#i THINK at one point i was explaining the fact that shakespeare's use of meter isn't actually as clear as a lot of ppl think

[sunfoxfic]

trying to piece together a dream that moved around a lot is both very fun and very frustrating

[eishtmo]

The Scholomance in Minecraft: Final Tour

The build is, for all intense and purposes, done. Now for the final tour.

Okay, let me be blunt, I can't post this here. That tour is 147 images long, not counting the one I'm reusing from the book. So I really insist if you want to see the whole thing, go visit the Imgur post. That said, I did figure out how to do something quite interesting, and I will be sharing it only here, along with some random thoughts and notes. So, who wants to see a map of the Scholomance in Minecraft?

The program is called Mineways, and it lets you extract the data from any Minecraft world, and do all sorts of things, like build import it to 3d modeling software, 3d print it, or just generate some maps. We'll start at the top and work our way down.

This view was almost standard for much of the build and still how I think of the school as a whole. I never removed much of the access stuff I used for building, so you'll see things like that inside the core throughout.

So the school is roughly 120 blocks tall, which puts it at about 40 stories tall. Minus the library and graduation hall, that means climbing from the Senior dorms to the library is climbing about the equivalent of 27 stories. The seniors had to have one hell of a work out just to get lunch, let alone the gym runs. The only thing holding them back from being full on Olympic athletes is the fact that they were malnourished!

I did some math at one point trying to figure out how many books the library could contain, and surprisingly they have figures for how many books fit in a cubic meter. My math (possibly wrong) came up with 116 million. Google claims there's only 156 million books total. Now this is possibly wrong (I may have messed up my math), but it's still crazy how big the library actually is. I still can't get over it honestly.

Maleficaria Studies got me wondering something: Who made the mural? The only ones who would ever see the Graduation Hall and it's inhabitants would be graduating seniors, and I doubt many took the time to sketch the scene. And even then, how did it get back into the school? And then up on the walls in a way that could be torn down and turned into wire? More than that, what was the original purpose? When they planned for it to be for 800 male enclavers, did they need it to be what it became? Or was it just an auditorium/theater and at one point they had bands or were performing Shakespeare or something?

Speaking of those early days, I think it's pretty clear there had to be some communication from outside the school to inside, if only to the artifice itself. After all, they had to have some way to tell the school to halve the room sizes so it could support more students.

BTW, while writing this, do you notice how there's a couple blanks spaces for the bathrooms along the bottom? Yeah, I missed two sets of bathrooms. I did go back and fill those in, I just didn't redo these maps.

Speaking of bathrooms, I decided to make the interior restrooms unisex while the dorm ones were gendered. Why? My theory is that because the dorms were designed to be re done on a regular basis it wasn't hard to fix but the interior ones couldn't be so easily changed, so instead of separating by gender, they just left them unisex as they couldn't do anything else. So why no urinals? After all it was originally an all boys school. Mostly it was easier to build, but also because I really couldn't find a ratio between urinals and toilets, and only got annoyed me when the one reference I found said that for all male locations there should be more toilets/urinals total than one for all female or even mixed populations. That might explain a lot if that's considered the standard in the building industry.

This image actually shows the grid and vent work in the alchemy labs as it's difficult to see when you're in the school. I really just wanted to point it out. I used this floor to figure out the numbering system for the rooms in the school. As shown here:

I did make an effort to stick to this map, but I'm sure I messed it up somewhere.

I have a theory on the construction of the school. We're told that the doors were meant to be the thing to get people to invest, in the larger project, but was it all in one go? I think maybe not. Sure the grad hall and gates came first, then they suggested maybe we could build another floor, and then another, and then why not just build the whole thing and before the enclaves knew what was happening they were building a world wonder. Feature creep at it's finest.

The vent work in the Workshop is almost impossible to see from inside the school. I managed to find one spot, right over the power hammer for the final tour post and it's only barely visible. Here though, you can see the whole thing. It's the grey line that runs through it.

The labyrinth isn't quite as wild as the images in the books displayed, in fact it's quite regular from this angle, but when you're inside, getting lost is probably the stupidly easiest thing that can happen. It was mostly intentional, of course, but I'm surprised how well it worked and how easily I got turned around.

I will also say I'm so happy with how the gym ultimately turned out. Oh it could be better, but the stark difference between it and the rest of the school is something I really wanted to make clear. Also if you look close to the edges of the gym and workshop, you can see the current and old shafts, I never did remove the old ones.

The Grad Hall has the most leftover bits in the school. The multiple extra shafts, the remains of the lines for the levels of the landing, and square base of the whole thing. I would love to say I left it as an easter egg or something, but really it was one part laziness and one part really freaking dark down there. If I couldn't see it and know it's there, no one else can see it at all.

Of all the parts of the school, we know both a lot about the Graduation Hall, and almost nothing. It's shape is only hinted at, the general arrangement (entry doors on one side, exit on the other) is vague, and we really don't know where the shafts come in at all. My original build actually had the shafts going up toward the middle of the school, making the whole thing quite narrow indeed, but this felt much more likely to be true. This version feels more right, even if it still remains a bit too small. But only a bit.

And now a gif from the top to bottom. No it doesn't have every layer, but it has a lot of them.

Well that's the end. Link to final file below. Please feel free to download and explore it, modify or just play inside. And if someone gets a server of this running let me know. Hell let me know whatever you do with it, I'm straight up curious.

And since there's a chance she's reading this, thank you for the wonderful series and hope my build came at least pretty close to what you imagined, even if was made in Minecraft.

[mumms-the-word]

Hello!! English lit/poetry nerd here. A few quick notes to help explain this further!!

Technically speaking Solas speaks in a metered (patterned) cadence, in a series of iambs (stressed + unstressed syllables, or short and long syllables in a back and forth pattern, like a heartbeat or a da-DUM da-DUM rhythm or a "see-saw"). It’s not always iambic pentameter (5 perfect iamb pairs or 10 syllables per line) and in fact it is RARELY pentameter, but you can notice a series of iambs or "heartbeats" as he speaks specific lines.

Weekes wrote using the lines from “Hallelujah” as a reference. The verses for the song are written in iambic tetrameter (4 iambs) and the chorus in iambic dimeter (2 iambs--"Ha LLE / lu JAH"), and that's where we hear some of the "pattern" in Solas's dialogue at times since Weekes used the song as a template. So instead of the iambic pentameter you might be used to hearing in Shakespeare, (think of Shakespeare’s “But soft, what light from yonder window breaks!”), it's a bit more like Emily Dickenson's iambic tetrameter ("Because I could not stop for death" or if you want the Hallelujah lyrics, "I heard there was a secret chord").

Basically if you can say the line in a da-DUM pattern, you're reading an iambic pattern, and how "long" that line goes on for determines the specific type of "meter" like pentameter (5) or tetrameter (4) and so on. Solas tends to speak in iambic tetrameter when talking about the Fade or his old memories, with a brief dip into iambic dimeter for his final sentences (but not always).

Sometimes you can match Solas’s dialogue and fit it perfectly into the lyrics of “Hallelujah” to the point where you can sing it, but not always. It’s easier to simply try to find a “see-saw” pattern to his words, even if they aren’t arranged in convenient lines.

For example, this one is easy:

“I’ve JOUR / neyed DEEP / inTO / the FADE in ANC / ient RUINS* / and BAT/ tleFIELDS to SEE / the DREAMS / of LOST / civIL/ iZAtions (amphibrach**). I’ve WATCHED / as HOSTS / of SPI / rits CLASH to RE / -enACT / the BLOOD / y PAST In ANC / ient WARS / both FAM / ous AND / forGOTTen (amphibrach)

(*Solas/Gareth David-Lloyd says this more as one syllabus (roons) than two (roo-ins) **amphibrach is a word that is basically da-DUM-da)

Compare that to the lyrics of "Hallelujah" and you see how easy it is.

But other lines don't scan to "Hallelujah" the same way, so sometimes it's easy to miss other poetic lines that Solas says in cadence. That's where just looking for a repetitive "see-aw" or "da-DUM" pattern comes in, though when Solas speaks it, it's quite subtle, and often not everything actually has a strict iambic pattern.

For example:

I saw a young Qunari working in a simple kitchen, baking bread as she was ordered every morning. In every loaf she broke the rules. She'd take a pinch of sugar and fold it into the center*, like a secret. And this act of small rebellion brought a shining smile across her face.

(*The captions say "and would fold it to the center" but Solas actually says "and fold it into the center")

Or, if we were to highlight the iambs and follow Solas's natural breaks when he is speaking these lines (because this one doesn't scan as well to "Hallelujah" as others might)

I SAW a YOUNG QuNARi WORKing in a SIMple KITchen, BAKing BREAD as she was ORDered EVery MORNing. In EVEry LOAF she BROKE the RULES. She'd TAKE a PINCH of SUGar and FOLD it into the CENTer, like a SECret. And this ACT of SMALL reBELLion brought a SHINing SMILE aCROSS her FACE.

For reference, you can hear him speaking it here (timestamped at 2:27 for the Qunari Baker dialogue):

(Most of his lines in this video somewhat scan to "Hallelujah" but not all.)

The Qunari baker dialogue breaks away from being a perfect little poem but you can still HEAR the iambs in little lines like "In every loaf she broke the rules" and somewhat in lines like "I saw a young qunari" and "she'd take a pinch of sugar" both of which are 9 syllables patterned (and spoken!) in a 9-syllable da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM-da pattern. So even though this isn't a perfect patterned dialogue, you still get bits of patterns in the middle!

so anyway long story short, Solas doesn't actually speak in iambic pentameter, but he does frequently speak in iambic patterns that are sometimes consistent with the scan of "Hallelujah." Sometimes his dialogue sounds more like blank verse without a set meter and there are just delightful little iambic patterns tossed in here and there. But the point is mostly that Solas will get all poetic when he talks about the Fade or his old memories, evoking a kind of "whimsical" or "archaic" vibe because his dialogue suddenly sounds like poetry, Shakespeare, or similar "old" literature.

Other good sources for this stuff:

Compilation of all poetic "Hallelujah" sounding dialogue Solas speaks This person explains the "Hallelujah" pattern a bit more distinctly relating to Solas's dialogue This thread (already shared) explains a bit more of the poetic lines, with a slightly different analysis of the pattern This blog post REALLY goes in-depth about the poetry of Solas's dialogue + mentions that Cole sometimes also responds to Solas in iambic patterns

What's all this about Solas speaking in iambic pentameter? English isn't my first language so I never noticed anything odd about the way he talks, but your blog is the first time I've seen it mentioned by anyone

hello! ◕‿◕ Solas sometimes speaks in a specific pattern or rhythm. It sometimes gets described as or compared by people to iambic pentameter. (which is a type of rhythm common in traditional English poetry. Shakespeare used it in his sonnets and plays.) Though, I'm not sure that it's actually literally that or always that. The main point is that at those times, he's speaking particularly poetically, with a specific poetic rhythm in his speech. (Like where the stress on syllables is and the 'beats' in his speech.) Occasionally, the Inquisitor's dialogue line[s] in response to him are the same.

When Trick Weekes wrote Solas in DA:I, they wrote some of his key scenes to KD Lang's cover of the song Hallelujah on a loop. They talked about some of their process and the reasons for the use of this technique in terms of Solas' characterization in this DA:I-era blog post:

Trick Weekes: "When Solas talks about things that he saw in the Fade, things that speak to a distant past, I needed him to sound ever so slightly otherworldly and wistful – someone remembering a dream with a sense of both sadness and inevitability. If you follow [that link] and look at some of Solas’s lines, you may notice a familiar rhythm come out. It would have been forcing it to give lines the same rhyme scheme, but giving the words the meter captured some of that wistfulness and made Solas sound ever so slightly otherworldly. (In the rare cases the player got into the same rhythm, there was always an approval bump from Solas. For that brief period, it was like the player was thinking like he did.) I used this a few times over the game, and I love what it did to his voice. Also, Cori (who edited Solas) is exceedingly kind for putting up with my request that changes to those lines keep this surreptitious rhythm."

[source]

An example of when it happens in DA:I is:

"I've journeyed deep into the Fade // in ancient ruins and battlefields // to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash // to reenact the bloody past // in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war // has its heroes. // I'm just curious // what kind you'll be."

Compare this with the song's lyrics:

"I heard there was a secret chord // That David played, and it pleased the Lord // You don't really care for music, do ya? Well it goes like this: The fourth, the fifth // The minor fall, the major lift // The baffled king composing Hallelujah Hallelujah // Hallelujah // Hallelujah // Hallelujah"

An example from Trespasser is:

"I lay in dark and dreaming sleep [I heard there was a secret chord] while countless wars and ages passed [That David played, and it pleased the Lord] I woke still weak a year before I joined you. [You don't really care for music, do ya?]" etc.

Recent mentions of this are:

Q. Will Solas still occasionally or dramatically speak in iambic pentameter? A. “Massive kudos to Patrick, who always writes Solas so well. Again, Solas is a returning character. It’s the same Solas you know and love (or hate depending on who you are). The same writer. So I think the answer is yeah, it’s Solas.” – John Epler

[source: BioWare dev Discord Q&A on June 14th]

User: "you really went off with solas. but the iambic pentameter makes writing fanfic dialogue for him so treacherous..." Trick Weekes: "It doesn't always have to be in the cadence! Just when he's deeply feeling The Old Days! He's written in standard prose 99% of the time!"

[source]

I think he does it a bit in the gameplay reveal video [Veil ripping scene with Varric] too. hope this helps :>

[msg refs this post]

[knowlesian]

very inside baseball notes on a process!!! blame @ferusaurelius for comparing my style on that last piece to beat poetry, because: play the secret level music or whatever, thaaaaaat’s it

i am a poetry/theatre nerd at heart. i talk a lot about how language is for communication and the frills and furbelows are sort of a side alley people can explore if that’s what works for them, and i firmly do believe that!

it’s just that oh my fucking g o d is that shit my chosen side alley. i am an absolute sucker for the little details of construction. sometimes that’s not the point or wouldn’t suit the piece, so i have to set it on the back burner and concentrate on what helps me communicate best, but in my heart: i wish everything could be poetry or a goooood shakespeare monologue, just a little. oh! for that i would eat my own goddamned heart in the marketplace, & etc.

because of this tendency, i like to read everything i write aloud during editing passes and see if something sounds as good that way as it looks on the page. (and because it helps catch mistakes in a way that sneaks around the brain’s impulse to fill in or fix words, because you already know what you meant to write: if you edit your own work, one of my first and best pieces of writing advice is read it aloud to yourself at least once or twice during the process.)

that last piece about metaphors meant i got to have a lot of fun in the writing process, leaning into playing with sound clusters and alliteration and rhythm and meter. there’s sort of a fine line between marching band and sing-song that reading everything out loud really helps you hone, and even readers who aren’t conscious of why they feel compelled or some phrases hit harder get subconsciously dragged in. it’s why song lyrics/poems are often easier to remember than recited facts; our brains just like a nice rise and fall. 

and since i was trying to make the point that metaphors are something we use all the time without realizing to communicate the emotional truths that plain language can’t quite master, i got to use a bunch of metaphors while i did it. that’s another fun way to sort of... use language to make your point without being like “also, here’s a waterslide of metaphors geeeeet ready they’re something we all more or less instinctively understand how to use in a very cool way, but it's rare to see them explained in layman’s terms” right out.

also, just because i think it’s fun: just say ‘what rowboats and the arms attached to the human rowing said boat’ to yourself. i am rarely more happy with my writing than i am focused on the bits i could have done better, but that one’s got a real nice mouthfeel if i do say so myself.

[ajax-b1ue]

Doubt Thou the Stars Are Fire

Summary: ‘Why on Earth was Logan in his room at this time of night? Scratch that— why was Logan reciting Act 2, Scene 2 of Romeo and Juliet, in Roman’s room, at midnight??’

Warnings: Mild anxiety, self-deprecation... excessive fluff? Pairings: Logince (can be read as either platonic or romantic) WC: 2946 AO3

@5-crofters-jams​ It was only supposed to be a short little fluffy thing, but then it turned into... well, this. :’)

Roman was dimly aware of being in that half-asleep state where he was technically conscious, but not yet truly awake.

There was a feeling, however, of something being out of place— something not quite right, nagging at his mind to rouse and pay attention. 

“Soft!”

Roman’s eyes snapped open, thoughts sharpening into focus.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Roman is the sun.”

Pushing himself up on his hands, Roman searched until his eyes fell on a figure standing in front of the open bay doors that led into Thomas’s imagination, silhouetted against the moonlight, a gentle breeze fluttering the curtains on either side of them.

And just as quickly, Roman’s thoughts stalled out.

“…Logan?”

Roman was definitely still asleep. There was no way that Thomas’s logical side was standing in his bedroom, reciting Shakespeare. He had to be dreaming.

Logan went on as though he hadn’t heard. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief.” He gestured vaguely in Roman’s direction. “That thou her maid art far more fair than she.”

…Or maybe he was hallucinating.

Roman stared, not quite sure what to make of it. Why on Earth was Logan in his room at this time of night? Scratch that— why was Logan reciting Act 2, Scene 2 of Romeo and Juliet, in Roman’s room, at midnight??

Roman was very confused, and somewhat concerned.

 “Logan… what’s going on?” He slowly stood up from the edge of his bed, never letting his eyes leave Logan. “Are you feeling all right?” 

Perhaps Logan was sick? Roman edged forward, reaching for the other side’s forehead to check if he was feverish. Instead of answering, Logan skirted a few steps away, evading Roman’s outstretched hand.

“Be not her maid since she is envious,” was the only response he offered. “Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off!”

The creative side was now more than somewhat concerned, quickly turning into alarmed. Something was clearly not right. And now Roman was struck by a new, worrying thought:

What if being in Roman’s room was affecting Logan? Making him act like… this?

“Logan, I don’t think you’re feeling quite like yourself, right now,” Roman said, keeping his voice soft and high and hopefully non-threatening. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll set you to rights?”

Again Roman tried to reach out, this time to take Logan’s hand, with the intention of gently steering the other side back out of his room and into a more neutral space. But Logan continued to back away from him, shifting from Romeo and Juliet into Sonnet 106: “When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, and beauty making beautiful old rhyme in prose of ladies dead, and lovely knights…”

As the words fell from Logan’s lips, he backed all the way through the still-open doors, into the imagination proper; Roman froze.

The imagination was the absolute last place Logan should be wandering around, with the state he was in.

“Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,” Logan murmured. “Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow…”

Part of Roman wanted to leap forward, to grab the other side and yank him back— but he also worried that if he moved too suddenly, Logan might bolt. He knew he should probably go get the help of the others, but Roman didn’t trust that Logan wouldn’t wander off on his own.

Even as he stood there, debating over what to do, Logan drifted a few steps further, saying, “I see their antique pen would have expressed even such a beauty as you master now.”

Roman was left with little choice but to follow.

And so it went: Logan reciting, Roman following, every so often trying to entreat Logan to stop or to come to him— trying to slip closer when he thought Logan might not notice.

And yet Logan wouldn’t allow Roman to reach him. He continued to retreat, dancing away from Roman’s grasp, and never once losing his iambic meter.

 “So all their praises are but prophecies of this our time, all you prefiguring,” Logan declared, circling around a tree, as Roman tried very hard not to let out a sound of aggravation. “And, for they looked but with divining eyes, they had not skill enough your worth to sing.”

“Yes, thank you, Logan, I do appreciate the compliment.” Why hadn’t Roman had the sense to change his outfit from pajamas into his usual regal attire when he had the chance? He couldn’t exactly focus enough at the moment, not that Logan was really giving him an opportunity. “I would appreciate it more if you would stay in one spot.”

“For we, which now behold these present days, had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise,” Logan replied.

“Mmmmmmhhh…”

By now, they were well and truly entrenched in the imagination, deep within the woods that were the realm’s usual default state. Roman was growing increasingly frustrated, as well as determined to stop Logan— who, oddly enough, seemed to grow increasingly anxious, even desperate to evade Roman’s attempts to interrupt his recitation.

“Logan, come on.” Roman was jogging at this point, and exceedingly aware of how barefooted he was. “Can you please stop and think about what you’re doing right now? Emphasis on the stop part of that??” He fumbled for a few steps, hissing at whatever it was that had just stabbed into his foot. “Logan!”

Surprisingly, Logan did hesitate, pausing long enough to turn and glimpse back at Roman. “He speaks yet he says nothing: what of that?” he wondered aloud. “His eye discourses; I will answer it.”

Roman grimaced back at him.

“I am too bold, ‘tis not to me he speaks,” Logan concluded hastily, spinning back around. “Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat his eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return!”

At this point, Logan was running outright, with Roman chasing after.

Perhaps most bizarrely, Logan never stopped reciting lines, although now they were punctuated with sharp breaths as he fled through Thomas’s imagination, Roman hot on his heels.

“But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, feed’st they lightest flame with self-substantial fuel,” he gasped, faking left then dashing right; Roman cursed behind him. “Making a famine where abundance lies, thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel!”

Roman lunged; Logan dodged.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temper— oof!!”

Roman launched himself at Logan, tackling him to the ground.

The two of them tumbled into the dirt in a heap; Roman recovered first, and before the other side could slip away, Roman sat on him— his knees straddling Logan’s legs, and his hands pinning Logan’s shoulders.

That, it seemed, was enough to get through to him.

“Roman!”

Now, finally, Logan actually addressed Roman— and was very flustered as he did. “You— what— get off of me!” His voice had gone high, and he pushed ineffectually at Roman’s arms.

 “What in the world is going on??” Roman demanded instead, ignoring Logan’s protests. He tried to feel the logical side’s forehead; Logan irritably batted Roman’s hand away.

“I’m not sick!”

“Your face is bright red,” Roman pointed out in a deadpan, earning a grimace in return. “And do you mean to tell me that you’re wandering around Thomas’s imagination, reciting Shakespeare, and you’re not delirious?”

“Let me up,” Logan insisted, evading the question as he tried again to shove Roman off of him. By now even his ears were turning scarlet.

Roman didn’t budge. “How do I know you aren’t going to run off, spouting the First Folio?”

“I am fully possessed of all of my faculties, thank you,” Logan retorted, growing more irritated by the second, especially as his efforts to dislodge Roman continued to prove fruitless.

Roman at least relented enough to lean back, taking his hands from Logan’s shoulders. “Well, if that’s the case—” He swept one arm out to the side, incredulous. “Care to explain what this was all about??”

Logan’s face screwed up, until he half blurted, half shouted, “It was for your birthday!”

“…What?”

Whatever Roman had been expecting, that wasn’t it. In fact, it took him a full four seconds to process what the other side had even said, before belatedly realizing that he was still sitting on top of Logan. Roman clambered to one side, and Logan quickly righted himself.

The awkward silence continued, until at last Logan spoke, though reluctantly, embarrassed, and avoiding eye contact at all costs. “I wanted to do something special… for your birthday.”

“But it’s not even my birthday until tomorrow!” Roman protested, before doing some mental math. “Oh! I mean— I guess, by this time of night—” He caught himself, then coughed. “Sorry, not really important, I suppose. …Continue?” He gestured to Logan, trying not to wince.

Logan folded his arms in front of him, still staring at the ground. “You always know exactly what to do for everyone else on their birthday.”

“Well, I do kind of have a leg up on that one. I am the idea guy…” Roman realized a half second too late, that may not have been helpful, or tactful for that matter; Logan hunched further in on himself. Roman hastily protested, “Hey, no, you get good presents for each of us!”

Logan scoffed. “Certainly, I knows things that appeal to each of you.”

“What’s wrong with getting people things they like?”

“Nothing. It’s just— in the end, that’s what they are. Things.” Logan fiddled with some blades of grass in front of him. “When you give one of us a present, it’s heartfelt. It has meaning. I wanted…” He scrunched his eyes shut; his forehead creased. “I wanted to be able to do something like that for you.”

Roman’s expression flickered with pained understanding. “Logan…”

“I brainstormed multiple potential presents— different ideas—“ Logan caught himself short on that one, and grimaced again. “But everything I could come up with just seemed…” He glanced away. “Inadequate.”

Roman said nothing, watching Logan with wide eyes.

“…So…” Logan started again, uncharacteristically quiet, and pointedly avoiding Roman’s gaze. “I instead asked myself, what I thought you would do, given the same circumstances.” He tilted his head in Roman’s direction. “You would make a grand gesture— something important to the other person. Something personal. This seemed…” He ducked his face, still refusing to make eye contact, but Roman could see him flushing again. “It seemed like a better idea at the time,” he finished in a small voice.

Again, Roman was left trying to process— and more importantly, trying to figure out what to say that wasn’t going to make Logan feel worse than he already did.

They sat in silence for a long minute, while Roman tried to marshal his words. Then, the creative side took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“Logan,” he started.

Roman kept a careful eye on Logan as he spoke, and also made sure to keep his voice gentle.

“I do adore the theater,” he went on after a moment. “And the fact that you would go to such lengths to try to give me a special birthday means more than words can say. But…” He gestured to their surroundings. “Shakespeare in the Park? That’s not you.”

“That was rather the point,” Logan mumbled.

Such a sentiment made Roman instinctively want to clasp a hand to his chest, pained that Logan would regard himself in such a way. Instead, Roman reached slowly for Logan’s arm; this time, the logical side didn’t pull away, but he was tense and stiff under Roman’s touch.

“Logan,” Roman chided softly, “being heartfelt means, coming from the heart—”

“I do not need an etymology lesson,” Logan said, a defensive note creeping into his tone.

“From your heart,” Roman finished, cutting off Logan’s complaint. “It’s special because it’s uniquely yours.”

Logan’s expression and tone went flat. “Mine? What can Logic offer that would make a birthday special?” He finally met Roman’s eyes— only to fix him with a droll look. “Historical events that correspond to that particular day on the Gregorian Calendar? The exact position of the stars over Gainesville the night Thomas posted your first Vine? A critique of the concept of ‘birthdays’ for mental projections with no corporeal existence—”

“What— wait, do you know that?” Roman interrupted. “The stars one, I mean. Not the one with the existential dread.”

Logan gave him another look and gestured impatiently with one hand. “Yes. Obviously.”

“Yes,” Roman answered immediately.

“Yes— what?”

“Yes, that.” At Logan’s baffled look, Roman waved to the sky overhead. “The position of the stars!”

Logan looked even more confused. “I… could make you a star chart, I suppose—”

“No, here!” Roman insisted, gesturing above them again. “Look, just—” He leaned forward, taking hold of Logan’s hand and grasping it tightly, ignoring Logan’s stammered protests. “Focus on what it’s supposed to look like. Every detail, every bit of information.”

Logan’s expression was dubious, but, after a few seconds (and another reassuring squeeze from Roman), he exhaled, and closed his eyes.

Roman watched his fellow side for several moments— the way his lips pulled to one side, the way his forehead wrinkled, the focus etched into every line of his face. But then Roman could feel the knowledge welling within Logan, like an undercurrent of sound, thrumming just below audible range, and the creative side closed his eyes as well. 

He reached inside himself, for that spark that lived within him— similar to what he was feeling from Logan, and yet, wholly different. Then, his mind reached for Logan’s.

The instant they met, Roman could feel it— all of the information Logan was bringing to the surface— and let it translate through him. He felt the imagination shift around them, but didn’t open his eyes at first.

It wasn’t until he heard Logan’s gasp that Roman finally looked.

Then his mouth hung open, all powers of speech gone.

The night sky glimmered brilliantly overhead, a million facets of light sparkling like so many fairy lights. The moon was gone, and the sky was clear, without a trace of clouds or haze. Roman had allowed their imaginary stars to shine far brighter and more vibrantly than they would have actually been, with the Milky Way clearly visible as it stretched from horizon to horizon. To call the image above them ‘breathtaking’, while certainly accurate, seemed grossly understated, and both Roman and Logan stared heavenward for a long minute in appreciative silence. 

“…Tell me what we’re looking at,” Roman said at last in an entreating whisper.

It took only a little coaxing on Roman’s part to convince Logan to break his reverie, and describe the various stars and constellations and planets above them. Before long, they were both laying on the ground on their backs, pointed in opposite directions but with their heads resting next to one another, as Logan pointed out the constellation Gemini.

“According Greek myth,” Logan elaborated, “the twins it depicts are specifically Castor and Pollux—”

“Brave warriors both!” Roman interjected, gesturing excitedly. “They sailed on the Argo— joined the hunt for the Calydonian Boar— and they rescued their sister, Helen of Troy, from none other than Theseus himself! And of course,” he sighed, letting one hand fall back to his chest, the other reaching wistfully to constellation in question. “What they are most famous for. Pollux, the immortal demigod son of Zeus, sacrificing half of his immortality to his dying half-brother, Castor.” Roman let out a longer sigh, resting both of his hands over his heart.

“…Yes,” Logan murmured, glancing sideways with a look of faint bemusement. Then he returned his gaze to the view above. “Thus, securing them their position among the stars,” he finished quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Roman look over at him, and though he couldn’t be sure, Logan didn’t think he imagined the smile that graced the other side’s face.

They went on in this fashion for the better part of the night: Logan describing the various celestial bodies and myths associated with them, and Roman filling in the rest of their stories in his own dramatic fashion.

In one quiet moment, when Logan was searching for the next constellation, Roman took the opportunity to take in the sky altogether, eyes roaming across every star and galaxy. Then his gaze drifted downwards and to the side, where they fell on Logan, who wore a look of intense concentration. Flecks of light reflected off the lenses of his glasses.

“Logan?”

“Mm?”

“This is perfect. Thank you.”

Roman twisted his head, and pressed a kiss to Logan’s temple. Logan, who hadn’t drawn his gaze away from the sky before, immediately snapped his head around, once again flustered and red-faced, not knowing what to say.

“I— ah— I-I… I don’t…”

“Just say, ‘happy birthday’,” Roman prompted with a small smile.

It took several seconds, but at last, Logan managed a quiet and earnest, “Happy birthday, Roman.”

“It is,” Roman agreed, nestling his head into the crook between Logan’s neck and shoulder. He was pleased to note that Logan didn’t shy away; after a moment, he even rested his own head against Roman’s jaw.

They stayed that way for the next few hours, even after they ran out of constellations and stars to name.

They were simply content to lay there, together, and take in the sky.

[thequietestnoiseonearth]

Manifesto for Concrete Poetry (1952-55)

By Öyvind Fahlström, Sweden

1. Starting Point

The literary fashion for 1953 was dictated by Sigtuna [where a literary conference was held]. One rejected the psychoanalytically marked bust line and hop line, pulled down the skirt length and lowered the neck line. Since fantasy is to be stressed this year, flounces and butterflies in the hair, everyone Sings with Setterlind (Swedish "court" poet).

All this is well-known. But what lies behind these general recommendations, how shall we realize them? It has been said that we should interpret modern myths (at the same time that Freud has been accused of myth-making); and that we should not bury ourselves in the situation of our time, but should concern ourselves with timeless symbols.

Myths: does this mean to construct a complicated apparatus of symbolic and mythological contacts a la Joyce, Gösta Oswald [Swedish novelist], etc. "who did the same thing with Shakespeare or Virgil"?

Or to give up the precise complexion and to be satisfied with single ideas, most often only single words, floating around without definite contexts? The risk is that the impression will be less timeless and less related to our timeless humanity, quite simply that it will be looser and more general; since the eternally valid word-symbols (if there are such animals) have become faded by much rubbing on the washboard. To some, Lorca, for example, they have been quite useful in new contexts. Also for the surrealists, but on another level, for them it has been valid not to create eternal myths, but myths useful for the future.

At Sigtuna they also talked about the structural analysis of the new criticism. But no one claimed freedom from preoccupation with the self in connection with the claim of interest in poetical structure.

Poetry can be not only analysed but also created as structure. Not only as structure emphasizing the expression of idea content but also as concrete structure. Say good-bye to all kinds of arranged or unarranged private, psychological, contemporary, cultural or universal problematics. It is certain that words are symbols, but there is no reason why poetry couldn't be experienced and created on the basis of language as concrete material.

That the word has symbol value is no more remarkable than that in art representative forms have symbol value over and above their Superficial representational value, and that non-figurative forms, even if it is the white square on the white tablecloth, also have symbolic value and further suggest associations over and above the experience of the play of proportions.

The Situation: since the war a long beer housesad-doomsday-mood, the feeling that all the experimental extremes have been arrived at. For the person who refuses to soar in the worlds of vodka and ambrosia, it remains only to analyze

analyze

analyze the misery with the given means.

Today when the rough symbolic cryptogram, "beautiful" romantic jargon, or desperate grimaces outside the church gate appear to be the current alternatives, the concrete alternative must also be presented.

Starting Point: Everything that can be expressed with language and every linguistic expression on an equal basis with another in a given context that heightens its value.

Therefore Dostoyevsky problematics do not appear to me as anything more essential and human than to consider whether the voices of men are more beautiful in värder [host] or in världar [worlds-pronounced the same as värder]. Motive for drama can be for the poet, as well as for the dictator situated in time, the fixed fact that a certain sound can never be repeated. Experimental psychological results can be taken as starting points for a novel as well as for psychoanalysis. I describe certain people: Bobb, Torsten, Sten, Minna, Pi, without the slightest interest in them as people. Literature won't be inhuman for all that. Ants should only write books about ants, but man, who has the ability to look around himself and objectify, need not be that one-sided.

2. Material and Means

What is going to happen to the new material? It can be shaken up as you like, and after that it is always unassailable from the "concrete" point of view?

This can always be said at the beginning. But the circumstance that the new means of expression have not found their norms of value ready-made, does not prevent us from testing them, if their value is ever to be clarified.

One way is that as often as possible we must break against the path of least resistance, Mimömolan [minsta mötstånders lag]. This is no guarantee for success, but it is a way to avoid sitting in the same spot. To use the system as well as automatism, mostly to use them in combination, but not in such a way that the system becomes other than an auxiliary means. So no ambition whatsoever to reach the purest "poetry" with automatism; even the surrealists do not pay homage to that any more. But do not criticise the systems: if you choose them yourselves and do not follow the rules. Therefore the question is not whether or not the system is in itself The Only Right One. It will become so because you have chosen it and if it gives you a good result.

In that case I can construct, I say construct, for example, a series of 12 vowels in a certain succession and make tables accordingly, even though a twelve vowel series as such does not make the same sense as the series of the twelve-tone chromatic- scale.

It is said that our time longs for stable norms. It is clear: when we tire of regular meter and at last tire also of rhyme, we must find something else that will give the poem that general effect. Nowadays the connecting element has a tendency to be content, both descriptive and ideational content. But it is best if form and content are one.

It remains, therefore, to give form its own norms again. This is already being done in punktmusik. The possibilities are uncountable. In the case of poetry strophes can be broken up into vertical parallelisms in such a way that content determines form by placing the word exactly below the word above it, which it repeats, or vice versa so that when you have a fragment of line vertically parallel with the one above, it brings with it the content of the line above. Identical strophes aided by filling out a line with rhyme on the last word in the line, or with agreed syllables, words, etc. Marginal strophes beside the principal strophes. Framed-form strophes with a kernel strophe within: the possibility for more readings corresponding to the free movement of sight when you look at abstract art. Thus the strophes can be read not only from left to right and from above to below but vice versa and vertically: all the first words in every line, then all the second, the third, etc. Mirroring, diagonal reading. Change of lines, particularly of short lines. Free emphasis and free word order as in classical literature (that we don't have the same linguistic conditions is no reason not to make these experiments).

Therefore a richness of possibilities for reaching greater complexity and functional differentiation so that the different elements of content in a work of art can assume their own shape.

The simplest of all systematizations of formless material is, as always, the change between the contrasts, the contrasts within all thinkable aspects of the work of art. The play between difficult and easy sentences (respectively texts or words), rich and poor, normally syntactic and primitively added, such with and such without context in the environment, lofty, porridgy, knotty, gliding, sounding, and representing.

Not only simple changes but also augmentations -and rhythms. Everything except the lazy stumbling forward according to Mimömolan [the law of least resistance]. (It is something else, of course, if amorphous pieces are put in with intended, directed effect.)

Above all I think that the rhythmic aspect contains unimagined possibilities. Not only in music is rhythm the most elementary, directly physically grasping means for effect; which is the joy of recognizing something known before, the importance of repeating; which has a connection with the pulsation of breathing, the blood, ejaculation. It is wrong that jazz bands have the monopoly of giving collective rhythmic ecstasy. The drama and poetry can also give it. Even in art with its limited time dimension it can be done, Capogrossi has shown that.

It is only to break loose from the grinding of the new, new, new; not to leave behind oneself a kitchen mess of ideas for every step in the work one takes: instead of biting oneself to stick with the motifs, to let them repeat themselves and form new rhythms; for example one works at filling out rhythmic words as a background for principle meanings, which can be bound or unbound by the background rhythm. Independent onomatopoetic rhythmic phrases, like those which the African or East Indian drummer forms to represent his melodies of rhythm. Simultaneous reading and above all-readings of several lines of which at least one has rhythmic words. Of course metrical rhythms also; rhythms of word order, rhythms of space.

Another way to have unit and connection is to widen the logic by forming new agreements and contrasts. The simplest way is to go to the logic of primitive people, children and the mentally ill, the intuitive logic of likeness, of sympathetic magic.

This logic applied to language: - words which sound alike belong together, the fun comes from that. Rhyme has had a similar effect. Myths have been explained like this: when Deukalion and Pyrrha had to create new people after the deluge, they threw stones and people grew up: the name for stone is lias, for people laos.

When the fire has gone out [släckts], I am less sure that it has stopped burning than that the family [släckt] have gone on their way. The fire can both burn and be extinguished [släckt] and be related [släkt] to the family [släkten] or be extinguished [släckt] with the family [släkten]. Laxar [salmon] has to do with laxcring [laxatives], and taxar [dachshund] with taxering [tax assessment], and not vice versa. Homonyms provide great possibilities. Zeugmabinding also belongs here: to connect words, meanings and fragments, for example, poetry is poetry is poetry, where the middle poetry is both end and beginning. And the whole work may be valued for the word put in here and there, always inflexible, a binding cord for structure as realized thought motive. Always the precious repetition for the joy of recognition.

It is valid, particularly in the larger forms, epic,

drama, the film, also, to create happenings of the same

firmness of structure as that of reality. To give the

elements new functions and then certainly, to make

use of them instead of the comfortable improvisations of floating inspiration. To knit the net of relations tightly and clearly. To be bound by conventions you develop yourself but not by those of others.

With such possibilities for richness, ordinary, interpretations and antitheses such as tragically- and comically must be oversimplifications. The whole value in the connection tax-taxering [ dachshund-tax assessment] does not lie in the humorous effect which can result from the unexpected connecting.

Another form of magic with linguistic means is the conventionally seen arbitrary dictation of new meanings for letters, words, sentences or fragments: let us say that in this table all the "I's" represent "sickness," the more "I's" the more difficult-or in this fragment the word "sickness" represents "all sounds, prize stones"-or all words devoid of their own meanings represent "coldness."

You can also go one step in this direction by putting well-known words in such realized strange connections that you undermine the reader's security in the holy context between the word and its meaning and make him feel that conventional meanings are quite as much or quite as little arbitrary as the dictated new meanings. This is no more remarkable than is the case with Povel Ramel Swedish actor: the man who suffered from stage fright among other things and told us that his temperature taken rectally was from the stage of himself [rampen/rumpan], so that-hearing both through the situation and the similarity between the words-we discover a new meaning for the word ramp [stage].

You can't say that the well-known in the strange connection arouses fertile insecurity about the identity between word and apparition in everyone- it may arouse a quite fertile interest in the form itself, if the meanings for the reader are meaningless and he has such a great appetite that lie goes on looking for values. At first many meanings will sound meaningless, particularly amusing or touching, neither forbodingly meaningful nor diffusely sonorous.

Not least because they contain unfairly dealt with words. The unfairly, dealt with words are those which, despite the enormous expansion of the poetic vocabulary during the last century, are not yet considered able to keep themselves dry on the poet's copy sheets. "Salesmen," "excitement," "Clubs," "mine," "horribly," "whisk," "men," "dozen," "glands." These words can, of course, be found, but how often when compared with the old guard. Reading the dictionary is quite as exploratory for the language artist as is turning the pages of a handbook about insects, car motors, or tissues of the body is for the artist.

Meanings can also sound meaningless because they have been constructed in another way. It is valid not only to mix the word order, but to meet the necessities in terms of all the habitual mechanics of sentences or grammatical constructions; and as thinking is dependent upon language, every attack aimed at valid language form will be an enrichment of the worn-out paths of thought, a link in the evolution of language -of thinking, which always occurs on the every day, literary and scientific levels.

Ideas to renew grammatical structures are bound to emerge if you make comparisons with foreign languages, with Chinese, for instance, with its classless words and meaning derived from word order, or with the unexpected and shaded possibilities for expression in the languages of many primitive people. Perhaps it is more important and in any case easier, because of its accessibility, to examine the language of the mentally ill. If, for example, you examine the tests of manic-depressives, you find effects-certainly not meant to be artistic-the connecting of logical resemblances (contaminations), pure soundlikeness associations, modeling with the material of words (neologisms) and more or less rhythmical repetitions (perseverances).

Another way is to see what there is to keep in language found purely mechanically without the use of reading directions or a series system of words and meanings. This will be to break through the frontiers, very slowly to that which means something to you. We can obtain unexpected values from-as we -now see it-the most amputated and kneaded (fragmentized) word elements and phrases.

SQUEEZE the language material: that is what can he titled concrete. Do not squeeze the whole structure only: as soon as possible begin with the smallest elements, letters and words. Throw the letters around as in anagrams. Repeat the letters in words; lard with foreign words, gä-elva-rna [djävlarna = devils]; with foreign letters, ahaanadalaianaga for handling, compare with pig latin and other secret languages; vowel glissandos gäaeiouuåwrna. Of course also "lettered," newly--discovered words. Abbreviations as new word building, exactly as in everyday language, we certainly have Mimömolan [the law of least resistance]. Always it is a question of making new form of the material and not of being formed by it. This fundamental concrete principle can be most beautifully illustrated by Pierre Schaeffer's key experience during his search for concrete music: he had on tapes seconds of locomotive sounds, but he was not satisfied only to connect one sound to another, even if the connection itself was unusual. Instead he extracted a smaIl fragment of the locomotive sound and repeated it with a change of musical pitch; he then went back to the first again and so to the second, etc. so there was a change. He had created a n interference with the material itseIf by means of separation: the elements were not new: the newly-formed context yielded a new material.

From this it will be clear that what I have called literary concretion and non-figurative art is not a style-it is partly a way for the reader to experience word art, primarily poetry-partly for the poet a release, a declaration of the right of all language material and working means. Literature created from this starting point stands neither in oppositional nor parallel relationship to lettrisme or dadaism or surrealism.

Lettrisme: usual "representing" and the "lettristic" words can be experienced as both form and content, "representing" giving a stronger experience of content and a weaker experience of form, "lettristic , vice versa; a difference of degree.

From the standpoint of the result itself, surrealistic poetry can be seen to share certain resemblances with the tables. But there is a difference of starting point which must ultimately influence the results: the concrete reality of my tables does not stand in any kind of opposition to the reality of environment: neither as sublimation of dream or as myth for the future but as an organic part of the reality in which I live with its potentialities for life and evolution.

The coquettish or desperate grimace and even more dadaistic nihilism can be fertile if you see the artistic result, again it is the starting point that separates: I can find no reason to talk about grimace and denial, I have no feeling of fuss, of exceptional condition, that is the normal thing. A constructive dadaism and so none at all.

Having used the word concrete in these contexts, I have related it more to concrete music than to art concretism in its narrow meaning. In addition the concrete working poet is, of course, related to formalities and language-kneaders of all times, the Greeks, Rabelais, Gertrude Stein, Schwitters, Artaud and many others. And he considers as venerated portal figures not only the Owl in Winnie the Pooh but also Carrol's Humpty Dumpty who considers every question a riddle and dictates impenetrable meanings to the words.

Tr. Karen Loevgren, Mary Ellen Solt

From Bord-Dikter 1952-55

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[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 14: The Others (Transcript) - 7th September 2015

tw: death of children, childhood illness

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

No one likes to be alone. Even introverts need to come out for air every now and then, and experience human contact. Being around others has a way of calming our souls, and imparting a bit of safety, even if only in theory. But sometimes, even crowds of people and scores of friends can’t fight the crippling feeling that we are, in the end, isolated and alone. Humans have become very good at chasing away that feeling, though. When darkness threatens to cut us off from the world around us, we discovered fire, and then electrical lights. We use technology today to help us stay connected to friends and relatives who live thousands of miles away, and yet the feeling of loneliness grows deeper every year. We’ve learnt to harness tools to fight it, though. In ancient cultures, in the days before Facebook and the printing press, if you can fathom that, society fought the feeling of being alone with story. Each culture developed a set of tales, a mythology and surrounding lore, that filled in the cracks. These stories explained the unexplainable, they filled the dark night with figures and shapes, and they gave people, lonely or not, something else to talk about – something other. Some tales were there to teach; some preached morals through analogy; others offered a word of warning or a lesson that would keep children safe. In the end, though, all of them did something that we couldn’t do on our own: they put us in our place. They offer perspective. It might seem like we’re at the top of the food chain, but what if we’re not? From the ancient hills of Iceland and Brazil, to the black-top streets of urban America, our fascination with the “others” has been a constant, unrelenting obsession. But while most stories only make us smile at the pure fantasy of it all, there are some that defy dismissal. They leave us with more questions than answers, and they force us to come to grips with a frightening truth: if we’re not alone in this world, then we’re also not safe. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

In Greek Mythology, we have stories of creatures that were called the Pygmy. The Pygmies were a tribe of diminutive humans, smaller than the Greeks, who were often encountered in battle, and these stories have been around for thousands of years. We even have images of Pygmy battles on pottery found in tombs dating back to the 5th century BC. 1st century Roman historian, Pliny the Elder, recorded that the Pygmies were said to go on annual journeys from their homeland in the mountains. They would arm themselves for battle and climb onto their rams and goats, and ride down to the sea, where they would hunt the cranes that nested at the shore. In South America, there are tales of creatures called the Alux, a figure of Mayan mythology. They said to be between one to two meters tall, hairless, and dressed in traditional Mayan clothing. Like the Pukwudgies of the Native American tribes of North America, the Alux are said to be troublemakers, disrupting crops and wreaking havoc. According to tradition, the Alux will move into an area every time a new farm is established. Mayan farmers were said to build small, two-storey houses in the middle of their cornfields, where these creatures would live. For the first seven years, the Alux would help the corn grow and patrol the fields at night. Once those seven years were up, however, they turned on the farmers, who would put windows and doors on the little houses to trap the creatures inside. The ancient Picts of the Orkney Islands, off the north-eastern tip of Scotland, spoke of a creature they called the Trow, or sometimes, the Drow. They were small, humanoid beings, described as being ugly and shy, who lived in the mounds and rock outcroppings in the surrounding woods. Like many of the other legends of small people around the world, the Trow were said to be mischievous. In particular, they were said to love music - so much, in fact, that it was thought that they kidnapped musicians and took them back to their homes so that they could enjoy the music there. In addition, it was common for the people of Shetland to bless their children each Yule day as a way of protecting them from the Trow. Nearby, in Ireland, there are tales of similar creatures, small and hairless, called the Púca. The Púca are said to stand roughly 3ft tall, and like the Trow, they too live in large, stone outcroppings. According to legend, they can cause trouble and chaos within a community, so much so that the local people have developed traditions meant to keep them happy.In Country Down, for instance, farmers still to this day leave behind a “Púca’s share” when they harvest their crops. It’s an offering to the creatures, to keep them happy and ward off their mischief. But the Púca isn’t unique to Ireland. In Cornish mythology, there’s a small, humanlike creature known as the Bucca, a kind of hobgoblin. Wales is home to a similar creature with a reputation as a trickster goblin. It was said to knock on doors and then disappear before people inside opened them. And in France, a common term for stone outcroppings and megalithic structures is pouquelée. Oh, and if you’re a fan of Shakespeare’s play “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, you might remember the character Puck, the clever and mischievous elf. The name Puck, it turns out, is an Anglicization of the mythical creature, Púca, or Puck. I’ll stop, but I think you get the point. There doesn’t seem to be a culture in the world that hasn’t invented a story about smaller people, the “others” that live at the periphery of our world. It’s not surprising, either – many of these cultures have a deep history of invading nations, and that kind of past can cause anyone to spend a lot of time looking over their shoulder. These stories are deep, and often allegorical; they mean something, sure, but they aren’t rooted in reality. No one has captured a Púca or taken photographs of an Alux stepping out of its tiny, stone building. But that doesn’t mean there’s no evidence. In fact, there are some legends that come a lot closer to the surface than you might have thought possible - and that might not be a good thing.

The Shoshone tribe of Native Americans that live in the Rocky Mountains have been there for thousands of years. Their lands span much of the countryside around the Rockies, but they also built seasonal homes, up high in the mountains, sometimes 10,000ft above sea level. One of the Shoshone legends is that of a tribe of tiny people, known as the Nimerigar. One story tells of a man who rode up a small trail into the Wind River Mountains to check on his cattle. While he was travelling the narrow path, one of these creatures stepped out and stopped him. This was his trail, the little man said, and the rancher couldn’t use it anymore. The man ignored the tiny person and continued on toward his cattle, and this angered the Nimerigar. The tiny creature took aim with his bow and fired a poisonous arrow at the man’s arm. From that day on, the story goes, the rancher was never able to use his arm again. The Nimerigar are just myth, or at least that’s what most people think. But in 1932, that perception changed, when two prospectors, Cecil Mayne and Frank Carr, found a mummy in a cave in the Pedro Mountains of Wyoming. They said it had been sitting upright on a ledge in the cave, as if it had been waiting for them. The mummy was small (honestly, it’s only about six inches tall), but had the proportions of an adult. The two men had found it on a ledge, sitting upright, mummified by the dry Wyoming climate. After its discovery, the mummy changed hands a number of times. Photographs were taken, as well as an x-ray, but by 1950, it had vanished, never to be seen again. In 1994, after an episode of Unsolved Mysteries asked viewers to help them locate the missing mummy, a second mummy came to light. This one was a female, with blonde hair, but it was roughly the same size, and also from a mountain cave. This time, medical experts were able to study it, and what they discovered was shocking: it wasn’t an adult after all, it was an infant that had been born with a condition known as Anencephaly, which explained the adult-like proportions of the body and head. Like the first mummy, this second one disappeared shortly after the examination, and the family who owned it vanished with it.

Halfway around the world, in Indonesia, there are stories of small, humanlike creatures called the Ebu gogo. Even though their name sounds a lot like a Belinda Carlisle cover band, these creatures were said to strike fear in the hearts of the neighbouring tribes. According to the story, the Ebu gogo had flat noses and wide mouths, and spoke in short grunts and squawks. They were known to steal food from the local villages, and sometimes even children, and apparently one of these incidents from the 1800s led to an extermination. The Nage people of Flores, Indonesia, claimed that generations ago, the Ebu gogo stole some of their food, and the Nage people chased them to a cave, where they burnt them all alive - all but one pair, male and female, that managed to escape into the woods. The stories are full of imagination and fantasy, but in the end, they might hint at something real. In 2003, archaeologists discovered human remains in a Flores cave. The remains, dubbed Homo Floresiensis, weren’t ordinary, though. They were small adults, very small in fact, at just one meter tall. They were nicknamed hobbits, if that helps you picture them. Small people, found in a cave near the Nage tribe of Flores. It seems like the stories were proving true. The trouble was the age of the remains. The oldest skeletons clocked in at around 38,000 years old, and the youngest at about 13,000. In other words, if the Nage actually had attacked a tribe of tiny people, it had happened a lot more than a handful of generations ago. Unless you believe them, that is – in that case, the stories hint at something darker, that the Ebu gogo were in fact real, that they might still inhabit the forests of Flores, and that ultimately, the stories were telling the truth. It sounds enticing. In fact, I think anyone would be fascinated by such a notion. Unless, that is, these stories were about something in your own backyard.

On the night of April 21st, 1977, a man named Billy Bartlett was driving through the town of Dover, Massachusetts, with two of his friends. On Farm Street, they began to drive past a low, rough stone wall that was well-known to the locals. As they did, Billy noticed movement at the edge of his vision, and turned to see something on the wall unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was a creature, with a body the size of a child’s, long, thin limbs, elongated fingers and an oversized, melon-shaped head. Billy claimed it was hairless, and that the skin was textured. He even reported that it had large, orange-coloured eyes. Billy later sketched a picture of the thing he had seen, and then added a note to the bottom of the page: “I, Bill Bartlett, swear on a stack of Bibles that I saw this creature”. A whole stack of Bibles, you say. Well, alright then. Something like this probably happens every year – somewhere in the world, someone sees something weird, their mind twists their memories, and all of a sudden, they think they encountered Abraham Lincoln in a hot tub. But Billy’s story had some added credibility. You see, just two hours after he saw… whatever it was that he saw, 15-year-old John Baxter was walking home from his girlfriend’s house, about a mile from Farm Street. He claimed that he saw something walking down the street toward him. According to him, it was roughly the size and shape of a small child, and when the figure noticed him, though, it bolted for the woods. John, being a highly intelligent teenager with powerful decision-making skills, decided that midnight was the perfect time to chase something strange into the woods, and so he followed after it. What happened next was a literal, over-the-river-and-through-the-woods chase. When Baxter finally stopped to catch his breath, though, he looked up to see that the creature was standing beside a tree just a few yards away from him, watching him. That’s the moment when common sense took over, and John ran for his life. Later that night, he drew a sketch of what he had seen. He also told the police about it. He described a creature that had the body of a child, a large, oval-shaped head, thin arms and legs and long fingers. On their own, each of these sightings could have been easily dismissed by the authorities, but together, they presented a powerful case. Still, any chance of their similarity being labelled a coincidence vanished less than 24 hours later. 15-year-old Abby Brabham and 18-year-old Will Taintor were out for a drive on Springdale Avenue in Dover, when they saw something at the side of the road, near a bridge. It was on all fours, but both of the claim they got a very good look at it, and each of them described the creature as hairless and child-sized, with an overly large head and long, thin limbs.

Three separate events, spanning two nights, three unique sightings, yet one seemingly impossible description, each captured in eerily similar sketches. There were small discrepancies regarding the colour of the creature’s eyes, but outside of that, the consistency was astounding. Each of these eyewitnesses had seen something they couldn’t explain, and each of them seemed to have observed the same thing. What I find most fascinating, though, is that nearly 30 years later, in 2006, the Boston Globe interviewed Billy Bartlett, and he’s never wavered from his story. He’s experienced embarrassment and ill treatment because of it over the years, of course, but though he’s clearly transformed from a teenager who saw something into a responsible, middle-aged adult, that maturity hasn’t chased his testimony away, no matter how fantastical it might sound. They’ve called it the “Dover Demon” ever since that week in 1977. Others have since come forward with similar sightings. One local man, Mark Sennott, said he had heard rumours in his high school in the early 70s of something odd in the woods. Sennott even claimed that he and some friends observed something odd near Channing Pond in 1972 that fits the description from these later reports. Channing Pond, mind you, is right beside Springdale Avenue, where Taintor and Brabham said they saw their Dover Demon. Clearly, something was in those woods. Like most legends, this one will continue to cause debate and speculation. There have been no more sightings since 1977, but even still, the Dover Demon has left an indelible mark on the town and the surrounding area.

It’s true, we don’t like to be alone, but I think in the process of creating the stories that have kept us company for centuries, humanity has also created convenient excuses. All of these human-like creatures have acted as a sort of stand-in for human behaviour and accountability. In an effort to absolve ourselves from the horrible things we’ve done, we seem to instinctively invent other beings on which we can set the blame. But what if the others really were there, long before we wove them into our stories? What if they were less an invention, and more a co-opting of something we didn’t fully understand? Perhaps in our effort to shift the blame, we altered the source material a bit too much, and in doing so we buried the truth under a mountain of myth. There have been countless theories surrounding the 1977 sightings in Dover. Some think it was a type of extra-terrestrial known as a “grey”; others have actually suggested that it was just a baby moose. I know, that does seem like an odd way to explain it – only two moose sightings were recorded in Massachusetts in 1977, and both of those were out in the western part of the state, far from Dover. Add in the fact that a yearling moose weighs more than 600lbs and I think that it’s clear that this theory just won’t hold up. But there’s a different and more textured theory to consider. If you remember, Billy Bartlett saw the Dover Demon sitting on an old stone wall on Farm Street. Well, just beyond that wall is a large, stone outcropping that the locals have always called “The Polka Stone”. Some think that the stone’s nickname is a mispronunciation of a different word, though. The original name, they say, was the Pooka Stone. It could just be folklore, perhaps the tall tales of an early Irish settler, told to a group of children around the foot of an enormous rock. Unfortunately, we’ll never know for sure, but if you really want to see for yourself, you’re always welcome to head over to Dover, and take a drive down Farm Street. The wall, and the woods beyond, are still there, still dark, and still ominous. Just be careful if you travel there at night – you never know what you might see at the edge of your headlights.

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can learn more about me and the show, as well as info about live events, episode transcripts and more, over at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow along on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you fine listeners, [Insert sponsor break]. And finally, your ratings and reviews on iTunes make all the difference for this show, so please take a moment today to fill one out. You can find links to help you do that at lorepodcast.com/support. If you want to help this show even more, Lore is on Patreon – that’s a platform that allows fans to support their favourite creations with monthly donations. And if you want more Lore in your life, backers at the $5 level get access to two extra, ad-free, brand new episodes each month that aren’t in this podcast feed. They’re short and sweet, but they’re fully produced and beautiful to listen to. Of course, I’m biased, but you’ll have to take my word for it. Just visit patreon.com/lorepodcast to sign up today and start enjoying new Lore episodes. Thanks for listening.

[ontherun-writing]

[compliments (1/4) - poetry] RK800/Reader

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this! It was overall just really fluffy and sweet (maybe tooth-rotting) so it was therapeutic almost.

Takes place post-pacifist ending where everyone lives + Connor becomes a police officer at DPD + Gavin with more personality than being an asshole etc + Connor lives w Hank. This will probably be two?? parts; it was supposed to be one but uh lmao.

Comments/Reblogs w tags much appreciated :)) I wanna know what ya’ll think

Part 2

Summary: Upon meeting you, Connor learns that he is surprisingly good at giving honest compliments, among other things.

Word Count: 4k+

The first time Connor met you, you had picked up a stray coin and asked it if it was his. He had been walking Sumo at the park nearby Hank’s apartment in the early afternoon when you passed by him, adjusting the strap on your backpack. He hadn’t expected you to pay any attention to him at all, so it had taken a moment to realize that you were talking to him. You held the quarter in between your thumb and index gently, waiting for his response with polite patience.

Connor did not remember taking out his coin on the duration of the walk, and feeling the pocket of his khaki shorts that Hank kindly gave(forced) him to wear, he knew that the coin was still there. Conclusion: that was not his coin.

Still, he took it anyways, giving you a lopsided smile that he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of yet. It was something about the way you asked him, shyly but with a touch of levity, that made him want to agree with you. Or was it the way your eyes flickered down at his body before meeting his eyes on the way back up.

You were attracted to him, he realized, analyzing the way your pupils dilated ever so slightly and how your temperature increased ever so slightly. His LED light was still attached to the right side of his forehead, so it was evident he was an android. But still, you found him sexually appealing.

Stumbling on his thoughts, Connor thanked you and pocketed the coin, hearing it ‘clink’ with the quarter that he already had in his pockets. Bringing his attention back to the present, he was surprised to see you still standing there, but your attention was already elsewhere, more specifically towards the large Saint Bernard that was wagging its tail furiously in hopes of getting petted. You looked up with him with an undisguised expression of excitement. “Can I pet him?” You asked, and when he nodded, you immediately began to coo at the large dog who was only too happy to oblige to your affectionate belly rubs.

Connor couldn’t help but feel vaguely disappointed. He looked to the side where you had placed your backpack (a student?) and watched as you quickly rolled up your black windbreaker sleeves to vigorously pet the dog.

He had almost missed your question, but could catch enough of your words to know that you were asking if he came here often. “Recently, I have been frequenting this park to walk Sumo,” he said, listening to you echo the dog’s name delightedly. “I have only recently moved to a neighborhood in close proximity to this area, so it’s most likely you would not have seen me prior to this month.”

You agreed, “I think I would notice you and such a cute dog,” you cooed at Sumo before reverting your voice back to its normal tone, “if you came around often before.” You scratched at Sumo’s ears absentmindedly as you looked up at him sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” you said, “I never got your name.”

“My name is Connor.” He had learned to leave out the rest of his introduction a while ago. “And yours?”

You responded back with your own name and got to your feet, seemingly satisfied with the amount of dog love you acquired through Sumo. You stuck out your hand and grinned widely, and as Connor shook your hand, you said, “It’s nice to meet you, Connor! I hope I’ll see you around more often!”

Just as casually as you began the conversation, you just as easily said your goodbyes. You waved eagerly, and he imitated the action but with less robustness. He watched you walk away until Sumo tugged at the leash, finally impatient enough to want to continue down the sidewalk. With a last glance at your retreating figure, Connor apologized to Sumo about the delay before following the dog on its mission to find a squirrel. He could only hope he would meet you again.

And he did the very next day.

“Connor! Hey!” You called for him, waving at him exuberantly. Connor had just exited the donut shop with an entire box of assorted ones for the police force when he heard your voice from down the street. When Connor met your eyes and raised his hand in a small wave, you beamed so clearly that he had a hard time figuring why it was so endearing you were so excited to see him.

Connor watched as you quickly told the two friends you were with something before bounding (yes, because there was an extra hop to your steps today compared to yesterday) to him with a warm smile. Again, there was that appreciative gaze you gave him as you looked up and down, the quickening of your heartbeat indicating that you very much liked the way he looked in his police uniform. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” you said teasingly. “I thought donuts were just a stereotype, officer.”

“Unfortunately, the lieutenant likes to consume unhealthy foods on a daily basis,” Connor explained, feeling a smile raise his lips as you huffed in amusement. “I would normally not indulge him on this, but it seemed that everyone else in the precinct wanted one, so I was sent.” It was Gavin that told him to go, telling him that since he made money now the least he could do was buy donuts. It was funny how their relationship developed, but at least they weren’t at each other’s throats, literally. Connor paused, unsure if his next words were overstepping anything. “Would you like one?” he offered.

“Oh, no! No, thanks.” You grinned. “I’m not that into donuts, surprisingly,” you said. “I’m more of an ice-cream kinda person, you know?”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Connor said, liking the way your eyes gleamed.

“So, what is it like, being an officer,” you said, pointing at the DPD logo on his shoulder.

It hadn't been quite long since Connor was officially reinstated as an official detective after the revolution. An adjustment had to be made, of course, for both the precinct and for Connor himself as androids could not only hold their own jobs but also be protected under the law like a human.

It was an even bigger adjustment for him to be helping androids after weeks of deliberately hunting them down. Connor mindfully pushed that thought away.

“It’s not quite that big of change from what I was before,” he responded, smiling, hoping it was as warm as he could make it. “I get to protect both androids and humans, so that’s certainly something new. If anything, it’s… nice to be able to get paid, even though I have yet to figure out what I should spend on, besides pastries for the precinct, of course.”

You let out an appreciative laugh. “The job suits you,” you said, and he watched your eyes glanced over his attire again in approval. “You look good in uniform.” Your eyes widened in panic after your comment, pink blooming on your cheeks. “I--I mean,” you stammered, raising your hand to your lips, “you look good as an officer-- wait, uh, I mean, you do look good but--”

Connor quickly glanced at your attire: an apricot floral skirt that ended right above your knees, a top that complemented its color, twine-aesthetic sandals to finish the look. “You look nice as well,” he replied easily, watching as you snapped your mouth shut, the color on your cheeks continuing to spread. “Your outfit very much complements both your physical features and your personality,” he said as a matter of fact. “You look like the embodiment of a summer day.”

“I--” You paused, covering your mouth with your hand to hide the growing, but shy, smile on your face. Your eyes glanced at him ever so often. You let out a laugh as you looked back at him, face completely flushed, but your voice was as teasing as ever. “I never knew you were into Shakespeare,” you commented, but your tone told you that you were undeniably flattered.

(He quickly researched Shakespeare and received results about a poet that used a certain meter to tell stories and more famously, write love poems. If Hank knew he was accidentally quoting poetry, Hank would have gagged.)

“I’m not,” Connor said honestly, blinking. “That’s just what I saw.”

You laughed again and playfully pushed his shoulder as you gushed about what a poet he was and then proceeded to give him your phone number. “I want to get to know you more,” she said, and he agreed. All he really registered was that he would get to see you again. “Soon,” you had said to him hopefully before going back to your friends.

It had been a few days since the last time you had met Connor, and it was only through Hank’s insistence that he had sent you a text asking how your day was. “How the hell is she going to talk to you if she doesn’t have your phone number?” Hank had grumbled as Connor received his first text message back from you with a set of smiling emojis. He pretended not to care when Connor thanked him for his help, saying something along the lines of “don’t fucking mention it.”

It was then that Connor began to learn more about you. You were a second-year graduate student at a nearby university, living in an apartment with three other roommates. You liked pastel colors, dogs (he heard how you nostalgically talked about your own dog and made note to let you see Sumo again as soon as possible), and singing (though you said you were no good at it). There was very little things you disliked eating, and you had no allergies except to “maybe dust,” you had texted to him with a ‘laughing-crying’ emoji. It was apparent you conveyed your emotions through these small faces and hoped that you didn’t mind his lack of usage. Apart from texting, you would actually call him at night whenever he was free, mindful of his work schedule.

It was on a quiet Thursday night when you had called him at the usual time, 8 PM, and he picked up the phone knowing it was you without looking. “How are you?” He always began, feeling himself relax as he heard the laughter in your voice as you replied as the same as ever. Connor placed his jacket on the dining hall table and loosened his tie, speaking through the phone as he settled himself on the couch with Sumo soon following after him.

“So, I was wondering,” you said, the tone in your voice changing from playful to bashful. “If you’re free this Saturday, I was thinking maybe we could hang-- uh, go out together?”

Connor looked at the blank TV in front of him, watching as his LED swirled yellow momentarily. “I am free Saturday, and I’d be glad to be able to see you again,” he said. “What were you planning for us to do?”

“I was thinking about going to the aquarium,” you responded, sounding more flustered on the phone. “I remember you saying that you like animals, and you liked fish, and I thought maybe it’d be nice for us to go look at them together.” You mumbled something else, and Connor pressed the phone closer to his ears.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the last part of what you said.” He continued, “But I would be delighted to go with you to the aquarium.”

“Just the two of us,” you said, though it sounded more like a question.

“Yes, of course.” Connor hoped he sounded as confused as he felt. “Is this not a date?”

Connor was alarmed at the loud crack over the other side of the call as he distantly heard you yelp. “Are you alright?” He asked in concern.

“Yes! Yeah, sorry, I dropped my phone.” He heard you fumble with the phone and breathe out deeply.

“I’m sorry,” Connor began nervously, pulling at his collar as the temperature seemed to increase. “Did I interpret your invitation incorrectly? Because--”

“No! I-- I was asking you out on a date, for sure,” you exclaimed, quick to fix him. “I wasn’t sure if you were comfortable going out with me. But yes! So you can make it?” You grew more excited. “I can buy us the tickets online--”

“I would be pleased to accompany you to the aquarium as your date. As for the tickets, I have just bought them,” Connor replied, his LED flickering as he made the purchase for the aquarium. At your protest, he said, “I insist. I need something to spend on, after all. You can pay for our food and drinks during the date.”

“Connor,” you pointed out, amused, “you don’t eat or drink.”

“Yes,” he agreed, not really understanding why you laughed, but happy to have caused you to nonetheless. “When should we meet?”

“10AM? I’ll pick you up.”

“I’ll send you my address,” Connor responded, feeling thirium rush through his bio-components, imitating what it would feel if adrenaline was coursing through him. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

The warmth in your tone was enough for him to tell you felt the same.

The only thing standing between Connor and meeting you again was Hank, arms crossed. “No,” he said. It was late, and everyone was eager to go home on a Friday night. Connor would have thought Hank would feel the same, but it was apparent he did not. Not today, anyways.

Connor pressed his lips together. “I don’t see why--”

“You can’t show up on a date in your uniform,” Hank said in exasperation, “not even your Cyberlife outfit; it’s too formal for something like going to an aquarium, and it's like bringing your work with you.”

“She had indicated pleasure to seeing me in uniform,” Connor said defensively.

“That’s--” Hank sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. You can look good in other outfits, Connor. You need to make it a special occasion by… dressing up nice. She’s probably going to do the same for you.”

Connor thought deeply as Hank watched his LED swirl yellow for a few moments until he spotted a certain detective in the distance. The last time he had borrowed Hank’s formal clothing, it had either turned out too gaudy or large. Who could Connor borrow from that was his size (more or less) and was still here?

“Detective Reed,” Connor called out, ignoring the way the man turned to glare at him as his usual greeting. Hoping he was pulling out the best appeasing smile, Connor said, “I was wondering if you would like to go out for a few drinks with me.”

“And why the fuck don’t you have your own clothes, fucking plastic?” Gavin said hours later, watching with an exasperated expression as Connor looked through his closet for ‘date clothes.’ It was a good thing they had met after hours or Gavin would have rather died than talk to Connor civilly let alone offer Connor an opportunity to look in his closet to impress a girl; he pushed down the urge to regurgitate the five shots he had downed in an hour.

Picking up a plain white shirt to accompany a light blue jacket, Connor could only shrug. “I hadn’t thought I would need it,” he said honestly, scanning the closet before settling on khaki colored pants and white shoes that would accompany his top. “I was content on borrowing the lieutenant’s clothes.”

“Maybe your new girlfriend can help you get a goddamn fashion sense,” the other officer groused. Connor could see him rolling his eyes without actually turning around.

Blinking, Connor looked back at Gavin as he gathered the clothes. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

This time Connor did see Gavin roll his eyes. “Sure, tin can. Whatever you say,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You’re going on a date but you’re not dating, makes sense to me.”

“Thank you for the clothes, Detective,” Connor replied, giving the detective a small, albeit smug smile. “These clothes are shorter than my stature, but I appreciate the gesture nonetheless--”

Connor ducked just in time to dodge the white sneakers that he had requested from Gavin which were exactly his size: a nine-and-a-half.

You rang the doorbell exactly ten minutes before the given time. Not that it mattered much since Connor was ready to go hours ago. He opened the door, watching as your face seemed to light up the moment you saw him. “Sorry,” you said immediately, “I came a little earlier than I thought.”

“Wow, it really has been too long,” you teased, evidently scanning your eyes up and down appreciatively before winking. You laughed when Connor stammered, unsure how to respond to both your flirtatious comment and also to the bombardment of emotions that rammed into him. It was like watching a flower in bloom: was it possible for you to be sweeter than last time you met?

Connor made a motion to welcome her in, and she abided, cheerfully greeting Sumo as he came up to her and sat at her feet. He couldn’t help but watch her in silent awe.

Your dark hair falling down in soft rivulets at your shoulders, it complemented the white top of your dress. Small bouquets of pink and red contrasted with the blue of the bottom half. Considering you topped it off with sandals that made you much shorter than Connor, forcing you to tilt your head up at him, did not help him deal with the fact your presence screamed “cute!” in his face.

It seemed that he had paused for too long of a moment because he hadn’t noticed that your attention had turned to him. “Connor? You okay?” You asked, going on your tip-toes to peer into his face.

“Yes! I’m perfectly fine.” Connor coughed, which made you even more confused, because when did androids need to clear their throats? “I apologize,” he said, “I was taken aback by your appearance. You seem to increase in attractiveness every time we meet.” When you began to blush, he continued with a hint of the same flirtatious tone you had used on him, “I’m afraid that someday you’ll be too stunning for me to look at.”

“Connor, stop!” You giggled, covering a snort that was nothing short of adorable as you objected to his admittedly corny lines. “I should say that to you!” You said, voice warm, “You look really good, honestly. I’m so glad we could go to the aquarium together. It’s been a long time since I last visited.”

Thinking back to the last minute advice Hank had for him, Connor politely stuck out his arm for you to take, pleased when you hooked arms with him without a second thought, smiling brightly. “Shall we go then?”

“I’ll lead the way!”

It was like a world on its own, for the most part. Certainly, neither of you could ignore the crowd that shuffled the two of you down a popular show of whales or sharks. (Connor didn’t mind this; it gave him an opportunity to hold you hands so you wouldn’t get separated from him.) That didn’t stop Connor from glancing over at you ever so often and simply admire the unadulterated emotions on your face. He liked to pinpoint the mole you had on your eyelid (“Almost like a beauty mark,” you told him) and see your eyes widen when a particularly pretty jellyfish floated its way across the glassed containers.

Perhaps it wasn’t a mystery why he thought you looked more attractive. Being able to know you, understanding why you were so fascinated by otters (you liked the fact they held hands in their sleep; Connor glanced down at his own hand that you had never let go) or even knowing why you fussed over buying him a souvenir (because how could you let him pay for everything?). He even liked the way you ate with such enjoyment even though you seemed to hold back because “Connor, come on, I can’t just swallow the entire sandwich whole; we’re in public.”

It was these little quirks about you that made you you that made you so attractive. There could be no one else out there that could be exactly like you, and he knew that he particularly liked every part of that made you unique to him. “You’re similar to this kaleidoscope,” Connor commented when you had gushed over its sea-related designs. When you had laughed, he continued with a smile on his face. “You have many facets, all of which are completely distinct from everyone else,” he said, turning the octoscope for a moment. “No matter how much I turn it, it continues to give me a unique array of color that creates a beautiful work of art that I can never tire of.”

If he noticed the wetness of your eyes or how determined you were to buy this for him, Connor said nothing. He only gripped your hand tighter as the two of you continued down the tiles of the aquarium.

The two of you walked slowly, hand in hand, looking in awe at the abundance of life in each window of the aquarium. Connor stopped for a bit longer at one section, watching the dwarf gourami swim leisurely through the water. When he felt a tug at his hand, he immediately switched his attentions toward you, who had begun to dreamily follow the dimly lit blue lights down the tunnel of water where seals circled around without a care in the world. They stepped down in a dome-like fixture of the seal exhibit, letting a group of tourists by so they had the room to themselves.

It was at this moment Connor felt your attention waver. He watched in mild confusion as your temperature began to warm and your heart beat increased without a change in scenery. “Is there something wrong?” He watched as you climbed up to a higher stair-step, never letting go of his hand, and it was hard for him to hide the immense amount of adoration he held for you when you weren’t turned his way. Even now, as you faced away from him momentarily, he could still see the tinge of red high on your cheeks.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly, finally standing tall enough that you no longer needed to look up at him. “I just-- I just wanted to be your height for a sec.”

Connor tilted his head, as he always did when confused. “Alright,” he said. “Not that I mind, but I’m growing rather concerned about your rise in temperature; are you sure you--”

“I’m fine, Connor,” you said, laughing, gripping his hands tightly. “I-- um,” you licked your lips, “I just thought it’d be easier for me to kiss you if I was like this.”

You looked at him shyly. Connor could barely feel himself think.

“Is that… okay?” You asked nervously, bunching up your hands in front of you.

Connor opened his mouth, surprisingly dry, and closed it. It wasn’t as if he lacked words to say, but he doubted his voice could function well at all. Instead, emulating the scenarios from rom-com movies Hank fell asleep to, Connor stepped closer to you, noting the way your breath hitched, and lightly held onto your waist.

“That is…” he began, feeling his thirium pump work towards overheating when he saw your eyes dilate as your eyes trailed over his lips. He watched you as if time slowed, your eyes fluttering closed and your face growing closer. “That is more than okay,” he said before your lips pressed against his.

Connor couldn’t describe it. It was difficult to string his thoughts together let alone put his thoughts into words. It was softness, passion, nervous energy, eagerness, and something heated all combined into the kisses you shared with him. You reached up to hold his face closer, and he slid his hands across the fabric of your dress to pull you closer, closer. He was no good at kissing, as it seemed practice actually did make perfect in these cases, but for what mattered, it didn’t seem as you cared, based off the way you breathed heavily and combed through his hair in a way that made him shiver.

When you pulled away, he was delighted and adoring in how your face was flushed in embarrassment as if you weren’t the one to initiate the kiss in the first place. You stammered something Connor couldn’t hear, but he was at least glad that he wasn’t the only who could barely think straight.

“Sorry,” he said, making you look up at him with starry eyes. “I can’t seem to get enough of you.” And he swooped in for another kiss.

Connor’s emotions came in likes waves, pushing and pulling him along without direction. It was overwhelming, the way he felt the need to hold your waist so he could press your body to his but also the desire to simply caress your face and just be. Connor recognized this feeling; he had swam against the current last time, trying to regain control of himself because of the sense of instability. This time was different. He didn’t mind this tidal wave of feelings for you lift him up higher and higher.

You were an ocean that he wanted to drown in.

Connor knew he had a lot to learn about you and about human emotions. Still, in the back of his mind, there part of him that was still drifting along the tide, thinking to himself that perhaps this was the start of his journey of falling in love with you.

[hawkmamaknows-blog]

SIN WEEK DAY 1

HAWK MAMA BACK HAWK MAMA SEE SIN WEEK WHY USE HAWK MAMA PICTURE HAWK MAMA IS COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT HAWK MAMA SEE YOU IN COURT

The birds were chirping, the sun was shining and the sky was clear and the day was great. Meliodas was happy. He chugged his drink and burped loudly. He finally had the life that he wanted. Which was really saying something, seeing how just a couple weeks ago he was trying to conquer the world, kill tons of peoples and destroy his enemies. But to be fair they were trying to kill him. Retirement was doing wonders for his spirit now though. He already finished his community service and everything.

After defeating the Demon King and locking him in a chest that they then hurled into space, and then killing the goddesses and breaking the curse and saving Camelot and seeing Arthur made king and saying sorry to the four million humans they had displaced and reconciling with his brothers and got those loan sharks off his ass and finally getting rid of that rash, he now ran the Boar Hat as a normal, everyday bar owner.

Even better, he had finally married Elizabeth. His eyes glazed over with just the thought— as he brought his pumpkin spice latte to his lips to slurp loudly. He started whistling a merry tune as he reminiscing.

His light, his goddess, the thing that had given him a boner for three thousand years was finally his. Oh was she his. Her eight children were old enough to go to school, so the first opportunity he got he had them sent off to Little Knights Boarding School and Academy so they could have plenty of alone time.

He sighed happily, as he looked across the bar, thinking back—-

FLASH BACK ONE

She was upside down, hanging from the chandelier, hogtied with one of her stockings. The sounds of the whip slapping against her skin was arousing.

“Yes, yes, yes! I love this!” Elizabeth yelled, wiggling her butt and sucking on her own toes as he struck her bouncy chest over and over. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?!” She moaned loudly as her bouncy bosom bounced.

Meliodas moaned, his own bar uniform soaked through with body fluids, pumpkin juice and escargot- the rubber chicken in his mouth squeaking loudly as he swung his arm back and forth. His own dick was tied with a really cute bow as he helicoptered it in front of her face. He stood on top of the shaky stoop so he could actually reach his honey boo bear as she swung around like a slab of meat on a hanger.

THE FLASHBACK ENDS

Meliodas gave a low moan as he rubbed the front of his pants. He really did love her. “Ah… Elizabeth,” And she loved him, so much he was pretty sure he hadn’t stopped smiling since his wedding night. Which was actually agonizing as the muscles in his face cramped up.

Unfortunately, that alone time led to Elizabeth getting pregnant again about four days later. Four amazing days. He jizzed so much in those ninety six hours they even had to scrub the outside of the bar during clean up. But he was happy enough because this one he was one hundred percent sure was one hundred percent his.

Well, Meliodas put his cup down on the bar counter, as he thought. He was pretty sure this was one hundred percent his. He checked after all.

FLASHBACK

“Hey snookums?”

“What it is?” Elizabeth looked down at him, her eyes narrowed as she continued to impale him with the large love rod that was strapped around her waist. She had him half over the bar on his stomach, one leg raised onto his back, to push him snug against the bar. She looked really good in his fuck wad brother-Estrossa’s cloak.

“You’re—“ Meliodas squeaked as she pegged him deeper, harder and hitting a spot over and over that made his eyes roll. His toes curling. “You’re… really good at this? Have you— done this before?”

“Of course not,” Elizabeth whispered sweetly, petting the top of his head, before suddenly going faster. “It doesn’t count if I’m not gay. Now be a good princess, and say my name in French.”

END OF FLASHBACK

Yes, good memories.

And today was a good day too. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and Meliodas was happily wiping down the counter of the bar and admiring his lady love, who was huge. But in a good way. Her hips and long limbs extra nice. Her stomach was protruding with her heavy pregnancy, and she happily hummed to herself while folding napkins and stacking them on her giant belly as she leaned back on the couch they put by the stove.

“Elizabeth?” he spoke up, asking. “Are you sure there’s only one kid in there?” Cause, if he had to be honest, everyone was too terrified to think of the alternative. Howzer still randomly burst into tears and whispered about nail polish at the sight of her.

“Of course,” she laughed, making kissy sounds at him that he made back. “I’ve only been with you. Just one man, one baby.”

“I’m not sure that that’s how it works,” he muttered under his breath, and she must have him heard him because she sighed, delicately putting down the last little towel. “Don’t worry, if anything, maybe having that sixsome with you and you and you and you, with you doing you while I clung onto you as you pushed you between you and me- was taking a little bit of a chance,” she sighs with longing, looking at him with mushy gooey love, “but, it was my hall pass day that day. So stop worrying, even if your clones got me pregnant too, it’s still technically you.”

“Well if you’re sure,” he went to take another chug of pumpkin flavored vodka, when at that moment the front door slammed open.

“BITCHES!” Merlin sauntered into the room, again in her grown up body and down the steps, her scream alerting everyone in the general fifty meter radius. She quickly threw a treat into Elizabeth mouth and pat her on the head as she walked by.

When she got to the table she chucked her large chest onto it, the weight making the entire thing shake. “Wait until you see what I’ve found!”

Meliodas rolled his eyes. “Can you get your tits off the table first?”

“Sorry!” Quickly Merlin removed her breasts, before she placed a smaller box on the table in its place, the thing covered in dust and weird stuff.

“And that,” he said, pointing at her beaver. “In fact, would you put some clothes on and get rid of it?”

“Fiiiine.” With snap of her fingers Merlin was instantly dressed, her clothes barely covering her but at least the important bits were covered. And she kick punted her newest experiment on a beaver out the door. “Here’s what I really wanted to show you.”

Reaching into her cleavage, she proceeded to pull out a greying, battered looking scroll, tugging and tugging until the whole thing came out, around the length of half the room. “I found this ancient scroll in among some things I got at a yard sale, they were cleaning out all the houses from the humans that either got turned into demons, died were brainwashed or were eaten and it has some prophecies on it that I think are about the Seven Deadly Sins!”

“Really?” He headed around the counter and stood next to Elizabeth as she bounced him across the room and to Merlin side with her incredible girth. “We should get the others and--”

“HEY EVERYBODY GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!” shouted Elizabeth making blood burst from the side of Merlin’s and Meliodas head.

Meliodas winced. “What in the hell?”

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “When you have seven  children, you learn to yell loud.”

FLASHBACK TRES

“Hon hon,” French Meliodas squealed as he tickled a naked Elizabeth, rubbing his cheek against her gooey skin. The princess was tied spread-eagled to the roof of the Boar Hat, and Meliodas watched from his perch on the top of the chimney as his clones went to work. Each had a peacock feather of a different size, and they strokes every inch of her as she writhed in her restraints.

“Meliodas, please!” she cried, her hips bucking up and down. At once all of the clones started covering her with chocolate sauce as they finally pulled out their cocks after three hours of foreplay and impromptu Shakespeare’s acting that left them in tears, and Meliodas sighed happily at the sight.

Only to be forcefully thrown from his perch, as Elizabeth suddenly screamed,“THIS IS DISGUSTING!”

And the force of her screaming orgasm blew all four Meliodases off of the roof with him.

FIN DU FLASHBACK

Frowning he said, “I thought you had eight?”

“Seven, eight, I think we sent eleven to school.”

“Wait? How did we sent— we don’t even—?” But before he could figure out the answer at that moment all of the Sins arrived. Diane’s head burst through the window with King attached to her ear, Escanor jumped down from the rafters light a demented old man monkey, Gowther opened a panel in the floor and stepped up, politely handing a fresh pumpkin bread loaf to Ban, who had rolled out from under another table, and stood up, and took a chair already eating a slice.

“Were you all already here?” Meliodas asked. “I thought we agreed you were all gonna go get your own apartments?”

“We did!” Escanor said cheerfully, pushing up his glasses. “We are all renting rooms here! We even get discounts on the ear plugs if we sign yearly mortgage contracts.”

Meliodas gaped at them until Elizabeth put a hand on his arm and explained, “With thirteen children in boarding school we needed the money.”

“Eight,” he corrected her.

“I’m glad you are all here,” Merlin announced. “I have some prophecies to read.” She held the ancient scroll up. Leaning against it like a stripper pole. “And since this is written in a language of the ancient race of beings called the Dkweknfapoies, and their language cannot be speaken by human tongue, I and I alone can decipher it.”

Hawk trotted in, chewing on something gross as he perked up. “Oh! Are you talking about the Dkweknfapoies? Because actually Hawk Mama and I are from Wefapalot and I actually got my first major in--”

“I AND I ALONE!” Merlin screeched loudly, sending out a foot to kick the hog, bouncing him off all the walls before crashing back into the kitchen, and she glared at the rest, as if daring them to argue. “There,” she went on happily, “now that that is settled, since I am the only person who understands the Dkweknfapoies language, I shall now translate it for you.”

She took out her reading glasses and put them on, making a face at the scroll. Everyone leaned in a bit to hear.

“Captain,” she said mysteriously, all the lights going out as a creepy green glow created a haunted look under her chin. “the first one is about you.”

“Me?” he exclaimed, gulping. “Cool. That’s cool. Is this like, a really really old scroll? And not one from when I was doing a stint in that one gay bar over by the river a couple millennium back, right? Cause whatever it says, they are lying and I totally did not have any sexual relations with that—“

Elizabeth took his hand, shutting him up. “Please, goddesses, let it be winning lottery numbers.”

“Here is my one thousand percent accurate translation,” she began, making scary finger movements. “‘The eldest son of the demon king’--that’s you, Captain--’is not actually the biological son of the demon king’.”

Everyone looked at Meliodas in surprise. His eyes popped open and his mouth dropped. “I’m not!” he shouted, before he pumped his fists. “HELL YAY! take that you asshole?! I’m not an awful, terrible demon! That’s great news! I’m so happy!” Everyone cheered as he jumped onto a table and did a jig. “I’m not a demon! I’m not a demon!”

“I’m so happy!” Elizabeth exclaimed, pressing her hands on her huge stomach. “Now our child won’t be some terrible murderer like the rest of them!”

“Wait, if Captain isn’t a demon, what is he?” Ban asked over the cheering.

Everyone looked at Merlin, who peered back at the scroll. “Yes, yes, I see. Yes it’s right here. This one symbol, and my completely accurate and singular in every way translation is thus: ‘the eldest son of the demon king is in reality... the eldest blessed son of the blessed goddess queen’.”

The room went silent and Meliodas stopped getting jiggy, frozen in place.

The… what with the what with the actual who?

“What?” he asked in confusion, scratching his head. Absolutely confused. “I’m a goddess? The son of the goddess queen? The goddess queen?”

Merlin nods. “Yes. The goddess queen.” She didn’t notice as Hawk, covered In bruises peered over her shoulder.

“Wait guys!“ he puggoed. “That symbol in that order doesn’t mean that! It means blessed by the goddess—“

Before he could say anymore the pig hog burst into white flames, no one batting an eyelash as he squealed and rushed back to the kitchen. The frantic sounds of the sink being turned on and a giant splash cutting off the horrid screaming. But like it was said before, no one was paying attention to that— because it was really fascinating to watch Meliodas go green from head to toe.

“But….,” he croaked, Ban coming up to give him a hand to keep him up, and Meliodas whimpered, “but if I’m the son of the goddess queen… then that would make Elizabeth my--  but that would mean all the happy hankie panky…”

They slowly looked at one other in growing horror, and as the sounds of the Sins erupting into vomit surrounded them, Meliodas said, “Elizabeth is my sister.” Before he just, laid on the ground, his mind involuntarily reminding him that this was the exact spot they had tried out the bridge driver position during breakfast.

Once the vomiting ended, everyone wiped their mouths. Meliodas sat, slumped over the table, sobbing into his shirt. “All these years,” he moaned. “Three thousand goddamned years I’ve waited, and for what? To fucking fuck my fucking sister.”

“There, there,” Elizabeth offered a pat on the shoulder, swallowing behind her hand.

“Hey Merlin.” Hawk peered over her arm, sniffing at the scroll. “I’m not sure if you translated this right. It looks to me like--”

“DO NOT QUESTION THE PROPHECY!” Merlin announced. “I have read the scroll of the ancient Dkweknfapoies clan, and I am the only person who knows how to read and understand. You must all accept my translation, no matter how much it doesn’t make sense, because I am the best at this. You are just rude for even suggesting that I am incorrect. This is slander! This is bullying! This is fraud!”

A tiny whimper passed Meliodas lips, as King looked at them all unimpressed, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t see what the big deal is? You guys are only first generation inbred.” He huffed, “like we always say what happens in the family stays in the family.”

[krystalclearfashion]

Fish Of The World T Shirt From AllezyGo

When to do is amenity parts of an AMC theater near you become a Fish Of The World T Shirt From AllezyGo moving disappointed in his walk right up to my desk say Danielle to get to meetand talk to meand we will soon the theater pursue the studio if you’d like to know the scene is young boy right here is my last Transformers legacy is counted here is all grown up like in the early we hired this guy let’s get them Jeremy let’s do it Mr Ellis I thank you ice it should be pointed out that you are still not rich correct no I’m not out of the meter is a liar I was next in 19 like your favorite team in space can balance a new election agreement between style I can draft I can allow the crap directed him to bring the movie were prescribed 20 crusting are irrational because another tarmac on the first fanand I explained to him I buy but I love that comment from James Gunn that that’s awesome which actually makes you certainly wonder what could they have in the bowsprit seat obviously Gabby Santos doing something significant not just grabbing a glove going I go do it myself like Cemex to present these could be due to the significant that directly sets up what’s moving forward the model cinematic universe by the club I thought was really funny again they seem to be putting a lot of focus on the racks in a lot of the marketing is funny one linersand and once again he gave a pretty damn funny one liner this when he saved my I am my turds are famously larger something a lot of my I thought it was great now something interesting is how to Shelley’s point is out of this was debuted last of this past weekend on televisionand it was online but only checked earlier just this morning the clip had been removed from a few sites apparently do this to your request I don’t know going otherwise you are present taken with or even aired on television I’m not really sure it is still online in some places not in others of iron with stories that maybe you will be of the find it online maybe you walk but over I thought the clip is pretty good in my office I only was this silly gut busting but I don’t think it really had to be a thing what it did was showcase the dynamic once againand the showcase what sometimes insert moviesand I go back to the first story know some people disagree with me but I thought Dennings was just completely useless in a moving ally catand the humor itself when humor is done right it’s like guarding the galaxy the way that is put together is ready accepted that this is how they’re going to interact with one another yet when it comes time for it to be epic in the any action to deliver that way to buy I really I think the focus was once again on Batista because like your mission before Batista was a guy that you watching the goal is just it’s he is not the rock United not not many people is whether ox rock but you wondered whether or not he was going to have a film career but the way that he kind of the role attracts is not that Shakespeare not Bonnie Devito need a seasoned thespian the play know you also you gotta have a from what they rely on him to do is nail this it does he moments in comedy is not easyand he from what we’ve seen so far in eclipse as really impressed me out we’ll see what is an avid movie but they been leaning on him in these clips whether it him sitting around when it went to talking about each of their feelings have every line he sits a far as been getting some big laugh so I think that you gotta give credit to Batista so far of the fact that there leaning so hardand himand them in the market you know as funny as I was a I was wondering why they had a poop joke as the backbone of this trailer that I found out it aired on the kids jolly okay makes a little more sense I’ve back I love you I hope you likeand AMA are aliveand I wasn’t crazy but I like the back of for the guardians of the galaxy for some other reason Mike Larry the cable Guy is not in this movie stop at the poop jokes will be up joke with in the Emerson site is always sunny in Philadelphia but for me in the in guarding to the galaxy just didn’t work for me whatsoever if you want to talk about more shit we have transform as a last night Mark what did you think I get one dignity to be talking about neck in the meantime after watching this clip I’m confident I will not be filing a lawsuit on behalf of my client Jeremy regarding sagacity volume 2 this is what I wanted to see two because I like seeing rocket inand Star award the first material we ever saw it seem like rocket might be stranded from the rest of the guardians for a bulk of the movieand it doesn’t appear that the case I love when they’re all interactingand throwing one liners backand forth together to discuss is me a lot confidence in thatand the news that is to be post credit scene is literally a shock to no one at alland there’s a lot of family members I could have imperiled that I would say you have to wait another five mask is I have to watch a little more guardian’s goodness I was next first class from the train transformation in the block after arriving in the new credit painting I nylon a clad planner also really need TV you like my father returns from 2014 contaminated extensionand will be joining gangs do not need to see John came from in 1920 13 I think putting team by sending you had to go to Manis when it’s I can’t sell this stupid movie enoughand Iand I sell it because of Michael Bay I just you just look at it it’s like the same crap it’s like the glossy nonsense with the bullshit dialogueand it’s like I hated to readand I’m not getting sold on this trailer it’s the same crapand the only thing that I did say as the music is so good Steve DuBois always good to see always so goodand occasionally it does give me hope that something can happen through but it does it looks like this is a commercial with the music videoand it just does not shoot you want to change it to make it different looks assume that the clips that they put out the little TV spot having seen this movieand I hated ready to sell it because transfers rolling up to things in one eye other than the first transporters I love I hated all the movies but I love all the marketing every time no matter what I think the trailers for this movie have been awfuland this is the worst of them alland they’ll when you hear a lot of people complain thoseand interest the series that the DiFranco French as you say has standing to their plans of the truly love it but amongst those who are critics of the of the French as a far one of these lot people complain about is Silverlight is always humans are the humans we want to see Transformers today put out the speech Martin it’s like little chance of running with 209 surprisingand go there with 209 it is going to toand I insult to injury they hadand 209 to itand it looked awful but only delayed to you pointed out something else to look a look even more life yet was the gecko familiar salad bar meand I was like that is a gecko for metal gear solid for the pivoting had begun the bipedal feet the way he walks was completelyand for sure are you sure you have now I’m just running with it okay here is one thing I can say is your right the Transformers trailer was darkand the moon still is a good trailer I can actually watch the trailer with the musicand do it even though I saw in each is the way it it stands up but I agree with you the trailers for this one have been noticeably worseand one thing I can say is the trailer campaign for this particular Transformers movie have been more honest probably because no one wants to hire attorney Mark Ellis over here because the trailers were so it looks bad it probably is going be bad like Dracula for Michael Bay his turds are a famously largeand long lines long in two hoursand 40 minutes I way for this one gun youand that if any Transformers movies at this pointand thisand had a lot of kids in itand if you going about you know that I love the wonderment in a child’s eye it it’s so obvious what they’re doing now though is that they’ve given up on us to get up on people like us people who grow plainly Transformers toys in the 80sand 90s they had that ship has sailed they hope that were taking our kids to see it this is going after the kids because they’re trying to hook it’s likeand drive substrate things in the CAT scan Michael Bay did not see thisand the godliness of a building I do that so work in a pan this movie to grabbed the moneyand the cycle just repeats itself the bottom line is do a lot of drugsand go see this I know why it’s in the back of the brain tell me this movie might be good no only reason this is terrible logic terrible logic the nobody’s ever follow I loved all the marketing for the other ones made movies for this may be a flip around Vegas everyone this will release you want outand at least a win would be it wasn’t terrible that youand I don’t knowand we were all here like three months agoand really got his movies get time traveling Hitlerand King are these to be ridiculous I wouldn’t give person King Arthur fighting Hitler right now is better than what I saw today ceiling Michael Bay I say right now I will crown Michael Bayand national hero if he actually gives us as seen of Merlin with Excalibur in his hand fighting a Nazi Hitlerand taking down Hitlerand I see that I’m gonna be alland all you forgive everything elseand I’ll be calling on movie if that plan theories that come into would love to see that we see King Arthur golf against Hitler one on one I will stand upand I will say Your Honor objection withdrawn utilize via the spirit of Hitler is going to possess a deceptive conand is going to be the new go prime is what is often is with I having bumblebee is the spirit of Hitler we just it is because took Hitler’s brainand put in the optimist prime’s had connected with the matrix of leadershipand now off to his prime is a transforming summary DeSantis is good for you will know the eye is one makes you guys know this is not the only show on the collider video there’s a lot of other stuff going on the availability of the brand new episode adjustment to the crew TV talk to be online saloon believes they also last night the brand new episode of The Walking Dead recaps of your collider was also onand of course the brand new episode of Jerry Johnson oh secular is badand so does a link for it in the description below many of you wrote us you know set there was a new episode of the next round of the March movie madness billand started this past week I was ill on Thursday was able to shootand she that this Thursday keep your eye open for that sourcing at the end of the show were to take some time since we live twitter questions you start firing is in right now collider video on Twitter makes your fine was thereand when you pick up loud for you that let’s go to the mailbag Ashley was in the mailbag today array. CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT THEY DO IS GANG IN THE WORLDand ON THE CUBE WAS CUT OFF SCREEN THINGS ALL THE VIOLENCE IS A GOOD REALISTIC MODEL TO BE TWICE MY IS A THINK WE WOULD GUNS IN HIS BC PEOPLE IS NO CERTAIN SITUATIONS WHERE THE IS NOWHERE BUT LOST HIS WAYS WE CAN FIND A WAY OUT ON WE CAN’T SAY THE DESIGNS NOT TO BE HIS MAIN PUERTO RICAN TO STAY. A liaison come back in episode eight is a force ghost which I know one thing is that if we Skywalker dies I will run up to the front as grantee on an iMacand a happy blogger dies at the end of episode seven I want now is Harrison Fordand Carrie Fisher to Tweet out that their brother so they do not episode set in this particular without a spoiler from Natick as well as in the ad campaigns with all the noticing where the hell is Luke we think as he looked towards the end of the film thirdand Carrie in episode it’s not surprising all night you can call it a spoiler if you want we all assume this was happening at his confirmation is something we already pretty much knew don’t call it a spoiler is more of a okay LOL I show now or mailbag if you got a topic or question you like us to dress in the show just email us anytime at collider video Gmail

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[britneyshakespeare]

there’s something to me very offputting about alexandrines. iambic hexameter. maybe it’s just my english-speaking brain because they’re so typical in french, but not in english. but i think it’s not just alexandrines, even; it’s any hexameter. i NEVER write in it; not a lot of english poets do. it had its hey-day as a manner of closing tercets in pentameter for poets like pope. it’s mostly a sixteenth-seventeenth century thing in our language, when english poetry was still in a kind of anguished state because no one knew what would be the longevity and spread of the language. i mean, if beowulf, the first english poem, is old english, and no one knows who wrote it, and chaucer was the first english poet, then that period was kind of a middle school phase for english poetry (at least, in comparison to all the progress and different movements since; i think that makes the most sense chronologically). iambic pentameter was still the standard as set by chaucer. but learned poets still would borrow from other languages like french and italian and greek and latin. and it’s french whence we get the alexandrine.

sometimes i think i might just not be used to alexandrines because they’re so infrequent in my native tongue. actually, when i was quite new to poetry, i had trouble getting the hand of iambic pentameter. when i first read shakespeare i had no sense of the rhythm, like a lot of other high school freshman made to go over romeo and juliet. but now, of course i’m comfortable with iambic pentameter! it’s like a second heartbeat. it flows quite naturally. i think some of my initial unease was from the fact that i hadn’t read that much poetry for myself at that point; i was much more comfortable with song lyrics. and a lot of song lyrics in english don’t use pentameter; they use some form of (often imperfect and perhaps unintentional) iambic (or trochaic) heptameter (14 syllables, or 7 feet), at least in pop songs, broken up into two separate lines like the ballad of reading goal by oscar wilde, or most emily dickinson poems. 8 syllables in one line, 6 syllables in the next, another 8-syllable line which may or may not rhyme with the first, and another 6-syllable line that does rhyme (or nearly rhyme) with the second line. an interwoven quatrain. and that works out especially well, and is so common, because a lot of songs use a standard 4/4 beat. 8-syllable lines fill up one measure, and the 6-syllable lines fill up most of a measure, and there’s room for a held-out note or some kind of instrumental riff to fill up the end of the measure. an especially fast-paced pop song may just use iambic tetrameter the whole time and have no pause between lines or held notes (which means, each measure is 8/8/8/8 syllables). or there can be a bunch of different ways to alter it with this meter with alternative lengths of notes, but the general gist is, if you’re filling up a song and each measure is 4 beats, a system of meter where there’s 4 stressed syllables is ideal. four stresses in the lyrics, to match four beats in the music, and unstressed syllables to take up the eighth-notes. and in the matching line of six syllables, one beat, usually at the end, gets to be emphasized by a pause of the vocal to allow the singer to take a breath.

but i’m not giving a long music lesson for nothing. pentameter is very unpopular in music because it exceeds a 4/4 beat measure (unless you get into sixteenth notes or something, or have unusually long pauses for a pop song, or an unusual number of held notes, or an unusually-long held note) (again, a lot of reasons not to use pentameter in your pop song, and why it’s usually used most often in choruses, which tend to be the most unique part of a song so an unusual lyrical meter is less jarring). but i still am now very used to pentameter! some part of me thinks it’s just repetition and practice, and seeing it everywhere since getting into poetry. but i’d also propose that there’s just something pleasing about certain numbers, to the ear. and i don’t know if that has to do with the way we all grow up listening to 4/4 beats in music, or if 4/4 beats in music are particularly common because 4 is just one of those inherently pleasing numbers.

and this is where it matters more how many stresses are in a line, than how many syllables. because my observation applies to any kind of meters, whether they’re iambic (unstressed syllable followed by a stress), trochaic (stressed followed by an unstressed), anapestic (two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed), amphibrachic (three syllables, the one in the middle is stressed and the two around it are unstressed), or dactylic feet (a stressed syllable followed by two unstressed). i think 4 is the most pleasing number, thus, tetrameter (4 stresses per measure, regardless of what kind of foot you use) is so common. and this also explains the commonality of iambs and trochees, as disyllabic feet. two disyllabic feet make four overall syllables, and twice as many make four stressed syllables and four feet. 

but wait, what about the trisyllabic feet: the anapests, the amphibrachs, the dactyls? well, yes: trisyllabic feet are still not inherently jarring, even if they’re less common in english than the iamb. they’re usually the lyrical meter for waltzes, and that makes sense, what with a 3/4 timestamp. that’s one syllable per beat, and one stressed syllable per measure. but waltzes still often have a pattern that occurs every 4 or 8 measures (or even 2), to make the song sound more rounded and pleasing to the ear.

so 4 is a pleasing number, because it’s twice as many as 2, and half as many as 8; by extension, 2 and 8 are pleasing, because of their relation to 4. i should also say, 1 is a pleasing number, not only because it’s the first whole number that stands alone, but it is half of 2, and one-fourth of four. then why is heptameter (7 feet) so common? how can seven be a pleasing number? it’s prime, for fuck’s sake! you can’t divide it by 2, you can’t divide it by 4. i think that would be because of the pause at the end of a 4/4 measure i mentioned up above. when you read a line (or a 4-foot/3-foot couplet) of heptameter, your brain reads a longer pause at the end, before beginning the next line, than the pause between multiple consecutive lines of tetrameter. when you read lines like “he did not wear his scarlet coat,/for blood and wine are red,/and blood and wine were on his hands/when they found him with the dead” there’s a longer natural pause between the words “red,/and” than “hands/when” because the tetrameter completed by “hands” is heard as a whole mental 4/4 measure, and the longer pause between “red,/and” is your brain finishing the beat before going onto the next line. therefore, 3 counts as a pleasing number because of its allowance of a pause of one beat before getting to a fourth, and 7 is a pleasing number because it is the sum of 4 and 3, two pleasing numbers.

pentameter is still somewhat problematic by this line of thinking because by having 5 stresses it violates the rule of a 4/4 mental measure, and that’s probably why pentameter is so rarely accompanied by other meters. it doesn’t mix well like dimeter/trimeter/tetrameter/heptameter where the amount of pauses and line-breaks played around with during a stanza. but there is often, within a line of pentameter, what is referred to as a “turn”: this was something i learned from geoffrey tillotson while reading his book on alexander pope, in the section about correct versification. around the fourth, fifth, or sixth syllable of a ten-syllable line. so, by the time of the second or third stress, and 2 and 3 are, of course, pleasing numbers. in the turn of pentameter, there is a felt change within the phrase. just in “shall i compare thee to a summer’s day?” the turn would be between the words thee and to. “shall i compare thee...” is an independent clause and “...to a summer’s day?” is a dependent. turns aren’t always so logical and definite as to have to be made up of an independent and dependent clauses; they can be made up of a change in tone, a change of subject, or any number of parts that break up a sentence or phrase. but, traditionally, there is a turn in pentameter (at least by the theory of correctness which poets like pope would follow, and enforce when looking at the works of shakespeare). and the turn happens around stresses 2/3 in most instances. and even if it didn’t happen there, it would happen around stresses 1/4 or 4/1. 2 and 3 are pleasing numbers; 1 and 4 are pleasing numbers. as a consequence, this turn, which joins two micrometers of 2 and 3 feet (or 1 and 4 feet) is pleasing. 5 is the sum of only pleasing numbers, in any instance.

this is why hexameter is so sucky. 6 is not a pleasing number. it should be, seeing as it’s twice 3, but remember, 3 is only pleasing because of the mental pause which completes 4. two 3s making 6 is still two less than a pleasing 8, and two more than a pleasing 4. therefore a mental pause must be twice as long as it is in trimeter, which feels unnatural. it’s an unpleasant pause between lines. it sounds in the brain as if it’s too long to be correctly in any correct relation to 4 or 5, and still short of an expected and acceptable 7 or 8. can you believe it?! 6 is a less pleasing number than 3, 5, or 7: all of them odd numbers, all of them prime numbers. it just sounds ridiculous! and oh, it is. it is.

so that’s why i don’t like alexandrines. they are unnatural, and displeasing, from what i have made out in my own head to be the ultimate mathematical guide for writing pleasant-sounding poetry, at least in english, in a culture of people accustomed to hearing 4/4 music from birth. syllables all mean something different in different languages, and hold different types of weights and tones. i’m sure to the french who innovated it, and the later early-modern english poets who imitated it, that it made sense by the kinds of music they were positioned to compare all metrical poetry to. but alas, in my modern english brain, i cannot make sense of the alexandrine.

[justanotherwannabeclassic]

Finding Neverland (2/?)

Summary: History has a funny way of repeating itself. Juliet Jones learns this the hard way as she finds herself thrown decades into the past, and tasked with ensuring that her parents fall in love. (CS movie redux) 

Read on AO3! Previous Chapters: [1] Tagging: @poetic-justice-96​ (if you want to be tagged in updates let me know!

Chapter 2

“I can’t believe Romeo and Juliet are in Neverland.”

“Are they particularly notorious in your realm?”

“They’re like the most famous love story from my world,” Emma explains in a whisper to Hook as they head back to camp, Romeo and Juliet behind them. The couple has their wrists bound in vines, a concession they had made as an agreement to let them follow. They hadn’t intended to come to Neverland, and seemed quite eager to find a way off. “We’ll do anything,” Romeo had pleaded as Hook held a blade to his throat. And that was when Emma had suggested bringing them along. 

“So their fame leads you to believe we can trust them?” Hook inquires as he leads her through the flora of Neverland. It’s a testament to Hook’s resourcefulness that Emma so easily forgets his unfamiliarity with her world. To her, Romeo and Juliet’s story is common knowledge. It appears to not be so much in the Enchanted Forest or Neverland.

“In the stories, they weren’t villains,” she answers with a shrug. “It’s more that I feel bad for them. They both die in the end.” “Ah, and you think by helping them, you might be able to prevent it from happening.” 

She casts a glance back to the star-crossed lovers, who seem to be having a whisper argument of their own. Distracted by their conversation, Juliet trips over the root, falling to the ground with a large thud that causes Emma to wince. Together, she and Hook watch as Romeo attempts to help his girlfriend stand, his efforts hindered by his bound wrists. Emma feels a surge of hope that Shakespeare had been wrong about these two, and wishes that they could find their happily ever after. Though she still isn’t comfortable with the whole Savior thing, but she doesn’t want to see anyone die. And even if they weren’t Romeo and Juliet, the possibility of them dying in Neverland is high. She feels the persistent knot in her stomach tighten as she thinks of Henry, and she wants nothing more than to save him. She knows if given the choice, she would choose saving him over Romeo and Juliet – no question – but she feels compelled to at least try.

“Well, if anyone can prevent their untimely deaths, I’m sure you can, Swan.”

Emma’s heart twists at Hook’s comment, and she is suddenly glad for the heat of the hike already making her skin flush, because she feels the heat of the blush across her skin. He says his statements with such conviction – as if it is the most obvious thing the world that she can play hero.

She doesn’t know how to handle Hook when he is being earnest. She can combat innuendos easily. A flirty wink here or there is manageable. But when he looks at her with such belief, she feels as if she was standing on uneven ground and could fall at any point. It is terrifying, and precisely why she left him on the beanstalk all those weeks ago. In an effort to break the tension, she looks back to Romeo and Juliet.

“Are you two alright?”

“Peachy keen, Miss Swan,” Romeo calls back as Juliet rolls her eyes and mutters something about hating “this bloody island.” Both Emma and Hook miss the fact they never told the couple her last name.

-/- 

She knows about Neverland. In school, her teacher had made her class read J.M. Barrie’s classic. Juliet had been the one to point out everything that had been wrong, resulting in her teacher requesting a parent-teacher conference. How the meeting went Juliet doesn’t know, though she’s wished ever since she could have been present to witness how Miss Stuart had attempted to explain to Captain Hook that his daughter was quite (obnoxiously) insistent on calling Peter Pan “bloody awful.” Even so, that meeting had resulted in both her parents sitting her down and reminding her that though stories can be factually wrong, they can still teach us lessons. (It didn’t stop her father, however, from treating her to her favorite ice cream.) Her parents never really enjoyed talking about their adventures in Neverland. Her father had always said it was a bad place, but where he first fell in love with her mother, but left it at that. Her mother had said it sucked. Juliet knows, however, more of the story. She’s read Henry’s books, after all, and listened to him weave the tale of his own experience. Everything she’s gleaned has matched her parents’ descriptions: Neverland is a bad place.

Now she is here in the bad place, her hands bound, knees aching from her earlier fall. And worst yet of all is that she’s been captured by the past versions of her parents. Time travel is also something Juliet knows a thing or two about.

That is a story her parents had never been shy about hiding – how they’d almost accidentally written her mother out of existence, ensured Snow White and Prince Charming fell in love, and in turn, fell a little bit deeper in love themselves along the way. Despite the romance of the whole thing, Juliet had also learned that time travel is also a very bad thing. In short, she’s screwed. 

“We’ll be fine,” Gideon tells her in a whisper as the follow her parents. “We’ll join in on the effort to rescue Henry, and then find a way home back once we get to Storybrooke. Besides, it will give you something else to lord over Henry.” His teasing isn’t appreciated, but his plan has merit. Though she isn’t too keen on sticking around her parents and potentially disrupting the timeline, she honestly has no idea how to even leave the island. They could stay for decades and hope that someone comes to find them – her father had been stuck here for centuries – but she’d much rather not. In Storybrooke, they’d have access to the pawn shop and library, except – 

“The curse,” she gasps a bit too loudly. Both she and Gideon whip their heads forward to the figures ahead of them. Neither Hook nor Emma seem to have noticed, and she sighs in relief. Juliet lowers her voice as she speaks, “Pan’s curse. In Storybrooke, we’d have an incredibly limited time to get home.”

In short, they’re screwed.

-/-

“You can’t be serious. They’re not stray dogs in need of a home. They’re potentially dangerous.”

As expected, Regina is furious, David is wary, and Mary Margaret just stares at the couple with a sad sort of expression that screams “you die in your story.”

“Are you sure we can trust them?” David asks, eyes flicking back to the still-bound couple that is sitting a few meters away. “You know, that they aren’t working for Pan as a spy?” “When they got here, we asked them if they were working for Pan, and they said it didn’t. It didn’t set of any alarms,” Emma explains, wincing at her answer. She know it sounds weak, and if anyone had been telling her the same thing, she wouldn’t believe it either.

She doesn’t know how to explain she has the same feelings about them as she did about Hook at the beanstalk. And though she can’t really afford for her instinct to be wrong with Henry’s life at stake, Hook’s presence on this mission strengthens her the resolve not to abandon the couple.

“You can’t honestly expect us to believe in that stupid lie detector of yours,” Regina snaps, rolling her eyes and raising her hands upwards as if questioning the gods. 

“Actually, yes, we should,” Hook cuts in, and Emma is both annoyed and grateful at his support.

“Please, we only know you’re sticking up for Emma because you think it’s the easiest way to convince her to fuck you.”

“Enough!” It is David who yells this, and Emma is thankful for his interjection. She glances over to her captives, both of whom are staring at the group with wide eyes. Juliet appears more confused than anything, and Romeo looks to be trying – and failing – to contain a laugh. They don’t look like killers, or minions of Pan. Then again, neither did Tamara and Greg, but Emma had been able to sense their untrustworthiness.

As if reading her mind, Mary Margaret says, “Look, Emma is good with these things. She had a bad feeling about Greg and Tamara, and was right. If she thinks we can trust Romeo and Juliet, then we trust them.”

Mary Margaret beams at Emma. Emma knows she should feel grateful for her support, but all she wants to do was curl inside and hide. She isn’t accustomed to this parental support, and doubts she ever would be. 

“Besides,” Hook adds in a low whisper, his expression dark, “when Pan does decide to stage attack, we have more bodies to throw his way. Your stories do say they die, maybe this is how.”

-/-

Juliet cannot sleep. She blames it partially on the conditions. The ground is hard and unyielding, she’s using Gideon’s sweater as a pillow, and her coat as a blanket. It’s not what she’s used to, and she longs for her bed back in New York with the large pillows and mountains of blankets. But as she listens to the crackle of the fire and Gideon’s soft snores, she knows that’s only a small part of it.

In the dark, she can make out her grandfather moving about the camp, keeping watch in case that Pan or the Lost Boys stage an attack. She has to remind herself to call him David. He’s just a stranger to her now, not yet the man who taught her how to ride a horse or would sneak her candy behind her grandmother’s back.

She’s not used to seeing them all so young. Her family’s dynamic is so different than what she’s used. Her mother keeps her distance from her father, and her grandparents don’t seem to like him very much. When they aren’t trying to connect with her mother, they’re making digs at his untrustworthiness and piracy. Juliet knows they didn’t always like him, but it still feels wrong to witness it. But seeing the way her family interacts is nowhere near as unsettling as the way they look at her – like she’s a stranger, like she shouldn’t be trusted. Even her mother, who had pled their case, still studies them with doubt, as if she’s reconsidering her position.

It hurts. 

She rolls away from the fire and her grandfather toward Gideon. She’s glad he’s here, that she isn’t alone in this mess. They haven’t had time alone to really talk, but she wants to thank him for not letting her go, for falling into this mess without question, and for grounding her.

He’s been that person for her for quite awhile now, ever since she stepped into New York City wide-eyed and a little too idealistic about life outside of Storybrooke might be. He’d been starting his third year at NYU, and though she was at Columbia, he’d taken the train uptown to visit her often. He had confessed to her that it was nice to have someone to talk to about things back home for once, someone nearby. And Juliet had quickly learned how difficult it could be to navigate life having to hide certain parts of her life from others. It’s gotten less difficult over time, she thinks, her family coming to mind.

But it had been years since the early days of their budding friendship. She had long since graduated from Columbia, a degree in Art History under her belt, and an ill-paying, but stable, job at a gallery to add to her resume. He has finished medical school, and is working on his residency. And maybe most important, they have each other, even in the past.

Juliet burrows herself against his chest, and takes comfort in his warmth and smell. Maybe Gideon is right. Maybe, just maybe, everything will be fine. She just has to have faith. This is, after all, Neverland.