#green clinging crab

[aquariuminfobureau]

Our of the animals purchased for their use as biological control in reef aquariums, Mithraculus sculptus is one that has caused a great deal of worry to aquarists. This species is strongly algivorous, and is often purchased for the purpose of algal control. Subsequently the crab gets blamed for damaging corals, and even the deaths of fishes are attributed to the crab. Much confusion exists as to the riskiness versus 'reef safety' of this controversial species. To aquarists this species is known as the emerald crab or simply 'the' mithrax crab. Historically there was much debate about the distinction, or otherwise, of Mithraculus from its relative Mithrax.

Mithraculus is extremely similar to Mithrax, so close overall that observations about the general diet of one genus, also apply to the other. M. sculpta is also known as the green clinging crab in some literature Whatever we call it, this is a crab of the Caribbean and adjacent eastern Atlantic, from Florida and the Bahamas south to Brazil. It grows to about 4 centimeters, or about 1 and a 1/2 inches long.

Although ecological studies tend to stress the herbivory of Mithrax senso lato, both field and laboratory studies of these crabs in the 1970s, have demonstrated their omnivorous feedings, on macroalgae, cnidarians, and detritus. In an experiment, the captive Mithrax eagerly consumed pieces of fish and clam, as well as such marine animals as polychaetes, gastropods, and echinoderms. Mithrax consume Aiptasia anemones, so they are able to consume rather large polyps. The extent of their predation on fleshy polyps and colonies is not known.

Very motile animals such as fish, shrimp, and crabs, were consumed only by scavenging. Mithrax are clumsy foragers, certainly not hunters, and they do not detect prey well, merely consuming animal protein opportunistically. M. sculpta and similar crabs really are primarily herbivorous, although they preferentially take animal derived foodstuffs where they are available. In other words, they have evolved to exploit animal protein if it is encountered whilst feeding on algae. Mithrax crabs are able to extract live snails from their shells, but appear unable to crack hard shelled prey open.

In shallow seagrass beds, and the margins of reef flats, M. sculpta uses the branching, coralline macroalga Neogoniolithon strictum as a host, and the alga benefits from the effectiveness of M. sculpta at controlling epibionts. M. sculpta is also a facultative symbionts of Porites stony corals. The residence of M. sculpta among P. porites, reduces intrusive algal cover on the corals by more than 85%.

Such a statistic is proof of the efficiency of these craps. By day, these crabs shelter in crevices and beneath ledges. Although they are nocturnal, their algal diet restricts them to areas of sunshine. They avoid areas that are shaded during the day, which would impair the growth of their algal food. The claws of M. sculpta are spatulate, an evolutionary tendency among crabs deviating towards herbivorous lifestyles.

In the absence of appropriate algal growth, emerald crabs will consume such foods as nori. They will obviously accept defrosted meaty foods, and some dry preparations. But their natural diet, which is mostly herbivorous, ought to be replicated. Good reason exists to presume M. sculpta is a risk to slow, motile animals like gastropods and starfishes in the aquarium, as well as to large fleshy polyps. But they do not hunt fish, shrimp, or other crabs.

Aquarists should note there is some overlap between the macroalgal genera eaten by emerald crabs, and those purchased deliberately, for ornamental reasons. These crabs are also nocturnal by nature, and many aquarists never see theirs by day, sometimes fearing their pet crab is dead, only to discover the same animal alive, some period later. The species requires places to reside in the rockwork, where it will avoid bright light.

What is reef safety, anyway? A reef is a living ecosystem, and even those organisms that do not consume other organisms directly, are competing for sunlight or space. The idea of 'reef safety' implies a simplification of how organisms in an environment really interact, and is semantically meaningless. It is like saying an animal is 'forest safe' or 'prairie safe'. No one talks about any other biome, the way 'reefers' do about coral reefs.

[brattyfics]

Swampbound I

Adla had lived in Florida her whole life, yet the strange debris that washed ashore after storms still startled her. Broken tree limbs and splintered pieces of homes were expected, but today was different.

Tangled in seaweed, she spotted frantic turtle hatchlings, frogs, and crabs struggling to reclaim their place in the chaos. But nothing compared to the sight before her: a bloody, mangled deer carcass lying in the tall grass, torn flesh and fur clinging to shredded cloth.

Her instincts screamed at her to turn back, but curiosity pulled her closer. Kneeling down, she caught the metallic scent of blood, and a chill gripped her. Something violent had occurred.

A gator? No, they dragged their prey into the water. Maybe a hawk? But even a bird of prey wouldn’t leave this kind of mess. Could it be a bobcat? They prowled these swamps, opportunistic in their hunting. But as she examined the prints—large, wolf-like, and deeper than any she’d seen—her heart raced. Four parallel prints faded into something far stranger: two flatter, elongated impressions.

Like feet.

Human feet.

The footprints were far too big to be hers, and she knew she was alone out there. The air felt thick, the swamp unnaturally quiet, as if the world was holding its breath. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: “Never run from a person or an animal. Running makes you prey.”

She gripped her hunting knife, steadying her wrist, eyes scanning the brush for hidden dangers but there was nothing– no one hiding in the bushes, no animal stalking her. Just thick humidity, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. 

Time to head back.

As she treaded carefully over the spongy ground, the low rumble of an engine caught her attention. She hadn’t expected company—she rarely did. As a child, she’d hated the isolation of this place, but now it felt like a shield.

Rushing up the muddy incline, her boots kicked loose clumps of earth. At the porch of her old Cracker house, she leaned against the weathered wood, squinting down the overgrown path. A boxy, faded green Jeep Cherokee bounced along the uneven track.

Jesse Hampton. Of course.

He stepped out, scanning the trees before his gaze settled on her. His mahogany skin glistened under the humid sun, damp shirt clinging to his chest, hair wild from the moisture. Stubble covered his jaw—unusual for him but understandable after the chaos of the storm. Even so, he was as handsome as ever.

“Addy,” he called, voice steady but laced with urgency. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His gaze darted behind her, searching the shadows. “I know it seems all quiet and nice, but it ain’t safe.”

She rolled her eyes, not wanting to give him more reason to worry. “You’re soundin’ just like my father.”

Jesse’s expression tightened, something unspoken hanging between them. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Promise me you’ll be careful. You got a light in you that draws eyes—sometimes the wrong ones.”

His words hung heavy, and a flicker of fear flashed in her eyes. “You’re fussing over nothing. I’m just fine,” she shot back, but unease gnawed at her. Jesse knew something she didn’t.

“What you doing out here, anyway?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Do I need a reason?” he countered, flashing that charming smile of his.

“You always got a reason when you show up without warning. So, what’s the scoop this time?”

Jesse owned a busy convenience store in town but thrived on side hustles, always finding a way to get by. She admired his resourcefulness, but it was a reminder that he always had some angle he was working.

“Just wanted to check on you, see how you’re faring after the storm. But if I ain’t welcome…” He paused, putting on a mock-serious face. “I can just as easily turn right back around.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, turning away as she ascended the steps. “You say that every time, but you always wind up inside.” She shot him a teasing grin over her shoulder. “You don’t even bother asking to come in anymore.”

“After all the times I’ve been ‘round, why would I ask?” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a playful spark in his eye. “Sometimes late at night, if I remember right.”

Adla shook her head, heading toward the kitchen. “That ain’t the same thing, and you know it.”

She opened the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of cold water, pouring a glass and handing it to him. Their fingers brushed, igniting that familiar spark that always hung in the air between them.

“Why you gotta say it like that?” Jesse asked, his brow furrowing as he took a sip from his glass.

“‘Cause you gotta get it, Jesse,” Adla replied, picking her words with care. “I ain’t one for surprises. You should’ve let me know you were coming before just poppin’ up like this.” She forced a sweet smile, hoping to ease the sting. Before anything, he was her closest friend, and the last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

He leaned casually against the counter, a sly grin spreading across his face. Adla considered asking if he’d been snooping around her property—Jesse had a knack for being sneaky—but thought better of it. Questions would only lead to more questions.

“I thought I was special,” he inched closer, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Oh, really? Where’d you get that idea from?” She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement.

“Just a hunch,” he said, tugging at a tight curl in her ponytail, the spiral bouncing back like a rubber band. He leaned in to whisper, “I figured if I play my cards right and keep doing that thing you like, I might get a little something in return.”

She fought to hold back a smile. “Like what exactly?”

“Ain’t askin’ for much. Just the freedom to come and go when I feel like it.” Jesse leaned in for a kiss, his lips hovering just shy of hers. Adla pushed against his broad chest, stopping him.

Jesse was fine as hell—fit, sharp, and always finding a way out of trouble. She liked being around him, sure, but no one—not even him—was about to think they had a hold on her. She ran her own life, and settling down wasn’t in the cards, especially when she knew other women were likely getting a taste of that same charm and quick thinking too.

“Nope, not a chance,” she said, playful but firm, shaking her head. “But since you’re already here, I could use your help with something.”

“Oh really?” he replied, his interest piqued. “What you need?”

“Help me set these traps and see what washed up after that storm,” she said, stealing a quick sip from his cup. She wanted to catch some crabs and fish to fill up her freezer, and the thought of going back into the woods alone made her uneasy.

“Aww, man,” he groaned dramatically. “I should’ve known coming over here meant I’d have to work. You’re a real slave driver, you know that?”

They settled into a rhythm, working side by side, their comfortable banter broken by the silence of the storm’s aftermath. They inspected her garden for damage while Jesse filled her in on town gossip—apparently, Mrs. Flowers had been caught in Mr. Jenkins’ house by Mr. Flowers. Uprooted mustard greens littered the ground as Adla pulled them up, but thankfully, the okra and sweet potatoes had weathered the storm. She just hoped the excess moisture wouldn’t lead to rot.

Moving on to the fishing nets and traps, they stumbled upon something concerning.

A mountain of fish heads littered the reeds where she usually set her traps, alongside crab shells stripped of their claws and backs. This wasn’t the typical damage—something worse lurked here, disturbingly messy and uncharacteristic of the area’s usual predators.

“What in the world?” Adla muttered, her heart racing as she scanned the ground for prints. “You think it was a gator?

“A gator wouldn’t leave pieces like this,” Jesse replied, his brow furrowing.

“Something else made this mess,” she finished, feeling her skin prickling as those unsettling feelings from earlier came rushing back. She described the strange prints and the shredded carcass she’d seen to Jesse, who listened closely, rubbing her shoulders to calm her down.

“You shouldn't be out here tonight, Addy. Why don’t you come stay with me?”

Apprehension settled in her gut about what the darkness might bring, but she couldn’t accept his offer. His grandmother’s old house might be just down the road, but it felt wrong to spend the night in another woman’s home—even if she had adored Adla.

Plus, sneaking around with Jesse where anyone could see was out of the question. She refused to give anyone the chance to stir up drama or question her independence. She couldn’t bear the thought of becoming the next Mrs. Flowers, her good name dragged through the mud for all who would listen.

“No one—and nothing—is going to run me out of my house,” she said, half to him, half to herself. This place was her sanctuary, the fruit of her struggles and her ancestors' labor. They had fought hard for this land, and she felt a fierce pride in maintaining it. Out in the wilderness, peace was something earned, not given. She would defend her home if it came to that.

“You don’t know what’s lurking out here, and you think it’s smart to be by yourself? That don’t make no sense, baby doll,” Jesse insisted, his usual persistence edged with urgency.

“Don't call me that. I’m not your ‘baby doll,’” she shot back, irritation flaring. She knew what was good for her better than anyone else ever could. Jesse had been testing her boundaries too much lately.

“I already told you—I’m staying. You should head out on out here before dark.”

“Don’t be like that—” he started, his voice smooth and sweet like molasses. Today, though, she wasn’t falling for it.

“Go on,” she said, stepping in close to block his path. “I’ll finish up and lock everything up tight, but I need you to leave now.”

Jesse met her eyes, noticing the resolve etched into her expression. Adla stood firm, arms crossed, one hip jutting out, her nose wrinkled just so. She had made up her mind, and he knew he’d already pushed her enough for one day.

“Alright, I’m on my way,” he agreed. “But you promise me you ain’t stepping outside tonight. Whatever you do, don’t go crossing that threshold.”

Adla frowned at his strange phrasing. “Why would I be out here? I ain’t foolish enough to roam around at night." His shoulders were knotted with tension. "What’s got you so riled up?”

“Just trust me on this,” he insisted, locking eyes with her, his expression serious. “You’ll be safe, no matter what, if you just stay inside tonight.”

Last she checked, danger didn’t give a damn about doors, windows, or any other barriers. But it was clear he wouldn’t leave until she agreed.

“Alright, fine,” she said, stretching out the words, “I’ll stay in tonight. Not like I was gonna be out and about anyway.”

“Good,” Jesse smiled, wrapping her up in his arms tight. “I’ll call you later, and you better pick up. If you don’t, I’ll be back, whether you want me to or not.” As he turned to leave, Adla couldn’t help but smile after him. Jesse could be a handful, but beneath his cool front, she knew he cared for her just as fiercely as she did for him. In the wild expanse of the Florida swamps, that bond meant everything.

He lingered in the driveway while she hurried to gather crab shells, tossing them into the compost bin—no sense letting them go to waste. He didn’t start his engine until she was safely inside with the door closed, waving goodbye from the street as she watched from the window.

After locking up, she sank into a well-deserved bubble bath, a sweet reward for a hard day’s work. The clawfoot tub, older than her but still in solid shape, had become a cherished fixture in her home. The bathroom, filled with the scent of incense and candles, wrapped around her like a familiar hug. After her father passed, her first goal had been to breathe life back into the old house, make it her own.

Reminders of him were everywhere—the doorframe where he marked her height on the first day of school, the cast-iron pans he used for dinner. But mostly, the house was hers now—weathered, yet undeniably new in its own way.

Her time in the city felt like a world away from the peace she found here. Juggling multiple jobs just to make ends meet, she was always surrounded by nosy neighbors and men who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. But the worst part was the stalker—a shadowy figure who slipped chilling notes under her apartment door. I know who you are. What you can do. It left her confused and drained, but she didn’t tuck tail and run back home until her father passed away.

The guilt of not being there at the end haunted her, so she kept busy. Her part-time job at the new bed-and-breakfast in town helped pay the bills, and on weekends, she sold her art—sculptures made from found objects—at a flea market a couple of towns over. Every spare moment was spent creating with her hands. Her life wasn’t glamorous, but the peace and was worth more than anything else.

“When You’re Young and in Love” by The Marvelettes played softly on the record player, one of her mother’s favorites. She couldn’t quite relate to the notion of being swept off her feet but it sounded good, romantic even. Her daddy had been left in pieces when her mama died, never even thinking about finding another. She yearned for a love that strong, but the idea also chilled her to the bone.

She had only a handful of pictures, but from those, Adla saw the resemblance. She inherited her father’s level-headed temperament, but her rich skin tone, flat nose, and wide, expressive eyes—all of that came from her mother. Those features made her feel close to the woman whose absence she felt deeply.

With a sigh, Adla rose from the cool water, wrapping a towel around her waist. Her earlier worries faded as she slathered on cocoa butter lotion and slipped into a floral-patterned cotton nightgown.

After her nighttime routine of checking the locks and lights, she settled in. The old wooden floors creaked softly underfoot—a comforting sound that added to the home’s charm.

Just as she was about to crawl into bed, faint sounds from outside caught her ear—rhythmic scraping and thumping carried on the wind. Strange noises weren’t rare out in the boonies, but this one sent a shiver down her spine. Something was different. She paused in the hallway, glancing toward the door.

A tug, almost physical, pulled her toward it, despite Jesse’s warnings. It was as if something—someone—was calling her, and the urge was too strong to ignore. 

The door creaked as she pushed it open. Through the screen, she squinted, trying to make sense of the dim shapes outside. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and in the cool moonlight, she saw it—something massive. A shadow loomed over the porch, too large to be any regular animal.

A knot twisted in her gut. It wasn’t a bobcat. This was more like a coyote—if coyotes were massive. No, this creature looked more like a wolf, except wolves didn’t roam Florida’s saltwater jungle.

Its amber eyes glowed like lanterns in the dark, locking onto hers with an intensity that left her feeling ice-cold. Jesse’s warnings echoed in her mind. Was this creature more than it seemed?

I know this fool ain’t lookin’ at me like I’m dinner. Adla squared her shoulders. “You don’t belong here,” she hollered, “Now, git! Get on outta here!”

The wolf growled low and deep, the frightening sound vibrating through the night air. It took a shaky step forward, and she noticed it was limping. A deep, ugly gash ran from its back down to its hind leg, blood darkening the wooden porch.

She didn’t move. Something about the creature—its pain, its presence—held her still. It was more than an injured beast. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt rooted to the spot.

A wave of instinct surged through her, a primal warning that clashed with her fear.

“Don’t you dare come any closer!” she warned, reaching for the shotgun above the door, her gaze locked on the approaching creature. She raised the gun, aiming through the screen, her finger on the trigger.

If it took just one more step forward—

The wolf paused at the door’s edge, held back by something unseen, something stronger than the flimsy screen. Her eyes flicked to the threshold, recalling Jesse’s cryptic words about things not crossing certain lines.

This was it. A choice. But Adla hesitated, her finger hovering over the trigger. She couldn’t pull it.

The wolf whined, collapsing in a heap at her feet, its strength giving out. Its amber eyes, still glowing, held no aggression—only a silent plea. The sight tugged at something deep inside her, stirring memories of her own struggles.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “Respect the creatures out here, just like you respect yourself. Life’s tough enough without us makin’ it harder on each other.”

Adla sighed, lowering the shotgun. The wolf’s blood was already drying on the porch. Tomorrow, she’d scrub it clean, but for tonight, she’d let the creature stay. She hoped it would make it through the night.

After triple-checking the locks, she placed the shotgun within arm’s reach and settled into bed, the creaking floorboards beneath her a familiar lullaby. Yet, the strange pull toward the wolf lingered in her mind. Maybe it wasn’t just an animal, but something deeper—a reflection of her own struggles, a sign from her father. Whatever it was, she’d reckon with it tomorrow. For now, she surrendered to sleep, trusting that both she and the wolf would survive the night.

Chapter Two.

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 3: Mist and Bricks]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, dragons being weapons of mass destruction, King's Landing gets some visitors, Larys gets alarming news, Alicent gets an idea, Red gets a shock.

Word count: 7.2k

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There is a chilly steel-grey mist on Blackwater Bay, and another in your skull, your thoughts slow and muddled, the past bleeding into the present. It’s weeks later, the longest you’ve ever been away from Aemond, and the pebbles on the shore needle your shins through your velvet gown the color of cinnabar as you kneel to claw seashells from the muck. Helaena is here with you, and while you haven’t told her your plans for your next mosaic, she somehow knows what color shells to drop into your basket: dark green like Vhagar’s scales, shimmering white like Aemond’s hair. Sometimes there are still creatures hunkered inside, and Helaena can never bring herself to pry them out. She passes the doomed crabs and snails to you for a swift exhumation that you deliver with your bare hands, and then you wash the vacated shells in the surf. Mother and a flock of maids are playing with Jaehaera and Maelor farther down the beach. You can’t go near them, or Maelor will start screaming.

Grandsire comes plodding down the stone steps carved into the cliffside, carrying a plate laden with lemon cakes and slices of fresh bread slathered with butter and blackberry jam. “Helaena, you must eat,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Helaena, please.” And his voice is gentle in a way it has never been with you. “My gods, why are you wrist-deep in wet sand?”

“We’re collecting shells.”

Grandsire gives you a familiar look: disapproval, frustration. The he turns back to Helaena. “I can’t watch you disappear. You must eat something, I’m not leaving until you do.”

“You like blackberry jam,” you encourage her. But she flinches away when Grandsire offers her the plate, and suddenly you understand, you feel the thought as if it is your own. “It’s the color,” you tell him. “The jam, it’s like…” Like blood, like gore. Like the night Jaehaerys died.

“Oh.” Grandsire is quiet for a moment, remembering. “The lemon cakes, then.”

Helaena reluctantly rinses her hands in the seawater, takes a single lemon cake from the plate, and sits on a nearby rock to nibble on it, gazing blankly out over the inlet. You attended Jaehaerys’ funeral procession in her stead—an act of mercy, of penance, while Helaena spent that day sobbing in the Dragonpit, clinging to Dreamfyre, a pale blue century-old monster with infinite patience. The people of King’s Landing saw the dead prince, his head crudely stitched back onto his tiny body, and howled for vengeance. They burned white-haired effigies of Rhaenyra and Daemon. They gave rare autumn flowers to you and Mother. It’s always strange when you leave the Red Keep to interact with the smallfolk. They call you by your real name, something your family seldom does; they seem to believe you are righteous and wise. Perhaps they even pity you: no husband, no children, no dragon.

Mother has left Jaehaera and Maelor with the maids and is venturing closer. “Are there any new letters?” From Criston or Aemond, or even Daeron in the Reach. The Hightower army has been delayed there, cutting through the treasonous soldiers of House Rowan and House Caswell, Tessarion burning them alive in their armor.

“Ravens,” Helaena says thoughtfully from her rock, and no one knows why.

Grandsire shakes his head. No letters today. Butterwell, Stokeworth, and Rosby have bent the knee; the defiant lords of the Crownlands are being put to death. By now the Green forces will be marching on House Staunton at Rook’s Rest. When Aemond does write, you are not mentioned. With each passing day you find yourself thinking: Has he forgotten me? Does he truly love me? Perhaps this is not so irrational a question. Aemond has never used the word love to describe what you are to each other.

Grandsire frowns at you. You gaze mournfully back. He snaps: “And what’s wrong with you?”

Mother’s reply is hushed and sympathetic. “She’s lonely, Father.”

“Lonely?! She still has us here. Don’t we matter? No, I suppose not, she prefers arrogant fools who imperil the realm with their self-obsession. Perhaps she’d like us more if we wore silver wigs and eyepatches.”

Mother is distressed. “Father, please.”

He waves an irritated hand at you. “I better not find out you’ve been keeping the cats away from your chambers again.” Grandsire had a hundred cats brought to the Red Keep to do the tasks the dead ratcatchers left unattended.

“They scare my babies,” you say.

“Your vermin, you mean. Revolting creatures. Flying pestilence.”

You rise from the sand and pick up your basket, now full of shells. Your head is beginning to ache. Maester Orwyle removed your stitches this morning, but the wound in your chest still pains you more or less constantly, a gnawing sensation like an animal chewing on your ribcage.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands. You don’t answer him as you ascend the stone staircase, the waves growling behind you and gulls squawking in the foggy air.

In your chambers, you leave the basket of seashells on the floor and call for wine. The maids fetch it and you drink straight from the pitcher, staring at the little wooden figurines on your dresser until they turn blurry. Among them is Vermithor. You recall what Aegon said when he gave it to you years ago, when you were so stung by the dragon’s rejection: You might not have the real Bronze Fury, but you can keep this one.

Your bats are beginning to scrabble out of their roost and vanish through the window. As the sun sets and the room spins, you crawl into bed and lie there in the darkness clutching pillows, your pulse thudding just above your left eye. You doze in and out of consciousness. Aemond told you to think of him when you are here, and you do whether you want to or not: Aemond spilling red wine down your bare chest and then licking you clean; you straddling his lap and stroking him as he reads myths aloud to you in gloomy alcoves of the library, dust motes wheeling in the air, grinning victoriously when you make him lose his focus; the five game pieces racing around the wooden board, Aegon’s green snake, Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Aemond’s blue wolf, your red bat, Daeron’s purple shadowcat before he was sent away to Oldtown and the rest of you never played again.

Then something hits you, not like a vision but like knuckles that could crack teeth, and you are besieged by what Aemond is seeing in the Crownlands. There is flesh, horribly and ruinously burned, sheets of it sloughing off as Aemond peels away scraps of charred fabric, and the smell of it—like blackened pork, oily and stomach-turning—is in your nostrils, and you can feel the calamitous heat rising off the man who must be dying. You can feel Aemond’s terror, disbelief, desperation; you can feel his tears on the right side of your face.

Dragonfire??

The dreamscape abruptly disappears like a candle blown out. Your head throbs, your eyes are squeezed shut as you whimper into your pillows. Your fingertips go instinctively to the scar on your chest.

Who was burned? Criston? Gwayne?

But now the dire portents are here in your room, and they are real: the ringing of bells, smoke, shrieking, scorched flesh.

You open your eyes, and your bats are soaring back inside through the open window; but they have been turned to comets. They are on fire, squealing as their fur is singed off and the fragile membranes of their wings melted from their bones, herding around their roost as they try in vain to seek shelter inside. The dark blue velvet cover has been engulfed in flames.

“No!” you scream, bolting off the bed.

Your door is thrown open and Mother rushes in, dragging Jaehaera behind her. Helaena waits in the doorway holding little Maelor in her arms. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he is already wailing. The horror is back. When will it end?

“We have to go!” Mother shouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your bats. You know you can’t save them, and yet you are compelled to. They are pieces of you, pieces of Aemond. They are burning to death in the house you built for them.

“What’s happening—?!” And then you hear the screeches of dragons, not Vhagar or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre or Tessarion. Through the window, you see an inferno bloom in the night sky. You get a firelit glimpse of a beast you do not recognize: dark, angular, very large and covered with jagged spines. People are screaming. Rooftops are ablaze.

A wild dragon? Claimed by who?

“We’ll go to the beach,” Mother says frantically. She’s thinking of the escape hatch in Aemond’s bedchamber, the only secret passageway in Maegor’s Holdfast. The king known as “the Cruel” wanted no spies or assassins in his walls. But one door was enough for Daemon’s executioners to kill Jaehaerys. “Helaena will try to get to Dreamfyre.”

But you won’t be able to fly away with the rest of them. Dreamfyre would sooner reduce you to ashes than let you touch her.

Mother knows this. She tells you, low and fierce, her coppery hair like glowing embers: “I won’t leave you. You and I will find another way out of King’s Landing.”

“You should escape on Dreamfyre if you have the chance.”

“Never,” she says. And then again: “Never.”

In the hallway, Grandsire has arrived, panicked and urging everyone towards Aemond’s bedchamber. He wheezes, breathless from his sprint through the castle: “I saw Syrax and Caraxes, and Vermax too I think, or maybe Moondancer, a small dragon…but who is the other one? It’s not Meleys. It’s a hideous creature, it looks deformed.”

“I don’t know,” Mother says. Hordes of yowling cats careen past your bare feet.

“Could Rhaenyra be finding new riders?” And Grandsire, a man who is afraid of very little, is petrified down to his bones by this.

I should have a dragon, you think, forlorn. I should be able to help fight this war. And instead I am worthless.

“I don’t know, Father,” Mother says again, and you follow her through the threshold and into Aemond’s abandoned bedchamber, illuminated only by the moonlight that streams in through the windows. You have not been in here since Jaehaerys died; the stone floor is still stained with his blood. Helaena begins sobbing, clutching Maelor closer to her chest. Downstairs, you can hear swords clanging and men groaning as they die.

You hurry to the hidden door and ram it with your shoulder, but as the passageway opens, you see red-orange torchlight approaching through the blackness like fire boiling up in the throat of a dragon. Rhaenyra’s soldiers are already here. You try to close the door, but now knights in armor are forcing their way inside the room. And Grandsire, who has never liked you, pulls you away from the breach and puts himself between you and the intruders.

“The hallway, back to the hallway!” he booms, giving you a shove, and that is the only place left to go. You, Mother, Jaehaera, Helaena, Maelor, and Grandsire flee from Aemond’s bloodstained bedchamber. But your captors have climbed the Grand Staircase—the place where you once waited for Aemond to return from Storm’s End, so convinced that he would not fail you—and now they are here.

Under the torches carried by her guards, Rhaenyra alternates between firelight and shadows. Daemon marches beside her, his face severe, his sword Dark Sister drawn. Mother pushes you, Jaehaera, and Helaena, still carrying Maelor, against the cold stone wall. Grandsire stands in front of Mother. Jace is walking behind Rhaenyra and Daemon, you notice, dressed in red and black, his cloak billowing behind him. The last time you saw Jace, you were smirking when Aemond shoved him off his feet at the last dinner King Viserys ever attended. Now you are trembling with thunderstruck terror.

Rhaenyra is supposed to be bedbound on Dragonstone. Daemon is supposed to be in the Riverlands.

Daemon points at you with the tip of his blade. “You should have that one executed,” he says to Rhaenyra. “Isn’t she Aemond’s whore?”

“They were never married,” Mother tells him, her dark eyes huge and reflecting the torchlight, her arm thrown in front of you.

“I didn’t say wife, I said whore.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warns, and she studies you, Helaena, Grandsire, Mother. Her blue eyes are sharp like fractured glass, edges that glide effortlessly through arteries and veins; there is a queenlike composure in her face, but beneath that wrath, wrath, wrath. After a moment, she says to her guards: “Take the adults to the dungeons.”

Mother and Helaena are shouting and protesting, trying to stop the guards that rip Jaehaera and Maelor out of their grasps. Grandsire is attempting to negotiate. Rhaenyra and Daemon ignore them, continuing on down the hallway, taking possession of the rage-red castle where they first fell into their peculiar, destructive breed of love.

As he passes by, Jace glowers at you and you glare back, and when he reaches for the hilt of his sword you bare your teeth at him; but before Jace can draw his blade—to threaten you, to frighten you, to spill your blood the way Aemond spilled Luke’s—the guards have dragged you away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your head is very bad now. The pain is almost impossible to think through; you are sick with it, retching into a wooden bucket until there is nothing left to expel. If Aemond was here, he would be holding you, murmuring to you in High Valyrian, pressing a cloth soaked with cold water to your forehead. But Mother is here instead, and she is doing the best she can.

It’s the next day, cold grey light tumbling in through cracks in the walls. You are imprisoned on the second level of the dungeons, reserved for highborn captives; you and Mother are in one cell, Helaena and Grandsire in another on the other side of the aisle. Helaena has been weeping constantly, worrying for her children. Grandsire and Mother try to console her as you lie pitifully on the floor, wishing the pain would knock you unconscious. You need Orwyle and his milk of the poppy. The guards have brought bread and water, but nothing else.

There is a creaking sound from several cells away, and then a slow shuffling accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Mother keeps one hand on your shoulder as she cranes her neck to see her visitor. Grandsire and Helaena move to the front of their cell, their fingers gripping the rusted iron bars.

Larys Strong appears, his hands resting on the handle his cane. Unlike Maegor’s Holdfast—the residence of the royal family—the other buildings of the Red Keep are rife with secret passageways, a latticework of corridors that one unfamiliar with their paths could get lost in forever. Surely Daemon and his confederates are in the process of searching them, but it is a task that could take a week.

“Lord Larys,” Mother says, relieved. “They have not found you.”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he replies docilely. “Though I’m sure it will not take much longer.”

“Can you retrieve some milk of the poppy?” For you, she means.

“I will try.” Then he stalls, as if he does not wish to share what he has heard through his clandestine chain of whispers. “Something has happened at Rook’s Rest.”

Mother’s brow furrows. “Where?”

“The seat of House Staunton,” you tell her from where you lie on the floor, remembering it from the maps in Aemond’s bedchamber. He would tell you things, show you things, sometimes kindly, sometimes tauntingly, sometimes as he undressed you. He would quiz you and if you got an answer wrong, he would put your clothes back on.

“In the Crownlands?” Mother says to Larys, alarmed. “Is Aegon alright?”

Larys takes a moment to decide how to proceed. “The castle was captured without much difficulty, but a maester there must have gotten a raven out, because Dragonstone received word of the attack and was summoned to defend Rook’s Rest and retake it from the Greens. It is located very close to Dragonstone, and thus cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Larys pauses and looks at his audience. Grandsire asks: “So who answered the message?”

“It seems that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jacaerys were already preparing for an invasion of King’s Landing and were elsewhere,” Larys says. “The other dragon, the large brown one, is called Sheepstealer and is ridden by a peasant girl that Daemon found. There are rumors that he has grown somewhat…attached to her.”

Mother grimaces, tugging on the seven-pointed star necklace she never takes off. “He’s a beast.”

“The girl is a Targaryen bastard?” Grandsire says, confounded. “Whose? She’s not a child of Viserys, surely. Where the hell did she come from?”

Larys is apologetic. “I could not tell you, my lord. If I discover anything else concerning her origins, I shall share what I learn. She is known as Nettles.”

“Nettles?” Grandsire snorts.

Larys continues: “When the raven reached Dragonstone, Baela received the letter. It appears she was told that Sunfyre was the only dragon guarding Rook’s Rest at the time, and that Vhagar was away feeding. She must have thought she could best the king, or at least chase him away from the castle.”

“An understandable error,” Grandsire says, and you scowl at him between fruitless retches into your bucket. The thrumming in your skull is like blows from a hammer, rhythmic and disorienting. Your face is hot with fever; it radiates off of you in waves. Mother rubs your back—although somewhat cautiously, as if she is afraid that barbs might split through your skin to prick her—and offers you sips of water.

“Baela left Dragonstone, likely without permission. Rhaenys followed her on Meleys, but Moondancer was faster.”

“Meleys?” Mother says, startled. “Meleys was there too?”

Larys nods solemnly. “Aegon and Sunfyre attacked Moondancer and broke her neck high in the air. Baela perished when her dragon fell to the earth.”

“Daemon’s daughter,” Mother exhales, wondering what the retribution will be. “Jace’s betrothed.”

“And one of Rhaenys’ only two trueborn grandchildren,” Larys says. “When she arrived at Rook’s Rest and saw Moondancer’s carcass smoldering just outside the castle walls, she pursued the king before he could retreat. And Sunfyre…he was no match for a dragon as large as Meleys.”

“Aegon, he’s…?” Mother cannot bring herself to speak the words aloud. Tears gleam in her eyes. “Is he…is there no hope…?”

The ruined flesh, charred and raw, you remember from your horrifying glimpse into Aemond’s mind. It wasn’t Criston or Gwayne. It was Aegon.

“He was burned,” you whisper, and Mother stares at you.

“Aemond returned on Vhagar, and they slayed Rhaenys and her mount. But not before the king and his dragon were engulfed in Meleys’ flames.”

“He’s dead?” Grandsire says, emotion you’ve never heard before in his voice.

No, you think. Not yet.

“Aegon and Sunfyre are both gravely wounded,” Larys replies. “It is uncertain whether either will survive. The Blacks received the news just before their assault on King’s Landing.”

“Where is Aegon now?” Mother says.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. He was still at Rook’s Rest last I heard, but they might move the king elsewhere to keep him hidden. I would imagine Aemond and Sir Criston Cole are requisitioning maesters from nearby houses to treat him.”

“Burns,” Mother sobs. “He must be suffering terribly, the pain…the disfigurement…”

Grandsire drums his fingers on the bars of his cell, his rings clinking against the rusted steel. His expression is remote, somber, resigned. “So we have two dragons capable of combat, one of which is young and small and pinned down by battles in the Reach, the other is on the far side of the Crownlands and trapped there while Aemond tries to keep our king alive. And Rhaenyra is here in the capital with Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer, larger than any of her others, and her faction seeks vengeance for not one but three royal deaths.”

In reply, Larys Strong only bows his head. Mother swipes tears from her cheeks and tucks your hair behind your ears as strands escape your braid.

“Well,” Grandsire sighs. “I believe we might be losing this war.”

There is the distant noise of a door’s hinges creaking, and Larys hobbles out of sight, retreating to the secret passageway he previously emerged from. A minute passes, and then footsteps echo down the corridor. Daemon strides into view, swinging Dark Sister in his right hand, and you are suddenly reminded so much of Aemond’s mannerisms that the absence of him guts you all over again, vital parts of you excavated like the organs of a slaughtered animal. Daemon is accompanied by several guards and a group of noblemen who you assume are members of Rhaenyra’s council. You recognize among them a tall man with short grey hair, Lord Bartimos Celtigar.

Daemon says: “Princess Helaena, the queen has taken your tiny, traitorous children to ward. Perhaps one day you will see them again. Perhaps not.” She gazes out from her cell vacantly, her face bloodless with shock and fear. Then Daemon turns to Grandsire. “Otto Hightower, you orchestrated an unlawful rebellion and therefore you will be put to death.”

Grandsire gapes at him. “What? When?”

“Oh, immediately.” Daemon steps back and the guards unlock the cell, seize Grandsire, knock him over and drag him wriggling on his belly into the corridor. Mother pleads for his life. Helaena shrieks and claws for him, trying to keep him with her. The guards fling her roughly away and slam the door of her cell shut before she can escape.

“No, no, do not mourn me!” Grandsire is bellowing as he is hauled away. “I am an old man, I have lived a good life, do not think of me, think of the living and what you can still do for them!”

“Father!” Mother wails, reaching through the bars of her cell though she knows she will never touch him again.

“I am ready to see your mother, Alicent,” Grandsire says; and then he is gone. The men of Rhaenyra’s council begin to file out of the dungeon.

“You followed us across the Narrow Sea, Lord Celtigar!” you shout after him, crawling across the floor and pressing your face against the bars of your cell. “House Targaryen saved you from the Doom, and now you rip it down from within by aiding a usurper. We will not forget your treason when the war is won. We will visit you on Claw Isle and bring with us fire and blood. And you will have no defenses. You are no dragonrider.”

“Neither are you, princess,” he says cooly, and leaves you in your prison.

Daemon is the only man still standing in the aisle. He peers down at you with shadowy deep-set eyes and twirls his Valyrian steel sword again. He grins, humorless, hungry, burning up inside with fury. “Perhaps I’ll be back soon.”

Mother yanks you away from the bars, and you can see what she’s thinking etched into the desperate lines of her face: How can I save her?

“I’m going to behead your father now,” Daemon tells Mother, then sweeps down the corridor. There is the sound of a heavy door closing when he reaches the end of the hall.

“Do not speak to them,” Mother hisses to you, and you are in too much pain to respond. Now you can hear men jeering out in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Daemon is listing Grandsire’s crimes. Crows are cawing.

He’s going to die too? you think dizzily. When does this end, how do we stop it?

The door at the end of the hallway opens again, and Mother stands and places herself in front of you; but it is not Daemon this time, relishing his chance to drag another Green to their death. It is Rhaenyra and Jace. The Blacks’ queen stops at your cell, her son a few paces behind her. He looks at you with heartbreak, with hatred, and of course he does; one of your brothers murdered Luke, the other killed Baela. And he does not believe you to be blameless like Helaena. You are a very different sort of woman.

“Alicent, your degenerate son’s insurrection is over,” Rhaenyra says. “I have taken the city and—”

“Jace needs to strengthen his claim,” Mother interrupts. Outside, men are cheering; Grandsire’s head has been struck from his shoulders. In her cell across the aisle, Helaena sinks to the floor and sobs quietly into her palms.

Rhaenyra studies Mother, incredulous. “What did you say?”

“There have always been people who doubted his parentage, as you well know,” Mother says, and you can see her hands are trembling; but her voice is steady. “And there are many who favor my line. They fear Daemon’s recklessness, and perhaps yours as well.”

“You speak so boldly for a woman who stands behind bars.”

Mother is unflinching. “Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.”

“And you wish to help me?” Rhaenyra mocks.

“I wish to safeguard what is left of my family.”

The woman who calls herself queen considers this. Surely the same hope lives in her ribcage as well, the same catastrophic fear that it will prove impossible.

“One way or another, the war will be won,” Mother says. “And whichever side triumphs will have the other at their mercy.”

“I will have you at my mercy, yes.”

“Aemond and Vhagar are still out there. Underestimate them at your peril.”

“And what is your suggestion?” Rhaenyra demands. “To bolster Jace’s claim, to save your own skins?”

“Baela is gone and he is unspoken for. You once offered to unite our bloodlines by marrying Helaena to Jace. Perhaps if I had accepted that, I could have spared us this torment. I was wrong to dismiss your proposal so swiftly, Rhaenyra. I did not give you the respect you deserved. And I have reconsidered.”

Rhaenyra is puzzled. “Helaena is already married. Unless you have proof that Aegon is dead, which would be welcome.”

“No. I have another daughter.”

Both you and Jace begin to object at once; your mothers silence you with fearsome glares.

Rhaenyra is aghast; her sharp blue eyes dart to where you are slumped on the floor of your cell and then back to Mother. “This is a sickening insult.”

Mother seems calm, measured. It cannot be easy for her. “Willingly marrying my daughter to Jace is accepting his legitimacy. She is a Green, and very close in age to your son, and from what I have heard of Jace’s temperament I believe them to be well-matched.”

“I don’t,” Jace says.

Rhaenyra shakes her head in disbelief; but is there a ripple of uncertainty across her regal face? Yes, you think there is. “Aemond has already bedded her.”

“And who has said this?” Mother asks. “Daemon, who hates my family and has no mind for strategy or alliances? Rhaenys and the Sea Snake, who hungered for the Iron Throne all their lives and saw a chance for their descendants to possess it through Baela?”

Rhaenyra is looking at you again. “I’ve seen the way they watch each other. The way they move.” The dinner, she means. The night that Viserys died.

“She is a maiden,” Mother insists, but she gives you a transient sideways glance. Are you? “They had a flirtation, yes, as is so common for siblings of your foreign house, but nothing more. I would never have allowed fornication or the use of moon tea to disguise its consequences under my roof. They are grievous sins. You know me. You know my devotion to my faith.”

“She will submit to a maester’s examination to make sure?”

“Did you, Rhaenyra? Before you and Laenor Velaryon were wed?”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. And you have the sense—vague and dreadful—that perhaps it is dawning upon her that taking something Aemond holds dear might have its advantages. “What do you want in return?”

“We have both lost innocent people,” Mother says. “There has been enough bloodshed. It must stop somewhere, or all the Targaryens will be dead and their dragons too, and this dynasty will vanish from the earth, and our ambitions will be for nothing. If you do indeed win the war, I want my surviving children and grandchildren spared. And my brother Gwayne, and Sir Criston Cole.”

“I cannot give you Aemond.”

“If you swear that you’ll pardon him, we shall do the same for Daemon if it is our armies that triumph.”

Now the hope is unmistakable on Rhaenyra’s face. “And my remaining sons will be allowed to live? All of them?” Even Daemon’s?

“Yes.”

She muses on this. “You make tempting promises, Alicent. But I don’t have any conviction that Aemond will heed you if Aegon dies and he is made regent until Maelor is grown. I don’t believe you can control him.”

“He’ll listen to his sister,” Mother swears. “He will not do anything that would bring her despair. And if she is married to Jace, she will come to love his family as her own. All the more so if they have children together.”

“She might not be trustworthy,” Rhaenyra says.

“She is of no threat to you. She is untrained with the sword, she rides no dragon. And you have her mother, sister, niece, and nephew held captive. She would not endanger us.”

“You have great confidence in her. Your hopes for survival are in her hands.”

“She is spirited, but she is clever, and she loves deeply and enduringly. She will do whatever is required to protect her own.” Now Mother’s voice breaks. “I want her sent away.”

“Mother, no—”

“Far from the war, far from Daemon,” she says, ignoring you.

Rhaenyra is nodding. “Somewhere secluded and peaceful…all the better for her to quickly give Jace an heir. The Riverlands, yes? Perhaps House Footly of Tumbleton.”

“No, not far enough. The Westerlands.”

“The North,” Rhaenyra counters.

“The Stormlands.”

“The Vale,” Rhaenyra says. “There will be no battles there, winter has already begun in the mountains and the roads are treacherous. She will be tucked away in obscurity until the war is won.”

“The Vale,” Mother agrees. She looks down at you and smiles, soft and sad and merciful. At last, after eighteen years, she has saved you.

Jace is whispering furiously to Rhaenyra, but she holds up a hand to stop him. He is exasperated. The supposed queen tells Alicent: “I shall think on this tonight.”

“She needs Maester Orwyle,” Mother says, kneeling beside you. “She is ill, she gets headaches. This place is bad for her. It’s the cold and the dampness. And the fear.”

“I’ll consider that,” Rhaenyra quips, and then she leaves, the hem of her black gown displacing dust on the floor of the aisle. Jace gives you one final glance—seething, appalled—and stalks after her. At the end of the hallway, he slams the heavy wooden door.

“I won’t do it,” you snarl, sick in body and soul. “I won’t, I won’t. I don’t care what you say.”

“We are in a fucking dungeon,” Mother says, grabbing and shaking you, and you’ve never heard her curse before. “Do you want to try to save your brothers’ lives? Or do you want to surrender to the destruction of our house? If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.”

You look at her, weak, stunned, at war with yourself. Jace can’t touch me. Only Aemond.

She asks you something; it takes great effort. “You are still…you haven’t…you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. “In the literal sense.”

“In the…? Never mind, stop, I don’t want to hear any more.” Mother takes a deep breath. “Good. Then we haven’t lied to them. Jace might be able to tell. Sometimes there are…signs. Pain, blood.”

“He’s a bastard,” you hiss.

“He’s Rhaenyra’s son, and so he is a Targaryen and a dragonrider. And if Jace’s side wins, he will one day sit the Iron Throne. He can be proud, but no one says he is cruel. I don’t believe he would harm you. Your brothers are warriors, but you’ve never killed anyone.” Then she goes soft and hushed, and she cups your face with her gentle hands. “I know you’ve always thought you would marry Aemond.”

“Mother, I love him.”

“My darling, my brave girl, what you and Aemond have is…” She shakes her head, her large dark eyes grim and glistening. “It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.”

You are defiant. “If we had grown up in a true Targaryen court, we would have been expected to be this way. We would have married years ago, and no one would have condemned us for acting exactly like what we are. We aren’t First Men or Andals. We are the blood of the dragon.”

“It’s an affliction that brings nothing but sin and suffering.”

“You wed Aegon to Helaena!”

“And it has been a source of tremendous sorrow for them both,” Mother says, and now she is weeping again. “I should have stopped their marriage. But I was young, and I had already refused Rhaenyra’s offer of a match with Jace, and Viserys was so adamant, and I thought…maybe…maybe it’s not an offense to the gods. Maybe it’s just something I don’t understand. It was my husband’s custom, and so I deferred to him, as I had been taught to. But I was wrong. It’s too late for me to undo the pain I’ve caused Aegon and Helaena. It’s too late for me to mend Aemond’s eye or his soul. I can’t spare Daeron from the horrors of war. But I can still save you.”

“I belong with Aemond.” I belong to him.

“You don’t know better. You never had a choice.”

“I’m not you, Mother,” you say. “I’m not a Hightower or a Lannister or a Baratheon. I’m not like them, and I don’t want to be. I want to be Visenya.”

“You’re not going to be anyone if Daemon convinces Rhaenyra to have your head hacked off your shoulders.” Her vast eyes, dark like the mouth of a well, plead for you to understand. This is not a punishment; it is tenderness, it is compassion. “I would do anything to save you and Helaena and your brothers. Anything. You marrying Jace unites the realm. It provides a cornerstone around which to build a peaceful resolution. He will protect your kin. When the battles are past, we can negotiate a divided Westeros, or a line of succession, or exile to Essos or banishment to the Wall, or anything else that will preserve the lives of the people we love. And if Aemond can still win somehow…” She shrugs, and you know whatever affection she once had for Rhaenyra is dead now. “Then he can do whatever he wants with the Blacks who are left.”

I don’t want them to die. Aemond, Aegon, Criston, Daeron, Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor.

Mother asks: “Will you do it?”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Again, desperately: “Will you do it?”

And you cannot look at her when you answer. “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Maester Orwyle appears an hour later to dose you with enough milk of the poppy to kill the pain in your skull, and when you sleep it is deep and dark and dreamless. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jace arrive at first light, dreary grey dawn trickling into the dungeon. You know what she has decided. Both Daemon and Jace are scowling, and you think, somehow knowing that it is true: The more they try to dissuade her, the more convinced she is. She feels the need to remind them that she alone was Viserys’ heir, that she is a queen in her own right.

“Just marry him to Rhaena!” Daemon is ranting.

“Rhaena brings nothing to our cause that we do not have already. And she will always feel second to Baela. She knows Jace loved her sister. It is perverse.” Then Rhaenyra collects herself and asks Mother: “She consents?”

“She does.”

Rhaenyra turns to Jace. His reply is toneless. “I will do as you bid me to, Your Grace.”

“She will be in the keeping of House Corbray until the war is over,” Rhaenyra says, nodding to you. “They are an honorable but old and modest house, and of little strategic importance. No one beyond who is absolutely necessary will know where she is, for her own safety and that of the children she bears. Jace will fly her to Heart’s Home.”

House Corbray. You remember their banner, Aemond once taught it to you: three black ravens, three red hearts. You have a memory of being in the library with his lips on your throat, his fingers skating up the inside of your thigh, whispering for you to keep quiet as maesters stock books on the other side of the shelf.

“She cannot ride a dragon,” Mother says.

“Sure she can, if he puts her on Vermax.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Mother insists. “Dragons hate her. She cannot go near them. They will attack her, they will kill her. She and Jace will have to travel by ship.”

Rhaenyra is taken aback by this. Daemon scoffs: “What the fuck kind of Targaryen repels dragons?”

“The kind that will never be able to fly to battle against us,” Rhaenyra mutters, and you think: She is angry with him. He has done something, he has displeased her somehow. And you wonder about the girl who rides Sheepstealer.

Your eyes drift to Jace, you cannot stop them. He stares back from beneath dark curls, his gaze hard like the cold stony earth of the Vale, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the very first time.

You are at your vanity, and you are supposed to be getting ready for dinner: choosing your earrings and bracelets, combing out your hair before you braid it, a silver river that shimmers like moonlight in the mirror’s reflection. You have bathed, and steam still clings warm and dewy on your skin. You wear a silk robe the color of ripe cherries and nothing underneath it. Candles flicker, cool evening air breathes in through the windows…and your mind is wandering.

For years, you have felt episodic pangs of longing, an indistinct need, a deep untouchable hunger, and you have never found a way to satisfy it. It waxes like a moon growing full and then wanes into nothingness, but it always reappears again, and tonight you are feeling restless, occasionally shifting on the cushion of your chair, seeking the pressure that gives you a taste—and only a morsel, a nibble, a drag of the tongue—of what fulfillment might feel like. Lately, when you are like this, you find yourself thinking of Aemond. He has never spoken of it directly, but you have noticed the way his eye catches on your chest and your hips, how his hands linger when he grabs or shoves or embraces you. You can’t stop wondering what it would taste like to kiss him. You can’t stop imagining which positions he would fuck you in, remembering the lustful figures on the tapestries that hang from the walls of Aegon’s bedchamber.

Your hand settles in your lap, and there—over the glossy blood-colored silk of your robe—presses down tentatively. You sigh, you writhe, you picture Aemond forcing your thighs apart and gazing transfixed at the rare pieces of you he’s never seen.

How do I satiate this craving, how do I make it go away?

Your bedchamber door opens and Aemond stands in the threshold, black leather and silver hair. “Are you ready yet—?” Then his eye drops to where you snatch your hand out of your lap, not quickly enough to escape him noticing. There is a stretch of silence that seems very long. Then Aemond’s scarred forehead furrows and he asks: “What were you doing?”

You consider lies; they dangle in front of you by the dozen, so many ways to deflect or deny or even to disparage him, those prickly games of wordplay. But when you speak, it is not just the truth. It is an invitation. “Thinking of you.”

And Aemond steps into your bedchamber and shuts the door behind him. He crosses the room, kneels in front of you, reaches beneath your robe to hook his arms under your thighs and yanks you halfway out of the chair. You yelp in exhilarated shock as he buries his face between your legs, and then your fingers knot in his hair, and then you are pushing him closer, shaking, awestruck.

Is he really here? Is this finally happening?

You cannot stay quiet when the pinpoint ecstasy opens, blooms, drags you to places you never knew existed. It is something too powerful to be found in the world of mortals. It is bloodmagic, it is shade of the evening, a poison so sweet you’d let it ruin you.

Afterwards—collapsed and gasping on the stone floor, your robe open and your body laid bare for him, flesh that he has claimed irrevocably, bones he owns like a dragon or a blade—you say: “What was that?”

“You had a climax,” Aemond murmurs. “It’s easier for a man, but they are possible for women too.” He smooths your hair back from your face; it is unbound and wild, spilling all around you. You think vaguely: He wants me even when I don’t look like Visenya? He ghosts his thumb across your lips and then kisses you, and it is nothing but warmth, desire, the shared minerals your blood is built of, undying affinity like the celestial kinship of stars in the same constellation. “You can always ask me to take care of you, and I’ll do it. I’m the only one who is allowed to. No one else, not ever.”

This is no sacrifice. You have never wanted another man, and now you know you never will. “Teach me how to satisfy you,” you say, smiling. “I want to see you helpless too.”

Before you dress and leave your bedchamber, you erase as much of the evidence as you can, washing your skin clean and taming your hair into a tidy braid; but still, Mother frowns worriedly at you and Aemond all through dinner.

[professionalscrublord]

RGB Metallic Dragons

Red: Hunchback IIC Green: Warhammer IIC Blue: Supernova (King Crab IIC, in spirit.)

Scales, because I didn't hate myself enough after the Jaguar spots. Teeth and eyes were fun after the Black Marauder.

And a closer look at the bases (Lighting was really hard for some reason):

Single solitary WIP shot. Whoops. Forgot to take more.

-Black Primer -Turbo Dork color shift paints (Wavelength, Electrum, GroundIsLava) 5 coats of the stuff! Pain in the ass, but looks nice. Works best applied thin, it seems to like being brushed with water afterwards, improves the glitter. Gloss varnish helps too. -Shadowing undersides with R/G/B inks respectively -Gunmetal metallic paint on interior bits -watered down White paint in heatsink grilles -Orange/Red ink ontop for overheating effect -Tried some OSL around the grilles with partly dry brush -Scale colors: Platemail Silver + blue ink overtop Glitter Green Rough Iron + red ink ontop -White drybrush scratchy weathering -Lasers/Cockpits, white first, then ink -Teeth and eyes!

Basing: Green was pretty straightforward flock+twig, I went around the edge with green ink and matte varnish. Blue was snow flock + Soft Tone wash for the sand, then water medium + a tiny bit of blue paint. Brushed lightly with teal ink around the edges for deeper seawater. Then hit the surface carefully with white for foamy water crests. Red base: -Painted white first. -Glued gravel flock. -Black paint + Water medium, formed some jagged shapes ontop, leaving cracks of white visible beneath. -Orange ink in the cracks, watered down so it would cling to the gravel sides more and leave the bottoms of the cracks light. -Touched up some black peaks with Night Scales metallic -Matte varnish on magma, gloss varnish on rock

Phew!

[thateldribitch]

A Red Sky's Interlude

Chapter One: Blood in the Water

TW: Blood, Gore, Horror, Yandere (and everything that comes with it), desecrating a corpse, Dead Dove.

Continuing on with the Ocatrio Yandere poly! Here's the AO3 link.

Clouds of depth-stained blood hang low, like an acid-green fog against the stone. Azul grits his teeth and picks up the corpse again. Where to start? Gore filters onto his tongue, settles in his siphon. He can taste the bastard that’d done this to his darling, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Of course, there’s some reassurance in the crunched patterns in the cracked bone; Jade did not make his death an easy one. But…. His brain breaks through the anger, as he stares contemplatively… and then his gaze drags to the bastard’s fingers. Crack. Crunch. The digit hangs limply in the current, bent like a lightning bolt from the sheer force of his grip. Yet, no matter how many times he repeats his action—

Crack, crack, crack!

–it doesn’t change the fact that these hands touched what’s his. He snarls. In a single, smooth motion, he crushes the rest of those pitiful fingers. The former appendage blooms like some twisted anemone, some floral purple alien. All twisted every which way, perfectly planed to cradle the white scavenger crabs already picking at the flesh. 

But perhaps an anemone is too generous of a description. Still, it’s not enough. Azul yanks up a handful of stained hair, twisting… oh. Jade broke the bastard’s neck already. 

He numbly rolls the crushed vertebrae in a single tendril. Digs his fingers into the crown of the bloodied skull. Fissures form beneath the points of his claws. Bursts of flesh erupt from the fractures. A slow give, until the cracks connect. Grey matter scatters. Bone shards sink. Dismissively, he tosses the body into a deep dark pit. Corpse crabs drift down like little snowflakes… and disappear to do their work in the dark. 

Azul stares for a long moment, before vaguely acknowledging a shift in the current. He sinks back into Jade’s waiting arms. He doesn’t have to look to know which of his mates is holding him. Floyd would have tackled him; Jade’s far more subtle when it comes to cornering his prey. He shivers as a hand curls in his own, pretty pointed teeth dipping down to prince-kiss his knuckles. A long tongue drags across his fingers, taking some of the viscera with it.

“...How are they?” His head thumps back to rest against Jade’s heartbeat. 

“Clinging to Floyd,” Jade murmurs against crimson painted knuckles. Nigh worshipfully, he thoroughly cleans Azul’s hands, wrists, then up his arm to linger at his shoulder. His teeth carefully scrape at the delicate skin of the octomer’s neck. He relaxes… just a little, unfurling his tentacles as he leans back into Jade’s arms. Good. His darling isn’t alone. Safe. His mates are comforting each other. And his newest is just… fine. Just fine. And that’s not enough. They need to be happy and sparkling and relaxing in his arms, no, in a pile of tangled tails and limbs and plied with kisses and— he jolts as tender claws comb through his hair. 

“The aphrodisiac?”

“Burned out of their system.”

“Mental state?”

“...They’re sleeping now, at least.” Jade’s teeth scrape gently against his hairline. A reply freezes in his throat. But what do you say to something like that? To the fact that one of your loves suffered under your care? Was so convinced that you’d do the unthinkable, that they looked at you like a real monster? He would never. Never. But the instinctive call to assist his suffering mate had been there. And their fear… mixed with that…? He shivers, ashamed. 

“...I wanted to help them so badly,” Azul buries his face in his hands. Tendrils curl around his body, as if trying to hide him from the world. But Jade gently constricts him. He shifts, instead, to hide his face in the eel mer’s chest. His tentacles wrap entirely around his mate, nearly consuming his body. But Jade simply shifts to nuzzle the other side of his neck. They lie in a tender, tangled ball. “They were so scared and hurting and the solution was so….”

“Easy?”

“...Complicated.”

He sighs as Jade hums soothingly—a deep sea pitch, eerie as a whale’s song and soft as a summer current. He burrows closer to the sound, face pressing right into Jade’s chest. There’s something soothing about Jade’s constrictions. He’s no less enthusiastic about burying his squishy little mate in his chest, pressing him close as if to absorb him into his body. Hungry hands stroke his shoulders; eager teeth groom through the gore. Though, Azul nips him as he tries to coax him into something more.

“...Are you angry?” Jade blinks, leaning back slightly. When Azul follows the retreating warmth, burying himself back into him, a certain tension between them eases. He appreciates the comfort… just doesn’t want more than that now. An apologetic tongue swipes over his cheek. He nibbles some dead skin off of Jade’s neck. A shared croon settles between them as they sink into the soft sand.

“Not at you,” Azul answers after the misunderstanding clears, rubbing their cheeks together in a sudden burst of affection. A few clicks escape him as he rolls them over and wraps his lengthy tentacles around a very amused Jade. He pecks the mating mark against that tough, teal skin. “Never at any of you.”

Jade sighs in the comfortable silence. “...Humans are such delicate creatures.”

“...I thought they’d adjust by now.”

“We all did.”

“I’ve tried to make the transition as comfortable as possible, but—” He chokes back a small dot of bitter ink. Trembling, he buries his pinched features in Jade’s chest. “But why can’t they understand that they’re mine?”

“Ours.” Jade lightly nips him. 

“Always,” Azul nods, immediately. “But you get my point.”

“Of course~”

The silence settles between them like a cloud of detritus—stale and hard to breathe. At least for Azul. Maybe not for Jade. He’s not sure. How can he be sure? His tentacles curl restlessly, popping across slick skin and leaving circular stamps behind like a thousand little brands. “...You and Floyd are fine?”

“Completely unharmed.” Jade murmurs. “...Worried about you two, of course. But we are fine.”

“I’m sorry,” the words bolt out because they feel like they must. His poor eels shouldn’t have to pick up the pieces. Protect their mates, yes, but nothing happened to Azul. He’s just burning in his vicious lack of vindication. He doesn’t have an excuse. Not after what their darling just went through. Shaking his head, he looks up at Jade desperately. “I’m just— so angry. And I don’t want to take it out on any of you—”

“We know,” Jade threads their fingers together. And it’s hard to not relax when a purr rumbles up between them. The frequency matches into a thundering drum of reassurance. Azul can’t help but melt. Guilt still sparks through his veins; restless rage lurks in the corner of his mind. “...I do have something that may make you feel better, if you are interested.”

He hesitates. Of course he would like to calm down and burn some energy off, but he’s not sure he’s in the mood for what Jade has in mind. He doesn’t want to deny his mate; Jade has to be going through the same instincts, needing to provide comfort and safety. “I— don’t know if—”

A chuckle cuts him off. He quirks a brow as a sharp smirk nuzzles against his hairline. “Come now, Darling…. Did you really think I wouldn’t leave something behind for you?” 

The smirk drifts down to whisper in his ear….

Azul’s pupils dilate.

Man I spent way too much time on making these posts pretty XD Pretty sure most of my readers are on AO3 though. Anyway, I promise I love Cater, buuuuuuuut he's a plot device in this fic. <3

[es46]

This one is based off of yeti crabs - IONIS-DECA

Title - Luminescent crab Monster class - Carapaceon Known locales - Subterranean acidic reservoirs, though known to migrate to cold regions Element/Ailment - Thunder + Sleep Elemental weakness - Ice (3), Water (2), Thunder (1), Fire (1), Dragon (1) Ailment weakness - Sleep (2), Paralysis (2), Poison (2), Blast (1), Stun (1) Ionis-Deca is a carapaceon native to subterranean environments where acidic water reservoirs are common, though ecological circumstances occasionally see individuals travelling to cold regions. Ionis-Deca is easily identified by the golden-green lustre of its carapace and the myriad fleshy tendrils protruding from sections of its body. These act as conductors for electrical charges built inside the carapaceon and expelled primarily through its long antennae and fifth pair of limbs. Its third and four pair of limbs are stocky and grip rocky walls and ceilings, whilst the second pair are slender and used for handling. Herbivores who specialise in harvesting algae, flora and phytoplankton from acid pools by extending a long net-like proboscis, Ionis-Deca are usually seen clinging to walls above the reservoirs. This allows them to syphon their favoured food whilst having the opportunity to crawl up to the ceiling should danger present itself. Regarding humans, Ionis-Deca are not known to fear them, simply ignoring field researchers. While close contact isn't advised, the carapaceon is relatively easy for humans to approach. Using special flares mimics the electric signals Ionis-Deca uses to communicate, helping to keep the monster calm. Electricity is the principle defence of Ionis-Deca. Thunder sacs under its carapace transfer energy through the various tendrils on its body. Through its antennae and fifth limbs, it expels it in powerful bolts, or focuses the electricity in its chelae for area of effect strikes and increased physical effectiveness. Ionis-Deca is slow but defensively orientated, often manoeuvring itself with surprising speed to counter and block attacks. Interestingly, it can control the charge of its electrical attacks to such an extent that it disrupts nervous signals in its target, which causes an induced Sleep effect to occur. Known to gather in groups, Ionis-Deca are sociable with one another, communicating through electrical luminescent signals. While the smaller males never leave their home, the larger females will eventually feel an urge to migrate following the mating season. En-masse, the females venture out into the surface world, travelling to cold regions. There, the chilled seas provide a vast environment for the females to release their young, who spend their juvenile years feeding out at sea before eventually migrating back to the subterranean caverns as adults. These migrations are perilous; whether mothers or juveniles, not many survive the trip. Only by travelling in groups do their chances increase, and so the species is notably altruistic, coming to each other's aid against predators. Ionis-Deca is not a particularly powerful monster (Low Rank - 1, High/Master Rank - 1) but it serves as useful practice for those wishing to handle more defensively orientated monsters. Hunters should avoid using shock traps, as the carapaceon easily dispels the charge, and instead focus on disabling its limbs by targeting the joints. Ionis-Deca avoids the attention of most predators by sticking close to acidic pools, in which it can briefly submerge if need be. However, this leaves it vulnerable to its nemesis Caustasioth, who specialises in hunting carapaceons. Ionis-Deca's only hope is to distract the piscine wyvern with a series of quick shocks and then retreating up the walls out of Caustasioth's reach. Those who travel to cold regions have no such luxury of environmental advantage, and many fall prey to myriad predators, especially the arthropod-hunting Frezarion. - Thank you for reading and take care.

[stagbeetleboy]

Master Yoda/ mithraculus sculptus, aka green clinging crab/emerald crab

Not only is the resemblance uncanny but these guys love to hide in caves, crags, and other rocky recesses. Both Yoda and this crab are tiny green scavengers, opportunistic enough to steal from Luke’s lunchbox.

“Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not.”

They also only get up to 1.6 inches when fully matured (I’ve heard 2 inches but that might just be aquarium kept specimens which generally live longer)

"Chaos on the surface, there will be. Remember that the Force moves through you, through all living things, even in chaos. Move with the Force, we must. Never against it."

Clinging crabs are hardy, tolerating high and low temperatures and withstanding strong currents. They use their strong hairy legs to cling to surfaces, and might even latch onto the backs of aspiring Jedi.

[tropic-havens]

​Gloriosa, a beautiful but dangerous flower

Gloriosa superba, also called Malabar lily , is an ornamental plant native to tropical Africa and Southeast Asia. It is also found in the sandy soils of Tahiti and the Tuamotus. Its magnificent flowers of a superb bright red bordered with yellow are called "patte de tupa"  (crab) by Tahitian children.

It is a herbaceous plant with a perennial and climbing type tuber which can reach two meters in height, thanks to its leaves provided with small tendrils which cling easily to what surrounds it. Its large flowers measuring 8 to 10 cm long are very original in their shape which evokes that of a lily whose six narrow and wavy petals curve back until they touch. Stamens with long yellow threads and a strongly prominent pistil adorn the center of this curious flower whose color changes from green to yellow and red. The fruit contains very poisonous round seeds, so it is advisable to cut the faded flowers before they produce seeds.

[manwalksintobar]

North Winter  // Hayden Carruth

Coming of winter is a beech sapling rising silverly in a brown field in bramble in thicket the raspberry the rosemallow all gone to rust is a silver sapling to which in wind and the judaskisses of snow the starved brown leaves cling and cling.  

In spring the mountain was a fish with blond scales in summer the mountain was a crab with a green shell in fall the mountain was a leopard with a fiery coat in winter the mountain is a bird with lavender feathers and a still heart.  

Snow ice bitter wind the body of love.  

Where two boots labored yesterday across the snowdrifted pasture today each boothole is an offertory of bright seeds bittersweet yellowbirch hemlock pine thistle burning unconsumed.  

Stronger than destiny is pain and in the leaf the marvelous venature is stronger and in the year the last morsel of pancake of the forty-third breakfast is stronger.  

Caught in a brier of stars the lunar scrap blurred like paper fluttering in a gale carrying away a faintly remembered poem of a summer night.  

Twenty-two degrees below zero and only the blade of meadow like a snowpetal or foil of platinum defends the house from the glistening mountain and the unwinking moon.  

The morning ice on the window is opaque as beaten silver and the poet in his ninefootsquare hut stamps rhythmically breathing out plume after plume of warmth while the stove nibbles a few frozen sticks.  

In the snowy woods of morning the new deer tracks run cross and criss and circle among the snowappareled spruces and the gray maples telling of revels by night of joy and delight and happiness beyond any power of consciousness although the small green pellets mean a hard diet.  

The tamarack with needles lost and a thousand curled stiff twigs like dead birdsfeet takes the snow greedily and in snatches to cover its misshapen nakedness.  

Think not of chaste snow always nor of crystalline coldness think of spruce boughs like the swordblade breasts of negresses and of the bull mountain humped over the white soft valley and of stags raging down the rutting wind and of northern passion crackling like naked trumpets in the snow under the blazing aurora.  

The song of the gray ninepointed buck contains much contains many contains all a whole north for example the sweet sharp whistling of the redpolls caught overhead in the branches of the yellow birch like leaves left over from autumn and at night the remote chiming of stars caught in the tines of his quiet exaltation.  

The snowy owl moved across the snowsmooth meadow to the dark balsam without sound without wingbeat more quiet than a fish more effortless than the gliding seed as if it were a white thought of love moving moving over the pasture to home.  

Five jays discuss good and evil in a white birch like five blue fingers playing a guitar.  

Eons gone by the sea hissed among these promontories in ageless stress and despair now stilled but memorialized in the frozen whirl and floodtide of the snow.  

Like a frozen lake the sky on the bitterest night cracks in rays a black elm rising a spray of limbs revealing the longdrowned lurid moon.  

Cold hunger tripped her but her years held her downfallen in this snow hollow this small death valley where small beaks and talons will slowly chip her frozen being though in the snow desert she will not bleach and her eyes will stay soft and beautiful a long long time in the winter light and she will modestly wear her genteel tatters of old flesh and fur.  

The frozen brook sprawls in sunlight a tree of glass uprooted.  

Snow buntings whirling on a snowy field cutglass reflections on a ceiling.  

The dog flies with his ears across the snow carrying a deer’s legbone in his jaws the bone flops threejointedly and the little hoof dances delicately in the snow.  

The window the icicle the gleaming moon when the lamplight fails.  

The night is an immense cauldron four farms of boiling snow under a gale from the pole and the highway where headlights cringe seethes with a furious froth and melts away.  

This wind this screaming parrot this springing wolf this down fall this ab solute extinc tion this deton ating godhead this wind this.  

Blizzard trampling past has left the birches bent as in humiliation the soft scotch pines laid down as in subjection the beeches snapped at the top as in a reign of terror the balsams scarred but upright as in the dignity of suffering and all the woods in sorrow as if the world meant something.  

Pale dawnlight spooks the mist and the valley glimmers and higher behind the mountain whitely rises another peak in remote majesty a presence silent and unknown and gone by noon.  

In cold the snow leaps and dances lightly over the earth but in thaw the sullen fingers of snow heavily cling to each stalk and to every stone.  

Tracks of the snowshoe rabbit across the snow are a ridiculous ominous alphabet of skulls.  

The brook has holes in its cover this morning where the black water flows rippling menacing through the snow which mounds in untouched purity except where threaded prints of the mink delicately deathly stop to drink.  

Snow comes bits of light flake from the sky day breaks whirling in early night.  

Beginning with the palest and most delicate lavender deepening downward murex purpure arras of old brocade kingly loveliest hues imaginable snow blending the bare hardwood maples beeches birches forests called green in summer now this unbelievable intricacy shaded purple gray hanging wavering trembling over the valley this is the mountain.  

Heavy gloves or better mittens the north silencing savoring and saving that lewdword finger.  

After the thaw after illusion the cold comes again returning changed in aspect a great body of death and inertia a corpse flung down a whale perhaps gray and still and immense crushing everything day becomes hard and silent night stiffens heaving to support the weight while the woods groan and the soft snow turns metallic barren and brittle the house creaks under the burden in mindless suffering and its nails burst out with a sound of cracking bones moon sets in afternoon jays huddle say nothing and endure.  

Sky like fishblood deprecative lurid thin evening blush on the mountain and here the foreground very near a sheen of vitrescent snowcrust and reflected light thin lurid deprecative fishblood.  

Gunmetal snow icecolored sky granitic meadow sullen noon stunted yellowed loplimbed pine flayed birch elm tattered with empty nests poverty hunger bitten fingers retracting in splayed gloves dead sun gray hair poverty poverty.  

Wet fire it turns out is better than no fire.  

Sky yellow sky wet sky reeky sky lax some god’s old diaper.  

The day the brook went out was still midwinter locked in zodiacal fastness yet rain fell and fell in fact so much the snow turned green and the water in the brook covered the ice like urine until at one crack the whole damned thing let go ice and muddy water trees stones bits of lumber snow like a racketing express through a local stop and then subsided leaving the banks dark and dirty raw and torn with new patterns of rocks looking unfamiliar what a purgation it was wild and beautiful the result wasn’t bad either all told for now the brook is rising again after the long icebound repression singing a midwinter rebel song.  

Lover of balsam and lover of white pine o crossbill crossbill cracking unseen with of all things scissors seeds seeds a fidget for ears enpomped in the meadow’s silence silence a crackling thorn aflame in the meadow’s cold cold.  

i n  f o      e 39.   Snow’s downstrokes climb softly up the  c          r.

Lichen and liverwort laurel and brome lightened and gravamen of old stones a cellar hole far in foliate woods the dry cistern where sweet water stood the stepstone to nothing that summer entwined softly and now drowned in the snow.  

Astigmatism breaks the crescent moon into two images set asymmetrically so that they cross in the upper third like two scimitars flung down at rest in the Sahara.  

In freshfallen snow marks of pad and paw and even partridge claw go delicately and distinct straight as a string of beads but marks of a heeled boot waver shufflle wamble ruckle the snow define a most unsteady line then spell it out once so death knowledge being heady it hath not the beasts’ beauty goeth tricksy and ploddy and usually too damn wordy but drunken or topsyturvy gladhanding tea’d or groovy it arriveth it arriveth o you pretty lady.  

Lichen is a hardy plant hardy hardy taking sustenance from the granite ledge nouriture from the dead elm bole icy plant hoar plant living kin to rime the north plant flower of death poverty and resolution.  

On Lincoln’s birthday the forest bound in fifty degrees of frost stirs tentatively with a creaking here and there in the new strength of the noticeably higher sun.  

Four greens the aspen trunk the lichen on the aspen trunk the shadow of the aspen across the snow the vanished leaves of the aspen fluttering all over the sky.  

Under the hill a winter twilight darkens to evening colorlessly without sunset and yet the birches rising leaping across the way cry pink cry lavender cry saffron the instant the darkness freezes them.  

When conditions of frost and moisture are just right the air is filled with thousands and thousands of points of light like the fireflies come back only tinier and much more brilliant as if the fireflies had ghosts to haunt the February night.  

Small things are hardest to believe a redpoll snatches the drops from an icicle.  

In late winter cold nights and warm days bring the untimely harvests bright pails and smoke in the sugarbush and the snow called cornsnow on the mountain whining under the skis like chickfeed plunging in the chute  

One day music begins everywhere in the woods unexpectedly water water dripping from fir boughs spilling from ledges singing unexpectedly as when a woman sleeping speaks a strange word or a name so winterfolk the chickadees give over harshness for a sort of carol and the poet appears emerges brushing the mist from his shoulders amused and yawning tasting the snowwater crumbling a bit of tanbark in his teeth water water the pools and freshets wakening earth glistening releasing the ways of the words of earth long frozen.  

Aterword: What the Poet Had Written

. . . and sun the blear sun straggled forever on the horizon an unvarying scrutiny around around as they limped and stumbled holding each other against the wind over the ice that crumbled under them in the tremors of unseen currents and the compass plunging and rearing the sun the livid sun smeared in the wind watching watching never relenting till exhaustion inundated them yet they slept with their eyes open clinging together just as they walked often with their eyes shut hand in hand and fell at last tripped on their destination their sextant snagged their compass wild with incomprehension and they looked over the sides of the world    The sun the bloated sun ever on the horizon ballooning and they shuddered and turned to each other and then dropped down their plumbline under them and payed out its knots hand over hand to the end to fifteen hundred fathoms and felt the plummet still swinging in the void. . . . . . nothing they were nothing afloat on nothing frozen by the winds of nothing under the meaningless glare of nothing’s eye there where the compass points down there where the needle turns in. . . . . . why had they come so far what had led them drawn them into the remoteness and the hostility of north what did north mean and why why was one of them black and the other white these were the points in doubt    There in confrontation they gave over the last dissemblings and the last nostalgias nothing against nothing yet more than that the infinitesimal nothing against the nothing of all the nothing of the real and in this giddiness they became at last the objectivists    They drew back not in fear for fear had consumed itself but as the painter retreats from his canvas and so they saved themselves now seeing how this was their only virtue the withdrawing mind that steadies before reality and they turned slowly together through the whole arc of absurdity with outstretched hands bestowing cold benediction on the north and then sank down    Another confrontation stoned them as they peered into each other’s eyes . . . . . . and saw nothing nothing    Oh in the low gutteral inner voice they exclaimed the misery the destitution of nothing. . . . . . and saw nothing except yes this is the object nothing except the other’s returning gaze which each knew also saw nothing And in this likeness this scrap of likeness that contained their likelihood they arose once more calmly the tall twin centers of compassion in the wide field of cold and horror    And the sun the huge sun circled around them. . . . . . they came back trudging in love and hardship while the sun took a month to set cowering lidless on the extremity of the ice floe where they crouched    Aurora flickered and mounted pale brightening caparisons of yellow and green falling fluttering swaying in such majestic movements that that elemental silence pealed with trumpets and they truly listened with their eyes    Did they then see with their ears the changing simplicities of wind and snow the purity of whiteness whispering everywhere in dunes and fastnesses and cascades Reality gladdened them and all the more when the astonished walrus fell off his seat backwards whopping the sea and they smote their knees and wallowed in the snow. . . . . . north is a horror from which a horror grows a purity and fervor to which in opposition an equal purity and fervor supervene north is the latitude of the near remote lying beyond hope and beyond despair lying in destination where the compass points down the needle turns in where the last breath of meaning is borne away on the cold wind north is the meaninglessness of beauty uncaused in the complete object auroral flickerings on the eternal snows the eye swimming in the mind’s deluge the blue mountain floating on emptiness the shadow of the white bear gliding underfoot north is the vacancy that flowers in a glance wakening compassion and mercy and lovingkindness the beautiful dew of the sea rosmarine the call dying in silence so distant so small and meeting itself in its own silence forever north is north is the aurora north is deliverance emancipation . . . . . . north is nothing . . .  

(found at the Virginia Quarterly Review, issue 40: summer, 1964)

[milkywaygg]

Confidential Affairs Chapter 8

AN: Another chapter for @eripops. This chapter is a good bit shorter than the rest for a few reasons. I'm been motivationally dragged lately bc of a lot of irl issues I'm dealing with atm, and plus I wanted this chapter to be the last sweet one before the real issues start kicking in. Hopefully, I'll get to writing the real important chapters soon. Until then, enjoy!

“Rosalie, I’m sorry but mummy’s got to go to work right now. You like to eat, don’t you?”, Euphemia said, trying hard not to laugh as she dragged her toddler daughter towards the front door as she cried, clinging onto her mother’s leg while Jules laughed, putting down the recording. Rosalie’s crying got slightly louder as Jules knelt down gently and picked her up, bouncing her softly and rubbing her back.

“Honey bunny, I’m sorry but mommy has to go for now, but she’ll be back. She always comes back.”, Jules cooed as he tried to comfort the crying toddler, “Have a good day darling.”

“Thank you sweetheart. I’ll see you both later. Bye bye!”, she waved at her daughter as she walked out, Rosalie reaching her arms out, hoping for her mother’s return. Seeing this, Jules smiled as he cradled the little one.

“She’ll be back soon, baby. I promise. Now, why don’t you come help daddy with his garden?”

Jules woke up to a dark room, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his green hair as he sat up. He winced as he tried to get up, both his head and back killing him at the same time and wishing that he had changed to pajamas instead of falling asleep in his usual green polo and black, belted pants outfit. Seeing blurry, neon-red figured next to his nightstand, Jules threw his glasses back on to see that the clock next to him read 7:23 PM. Well…golly…I didn’t mean to sleep THAT long. 

All of the sudden, Jules jumped as he heard a loud beeping sound and a smoky scent coming from the kitchen. He got on his feet and scrambled out of the room and down the stairs as fast as he could, nearly thumbling down as he flew down the stairs. In the kitchen, smoke seemed to cloud Euphemia as she extinguished the stove with the tip of her wand, the food inside the pan turning to ash before the fire had been put out; Euphemia looking frazzled.

“Euphemia! Are you ok? Here”, Jules brought her over to the couch, sitting her down before waving out the rest of the smoke, opening a window and turning on the air vents to shrink the smell. Once he did, he got a water bottle out from the fridge, passing it to Euphemia as he took a seat beside her. “What in the world happened?”

“Tried to make us dinner. Obviously, I can’t be trusted near a stove.”, Euphemia chuckled, half humorously, half embarrassed, “Guess it’s TV dinners for us.”

“Aw, but I was hoping for some take out.”, Jules whined slightly, “I just got this craving for crab legs and fries.”

“Sorry sweetie, but the nearest seafood place is 30 minutes away, and we can’t teleport right now for…the obvious reasons.”

“I mean…couldn’t we just order delivery.”

“We could yes but…I dunno…those delivery apps are crazy expensive.”, Euphemia droned off, seeing Jules’ face turn disappointed, much like it did this morning. Not wanting to piss him off a second time, Euphemia signed. Maybe just this once it’ll be fine? They might have some deals going on “You know what, I think we can just this once.”

“Yay! Thank you honey!! ”Jules cheered as he hugged her, like a child that just got taken to their favorite play place as a surprise. Relieved at Jules’ more cheerful mood, Euphemia smiled as she pecked him on the cheek. 

“How was the appointment?”

“It went good! I wish you would have gone with me”

“You didn’t want me, remember?”, Euphemia asked, frowning slightly, “I’ve uh…I’ve had some time to think things through and..:”

“I’m sorry.”, Jules interrupting, catching Euphemia off guard for a second.

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry, darling.”, he continued, slouching a bit as his belly poked up, “I’ve just…I’ve been a pain in the behind since this whole thing started. I didn’t mean to get so moody with you this morning. I-I just couldn’t help but wonder if you still wanted to marry me or have this child with me. I talked it over with the doctor, very nice lady by the way, and she told me that maybe you just feel like it’s all on you….I’m really sorry honey. I didn’t realize how much pressure I’ve been putting on you.”

“Oh Jules”, Euphemia said softly, pulling him towards her, kissing him passionately on the lips, “You have nothing to say sorry for. It’s MY job to provide for you, especially given how fragile you are right now.”

“I mean…I know…it’s just that we’re a family. We’re supposed to be a team. You shouldn’t have to be doing everything yourself. I hate seeing you under all this stress.”, Jules vented, “It’s kind of crazy. You do so much for the people around you but you never take the time to take care of yourself. When’s the last time someone helped you out?”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of things myself, thank you.”

“I’m aware of that. Just…wouldn’t it be nice for just one that you put yourself before someone else? Not your parents…not me…just you doing something nice for you…or letting me help out around here. I really, truly don’t mind.”

“Yea, but what kind of wife would I be if my pregnant husband is doing all the work around here?”

“The kind that deserves a break every now and then.”, Jules shrugged, “Look, I know you’re capable and strong, but it really is ok to ask for help. Heck, you see me doing it.”

“Yeah well…I just don’t want you to worry yourself right now. Times are tough and it seems like you’re going through a hard enough time with the baby.”

“Well that doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone.”, Jules said, snuggling his head on her shoulder as he took out his phone, “Here, tell you what. I’m paying for dinner tonight.”

“No Jules let me..you shouldn’t have it-”

“Too late! I got you your favorite chinese food and there’s nothing you can do to stop me mwahah.”, Jules did a small evil laugh as he pecked his fiance's cheek, “Just the once, let me treat you. You might not think you do but you deserve the world.”

[libidomechanica]

Of olives in Air

Way, then he end what hovering jest.     Sorrow not to his gate. Wholly, but that and let the Mark:     for by the nape guess his foresee, makes her picture, I ween,     has exercis’d the night: but those royal curious Trophies     from a sip of one

by Heav’n Submitted, other cry.     If thou art, I shure in the Euxine, and heavnly Justice     draw? Cling up from time doth seeing made for thy voices chearful     tone, at once are hollow drum, who speak for the turn not—     no, no, my Deare, let bee.

Her eyes, and love the first rose i’     th’ bud, yet lost the diamonds possessors through the crag     to generous tasks of that made? Effect would dance, how fair,     my soul of Angels will strew within a day were he does     coming from vermeil lips?

A quantity of love let’s like     tower of care, too coarse to lodge in hall, desist not youth     of late beam that’s meant; my great dreamlight was yet it content,     a great? So grace the impotence so well, who gave his Casket     of blue crab from ruin

each she told that we may gnaw     Tantallan, a chiel sae clever: this lethargy! Higher     softly, Arethusa, peerless spot, when in another     Count you are as before break her than a man, ere a walk     your Doves, and the last; and

traps; and the Day, misguide the Jews,     those Eyes had passions of the more, and conscious was turning     Crouds can never call, oh blind and stemmerring gainst him Kings     and bidder. A press-gang creative her call meet to pay     the Vapours fresh Amaryllis,

that caressed gates I sing     that keep o Shadows dappled o’er man so various Off’ring     fate! Foreign University for many years silence     of all, but be goods. Once more that is the careless raise     a gleam of another

stands are such as other without     hard by, on either station— they wink with side-faced; and and     purplish, vermilion-tail’d, thoughts of his delicatest lace     which from hills I would takes I heare too was cajoled. Has our     looking at the rocks, so

long as the kings from home; her hand     in such a number.— Belinda smiling wind; and Tweezers,     hear away. She knew not then he tore than we hither sweeter     thrust a dream before desolate. But if they whose Throne,     not one, and saw more sugar’d

of you.—So killingness? His     soul, a light, that I have ill within her amorous breasts     are like moderate betweene my heart beat time, he pact a     Jury of Civil, that, if there he compromise bright, the     Rabble her of the Nymph

in the things for Parents to give     here shall be mine own love! A goat stirs with all the Waves were     left her faire Queen of all her hear with so red, and then by     whom every Sheckle while faint damask mouthed, This I know how     near, his please, no Rechabite

moderate so long, he tripped     up and deep, while we slumber did he did speeds. Gold dome,     whatever past the Joyfully gave, I will slide into his     careless his brow, I seem unholy, so long Chin prove, to     the hard gain’d, he sees her

Eyes of the Eternal day over     alone, and of David, undistinguish. Oh blind of     a Pair of mine the person feel, by its blood was Ariel     sought but for think with straggling sun I find, I say,     unlocking earth the must never

thing that nurse to tears are sailing     on one but quicken in the pierce of god look for     Nutriment: why must, and thyself corrupting, Rhiming, Drinking     the old Man cease—Belinda! Do inuite a maid, and I     seek reclined quite in any

kind. Ay, ’ quoth he, They ’ve     takes long and take thought you could glide to keep of the earth’s deep     Bosphorus, as to me here is crowns to the Skies. My loves;     never knows nor could found with his soul of the same treached     the pitying mans believe,

we dances of than Pow’r is     still, doth flow out. With feverous was still he found her breath     once more sweet tales? As the wane of the ground, a power left     espy; and woes for the side outlet, fathomless. Not a     reward him, the Waves were

holly! Beloved put the Presence     hear the last from ebon streamlet o’er young, its summer     time passing to the green, not one, and green dell be paid price     above they wanted our rhymes; and a drag-chain. And be clean     on the lily hand clean;

unbrib’d and offices, cool was     Nimrod’s hunting Oyle had give aloud. The unswept down     sweets alang to deck with the scent their Fate; whose dead, confusion     search after me with bugs is such, whose lips did the stand,     and the Lord knows nor can

howl incessant first nipping him     from his a Wine there a meteor-star, and made a sister     of the Land; in this Dian’s ear, now almost affection     to the specks the first waste then he to help us; slaves on     his bill of dark old neutral

person appear from this our     fair? Your judgment of Druids was they view which, well as dare     to see yet I am weary, sir, she spake fair eyes, and     then being quiet Then the World is stay’d, my father!     White mule she smiles; delight.

[rabbitcruiser]

Marine Building, Vancouver (No. 2)

The building was completed on 7 October 1930. At 97.8 metres (321 ft) (22 floors) it was the tallest skyscraper in the city until 1939. According to the architects, McCarter & Nairne, the building was intended to evoke "some great crag rising from the sea, clinging with sea flora and fauna, tinted in sea-green, touched with gold." The building cost $2.3 million to build – $1.1 million over budget—but due to the Great Depression it was sold to the Guinness family of Ireland for only $900,000. The 2016 property assessment is $90 million.

There was an observation deck, but during the depression in the 1930s the 25-cent admission price proved unaffordable for most. Currently, there are no public galleries in the building.

Inside the massive brass-doored elevators the walls are inlaid with 12 varieties of local hardwoods. All over the walls and polished brass doors are depictions of sea snails, skate, crabs, turtles, carp, scallops, seaweed and sea horses, as well as the transportation means of the era. The floor presents the zodiac signs. The exterior is studded with flora and fauna, tinted in sea-green and touched with gold.

Source: Wikipedia

[bjugnakraekir]

nerd time!! spidersona research!!!

if you see something that is incorrect please let me know!!!!

Yellow Sac Spider/Cheiracanthium

Bite: Creates surface lesion with redness, swelling, burning. Medical attention recommended. Venom is slightly necrotic to humans

Behavior: Bites without reason, hunter (actively chases prey), cannibalistic, most common spider bites. Nocturnal. Do not jump, fast moving, escapes with silk when startled.

Habitat: Gardens, bushes, trees, during cold weather may seek shelter in houses. Northeastern United States, range expanded in recent decades, central Europe.

Size: Females body size range 5-9mm, males 4-8mm. Leg span 2.5cm/1in. Front pair of legs are longest. Males have more slender bodies.

Coloration: Light yellow body, brown jaws, darker legs, vertical dorsal stripes on abdomen. Males are darker. Diet can affect coloration

Body: Scopulae allows them to cling to smooth surfaces like glass, 8 eyes

References: Nebraska University dep of entomology, Wikipedia, WebMD,

Note: I lost some of my references for this entry - take with a grain of salt

Yellow Amycine Jumping Spider

Note: I will be refrenceing Amycine when I can but not much is known about the species

Bite: Unlikely to bite humans, usually runs away. Causes redness, itching, stinging, and swelling. Can be cleaned with soap and water, does not require medical attention

Behavior: Can move rapidly sideways and backwards, pounce on prey. Can jump 20-50 times their body length, use silk dragline when jumping as safety line. Jumping is caused by sudden blood flow change, fully extending legs. Eats insects and other spiders, may drink nectar and plant matter. Hunts during the day.

Habitat: Vegetation, rocky areas, very widespread - no specific habitat. Not found in Greenland

Size: 3.175mm/0.75in, have larger front legs

Coloration: Extremely translucent, eye cones are visible. Joints are dark due to blood flow.

Eyes: Has two eyes on the front, two on each side, and two on the back of their head

References: Wikipedia, US Dept. of Agriculture, Washington State, PestWorld.Org, Michigan State

Striped Lynx Spider

Bite: Little danger to humans, only cause temporary pain and swelling.

Temperament: Daytime ambush predator, nimble. Can shoot venom 20cm/7.9in, only observed in adult females. Strong sense of smell to detect prey. Consuming nectar early in life can deter cannibalism and lengthen lifespan somewhat. Jumps and uses dragline like jumping spiders, is not classified as one.

Habitat: Native coast to coast of southern United States, Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean. Lives at the top of vegetation in open areas like fields and backyards. Most well seen in Florida and American South.

Size: Females 5.7-6.7mm, males 4-4.5mm and more slender. Fangs are large in proportion to head

Coloration: Pale yellow, can adjust coloration. Males resemble females, but are iridescent that can appear coppery, silvery-green, or purple. Males are usually more red/orange

References: North American Insects & Spiders, University Florida, University Florida, University Florida, iNaturalist

Other spiders I want to look at later: Heliophanus flavipes, Telamonia dimidiata, Crab spiders, Misumena vatia, orchard orbweaver

Note: Always do your own research!!! Doubt the information I gave you!!!

[gifsbysimplysonia]

Feliz cumpleaños to my favorite lead singer who for some reason is still wearing the American Eagle Dip Dye flannel I bought him in 2018 🥰 that Rafaela threw to Diony who has always been SO kind to me and my friends when it came to a7x. What a run on sentence 😄 And after the cut is way more nonsensical but intensely personal rambling about this dude. You've been warned.

I been a fan of this dude for coming up on 18 years now- wtaf!!!! And for a very nice stretch of time, I was extremely blessed to see him after shows to talk for a minute or three (though to be honest, i was tongue tied most of the time and just 👀 lol).

At that time in my life, people I admired didn't treat me that great. I was constantly looked at or treated in a way that made me extremely self conscious; I was constantly the oldest fan at shows without kids and I've always been fat and not too attractive in the face. Then I'd be meeting musicians or wrestlers I was so excited to be supporting only to have them act like it was a chore to take a photo with me or keep a distance when doing so...only to hug and smile and be super enthused when moving onto the skinny pretty fans next in line. My self esteem was non existent.

Then I met this dude for the first time, on a sunny warm day in April 2006, Houston Texas. He waved me and my friend across the street, signed our stuff, was fine to take photos with us, and when it was my turn he put his arm around me without hesitation. That one tiny gesture that I'm betting he didn't think about at all meant so much to me. All he did was treat me like he treated everyone else (which I saw that night after the show as he was the only one from the band to come to the group of fans waiting around, and he signed all the things and took so many photos), and something in my heart shifted a bit. Spesh after I looked down and realized he was barefoot? Dude stood there for 4 or 5 minutes, in bare feet, on warm concrete as he signed stuff and took pics before he went onto his bus. Liiiiiiike....

After that, every run in was the same or better as his behavior remained consistently kind and respectful. For me and my friends, Shadows became a kind of unofficial mascot cuz if we didn't see any of his band mates after a show, we seemed to always see him. He always was attentive to whomever was speaking to him, and even when it was the same question for the one millionth time (when are you gonna scream again?!?! 🙄), he would patiently answer. Dude constantly made time for fans, and even in the more recent years when the band wasn't touring, he has demonstrated that he cares A LOT about fans and wants to try and give them the best experience possible (even if they fight him tooth and nail).

I haven't had the pleasure of seeing him face-to-face since April 2011 and to be an absolute brat for a moment 😫😫😫 But my 2 besties got to meet the band when their last album, The Stage, was released. I think October 2016 but, like, don't quote me cuz I'm the worst with dates if they aren't on my list, ha. There were meet n greets in NY and LA; @psycholunatics went to NY and @jillybean1217 went to LA and both had wonderful experiences. I'm always grateful when my besties are treated like the Queens that they are🙏🏼🙏🏼

Back in January 2018, my friend at the time Rafaela went with me to a show in Green Bay Wisconsin despite not being a fan of the band (forever grateful to her for helping me drive AND for being the one to use her magic to make stuff happen, as she did for me CONSTANTLY in life). Thanks to her, the American Eagle Dip Dye flannel I bought him - cuz his other ones at the time looked wrecked:

Got into the hands of their tour manager. And IMAGINE MY ELATION AND DISBELIEF when HE WORE IT THE NEXT DANG NIGHT?!?!? From my IG post at the time it happened:

I'm cringe and I know that. But, like, joy? Is so difficult to find so when I find it, I have a habit of clinging to it like a crab. Cuz it often seems to come out of nowhere, so randomly, and for SO LONG I believed myself to be a person who wasn't WORTHY of good things happening to them, or who was conditioned by how I was treated to think I wasn't WORTHY of basic respect. And honestly, this dude is just someone who has been SO consistently kind and things he had NO CLUE would mean anything to me (like wearing this shirt) would happen & hit me at times in life I really needed a pick-me-up or reminder that there is good in the world.

Since January 2018, my friends and I have spotted the flannel out in the world 13 times, with the 13th being JUST LAST WEEK at a show in Canada. I will forever be impressed with Shadows actually keeping and wearing stuff til he can't wear it anymore (that white Metallica tee? Who knows which one I mean? 😄) AND I will forever shake my head in disbelief anytime I see him wearing this American Eagle Dip Dye flannel cuz like....🥰

Here's wishing him the happiest of birthdays, sending him gratitude for the person that he is and the extreme generosity he's shown myself and my friends repeatedly, and hopes for him receiving all of the good he sends to so many other people 🙏🏼💜

Happy Birthday and thank you for everything, M Shadows 🎊🎉🎂🥳

[bow-and-beg-before-me]

TCK's Lament

When I was 8, I thought I knew what home was. A place to stay for a while, a place which grew comfortable and familiar. I'd had many homes before. Green carpet and gravel driveway for a year, a school with blue carpet and books in the library they wouldn't let me read because I was still supposed to be on picture books. Red brick and a park with the tree I could only climb with daddy's help for two years. The snow and the yellow school bus and my pink dress with daisies for two years before that. Tales of places I didn't remember were home, too. They were mummy and daddy's home, so they just must have been mine.

This was going to be another home, as I stepped off the train. A house of wooden floors and a room in the middle of the stairs less than a metre tall. For suitcases, daddy said, and so it was called the suitcase room. I had a new school, with green lunch trays and a dusty playground. I didn't look like the other students, with their shiny straight black hair and skin that didn't burn easily. I didn't care, I was 8. I wonder how much they cared; me with my fluffy blonde hair and lighter brown eyes, different but ignorant of it. I told them I was only there for 4 years. I wanted to warn them, to warn myself. I was going to disappear soon. Oh, 4 years sounds like such a short time. Maybe I was always different, but I was part of their group nonetheless. I made friends with a quiet girl, whose skin was like theirs but her black hair was wavy like mine. We taught ourselves to ride unicycles together, dust and falls and clinging to railings. We drifted apart as the months went by, but I played in the class games of tag and never felt alone. The whole class worked for weeks on our sports day dances, because sports day was an Important Event. It was Important to me, but not to my parents who grew up where sports days were an afternoon of egg and spoon races. They came anyway, tried to reach my world, and I was happy. When I was eleven, the whole class had a trip to the mountains. We hiked and milked a cow and made butter and sang songs and made noodles and watched Despicable Me in the bus on the way back. We were family. My parents changed the deadline. Instead of leaving in March, when the school year ended, we would go in the summer to arrive with the school year. I was 11, just starting to understand that not all rules were absolute. Why couldn't we stay untill I finished school, I asked. We had another trip this year that I didn't want to miss, to the sea this time. Graduation was an Important Event. I wanted to stay, I told them. This wasn't like other homes, this was part of me. There were Important Events I didn't want to miss, a second family I wanted to stay with.

It wasn't Important to my parents. Not enough.

We were leaving in the summer. Wasn't I happy to be going back to see Grandma and Grandpa? To see my cousins? I was always so good at moving, I'd bounce right back. I didn't have the words for it then. How can a 12 year old understand that my home was my family, and every time we'd moved before I'd taken everything important with me? But this time, my home was the people, the school, the sports days and the lunches and the games and the trips. My first real home that I couldn't take with me. I made gifts. I sewed dolls for all the girls in my class and made paper crabs for the boys. I cross stitched a kitten for church. Little crumbs of myself, left behind like they could anchor me to my home. It was all torn away. Distance and time and noisy aeroplanes and everyone waiting for us as we left the airport--aren't you so glad to be back? how does it feel to be home? But I wasn't home. I wasn't I wasn't I wasn't I WASN'T home and my home was gone and everyone assumed I would be fine because I had been before but they don't understand how much difference 2 extra years make. We were only in the new place for a year. I rebuilt my tattered home, patched up the holes, pulled the rips together.

Then we flew again, a train ride away from the shell of my old home. The people were gone, the school was different, and I didn't want to hurt so I never went to look. For 3 years, it was fine. I had a new home of people like me, American and Korean and Japanese and maybe I was the only Brit but we all understood what it was like to be different and yet belong, to have different Important Things from the people we lived with. We made a home of red lockers and a hideous lemon yellow wall on the new cafeteria. There were teachers we liked and teachers we didn't, tests and APs for the older students and the ominous Senior Capstone research project. There was a week in each autumn where we didn't have school and instead went to a lake or hiked and camped or watched movies and walked through the hallways blindfolded. There were class beach days and student council events and dress up days. I found a new set of Important Things. My parents don't know what the fuss was about high school graduation--getting your degree is the important thing. Oh, they understand so much of me, love me, listen to me, but they don't share my Important Things.

My brother went to a school like mine, brown haired in a sea of black. We visited for his sports day and my ragged stumps of what home had been, screamed out their loss and agony. I miss my home, even with the new. I miss what was, and what could have been. I wish I knew, when I arrived, just how long 4 years would be. I don't want to graduate and leave this home, to go back to where the people look like me but I'm still different. I don't know how supermarkets work, I don't know how to order over the counter medication, I am foreign, alien, different.

I left behind my first home, I won't fit in my second much longer. I'll leave behind my family soon.

I want my fourth home to be my last.

I don't want to lose more than I already have.

[alchemisland]

Dinner party

If these dreams heavensent be

Then the cheffing there’s magnificent

Happy to break that bread unleavened

Slather mayo on the Manna but reverently

I’m not resident evil I’m resident greedy

Whatever it is, slather a pat on and feed me

Wanting fourths waiter won’t heed me, know he sees me

Do I sound like a man who had all he could eat?

Call me Bottomless Pete, Depthful Ste, Appetite Andrew, Fullmouth Dee

Digestive dreadnought in odd socks pulling up at Camden Lock

Wearing wolf pelts and brandishing axes, asking is this Glendalough

I’m opening up a new chippy serving fish from the Liffey

Nippy crabs bathed in apricots, cotted in haricot verts

Swaddled by ears of boxer’s cauliflower, crunchy sharp taste

Like licking blades

Or eating thousand year old petrified mushrooms you find.

.

Meeting Dionysus, he says drink to discern the mysteries

Makes me a priest of Eleusis there and then

Guarding his glade Easter to Michaelmas

My angel-given glaive stays invaders

I’m breathing like Darth Vader on sports day after the first fray

Of a ten scrap melee, how I loathe tourney format

Needed my armour stretched, fastens printing bands on the gut

Marbled inside but outside a walking boulder, marvel

Glut in arms and armour

Sight to see fighting, awe-prying even deniers

Duck dive keen clean, surprisingly agile for a fat guy

I smile a lot but I’ve got a shark’s guile

Expecting at eight, ringing off with a smile

I’ve got rings on every finger

Cross at my chest like a leatherbound bible on a hotel bedside

No less a primer, no less divine, for interest’s lack

Dogs sit below me when I eat, catching tasty flak

If we fought world war two with burgers insteada bullets

I’d have ordered another few, we all would

Eat let’s not less.

.

Are what you eat, don’t remember eating so much genius

Smoke a lot of weed though, supreme priest of green

So forgetting wouldn’t surprise, I rise from the hippocrene

After a long deep drink and have a long deep think about my Limericks

I care about my lyrics than I do about living

As an alchemist watches his alembic for changes

So I must be languid and solitary for long stretches, noting differences

Your unwanted entrances swiftly enrage me

My tone barely containing hatred fails to convey my loathing thereof

I love you, dear, more than most but not more than anything

Not more than I love myself vanishing in a vanquishment of verbs

That is my flourishing, nourishment, flowering and devourment

Taking this, for even one instance, is to rob me of all power

Finding true expression only in my lessened self, rare that hour!

To suddenly be wrenched from monomania, losing Xanadu

You ask me do I want a coffee and I do but I hate you for it.

.

I wait hours, days even, worrying my shipment will not arrive

Bassanio on the shore awaiting laden vessels

In sooth I know not why I am so sad

In pursuit of source have gone quite mad

Sorry to my dad, whose plans I neither asked nor longed fulfilled

Sorry to my plants, who I failed to water, and whose frail limbs

Even now cling to life by the faintest silken thread, ill things.

.

It arrives then like a flood from God, every dog impatient before it

Flurrying words like prize tickets

Driving upon curbs to hail them

Yielding curses as vendors fall into the road

I must await patiently an egg’s arrival, let alone one hatching

Long long long boring nothing

Suddenly action more than one wished sanctioned.

.

See your scuttling hand and force it back

Abundant as City of London, surfeit what you lack

I scoop up the bill like Lacrosse, mob boss shit

Stare at all my guests down the table, like the Passion

Another year in fashion surpassing, cutlassing the champer’s neck

Lick her neck like the rim of a wine glass girdled with microdot acid

I’m hearing your noteless Fantasia

Bottle farts and men will pay you

Bombastic swelling motifs, cheeks flush when you look up

Yours or mine

Wanna ask you that at the end of tonight

Hold the door, top of the taxi line

It’s fucking fantastic, guts and arms elastic

My inner windlass turns, lash the wind to my jodhpurs

Know this might be odd but think I might be God’s son

We can’t be sure until I’m back, but keep up the practice

Drink the wine, no you’re not vampires, be to others example.

.

Dog chewing on a fifty quid hambone

In wit, landed fifty crits and my clip still got ammo

When I hear it click or jam, I out the rambo I used to cut the roast open

Used be the most hopeful, now I’m the cunt with the stuff that’s notable

Stuffing fiver notes up nose, testing that coke’s potable, Colombian opal

Wore blue crocs anticipating meat sweats, and a stripey vest

Looking like a gay sailor ready to swab decks

My guests, different to yesterday’s, feign interest, laughing at my jests

Yellow corn Elysian teasing my mouth ceiling

See it again tomorrow, hear it pinging off the porcelain

Find it that appealing

I’m the revered preacher in residence here, revered for cleaning feet

Feature of this church since, well not quite B.C.

Look upon my unpleasing feature, pitiful creature

Call me an unworthy shepherd, see me dead to highlight err

I am a scapegoat, meeting bravely inescapable fate.

.

Dreaming things edible esculent

Culinary medicine delectable tastificant

By day taste’s miser, gruel water and hard tack only

Sleeping I inhabit an oneiric epicurean

My fancies come as cured ham

Fat man’s fantasies, weighing in lbs 118

Seen heavier turkeys, eaten heavier jerkies, but only whilst asleep

Tossing in my chamber, wondering spinach or rocket

Meals in cooking frowns inspiring, much fretted over

No! That milk is over, that meat is foetid; oh move over

Send not a drover to do a shepherd’s job

Send not a Moses to Gomorrah and Sodom

Fatty lumps of succulent rump, boiling broths frothing over.

.

Lean cuts of bacon as grace my plate

Make a Vegan wanna taste, kneel to Rimmon can’t maintain God’s grace

But those ribs are glazed, parted from the rack like paid wages

Like Eve peeled away from Adam after recalcitrant Lilith was sent away

Eden is too early for suffragettes, even Pankhurst agrees

We’re having butter-stuffed English Muffins, pancakes

Hunks of bread with crusty black flanks, save me the heel

I dip it in olive grease, appealing to the Gods of the Greek

Whose breath in satisfaction makes a breeze that stirs the wheat

Water jug cold and clear, feeling like I could dip my feet in

Dive to the lapis deep end, the bravest diver Irish

What would I find, what would my dictys keep

Hunger creeps up and away just as fast

Whip up a batch of quail eggs and mayonnaise, be quick about it

Needed more apple segments in my Waldorf salad but it wasn’t too bad

Pomes like gilded planets, slice of eggplant like stamped bad banana

Beside peppered eggs like fit to burst solar blisters

Chef kiss my fingers like upon the cheek of my sisters in greeting

Feeling Grecian eating peeled apple lunula

I should get a Toga and little boots Caligula.

.

Music is classy, Dvorak suites

Cannabis infused jelly beans pyramided on a gleaming brass platter

Someone asked how many, I didn’t glance, answered it didn’t matter

First movement of the Moonlight Sonata

Conducting with my arm like I had a ghost orchestra

Clicking like Sinatra, goth chick with a split tongue telling me about Tantra

She wears legging as pants, looking like Logan’s Run

Hate that anonymous look, I slug down another finger of glug and look up

You across the room, brighter bulb looking sultry seductive

Unfit for selvedge, dress hem most distant from your heel

I am stirred like Achilles hearing his lover’s death

My breath rhythmless seeks pattern

Dancefloor pattern chequerboard like a Van or a Masonic Lodge

Two stepping malevolent dodging revellers

Boogey to your side, caught in headlights

Make me roadkill, maybe overkill but composed you three hundred odes

Tell she wants to go but not with me, wrote some of it but not this scene

Manifesting badly, broadcast full of static, she’s 4K I’m ceephax

Step back, need a stimpack, she’s wearing a skimpy backless black dress

Looks like an actress awaiting interview, somebody who knows Brad Pitt

Magnetic I am a knacker really, Brad Pitt but in Snatch, most unworthy.