between Two Fires (2012), Fear & Hunger (2018), Fear & Hunger 2: Termina (2022)

Witness the Unspeakable: The Three Impostors (1895), The Great God Pan (1894) and The Hill of Dreams (1907), The King in Yellow (1895), "The Color Out of Space" (1927), Bloodborne (2015)

Family, Love, Obsession: "The Fall of the House of Usher" (1839), Crimson Peak (2015), Saltburn (2023), The Gift (2015), Creep (2014)

"Have You Read Devilman? Trick Question.": Devilman (1972-1973), Berserk (1989- ), Demon's Souls (2009), Death Note (2006-2007), Chainsaw Man (2018- )

Several of these categories have some crossover. Rule of Rose definitely also belongs in "Places That Awaken Us," and Devilman belongs in "Now is the Time of Monsters," as does Demon's Souls.

I could go on and on, but I won't list them all. Draw your own connections, if you like, and please recommend more texts to go in these categories!

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

PLEASE LOOK UP CONTENT WARNINGS FOR EVERY SINGLE ITEM ON THESE LISTS. THERE ARE TOO MANY FOR ME TO LIST INDIVIDUALLY.

[my-coven-is-claudia]

Daniel, Louis and their “strange alliance”

this quote from eric from a pre-season 2 interview has been rattling inside my brain for far too long so i want to break down a scene from season 1 that has gained some newly-found importance.

in 1x02 daniel and louis sit down to have dinner as louis recounts an experience of attending the opera with lestat and its bloody end. what’s most interesting about this sequence is less so to do with what happened at loustat’s opera date but more so this surprisingly touching moment between louis and daniel.

it starts off with louis mentioning how the dessert served for him and daniel is taken from a off-handed remark in daniel’s memoir.

this suggests A LOT. it seems to imply that louis has attentively read daniel’s memoir and likely has a genuine vested interest in daniel as a person outside of what he can do for him in relation to rejigging his jumbled memories. you can’t tell from this screenshot but he almost seems embarrassed that he went to such lengths with making sure to serve up this exact dessert that daniel mentioned. and the fact that it was an “offhanded remark” also drives me insane. he either read through daniel’s memoir and specifically noted down this mention about the dessert or realised that he wanted to share a meal with daniel and proceeded to scour his memoir in order to find mentions of food he likes. there is also the possibility that he asked one of his servants to read through the book again but we know for sure that louis read daniel’s memoir himself at some point. whatever the case louis went to the effort of making sure daniel would get to eat something familiar and that he most definitely liked. he did that to make daniel feel comfortable.

this is especially significant as louis chooses to eat this dessert alongside daniel, despite the fact that it tastes like “paste” to him. he is actively choosing to eat something that tastes like gruel to him essentially and for what?? to appear less monstrous? to comfort daniel? maybe show that he still has some humanity left in him. it’s important to mention that this is in the aftermath of daniel confronting louis about how human readers likely won’t be sympathetic to louis and lestat’s need for blood to survive. however, it doesn’t come across as a calculated move to appear more appeasing to potential readers. this seems wholly for daniel’s sake.

louis - for whatever reason - is intentionally presenting himself as approachable and human to daniel.

this is followed up by daniel seemingly picking up on louis’s offer for connection and opening up about the woman that’s on everyone’s mind currently: alice.

daniel details how he proposed to alice in paris in a cafe (which lines up with the story he tells in 2x02) and names the street that it was located on. louis recognises this and verbalises it.

this is yet another grasp for connection, of understanding, between louis and daniel. louis wants to show daniel that he’s genuinely interested in his story, in him as a person by showing that’s he actively listening to him.

now, what we’ve all been waiting for.

this moment is the whole reason why i want to tear this scene apart!! this is probably up there with daniel offering louis a break in 2x01 as one of the most sincere and vulnerable moments we’ve gotten from daniel, a typically cold and sarcastic character. whatever you think about the alice-armand parallels and who exactly he is truly talking about here, daniel is fondly speaking of someone now estranged from him. he remembers the little details about her, an insecurity that she was ashamed of that he completely adored! he loved her for who she was, imperfections and all.

and to top this all off daniel closes his laptop! he ends the session! he likely does this out of a mixture of embarrassment that he’s rambled about his ex-wife live on tape but also maybe a sign to louis that he’s taking this seriously. that he’s appreciative of him trying to meet him on his level. that this moment was real. by stripping away the symbol of the supposedly strictly professional nature of this reunion he may be signalling that this conversation is indeed important to him.

and the fact that daniel is able to even have this vulnerable moment with louis at all, reminiscing over his lost love (whilst louis is doing something very similar with lestat) is so intriguing! obviously louis and daniel are most definitely not strangers to one another but they aren’t best friends either. they haven’t seen each other in decades and for daniel especially this has been a very abrupt reunion. whether he likes it not, daniel likely relates on some level to louis’s complex feelings towards lestat, his lover. like louis, daniel may not miss his relationship with alice in relation to the toxic dynamic they shared (slight guess here but the revelation that she initially rejected his proposal suggests to me that their relationship was a bit rocky at least) but he most definitely misses her as a person and the memory of their time together.

finally, what closes off this scene is this… odd expression from louis. not entirely sure if i’m being too optimistic when i say that louis may be sympathising with daniel here but admittedly he does seem a little confused as well. but if this truly is meant to be a look of contempt i feel like it would’ve been more akin to louis’s more obviously disgusted reaction to the coven’s play in 2x02. instead, in this scene, i think louis simply did not expect daniel to so openly accept his offer of connection and is just stunned to hear this bristly old man reflect his own feelings so accurately. he’s finally found someone who understands his situation with lestat. someone who understands this dichotomy of longing and anguish all at the same time. obviously, their situations are not a 1:1 but this scene has always stood out to me as a parallel between daniel and louis’s previous relationships.

a key part about this whole daniel and louis form a “strange alliance” thing is that it seems to stem from the two men realising that they have a lot more in common than they initially believed. that’s why it’s “strange”: because it’s unexpected.

although in recent episodes they’re definitely at odds with each other, this scene combined with other sprinklings of subtle moments of connection suggest to me that daniel might become a genuine friend to louis. it is a strange friendship but they both want to get to the bottom of louis’s memories. no one else in dubai is able to tell louis how it really is and is able to actually push him to question the lies he’s been fed (and that he’s fed himself). intentionally or not, daniel is looking out for louis and is indirectly helping him to accept his past mistakes. maybe he sometimes pushes him too hard or says some stuff he probably shouldn’t but ultimately daniel is the catalyst for louis actually remembering the truth. without him louis would not have come as far as he as over the course of the series

[whencyclopedia]

Zheng Yi

Zheng Yi (also Cheng I, Ching Yih, Cheng Yao-I, Cheng Wen-Hsien, or Cheng Yud) was a Chinese pirate who lived from 1765 to 1807. Operating in the South China Sea, Zheng Yi famously led a 600-ship pirate confederation. This force of more than 40,000 men was divided into six fleets and it terrorized merchant ships of all nationalities travelling between Hong Kong and Malaysia.

Zheng Yi's personal fleet was the Red Flag Fleet, so-called because each ship flew a flag of that colour to distinguish it from other ships in the pirate confederation that flew flags of another colour. Looting cargoes of gold, silver, silk and spices, Zheng Yi's pirates also attacked coastal towns and villages and demanded protection money. Following Zheng Yi's death in 1807, the pirate confederation was successfully taken over by his widow, Zheng Yi Sao (aka Ching Shih).

Early Career

Zheng Yi came from a long line of pirates and so he fully appreciated the risks and opportunities of taking merchant ships on the High Seas from a young age. He seems also to have participated in wars involving rebels in Vietnam. In some European documents, he is described as a hunchback.

Returning to China in 1801, Zheng Yi selected Kwangtung Province as his base. He operated in the South China Sea from Vietnam to Hong Kong, taking advantage of the busy shipping routes from China to Vietnam and back again, as well as ships on the China-to-Malaysia trade routes. By 1802, Zheng Yi had established himself as the pirate chief in this area, a position formerly held by his cousin (or uncle) Cheng Chi (1760-1802). Targets ranged from small local fishing vessels to intercontinental merchant ships. The latter class of ships carried gold and silver as well as valuable cargoes like rolls of silk, spices, Chinese porcelain, cotton, and tea. The pirates made such frequent attacks on ships in the Canton area (modern Guangzhou) and around the small islands that dotted the Canton River Delta that European sailors called the area and the people who haunted it the Ladrones (meaning thieves or brigands). When the pirates could not find sufficient provisions on the ships they captured, they attacked and looted coastal villages.

The captured cargoes were sold on to merchants eager to get their hands on discounted goods while corrupt officials were given bribes to turn a blind eye to the illicit trade. Zheng Yi had no qualms about taking European vessels that were not too heavily armed. Their cargoes were just as valuable, and there was the added bonus of being able to ransom the crews. Although Chinese seamen were frequently tortured when captured to reveal where their valuables were hidden, or simply on a sadistic whim, there are no records of Europeans being treated in this way by Chinese pirates.

One European mariner, John Turner, was captured by Zheng Yi's pirates in 1806. Turner was the chief mate on the Tay, and he was held captive in terrible conditions for five months until a ransom was paid. He describes in one passage how a captured officer of the Chinese imperial navy had his feet nailed to the deck before he was beaten with a rattan cane, taken ashore, and dismembered. Not for nothing did Turner title his memoirs as the Sufferings of John Turner, Chief Mate of the Country Ship Tay Bound for China and Captivity Among the Ladrones, published in 1809. In another passage, Turner describes another brutal killing:

A man was here put to death with circumstances of peculiar horror. Being fixed upright, his bowels were cut open, and his heart was cut out, which they afterwards soaked in spirits and ate. Mr Turner did not witness this bloody execution, but he was shown the mangled body. He also understood that this shocking treatment is frequently experienced by those, who, after offending the Ladrones, should ever be so unfortunate as to be in their power afterwards.

(Turner, 19)

Continue reading...

[cassiana-on-dark-side]

"This is an excerpt from my memoir, "Love and Truth”.

Roger Waters

This is a true story of My love for two animals Both wild in their own way Which I read to the audience at a Live performance of DSOTM REDUX At the London Palladium On the day after October 7th 2023. Yes, The Campaign Against Anti-Semitism Were outside the Theater that day trying to cancel me. Free Palestine! From the River to the Sea! ✊🏻🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

So Chocolate Charlie Brown was my third brown Burmese cat. This is a drawing of him and his friend Lilly, an Abyssinian, above the skirting board on the wall of my youngest son Jack’s room in the early nineties. This story isn’t about Chocolate Charlie Brown, well, just this first little bit is, but the rest is about a Duck called Donald. First though a brief history of Chocolate Charley Brown, I got him through Keith Butt, the vet in Knightsbridge where I used to take pets to be euthanized on Sunday mornings if they were beyond repair. Like Cloudy for instance, my daughter India’s pet gerbil, she was beyond repair, cancer, (Cloudy that is, not India), poor little scrap. So into the Merc we jumped one Sunday morning after breakfast, Cloudy and I, well Cloudy didn’t exactly jump in, if truth be told, I had to help her in, in her little cage, just the two of us, the condemned Cloudy and me, and a cardboard box for later. Bloody hell, I’m getting a bit weepy. Off to Keith Butt, Mr Butt was already cognizant of Cloudy’s condition, so, look the other way, is it over? The trick before bringing the deceased home was to make her look comfy in her little cardboard box, arranged curled up resting in eternal peace with a garland of forget me nots. After lunch, down the garden, spade in hand, a not very heavy cardboard box, a little girl’s hand, held tightly in mine. Job done.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Chocolate Charley Brown. The day he arrived he was a wee brown scrap and scared shitless, so I took him upstairs to the bedroom for a settle in. He ran straight under the bed and wouldn’t come out, so I took off my cowboy boots and got into bed in my jeans and dangled enticing things like feathers on bits of string in front of the dark places under the bed. Sure enough after about half an hour the hunting gene emerged and so did CCB’s little paw. I enticed him out into the open and then scooped him up and stuffed him under the covers next to my big warm leg. I was wearing a brown leather belt to hold my jeans up. I’ve still got it, it’s got a silver tip that always flops down. I was sitting up in the bed reading when I saw a tiny paw reach out and bat at the dangling silver bit on the end of my belt. We said hello, and we were inseparable after that. What a magnificent animal CCB was, beloved by all. Well obviously not all, all. He was not beloved by rodents or birds or Brian the gamekeeper from Kimbridge Farms next door. I saw CCB limping one day, favouring his off hind. I couldn’t find anything amiss, nothing broken, but, just to be sure I took him to the local vet for an X-Ray. Bugger me! Three #5 shot gun pellets in his rear end. I went to see Brian.

“Er Brian?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Happy Christmas Brian, there’s a hundred quid.”

“Thank you very much Sir!”

“You’re very welcome…….. Brian, If that big old brown cat of mine is still alive next Christmas there’ll be another hundred, and so on until he dies of natural causes.”

“I hear you Mr Waters, can I ask you a favour?”

“Anything Brian”

“Could you put a fluorescent collar on ‘im sir? Make my job a lot easier, that would.”

Anyway, one summer I hear the cat flap bang, and in comes CCB with, as usual, something dead in his mouth. He flops down in front of the AGA Stove, (half central heating, half cooking, much beloved in posh country kitchens) panting.

“What you got there Charlie?”

“Oh nothing much, just a newly hatched duckling, I’ve already eaten all it’s siblings and I’m a bit full. I’m just gonna rest here for a minute and then eat this‘un later and then I might go for a kip in the laundry room.”

“Jesus Christ Charlie, let’s have a look, oh for fuck’s sake it’s still wet.”

“Cats will be cats son”

“Jesus! Come on little‘un it’s the bin for you. Fuck me it’s still breathing, Jesus! Charley!”

“Oi! where are you going, I was looking forward that.”

So I put the wet scrap of baby bird, bits of shell and all, out of reach of the magnificent beast and went in search of a shoe box. Got one. Screwdriver for holes. Dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap. That’s enough, it’ll never live anyway. Where to put it? I know, guest bathroom on the radiator.

Next morning drinking coffee. Halfway through second cup….! The shoebox! I better go and clear up the remains. So, I run up the stairs and go into the guest bathroom.

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

Fuck me! Open the lid. Oh my god it’s a fluffy brown golf ball with a little yellow face and a line of mascara through its eye!

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi “

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi?”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi?”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

Translation; Mallard to English.

“Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,

I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry,

Where have you been?

Where have you been?

I was frightened,

Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.”

It was Donald.

“Fuck me! ……….. What do they eat?”

“What about milk ?”

“Milk! Don’t be stupid, when did you ever see a duck with tits?”

Ducklings should be fed a diet of mealworms and plant matter at an early age, though grasses tend to make baby ducks bloat. Wild ducks tend to stick to whatever bugs they find, and they will eat food that is fed to them by park visitors or guests. Bread has been long regarded as a bad thing to feed wild birds.

“Oi, no bread!”

I probably went out to try and catch bugs on the river that runs through the garden. Duh! Have you ever tried to catch a bug? Exactly! It probably didn’t take me long to read up on it.(Roger all through your life you’ll be faced with many challenges, my advice is to read, read, read, read. Thanks Mum.) Dried mealy worms mixed with crushed barley or oats, and water of course. Donald stayed in the guest bathroom for the first week or so, except of course at my bath time when he came into the master bathroom for bath time with me.

What bliss, my own duck to play with in the bath. Donald loved bath time, swimming about and then coming up onto Mummy’s chest for a snuggle and a bit of chin peck preen time, then back into the warm water.

What has always intrigued me is how can something that small produce that volume of duck shit? I mean, the guest bathroom floor was knee deep after a couple of weeks. I know you think I’m exaggerating; you’re thinking.

“How could it possibly be knee deep?”

“Ah, well that’s because you’re thinking Mummy knee deep, I’m talking Donald knee deep, which as you can see from the photo is only about half an inch.”

Anyway Donald grew and grew, I taught him to swim in the bath, even thought of buying him a plastic duck to play with……..no I didn’t!

The guest bathroom started to pong a bit, and it was a warm summer, so I decided to build Donald a run in the garden. We had a very small stream, only about a foot wide, that ran from a parallel carrier stream across the lawn under some cherry trees to the main river. Perfect.

I got some chicken wire and built an enclosure which spanned the stream. Running water, fox proof, enough bank for a snooze, in sight of the chairs on the logia, heaven. The long summer days of, what? 1993? Passed. Donald grew and grew, never losing his attachment to me, his Mummy. We used to go for walks together down the garden, never too close to the main river, I was always afraid of him falling in. Stupid I know. I was living at the time with Pricilla, my Jack’s mum, and we were in the habit of sitting on the logia at the cocktail hour with a very large vodka and cranberry juice each. I know, I know, but in those days we didn’t know any better. Anyway, Donald would always come and sit with us and preen a bit and quack-le quietly until bedtime. I’m not sure how many months passed before one day I looked at Donald and I thought, fuck me shouldn’t his head be starting to turn green? Christ almighty! Donald’s a girl! Well, too late to change his/her name now. Thank god, (NTTIAG) as far as we know, ducks don’t have pronoun issues.

One day, as September approached, I was looking at Donald over the rim of my vodka glass thinking, that duck looks almost full grown, when another thought occurred to me………………………..?

“Christ she can’t fly.”

So I called her over and picked her up and held her between my thumb and the four fingers of my right hand, half way between her lovely neck and her beautiful webbed feet, like a fat feathered paper dart, and pointing her slightly up, launched her forward. She didn’t even flap her wings, just nosedived into the turf at my feet, looked over her shoulder at me disapprovingly and waddled off to lick her wounded pride.

“Jesus Mummy! Why’d you do that?”

It was a conundrum, how to teach Donald to fly, until one day walking down the edge of one of the paddocks on my way to give Mossy Fern (Retired racehorse) some polos, I was going too fast for Donald who broke into a stumbling waddle-y run and then instinctively put out her wings and flapped and flew for about five yards before crashing. Eureka! We started to practice every day and before long if I broke into a run she would fly beside me at shoulder height,

“Look at me Mummy I’m flying!”

She didn’t fly away. Until one day she did.

“Where’s Donald?”

“I don’t know I haven’t seen her.”

I’m a bit weepy writing this………I mean it was great that she’d gone off with her friends to the barley stubble or wherever they went, but……………well it left a big hole.

Then a couple of days later, a few ducks landed by the bridge, below the top pool, near the house, when we were sitting in front of the logia with our Vodkas and cranberry juice, and one of them swam over, calmly climbed the steps out of the river, walked across the lawn and sat down next to us.

“Hello Donald.”

“Quack, quack,”

She did that several more times that September, until finally she didn’t.

I confess, though it pains me to admit it, before 1993, I would occasionally take the odd barley fed mallard off the river in September, delicious.

That was thirty years ago.

I never did it again."

via substack © by Roger Waters

[nordleuchten]

La Fayette in Franklin, Episode 3

This episode finally brings us the battle of Brandywine – and although there were some details in La Fayette’s storyline that I found … questionable, I really like the depiction of the battle itself. Wars and battles are not pretty, they are gruesome, dirty, bloody events that produce no shortage of human suffering. In Franklin, we see all thi; people being afraid and alone, horribly injured and in pain.

La Fayette transport and experience in the hospital are a bit overromanticized here. Accounts vary somewhat but we know that La Fayette remained with his troops for a long time, his wound was first dressed with a sash, and later Dr. Cochrane on behest of George Washington looked after La Fayette’s injury. He was with his aide-de-camp, Gimat, and at one point future-president James Monroe also made an appearance. While it certainly was a scary and painful experience for La Fayette, it nonetheless was much more “pleasant” than depicted here. It is true however, that Washington made sure, La Fayette was properly treated.

The remark about being “honored” with a bullet by the “English gentleman” is taken directly from a letter to his wife from September 12, 1777 that we will later have a look at. The “I hope you don’t eat me”-remark on the other hand was a missed opportunity that could have been fixed with half a sentence more text. As the story goes, La Fayette was placed upon what was formerly a dining table to be treated. When the officers entered, he remarked that they looked hungry and jokingly asked not be eaten, because he was the only edible dish upon the table.

The episode builds up suspense by suggesting to the viewer that La Fayette died in battle. Here is an account of the same time periode by La Fayette’s wife Adrienne:

But shortly afterwards we heard that M. de Lafayette had been wounded at the battle of Brandywine. I need not say what were my mother’s feelings on hearing such intelligence. She succeeded in keeping from me the report of his death which was spread about at that time (…).

Mme de Lasteyrie, Life of Madame de Lafayette, L. Techener, London, 1872, p. 50.

The battle of Brandywine and La Fayette’s involvement were a matter of great interest and as Adrienne describes, there were reports of his death – but I still think that the show overdramatized the situation by presenting it as if each and every single person - the court, his family and friends, the Americans - believed without a doubt that La Fayette had died. There were conflicting reports but La Fayette himself wrote his own account in the letter to his wife as quickly as possible. The battle of Brandywine as was also by far not the only time accounts of La Fayette’s death were making the rounds.

La Fayette friends (Noailles, Ségur and Temple) mourn La Fayette’s passing at their club. The scene admits that La Fayette could be a bit awkward and too serious at times. At first, I really liked this inclusion because it painted a truer picture – however, the longer I thought about it, the more I dislike it; or, better put, thought it needed just one or two sentences more as explanation. I believe the scene was written with a passage from the Memoirs of the Count de Ségur in mind:

At every period of life, and, above all, in his youth, La Fayette displayed a cold and grave exterior, which sometimes gave to his demeanor an air of timidity and embarrassment, which did not really belong to him. His reserved manners, his silent disposition, presented a singular contrast to the petulance, the levity, and the ostentatious loquacity of persons of his own age; but, under this exterior, to all appearances so phlegmatic, he concealed the most active mind, the most determined character, and the most enthusiastic spirit.

Count de Ségur, Memoirs and Recollections, Boston, 1825, p. 85-86.

Ségur, La Fayette’s long and dear friend (and uncle by marriage) describes here the duality of La Fayette’s character. In the previous paragraph he even somewhat mocks La Fayette’s family and in-laws for not knowing him as well as he does. Still, show-Ségur fails to look “under the exterior” as his real-life counterpart put it. Anyway, what depiction of La Fayette would be complete without the infamous dance between La Fayette and French Queen Marie Antoinette?

The solemn scene is soon resolved, and the viewer learns that La Fayette is indeed fine. While the scene between Noailles, Ségur and Temple is incredibly touching, there is one inaccuracy. Temple mentioned that La Fayette had been made a General. La Fayette had been promised the rank of Major General by Silas Dean in late 1776/early 1777 before setting sail. Now, you could argue that prior to Brandywine this rank was purely symbolic and that after Brandywine La Fayette received more and more of the actual powers and responsibilities of a Major General – but at least on paper he had always been a General.

The show cuts to La Fayette in Philadelphia. Now, I have no idea why he is alone in a tent and does not know where he is – this very much did not happen to the real La Fayette. I am, however, more than willing to forgive the show this, because it presented us with this character.

At first glance this is just some girl/young women, right? In my head (and the show does not contradict me here) this lady is Elisabeth ‘Liesel’ Boeckel. She was one of La Fayette’s nurses, when La Fayette stayed for 29 days in her father house in Bethlehem, Philadelphia to recover from his injury. Her nephew later wrote in his diary that Lisel’s father feared she would “form an intimacy” with La Fayette. La Fayette’s stay in Bethlehem and the towns past and present reception of him is very interesting and worth a post on its own.

The letter Temple reads to Franklin is inspired by a letter La Fayette wrote to his wife on September 12, 1777, the day after the battle. I highlighted the parts that were adapted for this episode.

I send you a few lines, dear heart, by some French officers, my friends, who came here with me but have not obtained positions and are returning to France. I shall begin by telling you that I am well, because I must end by telling you that we fought in earnest yesterday, and we were not the victors. Our Americans, after holding firm for a considerable time, were finally routed. While I was trying to rally them, the English honored me with a musket shot, which wounded me slightly in the leg. But the wound is nothing, dear heart; the ball hit neither bone nor nerve, and all I have to do for it to heal is to lie dear heart, that you will not worry; on the contrary, you should be even less worried than before, because I shall now be out of action for some time. I intend to take good care of myself; you may be sure of that, dear heart. This battle will, I fear, have unpleasant consequences for America; we must try to repair the damage, if we can. You must have received many letters from me, unless the English are as hostile to my letters as to my legs. I have received only one from you so far, and I long for news. Farewell. They won't let me write longer than this. For several days I have not had time to sleep. Last night was spent in our retreat and in my journey here, where I am very well cared for. Let all my friends know that I am in good health; give a thousand tender respects to Mme d'Ayen, and a thousand compliments to my vicomtesse and my sisters. These officers will leave soon; they will see you-how fortunate they are! Good night, dear heart, I love you more than ever.

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 1, December 7, 1776–March 30, 1778, Cornell University Press, 1977, p. 108-110.

It should be said, that in likelihood neither Temple nor Franklin saw this letter and Franklin did not use the letter for a publication. Nonetheless, after the battle of Brandywine La Fayette was heralded a hero and it was the first step in crafting the image we still associate with him today.