#fifty six you peculiar beast...

[koukaaa-descent]

I forgot to post this. hi again cerise @85-rend I need to paint your beast more often

[fantomcomics]

What’s Out This Week? 11/23

The past few years have been hard on everyone, so if we’re thankful for anything, it’s YOU, Fantomites! 

Ancient Enemies #1 (of 6) - Dan DiDio & Danilo Beyruth

Earth becomes the final battlefield for a centuries old war between two alien races.  But this final conflict becomes the unintentional breeding ground for a new generation of super powers, each with the ability to influence the outcome of the war.  Some super powers choose sides, while others struggle to maintain their independence with the hope of saving the Earth.  This series explodes with new characters and creations, written by former DC Publisher Dan DiDio, with design and art by the industry's newest rising star, Danio Beyruth.  As first issues, go, this one is not to be missed!

Fear Of A Red Planet #1 - Mark Sable, Andrea Olimpieri & Paul Azaceta

Mars.  Fifty years from now, humanity's first Martian colony is no longer self-sustaining. Under the thumb of its corporate mining overlords, the surviving colonists slave away just to pay for resupply rockets from Earth, will little or no hope of returning home.

One woman has kept a fragile peace: the U.N.'s first and only interplanetary marshal.  A lawwoman escaping a violent past on Earth, she prides herself on never having fired a shot on Mars. But when she's tasked with solving the murder of the colony's most hated man, her investigation threatens to tear the red planet apart.    

Frank Miller’s Ronin: Book II #1 (of 6) -  Frank Miller

Frank Miller returns to one of his most critically praised and influential body of works, RONIN.  Theis six-part mini-series follows the original work and takes Casey and her new born son across the ravaged landscape of America.  With layouts by Miller, the beautiful panoramic art by Philip Tan and Daniel Henriques captures all the energy and excitement of the original series, taking the characters and world into a direction all its own.  Not to be missed!

Kemono Jihen GN Vol 1 -  Sho Aimoto

Inugami is a Tokyo detective who specializes in the occult. One day, answering a call to a remote village leads him to Dorotabo: a peculiar boy nicknamed after a yokai that haunts muddy rice paddies. The boy has no parents and is somewhat unnerving, emitting a foul odor that draws the ire of those around him. Inugami, however, quickly realizes that there's something more monstrous about Dorotabo than just his nickname, a fact proven when the two of them investigate an inhuman creature attacking local livestock. Perhaps Inugami can take this mistreated boy under his wing and train him to face the secret, supernatural beasts hidden in the world... using the eerie powers of his own body.

Men I Trust HC - Tommi Parrish

Tommi Parrish's sophomore graphic novel establishes them as one of the most exciting voices in contemporary literature. Eliza is a thirtysomething struggling single mother and poet. Sasha, a twentysomething yearning for direction in life, just moved back in with her parents and dabbles as a sex worker. The two strike up an unlikely friendship that, as it veers toward something more, becomes a deeply resonant exploration of how far people are willing to go to find intimacy in a society that is increasingly closed off. In Sasha and Eliza, Parrish has created two of the most fully realized characters in recent contemporary fiction. Parrish's gorgeously painted pages showcase a graceful understanding of body language and ear for dialogue, brilliantly using the medium of comics to depict the dissonance between the characters' interior and exterior experiences. Men I Trust is about not-always-healthy people attempting to make healthy connections in a disconnected world, and is one of the most moving and insightful works of literary fiction in any medium this year.

Once Upon A Time At The End Of The World #1 -  Jason Aaron, Alexandre Tefenkgi & Mike Del Mundo

In this epic post-apocalyptic tale, Maceo and Mezzy have never met anyone like each other, and they'll need all the help they can get to survive a planet ravaged by environmental catastrophe. This epic trilogy-each issue overflowing with 30 story pages-spans a lifetime as philosophical differences tear at the threads holding Maceo and Mezzy together. Will they, and the earth beneath their feet, ultimately be torn apart? New York Times bestselling, Eisner and Harvey Award-winning, and Marvel flagship writer Jason Aaron (Thor, The Avengers, Southern Bastards) launches his most ambitious creator-owned series to date with the first of three unique artistic partners - Eisner-winning artist Alexandre Tefenkgi (The Good Asian) - to take on a vision of the end of the world that's brutal and nostalgic, whimsical and grounded... and ultimately, timeless.

Sirius GN -  Ana C. Sanchez

Dani's bright future as an elite tennis player comes to a sudden stop when, during a match, she has a heart attack. Her newly discovered condition affects not only her health, but also her relationship with her mother, as well as her career. Wanting to get away from everything, she leaves behind the big city ?- and all her problems ?-  and goes with her cousin to a little coastal village. There she meets Blanca, a girl full of life and in love with astronomy. Blanca reminds Dani that life can be beautiful, and that she can shine again like stars do.

Steam Reverie In Amber - Kuroimori

A full-color steampunk artbook & manga collection hardcover-includes all 22 Major Arcana as removable tarot cards! In a world wedged somewhere between past and future, an airship drifts gently among pillow-soft clouds. This is the Tomeship-purveyor of used books and fresh coffee across the skies. It can only be seen by those who bear the Gearform Scar on their hearts. Are you one such soul? Don't miss this beautiful release from an award-winning Japanese artist who contributed to Final Fantasy art.

Wild! Or So I Was Born To Be GN Vol 1 -  Cristian Castelo

At Westhoff High, pain is part of the curriculum... But so is math, science, and chemistry. However, Wild Rodriguez and her pint-size companions have always had one goal and one goal only as they enter freshman year: to join the the Rocket Rollers and test their mettle in the infamously violent roller derby league. Now, summer draws to an end and tryouts are here! Do they have what it takes to climb the ranks of the derby world, or will their dream just as quickly turn into a nightmare? Wild discovers that sometimes dreams involve a lot of getting kicked in the face, as well as maybe accidentally getting involved in a blood feud or two. Half roller derby, half professional wrestling, the league is filled with cussin', spittin' roughnecks like the Cult Catastrophe, earnest athletes the 8-Ball Bruisers, sick freaks Puppy & the Pound, and the elegant-but-deadly Matadors. Becoming a true legend of the derby track like her hero (and occasional helpful psychic avatar) Rosie Rozene involves a lot of physical and emotional fortitude, luckily Wild and all her friends-imaginary or otherwise-have each other's backs no matter what! 

You Like Me, Not My Daughter? GN Vol 1 - Kouta Nozomi, Tesshin Azuma & Giuniu

A beautiful mother, a pining tutor, and romantic hijinks await in this hot mom romcom! When Ayako's sister died, leaving her young daughter all alone, Ayako stepped up and took the child into her life. Now that her niece/adopted daughter is a teenager, a 30-something Ayako can sense first love in the air. Ayako teases her daughter about Takumi, their handsome and college-aged neighbor, who's been tutoring her since she was young-could they be a blossoming couple, since he's always beaming when he comes to their house? To Ayako's surprise, Takumi isn't interested in daughter dearest: he's long had a crush on Ayako herself! In this age gap romantic comedy, one young man is ready to bring a little sugar to the sexy mom next door.

Whatcha scooping up this week, Fantomites?

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Bagginshield Bingo- Soulmate/Ones

First entry for the game! I headcannon Bilbo to be about 14-15 in this in human terms. Remember, if I don’t get any asks, I will choose the next one for tomorrow! I hope you guys enjoy.

Title: The Souls of the Feet

Summary: Hobbits have soulmates and while Bilbo always tried to avoid finding his, it seems that his soulmate found him instead. 

Amongst the scholars and philosophers of Middle Earth, the oldest and, most likely, well worn debate stems from the location of a being’s soul. Depending on which race is being asked, the answer differs greatly. Take the men for example, hardy and hopeful, and they believe that the answer lies in the gut. After all, ‘gut instinct’ must arise from somewhere, and surely food must power both the body and the soul. 

However, if the question is posed to an elf, immortal and elegant, they would argue that the soul must rest in the chest along with the heart and the lungs. All necessary for sustaining life in this world. Loud scoffs would come from the dwarrows, secret and proud, who know that the forging of one's craft is the most soulful experience one can have, and that would be in the large hands Mahal gifted them with.

All are logical arguments and definitely merit consideration. Still, all wrong in the eyes of a hobbit. The poor, simplistic creatures believe the soul resides in their feet. As if their claim was not peculiar enough, they state it as an absolute certainty. The Big Folk just smile and indulge the hobbits with a pat on their head, and it’s this level of cynicism that keeps them from knowing the secret truth of the Shire.

Yavanna, in all her wisdom, granted hobbits the ability of knowing their soul mates. With the feet that touch the earth blessed by the Green Lady, to be touched on the foot ties a string of fate between those two souls. Always feeling, always knowing, exactly where to find their soulmate so long as their feet still walk the earth.

Because of this, the care and attention to their feet was almost sacred. To touch another’s foot with ill intention was seen as downright criminal in the Shire.

Now, accidents happen and it is by the will of Yavanna whether those people pursue a romantic relationship or just remain touched by fate. Bilbo Baggins, a young hobbit of twenty-six, was not about to take the chance. 

He kept mostly to himself and away from the other tweens. More interested in chasing imaginary elves and fairies in the woods as a child, he now took walking holidays across the whole of the Shire spending his free time reading his books and his maps from the treetops. He never saw a problem with his self-instilled isolation. His parents fretted, and his father especially questioned how he was to find his soulmate if he kept to himself? However, Bilbo figured his soulmate would find him when the time was right. 

It was on one such day that Bilbo was lazing in a low branch over the river. Turned facing the trunk, his head was cradled by the leaves and berries. His right foot bent up at the knee, while his left swung freely below. Lost in the inked words of heroes and magic, Bilbo was completely oblivious to his surroundings. So when something brushed against his hanging foot, he sat up nearly dropping his book.

“Excuse me.” A voice called up as the person reached up and grabbed Bilbo’s foot to gain his attention.

Bilbo released a loud shriek as he jumped to his feet backing away. His foot! Someone touched his foot! In such distress, he seemed to have completely forgotten that he was in a tree, and there was really no place for him to go but down. His stomach flew to his throat as he was completely weightless for a small moment. Then he was plunged into the Brandywine.

If there had ever been Stoor blood in his genealogy, it had died out long ago as Bilbo sunk like a rock beneath the current. His lungs and nose burned as he wildly kicked and flailed hoping in vain to reach the surface. His head broke through for only a moment, and he gulped in air while he could.

“HOLD ON!”

Bilbo barely heard the roaring voice before he was plunged back below. His chest ached with desperation, and he was so tempted just to open his mouth and be done with it. Then he collided with something solid. His limbs instinctively wrapped tight in the hope of salvation even as his eyes refused to open.

Honestly, Bilbo wasn’t sure how he got onto the banks. One moment, he was fighting against the rushing waters, and the next he was on his hands and knees. Spluttering, coughing, hacking as water and snot ran down his face. His limbs shook as the fear wore off enough for the exhaustion of his journey to seep in.

“Are you alright?”

There was a warm hand on his back that made Bilbo look up. Blue. He was drowning once more. Numbly words tumbled from his mouth.

“My foot.”

A soft frown touched the being’s face, and Bilbo was able to break away from his eyes long enough to take in the sharp nose, short dark beard, long soft locks to match, and the large hands that were common among Aule’s children. A dwarf? The dwarf looked down at his foot, and Bilbo was now consciously aware of the deep throb resonating through his sole. The dwarf reached down taking his foot in hand, and Bilbo released a gasp.

Sweet Yavanna, he didn’t know that one could feel waves of pure bliss in this way. It was as if the sun had been gone without him even knowing, and he finally was feeling its warmth for the first time. His body went limp, and he turned his head so he could get a good look at his soulmate. His soulmate. He wanted to be annoyed by his method of contact, but he was too mesmerized by the beautiful creature to care about the accidental touching.

He was large. From his broad shoulders to his mannish hands down to his sculpted chest that his wet tunic clung desperately. Wet tunic? Bilbo grinned brightly as he realized it was the dwarf that saved him from the river. His brave, handsome, kind soulmate. If Bilbo weren’t still technically a minor, he would propose right here on the spot.

“Did that hurt?” The dwarf questioned raising an eyebrow.

“Hurt?” Bilbo laughed. “It felt incredible. Here, let me.”

He sat up and reached over for the dwarf’s feet only to stop short at the sight of the dark squared monstrosities hiding his soulmate’s feet. His confusion must have been written on his face because the dwarf spoke up once more.

“You...want me to remove my boots?”

“Yes.” Bilbo nodded, his brow still furrowed.

The dwarf hesitated, but under Bilbo’s putout expression, slowly complied with the request. Bilbo’s jaw dropped aghast to see another layer of wool underneath the dreaded leather beasts. His plight seemed to amuse the dark haired dwarf as he huffed a laugh before removing the woolen socks as well.

Bilbo laughed in incredulous delight. They were so dainty and smooth! He reached out towards one only to hesitate and look up for the dwarf’s permission. His blue eyes tore straight through him as if trying to discern his every possible intention before finally giving a small curious nod.

Bilbo’s touch was revenant, and his heart immediately ached. There was so much pain in his dwarf’s poor soul. The pain of loss brought tears to Bilbo’s eyes. However, there was also a fluttering of hope. It was beautiful and noble and built on limitless dreams of glory and a far off calling of home. Yes, Bilbo’s dwarf was a good one indeed. 

He began to rub the foot exactly as his mother told him in order to soothe the pain. Thorin tensed for a moment before letting go with a sigh. Bilbo smiled, happy to do this one small thing for his sweet soulmate. He didn’t know if it was normal to be this attached, but he couldn’t help himself. He continued to rub until contentment settled into the dwarf’s bones.

“What did you do?” He asked softly when Bilbo finally, reluctantly released him.

“I merely dulled the pain and reminded your soul of better times.” Bilbo answered.

“I didn’t even know I had such aches; long has been my journey.”

“It was the least I could do. I mean...you did save my life.” Bilbo ducked his head shyly.

A large hand reached up and ruffled his curls.

“It was the least I could do, Little One. After all, it was my fault you fell in the first place.”

Bilbo was nearly vibrating with the attention until he caught the dwarf’s pet name.

“Little?! I am practically an adult.” He complained.

The dwarf snorted as he proceeded to cover his feet once more. Something else that caused Bilbo displeasure.

“My nephews would say much the same.”

“You have nephews?” Bilbo jumped eager to know more of his soulmate. “How old are they?”

“Let’s see...the younger one just turned...fifty-two, I believe. Which would make the eldest fifty-seven.”

Bilbo blinked owlishly at the dwarf wondering at the purpose behind this jest, but he did nothing to deny it as he laced his boots back up. As it settled around him, Bilbo came to the realization that the dwarf was being one hundred percent serious. Just how old was his soulmate?!

“And what about you? I would imagine on the frontside of fifty. Forty-seven? Forty-eight?”

“Twenty-six.” Bilbo murmured still reeling from the apparent longevity of dwarves.

The dark haired dwarf’s jaw dropped as his face paled. 

“Twenty...by Mahal! We need to get you back to your parents right away!” 

Bilbo’s face turned crimson as the implication that he was but a young faunt, but then the dwarf took his hand in his, and Bilbo stayed his tongue as he found he enjoyed the sensation. It was incredible to him that dwarves’ hands were so large when their feet were so cute and small. Exactly opposite of a hobbit. It was like Yavanna and Aule planned for them to compliment each other. Bilbo took advantage of the situation and laced their fingers together as he swung the limbs back and forth. The dwarf, Bilbo still had not learned his name, allowed him with an indulgent smile. Wait. Bilbo still did not know his name.

“What’s your name?” He asked immediately seeking the blue orbs for answers.

“I am Thorin, son of Thrain. How about you, Little One?”

Bilbo clearly was not about to lose that nickname anytime soon.

“Bilbo Baggins.” He responded.

“Bilbo.” Thorin repeated fondly.

Bilbo repressed the urge to shiver at how his name sounded in Thorin’s velvety voice. Trying to distract himself from his desire to press closer, Bilbo began to prattle on, telling Thorin all about his home and the Shire in general. He talked about his desires for adventure and his cosy smial. He talked for so long, wanting to share every detail of himself with Thorin that he wasn’t even aware they were home until he walked straight into the gate.

“I suppose this is where I leave you, Little One.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. Leave? Why would Thorin leave?

“I must return to my home now.” Thorin explained in amusement.

Bilbo ducked his head not realizing he had asked his questions aloud.

“Will you come back?” He begged already hating the distance between them.

“I may.” Thorin smirked.

Bilbo’s grin split his face as he leaned up and placed a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose. Thorin watched completely bewildered.

“Good. Because I have chosen you.”

“Chosen me for what?”

“To be mine.” Bilbo answered honestly.

The dwarf looked confused but still managed to draw a small smile to his face.

“Farewell, Bilbo Baggins.”

“I’ll be waiting! Thorin, son of Thrain!” Bilbo declared waving enthusiastically to the dwarf as he departed down the hill.

Bilbo was able to feel every step he took further and further away from him. It was like a tug on the very soul of his feet. Uncomfortable and strained. It made Bilbo want to run down after the dwarf, and never let him go. However, he could wait. He would become of age soon enough, and then he would chase off into the wilderness after that dwarf. He just didn’t know the wait would be longer than he would ever know. Long enough for him to all but forget about the insistent tug that demanded his attention away from the Shire. However, Bilbo was quickly reminded when for the first time in twenty-five years, the tug eased in its pull indicating his dwarf was finally coming back for him. Now if only he could get this pesky wizard to leave him alone so he could prepare...

[alleiradayne]

There’s Something Strange A Reader/Sam Winchester Series

When Y/N Y/L/N escapes to the upper Midwest for a weekend of inspiration to begin her tenth paranormal thriller novel, she never imagined the source of that inspiration to be her own life. Between the old mansion, two peculiar men posing as antiquers, and the mysterious death of the heiress of Hill Manor one-hundred and fifty years ago, Y/N learns the truth about far more than the paranormal.

Part I - The House on The Hill

Summary: Y/N Y/L/N spends her first hours at Hill Manor attempting to begin her tenth paranormal thriller, but finds herself completely distracted. Warnings/Tags: Alllll the fluffy flirting Square filled: Author AU Characters/Pairings: Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, guest appearances of Journalist!Natalie Murphy and Basketball Player!Elizabeth Andersson, Father Justin Smith, Widow Harold, Andrew the Groundskeeper, unnamed cook, and a young woman traveling the country named Alysha. Word Count: 2,021 A/N: For @spnfluffbingo2019, this entire series fills the Author AU square. Super giant huge thank you to @atc74 who beta’d this giant thing for me.

As she stood in the reaching shadows of the towering spires and peaked eves of the mansion, a breeze too cold for August’s heat snatched the hem of her skirt and whipped it about her knees. Dark grain rested for centuries upon darker stone, both worn grey by nature’s unforgiving touch. And in the center of that ancient façade stood an entry consumed by foreboding shadows like the gaping maw of a slumbering beast.

Y/N tore the page from her notebook and tossed it aside, forgotten the instant it hit the floor. Slumped over the writing desk, she stared at a fresh page of lined paper, blank as her mind.

Well. Mostly blank. Blank but for that damned mansion. Get away, they had said. Take a vacation, go someplace quiet. You just need some inspiration.

Quiet. When had quiet ever helped her write anything? It only served as a distraction as far as she was concerned. An empty space in her head for nuisance thoughts to take up residence.

Like the ridiculous mansion in which she sat.

The idea of finding inspiration on a trip wasn’t foreign to Y/N. Quite the contrary, she had written her first best seller that way. In Manhattan. Not in rural Minnesota, surrounded by nothing but forest while staying in a rundown mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast.

Okay, maybe she exaggerated. The mansion had come highly recommended, and the surprisingly young and numerous staff ran a tight ship, too. Not a spec of dirt or dust marred any surface, a request for afternoon coffee had been served at great haste, and by four o’clock on the first night, the scrumptious aromas of dinner had wafted up the stairs to her room directly above the kitchen. And in two nights, the owners would host a large party for family and friends, as well as current guests, to celebrate the mansion's bicentennial birthday.

Far from quaint, her quarters spanned half the eastern wing of the house. A living space and a bedroom, as well as a full bath with a separate shower and tub rivaled most apartments in which she had ever lived. Ornate furniture and art filled the space, encroaching on crowded and only narrowly avoiding such a trespass.

Bronze sconces, ornate hearths surrounding massive fireplaces, and the darkest wood from floor to ceiling all amounted to one giant, fucking distraction. After weeks filled with useless attempts to start her tenth and final novel, Y/N had hoped beyond all hope that her writer’s block might meet its match there at The House on the Hill.

But after three hours, she decided to call round one in favor of writer’s block. Despite the number of times she had retied her bun, adjusted her glasses, and straightened her shirt, the start of her story eluded her. They typically did, and too often for her tastes. Y/N had in mind the perfect paranormal thriller, filled with suspense, mystery, and plenty of terror. But where to start? In the middle of the fray, leaving the reader confused, yet intrigued and desperate to learn how Natalie had ended up the owner of a haunted house? Or at the beginning, when her parents died under strange circumstances after having bought the place to flip, and the mess had fallen into her lap?

Neither met her standards. Too many stories about haunted houses started in the thick of things, right at the apex of fear, then fell flat and left the reader bored. But worse would be to start at the beginning only to drone an on endlessly about how everything came to pass on one neat, single-threaded plot.

As Y/N stood from the desk with a forceful shove of her chair, she entertained the thought of starting at the end, with Natalie responsible for a house full of vengeful spirits bound to her and her blood for eternity. That might work. But the risk? While she was a successful novelist, Y/N knew that sort of creative license to be reserved for other authors. Particularly, authors that were not women.

That might be reason enough to do it anyway.

Maybe.

The growl of her stomach interrupted her internal debate, her hunger exacerbated by the succulent scents that filled her nose. A full stomach would help. And a fresh pot of coffee. A little conversation with the other guests might relinquish her muse, too. Without any further delay, she strode to the door and rounded it for the wide hallway lined with gaudy art and overstuffed furniture.

The smells of the kitchen faded as she neared the main staircase where the two wings of the mansion met in a grand entry illuminated by a monstrous chandelier. A once heavy layer of carpet covered the near black wood of the stairs, dampening her footfalls as she descended into the foyer of the mansion. Two guests stood at the bottom of the staircase, an elderly woman in deep conversation with a young man, his dark curly brown hair and priest’s cassock destiny contrasting each other. Effervescent stories bubbled to life, she a long-time widow of a farmer and he a newly minted priest at the local chapel.

As she passed them, she overheard their debate: it might rain tomorrow.

Eavesdropping any further served her only if she were researching the small talk habits of Midwesterners. Not that the social elite of New York fared any better. Want something banal to discuss? Fall back on the weather.

But Y/N desperately needed the opposite of banal. She craved spice, juicy details and salacious rumors. The stuff that ruined presidential candidates. Or vaulted them into office. Those glimpses of private indiscretions fueled her writing. She created entire lives from little nuggets of unrest. Sure, she wrapped it up in the thin veneer of the supernatural and paranormal. But the underlying implications, the intent in her themes, remained the same.

So, when she spotted a burly middle-aged man towering in the shadowy corner near the entrance to the dining room all on his own, she gravitated to him like a moth drawn to a flame. Dirty fingernails, cracked hands, and corded muscle screamed manual labor. He, she decided, was the mansion’s groundskeeper. You didn’t get shoulders like his doing paperwork. Sunken eyes stared through a shroud of fog only he could see, and he hardly paid her any mind as Y/N strolled past into the dining room. He might serve her story well, but he would need work. A lot of work. Probably more than it was worth.

Another sigh followed her into the dining room where she found the remainder of the guests already seated at the long table that stretched the length of the room. Laden with plates, table cloths, and autumnal centerpieces, she could hardly see the heavy mahogany beneath it. But a quick peek under the layers of fabric revealed a pristine and delicately carved corner, and she cursed that anyone would think to cover such a beautiful work of art.

Though disheartened, Y/N found solace in the matching chairs, their work on display beneath another tremendous chandelier and a line of candelabras on the table. And when it came time to choose her seat, she had but to glance at the guests for single beat to decide.

At the head of the table a young woman sat in a sharp pantsuit, a recorder in her hand and held out to the woman on her left. The two could not be any different. If the recorder stood, Y/N assumed she’d barely reach five feet. The woman speaking into the recorder had to be nearly six feet tall and all muscle, with broad shoulders and defined arms.

Between the interviewer’s jet-black hair, bright red lips, and piercing blue eyes, Y/N wondered how she had landed a job as a reporter and not some sort of movie star. The blonde amazon, she determined, was an athlete of some sort. Again, nobody ended up with shoulders like hers sitting on their ass all day.

A third woman sat across from the blonde athlete and stared without reservation at them both, her big for eyes sliding between the two of them as they spoke. Y/N couldn't blame her, what with the reporter’s Hollywood style and the athlete’s power dominating the room, it was any wonder that the remaining two guests has buried themselves in their phones.

Two men sat beside each other to the left of the athlete but paid her and the reporter no mind. Directly on her left sat the shorter of the two, although neither man could be considered small. The man to his left sat an easy four inches taller than him, with long brown hair and a long pointed nose. Though they paid her no mind as she sat across from the taller of the two, their subtle, wordless communication indicated an old, deep relationship beyond that of mere guest of the bed and breakfast.

They must get the honeymoon suite all the time. Poor sods. Anyone with half a brain who took a little longer than a cursory glance would know they were brothers.

The thought vanished as she reached for her glass and the ring on her right hand clinked every so gently on the crystal. The shorter man startled so, the athlete shot him a glare that he tried to return with as much dignity and charm he could muster. On Y/N it would have worked. But the athlete turned back to her interview without another look and the man turned back to his phone.

The taller man, however, had not reacted but for the flick of his eyes—Jesus Christ, what color were they?—as they snapped to hers. He watched as she raised her glass to her lips, stared as she drank, and his phone slowly drifted to the table, the screen darkened and turned face down.

Whatever had those men on edge, it seemed serious. Civilian clothes and high anxiety suggested air marshals or rangers. Maybe even detectives. Maybe they were investigating a crime. Like a murder. Good thing there wasn't a butler. Y/N had no stomach for murder mysteries. She wrote best about the long dead. Not the recently departed.

Antiquers? They had that charm about them, disheveled, road weary, worn. Liked they lived in their car. But just as she was about to create another ridiculous history for the two men, Mr. Long and Tall reached across the table as he smiled and spoke.

“Sam.”

With her glass returned to the table, she took his hand in a full grip only to realize too late his grasp dwarfed hers. Double-down. Stay confident. A coy smile crooked her lips as she squeezed his hand and said, “Y/N.”

“That's quite the handshake,” Sam said, his own subtle smile peeking through.

“That’s quite the pickup line,” she retorted.

Sam laughed as he released her hand and averted his stare. “I'm out of practice,” he muttered as he glanced up from beneath his prominent brow.

A likely story. “Not with that look, you aren't.”

A hard backhand connected with Sam's shoulder, wiping the smile off his face as Sam turned to his right. But before the shorter man could put words to the irritation plain on his face, the cook entered the dining room and announced dinner. A stern glare earned him a threatening look from Sam, but the two settled as the cook mentioned homemade pecan pie for dessert.

“Okay, this job was officially worth it,” he muttered too loudly. Sam's angular glare flicked from Y/N to the other man, who merely shrugged. “Just sayin'. Glad there's pie. Even though I think we're jumping the gun here.”

Another flat glare from Sam sealed it; they were definitely brothers.

The remaining guests filed in one by one until the table sat full, the priest on her left and the elderly woman on her right. Mr. Shoulders took the remaining seat at the end of the table, his distant gaze still staring straight ahead and unseeing.

With all guests present, dinner commenced, and Y/N bet her life on finding the perfect start to her best novel yet.

If you want to be tagged for this series specifically, send me an ask or a DM! If you want in on any of my tags (Sam/Jared, Dean/Jensen), you can ask for that, too!

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There’s Something Strange:

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[thequeensofmemes]

Beauty and the Beast Lyrics

Belle:

Little town, it's a quiet village, very day like the one before

Little town, full of little people

There goes the baker with his tray, like always

Every morning just the same, since the morning that we came to this poor, provincial town

ave you lost something again?

Problem is, I've—I can't remember what

Oh well, I'm sure it'll come to me

Where are you off to?

It's about two lovers in fair Verona

Sounds boring

Look there she goes, that girl is strange, no question

Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?

Never part of any crowd,'cause her head's up on some cloud

No denying she's a funny girl

Bonjour! Good day! How is your family?

Bonjour! Good day! How is your wife?

I need six eggs!

That's too expensive!

There must be more than this provincial life!

Ahh, if it isn't the only bookworm in town!

So, where did you run off to this week?

Two cities in Northern Italy

I didn't want to come back

Have you got any new places to go?

You may re-read any of the old ones that you'd like

Your library makes our small corner of the world feel big

Bon voyage!

Look there she goes, the girl is so peculiar

I wonder if she's feeling well, with a dreamy, far-off look and her nose stuck in a book

Oh, isn't this amazing?

It's my favorite part because

Here's where she meets Prince Charming

She won't discover that it's him 'til Chapter Three!

Her looks have got no parallel

Behind that fair facade, I'm afraid she's rather odd

She's nothing like the rest of us

Look at her, my future wife

But she's so... well-read!

Ever since the war, I've felt like I've been missing something.

I don't know what that means

Right from the moment when I met her, saw her, I said she's gorgeous and I fell

Here in town, there's only she, Who is beautiful as me

Be still, my heart, I'm hardly breathing

He's such a tall, dark, strong and handsome brute!

It's a pity and a sin

She doesn't quite fit in

A beauty but a funny girl

How does a moment last forever:

How does a moment last forever?

How can a story never die?

It is love we must hold onto

Sometimes our happiness is captured, somehow, a time and place stand still

Love lives on inside our hearts and always will

Belle Reprise:

Can you imagine? Me, the wife of that boorish, brainless...

Can't you just see it?

His little wife, ugh

No, sir! Not me! I guarantee it

I want much more than this provincial life!

I want adventure in the great wide somewhere

I want it more than I can tell

And for once it might be gran, to have someone understand

I want so much more than they've got planned...

Gaston:

Gosh, it disturbs me to see you, looking so down in the dumps

Every guy here'd love to be you, even when taking your lumps

There's no man in town as admired as you

You're everyone's favorite guy

Everyone's awed and inspired by you and it's not very hard to see why

Perfect, a pure paragon!

As a specimen, yes, I'm intimidating!

Well, there's no one as easy to bolster as you!

Too much?

When I hunt, I sneak up with my quiver and beasts of the field say a prayer

First, I carefully aim for the liver, then I shoot from behind

Is that fair?

I don't care

I'm especially good at expectorating!

When I was a lad, I ate four dozen eggs, every morning to help me get large

I'm roughly the size of a barge!

Be our guest:

Now we invite you to relax,

Be our guest!

Put our service to the test

Tie your napkin 'round your neck, cherie and we'll provide the rest

It's delicious

After all, Miss, this is France

And a dinner here is never second best

Go on, unfold your menu

Come on and lift your glass

Ah, those good old days when we were useful...

Ten years we've been rusting

Most days we just lay around the castle

Days in the sun:

When my life has barely begun

Not until my whole life is done, will I ever leave you

Will you now forever remain, out of reach of my arms?

All those days in the sun, qhat I'd give to relive just one

Undo what's done and bring back the light

Oh, I could sing of the pain these dark days bring, still it's the wonder of us I sing of tonight

How in the midst of all this sorrow, can so much hope and love endure

I was innocent and certain, now I'm wiser but unsure

I can't go back into my childhood

I can feel a change in me

I'm stronger now but still not free

Days in the sun, will return, we must believe

That days in the sun will come shining through

Something there:

There's something sweet, and almost kind

He was mean and he was coarse and unrefined and now he's dear, and so unsure

I wonder why I didn't see it there before

No, it can't be, I'll just ignore, but then she's never looked at me that way before

Who'd have ever thought that this could be?

True, that he's no Prince Charming, but there's something in him that I simply didn't see

Well, who'd have thought?

Well, bless my soul

Well, who'd have known?

Well, who indeed? And who'd have guessed they'd come together on their own?

It's so peculiar, wait and see, we'll wait and see a few days more, there may be something there that wasn't there before

What is it, what's there?

I'll tell you when you're older

How does a moment last forever montmarte:

This is the Paris of my childhood

These were the borders of my life

In this crumbling, dusty attic, where an artist loved his wife

Easy to remember, harder to move on, knowing the Paris of my childhood is gone

Beauty and the beast:

Tale as old as time, true as it can be

Barely even friends, then somebody bends

Just a little change

Both a little scared

Neither one prepared

Learning you were wrong

Evermore:

I was the one who had it all

I was the master of my fate

I never needed anybody in my life

I learned the truth too late

I'll never shake away the pain

I close my eyes but she's still there

I let her steal into my melancholy heart

It's more than I can bear

Now I know she'll never leave me, even as she runs away

She will still torment me, calm me, hurt me, move me, come what may

Wasting in my lonely tower, waiting by an open door

I'll fool myself, she'll walk right in and be with me for evermore

I rage against the trials of love, I curse the fating of the light, though she's already flown so far beyond my reach

She's never out of sight

Now I know she'll never leave me, even as she fades from view

She will still inspire me, be a part of everything I do

The mob song:

We're not safe until he's dead

He'll come stalking us at night

Sacrifice our children to his monstrous appetite

He'll wreak havoc on our village if we let him wander free

So it's time to take some actio, it's time to follow me

It's a nightmare, but it's one exciting ride

Say a prayer, then we're there

There's something truly terrible inside

It's a beast he's got fangs, razor sharp ones, massive paws, killer claws for the feast

Hear him roar see him foam

We're not coming home 'til he's dead

Light your torch mount your horse

Screw your courage to the sticking place

Call it war call it threat

Iin times like this, they'll do just as I say

There's a beast running wild, there's no question, but I fear there are monsters in the mist

Grab your sword grab your bow

Praise the Lord and here we go

We don't like what we don't understand in fact it scares us

Bring your guns bring your knives

Save your children and your wives

We'll save our village and our lives

We go marching into battle

Unafraid although the danger's just increased

Here we come, we're fifty strong

[ecotone99]

[HR] The Horror From Hillington

You ask me why I cannot speak the words which recall the memories of that night in Hillington; why it causes my mind the madness that it does to vocalize and relive that of which I hoped to forget, and I respond to you with this: For what evidence should be sufficient enough for you, or anyone, to believe the utterances that stem from my trembling lips? Should you require physical proof - or, rather, further witness testimony - I, unfortunately, cannot provide. But what I can lend to you is my mental aftermath of torment and apprehensive questioning of reality, which you may choose to heed or disregard; either way, it will not change the truth. And the truth of what happened on that horrendously strange night is something that nay a living soul could grasp in its entire otherworldly existence.

I began my visit to the location of Hillington on the morning of September 4th, 1984. A beautiful place it was advertised to be, and, for long stretches of winding roads and expanded acres of land and forest, it was. Regarding my lack of natural navigational skills and a pair of curious eyes that embraced the vast landscape in every cone of my vision, it took longer to reach my destination than was previously planned. But there was far more to see than I had anticipated, and there would be no person awaiting my arrival, so the unexpected stretches of time cost me nothing.

A cabin of an old acquaintance was where the twisting road was taking me, and a near-endless path of sidetracked sight-seeing caused for darkness to settle and greet my overdue appearance. I was treated to a delightful welcoming with a wealth of stored food and a pristine collection of books that sat neatly on varnished wooden shelves. William Goddard - the owner of this shanty - had decorated the interior with careful thought and obsessive precision - shown in the all-too structured layout of his living quarters which contained specific cabinets for specific items and not a single one lay out of place. If only the same could be said for the state in which the furniture was enclosed; for the walls, floors, and ceiling were in awful condition - against the word of my friend.

It was here, in the undisclosed dilapidation of tired beams and brick, that I lay my head for the first time.

The following morning, when I had awoken to the sound of an interesting sputter and gargle, my day had that of a vagrant's vocation - of which, I intended to wander and rest. It was in my initial outing - where I aimed to amble through the mountainous region of Hillington - that I first noticed a peculiar grouping of rotting wildlife sprawled across an area of flat ground not fifty yards from my temporary home; an unnerving but slightly amusing throwaway of animals and their aquatic counterparts from a nearby bayou that decayed on the season's browning grass. What was left of these creatures, I have not much to say; for more than a few had been torn beyond an understanding of species, and the descriptions of several brought no words. But I believe the fish to have been those of larger sizes, and the mammals, a slightly broader range, consisting of rabbits, wildcat, and deer; all left broken and partially buried by the fallen branches and leaves from the fray of autumn.

My eyes were drawn to - what I would later come to acknowledge as - an unsightly amphibious beast carcass that stretched oddly acute and sharpened bones across the bodies of the piled, deceased wildlife, covering more than a couple bucks worth in size - its scattered, slimy skin and chunks of innards painted throughout the makeshift graveyard. I reached down to have an inspection of the skeletal remains and decided it worth investigating further in the cabin.

Presenting the frame of this mutant under the light of several lamps from William Goddard's perfect desk, I could understand, in my less-than-experienced mind, that this was of no ordinary descent, and should be regarded as a trophy of important discovery. I deemed at the time that I had no more than half of this creature's full diameter and more of the same for its width, and yet, this thing had surpassed the length of the desk that it sat upon; a desk that, by my estimation, was around eight or nine feet.

The bones were of incredible sturdiness and would not even so slightly budge at my most vain attempts to hack away at its durability. A frightening row of legs on either side that led to a needle-point so sharp I dared not face them in my direction. There were six acute tips on one facing and seven on the other, with a few missing throughout, leaving chipped and shattered inches of cartilage protruding from its gaps like broken teeth.

Anatomically, I could not comprehend what this monster should have looked like in its living state, despite staring directly at its skeleton. Its long, curving spinal cord led to a cracked cut-off where a non-existing head would have placed itself; and what little flesh and muscle remained inside and out of this thing produced such a nauseating sensation that I couldn't bear to be near it for too long in one sitting. I feared at this point that I should no longer keep it within the home.

I walked outside with its hefty weight in my arms and placed it within William Goddard's shed - which he used for storing tools and general throwaways. It remained there for the night, leaning partially upright against many other things, and I retired to bed with confusing and harrowed thoughts of what I had just examined.

When I had awoken the following day, my first lucid thoughts were that of the horrific and incredible corpse. I began that morning with a breakfast provided by the cabin's stock of non-perishables and then set toward where the beast lay - mere yards from my sleeping quarters. And, in an excitable dash toward the outhouse, it was to my astonishment that I would discover the shelter both broken and open, leaving sufficient traces of footsteps and mangled flesh which led from the opening of the swinging door down to the nearest access of water; and my already fearful disposition would crescendo into hysteria at the finding that the abhorrent remains were no longer there.

For the rest of that morning and through the midday, I paced over the slimy trail of foreign prints that had molded into the thick mud; a large and deeply impacted pair of incredible sized feet had squelched into the earth and formed a path in an almost perfect line for the river. However, it was not the feet of a being like you or I; nor was it like any animal or fish that I had known to exist. From what I could make of the distorted shapes that pressed against the dirt, I could understand two features with clarity: its appendages - that which would be toes on any other animal - curved inward and appeared to overlap one another with a queer thinness that stretched almost half the size of the entire foot; and the sheer mass of the print itself took slightly more than two heel-to-toe steps to cover - its width being roughly the distance of my shoulders apart. This was the signature of a species that had not yet shown itself for records to be created. Or, it had been, perhaps, previously sighted but there remained no word of it being so. Either way, it was real - and it had been outside my home.

A foreboding dread was instilled within me at the notion of an intruder with alien-like physicalities such as this. However, not one to be deterred or easily convinced of conspiratorial thoughts as I had shared in that moment, I had conceived a rather wild idea that would ignite interest in the strange being; and, in my frightened delirium, I had persuaded myself it to be of sound mind - I was to steal another carcass from the crude animal cemetery.

I had chosen a partially eaten wildcat as my bait and carried it back; somewhat for its size in thinking that the creature may not be lured so easily with a rabbit or two, but mostly for my burden to be lesser than that of carrying a deer. I placed its ripped and ragged body similarly inside the cluttered outhouse as I had done before, and as an added measure of enticement, I hung the door wide for temptation to blow carelessly with the wind. I retreated to the cabin and had my scheduled meal for that evening - and I waited.

Come evening, I shook amongst the pristine books that sat by my side in a futile effort to pass time. A raging sun rested its head behind distant hills; and following an evanescence of warm light, the sky welcomed a strange palette of diluted violet and colourless grey. I had fixated myself to the upstairs bedroom window and ogled worryingly at the beastly trail, focusing my attention on a small elevation of dirt that slightly hindered my view to the river's entrance. And it was in my state of fearful awareness, against the gleam of a radiant moon, that I first laid eyes on the otherworldly trespasser.

From where a pair of eyes should rest, only darkness occupied the space; an overgrown drooping of antennae clung to an armor-like head which peered ominously above the elevation. The monster had risen from the sea - and it started to walk; and as it walked, it grew. And each trudge in my direction revealed the appendages of which I had previously thought to be legs. But they were not legs - they were arms! Naive was I to believe that this water-beast have need for such a surplus of walking limbs; but how intelligent would I be to presume the unfathomable design that I set my eyes upon?

I dipped into the blacker areas of the room and continued my bewildered study from safer angles - not to be detected by this commanding aquatic figure which maintained its perpetual growth to heights beyond that of the floor where I resided. It was only now as I stood parallel to the curved crown of this abomination that I could grasp its horrific stature in full disclosure. Its deformed and mangled feet stomped heavily on the grass, and above this were the hideous vertical rows of feelers - solid in death, but lively and wild in life - acting untamed and independently from the next, as though seeking, or desperate for, touch. A towering anatomy not dissimilar to that of a gargantuan millipede with substantial girth shuffling forward on a pair of disturbing, scaly legs for the path towards William Goddard's shed. And it moved with such a sluggish, controlled pace that I could not determine its natural gait; but I assumed it to be of a purposeful, slow walk - for I cannot think too long on the sight of this giant running.

I was paralyzed in awe to this monstrous menace. Its lumbering mass slogging through the dirt - each step heavier and more tremendous than the last - nearing the wide entrance of where I stored its feline kill. I stopped myself for a moment to think of what method it would use to grab the body; for it was beyond twice the height of the outhouse, and it did not appear capable of crouching - and that it did not. It placed itself directly in line with the open door, leaving a few yards of space in-between, and, using its elongated, wild feelers, snapped four forward then retracted with unprecedented speed and accuracy - the wildcat now firmly wrangled amongst the rest of the thrashing limbs. If I had cause to blink in that moment, I would have been deceived into thinking the corpse had magically appeared in its clutches. But I bore witness to all - and it was of terrifying power and precision.

The frail, flailing tentacles now wrapped its strength around its prey and began to devour - and it devoured mercilessly; spinning and skinning and chomping swiftly as it raised its crowd of arms to its shadowed face. The cat, I could see no more - save for slivers of fur and bone that were tossed carelessly to the ground. The insect-like giant then turned lethargically, displaying the bumps and crinkles that formed its armored back, and abandoned our world of land back to the depths below - the last remnants of its mucky legs, crippled feet and cocooned body submerging in the murky, violet-grey water. I had just witnessed something of extraordinary horror, and I couldn't force myself to think of anything else. At some time during the night, when my heart began to rest and my mind became less clouded of appalling visions, I plucked up enough courage to get in my car and drive the long ride home.

And this is why I feared to recall this tale; for I do not possess enough strength of mind to stop the nightmares that will doubtlessly now come, and the constant image of that horrific thing, lurking somewhere deep below the rivers and lakes that we share. For there was no creature like this, and I dare not think there could be many more.

submitted by /u/ChoosingJokerWriting [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2JgYdoI

[readbookywooks]

The Eve Of The War

Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of light, three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it was the unfathomable darkness of empty space. You know how that blackness looks on a frosty starlight night. In a telescope it seems far profounder. And invisible to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly and steadily towards me across that incredible distance, drawing nearer every minute by so many thousands of miles, came the Thing they were sending us, the Thing that was to bring so much struggle and calamity and death to the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one on earth dreamed of that unerring missile.That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection of the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I told Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty, and I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us.That night another invisible missile started on its way to the earth from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first one. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern and walked over to his house. Down below in the darkness were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all their hundreds of people, sleeping in peace.He was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars, and scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were signalling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in progress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets. Page 3 of 4No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men fancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us. And early in the twentieth century came the great disillusionment.

The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves about the sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat it receives from the sun is barely half of that received by this world. It must be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world; and long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its surface must have begun its course. The fact that it is scarcely one seventh of the volume of the earth must have accelerated its cooling to the temperature at which life could begin. It has air and water and all that is necessary for the support of animated existence.

Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer, up to the very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any idea that intelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed at all, beyond its earthly level. Nor was it generally understood that since Mars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the superficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that it is not only more distant from time's beginning but nearer its end.

The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already gone far indeed with our neighbour. Its physical condition is still largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region the midday temperature barely approaches that of our coldest winter. Its air is much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk until they cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow seasons change huge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and periodically inundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which to us is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the inhabitants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has brightened their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts. And looking across space with instruments, and intelligences such as we have scarcely dreamed of, they see, at its nearest distance only 35,000,000 of miles sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own warmer planet, green with vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy atmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses through its drifting cloud wisps of broad stretches of populous country and narrow, navy-crowded seas.

And we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must be to them at least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us. The intellectual side of man already admits that life is an incessant struggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief of the minds upon Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this world is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they regard as inferior animals. To carry warfare sunward is, indeed, their only escape from the destruction that, generation after generation, creeps upon them.

And before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its inferior races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European immigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we such apostles of mercy as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit?

The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing subtlety--their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of ours--and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh perfect unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like Schiaparelli watched the red planet--it is odd, by-the-bye, that for countless centuries Mars has been the star of war--but failed to interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so well. All that time the Martians must have been getting ready.

During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the illuminated part of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by Perrotin of Nice, and then by other observers. English readers heard of it first in the issue of NATURE dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this blaze may have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk into their planet, from which their shots were fired at us. Peculiar markings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the site of that outbreak during the next two oppositions.

The storm burst upon us six years ago now. As Mars approached opposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of the astronomical exchange palpitating with the amazing intelligence of a huge outbreak of incandescent gas upon the planet. It had occurred towards midnight of the twelfth; and the spectroscope, to which he had at once resorted, indicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving with an enormous velocity towards this earth. This jet of fire had become invisible about a quarter past twelve. He compared it to a colossal puff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of the planet, "as flaming gases rushed out of a gun."

A singularly appropriate phrase it proved. Yet the next day there was nothing of this in the papers except a little note in the DAILY TELEGRAPH, and the world went in ignorance of one of the gravest dangers that ever threatened the human race. I might not have heard of the eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known astronomer, at Ottershaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and in the excess of his feelings invited me up to take a turn with him that night in a scrutiny of the red planet.

In spite of all that has happened since, I still remember that vigil very distinctly: the black and silent observatory, the shadowed lantern throwing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the steady ticking of the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in the roof--an oblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved about, invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one saw a circle of deep blue and the little round planet swimming in the field. It seemed such a little thing, so bright and small and still, faintly marked with transverse stripes, and slightly flattened from the perfect round. But so little it was, so silvery warm--a pin's-head of light! It was as if it quivered, but really this was the telescope vibrating with the activity of the clockwork that kept the planet in view.

As I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and smaller and to advance and recede, but that was simply that my eye was tired. Forty millions of miles it was from us--more than forty millions of miles of void. Few people realise the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of the material universe swims.

Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of light, three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it was the unfathomable darkness of empty space. You know how that blackness looks on a frosty starlight night. In a telescope it seems far profounder. And invisible to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly and steadily towards me across that incredible distance, drawing nearer every minute by so many thousands of miles, came the Thing they were sending us, the Thing that was to bring so much struggle and calamity and death to the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one on earth dreamed of that unerring missile.

That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection of the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I told Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty, and I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us.

That night another invisible missile started on its way to the earth from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first one. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern and walked over to his house. Down below in the darkness were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all their hundreds of people, sleeping in peace.

He was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars, and scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were signalling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in progress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets.

"The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to one," he said.

Hundreds of observers saw the flame that night and the night after about midnight, and again the night after; and so for ten nights, a flame each night. Why the shots ceased after the tenth no one on earth has attempted to explain. It may be the gases of the firing caused the Martians inconvenience. Dense clouds of smoke or dust, visible through a powerful telescope on earth as little grey, fluctuating patches, spread through the clearness of the planet's atmosphere and obscured its more familiar features.

Even the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at last, and popular notes appeared here, there, and everywhere concerning the volcanoes upon Mars. The seriocomic periodical PUNCH, I remember, made a happy use of it in the political cartoon. And, all unsuspected, those missiles the Martians had fired at us drew earthward, rushing now at a pace of many miles a second through the empty gulf of space, hour by hour and day by day, nearer and nearer. It seems to me now almost incredibly wonderful that, with that swift fate hanging over us, men could go about their petty concerns as they did. I remember how jubilant Markham was at securing a new photograph of the planet for the illustrated paper he edited in those days. People in these latter times scarcely realise the abundance and enterprise of our nineteenth-century papers. For my own part, I was much occupied in learning to ride the bicycle, and busy upon a series of papers discussing the probable developments of moral ideas as civilisation progressed.

One night (the first missile then could scarcely have been 10,000,000 miles away) I went for a walk with my wife. It was starlight and I explained the Signs of the Zodiac to her, and pointed out Mars, a bright dot of light creeping zenithward, towards which so many telescopes were pointed. It was a warm night. Coming home, a party of excursionists from Chertsey or Isleworth passed us singing and playing music. There were lights in the upper windows of the houses as the people went to bed. From the railway station in the distance came the sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into melody by the distance. My wife pointed out to me the brightness of the red, green, and yellow signal lights hanging in a framework against the sky. It seemed so safe and tranquil.